Athanaric waved the point aside. “If Fritigern’s got an alliance with the Greuthungi . . well, even so, it probably won’t come to war. If Lupicinus handles him right, it may pass off without any trouble at all.” But he was still frowning.
“There are always the legions,” said Sebastianus.
“You trust too much in Roman superiority at arms,” Athanaric said sharply. “My father commanded a federate troop armed and trained exactly like Fritigern’s men, and they weren’t noticeably worse than the regulars when it came to the battle cry.”
“The Theruingi will be worse now, though, won’t they?” Sebastianus said. “Defeated by the Huns and starved all these months, and most of them disarmed at the crossing. But I hope it doesn’t come to that. It needn’t.”
“It needn’t,” agreed Athanaric.
“Where are your father’s old troops now?” Sebastianus asked in a casual tone.
“Here in Thrace, at Hadrianopolis,” Athanaric returned evenly. “Under the command of my cousins Bessas and Colias.”
“You might recommend to someone that they be moved somewhere else. No, I’m not questioning their loyalty. But they are Theruingian Goths, and they are still federates, not regular army. I wouldn’t like to lead them against their own people.”
“They wouldn’t follow you, not in a cause like this,” Athanaric said, still in the even tone. “I will recommend in my report to His Illustriousness that they be moved to another diocese. I wish Festinus had been willing to accept that grain, though. The Theruingi can hardly be expected to march to Marcianopolis with empty stomachs.”
Sebastianus laughed harshly. “There you see the result of spurned desire!”
“Of fallen pride, rather. Chariton, what’s the truth of that story about the marriage that wasn’t?”
I looked down at my hands, glad that Festinus’ slaves had been niggardly with the wine to the lower couches: I needed my head clear. “Shortly after arriving in Ephesus as governor, Festinus accused the elder Theodoros of treason — on the strength of his name. It was just after that conspiracy with the oracle, and he made a great show of zeal to impress His Sacred Majesty. There was no evidence to connect Theodoros with anything of the sort, but Festinus had some of the slaves tortured and the house searched, and he made the master of the house grovel to him and beg for mercy. When the elder Theodoros did agree to marry his daughter to the governor, it was because he was afraid of him. My friend, the younger Theodoros, was furious about it. I think anyone would have been, under the circumstances. He tried to talk his father out of arranging the match, but he was a dependent at the time, and could do nothing legally. Well, the girl disappeared. I couldn’t tell you more about it than that.”
“I can’t really blame Theodoros,” Sebastianus said thoughtfully. “Though it’s a disgrace to a gentleman, being left with his marriage garlands and no bride. Still, I don’t imagine the girl was keen to marry him, even if there was no charioteer waiting in the background. Though it’s hard to tell what a noble maiden is thinking. I never can. Except they never seem keen to marry anyone.”
Athanaric smiled. “Has your father introduced you to some prospects, then?”
“One or two. I never see more of them than the tops of their heads; they’re always staring at the floor. Mindful of my responsibility to marry and breed Romans, I try talking to the young lady in question. Does she like literature? If Greek, she allows that Homer was a great poet; if Latin, she admires Vergil. Pressed hard, she may quote a few lines. Does she have any hobbies, perhaps like, well, gardening? She agrees that gardens are nice. Isn’t it nice weather for the time of year? I ask, growing desperate. Yes, she says, and stares at the floor. When I get home I discover that I am supposed to be madly in love with her. Fortunately, the financial arrangements have always fallen through, and Father has yet to cobble up a match to his satisfaction. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to get some young gentlewoman into bed.”
Athanaric laughed. “I’ve always thought I’ll have to spend my wedding night reading Vergil to her; it seems to be the only acceptable topic of conversation. Bless their finances, though; Father can find few girls whose dowries he thoroughly approves of. What will you do with Daphne when your father does arrange a match for you?”
“Don’t get any hopes up: I’m not giving her to you, that’s certain. I’ll set her free, buy her a house, and give her a decent portion to live on. If she chooses to marry someone, that’s her business, but otherwise I may need to go back to her, and I don’t want anybody else meddling with her. She’s a great girl.”
“She is that,” said Athanaric. He leaned back on the couch, considering her excellence, the Theruingi at last forgotten. “And she has a wonderful sense of humor.”
“And she can sing, don’t forget that,” put in Sebastianus. “Oh, she’s not my ideal woman — I’m not any Chaireas or Charikles, swearing love until death — but she’s pretty and she’s fun and I can talk to her. That seems to be about as much as you can expect from any woman, and it’s a lot more than what you see in one suitable for marriage.
“All too true.” Athanaric sighed. “What’s your idea of an ideal woman, then?”
“Ah!” Sebastianus sat up and put his wine cup down. “Now, I’ve thought about this, and I decided that I’d take one like Catullus’ Lesbia any day. ‘Nimis elegante lingua,’ ‘dulce ridentem.’ I wouldn’t mind if she fitted the rest of the description as well — tall and slim, with a trim ankle and dark eyes — but for me, it’s more important that she knows how to talk and how to laugh. I’d like to marry an intelligent woman of my own class, who knows her value, whom I can talk to. Catullus was lucky. If she did betray him later, I’m sure it was his fault for writing such damned slobbering poetry about her. ‘Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus flamma damanat’ ”
“But that’s Sappho!” I exclaimed.
“Catullus adapted it,” returned Sebastianus. “You Greeks never read anything that’s not in your own language.”
“Why should we bother, if all the Latins do is ‘adapt’ Greek poems?” Athanaric laughed. “Have you ever heard any Latin poetry, besides what Sebastianus is always quoting?”
“I heard Festinus quote some once in Ephesus,” I said rashly. “It went ‘Vitas inuleo me similis, Charis,’ and I didn’t think much of it.”
“Chloe, it should be,” Sebastianus corrected at once. “But I agree, it is one of Horace’s weaker poems. And I don’t suppose you see the point of love poetry anyway. I’ll let you off reading Catullus. But what about you, Athanaric? What’s your ideal woman?”
“Unlike you, I’ve never thought about it,” he said. “I suppose . . . well, an honorable woman. Honest.”
“Impossible!” Sebastianus exclaimed, and laughed.
“I don’t mean one that tells the truth!” Athanaric said, laughing as well now. “What would be the use of that? But one that knows her own value, to use your phrase. Not corrupt, not cowardly. Noble and generous, a woman who can run a house and hold her own against the world.”
“A Gothic princess,” Sebastianus said, smiling. “That’s the sort of woman you’re describing.”
Athanaric looked embarrassed. I thought of his cousin Amalberga. “Like Fritigern’s wife,” I put in, trying not to sound bitter. It was foolish and useless, but I couldn’t help wishing that Athanaric had been the one to express a taste for intelligent, tall, slim women with dark eyes.
“What’s she like?” Sebastianus asked with some interest.
“Brave,” I said. “And she keeps her head. I attended her for a childbed complication; she was in some pain, but still able to give orders to her attendants and overrule their objections to me. I suppose she’s beautiful as well — very fair and delicate.”
“She is,” Athanaric said. “Yes, I suppose I was thinking of someone like her.”
“What does your father think of that?” Sebastianus asked. “When last I saw him, he was pretty damned keen for you to marry some Roma
n heiress.”
“That fell through,” Athanaric returned automatically. “But no, my father wants me to marry a Roman. Still, there must be Roman girls who don’t spend their time staring at the floor.”
Sebastianus shook his head dubiously. “I think they’re brought up to it. Haven’t you ever noticed nursemaids shouting at girl children: behave yourself, keep your tunic clean, don’t talk to that strange man? By the time they’re grown they can’t do anything else. Sometimes by the time they’re middle-aged they get over it; you meet a few intelligent older women. But never a marriage prospect like a Lesbia or a Theruingian queen. No, you and I are doomed to marry silly tonguetied virgins with fat dowries, and settle into a matrimonial state of stupefying dullness. If we’re very lucky, after ten or fifteen years the girls may turn into quite interesting women. But we can’t tell beforehand whether they will or not, we’ll just have to wait and see.” He glanced at each of us, then gave me a look of chagrin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have been tactless, discussing marriage in front of a eunuch.”
“I don’t mind,” I replied. “You don’t make it sound an attractive prospect.” I got up and stretched; it was late and I was tired. “I’ll quote you some love poetry. ‘The moon has gone down, and the Pleiades have set; Midnight is past, and soon comes dawn.’ “
Sebastianus laughed. “And you’re off to bed alone!”
“Well, with Your Excellency’s permission, I’d like to start back to Novidunum tomorrow. I’ve talked to Duke Maximus’ doctors, and there’s no reason for me to stay here longer. And to tell the truth, apart from the present company I find this city disagreeable.”
“So do I,” said Athanaric. “I was planning to take Lupicinus’ orders to Fritigern. We can take the same road out of town.”
“Very well,” said Sebastianus. “But you’re not to go dragging him off to treat Goths.”
Athanaric gave him a look of irritation. “Why not?”
“Because if Fritigern is planning a revolt, I don’t want him to kidnap my chief physician. If there’s a war, I want Chariton to spend his time treating Romans, not Goths.”
“There probably won’t be any war,” Athanaric protested. “And the Theruingi need doctors.”
“Then Lupicinus ought to provide them. I don’t see why he doesn’t; it’s in his interest to keep the Goths healthy. I’ll mention it to him tomorrow. I’m not leaving; since I’m in Marcianopolis, I might as well discuss some more business with the count. And I have Daphne here to keep me company.”
“Don’t be insufferable,” snapped Athanaric. “Goodnight.”
Athanaric rode with me as far as the first posting station beyond Marcianopolis. He was still annoyed with Sebastianus over the prohibition on taking me to treat the Goths. “You would have come, wouldn’t you?” he asked me.
I agreed that I would have. There was not much work waiting for me in Scythia, and I was certain that the Theruingi in Moesia did need medical help. The idea of Fritigern having me kidnaped seemed flatly ridiculous, and I said so.
“Exactly,” Athanaric said. “I don’t think there will be a war now, unless Lupicinus commits some atrocity, and at any rate you’re Fritigern’s guest-friend, and immune from violence. The Goths take hospitality much more seriously than the Romans do. But Sebastianus judges everyone by what a Roman commander might do in his place.”
“I thought you admired Roman commanders.”
“Oh, there’s more to Rome than the Lupicini of the empire. More to Rome than there ever will be to any Gothic kingdom. But it’s true that the Goths are less corrupt.” He rode in silence for a few minutes, frowning, then asked suddenly, “What’s the truth of that story about Theodoros’ sister?”
“Why do you need to know?” I asked.
“Just curious. There’s something wrong there, somewhere; I have a feeling about it. I’ve missed something I should have noticed, something obvious. You won’t help?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t see that it is any affair of yours. There’s no suspicion of treason involved, nothing that would concern the state.”
“I didn’t say there was. My reason for wanting to know what really happened is personal. I like to know the truth about things. I like to understand what’s happening around me.”
“Oh by Artemis the Great! Understanding is all very well, but you’re talking about rooting out somebody else’s secrets. It might hurt people to be exposed, haven’t you thought of that? Curiosity in a case like this is indecent.”
“I wasn’t going to expose anyone; I just want to know the whole story. If you were involved in the girl’s disappearance, you needn’t fear that I’ll make some statement about it to Festinus. It’s just that . . . it’s like an itch in my ear, feeling that I’ve missed something and not knowing what: I keep trying to scratch, and can’t get at the place where it itches. Perhaps it isn’t a decent sort of curiosity, but I can’t help it. And you in particular ought to understand and be more sympathetic. You’ve gone poking about in people’s bodies after their death, a thing that wouldn’t have been approved of by them and that is dangerous to you as well. That’s an indecent curiosity, isn’t it?”
“If I do a dissection, it’s so that I can understand how better to heal the sick,” I said virtuously, though uneasily aware that there was a strong element of “indecent curiosity” in my motives as well. But it was true that my curiosity hurt no one whereas Athanaric’s could ruin me. “Leave the matter, please,” I begged him.
He looked at me, surprised but still obstinately curious. “You’re afraid it could hurt you, aren’t you? What if I promise to keep quiet about it? No? Well, maybe Theodoros will tell me more about it himself. I’ll ask him the next time I’m in Tomis.” He sighed, and added, “Which won’t be for a long while.”
I hoped it would be a sufficiently long while that he’d forget all about it. But I said nothing.
At the first posting station Athanaric changed horses and set out directly north at a gallop. I watched him ride off, the summer dust streaming from the hooves of his horse, his short cloak flying over one shoulder, strong hands on the reins, eyes narrowed on the road, hair pulled back by the wind. I thought of some more love poetry: “Not knowing it, you drive my soul.” But he was dangerous to me; it was wrong to want him to discover my secret. Wrong to want him at all. I had to stop at Tomis before going back to Novidunum, to tell Thorion about the failure of my mission and to check on Melissa and my nephew. I would also use the visit to warn Thorion to be very careful what he said to Athanaric.
It was late in September before I finally got back to Novidunum. Thorion and Maia had wanted me to stay a long time at Tomis, and I agreed to remain until it was quite clear that Melissa and the baby were out of danger. Not that they were ever in it. Melissa was a strong young woman, and the baby took after his father and had a constitution of iron.
Thorion had already acquired a surplus of grain, though I’d been gone little more than a week. He had hit on the plan of allowing some of the landowners in the south of the province who had previously paid taxes in specie to pay in kind. This had allowed them to get rid of surplus grain and save money, and had been a popular move. Thorion had even managed to get some of them to bribe him to allow it. Of course, it is too expensive to move grain in inland regions, which is why the landowners had paid in specie to begin with, and why the army brought in some of its supplies from as far away as Egypt — it’s cheaper to send grain by sea from Egypt to Tomis and up the Danube than to cart it a hundred miles overland. But Thorion worked hard at finding new routes to ship by canal and river and bought some boats at imperial expense (more discounting on taxes), and was busily piling up grain, gold, and good will. Only the imperial treasury was likely to be annoyed, and Thorion was ready for it with arguments about the present difficulties in getting shipments from Alexandria and the need to insure a supply for the army. He was disgusted to hear that Festinus wouldn’t make the arrangements to receive the grain after all. B
ut by this time he was enthusiastic about his new tax structure and kept on with it, storing the surplus grain in the public granaries and looking around for some good use for it.
And it turned out to be very lucky, for him and for Scythia, that he had done this, because that winter the world fell apart.
I had no suspicion of that when I rode back into the fortress, though. It was a bright, warm autumn day, and I was once again glad to be home. Everyone was very pleased to see me — Arbetio and Edico, the attendants and patients at the hospital, the troops, my own household. Gudrun and Alaric had settled happily into the house, and greeted me as though I were a minor god. I told them that I would return them to their families as soon as their families had homes for them to go to, and they knelt and kissed my hands. Raedagunda had managed not to have her baby yet; it arrived two days after I did. It was a girl, and healthy. Gudrun adored it. Alaric loathed it. Sueridus and Raedagunda asked my permission to name it Charitona. I told them that I could not countenance a barbarous name like that, but they could call it Charis if they wanted. And I looked around for a larger house.
Then, at the very end of October, my Gothic assistant at the hospital, Edico, disappeared. He’d had a visitor the night before, another Goth whom the guards at the fort gate had recognized as his cousin, and in the morning he and the visitor were both gone. I was surprised and perplexed. He’d finally learned how to read, and had been learning very quickly; he had a real gift for the art, and I was sorry, as well as hurt, to lose him. He’d taken half my supply of opium with him, and some hemp and mandragora, and my copy of Dioskourides’ On Medicines, which I’d loaned him not long before. I felt as though he’d lowered himself to the level of a common thief, and was ashamed for him. I supposed that some members of his family must have fallen ill, but I didn’t see why he couldn’t have told me as much; I would have given him as much time off as he wanted.
Then, two days later, at the beginning of November, we had the bad news from Moesia that Edico must have already received. The Theruingi were in open revolt.
The Beacon at Alexandria Page 37
