Despite the quietness of the camp, we were fairly busy at the hospital. Besides the wounded of our own legion, we had stragglers from Moesia who were deserting or escaping the Goths, and sick or injured peasant refugees. I worried about our supplies of drugs, quarreled with Valerius over money for more supplies, bullied him into authorizing some more attendants, and then argued with them.
Arbetio worked heroically and with wonderful good humor. I had moved into the new, larger house, leaving him the old one, and he borrowed fifteen solidi and bought his girlfriend to live in it with him. She was a short, plump young woman named Irene, one of Valerius’ cooks, and Arbetio had apparently been in love with her for years. He manumitted her, and they settled down as man and wife, both of them seeming quite deliriously happy with the arrangement. “You don’t know how wonderful it is,” he told me, “to go back from the hospital to my own home, and find Irene there, just waiting and spinning. Nobody shouting at her to fetch anything, nobody telling me she’s busy now — the whole evening to spend together, just the two of us, and the whole night, every night, our own. With that behind me, I don’t care how crowded we get here!” And he dismissed the full ward with a wave of his hand.
“I’m glad of it,” I said, smiling. “One of us has to stay calm.” And then I noticed that one of the new attendants was trying to give a patient unmixed wine, “to make him sweat it out, doctor,” and rushed off to put a stop to it.
At the end of February Sebastianus sent a letter asking me to come upriver to the camp called Ad Salices, “At the Willows,” near the Moesian border. One of his counterraiding parties had been cut to pieces by the Goths, and it was easier to bring me up to treat the wounded than to send them all down to the hospital. I packed a good supply of drugs and set off with an escort of twenty cavalrymen. It had thawed the week before but frozen again; when we rode out the gates it was snowing hard, and the thaw had left a layer of ice to cut the horses’ legs. I had to doctor the animals, and then one of the escort’s horse fell on him and broke his collarbone, and I had to set it and send him back to Novidunum. It was the middle of my period when we set out, too, and I had a tricky job concealing this: it was a fearful nuisance to travel with.
After three days’ hard riding in abominable conditions, we reached a crest of a hill and saw Salices below us, its walls etched black against the snow and the frozen river. My escort raised a ragged cheer and we started down. The tribune commanding them stood up in his saddle and waved at the fort — then leaned over to the side and fell off his horse. I wondered what he thought he was doing, when suddenly I was close enough to see the body. The side of his skull was broken in, cracked like a nut by a lead bullet from a sling.
The others saw it at the same time; they stopped cheering and started their horses into a gallop down the hill, dragging their shields off their backs and holding them over their heads; another man fell while doing this. I didn’t have a shield. I laid my head flat against my horse’s neck and kicked him hard. He was tired, but he’d caught the smell of blood, of fear: he galloped after the others. I heard something whizzing over my head and prayed desperately to God and His Christ to shield me. To my right a horse stumbled and fell; its rider jumped up screaming, waving his sword. I couldn’t have stopped for him even if I had wanted to. I closed my eyes. My horse stumbled, reared; I opened my eyes again and tried to hold him. The escort had swung round in front of me, turning back toward the ambush. I held on to my mount’s reins, wondering what was happening now. Surely the lunatics didn’t mean to fight? But the men had stopped in line, their swords drawn, their shields raised. Down the hill ran a group of Goths, their fur cloaks flapping as they moved, the late evening light gleaming on their spears. The man who’d lost his horse gave a war cry, the shout that starts low and rises to a bellow, and the Goths set on him. More of the barbarians were pouring from among the trees. The Roman fell, and the enemy stabbed his body again and again, giving wild shouts and whoops of fury, and then advanced on us. Behind me I heard trumpets.
“Why can’t we go to the fort?” I asked the men in front of me.
“Don’t worry!” said the cavalryman nearest me. “They’re coming from the fort to help us.”
“Why can’t we go back, then?” I asked desperately.
The man gave a snort. “The enemy would kill us as we fled. We can’t protect our backs. This way we have a chance. HaaaRAI!”
I felt quite horribly unprotected. It was true that the others were in front of me now, but they had helmets and shields and mail coats; I had my fur cloak and my medical bag. I crouched low on the horse, clutching the bag beside my head and thinking about fractures, treatment of head injuries, compresses for wounds, methods of amputation, and doses of mandragora. Perhaps, I thought, I should take some now so I won’t feel it when I’m hit.
The barbarians advanced closer, still shouting; my escort threw spears, and one of the enemy fell. Behind us the trumpet sounded again, closer now. My escort raised the war cry again, and charged at the enemy. I didn’t move, just sat there clutching my medical bag. Some Goths fell; the rest ran back up the hill. The escort didn’t pursue them, but turned and rode back. A hail of missiles followed them; another man fell, tried to get up, fell again. The escort turned and faced the enemy once more. Then hoofbeats thundered behind us; the cavalry from the fort was arriving at last. I turned my horse to join them, then gave a cry of dismay: there were more barbarians beyond the fort, and a mounted group of them were riding up behind the Roman cavalry.
The commander of the Roman force saw them too, and shouted for his men to form a circle, then a wedge. Horses and armed men were everywhere; my escort milled about with the newcomers, spears flashing in the sunset as they were leveled. More trumpets; more men set out from Salices, this time on foot. Shouting and confusion. “You’re Chariton the doctor, aren’t you?” asked the cavalry commander. “Go into the middle.” I went, and the wedge started back toward the fort. The barbarian cavalry split into two groups, wheeling about on each side of us. Behind us the Goths who had ambushed my party were pouring down the hill. “By the Unconquered Sun!” said the commander. “Halt! Halt! Form a circle! Raise shields and hold!” And more quietly, to himself, “My God, this is a fix!”
The Gothic cavalry curled into a half-circle facing the Romans, firmly blocking the way back to the fort. Their horses danced, and they beat their shields with their swords and screamed. The Roman force was far outnumbered; even I could see that we didn’t have much chance of getting to Salices through that. I pushed my way over to the commander. “Do we have to fight them?” I asked. “What do they want?”
“They want to kill us,” the commander said grimly. “We killed some of their friends two days ago. Dear Lord, I didn’t realize there were so many of them still here!”
“If we fight now, they’ll lose a lot of men as well, won’t they?” I asked. “And to no purpose. Listen, I’m a guest-friend of Lord Fritigern — I cured his wife before all this started. Let me go ask them for a truce. We go back to the fort, and they go off and do some plundering. Won’t they agree to that?”
The commander looked at me in astonishment for a moment, then looked at the Goths. “If you’re willing to talk to the devils, go, by all means!” he said. “Good luck! Here, Valentinus, give us some green branches: the doctor’s going to go ask them for a truce.”
The men all stared at me, then cheered. Valentinus, a tribune, cut down a roadside shrub and handed me the branches; the leaves were new and tiny, folded like clasped hands. I hoped the Goths could tell what they were supposed to mean. I held a branch in each hand, and the men let me through to the front rank. The Goths were drawn up opposite us, a few hundred yards away, waiting. I took a deep breath, lifted the branches in the air, and rode out.
A bullet from a sling crashed into the road to my left. I stopped and sat still, holding up the branches. “Truce!” I shouted. I could see the Goths pointing and talking to each other, noticing that I was unarmed and un
armored. I started riding toward them again, and this time there were no missiles.
When I was nearing the Gothic line, one man rode out from it and across to meet me; by the quantity of jewelry he wore, I judged him to be the commander. “Truce,” I repeated, in Greek, then added “Friend!” in Gothic.
“Friend?” returned the Gothic commander in his own language, pulling his horse up opposite me and glaring. “No Roman is a friend to the Goths! Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I am Chariton of Ephesus, a doctor and a guest-friend of Lord Fritigern. I have come to ask for the Romans to ride back to Salices in peace. If you attack us, we die, and many of you die, and there is no gain.” Fear improved my Gothic wonderfully.
“Chariton of Ephesus?” said the commander, and one of the other Goths, almost as importantly decorated and wearing a wolfskin cloak, gave a shout and rode over. He pulled the commander aside, and they talked briefly, whispering and glancing frequently at me. Then the commander turned back. “I welcome the guest-friend of Lord Fritigern,” he said in a much gentler tone. “Stay here; give Triwane the tokens of the truce. Your people may ride to Salices.”
Triwane, the one who had apparently told the commander about me, took the branches and , holding them in the air, rode slowly back toward the Romans. The commander shouted orders at his troops, and the Gothic line broke into two again and rode slowly back away from the river. The Romans started forward, led by Triwane, who held the green branches high. I swallowed hard. It was over, thank all the gods.
“I thank you, sir,” I said, turning back to the commander. “May I join my people now?”
He looked at me thoughtfully, chewing on his mustache, then leaned over and caught my horse’s bridle. “Lord Fritigern wishes to see you.”
I stared at him stupidly for a minute. Fritigern wanted to see me. Then I realized: Fritigern undoubtedly needed doctors. “No,” I said. “I am Fritigern’s guest-friend, I saved his wife’s life when she was ill after childbirth. I am not coming willingly. And Fritigern is a nobleman, and will not thank you if you kill his guest-friend trying to bring me by force.” I gave my horse a violent kick, and, startled, it pulled loose from the Gothic commander; I turned it toward the Roman force, which was now passing, and galloped hard. Someone behind me threw something, but the commander shouted for him to stop; instead I heard other horses start after me. Ahead I could see the Roman tribune drawing rein, signaling to his men to stop. Then my tired horse stumbled and fell. I rolled off as it hit the ground, and lay there a moment, winded. The Goths galloped up beside me and jumped down. One of them caught my horse. I got up onto my hands and knees; the snow was wet, and the light was fading. For a moment I could not move. Caught between the two armies, I felt as though my very name had been stripped from me, and I was afraid. Afraid not so much of the violence all around me, though that had shaken me deeply, as of something more — of the darkness, of exposure, of being no one at all.
More hoofbeats, and then the Roman tribune rode up. I sat back on my heels, trying to control myself. The Goths were shouting, and one had drawn his sword.
“What’s happening?” asked the Roman. “I thought we had a truce?”
The Gothic commander shouted to his man to put his sword away, then faced the Roman. “We have a truce,” he said in perfectly good Latin. “But the physician comes with us.”
The Roman commander looked down at me and touched the hilt of his own sword. “He is a Roman, and the duke values him highly,” he said firmly. “You have no right to take him prisoner.”
“Does the duke value him more than yourself and all your men?” asked the Goth. “There is time to call the truce off, still. Fight us, if you wish. Lord Fritigern has mentioned this physician as one whose services he wished to obtain. I will bring him to the king. If I have to kill some Romans to do it, so.”
I climbed to my feet, feeling very small and cold. The tribune sat on his horse looking down at me. He looked at the Gothic commander, at the Gothic troops, then back at his own men. He sighed, shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he told me. “You will have to go with him.”
I looked at the Gothic line behind me. For a moment I thought I would disgrace myself by weeping. I knew that Fritigern would not harm me, but I desperately felt myself to be a Roman, to belong inside the fort with Sebastianus and the troops, not outside it with the barbarians and the snow. It was as though I would cease to exist if I were bereft of everyone who knew me — as though I would cease to exist as Chariton, anyway.
But weeping would do me no good, and Goths and Romans alike would consider it contemptible. “Very well,” I told the tribune. The Gothic soldier was still holding my horse; I went over and grasped the saddle. The Goth kept hold of the reins. “Tell Sebastianus that I feel like Iphigenia at Aulis,” I told the tribune, trying to keep my voice light. “ ‘I go, granting victorious salvation to the Greeks!’ He’ll like that.”
The tribune looked blank, but nodded. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “Perhaps someone will ransom you. Good luck. Farewell.” He turned his horse and rode back to his own men, and the Roman troops trotted past through the dusk. Lamps shone from the gates of Salices; the infantry stood massed before the walls. I caught a glimpse of gold beneath the lamps: Sebastianus’ gilded helmet, or perhaps his hair. “Lamp-bearing day and lightbeams of Zeus, I have been given another age, another fate. Dear light, farewell.” Yes, I found Euripides’ play apt, even if Sebastianus didn’t.
The Goths turned their horses, pulling mine around. It couldn’t be delayed any longer. I mounted, and we rode off into the night.
The Goths had their camp not far from the fort of Salices, so we did not have far to go. It was a large camp — there were about eight hundred Goths, and they had a hundred or so Roman prisoners among their plunder. The Gothic commander — his name was Walimir, which I couldn’t pronounce — immediately set me to work treating the injured. He was polite about it, and phrased his order as a request, but it was nonetheless an order. The Goths had wounds, some of which were infected, largely because of their passion for tourniquets and magical charms; the Roman prisoners had wounds and various shackle galls. I enlisted the help of some of the Romans to prepare bandages and cleansing solutions, but it still took hours to treat all who needed it, and by that time I was too tired to try to escape. Walimir did not have me bound, because I was the king’s guest-friend, but he did set a couple of cavalrymen to watch me. I doubt that I could have got away even if I’d been fresh. But my guards made my life very difficult. It was hard enough to keep my secret traveling with Romans, when I could enforce a little privacy: now I had no privacy, and I was at my wits’ end within a day. I couldn’t wash, and using a latrine was a trial on the rack — the Goths were very curious about what was actually done to a eunuch, and stared hard, though I kept my tunic down. I was glad that my period was out of the way for a month; I hoped to win, if not freedom, at least some space for myself before the next time.
The Goths broke camp next morning and set out for their wagon city and Fritigern. They had been raiding to the east, and had sent a smaller party northward, which Sebastianus’ men had intercepted and wiped out; as the tribune had said, the raid on Salices had been punitive. They had camped out of sight and laid an ambush along the camp’s supply route, hoping to kill a few Romans and then slip away again. But they had not been eager to do any more than that, and now they wanted to return with their booty to their wives and families. So we marched southwest, first a party of the cavalry, then the soldiers on foot, with the slaves and the wagons of plunder, then the cows, then the rest of the cavalry, riding slowly through a land white and emptied of all its people.
Even at our slow pace, it took only a day and a half to reach the wagon city — I hadn’t realized it was so close. From a distance it looked like a real city, with wooden walls; only when you drew nearer did you see that the walls were wagons hitched end to end, with wooden palisades tied against them. When we approached, some of the G
oths rode ahead, shouting and whooping and waving things they had plundered; and more Goths came streaming from the city, shouting back. Children pelted through the snow and ran alongside the columns, yelling questions, throwing snowballs and insults at the prisoners, running up to catch hold of a father or brother, uncle or cousin. The column stopped altogether long before we reached the gates. I sat on my horse with my shoulders hunched, feeling wretched. People stared at me and pointed, though no one threw anything.
After what seemed a long time, Walimir took his subordinates and me and rode into the city. There were more wagons inside, arranged in uneven concentric circles. Animals and people were everywhere. The smoke from cooking fires mingled with the smell of the latrines; chickens scratched on dungheaps where children were playing; women were stretching clothes out to dry on thorn hedges or over horse troughs by crude wells. I wondered how many Goths there were in Thrace now. From the look of it, this wagon city was far larger than any Roman one in the diocese.
At the center of the camp was a house. It was a Roman house, a large and splendid villa, with a columned front and a tiled roof and a bathhouse. A makeshift addition of wood, wattle, and thatch had been stuck at the back to enlarge it, and smoke from the center of this showed that it was heated only by a hearth fire — the villa had a hypocaust. Here Walimir dismounted and signaled for me to dismount as well. Guards in stolen Roman armor and bearskin cloaks stood before the house, and two of these came over and asked Walimir his business,
“I am returned from raiding,” he announced. “I have taken much plunder and many prisoners; many Romans have I killed at Salices, and I have captured the famous physician and wizard Chariton, and brought him here to King Fritigern.”
The guards looked at Walimir with respect, and at me with fascination. We were admitted to the hall of the villa, and one of them went to announce us to Fritigern. He came back and complimented Walimir on Fritigern’s behalf, but begged him to wait a short time while the king settled some business. We waited. After about half an hour someone else came into the waiting room, a tall Goth in a cloak lined with ermine, and with a shock I recognized him as my former assistant Edico.
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