The Beacon at Alexandria

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “Chariton, my dear master!” he exclaimed, beaming at me, and came up and seized my hand. “I am so glad to see you unharmed, and among my own people!”

  I took my hand back. I was glad to see Edico — it was good to see any familiar face, and delicious to hear Greek spoken again — but I was angry. “I am not here of my own free will,” I said flatly.

  The smile stopped at once. “Yes, they told me you had been captured. But don’t worry, you will come to no harm. You have many friends here, King Fritigern among them. You will be treated in every way as our guest.”

  “A guest is free to go when he pleases,” I said. “Am I to assume that’s true for me? If so, I’ll leave at once.”

  He shook his head quickly. “I am sorry. We are very shorthanded here. There are not many doctors, and people are ill. I’ve tried to see that they use wells for drinking water, I’ve tried to do all the things you taught me, but we still are suffering greatly from disease. The people were badly weakened by those devils who held us at the river. And the wounded suffer very much since we don’t have the supplies to treat them properly. I’ve run out of opium, and I’ve had boys combing the neighborhood for mandragora for weeks.”

  “Run out of the opium? What a pity. I’m afraid I don’t have much: some thief stole half our supplies at Novidunum.”

  Edico had the grace to blush. “We needed it badly,” he said earnestly. “I know you pitied us, Chariton; you tried to stop that business of Lupicinus’. But you never saw how much we suffered, and we weren’t your own people.”

  “I can understand your taking the drugs,” I admitted. “If you’d asked me before the revolt started, I would have given them to you, and sent you to help your people —”

  “I would have gone before, but I was ordered to wait!” Edico put in eagerly.

  “— but I don’t know why you took that book of mine. It was my personal property, and valuable too.”

  Edico blushed harder. “I meant to copy it and send you back the original,” he said. “But I haven’t had time. We have so few doctors — even fewer that I can trust. I was overjoyed when they said we’d captured you. You will be able to save so many lives.”

  “I am not overjoyed! I can save lives among the Romans as well, and I’d far rather be with my own people. Edico, I taught you the art, and in your oath you would have sworn to regard me as your father. Intercede for me, try to persuade the king to send me home. Listen, if you’re worried that I’m healing your enemies, I’ll swear to go away from Thrace, back to Alexandria, or perhaps Constantinople. But I don’t belong here. You know that.”

  Edico stood there, his face crimson above the ermine cloak. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “We are shorthanded, and need help.”

  “Damn you,” I said evenly. There hadn’t been much hope of help from him, but that hadn’t stopped my hoping. A door beyond us opened, the guards stood to attention, and another Gothic nobleman beckoned us to come in to see the king.

  Walimir went in first, followed by his subordinates, then me and a guard; Edico trailed in behind, looking miserable. The room was large and magnificent. It had a mosaic of the zodiac on the floor, and glass windows; it was hung with curtains of green and gold brocade, and the green and yellow paneling of the walls was covered with paintings. At one side of the room the Goths had set a kind of platform covered in more brocades, and on top of this were several gilded couches. On the central of these sat Fritigern. He was wearing a purple cloak — God knows where he had got such a thing — and a gold diadem. Another chieftain, similarly dressed, sat on the edge of the couch beside him; I guessed that he was the other Gothic leader, Alavivus, or perhaps one of the Greuthungian nobles.

  Walimir went down on one knee before the king, then rose again — a prostration that wouldn’t have been nearly deep enough for a real emperor. “Greetings, Fritigern, king of the Goths!” he exclaimed. The other chieftain looked put out but made no comment, Fritigern rose from his couch and came down to shake Walimir's hand.

  “Greetings, Walimir! And well done! The whole city is ringing with the news of your victories.” Walimir looked pleased. “I hope the plunder is distributed according to your wishes and the customs of the people? Good. And well done, capturing Chariton. Lord Edico has been lamenting his absence for months.”

  “Leaving me to lament my presence,” I put in. “Or am I to consider myself a slave now, and keep silent while others dispose of me?”

  “You are our guest,” said Fritigern in Greek, and offered me his hand.

  After a minute I took it. “Lord Fritigern,” I said, “I know that Your Honor’s people have suffered a great injustice. I tried to stop it —”

  “I heard of that, and thank you.”

  “— but I cannot serve you against my own people. Please let me go. I have helped Your Kindness in the past, and you owe me a better return than captivity.”

  Fritigern shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not ask you to fight against your own people. I think that as a doctor, you will not refuse to treat the sick. And we have very many who are sick or wounded — sick because they trusted the Romans and trusted me, and wounded because they were fighting for me. I cannot let you go.”

  “Then no matter what fine words you say about guests, you are making me a slave.”

  “If you choose to use that word, you may; I will call you my guest. You are welcome to my house. Have you eaten? Then perhaps you, and you, esteemed Walimir, would join me for dinner? Ah, Chariton, I suppose being a Greek you will want to bathe first. My own slaves will attend you.”

  “Thank you, no,” I told him. I wondered how long I would have to stay among the Goths, treating their injured. I wondered if the Romans would regard me as a traitor when they eventually defeated the barbarians. Probably not; Sebastianus knew I had gone unwillingly.

  “Well, a change of clothing, then?” Fritigern suggested, giving me an indecipherable look with his pale eyes. “You have ridden far, and it grieves me to see a guest so travel-worn.”

  I sighed. “If I may have a room to myself, I would like to be alone, to rest.”

  “My slaves will care for you.”

  “If Your Excellency does not object, I would prefer to be private.”

  The glassy eyes fixed on me, the look deepening slightly to a frown. “If Your Wisdom will excuse me, that is ill advised. It would be better if the slaves could look at you and report to their friends that you are indeed a man; it would set people’s minds at rest. There have been some reports that you are a devil — I am sorry, many people here are exceedingly foolish and superstitious, and do nothing but gossip. And then my wife and her women think that you are really a woman. We have no eunuchs among our people. Let the slaves attend you, as they do any person of rank, and they will stamp out silly rumors.”

  “I do not like to be stared at,” I said at random, trying to think of a good excuse for my modesty. “Please, you have made me a slave; leave me my dignity.”

  Fritigern stared at me, frowning. Behind me Edico stirred. “How does it offend a gentleman’s dignity to have slaves attend him?” he asked. “You’re being too sensitive, Your Grace.”

  “I want people to know clearly what you are, now that you are serving me,” said Fritigern. “My wife says you are really a woman. She says you adopt a disguise because the Romans do not permit women to study medicine. How can you serve me properly if people are saying things like that about you? You must yield to my judgment on this matter.”

  Edico gave a snort of amusement. “Women will say anything. If you don’t want people to think a thing like that, forget this absurd modesty.”

  Damn Amalberga. She had seen too much, too quickly. And she had not even questioned me. She had suspected, discovered that I had a motive for disguising myself, and drawn her own conclusion. I tried to think of something more to say, but my tongue seemed frozen. I felt my cheeks grow hot. Fritigern kept watching me.

  “I am used to privacy,” I said when the silence gr
ew unendurable. “I find this curiosity indecent.”

  Fritigern waved the objection away. “You almost make me think that my wife’s suspicions are true.”

  “Your Majesty, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Edico. “I worked with Chariton for almost two years. I know these rumors are false.”

  “Are they?” asked Fritigern, looking from Edico to me, then fixing the stare on me. “Swear it to me.”

  My heart was pounding in my ears. I looked away from the king, down at the mosaic on the floor: the Bull roared at the Celestial Twins. There was no way out. Once the question had been asked, there was only one answer. My whole disguise had depended on no one ever asking that question. Lying was of no use, once I was suspected. “They are true,” I whispered. “I am a woman.”

  Edico stared as though he doubted my sanity. Walimir stared. Everyone stared. I put my hands behind my back and clenched them to keep them still.

  “I never listen enough to my wife,” said Fritigern thoughtfully. “She is usually right.”

  I looked back at him. “No one has ever questioned my skill at medicine.”

  “I do not question it,” Fritigern returned. “It makes no difference to your skill what your sex is, and it is your skill that is needed. Only I cannot send you out of the camp. I couldn’t protect you on a raid, and it would be a great dishonor to me if you suffered insult in my service. I will see to it that you are treated as a great lady.”

  I felt as I had in my dream when my father had turned into Festinus. If I was treated as a lady, the secret was out forever and ever. I would have to stay among the Goths all my life if I wanted to practice medicine — or I could go home and sit in solitary dishonor in my brother’s house. Either way I had no power over what happened to me; I would be Fritigern’s chattel or my brother’s. My self-control abandoned me, and I cried out, “No! Please. I am utterly ruined if news of this gets out. I cannot go back to the Romans, I . . .”

  Fritigern smiled. Of course. If I couldn’t go back to the Romans, so much the better.

  “No,” I said again, numbly. “Please, I’ve done good to you and to your house. Don’t return evil.”

  “You will be treated as a guest, and as a lady. I will see you lodged with my wife.”

  “If I had wanted to be treated as a lady, I would have stayed in my father’s house in Ephesus!”

  But Fritigern shook his head. “I cannot have you treated as a man and lodged among the common troops. You will stay with my wife. Then people will know who and what you are. I would be dishonored if any insult were offered to you.”

  “But you are ruining me, can’t you see?” I shouted at him. “God in Heaven! I will lose my name, my career, everything; I will exist only as your servant! And if I try to go back home, I’ll be nothing, no one — just a scandal. My friends and family will all be ashamed of me . . . No, please, I beg you . . .” I was starting to cry, and had to stop. I pressed my hands to my face. Fritigern watched me dispassionately.

  “I will send you to my wife now,” he said firmly. “You can rest.”

  And I was led out of the room in tears.

  Amalberga managed me beautifully. I had never thought of myself as easily managed, and I think my family and friends would agree with that, but Amalberga handled me as easily as a nurse handles a fractious child or a skilled groom a stubborn horse, and I didn’t even realize until afterward that she’d done it. I was led into the back part of the house, the women’s quarters, quite blind with tears. Amalberga was sitting spinning by the hearth with some of the other noblewomen. She stared in astonishment while the guards explained what had happened, then jumped up, sent the men away, and led me to an empty bedroom. “Rest for a little,” she told me, and left me alone. And I wept, hysterically I suppose, for about an hour, lying on the bed biting my sleeve and convulsing with sobs. I could have taken a knife to my own body; I was furious with it for being female, for betraying me.

  When the violence of the sobs had eased somewhat, Amalberga came back into the room and stood by the door. “Esteemed Chariton,” she said in Greek, “one of my women has a child that is ill; she is desperate for it to have attention. I know that Your Grace is tired, but could you perhaps just look at the baby?”

  At that minute I hated her deeply, because her suspicions had led to my exposure. But how could I refuse to examine a baby? I got up, still swallowing sobs, and went to look at the sick child. It had earache and a fever. I dosed it for the fever, gave it nightshade and hot compresses to ease the pain in the ears, and reassured the mother that it wasn’t terribly ill and would eventually recover. Amalberga then discovered another case that needed attention, but suggested that I might want to wash first: “I know that you Greek doctors set great store on hygiene in treating your patients. I’ve had the bathhouse readied, if you like.” So I had my bath, with various slaves and some of Amalberga's women looking in to make sure I was really not a man or a devil.

  When I got out of the bath, my old clothes were gone, and in their place was a long tunic with sleeves, some slippers, and a gold-studded belt. The slaves held the dress up for me expectantly, and I stared at it. But what was the point of protesting? I had a patient waiting, and the disguise wouldn’t work any longer anyway. I put the thing on and fastened the belt around my waist. The dress was of wool, with a linen undertunic: good quality. It was a plain dark green, without fringes or pattern, and the sleeves stopped at the elbow, out of the way: good for working in. But I felt very strange without my corset, and the long skirt now felt unnatural.

  When I came out of the bathhouse, Amalberga was back at her spinning, talking to another woman; some children were playing by their feet. She smiled, but made no comment on how I looked. I couldn’t have endured it if she had. Instead she apologized for not having provided a cloak: “I thought you could use your old one, but it does need cleaning. Still, Frigda is just in another room, you won’t need to go outside to treat her. Can I give you some earrings?”

  “Thank you, no,” I said.

  Amalberga smiled apologetically. “It would be better if you had some jewelry. People would respect you more. They assume that someone with no jewels must be of low rank, and that a doctor of low rank must be incompetent. It would make your patients more confident if you wore some jewels. Here, take these.” She handed me some pearl earrings — they were of Roman craftsmanship, plundered no doubt from some Thracian villa. I stared at them sullenly.

  “I would rather not be your debtor,” I declared, and tried to give them back.

  “But it is I who am yours!” said the lady. “You saved my life, but I returned your kindness by destroying your name among your own people. I swear I never meant to. I had a suspicion, and I mentioned it to my husband — but that was before the war began, and I never meant him to expose you. For all that it’s worth to you, I’m sorry. Let me at least help you to establish a new name among us. Your skill will do most of that, but it will help if you look like a noblewoman.” She closed my hand about the earrings, her vivid blue eyes meeting mine with a look of earnest pleading.

  After a minute I put on the earrings. My ears had been pierced as soon as I was born, and the six years I’d gone without earrings hadn’t closed the holes.

  Amalberga nodded approval. “Now you look more like a person of rank,” she said. “May I ask you your real name?”

  “Charis,” I said, then stood there feeling naked and ridiculous in my new green dress.

  “Of course,” said Amalberga, smiling again. “You didn’t really change it at all. Don’t tell me any more than that, if you don’t want to. Your patient is this way. She’s pregnant, she’s had a pain in her side for a week now, and we are all afraid for her. I hope you can help her.”

  Amalberga was a skilled ruler. I’d admired her self-possession at our previous meeting; few women with childbed fevers can give orders to their midwives. Now I saw that self-possession was the least of it. She was very adept at getting people to do what she wanted the
m to, far better at it than her husband was. She had a natural understanding of what others were feeling, and she could play on those feelings with great skill. It was not hypocrisy and play-acting: that was the strength of it. She was genuinely gentle, and interested in reconciling people — to each other, to her husband’s edicts, to their lot. She understood perfectly how much the art of healing meant to me, and she used that to make me accept servitude. It was only when I went to bed that night that I realized that I had yielded quietly. I had patients needing attention, and I had to help Edico run a hospital: therefore I would submit to becoming a Gothic wisewoman.

  I sat straight up in the bed, horrified. I was sharing the room, and indeed the bed, with a Gothic noblewoman whose husband was off raiding. The room had a stone floor spread with rushes, and walls of mud and wattle; it hadn’t been cleaned for some time, and was smoky from the hearth fire in the main room of the women’s quarters. My companion muttered and turned in her sleep. I remembered studying in Alexandria — the smell of Nile mud, the cries of the street vendors, the delicate pages of medical texts. I remembered my father’s house in Ephesus. This barbarian city had nothing to do with me. If I left now, I thought, I might make it back to the Romans before the news got out. Salices wasn’t far.

  I climbed out of bed, picked up the green dress, and pulled it on. The stone floor was cold. I looked for my boots, then remembered that I had only the slippers, and that I didn’t even have a cloak. How could I get out of the women’s quarters, through the concentric rings of the camp, out the gate, and two days’ ride through hostile country back to the Romans, without even a cloak? And could I ride a horse in a long skirt?