“Stand back!” Athanaric shouted. “The lady needs some rest. Let her go to her own house — out of the way, you!”
They milled about a bit, uncertainly, and then someone shouted, “Attention! Fall in!” and they snapped into line like a bent branch snapping straight again. The tribune Valerius hurried through them. His eyes, skimming the crowd, missed me and fixed on Athanaric. “Most excellent Athanaric!” he shouted eagerly. “Do you have news? Has the emperor been found? Are our people safe? Is Duke Sebastianus still alive?”
Athanaric looked at him blankly. “I came here on a private mission. What do you mean, has the emperor been found?”
Valerius stopped, looking at him in confusion. A gust of wind pulled at his scarlet cloak, fluttered the crests of the soldiers’ helmets,
splattered a few more drops of rain. “Haven’t you heard?” he asked.
“Heard what?” Athanaric asked; then, more urgently: “What has happened?”
“The barbarians have won a great victory at Hadrianopolis,” Valerius said slowly, the hope going out of his eyes. “And the emperor is missing, probably dead, and most of the army with him, and the rest under siege in Hadrianopolis. I hoped that you were bringing better news.”
Athanaric gave a wordless cry of pain and horror. My battered legs refused to support me any longer, and crumpled; I sat down on the bare ground, feeling sick and faint, and bent over, holding my head. Athanaric jumped off his horse; the soldiers broke ranks and crowded round, but he shoved them aside. I lifted my head just as he knelt beside me. “I’m all right,” I told him. “It’s just my legs, with the riding.”
Valerius appeared in front of me and stared down at me in astonishment. “Chariton!” he exclaimed. “How on earth —”
“Athanaric and Arbetio rescued me from the Goths,” I said.
“Arbetio? He went missing; I thought he’d deserted.”
“No. He was just busy saving Roman maidens from barbarians. Well, saving one Roman maiden, anyway. He has earned my gratitude, and I am sure that of my brother Theodoros the governor and my friend Duke Sebastianus as well. I trust Your Carefulness will overlook a week’s absence without leave. Your Honor, I am very tired. With your permission, I will go to my house and rest.”
Valerius gaped at me, then backed off, nodding helplessly.
Athanaric helped me to my feet and I hobbled off, clutching his arm. Arbetio broke off from his patient and followed us. I presume somebody else saw to the horses, because none of us did. There was a violent crack of lightning, and it began to rain.
By the time we reached my house news of our arrival had spread through the camp, and half the inhabitants were following us, even through the downpour. I was very glad to reach the house. It was the new house that I had bought just before my capture, and the entire household was waiting outside the door for us: my slaves, Raedagunda and Sueridus, Gudrun holding the baby (a big baby now) and Alaric (also bigger than when I left), and a small, plump, fair woman who wore the keys at her belt. I’d only met her a few times, but I recognized Arbetio’s wife. She hugged her husband, let us all in, and closed the door behind us. I sat down on the bench beside the door and leaned back against the wall. The water ran from my hair down my face into my eyes, so I closed my eyes. In the darkness behind the lids I saw the unknown country around Hadrianopolis, and the dragons and eagles of the standards falling, and the imperial purple stained with blood. I opened my eyes. Arbetio’s wife was standing in front of me, looking worried.
I tried to smile. “Very many greetings, Irene. It’s good to be home.”
She bowed. “Yes, Your Kindness. Is Your Wisdom . . . well?”
“I am very tired. You must have rearranged the rooms since I left; can you tell me which one I could use? I must rest.”
“We prepared your own room for Your Grace. I hope Your Kindness doesn’t mind that we used it ourselves for a while, only we didn’t want it to stand empty, and —”
“I am greatly in your debt for your care for my property in my absence.” I picked myself up and stood dripping onto the stone-flagged kitchen floor. Athanaric stood watching me, very pale. “Dearest,” I said, “please be my guest here tonight. Don’t go up to the presidium yet.
He shook his head. “I must hear the news. And I should stay in the presidium; it wouldn’t be proper to stay here.”
I sighed and looked at the floor. “Come back here for dinner then.”
“I will do that.” He pulled the end of his cloak over his head and walked back out into the rain. I stared after him, biting my lip, then stumbled off to bed.
I fell asleep with the thunder rumbling about the eaves, and woke up to hear only the rain, beating down steadily and hissing in the thatch. It was quite dark now, and I lay motionless, staring into the blackness. I’d pulled my wet cloak and tunic off before collapsing; the sheets were smooth against my skin. The emperor was missing, presumed dead. His Sacred Majesty, our Lord Valens the Augustus, master of the world, dead, fighting the Goths. I had hated many of his servants and favorites, hated some of his policies; I had thought that I hated him. But I felt only pain in response to his death. The man didn’t matter: he was emperor, he had worn the sacred purple and ruled the world I lived in, and his death left the state blind and headless.
He wasn’t the first emperor to die fighting the barbarians, even in my own lifetime, though he was the first in my memory. Julian had been killed in the middle of his campaign against the Persians, when I was a little girl. But he hadn’t left a whole Roman diocese overrun by barbarian hordes, and an army either slaughtered or scattered about the provinces. Of course there remained the western Augustus, Gratianus, even now on his way with the Gaulish legions; and there were other troops in the East — on the Persian frontier, in Egypt and Palestine. It was unlikely that the barbarians would conquer more than just Thrace. Though they might invade more. Constantinople, the radiant queen of the Bosphorus, richest city in the East, lay in the extreme southeast of the diocese. Whether the barbarians could take it was uncertain, but it was certain that they would try.
The war would go on, probably for years. And it would not be confined to Thrace; other provinces would suffer too. We couldn’t leave it behind.
I sighed again and sat up, realizing that I did not know where the lamp was. “Raedagunda!” I called, pulling up the sheets.
She came in a moment, carrying a lamp. “Yes, master?” she said, smiling nervously. Then, still more nervously, and not smiling: “Mistress.”
I smiled at that. “Don’t worry about the title,” I told her. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Only a couple of hours.”
“Is the most noble Athanaric back from the presidium yet?”
“No, not yet. I heard you invite him to dinner; I’ve been preparing something, but he hasn’t arrived yet. But I’ve also put some water on to heat for a bath, if you’d like one.”
“Bless you,” I said fervently. I held the sheets against me and looked around. “Where are my clothes?”
She put down the lamp and went over to the clothes chest in the corner. “I took the wet ones away to wash,” she said apologetically. “But Mistress Irene and I fixed some long tunics for you to wear. We couldn’t buy new ones because we weren’t to tell anyone that you were coming, but Mistress Irene said that you would need something and these would do.” She took out two long tunics, which must have been altered from Irene’s own: they had a border stitched around the bottom to make up about two hands’ width of difference in height.
“That was very kind of Mistress Irene,” I said, touched by it. I had come to turn her out of her house after risking her husband’s life for her, and she had busied herself making clothes for me. “Where is she?”
“She and the master — that is, she and Arbetio have gone back to the old house, since that’s theirs, and you’re home now.”
“Have they? I suppose I had better invite them to dinner as well.” Athanaric plainly wanted the di
nner to be respectable. “Send Sueridus over to invite them — and thank Irene for the tunics.”
Raedagunda hesitated. “We usually send Alaric with messages.”
“Well, send him then. Is the bath ready?”
“I’ll get it ready for you now.” She started out; I called her back and told her to light the lamp in the room. She did that, then hesitated, clutching her own lamp nervously. “Welcome home, master,” she said.
I smiled wearily. “Thank you, Raedagunda. But you must know that I’m not going to stay here.”
She nodded, speechless with tension; it was, of course, the point of her unease I was plainly not going to remain an army physician, so I would leave, and my slaves would be sold.
“I intend to free all of my household when I go,” I told her. “You and the others must think about what you mean to do with your freedom, and I will try to help you arrange it. I meant to send Gudrun and Alaric back to their families, but I intend to stay as far away from the Theruingi as I can now, and they will have to think of something else to do with themselves until the war is over.”
Raedagunda stared, then beamed, then knelt and kissed my hand. “Oh, thank you, sir!”
“ ‘My lady,’ “ I corrected her, smiling. “So, think about it. And do fix that bath; I’ve had three days’ hard riding and I ache all over.”
When I went through the kitchen to reach the bath, wearing only a cloak and holding that closed with one hand, my slaves were all standing about laughing and talking eagerly. They rushed over at once to kiss my hand, even the boy Alaric. “You’ll really set us all free?” Sueridus demanded, aflame with excitement. I nodded, and he immediately went on. “Most noble and generous master! Could I borrow some money from you? Valentinus at the stables wants to start a stud farm, and if I had twenty solidi I could buy a couple of brood mares. Then I could work for him, for a salary, and sell the mares’ foals, and it would make a lot of money; we’d pay you back within ten years, I’m sure!”
I laughed. “Very well. Twenty solidi for you to spend on horses. And Raedagunda, I’ll give you seven, to set yourselves up in a house. Gudrun, do you know what you want to do with your freedom?”
She blushed. She had changed too in my absence, grown and filled out. I realized with a shock that she was as old as I had been when it had been arranged for me to marry Festinus. When she spoke, it was in good Greek. “If you please, sir — my lady, I mean — I’d like to stay here in Novidunum until there is peace. Mistress Irene has said that she will pay me wages, as a servant, to stay on with her. But I don’t mind the wages. I’d like to learn how to be a midwife, if Arbetio will teach me. I like babies, and I like healing. And Alaric will stay with me, at least for now.”
I couldn’t believe it for a moment, and then I smiled. “Of course. I’ll ask Arbetio on your behalf tomorrow. And I will give you ten solidi as well, to use as your dowry or for whatever end you choose.”
“You paid less than that for me in the first place!” said Gudrun, blinking.
“But I would pay more, for another woman to study medicine. Now let me go take my bath.”
When Athanaric arrived I was back in my room, looking through my books. I had missed them as much as I had missed any of the people in Novidunum — my well-worn texts of Hippocrates; the good, clear Alexandrian editions of Herophilos and Erasistratos, their papyrus page edges soft from use; and my beautiful parchment codex of Galen. Edico still had my Dioskourides, damn him, but I supposed I could buy another copy; it’s a standard work.
I was leafing through the Galen when I heard Athanaric’s knock on the house door. I stopped worrying about the function of the gall bladder at once and wished I had a mirror. I had put on the finer of the two tunics and my best cloak, stupidly wanting to look beautiful for Athanaric. I’d given my disease-thinned hair a rinse of cedar and rosemary and tied it up with a pearl-studded gold rope that had been my mother’s. I’d never needed to sell that particular piece, and it went well with the pearl earrings Amalberga had given me. I suspected, though, that the jewels only made me look thinner and sicker. Well, too late to take them off now. Raedagunda knocked on my bedroom door and announced “the most excellent Athanaric”; I thanked her and came out.
This house had quite a pleasant dining room, small but attractive, with a red-and-white tiled floor and red curtains. During the day it was well lit by a large window onto the garden, and at night the opposite wall held a rack of lamps. Athanaric was standing with his back to the lamps, looking out the window at the rain, but he turned when I came in.
“Oh!” he said. “You managed to get another gown. I wondered what you’d do about that.”
So much for my beauty. “Arbetio’s wife altered two of hers for me. She and her husband should be here soon; I invited them.”
Gudrun, who was setting up the wine bowl under the lamp rack, immediately shook her head. “No, my lady: Alaric says that the master said that he wants to stay home with his wife tonight. He invites you to dinner with them tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said in turn, and looked at Athanaric. I silently prayed that Arbetio and Irene would have all the joy and prosperity their tact, kindness, consideration, and generosity so richly deserved. An evening alone with Athanaric, a chance to talk, with the respectable excuse that an invited guest had not showed up.
Athanaric smiled faintly. He looked tired, and had obviously come straight from talking to Valerius, without taking time to bathe or change into clean clothes. “By ‘the master’ you mean Arbetio?” he asked Gudrun.
She blushed. “Excuse me, my lady,” she said humbly.
“Never mind,” I told her. “Do we have any honeyed white wine? Good. Athanaric, please sit down and try to relax.”
Athanaric reclined on one of the couches in the room, and I reclined on the other, with the table between us. Gudrun brought us the white wine and some white cumin-seed rolls. “So,” I said, “how bad is the news?”
He stared blindly past me for a moment. “About as bad as it can be,” he said at last. “They say that two-thirds of the army was wiped out, that the emperor is presumed dead, and that many of the chief generals are certainly dead. Sebastianus’ father is, and Trajanus, Valerianus, Aequitius the master of the palace, Barzimeres, and dozens of the tribunes. It is the worst defeat in the history of the empire. And it seems that up to the last minute Fritigern was still suing for peace and offering to break with his allies and fight against them if the emperor would grant him a client state in Thrace. There never was such a stupid, ruinous, and unnecessary war.”
“What about our Sebastianus?” I asked after a minute.
“Nobody knows. His name wasn’t included among the dead. But he would have been fighting beside his father. It may have been an oversight.”
I sat clutching my hands together, trying to understand what it meant. I had known all along, of course, that it was possible that the Romans might be defeated. But I would have reckoned defeat to be another drawn battle, or perhaps a forced retreat. Not a wholesale slaughter.
Athanaric sighed and began to rub the back of his neck, as though his head hurt. “They say that the western Augustus, Gratianus, has already been informed of the disaster. He’s sending letters to the troops in Syria, to the duke of the East and the duke of Egypt, trying to collect more men. And he’s appointing a new master of arms, who’ll probably end up as his colleague and eastern Augustus — Sebastianus’ friend Theodosius the younger. He’s Gratianus’ age, and it seems they’re friends, despite what happened to Theodosius’ father. It wouldn’t be a bad choice. Theodosius is a very strong and energetic general, and did very well against the Sarmatians when he was duke of Dacian Moesia. He may be able to stop the flood from overwhelming the state.”
I remembered the ruinous oracle and shivered. “So ‘THEOD-’ will succeed Valens after all.”
Athanaric stopped rubbing his neck and smiled bitterly. “So he will. And it seems that the plain to the south of Hadrianopolis is called Mim
as’ Plain, after some ancient hero who was buried there. The demons tell the truth sometimes, though not to help us. Charis, it’s the end of us. I don’t think the empire will ever completely recover from this blow.”
“You’re tired,” I told him. “And it is dark, and raining, and your cloak is wet. The empire is a very great thing, and it takes more than one defeat, even one like Hadrianopolis, to destroy it. Drink your wine, my dearest, and rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow. The enemy still don’t know anything about siegecraft.” That was one of Fritigern’s favorite themes; he was always advising his colleagues against “throwing away our lives on stone walls.”
“That’s true,” said Athanaric, but he didn’t look any more hopeful. “And they’re laying siege to Hadrianopolis now. That will get a few of them killed. It may delay the ruin. But it won’t stop it.”
We were both silent for a few minutes. Gudrun brought in the first course, leeks in wine sauce.
“You’re tired tonight,” I repeated. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
He drank some wine, looking at me as he did so. “Sitting here with you I can almost believe that. And yet — the empire is too large. I’ve seen more of it than most. I’ve been west as far as Mediolanum, and east as far as Amida, and south into Egypt. Everywhere there’s trouble: barbarians in the north, Persians in the east, in the south the Saracens and the Africans. And we don’t have the strength to keep them out. Too many lands are deserted, and the church quarrels with the state; bureaucrats and governors line their own pockets, often to the ruin of the public good, and the men who are distant from the frontiers despise the soldiers who protect them. It has started to crumble. It won’t fall quickly — it may even last longer than our own lives — but fall it will, and we will see it go. ‘Desinas ineptire, et quod vides perisse, perditum ducas. Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles . . .’ ” He stopped, looking at me longingly.
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