The Beacon at Alexandria

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “And what do you think is a good place for me, then?” I demanded. “Festinus’ house, where my father would have sent me?”

  “Of course not. But I’ve talked to your brother, I know he’s been trying to persuade you to come back for years now.”

  “Come back to what? To sit in his house in disgrace, or to marry some clod and spend my time reading Homer and staring at the floor? I’m a doctor, and good at it.”

  “Sebastianus isn’t a clod, and wouldn’t expect you to spend your time staring at the floor.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Sebastianus wouldn’t marry me.”

  “He’s asked your brother to draw up the contract, and your brother’s agreed.”

  I stared.

  “For God’s sake! You were there in Marcianopolis when he described his idea of the perfect woman; you must have realized you fit the description. The day after I told him who you really are, he told me that he wanted to marry you. “I won’t get another chance at a woman like that,” he said.”

  “But . . . but his family certainly outranks mine. And I wouldn’t have thought my dowry was up to scratch.”

  “A thousand pounds in gold would be enough. But in fact Sebastianus is willing to spend the dowry on the ransom and draw up the contract without his father’s approval. And your family is as good as his — consular rank.”

  “Only consul in Constantinople. His father’s been consul in Rome.”

  “Consular rank is consular rank. And he wants to marry you.”

  “But why? I must be the scandal of half the empire.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! What do you want me to say? That he wants you because you’re brilliant, accomplished, noble, rich, courageous, virtuous, and rather beautiful? That he’s said all that to me? You made all that clear to him, you must know he thinks that; why do you have to hear it from me?”

  I sat there in the shadow under the wagon and gaped at Athanaric for a minute, and then I shook my head. I suddenly wanted very badly to cry, and put my arm to my mouth to stop myself. “I know I’m clever,” I said after a pause. “But I didn’t . . . that is . . . oh, Holy Christ!” I bit my sleeve, but it didn’t work: the tears were coming anyway. I was very tired, from the hard work and the trouble and the waiting, and it suddenly seemed too much to bear, that Athanaric was angry and was accusing me indirectly of having entrapped Sebastianus.

  He stared at me in surprise. “I thought . . .” he began; then: “You are pleased about it, aren’t you? You are in love with him?”

  I shook my head.

  “But . . . but then who did you mean, that time in Tomis? You said you were in love with someone. I assumed —”

  “Never mind,” I said. If he couldn’t guess, I shouldn’t tell him; I’d only make myself ridiculous. If he felt half of what I did, I told myself, he’d know. “I like Sebastianus. I’m just not in love with him. And I’m not sure he’s wise, deciding to marry me. But then, I can’t really see myself settling down as a respectable matron with anyone.”

  “I would have thought you could use your dowry to found a private hospital,” said Athanaric — a startlingly practical suggestion that took my breath away.

  “Would Sebastianus approve of that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But who did you mean, then? Someone in Egypt — that fellow Philon?”

  “Never mind! No, of course not Philon. The trouble with you is, you want to know everything, and you won’t leave anything alone. How did you manage to guess about me? I gather you did guess, even before I was captured.”

  Two of Fritigern’s companions came hurrying past the well and banged on the door of my patient’s wagon. Athanaric pulled me further back into the shadow. “The search is on,” he said. “I think we’d better leave discussions of why I didn’t spot the obvious sooner, until the next time.”

  “Will there be one?”

  “Dear God, I hope so. Though I don’t know when I’ll be allowed away from Egypt. Perhaps Sebastianus will manage to get you out before then. Whatever you do, though, don’t let them marry you to anyone. It will make it much more difficult to get you out, and it would hurt Sebastianus as much as anything on earth. Can you send him any message, even if you’re not in love with him?”

  “Tell him I am honored by and grateful for his offer, but doubt its wisdom. And tell him I’m all right. And tell Thorion that too, and tell him not to worry, at least no one’s accusing me of sorcery. I must go; I can’t have those men disturbing my patient. Dearest friend, much health!”

  He caught my hand and stared into my face, frowning. I heard people start shouting inside my patient’s wagon, and the baby began to cry. Because I had to, I leaned over and kissed Athanaric quickly — stolen pleasure! — then pulled my hand loose, slid out from under the wagon, and ran to rescue my patient. Athanaric said nothing, and I didn’t dare look back at him. When I came out with the companions (I told them that I’d gone to check on another patient and rebuked them soundly for disturbing the sick woman), I looked under the wagon, but Athanaric was gone.

  The year that followed was the worst of my life.

  Even after Athanaric was gone I was watched constantly. Every night my clothes were taken away and not given back until the next morning. I was escorted directly to the hospital and constantly supervised and spied upon until I was escorted home. I was forbidden to treat Roman patients. In protest at this I flatly refused to treat any Gothic warriors, but this didn’t have much effect, as others were willing to do that and no one but me had been attending to the Roman slaves. It broke my heart to see them sick and suffering about the camp, and to be unable to help. I would almost have agreed to marry some Goth, if they’d have promised to let me treat Romans — but Amalberga would only say that such a promise would have to be up to my husband.

  And everyone went on and on at me about marriage. After my bloodthirsty declarations no one wanted to marry me against my will, but a number of Gothic chieftains thought they might be able to convince me to change my mind. I was at first surprised that they bothered; after all, few Romans would want me, a runaway with no dowry. But I discovered that there is nothing like notoriety for attracting attention. For a young Gothic nobleman who wanted to make a name for himself I was a golden opportunity: many the woman who had shamed Festinus and he’d have fame on a platter. Besides, they mostly expected that once I was married, my family would give in and provide a dowry as well, making the best of a bad deal. So at regular intervals I was left alone with one or another of these notables, and they endeavored to make conversation or love or both, while I fended them off as politely as I could. I had to be polite, as I didn’t dare seriously offend such powerful men. But they were under no such obligation; they were honoring me enough by offering marriage, they thought. Some of them preserved the social decencies, but some didn’t, and I needed quick wits and a stiff arm. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so frightening, and if I hadn’t felt so mauled every time I got away. And of course they were offended. I developed considerable sympathy for Penelope of Ithaca, who had stood ten years of that sort of thing — but none of the Goths had heard of her, and no one would help me laugh. All the noble ladies told me again and again about the courage and hardihood and manly virtue of Munderiph or Levila or Lagriman or whichever of those ignorant, sword-toting barbarians I was then being considered by, until I was quite sick of the sound of Gothic and wished I’d married Festinus and had done with it.

  But all these weren’t serious difficulties; those started that winter. In early autumn the combined Roman forces marched north and met the Goths at Salices, where they fought a pitched battle. There was very great slaughter on both sides, and no clear victor. The Gothic troops retreated to Carragines, the Romans to Marcianopolis. The Goths treated their wounded and argued what to do next. The Romans, more practical and industrious, built barricades across the passes in the Haemus mountains. By the time the Goths realized this, they were trapped in the north of the diocese, w
here, as Amalberga had said, there was nothing to eat.

  The Goths made a few attempts to break through the Roman line into the more populous and well-supplied south, but achieved nothing but loss of life. Fritigern sent envoys to the Romans in Marcianopolis, but they were driven away from the gates and not even allowed into the city. The Romans were not ready to negotiate. Fritigern sent to Tomis, offering to ransom me for grain supplies, but it was late autumn by the time he did this, and Thorion had apparently already gone to Bithynia, and the new governor didn’t listen to Fritigern’s threats. I was held prisoner in the house while this was going on, but in the end the king realized that no one would pay any attention to what happened to me, except perhaps to revenge it, and sent me back to treat the sick. My skill was more necessary than ever. People fall ill easily when they are cold and hungry. They die easily too. Medicine at its best has been called “a meditation on death,” and that winter in Carragines death sometimes seemed the only topic I could think of. The days were indistinguishable with hunger and cold, disease and hard work; emaciated bodies, fever-stricken, shivering under flea-infested blankets; gray-skinned corpses piled in carts, awaiting burial, their eyes glazed with ice; the thin crying of starving children, the quiet deaths of old women; wood smoke and the sharp scent of gentian. My Caesarean patient lost her baby, then died herself; the Roman slaves I had stitched up that summer were thrown in ragged heaps under a thin scraping of frozen earth. For me, it was worse than the Goths’ attempts at marriage, worse than being a prisoner, worse even than being forbidden to treat Romans. I was surrounded by death, and all my art was useless.

  The Goths began to say that the Romans would never negotiate, that they meant to wipe out the Gothic race. I don’t think it was true — the Romans would have concluded a peace treaty once the Goths were completely broken and were willing to accept any terms. Fritigern’s client kingdom would have been out of the question, but the Romans still cherished the idea of Gothic settlers for the wastelands. But the Goths didn’t break. Instead they looked back across the Danube at the enemy they had come to Thrace to escape, and in their desperation they made an alliance with the Huns.

  I didn’t see much of these savages in Carragines. They don’t like towns, and avoid houses as we do tombs; Fritigern always spoke to them far from the camp, sitting on his horse as they sat on their shaggy ponies. He hated and feared them — all the Goths did — and Amalberga’s women told monstrous stories of their savagery and cruelty, until I felt quite sick for my people. Fritigern had persuaded the Huns into the alliance by promising them rich plunder, of course — Roman cities stuffed with gold and silk and treasures; Roman slaves. The Goths provided a bridge of boats, and the Huns came swarming across the river, thousands upon thousands of them, a fast-moving, savage, and fearful army.

  When the Romans discovered what had happened, very early in the spring, they withdrew the troops from the fortifications in the mountains. They did not have the numbers to hold out against the Goths, Huns, and Halani all together, and the Roman commander judged that his men would be better employed protecting the neighboring regions of Dacia and Asia. So Thrace was surrendered for pillage. The barbarians still did not attack the fortified cities — the Huns had even less experience than the Goths of siege warfare — but they poured down into the south as far as the Middle Sea, plundering, murdering, burning, and raping as they went. There was food again in Carragines, but I scarcely wanted to eat it, knowing how it had been taken.

  About the middle of May I fell ill. Fevers were common in the camp, but no longer epidemic; I think normally I would have shrugged the disease off, but I was weak after the long hunger and exhausted by work and the problems of Marriage. It began with a headache and fever. I stopped work, afraid of transmitting whatever it was, and I went to bed. I very nearly never got up again.

  Amalberga tried to attend me, at first, and then in the second week of the illness Edico returned from accompanying Fritigern and the army, and she sent for him. By that time the fever was high and accompanied by vomiting and diarrhea. I felt dull and stupid, and wouldn’t answer Edico’s questions or cooperate in the treatment he prescribed; I just told him to leave me alone. He didn’t; he gave me hemlock on a sponge, to lower the fever, and then honeywater and wine and some barley broth — all the things I would have prescribed myself. I wept, accused him of stealing my learning, called him a traitor, and told him to let me die in peace. And I really did wish to die, then. I was so tired of it all. I remembered how Athanasios once said that exchanging this world for Heaven is like exchanging a copper drachma for a hundred gold solidi; I didn’t know about Heaven, but I certainly felt that my life wasn’t worth a copper drachma. Carragines was unbearable, but where else could I go? There was nowhere on earth I could be whole: a Roman, a doctor, and a woman. In Heaven, I thought, everyone must be themselves, and complete; slave or free, male or female, it makes no difference there. I thought death would be like staring into water: the surface is troubled, the depths churn for a moment, but then when it grows still you can see clear to the bottom of everything.

  I also thought that in Heaven they would certainly speak Greek; if I had to listen to more Gothic, it couldn’t be Paradise.

  One night, after I’d been ill for a couple of weeks without responding to treatment, I woke up and saw Athanasios standing over me. He was dressed as he had been at his death, in a linen tunic with an old sheepskin cloak. After he died the attendants changed him into his best clothing, all brocade and cloth of gold, but he’d always preferred simplicity. I sat up. My dulled head felt quite clear. “Your Holiness,” I said, “have you come all the way from Egypt?”

  He smiled and jerked his head back: no. “Not from Egypt.” It was good to hear his voice, the singsong accent and the careful Greek words. “Charis, my dear, I told you that you would marry, and you seem determined to prove me wrong.”

  “Don’t you start on me,” I said. “I’m sick of that song. I thought you didn’t like marriage.”

  He smiled again. “I have been known to make mistakes. Though the world has made greater ones. Marriage should not be a means of getting property, nor of gaining power, nor of subjecting women. That’s the song you’re sick of hearing, and I can’t blame you.”

  “I thought you didn’t like it because it involved lust.”

  He laughed. “From where I am, lust looks completely different. The world is a dark place, and nothing is pure in it, for good or evil. Not lust, not the empire, not the Goths. But none of them will endure.”

  “Not even the empire?” I asked.

  “Because something has lasted a long time does not mean it is eternal,” he replied gently.

  “I’m tired of the world,” I said, despairing now. “You, who have kept so many people in it?”

  That still had power to move me. “It isn’t wrong to heal!”

  He smiled again, and touched my forehead. “I wish you loved God as much as you love Hippocrates. But ‘every good gift, and every perfect gift, proceeds from the Father of Light,’ and if you follow it back far enough, perhaps it will lead you to its source. God made the world, and printed his image on us, and we have never been able to efface that totally. Yes, it is good to heal. God heals. And you have more healing to do yet, before you go.”

  “But I’m tired!” I protested.

  “Then rest.” The brilliant dark eyes rested on mine, deep, affectionate, commanding. His hand felt cool, pressing me gently back. I lay down, and the coolness spread; I closed my eyes and felt the earth sway under me like water, like a cradle rocking to the beating of my heart.

  I slept, and when I woke up it was morning, with the light coming in slantwise through the shutters and laying bars of gold across the foot of the bed. My head and stomach still hurt and I felt very weak, but I knew that my fever was lower and that I would live. I lay on my side, staring at the place where Athanasios had stood. After a minute the door opened and Edico and Amalberga came in.

  “She’s a
wake!” Edico exclaimed excitedly. He hurried over and checked my pulse, touched my forehead.

  “The fever’s down,” I told him. “Did you see him?”

  Edico looked blank. “Who?”

  “Bishop Athanasios. He was here last night; he stood exactly where you are now.

  Edico moved uneasily away. “You have been very ill,” he told me. “You haven’t been conscious for days.”

  I sighed and put my hand to my eyes; the hand felt very heavy, and my eyes ached. It was too much effort to try to determine whether I had had a vision, a visitation, or a dream. But I was comforted. Whether he had been there or not, I was glad to have seen someone from the good days in Alexandria, when I had been happy. I realized suddenly that I had spoken in Greek, and that Edico had replied in the same language, for the first time in months.

  “Will you have something to drink?” Edico asked eagerly. “Some barley broth?”

  I looked at him, and then at Amalberga. “If I recover, may I treat Romans again?” I asked her.

  She went pale, and sat down on the bed. “If only we were all free!” she said suddenly, and clasped her hands together. “I swear I never hated the Romans, even after they injured us. And yet now they are enemies, and the Huns, whom I did hate, are our allies, and we are tied to this war like a slave to a rack!”

  “I have never hated the Goths,” I returned levelly. “But you have used me very cruelly, for whatever reasons. I wish I were very far away from here. I would rather die than go on as I have.” And, I realized, I wished I were married, to Athanaric, and running a private hospital of my own. It was the first time I had shaped such an ambition, clear and precise as that, and in the surprise I forgot what else I had meant to say.

  “I cannot let you go,” Amalberga said wretchedly. “The war is going badly, and we may need . . .” She stopped, staring at me miserably. They might need to sell me to save their own lives, she meant. And even if they didn’t, I had no hope of freedom from them. Fritigern was proud of such a notorious prisoner, and I was still very useful as a doctor.