Dear and Glorious Physician (47 page)

Lucanus told Ramus of his search for the boy, Arieh, who, if he was alive, would be twelve years old. “I never see a boy of that age with out looking at his little finger,” he said, “whether on the street, in the Agora of Athens, in the temples, among my patients, or in every alley and byway of the world I know. But surely he is dead; who stole him was full of wickedness and malice against Elazar ben Solomon, who never harmed a man and who made his fortune justly.” He pondered. “Why should man hate other men, out of envy or spite or because they are not of his race or color? That question was asked eons ago; it grows stale and dull with the asking. But it is the tragedy of man.”

He talked to Ramus as he had never talked with another man, not even Keptah or Cusa or Joseph ben Gamliel. The first had taught and admonished him, and he had felt rebellion; the second had taught him and, with love, had considered him somewhat a fool; the last had tried to lead him passionately to God when his heart was most bitter. But Ramus smiled at him and folded his hands.

He explained to Ramus that he would not treat the wealthy and the men of position, for they could afford other physicians and could pay them large fees. But time had taught him some shrewdness; he found that quite frequently some prosperous peasants, not wishing to pay fees, came to him for charity. Lucanus said, “When I discover who they are, and I have developed an occult sense which serves me well at times in this discovery, I charge them a fee, though it is small. Why should they take from me my time when they can afford a physician and others need my help? I treat the affluent only when they come to me in despair, having been consigned to hopelessness by their own physicians.”

Ramus, when Lucanus had said this, reached for a tablet, and wrote: “But all men suffer, and it is good to help them.” Lucanus looked at him with somber marveling; here was one who had endured torments from men, and he was compassionate.

One day, as the time drew nearer for Lucanus to board a ship again, a magnificent litter borne by six handsome black slaves stopped at his gate, and the leader, who spoke eloquent Greek, begged him to visit his master, who was at the point of death and had been abandoned by his physicians. Lucanus wished to refuse; he was very weary these days; the streams of the unfortunate began to form before his house at dawn, and then again at sunset.

He said, “If your master’s physicians have given him up, I, who treat the harsher diseases on shipboard and in the cities, could not help him.” Then his physician’s curiosity sharpened in him, and he asked, “What ails your master?”

“He is dying in all his parts, Master. His sons are distracted, and they have heard of you, and they are willing to pay an enormous fee for your help.”

Lucanus considered. He had used much of the bequest from Diodorus in charity; he had very little money at this time. He began to shake his head. At least a score of suffering men and women and children were waiting in his garden, some lying on the ground, some fallen on the bench, some prostrate on his doorstep. But Ramus touched his arm, and nodded, smiling beseechingly. Lucanus glanced at his patients; many were ill of chronic diseases; Ramus, who had grown in knowledge and who had a mysterious healing power of his own, and who had learned well from Lucanus, could examine and treat some of these piteous wretches.

“If it will not take more than an hour then,” said Lucanus, reluctantly, and got into the litter and was borne away. But still his curiosity was aroused. The litter glided rapidly through the light-filled streets of Athens, then moved away from the crowded section to an area filled with pleasant villas and gardens and white walls spilling with rosy and purple flowers. It stopped at a particularly fine wrought-iron gate, which depicted Apollo and his enigmas, and a slave opened it and admitted Lucanus to the garden, and he saw a lovely house in the near distance.

Lucanus looked at the house admiringly, for it was a veritable miniature of a villa, reduced in scale from magnificence to exquisite small form. The mosaics of the courtyard were rosy, and each tiny flower bed had been outlined in blue tile, like an azure halo. There was only one fountain, a low marble bowl filled with sparkling water and pink lilies, and its central figure was a dolphin standing on its tail; from its open mouth issued an iridescent stream. The house itself shone whitely in the sun, with small but perfect columns in the Ionian fashion.

So impressed was Lucanus with this delightful vision that he did not at first notice three middle-aged men resting together on a curved marble bench on the other side of the fountain, sheltered by a clump of myrtle trees. They were dressed formally in white togas to which they offered a sharp contrast, for, though tall, they had no aristocracy of demeanor, and their features were blunt. His physician’s eye noted the large, work-twisted hands, the small eyes, the pock-marked and oily dark skins, the rough and graying hair. He also observed that all wore rings of considerable value and that their sandals were of the best possible leather. They were like dull freedmen who had taken on the garments of their master. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable, and he understood at once that they were brothers.

The first one, who was obviously the oldest, said, “Greetings.” He added quickly, and in the monotonous and uncertain voice of the lowborn, “Welcome to this house of my father, Phlegon. My name is Turbo, and these are my brothers, Sergius and Meles.” Lucanus returned the bows of the three men with a courteous murmur, showing no sign that to him Turbo’s voice had none of the elegant accent of the cultured Athenian.

Sergius and Meles were quite content to allow their brother to speak for them. Their passivity was the passivity of those accustomed to obey. Yet, as Turbo went on, Lucanus discerned that all these men had a quality of strength and a crude defensive pride. He began to feel gentle towards them. Turbo said, “It is our father Phlegon who is sick. He has been in his bed for almost a month, and we have had the best physicians. But,” and he paused, “he drives them away, declaring them to be fools and rascals.”

Lucanus looked about the garden with admiration, and seeing this, the three brothers made themselves taller, and bashful smiles appeared on their somewhat grim faces. “One can see that nothing has been spared. What are your father’s symptoms?”

The younger brothers looked to Turbo, who said, “He declares he is very weak, and my father has always been a man to speak the truth and not exaggerate. He aches in all his parts. His spine is stiff. There is not a night, he swears, that he sleeps without pain, and he cannot eat.”

The symptoms suggested arthritis, Lucanus offered. But Turbo shook his head. “No. All the physicians have told us that there is no arthritis, no swelling or deformity of any joints, no crippling.” His small eyes became smaller, as if in bafflement. “One cannot, certainly, believe the words of slaves, and there are five slaves in this house. I have questioned them sternly. They swear that my father eats like a young man, with secret gusto. He will not dine in their presence; they must retire. He says he feeds the food to his large dog, who never leaves him, and that he himself drinks but a little wine for his health’s sake. Shall a man believe his old and honored father, or shall he believe the words of slaves?”

Lucanus was silent, but he inclined his head tactfully. He then asked the age of Phlegon, and was told it was seventy-three. “A good age,” he commented. “We must remember that the old are often fanciful.”

Turbo was offended. “My father’s mind is as vigorous as a youth’s, Lucanus, and as vital as a young tree. Until a month ago he strode like a man in his early age, and his voice could be heard everywhere, and his hand was heavy.” He glanced sideways at his brothers.

“And now,” said Lucanus, “his flesh has suddenly withered, he cannot walk without aid, his color has become ashen, and his voice is tremulous and faint.”

Turbo scratched his ear and looked down at his feet, and the brothers imitated him so exactly that Lucanus had to struggle to suppress a smile. In the little silence he could hear the singing of the fountain. Finally Turbo, not looking at him directly, said, “No, it is not like that. His color is excellent, his voice louder than ever, and his flesh is full. It is only that he complains and declares he suffers agonizingly. He was always a man of dominance and — ”

“And?” said Lucanus, when Turbo paused.

“He is still dominant, which cheers us.” The coarse voice had changed, become bewildered. “He lies in his bed, and does not walk, and his temper — ”

Lucanus waited, but Turbo was not inclined to discuss his father’s temper. “We are afraid he is about to die,” he said, simply. “We have consulted the priests in our despair. He calls the priests imbeciles, and ourselves superstitious fools.”

A portrait of a potent and irascible old man was beginning to emerge in Lucanus’ mind. He was curious to see his patient, and indicated so. Turbo bent his finger and summoned the slave at the gate. “I wish to see your father alone,” said Lucanus.

The slave led him into the house, which was as exquisitely beautiful inside as the exterior, and had been built, designed, and furnished by a master. Here were luxury and beauty again on a smaller scale. Lucanus reflected that this might have been the toy villa of some Roman or Pompeian gentleman, and he remembered the grossness of the three brothers and conjectured that it was possible that their mother had been baseborn, wife to a gentleman of Athens. The physician shook his head and looked at the little light-filled halls, the murals on the walls, the whiteness of the ceilings, the fine marble of the pillars, the colors of the floors, the excellence of the furniture.

He was taken to a bedroom streaming with sunlight, the polished floor gleaming with Persian rugs and bountiful with flowers. A big old man lay on a carved ivory bed inlaid with gilt, and with leaves and flowers of enamel. Beside him stood a table with ivory legs on which had been placed a silver bowl of fruit. Seeds of grapes and pits of plums and cores of apples had been tossed on a rug a Caesar would have admired. A large brown dog, very ugly and ferocious, rose growling when Lucanus entered, and the old man sat up suddenly on his bed and glared at the physician.

“Who are you?” he asked, in a furious tone. Lucanus saw immediately that here was no cultured Athenian, no scholar, no aristocrat. All that was on the faces of the sons was on the bearded face of the father, and more. Yet the old man was indeed vital, and his shoulders and his breast muscles and his corded arms resembled those of a strong worker who had known nothing but the most arduous toil all his life, and had not suffered from it.

Lucanus came to the bed and sat down on a chair and put his pouch beside him. He smiled into the impetuous eyes which were brighter than the eyes of the sons, and had no film of age on them. “I am your physician,” he said, calmly. “Summoned by your children.”

“Another!” roared the old man, and uttered obscenities. “Will they never have done spending my money? Begone, scoundrel!”

Lucanus folded his hands on his knees placidly. If the old man were ill, it was not evident. Nor could one believe he had a sickness of the mind, for there was no uncertainty about him, and no undirected violence, and no shrillness of voice. He had a fierce temper, but there was calculation about his mouth, an animal strength in the lines of his bulbous nose and mouth, and a profound suspicion of temperament which betrayed the unlettered peasant.

“You must concern yourself with the anxieties of your sons,” said Lucanus. “That is why I am here. If I cannot help you, then I shall demand no fee.”

The white eyebrows, so ferocious and scowling, tightened over Phlegon’s eyes. “Hah!” he exclaimed, and threw himself back on his embroidered pillows. He stretched out his hand for an apple, then bit into it with the whitest, strongest teeth Lucanus had ever seen. Phlegon chewed savagely, then hurled the apple from him. The dog snarled at Lucanus, and began to circle about him like a wolf looking for a moment to attack.

“My sons!” cried Phlegon, in a roaring voice filled with wrath and disgust. “They wait only for me to die, to seize my money! Let me tell you, you smooth white liar of a physician,” and he shook a big brown finger in Lucanus’ unmoved face, “you will get no fee from me!”

The dog was beginning to make Lucanus nervous, so he frowned at it and murmured a word. The animal stood like a stone. Lucanus murmured again, and the dog suddenly fell on his belly and rested his massive head on his paws and closed his eyes. Seeing this, Phlegon said, “A magician! An utterer of incantations! You have come to poison me!”

“I am no magician,” said Lucanus. “It was only something taught me by my first teacher, a physician himself. I thought I detected genuine alarm in your sons, yet you speak of them waiting for you to die, and have almost accused them of asking me to poison you.”

The old man lay on his pillows and panted, and stared at his dog. He was frightened. “Release him from your spell,” he demanded, “and then I may talk to you.”

“Certainly,” said Lucanus. “But it distracts me to have him pacing about me and growling threats. Call him to your bedside and bid him lie near you and keep away from me.” He snapped his fingers, and the dog sprang to his feet and snarled again, edging his way towards Lucanus. Phlegon called to him in that vicious voice of his, and the dog’s ears flattened, he whimpered, then sidled to the bed and lay down beside it. His master eyed Lucanus with cautious respect and continued fear.

“I will talk with you,” he said, “but it will do no good. It is very possible that I am being slowly poisoned, on order of my sons. I told this to three other physicians, whose fees could ransom a valuable slave! But they would not believe me. I tell you again, my sons are waiting for my death, and are planning it.”

“You have only to forbid them your house,” said Lucanus.

“Hah! They have bribed my slaves.”

Something slipped over his face like oil, like a secret cunning. He was now, however, willing to talk in his rage, for Lucanus was very attentive. Vigor filled Phlegon again.

“Let me tell you about my sons, my precious sons. Turbo, first, is a thief. He was born a thief, he has lived a thief, and he will die a thief.”

He reached for a bunch of grapes and began to eat them with relish, spitting out the stones. He had not offered Lucanus wine, or any fruit. He closed his eyes, enjoying what he was eating and smacking his lips. He said, in a deep and loving tone, “From my own vineyards, in the best of the sun.” He opened his eyes and glared at Lucanus.

“Turbo stole from my very coffers, in this house, a most valuable opal, for which I had been offered a fortune. He wears it openly, like the wretch he is, on his finger on his right hand, and you may see it there. Sergius, my second son, has the wit of a sheep, and the soul of one. Yet he is the vilest of plotters against me, and an incurable liar. As for Meles, he is a profligate, with my money. He spends all his nights in the most expensive of the brothels in Athens and lavishes my substance on infamous women.”

Lucanus remembered the faces of the sons. He pursed his lips a little. “Are your sons married, Phlegon?”

The old man uttered more blasphemies and obscenities. “Yes! And to loathsome women like themselves, who conceal their villainy under milky faces and soft words. Not one brought a dowry to her husband. I have forbidden them my house, and their offspring also.”

He assumed an expression of agonized and defenseless old age, left in loneliness, betrayed and abandoned. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“Yet,” said Lucanus, “you have given them homes of their own, I believe?”

Phlegon was wary at once. “They have told you that?”