Dear and Glorious Physician (9 page)

Iris stood apart, as unapproachable as a marble nymph, her golden hair arranged in the Grecian manner, the lengths of it bound about her head with white ribbons. Such ribbons also bound her slender waist, above which rose her perfect bosom. The sunset, falling upon her, gave her flesh a translucence, and Diodorus thought, Not Diana, but the Greek Artemis. The arms and throat and cheek of Iris became like a rose, and the composure of her quiet face, the gentle dignity of her figure were those of a dreaming statue engrossed in far thoughts unconnected with humanity. This aspect made Diodorus think, for all the presence of his wife, I am like Acteon, and surely it is forbidden to look upon her!

Aurelia saw the fixity on Diodorus’ face as he looked at the young freedwoman, and Aurelia sighed. It was then Iris, after a deep bow, moved away, and her tall and shapely figure was lost in the shadows of the dreaming trees. Diodorus watched her disappear. Aurelia took his arm affectionately. There was no jealousy in her heart. She loved Diodorus too much, and she knew Iris’ virtue too well. Too, it was permitted for a man to look upon a woman, and his wife should have too much dignity and self-respect for annoyance.

They went together to their house, Diodorus complaining of his bodyguard. But Aurelia was relieved. She had heard rumors from the slaves about the feeling in Antioch. “We must arrange for the quarters and the food for these devoted soldiers,” she said, placidly. It delighted her that others loved Diodorus also. She wished to show her husband the miraculous improvement in their child, Rubria, and though Diodorus kept up his questions about the girl’s condition, Aurelia only smiled and nodded mysteriously. Diodorus, followed by Aurelia, clattered up the broad stone stairway and went into Rubria’s room. The nurse was there, and Keptah and the boy, Lucanus, but Diodorus saw only his daughter, sitting up in her bed and laughing. There was a freshening color in her childish cheeks, and her dark eyes were dancing, and her long black hair was tied back from her face with a golden ribbon. Her small hands held a puppet made by Lucanus, brilliantly and gaily colored, and its wooden arms and legs were flexible. The girl danced the doll on her knees and made it perform grotesque figures. Lucanus was watching her with a stern and anxious smile, and Keptah mixed a potion in a cup of wine.

Seeing Diodorus, Rubria sat up straighter in her bed and cried excitedly, “See, is not this a marvel, Father! Lucanus brought it to me today!” She kissed Diodorus hastily, wishing to return to her play, and he scrutinized her lovingly. Ah, the little one had been snatched from the very edge of the Elysian fields themselves. She would live, and delight the hearts of her parents with a good marriage later, and grandchildren to dandle on their knees. But we must return to Rome, thought the tribune. This is an evil climate for a child. He would take his family to his farm in the provinces near Rome, where the air was excellent and dry, and he would be a husbandman and forget that rotted city, and rejoice in his family, and there might be sons.

He looked at Lucanus. The boy caught his glance and said diffidently, but with pride, “Rubria sat in her chair for two hours today, Master.” Then he laughed with the young girl at the antics of the puppet, and they were children together. For the first time Diodorus thought of the fees at the University of Alexandria without a twinge in his purse. The boy would eventually replace Keptah when the latter became too old. He would remain with the family who loved him, wherever they went. As Lucanus was freeborn he would be able to marry into a sound and virtuous family, the family of a prosperous merchant, perhaps, a Roman family. Lucanus and his wife (who would be chosen by Diodorus with an eye to her dowry and morals and fitness to become a healthy mother) would have a home on the farm.

The paternalistic soul of the Roman tribune expanded. In his old age there would be the laughter and voices of children about him, and the sight of fields and forests, and the pleasant lowing of cattle, and fruit trees and shade, and the rushing cries of a river.

Happier than he had been for a long time, Diodorus ordered Lucanus to remain for dinner, and he told the nurse to send a slave to the home of Aeneas informing the boy’s parents that he would be home later. Lucanus blushed; he had never before been asked to eat at the table with the tribune and his lady, but he did not demur. Rubria immediately demanded that she be carried downstairs, and Keptah nodded at his master’s glance of interrogation. Diodorus carried the child in his arms, and his heart was so light that he did not feel her fragility. He was conscious only that she still laughed and had nestled her head on his breast.

The dining hall was of colored tiles, and there was a Persian rug on the floor. The windows looked out upon the palms, whose tips were dyed scarlet from the last beams of the sun; jasmine and the fragrance of roses filled the warm air. It was so still and serene that the voice of the river could be heard. Keptah, in his new honors as a freedman and a valued physician, sat far at the foot of the table, but Lucanus sat next to Rubria. He is as my son, thought Diodorus, suddenly, and he loved Lucanus’ face, so like the face of Iris, and he marked the nobility of his forehead. After all, he thought, in extenuation of his sudden democracy and the violation of the proprieties, we Romans have always conceded the superiorities of the Greeks, including the philosophers. This boy doubtless had patrician ancestors, probably much older than mine.

The meal to Lucanus was a surprise, for his father’s table was much more lavish and the wines were better. There was a dish of cold boiled lamb, not too expertly seasoned, and too oily. There was a plate of coarse bread, and several of the less distinguished cheeses, and the vinegar and oil on the radishes and cucumbers were of the poorer variety, due to Diodorus’ thrift and lack of appreciation. Lucanus saw that the tribune and Aurelia had no palate; they were, in truth, simple and hearty people, preferring simple and hearty food, which they ate with relish. Lucanus longed for his father’s table; Iris could so season and spice a dish of humble beans that it became an epicurean delight.

Keptah, admitted to the tribune’s table for the first time, wrinkled his dark and aquiline nose. This was food for pigs, not men. Diodorus gnawed on a small bone; there was a pungent odor of garlic. A civilized man can be distinguished from a plebe by the amount of garlic in his food, thought Keptah, confining himself to a bit of cheese, a piece of bread, and one of the less revolting wines. Nevertheless, he felt considerable affection for Diodorus.

Rubria suddenly tired, and her vivacious young voice became slower. Diodorus carried her upstairs to her chamber. The slaves were lighting lamps all over the house. Lucanus accompanied the tribune; Rubria sighed with satisfaction on her pillows. She held out her hand to Lucanus, who took it, then gently kissed her fingers. Rubria closed her eyes and smiled, and immediately fell asleep.

It was dark now, and Diodorus informed Lucanus that he, rather than a slave, would take him to his home. On the way, through the quickly gathering night, Diodorus talked learnedly of Alexandria, which he had seen. The medical college alone was vast; the library was one of the wonders of the world. Lucanus should feel properly humble at the thought of being a student there. Lucanus nodded gravely.

“It will cost a great deal of money,” said Diodorus, cautiously, trying to see the face of Lucanus in the frail light of the stars and the rising moon. “I am not a rich man, Lucanus. Your fees will be paid, but you must be frugal.”

Lucanus repressed a smile. “Master,” he said, “I would be grateful for a pallet on the floor of a stable, and my needs will be small. In return I pray that you will permit me to serve you. Or, if not, I shall repay you from my fees as a physician.”

Diodorus was pleased at this austerity. He had taken Lucanus’ hand, and now he squeezed it. “Nonsense, nonsense,” he said, largely. “I wish only that you will appreciate your advantages. Of course, after your graduation, you will remain with the family. Keptah will be older; too, he will have a generous stipend of his own, left to him by my father, Priscus. What a strange and elliptical man!”

Behind them, unknown even to the keen-eared soldier, a young centurion was following, keeping to the trees at a distance, his sword drawn in protection. Finally Aeneas’ house came into view, and Lucanus begged Diodorus to come no farther. He then ran to the house, stopping for a moment to wave shyly to his benefactor, who saluted indulgently in reply. Ah, yes, thought Diodorus, this is the son I should have had. He was sorrowful for a moment.

He lingered. Lucanus raced into the house. Now all was silence, except for the shrill cries of crickets, the mysterious rustle of palms and trees. Diodorus did not know why he lingered, and why there was a sudden desolation in his breast. The single lamp in the house of Aeneas flickered. Then the door opened, and Iris emerged, alone. The moonlight gave an aspect of flowing silver to her white and simple dress. She walked like a goddess to a tree and leaned against it, unaware of the presence of Diodorus nearby. Her golden hair flowed loosely over her shoulders.

Diodorus held his breath. He could barely see the girl’s profile in the argent and diffused light. But he saw that she was looking in the direction of his house, and she was as still as a statue. The hand on the tree, and the bare arm extending from it, were perfect and slender, and whiter and more radiant than the moon itself.

There was a wild thundering in Diodorus’ ears. Moment by moment passed, and Iris still gazed in the direction of the tribune’s house. She was so still that Diodorus thought of an apparition. Then he became aware of the sound of soft weeping, and started. Iris was covering her face with her hands.

Diodorus took a single step in her direction, then stopped. He wanted to cry out and could not. He had only to go to Iris and take her in his arms, and there was a terrible craving in his flesh. He could feel her body against his, and his hands in the wonderful hair, hair which he had played with so carelessly as a boy. It would be like yellow silk, and scented with fresh flowers.

But he did not move, for all the passionate hunger that made his arms tremble and his heart pound eagerly. He dropped his head, and soundlessly, backward step after backward step, he retired into the trees and went away.

The Greek teacher of Rubria and Lucanus was a small and active young man, with a mischievous dark face and antic manners. He was a slave, and a valued one, for he had much learning. He had cost Diodorus five hundred gold pieces, an extravagance that only occasionally gave the tribune a twinge. His name was Cusa, which to Diodorus was heathenish, and neither Greek nor Roman, and he had the features of a youthful satyr, and a peppery tongue of much impudence. He feared nothing and nobody, except Diodorus, and though he was playful and not above tricks and horseplay at times with the other slaves, he had a brilliant mind and a gift for poesy. Moreover, he hated illiteracy and stupidity, and attacked them in foul language which made Diodorus laugh even when he chided his slave. “By all the gods,” he had said once, “I thought, as a soldier, that I knew all the words, but your inventiveness, my Cusa, has improved upon them.”

Cusa resented Lucanus from the beginning. As an ugly young man he envied the boy’s Apollonian beauty. As a slave he considered Lucanus, the son of former slaves, an imposition on him. But the master was a capricious man, and his orders must be obeyed. Nevertheless, Cusa provided himself with a small whip which he used on Lucanus more often than necessary when, in the opinion of Cusa, the boy was displaying adamant stupidity. He did this out of sight of Rubria and anyone else who could report him to the tribune, and Lucanus, though indignant and smarting, did not complain. But one day, he promised himself, he would take that whip and lay it about Cusa’s shoulders with good effect. Cusa would see that gleam in the proud boy’s blue eyes and grin. Oi, he would think, I may be small of stature, and you may be half a head taller than I, my fine ignoramus, in spite of your age, but I am master here!

The schoolroom was small, with a single table and three chairs, and a case full of rolled books. Cusa kept the door open, and sometimes, in a gracious mood and in deference to Rubria, he would bring his pupils out upon the grass and permit them to sit upon it, Rubria on a cushion to protect her from dampness. “The philosophers wandered through colonnades,” he would say, “and would recline upon stones.” He would direct Lucanus to perch upon a particularly uncomfortable stone, and would say, slyly, “We must learn to be a Stoic; it is excellent for the soul and a discipline for the mind.” As he was not a Stoic he would spread his crimson wool mantle on the grass for his own buttocks.

Once he said to Diodorus, “Master, I pray you will not be disappointed. This boy may be handsome, but he has a head like the marble it resembles.”

“Teach it to be flesh and brain then,” said Diodorus, understanding Cusa. “I warn you. You are to prepare him for Alexandria, and as fast as possible.”

This made Cusa dislike Lucanus more than ever. Ah, one needs only to have yellow hair and a white skin to attract a benefactor, Cusa would say to himself, maliciously. You, my good Cusa, look like a camel, or an ape, and that is your misfortune.

Nevertheless, over the long moments and hours and then weeks and months, and then two years, he came unwillingly to a respect for the quickness with which Lucanus learned, and his thoughtfulness, and his almost miraculous grasp of knowledge. The boy had a devouring mind; facts and poetry and languages were seized upon, assimilated and made his own. He apparently forgot nothing. His recitations were marvels. He had long ago left little Rubria far behind, and she would gaze at him admiringly and applaud him. As a girl she was not expected to have an unusual amount of intelligence; her father wished her to acquire only enough learning to enjoy poetry and the less taxing books. Diodorus, hearing reports from his daughter about Lucanus’ progress, said, “Ah, now, that knave of a Cusa is beginning to earn the money I expended for him.”

Reluctantly, Cusa began to take a pleasure in teaching Lucanus. The boy kept him to his wits, and the hours of teaching no longer bored him, as they had bored him when Rubria was his only pupil. He tried to reach Lucanus’ limits by assigning him intricate lessons, far in advance of his age, but Lucanus was always one step ahead, and with ease. Cusa, a true teacher, had a secret and annoyed pride in this student, though his abusive tongue and sarcasm betrayed no part of it. “You will make a fine bookkeeper,” he said, often. “But what fantasy is it that persuades you you will ever be a physician? You know nothing except by rote, and I weep for your future patients.” The whip was always ready.

Within two years Lucanus could discuss the major poets and philosophers with Diodorus, to the tribune’s gratification. Diodorus opened his precious library to the boy, and Lucanus studied there after the hours with his tutor, and only twilight would drive him away. There were also the hours with Keptah, and these Lucanus found the most rewarding of all.

The two never spoke of Rubria’s inevitable death when together. It was true that her young body was becoming rounded with the sweetness of approaching puberty, though she was two years younger than Lucanus. It was also true that her pretty dark face was fuller, and alive with the joy of being young and cherished, and that her appetite had improved, and that she could, for brief intervals, play vigorously with Lucanus. But her mortal illness, Keptah knew, was only in abeyance. For Lucanus it was enough to be with Rubria, to touch her small warm hand, to exchange amused glances at Cusa’s expense, to run over the grass and to pick a huge and humid red flower to thrust over Rubria’s ear. They tossed balls to each other, laughing and shouting. They imitated the calls of birds, and gazed with awe and love at the small wild things in the forest. There were moments when they were so overwhelmed with inexpressible joy that they could only stand and look into each other’s eyes with beaming enjoyment and shyness. Day by day Rubria became more beautiful, more beloved of her playmate. Sometimes he thought, Surely God will not take away this treasure from me, this dear one, this sister, this heart of my heart. Without Rubria there would be no songs, no delight in the blood, no tenderness, no reason for being. He played with Rubria’s hair, as Diodorus had played with the hair of Iris, and he rejoiced in its silken lengths so permeated with freshness and the poignant scent of life. Sometimes, speechlessly, they embraced each other, and the sensation of Rubria’s cheek pressed to the cheek of Lucanus overcame him to a prayfulness of bliss. He would hold her in his arms and feel that he held the world, and all beauty and softness.

Seeing, Keptah no longer warned Lucanus of the inevitable desolation. He believed himself in the presence of something holy and alight with innocence. There were times when he mourned and questioned. Did God give only to take away? Did He rob for the purpose alone of taming the human heart to Him?

Cusa came upon Lucanus and Rubria one afternoon after they had been released from the schoolroom. Lucanus was weaving a garland of grass and flowers for Rubria, and she was watching with intent pleasure. A tame bird stood on her shoulder, all scarlet and jade, and it twittered in her ear, and occasionally she turned and kissed its yellow beak. The teacher, usually ready with a caustic phrase referring to a waste of time, was abruptly silent. He watched from a distance, and was overcome with melancholy. The gods jealously resented youth and beauty and joy among mortals. Here was a boy like Phoebus, god of the sun, and a maiden of shy virginity and mildness. Cusa, weighted with foreboding, turned away. A Skeptic, he nevertheless prayed that night that the gods would not be envious of this loveliness, this artless dulcitude. The next morning he said to Lucanus crossly, “If you are to be a scholar and a physician, I advise you not to cavort with young girls so carelessly. That is for the plebe and the vulgar. Attention! We take up Socrates’ dialogues again this morning. You are singularly obtuse about them, boy.”

This was an exquisite summer. All was serenity. Diodorus’ request for a transfer to Rome and his farm had not as yet been answered, but he had hope. He sedulously cultivated the hours with his wife, and some ease came to him. He avoided Aeneas as much as possible, and never again escorted Lucanus back to his home. Iris lingered in his mind as the memory of morning, but he sternly kept himself from encounters with her. She was a dream, to be remembered as a dream. If a man could not strictly control his thoughts, then he was not a man, and particularly he was not a Roman. Life demanded discipline of both the mind and the body, and especially of the heart. He received books from Rome, and immersed himself in them. They had a special meaning for him now, these philosophies of ascetic men full of wisdom who sounded the note of patience and fortitude as men strike solemn and sonorous bells. Drowned in eternal philosophy, he forgot the corruption of Rome and the fetid and clamorous present. Let the whole world fall. Truth was immortal. “ ‘The stupid people run to Rome,’ ” he would quote to himself, “ ‘but man finds refuge in verities’.”

Rubria achieved puberty, and Aurelia rejoiced. There were momentous sacrifices in Aurelia’s favorite temple, the temple of Juno. She commended her daughter to the wife of Jupiter, the guardian of hearth and family and children. She would look into Rubria’s luminous eyes, so pure and innocent, and would dream of grandchildren. There were still Roman families who had staunch young sons, devoted to the gods and to their country. One could have grandsons, if one did not have sons. She bound up Rubria’s hair in ribbons and counseled her in modesty. She taught her the arts of the household and the kitchen, and how a woman can best please her husband. She wrote to friends in Rome, and commented on the growing beauty and maturity of Rubria.

“You are hurrying matters,” said Diodorus one evening, “The girl is only eleven years old.” He was jealous of any youth who would take his daughter from him and enjoy her laughter and sweetness, and cleave her to him, and make her forget her father.

Aurelia, musing over a wax-coated tablet on which she was writing to a beloved friend, the mother of stalwart sons, said abstractedly, “What will be our daughter’s dowry? Diodorus, forget your banks, I pray. We must consider Rubria’s future. She will be ready for marriage in less than three years.”

Three years. I am an old man, thought Diodorus resentfully. He said, “You are hurrying matters. The chit romps in the grass, and she is still a child.” That night he cradled Rubria in his arms and sang her to sleep, and then sat watching the shadows her eyelashes cast on her pink cheek and the sweet curve of her mouth. My darling, he thought, my heart’s own darling. Surely never was there a maiden so lovely and so innocent, so warm of flesh and so dear. A Hebe born to serve the very gods themselves. He turned away from the thought with a sudden surge of terror. Let the gods get themselves other servitors! They were gods, and had multitudes, but he had only his daughter.

One afternoon Keptah came into the schoolroom and said briefly to Lucanus, “Come.”

Cusa frowned at him and said, “The boy is studying Plato at this moment.”

“Come,” said Keptah to Lucanus, ignoring the tutor, who, after all, was only a slave. And Lucanus, without a word, rose and left the room with the physician. But, on the threshold, he paused to bow to Cusa, understanding that slaves and servants are very sensitive.

Diodorus had put an ass in the service of his freedman, Keptah. “A scurvy animal,” said the physician, with some vexation. “But I have heard that asses are frequently wiser than men and have a sense of humor.” He borrowed an ass for Lucanus. “Today we go to Antioch,” he said. “Ah, here is your animal from the stables. It is fortunate that we do not demand horses, for we should be disappointed. For a Roman our master is not impressed by equine flesh, and all his creatures are flea-bitten. What is money for but to enjoy? But there are some men who enjoy the thought of their coffers more than the thought of profiting by them.”

His ill nature made Lucanus smile. The asses were plump and well curried, and eyed the physician and the boy arrogantly. “They are not impressed by us, either,” said Keptah, mounting. His long and bony legs dangled almost to the ground, and Lucanus laughed. He sprang on the ass assigned to him, and caressed the animal’s neck, and the ass closed his eyes in boredom. Now they began to trot on the road to Antioch, and Keptah was unusually silent. He had drawn his hood over his head less in an effort to protect himself from the raging sun than to retire into solitude. Sometimes Lucanus whipped his ass to a gallop, rejoicing in the sun and the wind, which did not sear his fair skin. His golden hair blew behind him, and he sang. He did not know where Keptah was taking him but it was enough to be free and in the light, and to be young, and to see the masses of blue, crimson and scarlet wild flowers along the narrow road. He had his dreams.

Antioch, as always, was a boisterous welter of color and heat and stenches. New fleets from the Orient and other strange lands stood at anchor in the blazing blue harbor, their white and red sails throbbing against the sky. The narrow, rising, and curving streets rang to alien voices, and every doorway, every cobbled passage and alley, showed voracious dark faces, and echoed to profane, shouting and laughing exclamations. The shops teemed. The cries of the merchants were deafening. Camels complained, chariots roared by, asses whinnied, and there was a smell of hot broiled meat and wine and sourness and spices in heated pockets along the streets. Jews, Syrians, Sicilians, Greeks, Egyptians, Thessalonians, Negroes, Gauls and assorted barbarians in strange costumes walked or bustled along each street, raising clouds of sharp white dust in the sunlight. There were contentious arguments and brawls here and there, and pale bright buildings jutted in the air. Children played in the very passage of vehicles and animals, and cursed the riders, or begged for alms, their impertinent faces brown with the sun.