Dear and Glorious Physician

by Taylor Caldwell

  “At ease, Sextus,” said Diodorus, and he laid his hand on the shoulder of the young captain. “Come, come, you are not afraid for me? Is that why you both disobeyed my express orders? I tell you, if Rome falls it will be because of the failure of disciplined minds.”

  “Nevertheless, noble Tribune, we should prefer to remain on guard for some nights,” said young Sextus, stubbornly, but his devoted eyes pleaded.

  Diodorus paused. He looked from Sextus to the centurion, and he saw their obstinacy. If I command their return to Antioch, he thought, they will lurk in the gardens, out of my sight, sleepless and foodless, and that will be a hardship on them. Is that a just return for what they consider their duty? He said, moved, “Well, then, you ox-minded young fools, remain for as long as you wish. I shall order quarters for you, and food, and you shall march about the house and guard the doors to your simple content. Not that I am not displeased by you,” he added, hastily, for the sake of discipline. “When I am at home I am not a soldier. I am only a peaceful householder.”

  He reached the women’s quarters and was about to order a slave to summon the Lady Aurelia when Aurelia herself appeared, accompanied by Iris. They were laughing softly together as sisters laugh, and Aurelia’s hand rested lightly on the arm of Iris, who had never appeared so beautiful to Diodorus. It was at her he looked, and as if there had been something terribly revealing in his startled eyes, for her lovely face clouded and her own blue eyes misted as if with sorrow and distress.

  To the ‘old Roman’, Iris the wife of a freedman was not a contemptible object, though formerly a slave. If worthy of love, she received love; if worthy of respect, she received respect. Aurelia and Iris were tender friends. But Diodorus had not known that Iris often visited his house in his absence. Aurelia was surprised and happy to see him.

  “Am I late, Diodorus?” she asked, coming to him and taking his hand. “The sun is not completely set.”

  “It is I who am early,” he replied. He wanted to kiss her red-brown cheek, to press his mouth against her full lips. She was a refuge from something which threatened him.

  Aurelia began to chatter gaily, in her usual fashion. “Iris has been helping me weave the winter linens and woolens. Look at my fingers! They are calloused, almost bleeding.” She spread her hands before his eyes, and laughed. Her hair, dressed informally, hung over her shoulders in two shining black braids far below her waist, and there was a gleaming moisture on her face and about her temples, and little tendrils of youthful darkness curled on her brow and cheeks.

  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 th
e 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.

  Chapter Five

  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 enoug
h 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.