Dear and Glorious Physician

by Taylor Caldwell

  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?”

  “No. I merely surmised it. It would have been the act of an affectionate father.”

  Phlegon sighed deeply, and let Lucanus see the tear he had wiped away from his eye with the tip of his finger. “Yes,” he said.

  “And you have also given them much of your money, freely.”

  “Yes. I see, my young physician, that you are a man of understanding.” He became excited. “And for all I have done for them, and given them, they have returned nothing but hatred, nothing but thefts, plottings, lies, and lewdness. I am left here to die, to fear for my life, to have the company of no one but slaves.”

  His excitement grew. Lucanus pursed his lips again. There was a deliberate calculation in this excitement. Lucanus reached into his bag and drew out a vial of white pills, and then poured a goblet of wine.

  “No,” said Phlegon, shrinking back with exaggerated rejection. “I cannot trust you.”

  “Very well,” said Lucanus, and put down the goblet and pill. “You need not take it. I thought only to alleviate the pains of which your sons told me.” After a moment he returned the pill to his vial.

  Phlegon considered. “What would that medicine do for me?”

  “I have said, alleviate your pains.”

  Phlegon wet his bearded lips with the tip of his tongue. “Give it to me,” he said, roughly. Smiling slightly, Lucanus obeyed. The old man drank of the wine greedily. “Now,” said Lucanus, “you must tell me of your pains, and I must examine you.”

  With new and surprising docility, and even with eagerness, Phlegon answered questions and submitted to examination. Lucanus was careful and thorough. It was as he suspected. Phlegon was in the most powerful good health; he had the body and physique of a man at least twenty years younger. His muscles were like iron, his joints supple. Some light came to Lucanus. He sat down and regarded Phlegon gravely.

  “Your case is not to be taken lightly,” he said, with seriousness.

  For a moment Phlegon was gratified. Then he said with fright, “It
is not fatal?” and the ruddy color in his cheeks whitened.

  Lucanus shook his head, but preserved his gravity. “Not fatal. However, your case should be studied with much thought.”

  Phlegon was newly gratified. “You are the only physician of intelligence who has visited me, I swear by Mithra! All others dared to inform me that my health was perfect, and I was as sound as an apple. What liars! What ignoramuses!”

  “They thought only of their fees,” said Lucanus, with sympathy.

  “Yes, yes!” He put his hand to his chest and rolled up his eyes. “The pain is already leaving my heart! It is quieting, and bounding no longer. I cannot sleep at night for the beating in my throat and my temples.”

  Lucanus did not doubt that the old man indeed suffered these things. His pulse had been too strong, too quick, his pressure too high, in spite of the good sounds of his heart. Lucanus rose. “I wish to consult with your sons,” he said.

  Phlegon looked at him craftily. “And what shall you tell them?”

  “That your — your illness — deserves every consideration, and must be dealt with at once.”

  Phlegon smirked, settled himself on his cushions. “Let their hearts be worried then! Let them lie sleepless, knowing what they have done to me in their greed and hatred. Let them fear the wrath of the gods, who have enjoined men to honor their fathers!”

  Lucanus left the bedroom and walked slowly through the house, which had taken on more and more the aspect of a precious jewel in his eyes. He went into the garden. The three sons rose in agitation from their bench and came towards him at once.

  “What is wrong with my father?” asked Turbo, and his hoarse voice shook.

  Lucanus considered all of them. He glanced at Turbo’s right hand and saw that a most wonderful opal ring was on his index finger. It shone with rose and blue lightnings and golden sunsets. He looked at Sergius, and his healthy and anxious face, and his ingenuous expression. He looked at Meles, who looked less like a haunter of brothels than Phlegon’s dog. Lucanus frowned. Then he pretended to come to himself with a start. “You must pardon me,” he said. “But I am an admirer of opals, and, Turbo, I notice a beautiful one on your hand.”

  Turbo was puzzled for a moment; it was evident that his stolid mind did not move with any great agility. Then his small eyes shone with pride, and he held out his hand for Lucanus to examine the jewel. “It is very old, and has a great tradition,” he said. “My wife is a descendant of a revered line of scholars. Her ancestor received this ring from Pericles himself.” He sighed. “I am not a learned man. I can barely read. I honor this ring with all my heart, and I shall give it to my son on my death. I did not wish to accept it from my wife, but we love each other tenderly, and she forced it upon my finger.”

  Sergius spoke for the first time. His rusty voice testified that he was a man of little speech. He said affectionately to Turbo, “It was on the tenth anniversary of your marriage, when your wife gave the ring to you, my brother. You wear it well, for all you are not a scholar, but your son will bring honor to your name.”

  Turbo sighed. “Still, my father craves it. I often wonder if I am not a disobedient son in not presenting it to him.”

  “It is yours, and your son’s,” said Meles, also speaking for the first time. “It would wound your wife if you gave it to my father. One must consider women.”

  Lucanus sat down on the bench, deep in thought. Turbo suddenly blushed deeply. He clapped his hands. “You must forgive me, Lucanus,” he said. “I should have ordered wine for you, but I was thinking only of my father.” A slave appeared, and the order for wine was given.

  “My father will be angry,” said Meles. “You have ordered the choicest of wines.”

  Turbo said, and now he had dignity, “His wine cellar may be small, but it is one of the best in Athens, and I keep it well supplied. He can spare a little for Lucanus. But you have not told me, Lucanus, what terrible illness afflicts my father.”

  Lucanus said, “It is known that a man’s illness cannot be detached from what he is, and his environment. I must first ask a few questions, and I wish you to answer me with candor.”

  “Ask!” said the brothers in a chorus, and he saw their expressions, and he had no doubt that the anxiety on their faces was genuine and their affection for their father deep and unaffected. His face became somewhat sad.

  The slave brought a silver tray with four goblets, and Turbo poured the wine and eagerly watched to see if Lucanus approved of it. It was delicious, and Lucanus was frank in his pleasure. The three brothers stood about him and drank with what they apparently hoped was the most aristocratic of gestures and appreciation, and with careful restraint.

  “Your father,” said Lucanus, after a sincere series of compliments, “must have inherited much wealth,” and he indicated the garden and the house.

  The brothers glanced at each other, and hesitated. Then Turbo lifted his head. “There are some who scorn humble people,” he murmured.

  “That is their privilege, though it is wrong. We are humble people, and we have done well and have made our fortunes. My father was very poor, though free. He had a little farm, dry and of wretched soil. My brothers and I cannot remember a childhood or early youth when our bellies were satisfied, though we all toiled with our father. Our mother died when we were children.”

  Turbo blushed and coughed. “You have asked us to be candid. My brothers and I gave this house to our father five years ago. He had never lived in a house that was not humble or stricken with poverty. We engaged the best of architects. We wished to do our father honor in his old age, remembering his earlier sufferings, and the leaking roof of his house, and the dirt floor. We wished him to have the delights and luxuries he deserved.”

  “There was nothing too good for him,” said Meles, his simple face glowing. “We sent for treasures from all over the earth to deck the house. Never in his life had he possessed privacy or the dignity of a home that was not filled with children and animals. He had only to mention what he wished, and we gave it to him at once, for he is our father and has suffered much.”

  “The furniture,” said Sergius, “cost me two years of income. I was proud to give my father this pleasure.”

  “I see,” said Lucanus, with compassion. “Your father would not have preferred to live with one of you?”

  “No. He is a proud man, and he does not like children, and we have many. He wished a home of his own.” Turbo smiled understandingly.

  “And you have made fortunes?” Lucanus was intensely interested.

  “And honestly,” said Turbo, quickly. “The gods have been very good to us. We sacrifice in their honor regularly. It happened this way. When I was young, and working on the farm, I knew that we were always in danger of constant hunger, and even famine. I had a great admiration for good pottery, which I had seen in the shops. So I apprenticed myself to a potter who is famous for his beautiful vases and plates and statuettes and his cameo work in white on the deepest blue or red. After a few years he expressed his appreciation of me, declaring that I had the surest hand and a feeling for artistry and beauty.” He looked defiantly at Lucanus. “You do not believe this?”

  Lucanus reached out his hand, took that of Turbo’s, and gently examined the fingers. Scarred though they were with endless years of young toil the fingers had the spatulate form of the true artist. “Yes,” he said, with reverence, “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” said Turbo, with a humility that was, in itself, innocent pride. “And there were my brothers. I induced the potter to employ them. Sergius amazingly revealed a power for invariably producing perfect forms, with almost no loss. He still spins the wheel, for he will entrust it to no other. And Meles invented a glaze which is our secret.

  “The potter, who had no children, bequeathed his factory to us. And our wares are sought for all over the world, even in Rome itself. We have a fleet of our own ships, and we employ many people, and slaves. If we could produce twice as many we could sell every
vase and plate and object of art, but that would entail sacrifice of our best. We prefer to keep our factory as small as possible, in order that no product of ours can evade our own personal inspection, for all bears our name, and no one anywhere must be disappointed.”

  He stood even taller. “Caesar’s palace is filled with our work, and vases bring the price of jewels, and funeral urns are bought by the great patricians in Rome.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Meles, with sadness, “our father scorns our work and will not permit even a head of a god to appear in his house, if made by us.”

  “But the Egyptians declare that only their ancient artists can compare with us,” said Sergius, his little eyes full of light. “They have sent us cherished objects, which we have copied for them. Our Apis figurines and heads of Isis are in the most resplendent of their temples. But it is Turbo who designs, who produces on parchment for me to copy and Meles to glaze.”