“The thing closest to us is sometimes the thing we are least able to see, like a coin held too close to the eye; the image and inscription are no more than blurs. The practice of medicine relies greatly on the physician’s powers of observation. Also upon his knowledge of human nature, and of literature and history, as well. When I diagnosed the wife who was lovesick for a dancer, I was reminded of the ancient physician Erasistratus. He was called upon to treat the son of King Seleucus, who was wasting away. Erasistratus could find nothing wrong with the young man, but noticed that he blushed in the presence of Queen Stratonice, his stepmother. Do you know the story?”
Lucius shook his head.
“Erasistratus told Seleucus that his son’s disease was incurable, for he was in the grip of a love that was impossible to gratify. ‘Why? Who is this woman?’ asked the king. ‘My wife,’ replied Erasistratus, deliberately lying to see the king’s reaction. ‘Then you must give her up,’ said Seleucus, ‘for I will not have my son denied.’ The physician asked, ‘Would you do so even if it was your own wife with whom the prince was in love?’ The king said, ‘Even that!’ Then Erasistratus told him the truth.”
“What did the king do?”
“The king did the kingly thing, and was true to his word. He gave Stratonice to his son to wed, along with several provinces. And all lived happily ever after. Especially Erasistratus, who was paid one hundred talents—the largest fee ever given to any physician in the history of the world.”
“Yet your service is free. Ha! But something tells me that King Seleucus had other wives to comfort him. Maybe he had grown tired of Stratonice.”
Galen laughed. “You mustn’t overthink the story, or you’ll spoil it.”
“A fine tale, indeed. Now I shall tell you one, somewhat in the same vein, if a bit more … indelicate.” Lucius lowered his voice and leaned toward Galen. Had he not drunk so much wine so quickly, he would never have told the story. “They say that Marcus’s wife, the lovely Faustina, happened to see a troop of gladiators walking by one day and fell head over heels for one of them, just at the sight of him.” He laughed. “My Pinaria, pining for a eunuch, is bad enough. Imagine, the highest woman in the land, lusting for a gladiator!”
“Yes, well, when I tended the gladiators in Pergamum…” Galen flashed a crooked smile. “I have my own tales about high-born ladies and low-born lovers. But please, go on.”
“Well, Faustina never acted on her infatuation, of course. We must give her credit for that. She is a virtuous woman, and worthy of her husband. Indeed, it was to Marcus that she confessed her intolerable fascination. He wondered if she might be pregnant, having seen her become a bit crazy during her pregnancies. But such was not the case. So Marcus called on his physicians and wise men. None was able to cure Faustina of her fascination. Her lust for the gladiator only grew stronger. Poor Marcus! His Stoicism was pushed to its limit.
“Finally, he called on Julianus the Chaldean. Many a man would have gone to the astrologer first, and the physicians last. Julianus examined the horoscopes of all concerned—not just Marcus and Faustina, but also the gladiator, who was completely ignorant of the situation. The poor fellow had no idea of the havoc he was causing in the imperial bedchamber, and no idea what was in store for him. Julianus prescribed a drastic remedy: the gladiator was to be beheaded, hung by his ankles, and drained of all his blood, whereupon Faustina, naked, was to bathe in his blood, and then, under the light of a full moon, make love to her husband. By Hercules, have you ever heard of such a ghastly cure?”
“Did it work?”
“It did. Faustina was completely freed from the passion that had caused her so much suffering.”
“Perhaps not least because the man who caused it was a headless, bloodless corpse.”
Lucius laughed. “I’ll grant you that. But it was on that very night, so Marcus believes, that Faustina became pregnant with the twins, little Titus and Commodus. Then it was back to mothering for her, and no more lusting after gladiators.”
Galen nodded thoughtfully. “The blood of a gladiator has been used by some physicians as a treatment for epilepsy. Pliny says it is most effective if drunk hot, directly from the severed throat of the gladiator, while he’s still alive. There’s also a love potion that involves dipping a bit of bread in the blood of a gladiator and then casting it into the house of the desired person. But to bathe in a gladiator’s blood, as the worshippers of Mithras bathe in the blood of a slaughtered bull—that is new to me.”
“I don’t suppose the blood of a eunuch is of much use, as medicine, or magic?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good! I should hate to have made poor Pinaria…” Lucius blinked a few times and put down his goblet. “It occurs to me that I’ve been rather indiscreet. You won’t repeat this story to anyone, will you?”
“Certainly not. The third rule of medicine is—”
“To be discreet?”
“I was going to say, never to cause embarrassment to the rich and powerful. That applies especially to the ruler of the Roman world, whether a Stoic or not.”
* * *
It was some days later that a messenger arrived at the house of Pinarius, carrying an invitation written in elegant letters on a thick piece of parchment.
“‘You are invited to witness a public anatomical demonstration by the physician Galen of Pergamum, at the Temple of Pax, sure to cause wonder in all who behold it,’” muttered Lucius, reading aloud, though except for the slave who brought the message he was alone in his library. “‘Anatomical demonstration’—whatever does he mean by that? And why invite me? I seriously doubt there’s anything left for me to learn about the bodies of men and women, having sculpted so many of them. But he did render his services free of charge, and Pinaria is much better, almost back to her normal self. I suppose I should go, if only to add to the numbers, especially if there’s a poor turnout.”
But when Lucius arrived by litter at the appointed day and time, he found a considerable crowd. The demonstration was to take place in the temple’s forecourt, where a waist-high wooden platform had been set up, its shape not unlike that of an altar for sacrificing animals. Galen was busy instructing slaves who were wheeling in carts with cages, which contained pigs, to judge by the grunts and squeals. The steps of the temple served as a sort of theater, with every possible seat already taken. The rest of the crowd stood in a semicircle around the open space occupied by Galen and his pigs.
Lucius pushed his way to the front of the spectators, who yielded, however begrudgingly, to the prerogative of his senatorial toga with its purple stripe. A few other senators were there, he noticed, but most of those present appeared to be physicians or philosophers or their students. They were an argumentative bunch, and all seemed to be talking at once, mostly in Greek. From the snatches of conversations he could understand, it was all philosopher talk, quite technical and over his head, and all very loud and strident. So much for finding peace at the Temple of Pax!
Lucius quickly had his fill of their incessant chattering and was on the verge of leaving, when Galen raised his hands for silence.
“What have you to show us, man from Pergamum?” yelled a spectator.
“Yes, this had better not be a waste of my time,” said another.
“Has it to do with the brain?” said another, whom Lucius recognized, a long-bearded Athenian who was reputedly one of the city’s leading intellectuals. “We’ve already heard your foolish argument that cognition emanates from the brain. Everyone knows that Aristotle long ago determined that the brain is merely a cooling pan for the blood.”
“I would love to return to that debate,” said Galen, raising his voice, “but Aristotle is long dead and not present to defend his side of the argument.”
“An excellent point!” shouted Lucius, thinking it only proper that he should support Galen in return for his services. This earned him some sour looks, but also a thin smile from Galen, who gave him a friendly nod of recognition,
then swiftly commenced with the demonstration.
The crowd laughed at first when a squealing pig was produced, then grew quieter when the squirming beast was tied down to the wooden platform. Galen did the tying himself, his fingers moving with great speed and dexterity. In a matter of seconds, the pig was completely immobilized.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Galen, “what will happen if I strike the pig sharply on its flank with this wooden cane?”
“The pig will squeal!” said Lucius.
“Let us test that assertion.” Galen struck the pig, which cried out in protest.
“But how does the pig squeal?” asked Galen. “We all know the answer, from our own ability to squeal from time to time, whether from pleasure or pain. The noise is made with an exhalation of air, which issues from the lungs and then passes through the throat. How might we prevent the pig from squealing?”
“Stuff its mouth,” said someone.
“Cut its throat,” suggested another.
Galen shook his head. “I have a much more effective method, which neatly demonstrates my theory that the controlling mechanism of the pig’s voice is a particular nerve. All of you who have dissected or vivisected animals have encountered the nerves, those fibrous filaments that run all up and down every part of the body, seeming to emanate from the spine and ultimately from the brain—which is the seat of consciousness, as I do indeed assert. But if the nerve controlling the voice is severed or even sufficiently constricted, the brain’s command to the vocal chords is cut off, and no squeal is produced. Let me demonstrate.”
Galen produced a sharp blade and set about making a small incision on either side of the pig’s neck. The loss of blood was negligible. “Now, gentlemen, I have carefully avoided cutting the carotid artery, and have only exposed the nerves that run alongside them. I will now use a very slender thread to tie off each of those nerves. The work is very fine, and requires sharp eyesight and steady fingers. I will now tighten the ligatures, just so. Now I take up the cane again, I stand back, and I strike the pig!” There was a whoosh of air followed by a sharp crack. “You will observe that the pig breathes sharply in and out—but no squeal is produced.”
A number of the spectators sat forward or jostled each other, straining for a better view.
The proponent of Aristotle crossed his arms and looked down his nose. “Can you demonstrate the same thing again, on another pig?”
“Of course. But why not do so using the same pig?”
“But how?”
“The production of the voice is dependent on the nerves, which relay an impulse of some sort, just as veins relay blood or the throat relays air. I interrupted those impulses by constricting the nerves, but I did not sever the nerves. Therefore, the action is reversible. Observe, as I leave the ligatures in place, but carefully loosen them … just so. And now, if I strike the pig again … like this!”
The pig squealed so loudly that the startled crowd jerked in unison. The Athenian gasped.
“Remarkable!” whispered Lucius.
“Should any of you still be skeptical of the nerve’s function, I shall silence the pig again … with only a gentle tug to tighten the ligatures already in place … here and here…”
Galen then struck the pig, which again responded with silence.
“And now I shall allow it to speak once more, merely by loosening the ligatures…”
Again the pig was able to squeal.
Galen had certainly succeeded in producing a spectacle on this occasion—and he knew it. He was beaming with pride as he turned a full circle, surveyed the surrounding audience.
“Esteemed colleagues, had I not other demonstrations to show you, I could go on all day, silencing this pig and then letting it squeal again. Most gratifying to me is that by this simple demonstration I have actually managed to render speechless that fellow in the audience who tried to silence me with Aristotle!”
There was a chorus of laughter. Lucius looked at the Athenian, whose face was bright red.
Lucius smiled. “Something tells me,” he muttered to himself, “that Rome shall be seeing more of this Galen fellow.”
* * *
So impressed was Lucius by Galen’s diagnosis of Pinaria’s ailment, and by his public demonstration with the pig, that some days later, when a break in his management of the workshop allowed, he decided to visit the imperial residence on the Palatine, to see if he might be admitted to the emperor’s presence, so as to personally recommend Galen’s services. Even on the occasions when Marcus was too busy to see him, Lucius had always been turned away with the utmost respect, and a personal note of regret from the emperor had always followed. Duty was a prime value for the Stoics, and for Marcus that meant paying scrupulous attention not only to the vast enterprises of statecraft but also to the smallest details of decorum.
Modesty was also a Stoic virtue, manifested at the palace by a lack of pretense and ostentation. Hadrian had possessed a taste for costly materials and sumptuous fabrics, but Marcus preferred the simple. Everything from the well-used rugs on the spotless marble floors to the plain tunics of the busy scribes and secretaries bespoke the emperor’s insistence on efficiency rather than courtly pomp.
On this day the mood at the palace was not just serious, but decidedly gloomy. Eyes were downcast, and voices were low. The air itself seemed heavy with dread. As Lucius was admitted to one waiting chamber after another, leapfrogging ahead of roomfuls of supplicants who lacked his personal connection to Marcus, he at last encountered a courtier he knew from previous visits, and asked what was the matter.
The gray-bearded man looked at him for a long moment, then finally spoke. “To anyone else I would say nothing, Senator Pinarius, but I know your close connection to the emperor, and so I will share the unhappy news. There’s an illness in the family. It’s one of the twins—young Titus.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, but apparently it’s quite serious. The matter is consuming all the emperor’s attention. He spends every hour locked away with the boy and the imperial physicians. Nothing else is happening in the palace. It’s been this way for two days now. Everyone is on edge. I realize no one has yet turned you away, and I myself hesitate to do so, Senator Pinarius, but I very much doubt that the emperor will be able to see you.”
“Ah, but there you’re mistaken! My whole reason for coming today was to recommend a particular physician—and now I find that one of the children is sick. That can hardly be a coincidence. This is the Fates at work, don’t you think?”
The man looked uncertain. “All that happens is as the Fates decree. Even so, I’m not sure—”
“I came today on the off chance that the emperor might have a spare moment, but now I must insist that I see him. Don’t just stand there, gawking. Run and tell whomever is at the top of your chain of authority that Senator Lucius Pinarius, the emperor’s friend, has come to recommend the services of a very clever and highly skilled physician.”
For a moment longer the man continued to hesitate—his face had the stricken look of the underling uncertain of what to do next and frightened of making the wrong decision—until Lucius clapped his hands loudly. It was a gesture he sometimes used to incite his workers when they were slow to respond, and in this instance it had the desired effect. The man scurried off.
A quarter of an hour passed. The man returned. He had regained his composure to such a degree he seemed almost haughty.
“Come along, then!” he said, ushering Lucius into the room beyond, and then down a long hallway that took them away from the imperial reception chambers and into the private living quarters of the palace. Here, too, simplicity and lack of ostentation were the rule. The quality of the mosaic floors and marble columns and painted ceilings was of the very finest, but when it came to the furnishings and carpets, any visitor would think he was merely in the house of a Roman aristocrat of unusually restrained taste, not in the home of the most powerful man in the empire.
Lucius
was led around a corner, past hanging curtains, and suddenly found himself in a room so dimly lit that for a moment he could see nothing. The courtier seemed to have vanished. Then Lucius felt his hand taken in the grasp of another, and heard a familiar and very distinctive voice. From childhood Marcus Aurelius had received the finest oratorical training, and even when he spoke barely above a whisper there was something about his voice that was very mellow and reassuring.
“How sweet it is to see your face, old friend.”
“And how sweet it is to see yours,” said Lucius, though he could only barely perceive the sad eyes of Marcus. “I only wish the occasion were not so somber, Verissimus.” Lucius used the childhood nickname, instinctively knowing it would bring the emperor a small bit of comfort. Indeed, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a faint smile on Marcus’s face. But the man’s brow remained furrowed and his eyes were grim.
“Even so, the very sight of you cheers me, Lucius.”
Now Lucius perceived the others in the room. Upon a bed, wearing a thin, sleeveless gown, lay Titus. Like his father, the tiny boy had a narrow face and slightly protuberant eyes. But his eyes looked lifeless, as if made of glass. His trembling lips were slightly parted. His face was drawn, the cheekbones very prominent. His arms also had a wasted look. His appearance became even more alarming when Lucius looked down to see the boy’s twin, standing next to Marcus. How plump and lively Commodus looked, just as his own little Gaius or any other healthy four-year-old boy should look, his cheeks full and his eyes sparkling. With one arm the boy clung to his father’s leg while he nervously sucked and nibbled the fingers of his other hand. The child’s eyes darted about the room, occasionally looking up at Lucius with a plaintive expression.
Across the room stood a row of silent, grim-faced physicians, some of them holding linen cloths, others bowls, and others various esoteric implements made of bronze that glittered sharply in the lamplight.
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