“A harrowing ordeal,” Galen had called the journey from Aquileia to Rome, “the likes of which I hope never to experience again.” His skills had been useless against the plague. When Galen finally reached Rome, he at once called on Lucius, and only then learned the terrible news: the emperor Verus was dead, the cause uncertain. “If only I had been present,” Galen had told Lucius, “I’d at least have been able to diagnose him!”
Marcus had conducted an enormous public funeral for Verus, with every man in Rome wearing black, and every woman in white, as was the custom when an emperor died. Marcus was in a grim mood, not only bereft of the man who had been like a younger brother to him, but now facing the prospect of waging the impending war entirely on his own.
At Lucius’s insistence, Galen was residing at the house of the Pinarii. Kaeso was also back in Rome. He had come to the auction with Lucius and Galen, but had wandered off on his own. Lucius searched the crowd and saw his brother some distance away, listlessly perusing a table of bronze lamps. Lucius went to join him.
“Do you see something you want, brother?”
Kaeso grunted. “What a depressing spectacle.”
“But a necessary one. Or so Marcus thinks. He’s desperate to raise money. It’s this economic crisis brought on by the plague. The treasury was forced to debase the currency, and then—”
“You know I have no head for money matters, Lucius. That’s for you senators to worry about.”
“Not just senators. Soldiers have to be paid—”
“It’s the debasing of the army that I worry about,” said Kaeso, with sudden vehemence. “This plan to conscript gladiators into the legions is lunacy.”
“But as Marcus says, better they spill blood fighting for Rome than fighting each other in the arena.”
“And not just gladiators, but bandits, and convicts, and even slaves.”
“There is precedent for such conscriptions—”
“Not since the wars against Carthage, hundreds of years ago.”
“And is this war not as important, and the situation not as dire? The loss of manpower in the legions has to be made up somehow.”
“And now I hear that Christians are allowed to serve, even if they refuse to burn incense to the gods before battle, along with the other soldiers. What sort of madness is that?”
Lucius sighed. “The implications were discussed at length in the Senate. One idea is to keep them in units to themselves, so as to avoid giving offense to the more pious soldiers, and also to prevent their atheism from contaminating the others, if that is the right word.”
“How can they be soldiers if their man-god forbids them to kill?”
“If not suitable for fighting, they can at least do heavy labor—cutting trees, laying roads, building forts. That will allow the regular soldiers to save their strength for killing barbarians.”
Kaeso shook his head. “The Christians are a bad lot. They’ll disrupt discipline and lower morale. The drawbacks far outweigh any value they might bring to the war effort. What if the gods take offense, and turn their backs on Rome? Did you discuss that possibility in the Senate House?”
“I’ll admit that allowing Christians into the military is an experiment—”
“A risky experiment, likely to go awry. Too risky, if you ask me. Not that the Senate ever listens to soldiers.”
Lucius cleared his throat. “Speaking of the gods, on that table over there I saw two very small but very fine bronze statues, one of Antinous and another of Apollonius of Tyana—small enough to take with you on campaign. Shall I bid on them, Kaeso? I would be honored to make a gift of them to you.”
“Don’t bother,” said Kaeso curtly. “I mostly worship Mithras nowadays, as do many of the soldiers.”
“Oh? I see.” Lucius had heard of this fervor of the troops for the god Mithras, whose cult was of neither Greek nor Roman origin, but from somewhere further east. Kaeso said nothing more about it. The worshippers of Mithras put great store in keeping secret their initiation ceremonies and rituals. That, he suspected, was part of Mithras’s appeal to military men like Kaeso, who tended to regard themselves as aloof from the rest of the citizenry.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Galen walking swiftly toward them. The physician’s expression was grim. Lucius sensed he was bringing bad news. A perceptible wave of dismay was spreading through the crowd.
“What’s happened?” asked Lucius.
“Another of the emperor’s sons has died.”
Kaeso drew a sharp breath. “Commodus?”
“No, his younger brother, Annius. They say the boy had a tumor of some sort, and the physicians felt obliged to cut it out, and now the boy is dead. If only I had been there…”
It was curious, thought Lucius, that Galen had fled Rome rather than be called on to treat the imperial family, but now seemed confident that he could do better than the best of Marcus’s physicians.
“Now Commodus is the only male heir remaining,” said Kaeso. “That boy’s life is priceless, invaluable—unlike any of this rubbish.” He gestured dismissively to the glittering objects around them.
* * *
It was some months later, in the middle of the night, and with no explanation, that Galen was summoned to the imperial residence. The litter sent by the palace was large enough for two, and the messenger indicated that Lucius was to come, as well. Awakened from a sound sleep, Lucius threw on his toga, stumbled out the door and into the litter, and they were on their way.
“What do you think it could be?” asked Galen fretfully.
“I don’t know,” mumbled Lucius. “I asked the messenger, but he insists he has no further information. But, since the death of young Annius, I think Marcus has lost faith in his personal physicians.”
“So this might be it,” said Galen gravely. “A summons to actually treat one of the family.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s only one of his clerks or secretaries.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Yes, it does seem to be an emergency of some sort. Probably not the plague, as no one has yet found a treatment for that. And there seem to be fewer cases of late.”
“Only because there are fewer people left in Rome to catch the damned plague!” said Galen. “Sweet Athena—what if it’s Commodus? What if the boy is sick? Failure would be catastrophic. But if I succeed…” He shuddered. “Oh please, let it be injury, not illness! Injuries are at least straightforward.”
Lucius tilted his head. “I can’t believe my ears. You’ve just wished an injury on the emperor’s heir.”
“I did no such thing!”
Lucius laughed, and yawned, wishing he were back in his bed.
* * *
As it turned out, it was not Commodus who needed treatment, nor Faustina, nor any of the emperor’s daughters. It was Marcus himself, as a grim-faced attendant informed them on the quick walk to the private quarters of the palace. By the flickering torchlight, Lucius saw Galen turn white. They were left alone for a moment while the courtier went ahead to announce them.
“By Hercules, the emperor himself!” whispered Lucius.
“Indeed.” Galen’s voice was flat.
“A successful outcome will make you one of the leading physicians in Rome.”
“Yes. It would also mean that I’ll have to go along with the emperor when he heads north again.”
“And would that be a bad thing? Such a rare honor—”
“If you had seen the horrors I saw, on the march from Aquileia to Rome—and that was without a battle! I don’t know how your brother does it.”
“He’s a remarkable soldier, to be sure. Just as you are a remarkable physician.”
“Am I, really?”
“Of course. That’s why you’re here.”
“But how did I get here? A few successful cures, some impressive demonstrations—which are hardly more than sleight of hand, mere tricks. Do I really know more than anyone else, about anything?”
“G
alen, this sudden attack of modesty is unlike you.”
The courtier returned and escorted them to a crowded chamber just off the imperial bedroom. The space was hung with costly fabrics and brightly lit. The murmur of men conferring in low voices fell silent as all turned to stare at the newcomers. Among those present Lucius recognized several prominent philosophers and senators, and also some of the wonder-workers who were currently vying for Marcus’s favor. Lucius recognized the eminent astrologer, Julianus the Chaldean, with his long beard, and the shaven-headed Egyptian priest Harnouphis, who likewise was said to attain wisdom by studying the sky.
The attendant showed them through another door and into the adjoining room. This room, too, was crowded, but with men of a more menial sort, household servants and the emperor’s personal slaves and freedmen. Marcus was sitting up in bed, looking very weak and pale. He allowed Lucius to take his hand, and then nodded toward Galen.
“We will talk later, dear friend. It’s this one I want to see.”
Lucius stepped back, but before Galen could take his place, Marcus urgently gestured to one of the slaves, who rushed forward with a silver vessel into which the emperor loudly and convulsively proceeded to vomit.
Lucius wrinkled his nose, but Galen, suddenly sure of himself, reached for the vessel after Marcus was done and set about inspecting the color and texture of the contents. Perhaps they yielded some clue, for Galen hummed and nodded shrewdly. He proceeded to query Marcus about the nature and duration of his symptoms, and what cures had so far been prescribed. He also took Marcus’s pulse several times, and felt his forehead for fever. The interview went on for quite some time, mostly in voices too low for Lucius to follow, interrupted twice more by urgent calls for the silver vessel, followed by Galen’s careful inspection.
At last Galen turned to some of the attendants and requested that they fetch certain herbs and other substances, including warm water and dried oats.
“Do you mind,” said Marcus weakly, “if a few of my regular physicians come in to observe?”
“Of course not,” said Galen with a smile. He seemed completely recovered from his attack of self-doubt.
Soon the ingredients arrived, along with the physicians, who looked on with varying degrees of skepticism as Galen set about concocting first a tonic for Marcus to drink, and then a material compounded of oats, herbs, water, and wine, which had the consistency of wet mortar.
“That is the poultice?” asked Marcus.
“Yes, Dominus.”
“And it must be applied on the mouth of the stomach, you say?
“Yes, Dominus. Three times a day, until you are completely recovered. I shall apply it myself.”
“Very well. Help me, will you?” He gestured to a couple of the younger, stronger slaves.
While Lucius and everyone else in the room looked on, the emperor pulled up his bedclothes, baring his lower half, and rolled over to assume a position on his hands and knees on the bed. He lowered his head and raised his buttocks. The slaves, one on each side, pulled his buttocks apart, whereupon Galen proceeded to apply the poultice to that part of the body which Greek physicians called the mouth of the stomach, but which Lucius would have called the anus.
“It feels … rather … soothing,” said Marcus, his voice muffled by pillows.
“Yes, Dominus, that will be the theriac beginning to work. Its effects can seem almost magical. It is rare and costly stuff. I wasn’t sure the imperial pharmacy would have an adequate supply on hand, but as it turns out, they do. Still, I will want to ascertain exactly what formulation the chief pharmacist concocts, as recipes do vary, and I have my own ideas as to which formula is best for which ailment. Theriac was also in the tonic I had you drink.”
“Was it?” said Marcus, his speech slightly slurred. “I’ve heard of theriac, but I’ve never taken it before. Yes, I do feel something … a bit … magical, as you say…”
Finished with applying the poultice, Galen stepped back and looked at his work with satisfaction. Heads bobbed up and down as the physicians in the room appeared to register cautious approval. Lucius was about to speak up, to offer soothing words of encouragement to Marcus, but before he could open his mouth there came from the pillows a low, buzzing rumble, the kind of snoring that accompanies a deep sleep.
“The patient is resting quietly,” Galen announced.
* * *
“What is this theriac? I don’t think I’ve heard of it,” said Lucius, on the litter ride home.
“Probably because it’s frightfully expensive, and difficult to make. Or rather, finding all the ingredients can be difficult, for there are many of them, and some are hard to come by. From what I understand, it’s been kept as a standard remedy in the stores of the imperial palace ever since the time of Nero, whose physician Andromachus devised his particular recipe, basing it on the remaining evidence for the lost ‘universal antidote’ against all poisons devised centuries ago by King Mithridates of Pontus.”
“Ah, yes, this does sound familiar. Theriac is made from the cooked flesh of a snake, is it not?”
“Snake flesh is one ingredient, yes, boiled and then dried and powdered and cleansed of its poisonous properties, but there are many other ingredients. The theriac known in my native Pergamum is a bit different from the one here in Rome—it contains more cinnamon and less poppy juice. There are more than sixty other ingredients—”
“Sixty!”
“Each specially prepared and added in precise order and in exact proportions. The effectiveness of Roman theriac as an antidote to a number of poisons is well attested, as is its efficacy as a remedy for snakebite, spider bites, and scorpion stings.”
“But Marcus is suffering from some disturbance of the bowels, not a spider bite.”
“He also suffers from insomnia, which can exacerbate other conditions. Nero’s physician called his particular recipe galene, ‘tranquility.’ It is known to have a soporific effect. I’m going to recommend that the emperor continue to take theriac for a while, at a dosage I shall prescribe. We can’t have the ruler of the Roman world missing his rest.”
“What if it works too well? What if he oversleeps? Marcus likes to be up at dawn, ready to get to work.”
“If theriac makes him drowsy in the mornings, or clouds his mind, as it can do, I shall adjust the dose accordingly.”
* * *
Called back to the palace some days later, Lucius and Galen found Marcus fully recovered, and full of praise for Galen and his treatment.
“The theriac has done wonders for my sleeplessness,” he said. “I suffer from insomnia especially when traveling—one reason I resist doing so. As soon as possible I must head north to join the legions mustering along the Danube. I worry that I won’t be able to sleep at all.”
“Then I would advise Dominus to take the theriac daily, if necessary. It can only do you good. Why, I would take theriac myself every day, if I could afford it. The ingredients and the difficulty of preparation make it very costly, one reason the only substantial store of the medicine anywhere in the world is to be found here in the palace. But since it is here, surely Rome’s emperor should avail himself of it.”
“You must of course come with me when I head back to the front.”
Galen’s smile faded. He cleared his throat and looked askance. “Dominus, I must inform you that I have received a divine sign which indicates that I should not leave Rome.”
“A sign?”
“Last night I had a very troubling dream. Early this morning I went to the Temple of Aesculapius to pray for the health of the emperor, and also to seek an interpretation of the dream. My special relationship with Aesculapius goes back to my youth, when he indicated to my father that I should become a physician. I have always sought for and followed his loving guidance. The god’s priest saw in my dream a very clear sign that Aesculapius wishes for me to remain in Rome.”
Marcus said nothing for a long moment. He looked steadily into Galen’s eyes. Finally he nodded.
“Ah, well, then, if that is what Aesculapius desires for you, I won’t go against the god’s wishes. Perhaps it’s for the best. Commodus is still too young to come with me on campaign. Perhaps Aesculapius wants you in Rome because he foresees that my son will have need of you.”
Lucius looked sidelong at Galen, whose face was a blank. His friend had in fact gone out very early that morning, and had mentioned to Lucius a visit to the Temple of Aesculapius, but had said nothing about a dream or an omen. Lucius knew that Galen wanted very much to stay in Rome, or at least not to go with Marcus to the front, and now he had his way. But the alternative was to look after the emperor’s heir, with all the prestige—and terrible risk—entailed by such a grave responsibility. What was the old Etruscan adage? Out of the pot and into the fire!
Marcus thoughtfully tapped a finger against his lips. “But who will compound the theriac for me?”
“I can do that myself, Dominus, here in Rome, and send you fresh batches as needed,” offered Galen. “It would be impractical to carry all sixty-odd ingredients from camp to camp. Better to make it here in Rome where fresh, potent stores of even the rarest and costliest ingredients, such as cinnamon, are regularly replenished in the imperial vaults.”
“That makes a great deal of sense,” said Marcus. “As physician to Commodus, you’ll have full access to the imperial pharmacies, of course, and the authority to order whatever ingredients you need, and to compound and store whatever medicines you deem necessary, in the amounts you deem appropriate. And more importantly, Commodus will have you close at hand. Good! The welfare of Commodus has been much on my mind. Indeed, it was regarding Commodus that I wanted to see you today, Lucius.”
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