And it was only then that I realized that I would never go back to Ephesus or marry one of Thorion’s friends. I wanted to live all my life in Alexandria and practice the art of healing.
A month later, a year after I had left Ephesus, I received my first letter from Thorion. Deborah handed it to me one evening when Philon and I got back from our rounds; she told me that a sailor had delivered it during the day. I paid her back for what she’d given him and sat down at the table in the main room to read it. My heart was in my throat when I broke the seal; I felt as nervous as though Thorion were standing in the room, about to quarrel with me about the way I’d been living.
But of course Thorion knew nothing except what I had told him in my own letter. His reply was a long one: he had apparently started it in the autumn after receiving my letter, then continued at intervals all winter until the ships sailed in the spring and he could post it. He was full of talk about the capital, about his studies and his friends. He was in good health, but no longer at the office of the praetorian prefect. Festinus and the prefect, Modestus, were “thick as thieves,” and he’d been ousted from his job shortly after getting there; however, he now had another job, in the office of one of the provincial assessors, and hopes of promotion. “When I’ve been promoted I’ll have enough money to keep a household, and you can come join me,” he wrote. “But it’s no good until then.” Festinus had been outraged “by my sister’s disappearance,” as Thorion tactfully put it, and although he had now gone off to govern Paphlagonia, Ephesus was still uncomfortable for anyone in our family, and Constantinople would be just as bad if I showed up again now. Father had had to sell more land and even some of his racehorses to pay for losses the governor had inflicted on him, “but the assessorship is the natural path to the governorship, and I can make up the losses as soon as I’m a governor myself.” Maia was fine, and with Thorion in Constantinople, but her joints still pained her. She told me to look after myself, and hoped that I had not had to sell too much of my mother’s jewelry, and that I was eating well, and that I had not been converted to Judaism.
At that I smiled; then I looked up and saw Philon and Deborah watching me with intense curiosity. “Good news?” Philon asked.
I’d been reading under my breath, but hadn’t needed to: the letter gave nothing away. I put it down, angled so that Philon could see the superscription and confirm, if he liked, his suspicions. “Just advice from my old nurse,” I told him, “not to spend too much money. What’s a good remedy for rheumatism that I could send her?”
I replied to the letter within the week, sending the remedy and telling Thorion a little about the city and the Museum. But I could say nothing about my own life, and certainly couldn’t mention my resolve never to go back. There was no need to trouble them yet, I told myself. Thorion had said that I couldn’t join them until he had enough money to maintain an independent household — and anything might have happened by then.
A few days later I was escorting Theophila about the marketplace when we met Theogenes.
I escorted Theophila about fairly often. As an unmarried girl she was not allowed out on her own, and I had considerable sympathy for her. So if there was time before supper we’d walk down to the market, or out to the park. She was a nice girl, though not at all interested in medicine. In fact, she made a much better young lady than I ever had: she liked weaving, sewing, and clothing; she loved small children and was good with them; she enjoyed gossiping with a few friends, and she liked to flirt decorously with young men. She wanted me to tell her all about “the way rich people live,” and was disappointed that it was so unremarkable, though she was much impressed by a description of my father’s house. For her part, she told me what was happening in the neighborhood, and once or twice, rather shyly, tried to convert me.
On this occasion we’d walked all the way down to the Tetrapylon, where she bought some saffron-dyed linen for a new tunic. On the way back I wanted to stop and buy some drugs, and it was at the druggist’s that we met Theogenes.
Though I saw quite a lot of him, at the Temple and at the tavern, I’d never invited Theogenes home. I felt slightly awkward about inviting someone to what was Philon’s house, not mine, and besides that, a bit embarrassed that the house wasn’t more impressive. I knew that most of the doctors at the Temple looked down on Philon because he didn’t earn much or have important patients: they thought it was because he was incompetent. I made sure that I always gave him the credit he was due, and my friends knew better than to sneer at him, but nonetheless I didn’t want them to see the house. I knew that Theogenes rented a set of rooms in the Broucheion quarter and had two slaves to look after him, and I was ashamed to show him my bare little room.
However, when we entered the little shop off Soma Square, there he was, leaning on the counter and bargaining over some hyoscyamus. “Chariton!” he exclaimed when I came in, and immediately pulled me into the bargaining. “Wouldn’t you say this stuff had lost its potency?”
“Indisputably,” I agreed solemnly, and Theogenes launched back into his argument with the druggist, who was entirely unimpressed by this second opinion.
When Theogenes had finally struck a bargain and paused for breath, he noticed Theophila, who was standing beside the door holding her cloak over the lower part of her face and clutching her package of saffron linen. He always noticed pretty girls, and he looked at her appreciatively, then realized that she must be with me. “Why, Chariton!” he said, grinning. “You’re the last person I’d expect to find in the company of a charming young lady!”
I smiled. “This is my master Philon’s daughter, Theophila. Theophila, this is Theogenes of Antioch.”
Theophila looked modestly at the floor. “Chariton’s told me about you,” she murmured.
“All lies!” Theogenes exclaimed at once, and Theophila giggled.
I took my turn bargaining with the druggist; Theogenes talked to Theophila. By the time I’d collected my own package of drugs, Theophila was saying, “I’m sure you’d be welcome at home; Father’s told Chariton lots of times that he’d like to meet you.”
“I’ve told Chariton lots of times that I’d like to meet your father,” returned Theogenes truthfully. “But he never will fix a time.”
“I’ve never been sure when would be convenient for Philon,” I lied.
“Now would be fine,” Theophila said at once, again looking modestly at the floor, then gazing up through her eyelashes. She was enjoying herself.
So Theogenes came back, was introduced to Philon, and stayed for supper. He did not sneer at the house, and we had a three-sided argument about the works of Galen during the meal, followed by a two-sided (I sat and listened) argument about the Jewish Law, which Philon won without effort. Theogenes was enormously impressed. “You reason like a scholar,” he told Philon.
“I studied in Tiberias,” Philon replied, and Theogenes was even more impressed. When he left, Philon invited him to come back for dinner “anytime,” and Theogenes thanked him warmly.
“Your master’s a remarkable man,” he told me the next day. We were in the Temple herb garden after a lecture on plants, and Theogenes pulled me into the shade of the Lebanese cedar that stood in the middle of the garden, so as to have a proper talk out of the sun. It was pleasantly cool in the shade, a little artificial stream ran gurgling under the tree roots, and the flowers were in bloom.
“I won’t deny it,” I replied. “It’s what I’ve been saying since I met him.”
“Yes, but do you realize how extraordinary he is? To have studied the Law in Tiberias and medicine in Alexandria? The two greatest subjects a man can study, at the two greatest centers of learning? But you’re a Christian; I suppose Tiberias and the Law don’t mean much to you.”
“True, I’m afraid. I hadn’t even realized that Tiberias was such an eminent place. Philon’s son is there now. He’s been studying your Law for a couple of years.”
“That’s not surprising; scholarship tends to run in fami
lies. I wonder if the son will go on and do medicine as well. How old is he?”
“About our age, I think. Three years older than Theophila, anyway.” Theogenes smiled, his eyes lighting up. “She’s fifteen, then? She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she? Is she engaged to anyone?”
I laughed. “Have you ever met a girl you didn’t think ‘very pretty’? No, she’s not engaged to anyone yet. There’s a problem over the dowry.”
He sighed. “There would be. Why don’t they have more money? I would have thought a learned man like Philon could earn plenty, and you and he certainly work hard enough.”
“We don’t earn much because we don’t treat people who have much money. It’s as simple as that. Philon isn’t poor, but he’ll never be rich either, and that’s his own choice.”
Theogenes thought about it for a moment, staring at the green of the garden, the white and purple of the irises, the pink cyclamen. “I don’t think I’ll ever rise to a height like that,” he confessed. “When I pass my examination, I intend to make money.”
I laughed. “You sound just like my br— . . . like my patron. ‘I intend to go to court and earn money!’ ”
“Did he want you to go to court and earn money?” Theogenes asked quickly, looking up from the flowers into my face, openly curious.
I looked away, reluctant to lie to him. “He didn’t want me to study medicine,” I said after a minute.
“So you have risen to that height.”
“Oh, it’s not the same for me as it must have been for Philon. It’s not hard to give up being rich when you’ve never been in want and are sure you never will be. And what would I want more money for? Everything I ever wanted, I already have.”
“Not everything!”
“Everything I ever thought about.”
“You must have thought about it much less than I have. Me, I want a good house in the middle of Antioch, with my own slaves to care for it, and my own garden — just like my father has. And I’d like a job like his — state physician would suit me fine. And I’d like some sweet, pretty little wife in the house, to look after it and to welcome me home every evening, and I’d like two or three children running to the door. You need money for all that.” He stared at the garden thoughtfully for another moment, then heaved a pebble into the stream. “And I need to study harder. When are you supposed to pick cyclamen?”
Theogenes invited himself to dinner at Philon’s every few weeks throughout the summer, usually appearing with a flask of wine or some scented oil or flowers, and staying late to argue medicine or the Law. Everyone liked him. Theophila asked me all about him, and flirted with him exquisitely — but she did that with any young man.
And still, all that summer, there were no riots. A few fights at the docks, a skirmish around the hippodrome after a chariot race, but no riots. At Kallias’ tavern we laughed at Nikias for his predictions, but he only shrugged.
“The archbishop is in good health. And they say he’s praying for peace at the end of all his sermons,” he told us. “His followers must have taken it to heart. And the authorities are going to wait until he dies before they do anything. But just wait until he falls ill!” And he changed the subject to some miraculous cure reported from the Temple of Asklepios on Kos. He was always full of miraculous cures worked by Asklepios. Since his other major topic of conversation was reports of his own prowess with whores, I no longer took seriously anything he said, and decided that all this talk about rioting and civil war when the archbishop died was just intended to scare us.
One day in the middle of the autumn, Philon asked me some rather pointed questions about Theogenes. We were eating a late lunch in the Paneion, the park sacred to the old god Pan. It was another of the city’s artificial hills, overgrown with cedar trees, date palms, cistus, and roses, and we were sitting in the shade by a bank of fragrant thyme, eating cumin bread, new cheese, and peaches. We were between patients; I had just come from visiting one of the cases I was managing more or less on my own, and had met Philon at the Paneion gates. After a discussion of medical matters, I remembered that Theogenes had asked whether he could come to dinner the following evening, and I told Philon this.
“Again?” said Philon, smiling. Then he stopped smiling, and gave a slight frown. “It’s the second time in a week. He isn’t . . . that is — has he talked to you much about Theophila?”
“A bit.” I wasn’t really paying attention; my mind was still on my patient, who had some growth inside her that was killing her slowly. I’d given her some opium to drink in wine when the pain was bad, but I was wondering whether there wasn’t something more we could do for her, whether we ought to risk surgery.
“What has he said?”
“The usual sort of thing. She’s pretty, she’s charming, she’s sweet. He thinks most girls are sweet.”
“Oh.” Philon sat silent for a minute, frowning down the hill. “Well, perhaps it means nothing. Only she seems fond of him, and he has been coming frequently of late.” He sighed, and took a bite of bread. “I suppose I shouldn’t give it much thought,” he said through the mouthful; then he swallowed. “But I find I’m like any other father, wanting a good match for my daughter. I’d like her to be well-off — more comfortable than her mother has been. I’ve made my family pay for my way of practicing. She doesn’t have much of a dowry saved up for her, and that matters so much. A son you can just give a good education and then leave to his merits, but a daughter needs money to marry on. It would be very good luck for us if Theogenes had fallen in love with her.” He sighed. “Well, he’s a pleasant young man, and interesting company even if he’s not in love with her, and he’s welcome to come to dinner.”
I didn’t say anything. That Philon should hope for this was obvious enough, but it hadn’t occurred to me, and now that it had been pointed out, I found myself annoyed. Theogenes was always admiring pretty girls, commenting on them, speculating about them. And Theophila flirted, modestly but persistently, with anyone. They both seemed suddenly smug, idiotic, unbearable.
Philon sighed again and began discussing my patient and the possibility of surgery, but I now found it hard to pay attention. When we had finished our lunch and walked back out of the park, I wondered whether there was in fact some substance to Philon’s hope. It was hard to tell. But Theogenes had been coming more and more often, and paying more and more attention to Theophila when he did come. It was, I realized, very probable that he was at least considering marriage to her. That was good news for the family. Why should it annoy me?
Because, I admitted silently, Theogenes was an attractive young man and I liked him myself.
I bit my lip, staring at Philon’s shoulders in front of me. Once admitted, it was absurd. I wasn’t his sort of girl. I’d never be some “sweet little wife” waiting at home for anyone — and I was a better doctor than he was. Come to that, he wasn't the sort of man I'd be allowed to marry. I supposed his family's wealth was about equal to that of Thorion's friend Kyrillos, whom Maia had considered not good enough for me; but Theogenes' money came from a profession, not the land, and so was less respectable. And he was Jewish. I should put the stupid liking out of my head at once, and be pleased if Theophila had indeed captured his affection. Chariton the eunuch had no business liking charming young men, and Charis daughter of Theodoros had no business studying medicine. And I wanted to study medicine far more than I wanted Theogenes, or any other young man, for that matter.
But I was in a foul temper all the next day, and when Theogenes came to the house and spent half his time trying to make Theophila laugh, I had to complain of a headache and go upstairs to lie down. I lay flat on my stomach on the bedspread with the shutters closed and chewed on my fingernails, wretched. I had everything I wanted, I'd told Theogenes. But he had been right when he had said I hadn't thought much about it. I thought now. Love, the companionship of marriage, children — of course I wanted them. It would be inhuman not to want things so natural and good. And I did like Theogenes, his ey
es and his smile and his quick hands. There was no way on earth that anything could come of the liking; no way that anything could come of any liking I felt, so long as I continued to study medicine.
I got up, went to my bookcase, and ran my hands over the backs of my medical texts. They were odd things to balance against a living, smiling young man and the possibility of home and children. I pulled out one of the volumes of Hippocrates and opened it at random. At first the lines of writing lay blurred before my eyes, but then they sharpened and became words, a case history. A man with a fever and abdominal pains; I read to the end of the account and saw that he had died. I put the book back and stood staring at it, resting my fingers on the yellow papyrus. The books did balance. I wanted the art of healing, wanted it more than anything else on earth. I would simply have to resign myself, and accept that I must remain a eunuch.
Winter came, my second winter in Alexandria. Theogenes continued to visit at least once a week and pay attention to Theophila, and Philon subtly encouraged him, but nothing was said about it. I tried hard to be pleased, and sometimes I succeeded. But I was not quite as happy as I had been.
That spring I had my nineteenth birthday. I spent the day attending a patient sick with typhoid. He was a wheelwright, married, with three young children; his wife went into a panic when she saw his fever rising that morning, and begged me to stay the day. I stayed, brought the fever down by means of sponge baths with vinegar, got the patient to rest with cinquefoil and opium, and saw that he managed to drink some broth and keep it down. When I left he was resting more peacefully than he had for some time, the fever seemed lower, and the pulse was certainly stronger and steadier than it had been for days. His wife caught my hand as I was leaving and clutched it tightly, tears in her eyes. “He will recover?” she asked me.
The Beacon at Alexandria Page 13
