The Road to Bithynia: A Novel of Luke, the Beloved Physician

by Frank G. Slaughter

  Luke unbandaged the officer’s foot gently. It was a classic case of gout in the very acute stage, the toes swollen, red, and exquisitely tender. He rewrapped the foot carefully and got to his feet, but he felt no optimism. “I must see what drugs your medical supplies contain,” he temporized. “Perhaps I can compound a remedy which will help you.”

  Sergius Paulus shrugged. “You will fail as the others have done, but join us, anyway. We are badly in need of physicians. Half my troops are raw levies, and already there is fever among them. Who are you?” he demanded of Probus.

  The tall man bowed low. “My name is Probus Maximus. By occupation I am an apothecary, but by inclination a philosopher and student of religion. I am also the most skilled scribe in the world.”

  “A plague on all scribes,” Sergius burst out irritably. “My personal secretary was killed only yesterday in a brawl over a country wench.”

  “Then you cannot afford not to enlist my services,” Probus said promptly. “I can more than take his place.”

  “He was a graduate of the University of Athens,” Sergius warned dourly.

  “And I of Alexandria, which is better.”

  “He had visited half the great cities of the world and knew them intimately.”

  “I know them all like the back of my hand,” Probus boasted. “Including those of Gaul and Britain.”

  Sergius Paulus laughed then. “At least you are an engaging and original liar. You shall be my secretary and historian, and if you cannot do the things you say, I shall have you whipped out of the camp.” He called to a centurion who acted as his adjutant. “Find a tent nearby for these two; I would have both the physician and the scribe near me.”

  When they were alone in the large tent assigned to them, Probus said, “When I was in Gaul, where gout is frequent, I heard of a remedy that is said to be very effective.”

  “Tell me what it is,” Luke begged. “Perhaps they will have the drug among their medical supplies.”

  “No army medicine chest will contain this drug. It is a powder made from the dried plant of a flower, the autumn crocus.”

  “But where could I find it?” Luke asked, his hopes dashed again.

  “You can thank the gods that, being an apothecary, I am always on the lookout for medicinal herbs,” Probus told him. “I noticed the plant growing along the roadside a few miles out of the city.”

  Luke wasted no time. By nightfall he had gathered a sack of the pale flowers and had them drying in an oven he had commandeered for the purpose. Later he ground the plants into a powder and mixed a liberal dose with an equally large measure of powdered poppy leaves for the narcotic effect. Then he went to the tent of the commander, where a light still burned.

  Sergius Paulus was sweating with pain and ready to try any remedy. He drank the mixture in a little wine, and in a few minutes the pain began to diminish from the effect of the poppy. “By Diana!” he said gratefully. “You have brought me more relief already, Luke, than a dozen other physicians. But I tasted poppy in that dose; will there be any permanent effect?”

  “I have compounded a new drug,” Luke told him truthfully. “One never before used by medical science. The benefit will be permanent if you take it as I direct.”

  “I would put my head in a noose at your orders,” Sergius told him wryly, “so long as you can ease the pain.”

  The crocus flower worked almost magically. By the third day of Luke’s new treatment Sergius Paulus was able to hobble about with only a little pain and the inflammation had begun to subside. In gratitude he showered his new physician with gifts and honors, but Luke insisted that the credit belonged to Probus, who had put him on the track of the new treatment, and divided everything with the tall scribe.

  Had he chosen to do so, Luke could have lolled at his ease, with no work save measuring out the four daily doses of powdered crocus leaves for the commander. But military medicine was a new and fascinating study for him. He noted that, while the older and more hardened soldiers seemed immune to many diseases, fevers developed and spread with alarming rapidity through the raw levies. Yet when he talked to the older troops he found that they, too, had suffered just such epidemics when they had been green recruits. From which he judged that men tended to develop a resistance to some diseases when they came in contact with them, sometimes apparently without actually having the diseases themselves.

  One cohort developed an alarming epidemic of dysentery, laying nearly all of them low and killing a number of men. Looking for a cause, Luke discovered that these troops, not wanting to carry water from the aqueduct, had been taking their drinking water from the river nearby, where the men bathed and the horses watered and into which, at another level, the cloacas of the city emptied. When he asked Sergius Paulus to issue an order forbidding the taking of any drinking or cooking water from the river, the commander demanded his reason.

  “A physician named Marcus Terentius Varro,” Luke explained, “wrote a hundred years ago as follows: ‘Advertendum etiam qua erunt loca palustria, et propter easdem causas, et quod arescunt, crescunt animalia quaedam minuta, quae non possunt oculi consequi et per aer intus in corpus per os, ad nares perveniunt, atque efficiunt difficiles morbus.’”

  Probus, who was also in, the commander’s tent, translated promptly: “Perhaps in swampy places small animals live that cannot be discerned with the eye, and they enter the body through the mouth and nostrils and cause grave disorders.”

  “You might be right,” Sergius Paulus admitted. “I contracted a quartan fever in the swamps near Rome. But these waters are not swampy.”

  “The same could hold true for rivers as well as swamps, particularly when men bathe in the waters.”

  “Issue the order, then Probus,” Sergius directed. “We will see what happens.”

  When shortly the dysentery epidemic subsided, Luke’s reputation was enhanced. There was also a profusion of wounds to be treated, for the raw troops were always cutting themselves with swords or accidentally jabbing others with lances. Fights, too, broke out between men from rival cities and sometimes resulted in grave wounds. When one of the blacksmiths was kicked in the head by a horse and subsequently fell into convulsions, Luke trepanned the man’s skull as described in the teachings of Hippocrates, boring into the bone until the brain was exposed. A quantity of blood escaped through the trepanned opening, and shortly the injured man recovered.

  By the time the legion from Antioch marched into the Camp of Mars, Luke was already established as the most skillful physician and surgeon in the entire army. He embraced Silvanus and Apollonius and took them to Sergius Paulus, who also greeted them warmly. Apollonius, Luke saw, had changed a great deal. He wore the trappings of a tribune with gravity and was more thoughtful than he had been as a youth, although even handsomer than before he had gone to Rome. Silvanus, except that he was a little more grizzled with age, was the same.

  Sergius Paulus promptly invited them all to dine with him that evening, and since there was work for Silvanus and Apollonius to do, getting their troops quartered and established in the routine of the camp, Luke saw no more of them until they met together in the luxurious tent of Sergius Paulus. Probus had lost no time in making good his boasts to the commander; already he was more of a confidant than a secretary, and. it was natural that he should join them at the table.

  Sergius came in from his evening inspection and threw his velvet cloak down on the cushions before the table. “Wine!” he called to the slaves, and when it came they drank first to the emperor and then to the legion of Antioch. The toasts over, they settled down on cushions around a low table for the meal. It was a luxurious one, for the Romans never stinted themselves even when in the field. Sergius, because of his gout, ate sparingly, as Luke had prescribed, and drank only a little wine. While they ate, Probus entertained them with tales of his travels that kept them laughing throughout the meal.

  “You
can see why I am so fond of this fellow,” Sergius said after a particularly outrageous tale. “He is the greatest liar in the empire.”

  “Not so, noble Roman,” Probus objected. “I am a disciple of Democritus, who was called the ‘Laughing Philosopher’ because he taught that we should live for each day only.”

  “Is this the same Democritus who said everything is composed of tiny particles called atoms?” Luke asked.

  “The same,” Probus agreed. “Or, as Lucretius wrote:

  “That you may know

  That forms dissimilar coalesce in one,

  And things are formed of differing elements;

  As in our verse you many letters see

  Common to many words, yet words and verse

  As wholes dissimilar . . .

  Thus common atoms may exist in things,

  The compound whole be yet dissimilar.”

  “You are more recently from the halls of learning than any of us, Luke,” Sergius Paulus said. “What does all that mean?”

  Luke smiled. “It may be true that everything is composed of atoms, just as it may be true that animalcules cause disease, as Marcus Terentius Varro claimed. But I am so busy treating disease that I have little time now for philosophical matters.”

  “Plato warned against trying to separate the soul from the body, Luke,” Probus reminded him. “Perhaps it would be better for you to study the souls of men as well as their diseases.”

  “Do you believe in the immortality of the soul, Probus?” Sergius asked.

  The philosopher took a long draught of wine. “If a man has known a good measure of happiness on earth, why wish for immortality? The best he can hope for is a repetition of what he has already experienced. And one grows weary from the same pleasures oft repeated.”

  “But who is really happy?” Apollonius asked.

  “Myself,” Probus replied promptly, “for I ask of a day only that which it gives. A sensible man’s prayer to the gods should be only, ‘Give me that which I deserve.’ Then if he gets much, he deserved much. If he gets little, he deserved little, and therefore has no right to be unhappy because of what he did not get.”

  “I am not sure I agree with that philosophy, Probus,” Luke protested. “It justifies the rich and excuses the poor. I lean to the teachings of another who said—let me see if I can remember it. Yes, it was, ‘Just as you want men to do to you, you also do to them likewise.’”

  “An admirable way of life,” Sergius Paulus admitted, “but not a very practical one, I am afraid. Who is this philosopher?”

  “A Jew called Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “He was the Galilean executed by Pontius Pilate!” Sergius exclaimed. “There has been trouble in Judea ever since.”

  “Think twice before you endorse such teachings, Sergius,” Probus warned. “If you believed them, you would not make wars.”

  “By the Ephesian Diana! You are right. Then it can never be popular with the Romans; we live by war.”

  “Or with the Jews, who profit by business,” Apollonius added. “I cannot see a religion surviving long which antagonizes the most influential people in the empire. It seems to me that this sect works toward its own destruction.”

  “It would except for one thing,” Silvanus interposed quietly. “Jesus, according to those who believe in Him, is more than a man.”

  “Is?” Sergius Paulus exclaimed. “But He was crucified.”

  “His followers believe that Jesus rose from the dead,” Silvanus explained. “As the Son of God, they look for Him to return at any moment and rule over the world.”

  “Hah! Would He overcome Rome?”

  “They believe He will,” Silvanus admitted.

  “Then I know they will not survive long,” Sergius said positively. “The emperor will not let any sect live which advocates his downfall.” Then he changed the subject. “You have been in Paphlagonia, Silvanus. What do you think of our chances against the barbarians?”

  “It is a mountainous region,” the centurion said, “and poorly adapted to military campaigning.”

  “Exactly what I told the emperor and Petronius,” Sergius exploded. “And yet to punish a few people who do not pay taxes, they send me into dangerous country with half the men I need and most of them untrained and untested in battle. I only hope that we get safely home.”

  “I for one am not returning,” Silvanus said.

  Sergius gave him a startled look. “If you are so sure of death, you need not go, Silvanus. I will need someone to guard supplies here at the camp.”

  “I only meant that I am going on to Bithynia,” Silvanus explained. “I am going to live there when the war is over.”

  “Bithynia is a barbarous country,” Sergius protested. “Away from the cities it is a pleasant land, and the climate is mild.”

  “There are hundreds of cities in the empire where you can have all that, without burying yourself in such a faraway place.”

  “I think I understand what Silvanus seeks in Bithynia,” Probus interposed. “All men long for a place where none of the troubles of the world exist. Most religions offer such a heaven after death, but Silvanus thinks he can find it on earth.”

  For a long moment no one spoke, then Sergius Paulus said softly, as if he were speaking to himself, “There is a bay on the island of Cyprus . . .”

  “And I would choose a hunting lodge in the mountains above Antioch,” Apollonius added.

  “You are all wrong,” Probus said. “It is along the banks of the river that the Britons call Thames, near their city of Londinium.”

  “And I insist upon Bithynia,” Silvanus said doggedly.

  “You are strangely silent, physician,” Sergius said to Luke. “Or are you too young yet to think of a place to die?”

  “No,” Luke said, smiling. “I am attracted to Silvanus’s Bithynia, to Apollonius’s lodge, even your Cyprian bay and the far-off river that Probus loves. But I wonder if you are not all talking about the same thing, a state of mind. None of you could hope to be happy in the places you mention unless your mind was at peace. It seems to me that if a man has achieved peace in his own mind, it makes no difference where he is.”

  “By Diana! You are right,” Sergius exclaimed. “But how does one attain peace?”

  “I am not sure yet,” Luke admitted. “Perhaps by first doing the things which it is your lot to do on earth.”

  “What sort of an answer is that?” Probus snorted. “My way is better. Live for the day and pray only for what you deserve.”

  Sergius yawned. “Well, I have lived enough for this day. Since I cannot eat or drink, I can at least sleep.” At this pointed invitation to leave, they all bade the commander good night.

  Outside the moon was shining and the camp was quiet as Luke and Silvanus walked along the riverbank, Apollonius having gone to make a final check upon his troops. “I was interested to hear you speak of Jesus of Nazareth tonight, Luke,” the centurion said. “During these past few years I have become a believer in the Galilean.”

  “I remember you were very near to being one when we were in Jerusalem five years ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was. But only lately have I found in Him the real peace of mind of which you spoke. That is why I am ready now to go into Bithynia.”

  “Can I go with you, Silvanus?” Luke asked impulsively. “You promised, remember?”

  The old centurion put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You have the answer tonight, Luke. No man can reach his private Bithynia until he has done his own particular work on earth.”

  “But how will I know what my task is?”

  “God will tell you, Luke. Why else would He have selected you as the agent by whom the sayings of His Son were preserved five years ago if He did not have some purpose for you?”

  “It could have been chance,” Luke pointed o
ut.

  “Yes, it could have been chance. But then chance may be only another name for the workings of God’s will on earth.”

  For which thought Luke had no answer at the moment.

  V

  North of Ancyra, in the province of Galatia, the southern borders of Bithynia and Paphlagonia lay along the top of a range of mountains towering above the icy currents of the river Halys. Here the three provinces joined near a pass giving access to the fertile plains of Bithynia and Paphlagonia, where the river Synape wound through them both. Beyond the mountain range the rebellious Paphlagonians had gathered in force, and on a fiat plateau south of the pass leading into their territory Sergius Paulus halted his troops and prepared for battle.

  The cool air of the mountains, already crisp with the promise of frost, brought a sharp drop of temperature at night, and a fresh epidemic of coughs and fevers broke out among the troops. Luke was kept busy prescribing medicines for the cough and pain, leeching, cupping, and administering cataplasms. He had seen little of Silvanus or Apollonius during the march northward, for the Syrian legion traveled as a rear guard for the army, and Luke’s place was in the train of the Roman commander near the front of the long column. When Silvanus appeared at his dispensary after the evening meal a few days following their arrival, Luke’s face lit up with a smile. “Don’t tell me an old campaigner like you is already suffering from the cold, Silvanus,” he greeted his friend.

  The centurion shook his head. He carried a blanket rolled up under his arm and wore a heavy cloak. “I came because I want to show you something, Luke. Can you leave?”

  “I am just finishing up for the night,” Luke said, glad of an excuse to close the dispensary.

  “Get a blanket and wear a heavy cloak,” Silvanus directed. “We will sleep out and return in the morning.”

  “Are we going to spy on the enemy?” Luke’s eyes kindled with excitement.

  “Not unless we meet him by accident,” Silvanus said with a smile. “No, I have other plans.”