Luke struggled to his feet, still dazed by the plunge into the dirt and the rapid sequence of events which had changed certain death into victory. He saw Probus getting up and, judging that the scribe was not seriously injured, hurried over to where Apollonius lay unconscious on the ground. The wound was high, through the muscles of the breast, almost up to the shoulder, where the arteries and veins to the arms coursed. Seeing it, a cold sweat of apprehension broke out on Luke’s forehead. If the point had penetrated a vein, there could be internal hemorrhage, as had been the case with Silvanus. Only when he removed the broken sword, as he must do soon if Apollonius were to live, would he be able to tell whether or not the wound was fatal. In any event, it was a very serious injury.
Since there was nothing to be done immediately for Apollonius, Luke turned his attention to Probus. The apothecary–scribe was bending over the stone cairn, selecting one of the rocks with his left hand; his right arm hung limp at his side and there were beads of sweat on his face from pain. He took up a sizable stone and, moving to where the wounded Paphlagonian was just beginning to stir, pounded on the man’s head with savage intensity until the rock cracked his skull and there was no question of his stirring any more. Then Probus straightened up and managed a wry grin. “Two minutes ago we were all closer to death than we’re ever likely to be again and escape, Luke. We must have deserved to live.”
“It was you who saved us,” Luke said gratefully. “Is your arm hurt badly?”
“From the way it grates, I suspect that Sergius Paulus has lost the writing arm of his chief scribe for several months. What about the tribune?”
“I can’t tell until I remove the blade.”
“Then we must get him back at once. Splint this broken wing of mine so the bones stop moving, and I will go for help.”
Probus’s arm was broken just below the shoulder, Luke saw when he examined it. The broken sword of the enemy, save the point which was in Apollonius’s breast, made a satisfactory splint which Luke bound in place with strips torn from the clothing of the dead Paphlagonian. When he had finished and suspended the arm in a sling, Probus was white, but he stood up and moved around, testing the efficacy of splint and bandage. “There is little pain now,” he reported. “I will go for a litter to move Apollonius.” When he left the glen, Luke was alone with the unconscious tribune and the grave of the man who had guided them both through the years of their youth.
VII
In his improvised surgery at the main encampment of the Roman Army, Luke surveyed his preparations for the operation which might mean life or death for his foster brother. They were pitifully small in the face of such a job as this, he thought, but comforted himself with the knowledge that the determining factor in any difficult feat of surgery was always the skill and courage of the surgeon. And he knew that no one else in the camp was sufficiently skilled for such delicate work. His instruments lay on a small table: scalpri, sharp knives of the best Damascus steel; strong-jawed forceps for removing arrow fragments and spear points; speculi, the long metal tools for probing into wounds; unci, curved hooks for holding muscles apart; and thin metal spatulae, flat separators for tissue searching. There was also a special instrument in the shape of a V to hold open wounds while extracting arrowheads. To one side, since he did not expect to use them in this task, were the rhissagra, a specially hooked forceps for removing the roots of teeth; trepannes with the meningophylax for holding back the membranes of the brain as the skull was drilled; lead catheters for bladder wounds; and, of course, amputation saws. Everything was spotlessly clean, for Luke had always followed both Hippocrates and Celsus in this respect.
Apollonius was sleeping quietly under the narcotic effect of an extra strong dose of poppy powder. Beside the table burned a brazier of charcoal in which rested the cauterizing irons in case it became necessary to control bleeding by searing the flesh with the hot irons. And four brawny soldiers stood ready to hold the wounded tribune if he struggled from the knife.
Sergius Paulus stood to one side, for he had become attached to Apollonius, and the son of the deputy governor of Syria was naturally important to the Roman commander. Watching the broken end of the sword pulsate faintly in the hurried rhythm of the pulse, Luke knew that the point lay very close to an artery, if not actually inside the vessel. Hippocrates, he remembered, had considered that the arteries carried air, but more recently Celsus had written, “Interdum etiam, ut sanguis vehementer erumpat, efficit.” Which could only mean that the great Roman physician had observed the arteries to spurt blood when cut and concluded that they carried blood, not air. A wound of the pulsating vessels, then, could be a source of dangerous hemorrhage. And even worse, a fragment of Apollonius’s cloak had been carried into the flesh by the blade and could now be seen at the edge of the metal point. Wounds containing clothing were notoriously poor risks in wartime, frequently resulting in fatal gangrene.
Holding in his left hand a pad of the washed wool which Hippocrates recommended as a dressing for wounds, Luke placed the point of his scalpel in the edge of the wound beside the sword point and cut outward for about two finger breadths, then turned quickly and cut the same distance on the other side. Apollonius groaned and tried to twist away from the pain of the knife, but the soldiers held him firmly.
“Why do you not simply extract the point, Luke?” Sergius Paulus asked.
“It is so deeply embedded near the blood vessels and the lungs,” Luke explained, “that I may need room in case there is serious bleeding. Besides, the torn portion of cloak must be removed, or there will be a severe inflammation afterward.” Holding the wound open with his left hand, he next separated the muscles on each side of the sword point. Working slowly and carefully, he went deeper into the tissues, deeper than he had ever before gone in such an operation, but the instincts of a surgeon told him that here daring meant saving a life.
Now Luke put down the scalpel and took up a forceps. The sword point had originally been broken off flush with the skin, but now that the muscles were pushed away on either side, a full half inch of metal projected. He set the jaws of the forceps upon the metal and exerted a gentle, slow pull. For a moment it resisted, and he thought with a sudden cold fear that the point must be embedded in bone, making the job far more difficult. Then it loosened and Luke breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Another danger had come into being now. A large blood vessel could be injured and the bleeding blocked by the sword point. With the point removed, blood would begin to gush, perhaps uncontrollably. Slowly he drew out the sword point and put it on the table, then turned his attention to the open wound. Blood, old and dark, gushed from the opening for a moment as he had expected, but there was little of the bright red flow which would have been a harbinger of serious trouble. Luke drew a deep sigh of relief and covered the wound with a pad of the washed wool. “The sword does not seem to have injured any vital structure,” he told Sergius Paulus. “He should have a good chance for recovery.”
“Asklepios should be proud of you today, Luke,” Sergius said. “You have saved one of the empire’s most valuable young officers.”
Carefully Luke extracted the fragment of cloak from the wound and washed the wound thoroughly with a mixture of oil and wine. Then he applied a clean dressing and bandaged it firmly into place. Wounds like this usually suppurated, exhibiting the classical signs of inflammation described by Celsus, “dolor, calor, tumor, et rubor,” or “pain, heat, swelling, and redness.” But with the sword fragment removed and the wound thoroughly cleaned out, Luke had done all that he could. Apollonius’s fine young body must do the rest.
Fighting desperately during the next few weeks, the Romans managed to stave off defeat, leaving something like an armed truce in effect, with scouting operations and sudden vicious battles to the death between small parties occurring every day. Luke was busy, largely with caring for Apollonius, for in spite of the tribune’s strength, his convalescence was very storm
y. Suppuration set in almost immediately, with a raging fever, weakening rigors, and delirium. More than once Luke was ready to give up, but as the weeks passed, the fever began to subside and it seemed that the worst was over, if there were no further complications.
The nights were cold and raw and, protected only by tents and temporary shelters, the troops suffered constantly from exposure. Hardly a day passed without one or more soldiers complaining of pain in the chest, followed by fever and chills, rapid breathing, cough, and a sputum rusty with blood. Case after case died of such a fulminating form of pneumonia that Luke grew more apprehensive daily, for if this should happen to Apollonius in his weakened state, he stood little chance of recovery.
Luke told his fears to Sergius Paulus in his tent one evening as the Roman commander sat, gaunt and unshaven, before his desk, dictating letters to be sent back to Rome and the colonies, begging for more troops. Sergius frowned and asked, “What would you recommend to prevent such a danger, Luke?”
“Perhaps he could be sent to some less mountainous region where the climate is milder?”
“Where would you suggest?”
“There is the plain of Bithynia nearby.”
Sergius shook his head. “I like not the idea of sending him farther away from home.” Then his face brightened. “I have it. How many men do we have recovering who will not be fit for action within the next few months but could travel by wagon?”
Luke made a quick estimate. “Roughly two hundred or more.”
Sergius thumped the table with his fist. “Then we will send them back to Pisidian Antioch in a train which you and Apollonius can accompany, along with these letters asking for more troops. The wagons can return with supplies we need, and you and Apollonius can go on to Antioch.”
Probus was standing by and now he said, “Since I cannot work, should I not go with Luke? I can report directly to the governor of Syria on the numbers and disposition of the enemy and make out a stronger case for support.”
Sergius smiled. “Tired of military life so soon, Probus? But then you are a philosopher, and a military camp is a poor place for thinking. Yes, you may go.”
And so Luke and Probus, with Apollonius lying on the floor of a light cart, traveled to Pisidian Antioch with the train of wounded and sick. Leaving the train at the base camp, they pushed on southeastward along the Old Way, probably the most famous highway of the Roman Empire, toward Tarsus, where they planned to take ship for the short trip by sea across the Gulf of Issus to Syrian Antioch.
The road was lined with caravans moving in both directions, but Luke did not even notice the plodding dromedaries or the many-hued robes of the turbaned drivers. He was in the wagon with Apollonius, watching apprehensively the heightened color of his foster brother’s cheeks, the increased rate of his breathing, and the short hacking cough which had developed on the way. Apollonius’s eyes grew brighter as his fever rose, and he talked incessantly, but not always coherently, warning Luke of an impending delirium. When his foster brother complained of a pain in his chest distant from the wound and coughed up rusty sputum, Luke knew with chill finality what had happened. Pneumonia! It could be nothing else.
Probus frowned when Luke told him his diagnosis. “We are two days from Tarsus. Is it safe to carry him that far?”
“We have little choice. There is no place nearer than Tarsus where a sick man can be cared for.”
By the time they reached the Cilician Gates, Apollonius was already in a desperate state. Luke blistered, cupped, applied leeches to the sick man’s chest, and covered painful areas with potent cataplasms. He exhausted the resources of his medicine chest, following the directions of Hippocrates in such cases, first administering a purge, then following it with oxymel, and after that a clyster, but with no effect. Ptisan mixed with honey was equally valueless, as were galbanum and pine fruit in Attic honey, southern wood in oxymel, and a decoction of pepper and black hellebore, all classic remedies in this disease. As the miles passed beneath the wheels, Luke’s certainty that Apollonius would die grew stronger and stronger.
Under other circumstances he would have been very much interested in the region through which they were passing, for history had been made in the narrow defile through the Tarsus Mountains called the Cilician Gates, which gave access to the teeming population centers of the Lycaonian plains from the storied lands to the east and south. Through it ran the important trade routes formed by the junction of the roads from the Euphrates to the east and Syrian Antioch to the south.
Through the chasm where a stream tumbled beside the narrow road Hattic races from Cappadocia had poured to inhabit the fertile basin between the Euphrates and the Orontes rivers, and to act as a buffer state separating the Babylonians and Assyrians to the east from the Egyptians to the south. Northward from the city of Tarsus and the Cilician plain came the Persians to conquer the whole of Lesser Asia, and southward again streamed the legions of Alexander to fight the armies of Darius on the plains of Issus.
The Romans, moving eastward in their successive waves of conquest under the Caesars, poured through the pass to conquer and hold permanently the fertile plains and seaports. As was their custom, they built roads and brought stable governments with them, and now long caravans from the land of man’s beginning plodded in safety to Ephesus and the home cities of the Romans. Tarsus, with its ready access to the sea by way of the river Cydnus which split the city, had been an important center for a thousand years. It had prospered especially under the Romans and was now a busy and important shipping point as well as a station on the overland trade routes. In all of Asia no city was more famous for the manufacture of tents. On the slopes of the Taurus Mountains goats thrived and their hair grew long and silky. From it was woven the tough fabric known as cilicium, a favorite material for tentmaking.
Luke was busy as the wagon moved through the Cilician Gates and out on the plain toward the city of Tarsus, some forty miles away. Now Apollonius’s hoarse breathing filled the wagon, and it took all of Luke’s strength to control him in his delirium, plus the crippled efforts of Probus. During one of the few periods when Apollonius was dozing Probus said, “I have been wondering where we can go in Tarsus. Innkeepers are superstitious about people dying in their establishments, and I doubt if any will take us in.”
Luke had been worrying about just that, but now a thought struck him. Ananias and Mariamne! Why hadn’t he thought of them before? Mariamne’s last letter had told of their flight to Tarsus. And Ananias was a healer as well as a friend.
“But how can we find them?” Probus objected when Luke told him his thoughts. “Tarsus is a city of weavers.”
“Ananias is a follower of Jesus. Someone in the community of weavers will certainly know of him in that connection.”
As it happened, they found Ananias sooner than they expected. Hardly had the wagon entered the city when Probus spied a man haranguing a crowd on the street and heard him utter the word “Christos.” “I believe there is a member of the Nazarene sect preaching out here,” he called to Luke inside the wagon. “Perhaps he will know your friends.”
The preacher was a tall man with a white beard. When Luke tugged at his robe he stopped and said in a kindly voice, “What is so important that you would interrupt me in teaching the words of Jesus, my brother?”
“I seek the house of Ananias, who is a weaver and a follower of Jesus. My brother is dying in the wagon and I have hopes that Ananias can heal him.”
“I will take you to his house at once,” the preacher said promptly. “In all of Tarsus there is not one more devoted to our Lord Jesus than the weaver Ananias. We will all pray together for your brother’s life, and if it be the will of God, he will live.”
VIII
The house of Ananias was situated near the river Cydnus on a cool street shaded by giant oaks. As usual, the shop was at the front with the living quarters at the rear. Ananias got up from his loom at th
e back of the shop as they entered, and Luke saw that the years had dealt rather heavily with him, for he was stooped and his hair was almost white. But there was the same look of quiet joy in his eyes. “Luke, my son,” he cried, embracing the young physician. “You have come back to us.”
Luke explained his errand, and Ananias and the preacher helped to carry Apollonius into the house. They placed him in the best chamber, one whose draperies showed a definite feminine touch. “This is Mariamne’s room,” the weaver explained. “She is out buying food but will soon return. You will hardly know her, Luke, for she is no longer a child.”
Luke’s memory of Mariamne had faded considerably in the past five years, and he was too worried about Apollonius now to think of anything else. “Apollonius is dying with a congestion of the lungs,” he explained to Ananias. “My art has proved worthless. If you would but touch him and pray over him, as you did over Saul in Damascus . . .”
The pudgy weaver looked at him keenly. “Have you come to us because you have no other hope, Luke?” he asked gently. “Or because you believe that Jesus can help your brother?”
Luke bowed his head. “I have no other hope. And he is dear to me.”
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