“I certainly hope it never will,” Demetrios said. “That could be ... very unfortunate indeed.”
Was he giving them a warning? It sounded like one. Menedemos said, “I’m sure all my fellow Rhodians will be glad to know of your concern.”
“Oh, good. I hope they are.” Demetrios turned his head and shouted for more wine. Out it came: that splendid Thasian, thick and sweet and potent even when mixed. No one worried about anything as abstract as neutrality for the rest of the evening.
9
Sostratos was haggling over the price of balsam of Engedi with a physician named Iphikrates when the front door to the Athenian’s house opened and his slave—he seemed to have only one— led a moaning man, his face gray with pain and one hand clasped to the other shoulder, into the courtyard. “He hurt himself,” the slave said in bad Greek.
“Yes, I see that,” Iphikrates said, and then, to Sostratos, “Excuse me, O best one. We’ll get back to this in a bit.”
“Of course,” Sostratos answered. “Do you mind if I watch?” He was no physician and never would be, but he was avidly curious about matters medical—and, because that made him the closest thing to a healer aboard the Aphrodite, the more he learned, the better.
“Not at all.” Iphikrates turned to the patient. “What happened to you?
“My shoulder,” the man said unnecessarily. He went on, “I was repairing a roof, and I slipped, and I fell, and I grabbed at the edge of the roof with one hand, and the arm tore out of the socket.”
Iphikrates dipped his head. “Yes, I would have guessed at a dislocation by the way you carry yourself. This is something I can relieve. My fee is four oboloi—in advance. Patients, once treated, have an unfortunate tendency toward ingratitude.”
The injured man took his hand off his shoulder and spat little silver coins into it. “Here,” he said. “Fix it. It hurts like blazes.”
“Thank you very much.” Iphikrates set the coins on the stone bench where Sostratos was sitting. He called to his slave: “Fetch me the leather ball, Seuthes.”
“I bring him.” The slave—Seuthes—ducked into the house, returning a moment later with a small, sweat-stained leather sphere.
“What will you use that for?” Sostratos asked, fascinated.
“Who’s he? He talks a little funny,” the patient said.
“He’s a Rhodian,” Iphikrates said, while Sostratos thought, They can still hear that I’m a Dorian, Iphikrates looked back to him. “You’ll see in a moment.” He told the man with the dislocated shoulder, “Lie-down here on your back, if you please.”
“All right.” Grunting, his face twisting at each incautious movement, the man obeyed. “What now?” he asked apprehensively.
“Take your other hand away, . . . Yes, that’s good.” Iphikrates sat down on the ground beside the patient. Seuthes handed him the leather ball. He put it in the patients armpit and held it in place with his heel, slipping his leg in between the other man’s arm and his body. Then he grasped the man’s forearm with both hands and jerked and tugged at the arm. The patient let out what would have been a bloodcurdling shriek if he hadn’t been gritting his teeth. Sostratos leaned forward on the bench to see better.
Another jerk and twist. Another scream from the injured man, this one less muffled. “I am sorry, best one,” Iphikrates told him. “I have to find the best angle to—” He jerked once more, without warning, in the middle of the sentence. A sharp pop! rewarded him. The patient started to cry out again, then broke off and sighed in relief instead. Iphikrates beamed. “There! That’s done it.”
“Yes, I think so.” The other man warily sat up as Iphikrates took the ball and his foot away. “It still hurts, but nothing like the way it did. Thanks, friend.”
“My pleasure.” Iphikrates sounded as if he meant it. “Always good to get something I can cure. For another four oboloi, I can give you a dose of poppy juice to ease the pain.”
His patient thought it over, but not for long. “Thanks, but no. That’s almost half of what I make in a day. I’ll drink more wine, and put less water in it.” Not being a Macedonian, he didn’t even think about drinking his wine with no water at all.
“Suit yourself,” Iphikrates said. “Drink enough wine and it will dull the pain, though not so well as poppy juke does. I take it you don’t want me to put that arm in a sling or to bandage it to your body so it’s less likely to pop out again?”
“You can put it in a sling for today, if you like,” the injured man said. “I’m not going back to work now. But if I don’t go tomorrow, how am I going to eat? Nobody will feed my family and me if I don’t.”
“All right, best one. I understand that—who doesn’t?” Iphikrates said. “But be careful with that arm, and use it as little as you can for the next month or so. You have to give the shoulder as much of a chance to heal as you can. If you permanently weaken the joint and muscles, it can start popping out all the time, and then where will you be?”
“Halfway to Hades’ house,” the other man replied. “I understand you, too. But”—he shrugged with his good shoulder-—”I have to take the chance. Who can save money on a drakhma and a half a day?” He got to his feet. Iphikrates fixed him a sling from a length of cloth that looked as if it was hacked out of an old chiton. The patient dipped his head. “Thanks again. Doesn’t hurt too bad. My wife and son will be surprised to see me home so early. Farewell.” He walked out the door without a backwards glance.
Turning to Sostratos, Iphikrates sighed. “You see how it is? Here is a patient I can actually help—and any physician knows how many he can’t help at all—but my treatment is likely to go for naught, simply because the man can’t afford to give the injured member proper rest. If I had an obolos for every time I’ve seen that, I wouldn’t need to dicker so hard with you, for I’d be rich,”
“You did very well there. I’ve never seen that trick with the leather ball before,” Sostratos said. “There’s a physician on Rhodes who uses an elaborate contraption with winches to fix dislocated joints.”
“Oh, yes—the skamnon,” Iphikrates said. “Some in Athens use it, too, and charge extra for it. I could, but I’ve never seen that it works better than simpler methods, or even as well as they do. The point, after all, is—or should be—helping the patient, not making yourself seem impressive.”
“It looks more like an instrument of torture than anything else,” Sostratos said.
“It isn’t pleasant for the man who’s strapped into it,” the physician said. “Even so, I would use it if I thought it gave good results. But since it doesn’t—no. Now, where were we?”
“Right at two drakhmai for each drakhma’s weight of balsam,” Sostratos answered. “I really can’t go lower than that, not considering what I paid in Ioudaia. And you’ll know, most noble one, if you’ve bought balsam of Engedi before, that you won’t get a better price from anyone, even a Phoenician.”
Iphikrates sighed. “I wish I could call you a liar and a thief and beat you down some more, for I’m not made of money myself. But I have bought balsam before, and I know you’re telling the truth. You’re an odd sort of merchant, you know; most traders bluster and make claims I know to be false, but you don’t seem to.”
“You don’t use the skamnon when you could,” Sostratos said. “Maybe we aren’t so different.”
“You would get a better price for your balsam from some of those who do,” the physician said, “By making themselves seem so splendid and so knowledgeable, they extract bigger fees from their patients than I do. But, whether they seem knowledgeable or not, they get no better results. And, as I say, results are the point of the exercise.”
“I can make enough money to suit me at two drakhmai for each drakhma’s weight,” Sostratos said. “Does it seem good to you to buy at that price?”
“It does,” Iphikrates replied. “I will pay you twenty drakhmai for ten drakhmai by weight of balsam. That will last me for some time— perhaps even until I find another more or
less honest merchant.”
“For which I more or less thank you,” Sostratos said. Both men chuckled. The Rhodian went on, “You’ll have scales to weigh out the balsam?”
“Oh, yes.” Iphikrates dipped his head. “I couldn’t get by without them, not with the remedies I compound. I keep it with the medicines—that room back there. Why don’t you wait for me here for a moment? I’ll get the silver, and then we’ll settle accounts.”
“Certainly.” Sostratos hid a wry smile. Iphikrates had called him more or less honest, but wouldn’t let him go unwatched into the room with the drugs. Sostratos wasn’t offended. Some medicines were valuable even in small, easy-to-conceal amounts. Iphikrates didn’t know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t steal. He wouldn’t have let the physician wander unattended through the family warehouse, either.
Iphikrates returned with a fistful of silver. “Come along,” he said. He opened the door to let Sostratos go in ahead of him.
After the bright sunshine of the courtyard, the Rhodian’s eyes needed a few heartbeats to adjust to the gloom inside. His nostrils flared when he breathed in. The room was full of scents: spicy mint; the sharpness of ground pepper; the dark, heavy odor of poppy juice; delicate frankincense and bitter myrrh; vinegar; wine; something that tickled the nose (was that hellebore?); olive oil, familiar from the kitchen and the gymnasion; and others Sostratos could not name. The scales stood on a small table, next to a heavy alabaster mortar and pestle and a bronze spoon. Sostratos sniffed again, “You must enjoy working here,” he remarked.
“What? Why?” Iphikrates frowned, not following him,
“The smells, of course,” Sostratos said.
“Oh,” The physician sniffed with the air of a man who hadn’t for quite some time. “To me, you understand, they’re just the odors of work. That’s a shame, isn’t it? Here.” He set ten owls in one pan of the scale. It sank down. He handed Sostratos the spoon. “Put your balsam on the other pan till they balance.”
As Sostratos did, the balsam of Engedi added its own sweet fragrance to the rest of the odors in the room. Iphikrates smiled, Sostratos added a little more, scraping the sticky stuff from the bowl of the spoon with his thumbnail. Down came the pan with the balsam. He waited to see if he needed to put on a bit more yet, but the two pans could hardly have been more even,
“Well judged,” Iphikrates said. He took the drakhmai off the scale and handed them to Sostratos. “And here are ten more besides,” he added, giving the Rhodian the other coins as well. “I thank you very much.”
“And I you, O best one,” Sostratos replied. “I admire physicians for doing so much to relieve the pain and suffering that are a part of every life.”
“You’re gracious, Rhodian—more gracious than my profession deserves, I fear,” Iphikrates said. “You saw me at my best a little while ago. That man had an injury I know how to treat. But if he’d come to me coughing blood or with a pain in his chest”—he set a hand on his heart to show what kind of pain he meant—”or with a lump in his belly, what could I do for him? Watch him and take notes on his case till he either died or got better on his own, as Hippokrates did, I couldn’t cure him of any of those things, or of a myriad more besides.”
“I’ve seen Hippokrates’ writings,” Sostratos said. “My impression was that he treated patients with all sorts of conditions.”
“He tried to treat them,” Iphikrates answered. “Whether his treatments did an obolos’ worth of good is liable to be a different story. No man can be a physician without having his own ignorance shoved in his face a dozen times a day. You have no idea how frustrating it is to watch a patient die from something that seems minor—and that surely would be, if only I knew a little more.”
“Oh, but I do,” Sostratos said. Iphikrates looked dubious till he explained: “I’ve seen men aboard the Aphrodite die of fever after belly wounds that looked as if they ought to have healed in a few days. Can you tell me why that happens? “
“No, and I wish I could, because I’ve seen it, too,” the physician said. “Life is fragile. Cling to it tightly, for you never know when it may slip away.” With that reassuring piece of advice, he sent Sostratos on his way.
After the first meeting of the Assembly, the one that voted Demetrios son of Antigonos honors that might have embarrassed one of the twelve Olympians, Menedemos didn’t go back. He’d seen all he cared to see, and more than he could readily stomach. He would have expected Sostratos to keep going whenever he could, but his cousin also stayed away from the theater. That one session, evidently, had been plenty for him, too.
Protomakhos, on the other hand, kept going whenever the Assembly convened. Menedemos couldn’t blame him for that. He was, after all, an Athenian, He had an interest in the proceedings that the Rhodians lacked. He also had the right to speak and the right to vote.
One morning not too long after Menedemos and Sostratos sold Demetrios their truffles, Protomakhos returned from the theater with the expression he might have worn if he’d stepped barefoot into a big pile of dog turds right outside the house. Menedemos had come back from the agora to get some more perfume, and was on his way out when Protomakhos stormed in. His host’s revolted look couldn’t be ignored. “By Zeus, O best one, what’s wrong?” Menedemos asked. He didn’t think Protomakhos would look that way if he’d just found out Xenokleia was unfaithful, but he wasn’t sure.
To his relief, the Rhodian proxenos wasn’t glowering at him. Protomakhos said, “You were there when Demetrios first came into Athens.”
“Yes,” Menedemos said: simple agreement seemed safe enough.
“You saw how we debased ourselves, heaping honors on him and on his father.”
“Yes,” Menedemos said again.
“And, no doubt, you didn’t think we could sink any lower,” Protomakhos went on. He threw back his head and laughed. “Shows what you know, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, dear,” Menedemos feared he could guess where this was going. “What did Stratokles do now?”
“It wasn’t Stratoldes,” the proxenos answered. “We have more than one flatterer in our polis. Aren’t we lucky?” He didn’t sound as if he thought the Athenians were lucky.
“Who, then?” Menedemos asked.
“An abandoned rogue named Dromokleides of Sphettos,” Pro-tomakhos said. “Sphettos is a village on the far side of Mount Hymettos, here in Attica. Hymettos has good honey; Sphettos has troublemakers. This Dromokleides proposed that Demetrios be given the same honors as Demeter and Dionysos whenever he visits Athens.”
“Oimoi! That’s pretty bad,” Menedemos said. “Doesn’t he realize there’s a difference between being named after a god and being one yourself? I can see why some people say Alexander was a demigod— look at everything he did. But Demetrios? I’m sorry, but no.”
“You have some common sense, Rhodian,” Protomakhos said sadly. “That’s more than I can say for the Assembly.”
“You mean they passed this resolution?” Menedemos said in dismay.
“They certainly did,” Protomakhos shouted for wine. As a slave hurried to get some, the proxenos turned back to Menedemos. “I’m sorry, best one, but I have to wash the taste of this out of my mouth. Join me?”
“Thanks. I will, I don’t blame you a bit,” Menedemos said, “And did Demetrios look all shy and abashed, the way he did when Sostratos and I came with you?”
“He wasn’t even there,” Protomakhos replied. “Dromokleides did it anyway. I suppose Demetrios will hear about it sooner or later, when he gets out of bed with whatever woman he’s got in there with him now.” Menedemos remembered that pretty girl he’d glimpsed when he and his cousin dined with Demetrios. But Protomakhos hadn’t finished. As the slave came back with wine—he’d included a cup for Menedemos, too—the Rhodian proxenos went on, “That wasn’t the only decree our new Perikles passed today. By the dog, no!—not even close.”
He paused to let the slave pour the cups full. The wine couldn’t have been weaker than one
to one. The slave had done a good job of gauging his master’s mood. Menedemos said, “Do I want to know the rest?”
“Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyhow—misery loves company,” Protomakhos said. “They’re going to rename the month Mounykhion Demetrion, in honor—honor? ha!—of the victory Demetrios won at Mounykhia. They’re going to call the odd day between the end of one month and the start of the next that happens sometimes when you don’t know just when the new moon is—they’re going to call that a Demetrion, too. And you know the Dionysia you went to? It’s not the Dionysia any more, by Zeus. From now on, it’s going to be the Demetria.” His larynx worked as he emptied his winecup. Then he filled it again.
Menedemos sipped more slowly, but he was hardly less troubled. “That’s ... laying it on with a shovel, isn’t it?” he said, “I hope Demetrios has the sense not to take any of this twaddle too seriously. It he starts believing he’s a god on earth . . . Well, that wouldn’t be so good—for him or for anyone else.” Demetrios had struck him as being on the vain side. He was glad it was Athens’ worry, not his or Rhodes’.
“You can see that—you’ve got sense,” Protomakhos said. Sostratos doesn’t think so, Menedemos thought. And neither would you, if you knew Xenokleia might be carrying my child. Since the proxenos, fortunately, didn’t know that, he continued, “I can see it, too. Men like Stratokles and Dromokleides?” He tossed his head. “And I still haven’t told you the worst.”
“There’s more yet? Papai!” Menedemos said. “Come on, then. Let me hear it. After ninety-nine lashes, what’s the hundredth?”
“Just so. As part of an offering, we Athenians are supposed to consecrate some shields at Delphi. There’s been a disagreement over how best to do it. So Dromokleides, that worthless arse-licker, put forth a motion that the people of Athens should choose a man who would sacrifice, get good omens, and then approach Demetrios—approach the savior god, is how the motion puts it—and get his oracular response on how best to perform the consecration. And whatever he says, that’s what Athens will do. And the motion passed. Someone’s probably busy cutting the letters into stone right now.”
Owls to Athens Page 31
