“Proven! Just because Phlegon says health comes from balancing body fluids, you swallow it as fact,” Vitruvius said. “Have you no mind of your own?”
“Indeed, I’ve a mind of my own. Mind enough to not swallow your hogwash,” he said, moving closer to the hot steam rising from the stones.
“If that old man was right about how to treat a patient, you would be able to overcome these recurring fevers you’ve suffered since studying in Rome. You’ve been ‘balancing humors’ since we met. If his theories worked, you’d be the healthiest man in the Empire!”
“The fever is less than yesterday,” Celsus said stiffly.
“Ah, so the bloodletting and emetics helped.” Vitruvius uttered a derisive snort. “If that were really so, you wouldn’t be standing there shivering in this heat!”
Celsus glared at him in growing frustration. “If you’re so sure of your divinely inspired abilities, give me a demonstration! By Cletas’ logic, all a physician would need to do is utter the right words and give a sleight of hand to produce a cure! So whisper your incantations, Vitruvius, and let’s see if you can cure someone who’s really sick. Let’s see this gift of yours in action!”
“Magical incantations are only the beginning,” Vitruvius said haughtily. “Animal and vegetable remedies—”
Celsus held up his hand. “If you’re about to suggest I swallow a brew like that last one you concocted out of lion’s manure and the blood of a dying gladiator, save your breath. It almost killed me!”
Vitruvius sat forward. “Perhaps what you lack is a proper respect for the gods!”
“If I had kissed your feet, would it have made a difference?”
Seeing that what had begun as an interesting exchange of ideas had deteriorated into an argument, Alexander interceded. “What ails you, Celsus, is a common affliction of many who live in Rome. I think it has something to do with the mephitic floods that occur there.”
Vitruvius rolled his eyes and leaned back again. “Another of your theories, Alexander? Have you shared it with Phlegon? Or is he still not speaking to you because of your defiance over that slave girl you smuggled out of the arena?”
Alexander ignored him as he continued speaking to Celsus. “I studied in Rome before coming to Ephesus, and I wrote extensive notes on my observations. The fevers come and go, sometimes with weeks or months between attacks. Sometimes they grow worse. . . .”
Celsus nodded. “My symptoms exactly.”
Vitruvius looked at Celsus. “Alexander will now tell you again disease is spread by tiny invisible seeds, and that if medical cases were recorded in a logical, methodical manner, one could find a commonality.” He waved his hand airily. “By experimentation, a trial and error method, if you will, a workable cure could be found for almost any disease.”
Alexander grinned at him. “Neatly summarized, Vitruvius. One would think I have swayed you to a new way of thinking.”
“You can be persuasive at times,” Vitruvius conceded, “but it would take better logic than yours to convince me. Your theories make no sense whatsoever, Alex, especially in the light that all disease is hidden from man and in the hands of the gods. Therefore, it stands to reason that it is to the gods one must appeal.”
Alexander arched his brow. “If what you say is true, why bother training physicians at all?”
“Because physicians must be knowledgeable in what pleases the gods.”
Alexander smiled. “You have your professions confused, my friend. You shouldn’t be training to be a physician at all. With your zeal for religion, you should be in the robes of a novice priest. A haruspex, perhaps. You could learn how to properly disembowel helpless goats and read signs from their entrails.”
“You would mock the gods?”
Alexander’s mouth tipped ruefully. “I worship Apollo and Asklepios just as you do, as well as a host of other healing deities like Hygieia and Pankeis. And with all that, I still find it impossible to believe any man can manipulate a god into doing what he wants simply by uttering an incantation and burning a little incense.”
“I agree,” Celsus said, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and huddling beneath it. “But what’s the answer?”
“A deeper study of human anatomy.”
Vitruvius grimaced. “By ‘deeper study’ Alexander means the practice Phlegon espouses with such gruesome relish. Vivisection.”
“I abhor vivisection,” Alexander said.
“Then why did you ever study with Phlegon?”
“Because he’s a brilliant surgeon. He can remove a man’s leg in under five minutes. Have you ever watched him work?”
“More times than I care to remember,” Vitruvius said with a shudder. “The screams of his patients still ring in my ears.”
“Who’s your master physician now?” Celsus asked Alexander.
“No one.”
“No one?”
“I’ve set up my own practice.”
“Here in the baths?” Celsus said in surprise. It was common enough for physicians to begin their practices at the baths, but not one of Alexander’s talent and ability. He had been groomed for grander halls than these.
“In a booth just outside.”
“You have too much promise to be practicing medicine in a booth,” Vitruvius said. “Talk to Cletas. I’ll recommend you.”
Alexander strove for tact. “Cletas doesn’t practice surgery, and he espouses theories I find . . . disquieting,” he said, feeling his answer was unsatisfactory, but unwilling to state straight out that he thought Cletas a fraud. The man called himself a master physician, but was more a magician adorned in impressive robes and gifted with an orator’s voice. Granted, he was successful, but his success lay in the fact that he always chose patients who were very rich and not seriously ill. Vitruvius, with his good looks, aristocratic accent, and lack of ethics, would probably do very well practicing the same brand of medicine.
“However unpleasant it may be,” Celsus said, “vivisection is necessary if you’re going to be a physician.”
“I don’t see how torturing and killing citizens advances medicine,” Vitruvius said disdainfully.
“Phlegon has never suggested we use just any man on the walk,” Celsus retorted angrily. “I’ve only performed vivisection on criminals from the arena.”
“Do they scream less loudly than the average person?”
Celsus stiffened. “How else does a physician develop his skills in surgery unless he practices on someone? Or do you think someone with a gangrenous leg should be treated with incantation and a foul-tasting potion of bat wings and lizard tongues?”
Celsus’ sarcasm hit its mark. Vitruvius’ face went red. “I don’t use bat wings.”
“Ha. Then maybe you ought to brew some up and see if they work better than your last potion . . . which didn’t work at all!”
Watching Vitruvius’ face darken even more, Alexander’s mouth tipped in a wry smile. “Perhaps we should go into the frigidarium so the two of you can cool off.”
“Good idea,” Vitruvius said and stalked from the small chamber.
Celsus swore. He sat down on the bench closest to the steaming font. He was pale and shaking, sweat pouring from his face. “I used to admire him. Now I see he’s a pompous fool.”
“What you admired were his family connections.” Alexander took up another towel and brought it to Celsus. He understood Celsus’ sense of inadequacy. He had felt it himself upon entering the school of medicine in Rome. He was the only student whose father had once been a slave, a fact that had less impact in Rome, where he had still had unlimited funds, than it did now in Ephesus, where most of his inheritance had been used up. People tended to overlook one’s lineage much more easily when one had a storehouse of wealth. Which Alexander no longer had.
He pulled his thoughts back to Celsus. “Perhaps this wet heat isn’t good for you,” he said, handing the towel to him.
Celsus took it and dabbed his face with it. “Did you learn how to tre
at this fever while you studied in Rome?”
“The master there prescribed rest, massage, and dietary controls, but without complete success. The fevers continued to recur.” He hesitated. “It seemed to me in reviewing the case histories I’ve kept that the fevers were always worse when the patient was tired and in poor physical condition. I’ve had a few patients come to my booth, and I’ve advised all three of them to build their strength between the attacks. As soon as you’re able, go on a barleyman diet and exercise regimen.”
“You mean train like a gladiator?” Celsus said with a mirthless laugh.
“Not exactly,” Alexander said, not taking offense. “Clearly the purges and emetics Phlegon prescribed have only served to sap your strength.”
“They were meant to purify my body.”
“So, now you’ve been purified. You need to build up your strength.”
“I don’t know who to believe anymore, Alexander. Vitruvius has his points. Maybe I don’t revere the gods enough and they’re punishing me. Phlegon says it’s a matter of balance. And now you’re telling me something else.” Celsus sighed and put his head in his hands. “All I do know is when I feel like this, all I want to do is die and have done with it.”
Alexander put his hand on Celsus’ shoulder. “Come on back to my booth with me and rest a while before you head back.”
They left the calidarium. Alexander dove into the frigidarium and cooled down while Celsus bypassed it and went to dry off and dress in the changing room. When Alexander left the pool, he signaled to Vitruvius that he was leaving. Vitruvius gave a slight wave and stretched out on one of the tables for a massage.
Celsus was silent as they walked the short distance from the public baths to the booth where Alexander daily practiced medicine. A heavy wooden screen had been set across the front. Hanging from the screen was a small sign saying the physician would not return until late in the afternoon. Two soldiers walked by and nodded to Alexander as he pushed aside one section of the screen, letting Celsus enter ahead of him before closing it after them.
A small oil lamp was lit and sitting on a worktable in the corner at the back. “Well,” Alexander said, watching Celsus take in his surroundings. “What do you think of it?”
Sitting on a stool, Celsus pulled his cape around him more snugly as he looked around the dimly lit interior. Compared to the facilities Phlegon had, it was rude and small, almost primitive. The floor was packed dirt rather than marble. Yet, despite the crudeness of the hide awning and mortared walls, it was surprisingly well equipped for a young physician only just setting up practice.
A narrow examining bench and privacy screen were set against the west wall, and every square inch of space looked to be efficiently used. A small counter sat against the back wall. On it were pestle and mortar, fine balances, scales and weights, and marble palettes for rolling pills. Shelves above the counter displayed bottles, small amphoras, glass phials, squat jars, and dropper juglets, each meticulously labeled and categorized as astringent, caustic, cleanser, erodent, and emollient. Neatly arranged in shelves on the opposite wall were various tools of their trade: scoops, spoons, spatulas, blades, forceps, hooks, probes, scalpels, speculums, and cautery.
Picking up a scalpel, Celsus studied it.
“From the Alpine province of Noricum,” Alexander said proudly.
“Phlegon claims they make the best steeled surgical instruments,” Celsus remarked, putting the tool back carefully.
“And cost a veritable fortune,” Alexander said grimly, adding fuel to the red coals in the brazier.
“How long have you had this booth?” Celsus said, setting a stool closer to the warmth.
“Two months,” Alexander said. “Before that, I spent most of my time tending my one and only patient.”
“I heard the rumors,” Celsus admitted. “A slave girl, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. A Christian who’d been tossed to the lions.”
“Did you heal her?”
Alexander hesitated. “Not exactly, but she is healed.”
Celsus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I didn’t have the skills to prevent infection. The wounds in her right leg festered. An amputation was necessary, but when I prepared her, I saw the wounds were clear. She said Jesus healed her.”
Celsus shook his head, glancing around again. “A pity you forfeited your position with Phlegon in order to save someone who doesn’t even appreciate your sacrifice.”
“I didn’t mean to imply the girl was not grateful,” Alexander said.
“Yet she doesn’t credit you with her life.”
“Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “She said I was but a tool in the hand of God.”
“I’ve heard Christians are thought to be insane.”
“She’s not insane. Just a little strange.”
“Whatever she is, she cost you a promising career. If you apologized to Phlegon, I’m sure he’d take you back. He said once you were the most brilliant student he had ever had.”
“I see no need to apologize, and I disagreed with Phlegon in several areas. Why should I go back?”
“You spent three years studying at the Hippocratic Corpus in Alexandria. Then you studied in Rome under Cato. When you learned all he could teach you, you came here to Ephesus, seeking Phlegon’s teaching because of his reputation throughout the Empire. But now, here you are in a booth outside the public baths.”
Alexander laughed. “Don’t sound so distressed. I chose to be here.”
“But why? You could have a prestigious practice anywhere, even in Rome itself if you wanted. Physician to the greatest men in the Empire. Instead, you defy Phlegon, set off on your own, and end up here, like this. I don’t understand it.”
“I’ve treated more patients in the last six months than I saw in a year under Phlegon, and I don’t have Troas breathing down my neck,” Alexander said, referring to the master physician’s Egyptian slave, a gifted surgeon and healer in his own right.
“But what sort of patients come to you?”
Alexander arched his brow. “People with conditions other than gout and mentagra or wasting illnesses caused by rich living,” he said, nodding toward a pile of scrolls neatly tucked into a shelf in the corner. “Where better to learn medicine than by treating the masses?”
“But can they pay?”
Alexander looked at him with a wry expression. “Yes, they pay. Granted, I don’t demand the same fees Phlegon does, but I didn’t come down here to get rich, Celsus. My purpose in being here is to learn all I can and apply that knowledge for the benefit of others.”
“And you couldn’t have done that with Phlegon?”
“Under his conditions, no. He’s too set in his thinking.”
Someone began to open the partition and then drew back.
“Someone is trying to get in,” Celsus said, alarmed.
Alexander rose quickly and pushed aside the heavy screen. “I should have left it open for you,” he said to whomever was outside, and glanced at Celsus as a veiled figure limped through the opening. “This is the woman of whom we were speaking earlier,” he said.
Celsus did not rise as a crippled woman in heavy veils entered the small cubicle. Alexander pulled the partition closed behind her. “Did you get the mandragora?” he asked her, taking the small basket she balanced over one arm and uncovering the contents.
“Yes, my lord,” came the soft reply. “But far less than you wanted. Tetricus had just received some opobalsamum, and I used the money you gave me to purchase it instead.”
Celsus frowned, listening intently. There was a slight impediment to her speech, but it did not disguise the heavy Judean accent.
“You did well,” Alexander said, pleased. He took the squat jar with the precious balsam and set the basket on the work counter. He held the small jar carefully near the flickering flame to see the deep color. Opobalsamum was made from secretions from numerous balsam trees, the most famous being the Mecca balsam or “balm
of Gilead.” The drug had dozens of uses, from cleaning wounds as an erodent and a suppurative for drawing pus from a festering wound, to acting as an emollient.
“Are you making mithridatium?” Celsus said, alluding to an ancient antidote that was reputed to counteract poisons introduced into the body through bites, food, or drink. It had been named for its inventor, a brilliant and learned king of Pontus, Mithridates VI, who had drunk poison daily after first taking remedies to render it harmless. When ordered to take his own life, poison had proven ineffective, and he had died by the sword instead.
“Mithridatium might be in demand if I was physician to the proconsul or some other high official,” Alexander said, amused. “Since I’m treating laborers and slaves, I prefer to use the opobalsamum for something far more useful. It’s one of the ingredients in several poultices I make and also useful as an anodyne salve for relieving neuralgia. It’s also proven effective as an eye ointment.” He glanced at the slave girl. “Is it resin?”
“No, my lord,” the slave told him softly. “It was boiled down from leaves, seeds, and branches.”
“Does that make a difference?” Celsus said.
Alexander took down a bronze box and removed the sliding lid. “Only in price, not effectiveness,” he said, placing the squat jar carefully into one of the internal compartments before sliding the lid closed again. He set the box back in its space on the shelf, which was loaded with other drugs and medicinal ingredients.
Turning, Alexander noticed Celsus had forgotten the discomforts of his chills and fever in his curiosity over the veiled girl. Many people stared at her the same way, wondering what she hid beneath the veil. He glanced at the girl. She was slightly stooped, her small hand gripping the walking stick. Her knuckles were white with the effort. Alexander took the stool by his worktable and placed it near the brazier opposite Celsus. “Sit and rest, Hadassah. I’ll buy some bread and wine and return shortly.”
Celsus was alarmed to be left alone with the girl—the veils made him uncomfortable. She sank down onto the stool, and he heard her soft sigh of relief. She set the walking stick to one side and rubbed her right leg. Her hand was small and delicate, with clean oval nails. It was lovely, very feminine, and young. He was surprised.