“Why do you wear that veil?” he said abruptly.
“My scars make others uncomfortable, my lord.”
“I’m a physician. Let me see them.”
She hesitated and then slowly lifted the veils, revealing her face. Celsus grimaced. Nodding once, he gestured for her to cover herself. Alexander had been cruel to rescue this girl. She would have been better off dead. What sort of a normal life could she have looking as she did and crippled the way she was? And what use was she as a servant, so ponderous and clumsy?
He started to shiver again and drew his cape around himself, trying to overcome the chills. He swore under his breath, wishing he had hired a litter and returned to his own apartment.
The slave girl rose with some effort. Celsus watched her limp to the back of the booth and bend down to take a bedroll from beneath the worktable. Loosening the thick woven blanket, she brought it back to him and placed it around his shoulders. “Would you be more comfortable lying down, my lord?”
“Probably not.” He watched her limp to the small counter. She poured water into a small pot and set it on the brazier to heat. Then she took several containers down from the medicine shelf. She meticulously measured out ingredients from several and replaced the containers on the shelf again before grinding what she had taken with the pestle and mortar. The water had begun to boil. Sprinkling in the contents, she stirred with a slender stick. “Inhale this, my lord.”
Her voice and manner were very soothing, and he was surprised by her knowledge. “Should you be making free with your master’s things?” he said as he leaned forward.
“He will not object,” came her soft rasping reply.
As he filled his lungs with a surprisingly pleasant aroma, he sensed she was smiling. “Do you take advantage of his kind nature?”
“No, my lord. The master has used this treatment on other patients with fevers. He would want you to be comfortable.”
“Oh,” he said, feeling faintly ashamed that he had criticized her when she had sought to serve her master—and him as well. He breathed in the aromatic vapor, his muscles relaxing. The weight of the blanket added to his comfort. The heat of the calidarium had drained him, and now the warmth from the brazier and the sweet vapor rising from the small pot made him drowsy. He started to drift asleep and then jerked awake as he swayed on the stool.
The girl rose and took another bedroll from beneath the worktable and laid it out on the packed-dirt floor. Celsus felt her arm ease around his shoulder and heard her whisper, “Come and rest, my lord. You’ll feel much better.” She was stronger than she looked and helped him up, but when he leaned more heavily against her, he heard the small catch of breath.
Her leg must pain her, he thought, then he sank down on the pallet she had prepared for him. As she rearranged the blanket over him, he smiled. “Nobody’s done that for me since I was a child.” She brushed her fingertips lightly over his forehead, and he felt a peculiar sense of well-being.
Rising stiffly, Hadassah limped to the stool and eased down. Sighing, she kneaded the aching muscles of her right leg. Closing her eyes, she wished she could knead away the ache in her heart as well.
Tears came unexpectedly, and she struggled against them, knowing Alexander would return soon and know she’d been crying. Then he would want to know if her leg pained her again. If she said yes, he would insist upon massaging it. If she said no, he would probe with questions she had no heart to answer.
She had seen Marcus!
He had bumped right into her on the street outside. She had been jostled so often in the crowds heading for the baths that she thought nothing of it. Then he had spoken. Stunned at the sound of his voice, she had glanced up and saw it was him, and not just her memory playing tricks on her again.
He was still devastatingly handsome, though he looked somehow older and harder. The mouth she had remembered as enticingly sensuous had been set in a grim line. Her heart had beaten so fast . . . just as it raced now with her remembering. When he had caught her arm to steady her, she had almost fainted.
Amazing how more than a year could be wiped away in an instant. She had looked into Marcus’ eyes, and every moment she had spent with him had come back to her in a wave of longing. She had almost reached up to touch his face, but he had drawn back slightly, the same wariness on his face that she saw so often when people looked at her. A woman covered in veils was a disconcerting sight. Tilting his head, he had stared down at her with a bemused frown. Even knowing he couldn’t do so, she had been instinctively afraid he might see her scarred face and lowered her head quickly. In that moment, he had turned away.
She had stood there in the middle of the milling crowd, tears filling her eyes as she watched him walk away. He was walking out of her life as he had before.
Now, sitting in the security of Alexander’s booth, Hadassah wondered if Marcus Lucianus Valerian even remembered her.
“Lord, why did you allow this to happen to me?” she whispered into the stillness of the dimly lit booth. She stared through her tears and veils at the burning coals in the brazier, all the love she had felt for Marcus welling up again and filling her with an aching sadness for what might have been. “I feel yoked to him, Lord,” she went on softly, beating her breast softly with her fist. “Yoked . . .”
She lowered her head.
She knew it hadn’t been Marcus’ habit to enter the public baths. He had always bathed at exclusive establishments reserved for those who could pay high membership fees.
So why had he come?
She sighed. What did it matter? God had removed her from his life and placed her here, in this tiny booth, with a young physician hungry to save the world from everything. Everything, that is, but spiritual darkness. He was like Julia’s first husband, Claudius, insatiable for knowledge while remaining blind to wisdom.
Her heart ached. Why didn’t you let me die, Lord? Why? She wept silently, crying out to God for an answer. No answer came. She had thought she knew God’s purpose for her: to die for him. And yet she was alive, bearing her secret scars beneath the dark veils. All the serenity and acceptance she had found over the past year was shattered. And why? Because she had seen Marcus again. A chance encounter that had lasted less than a minute.
The screen moved, and Alexander entered the room. Hadassah glanced up at him, relieved by his presence. His face had become dear to her over the months of her convalescence. She had been too ill then, and in too much pain, to realize the sacrifice he had made in smuggling her out of the arena. Not until later did she learn that he had forfeited his position with a renowned master physician and gained the scorn of many of his friends for throwing so much away over a mere slave.
Hadassah knew without a doubt that God had had his hand on Alexander that day in the shadows of the Door of Death. He had been God’s instrument. As she watched him now, she admitted that her feelings for him were sometimes very confusing. She was grateful, but there was more to it than that. She liked him and admired him. His desire to heal was heartfelt, not a matter of expedience or profit. He cared, even to the point of grief, when he lost a patient. She remembered the first time she had seen him weep—it had been over a young boy who died of a fever—and she had felt love for Alexander wash over her. She knew she did not love this man the way she still loved Marcus . . . yet she could not deny that they were deeply connected.
He looked at her, and their eyes met. A tired smile crossed his face. “Heat some more water, Hadassah,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.”
She did so, then watched as he added various ingredients to it and then hunkered down and awakened Celsus. “Come, sit up my friend,” he said, and Hadassah was moved by the note of compassion in Alexander’s voice. He held the brew to Celsus’ lips. At the first sip, Celsus grimaced and drew back from it suspiciously. Alexander laughed. “No bats’ wings or lizard tongues in it,” he said, and Hadassah was left wondering what he meant as Celsus took the cup and swallowed the contents.
Alexander rose. “I’ve hired a litter to take you home.”
“You have my gratitude,” Celsus said, rising, the blankets falling in a heap around his sandaled feet. As he stepped away, Hadassah took the blankets up and folded them, putting them away beneath the worktable. Celsus readjusted his crumpled cape. “I needed to rest awhile,” he said. He glanced at Hadassah and then back at Alexander. “Maybe I’ll drop by again and read some of your cases.”
Alexander put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Make it in the morning then. I hardly have space to take a breath the rest of the day.” He pushed the partition aside, setting the sections together so that the front of the booth was wide open, indicating he was ready to see patients.
Several were already waiting outside.
Celsus went out and climbed into the litter. “Hold,” he said as the two slaves lifted him. “What was in that drink you gave me?” he called to Alexander, who was positioning a small table at the front of the booth where Hadassah was setting up an inkpot and scrolls.
Alexander laughed. “A little of this and that. Let me know if it works.”
Celsus gave the carriers directions and leaned back into the folds of his cape. He looked back as they bore him away and saw that patients were already pressing forward—and he frowned, for rather than cluster around Alexander, the physician, they drew close to the quiet woman in veils.
Hadassah, unaware she was the subject of scrutiny, dropped half a dozen grains of dried lampblack into the inkhorn and added water. She mixed it carefully and took up her iron stylus. “Name, please,” she said to the man who took the stool beside the writing table where she worked. She dipped the stylus into the ink and poised the tip over the waxed tablet on which she wrote the most rudimentary of information: name and complaint. The information would later be transferred onto parchment scrolls and the waxed tablet rubbed smooth for use the next day. Several scrolls were already stored in the back of the booth and included long lists of patients whom Alexander had treated, along with their physical complaints and symptoms and prescribed treatments and results.
“Boethus,” the man told her flatly. “How long will it be before I can see the physician? I haven’t much time.”
She wrote his name down. “He’ll be with you as soon as he can,” she said gently. Everyone had urgent needs, and it was difficult to tell how long Alexander would take with each patient. Some had conditions that fascinated him, and he spent more time questioning and examining them. She glanced at the man through her veils. He was deeply tanned and thin, his hands gnarled and stained from hard work. His short hair was salted with gray, and the lines about his eyes and mouth were deeply cut. “What’s your occupation?”
“I was a stuppator,” he said glumly.
Hadassah wrote his occupation beside his name. A caulker of ships. Tedious, backbreaking work. “Your complaint?” He sat silent, staring off at nothing. “Boethus,” she said, placing the stylus between her two hands. “Why did you come to see the physician?”
He looked back at her, his fingers spreading on his thighs and digging in as though he were trying to keep himself together. “Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. And I’ve had a constant headache for the last few days.”
Hadassah poised the stylus again and wrote meticulously. She felt him watching each stroke she made, as though fascinated. “I worked up until a few weeks ago,” he said, “but there’s been no work for me lately. Fewer ships are coming in, and the overseers hire the younger men to do the work.”
Hadassah lifted her head. “Have you a family, Boethus?”
“A wife, four children.” The lines in his face deepened, and his face grew even paler. He frowned as she laid down the quill. “I’ll find a way to pay for the physician’s services. I swear.”
“You needn’t worry about that, Boethus.”
“Easy for you to say, but if I get sick to death, what’ll happen to them?”
Hadassah understood his fear. She had seen countless families living in the streets, begging for a piece of bread, while just a few feet from them was a lavish temple and palaces built into the hillsides. “Tell me about your family.”
He began by telling the names and ages of his son and three daughters. He spoke of his hardworking wife. The deep love he had for her was apparent in his words. Hadassah’s gentle manner and quiet questions of concern encouraged him, until he was hunching forward, pouring out his deepest fears about what would become of his children and his wife if he couldn’t find work soon. The landlord was wanting his rent for the small tenement where the family lived, and Boethus had no money to give him. He didn’t know what he was going to do. And now, to add to all his other burdens, he was sick and getting sicker with each day.
“The gods are against me,” he said in despair.
The privacy curtain was drawn aside, and a woman left the booth. She paid Hadassah the copper fee. Hadassah rose and placed her hand on Boethus’ shoulder, asking him to remain where he was.
The man watched her speak with a young woman standing off by herself. He noted the woman’s painted eyes and anklets with small bells that jingled softly with the slightest moment—all advertisement of her profession: prostitution.
Boethus continued watching with interest as the physician’s veiled assistant took the prostitute’s hand between hers and spoke again. The young woman nodded slowly, and the assistant went in to talk with the physician.
Drawing the curtain slightly, Hadassah tried to summarize what she had learned about Alexander’s next patient. “Her name is Severina, and she’s seventeen years of age.” Careless of personal information, Alexander asked specifics. “She’s had a bloody discharge for several weeks.”
Alexander nodded, rinsing one of his instruments and drying it. “Send her in.”
Hadassah saw that he was weary and distracted. Perhaps he was still mulling over what he had discovered about the previous patient’s condition. He often worried about his patients, staying away from his bed for long hours in the evening, going over his records and making meticulous notes. He never counted his successes, which were many, but viewed each person he saw as a new challenge with illnesses to be overcome by his knowledge.
“She was a temple prostitute, my lord. She said they performed a purification ceremony on her, and when it didn’t work, they put her out.”
He set the instrument on the shelf. “Another patient who can’t pay.”
The dry remark surprised her. Alexander seldom mentioned money. He set no fees for his patients, accepting only what they could afford to give him in exchange for his help. Sometimes payment was no more than a copper coin. Hadassah knew the money mattered less to him than what he learned and what he was able to accomplish for others with that knowledge. Had he not spent his entire inheritance on traveling and learning all he could for his chosen profession?
No, it was not the money that was bothering him.
He glanced at her, and she saw frustration in his eyes. “I’m running out of supplies, Hadassah. And the rent for this booth is due tomorrow morning.”
“Alexander,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Didn’t the Lord provide the rent last month?”
Her use of his name warmed him, and he smiled down at her ruefully. “Indeed, but does this god of yours always have to wait until the last moment?”
“Perhaps he’s trying to teach you to trust him.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve no time for an esoteric discussion,” he said and nodded toward the curtain. “We’ve a line of patients outside waiting to be seen. Now, what were you saying about the next one? She’s a prostitute?” Venereal disease was rampant among them.
“She was, my lord. She’s been expelled from the temple and is living on the streets. She has problems other than physical—”
He lifted his hand, silencing her, and his mouth tipped in a wry smile. “Those problems we can’t worry about. Send her in and I’ll try to treat what I can. Let her gods do the rest.”
“He
r other problems affect her physical condition.”
“If we get her well, those other problems will fade.”
“But—”
“Go,” he said somewhat impatiently. “We can discuss your theories later, at a less chaotic time.”
Hadassah did as he commanded, then sat down at the table again, struggling with frustration. Did Alexander see these people only as physical beings in need of a quick cure? People’s needs were complex. They couldn’t be solved with a drug or massage or some other prescribed treatment. Alexander only took note of the physical manifestations of their diverse illnesses, and not the deeper, hidden cause. As each day had passed since she had started helping Alexander, Hadassah had become more and more convinced that many of the patients they saw could be cured by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.
Yet . . . how was she to convince Alexander of that when he himself turned to his healing gods only as a last resort and viewed God Almighty with an awed wariness?
She saw that Boethus looked at her expectantly. She felt that look into her innermost being, and her eyes prickled with tears. She lowered her head, praying silently in desperation. Lord, what do I say to this man? He and his family need bread, not words.
Yet, words were what came.
She let out her breath. Tilting her head slightly, she studied Boethus’ weary face. “My father once sat on a hillside in Judea listening to his Master. Many people came to hear what the Master had to say, and they came long distances and stayed all through the day. They were hungry. Some of the Master’s followers were worried. They told the Master he should send the people home. He told them to feed the people themselves, but they said they had nothing to give them.”
She smiled beneath her veil, a smile that lit her eyes. “One small boy had bread and a fish. He came forward and gave it to the Master, and with it the Master fed them all.”