Dear and Glorious Physician

  “In what manner?”

  Plotius’ soldierly voice became evasive. “Am I a physician? I brought him to Caesarea, for I love him as a son. Do not be alarmed,” said Plotius, kindly. “It may be nothing. Both Pilate and Herod have sent their best physicians to care for him, at my request; two of them are with him now, and you may speak with them. They tell me very little. He spends much time in his bed, and appears to have some difficulty in eating. He often bursts into mysterious tears, but the physicians do not permit me to question him. These physicians are very arrogant, and take liberties even with soldiers.” He touched Lucanus’ arm affectionately with the butt of his whip. “Ah, I have disturbed you! Rest assured Priscus is treated like a satrap from Persia by his friends. As his brother, and a physician, you will cure him at once with logic and reason.”

  Lucanus was alarmed at the evasion of Plotius. But he knew that Plotius was also obstinate, and did not desire to discuss Priscus any longer. So he said, “On the day of that crucifixion there was a darkness, was there not?”

  “Yes. It was also said that many saw the dead in the streets and in the houses. These people are very superstitious! The sun did darken, and was lost for a long time. But it was only a dust storm.” He hesitated. “Priscus can tell you, if you can persuade him to speak. He weeps like a woman when I talk to him, on the few occasions when I have access to him.”

  “And why does he weep?” murmured Lucanus, stubbornly.

  Plotius smiled at him with exasperation. “I am embarrassed to tell you, my dear friend, for fear of your laughter. He declares it was God, or perhaps Zeus or Hermes or Osiris or Apollo, who died on that criminal cross! Do not laugh at me, I implore you. I am repeating only what your brother has told me.”

  Lucanus was silent, and Plotius peered at him with humor. “Do not be distressed,” he said, with some concern. “I am certain he is not mad, but only a victim of some spell or his own imagination.”

  “Why is he here?” asked Lucanus in a low voice.

  Again Plotius hesitated. “I suggested it, for he went about in a daze for a long time in Jerusalem, and the soldiers noticed it, and his pallor, and his absent ways, and his sudden bursts of tears. Did I wish this scandal to be reported to Rome, and to Tiberius, who has changed savagely for the worst and now hates everyone? I could not have Priscus disgraced, returned to Rome for punishment for behavior detrimental to his reputation as a soldier of Rome. It is very bad in Jerusalem, I tell you! Since that crucifixion there has been much turbulence there, and many soldiers are part of the foolish hysteria. Pilate was forced to proscribe the followers of that crucified rabbi in order to restore peace, and finally they fled the city. But it is still very ominous there; the rabble clash frequently with those who murmur that indeed the rabbi was of the Jewish God. One knows what the market rabble are everywhere, in the name of Mars! They desire nothing but upheaval and riots, for they have the souls of beasts and love excitement, no matter the cause. Faceless, tumult gives them an opportunity to posture as men and become important even if it is only to the law, which they naturally hate.”

  Plotius’ voice expressed sullen irritation, and so Lucanus did not speak again. He understood that the anger was not directed against him, but against the universal mobs. Plotius muttered furiously, “Ah, if only we soldiers were permitted to quell rabble! Once it was permitted, and it was salutary. But now the rabble everywhere must be cherished, fed, housed, and amused, for they are a terror. However, who made them so? Venal statesmen who desire their support, and a curse upon them!”

  Lucanus sensed that they were now rising through luxuriant gardens, for sweet scents were pervasive everywhere, and the resinous fragrance of trees. He saw distant fountains luminous in the moonlight, like naiads dancing in loneliness against the night. He heard the monotonous tramping of soldiers, and at each gate helmets shone, and bared swords. The golden dome of Herod’s house rivaled the light of the moon. The riders and the chariots turned through the last gate, and Pilate’s house stood before them, gleaming like alabaster.

  Once in the magnificent lighted hall, filled with statues and flowers and beautiful furniture, Plotius suggested that his guests retire to waiting chambers and rest until the hour of dining. Lucanus guessed that his friend was uneasy and somber with some secret thoughts, and desired to be rid of him for a while. He said, putting his hand on the burly arm, “Plotius, I am not tired. I should like to consult Priscus’ physicians, for I am very anxious. Too, I have not seen my brother for a long time.”

  “Certainly, my dear Lucanus!” said Plotius heartily. “Consider this house, in Pilate’s absence, as your own.” He smiled at Hilell, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I have missed you,” he declared. He stared at Arieh and winked. “There is nothing like a fortune to bring a lost one home! The slaves will take you to your apartments, my dear friends, and later, at dinner, we shall relax and talk of many places.” He pushed his thumbs into his belt, and then took off his helmet. He was indeed bald, but the baldness increased his air of virility. He touched Lucanus on the elbow, avoiding the other’s eyes. “Come,” he said. “The physicians are with Priscus now, and they can tell you much which is unknown to me.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  He did not speak as he led Lucanus through rooms each more charming than the last. Slave girls were singing somewhere to the bewitching sounds of flute and harp. Soft laughter came from behind curtains. Lamplight gleamed on columns of varicolored marble. The muraled walls shimmered with such brilliant paintings that the creatures depicted in them appeared to move in a secret but engrossing life of their own. The marble floors glittered; the whole house was freshly scented. Lucanus reflected that Herod had indeed built a splendid house for his friend, the procurator of Israel. There were glimpses of gold and silver everywhere, and the lamps were of Alexandrian glass. As the two silent friends passed from room to room the sharp and poignant wind from the sea blew about them. Once Lucanus caught a glimpse of the golden dome of Herod’s house through smooth columns, and heard the sound of distant voices and the dull challenge of patrolling soldiers. Otherwise a heavy atmosphere of quiet lay over all things.

  They reached a tall bronze door, and Plotius rapped on it smartly. It was immediately opened by an armed slave, who bowed. Plotius said, “The noble Lucanus, who is the guest of Pontius Pilate, wishes to consult with the physicians of the captain, Priscus. Bring them to him.” He saluted Lucanus lightly, smiled a little, and hurried away as if pursued. Lucanus watched him go, frowning. The slave then conducted him into an antechamber and indicated a chair upholstered in cloth of gold, one of many. The slave brought Lucanus wine on a silver salver; the goblets were encrusted with gems of various colors. Lucanus drank, grateful for the wine; he discovered that it had an odor and taste of honey and roses, delicious on the tongue. The elaborate lamps flickered in the slight wind; Lucanus’ feet were sinking into a rich and colorful rug from Persia. Here one could slip into languor, so gracious and so lovely were the surroundings, and so potent the wine. But Lucanus was too anxious. He peered at a door of teakwood, intricately carved, and impatiently awaited the physicians.

  They came at last, and bowed to him with dignity, and, as a colleague, he rose and bowed to them also. They were men of stately middle age, and Lucanus perceived that one was a Jew and the other a Greek. They introduced themselves. The Greek said, “I am named Nicias, and this is the physician, Joshua.” The Greek had a subtle and somewhat cold countenance which indicated an impersonal nature. The Jewish physician was smaller, and there was a liveliness and unquiet intelligence in his sparkling black eyes. Both were formally robed in blue togas, edged with gold, and both wore physicians’ rings set with brilliant jewels. It was evident that they were men of much honor and consequence, and that they were surprised at Lucanus’ humble garments.

  They sat beside Lucanus, pulling their chairs close to his, in the immemorial gesture of physicians who are about to hold a conference of much importance concerning a valued patie
nt. They drank the wine slaves brought, and stared before them reflectively. Lucanus still waited. Doctors of position were not to be hurried in a vulgar manner. They had a stateliness to maintain, and so they were portentous.

  Nicias inquired of Athens, and Lucanus was forced to answer him courteously. Nicias mentioned Isocrates, who was his favorite philosopher, and Lucanus replied learnedly. The Greek was pleased. Joshua leaned forward to listen. “I understand you were educated in Alexandria, noble Lucanus,” said Joshua, with a little patronage. “I believe that Alexandria has lost some repute this past one hundred years. I myself was educated in Tarsus. What is your own opinion of the rival merits of both schools?”

  Lucanus, devoured by anxiety, nevertheless replied with forced calm. He understood that these men were probing him for any lack of learning and culture before they would confide in him, and before deciding whether or not he was worthy of their full confidence. It was, he thought with impatience, like a sacred majestic dance into which a stranger had intruded, and during which it would be determined if he should be admitted to the ritual. “I assure you, my noble colleagues,” he said at last with considerable exasperation, “that I am capable of understanding our physicians’ jargon, and that I have had much experience and know the most modern of treatments! Therefore I beg of you to consider my natural anxiety! Tell me what ails my brother.”

  Both physicians looked offended for a moment, though the Jew’s eyes irrepressibly began to twinkle. Lucanus, startled, thought he saw Joshua’s eye wink, but he could not be sure, for Joshua’s face remained grave and he retained the physician’s attitude, classic through the ages: projected thoughtful head, right elbow on the arm of the chair, right index finger partly obscuring his mobile mouth. Nicias debated ponderously. Then Joshua, after a quick glance at him, apparently decided that there had been enough formality. He dropped his hand, and said at once, “To be sure, you are anxious, Lucanus. Let me put the matter briefly.” Nicias gave him a chilly glance, which did not disconcert him. “Your brother has cancer of the stomach; the disease has largely invaded his liver also. You have asked us to speak. I do not believe in vague phrases, and so I have told you. You understand he cannot live in his condition. We have done all we could; he has thickly spiced food for his appetite, which is feeble, and all the wine he wishes, and anodynes for his pain, which is ferocious.”

  Lucanus sat transfixed, his heart sick with despair. Joshua regarded him with compassion. Nicias locked his white fingers together in his lap. He said, “He may live a month, or perhaps two months, but certainly not for long.” It was as if he were politely discussing the weather with two aristocratic friends and that the matter was of no personal importance. Lucanus, struggling with his misery, unreasonably hated him. And so he concentrated on Joshua, in whom he sensed some human concern and kindness.

  “How long has my brother been afflicted?” he asked in a trembling voice.

  Joshua shrugged eloquently. “He was already very sick when he was brought here. I should judge he has been suffering from this disease at least eight months. That accounts for his moroseness, his listlessness, his loss of flesh, his grayness of visage, his aversion for meat, his infrequent but draining stomach hemorrhages, his unsteady gait, his swollen ankles. He is in the last stages of his affliction. We can do nothing for him but attempt to alleviate his pain, and reassure him. You will also understand that the disease has caused an instability of temper and fits of weeping, for though he does not know how mortally he is ill his body sends his brain signals of distress and premonition of death.”

  Nicias said in a cold and reproving voice, “That is an unproved theory of yours, Joshua, that the brain receives any messages at all. I am firmly of the conviction that the heart is the seat of emotions and premonitions. I prefer the theories of Aristotle, though in some quarters I am considered old-fashioned.” The ‘quarters’ were apparently Joshua himself, and the physicians’ eyes locked for a moment in brief combat.

  “Oh!” cried Lucanus, almost beside himself. “Must we have a discussion of various theories now? You say, Joshua, that my brother has cancer. Is that certain?”

  “Most certain,” said Joshua, not offended. His eyes were sympathetic. “Would you wish to examine him yourself?”

  The three physicians rose. Nicias’ pale eyebrows lifted on seeing Lucanus’ rough and cheap pouch, which rattled with vials in the manner of a rustic doctor. Nicias opened the teakwood door with an air of lofty resignation to the importunities of lesser men. The bedchamber beyond was magnificent, filled with the finest furniture and a gilded bed. Four slaves were in attendance, clothed in white tunics. But Lucanus ran to the bed, crying, “My dear Priscus! I am here at last!”

  He snatched up a lamp from a marble table and held it high over the bed. Priscus lay there, and Lucanus was stunned to the heart by his aspect, and almost unable to recognize in this gray and emaciated man his young and beloved brother. The stony lids lay over sunken eyes; the mouth had sunk contracted onto the teeth. For a terrible moment Lucanus thought his brother already dead, for he appeared not to be breathing.

  “He sleeps under the influence of our drugs,” said Joshua, full of pity. He put his hand on Lucanus’ shoulder. “He is, at least, in temporary peace, and for that we must thank the merciful God. He suffers much.”

  Tears flooded into Lucanus’ eyes as he contemplated his brother by the high-held lamp. Here lay one dearer to him than his blood brother and sister, for he had given Priscus life when he was in death. Here was the brother of the beloved Rubria, and dying as she had died. Here was the heart’s darling of Iris. Here was the son of Diodorus, that valorous and virtuous warrior, whose name was never forgotten. Here lay the house of Diodorus, the son more fitting and valuable to the name of the dead soldier than the scholarly and fastidious Gaius, who shuddered at the sight of swords and banners. Here was one once merry and brown as a nut, innocently gay yet reflective, one who rejoiced in living and who loved his country and his gods. He remembered Priscus’ temperament, affectionate and considerate, kind yet strong, joyously active and eager, loving and thoughtful and full of laughter. Lucanus could not endure it. He put down the lamp slowly and pressed his fingers against his eyes to shut out this most dolorous sight.

  “Yes, it is sad,” said Joshua, sighing. Nicias approached the bed, moving like one of the statelier gods, and gazed down at Priscus as one would gaze at a theorem.

  Priscus stirred. Lucanus, his eyes still covered, heard the faintest voice, thrilling with weak delight. “Lucanus! It is you! I have waited — ”

  Lucanus dropped to his knees and reached for the gaunt and diminished hand. It was cold and dry to his touch, and the pulse was erratic. He saw Priscus’ eyes, filmed with pain and exhaustion, though they had brightened with joy at the sight of him.

  “Dear Priscus,” Lucanus stammered, struggling to control the agony in him. “Yes, I have come. Are you in pain?”

  The shriveled fingers tightened on Lucanus’ hand like the fingers of a mummy. Priscus wet his parched lips, then gazed at Lucanus resolutely. “Pain,” he said, murmurously, with an effort, “is what all men endure. That you once told me, Lucanus. A soldier understands pain; he is inured to it. But there is a pain of the spirit — Have you heard recently from home?” He said the word ‘home’ in a tone of desperate longing.

  “All is well,” said Lucanus, and swallowed the salty bulk in his throat. Priscus would never see his home again; he would never dandle his children on his knees; he would never kiss his wife and lie with her, fondling her long dark curls and brushing his mouth against her dimpled cheeks and breasts. He would never see his orchards and his fields, his cattle and his horses. He would never again swim in the green crystal of his stream, or drink of the wine of his grapes. The loving and simple things of joy and pleasure, which men take so for granted, would never be his again. For he was dying, and Lucanus had understood this at once. The heart of the physician squeezed. Then instantly he smiled, for Priscus was watching
him anxiously.

  “It is well?” said the young soldier.

  “It is well,” said Lucanus. Priscus sighed, and closed his eyes for an instant in content.

  Lucanus began to examine him, gently, and his last hope for a faulty diagnosis died. There was a huge palpable mass in the right area of the stomach, which could easily be felt through the thin layer of expiring flesh. Lucanus’ fingers moved to the liver, and there were masses there also. The peripheral lymphatic glands were grossly swollen, especially the supraclavicular. The examination cost Priscus the most unendurable pain, gentle though it was, but as a soldier he kept himself rigid and quiet. His eager eyes never left Lucanus’ face, not for an expression of relief, but only for the joy of seeing him. He knew, in his soul, that he had not much longer to live.

  He said, feebly, “My mother. My wife, my children. You must tell them,” and he could not control a wince when Lucanus found a particularly torturous spot, “that I died in peace — of an accident, perhaps. And quickly. They must not know — Ah,” he sighed, when Lucanus removed his probing hands. “You understand, Lucanus.”