Dear and Glorious Physician (48 page)

“No. I merely surmised it. It would have been the act of an affectionate father.”

Phlegon sighed deeply, and let Lucanus see the tear he had wiped away from his eye with the tip of his finger. “Yes,” he said.

“And you have also given them much of your money, freely.”

“Yes. I see, my young physician, that you are a man of understanding.” He became excited. “And for all I have done for them, and given them, they have returned nothing but hatred, nothing but thefts, plottings, lies, and lewdness. I am left here to die, to fear for my life, to have the company of no one but slaves.”

His excitement grew. Lucanus pursed his lips again. There was a deliberate calculation in this excitement. Lucanus reached into his bag and drew out a vial of white pills, and then poured a goblet of wine.

“No,” said Phlegon, shrinking back with exaggerated rejection. “I cannot trust you.”

“Very well,” said Lucanus, and put down the goblet and pill. “You need not take it. I thought only to alleviate the pains of which your sons told me.” After a moment he returned the pill to his vial.

Phlegon considered. “What would that medicine do for me?”

“I have said, alleviate your pains.”

Phlegon wet his bearded lips with the tip of his tongue. “Give it to me,” he said, roughly. Smiling slightly, Lucanus obeyed. The old man drank of the wine greedily. “Now,” said Lucanus, “you must tell me of your pains, and I must examine you.”

With new and surprising docility, and even with eagerness, Phlegon answered questions and submitted to examination. Lucanus was careful and thorough. It was as he suspected. Phlegon was in the most powerful good health; he had the body and physique of a man at least twenty years younger. His muscles were like iron, his joints supple. Some light came to Lucanus. He sat down and regarded Phlegon gravely.

“Your case is not to be taken lightly,” he said, with seriousness.

For a moment Phlegon was gratified. Then he said with fright, “It is not fatal?” and the ruddy color in his cheeks whitened.

Lucanus shook his head, but preserved his gravity. “Not fatal. However, your case should be studied with much thought.”

Phlegon was newly gratified. “You are the only physician of intelligence who has visited me, I swear by Mithra! All others dared to inform me that my health was perfect, and I was as sound as an apple. What liars! What ignoramuses!”

“They thought only of their fees,” said Lucanus, with sympathy.

“Yes, yes!” He put his hand to his chest and rolled up his eyes. “The pain is already leaving my heart! It is quieting, and bounding no longer. I cannot sleep at night for the beating in my throat and my temples.”

Lucanus did not doubt that the old man indeed suffered these things. His pulse had been too strong, too quick, his pressure too high, in spite of the good sounds of his heart. Lucanus rose. “I wish to consult with your sons,” he said.

Phlegon looked at him craftily. “And what shall you tell them?”

“That your — your illness — deserves every consideration, and must be dealt with at once.”

Phlegon smirked, settled himself on his cushions. “Let their hearts be worried then! Let them lie sleepless, knowing what they have done to me in their greed and hatred. Let them fear the wrath of the gods, who have enjoined men to honor their fathers!”

Lucanus left the bedroom and walked slowly through the house, which had taken on more and more the aspect of a precious jewel in his eyes. He went into the garden. The three sons rose in agitation from their bench and came towards him at once.

“What is wrong with my father?” asked Turbo, and his hoarse voice shook.

Lucanus considered all of them. He glanced at Turbo’s right hand and saw that a most wonderful opal ring was on his index finger. It shone with rose and blue lightnings and golden sunsets. He looked at Sergius, and his healthy and anxious face, and his ingenuous expression. He looked at Meles, who looked less like a haunter of brothels than Phlegon’s dog. Lucanus frowned. Then he pretended to come to himself with a start. “You must pardon me,” he said. “But I am an admirer of opals, and, Turbo, I notice a beautiful one on your hand.”

Turbo was puzzled for a moment; it was evident that his stolid mind did not move with any great agility. Then his small eyes shone with pride, and he held out his hand for Lucanus to examine the jewel. “It is very old, and has a great tradition,” he said. “My wife is a descendant of a revered line of scholars. Her ancestor received this ring from Pericles himself.” He sighed. “I am not a learned man. I can barely read. I honor this ring with all my heart, and I shall give it to my son on my death. I did not wish to accept it from my wife, but we love each other tenderly, and she forced it upon my finger.”

Sergius spoke for the first time. His rusty voice testified that he was a man of little speech. He said affectionately to Turbo, “It was on the tenth anniversary of your marriage, when your wife gave the ring to you, my brother. You wear it well, for all you are not a scholar, but your son will bring honor to your name.”

Turbo sighed. “Still, my father craves it. I often wonder if I am not a disobedient son in not presenting it to him.”

“It is yours, and your son’s,” said Meles, also speaking for the first time. “It would wound your wife if you gave it to my father. One must consider women.”

Lucanus sat down on the bench, deep in thought. Turbo suddenly blushed deeply. He clapped his hands. “You must forgive me, Lucanus,” he said. “I should have ordered wine for you, but I was thinking only of my father.” A slave appeared, and the order for wine was given.

“My father will be angry,” said Meles. “You have ordered the choicest of wines.”

Turbo said, and now he had dignity, “His wine cellar may be small, but it is one of the best in Athens, and I keep it well supplied. He can spare a little for Lucanus. But you have not told me, Lucanus, what terrible illness afflicts my father.”

Lucanus said, “It is known that a man’s illness cannot be detached from what he is, and his environment. I must first ask a few questions, and I wish you to answer me with candor.”

“Ask!” said the brothers in a chorus, and he saw their expressions, and he had no doubt that the anxiety on their faces was genuine and their affection for their father deep and unaffected. His face became somewhat sad.

The slave brought a silver tray with four goblets, and Turbo poured the wine and eagerly watched to see if Lucanus approved of it. It was delicious, and Lucanus was frank in his pleasure. The three brothers stood about him and drank with what they apparently hoped was the most aristocratic of gestures and appreciation, and with careful restraint.

“Your father,” said Lucanus, after a sincere series of compliments, “must have inherited much wealth,” and he indicated the garden and the house.

The brothers glanced at each other, and hesitated. Then Turbo lifted his head. “There are some who scorn humble people,” he murmured.

“That is their privilege, though it is wrong. We are humble people, and we have done well and have made our fortunes. My father was very poor, though free. He had a little farm, dry and of wretched soil. My brothers and I cannot remember a childhood or early youth when our bellies were satisfied, though we all toiled with our father. Our mother died when we were children.”

Turbo blushed and coughed. “You have asked us to be candid. My brothers and I gave this house to our father five years ago. He had never lived in a house that was not humble or stricken with poverty. We engaged the best of architects. We wished to do our father honor in his old age, remembering his earlier sufferings, and the leaking roof of his house, and the dirt floor. We wished him to have the delights and luxuries he deserved.”

“There was nothing too good for him,” said Meles, his simple face glowing. “We sent for treasures from all over the earth to deck the house. Never in his life had he possessed privacy or the dignity of a home that was not filled with children and animals. He had only to mention what he wished, and we gave it to him at once, for he is our father and has suffered much.”

“The furniture,” said Sergius, “cost me two years of income. I was proud to give my father this pleasure.”

“I see,” said Lucanus, with compassion. “Your father would not have preferred to live with one of you?”

“No. He is a proud man, and he does not like children, and we have many. He wished a home of his own.” Turbo smiled understandingly.

“And you have made fortunes?” Lucanus was intensely interested.

“And honestly,” said Turbo, quickly. “The gods have been very good to us. We sacrifice in their honor regularly. It happened this way. When I was young, and working on the farm, I knew that we were always in danger of constant hunger, and even famine. I had a great admiration for good pottery, which I had seen in the shops. So I apprenticed myself to a potter who is famous for his beautiful vases and plates and statuettes and his cameo work in white on the deepest blue or red. After a few years he expressed his appreciation of me, declaring that I had the surest hand and a feeling for artistry and beauty.” He looked defiantly at Lucanus. “You do not believe this?”

Lucanus reached out his hand, took that of Turbo’s, and gently examined the fingers. Scarred though they were with endless years of young toil the fingers had the spatulate form of the true artist. “Yes,” he said, with reverence, “I believe you.”

“Thank you,” said Turbo, with a humility that was, in itself, innocent pride. “And there were my brothers. I induced the potter to employ them. Sergius amazingly revealed a power for invariably producing perfect forms, with almost no loss. He still spins the wheel, for he will entrust it to no other. And Meles invented a glaze which is our secret.

“The potter, who had no children, bequeathed his factory to us. And our wares are sought for all over the world, even in Rome itself. We have a fleet of our own ships, and we employ many people, and slaves. If we could produce twice as many we could sell every vase and plate and object of art, but that would entail sacrifice of our best. We prefer to keep our factory as small as possible, in order that no product of ours can evade our own personal inspection, for all bears our name, and no one anywhere must be disappointed.”

He stood even taller. “Caesar’s palace is filled with our work, and vases bring the price of jewels, and funeral urns are bought by the great patricians in Rome.”

“Unfortunately,” said Meles, with sadness, “our father scorns our work and will not permit even a head of a god to appear in his house, if made by us.”

“But the Egyptians declare that only their ancient artists can compare with us,” said Sergius, his little eyes full of light. “They have sent us cherished objects, which we have copied for them. Our Apis figurines and heads of Isis are in the most resplendent of their temples. But it is Turbo who designs, who produces on parchment for me to copy and Meles to glaze.”

“Without the glaze, and your mastery of understanding what I design, what I do would be without value,” said Turbo.

He sighed. “My father considers us worthless fools,” he said, “though the grand ladies in Rome and Egypt and Athens wear our little medallions around their necks on jeweled chains and have them inserted in priceless bracelets. A certain famed senator buys our vases; he swears he prefers them to the most beautiful female slaves. You must forgive me if I appear to boast, Lucanus.”

Lucanus did not speak. “Perhaps,” said Turbo, timidly, “you would permit me to send you a gift of some of our work.”

The young Greek was touched. “I am indebted to you,” he said.

Then he raised his head. “I must ask a harsh question, and I pray you will answer. Why do you love your father?”

They gaped at him with unaffected astonishment for some moments. Then Turbo stammered, “Why do we love him? That is a strange question! Did he not give us life, and so make it possible for us to have what we have, and our adorable wives and our loving children? And is it not charged that a man should cherish his parents?”

Lucanus remembered the Commandment of the Jews: “Honor thy father and thy mother ...” But still, there were parents who deserved no honor.

Turbo spoke with more heat: “Has not my father suffered much also? It is little enough that we can lighten and make brighter his old age, for never could he satisfy his belly when we were young, and never did he wear aught but rags.”

Lucanus meditated on the strangeness and innocence of love, and how love can be exploited by the ruthless. He stood up. “I must have a word again with your father. I have given him some medicine. But this I can tell you: when I have consulted with him and given him advice his health will be restored for many years, for he is a strong man.”

They called joyous blessings after him when he left the garden. He made his way to Phlegon’s bedroom. The old man was considerably relaxed, and lay quietly on his pillows, and when he saw Lucanus he slightly raised his head and gave the physician a smile almost pleasant. “My pain has gone,” he said. Then his face changed, became sly and secret once more. “You have talked with my sons?”

Lucanus seated himself with deliberation and helped himself to a handful of grapes and chewed them thoughtfully. And all the time he kept his bright blue eyes fixed on Phlegon. After a few seconds Phlegon’s face darkened and became brutish.

“They have lied to you,” he said, with a flatness in his loud voice.

“I think not,” said Lucanus. “I have been a physician for many years, and physicians learn another sense which enables them to detect lies,” and his eyes were full of hard significance. Nevertheless, he also pitied Phlegon, who he knew envied his sons, resented their success and position and fame, for he had been only a poor and illiterate peasant. Moreover, it was quite evident that he knew of the love of his sons, and so tormented them.

“Leave,” said Phlegon, abruptly, and turned his head into his pillows, and his powerful shoulders heaved. “I am an old weak man, abandoned, cheated, lonely. Leave me with my gods, for, at the last, they are the only consolers of men.”

“True,” said Lucanus. “But I doubt that you believe in the gods. I am going to give your sons some sound advice before I leave this house. I am going to tell them what you truly are, and what you honestly think of them. I will also suggest that they return you to your little farm, and never visit you again, for I believe it will be best for them and their peace of mind. There are times when children must abandon parents for their own sake.”

Phlegon hurled himself up from his cushions, and his teeth were bared between his bearded lips, and his eyes flashed with the wildest hatred and fear.