An Echo in the Darkness(26)

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.