Silently, he cursed the Roman law that forbade dissection of the dead, thus forcing him to this grisly practice. But how else was he to learn what he had to know about the human body? How else could he achieve the skill he had to have to save lives?
He wiped the sweat from his brow and silently cursed his own weakness.
“She will feel nothing,” Troas said quietly.
Clenching his teeth, Alexander cut the neckline of the girl’s clothing and tore the bloodstained tunic to the hem, laying it open carefully and exposing her to his professional assessment. After a moment, Alexander drew back, frowning. From breasts to groin, she was marked only by superficial wounds and darkening bruises.
“Bring the torch closer,” he ordered, leaning toward her head wounds and reassessing them. Deep furrows were cut from her hairline down to her chin. Another cut scored her throat, just missing the pulsing artery. His gaze moved slowly down, noting the deep puncture wounds in her right forearm. The bones were broken. Far worse, however, were the wounds in her thigh where the lioness had sunk in her fangs and tried to drag her. Alexander’s eyes widened. The girl would have bled to death had not sand clogged the wounds, effectively stanching the flow of blood.
Alexander drew back. One swift, skillful slice and he could begin his study. One swift, skillful slice and he would kill her.
Perspiration dripped down his temples, his heart pounded heavily. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the faint pulse in her throat, and felt sick.
“She will feel nothing, my lord,” Troas said again. “She is not conscious.”
“I can see that!” Alexander said tersely, flashing the servant a dark look. He stepped closer and positioned the knife. He had worked on a gladiator the day before and learned more about human anatomy in the space of a few minutes than in hours of lectures. Thankfully, the dying man had never opened his eyes. But then, his wounds had been far worse than these.
Alexander closed his eyes, steeling himself. He had watched Phlegon work. He could still hear the great physician speaking as he cut expertly. “You must work quickly. Like this. They are nearly dead when you get them, and shock can take them in an instant. Don’t waste time worrying about whether they feel anything. You must learn all you can with what little time the gods give you. The moment the heart stops, you must withdraw or risk the anger of the deities and Roman law.” The man on whom Phlegon had been working had lived only a few minutes before bleeding to death on the table to which he was tied down. Yet, his screams still rang in Alexander’s ears.
He glanced at Troas, Phlegon’s invaluable servant. The fact that Phlegon had sent him along spoke loudly of the master physician’s hopes for Alexander’s own future. Troas had assisted Phlegon many times during the past and knew more about medicine than most practicing free physicians. He was an Egyptian, dark of skin and with heavy-lidded eyes. Perhaps he held the mysteries of his race.
Alexander found himself wishing he hadn’t been afforded so great an honor.
“How many times have you overseen this done, Troas?”
“A hundred times, perhaps more,” the Egyptian said, his mouth tipping sardonically. “Do you wish to stand aside?”
“No.”
“Then proceed. What you learn here today will save others tomorrow.”
The girl moaned and moved on the table. Troas snapped his fingers, and Alexander’s two servants stepped forward. “Take her by the wrists and ankles and hold her still.”
She uttered a rasping cry as her broken arm was drawn up. “Yeshua,” she whispered, and her eyes flickered open.
Alexander stared down into dark brown eyes filled with pain and confusion, and he couldn’t move. She was not just a body to work on. She was a suffering human being.
“My lord,” Troas said more firmly. “You must work quickly.”
She muttered something in a strange tongue and her body relaxed. The knife dropped from Alexander’s hand and clattered onto the stone floor. Troas took a step around the slab table and retrieved it, holding it out to him again. “She has fainted. You may work now without concern.”
“Get me a bowl of water.”
“What do you mean to do? Revive her again?”
Alexander glanced at that mocking face. “You dare question me?”
Troas saw the imperiousness in the young, intelligent face. Alexander Democedes Amandinus might only be a student, but he was free. No matter the Egyptian’s own experience or skill, he acknowledged resentfully that he himself was still a slave and dared not challenge the younger man further. Swallowing his anger and pride, Troas stepped back. “My apologies, my lord,” he said without inflection. “I only meant to remind you that she is condemned to die.”