“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.”
“Her 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.”