Alone with Phoebe, Iulius sank down on a stool beside the bed. He looked at Phoebe lying so still and pale, completely helpless. Her eyes were closed. The only sign that she was alive was the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
He thought of how hard she worked to help others, the hours she spent preparing for the coming day. Would she want to live like this?
Could he bear life without her?
Iulius took the small vial in his hand and looked at it. The doctor’s conviction about her condition rang in his ears. He had to think of her, of what she would want. But after a moment he set it back on the table. “I can’t do it, my lady,” he said in a choked voice. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you go.”
Reaching over, he took her left hand and pressed it between both of his.
16
“Put the tray over there,” Alexander said to the servant who entered the bibliotheca, not even glancing up from the scroll he was studying. He tapped his finger on the parchment in frustration. “I’ve been over and over these records, Rapha, and I’m still no closer to knowing what’s wrong with her. The baths and massage didn’t do any good. She’s as uncomfortable now as she was a few weeks ago.”
Hadassah stood near the windows, looking out over Ephesus. They were a long way from the booth near the baths. She could see the Artemision from here, its magnificent facade enticing masses into the dark environs of pagan worship. She was uncomfortable in this place, too close to the steps of that foul but beautiful temple. She remembered Julia dressing in her red finery and setting off to seduce the famous gladiator, Atretes. Oh, what tragedies had come of that! What other sorrows befell those who bowed down to Artemis and other false gods and goddesses like her?
“Are you listening, Hadassah?”
She glanced back at him. “I’m sorry. . . .”
He repeated himself. “What do you think?”
How many times had they been over this same conversation? Sometimes she was so tired and disheartened, she could weep. Like now, when her mind was elsewhere. Why was Marcus so much in her thoughts of late?
“Hadassah?”
“Perhaps you’re too busy treating symptoms and neglecting the possible cause.”
“Specifics,” Alexander said. “I need specifics.”
“You say you’ve found nothing in your physical examinations of Venescia to explain the severity and persistence of her many ailments.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then what do you know about her?”
“She’s rich. I know that. Her husband is one of the proconsul’s advisers.” Hadassah turned toward him, and he looked at the blue hue of the veils that covered her scars. When his financial circumstances had changed for the better, he had purchased new tunics and veils for her, but she had gone on wearing the gray. Finally, exasperated, his temper had erupted.
“What stubbornness is this you have that keeps you attired like a specter of death? Has God something against colors that you must look like a veiled raven? You look more like a servant of the underworld ready to pole someone’s way across the river Styx than a healer!”
Of course, he had immediately regretted his outburst and apologized. And the next morning she had appeared in the blue dress and veils she now wore. He had been embarrassed, his face hot. Something within him was changing subtly toward her, and he wasn’t sure what it was or what it meant.
Patients often gave her gifts of money. She didn’t dissuade them, but accepted it with murmured thanks and then simply dumped the coins in a box and left it forgotten on a shelf. The only time she opened it was before she visited the patients they had treated near the baths. She poured the contents into a pouch and took it with her. When she returned, it was always empty. However, time was becoming more precious these days as his practice grew and demands upon her increased.
“Did you hear me, Hadassah?” he said, perplexed at her pensiveness this evening. Was she praying again? Sometimes he could tell simply by the quietude that surrounded her.
“I heard you, my lord. Do you think Venescia’s wealth has something to do with her illness?”
Tired, Alexander tried to curb his impatience. It was dusk, and he had seen more than twenty patients today, most with simple complaints that were easily remedied. Venescia was different. And her husband was important. A misdiagnosis could mean the death of his career.
There were days when he wished he had stayed in the booth by the baths.
“You’re leading me again, but not telling me where,” he said. “Just say what you think and stop expecting me to come to the right conclusions on my own.”