“That is comforting,” I told him. The slave reentered carrying a tray of instruments and a basin of steaming water. He set it by the stool where I sat and the physician gave him further instructions. He left once more.
“What language is that?” I asked Asklepiodes as he began to scrub industriously at the cut. He used a sponge dipped in the steaming liquid, which was not only hot but full of astringent herbs. It burned like a hot iron laid against my side. I strove to remember the Stoic forbearance of my ancestors. I tried to take courage from the story of Mucius Scaevola, who had shown his contempt for mere pain by holding his hand in a fire until it was burned off.
“Egyptian,” the Greek said, as if he were not inflicting pain in which a court torturer might have taken pride. “I practiced for some years in Alexandria. Of course, they speak Greek there, like all civilized people, but the people from farther south, from Memphis and Thebes and Ptolomais, still speak the ancient tongue. They also make the best slaves and servants in the world. So I studied the language in order to learn the medical secrets of the ancient Egyptians and in the process I bought some slaves to assist me. I have made certain that they have not learned Greek or Latin; thus they serve me well and keep my secrets.”
“Very good,” I said, when the pain had receded enough for me to speak. “I would appreciate it if you would not mention to anyone that you have treated me for this wound.”
“You may have total confidence in my discretion.” He tried to maintain his bland mask of professional dignity, but soon his curiosity got the better of him. He was, after all, a Greek. “So this was not, shall we say, a casual assault by a common footpad?”
“My attackers could scarcely have been more common,” I said.
“Attackers! There was more than one?”
“Four,” I said, rolling up my eyes as I saw him pick up a bit of thin split sinew and a curved needle.
“This is Homeric!” he said, fitting the needle to a small pair of ornate bronze pliers. All his instruments were decorated with silver inlay in the form of swirling acanthus leaves. I have often wondered whether the elaborate decoration common to surgical instruments is to distract us from the dreadful uses to which they are put.
“Actually,” I admitted, “I was not alone. But I did for two of them.” The childish boasting helped me bear the pain of stitching. After all, having thus touted my valor, I could scarcely object to the mere repeated piercing of my flesh by a needle, having sinew drawn through the piercings and the stitches drawn tight, as if my flesh were so much tent-cloth.
“Was this attack politically motivated?” he asked.
“I can hardly believe otherwise,” I said.
“The politics of modern Rome resemble those of Athens a few centuries ago. The Pisistratids, Harmodius and Aris-togiton and so forth. It wasn’t always Pericles and his lot.”
“You’re the first Greek I’ve met who admits that Greece isn’t always the home of all perfection.”
“We are still superior to everyone else,” he said, his eyes twinkling. The slave reentered, this time bearing a bowl that gave off a foul-smelling steam.
“This poultice will help the wound to heal without infection,” Asklepiodes said. He spooned some of the loathsome slop onto a gauze pad and slapped it onto my side. Swiftly and with great skill the slave wound bandages around my body, binding the poultice tightly in place yet allowing me to breathe without great difficulty.
“Come back in three days and I will change the dressing,” the Greek said.
“How am I going to attend the baths this way?” I asked.
“There are some things even the finest physician cannot answer for you. However, you are a young man of great ingenuity and I am sure you will devise a solution.”
“As always, Master Asklepiodes, I thank you. Look for a liberal proof of my gratitude this coming Saturnalia.” He looked most pleased. Although lawyers and physicians were forbidden to charge fees, they could accept presents.
“I shall sacrifice to my patron god and pray that you live until Saturnalia. May your next month not go like your last week.”
He ushered me out. He was none too subtle in reminding me that Saturnalia was less than a month away, and perhaps hinting that I should put this generous gift in my will. I was too poor for anything lavish, and as I walked home I pondered upon what I might send him. I decided that a physician who was willing to perform what was in effect the work of a mere surgeon was eccentric, so I would give him an eccentric gift.
The slave boy was waiting in my atrium when I reached home. He handed me a small roll of papyrus and I broke the seal. The message inside was brief and simple: “Dearest Nephew: It has been far too long. Come to the visiting-room of the House of the Vestals at about the twelfth hour. Aunt Caecilia.” It was, I estimated, somewhere around the end of the ninth hour. Since the winter hours were shorter than those of summer, the twelfth was not all that far away.