Dear and Glorious Physician (37 page)

Lucanus’ horse stumbled more than once in the chariot ruts of the road. He was sweating vigorously. As it was useless to try to make one’s self heard, Plotius lifted his hand and mutely pointed to the Palatine, on which stood the palace of the Caesars, built by Gaius Octavius. It and its surroundings appeared small and far from this distance, but Lucanus, in spite of the haze of yellow dust which hung palpably and with burning brightness in the air, could see the Imperial Palace surrounded by a grove of white columns, mounting up story by story in diminishing levels of smaller columns and ascending arches. Temples, green hanging gardens and terraces, and beautiful villas flowed down from the palace on the regal hill, surrounded by a profusion of arches, porticoes, fora, theaters, and huge and crowded monuments. He thought that in that great palace lived Zeus himself, with his children in lesser palaces descending about him, cool and apart in the midst of trees and flowered courts and perfumed fountains. It all stood against the sun, shining as if with white fire, this crowded separate little city of royal might and beauty.

For the first time Lucanus, who had been absorbed by all that he had seen this day, gave thought to his coming interview with Tiberius Caesar. He tried to recall all that Diodorus had said of this man, his cold caprice, his distrust of all Romans so that he stationed garrisons of soldiers outside the Roman walls, soldiers accountable only to him. Once he had been a more joyous and happier man, when married to his beloved Vipsania, but he had yielded to the demands of his mother and his Emperor and had divorced his charming wife for a woman who later betrayed him. Since then he had become a gloomy and quietly vindictive man, for all his declarations that every Roman should enjoy free speech and thought, including the Senate, to which he outwardly deferred and which he inwardly despised. But at least he had genius for delegating power, and his magistrates and proconsuls and procurators had freedom of action and judgment. If he was now showing some ominous signs of becoming tyrannical and intolerant, and if he was usurping more and more power belonging to the Senate and the people and the courts and displaying symptoms of desiring absolute despotism, no one opposed him. This, Diodorus had written reluctantly to Lucanus, was more the fault of the Senate and the courts and the people than it was the fault of Tiberius. Nevertheless, he was, at this time, still an able administrator, and just, and still a soldier at heart, even if he was frequently the target of the coarse wit of the Roman rabble, who scrawled obscene comments about him and his faithless wife, Julia, on the walls of Rome. Sometimes, in bolder hands there appeared, in red letters: “Where is our Republic? Long live the free men [
ingenui
]. Down with the tyrant!”

But the Republic had died, and no Caesar had put it to death.

The city, as Plotius had said, was festive today. But Romans were always festive, and always honoring either native or foreign gods. Anything was an excuse for a holiday, for sacrifices, for celebrations in the circuses or the theaters or in the countless public baths. Three circuses alone were advertising chariot races and combats between gladiators, and slaves poured through the populace shouting the news, including the information that some of the best and most ribald Greek plays were about to be performed in certain theaters. Hordes insistently struggled in the direction of these public spectacles, cursing at idlers who blocked them and shouting imprecations in many languages.

The young physician and his escort now began to ascend the Palatine, and, as they mounted, the air became cooler. Lucanus was delighted by the beauty around him, and momentarily forgot Tiberius. It was less crowded here, and those who were borne in litters and in chariots and cars were men and women of consequence, going either to the temples and theaters surrounding the palace or to their villas, and some to seek an audience with the Emperor. Lucanus looked into the eagle faces of the men, and at the painted faces of the lovely women, who smiled at him suddenly and with pleasure. In spite of their prettiness they appeared ravaged and strange to him, and somehow depraved. He saw gates of villas opening to admit those returning to their homes, and flashes of scintillating gardens beyond and the silvery restlessness of fountains, and white arches and porticoes crowned with mounted gods and heroes. Never in all the world was deity so beautifully and blatantly displayed, and never in the world, thought the young man, was there so little faith. Gods adorned the Imperial City; they did not rule it.

Now on a high level Lucanus looked down at the tremendous and predatory city filled with its rushing and colored rivers of humanity, at its bristling monuments and choked buildings, all finally disappearing into great golden distances. Again he was stunned by the very weight and potency of Rome, by its incredible vastness, its dynamic force, its millions of charged, grim, and excitable people, its fierce if prodigious and vulgar grandeur, its milling mobs, its furious uproar, its storm of banners, and, from this height, its rabid and incandescent beauty. He saw the green and sluggish Tiber and its carved bridges, and the buildings that rushed to its edges, and the white and rosy roofs fiery in the sun. Here and there a gilded dome blazed among pointed cornices, like a lesser luminary. His eyes smarted; his spirit was almost overpowered. And now he was vaguely frightened again. Small beads of sweat burst along his fair hairline.

The gates of the palace, manned by stern Praetorians, swung open for him and his escort. What if he should offend Tiberius? Would the Emperor, whom Diodorus had disdained in rough language, visit that offense on Iris and the children?

The Prefect of the Praetorians met them in the huge vestibule of the palace, a large and formidable man glaring suspiciously from under his helmet. He shone like a statue of bronze and brown marble under the great plate glass ceiling that topped the vestibule and admitted the sun, and his step was measured and heavy. Plotius lifted his right arm in salute and introduced Lucanus, who did not know how to greet this imposing man who scrutinized him curiously. “Greetings,” he said with briefness. So this was the Greek adopted son of Diodorus Cyrinus, a physician. “Greetings,” responded Lucanus with some stiffness, disliking the scrutiny. The Prefect smiled; he had sharp white canine teeth. “Caesar has summoned you,” he remarked, conveying by the tone of his voice that Caesar was an unpredictable person, and one given to the most extraordinary whims.

Lucanus flushed. He said, coldly, “That I understand. Did you think I should be here otherwise?”

Plotius hastily concealed a smile, for the Prefect was both astonished and displeased at Lucanus’ address. Yet, after a moment, he was impressed by the young physician’s proud manner and the rigorous set of his jaw and his obvious lack of obsequious fear. Like many brutal and military men, he had a secret passion for boys and young men. He decided that he liked the handsome Lucanus, and he put his hand on the young man’s unyielding shoulder.

He was more at ease in speaking the vulgate, but now he spoke in Greek to appease Lucanus, who was obviously not liking him. “You are greatly honored,” he said, and he noted with pleasure the young man’s broad shoulders and pillar-like neck and finely carved facial planes and large blue eyes.

Lucanus did not move. He suddenly remembered the slave trader, Linus, and a hot sickness came to him. Nevertheless, he did not move, quelling his sudden hatred. He said, in the vulgate, “Caesar is very kind.” He looked at Plotius, who was watching intently and frowning a little. He spoke to the young captain, disdaining to move from under the gripping brown hand on his shoulder.

“How shall I greet Caesar?”

Plotius had another struggle with a smile, because Lucanus had spoken to him in Greek, the language of the patricians and the educated. He said, gravely, “You enter his august presence, and when he notices you, which may not be immediately, and when he speaks, you drop upon your knees and touch your forehead to the floor.”

Lucanus said, “But that posture is to honor gods only. The Jews prostrate themselves to Jehovah, but not to any man.”

The Prefect pressed his fingers deeper into Lucanus’ shoulder, in a fatherly manner. “My dear boy,” he said, “have you not heard? Caesar is a god, and you give him the honors of a divinity.”

Lucanus saw that Plotius was shaking his head at him anxiously. So, he said nothing. The Prefect, smiling at him fondly, said, “I myself shall conduct you to the Divine Augustus.” He dismissed Plotius with a curt movement of his head, and Plotius, filled with misgivings, saluted and went away. Upon an affectionate gesture from the Prefect, Lucanus followed him.

The young physician had never seen a place like this, and had never even imagined such splendor and immensity. He even forgot the Prefect in his wonder and his attempt to see everything. They passed from huge hall to huge room and to endless other halls and other rooms, and the floors of each were of polychrome or snowy marble inlaid with shining red or blue stone or mosaics, each reflecting light as if from some inner radiance. Forests of fluted columns opened everywhere, of onyx, white marble, gilded metal, or alabaster. Statues of gods and goddesses stood in arches, and busts of Caesar and his predecessors rested on small columns. The walls glimmered with mosaics depicting victories and episodes in the lives of the gods, and so cunningly were they wrought that they appeared as the most delicate and heroic paintings. Divans and chairs lined the walls, of ivory, teak, and ebony, decorated with gold and upholstered in cushions of red and blue and white and yellow silks. Exquisite tables of marble and lemonwood were scattered near them holding gold and silver lamps not yet lighted, and little Alexandrian crystal vases filled with flowers, and silver and gold trays laden with brilliantly colored pomegranates and grapes and figs and white and black olives. Enormous ceilings seemed to float on the columns, either of glass or marble, but some were painted white and embossed in delicate designs in gold leaf. And everywhere, in every corner, stood tall vases filled with branching flowers, vases imported from Cathay, Persia, and Indi, and shining with many subtle hues. Perfumed fountains scented the air.

There was not a hall or a room which was not filled and bustling with slaves and couriers and Praetorians and high military officers, and senators seeking an audience, and patricians and Augustales here for the same purpose. Some of the latter were seated, engaged in jokes or banter or gossip, and negligently helping themselves to the dainties on the tables. When they saw the Prefect they smiled at him charmingly, knowing his power, and exchanged some words with him. But they looked wonderingly at the young man he conducted with so solicitous an air. Seeing his appearance, the gentlemen winked at each other, put their fingers alongside their noses, and whispered ribald comments.

The Prefect and his charge passed through open colonnades, then into another profusion of rooms, until Lucanus felt dizzy. Sometimes he glimpsed the gardens through a window or guarded doorway, and the green of trees and grass and strongly tinted flowers contrasted with the cool whiteness within. Sometimes he thought he was seeing vast pictures set in walls, so vivid and unexpected did the gardens appear to him on their broad terraces. His ears were assailed by voices and by distant music and laughter, and, from outside, the songs of birds and the rush of giant fountains. Occasionally a lady of the palace passed him and his escort, her beautiful face covered with cosmetics, her black or copper or yellow hair caught in jeweled and golden nets, her dress of white or fragile color flowing about her. Invariably every lady stared frankly at Lucanus and smiled at him. Jewels flashed on white necks and bosoms and arms and wrists and fingers.

They reached bronze doors of such lofty proportions that Lucanus was amazed. Praetorians guarded it. At a gesture four of them swung open the doors, and Lucanus saw before him a large but sparsely furnished library. Seated at a table, frowning and reading, was an unprepossessing man in a purple tunic and white toga, who slowly raised dark and resentful eyes.

“Hail, Divine Caesar,” said the Prefect, saluting. “I have brought — ”

“So I see,” interrupted Tiberius in an acid voice. “You may leave, my good Prefect, and take your Praetorians with you, and close the door, and wait without.”

This was incredible! Only the highest potentates had private audiences with Caesar, and then on only the rarest occasions. The Prefect stared. “Go,” said Tiberius, and now his tone was coldly vitriolic. The Prefect, confounded, saluted again, gestured to his Praetorians, went out, and the door was shut behind them.

Tiberius leaned back in his chair and gazed at Lucanus without speaking, and Lucanus gazed at him in return and with a candid curiosity. Here was Caesar, the very heart of the center of Roman might and power, and he was just an ordinary man, tall and lean, with a bald head, bitter features in a pallid face, and patches of eczema on his cheeks, which gleamed with an oily ointment.

Lucanus was not afraid of this most fearful man. He was only curious. Also, his physician’s mind automatically commented on the fact that this skin rash had been wrongly treated. Moreover, his mind continued, Tiberius evidently suffered from some obscure form of anemia for which liver had been highly recommended by the Egyptian priest-physicians.

Tiberius, in that long silence, became aware of Lucanus’ acute study, and he smiled. To Lucanus it was a disagreeable smile; if others had seen it they would have been astonished at its unusual benignity.

“Greetings, Lucanus, son of Diodorus Cyrinus,” said Caesar.

Lucanus hesitated, and now he remembered what Plotius had told him. But he could not kneel to any man! So, in his youthfully sonorous voice, he replied:

“Greetings, Caesar.”

Tiberius’ smile widened in amusement; his lips were thin and taut, and showed small and yellowed teeth. He motioned to a chair near the table.

“Sit down, if you please,” he said. Those waiting to see him, and who had been waiting for hours, would have gasped with amazement, for no one sat in the presence of Caesar, except when dining. But Lucanus apparently did not know that, and so he simply bowed his head politely and seated himself, and waited.

“A pleasant day,” said Tiberius.

“Yes,” said Lucanus, and waited again.