Read Online Dear and Glorious Physician by Taylor Caldwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
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the lamps, the chirp of night insects, the distant cries of birds, the far barking of a dog. Moonlight poured into the courtyard; the lamps died lower. The dancers stood, legs lifted, arms thrown out, faces white and entranced. This might be a scene from a painted mural, or a courtyard crowded with statues, the carved bacchanalia of a mad sculptor.
Diodorus could not believe it. He gaped and stared, then rubbed his eyes and stared again. The night was very warm, but all at once Diodorus was deathly cold. Something rustled; there was the softest step. He jumped in sudden fright, and turned. Keptah was standing near him, smiling darkly and respectfully, and then bowing. He murmured, “They were disturbing you, Master.”
Diodorus shivered. He moved a step or two away. He whispered, “What did you do?”
The unfathomable eyes contemplated him seriously, but in their depths there was a reddish spark. “I, Master?” said the physician, raising his tilted brows as if in surprise at some childishness. “It is nothing at all. I saw you across the courtyard and it was evident that you were annoyed. So I commanded the foolish ones to cease, and they ceased.”
“What did you do?” repeated Diodorus, and now for all his trembling his voice was loud and harsh.
Again Keptah studied him in that mocking surprise. “It is something I learned as a physician, Master.” He turned a little and regarded the awful scene before them. Moonlight, here and there, struck a young and marble breast, the stilled motion of a marble arm, the bend of a marble knee. “It alarms you, Master?” asked Keptah, as if astonished. “It is nothing at all.”
Diodorus lifted his arm in an involuntary gesture of horror and menace. “Release them at once!” he cried, and fell back from the physician, all his superstition making his flesh crawl.
“To abandon and noise, Master?” Keptah appeared puzzled. “It will shortly be dawn.”
“Release them, cursed be you!” shouted Diodorus. He was terribly frightened.
“To more decorum, perhaps?” urged that insidious voice, anxiously.
Diodorus was silent. Keptah appeared to reflect on his master in bafflement. Then he shrugged. He lifted his hand again, and he muttered something under his breath.
The scene did not change suddenly. But moment by endless moment the arms and legs began to move, to drop listlessly. The bodies became alive, though sluggishly. As if moving in dreams, heads turned, feet began to move, not in dance, but in enchantment. The moonlight, cold and motionless, shone down on heavy shoulders, heavy limbs. One by one the slaves crept out of the courtyard, not speaking, not glancing at each other, completely unaware of each other. It was like watching a scene of total exhaustion and animal unconsciousness. To Diodorus it was some soundless and awful nightmare.
And now the courtyard was empty. Only the lamps, the littered tables, the empty chairs remained. The instruments of the musicians lay on the stones as if thrown down in flight. The lamps sputtered out. The moon sank slowly and the palms clattered.
Keptah spoke, and it appeared to Diodorus that they two had stood there for endless time: “They will forget, Master. They will believe they went to their beds after a happy night of revelry and rejoicing.” He sighed. “How fortunate they are to have such an indulgent lord!”
Keptah’s garments fell about him in angular folds. The moonlight lay in the deep hollows of his cheeks, emphasized the caverns about his mouth. “You have thought me evil, Master,” he said. “But I have knowledge. There is an ancient legend that evil and knowledge are one and the same thing. It is not good to know. It is much better to be an innocent animal.” He looked now at Diodorus, and where his eyes were there were caves of depthless darkness. “But,” he said, “who is there among us who would prefer to be without a knowledge of
Diodorus could not believe it. He gaped and stared, then rubbed his eyes and stared again. The night was very warm, but all at once Diodorus was deathly cold. Something rustled; there was the softest step. He jumped in sudden fright, and turned. Keptah was standing near him, smiling darkly and respectfully, and then bowing. He murmured, “They were disturbing you, Master.”
Diodorus shivered. He moved a step or two away. He whispered, “What did you do?”
The unfathomable eyes contemplated him seriously, but in their depths there was a reddish spark. “I, Master?” said the physician, raising his tilted brows as if in surprise at some childishness. “It is nothing at all. I saw you across the courtyard and it was evident that you were annoyed. So I commanded the foolish ones to cease, and they ceased.”
“What did you do?” repeated Diodorus, and now for all his trembling his voice was loud and harsh.
Again Keptah studied him in that mocking surprise. “It is something I learned as a physician, Master.” He turned a little and regarded the awful scene before them. Moonlight, here and there, struck a young and marble breast, the stilled motion of a marble arm, the bend of a marble knee. “It alarms you, Master?” asked Keptah, as if astonished. “It is nothing at all.”
Diodorus lifted his arm in an involuntary gesture of horror and menace. “Release them at once!” he cried, and fell back from the physician, all his superstition making his flesh crawl.
“To abandon and noise, Master?” Keptah appeared puzzled. “It will shortly be dawn.”
“Release them, cursed be you!” shouted Diodorus. He was terribly frightened.
“To more decorum, perhaps?” urged that insidious voice, anxiously.
Diodorus was silent. Keptah appeared to reflect on his master in bafflement. Then he shrugged. He lifted his hand again, and he muttered something under his breath.
The scene did not change suddenly. But moment by endless moment the arms and legs began to move, to drop listlessly. The bodies became alive, though sluggishly. As if moving in dreams, heads turned, feet began to move, not in dance, but in enchantment. The moonlight, cold and motionless, shone down on heavy shoulders, heavy limbs. One by one the slaves crept out of the courtyard, not speaking, not glancing at each other, completely unaware of each other. It was like watching a scene of total exhaustion and animal unconsciousness. To Diodorus it was some soundless and awful nightmare.
And now the courtyard was empty. Only the lamps, the littered tables, the empty chairs remained. The instruments of the musicians lay on the stones as if thrown down in flight. The lamps sputtered out. The moon sank slowly and the palms clattered.
Keptah spoke, and it appeared to Diodorus that they two had stood there for endless time: “They will forget, Master. They will believe they went to their beds after a happy night of revelry and rejoicing.” He sighed. “How fortunate they are to have such an indulgent lord!”
Keptah’s garments fell about him in angular folds. The moonlight lay in the deep hollows of his cheeks, emphasized the caverns about his mouth. “You have thought me evil, Master,” he said. “But I have knowledge. There is an ancient legend that evil and knowledge are one and the same thing. It is not good to know. It is much better to be an innocent animal.” He looked now at Diodorus, and where his eyes were there were caves of depthless darkness. “But,” he said, “who is there among us who would prefer to be without a knowledge of
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