Read Online Dear and Glorious Physician by Taylor Caldwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
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glowed as if burning with an internal and quenchless fire. It cast a frail but steady light on Keptah’s long dark fingers.
“What is it?” demanded Diodorus, impatiently.
Keptah contemplated his master’s alarm and his suddenly congested face with that hidden amusement of his. “It was given to me, tonight,” said Diodorus, “by my freedman’s son, the little Lucanus, for the Lady Rubria. He told me he had found it; he declared that the gods, or God, was in it.”
Keptah’s face changed. He said, “Lucanus?” He pondered. He knew the love between the young Greek and the younger Rubria — so innocent and gentle a love. He also knew the tremendous power of suggestion. He went to the bed, and, imperatively, as if he were master and Aurelia but a slave woman, he motioned her aside and she intinctively obeyed. Rubria was sobbing quietly, but now she stared up as if in fear at Keptah. He smiled at the child, and showed her the stone, which was not ordinary but possessed no powers except its beauty. “This,” he said to her, “is a magical stone, found by your playmate, Lucanus. The gods must have directed him to it. It will help you, little lady, if you believe in it, for did not Lucanus find it for you?”
Rubria looked at the stone and touched it timidly with one frail finger. She began to smile. Keptah lifted her shift deftly; he pressed the rounded contour of the stone against her left side, in the region of her swollen spleen. “Here it must rest,” he said to the parents, and the nurse, “for many days, until the child recovers her health.” He gazed at Rubria with a compelling look, and she appeared awed, as did Diodorus and Aurelia.
Diodorus rubbed his chin; he might be superstitious, but he was also a man of reason and logic. He bent over his daughter and studied the stone, and saw its fires and twinklings. Then, in some suspicion, he glanced up at Keptah, who had trouble in retaining his gravity. “I do not believe in magic,” grumbled the tribune. Keptah struggled with his almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. He said, “Master, there is much magic in the world. One has only to believe in it to find it.”
The tribune thought this ambiguous, and frowned, but Keptah seemed very serious. Well, thought Diodorus, it is possible I do not know everything, and I am not a physician or a dealer in magic, like this charlatan. His attention quickly returned to Rubria, and he shook his head. “What is all this that ails the child?” he demanded. “You have not been definite, but rather evasive, Keptah. The blood — suffused joints — the bruised areas of flesh — the difficulty in breathing — the seeping gums — the lumps in the glands.”
Keptah looked aside. “It is not a rare condition,” he said, mildly, “though a difficult one — to cure.” It was impossible for him to tell this father that the child had the white sickness, which was invariably fatal; there was pity in his heart.
“But the little Rubria will live?” demanded Diodorus, and his eyes shrank at the very thought of her death.
Keptah regarded him for a long moment before answering, and then he said, “It is not ordained that she die now, Master, nor any time in the immediate future.” Rubria, feeling Lucanus’ stone against her young flesh, felt surcease, and this Keptah noted. The force of the spirit, he reflected, can often keep death at bay, and faith can sometimes accomplish the impossible.
Diodorus was not satisfied. Fear quickened his heart. “You speak evasively. Will not the amulet cure her entirely?”
“I do not know, Master.” The ambushed eyes looked upon Diodorus with an expression that the Roman did not recognize as a remote compassion.
“Then,” said Diodorus, with angry frenzy, “she will surely die in the future?”
“Is that not our common fate, Master?”
Diodorus let his head drop on his breast, and he drew in his lips against
“What is it?” demanded Diodorus, impatiently.
Keptah contemplated his master’s alarm and his suddenly congested face with that hidden amusement of his. “It was given to me, tonight,” said Diodorus, “by my freedman’s son, the little Lucanus, for the Lady Rubria. He told me he had found it; he declared that the gods, or God, was in it.”
Keptah’s face changed. He said, “Lucanus?” He pondered. He knew the love between the young Greek and the younger Rubria — so innocent and gentle a love. He also knew the tremendous power of suggestion. He went to the bed, and, imperatively, as if he were master and Aurelia but a slave woman, he motioned her aside and she intinctively obeyed. Rubria was sobbing quietly, but now she stared up as if in fear at Keptah. He smiled at the child, and showed her the stone, which was not ordinary but possessed no powers except its beauty. “This,” he said to her, “is a magical stone, found by your playmate, Lucanus. The gods must have directed him to it. It will help you, little lady, if you believe in it, for did not Lucanus find it for you?”
Rubria looked at the stone and touched it timidly with one frail finger. She began to smile. Keptah lifted her shift deftly; he pressed the rounded contour of the stone against her left side, in the region of her swollen spleen. “Here it must rest,” he said to the parents, and the nurse, “for many days, until the child recovers her health.” He gazed at Rubria with a compelling look, and she appeared awed, as did Diodorus and Aurelia.
Diodorus rubbed his chin; he might be superstitious, but he was also a man of reason and logic. He bent over his daughter and studied the stone, and saw its fires and twinklings. Then, in some suspicion, he glanced up at Keptah, who had trouble in retaining his gravity. “I do not believe in magic,” grumbled the tribune. Keptah struggled with his almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. He said, “Master, there is much magic in the world. One has only to believe in it to find it.”
The tribune thought this ambiguous, and frowned, but Keptah seemed very serious. Well, thought Diodorus, it is possible I do not know everything, and I am not a physician or a dealer in magic, like this charlatan. His attention quickly returned to Rubria, and he shook his head. “What is all this that ails the child?” he demanded. “You have not been definite, but rather evasive, Keptah. The blood — suffused joints — the bruised areas of flesh — the difficulty in breathing — the seeping gums — the lumps in the glands.”
Keptah looked aside. “It is not a rare condition,” he said, mildly, “though a difficult one — to cure.” It was impossible for him to tell this father that the child had the white sickness, which was invariably fatal; there was pity in his heart.
“But the little Rubria will live?” demanded Diodorus, and his eyes shrank at the very thought of her death.
Keptah regarded him for a long moment before answering, and then he said, “It is not ordained that she die now, Master, nor any time in the immediate future.” Rubria, feeling Lucanus’ stone against her young flesh, felt surcease, and this Keptah noted. The force of the spirit, he reflected, can often keep death at bay, and faith can sometimes accomplish the impossible.
Diodorus was not satisfied. Fear quickened his heart. “You speak evasively. Will not the amulet cure her entirely?”
“I do not know, Master.” The ambushed eyes looked upon Diodorus with an expression that the Roman did not recognize as a remote compassion.
“Then,” said Diodorus, with angry frenzy, “she will surely die in the future?”
“Is that not our common fate, Master?”
Diodorus let his head drop on his breast, and he drew in his lips against
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