Master and God (17 page)

They already knew Themison was a gladiators’ doctor; he held a senior position at the Ludus Magnus and what they witnessed here – the wealthy class of his patients, the discreet slaves padding to and fro, the bloody great size of his lunch – confirmed he must have a good reputation. He probably rarely killed people, or not so their relatives noticed.

Themison produced one of the waxed tablets he kept for patient records; when he asked their names, surprisingly the men supplied them. He wrote them down neatly, with the date, then looked up nervously.

‘Write what you like,’ smiled the younger one, Gaius Vinius.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you keep the tablet.

Themison assessed them. One was a wide-bodied, short, aggressive man with Iberian looks; his subordinate was a taller, younger fellow who at first pretended to be a patient. This Vinius presented with an interesting set of facial scars. Themison told him what the soldier knew already: it was too late to improve his appearance, though if Themison had been present when he was first wounded, much could have been done to save him not only from disfigurement but a lifetime of discomfort. He was too kindly to say he might have saved the eye; of course as a gladiators’ doctor, he believed he could have done.

‘You need to look after your skin. Do not regard this as effeminate. I suppose you spend much time out of doors? Follow my advice and you will feel an improvement. Keep your scars moisturised. I will give you a pot of my lubricant and a prescription any apothecary will make up when you need more. Rub it in daily. A woman’s touch is helpful, if you have a girlfriend.’

The soldier accepted the ointment pot but barely listened. Vinius knew Verania would have no interest in massaging pungent wax into his face, even if he trusted her with the task.

Themison decided there must be some more sinister reason for their visit. He felt panicky, as if he might be about to vomit.

Decius Gracilis put down the money for the consultation. It was a large amount; his hand lingered on the leather purse. Neither man moved. Yes, their enquiry about Vinius had been a ploy. Themison’s heart sank further. Involuntarily he analysed the symptom. It could not be a physical movement, a literal migration of the beating organ, although clearly not a fantasy either; he wondered what really caused the lurching sensation and how he might use this to prevent terror in gladiators.

‘Is there something else I can help you with?’

‘We hope so.’

Themison abandoned all hope of enjoying his lunch in the near future. He carried the tray to a side-table, where he covered it with his napkin to keep off flies. A fly did settle on the napkin shortly afterwards, but Themison had tucked in the cloth so the weight of the tray held it down and prevented access.

‘So,’ began the centurion, conversationally. ‘You are a doctor. How good are you? What do
you
think Titus died of?’

Zeus!

Appalled, Themison laid down his stylus. ‘Classic marsh fever. Don’t quote me.’

‘What do you base that on?’

‘Time of year, overheating, and the headaches. It would be unprofessional to give a more detailed opinion when I never examined him.’

‘Any views on the rumour he was poisoned with a hare fish?’
By his brother Domitian.

Please, please don’t ask me that . . .

‘Reminds us of the old story that Caligula used such methods.’ Decius Gracilis flexed his fingers. Either he had arthritis, or he was making veiled threats. ‘Maybe someone snooping round the palace found a big old jar labelled
Danger, Hare Fish Poison
, with an imperial seal and a picture of a skeleton? And they tried it out?’

Themison began showing symptoms of hysteria: pallor, acute sweats, agitation. He looked as if he was about to faint. The soldiers were not worried. They knew enough battlefield first-aid to revive him.

It was still the centurion testing him. The other man was roaming about the consulting room, peering at equipment. Themison had the usual display of surgical saws. In addition to models of feet, ears and internal organs, presumably parts he had successfully treated, there was a sculpture of the medical god Aesculapius with his snaky staff among many small statuettes of gladiators. Vinius opened up pillboxes, dropped roundels on his palm, put them back again. Themison suspected this bullying was intended to terrify and control him. Then they would make him say treasonous things. After that he was utterly done for.

‘Any comment on the ice-box story?’

‘The patient needed cooling.’

‘You wouldn’t just dump Titus in a bed of ice and leave him, though?’

‘Obviously
I
would not. Look – what is this?’

‘Just curious.’
Just testing . . .

Oh mother, I need a potty!

The Praetorians had chosen Themison because he was easy to access. He was an imperial servant as they were; he worked at the Ludus Magnus, the big gladiators’ barracks that Domitian had built close to the new amphitheatre. Those fighters were not criminals being sent for slaughter, but highly trained professionals, expensive slabs of beef who were looked after by the best doctors in the world. A spin-off for the doctors was lucrative private practice. Some wrote best-selling medical manuals. Themison himself was secretly scribbling a set of lurid memoirs. He would have to be dead before publishing was safe.

Gracilis and Vinius had not wanted to approach any of the gruesomely expensive society physicians who blew magistrates’ noses and carried out their wives’ abortions. Nor, in view of Titus’ fate, did they trust the palace freedmen who tended Domitian’s health. They needed discretion and, as the gladiators’ medico, Themison counted as official.

‘What exactly can I help you with, Praetorians?’

Gaius Vinius stopped prowling. He returned to his seat, taking out a waxed note tablet and stylus of his own as if used to sitting in on interrogations – probably ones that proved fatal for the victims, thought Themison. The centurion sat leaning forward intently with his elbows on his knees. Themison clutched his left wrist with his right hand, as if taking his own pulse; the result was not good.

It was a few weeks since Vinius had gone back to the camp after the Paris murder. It was clear that, as Flavia Lucilla prophesied, he had been wiped from the record. Domitian wanted to believe killing his rival made him a figure of authority. The avenging husband. The moral judge. The new Augustus – utterly hypocritical.

The Emperor recalled Domitia Longina from exile almost immediately, ‘summoning her back to his divine bed’. Nobody was clear whether her removal had counted as divorce – which, legally, Domitian should have insisted upon if he believed she had committed adultery. He claimed he was forced by a public outcry to forgive her. Most people thought their reconciliation was really because he missed her.

Others muttered that it was a ploy to cover up his incestuous affair with his niece Julia. Julia stayed at court, making an awkward family threesome.

If there were recriminations, they were kept behind closed doors. It would be rumoured that the Empress took lovers, though no one specifically named these brave men. Domitian kept his body-beautiful eunuchs, though Vinius had never seen him in a bunk-up. Nor had he ever witnessed him canoodling with Julia. In fact, Vinius wondered if the Emperor now avoided sex, which might explain a lot. The imperial couple would remain married throughout Domitian’s reign, even though Domitia never produced more children.

She knew how to handle Domitian. Possibly she had missed him too.

The ructions should have all died down. But the Emperor learned that people had been leaving flowers and perfumes in the street at the spot where Paris died. Domitian angrily ordered their removal. People who persisted in bringing tributes were dragged off and never seen again. Domitian himself haunted the area obsessively, until he noticed one of the actor’s apprentices, paying his respects to his mentor. For modelling himself too closely on Paris and even having an unfortunate facial resemblance, Domitian had the young dancer executed.

At this point, the centurion Decius Gracilis became so concerned about his charge’s state of mind, he decided to take medical advice.

‘We haven’t come for ourselves,’ Gaius Vinius explained to Themison. ‘We are worried about a friend.’

Caesar’s friends. Not the amici in his council, those friends he didn’t want. These were trusty amici Caesar never knew he had.

Some people might question their actions, but Decius Gracilis was the kind of stubborn, diligent centurion who took protecting the Emperor to the highest level. For him, the task included protecting the Emperor from himself. Never insubordinate, he had discussed his idea with the Praetorian Prefect. Cornelius Fuscus was an old ally of the Flavians, the man who had brought the province of Illyria over to Vespasian’s cause and helped secure his bid for Emperor. Appointed Prefect by Domitian on his succession, Fuscus was too canny to join in this. He allowed Gracilis to make medical enquiries, but on the usual cynical terms of ‘get found out and you can catch the shit on your own shield’.

Themison wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. He had heard ‘for a friend’ before, often. Normally it meant patients were too embarrassed about a symptom that was going to require tunic-lifting: sexual dysfunction; something they caught from a prostitute; or worst of all, haemorrhoids. If all these men wanted was to discuss an anal fissure, he would have a lucky escape. ‘Tell me about your friend.’

‘A bit of an odd personality.’ The centurion spoke. His assistant took notes. Themison certainly did not. Taking notes about personalities was a sure way to end up looking an arena lion in the teeth.

‘In what way?’

‘Solitary. Unduly watchful.’

‘Unpredictable?’

‘No, I think we can predict him: if any idea has no possible basis in fact, he’ll love it.’

‘Excessively sensitive? Cannot cope with criticism? Imagines the world revolves around what other people think of him? Needlessly worries about his appearance?’

‘Sounds like you’ve met him!’

The doctor remained expressionless; he was trained not to be susceptible to what patients thought he wanted them to say. The Praetorians, like all patients, found this off-putting. From the vigiles, Vinius recognised the deadpan method; he thought Themison was overdoing it.

‘Has he always been this way? Or did it come on, for instance, in early adulthood?’

‘Could be.’ Vinius took this question, remembering that scene on the Capitol.

‘Was it triggered by an extended period of stress, or some catastrophic event? Witnessing a violent death, for instance?’

‘That fits.’

‘How old was he?’

‘Eighteen.’

For once Themison nodded. ‘That would be typical . . . And what about his childhood? Did he suffer deprivation?’

‘There is said to have been relative poverty – no family silver on the sideboard, if you count that as hard luck.’

‘I meant in another way. Could your friend when young have felt he was somehow insignificant? Unloved? Considered worthless?’

It was still Vinius supplying answers: ‘His mother died, his father spent a lot of time away. I don’t know what happened domestically; he may have been passed around family members, but they were a clannish family and I doubt he was really neglected. He may have been jealous of an older brother who was always a favourite. Well, he must have been. Very jealous. He probably grew up thinking whatever
he
did, it would never be good enough.’

He thought briefly of Felix and Fortunatus. There were ways to live with strong older brothers, without losing your sense of self.

‘And what brought you here now?’ asked Themison. ‘Is his intellectual capacity suffering? Does he function normally?’

Gracilis took the lead again. ‘He is bright, energetic, takes an interest in everything. He functions, functions well. Generally.’

‘But?’

‘Very extreme behaviour on occasions. Unreasonable. Dangerous.’

‘You mean you think he is going mad?’

There was a long pause. All three men breathed a little faster than previously.

Themison, frightened, attempted to react as if they had merely said their friend had a septic rash. ‘I shall need more details.’

‘He believes his wife has been unfaithful.’

This time Themison shocked the Praetorians by exploding with laughter: ‘You call that extreme? Every husband in Rome believes the same. A large proportion are correct.’ Gracilis and Vinius exchanged glances, each wondering what the doctor’s wife had to put up with. Apparently unaware of his self-revelation, Themison continued, ‘I am not joking. Always remember that when patients seem to harbour delusions, there may be a grain of truth there. It confirms their fears and makes it harder either to diagnose their illness, or to convince them there is anything wrong . . . Has your friend been violent?’

They nodded.

‘Has he harmed anyone? Do you need an opinion for legal purposes? Has a victim pressed charges?’

Gracilis laughed harshly. ‘Won’t happen.’

‘But you have approached me because you feel deep concern.’ Themison now sat up more. ‘I can give guidance on patient management, though most of my work concerns wounds to the body, as you know.’

‘You do study the mind, doctor?’

‘Oh yes. I tend gladiators. Preparation for physical combat includes good mental health.’

‘I am glad you think that –’ The centurion looked as though he would like to discuss this thesis professionally.

But Themison had reached the point where he was ready to contribute, a moment in any consultation where he expected to hold the floor while patients, or their concerned ‘friends’, listened admiringly. ‘This is my opinion, based on what you say. You may have been describing a condition we call “paranoia”. From
para
meaning “beyond” and
noos
, “the mind”. Do you know Greek?’

‘Enough to be xenophobic!’ scoffed Gracilis rudely. ‘So if “paranoia” means “beyond the mind”, what does “beyond the mind” mean in good Latin?’

‘Outside the boundaries of reason,’ Themison explained crisply. His actions and speech became much more comfortable. ‘We all carry the seeds of paranoia within us. However, most people can tell when their fancies have no reality, and often holding crazy ideas is temporary. With paranoia, extreme suspicions last. It can be as mild as “that slave gave me a funny look just now” or as severe as “the plotters have cunningly drilled a hole in the ceiling to spy on me”. Let me outline some symptoms you may recognise: anxiety, feelings of being threatened, difficulty forming social relationships, jealousies regarding the sexual fidelity of a spouse, preferring his own company, secretiveness, eccentric and aggressive behaviour, a heightened sense of self-importance . . .’