Rhodes did much more business with Ptolemaios’ Egypt than with the lands of any other marshal… including Antigonos. And Antigonos’ lands were near neighbors to Rhodes. Menedemos didn’t care for the turn the conversation had taken, especially since he doubted whether Athens was any freer or more autonomous now than before her “liberation.”
Sostratos said, “Surely, most noble one, you can’t be thinking of Rhodes. Why, we’ve built ships for your father’s fleets. If that isn’t how a proper neutral behaves, I don’t know what would be.”
“Just so.” Menedemos beamed across Demetrios’ couch toward his cousin. Nobody could match Sostratos when it came to bolstering arguments with good, solid facts. His cousin was so logical, so rational, disagreeing with him seemed impossible.
And Demetrios didn’t disagree with him. Smiling still, Antigonos’ son said, “I do hope you can see, my friends, that free and autonomous poleis like Athens and Rhodes can sometimes need protection against those who would try to force them into leaning in an… unfortunate direction.”
“Not being an Athenian, I would not presume to speak for Athens,” Sostratos said. “As far as Rhodes goes, since only we Rhodians choose how we lean or if we lean, the question doesn’t arise.”
“I certainly hope it never will,” Demetrios said. “That could be… very unfortunate indeed.”
Was he giving them a warning? It sounded like one. Menedemos said, “I’m sure all my fellow Rhodians will be glad to know of your concern.”
“Oh, good. I hope they are.” Demetrios turned his head and shouted for more wine. Out it came: that splendid Thasian, thick and sweet and potent even when mixed. No one worried about anything as abstract as neutrality for the rest of the evening.
9
Sostratos was haggling over the price of balsam of Engedi with a physician named Iphikrates when the front door to the Athenian’s house opened and his slave-he seemed to have only one- led a moaning man, his face gray with pain and one hand clasped to the other shoulder, into the courtyard. “He hurt himself,” the slave said in bad Greek.
“Yes, I see that,” Iphikrates said, and then, to Sostratos, “Excuse me, O best one. We’ll get back to this in a bit.”
“Of course,” Sostratos answered. “Do you mind if I watch?” He was no physician and never would be, but he was avidly curious about matters medical-and, because that made him the closest thing to a healer aboard the Aphrodite, the more he learned, the better.
“Not at all.” Iphikrates turned to the patient. “What happened to you?
“My shoulder,” the man said unnecessarily. He went on, “I was repairing a roof, and I slipped, and I fell, and I grabbed at the edge of the roof with one hand, and the arm tore out of the socket.”
Iphikrates dipped his head. “Yes, I would have guessed at a dislocation by the way you carry yourself. This is something I can relieve. My fee is four oboloi-in advance. Patients, once treated, have an unfortunate tendency toward ingratitude.”
The injured man took his hand off his shoulder and spat little silver coins into it. “Here,” he said. “Fix it. It hurts like blazes.”
“Thank you very much.” Iphikrates set the coins on the stone bench where Sostratos was sitting. He called to his slave: “Fetch me the leather ball, Seuthes.”
“I bring him.” The slave-Seuthes-ducked into the house, returning a moment later with a small, sweat-stained leather sphere.
“What will you use that for?” Sostratos asked, fascinated.
“Who’s he? He talks a little funny,” the patient said.
“He’s a Rhodian,” Iphikrates said, while Sostratos thought, They can still hear that I’m a Dorian, Iphikrates looked back to him. “You’ll see in a moment.” He told the man with the dislocated shoulder, “Lie-down here on your back, if you please.”
“All right.” Grunting, his face twisting at each incautious movement, the man obeyed. “What now?” he asked apprehensively.
“Take your other hand away,… Yes, that’s good.” Iphikrates sat down on the ground beside the patient. Seuthes handed him the leather ball. He put it in the patients armpit and held it in place with his heel, slipping his leg in between the other man’s arm and his body. Then he grasped the man’s forearm with both hands and jerked and tugged at the arm. The patient let out what would have been a bloodcurdling shriek if he hadn’t been gritting his teeth. Sostratos leaned forward on the bench to see better.
Another jerk and twist. Another scream from the injured man, this one less muffled. “I am sorry, best one,” Iphikrates told him. “I have to find the best angle to-” He jerked once more, without warning, in the middle of the sentence. A sharp pop! rewarded him. The patient started to cry out again, then broke off and sighed in relief instead. Iphikrates beamed. “There! That’s done it.”
“Yes, I think so.” The other man warily sat up as Iphikrates took the ball and his foot away. “It still hurts, but nothing like the way it did. Thanks, friend.”
“My pleasure.” Iphikrates sounded as if he meant it. “Always good to get something I can cure. For another four oboloi, I can give you a dose of poppy juice to ease the pain.”
His patient thought it over, but not for long. “Thanks, but no. That’s almost half of what I make in a day. I’ll drink more wine, and put less water in it.” Not being a Macedonian, he didn’t even think about drinking his wine with no water at all.
“Suit yourself,” Iphikrates said. “Drink enough wine and it will dull the pain, though not so well as poppy juke does. I take it you don’t want me to put that arm in a sling or to bandage it to your body so it’s less likely to pop out again?”
“You can put it in a sling for today, if you like,” the injured man said. “I’m not going back to work now. But if I don’t go tomorrow, how am I going to eat? Nobody will feed my family and me if I don’t.”
“All right, best one. I understand that-who doesn’t?” Iphikrates said. “But be careful with that arm, and use it as little as you can for the next month or so. You have to give the shoulder as much of a chance to heal as you can. If you permanently weaken the joint and muscles, it can start popping out all the time, and then where will you be?”
“Halfway to Hades’ house,” the other man replied. “I understand you, too. But”-he shrugged with his good shoulder-”I have to take the chance. Who can save money on a drakhma and a half a day?” He got to his feet. Iphikrates fixed him a sling from a length of cloth that looked as if it was hacked out of an old chiton. The patient dipped his head. “Thanks again. Doesn’t hurt too bad. My wife and son will be surprised to see me home so early. Farewell.” He walked out the door without a backwards glance.
Turning to Sostratos, Iphikrates sighed. “You see how it is? Here is a patient I can actually help-and any physician knows how many he can’t help at all-but my treatment is likely to go for naught, simply because the man can’t afford to give the injured member proper rest. If I had an obolos for every time I’ve seen that, I wouldn’t need to dicker so hard with you, for I’d be rich,”
“You did very well there. I’ve never seen that trick with the leather ball before,” Sostratos said. “There’s a physician on Rhodes who uses an elaborate contraption with winches to fix dislocated joints.”
“Oh, yes-the skamnon,” Iphikrates said. “Some in Athens use it, too, and charge extra for it. I could, but I’ve never seen that it works better than simpler methods, or even as well as they do. The point, after all, is-or should be-helping the patient, not making yourself seem impressive.”
“It looks more like an instrument of torture than anything else,” Sostratos said.
“It isn’t pleasant for the man who’s strapped into it,” the physician said. “Even so, I would use it if I thought it gave good results. But since it doesn’t-no. Now, where were we?”