“What happened to him?”
“He’s still alive.”
“I’m pleased.”
“So am I. There’s more chance I can squeeze my fee out of his father. What can I do to help you?”
Diotima, Socrates, and I sat before him on three folding stools in his expansive tent. Heraclides himself sat on a chair.
He was a man in his prime years, strong and healthy looking. I supposed that was important for a doctor. Who’d trust a physician who couldn’t keep himself healthy? The most unusual aspect about Heraclides the doctor was the writhing, squirming thing on his lap that he struggled to contain.
“Is that a baby?” I asked.
“Clever of you to notice. I see you have the makings of a doctor. This is my son.” Heraclides smiled proudly. “My wife left me to amuse him while she went to the agora.” He jiggled the creature up and down and cooed. It was obvious Heraclides was more than happy to entertain his son.
“We need to consult you,” I said to him, in an attempt to keep his attention.
“Is one of you ill?” Heraclides held the baby’s tiny hands, wiggled them back and forth, and went, “Coo-coo-coo-”
“We aren’t ill, Heraclides,” I said, wondering if there might be another doctor in the camp city.
“Your wife is pregnant, then.”
“The Gods forefend!” Diotima interjected.
Heraclides turned to her. “I’m afraid the Gods are usually uncooperative on that score,” he said.
“I’m not pregnant,” Diotima said with finality.
“In fact we only have some questions for you,” I said.
“Questions count for the usual consultation fee,” he said at once.
I said, “Oh, of course, being a doctor, your only concern is-”
“The health and welfare of your patients,” Diotima broke in. “How much for your wise and knowledgeable advice, worthy Heraclides?” she asked smoothly.
“Twenty drachmae for the consultation.”
“Agreed,” I choked, and hoped One-Eye would pay. After all, we were doing this to save the life of his son, whose brains might soon be dashed out on the rocks of Mount Typaeum. If that didn’t count for a medical emergency, I didn’t know what would.
“We have this vial, Heraclides,” I said. We had brought it along inside a canvas bag to conceal the evidence. I pulled it out to show him. “Is this hemlock? And if so, is it strong enough to kill someone?”
Heraclides threw the baby into the air and caught him with practiced confidence. The baby giggled and smiled. Heraclides threw the baby again, so high he almost bounced off the canvas roof.
“Is that good for him?” I asked.
“Perfectly,” Heraclides said. “Babies enjoy the sensation of flying. It’s because the throw takes the baby closer to Apollo, who is a god of healing and health. The theory’s perfectly sound, I assure you. Why do you ask?”
“My mother says babies shouldn’t be tossed in the air.”
“An old wives’ tale.”
“My mother’s a midwife,” I told him.
“Is she now? In that case, here, hold the baby for a moment, would you?” Heraclides passed the child over as if it was the most natural thing in the world to hold a baby. I put my hands out by reflex, without a chance to object. I’d never held a baby before in my life.
The baby immediately tried to crawl off my lap.
I was afraid he’d fall and hit his head on the ground and die. I held on tighter. The baby cried at once. I was suddenly afraid I’d hurt the thing and relaxed my grip. The baby fell off my lap.
“Whoa!” I grabbed him as he fell.
Diotima laughed at me.
“Here, Diotima, play with this baby, would you?” I dumped the baby in her lap before she could object.
Diotima, being a woman, knew exactly what to do with it.
“Here, Socrates,” she said, passing over the child. “Play with this baby, would you?”
“How come I’m the one left holding the baby?” he whined.
“Because I’m bigger than you are,” Diotima said coolly.
“Then how come Nico dumped it on you?”
“Because he’s bigger than me,” Diotima said, delivering an important lesson in power politics.
“He vomited on me!” Socrates said.
“Babies do that,” Heraclides said absently as he searched through a leather case full of scrolls. “He’ll be all right. Cute, isn’t he?” Heraclides pulled out a scroll and began to read. “Ah, yes.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m just reminding myself about hemlock. I myself don’t usually prescribe it. Those who do use it to treat severe pain in the joints and uncontrollable tremors.”
He took the vial from my hands and held it close to his eyes.
“What makes you think this contains hemlock?” he asked.
“The smell,” Diotima said.
“This vial is of a type used by doctors to contain medicine. It might be a prescribed dose.” Heraclides opened the stopper and took the lightest sniff. He made a face and put back the stopper. “It’s hemlock, all right.” He rummaged once more through the scroll jar beside him. He pulled one out and unrolled it. “Ah yes. The normal dose for medicinal use is one leaf, two at most.”
“What would be a fatal dose?” Diotima asked.
“Six leaves, according to the authorities. I can’t say of my own knowledge. A man taking hemlock to kill himself will typically make sure of it by taking much more, ten or twelve leaves. The roots and berries are more toxic than the leaves.”
“How long would it take to kill a man?” I asked.
Heraclides shrugged. “It’s highly variable. A man who drank a cup of the potion and then exercised vigorously might die quite quickly. But a large man who lay still could take as much as half a day.”
“But a man wouldn’t drop dead on the spot?”
“No.”
“Can you tell the dose in these vials?”
“Do you have a spare dog you don’t want?”
“No.”
“Then you’re out of luck. The only way is to try it.”
“Let’s say this is medicine, a leaf per dose,” I said. “Does that mean if I drink six vials in a row that I’ve taken a fatal dose?”
“Yes. Don’t do it.”
Diotima asked, “What should a man do, if he accidentally takes a fatal dose?”
“Say farewell to his friends.”
“There’s no cure?”
“There are things you can try. I once had to.”
“To save a man from hemlock?”
“It was back at my home on Kos, where I have some small renown for my skills. I had only sat down to supper, when the door of my house crashed open and a wild-eyed fellow ran in, a young man, he could not have been more than thirty. He barged into my courtyard before the house slave could even announce him, fell upon his knees, and begged me to save his sire. It seemed his aged father had decided to end it all with an infusion of hemlock. The practice is well established on the islands-traditional even-the man who has chosen to die eats a final meal in pleasant surroundings, says farewell to his friends and family, makes any last bequests, and then downs the cup of hemlock. All perfectly reasonable.”
“Of course.” The practice is illegal in Athens, where to commit suicide is considered a crime against the state, but I knew some of the islands preserved the ancient custom.
Heraclides said, “Do you know what the bloody fool did then? He changed his mind. There he was, surrounded by his family, his son at his side. He’d drunk the infusion to send him peacefully to Hades, and then he gets scared. He started to cry and grabbed his son by the hands and begged his son to save him. He behaves in this cowardly fashion before his friends.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. It must have been a pitiful spectacle, and it put the poor son in a dreadful position. If he refused to help his father, he’d risk the curse of the Gods, but if he tried in good faith and failed, men might have wondered if the son had helped along the father for his inheritance. I should add this fool was a wealthy one.”
“Tricky. So the son ran to you,” said Diotima.
“Sensible of him. If I killed the old man, no guilt attached.”