Cancer

Circa 145 CE, Pergamum, Asia Minor

Theodora ascended the stairs to the Asclepeion, a healing sanctuary carved from white marble situated in the valley below Pergamum’s acropolis, next to a sacred spring where dozens of sick citizens soaked their limbs, desperate to wash away their ailments and mend their bones. Despite two maidservants supporting her elbows, hoisting her up each step, the ascent felt like a climb, labored and exhausting, prompting beads of sweat to gather on her upper lip and a heavy breath to overcome her mouth.

As they entered the sanctuary, the head physician, Galen of Pergamum, and his attendant greeted Theodora with gestures of compassion. With tearful pauses, Theodora told of an aching in her right breast. She had gone from plump to gaunt over the course of a year, nausea having filled her belly, and her limbs had grown tired and weak, transforming her from a beauty in the bloom of life to an old woman bent with age. “Release me from my anguish!” she begged. “Restore my spirit or send it flying – in this condition, I cannot live,” she said, releasing a moan of pure misery.

Sorrow furrowed Galen’s brows. He encased her hands in his and said, “Let us first understand the human composition. Within us thrive four main bodily fluids: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. And excess or lack of any of these four – an imbalance in our natural composition – leads to physical and mental problems that can only be remedied by restoring the balance. Let us now search for what ails you. I shall find your imbalance and together we shall correct it,” he said with a reassuring nod.

Galen pulled Theodora’s hand toward a large wooden table at the room’s center. He ordered her to lie down upon it, tucking a wool blanket beneath her head, careful to fill the gap under her neck. “Open your mouth wide,” Galen whispered in her ear, sprinkling the pulp of the poppy plant on Theodora’s tongue. “Let the poppies bring peace to your body. Sink into a hazy slumber and welcome the nocturnal oblivion that shall overcome you. It is there that Asclepius will greet you,” he said, glancing up toward the back wall, dominated by a looming statue of Asclepius, god of healing, who held a serpent-entwined staff in his left hand, a cornucopia of poppies resting at his feet.

Theodora’s eyelids fluttered spastically before falling softly closed. Her body went visibly limp, her mouth falling open and dragging with the pull of gravity, her shoulders relaxing against the back of the table, and her feet falling open to form a V-shape.

“Soak the sponges,” Galen said to his young attendant who placed the remnants of the strained poppy plant in a rectangular silver dish with a cup full of water into which the medicine would leech. Galen began methodically massaging Theodora’s right breast, detecting a sizeable lump and, with the slightest of pressure, exposing its contours through her flesh. “Soak this area,” he said. The attendant quickly grabbed a sponge of medicinal water and began numbing Theodora’s skin. He then washed the area with vinegar.

Galen turned to his medicine chest, a large, bronze box comprised of six compartments neatly organized with surgical tools, ointments and drugs. He pulled out a long steel scalpel and touched its coolness to Theodora’s breast, pressing down on the freshly sharpened blade until drops of blood sprung forth. The attendant quickly pulled out a linen towel and soaked up the blood as Galen dragged the blade through Theodora’s skin.

“Very good,” Galen said. “Now hand me two dull hooks.” The attendant picked out two identical bronze hooks that Galen used to pry open the incision, exposing Theodora’s ailment. “I had an inkling,” Galen whispered. “This is a cancer,” he told his attendant whose face fell into confusion, for “cancer” was the Latin word for “crab.”

“Look here,” Galen said as he washed clean the lump, thickly coated with black bile. “See here this mass, a body, with inflamed veins stretching out on all sides like legs. It gives the perfect picture of a crab,” he explained.

“Are we to cut it out?” the attendant asked.

“No,” he said emphatically. “Such would be the course of the great Hippocrates, to whom doctors and patients alike shall be forever indebted, but we have advanced his theories on the body, deciding that he was too quick to cut into his patients, using surgery when, in fact, surgery was not needed, as in this case. Theodora will not undergo surgery because this lump does not require removal,” he said.

“Then what are we to do?” the attendant asked.

“It is clear that our patient has an imbalance of black bile, the fluid that dictates our mood, and those with excess feel unusually depressed, which I can plainly see in Theodora’s temperament,” Galen said. “To cure her, we must look at her symptoms. She complains of weakness and a lack of hunger. To combat her weakness, she must perform hard physical exercise, and to combat her nausea, she must feast on food as if she were nobility. In this way, she will restore her body’s balance and this cancer shall, on its own accord, dissolve.”

The attendant simply nodded, having learned of the purgative remedies that would be favored by doctors for centuries to come.

“Now let us stich the skin,” Galen said, satisfied with his diagnosis.

Decimation

71 BCE, Southern Italia

Dusk drifted across the Italian countryside. Its hills were densely covered with black-barked ilex trees, their leathery evergreen leaves gobbling up the sun’s last light. The air turned cool, bringing relief to the Roman legions who had been laboring since day’s first glimmer, marching south toward the camp of Spartacus and his army of reckless revolutionaries whom they sought to greet with swords.

“Ho!” bellowed Crassus, the general, bringing six legions of men to a standstill in front of a mound creeping skyward from the grassy valley in which they trod. Crassus climbed atop it, standing among thousands of dandelions whose seeds longed to be carried by the wind. He wore a purple cloak fastened at one shoulder with a silver eagle brooch, its wings spread out to either side, and a breastplate molded to the musculature of his chest. His face looked stern; his eyes, savage.

Mounted soldiers seeking to join the general brought their stallions to a gallop, racing along either side of the troops, their clocking horse hooves kicking up dirt and grass as they dashed to the front of the line and up the mound with enviable speed. Once the cavalry was situated – flanking the general in a spectacle of strength – Crassus addressed his men.

“Let us again consider this war that has been waged against us by the absolute dregs of society – by slaves who wish to make slaves of us!” Crassus yelled, his gruff voice traveling over thousands of iron helmets, their red-plumed crests, fashioned from dyed horsehair, bouncing as the soldiers passionately rustled about. “These escaped gladiators and slaves – once less than a hundred but now numbering in the thousands – have inspired terror, pillaging our villages with hidden daggers and no shortage of aggression. Now they have set their sites on Rome!” he yelled, drawing sounds of discontent from his men.

“Spartacus, a Thracian, a lowly gladiator, a former soldier turned deserter turned criminal, leads them. And he – a criminal – is the man they wish to take over Rome? Blasphemy!” Crassus sputtered. “Tomorrow, at the first sign of light, we will resume our march and, surely, tomorrow we will confront Spartacus and his army. We must fight with valor, not shielding ourselves behind the masses, but each one moving speedily forward with wings clasped to our feet, leading with our swords. You must prove yourselves men worthy of victory!” he cried, emphatically stomping his foot to the ground. “There is no room for cowards among us! And if they be found, they shall be punished,” he roared as redness overran his cheeks. “And so, my soldiers, pluck up your courage!” he said, arousing boisterous cheers from his men. “As for tonight, protected by the veil of darkness, we shall rest,” he said and descended the mound.

When the first beam of morning’s light sliced the horizon, Crassus and his men were already in full stride. By the time the sun stood above their heads, they were engaged in battle. They pounced upon Spartacus and his rebel army, lurching upon them with drawn swords, forcing them to bathe in their own blood, soaking the earth with their gore. And so Spartacus and his men were slaughtered, save six thousand who were nailed on crosses erected along the main road back to Rome, left to die under a brazen sun, their bodies a testament to the consequence of revolt. But the crucified were not the only traitors among them.

“I have confidence on this day to say, we are an army of great men!” Crassus said, his chest puffed with pride. His troops were crouched on a pristine stretch of grass beside the battlefield, their limbs worn and battered. “But before we celebrate our victory in fullness, let us deal with one last matter. With sorrow and disgrace, I must report that a group of soldiers belonging to one particular unit raced into battle, but quickly raced out. Like utter cowards, they abandoned their weapons and ducked behind trees, re-emerging once the fighting had abated, their faces aglow as if they too were victors,” he said, gnashing his teeth in anger. “But their faces will not glow now,” he snarled.

One hundred soldiers were brought before the crowd, bound together with thick rope coiled around their waists, looping from one soldier to the next. They looked to one another for explanation, for solace and for strength, but only met eyes as terrified as their own.

“Let us now disciple this unit with decimation,” Crassus yelled, triggering a collective gasp from his men who would soon witness the execution of one in ten soldiers.

The accused began swooning with fear. The bodies of some began shaking violently, seized by terror; others fell to their knees, frightened into submission; and others watered the earth with a flood of tears. They were promptly divided into groups of ten and forced to draw lots. The unlucky soldier – whether guilty of cowardice or not – was punished for the crime, pummeled to death with stones by his nine comrades. And in this way the Roman Army was taught the consequence of cowardice and fought with greater vigor thereafter, having learned their general was a greater threat than the enemy.

Soul Mate

Circa 380 BCE, Athens, Greece

“I must confess, Agathon, this is a most appropriate krater for this evening,” Socrates said, strolling around a large, U-shaped pottery vessel nestled in a bronze tripod with feline feet, its thick paws slightly arched. The krater, painted a shiny black, featured depictions of love delicately sketched in red around its body. In each scene, a naked god Eros – with a soft, boyish physic and grand, feathery wings stretching out from the blades of his back – was meddling in the affairs of humans, creating unsolicited bonds of love between men and women. Socrates took hold of the krater’s ladle, it’s top mimicking the bent neck of a swan, and stirred its contents, water and wine cut in due portions.

“Ah, yes! Indeed it is, but by no intent of my own. For this conversation on the nature of Love happened on a whim, as love itself oft does,” Agathon said. “Let us pour our cups full once more, raise them in praise of Eros, and continue our dialogue,” he said, hastening his six guests – all notable men of Athens – to throw back the last drops of Dionysian nectar still swirling about in the bottoms of their glasses.

Agathon’s servants rushed around the table refreshing the guests, carefully pouring wine into their green glass goblets, stopping just short of the spiral threading decorating their tops. As the men relaxed in their chairs, staining their lips with crimson liquid and becoming subdued by its fragrant bouquet, the brilliant playwright Aristophanes began sharing his fabulous tale regarding the nature of Love, taking the room back to the dawn of time.

“In the beginning, before man conquered the ocean’s tides and deciphered the motions of the heavens, human beings of a very different variety roamed the earth. They carried a different shape than either you or I – they were round. They were not round like a wheel, nor like a coin, but like a grape – they were round all around. They had four legs and four feet, and fours arms with four hands. They had one large head that bore two faces with four ears.

They traveled with great agility and speed, moving across all eight limbs in a cartwheel fashion. In fact, they moved with such speed and bore such strength that they posed a threat to the gods themselves. And when their eyes turned skyward, pride turning their motives dark, their many limbs dared to make an attack on Mt. Olympus, home of the mighty gods.

With haste, Zeus called upon all twelve Olympians – Hera, Apollo and Athena among them – to gather around his ivory throne, inlaid with gold and precious stones plucked from all reaches of the earth. And when they were all seated, he spoke.

‘I wish to reign thunderbolts down upon this atrocious race, wiping their filth from the earth!’ Zeus roared, his stalwart appearance softened by the gentle curls atop his head that crept down his face and across his chin.

Hera, with pink rose cheeks and a cylindrical crown atop her head, objected. ‘Without humanity, we would receive neither worship nor sacrifice. We must not extinguish their race.’

‘But we can not let them run a riot!’ Apollo exclaimed, catapulting his bow and arrows to the ground.

After much thought, Zeus spoke once again. ‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘This race has become a plague on account of their strength. But what if their strength were curtailed?’ he said, cocking his head, giving each of his fellow Olympians a sidelong glance before proceeding. ‘I shall cut each one of them in two!’ he said. ‘And if they still run a riot, I shall cut them again, forcing them to hop about on a single leg!’

But such a measure proved unnecessary. With two legs instead of four, the human race lost its supreme speed, agility and strength, and the threat they once posed to the mighty gods vanished. Humans became content in their earthly habitat, only looking to the heavens when praising the gods and sending sacrificial scents skyward to please their noses.

But there was one consequence not foreseen. An imprint was left on the soul of each human, a recollection of their former state to which every man longed to return. The two halves – who had once been one – craved one another, feeling incomplete as, in fact, they were. And so man became preoccupied with finding his soul’s mate, for it is innate to each man to love and desire his other half. And this, gentleman, is the origin of Love,” Agathon said, taking a bow as a a clever grin crossed his face.

“To Love!” Agathon bellowed, raising his glass to the air, having taken much delight in Aristophanes’ story. “And to finding our soul’s mate,” he said, tossing back the entire contents of his glass in a series of large gulps. His guests clamored in agreement, each one dousing their mouths with wine.

The Septuagint - LXX

Circa 3rd century BCE, Alexandria, Egypt

The members of Ptolemy’s court waited for his arrival, standing shoulder-to-shoulder before his throne, their spines straight with arms nestled in the small of their backs, their lips shut and chins up. The sun’s light filtered in behind them, through a massive set of windows carved into the rear wall, offering expansive views of Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the Great who appointed the Ptolemies – a Greek royal family – the next rulers of Egypt shortly before he succumbed to fever while on a military campaign in Babylon. A wind kicked up and swooped into the room, threatening to stir the primly styled tresses of the court appointees. It was summer and the Etesian winds of the north, gathering the coolness of the Mediterranean before rolling headlong into Alexandria, were most welcomed.

Ptolemy II entered the room, wrapped in lustrous sheets of silk with fine stitching befitting a king. His chestnut locks – cut short and combed forward, dressed in a bowl shape – boasted a smattering of venerable white hairs that made him seem wiser than his years.

“Speak of the animals which we have secured, and which have yet to arrive,” Ptolemy said, tucking his robes neatly beneath him as he sat in his throne, carved from cedar wood and upholstered in a rich Tyrian purple fabric.

“Yes, king,” replied Acacius, the Chief Zookeeper, stepping forward, his hands daintily folded at chest height. “Your zoo currently holds two lions, two leopards, two panthers, two antelopes, two giraffes, two black rhinoceroses and one ostrich.”

“A single ostrich?” Ptolemy asked, arching one brow. “Just last week I saw two.”

“Yes, sir, your memory serves you well,” Acacius said, anxiously rolling his hands around one another. “Yesterday eve the ostriches engaged in a vicious quarrel and one tore the others head right off,” he explained with a nervous giggle. “Your men are already hunting for a replacement.”

“Fine,” Ptolemy said, throwing one hand carelessly to the air. “Continue.”

“Yes, king. Two brown bears from Syria have been trapped and are currently en route. They are passing through Judea now and should be arriving in a matter of days, well before the festival of Dionysus in which they shall process.”

“Very well,” Ptolemy said. Acacius bowed his head and tiptoed backwards to rejoin the line.

“Kleitos, what have you to report?” Ptolemy asked. The king’s Chief of Education stepped forward and reported on the status of the famed Library of Alexandria and the men studying in its chambers. He updated the king on the progress being made by its prized scholars who descended upon the city from all reaches of the Ptolemaic Kingdom – Italia, Illyricum, Cappadocia and beyond. Some scribbled furiously upon scrolls, others made observations in the zoological or botanical gardens, while others caught glimpses of the cosmos in the astrological observatory. There were even those who hovered over corpses in the anatomical study, moving organs this way and that in their attempt to deconstruct the human body and uncover its plagues. Each scholar was lured by the king’s offer of a tax-free, want-free life and, in this way, Alexandria would become a city of intellectual greatness.

Next spoke the Chief Huntsman, the Chief Physician, and so on until Ptolemy’s ears became full.

“Before I send you on your way, gentleman, I have an order,” Ptolemy said. “Gather yourselves together and venture into the Jewish quarter. Seek out seventy Jewish elders, the most learned you can find, and bring them here with their sacred Torah in hand. I will greet them at first light tomorrow before the library doors.”

The following morning, when first light broke, Ptolemy opened the doors to Alexandria’s great library and found seventy white-haired, bearded Jewish men before him, each wrapped in beige linen robes with tassels pegged to the corners of their garments, and each clutching dear a copy of the Torah.

“Dear men, you shall each be escorted to a private chamber in the library,” Ptolemy said before swiftly turning his back and walking down the black and white checkered entry hall from which he came. A slight murmur was raised, quickly quieted as the king’s men hustled the Jewish elders into the library, between a row of thick columns whose tops were carved to depict the face of Ptolemy I, who oversaw the completion of the great structure, his head being cast four times on each pillar, creating a square capital. The corridor opened into a great room dotted with long, rectangular wooden tables where famous men were hunched – scientists, philosophers and poets all busily composing brilliant works. The outer walls were lined with simple doors with ornate metal knobs, each one being turned to allow entry of a single Jewish elder. Once the elders were inside their chambers, Ptolemy went to speak with each one individually.

Ptolemy opened the first chamber door. A heavily wrinkled man with rugged cheeks and wide open, unblinking eyes sat in front of a large roll of parchment and a writing pen. “Write for me the Torah of Moses, your teacher,” Ptolemy said. “Write it so the learned of the world can read it in Greek tongue, for Hebrew only your people comprehend. Do you understand your job?” Ptolemy asked.

“Yes, king,” the old man grumbled. “It shall be done,” he said.

And so Ptolemy went into each of the seventy chambers, in such a manner he addressed each of the seventy men, and in such a way he secured seventy copies of the Torah translated to Greek from Hebrew.

After all the translations had been completed and the Jewish elders returned to their quarter, Ptolemy called upon his team of highly reputed editors – a group of twelve men hand-picked by the king and paid a handsome stipend for living inside the library doors and devoting their lives to her needs. “Take these seventy scrolls and compare them, line by line and word for word, and report to me their discrepancies.”

The sun had come and gone countless times before the editors, huddled over the seventy manuscripts, finally raised their heads. And when they did, one exclaimed, “It is remarkable, Lord Ptolemy! There is not a word of difference among them!”

Ptolemy grinned broadly, knowing he had overseen something extraordinary. “This book shall be called the Septuagint,” he said, Greek for the translation of the seventy interpreters. And in this way, the Greek-speaking world was given a copy of the Hebrew Torah whose words spread to every end of the Ptolemaic Empire, and whose translation brought fame to Ptolemy and his great city of Alexandria.