Chapter 156: The Doctor’s Duty
The moon was a sliver of silver in the ink-black Roman sky. Alex, wrapped in a simple, dark cloak, his face obscured by its hood, made his way through the now-quiet streets of the Subura. He was escorted by a single Praetorian, similarly disguised, a silent shadow moving two paces behind him. He had told the palace he was retiring for the night, a necessary lie to grant himself this moment of anonymity. He needed to see the progress of his great work for himself, not through the sanitized reports of his commanders, but with his own eyes.
The change in the district was already palpable. The main thoroughfare, once a river of mud and refuse, was now a wide, excavated trench, its sides neatly shored up with timber. Piles of newly quarried travertine and stacks of Celer's pre-cast concrete pipes lined the street, waiting to be laid. The air, while still thick with the smell of humanity, had lost some of its choking, foul edge. By day, this place was a hive of activity, a blend of legionary discipline and civilian labor. By night, it was a quiet construction site, guarded by sentries.
As Alex passed a large, canvas tent set back from the main trench, a structure far cleaner and more brightly lit than the surrounding buildings, a cry of pain cut through the night. It was a sharp, masculine sound, quickly stifled. Against his better judgment, drawn by a curiosity he couldn't suppress, Alex pushed aside the tent flap and looked inside.
The tent was an improvised medical station. It was brilliantly lit by several of the new, experimental gas lanterns from Vulcania, their steady blue-white flame casting stark shadows. The air inside smelled not of sickness and despair, but of boiled linen, wine vinegar, and the sharp, clean scent of carbolic soap—a simple antiseptic Alex had taught the legionary medics to make from coal tar. Neatly organized shelves held bandages, surgical tools, and jars of herbs.
In the center of this pocket of cleanliness and order, a man was bent over a legionary who lay on a cot, his hand a mangled, bloody mess. The man was not a legionary medic; he was older, with a focused, intellectual intensity in his eyes and a beard streaked with grey. He worked with a calm, deliberate precision, cleaning the wound with a confidence that spoke of immense experience.
Alex felt a jolt of recognition so strong it was like being struck. He knew that face. He had seen it in history books, in the sad, weary portraits of a genius. It was Galen of Pergamon, the most famous physician in the Roman world, the personal doctor to his own "father," Marcus Aurelius.
History recorded that Galen, disgusted by the unstable and anti-intellectual reign of the historical Commodus, had packed his bags and left Rome in 180 AD, not long after Marcus Aurelius's death. He should have been in Pergamon by now, dissecting apes and writing his medical treatises. Yet here he was, in the heart of the Subura, in the middle of the night, tending to the crushed hand of a common soldier.
Alex stepped fully into the tent, his Praetorian guard waiting discreetly outside. Galen looked up, his brow furrowed in annoyance at the interruption.
"If you are injured, wait your turn. If you are merely curious, get out. This is a place of healing, not a spectacle," the physician said, his voice clipped and sharp.
"I knew you in the palace," Alex said, his own voice low, hoping the man would not recognize him. "You attended the Divine Marcus. I had heard you were leaving the city."