Gary Corby: Death Ex Machina

“The master’s children,” the slave explained without being asked. I wondered if the doctor sold fertility potions.

The slave showed us into the front room. When the doctor arrived-his name was Melpon-he shook his head over the broken leg and told us to follow him. The slaves carried Phellis into another room where, in the middle, squatted a large, ominous-looking wooden table. We laid Phellis there.

Melpon peered closely at the break. He even used his hands to gently pull away the torn skin. Merely watching him turned my stomach.

Melpon looked up at us. “Why isn’t he screaming?” he said. “This man should be almost dead of the pain.”

“We fed him some extract of poppy,” Diotima told the doctor. “The same as I use on sacrifices.”

Melpon shrugged. “Well, you’re an untrained woman, but I suppose you know what you’re saying. What matters is that we have to save this leg.” Then he added harshly, “If we can.”

The doctor seemed a stressed sort of person. I supposed it was from having to deal with sick people all the time.

“The leg is attached to a man,” I pointed out.

He softened at my words. “It lies with the Gods,” he said. “Sometimes you do everything you can, but the flesh-eating sickness gets them anyway. I hate it when that happens. I’ve learned the hard way not to hope too much. How did this happen?”

“He fell from the god machine. The one at the theater. This man is an actor.”

“He used to be an actor. Now he’s a cripple.”

“You mean he won’t be able to walk again?” Diotima asked.

“He’ll be lucky if he keeps the leg,” the doctor said. “If he does, he’ll walk with a limp for the rest of his life. That’s the best I can offer.”

I was sure the harness had been sabotaged. Whoever had done it hadn’t only damaged the play, he’d ruined Phellis’s life.

The doctor bent over the unconscious Phellis. Diotima leaned over too.

Melpon glanced up at Diotima beside him. “You seem to be interested in medicine, young lady.”

“Yes,” Diotima said.

“Then I will show you something. Do you see here?” The doctor poked his finger inside Phellis’s leg. Diotima didn’t turn a hair; instead she watched with interest.

“The bone sheared away,” the doctor said. “Like a stick that breaks when you push from both ends. I suppose he fell feet first.”

“That’s right,” Diotima said. “How did you know?”

“The sharp end of the broken half pierced his skin. Here.” He pointed just above the knee. “Once the bone had come through the skin it was like a knife ripping through soft fabric. That’s why the wound’s so long. It wasn’t helped by the muscles pushing the bone along. The muscles are these bits here, here and here.” The doctor pointed out these parts to Diotima, who leaned closer.

The doctor said, “Often when that happens the patient bleeds to death and there’s nothing anyone can do. Your friend was lucky.”

The doctor had an interesting idea of what constituted luck.

“So we put the bone back in place?” Diotima asked.

“Yes, and then we must hope it heals. But there’s another problem that will stop us.”

He touched various parts of the inside of the leg. Diotima leaned closer.

“These muscles contract,” the doctor said. “They’ll stop us from putting the broken bone back where it should go.”

“Then we can’t save him?” Diotima said.

“Yes we can, or I would have said so. You don’t credit me with knowing my business. Take a good look at the table he’s lying on. It’s a healing machine. I had this specially constructed at enormous expense.”

The doctor busied himself with the machinery about his bench. It was a wide table, longer than a man, upon six sturdy legs; two at each end and two in the middle. The surface was planed smooth and oiled, which hadn’t prevented various dark stains of a depressing nature from seeping into the wood up and down the length of it. At the foot end of the healing machine were various ropes and chains. At the other end, above Phellis’s head, was a barrel round which was wound rope. The purpose of all these things I could not guess.

Melpon stood at the foot end. He tied one of the thick ropes that hung there about the broken leg, now padded. He made sure this was tight. At the other end he tied more rope-I recognized it now as the sort found on ships-looped under Phellis’s armpits and about his chest. This rope was wound about a barrel at the head end of the table.

“You,” Melpon pointed at me. “See that wheel near the patient’s head? Turn it on my command.”

I positioned myself. Melpon stood by the leg. He held thread in his hands.

“Turn,” he said.

I pulled on the wheel. It rotated the barrel, which wound the rope, which pulled the body of Phellis along the table.

The upper half, that is. His broken leg was tied to the other end.

Despite the poppy juice Phellis woke. His eyes rolled and he said, “What are you doing?”

Melpon said, “Harder.”

“No!” Phellis shouted.

The broken leg of Phellis was being stretched. One of the slaves who had carried him gagged.

“If you must throw up, do it outside,” Melpon ordered. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the bones under his hands.

Phellis begged for mercy.

“Harder!” the doctor ordered me.

I had to hope the doctor knew what he was doing. I pulled as hard as I could.

The broken shard of leg aligned with its other half.

“Hold it there!”

Melpon pushed the broken ends together. Phellis sobbed. Melpon ignored his patient’s moans.

Phellis fainted again.

Melpon said, “Thanks be to Apollo. At least now we can work in quiet.”

He pushed the distended tendons back in place. This he did with care, taking time about it.

The doctor said, “As long as his leg isn’t allowed to move, the two ends will stay joined. They might even heal, if he stays immobile for long enough, and if he’s lucky.”

“That’s why you have the machine,” I said.

“Yes.”

The doctor pushed the flaps of torn skin back over the wound. He took up a sewing needle and thread and then, to my astonishment, sewed the skin together as if he was a woman sewing clothes. Of all the sights I’d seen, this for some reason turned my stomach the most; even more than the shattered bone exposed.

Melpon gave the thread a final tug. Then he bandaged the lot.

Throughout this I strained at the wheel.

“Can I let go?” I asked.

“No!”

Melpon hurried to my end. He inspected the wheel. He placed a chock so that it could not turn. He took chains from the floor and anchored them to the wheel. He tested these with great care before he said, “Now you can let go.”

I did, and the wheel didn’t move. The chock and the chains held it in place. Melpon didn’t have the most inspiring manner, but I had to admit he knew his business.

“The two ends of bone must remain close together,” Melpon explained. “If they do, there’s a chance they will heal back together. But for that to happen they must be held in place. Only the machine can do that.”

“It’s like an instrument of torture,” I said, gazing at the ropes and pulleys.

“You’re not the first person to suggest it,” the doctor said. “Most of my patients say the same thing after they’ve been released.”

“So this machine has worked before?” I said.

“Of course.”

It was ironic that one machine had hurt Phellis so badly, and another was going to heal him. These machines seemed like strange things.

“How long must he stay there?” I asked. “A few days?”

“Oh, he’ll have to stay for the next month,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “The only way this man has any hope of walking again is if we keep him immobile. Sometimes the bones heal back together. Sometimes they don’t.” He shrugged. “As I said, it lies with the Gods, and the flesh-eating illness might still get him, and even if he does heal, I guarantee this leg will come out shorter than the other one. Of course, that’s assuming he has the money to pay for the machine.”