by Shirl Henke
She issued terse instructions to Paul. Soon he returned with the lengths of soft, strong linen. For a moment she considered having the servant assist her in her task, then dismissed him. If word of her tying a feverish man down, naked in his bed, ever reached her father… She shook her head and turned resolutely to her task.
Pulling Rigo's arms to the edge of the bed and securing his wrists to the side boards with linen roping was relatively simple. She studied his widespread arms. For all his sinewy muscles, his bone structure was as elegant as Benjamin's. His wrists were amazingly similar but marred with small white scars. Indeed his whole upper body attested to how often his martial occupation had cost him varying degrees of injury. For all his slimness, the man must have the constitution of one of those huge plow horses of the Flemings!
Having secured both arms, she debated about his legs. With a sigh, she decided no half measures would do. As if to confirm her decision, he began to tug on the bindings at his wrists, then kick. The coverlet quickly went flying from the bed, revealing the length of his body to her eyes. Miriam had never seen a naked man before—never a live one! Somehow viewing the dissected, dehydrated cadavers in the Padua anatomy lectures had not prepared her for this sight.
This man was most definitely alive! His long legs thrashed and his narrow hips bucked as he tried to free his arms. Quickly she ensnared and secured one ankle, then she raced around the bed and did likewise with the second one. If only the roping held! She reached down to the floor and retrieved the coverlet. Fevers must be sweated out. All conventional medical wisdom agreed on that. She placed the heavy brocade fabric with its fleece lining over his body, trying in vain not to let her eyes stray as she did so.
Like the cadavers in anatomy class, he was uncircumcised. Of course, except for a few small Jewish boys she had treated, Miriam had never seen a circumcised phallus. Rigo de Las Cases was certainly no boy!
Even unconscious and wracked with fever he exuded a raw male vitality that made her exceedingly uncomfortable. She ascribed it to his lower-class Spanish breeding. Yet he spoke Provencal fluently. Benjamin had said he had books among his belongings. Surely no rude mercenary would be lettered. Then she was forced to grimace at her own prejudices. Did not most of the men she knew assume that she and all other mere females were incapable of reading books, much less comprehending the knowledge they contained?
Miriam walked to the window and drew it closed against the dank night vapors, then pulled the heavy velvet draperies closed tightly. In spite of the mild autumn air, she should probably have a fire lit in the fireplace to heat the room. Still, in the few cases when she had followed the instructions of her professor, Miriam had been less than satisfied with the results. But she had seldom treated fevers, except for those of women after difficult births, never one of a man with a battle injury.
Benjamin opened the door and stood silently for a moment, observing the way Miriam stared intently at his brother. He found her preoccupation oddly unsettling. Then he broke into her reverie. “Paul said you asked for linen roping. Is Navaro thrashing with fever?”
Miriam turned quickly, relieved beyond measure to have him make the decisions about this troublesome man. “Yes. He burns. I have tied him lest he open more of my fine embroidery,” she said tightly.
Benjamin raised one golden eyebrow. “Embroidery?”
“His words. To say he was not pleased to have a woman as physician would be an understatement,” she replied with asperity.
Benjamin grimaced. “He was raised by Spanish Christians, scarce the most tolerant of folk.”
“He was less than overjoyed to find his father's family were Jews.”
“Uncle Isaac warned me that his upbringing might make our reunion difficult.”
“Difficult! The man is impossible. If it is as you say and the Tainos are gentle souls, then he takes none of his mother's blood but for his coloring. I know not from whence his disposition comes, except that he has been a Spanish soldier.”
“As was my father.” He appeared to consider for a moment as he twined his fingers in her soft brown hair. “Of course, my mother has remarked on his obduracy from time to time. Come, let us see how our patient fares.”
He walked to the bed and lowered the covers. “The room is stifling and he is already too warm.”
“But we were taught—”
“Did you do as you were taught when you sewed up the comtesse?” he asked shrewdly. “I have never seen a feverish patient helped by sweating. Oh, some live, but in spite of the treatment, not because of it.”
“What would you suggest then, Doctor? Using the Theory of Opposites and applying cold to freeze out the fever?” she asked, half-scoffing, half-curious, for such was never done.
“Back on Española, the Tainos treat fevers with herbs we do not have here, but perhaps more importantly, they bathe the patient with cool cloths all over his body, much as you have bathed his wound.”
“With aloe and camphor?” she asked curiously.
“The natives do use a form of aloe plant, but I think tis the cool water that aids breaking the fever. I fear to give him more of the opiate while he is so hot and weak. You did well to tie him,” he added as Rigo thrashed and rolled his head in feverish frenzy.
Miriam felt her cheeks heat as if she, too, were afflicted with fever, but Benjamin, was preoccupied with his brother and seemed not to notice. When he asked her to send for cool clean water and more fresh linen, she did as she was bid, glad for a moment at least to be quit of the sick room and its disturbing patient.
Isaac came to check on their progress as they laid cool wet cloths across Rigo's sweat-soaked body. If he was scandalized that Miriam helped Benjamin with the task, he said nothing. She prayed he would remain as silent on the matter when he spoke to Judah.
Just after dark her father sent a runner inquiring when she would return home. As she shared a simple evening meal of roast lamb with Ruth and Isaac, she penned a message for the boy to give Judah, assuring him she was well and needed to assist Benjamin, lest he overtax himself. She added a postscript. The Sabbath began at sundown on the morrow. She would, of course, return home to observe it with him, leaving Benjamin to tend his brother unaided until sundown Saturday. She must take her turn now to give what respite she could.
“There, that should soothe Father,” she said as she signed the missive and handed it to the runner.
Isaac smiled at her as he wiped his hands and pushed himself away from the table. “Your father is only concerned with your safety. That is why he sent the inquiry.”
She sighed and picked at the juicy slices of meat on her plate. “Father is very over protective, Uncle Isaac.” Although he was not her uncle by blood, Miriam always felt warmed by Isaac's concern. It was a term of sincere affection to call him uncle and the gentle Ruth aunt.
“And well he should be. You are his only child and he has already allowed you to journey to Padua to attend the university, then to practice medicine. Tis a dangerous and unconventional life for a young woman,” Ruth said as she gazed at Miriam with troubled brown eyes. “Judah and Isaac and I will all be most happy when you and Benjamin are wed. Perhaps a child or two will distract you from your medical obsession—at least for a while,” she added with a smile.
“Has that young fool come to his senses about returning to Española yet?” Isaac asked.
Miriam felt suddenly trapped. She loved these people as her own family and knew they meant well. “Not exactly. That is one reason for not holding the formal betrothal feast. Benjamin is adamant about living near his family in the Indies and treating the Taino people and the poorer settlers in the back country where Aaron and Magdalena reside. I can understand his need to see his parents and brothers and sister after so long an absence, but...” She shrugged in helpless frustration.
“You do not want to live among wild Indians and Spaniards,” Ruth finished softly, reaching out one veined hand to pat Miriam's pale, smooth one in reassurance.
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��The Indians are your least fear,” Isaac said sourly. “Tis the Spanish Christians and their Inquisitors you need fear. Aaron, like his father—may God rest his soul—is a converso. He and all his family are in perpetual danger of being accused of backsliding.”
‘They do not keep the Law of Moses, but I would,” Miriam said with quiet determination. “No Spaniard will ever force me to convert.”
“All the more reason not to go. Jews are strictly forbidden in all Spanish colonies. That young fool Benjamin does not understand the danger to you,” Isaac stormed.
“He was raised to observe the Christian faith, Isaac. Benjamin respects both traditions, as did his father and his grandfather before him,” Ruth remonstrated, feeling compelled to defend her favorite great-nephew.
“And look at their reward. My brother dead and his son living in that jungle,” he replied in disgust. “Better we send yon Spanish soldier to Española to console Aaron,” Isaac added, gesturing upstairs to where Rigo lay. “Leave Benjamin to live here in safety with Miriam.”
At the reference to Rigo, Miriam felt an odd fluttering of fear. “I could not agree more, Uncle Isaac, but Benjamin can be most stubborn. He wishes us to take his brother to Española. Perhaps if we do go, he will realize we do not belong—that he no longer belongs there,” she temporized, almost to herself.
Isaac gave a snort to indicate what he thought of that plan while Ruth rose and called for the serving girl to clear the table.
Miriam returned to relieve Benjamin, her feet growing more leaden with each step up the wide stone stairs. The dinner conversation had upset her greatly. Her father continued to live in his dream world, certain that Benjamin would never leave all the wealth, security and comfort of Marseilles to return to a Spaniard-infested jungle, but Miriam knew better.
Miriam and Benjamin had met in Padua nearly seven years ago. He had been an advanced student, brilliant and in favor with his professors, while she, as a female and a Jewess, suffered under a double hardship. She had been merely seventeen years old and living away from her father for the first time in her life. Benjamin had taken a lonely girl beneath his wing and guided her, sensing beneath her plain, shy exterior both intelligence and determination. She would always love him for that, as well as for his patience in waiting for her to complete her magisterium. But how long would such a man wait? He had traveled about Italy, learning new medical theories at various universities, studying at the side of practicing physicians of renown. He had even traveled with the fabled Peracelsus on part of that strange man's odyssey. Now he wanted to marry and return home.
Miriam did not deceive herself when she looked in the mirror. She saw a strong, angular face framed by unremarkable brown hair that tended to be overfine and limp. Her body was by half too thin and she was as tall as most men. To have a golden, handsome man like Benjamin Torres wish to wed her was more than she had a right to ever dare dream. He was gentle and kind, but above all, he respected her as a woman with a keen mind who had the right to employ it. Together they would practice medicine.
But where? Would those intolerant Spanish colonials in the Indies allow a woman such license? She knew his mother Magdalena was a healer among the Tainos and settlers of their jungle plantation or hato, as the natives called it. But Miriam would miss Marseilles and her father, and she would hate the hypocrisy of pretending to be a Christian, even if there were few spying priests in the interior.
Yet I am twenty-four years old and virgin. I would have love, have a family of my own. There seemed to be no answer. She sighed as she opened the door and entered the sick room. Benjamin was asleep in a high-backed wooden chair next to the bed. Golden whiskers on his chin glinted in the flickering candlelight. His eyes looked sunken in their sockets. He needed more rest. Then her gaze strayed unwillingly from Benjamin's beloved face to the dark stranger on the bed. Rigo was resting peacefully at the moment, but she knew the fever still had not broken, even though they had lowered it with Benjamin's strange Indian treatment.
Miriam walked quietly across the room and knelt beside Benjamin, touching his hand gently. “You must go downstairs and eat. Aunt Ruth has food waiting for you. Then into your own bed for real rest.”
Benjamin awakened to Miriam's earnest entreaty. He must have dozed off. “My stomach does begin to growl, nay, to roar.” He smiled at her and stifled a yawn.
“Go, please. I will watch your brother through the night and rest tomorrow before the Sabbath.” She tugged at his tunic sleeve until he stood up.
“You already sound like Aunt Ruth cajoling Uncle Isaac, and they have been married for fifty years!” When she would have shoved him on his way, he held her fast in his arms and tilted her chin up with one hand so she had to meet his eyes. “If we do not hurry we will not have fifty years together, Miriam.” He lowered his mouth and gave her a light kiss, then tried to deepen it, but she turned her head with a breathless laugh.
“That brief rest certainly restored your spirits.”
“When can we announce the betrothal?” he persisted, still not releasing her.
“I was just discussing the same thing with your aunt and uncle. They too want it to be soon, but...”
“But you are all three agreed we should not return to Española,” he said with frustration evident in his voice. “Miriam, tis my home, a paradise so rare, so beautiful it will rob you of breath.”
“So would the Spanish Inquisitors if they found me out,” she replied tartly.
“We do not live in Santo Domingo. My family's hato is far in the interior, isolated. There is not a priest in a hundred miles. Twisted jungle trails, steep mountains, tis safe as anywhere. Think you the Jews of Marseilles could not be expelled or worse if King Francois decided to turn his attention from his Italian adventures to Provence?”
“My family has lived here for hundreds of years,” she said stubbornly.
He dropped his arm and released her. “And mine lived in Spain for a thousand years. The old world holds nothing for us. Return with me to the Indies, Miriam.” With that he turned and quit the room, but his words echoed in her ears as she took a seat wearily beside the bed.
She had brought a medical treatise by Gasparo Torella on lues venerea, the awful pox that was transmitted sexually, and now raging across Europe. Looking across at Rigo she wondered if in all his travels with the Imperial Army he had contracted the dreaded disease.
Remembering his hard dark body lying naked on the bed, she knew he had not. Although his skin was marred by battle scars, it was otherwise smooth and healthy. Deciding it was best not to dwell on such mental images, Miriam began to read the Latin text.
Rigo awakened near the midnight hour, straining at his bindings and crying out for water. Miriam, who had been dozing herself, quickly rose and poured some in a goblet, then attempted to raise his head so he could swallow a few sips. She soon realized he was unaware of his surroundings, merely having feverish delusions. He murmured some low, unintelligible words in Castilian as she tried to get the water past his parched lips. Most of it ended up rolling down his chest. She set the goblet aside and took a piece of clean white linen, soaked it and then began to squeeze the moisture from it into his mouth. After a long, patient struggle, she finally succeeded in assuaging his thirst and he drifted back into total unconsciousness.
Miriam sat looking at his flushed skin. Should she bathe him with cool linens again?
Chapter Three
An hour later when he began to moan and strain against his bonds, she summoned her courage and prepared for the laborious and disturbing process of sponging him with cool, wet cloths. After she had removed the heavy coverlet, Miriam first carefully checked the drain Benjamin had set in the wound. So far no pus had formed, although the stitched area looked red and irritated. She fretted, for all her professors had believed in the “laudable pus” that healed wounds. Of course in many cases the patients died in spite of it.
“We have broken so many rules in treating you, Spaniard, what matters it?” s
he murmured to herself as she began to soak linens in a large copper basin and lay them across his chest, arms and legs. Then, trying not to look, she plopped one piece of wet linen on his lower body.
As she worked, refreshing the cloths, Rigo raved in Castilian. Miriam spoke the language poorly, but she had learned from Benjamin's diligent tutelage to understand it well enough. After a few moments she wished she did not.
“Mother—mother? Who were you? Royal princess, hah! You died and left me. Indians—dark-skinned savages, cowards...Bartolome says they offer their naked bellies to Spanish steel...cowards! I am no coward. I fight...I fought the boys, even the slavers. They did not take me away in chains. Father...damn you! Damn you for laying with an Indian whore...”
Miriam tried to soothe his rantings. He would pause, panting in exhaustion from time to time, then curse Aaron Torres. He relived his abuse from older soldiers when he joined the army, his first blooding in a gruesome battle in the freezing heights of the Pyrenees. All of this before he had been as old as she when she had gone to Padua! And I fancied myself brave just to live away from my father, she thought as she murmured low, soothing words to him, trying to calm his struggles.
In spite of whatever humiliations had been heaped upon him, he had risen through the ranks of the Imperial Army, in part because his foster brother, Bartolome, had taken the small child under his special care and tutored him. Now Miriam understood how Rigo had learned to read. His reckless bravery in battle combined with his literacy, a rare skill among soldiers, brought him to the attention of one of King Carlos' best generals, a Neapolitan named Pescara. Rigo's words about Pescara were fond and admiring. It seemed he sought other men to replace the father whom he never knew.
He also sought women. Miriam's cheeks burned as she listened to him relive his amorous encounters. She slipped a water-soaked linen between his teeth and nearly choked him in the midst of his shockingly lurid descriptions of bedding peasant wenches and highborn ladies. Suddenly he called out for a priest, once again reliving when he took the cannon shot and collapsed bleeding in Pescara's arms.