He almost didn't make it. On the way, Calvin and his traveling companion, Louis du Tillet, the friend who had put him up at An-goulême, were robbed of all of their money and a horse by one their servants. It was only by borrowing from another servant that they were able to make it across the border.
But Servetus—Servetus could not go back to Basel or Strasbourg, or to any of the other reform-minded cities in Switzerland even if he wanted to. He was too well known there. He would be discovered and punished for his former heresy. Spain, too, was out of the question.
But France, oddly enough, was not. There were large parts of France where the name Michel de Villenueve meant nothing. Even more in his favor was the rumor going around that the heretic Michael Servetus had starved to death in a castle dungeon. If he could just find someplace far enough from Paris for safety yet sophisticated enough to provide work for a scholar, and then keep his head down, he might be safe
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE SPRING of 1535, Michel de Villeneuve arrived in Lyon.
Over two hundred miles to the south of Paris, Lyon, the second-largest city in France, was a boomtown. It was the country's textile and silk center, dating from a monopoly granted by Louis XI, as well as France's banking and financial hub. When Francis needed to borrow (which was regularly), it was to Lyon that he came for letters of credit. Commerce was fed both by traffic coming up the Rhône from the Mediterranean and down from the Alps through Geneva, which lay just to the east. There were four major trade fairs held in the city each year, and hordes of foreigners flooded in to transact business.
Like every other boomtown, Lyon was a freewheeling city. People were coming and going all the time. Fortunes were made, and the poor slept in the streets. There were no guilds, no impediments to starting a business. All it took was capital.
The intellectual life in Lyon was vibrant and, by Parisian standards, unconstrained. The repression that had effectively closed down the capital was largely ignored here in the frenzy to make money. A number of the most important French poets came to Lyon to write. The city had more than its share of intellectuals sympathetic to both humanism and reform, but they didn't make a fuss about it and nobody bothered them.
For a scholar on the run under an assumed name, looking to establish a new identity, Lyon had the further advantage of being the only city in France outside of Paris that had its own independent printing and publishing industry. Rabelais himself worked as a physician there and had his major works published by Lyonnaise printers. By the time Servetus arrived, Lyon was home to over one hundred different publishing houses, some of which were among the most respected and famous in Europe.
One of these was the house of Trechsel, owned by the brothers Melchior and Gaspard Trechsel, who had inherited the business from their father. The Trechsels had been looking for some time for a scholar of sufficient ability to oversee a major project, a book that would cost a good deal of money to produce but, if done properly, could be relied upon to generate hefty sales and profits. It was to be in folio, one of those books that could only be read on a lectern, and was to take advantage of the explosion of curiosity about empirical science.
When Michel de Villeneuve walked in the door, the Trechsels realized that they might have their man. Villeneuve, twenty-three years old, fluent in at least five languages, Paris-trained in mathematics, Toulouse-trained in law, with an ego to match and no money, was hired instantly. They tried him out at first as a proofreader, but soon he was assigned to the big one—editing and updating the definitive version of Ptolemy's Geography.
PTOLEMY, BORN CLAUDIUS PTOLEMEIUS, was one of history s most shadowy scientific geniuses. He was probably a Greek who was born in Egypt at the end of the first century A.D., although it is also possible that he was an Egyptian who was born in Greece. As an adult, he lived and worked in Alexandria. While Ptolemy was not the greatest original thinker in history, he was arguably the most brilliant extrapolator. His ability to build on existing knowledge and take theory to a far more advanced and sophisticated level was astounding, all the more so because although he was primarily a mathematician, he applied his skills to a number of diverse scientific disciplines.
Ptolemy is also history's most ill-starred scientific theorist. He is best known for the creation of two major theoretic models, but in each, he made one grand incorrect assumption, and he is now better remembered for his mistakes than for the huge leap forward that each model represented in its own field. What was worse, in each case Ptolemy had a choice of two competing theories on which to base his model and both times chose the wrong one. All was not lost, however. In one case, Ptolemy's erroneous model turned out to be mathematically cleaner in calculating the very thing it was wrong about, and in the other, it was inadvertently responsible for one of history's greatest discoveries.
For his first construct, astronomy, Ptolemy had to choose, as a starting point, between the theories of two Greek astronomers—Aristarchus, who in the third century B.C. asserted that the earth revolved around the sun, or Hipparchus, who a century later postulated that the sun revolved around the earth. Ptolemy chose Hipparchus. In his historic work the Almagest, he devoted each of thirteen sections to a different astronomical concept. He developed his model with the earth as the center, followed outward in succession by the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, and the stars. Despite the blunder, Ptolemy's model achieved an incredible degree of accuracy through the brilliant use of epicycles, or circles upon circles. It compared the motions of the planets and could be used to predict their future positions. In addition, using his geocentric model, Ptolemy formulated the mathematics necessary to explain aberrations of planetary orbits and cor-rectly measured the moon's distance from earth at fifty-nine times the earth's radius.
The mathematics of the geocentric model were so elegant that the Almagest is still in use today, and Ptolemaic astronomy allowed scientists to compute the position of the stars and planets more accurately than did the Copernican model. For his accomplishments, Ptolemy has both a Mars crater and a lunar crater named for him.
Ptolemy's geographic model was even more groundbreaking. He was the first to project the spherical surface of the earth onto a flat plane (contrary to schoolchild fantasy, the idea that the world was round had been put forth about five hundred years before), and the first to standardize measurements so that the coordinates of every map, no matter the scale, bore the same relationship to one another.
When Ptolemy decided to take on geography, the concept of dividing the globe into latitudinal segments had already been widely accepted by those trying to make some sense of the lay of the land (and the water). Ptolemy, as always, took the concept exponentially further. He divided the earth's surface into a grid composed of latitude and longitude, then, taking Hipparchus's division of the earth into 360 equal parts, or “degrees,” he broke down each degree into partes minutae pri-mae (“minutes”) and partes minutae secundae (“seconds”). Ptolemy further enhanced his claim to the title of father of modern geography by calling the lines of latitude parallels and the lines of longitude meridians. In his Geography, Ptolemy provided the latitude and longitude of over eight thousand cities, rivers, mountains, and seacoasts. He changed the scale of his maps to provide greater detail for highly populated areas without changing the relative distance of one place from another. He oriented maps with north at the top.
All that remained to cement Ptolemy's immortality was to settle on the circumference of the earth so that all of these wonderful measurements would be correct. Again, there were two choices. The Greek mathematician Eratosthenes, also chief librarian of the stupendous library at Alexandria, had calculated that the earth was about 28,000 miles in circumference. Two other Greek mathematicians, Posidonius and Strabo, had decided some years later that the earth was only 18,000 miles around. Eratosthenes, as we now know, was a little high but pretty close. Posidonius and Strabo, on the other hand, were much too low, with an estimate that would shrink the dist
ance a mariner must travel across the oceans to the west to reach the Indies by thousands of miles.
Ptolemy, of course, chose the second estimate. He also believed that Asia stretched a good deal farther to the east than it actually did. The combination of a shrunken circumference and an elongated Asia left the impression that the distance a ship going west must traverse to reach the Orient was only about 5,000 miles, less than half of what it actually turned out to be. That misapprehension did not cause much of a stir at the time, but about fourteen hundred years later it did spark the interest of an obscure Genoese navigator named Christopher Columbus.
A couple of centuries after Ptolemy wrote it, the Geography disappeared and lay dormant, at least in Europe, for over a thousand years. Then, in the fourteenth century, ship captains began to chart their voyages, particularly shorelines and places where submerged rocks or other marine hazards might lie. These charts were called portolanos, which meant harbor guides. As ships ventured farther and farther afield, the resulting charts began to create a fuller geographical representation of the world on a larger scale. The picture that emerged was far different from the Church-approved geography drawn, at least in theory, directly from the Scriptures. Given a choice of adhering to theology and piling up on a shoal or believing in heresy and sailing about safely, the captains quickly—and quietly—chose the latter. Thus geography became the first scientific discipline where empiricism overwhelmed theology.
As for Ptolemy himself, he was rediscovered in the 1400s, and Latin translations of the Geography, varying widely in accuracy, began to appear. In addition, the translators took to supplementing second-century information with more contemporary ideas. By 1524, when a German humanist, Bilabald Pirkheimer, completed a translation that was published in Strasbourg the following year, its relationship to the original work was vague at best and riddled with inaccuracies. A Greek edition published in 1533 with a foreword by Erasmus, one of the last works the great humanist would produce before his death three years later, was not much better.
At a time of growing interest in empiricism, Ptolemy's popularity was increasing, and the newest member of the Trechsel editorial team was given the task of creating a better Ptolemy. This meant that Servetus (writing as Michael Villanovanus) was responsible not only for translating and correcting the text but also for composing entirely new sections to update the work.
Servetus chose to use the Pirkheimer edition as his base but compared it to the oldest Latin and Greek editions he could find in order create a more authentic book. He entitled his edition The Eight Books of the Account of Geography by Claudius Ptolemy of Alexandria, now for the first time edited according to the translation of Bilabald Pirkheimer, but compared to the Greek and early editions by Michael Villanovanus. This version was so extensive, so much of an improvement on what had gone before, that there are some who have claimed that Servetus was the father of comparative geography. Although this is probably an overstatement, the 1536 edition was both the most careful rendition available of Ptolemy's original conception and as exhaustive an ethnological treatise as had been done anywhere.
It was an enormous job, taking over two years. The book included fifty maps, all of which were accompanied by a statistical abstract and a commentary on the populace, climate, and industry of the area. Servetus carried over Pirkheimer's notations if he felt they were appropriate, but overwhelmingly the notes that made up the commentaries were his.
Servetus being Servetus (or Villanovanus), he could not resist expressing himself pointedly, provocatively, and with wit. The English, he noted, were brave, the Scots fearless, the Italians vulgar, and the Irish “rude, inhospitable, barbarous and cruel.” Opposite the map of Germany, he wrote, “Hungary produces cattle, Bavaria hogs, Franconia onions, turnips and licorice, Swabia harlots, Bohemia heretics, Bavaria again thieves, Helvetia hangmen and herdsmen, Westphalia liars and all Germany gluttons and drunkards.” He was a good deal more kind to France, except that he noted that “I have myself seen the King [Francis] touching many laboring under [scrofula, a particularly disgusting condition that causes tumors and ulcers to break out on the victim's neck], but I did not see that they were cured.” (Francis, who claimed to be able to cure scrofula by touch, was said to be miffed, and the comment was altered in the second edition.) Servetus was dismissive of his native Spain, where, of course, under his real name he was a wanted man.
About Palestine, the legendary land of milk and honey, Servetus retained Pirkheimer's general description but added a joke:
Know, however, most worthy reader, that it is mere boasting and untruth when so much excellence is ascribed to this land; the experience of merchants and others, travelers who have visited it, proving it to be inhospitable, barren, and altogether without amenity. Wherefore you may say that the land is promised, indeed, but it is of little promise when spoken of in everyday terms.
This passage, which he did not even really write, was to come back and haunt him later because, unfortunately, one of those who ascribed excellence to the Holy Land had been Moses.
THE GEOGRAPHY, AS EXTENSIVE as it was, was not Servetus's only project for the Trechsels. With his fluency in Latin and Greek, he was often called upon to read and correct medical texts. Among these was a French pharmaceutical guide entitled Pentapharmacuum Gallicum, written by Symphorien Champier, a physician of international renown and the founder of the medical faculty at Lyon.
Champier was an eccentric, made up of equal parts bravery, generosity, curiosity, humbuggery, and shameless self-promotion. He was chief medical officer to the duke of Lorraine, and in that capacity attended the wounded on the battlefield. Champier was the physician of choice among the local aristocracy, but he also visited the slums regularly to treat plague victims.
He was known by everyone in the city, and no major social function was complete without him. He was free with his opinions. When the town council proposed a tax on wheat, Champier, a humanist, quoted the classics and persuaded the officials to switch the tax to wine. Soon afterward, his home was ransacked by an outraged mob.
Medicine was another area of science where empiricism was beginning to undermine theology, but there remained a large number of doctors who continued to believe that God, medicine, and the stars were intertwined in a grand, holistic, astrological design. Champier, never shy, was one of the most forceful and prolific advocates of this position. His defense of Church-approved medicine against the advance of empiricism, including his Prognosticon perpetuum Astrologorum, Medicorum et Prophetarum (The Guide of the Astrologer, Physician and Prophet in their Prognostications or Forecasts), was extremely popular with high Church officials. Among his closest friends was Cardinal François de Tournon, one of the heads of the French Inquisition, to whom Champier dedicated a number of books.
Champier became another in the long line of older, celebrated men who found Servetus irresistible. He more or less adopted his new young editor (thirty-nine years his junior), appointing Servetus his personal secretary, and proceeding to introduce him to every important physician-astrologer, intellectual, and high Church official in Lyon. More than once, Tournon, a ferocious pursuer of heretics, sat across the table from Michel de Villeneuve and engaged in dinner conversation with one of the most notorious heretics of the decade.
Servetus's transformation was complete. There wasn't a whisper of heresy about him. Everyone who knew that Michel de Villeneuve was actually the arch-heretic Servetus had fled the country. He went to Mass and avoided ecclesiastical debate. For the first time, he had money in his pocket and the promise of success in a respected field outside of theology.
Servetus's gratitude for Champier's patronage went beyond the reinforcement of his alias. A genuine mutual respect and affection seems to have grown up between them. Through Champier, Servetus not only gained acceptance by a stratum of society to which he had not previously had access, but also was exposed to an area of learning outside theology in which his immense curiosity and thirst for knowledge might be
satisfied.
France, too, had calmed down. With most of the key reformers now in exile, the Protestant threat had largely receded, and for the most part, the Inquisition went back to burning books rather than people. With France safely Catholic once again, Francis turned his attention back to his old nemesis, Charles. He began to mobilize for war, which came in 1536, when he provoked Charles by invading Savoy, to which Charles responded by invading Provence.
With the king facing south, Servetus felt safe enough, on Champier's recommendation, to return to Paris. In 1536, Michael Servetus, once again under the name of Michel de Villeneuve, registered at the University of Paris, this time as a medical student
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MEDICAL SCHOOL at the University of Paris was lo-cated in the rue de la Bûcherie, one short block from the Seine in the Quartier Latin. (The Latin Quarter got its name from language, not ethnicity. In the university district, everyone spoke Latin, not French.) In order to apply for a baccalaureate in medicine, a student generally needed the same prerequisite five-year arts course that the Sorbonne demanded of its theology students. This requirement was waived for Michael Villanovanus who, with an impressive and demonstrable record of scholarship and publication, was deemed qualified to undertake the course of studies.
At the moment Servetus arrived for the fall 1536 term, the study of medicine was poised, after over a thousand years of intellectual tyranny, at the brink of the modern age. For more than a millennium, any information regarding the structure, function, or medical treatment of the human body had been strictly limited by the Church to the teachings of one man—the great second-century Roman physician Galen.
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