The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  “Our beloved pope has decreed that we shall be active participants in the protection of the royal families of Europa. He has called you here today, in recognition of your medical accomplishments and your great learning, to enlist you in a holy war against the pestilence. Today you will all begin instruction, under my personal supervision, in the methods used to guard our Holy Father’s health. Thereafter you will all be sent as ambassadors to the royal houses of Europa and England. Your charge will be to see to the health of these families, in order that they may be entirely preserved. We will not allow the plague to disrupt alliances that have flourished for many years, nor will we allow it to negate those unions we have planned for the future.”

  It was a masterly performance, and Alejandro was as captivated by it as every other man in the room.

  “You will return immediately to your surgeries when I dismiss you to gather your equipment, for your travels will commence as soon as your training is complete. If any man here has a family in need of support, His Holiness will see to their needs in your absence. I will have your names now, which our scribe will take to the Holy Father.”

  Alejandro Canches knew that his real name might betray him immediately as the murderer of Bishop John of Aragon, and he knew that he had no choice but to abandon it. Sadly, he thought that he would miss it; it had served him well for all of his life, and he was proud to be known as Avram Canches’ son.

  When it was his turn, he looked directly at de Chauliac, focusing his gaze intently on the tall man’s piercing blue eyes, and said calmly, “Hernandez. I am Alejandro Hernandez.”

  “A Spaniard?” de Chauliac asked.

  “Oui, monsieur, that I am.”

  Alejandro and his bewildered colleagues were lavishly housed in the papal palace during their three days of intensive tutoring under de Chauliac’s watchful eye. Each one lived during that time in his own room with a private toilette, They were well fed and pampered in every way, for the pope wanted to incur their complete loyalty. De Chauliac kept the men entirely under his influence and tutelage, teaching them in detail his procedures for keeping the pope free of contagion, watching them carefully for those innate qualities needed to carry out the task for which they were being trained, qualities that could not be taught.

  Every day the medical ambassadors attended lectures in one of the sumptuous court chambers. De Chauliac would stand at a podium and speak for hours in his professorial voice, and Alejandro marveled that he never seemed to tire. He loves this work as much as I do, the pupil thought of the teacher.

  “You must consult with astrologers,” he said on the first day of instruction, “in order to know the most auspicious days for bathing, or going outside, or any of the other normal occurrences of daily life. Ordinary activities that your patients previously did with casual abandon must now be viewed with suspicion, for we simply do not know which activities have the potential for bringing the individual into contact with the plague. You will find that your royal patients, who are so accustomed to having their whims realized, will resist your instructions about when and where they may do certain things. Be firm and do not accept their challenges to your authority.”

  Alejandro tried to imagine himself telling a king what to do and when to do it, but he could not conjure up such an unlikely image. “And if they still resist?” he asked.

  “Bid them to remember that you have the power of Almighty God, bestowed upon you through His Holiness, and that you will use it, if necessary, to protect their health.”

  Alejandro went to bed that night feeling very small and confused. The most difficult part of this task, he thought, will be subduing the arrogant patients.

  On the second day de Chauliac explained his theories about contagion. “It is my firm belief based on observation that there are invisible humors and vapors in the air, and that these fumes are the means by which this plague is spread. The living victim pours these humors into the air when he breathes and disperses the evil contagion unseen, allowing the next victim no chance to escape. Therefore, the patients must be isolated. Confine them to their castles; do not allow commerce or travelers to enter without your inspection. And since one cannot see these vapors and humors as they are forming, it is the wisest course of action to allow absolutely no interaction with the outside world at all. My esteemed predecessor Henri de Mandeville was quite firm in his beliefs about contagion; he taught those who taught me to cleanse the hands before and after touching a patient, for it was his belief that these humors can be passed on the hands as well. In His Holiness’ library there are copies of de Mandeville’s texts on this matter; those who wish to do so may read them.”

  But this is my theory as well! Alejandro thought, excited to know that his beliefs about the importance of cleanliness were shared by other physicians. Again, he spoke out of turn.

  “I have seen, additionally, that ablution in wine will cause a wound to heal more quickly. There is some part of the wine that seems to attack the sepsis.”

  “Perhaps the sepsis becomes drunk, and can no longer navigate its way to the wound,” another man interjected, bringing a chorus of laughter from the other men in the group.

  Alejandro reddened, but de Chauliac raised his hand. The group fell silent very quickly. “One must never laugh at the observations of a colleague,” he said. “The wisest among us still cannot cure this pest. We are all quite equal in our ignorance.” He looked directly at Alejandro. “We will speak privately of this later.”

  All heads turned toward the young Jew, who simply nodded to his instructor, and then lowered his eyes. “Therefore,” de Chauliac continued, “though they will not acquiesce easily to this demand, you must instruct the court astrologers to tell them that every day is auspicious for bathing.…”

  That night Alejandro was summoned from his room by a papal guard and escorted to de Chauliac’s private apartment. He climbed several flights of stairs in a tall tower behind the guard, who was visibly slowed by the bulkiness of his garments and armor.

  He entered the anteroom cautiously. De Chauliac waved him inside.

  “Come, come,” he said, “and sit down.” He pointed to a softly cushioned chaise longue and said, “Enjoy some comfort.”

  Alejandro sat down timidly, settling carefully into the thick padding of the long chair. Gone was the pedagogue, the taskmaster, and in his place was a gracious and accommodating host. The transition was striking. “You are a different man in private, Dr. de Chauliac,” he said warily.

  De Chauliac offered a glass of wine in a heavy silver goblet, which was accepted by his guest. “And how do you find me different?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

  After a hearty gulp of wine Alejandro said, “You are a stern lecturer, and your presence is quite”—he struggled for the proper word—“commanding.”

  De Chauliac laughed cynically. “One must appear to be in command when teaching fools,” he said, “or they will not learn, and one’s efforts will be wasted. I detest imparting valuable knowledge to those who do not understand its worth.”

  Alejandro’s face took on a visible look of hurt. “Sir, I—” he began, wanting to protest.

  “I do not refer to you,” de Chauliac said quickly, “for you would not be here tonight were that my opinion of you. Rather, I speak of the rest of them. A bunch of dolts, I think. The plague seems to have carried off our very best and left us with idiots for physicians.” He got up from his chair and seated himself in one nearer to Alejandro. He leaned closer and seemed very excited. “But there is fire in your eyes, a love of learning, and my heart knows joy to see it.”

  “You do me too much honor, sir.”

  De Chauliac peered closely at him. “I think not,” he said. “I have watched you as you hear my lectures, and you cannot hide the mark of your intelligence. I have longed to talk with one who believes as I do about sepsis. I am glad you spoke today. You must tell me now how you came to your belief that wine helps wounds to heal.”

  Alejandro rel
axed; he understood that he was not discovered, but that de Chauliac had the same thirst for knowledge that he did. “I have tried many experiments using different liquids to wash the wound after surgeries,” he began, “and there are many that have no effect. A few, in fact, seem to delay the healing. But wine, even the vilest, most undrinkable wine, will always speed the healing. Or so I have observed. I first noticed this in my time at Montpellier—”

  “You read at Montpellier?”

  “Indeed,” Alejandro said.

  “I often lecture at Montpellier. When were you there? Perhaps you attended one of my lectures then.”

  “I was there …” he began, and then stopped himself; he could remember the year only as Jews counted time. He began to panic. How would he explain to de Chauliac that he didn’t remember the year?

  “I was there, uh, six years ago.”

  “In 1342.”

  “Yes.” His forehead began to feel warm and moist.

  “Ah, then perhaps we missed each other; I spent that year in Paris attending to the king. He suffers monstrously from gout. It is no surprise to me that he is thus afflicted. Despite his unaccountable slimness the man’s diet is sinfully rich. He ignored my pleas for moderation.” Raising his goblet with a flourish, he took a sip of wine. “His Majesty would have no other physician but me, so I was forced to give up my teaching for the duration of his illness. A pity we did not meet then. I think I would have remembered and enjoyed a notable student such as yourself.”

  No doubt I would remember you, as well, Alejandro thought. But enjoy …

  “Ah, well, ’tis no matter,” de Chauliac said. “You are here now. And how is it that a Spaniard comes to be in Avignon?”

  After a brief silence Alejandro said quietly, “It is the will of my family that I should be here.” He offered no embellishment.

  But de Chauliac asked nothing further about his personal life; he was far more eager to speak of other matters. “You say you arrived at this conclusion about wine simply by trying things over and over until you knew of their effects? How marvelously original! So often we wait for accidents to teach us, and even then we are slow to learn.…”

  Alejandro’s panic gradually subsided and he lost himself in the discussion. They spoke back and forth over wine and delicious fruits for the rest of the evening, sharing ideas and comparing theories about surgery, disease, and treatments. Worthy colleagues, they spoke long into the night, sharing their hopes for the discovery of cures. Alejandro left de Chauliac’s apartment with far more respect for his teacher than when he’d entered, and the sure knowledge that this was a man not to be trifled with.

  On the third day de Chauliac gave his students an unexpected surprise. They assembled in a large airy courtyard on the first floor of the papal palace, a pleasant area with many wonderful plantings. De Chauliac stood behind a long table draped with a heavy cloth, grinning magnificently. When the students were all gathered around the table, he removed the drape to reveal the body of a newly dead victim of plague, a man who might have been thirty years old when he died.

  Gasps of surprise went through the crowd of students, for it was clear that de Chauliac meant to dissect the body before them. “As you all must know, His Holiness prohibits the desecration of corpses,” he said.

  Alejandro stood silent, and thought to himself, If only you knew how well I know this.…

  “However,” de Chauliac continued, “because your need to learn is so urgent, and because of the great benefit to be derived from studying the body firsthand, he has given me permission to dissect this body. Not his blessing, mind you, although the victim was a Jew, and has no hope of salvation in any case.…”

  Alejandro somehow managed to maintain his composure and allowed his eyes to wander to the groin, where he saw the undisputable evidence of what de Chauliac had said.

  “And now,” de Chauliac said, “I will require assistance.” He looked at Alejandro. “Dr. Hernandez, perhaps you will help me?”

  He looked sadly at the body of the Jew, the neck grossly swollen, the fingers and toes black with accumulated blood, and thought it odd that he, the only other Jew present, should be the one to cut it. Perhaps this is a just punishment for my sins … he thought to himself sadly. Or perhaps it is just God’s will that I should be given this task, for who would be more tender with the body of a Jew than another Jew?

  He moved closer to de Chauliac and silently took up the hammer and chisel. “Good,” de Chauliac said. “You may make the entry.”

  He placed his hand on the chest to find the correct placement for the chisel. The body was not yet entirely cold; the man could not have died more than a few hours earlier. Good, he thought, the stench will not be so brutal. And as he had done in Cervere to the breast of Carlos Alderón, Alejandro placed the chisel carefully, then brought the hammer down on it. He heard the crack of the ribs, and set the tools aside. He took up the knife and made the proper cuts.

  “How skilled you are, Dr. Hernandez,” de Chauliac said as he watched Alejandro work. “One might even think you had done this before.”

  The seemingly casual comment stunned Alejandro. What can he mean? he wondered frantically. He was afraid to meet de Chauliac’s eyes, terrified of what he would find there: recognition, perhaps, from Montpellier; the knowledge of his real name and the circumstances of his flight; the taunting look of one who watches a man perform what might be his last work in freedom. As he spread the rib cage, Alejandro remained silent. Inside the chest there was a very large heart, and all present knew what that meant: that the dead Jew on the table before them had been in life a very good and kind man. With agonizing slowness Alejandro looked up and stared at his instructor.

  With no hint of emotion de Chauliac simply nodded and said, “Proceed.”

  Recipes for amulets and medications were copied by the pope’s scribes, and given to each physician along with an ample supply of the materials required for their concoction.

  Alejandro in turn copied what was given to him directly into his book, taking great care to be certain that everything he wrote was exactly as the scribes had written it first As he was finishing, de Chauliac came upon him unannounced, and he was caught with the book in his hands.

  “Once again I am impressed by your diligence, Dr. Hernandez. I have found it to be rare in the Spanish race.”

  Ah, if he but knew the truth … perhaps he does.…

  He closed the book quickly before de Chauliac could read what he had written, and said, “It has been my habit since I was a student to record what I am taught. Otherwise I am prone to forget that wisdom for which I must be the steward.”

  De Chauliac did not believe for a second that Alejandro would forget even the most minute detail of what he had been taught. This one cannot disguise his zeal. He is shrewd, and will not allow himself to fail.

  “One day perhaps we can share another repast and you will bless me with a look at this tome.”

  “When I return to Avignon, perhaps,” he said flatly. If I return to Avignon, he thought.

  On the morning of their departure he looked at himself in a mirror, and thought that if his mother and father were miraculously still alive, they would hardly know him in this clothing provided by de Chauliac. What will they do when they get here and find no trace of me? he wondered. He hadn’t even had the chance to change the sign on his surgery, which would now sit idle with its tools and equipment and promise of service, until he returned. Would they think he had come to harm, or perhaps that he had never reached Avignon at all? Will they think I have betrayed their trust? he thought bitterly.

  God curse this plague and these arrogant fools who think they can make it dance to their tunes. He scrutinized his own image more closely, hating the changes in himself, longing for the familiar flowing robes he had worn in Cervere. He had changed so much in such a short time! He was clean shaven and his hair was trimmed to just below his neck in the French style of the time; he wore tight breeches, wine-red in color, and soft le
ather boots, cuffed at the calf. Above his breeches was a long-sleeved tunic of fine linen in the soft green-blue of the Mediterranean Sea; it buttoned high up on his neck, for which he was grateful, since it would hide his scar, and its length was halfway between his hips and knees. Over all of that he wore a luxurious coat with voluminous sleeves and a wide lapel. It was made of rich wool in the same deep red of his breeches, and it fell well below his knees. And on his head sat a dark green wool hat, octagonal in shape, slouched stylishly to one side, a brightly colored feather poking upward a bit too jauntily for his liking. Unless the glass deceived, he was the very image of a modern French gentleman. But the most visible change was in his face. He was no longer the wide-eyed innocent he had been in Cervere. His amber eyes had a new hard look to them, a sad wisdom that he could not hide, even from himself.

  The trunk de Chauliac had provided for him contained three more such complete outfits. Enough, he thought, to last me the rest of my life, should I not grow portly.

  Stowed in that trunk with the finery was the clothing he had acquired while on his journey. The rough garments still had plenty of service in them, and he thought it likely that he would need them again soon. But he would ride with his own saddlebag, de Chauliac be damned if he did not like it, for therein he kept his fortune and his book, and he would not let them part from his side.

  That much about myself I will not change, he thought, and left his private room to join the others.

  The men assembled once again in the large room were noisily commenting to each other about the changes in their appearance when he arrived. How different is this scene from the one I beheld only a few days ago, he thought silently. Now these men look as if they actually belong in this room, for they are groomed and robed and appointed as well as the wealthiest of noblemen.

  De Chauliac made another grand entrance, positioning himself in front of his newly garbed protégés, and began to speak.