by M. K. Hume
‘Right. We’ll pack the wound with radish paste, bandage it and immobilise the arm,’ he told the others. ‘And then we wait. We’ll need to clean up this apartment, and then pray that Pincus finds Master Isaac and that Master Isaac agrees to leave his bed to help a Christian who is also a Byzantine noble. Christians and Jews rarely live amicably together.’
Master and apprentices completed all that could be done and then watched Cleoxenes in shifts. The wooden floor was hard, but cushions eased the discomfort.
Myrddion was so exhausted that he felt he could have slept on a bed of hot coals. His injured shoulder still ached when he used it, especially when he was tired, and this had been a particularly long day.
Then, when the dead of the night approached, and men’s souls most often relinquished their hold on life, Pincus returned with Isaac the Jew.
The shutters of the sleeping chamber were thrust open by a forceful arm, jerking Myrddion and Finn out of a deep sleep. Cadoc almost dropped the oil lamp in surprise, causing their shadows to dance on the wall in a crazy jig.
‘Light!’ a booming voice demanded. ‘I need more light so I can see what these idiots have done.’
Pincus looked apologetically at Myrddion over the large man’s shoulder before he scurried off into the dark corridor.
‘Who are you?’ a coarse voice snapped at Cadoc. ‘I’ve got better things to do in the middle of the night than clean up your messes.’
‘Now listen here, whoever you are,’ Cadoc began, striding pugnaciously towards the stranger.
‘Be calm, Cadoc. I believe we’re in the presence of Healer Isaac, of whom I have heard so much good report. You don’t need to defend me, so come close with the lamp. Our patient, Cleoxenes, is all that matters, not any misconceptions Healer Isaac might have. After all, he has come at my bidding in the middle of the night.’
Cadoc backed away from Isaac, but the line of his jaw was a clear warning that he wasn’t prepared to accept any nonsense from this stranger, no matter how skilled he was.
‘Sir, I am Myrddion Emrys of Segontium. I, too, am a healer. I was called this evening to treat an infection in the arm of Lord Cleoxenes because he was alarmed that he had become feverish and the wound was giving every indication of being poisoned. The envoy is required by the emperor to be part of a delegation to confront Attila in a few days, so he would not on any account permit me to remove his forearm. I promised to do whatever was necessary to ensure that he remains a part of the delegation. I have done everything that my knowledge and experience permits but fear it is not enough, so I instructed Lord Cleoxenes’s steward to seek you out.’
‘Brevity! That’s a virtue in Rome, where gibble-gabble passes for conversation. So, let me see the patient,’ Isaac responded gruffly. His voice rose to a bellow. ‘That is, if anyone ever brings me enough light to see by!’
On cue, Pincus and four servants entered the room. Little more than children, the boys were knuckling their sleepy eyes and trying not to yawn, but the oil lamps in their hands immediately brightened the sleeping chamber.
Myrddion had expected Healer Isaac to be a small, ascetic man with deft fingers and a learned manner. On the contrary, the man who was now clearly visible by the light of the lamps was proof that appearances could be deceiving, and Myrddion grinned at his foolish assumptions. This man looked, and spoke, like a blacksmith.
The Jew shambled over to the patient and removed the loose dressings without touching the wound. As he stared at Myrddion’s handiwork, the Celts stared in turn at a man who stood almost six feet in height. He was powerfully built, like a wrestler, especially across his wide shoulders, while his huge, square hands were strong and lightly dusted with black hair. His bushy black eyebrows almost met above a nose that was bulbous and flattened from several breaks along the bridge. He wore an equally lush beard and moustache, with streaks of yellowing grey extending from the corners of his wide lips. With relief, Myrddion saw that his flesh and clothing were scrupulously clean and the instruments that he ordered Finn to unpack from the bag he had brought with him glittered in the lamplight and were obviously well maintained.
The wound was now exposed to the light. Although the flesh was very swollen and red, Myrddion could see a slight improvement in the skin colour now that much of the poison had been drained away.
‘You’ve cut deeply. Why?’
Isaac had yet to touch the arm, other than unwrapping it, but Myrddion was certain that the healer’s narrow black eyes had evaluated every element of the younger man’s surgery.
‘When I lanced the tear, I removed any dying and ragged flesh and skin. As I sought the source of the infection, I found a large splinter of wood which I have kept for you to see. I was forced to drain the abscess and remove all the compromised flesh. Finn, show Master Isaac what was taken from Lord Cleoxenes’s arm.’
Isaac nodded absently, and carefully examined the three-inch-long piece of tapering wood. ‘How could a fragment this large be missed during the original treatment?’
Isaac’s palpable scorn shrivelled Myrddion’s resolve to remain calm, no matter how insulting the Jew might be. He felt his spine stiffen in response.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t treat the original wound, which occurred some seven days ago. Cleoxenes used the services of a noted Roman healer to clean and dress the wound. I suppose I was the envoy’s last resort when he realised it wasn’t healing.’
‘Where by all that’s holy is Segontium?’ Isaac demanded irrelevantly. The Jew obviously didn’t know how to be polite – or didn’t care. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Segontium is in Cymru, Master Isaac, in the isles of Britain. I have come to Rome seeking knowledge of our craft.’
‘Well, you won’t find too much of that in this pit of iniquity. What’s this stuff in the wound?’ He turned to face Cadoc. ‘Remove it, please.’ Cadoc complied resentfully.
‘I use a paste of radish to fight infection when I’m treating injuries on the battlefield. As the bone is exposed in this instance, I decided not to attempt to close the wound, as I believe it will need to be regularly drained.’
Isaac grumpily cleared his throat. ‘You’re not a complete novice, Myrddion of wherever Cymru or Britain might be. You’ve worked as a battlefield surgeon?’
‘Aye, in Cymru, and in other parts of Britain. I was also at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain.’
‘Hmpf! The casualties were rumoured to be enormous at that hellish place.’ With a fearsomely intelligent stare, Isaac ran his eyes over Myrddion from head to toe, until the Celt was convinced that the Jew saw him clearly for the first time. Then he turned back to the patient. ‘Ah, I can see what you’ve done now. It’s very workmanlike . . . a competent clean-up job.’
Myrddion realised that this was high praise indeed from the Jew, and thanked the older man.
‘I need boiling water and a small bowl. Do you have a mortar and pestle?’
‘Not here, master. Finn, please ask Pincus to boil more water and to comply with any other requests that Master Isaac might make. I always use boiled water and cleanse our instruments with fire, so Pincus is familiar with such demands.’
‘You don’t need to justify your methods to me, boy.’ Isaac stared fixedly at the cleansed wound now that Cadoc had removed the radish poultice. ‘This poultice would be effective if the wound was recent, but it lacks the power to fight such a nasty infection. I prefer a concoction made of seaweed and silver in injuries such as this. This patient was lucky that most of the infection was localized at the site of the foreign object. The abscess, while large, hasn’t compromised the bone. If it had, like it or not, Lord Cleoxenes would be minus the whole arm. But we’ll see! I’ve been wrong many times over the years.’
Finn returned with a wet mortar and pestle, followed by Pincus carrying a basin of steaming water and a small pottery bowl. Myrddion thanked the steward and promised to inform his master of all Pincus’s efforts on his behalf.
The Jew poured a little
hot water into the small bowl, then stripped off his outer clothing and rolled up his sleeves above the elbow. From his bag he took a narrow brush with very stiff bristles, a container of salt and a small bottle, and proceeded to scrub his hands in the water basin, using a handful of salt crystals on his skin and the brush on his nails. Myrddion watched every move avidly. Then Isaac asked Finn to pour the clear liquid in the bottle over his hands as he held them over the water bowl. Finally, taking pains to touch nothing, he permitted his hands to dry naturally.
‘Finn, in my pack you’ll find two jars. One has dried seaweed in it. Grind that in the mortar, and then pour it into the small bowl of hot water. Avoid touching the seaweed with your hands.’
‘Master, what was that liquid Finn poured over your hands?’ Myrddion knew he was interrupting, but he wanted to learn the Jew’s secrets.
‘Distilled and fermented root vegetable. That humble tuber has excellent cleansing properties and can be used in a wide range of poultices and potions. Are you done, Finn? Yes, that’s the consistency I want. Now, in a box in my bag, you’ll find a wooden spoon. Wash it thoroughly without touching the bowl at its end, dry it with clean cloth, and then take out one spoonful of the powder from the other jar. Do not touch it! Stir it into the seaweed mixture until it forms a stiff paste. Then bring the bowl to me and hold it. I don’t wish to touch either the container or anything else. Do you understand?’
Myrddion was fascinated by every move the Jew made, and stood across the battlefield table so he could have an unimpeded view. He watched as Isaac spread the concoction into the hole in Cleoxenes’s forearm, using the bowl of the spoon to pack the wound.
‘Now, Finn! I want you to tie down the patient’s arm. No matter how much discomfort he feels, the arm must be immobilised. Then cover the affected skin with a clean pad and tie it down, but loosely, mind. I want to view the injury every five hours in case I still need to remove the arm. I believe you should bind the patient to his bed in a comfortable position. By his deep sleep, I presume he’s been sedated with poppy? Good. I’m afraid the use of a stupor-inducing potion must continue for the next six hours at least. Bodies heal better when they are pain-free and immobilised. When he does wake, induce him to drink some clean water, as much as he needs, but with a small amount of the poppy liquid in a second cup. He should pass urine, and he and his bedding must be thoroughly washed each time he soils himself. Can you obey my instructions, Myrddion Emrys of Segontium?’
‘I can,’ Myrddion replied grimly. ‘And I will!’
‘I’ll return at dawn and we’ll see what we will see,’ the Jew murmured as he washed his hands thoroughly and repacked his supplies into his bag. ‘You’ve done well, all of you. It’s a pity the patient didn’t consult you initially.’
The praise caused Myrddion to flush to the roots of his hair with pleasure. ‘Thank you for your confidence in me, Master Isaac. We shall carry out your instructions carefully.’
Then Isaac the Jew laughed wryly and his thick-featured face was transformed until he seemed almost jolly. ‘While you’re at it, a few prayers wouldn’t hurt either.’ Then, as abruptly as he had entered, the master healer was gone. Suddenly, the room appeared larger, as the man’s powerful personality deserted it. The silence was oppressive without that passionate, demanding baritone voice, while the shadows that lurked in the corners deepened, almost as if some evil influence had been driven away by his presence – and had now returned.
For now, all that could be done for the patient was to watch and wait, for the night would be very long.
MYRDDION’S CHART OF THE ROUTE FROM ROME TO MANTUA
CHAPTER XIII
END GAME
With the shutters at the window pushed out to permit the early morning breeze to enter, Myrddion surveyed the dark city below.
Beauty, impossible layers of filth, grotesque contrasts and, over it all, a malaise that oozed out of the stones and gradually poisoned everyone who lived within its ancient streets. Rome! Harlot of the world! Myrddion recognised her nature, but was forced to admit that her charms were still seductive.
The half-light was kind to the city’s ageing features. The first bloody streaks of sunrise touched the highest points of the Capitoline, rouging its outline with rosy highlights. Long gauze veils of midnight blue, rimmed with gold, blurred the ugly edges as night and dawn struggled for dominance. A light mist had risen from the Tiber and loaned the tenements the illusion of beauty by softening the raw wood, sagging doors and rusting iron.
Myrddion sighed reflectively and drew in a deep breath, and the illusion was broken. The air was heavy with the smells of distant garbage and rotting food, the foul stink of the river and a taint compounded of thousands of sweating bodies, excrement and sickly perfume. The healer wanted to gag, but Segontium’s cleanly washed beaches were far away and the scent of wood smoke and burning leaves that drifted in from Mona belonged to a different time and place.
As on their first meeting, Isaac hit the shutters with the flat of his hand, sending them thudding back against the bedchamber walls. Finn and Cadoc stirred from their sleep on the floor, their cramped bodies stretching and flexing.
‘A new day, praise be to the one true God,’ Isaac boomed. ‘How’s our noble patient?’
He slung his healer’s kit onto the nearest table and approached the bed with an infectious grin and a bracing eagerness that was, under the circumstances, almost indecent.
‘Cleoxenes woke about an hour ago, and I encouraged him to . . . well, I bullied him actually . . . into drinking three goblets of cold water. I also gave him a small draught of poppy juice for pain relief. His kidneys voided involuntarily as soon as the poppy took effect, so his internal organs are still working effectively. He’s been bed-washed, his linen has been changed and his forehead has been bathed in ice water throughout the night. Although he’s been restless, the restraints have held, and his arm has remained immobile. His flesh is a little cooler to the touch, and that may be an encouraging sign.’
‘Have you exposed the wound?’
Myrddion laughed wryly. ‘No, master, I haven’t disturbed your handiwork, although my anxiety and curiosity is driving me crazy. But I appreciate that the less the injury is touched, the faster it will heal.’
Isaac chuckled through his vigorous beard like a cheery, ageing wrestler. ‘No, I’m not testing you, Myrddion Emrys of Segontium, but if I were you’d have passed the test. Has the patient spoken, or indicated his wishes in any way? Does he still plan to travel tomorrow?’
‘As he drank the water, Cleoxenes asked me how bad the infection was. I told him that his injury could still cost him his life and we might yet be forced to amputate the arm. He was adamant, my lord. He insists that he will do his duty with Pope Leo’s delegation and believes that the threat of Attila is far more deadly than any personal danger to himself. In my opinion, he won’t change his mind.’
‘A stubborn, arrogant Roman, huh?’
Myrddion’s head snapped up and his black eyes flashed with a rage that was visible. ‘Stubborn? Perhaps. Roman – by ancestry. But arrogant? Never!’ He fought to bring his anger back under control. ‘Cleoxenes is one of those rare and undervalued men whose personal code of honour marks him as an anachronism in a place as vicious as Rome. He is my friend and I, too, am therefore an anachronism, even if I’m a barbarian in your eyes. I’ll do what he wants because that is the duty of a healer and a friend. Please don’t play games with me, Isaac, for it’s beneath your talent and your dignitas.’
Myrddion walked over to the battlefield table and looked down at the source of this crisis in confidence, a loosely bandaged arm. Cleoxenes was so much more than a patient. In this spacious room in an opulent, decadent city, he was that rare thing: an honest man. ‘Let what happens, happen. Our gods will decide.’
‘I stand corrected, Myrddion. Would you like to unwrap the arm yourself?’
‘Aye!’
Myrddion washed his hands, copying Isaac’s use of salt, n
ail-brush and spirits. Cadoc was asked courteously to bring a bowl of warm water and Pincus, who had remained quietly in a corner, immediately slipped away, unasked, to fetch Myrddion’s requirements himself. Using forceps, Myrddion eased away the restraints and the loose bandaging to reveal a stained pad of light cotton over the long, open wound. The combined pus and blood that had soaked through the cloth indicated that the poisons were still oozing.
‘I’m encouraged by the continued leaking of the infection, even if we have to soak the dressing off the treated area.’
‘Yes,’ Isaac said. ‘I agree. The skin on his arm is a little cooler to the touch this morning, but we can’t assume that his troubles are over. You know that God demands some kind of payment for turning His eyes away from one whom He has chosen to join Him,’ he added, gently warning Myrddion that his friend’s treatment was still likely to end in tears.
Servants returned with more clean linen, a container of boiled water and another of tepid water. Then, excusing themselves, they padded away.
Once the linen pad had been soaked away from the wound, the healers bent over the forearm to check its condition.
‘More drainage?’ Myrddion asked, taking a sterilised scalpel from Cadoc and raising one eyebrow at Isaac. ‘And Finn can begin preparing the seaweed poultice, if you wish.’
‘Aye. But you must cut very carefully. We only want to trim the compromised flesh.’
Myrddion began, relieved to see that the large outpouring of pus was greatly reduced. The shallowest end of the gash, in the soft tissue of the forearm closest to the wrist and the little finger, seemed healthy, although it gaped.
‘The lower end of the wound can be stitched before an application of the seaweed,’ Isaac suggested. ‘I’ll handle the needlework, being an old fart and trained in knotting.’
Myrddion snorted. He had difficulty knowing how to interpret Isaac’s meaning when he was being flippant, so it was easier to remain silent when the healer made one of his more outrageous statements.