The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice

by Noah Gordon

  Each morning before First Prayer a crowd of several hundred gathered in front of his house. They were beggars, mullahs, shepherds, merchants, poor and rich, men of every sort. The Prince of Physicians carried out his own prayer rug and worshiped with his admirers, then when he rode to the maristan they walked alongside his horse and sang of the Prophet and chanted verses from the Qu’ran.

  Several evenings a week pupils gathered at his house. Customarily there were medical readings. Every week for a quarter of a century al-Juzjani had read aloud from Ibn Sina’s works, most frequently from the famous Qānūn. Sometimes Rob was asked to read aloud from Ibn Sina’s book entitled Shifa. Then a lively discussion period would follow, a combination drinking party and clinical debate, often heated and sometimes hilarious but always illuminating.

  “How does the blood get to the fingers?” al-Juzjani might cry in despair, repeating a clerk’s question. “Do you forget Galen said the heart is a pump that sets the blood into motion?”

  “Ah!” Ibn Sina would interject. “And the wind sets a sailing ship into motion. But how does it find its way to Bahrain?”

  Frequently when Rob took his leave he was able to glimpse the eunuch Wasif standing hidden in the shadows near the door to the south tower. One evening Rob slipped away and went to the field behind the wall of Ibn Sina’s estate. He wasn’t surprised to find Karim’s gray Arabian stallion tethered there, tossing his head impatiently.

  Walking back to his own unhidden horse, Rob studied the apartment atop the south tower. Through the window slits in the round stone wall the yellow light flickered and teased, and without envy or regret he recalled that Despina liked to make love by the light of six candles.

  Ibn Sina inducted Rob into mysteries. “There is within us a strange being—some call it the mind, others the soul—which has great effect on our bodies and our health. I first saw evidence of this as a young man in Bukhārā, when I was beginning to be interested in the subject that led me to write The Pulse. I had a patient, a youth of my own age called Achmed; his appetite had flagged and he had lost weight. His father, a wealthy merchant of that place, was distressed and begged for my help.

  “When I examined Achmed I could see nothing wrong. But as I tarried with him a strange thing occurred. My fingers were on the artery in his wrist while we chatted in friendly fashion about various towns in the area of Bukhārā. The pulse was slow and steady until I mentioned the village of Efsene, where I was born. Then there was such a tremolo in his wrist that I became frightened!

  “I knew that village well, and I began to mention various streets, to no great effect until I came to the Lane of the Eleventh Imam, whereupon his pulse quickened and danced again. I no longer knew all the families in that lane, but further questioning and prodding produced the information that on that street lived Ibn Razi, a worker in copper, and that he had three daughters, the eldest of whom was Ripka, very beautiful. When Achmed spoke of this female, in his wrist the fluttering reminded me of an injured bird.

  “I spoke to his father, saying that healing for him lay in marriage with this Ripka. It was arranged and came to pass. Shortly thereafter, Achmed’s appetite returned. When last I saw him, some years past, he was a fat and contented man.

  “Galen tells us that the heart and all the arteries pulsate with the same rhythm, so that from one you can judge of all, and that a slow and regular pulse signifies good health. But since Achmed, I have found that the pulse also may be used to determine the state of a patient’s agitation or peace of mind. I have done so many times, and the pulse has proven to be The Messenger Who Never Lies.”

  So Rob learned that, in addition to the gift that allowed him to gauge vitality, he could monitor the pulse to garner information about the patient’s health and mood. There was ample opportunity to practice. Desperate people flocked to the Prince of Physicians seeking miracle cures. Rich or poor, they were treated the same, but only a few could be accepted as patients by Ibn Sina and Rob, and most were turned over to other physicians.

  Much of Ibn Sina’s clinical practice consisted of the Shah and valued members of Alā’s entourage. Thus one morning Rob was dispatched to the House of Paradise by the Master, who informed him that Siddha, the wife of the Indian swordmaker Dhan Vangalil, was ill with a colic.

  As translator Rob sought out the services of Alā’s personal mahout, the Indian named Harsha. Siddha proved to be a pleasant, round-faced woman with graying hair. The Vangalil family worshiped Buddha, so the prohibition of aurat did not apply and Rob could palpate her stomach without worrying about being denounced to the mullahs. After examining her at length he determined that her problem was one of diet, for Harsha told him that neither the smith’s family nor any of the mahouts was furnished with a sufficient supply of cumin, turmeric, or peppers, spices to which they had been accustomed all their lives, and on which their digestions were dependent.

  Rob set the matter right by personally seeing to the distribution of the spices. He had already won the regard of some of the mahouts by tending to the battle wounds of their elephants, and now he won the gratitude of the Vangalils as well.

  He brought Mary and Rob J. to visit them, hoping that the mutual problems of people transplanted into Persia would serve as a basis for friendship. Alas, the sympathetic spark that had ignited immediately between Fara and Mary didn’t reappear. The two women eyed one another uncomfortably with rigid politeness, Mary trying not to stare at the round black kumkum painted in the middle of Siddha’s forehead. Rob didn’t bring his family to visit the Vangalils again.

  But he returned to them alone, fascinated by what Dhan Vangalil could accomplish with steel.

  Over a shallow hole in the ground Dhan had constructed a smelting furnace, a clay wall surrounded by a thicker outer wall of rock and mud, the whole girdled with bands of sapling. It stood the height of a man’s shoulders and a pace wide, tapering to a slightly narrower diameter at the top to concentrate the heat and reinforce the walls against collapse.

  In this oven Dhan made wrought iron by burning alternating layers of charcoal and Persian ore, pea to nut size. Around the oven a shallow trench had been dug. Sitting on the outer lip with his feet in the trench, he operated bellows made from the hide of a whole goat, forcing precisely controlled amounts of air into the glowing mass. Above the hottest part of the fire, ore was reduced to bits of iron like drops of metal rain. They settled through the furnace and collected at the bottom in a blob-like mixture of charcoal, slag, and iron, called the bloom.

  Dhan had sealed a removal hole with clay that he now broke away so he could drag out the bloom, which was refined by strong hammering requiring many reheatings in his forge. Most of the iron in the ore went into slag and waste, but that which was reduced made a very good grade of wrought iron.

  But it was soft, he explained to Rob through Harsha. The bars of Indian steel, carried from Kausambi by the elephants, were very hard. He melted several of these in a crucible and then quenched the fire. After cooling, the steel was extremely brittle and he shattered it and stacked it on pieces of the wrought iron.

  Now, sweating among his anvils, tongs, chisels, punches, and hammers, the skinny Indian displayed biceps like serpents as he wedded the soft and hard metals. He forge-welded multiple layers of iron and steel, hammering as if possessed, twisting and cutting, overlapping, folding the sheet and hammering again and again, mixing his metals like a potter wedging clay or a woman kneading bread.

  Watching him, Rob knew he could never learn the complexities, the variables needing subtle skills passed down long generations of Indian smiths; but he gained an understanding of the process through asking innumerable questions.

  Dhan made a scimitar and cured the weapon in soot dampened with a citron vinegar, resulting in an acid-etched, “watermarked” blade with a blue, smoky undertone. Fashioned out of the iron alone, it would have been soft and dull; made only from the hard Indian steel, it would have been brittle. But this sword took a fine edge that could cut a droppe
d thread in midair, and it was a supple weapon.

  The swords Alā had ordered Dhan to make weren’t meant for kings. They were unembellished soldiers’ arms, to be stockpiled against a future war in which superior scimitars might give Persia a needed advantage.

  “He will run out of the Indian steel before many more weeks,” Harsha observed.

  Yet Dhan offered to make Rob a dagger, out of gratitude for what the hakim had done for his family and the mahouts. Rob refused regretfully; the weapons were beautiful but he wanted no more to do with killing. But then he couldn’t resist opening his bag and showing Dhan a scalpel, a pair of bistouris, and two knives used for amputations, one blade curved and thin and the other large and serrated for cutting through bone.

  Dhan smiled broadly, showing the gaps of many missing teeth, and nodded his head.

  A week later, Dhan handed over instruments in patterned steel that would take the keenest edge and hold it like no other surgical tools Rob had ever seen.

  They would outlast his own life, he knew. It was a princely gift and called for a generous gift in return, but he was too overwhelmed to think of that for the moment. Dhan saw his enormous pleasure and basked in it. Unable to communicate with words, the two men embraced. Together they oiled the steel objects and wrapped them individually in rags, then Rob carried them off in a leather bag.

  Filled with delight, he was riding away from the House of Paradise when he met a returning hunting party led by the king. In his rough hunting clothes Alā looked exactly as he had when Rob had first glimpsed him, years before.

  He drew up his horse and bowed, hoping they would pass him by, but a moment later Farhad cantered up smartly.

  “He wishes you to approach.”

  The Captain of the Gates wheeled his mount and Rob followed him back to the Shah.

  “Ah, Dhimmi. You must ride with me for a time.” Alā signaled that the soldiers who accompanied him were to hang back, and he and Rob walked their animals toward the palace.

  “I have not rewarded your service to Persia.”

  Rob was surprised, having thought all awards for service during the Indian raids long since were past. Several officers had been promoted for valor and soldiers had been given purses. Karim had been praised so lavishly in public by the Shah that market gossip had him soon to be named to any number of exalted posts. Rob was content to have been overlooked, happy that the raids were now history.

  “I have it in mind to present you with another calaat, calling for a larger house and extensive grounds, an estate suitable for a royal entertainment.”

  “No calaat is necessary, Sire.” In a dry voice he thanked the Shah for his generosity. “My presence was a small way of repaying my enormous gratitude to you.”

  It would have been more graceful for him to speak of love for the monarch, but he could not and Alā didn’t seem to take his words to heart, in any case.

  “Nevertheless, you deserve reward.”

  “Then I ask my Shah to reward me by allowing me to stay in the small house in Yehuddiyyeh where I am comfortable and happy.”

  The Shah looked hard at him. Finally he nodded. “Leave me, Dhimmi.” He dug his heels into the white horse and the stallion sprang away. Behind, his escort hastened to gallop after him, and in a moment the horse soldiers were streaming past Rob with a pounding and a clatter.

  Thoughtfully, he turned the brown horse and made his way homeward again to show the patterned steel instruments to Mary.

  63

  A CLINIC IN IDHAJ

  That year winter came hard and early to Persia. One morning all the mountain peaks were white, and the next day huge chill winds swept a mixture of salt, sand, and snow into Ispahan. In the markets the merchants covered their goods with cloths and longed for spring. Bulky in anklelength sheepskin cadabis, they huddled over charcoal braziers and kept themselves warm with gossip about their king. Though much of the time they reacted to Alā’s exploits with a chuckle or a wry, resigned glance, the latest scandal brought a pinched gravity to many faces that was not a result of the raw winds.

  In the light of the Shah’s daily drinking and debauchery, the Imam Mirza-aboul Qandrasseh had sent his friend and chief aide, the mullah Musa Ibn Abbas, to reason with the king and remind him that strong drink was an abomination to Allah, forbidden by the Qu’ran.

  Alā had been drinking for hours when he received the Vizier’s delegate. He listened to Musa gravely. When he perceived the subject of the message and caught the careful admonishing tone, the Shah stepped down from his throne and approached the mullah.

  Disconcerted but not knowing how else to behave, Musa continued to speak. Presently, with no change of expression, the king had dribbled wine over the old man’s head, to the astonishment of all present—courtiers, servants, and slaves. Throughout the remainder of the lecture he had dripped strong drink all over Musa, wetting his beard and his clothing, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand, sending him back to Qandrasseh sodden and totally humiliated.

  It was a show of contempt for the holy men of Ispahan and was widely interpreted as proof that Qandrasseh’s time as Vizier was coming to an end. The mullahs had grown accustomed to the influence and privileges Qandrasseh had given them, and next morning in every mosque in the city dark and disturbing prophecies were heard concerning the future of Persia.

  Karim Harun came to consult with Ibn Sina and Rob about Alā.

  “He isn’t like that. He can be the most unselfish of companions, merry and lovable. You saw him in India, Dhimmi. He is the bravest of fighters and if he is ambitious, wanting to be a great Shahanshah, then it is because he is even more ambitious for Persia.”

  They listened to him silently.

  “I’ve tried to keep him from drinking,” Karim said. He looked miserably at his former teacher and his friend.

  Ibn Sina sighed. “He is most dangerous to others early in the morning, when he awakens with the sickness of yesterday’s wine in him. Give him senna tea then, to purge the poisons and take the ache from his head, and sprinkle ground Armenian stone in his food to rid him of melancholia. But nothing will protect him from himself. When he drinks you must stay out of his presence if you can.” He regarded Karim gravely. “You must also take care as you go about the city, for you are known as the Shah’s favorite and are generally regarded as the Qandrasseh’s rival. Now you have powerful enemies with a great stake in stopping your climb to power.”

  Rob caught Karim’s eye. “You must take care to lead a blameless life,” he said meaningfully, “for your enemies will pounce on any weakness.”

  He recalled the self-loathing he had felt when he had made the Master a cuckold. He knew Karim; despite his ambition and his love for the woman, Karim had a basic goodness and Rob could guess at the anguish he felt in betraying Ibn Sina.

  Karim nodded. As he took his leave he grasped Rob’s wrist and smiled. Rob smiled back; it was impossible not to respond. Karim still had his handsome charm, though it was no longer carefree. Rob saw great tension and restless uncertainty in Karim’s face, and he looked after his friend with pity.

  Little Rob’s blue eyes regarded the world fearlessly. He had begun to make crawling motions and his parents rejoiced when he learned to drink from a cup. At Ibn Sina’s suggestion Rob tried feeding him camel’s milk, which the Master said was the most healthful food for a child. It was strong-smelling and had yellowish lumps of butterfat but the little boy swallowed it hungrily. From then on, the woman Prisca no longer suckled him. Each morning Rob fetched camel’s milk from the Armenian market in a stone crock. The former wet nurse, always holding one of her own children, peered from her husband’s leather stall to watch for him every morning.

  “Master Dhimmi! Master Dhimmi! How is my little boy?” Prisca called, and she gave him a luminous smile each time he assured her that the child was fine.

  Because of the bitter air, patients in number came to the physicians with catarrh and aching bones and inflamed and swollen joints. Pliny the Yo
unger had written that to cure a cold the patient should kiss the hairy muzzle of a mouse, but Ibn Sina pronounced Pliny the Younger not fit to be read. He had his own favorite remedy against the affliction of phlegm and the rigors of rheumatism. He carefully instructed Rob to assemble two dirhams each of castoreum, galbanum of Ispahan, stinking asafetida, asafetida, celery seed, Syrian fenugreek, galbanum, caltrop, harmel seed, opopanax, rue gum, and kernel of pumpkin seed. The dry ingredients were pounded. The gums were steeped in oil for a night and then pounded, and over them was poured warm honey bereft of froth, the wet mixture then being kneaded with the dry ingredients and the resulting paste put into a glazed vessel.

  “The dose is one mithqal,” Ibn Sina said. “It is efficacious if God wishes.”

  Rob went to the elephant pens, where the mahouts were snuffling and coughing, dealing less than cheerfully with a season unlike the mild winters they had known in India. He visited them three days in a row and gave them fumitory and sagepenum and Ibn Sina’s paste, with results so indecisive he would have preferred to dose them with Barber’s Universal Specific. The elephants didn’t look splendid as they had in battle; now they were draped like tents, festooned with blankets in an attempt to keep them warm.

  Rob stood with Harsha and watched Zi, the Shah’s great bull elephant, cramming himself with hay.

  “My poor children,” Harsha said softly. “Once, before Buddha or Brahman or Vishnu or Shiva, the elephants were all-powerful and my people prayed to them. Now they are so much less than gods that they are captured and made to do our will.”

  Zi shivered as they watched, and Rob prescribed that the beasts be given buckets of warmed drinking water to heat them from within.

  Harsha was doubtful. “We have been working them and they labor well despite the cold.”

  But Rob had been learning about elephants in the House of Wisdom. “Do you know about Hannibal?”

  “No,” the mahout said.

  “A soldier, a great leader.”