Chapter 3
The Quinta Essentia
December 8, 1615, Padua
Phillip stepped up to the dissection table in the public anatomical theater in the Palazzo Bo off the southwest courtyard at the University of Padua. He looked up at the six tiers of galleries, all of them packed, except for a little space either side of a man on the second tier. The observers and students around him were, quite naturally, not pushing up against Professor Giulio Casseri, holder of the chair of surgery at Padua.
The theater was expectant as Phillip bowed his head in honor of his mentor and then pulled back the draping to reveal the cadaver. There were cheers around the theater as students recognized the late and unlamented Professor Hieronymus Fabricius ab Aquapendente, Giulio’s former mentor, and for the last thirty years his most bitter rival, on the dissection table. Not that the rivalry had been Giulio’s fault. He could hardly be blamed for being a much better teacher, but Fabrictus, as Fabricius was known to Giulio’s most devoted admirers for his rigid opposition to innovation, had resented Giulio’s success and popularity and used all the power at his disposal to stifle Giulio’s career. It was therefore fitting that Giulio’s greatest apprentice would be the man to dissect his body.
Phillip held out a hand for the scalpel he would use to make the first incision…
“Phillip. Wake up!”
Phillip blinked a few times and looked around. He was no longer in the public anatomical theater, unfortunately. It had only been a dream, which was equally unfortunate. He was in his room in Giacomo Sedazzari’s house in Padua. He turned his attention to the person who’d woken him. “I was having the most beautiful dream, I was…”
“There’s no time for that,” Francesca Sedazzari said. “We need you to amuse the children.”
Phillip cocked an ear. There were only the faintest sounds of children playing. “They don’t sound so noisy.”
“That’s because I told them that if they were good you would read to them.” Francesca stood with her hands on her hips and stared expectantly at Phillip.
He knew what she was doing. She was trying to intimidate him, and as was usual, succeeding. He hauled himself off his bed and staggered over to the bookshelf. “How long do you want me to entertain them for?” he asked.
“The feast will be served at noon.”
Phillip looked outside to see if he could estimate the time. Unfortunately, and he was using that word a lot right now, it looked like it was barely after eight. That meant he had to read for four hours. Still, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, as celebrated by the extended Rovarini family, would be more than adequate compensation. He selected a number of books that he hoped would take at least four hours to read and headed for the door.
“I’ll see that refreshments are sent over soon,” Francesca called.
* * *
Phillip was mobbed by the children the moment he stepped into the front room. Eager hands relieved him of the books while equally eager, but smaller, hands took hold of his and led him away. It was almost a tradition now when the Rovarini families gathered that Phillip would read to the children to keep them out from underfoot while the womenfolk got on with preparing the meals and the men got everything else ready. Not that Phillip minded. It was a completely new experience for him to be so much a part of a family.
A space in Giacomo’s barn had been prepared. There was a lamp so Phillip had enough light to read, and the straw and hay around Phillip’s seat were festooned with children wrapped up in blankets to keep warm. Phillip sat down on an oversized blanket and wrapped it around himself before he picked up the first book. He snuggled down on his chair of straw and made himself comfortable. The sense of anticipation in the barn was almost palpable.
Phillip had been forced by children constantly complaining that they couldn’t hear to develop a speaking voice that could fill the barn. Once he’d mastered that he’d gone on to develop the ability to give identity and personality to the characters so the children could keep track of who was who. It wasn’t a quiet reading, because Phillip didn’t encourage silence. He changed his voice to suit the characters and changed his tempo to reflect events in the story. He interacted with the children, making them part of the experience, and they responded by hanging onto his every word. He loved the feeling it gave him. He imagined that this must be something like what Professor Casseri felt when he gave a lecture.
The end came as a bit of a shock to Phillip. He finished one book and automatically reached out for another, only to feel nothing but an empty space where the books should have been. He looked apologetically to the children, and realized they’d been joined by most of the adults. “Is it time for supper?” he asked.
Standing close to the main door, Francesca nodded.
Phillip glanced down at the plate of refreshments that he had been provided, and discovered it to be empty. He must have eaten everything without noticing, which was a shame, because Paola Rovarini’s panettone was something to be savored. He fought his way out of his blankets and got to his feet. “Well, children, it seems dinner is about to be served, so story time is over.”
There was a satisfying heartfelt sea of moans as the children got to their feet and packed up their blankets before walking off. Phillip was amongst the last to leave, with Francesca and her husband waiting for him at the door.
“Thank you for keeping then amused,” Francesca said as Phillip joined them.
“No, thank you for treating me as one of the family,” Phillip said. “I enjoy reading to them, and they certainly enjoy being read to.” He glanced back to check his lamp and blanket had been collected before stepping out into the cold with his landlady and her husband.
A few days later
The lecture on theoretical medicine was exploring how to treat a fever and Phillip had to hold onto his seat to prevent himself shooting to his feet and protesting loudly when Dr. Francesco Piazzono started to talk about the virtues of bloodletting.
“The objective is to remove only enough blood to induce syncope, at which point the…”
“…patient is almost dead,” Phillip muttered his own ending to the sentence. Unfortunately, his utterance fell into an untimely silence and was heard by most of the room. There was a collective, and noisy, intake of breath as the audience waited to see how Dr. Piazzono would react.
He reacted by singling out Phillip. “What was that you said, Signor Gribbleflotz?”
“Nothing, Dr. Piazzono,” he said, hoping that the pontificating Paduan hadn’t heard him.
“I’m sure I heard you say something while I was describing the proper way to bleed a patient, Signor Gribbleflotz.”
Phillip made eye contact with Dr. Piazzono. “All I said was that bloodletting to syncope can kill the patient.”
Dr. Piazzono folded his arms and glared at Phillip. “It is not the bloodletting that kills the patient, Signor Gribbleflotz. It is the gross imbalance of the humors that causes the blood to overheat that kills. One bleeds a feverish patient to purge their body of the feverous blood. Health will be restored as the liver produces new blood.”
Phillip shook his head. “I board with an animal doctor, and he never bleeds an animal, no matter how feverish it might be. And they always recover.” In truth some of them died, but Phillip knew that bleeding them wouldn’t have helped, so they didn’t really count.
“I am not impressed by whatever a common farrier may or may not do, Gribbleflotz. Man is more complex than a beast.”
Phillip wanted to protest that Giacomo Sedazzari was more than a common farrier, but to the left of Dr. Piazzono he caught his mentor’s eye. Professor Giulio Casseri’s almost undetectable shake of his head told Phillip to stop arguing. But he couldn’t resist one final salvo. “Paracelsus held that bloodletting drains the life essence from the patient, and that you should be treating the disease with drugs.”
Silence greeted that sally. Everyone turned to Dr. Piazzono to see how he would react. He reacted with quiet fury. He straightened, keeping his eyes on Phillip, and pointed towards the door. “Get out of my lecture theatre and never return.” It was growled out, leaving no one in any doubt that he was angry.
A faint nod from his mentor was enough for Phillip to grab his things and leave. He waited for Giulio in the courtyard just outside the Palazzo Bo. Unfortunately, Giulio walked out in the company of Dr. Piazzono. They were involved in a heated discussion that Phillip felt might be about him, so he kept his distance as he followed them. Eventually the two men separated and Phillip was able to approach Giulio.
Giulio turned at Phillip’s footfalls on the paved courtyard. “That was not very well done, Phillip.”
“But bloodletting is wrong,” Phillip protested. “You’ve said so yourself.”
“Maybe I have, and I thank you for not bringing that up during your little spat with Dr. Piazzono. But you shouldn’t have compared the actions of a physician to those of an animal doctor.”
“I bet Giacomo Sedazzari loses fewer patients than Dr. Piazzono,” Phillip protested.
“It is not a competition, Phillip,” Giulio said. “And it was very bad of you to bring Paracelsus into the discussion.”
“But he was right,” Phillip protested. “A physician should rid the body of the disease that causes the fever by treating it with the right drugs, not by draining it of blood.”
Phillip was so intent on defending himself that he didn’t notice another member of the teaching staff heading towards them until he realized Giulio was looking behind him. He turned and saw Professor Prospero Alpini, the University of Padua’s head botanist, and director of the Botanical Garden of Padua approaching.
“Prospero, just the person I wanted to talk to. Could you just wait a moment?” Giulio glanced back to Phillip. “How are you going with the specimens for my course on anatomy?”
“I’ve managed to secure the animals you wanted, but there aren’t enough executions scheduled.” Phillip smiled. “Still, it’s winter. We shouldn’t have to wait long.”
“That’s not a very nice attitude, Phillip,” Prospero said.
“Unfortunately though, it is very true,” Giulio said. “Where would we be without the poor who are willing to lend us their dead in return for a fitting burial?”
“Rather short of cadavers,” Prospero admitted. “I hear you’re going to present your next course on anatomy in the public anatomical theater. I never thought I’d see the day that you stepped foot into Fabricius’ anatomy theater.” He turned to Phillip. “What do you think?”
Phillip understood why Prospero was so surprised. It was a remarkable about-face on Giulio’s part. The public anatomical theater in the Palazzo Bo owed its very existence to Professor Fabricius, and in the twelve years since he took over the chair of surgery Giulio had refused to teach in what he considered his rival’s territory. Still, there was a perfectly rational explanation. “There’s been so much advance interest in Professor Casseri’s next anatomy course that there just isn’t enough room in his private theater for them all.”
Giulio smiled at Phillip. “I’ve reserved a place on the second tier with an excellent view for you.”
“Thank you, Professore,” Phillip said. And he was thankful, because he’d been worried that he might miss out.
“You’re not assisting?” Prospero asked.
“Not this time.” Giulio reached out and patted Phillip on the shoulder. “Because the course is being held on university grounds the rector has control over who get to assist.”
“Fabricius strikes again,” Prospero muttered. “He’s never going to give up on his feud with you, Giulio.”
“He’s old, Prospero. Now, I’ve finished the draft of my Tabulae Anatomicae, and I was wondering if you’d be so good as to have a look at it.”
“Of course I’d be happy to look at it for you,” Prospero said. “Shall we go to your office now?”
“Before you go, Professor Prospero,” Phillip interrupted. “Have you had a chance to try the evaporated essence of coffee I gave you?”
“Not yet, Phillip, but I will. I promise.”
Giulio turned to Phillip. “I won’t see you again until we prepare for my anatomy course, until then, do please try to keep out of trouble.”
“Trouble,” Phillip muttered to himself as he walked off. He didn’t get into trouble.
* * *
Prospero glanced back to check that Phillip was out of earshot before speaking. “What did he do this time?” he asked.
Giulio released a heavy sigh. “He spoke out during a lecture by Francesco.”
“Speaking out isn’t exactly discouraged,” Prospero pointed out.
“In Phillip’s case, it should be actively discouraged.”
“Oh dear,” Prospero sighed. Sometimes Phillip was his own worst enemy. “Do I want to know the details?”
Giulio shook his head. “Francesco was talking about the virtues of bloodletting, and Phillip countered with Paracelsus.”
Prospero winced. Francesco wasn’t a rabid Galenist, but he certainly wasn’t a great fan of Paracelsus. “Enough said. You do realize, Giulio, that if you do manage to see Phillip through the examinations, it’ll be considered amongst your greatest achievements.”
“He’s not that bad,” Giulio protested.
“No, of course not,” Prospero said. “But neither is he a William Harvey or a Giulio Cesare Casseri. Anyone could get men of their ability through the Padua examinations, but one such as Phillip, now that will take a truly great teacher.”
“It will be one in the eye for Hieronymus, won’t it?” A smile lit up Giulio’s face for a few seconds before he turned back to Prospero. “What’s the story with Phillip’s evaporated essence of coffee?”
Prospero smiled at the memory of Phillip’s enthusiasm when he brought it to him. “He found an untouched cup of coffee I left in the laboratory a few days ago and…”
Giulio waved a hand. “No need to continue. Being Phillip, he will have extracted the soluble essence of the coffee and turned it into a powder.”
“He didn’t simply reduce it to a powder,” Prospero said, a little of the outrage he felt entering his voice. “He went one better. He made it into pills.” Prospero shuddered. “One no longer has to suffer the ecstasy of a properly brewed cup of coffee to experience the benefits it can bring. No, all you have to do is take a pill.”
Giulio snorted. “Phillip still hasn’t developed a taste for coffee the way you learned to drink it in Cairo?”
“No he hasn’t. Now, about this book…”
Three months later, March 9, 1616, Padua
Things had been going so well. Between Giulio’s mentoring and the Sedazzari family’s acceptance of him, Phillip had felt that his goal was within sight. But now…
Phillip staggered into the house and collapsed into the first chair he came across. The noise he made attracted the attention of his landlady, who arrived in the room seconds after he landed in the chair.
“What’s happened?” Francesca Sedazzari asked as she entered the room.
Phillip looked up, the tears falling down his cheeks. “Giulio’s dead.”
“Your mentor at the university? What happened?” Francesca asked as she put her arms around Phillip.
“He died last night, of a fever.”
Phillip felt arms around him. He put his arms around Francesca, buried his face in her shoulder, and let the tears fall.
A few days later
Phillip sat in Giulio’s old office facing the new holder of the recently vacated chair of surgery. He was dressed in his best clothes, and had come with his portfolio of drawings and notes from the various medical lectures he had attended.
“I’m sorry, Signor Gribbleflotz, but any arrangement you had with my esteemed colleague was extinguished by his death,” Adrianus Spigelius said. “If you wish to study medicine at the University of Padua you must first demonstrate your academic credentials, and to date you have not done this.”
Phillip sighed. It wasn’t unheard of for someone to earn a doctorate without first earning a Baccalaureus Artium, but all the cases he’d heard of had something else going for them, such as family connections, or as in this case with Giulio, apprentice themselves to a suitable mentor. Unfortunately, Giulio had been his mentor. To prove his academic credentials Phillip was going to have to earn a Baccalaureus Artium. It would take him at least three years to learn the material needed to pass the exams, and in the meantime he wouldn’t have time to attend lectures on the things that really interested him, such as medical botany and iatrochemistry. He got to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Professor Spigelius.”
Adrianus stood also and walked Phillip to the door. “You’re still welcome to attend the open lectures,” he said.
“Thank you, Professor Spigelius, I will do that,” he said. Unfortunately, without his mentor’s support Phillip knew he would struggle to get into the lecture theaters for some of the more interesting courses. He’d certainly never have got into Giulio’s three-week course of anatomy back in January if the Professore hadn’t arranged a spot for him.
Phillip stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. He paused for a few moments to think, but he was distracted by a sound. He looked down the corridor and saw two men step out of the shadows. One of them was Dr. Piazzono, but the other was old Fabrictus himself—Hieronymus Fabricius. And judging by the sly smiles he and Dr. Piazzono were exchanging, they knew exactly what had happened in Professor Spigelius’ office. Phillip nodded his head in an informal bow to his mentor’s great rival and hurried off in the other direction.
* * *
Professor Prospero Alpini stood at the door to the courtyard and waited. The man he wanted to talk to had to pass through this way. Right on schedule Phillip Gribbleflotz entered the courtyard. Prospero left his doorway and moved to intercept him.
“Phillip, just the man I was looking for. How did your interview with the new chair of surgery go?”
Phillip grimaced and glanced back the way he’d come. “I think Professor Fabrictus gave Professor Spigelius orders that I was no longer to be admitted into any medical classes.”
“You should be careful about the names you use to describe important members of the faculty, Phillip,” Prospero said. Then he did an about face. “How did you work out the name?”
“Did you ever see the way he smiled when someone complimented Giulio?”
“Oh yes.” Prospero sniggered. “Yes I have, and yes, the nickname fits Hieronymus. Now, what are you planning to do with yourself?” he asked.
Phillip shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s clear that as long as Fabrictus is around no one of stature will take me on as their apprentice, but everything has happened so suddenly that I haven’t had time to think.”
As a member of the faculty, Prospero knew that Phillip faced an uphill task completing his medical training at Padua. It wasn’t just Hieronymus having it in for him as Giulio’s last apprentice. There was also the enmity of the many people Phillip had managed to offend with his loose tongue. Prospero studied the young man. His paranoia over Hieronymus could make it so much easier to carry out his plan.
“Why don’t we go to my office and talk about your options?” Prospero asked. He didn’t give Phillip a chance to decline the offer. Instead he put a hand behind his shoulder and steered him towards the exit he’d been waiting by.
* * *
It was a leisurely walk of little more than ten minutes from the university to Prospero’s office at the botanical gardens. Once there Prospero gently pushed Phillip toward some chairs. “Please, take a seat,” he said before slipping into his favorite chair. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Phillip hesitated, and Prospero smiled. “Don’t worry. Battista knows how you like it.”
“Thank you very much. I would like coffee, please.”
“Battista,” Prospero called out. “Coffee for me, and colored water for Phillip.” He turned back to Phillip. “Now, you’re probably wondering why I wanted to talk to you…”
Prospero was interrupted by the entry of a matronly woman bearing a tray. She set a cup and a plate with a piece of cake beside Phillip before doing the same for Prospero, except he only got cookies, and plain ones at that. “Why does he get pampepato and I don’t?” he demanded.
Battista ruffled Phillip’s hair. “He’s a growing boy, and you know it’s not good for you,” she said before leaving.
“Would you like the cake, Professore?”
Prospero turned back to see Phillip offering him his plate. He was tempted. In fact he was sorely tempted. Unfortunately, he knew that even though he might enjoy it while eating it, it would come back to haunt him later. It was better that he stuck to the plain cookies, which wouldn’t disagree with his stomach. “No, no,” he said, waving away the plate. “You have it.” He sighed again. “What did you do to deserve such favored treatment?” he asked. “Battista only serves her special pampepato to especially favored people.”
“It was nothing,” Phillip said. “One of her cousins had an ox with bad sores from a badly fitted harness. All we did was let it get flyblown and left the maggots to clean up the wound.”
Prospero realized that the “we” Phillip was talking about were him and the animal doctor he boarded with. “Yes, one does tend to forget that you sometimes help your landlord in his animal practice.” He smiled at Phillip. “That just makes you even more suitable as the replacement physician for the botanical expedition to Dalmatia that Michael Weitnauer is leading. Are you interested? I need an answer quickly, because they’re already in Venice.”
“But I’m not a qualified physician,” Phillip said.
“I know, but you are more than adequately qualified for the job, Phillip. The expedition doesn’t need a fully qualified doctor. It only needs someone capable of dealing with common complaints, and someone who can help Michael cataloging specimens. The fact you know a little about the care of livestock is a valuable extra. So, are you interested?”
“Could you tell me more about what will be expected of me?” Phillip asked.
* * *
Phillip stood in preparation to taking his leave. He and Prospero had hammered out the details and he had to make arrangements to leave Padua as soon as possible, so as not to delay any longer than necessary the already delayed expedition.
Prospero also stood. He looked at Phillip for a few seconds. “There is something I want you to take with you.” He pulled a folder from his bookshelf and laid it in Phillip’s hands.
Phillip opened the folder and quickly came to understand what it was he held. “But this is the manuscript for Professor Casseri’s last book, his Tabulae anatomicae,” he said. “I can’t take this.” He tried to give it back to Prospero.
Prospero refused to take it back. “But you must. Hieronymus is already looking for it. I expect he wants to include the plates in his own book on anatomy.”
Phillip froze. The sometimes bitter rivalry between his mentor and Hieronymus Fabricius had lasted over thirty years and Prospero obviously didn’t think that Fabricius was going to let the little matter of Giulio’s death get in the way of him carrying on the feud. He flipped open the folder again and leafed through the pages. “These are just proof copies of the plates,” he said. “Even if I take this, Professor Fabrictus will still have access to the plates.”
“But he won’t have access to the text, Phillip,” Prospero shook the manuscript. “This is the only copy of Guilio’s text. It will take Fabricius years to create a text to go with the plates.”
The implication was obvious to Phillip. Professor Fabricius was eighty-three years old and he might not have the years in which to write a new text. It would be something he could do to protect the memory of his mentor. “I’ll take it.” He slid the manuscript into the student’s satchel he always carried. “Thank you for thinking of me for a place on the expedition to Dalmatia, Professore.”
“You are a natural for the expedition, Phillip.”
May 1616, Near Lake Vrana, Dalmatia
The expedition was in a small village about twenty miles north northwest of Vodice, their port of entry, in the south of Dalmatia. The three teamsters responsible for the expedition’s pack animals were gathered around a table drinking and eating. Michael Weitnauer, the expedition leader and botanist, was checking his notes for today’s destination at another table, and Phillip was sitting on a log weaving together long-stemmed white flowers.
One of the teamsters had been watching Phillip for a while. He turned back to his companions. “That Gribbleflotz is such a waste of space. We should have a proper physician,” Gasparo Luzzatto said. “Not some failed medical student.”
“We did have one, until he broke a leg falling down the stairs in a brothel,” Leon said. “And be fair, Gasparo, Gribbleflotz seems competent enough. After all, he did get Francis through that bout of fever when we first landed at Vodice.”
“He was just lucky,” Gasparo said. “I mean, he didn’t even bleed Francis. What kind of physician doesn’t bleed a man when he’s feverish?”
“As the interested party here,” Francis Scocco said. “Might I suggest that Signor Gribbleflotz is the kind of physician who has his patient’s best interests at heart?”
“But everyone knows you have to bleed a man when he has a fever, how else can balance the humors?” Gasparo said.
Leon looked at Gasparo over his mug. “You seem to know a lot about bloodletting.”
“I have a booklet that tells all about how to do it,” Gasparo admitted. He turned to Francis. “You were lucky to recover from your fever, and it was no thanks to Gribbleflotz and his silly infusion of herbs.”
“Willow bark tea, actually,” Francis said. He grinned at the looks of disbelief on his companions’ faces and shrugged. “I asked him what he had given me.”
“My grandmother used to give us willow bark tea when we were ill when I was young,” Leon said.
“There you are then,” Gasparo said, a smile of victory on his face. “What kind of physician prescribes remedies your grandmother would give you?” He turned back to watch Phillip again. “Do any of you have any idea what he’s doing?”
“No,” Francis said. “Why don’t you walk over and ask him?”
“Not likely,” Gasparo said.
* * *
Phillip tried on one of the wreaths he’d made from some of the flowers he’d picked. It took a little adjustment before it felt comfortable. Then he threaded his arm through the rest of the wreaths he’d made and walked across to the other members of the expedition. He dropped a wreath on the table in front of each of the teamsters.
Gasparo looked up at him. “What is it?”
“It’s a wreath of insect repelling flowers. The locals use them and I thought we could copy them and wear these to keep the flies from bothering us.”
“Not likely,” Gasparo said as he tossed his wreath back towards Phillip. Leon and Francis followed suit.
Phillip hid a smile as picked up the unwanted wreaths. He didn’t think the time making the wreaths had been wasted because, if what he’d heard about the area they were exploring today was correct, they would soon be begging him for a wreath. With that to look forward to he walked over to the team’s botanist. “Hi, Michael, would you like a wreath of Tanacetum cinerariifolium?”
“I’d like that very much, thank you,” the team botanist said. He accepted the wreath from Phillip and put it on. “How do I look?” he asked.
Phillip reached over and twitched it around a little. “Probably at least as silly as I do,” he said.
Michael jerked his head towards the others. “I see none of the others wanted to wear one of your wreaths.”
“They’ll change their minds soon enough.”
“They’re teamsters, Phillip. You don’t really expect them to change their minds do you?”
“I do,” Phillip said. “In my experience, teamsters aren’t totally stupid, and according to the locals I talked to, the marsh area you want to explore has some nasty insects.” A small grin emerged on Phillip’s face.
Michael shook his head ruefully. “You’re all heart, Phillip.”
“I made wreaths for them. All they have to do is come and ask me for them. I won’t even say a word.”
“Yeah, right,” Michael snorted. “As if you’d ever be able to do that.” He gestured to the bunch of wreaths Phillip still had on his arm. “You appear to have gone a bit overboard making the wreaths…”
Phillip shook his head. “No. I’m such a nice guy that I made one each for the animals as well. There’s no reason they should have to put up with the flies if they don’t have to.”
A few hours later
Francis waved a hand at the flies buzzing around his head. They were persistent and annoying. Some of them also bit. He looked at the team of pack animals they were leading. Their tails were twitching regularly to stop the insects settling on their bodies, but they weren’t shaking their heads around anywhere near as much as they usually did. Maybe, he thought, the flowers set around their ears were actually keeping away the flies. He stared at them enviously for a few seconds before making a decision. He hurried to catch up with Leon, who was leading the team.
“Those flower wreaths Signor Gribbleflotz made seem to keep the flies from bothering the ponies,” he said.
“Yes,” Leon agreed.
“I was thinking…”
“That you might ask Signor Gribbleflotz if the offer of the flower wreaths still stands?”
“Yes,” Francis said.
“Get one for me while you’re at it,” Leon said. Francis responded with a savage glare, but Leon gestured to the string of pack ponies he was leading. “I can’t leave the ponies.”
Francis released a sigh as he conceded defeat. It looked like he would have to approach Signor Gribbleflotz to ask for a couple of wreaths. He trudged after Phillip and his donkey. Although why he’d insisted on having a donkey to carry his gear Francis couldn’t understand. Ponies were much easier to manage. A minute or two later he came up beside Phillip. “Signor Gribbleflotz, I was just wondering if the offer of the daisy wreaths still stands.”
Phillip responded by pulling three wreaths out of a sack on his donkey’s back and handing them to him. He didn’t say a word, but he did have an amused smile on his face. Francis thanked him and hurried back to Leon.
“Here you are,” he said as he handed a wreath to him.
Leon took the wreath and pulled it on immediately. “What did he say?” he asked as he adjusted the wreath.
“Nothing,” Francis said. “He just gave me three wreaths.”
“One for you, one for me, and one for Gasparo?”
“It looks that way. You wouldn’t want to take it to him, would you?”
Leon reached out and gently slapped the withers of the nearest pony. “Sorry, but I can’t leave the ponies.”
“That excuse is getting a bit old,” Francis muttered, much to Leon’s amusement. He glared at Leon’s smiling face and stomped off after Gasparo.
“Here, you’ll probably want this,” he said when he caught up with him.
Gasparo looked from Francis to the wreath of flowers in his hand. “Where did you get them?”
“I asked Signor Gribbleflotz for them.”
Gasparo looked from the wreath in his hands to the one around Francis’ head. “Do they work?”
Francis nodded. Since he’d put on his wreath he hadn’t been bothered by flies trying to land on his face. “It seems to.”
Gasparo plopped on his wreath. “Where do you suppose Signor Gribbleflotz learned the trick?”
“Didn’t he say the locals used the flowers to keep away insects?”
“Yes,” Gasparo agreed, “but have you seen any of the locals wearing bunches of flowers on their heads?”
Francis thought about it. “No.”
“So how did Signor Gribbleflotz know that wearing the flowers would work?”
Francis shrugged. “You could ask him,” he suggested.
Gasparo shook his head. “I’d look like a fool,” he protested.
* * *
Phillip hid a smile. A quirk of the terrain meant that he’d overheard Francis and Gasparo talking. The answer to Gasparo’s question was that he’d learned about the flower wreaths from some of the locals. The reason Gasparo and Francis hadn’t seen any of them wearing similar flower wreaths was because they hadn’t seen any of the locals working in areas where flies and other insects were that big a problem. Things were different for the expedition. They were looking for botanical specimens, and that meant they were entering areas the locals would normally avoid at this time of year, such as the marsh Michael was currently exploring, which seemed to be a breeding ground for all sorts of flying insects.
He looked around to see where Michael was. As usual the botanist had his head buried in amongst the grasses. He walked over to see if he could help.
Slap! “Bastard!”
“What’s the matter, Michael?” Phillip asked as he approached.
Michael held up his hand so Phillip could see the splat of blood on it. “An insect bit me.”
Slap! Slap! Michael looked at the new splats of dead insects on his hands with grim satisfaction before turning his attention back to Phillip. His eyes widened and he pointed an accusing finger at Phillip. “Why aren’t they biting you?” he demanded.
Phillip looked down at his hands. They were clear of insects and insect bites. As an experiment he moved his right hand towards the cloud of insects flying around the hand Michael was pointing at him. Rather than land on his hand they avoided it.
Michael had been watching with interest. “They must scent the flower essence on your hands from when you made the wreaths.”
“Let’s try something,” Phillip said. He reached up and snapped a flower head from the wreath of flowers around Michael’s head and grabbed Michael’s left hand.
“The right hand, please, Phillip,” Michael said as he pulled his left hand free and proffered his right hand to him.
Phillip held Michael’s right hand and firmly rubbed the flower head over the back of it. The results were astonishing. Almost immediately the insects abandoned that hand in favor of the other.
Michael grabbed the flower head from Phillip and rubbed it over the back of his left hand. Then he rubbed it around his neck.
Phillip felt something on his neck and slapped it. He didn’t bother confirming that it was a biting insect. Instead he retreated from the edge of the marsh to the relative safety of the track around the lake so he could rub a daisy on his exposed flesh. When he was finished he stared at the remains of the flower head in his hand. There had to be an easier way, and he made a note in his notebook to ask the next local they came across.
Later that day
Gasparo, Francis, Leon, and Michael were sitting at a table. Michael was carefully drawing a flower from a sample he had beside him while the others were relaxing over a mug of ale. The flower wreaths Phillip had made for them had wilted and now sat in the middle of the table. Off at another table they could see Phillip pounding away with a pestle and mortar.
Gasparo turned to Michael. “Do you know what Signor Gribbleflotz is doing?”
Michael glanced at Phillip. “It looks like he’s grinding something.”
Gasparo grimaced at Michael. “I can see that he is using a pestle and mortar. I was wondering if you knew what he was preparing.”
Michael studied Phillip for a while before answering. “We had a few words with some of the locals. Apparently they sometimes use a lotion of water and powdered flower heads to ward off insects. I assume Signor Gribbleflotz purchased some dried flower heads and is now grinding them to make an insect repellent.”
Francis ran a hand lightly over the bite marks on the back of his neck as he stared at Michael. “Do you think it’ll work?”
Michael nodded. “Signor Gribbleflotz and I discovered in the marsh today that if you rubbed the flowers into your skin the insects would avoid that area, so I see no reason why splashing a solution containing traces of the flower over your skin shouldn’t work at least as well.”
“That’s good to hear,” Leon said. “I don’t suppose you have anything with which to treat insect bites?” he asked.
“There’s a broad-leafed plant that can be rubbed over the bites,” Michael said. “I can look for some tomorrow.”
“That’s going to make for an uncomfortable night,” Gasparo muttered. “Hang on. Here comes Signor Gribbleflotz. Maybe he has something to hand.”
The group watched Phillip approach. He had a small pot of something that he placed on the table in front of them.
“What’s that?” Gasparo asked.
Phillip looked fondly at the pot. “It’s a paste made from the leaves of Plantago major. You should find it soothes the insect bites.”
“That’s the broad-leafed plant I was thinking of,” Michael said. He looked up at Phillip. “Did you learn about it from Professor Alpini?”
Phillip nodded. “He mentioned it in his medical botany lectures, but I first met it when I was helping my stepfather. He was an apothecary.”
Francis gestured towards Michael. “Dr. Weitnauer here thought that you were grinding up flower heads to make an insect repellent.”
Gasparo turned to Phillip. He gestured towards the pot. “That’s right. Does that mean you haven’t made any insect repellent?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve bought some powdered flower head. All I have to do is mix it with water. Now, who would like me to smear some of my soothing paste over their insect bites?”
* * *
The next few days progressed without any drama. Michael continued to bring the expedition to a halt whenever he found an interesting plant. Gasparo, Francis, and Leon continued to look after the animals and provide security. Meanwhile Phillip continued to help Michael and collect his own plant samples.
They were camped in the open tonight. The sun was still up, but it was late and all of them were tired. They gathered around the campfire close to Phillip as he pulled a book out of his pack and carefully opened it and started to read aloud. The book was an Italian edition of Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra’s The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha, and Phillip had been reading a few pages to the group every evening. Tonight he was reading chapter twenty-three, “Of What Befell Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena.”
“You’d like the shirts,” Michael said as Phillip read the description of what was in the valise Don Quixote and Sancho Panza found.
Phillip pointedly examined the sad state of his current shirt. “Four shirts of fine Holland wouldn’t go amiss,” he confirmed.
“And neither would the gold,” Leon said.
Phillip grinned. “Gold never goes amiss. Now, can I continue?” All heads nodded and Phillip continued.
“…and he said what will be told farther on.” Phillip carefully marked the page with a ribbon and closed the book.
“You can’t stop there,” Leon protested.
“It’s the end of the chapter,” Phillip said.
“But it doesn’t feel complete,” Leon protested.
Phillip just grinned. “I’ll read the next chapter tomorrow.”
“There’s still plenty of light,” Leon said hopefully.
“No,” Phillip said shaking his head.
On that note Phillip wrapped the book in an oilskin cover before putting it back into his pack. Then he laid out his blankets and made himself comfortable. He glanced around the campsite one last time before laying down his head. Leon was standing guard while everyone else went to bed.
* * *
The next night they exchanged the discomforts of the great outdoors for the more common discomforts of a small inn.
Phillip deposited the inn-supplied blankets in a corner and sprinkled powdered Tanacetum cinerariifolium over them. He was liberally sprinkling the powder over the canvas-covered straw pallets that were their beds for the night when Francis entered the room with one of the packs.
Francis stopped when he saw what Phillip was doing. “I thought you had herbs to keep down the bed bugs?”
Phillip stopped in mid sprinkle and turned to Francis. “The powdered flower is much more powerful than anything I’ve used before.”
“Is it safe?” Francis asked as he dropped the pack he was carrying against the wall.
Phillip looked at the powder in his hand before smiling at Francis. “I wouldn’t recommend eating it by the handful, but Dapple didn’t have any trouble eating the flowers.”
“But he’s a donkey, and donkeys don’t care what they eat.”
Phillip wiped his hands clean of the dust on his thighs and shook his head. “Goats will eat anything because they think everything should be food. Horses and ponies will eat almost anything they find in the hope that it is food, but a donkey will only eat what it is sure is food.” He grinned. “If Dapple thinks it is safe to eat the flowers, then it should be safe to sleep in the powdered remains of the flowers.”
Francis looked a bit dubious at Phillip’s explanation. “Should be?” he asked.
“We all applied a lotion of the same powder mixed with water this morning, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel any the worse for the experience.”
Francis smiled in relief. “And it did keep the insects away today,” he admitted. “Will you be reading the next chapter to us tonight?”
Phillip’s brows shot up. “Yes, and thanks for reminding me. I have to let the innkeeper know.”
“Are you angling for better victuals again, Signor Gribbleflotz?”
Phillip grinned. That had been the result of his reading in inn common rooms previously. “That and because it is a sure way of getting most of the village together so Dr. Weitnauer can talk to them.”
“I could warn the innkeeper that you will be reading aloud in his common room this evening,” Francis suggested.
Phillip thought about the offer but shook his head. “He might want to see what I’ll be reading to his customers, so it’s probably best that I speak to him.”
That evening Phillip sat down to read to a packed house. He checked the small table beside him. There was a mug and a jug of the local cider to keep his throat lubricated. He poured a mug full and took a sip. There was shuffling about in the room as people got comfortable, and drinks were ordered. Phillip opened his book and adjusted the position of the lamps until he was comfortable with the light. Finally he was ready. A glance with a raised brow towards the innkeeper produced a nod of the head. He too was ready for the reading to begin.
Phillip inhaled the rarified air of expectation and started to speak. He gave a brief synopsis of the story so far before he started to read.
“Chapter twenty-four, “In Which Is Continued the Adventure of the Sierra Morenaí.” The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying,” Phillip read. His strong voice was able to be heard in even the most distant spots in the inn—the long hours reading to his landlord’s extended family in the barn had unexpected benefits.
After only a few sentences he knew he had the audience’s complete attention, the sound of the crackling fire being his only competition. It brought a sense of satisfaction, but also an obligation to deliver.
With each character he changed his voice, giving them different personalities so his listeners could more easily keep track of who was supposed to be speaking. Just like the children of the Rovarini in Padua this audience lapped it up.
Phillip lost track of time as the thrill of all those people hanging onto his every word took over. Eventually he had to stop, and he closed the book to absolute silence. He’d held everyone’s attention all that time. With a sense of intense satisfaction Phillip stood and took his bows. “That’s all for tonight good people. You have been a wonderful audience, and for that I thank you. Now I must leave you to get on with your own business.”
He left the floor to Michael and found a quiet corner where he could rest. His thumb rubbed against a wart that had emerged on his finger recently. It had been annoying him for a couple of days now, but for various reasons he hadn’t got around doing anything about it. He knew a proper way to remove it, but it was bothering him right now. So he tried chewing on it. It was inefficient, but it did at least alleviate the itching.
He was checking his progress in the light of the fire when an older woman captured his hand and looked at it. “That’s the wrong way to get rid of it,” she said.
Phillip smiled at the gray-haired woman. “It’s annoying me. Its right where my thumb rubs against the finger and it itches whenever I touch it.”
“There are better ways of making them go away than trying to chew them off,” the woman said.
“I know,” Phillip said. “Apply a slice of garlic that has been left to soak in vinegar.”
“I know a better way,” the woman said. “Come to my cottage tomorrow morning and I’ll show you how to get rid of it.”
Phillip realized he might have made contact with the village wise woman. Such women existed in most villages. They were women who knew the local herbal lore and cared for the health of the community. His great-grandfather had written in his journals about how such women could be fonts of knowledge. He would be careful.
Phillip bowed his head. “Thank you, madam. I am Phillip Gribbleflotz. And you would be?” he asked.
“You may call me Eufemia. The innkeeper knows me.”
“Then tomorrow I will come and be schooled, and lose a wart. Which is your cottage?” he asked.
“You can’t miss it. It’s the third on your left when you leave the inn heading north.”
Phillip thanked the woman, watched her leave and settled down to wait for Michael.
Next morning
Phillip asked the innkeeper about the woman, and was reassured by his answer. Eufemia was not only the village wise woman, but also happened to be his mother. Phillip thanked the man for the information and left the inn heading north.
Eufemia had been right; her house, which was a riot of color, was impossible to miss. He opened the rickety gate and walked up to the door and knocked.
“Come in Signor Gribbleflotz,” Eufemia called.
Phillip entered the dark cottage and followed the sounds of a knife on a chopping board to find Eufemia pouring chopped vegetables into a kettle. A large gray and white cat was entwining itself around her legs.
“Take a seat in the sunlight,” Eufemia directed. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The moment Phillip sat down the cat stopped twining itself around Eufemia’s legs and walked over to where he was sitting, leaped onto the arm of the chair and sniffed Phillip before stepping onto him.
“Don’t mind the cat,” Eufemia said as she put the kettle to one side and grabbed a clay pot and a couple of twigs. “Now let’s have a look at your wart,” she said as she turned Phillip’s hand in the sunlight.
Eufemia took his hand in her left hand, and with her right she opened the pot and used the twigs to pick up a dead iridescent green insect about as long as her thumbnail was wide.
“That’s a Cantharis beetle,” Phillip said, recognizing the insect from an example his landlord in Padua had shown him.
Eufemia shook her head. “No, it’s a blister beetle.”
“Right, sorry, different places, different names,” Phillip apologized. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I am going to rub it against the skin around the wart.”
Phillip instinctively tried to jerk his hand back, but Eufemia had a firm grip on it. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said as she carefully rubbed the dead beetle against Phillip’s finger.
Moments later she released Phillip’s hand and he drew it protectively close to him.
“Don’t touch the area I brushed with the beetle,” Eufemia warned. “Anything that touches it will also blister.”
Phillip immediately moved his hand clear of his body and stared at his finger. “I can’t continue to avoid touching my finger,” he protested.
“Just leave it a little longer and then we’ll wash it with soap and water.”
“Then what happens?” Phillip asked.
“A blister will rise where I rubbed the blister beetle. When the blister bursts you should check to see if the wart is still in your finger. If it is, then you repeat the treatment.”
“And this will work?” Phillip asked.
Eufemia nodded. “Yes. And even better, it doesn’t leave a scar. Unlike what would happen if you managed to bite out the wart.”
* * *
That evening the skin around the wart on Phillip’s finger started to itch even as it ballooned out. He examined the blister. The wart was right there on the surface. He played with the blister a little. Surely, if the wart was rooted in his flesh the fluid in the blister wouldn’t have lifted the skin away from the flesh? It was a thought, which he immediately wanted to enter in his journal.
When he opened his journal Phillip’s eyes fell on the last entry. It was about the effect of the Plantago major paste he’d used to treat the teams’ insect bites. He thought about it. The blister wasn’t a bite, but maybe some of that paste would soothe it. It certainly couldn’t make it worse. Phillip wrote up his thoughts about the wart being lifted off the flesh by the blister before hunting out the pot. It wasn’t immediately soothing, but over time he ceased noticing the finger.
* * *
The next day Phillip stopped off at Eufemia’s cottage to show her his finger, and to hopefully talk to her about the local plants she used. His finger turned out to be a bit of an ice breaker for that discussion.
“What have you done to your finger?” she asked pointing to the bandage Phillip had wrapped around it.
“It was itching, so I applied a simple balm to it, and wrapped it in a bandage to insure it stayed in contact with the blistered area.”
Eufemia started to undo the bandage. “What did you use?” she asked.
“A paste made of Plantago major.” Phillip didn’t expect Eufemia to know plants by their Latin names so he showed her a few leaves he’d brought with him.
Eufemia took a leaf from Phillip and crushed it and sniffed. “Plantain. That’s a wise choice. Did you know that a tea from plantain leaves can be used to treat someone with the runs?”
Phillip leaned closer. “No I didn’t, could you describe the treatment?”
That evening
Phillip was late returning to the team’s lodgings. He’d ended up spending all day with Eufemia, following her around her garden learning how to identify plants and what they could or shouldn’t be used for. He was happily contemplating going over what he’d recorded in his journal as he entered the inn.
“Where’ve you been all day?” Michael demanded the moment he entered.
Phillip was a little taken aback at the aggression Michael was displaying and took a couple of steps away from him. “I’ve been talking to the village wise woman about the local plants.”
The anger in Michael’s face dropped immediately and he reached out a hand and dragged Phillip over to a table. “What did you learn?” he demanded.
“Well, did you know an infusion made from Plantago major can be used to treat diarrhea?”
Michael shook his head. “Anything else?”
Phillip laid down his journal where Michael could see it and they spent the next hour before supper going over the bits of information he had gleaned from Eufemia.
July 1616
They were still working their way around Lake Vrana a week later. Progress as measured in distance was slow, as they’d barely moved two miles in six days, but in terms of specimens they were doing very well. Michael had so many of them that he’d called a halt and they’d set course for the nearest civilization. The port city of Biograd na Moru beckoned, and now, while the teamsters checked the animals and Michael wrapped up his specimens, Phillip took care of Dapple before collecting his satchel and finding a quiet place where he could check the condition of his finger.
He sat down in the grass and opened his satchel. In addition to anything else he might need at a moment’s notice, such as his latest journal, writing instruments, or food, it also contained a small medical kit. He pulled the kit out and opened it beside him. There was a scalpel made from a shaped piece of wood with a shard of obsidian mounted into it. He used that to trim back the loose skin that had been lifted by the blister before using a lens to check his finger. The wart was still there, but much smaller. That meant he had to rub it again with a blister beetle. Fortunately he’d prepared for this eventuality and he had a dozen or so dead beetles in a small pot. He opened that and used a couple of twigs to pick up a beetle and rub it against his finger.
He was putting the used beetle back when he heard a bit of a commotion. He sealed the pot and pushed the twigs he’d been using to hold it into the ground, so nobody could accidently touch them, before looking up. In the distance, maybe fifty yards away, a group of children were running around screaming. In his time living in the midst of the Rovarini family Phillip had learned that this was perfectly normal behavior with children, so he ignored it and concentrated on his finger.
He was just putting everything back into his satchel when the primeval scream of a mother in distress rent the air. Phillip, like everyone else within earshot, turned in the direction the scream came from. He saw a woman kneeling on the ground holding a small child who was obviously in some distress. Phillip jumped to his feet, thrusting the medical kit into his satchel, and ran toward the woman, where a crowd was already gathering.
The woman was holding a boy about the same size as Giacomo and Francesca Sedazzari’s ten-year-old daughter. But this was a boy, meaning he was probably anything between eight and eleven. She was wailing over the child, holding him in her arms and crying out for something. Phillip knew enough to recognize the language as Yiddish, but after that he would only have been guessing. He turned his attention to the child, and froze. The boy’s face was badly swollen, and the lips were turning blue. Phillip took a deep breath and pushed his way forward. “Let me through!” he said. “I’m a physician,” he added as he fumbled in his satchel.
That cleared a way, and moments later Phillip bent down over the child. He forced open the child’s mouth and looked to see if he could force a cannula down the airway, but the tongue was swollen, suggesting that the throat might also be swollen.
The woman said something to him. He didn’t understand her, but he assumed she was pleading with him to save her son. Phillip swallowed. He could think of only one way that he could save the boy’s life. He would have to cut an opening into the trachea. Both Professor Fabricius and his mentor, Giulio, had written descriptions of how they felt the operation should be performed. Both of them had also recommended that it only be performed as a last resort. Phillip looked down at the boy. He was still struggling to breathe, but his struggles were weakening. The face that should have been pink was pale and his lips were turning blue. That was enough to convince Phillip that a tracheotomy was the only way to save the child.
Phillip shoved his satchel under the boy’s shoulders so his head naturally fell back, extending the neck. He opened his medical kit and grabbed the smallest of the curved brass cannula he’d had made according to his mentor’s specification just in case he had to perform this operation. Giulio had actually specified silver in his writings, but that was beyond Phillip’s purse. He also picked up his obsidian scalpel and felt for the cricoid cartilage just below the larynx with his free hand.
The only warning was the renewed screaming of the woman, but Phillip didn’t realize the screams were directed at him until she started to strike him. He held up his arms defensively as the boy’s mother continued to scream and lash out at him. “Someone hold her,” he screamed.
Two shadows grabbed the woman and pulled her away. Meanwhile Michael dropped down beside Phillip and took hold of the boy. “You’re going to do a tracheotomy?” he asked.
“It’s his only hope,” Phillip said as he relocated his target on the boy’s throat and spread his fingers to tighten the skin.
Michael whistled. “I’ve only heard of the operation. Have you done one before?”
“No,” Phillip whispered as he made a vertical incision about an inch long. “But I’ve watched Professor Casseri demonstrate how to do it on cadavers and animals many times.” He sliced at the tissue under the skin until he reached the cartilage of the tracheal rings. He pushed the tissue aside with the fingers of his left hand as he tried to locate the cricothyroid membrane. Once he found it he made a horizontal incision in the membrane between the tracheal rings. Air tried to whistle through the hole he’d made, telling him he’d made an opening into the trachea. He enlarged the hole enough to slip in the curved cannula into the hole and pushed it in a good inch, until the wings on the cannula, which were there to stop it being pushed in too far, came into contact with the boy’s throat. Almost immediately the boy’s struggles eased. But Phillip couldn’t rest yet. He needed to tie the cannula in place so it wouldn’t slip out. He threaded a ribbon through the hole on one wing of the cannula and passed it under the boy’s neck. He then threaded the other end through the hole on the other wing and pulled the ribbon tight before tying a knot to hold it securely in place. He’d done it. Now he could rest.
Phillip was feeling almost faint. He collapsed onto his buttocks in relief. It was one thing to watch someone of Professor Casseri’s caliber demonstrate the operation, it was something else do it oneself. Phillip wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. He was surrounded by interested faces, not least of which was the woman who’d been hitting him. She was being held by Gasparo and Leon, whom he assumed had come to his aid. “Thanks for holding her, but you can let her go now,” he told them as he laid his shaking hands on his knees.
The moment she was released the woman collapsed beside her child, kissing him and cooing over him.
“He’s still in a bad way,” Phillip warned the woman. She laid a hand on her son’s forehead and spoke. Phillip couldn’t follow what she was saying, but guessed that because she was looking at him that she was thanking him for saving her son. He waved that away as being of little importance, the achievement being sufficient reward in itself. Still, he had a problem. The cannula in the boy’s trachea was only a short-term solution to an unknown problem. He needed more information, but he couldn’t communicate with the mother. He looked around the crowd that had gathered. “Can anyone tell me what happened?” He asked. It didn’t draw a reply in Venetian, so he tried again in his native German. That also failed to elicit a satisfactory response. In desperation he tried his last remaining language, classical Latin.
A man approached and laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of the woman. “My name is Isaac, and I would like to know the name of the man who saved my son’s life.”
“Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz.” They were speaking in classical Latin, the language of instruction, so Phillip knew he was dealing with an educated man. “Do you have any idea what might have caused the swelling,” he asked.
Isaac nodded. “I believe the swelling is caused by the stings of bees. Jusufio and the other children were playing near the trees when they disturbed a bees’ nest.”
Phillip turned back to the boy and studied his face and neck. Now he knew to look for them he could make out little dots that were the sites where he’d been stung. He did a quick count, finding thirty-four possible bee sting sites. He had little doubt that there were more, and even less doubt that they were the cause of the swelling. He turned back Jusufio’s father. “Your son won’t be able to breathe without the cannula until the swelling goes down.”
“I understand, Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz. I too am a physician, and I know it will be many days before the swelling reduces enough so that Jusufio can breathe normally. I lack a tube such as you used, can I buy it from you?”
“It’s one of a set, and I’d rather not sell it, as I might need it again. Where are you headed? If it’s the same way we are going we can leave it in place a while longer. We’re bound for Biograd na Moru.”
“We too are bound for Biograd na Moru. Mayhap we can travel together, and you can tell me about what you did? Galen and Aretaeus both wrote about such an operation, but that’s the first time I have ever seen it performed.”
Phillip wasn’t sure this was the right time to say he’d never seen it performed on a live human before, but he was happy to talk to the man.
Biograd na Moru
Phillip spent the morning talking to Isaac on the trip to Biograd na Moru, and once the expedition was settled he hurried over to the table where Michael was sitting to beg permission to follow him to his lodgings where they could continue their conversation.
“You have to let me spend some more time with him, Michael,” he pleaded. “His theories about the Quinta Essentia of the human humors could be important.”
“The what?” Michael asked.
Phillip ran his hands lightly over the table top as he tried to assemble his thoughts. “Are you familiar with De Secretis Naturae Sive Quinta Essentia?”
“The book by Ramon Llull? I’ve heard of it.”
Phillip nodded. “Yes, that one. Well, whereas Signor Lull talks mostly of using the fifth essence, the Quinta Essentia, of things as a cure, Isaac sees it more of a solvent for the medicines, making them a hundred times more powerful.”
Michael responded by slowly shaking his head. “I can imagine using the fifth essence of Plantago major as a basis for an infusion made out of the leaves rather than using water, but I can’t see any logical reason why the resulting medicine should be any stronger. And certainly not a hundred times stronger.”
“A hundred times stronger might be a slight exaggeration on Isaac’s part,” Phillip admitted. “But imagine if mixing a drug with the right Quinta Essentia could even just double its strength…”
“I’m trying to imagine it, Phillip.” Michael shook his head. “Nope. I can’t see it happening. It sounds too much like witchcraft.”
“But you must have seen it happen. Think of how neither acidum salis nor aqua fortis can dissolve gold on their own, but if you mix them together in the right proportions you create aqua regia, which can dissolve gold.”
“You’ve got me there,” Michael said. “I’ve seen aqua regia at work. Why do you suppose it works?” he asked.
“Ah, well, that’s a good question.”
Michael’s lips twitched. “Do I get a good answer though?”
“Of course.” Phillip planted his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers so he could rest his chin on his fingertips. “Consider Adam. God created man, but on his own Adam cannot produce children. So God took of Adam a rib and created Eve. On her own Eve can’t conceive a child, but together Adam and Eve produced Cain. So as with Adam and Eve, who alone can’t produce a child, neither acid on its own can dissolve the noble gold. But together they make aqua regia, which can dissolve gold.” He looked expectantly at Michael. “Do you understand now?”
“What happened to Abel and Seth?”
“It’s just an analogy for illustrative purposes, Michael. For now imagine that Adam and Eve only had one child.”
“But…”
Phillip exhaled noisily through his nose. It was more of a sigh than a snort. He was sure Michael was just trying to be difficult. “Michael. Surprisingly enough you still seem to have most of your teeth. Would you like me to remedy the situation?”
Michael smiled in the face of Phillip’s threat, displaying his teeth in all their glory. “I still don’t see the connection between Adam and Eve and the Quinta Essentia of something being able to double or more the power of a medicine.”
Phillip paused to think about his explanation. “Okay, how about this. Acidum salis is the acid of salt. Salt is ultimately derived from the sea, which is the all-mother. It’s dried and heated and put through extensive complex processes to make the acid, so acidum salis is the acidic essence of the all-mother.”
“So acidum salis is feminine?”
“Yes. Think of it as being Eve,” Phillip said. “Now…”
“So aqua fortis is supposed to be Adam?” Michael asked. “Why do you say that?”
“Because aqua fortis enables the violent masculine explosions in gunpowder. Therefore it is male.”
“But you don’t use aqua fortis to make gunpowder,” Michael said. “You use saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal. Everyone knows that.”
“And aqua fortis is the acidic essence of saltpetre,” Phillip said a little more forcefully than was possibly necessary. “You do know how to make aqua fortis, don’t you?” he asked.
Michael bit his lower lip and shook his head.
“And you consider yourself an educated man.” Phillip gave rein to a set-upon sigh before continuing. “You make aqua fortis the same way you make acidum salis, only instead of using the feminine salt of the sea, you use the masculine saltpetre.”
“So aqua fortis is Adam, acidum salis is Eve, and aqua regia is Cain?” Michael asked.
“For the purposes of this explanation, yes.” He stared hard at Michael. Was it possible he was laughing at him?
“I don’t remember. Was Cain more powerful than Adam or Eve?”
That tilted Phillip’s suspicions heavily towards being laughed at. Still, he was going to finish this explanation even if he ended up killing Michael. “The Adam and Eve analogy is purely to show that two parts, which can’t achieve something on their own, can achieve that same something when they are combined.
“So, aqua fortis and acidum salis come together to form aqua regia, which unlike its parent acids, can dissolve gold, thus proving that the power of a mixture can be greater than the power of the individual ingredients. Of course, like Cain, aqua regia, changes as it ages, transforming into other states and natures, which is why only fresh aqua regia can dissolve gold.” At last Michael was nodding, raising Phillip’s hopes. They were dashed only moments later.
“So how does the Quinta Essentia of anything increase the power of a drug?”
Phillip admitted his lack of knowledge with a well-practiced Italian shrug. “Perhaps the extracted Quinta Essentia pulls out more of the masculine essence of the medicine than a lesser solution. Who knows? And that is why I need time to talk to Isaac, so I can find out.”
“How long do you want?”
“I’d like as long as you can give me.”
“I can give you five days. I expect it’ll take me that long to clear my backlog of specimens.”
That was much better than Phillip had hoped for. “I can do that.” He grabbed Michael and hugged him. “Thank you,” he said before running off.
A week later
Phillip was trying to pack, but Michael was walking along the bench checking everything he’d been doing over the last few days. “Do you mind?” Phillip demanded as he edged Michael away so he could plant a basket of horse manure on the bench.
Michael took one look at the contents of the basket and jumped clear, pinching his nose. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the basket.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Phillip said as he carved a hole in the manure.
“What do you want that for?”
Phillip held up a flask of a clear liquid. “This is fivefold distilled waters of wine. According to Isaac, if I bury it in horse manure for four months, then decant it into a clean flask, and bury it for another four months, and then decant it into another clean flask and bury it for another four months, I will be left with a flask of the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine.” He thrust the flask into the hole and covered it with manure, firmly patting down the top layer.
“A year!” Michael repeated. “That’s a long time. I hope it’s worth it.”
Phillip walked over to a bucket of water and started washing his hands. “According to Isaac, if you mix the distillate of any item with the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine you’ll have a medicine that can cure any malady.”
Michael’s eyes screwed up and he stared at Phillip. “If I drank a medicine mixed with fivefold distilled waters of wine I’m pretty sure I’d feel cured, for a while.”
Phillip grinned. “Maybe I misunderstood Isaac. We did have a bit of a communication problem, with him thinking in Yiddish but trying to explain in Latin.”
Michael nodded. “That’s possible. So, what are you going to do now?” his gaze settled on a number of glass jars on the bench awaiting packing. “What are these?”
“Those are the Quinta Essentia of such things as of Plantago major, willow bark, Tanacetum cinerariifolium, and Cantharis beetle.”
“And they were all collected by the destructive distillation of the parent?”
“Of course. How else can one extract the Quinta Essentia?” Phillip demanded.
“Phillip, I have this vague recollection that the whole idea of this Quinta Essentia of whatever is so you can do something with the Quinta Essentia of the human humors.”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Michael said with some emphasis. “I can’t help but think you’re going to run into a bit of resistance when you use destructive distillation to extract the Quinta Essentia of the human humors.”
“You don’t extract it,” Phillip said. “The idea is to invigorate it while it’s still in the body.” Phillip sighed. “At least that’s what I’ll be trying to do in a year’s time when my Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine are ready.”
Michael looked dubiously at Phillip. “Do you really think burying a flask of fivefold distilled waters of wine in horse manure for a year is going to somehow give it special powers?”
“But Michael, according to Isaac, his people have been preparing the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine in this way for hundreds of years. Why would they continue doing it if there was no benefit?”
May 1617, Zadar, Dalmatia
Phillip was in his natural habitat, an alchemical laboratory. He was hard at work producing pure acids, which were to be his payment to Davitt Tapiero for the use of his laboratory. At the door Davitt was watching on in awe when Michael turned up.
“He is absolutely magnificent,” Davitt said with a very Italian flourish of his arms.
“How do you mean?” Michael asked.
“Look at him,” Davit instructed with a wave of his arm. “Look at the way he has a dozen retorts working at once.”
“Running a dozen retorts on a distilling furnace isn’t anything special. I’ve seen plenty of people do the same,” Michael said.
“Yes, but no doubt they are all distilling the same thing. Signore Gribbleflotz is distilling three different acids, aqua vitae, and water, all at the same time.”
Michael whistled. “That’s impressive. But I still need to talk to him.” He walked over to the bench where Phillip was working on something. “Phillip. I’ve got some bad news for you.”
Phillip carefully laid down the pen he was holding and turned to Michael. “What’s happened?”
“Professor Alpini died on the sixth of February.” Michael held up a letter. “This was waiting for me when I checked with our shipping agent.”
Phillip was shaken by the news. “How did it happen?”
Michael checked the letter. “They think an imbalance of the humors caused his kidneys to fail.”
Phillip slumped into a chair. He’d lost the second of his great mentors. He’d learned a lot about the various medical qualities of plants from the man who had been the director of Padua’s botanical garden. And now he was dead. “There’s nothing left for me in Padua now.”
“So what will you do now that our plant gathering expedition is over?”
Phillip shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Are you still interested in being a military surgeon?”
Phillip nodded. It was something he’d mentioned during one of the many discussions they’d had around a campfire over the last few months.
“Well, the Republic is fighting the archduke of Styria. I’m sure they’d welcome someone of your talents.”
“I’ll think about it,” Phillip said. He turned his back on Michael to hide the tears that were starting to fall. His tear-filled eyes settled on the jars of Quinta Essentia. One day he’d learn how to invigorate the Quinta Essentia of the Human Humors. It would be too late to save Giulio and Prospero, but he would do it. It was personal now.