Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 4

Dr. Gribbleflotz, I Presume

July 1622, Basel

Phillip was footsore and sweaty as he made his way up to the main gate on the northeastern wall of the city of Basel. He stopped short of the moat and stared at the walls. They were impressive, and this was only the bit of the city protecting the bridge across the Rhine.

A tug on the lead he was holding brought him back to his need to get into the city before they shut the gates. “Come on, Dapple. Let’s get a move on,” he told his pack-donkey. This wasn’t the same donkey he’d had in Dalmatia. He’d sold that Dapple before he left the country, but he liked the name.

With a gentle tug on the lead rope Dapple reluctantly gave up on snatching at any grass that was within reach and fell in beside Phillip. Ahead of them was the Riehen-Tor, and standing waiting for them, and any other travelers, were the gate’s guards.

As they got close, one of the guards stepped out in front of Phillip holding up his hand. “Halt. Who are you, and what is your business in the city of Basel?”

Phillip had expected to be challenged, so he pulled out his papers and offered them to the guard. “I am Phillip Gribbleflotz, and I am a physician and surgeon.”

The first guard passed Phillip’s papers to the other guard, who was either of higher rank, or more able to read. That man skimmed the documents Phillip had handed over.

“You served as a physician and surgeon in the army of Count Wilhelm of Nassau-Siegen for four years?” the sergeant asked.

Phillip nodded. It was after all, what the documents said.

The sergeant handed the papers back to Phillip. “Where have you been since you left the count’s service?”

“I stopped over in Leiden to attend some lectures at the medical school there.” Phillip shuddered at the memory. It hadn’t been a good idea. “Leiden was full of Galenists, while I’m a Paracelsian We had a few disagreements on medical theory, so I decided to head here, to Basel.”

“What are Galenists and Paracelsians?” the first guard asked.

“Galen was a famous Classical Roman physician, while Paracelsus died less than a hundred years ago…” Phillip warmed to his subject and spent the next ten minutes explaining the differences between the two medical movements to the guards without them even hinting that they wanted him to stop.

“So what makes you think the professors at the university here in Basel will be any more likely to accept the ideas of the Paracelsian movement?” the sergeant asked when Phillip finished his explanation.

“But didn’t I say?” Phillip asked, shocked that he might have missed out such an important piece of information. “Many years ago the University of Basel gave the great Paracelsus the Chair of Medicine, and surely they would only do that if they were amenable to the ideas of the Paracelsian movement.”

The guards conceded the point. “You may find it difficult setting up a medical practice in Basel,” the sergeant said.

“I know,” Phillip said. “Any city with a medical school usually has a surplus of physicians. However, I’m more interested in setting up a laboratory to continue my studies in iatrochemistry than creating a practice.”

“If you’re not planning on setting up a practice, how do you intend earning a living?” the sergeant asked.

“I expect to make alchemical and apothecary supplies. Would you have any idea where I might secure a suitable laboratory?”

The guards stepped back from Phillip and a conversation involving a lot of arm waving and pointing took place. A couple of minutes later the sergeant provided Phillip with directions to somewhere that might be suitable. Phillip gave them a gratuity for their help, and entered the city.

December 1622

Phillip wanted to keep up with the latest medical developments, so he had cleared his schedule in order to attend a private dissection. Unfortunately, the course he bought a place in was being presented by Dr. Ambrosius Laurent.

Over the last hour Phillip had been grinding his teeth at the atrocious medical advice Dr. Laurent was giving. He’d managed to hold his tongue, if only barely, all that time, but when Dr. Laurent went on to describe how he thought an amputation should be performed, Phillip lost it. His comment wasn’t very loud, but the voice he’d developed over the years of reading aloud in inns and barns easily carried throughout the dissection theater.

Dr. Laurent turned a baleful glare onto Phillip. “The peacock dares suggest I don’t know what I’m doing?” he said to his companion in a carrying voice.

The slur was aimed at Phillip’s taste for colorful clothes. It was obviously envy, Phillip decided. “I wear colors because they feed the essence of my spirit. I could wear black, but people who wear black are usually intent on showing off how much money they can afford to waste on their clothes.” He looked Dr. Laurent up and down. “And then there are those people who can’t quite afford real black, who instead settle for a merely good dark blue.” Phillip added a smile, just to ensure Dr. Laurent knew he’d been insulted.

There were hastily muffled twitters around the theater and Dr. Laurent’s face grew fiery red as he stroked the fine cloth of his merely good dark blue jacket. He glared angrily at Phillip. “If you think you’re so good, why don’t you come down here and take over?”

Phillip thought about it. The problem was, any surgery could get blood or gore on his fine clothes. Of course the dog being dissected had been well bled, so…

Dr. Laurent must have taken Phillip’s hesitation to mean he lacked conviction in his ability, because he said something to the man beside him and they both started laughing. That was the last straw for Phillip. Any gore or blood on his clothes would be a small price to pay for putting Dr. Laurent in his place. He swung down from the gallery onto the stage and walked towards the dissection table where the carcass of a dog was substituting for the cadaver Dr. Laurent had failed to provide.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Laurent demanded as Phillip paused beside the table where surgical instruments were laid out.

“You asked me to take over,” Phillip said as he selected the instruments he knew he would need for an amputation.

“I most certainly did not,” Dr. Laurent insisted.

Phillip ignored Dr. Laurent, which he knew would really annoy the older man, and turned to face the now very interested audience. “You really need to witness an amputation on a living beast to truly understand the difficulties involved,” he explained. “There is a lot of difference between an amputation on a dead animal and a live one,” he said. “For a start, the live ones feel pain.” He cracked a smile. “They tend to wriggle when you start to cut.” With that Phillip started to demonstrate on the front right leg of the dog how to perform an amputation.

It took him less than a minute to take the leg off. He could have done it faster, he explained, but he was demonstrating the process, not his speed. He went on to demonstrate the proper way to close an amputation. That too could have been done faster, but he let the audience closest to the dissection table help him.

When he finished Phillip stepped back from the dog and waved his hands. “And that is how an amputation should be done,” he announced to the students who’d followed his every move.

There was a resounding round of applause, to which Phillip bowed, before climbing back to his spot in the galleries. Behind him Dr. Laurent was seething. “I don’t know who you think you are, or what gives you the right to try to make a fool of me, but I will not stand for it!”

Phillip stared straight back. “I am Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, and I don’t have to try to make a fool of you, you’re doing a more than adequate job of that yourself, which is more than I can say for your demonstration so far.” That sally was received with roars of laughter, which didn’t go down well with Dr. Laurent.

“As for what gives me the right?” Phillip continued. “I studied at Padua under the great Professor Casseri. After I left the university I gained real world experience as a military physician and surgeon in the service of the counts of Nassau-Siegen.” Phillip stared right into Dr. Laurent’s eyes. “How many real amputations have you ever performed?” he challenged.

Dr. Laurent’s face was red. He pointed a trembling finger at Phillip. “I want you out of my theater, now!”

Phillip stood his ground. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’ve paid to attend a series of lectures, and even though I’m not particularly impressed by what I’ve seen and heard so far, I insist on getting my money’s worth.”

Dr. Laurent turned to one of his assistants. “Repay Dr. Gribbleflotz’s entry fee and see that he is not allowed back in.”

A few minutes later Phillip was back outside the building, his purse recharged with the refunded entry fee. A rumbling stomach and coin in his purse decided for him where he would go next.

* * *

Around noon the lecture broke up for lunch and a chance to warm up—the private anatomy theater being quite cold, because the low temperature helped slow the decomposition of the bodies.

“Did you see Dr. Laurent’s face when Dr. Gribbleflotz took over his lecture?” Martin Stoler asked the two students he was walking with.

“I thought he was going to have an apoplexy,” Georg Plannter said with a snigger. “He certainly didn’t expect Dr. Gribbleflotz to take him up on his challenge.”

“And serves him right, too,” Daniel Schreyber said. “Dr. Gribbleflotz sure showed him how an amputation should be done. And the way he described what he was doing and why was almost as good as Professor Bauhin.”

“I wonder if he gives lessons,” Georg said.

“It’d be wonderful if he did,” Martin said. “He certainly appeared to know more about what he was doing than Dr. Laurent.”

“How do you think he learned to take off a limb that quickly?” Daniel asked as they stepped into a local inn.

“He said he served as a military surgeon,” Martin said. “No doubt he got plenty of practice.” He looked around, searching for a free table, and discovered the man who’d made such an impression in Dr. Laurent’s lecture sitting at a table. He gestured in Phillip’s direction. “Why don’t we ask if he gives lessons?”

Daniel looked in the direction Martin was gesturing, and froze on the spot. “But we can’t just walk up to him, he’s a doctor.”

“Of course we can,” Georg said as he started towards Phillip. “What’s the worst he can do, say no?”

Martin and Daniel hurried to catch up with Georg and the three of them arrived at Phillip’s table at the same time. Martin, as the eldest of the three, assumed responsibility for disturbing the doctor. “Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz, could we have a word with you?” he asked.

* * *

Phillip looked up from the book he was reading. He was momentarily confused by the honorific, but for now he let that slide. “How can I help you?”

Georg gestured to his two companions. “We were in Dr. Laurent’s anatomy class when you took over the amputation demonstration.”

“You were fantastic,” Daniel said. “Where did you learn to give a demonstration like that?”

“Ouch!” Daniel glared at Martin. “That hurt,” he said as he rubbed the spot Georg’s elbow had struck.

“It was supposed to,” Martin muttered as he raised his eyes heavenward.

Phillip managed to smother a grin. He now knew why the man had addressed him as Dr. Gribbleflotz. He’d heard Dr. Laurent granting him that honorific, and no doubt believed he was truly a doctor. He was surprised at how good being addressed as Dr. Gribbleflotz made him feel. If things had been different, and Professor Casseri hadn’t died so inconveniently, he would have graduated from Padua with an M.D. years ago.

Georg glared at Daniel and Martin before turning back to Phillip. “Daniel is right though. You were fantastic. You knew exactly what you were doing and your explanation as you did it was fascinating. Where did you learn to give a demonstration like that?”

“I learned at the feet of the great Professor Casseri,” Phillip said. He didn’t mention Padua, because everyone should know Professor Casseri had taught at Padua.

“Professor Casseri,” Martin mumbled in awe. “He was one of the greatest teachers ever. I’ve read the reports of that anatomy course he gave in Padua’s public anatomy theater just before he died.”

“I was there,” Phillip said.

Martin’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Phillip agreed. “I stood just behind Professor Casseri on the first tier and saw and heard everything.”

“Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz, could you teach us to do surgery like you do?”

Phillip straightened. It was all he could do not to preen at being called Dr. Gribbleflotz again. He really should tell them that he wasn’t a doctor, but maybe not yet. “It took me years of practice to get as good as I am.”

“We understand that, Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Martin said. “But until Professor Bauhin gives his annual anatomy course we’re dependent on what people like Dr. Laurent can teach us.”

“Which isn’t much,” Phillip muttered.

“Exactly,” Daniel said. “So we were wondering if you were planning on putting on a proper teaching demonstration, where we might actually learn how to do surgery.”

Phillip licked his lips. That sounded like an interesting idea. He would certainly be better than that bumbling fool, Dr. Laurent. “I wasn’t planning to, but having seen Dr. Laurent at work, maybe I should consider it. Do you know where I might find a suitable place to hold a demonstration?”

“The theater Dr. Laurent is using will be free at the end of the week,” Daniel said.

Phillip thought back to the small anatomy theater erected in a warehouse that Dr. Laurent had been using. “If I was to charge the same fee as Dr. Laurent and attract the same number of people, I could afford to give a week-long course,” he suggested. “Of course, I’d first have to secure a supply of suitable cadavers.”

Martin’s head jerked up. “You think you could get real cadavers?”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “It’s a bit difficult to teach anatomy without suitable bodies.”

“Dr. Laurent only has dogs,” Daniel said.

“Yes, well, Dr. Laurent hasn’t exactly impressed me,” Phillip said. “Suitable cadavers are more expensive than animals. I wouldn’t be surprised if his failure to secure cadavers was merely him trying to maximize his income.”

“You really think you can get cadavers?” Martin asked.

Phillip nodded. “It’s the right time of year.” He smiled at the blank looks of the young students. “Winter is when a lot of the poor die, and Basel’s climate is even less forgiving than Padua’s, where I helped secure cadavers for Professor Casseri’s dissections. How about you check that there are enough people interested in a private anatomy course while I check to see if I can get the cadavers and a suitable place to hold the demonstration?”

Martin got to his feet. “Thank you, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz. We’ll get onto that right away.” He dragged Georg and Daniel to their feet. “How will we get in touch with you,” he asked.

“I have a place near the St. Alban cloister,” Phillip said as he wrote the address on a scrap of paper and offered it to Martin.

“Out by the paper mill?” Daniel screwed up his nose. “Why would you want to stay there? It stinks.”

“I dabble in alchemy and the apothecary’s arts,” Phillip said. “And I have managed to lease a laboratory out that way.”

Martin carefully folded the scrap of paper and put it away in his belt purse. “Thank you, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz. You won’t regret this.”

“If I do decide to present a short course on anatomy, I’ll need some assistants. Would you three be interested?”

“Oh, yes,” Daniel answered. Martin and Georg quickly added their agreement.

“Then I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

Phillip smiled as he watched the three students leave. The money from giving a course on anatomy would certainly be welcome. But that was secondary to the glow he’d felt when they called him Dr. Gribbleflotz. He was going to have to see about arranging to teach a course on anatomy. That raised a smile. Doctor was Latin for teacher. He’d be teaching, so he’d be fully entitled to call himself a doctor.

With the smile still on his face Phillip rose from his seat and walked over to the innkeeper. He needed information, and innkeepers were usually a good source of that.

* * *

Later that afternoon Phillip was at a bit of a loose end. By the time he got back to his laboratory it had been too late to start up the distillation furnace, so he couldn’t distill anything. He’d cleared his schedule so that he could attend Dr. Laurent’s series of lectures, so none of his regulars were going to expect him to be in his laboratory. That meant there was little likelihood that anybody would drop by for any reason. And it was going to take a couple of days at least before the man the innkeeper recommended to him was free. All in all, he was going to have a boring afternoon.

He was gloomily staring at the report he’d written on Professor Casseri’s last anatomy course, trying to generate the enthusiasm to reread it, when he heard the rapid beat of someone running on cobblestones. He closed the report and concentrated on the sound. It sounded like wood on cobblestones. Most of the people living or working in this part of Basel wore wooden clogs, but few of them would choose to run in them except in an emergency. Phillip started to feel hopeful. An emergency could mean someone needed his services. He laid down the report and got to his feet. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but…Phillip’s musings were interrupted by someone hammering on his door. He smiled. Maybe he wasn’t being so wishful after all.

“Dr. Gribbleflotz, are you in?” a breathless voice called. “There’s been an accident at the Aeschen-Tor and Sergeant Schweitzer says can you please come.”

“Coming,” Phillip called out as he hastily dressed for the outdoors and grabbed his medical bag. A quick glance round the room confirmed there were no candles burning, and he hurried over to the door. The messenger was pounding on it again as he opened it.

“I said I was coming,” Phillip said as he opened the door. “Well, are you going to lead the way?” he asked after he’d locked the door.

The boy took off, only to stop and wait when he realized he was leaving Phillip behind. The boy took a side street, and Phillip followed as quickly as he could with his heavy doctor’s bag banging against his legs. They hurried past houses and then market gardens as they came within sight of the gate tower. They made it to the gate a couple of minutes later; the boy was hardly breathing heavily while Phillip was huffing and puffing.

“Good job, Peter,” Heinrich Schweitzer said as he paid the boy. Then he turned to Phillip. “This way, Dr. Gribbleflotz, Private Stohler managed to tear open his thigh on a passing cart.”

Phillip stumbled to a halt and turned to stare at Heinrich. “Again? I patched him up barely a month ago.”

“It’s the left leg this time,” Heinrich said as he led the way upstairs to the gatehouse guard quarters.

Ulrich Schmidlin was sitting beside Leonard Stohler feeding him cheap pear brandy. He turned as Phillip stepped into the room and his eyes lit up. “Dr. Gribbleflotz, am I pleased to see you. Leonard seemed to think you were attending some dissection demonstration this week.”

“I was supposed to be attending Dr. Laurent’s demonstration,” Phillip said as he set his medical bag down beside Leonard and started to examine the injury. “Fortunately for Leonard here, I was invited to leave, and so I was at home when Sergeant Schweitzer’s messenger arrived.”

“What did you say to upset Dr. Laurent?” Heinrich asked. He and the others grinned.

Phillip matched their smiles. He’d become the unofficial physician to the city guard soon after he arrived and he’d got to know quite a few of the guardsmen, and they’d got to know him. “The silly fool had no idea about the realities of performing an amputation.”

“And you called him out on it,” Heinrich said.

“Naturally,” Phillip said, happy that Leonard was being distracted by the banter while he cleaned his wound. “Then he challenged me to show everyone how I thought it should be done.”

“You took Dr. Laurent up on it, I hope,” Ulrich said.

“Of course,” Phillip said. That set all three guardsmen off, and Phillip joined in. “You should have seen his face,” he said as he struggled to control his laughter. He pulled out a scalpel to trim off some of the more damaged flesh.

“Are you going to take Leonard’s leg off?” Ulrich asked.

Leonard jerked his leg out of Phillip’s hand, wincing at the pain. “You’re not going to cut it off, are you?” he asked.

“No,” Phillip said. “But I do need to trim off the worst of the damaged skin before I pack the wound and bandage it tightly.” He looked questioningly at Leonard. “Unless of course you’d rather I sewed it closed?”

“No, no,” Leonard said, waving his hands. “If you think it doesn’t need stitches, then I’m happy.”

“It will leave a bigger scar if I don’t stitch it,” Phillip warned.

“But last time you said not stitching the wound closed would speed up healing,” Leonard said. “So, what are you doing now you’re not attending Dr. Laurent’s course?”

Phillip gestured for Ulrich to feed Leonard some more of the brandy before he set to trimming the worst of the damaged skin and flesh from the wound. While he worked he talked, mostly to distract Leonard. “A group of students attending the course have asked me to give my own course.”

“What does that involve?” Heinrich asked, getting into the spirit of distracting Leonard.

“I need to confirm with the owner of the warehouse where Dr. Laurent has set up a theater that I can use it, and then I have to see about obtaining some suitable cadavers.”

“How do you get suitable cadavers?” Ulrich asked. “I thought they used condemned prisoners for the public anatomy course?”

Phillip nodded as he finished trimming the damaged flesh from Leonard’s wound. “That’s one source, but back in Padua we used to look for poor families who might be willing to let us dissect the bodies of their family members in return for a proper burial. Unfortunately, I don’t have the contacts in Basel that I had in Padua.”

“I could help you,” Peter Hebenstreit said.

Phillip had completely forgotten about the teenage boy who had brought him Heinrich’s message. The boy had the look of the urban poor, which meant he might have the contacts. “The funeral expenses are paid directly to the priest or pastor,” he warned, knowing that a child of the streets like Peter would be looking for every opportunity to make money.

“But you’ll pay a fee for someone to find the bodies and talk the family into letting you cut them up, right?”

Phillip nodded and mentioned a sum.

Peter’s eyes lit up. “I’ll do it for you,” he said. “I’ll find you some dead people.”

Phillip smeared some of his special formula ointment into the wound before bandaging it closed. He looked up at Heinrich. “Is he reliable?”

“He hasn’t let me down yet,” Heinrich said.

Phillip turned back to Peter. “Here’s the situation. I’m waiting on confirmation that there will be enough interest to warrant running a course. When I get confirmation, I’ll need to confirm a location, and a supply of ice to preserve the bodies until they can be used. If you report to my laboratory in three days’ time, I should know whether or not I will need you to find me some bodies.”

Peter ran his tongue over his lips. “It’s a deal.” He spat on his hand and held it out.

Phillip, who’d met this method of closing an agreement before, spat on his own hand and shook hands with Peter. Then he turned to Leonard. “Don’t use that leg more than you have to for the next three days. I’ll drop by then to check on how it’s healing, and if necessary, put in some stitches.”

Heinrich escorted Phillip out of the gate tower. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Gribbleflotz. The men really appreciate your willingness to help,” he said as he placed a couple of coins into Phillip’s hand.

“Don’t mention it,” Phillip said as he dropped the coins into his purse. The payment would barely cover his costs, but his willingness to help wasn’t born from a pursuit of wealth. It was born of his experience in the service of the counts of Nassau-Siegen. Too often he’d seen common soldiers suffering unnecessarily because their leaders didn’t care enough about them to provide proper medical care. Soon after he’d settled in Basel he’d made a point of cultivating the sergeants of the guard and offered them his professional services for a fraction of what a doctor might charge. There had been some skepticism at his apparent altruism, but once he’d explained his motivation, they’d been much more receptive. The fact that his professional services were superior to what the local doctors provided had sold them on the idea.

“Oh, and Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Heinrich said. “Basel isn’t Padua. The local religious authorities might not look so favorably on dissections of human bodies.”

“But if the families agree,” Phillip protested. He hadn’t thought of this problem, because it hadn’t been a problem in Padua.

“Even if the families agree, and it is a private demonstration.” Heinrich smiled and clapped a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “But don’t worry. If you let me know where and when you intend holding your demonstration, the guard will do what it can to see that you aren’t bothered.”

Phillip was almost at a loss for words. He muttered a disjointed thanks before heading back to his laboratory.

That evening, the home of Professor Gaspard Bauhin

“It was absolutely hilarious, Papa,” sixteen year-old Jean Gaspard said as he dashed into his father’s study.

Gaspard Bauhin, professor of the practice of medicine and professor of anatomy and botany at Basel, was ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a drink in one hand and a book in the other. He raised his eyes from his book at the interruption. His eyes lit up he recognized his son. “Hilarious? Are you sure you went to Ambrosius’ lecture?”

Jean sniggered at the sally. “It was as boring as you warned me it would be, until one of the audience made a comment about Dr. Laurent’s surgical technique.” He giggled at the memory, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

Gaspard lowered his book to his lap and set his drink on the table beside his chair. “Ambrosius told your man that if he thought he could do better, that he could come down and show everyone how it should be done,” he suggested.

Jean pouted his lips. “Someone’s already told you.”

Gaspard shook his head. “No, but I do know Ambrosius. Who was it and was he any good?”

Jean quickly recovered his good humor. “Someone I’ve never seen before. A Dr. Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz, and he was almost as good as you, Papa. But that wasn’t what was so funny.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Gaspard said. “So if Dr. Gribbleflotz showing Ambrosius up for the fool he is wasn’t so funny, what was?”

“That.” Jean struggled to speak though his laughter. It took a few attempts before he could explain without bursting out laughing. “Dr. Laurent’s accused Dr. Gribbleflotz of trying to make a fool of him, but Dr. Gribbleflotz said to Dr. Laurent that he didn’t have to try to make a fool out of him, because he was doing a good enough job of that himself.”

Gaspard joined in the laughter. They managed to stop laughing, several times, but every time they made eye contact they started again. Eventually they were all laughed out. With tears still streaming from his eyes he looked at his son. “I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

Jean was glad his father was in such a good mood, because there was something he wanted. “Papa…”

“No.”

“But I didn’t ask for anything,” Jean protested.

“I’m your father, and I knew you were going to ask for something.”

“But I only want to attend a private anatomy course,” Jean pleaded.

Gaspard raised a brow. “I thought you weren’t impressed with Ambrosius’ course.”

“I’m not,” Jean admitted. He started pacing around his father’s study, glancing at his father every now and again. “Three of the students happened to bump into Dr. Gribbleflotz during a break in Dr. Laurent’s course. They say that if there’s enough interest, he’s prepared to deliver a short course on anatomy.” He paused to give the next statement added emphasis. “With real cadavers.”

“Ambrosius still economizing by only using animal carcasses?”

Jean nodded. “Not that I think Dr. Gribbleflotz would be against using animals, Papa. I think that if he were to demonstrate an amputation, he would use a live animal, just to show how difficult it could be in reality.”

“This Dr. Gribbleflotz sounds very interesting,” Gaspard said. “Yes, you may attend, and I might drop in and watch myself.”

A few days later: the first day of Dr. Gribbleflotz’s anatomy course

Professor Bauhin stood in the gallery beside his son and watched as Dr. Gribbleflotz cleared up from the morning session of his public dissection. He was impressed. The man certainly knew what he was doing, but more impressive than his obvious knowledge of anatomy and surgery was the way he managed to involve the audience. Not just the half dozen young hopefuls who, he was sure, were pleasantly surprised at just how much of the actual dissection they were doing, but also the people who were just watching.

He felt an aggressive tug on his hand and looked down into the pleading eyes of his son. With a rueful smile he let Jean lead him onto the dissection floor where Dr. Gribbleflotz was taking off his surgical apron.

“A most impressive display, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Gaspard said. He smiled at the startled look in the eyes of Martin Stoler before the youngster hastily whispered into Dr. Gribbleflotz’s ear.

“A pleasure to meet you, Herr Professor Bauhin,” Phillip said as he wiped his hand clean on the folds of his still relatively clean surgical apron before reaching out to grasp the hand Gaspard held out. “I hope my poor efforts haven’t bored you.”

“No. I wasn’t bored. You’re a credit to your teachers.”

“Thank you, Professor Bauhin. I studied for three years under Professor Casseri,” Phillip said, “and he would be pleased to know his efforts weren’t in vain.”

“Ah, Professor Casseri. He was merely Giulio Casseri when I was studying at Padua under Professor Fabricius. Were you there when Giulio gave his anatomy course in the public anatomy theater?” Gaspard had read reviews of that course and was envious of those who had been there.

Phillip nodded. “I took comprehensive notes, which you are welcome to borrow, Professor.”

“I might take you up on that offer. Meanwhile, you may not be aware that human dissections are supposed to only be done with the approval of the university.” Gaspard held up his hands to silence Phillip’s immediate response. “However, having seen you at work, I’m sure that I can persuade the university to backdate its approval of your demonstration.”

Phillip’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t expected that kind of support. “Thank you, Professor Bauhin,” he managed to mutter.

Gaspard clapped his hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “Come, let’s have lunch together.”

Next day

Peter Hebenstreit was a survivor. Chronologically he was fifteen, but his soul was much older. Right now he was cursing his lack of forethought. He’d heard Professor Bauhin invite Dr. Gribbleflotz to lunch. He’d seen the two men, with Professor Bauhin’s son trailing behind, leave the anatomy theater together the previous day. He should have realized that after his performance that first day, and with the apparent endorsement of Dr. Gribbleflotz by Professor Bauhin, that places on the anatomy course would be in high demand. Foolishly, instead of raising the price for the remaining spaces in the audience, he’d actually sold them at a discount, thinking that no one would pay full price for a five day course after missing the first day.

Two men with entry tokens hanging from strings around their necks approached. Peter checked off the numbers written on the wooden tokens and let them into the theater. That was everyone. He then turned to the group of hopefuls who had turned up hoping to attend the lectures. “I’m sorry, but there are no vacancies. Maybe there will be some no-shows tomorrow,” he told them.

“But I have money,” one of them protested.

“There is no more space in the theater,” Peter apologized. And that really annoyed him. He could have sold another twenty places if they’d been available. “I’m sure Dr. Gribbleflotz will put on another series of lectures soon.” Certainly he would be doing so if Peter had anything to do with it, and in a much larger theater. Peter backed through the door and bolted it before heading over to the preparation room where Dr. Gribbleflotz was tying on a clean apron. “You have a full house, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz.”

“Very good, Peter. You may occupy yourself as you will until the noon break,” Phillip said as he waved for his assistants to carry the body into the theater.

Now the dissection was starting Peter took his position at the entrance to the dissection level. The previous day Dr. Gribbleflotz had only had one stoppage during his lecture, for lunch. Members of the audience had got hungry and sent him out to buy snacks. They’d also needed the chamber pot, and rather than miss any of the demonstration they might have relieved themselves in a convenient corner. Dr. Gribbleflotz had provided Peter with some buckets and told him to see that the audience used them.

A hand waved and Peter made eye contact with the man who’d waved—his first customer of the day. Peter slipped back through the entrance and made his way up to the gallery.

Three days later

Johann Rudolf Glauber walked up to the Riehen-Tor, where he was stopped by one of the gate’s guards.

“Name and purpose for entering the city?” Hans Keisser asked.

Johann leaned on his hiking stave as he answered. “I am a student looking for teachers.”

“What kind of student?” Sergeant Niklaus Heffelfinger asked as he walked over to join Hans and Johann.

“I’m a student of the alchemical arts. Would you know where I might find a suitable teacher?”

“You might try Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Hans suggested.

“No.” Niklaus shook his head. “You’re forgetting that he is running an anatomy course this week.”

“But today was the last day, Sergeant,” Hans said. “Dr. Gribbleflotz should be in his laboratory tomorrow morning.”

Niklaus turned to Johann. “There you are, Herr Glauber. Dr. Gribbleflotz might be willing to provide the training you seek. Otherwise you could ask around over by the paper mill.”

At only eighteen Johann didn’t have much experience of doctors, but the ones he’d met so far hadn’t known anything about practical alchemy. Too many of them were, as Paracelsus had written, lazy and insolent. Too idle and given to displays of wealth to actually dirty their hands in the pursuit of alchemical knowledge. So he had no intention of contacting this Dr. Gribbleflotz, but the other suggestion had merit “Where might I find this paper mill?” he asked.

Niklaus pointed vaguely to an area on the other side of the Rhine. “You cross the bridge and turn left. Keep walking past the St. Alban cloister. You can’t miss it.”

Johann thanked the guards and entered the city.

* * *

“You want alchemical training?” the man at the paper mill asked.

Johann nodded. “That’s right. The guards at the north gate said you might know where I can find a suitable teacher.”

The man chewed on his mustache and looked around. Seeing another worker he called out. “Hey, Kuntz. This youngster wants to find someone who can teach him alchemy,” Tobias Brunner said.

Kuntz Hegler wandered over to join his colleague. “There’s Herr Ackermann. I heard he was looking for a new laborant.”

Johann was suspicious of the grins on his new acquaintances’ faces. “What happened to his last one?” he asked.

“Now that’s a good question,” Tobias said.

“And deserving of a good answer,” Kuntz added.

“So?” Johann asked.

“Herr Ackermann threw a flask of oil of vitriol at him,” Tobias said.

“Missed him, of course, but it sure scared Young Fritz,” Kuntz said. “He’s probably still running.”

Johann could well imagine Young Fritz running. Oil of vitriol was a very strong acid. If the youth had been hit by it he would have, at best, been horribly scarred. At the worst, it could have killed him. “Why did Herr Ackermann throw a flask of oil of vitriol at this Fritz?” he asked.

“He was probably upset that his oil of vitriol isn’t as good as the new guy’s,” Tobias said.

“What new guy?” Johann asked.

“Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Kuntz said. “He leased Old Man Steiner’s laboratory from his widow back in July and he’s been showing up the local alchemists ever since.”

“Seriously?” Johann demanded. “The guards at the north gate suggested that Dr. Gribbleflotz might be suitable, but they also said he was giving an anatomy course. What would such a man know about alchemy?”

“Quite a lot,” Tobias said. “He’s an iatrochemist in the Paracelsian mold. He makes a lot of his own medicines, and his acids sell at a premium because they’re so much better than anyone else’s.”

“The Paracelsian mold?” That wasn’t the kind of thing Johann would expect a paper maker to say. “What do you know of Paracelsus?”

Kuntz and Tobias exchanged grins. “More than you’re likely to believe. Dr. Gribbleflotz will talk about his great ancestor and his school of thought at the drop of a hat,” Kuntz said.

“He really doesn’t think much of the Galenists,” Tobias added.

This was so much in line with Johann’s own beliefs that he knew he was going to have to at least talk to the man. “How might I find Dr. Gribbleflotz?”

“His laboratory is just down the road.” Tobias pointed in the general direction of some buildings opposite the St. Alban’s cloister. “Of course, you might do better to wait until tomorrow, because I don’t know when he’ll be getting home tonight.”

Next day

Johann presented himself at the door of Dr. Gribbleflotz’s laboratory at the crack of dawn. He knocked on the door, and waited. Five minutes later he knocked again, only harder. He knew there was someone awake inside because he could see the light of a candle through the window.

“Coming!” a voice from within called.

The door opened to reveal a man in his late twenties with a candlestick in his hand. “I’m looking for Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Johann said.

“You’ve found him,” Phillip said as he held up the candle to get a better look at Johann. “How can I help you?”

Johann stared at Dr. Gribbleflotz. He’d always imagined alchemists as being wizened old men.

“Well? I don’t have all day,” Phillip said.

Johann recovered himself. “I have heard that you are a noted iatrochemist and alchemist, and I am hoping that you will take me on as a student.”

“Are you looking to take up an apprenticeship? Because I can tell you here and now, I don’t expect to be in Basel long enough to train an apprentice.”

Johann held up his hands. “Oh, no, Dr. Gribbleflotz. I am traveling around learning new techniques from different alchemists.”

Phillip glanced back over his shoulder into his laboratory. “I do have need of an assistant. Are you willing to commit to working for me for the next two years?”

“Two years?” That was a little more than Johann had planned. “I was thinking more along the lines of a year,” he said.

“A year’s not worth my time,” Phillip pointed out. “I’ll have just got you trained and you’ll be off.”

“But I’m trained,” Johann protested. “I’ve worked for alchemists before. Could we have a trial of, say, a week in which I can prove myself?” Johann asked.

“Only if you can start now. I have orders to fill and an able assistant might be useful.”

“I can start now, Dr. Gribbleflotz.”

“Good, come on in.” Phillip shut the door after Johann and led the way into his laboratory. “There should be a spare apron over there.”

Johann followed Phillip’s pointing hand to a number of leather aprons hanging from a peg in the wall. He hurried over to them, dropped his bag in the corner, and grabbed the top apron and put it on. “Now what?” he asked.

Phillip pointed to a shelf full of carboys in wickerwork. “I want two of those bottles on the bottom shelf carried over to the bench where I’m working.”

Johann walked towards the large carboys. In passing he noticed a large clear crystal on a higher shelf and paused to examine it. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the crystal.

“Just something a grateful officer gave me many years ago after I saved his leg, and probably his life, using maggot therapy.”

“What’s maggot therapy?” Johann asked.

“It’s nothing you need to worry yourself about unless you want to study surgery.”

“I don’t want to study surgery,” Johann said. The crystal still fascinated him. He leaned closer for a better look.

“Are you going to bring me those bottles any time soon?” Phillip asked.

Johann looked up guiltily. “I’m sorry, Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz.” He used the wicker handles to pull the first carboy off the shelf. It was surprisingly heavy. “What’s in it?” he asked as he lifted the first carboy.

From the other side of the laboratory Phillip answered. “Just how much alchemy did you say you’ve learned?”

That put Johann on his mettle. He considered the possibilities as he carried the carboy over to the bench where Phillip was working. The way it sloshed around when he moved suggested it definitely wasn’t water, or even aqua vitae. The weight of the full carboy, being nearly twice what he’d expected, was another clue. “Is it oil of vitriol?” he asked as he put it down.

“Yes. Now, get the other bottle.”

Johann did as he was told. “What are you making?” he asked as he lowered the second carboy of acid onto the bench.

“I have an order for acidum salis,” Phillip said as he measured what looked like salt into a retort.

“But you don’t make acidum salis with oil of vitriol,” Johann protested.

“Are you sure about that?” Phillip smiled. Anybody who’d attended his recent anatomy course would have recognized the look on Phillip’s face. He was entering his teaching mode.

“You make acidum salis by distilling a mixture of salt and green vitriol,” Johann insisted.

“That is one way,” Phillip agreed. “However, think just a moment. How do we make oil of vitriol?”

“You distill green vitriol.”

“And how do we make aqua fortis?” Phillip asked.

Johann had no idea where this was leading, but he answered anyway. “You distill a mixture of saltpetre and green vitriol.”

“Correct,” Phillip said. “Now, do you see a pattern here?”

Johann stared blankly at Phillip and shook his head.

“What is common to the production of all three acids?”

Johann’s eyes widened as slowly he started to understand. “The green vitriol,” he said. “But alchemists have been making the acids by distilling salt or saltpetre with green vitriol for centuries. Surely if there were an easier way, someone would have discovered it before now?”

“Maybe they did,” Phillip said. “And maybe somehow their knowledge was lost. Of course, it’s not just a simple matter of mixing oil of vitriol with salt and suddenly your oil of vitriol is turned into acidum salis. If that was all it took, everyone would be doing it.”

Johann surveyed the retorts Phillip had arranged. “It seems a lot of work for something that could just as easily be done the old-fashioned way. All you’re doing is adding an extra step to the production of acidum salis and aqua fortis.”

“It makes sound economic sense,” Phillip said. “Oil of vitriol is obviously the Quinta Essentia of acids. And as long as you have a supply of oil of vitriol, you can make any acid you like.”

“But the Quinta Essentia only applies to distillates of living things,” Johann protested.

“That is quite true, but in the case of oil of vitriol, it’s a good analogy,” Phillip said as he loaded a number of retorts with a mixture of salt and oil of vitriol. With the last of a dozen retorts loaded he stretched his back and turned to Johann. “Now you can help me set these up on the furnace.”

Johann helped set the retorts up on the furnace and then he watched in surprise as Phillip carefully weighed some wood before adding it to the furnace. “Why are you doing that?” he asked.

“Being an alchemist is a business. By keeping track of how much fuel I use, I can accurately price my products.” Phillip waved his notebook at the furnace. “I have to be very careful. This furnace is one of the least efficient I’ve ever used. It’s because of the distressing economics of distilling green vitriol on this furnace that I first explored using oil of vitriol to make acidum salis and aqua fortis.”

Johann hoped he didn’t look half as confused as he felt. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gribbleflotz, but I don’t see the connection.”

Phillip grinned. “It is obvious you’ve never had to concern yourself with the economics of running a laboratory. Because if you had, you would know that the price of fuel goes up in the winter.”

“How does the price of fuel going up in winter lead to you making acidum salis and aqua fortis from oil of vitriol?”

“It takes as much fuel to make oil of vitriol from green vitriol as it does to make acidum salis or aqua fortis from green vitriol. But you can never be sure how much of any acid you need or can sell. With my new process, as long as I have oil of vitriol, I can make aqua fortis and acidum salis on demand. And I’ll never be left with surplus stock.” Phillip paused to glare at the furnace. “Of course, it still wouldn’t hurt for the furnace to be a little more efficient.”

Johann looked at the furnace. It didn’t look any different from the half-dozen or so other furnaces he’d seen. “Why haven’t you done something about improving it?”

“I’ve been busy,” Phillip said defensively before going on to explain what he was doing with his retorts.

Johann was interested in the idea that furnaces could have different efficiencies, but he didn’t have any time to think about that as he tried to keep up with Dr. Gribbleflotz. The doctor was everywhere as he monitored the numerous retorts while also managing the fire in the furnace and preparing other compounds on his bench.

“Why are you doing that?” Johann found himself asking later in the day as he watched Dr. Gribbleflotz dissolving saltpetre in warm water.

“The secret of purer acids is purer ingredients,” Phillip said. “By purifying my saltpetre before I mix it with the oil of vitriol, I get a much purer aqua fortis.”

“Does purer saltpetre make better gunpowder?” Johann wondered aloud.

“It does,” Phillip answered. “Any variation from the standard seventy-five to fifteen to ten formulation is usually due to impurities in the ingredients, especially of the saltpetre. Usually the improvement in performance doesn’t justify the effort to make the saltpetre purer.”

“You sound as if you’ve tested that theory,” Johann said.

“I have.” Phillip related his experiences in Augsburg during his apprenticeship, much to Johann’s delight.

“Could you make some gunpowder?” Johann asked.

“Gunpowder isn’t something to fool around with,” Phillip warned. “I’ve seen men torn apart by explosions, and I have nightmares imagining what it must have been like at Wimpfen last May when that cannon shot blew up the magazine of the forces of the margrave of Baden-Durlach.”

Johann was more interested in the practicalities of the situation rather than the physical injuries sustained. “How does that work?” he protested. “Surely a cannon shot can’t set off a barrel of gunpowder.”

“No, it can’t,” Phillip agreed. “It isn’t hot enough. However, a sufficiently large cannonball hitting a barrel of gunpowder can easily turn it into a cloud of dust and stave pieces.”

“How does a cloud of dust cause an explosion?”

Phillip looked around his laboratory. “Get that stool and place it in the middle of the room.”

While Johann was moving the stool, Phillip opened a clay pot and measured some fine black powder onto a sheet of paper. “Light the candle and stand the candlestick on the stool,” Phillip directed as he approached the stool.

With the lit candle standing on the stool Phillip stepped closer to the flame and blew on the paper in his hands. The fine black powder was dispersed in a cloud of fine particles, until the first one hit the flame, then the whole lot erupted in a ball of fire. He dusted off the piece of paper and collected the candlestick. “That’s what a cloud of gunpowder can do, and all it needs to set it off is a single smoldering ember. Please put away the stool and sweep the floor,” he instructed as he returned them to the bench.

Johann was so stunned by what he’d seen that he didn’t move. “Could I try that?” he begged.

Phillip sighed and held out the candlestick. “Put that back on the stool.”

Johann took the candlestick and Phillip set about placing a small amount of fine gunpowder on the sheet of paper. By the time he’d finished and put the gunpowder away Johann was back. He handed him the sheet of paper with the small measure of gunpowder on it. “The paper needs to be about a foot away from the candle and level with the top of the flame before you blow,” Phillip said as he handed it over.

Johann set himself up relative to the candle and blew. The resulting fireball wasn’t as impressive as Phillip’s but it still brought a gleam to Johann’s eyes.

“No, you can’t do that again,” Phillip said. He ignored Johann’s protests. “Put the candlestick and stool away and sweep the floor.”

* * *

Phillip knew that nothing he said would discourage Johann from playing around with gunpowder. He’d have to discover the realities of just how dangerous it was himself. So while Johann swept the laboratory, Phillip wrote down clear and concise instructions of how to make gunpowder. He handed it to Johann when he finished sweeping.

“What’s this?” Johann asked as he skimmed over the list of instructions.

“That is the safe way to make gunpowder.” Phillip put a lot of emphasis on the word “safe.” “Not that making gunpowder can ever be considered safe.”

“You’re down on gunpowder because of your experiences in the war?” Johann asked as he carefully folded the sheet of paper and put it away.

Phillip nodded. He wasn’t willing to go into the details, but any enthusiasm he’d ever had for gunpowder had well and truly been lost during his time in the service of the counts of Nassau-Siegen. “I gave you those instructions because I know that the first chance you get, you’ll try to make some. And I’d rather you didn’t blow yourself or anybody else up whilst doing so.”

“I’ll be careful,” Johann promised.

“Good, now let’s get back to work. Those retorts won’t monitor themselves.”

A few days later

Phillip walked around the distillation furnace, carefully checking the various retorts. He was paying special attention to the retorts at the cooler end of the furnace. Johann followed him like a shadow, and stood just about as close.

“Why are you redistilling the aqua vitae so often?” Johann asked.

Phillip turned and looked down his nose at Johann, his disappointment in his student evident on his face.

Johann looked around the laboratory. His eyes darted to the bench where retorts of aqua vitae were awaiting their turns on the furnace before returning to Phillip. “What did I do wrong this time?” he demanded.

Phillip sighed loudly, which caused Johann to blush. “What have I told you about the need for accuracy?” he asked.

Johann’s eyes darted back to the bench. “Oh,” he said as he turned back to face Phillip. “You mean I should have asked why you are distilling the aqua vitae four times?”

“That would have been much better,” Phillip said, “although you should really have asked why I am distilling it for the fourth time.” He smiled to show he wasn’t too upset. “We will actually be distilling it one more time, to give fivefold distilled waters of wine. Then I will pour it into clean containers, seal them, and bury them in baskets full of horse manure.”

“But you started with beer, not wine,” Johann pointed out.

Phillip elected to just glare at Johann before continuing as if he hadn’t spoken. “I distill it five times so as to make it as pure, and therefore as strong, as possible.”

“But you insist on accuracy, Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Johann protested.

Phillip settled his clenched fists on his hips and glared at Johann. “Johann, by the time it has been distilled five times, the distillate of beer is indistinguishable from the distillate of wine.” He continued to glare at Johann, daring him to say anything. When Johann broke eye contact Phillip continued speaking. “And besides, ‘waters of wine’ sounds much more impressive than beer, or aqua vitae.” Johann’s head shot up at the sudden levity. Their eyes met and he saw the smile in Phillip’s eyes as he continued to speak. “Now, you will no doubt be curious to know why it must be buried in horse manure for four months before being decanted into a clean flask and buried for another four months, and when that time is over, it needs to be decanted into yet another clean flask before being buried for a final four months, after which it will be decanted one last time?”

“Now that you mention it, Dr. Gribbleflotz, I would like to know why you have to do that.”

Phillip hadn’t been idle since his first attempt to explain to Dr. Michael Weitnauer back in Dalmatia why it had to be buried for a year. “Obviously the first consideration is protecting it from light while any sediment in the liquid settles. The removal of sediment is of course why it is decanted at four-monthly intervals, and we repeat the decanting to ensure all sediments are removed.”

“But why horse manure?” Johann asked.

“You could probably use anything that can keep the light out, but the spongy nature of horse manure provides an added measure of protection to the flask, and when one is investing a year in the production of the liquid, you really do want to minimize the chances of accidents breaking the vessels.”

Johann nodded. “So what is this fivefold distilled waters of wine good for?”

Phillip stood up straight and all schoolmastery. “Fivefold distillate of the waters of wine that has been purified by keeping it buried in horse manure and decanted thrice is no longer mere fivefold distillate of the waters of wine. If it has survived that treatment it has become the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine.”

“And?” Johann prompted.

“If you mix the Quinta Essentia of any item with the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine you’ll have a medicine that can cure any malady, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Phillip gave a self-conscious shrug. “I haven’t been able to test it yet, but that’s what I was told.”

“How does this Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine fit in with the Paracelsian school of thought?”

“Ah, well,” Phillip said. “That’s the thing about the Quinta Essentia of any living thing. It’s what is left when you remove the four elements.” He walked along the racks of flasks and selected two, one in each hand. He showed the flask in his right hand to Johann. “This contains the Quinta Essentia of Plantago major, and this,” He held up the second flask. “Contains the Quinta Essentia of willow bark. If you test either of these you will find no trace of mercury, sulphur, or salt.”

Johann reached out for the flask of the Quinta Essentia of willow bark. “Can I test it?”

“Be my guest,” Phillip said as he passed the flask over.

Johann removed the stopper and sniffed the clear liquid. Then he poured a little into a watch glass and dipped a wooden splint in it and held that over a candle. Finally he turned back to Phillip. “It certainly doesn’t contain sulphur.”

“Of course not, and if you taste it you’ll discover that it doesn’t contain salt either.”

“Is it safe?” Johann asked.

Phillip nodded. “Consider what it is, Johann. It’s merely the result of the destructive distillation of willow bark. Why shouldn’t it be safe?”

Johann dipped a finger into the liquid and licked his finger. “It’s tasteless.”

“It’s as I said, no salt, no sulphur, and no mercury. It’s nothing more than the pure nonputrefying essence of willow bark.”

“But Paracelsus says that all created things consist of sulphur, mercury, and salt. How is it possible that willow bark is deficient in all three?”

“No, no, no!” Phillip shook a finger at Johann. “You misunderstand. Of course the willow bark contains sulphur, mercury, and salt. However, all of that is left behind when we destructively distill the bark to produce its Quinta Essentia.”

Johann nodded. “And this,” he shook the flask of the Quinta Essentia of willow bark, “when mixed with the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine will give a medicine that can treat any malady?”

Phillip gave a gentle snort as he smiled. “I consider that very doubtful. However, if an infusion of willow bark is made using the Quinta Essentia of willow bark and the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine, you will produce a medicine for the treatment of fevers that is much stronger than mere willow bark tea.”

“You seem very sure of that, Dr. Gribbleflotz.”

“I have run some tests,” Phillip said in a self-complimentary way. “From a measured amount of willow bark, an infusion prepared with ordinary water, when filtered and evaporated, leaves less white powder than the same amount of willow bark in an infusion made from a mixture of the Quinta Essentia of willow bark and the Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine.”

“What is the white powder?” Johann asked.

“The essence of willow bark, of course.” Phillip smiled. “It’s a very useful powder. When bulked out with wheat flour, gum arabic, and chalk it can be turned into pills.”

“How do the pills compare with willow bark tea?”

“Well, willow bark tea is usually used to cool the heated blood to reduce a fever. An infusion isn’t inherently cooling, so the essence of the willow bark has to work extra hard. Therefore I include a natural substance that turns the pills blue, a naturally cool color, to enhance its performance. Because of this, my blue Sal Vin Betula pills are more effective than the equivalent dose of willow bark tea.”

“Do you sell those pills?” Johann asked.

“Not very often,” Phillip said. “The cost of a single Sal Vin Betula pill is greater than the cost of a similar dosage supplied as an infusion of willow bark tea, so few people ask for them.”

“But do people know about your Sal Vin Betula pills, Dr. Gribbleflotz? I’m sure that people who would happily pay extra for the convenience of a pill if only they knew that it was available.”

Phillip wasn’t so sure about that. In his experience people wanted cheap over convenience. “Maybe when fuel prices come down we can look into it.”

Early January 1623

Johann was happily working on his latest attempt at an improved distillation furnace when there was yet another knock on the door to Dr. Gribbleflotz’s laboratory. With a resentful sigh at yet another interruption he put down the firebricks he’d been carrying and made his way to the door.

“How may I help you,” he said as he opened the door.

“I’m looking for my brother.”

Johann did a double take. The normal run of people knocking at Dr. Gribbleflotz’s door were older men—either fellow alchemists looking to procure some of his excellent acids, or ordinary men looking to purchase treatments for their various ailments. The few women who’d knocked at his door since Johann had been working for him had been mature women looking to sell Dr. Gribbleflotz various herbs and plant cuttings. Young women, especially attractive young women like the one he was currently staring at, just didn’t knock at the doctor’s door. “Brother?” he managed to mumble.

She smiled, and what he’d thought merely a pretty face became a beautiful one as the smile lit up her face and brought a sparkle to her eyes. “Peter Hebenstreit. I understand he’s currently working for Dr. Gribbleflotz.”

Johann released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Oh, him. Peter’s your brother?” he asked, just to confirm the relationship.

The girl nodded.

“Do you have a name, Peter’s sister?”

Again she smiled. “Katarina, and you’ll be Dr. Gribbleflotz’s new laborant, Johann Glauber.”

Johann preened at the thought that such a pretty girl had heard of him. “That’s right.”

“Do you know where Peter is?” she asked.

Johann nodded. He noticed she was still waiting for an answer and quickly provided it. “He’s working all day at the university’s public anatomy theater.”

“Oh.” She nibbled at her lip before looking pleadingly at Johann. “I thought he was just sourcing dead bodies for that.”

“No,” Johann said. “He also runs errands for the audience during the demonstrations.”

“Oh, bother!” She looked appealingly at Johann. “I don’t suppose you could take him a message? I’d do it myself, but I have to get back to work, as my mistress is getting married in the spring and we’re extremely busy with preparations.”

Johann sighed regretfully. “I’d like to help, but I can’t leave the laboratory.” He shrugged. “I don’t have a key with which to lock the door.”

Katarina tossed back her head and laughed.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Johann said.

“What’s so funny, Young Man, is the idea that anyone with any sense would steal from Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Frau Bader from next door said. “Now, lad, let the young woman give you her message and get back to work. I’ll keep an eye out on the doctor’s laboratory while you’re gone.”

Johann turned to the older woman. She was a laundry woman, with the arms and shoulders of someone used to physical labor. He could easily believe that would-be thieves could be scared off by her. “Thank you, Frau Bader.” He turned expectantly to Katarina.

“Tell Peter that Elisabeth Brotbeck died less than an hour ago.”

“That’s it? That’s the message?” Johann asked.

Katarina nodded. “Peter’ll understand. Please hurry. I have to go now.”

Johann stood and watched Katarina hurry away. He was still staring down the street long after she’d turned a corner when something jabbed him under the ribs.

“That’s not getting a message to her brother,” Frau Bader said, a smirk on her face.

Johann took the hint. He removed his leather apron and hung it up before shutting the door and hurrying off towards the public anatomy theater. He arrived in good time—no place in Basel being more than a few minutes’ walk away—and knocked on the door of the theater.

It opened a little and a head poked out. “What do you want?” the guard asked.

“I need to get a message to Peter Hebenstreit. He came with Dr. Gribbleflotz.” Johann wasn’t deliberately name dropping, he was just stating a fact in the hope that it would help the guard identify Peter.

“Wait here,” the man said before closing and locking the door.

A few minutes later Peter turned up. “I hope it’s important,” he said by way of greeting. “I’m losing money just talking to you.”

“Your sister came round to the laboratory with a message…”

“Katarina’s all right?” Peter demanded.

Johann held up his hands. “She’s fine. She just wanted me to pass on the message that Elisabeth Brotbeck died an hour ago.”

“Brotbeck?” Peter looked skyward as he repeated the name a couple of times. Then suddenly he looked back at Johann. “Yes!” he said as he shot a fisted hand into the air. “I have to tell Professor Bauhin this.” Peter pushed past the door guard and disappeared into the darkened building.

Johann followed, ignoring the halfhearted protest of the man at the door. “What’s so important about someone dying?” he asked once he caught up with Peter.

Peter shot a glance at Johann. “Professor Bauhin needs bodies for his anatomy course,” he said.

Johann nodded. He knew that. “But I thought you already had as many bodies as he needed.”

“We do, but Elisabeth Brotbeck was with child.” Peter smiled smugly. “Professor Bauhin will pay well for such a cadaver. Wait here,” he said when they arrived at the curtained-off entrance to the anatomy theater.

Johann twitched the curtain aside so he could watch Peter. First he slipped up beside one of Professor Bauhin’s assistants and spoke to him, and then the assistant attracted the attention of the older man leading the dissection. A few words were exchanged before the older man made his apologies to the audience and left an older assistant in charge while he followed Peter back behind the curtain.

“The woman still carries the child?” Professor Bauhin asked Peter the moment they were behind the curtain.

“Frau Brotbeck was over three months pregnant, Professor Bauhin. My sister would have said if she’d lost the child.”

Professor Bauhin licked his lips. He paused for a few seconds before nodding vigorously. “It’ll have to be a private demonstration,” he muttered aloud. “Stay here a moment while I get Jean,” he told Peter before disappearing through the curtain.

Less than a minute later Professor Bauhin returned with his son. “Jean, I want you to go with Peter to check out the body. You know what to look for?”

“That the body still contains the unborn child,” Jean said.

Professor Bauhin nodded. “Now, don’t pay too much for the body,” he said as he handed Jean a purse.

* * *

The three of them stepped out of the chilly dead room attached to St. Ulrich’s Church and into the sunlight. Peter turned to Jean. “Do you think your father and Dr. Gribbleflotz could determine what killed her?”

“Of course,” Jean said. “Why do you want to know?”

“There’s no of course about it. Your father and Dr. Gribbleflotz were unable to work out how Hans the Boatman died.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Jean protested. “When Dr. Gribbleflotz failed to find river water in his lungs it opened a whole world of possibilities.”

Johann hurried ahead a few paces and turned to face his companions. “Hold it. Who’s Hans the Boatman, and what’s so important about water in his lungs?”

Peter and Jean stopped, and Peter took a deep breath. “Hans the Boatman was the cadaver Dr. Gribbleflotz dissected in his anatomy course back in December.”

“His body had been pulled out of the Rhine, so everyone assumed he’d fallen into the river and drowned,” Jean said.

“Except there was no water in his lungs, so Dr. Gribbleflotz and Jean’s father thought he must have been dead before he hit the water,” Peter said. “And over the next three days they failed to determine how he died.”

“Hans’ body had been in the river for several days before it was discovered, so a lot of the important clues were lost,” Jean said. He waved back towards St. Ulrich’s. “Frau Brotbeck’s body is so fresh it’s still warm, so the clues should still be there.”

“Why are you so interested in how the woman died?” Johann asked.

“The families like to know,” Peter answered.

A week later

Johann was enjoying walking around with a delightful companion on his arm when he noticed Peter accepting money from a couple of guys. He turned to Katarina. “What sort of thing would Peter do for guys like those two?” he asked.

Katarina looked in the direction Johann was indicating and snorted. “He’s not getting paid for any work he might have done, he’s collecting his winnings.”

“Peter gambles?” Johann asked. That didn’t fit his image of the youth. He seemed too concerned with money to risk losing any on a game of chance.

“Only on sure things,” Katarina muttered. She looked at her brother for a few seconds more before tugging at Johann’s arm. “Let’s keep moving. I need to get some ribbon for Maria.”

Maria was Katarina’s mistress, and Johann had the impression they were good friends for all that Katarina was her maid. He let her lead him away from Peter, only glancing back once, to see Peter collecting money from someone else. “What kind of sure things?” he asked.

“The latest was that Dr. Gribbleflotz and Professor Bauhin would be able to determine what killed Elisabeth Brotbeck.”

“What kind of sick individual bets on things like that?” Johann muttered.

“Sick people like my brother and his friends,” Katarina said. “Look, there. They have ribbon just the right color for Maria’s wedding dress.” She tightened her grip on Johann’s hand and surged through the crowd.

Johann let himself be dragged along. Visiting haberdashery shops was part of the price of walking out with Katarina, but her company more than made up for any embarrassment he might have felt being seen in such a store.

Early April 1623

Phillip emptied the maggots into the large glass bowl of warm water and gently swished them around. A quick glance Johann’s way caught him watching what he was doing. “Shouldn’t you be watching your retorts?” Phillip asked.

Johann nodded guiltily, but continued to stare at the bowl in front of Phillip. “What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Do you remember we talked once about ‘maggot therapy’?” Phillip asked.

Johann nodded. “You said that maggot therapy was surgical, and that if I wanted to learn about surgery, I should enroll at the university.”

“That’s true. However, what I’m doing now is more iatrochemical than surgical. While I was serving in the Low Countries I noticed that in patients having their wounds treated with maggots the wounds became flooded with a clear—”

“Treated with maggots?” Johann’s voice was high pitched. “What are you treating with maggots?”

“Battle wounds,” Phillip said. “While I was serving as a military surgeon and physician, I discovered, like many military surgeons and physicians before me, that soldiers who have been left for days on the battlefield with flyblown wounds often had a better chance of surviving than soldiers who receive timely treatment from a surgeon or physician.

“Well, if you were to inspect a wound that is full of maggots, you would see that they are immersed in a clear, thick, liquid. I looked at that clear liquid, and wondered at its properties.”

“What properties?” Johann asked.

“Well, why is it that maggots can live in rotten flesh?” Phillip asked. “Could it be because they live in a liquid that somehow protects them?

“Naturally, I conducted some tests,” Phillip said.

“Of course you did,” Johann muttered.

Phillip ignored Johann’s muttered comment and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I discovered that a wound, when the liquor was introduced into one not being treated with maggots, healed a lot faster than ones where it was not used. So I hypothesized that there was something in the liquor that is medically beneficial.” Phillip carefully siphoned off the slime from the surface of the water and poured it into an apothecary’s mixing bowl. “I now use it in my special wound ointment.”

Johann pointed to the maggots still struggling in the bowl of water. “What do you do with the maggots after washing off the slime?”

Phillip smiled. “You will now fish them out of the water and destructively distill them to produce the Quinta Essentia of maggots.”

Johann reluctantly collected the maggots and loaded them into retorts before setting them over the furnace. It wasn’t long before the Quinta Essentia of the maggots was dripping into the collection vessels.

“What do you want me to do with the remnants?” Johann asked sometime later as he removed the first of the spent retorts form the furnace.

“Empty the powder into a jar and seal it for later. I’ve got some fresh Quinta Essentia of the waters of wine due to mature in three months’ time, and I’ll see what I can extract from the remnants…” Phillip stopped speaking to listen. Yes, he had heard the clatter of wooden shoes on cobblestones coming down the street. He didn’t have much of a medical practice, preferring to work in his laboratory rather than treat patients, but he was still on call for the guard. Maybe one of them had injured themselves. He just hoped it wasn’t Leonard Stohler again.

The footfalls slowed just outside, and then the door burst open.

“Please, Dr. Gribbleflotz, you must come,” Peter said between gasps for breath. “They think Katarina murdered Ludwig Schaub.”

“Is Katarina all right?” Johann demanded as he grabbed Peter.

“Settle down!” Phillip ordered as he pulled Johann from Peter. “Now, Peter, can you tell me what has happened?”

Peter took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Katarina’s mistress married Herr Ludwig Schaub yesterday, and the bridegroom died before the marriage could be consummated. Herr Schaub’s family is insisting that he was poisoned, and they’re claiming that Katarina and Frau Beck did it.”

“Calm down, Peter,” Phillip said, “the guard isn’t going do anything to your sister just because someone claims she poisoned someone. They need evidence.”

Peter nodded. “That’s why you have to come. I told Captain Brückner how you and Professor Bauhin determined what killed Elisabeth Brotbeck. Both the Becks and the Schaubs have agreed to let you examine Herr Schaub, and Captain Brückner sent me to get you.” He paused for a moment. “The Beck family will pay for your time,” Peter added as an afterthought.

“I don’t have the reputation in Basel to carry enough weight with the courts,” Phillip said. “We need someone with a higher public profile.” He turned to Peter. “I want you to find Professor Bauhin and tell him what you’ve told me. No.” Phillip stopped speaking and shook his head. “That won’t work. I need you to lead me to Herr Schaub’s house.”

“I know where it is,” Johann said.

Phillip looked questioningly at Johann.

Johann blushed under Phillip’s gaze. “I’ve been walking out with Peter’s sister, and she showed me where she would be living after her mistress married.”

That was good enough for Phillip. He turned back to Peter. “Quick as you can, find Professor Bauhin and give him the message. Johann will lead me to Herr Schaub’s house.”

Peter nodded and made for the door. Seconds later his wooden shoes could be heard clattering along on the cobblestones.

Phillip turned to Johann. “Help me collect my medical bags. We’d best take a bit of everything.”

* * *

Even though it was bigger than most bedrooms, Ludwig Schaub’s room felt crowded. Captain Daniel Brückner of the city guard was there with Sergeant Heinrich Schweitzer. Katarina and Maria were sitting huddled together on a settee as far away from the bed where the body was lying as they could get. A man Phillip assumed was the dead man’s personal servant stood by the bed, and members of the Beck and Schaub families lined opposite sides of the room with their respective lawyers in attendance.

“What are we waiting for?” Professor Dr. Johannes Thomas Cludius, counsel for the Schaub family, demanded. “Herr Dr. Gribbleflotz is here. Let him get to work.”

“A woman’s life may be at stake, so I’ve asked that Professor Bauhin join me,” Phillip said.

Professor Dr. Kaspar Bitsch’s eyes lit up. The counselor for the Beck family obviously appreciated the inclusion of the professor of the practice of medicine. “I’m happy to wait for Professor Bauhin to arrive.”

So wait they did. No more than ten minutes later Professor Gaspard Bauhin, his son, and Peter entered the room.

“It’s a bit crowded in here,” Gaspard said to Phillip.

“Maybe some of them will leave when we start the autopsy,” Phillip said.

“Where were you proposing to hold it?” Gaspard asked. He waved towards the bed. “If nothing else, that’s an awkward height.”

“There should be a big table in the kitchen. Failing that, there’s always the dining room,” Phillip said.

“You can’t cut open Ludwig in his own dining room,” one of Ludwig’s relatives protested.

“I hardly think he’s going to mind,” Phillip said. “Still, I’m sure his widow will allow us to do whatever is necessary to discover what killed her husband.”

“She killed him,” one of the Schaub wives said, pointing an accusing finger at Maria.

“Maria didn’t kill Ludwig,” one of Maria’s family countered.

It quickly degenerated into a yelling match between the two families, which Phillip tried to ignore as he looked around the room looking for clues.

Gaspard joined him as Captain Brückner and Sergeant Schweitzer separated the two families. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

Phillip nodded towards Ludwig’s personal manservant. “He said that his master complained of abdominal cramps, and burning pain in his stomach and throat before he went into convulsions,” Phillip whispered.

“That’s consistent with poisoning,” Gaspard whispered back.

“I know. I’m hoping that if it was poison, it was self-administered, and somewhere there should be a pill box of some description.” Phillip crouched to look under the bed. The stink of urine hit him as he lifted the cover. He reached out for the chamber pot and pulled it out from under the bed. Phillip smiled at the sight and glanced at Gaspard. “Blood in the urine.”

Gaspard examined the chamber pot. “That certainly had to have happened before the real pain set in.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Dr. Cludius demanded.

“Let me handle this,” Gaspard whispered to Phillip. He got back to his feet and faced Dr. Cludius. “It’s very simple, Johannes. We noticed the smell of urine and were looking to find the source.” Gaspard lifted up the chamber pot so everyone could see. His innocent sounding statement calmed everyone down. “Now, can we get the body moved to the kitchen? I’d like to get started on the autopsy.”

Chamber pots were such innocuous devices that no one noticed that after Gaspard passed the pot to Phillip he poured the contents into a flask from his medical kit. Meanwhile footmen carried the body down to the kitchen where it was laid out on the kitchen table. Ludwig Schaub’s bed gown was removed to reveal a corpulent and hairy body. Phillip handed the flask to Johann and told him to put it away before he joined Gaspard in examining the now naked body. They walked around it, taking turns to poke at the fat belly.

“Where would you suggest we start?” Gaspard asked.

Ever since he’d seen the bloody urine Phillip had been thinking about the combination of blood in the urine and a brand new, and young, wife. He had an idea of what might have killed Ludwig Schaub; now he just had to collect the confirming evidence. “The stomach.”

Gaspard turned to the people encroaching on the space around the table. “I’d appreciate it if everyone would give us some room,” he said as he attempted to shoo them away from the table.

Everyone took at most half a step back, until Gaspard started unrolling his autopsy equipment. Not to be outdone, Phillip found room on a work bench to lay out his own tools of his trade. The sight of the various saws and blades had the onlookers stepping well clear of the two surgeons.

“After you?” Phillip suggested to Gaspard, gesturing to the naked belly of Ludwig Schaub.

“No, after you, Phillip. Today I’ll assist.”

To have Professor Bauhin assisting him was a great honor, and Phillip had no intention of declining his offer. He selected a scalpel and made a long incision from Ludwig’s groin right up to his neck. He followed the vertical incision with a couple of horizontal incisions at rib level to form a cross and the two surgeons started to peel back the skin.

Finding the stomach took a little time, but soon afterwards Phillip was able to cut it out and drop it onto a silver platter that had been requisitioned for the purpose. Together Phillip and Gaspard opened it and examined the contents.

“Look at those flecks,” Phillip said.

Gaspard scraped some small iridescent flecks from the stomach lining. “What do you think it is?” he asked.

Phillip examined them under a lens. With everything else he had seen he was pretty sure he knew what had killed Ludwig, but there was one sure way of confirming it. “I think it’s what killed Ludwig,” he whispered. “I need to conduct a test. Let’s find a kidney.”

The kidney was a little harder to find in amongst the fatty tissues, but eventually Gaspard was able to cut one free. He dropped it into a bowl. “Now what?” he asked.

Phillip looked at the fat-encrusted kidney. “If what I think is right, if we cut that open and rub it on skin, it should raise blisters.”

Gaspard glanced at the interested onlookers. “Well, we can’t use any of these people. Would a rabbit do?”

Phillip nodded. “Although it would probably be better to have two—one for the Becks and one for the Schaubs.”

Gaspard grinned before turning to the onlookers and requesting a couple of live rabbits, with large patches of their fur shaved off.

While Gaspard gave instructions, Phillip cut open the kidney and proceeded to mash up some of it, while being careful not to touch it with his bare skin. He was finished well before a kitchen hand returned with a couple of rabbits.

While Gaspard described what was happening, Phillip used a pair of metal tongs to take some of the mashed kidney and smear it on the shaved flanks of the rabbits. Then they sat down to watch.

“What are we looking for?” Dr. Bitsch asked.

“I believe Herr Schaub died of poisoning,” Phillip said. He had intended qualifying the statement, but the man who’d since been identified as the dead man’s younger brother exploded.

“You agree that she poisoned Ludwig,” Heinrich Schaub shouted, waving an accusing finger towards a white-faced Maria.

“You’re supposed to be proving that my daughter didn’t poison Ludwig,” Maria’s father shouted at Phillip.

Phillip hastened to reclaim the situation. He held up his hands and called on everyone to “please calm down.”

Naturally, in such a charged environment, such a plea went unheeded, until Professor Bauhin added his weight to the request.

“Please, I’m sure Dr. Gribbleflotz will explain if only everyone would calm down.” Gaspard cast speaking looks at the counselors for the families, who took the hint. A couple of minutes later the room was silent and everyone was looking intently at Phillip.

“As I was saying,” Phillip reiterated. “I suspect that Herr Schaub died from the ingestion of poison.” Members of the Schaub family started smiling while the Beck family frowned. “However,” Phillip continued, “rather than being poisoned by his wife, I believe he died of a self-administered overdose…”

“My brother did not commit suicide,” Heinrich shouted.

Phillip winced at the volume Heinrich was directing at him. “I didn’t mean to imply that it was suicide, Herr Schaub. If we can just wait to see what happens with the rabbits, I will be able to explain everything.”

The combined parties settled down to watch the two rabbits. Initially not much happened, but after about a quarter of an hour the rabbits started to display signs that they were suffering pain. Then, as more time passed, blisters started to appear on their shaved flanks.

“Professor Bauhin, if you would please examine the rabbits and tell everyone what you see,” Phillip said.

Gaspard picked up each rabbit in turn, displaying the shaved and blistering flanks to the audience. “I see blisters in the areas where Dr. Gribbleflotz smeared tissue from Ludwig’s kidney.” He turned to the two counselors. “Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked them. Both men nodded.

“Thank you,” Phillip said as he rubbed his hands together. He smiled benevolently at his audience—he so loved being proven right. “With this evidence, I am confident that Herr Schaub died after ingesting powdered Cantharis beetle,” Phillip saw the blank looks being sent his way and quickly elaborated, “more commonly known as Spanish Fly.”

“But that’s not a poison. Ludwig’s been taking that for years,” Heinrich protested.

“Then he has been very lucky for years, Herr Schaub,” Phillip said. “I’ve seen horses that have died after eating feed that has been contaminated with the Cantharis beetle.” That was a slight exaggeration. In his life he’d seen exactly one horse that had died from eating contaminated feed, but they didn’t need to know that. “The powder of the Cantharis beetle is actually a poison. However, as Paracelsus himself said, a little poison can be good for you.” He gave a wry smile. “There are a number of conditions where a little of the powder is supposed to be beneficial; unfortunately, a little too much can kill you.”

Phillip turned to Captain Brückner. “I expect that somewhere in his rooms is Herr Schaub’s supply of ‘Spanish Fly.’ Could you see if you can find it?”

Captain Brückner nodded.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” Phillip asked.

“A sort of brown powder with iridescent reflections,” Captain Brückner said as he gestured to Sergeant Schweitzer. The two of them, with the two counselors and members of both families in tow, headed back to Ludwig’s bedroom.

“What made you think Ludwig died of Cantharis poisoning?” Gaspard asked after the procession had left, leaving only a handful of people in the kitchen.

Phillip gestured towards the body still lying on the kitchen table. “A man of his age and constitution is likely to feel the need for an aphrodisiac when marrying a much younger woman. If we add that situation to the presence of blood in his urine, I was sure we were looking at Cantharis poisoning.”

“But Heinrich insists his brother has taken Spanish Fly for years with no ill effect,” Gaspard said.

Phillip shrugged. “As I said before, he’s been extremely lucky. I’ve extracted the essence of Cantharis from a variety of Cantharis beetles over time, and one thing I have discovered is, the amount of the essence present in a sample can vary from as little as half a part per hundred by weight in older female beetles to up to six parts per hundred in males. And if you are selective in what parts of the beetle you take, the legs and thorax can contain up to twelve parts per hundred.”

“So that’s why you want Ludwig’s supply of Spanish Fly. You want to check to see how strong it is.”

Phillip nodded. “Usually the powder is a random mixture of male and female beetles. If the ratio is about equal, the active essence of Cantharis makes up less than two parts per hundred.”

“But if the ratio starts to favor the male beetles, that particular dose of Spanish Fly can be stronger than normal.”

“Or if there is a surplus of the larger female beetles it can drop. The amount of essence of Cantharis in any given dose of Spanish Fly can vary from as little as one part per hundred to as much as six parts per hundred.”

Gaspard whistled. “And the person buying it has absolutely no idea how strong it’s going to be!”

Phillip nodded. “Like I said, Herr Schaub’s been extremely lucky.”

“Up until now,” Gaspard added with a smile.

“Yes, up until now,” Phillip agreed. “He probably purchased a fresh supply so he could be sure of performing for his new bride and, just to be doubly sure, exceeded his normal dosage.”

“Resulting in the overdose that killed him. Congratulations,” Gaspard said as he held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Phillip.”

“We haven’t checked the strength of Herr Schaub’s supply of Spanish Fly yet,” Phillip protested.

“I’m sure we’ll find it is somewhat over two parts per hundred,” Gaspard said.

* * *

Phillip was still in the kitchen in Ludwig Schaub’s house, but now he was carefully weighing the amount of essence of Cantharis he’d extracted from a one-hundred-grain sample of the Spanish Fly they’d found in Ludwig’s room.

He gently brushed the white powder he’d isolated into the pan of his apothecary’s scales and weighed it. “Just over five grains,” he announced to his audience.

“What does that mean?” Dr. Cludius asked.

“It means that the Spanish Fly Ludwig took in preparation for his wedding night was more than double the normal strength one would expect,” Gaspard said. He turned to Captain Brückner. “You need to contact Ludwig’s supplier and warn him that his powdered Spanish Fly is stronger than normal.”

“I will do that,” Captain Brückner said. He turned to Phillip. “Would you be willing to conduct a similar test on any Spanish Fly powder the man might have?”

Phillip nodded.

“That’s it?” Heinrich protested. He pointed at Phillip. “That man produces some white powder and claims that it’s what killed my brother, and you just believe him?”

Captain Brückner turned to Phillip. “Can you prove that white powder is poisonous?” he asked.

“Sure,” Phillip said. “Just let me mix it with some water and Herr Schaub here can drink it.”

Captain Bruckner smothered a grin. “Maybe you could feed it to one of the rabbits?”

Phillip looked at rabbits in the basket. “They aren’t stupid enough to eat or drink enough of it to kill them.”

“Are you calling my brother stupid?” Heinrich demanded.

Phillip really wanted to say yes, but warning glances from both Captain Brückner and Gaspard stopped him. Instead he considered the problem of getting a rabbit to ingest the poison. “I could try pouring it down its throat.”

“Please do that,” Captain Brückner said.

Phillip dissolved a quarter of the powder in a little warm water and with the assistance of one of the kitchen hands, poured it down the rabbit’s throat. He put it back in the basket and stood back to watch.

* * *

Naturally, the rabbit died, and as a result, the death of Ludwig Schaub was recorded as an accidental death. That allowed Maria Beck to collect her full entitlement as Ludwig Schaub’s widow, much to the distress of his family. Maria took her inheritance and moved out of Basel, taking Katarina and Peter with her. Katarina’s departure left Johann distraught for a while, but he soon found a new target for his affections.

Captain Brückner warned the apothecary that his Spanish Fly was unusually strong, and quite naturally, the apothecary used that information to promote sales of his especially strong aphrodisiac. Public announcements were made about the risks of using Spanish Fly, and demand for the aphrodisiac jumped, as did the number of deaths associated with its use.

Phillip also suffered as a result of the case. Previously a bit of a nonentity in Basel outside the small community of alchemists, Phillip suddenly found himself the center of attention amongst a certain stratum of society—the middle level merchant class—and had more requests for his professional services as a physician than he wanted to handle.

Back | Next
Framed