The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice (25 page)

“Persia!” Rob had no idea where Persia was, but he knew it was very far away. “In what direction does Persia lie?”

Merlin smiled. “It is in the East. Far to the east.”

“How came you to England?”

When he returned to Normandy as a new physician, Merlin said, he found that within the protectorate of Duke Robert there were medical practitioners in too goodly a number. Outside of Normandy there was constant strife and the uncertain dangers of war and politics, duke against count, nobles against king. “Twice in my youth I had been to London with my wine merchant father. I remembered the beauty of the English countryside, and all Europe knows of King Canute’s gift of stability. So I decided to come to this green and peaceful place.”

“And has Tettenhall proved to be a sound choice?”

Merlin nodded. “But there are difficulties. Without those who share our faith we cannot pray to God properly and it is hard to keep the laws of victuals. We speak to our children in their own tongue but they think in the language of England, and despite our efforts, they’re ignorant of many of the customs of their people. I am seeking to attract other Jews here from France.”

He moved to pour more wine, but Rob covered his cup with his hand. “I’m undone by more than a little drink, and I’ve need of my head.”

“Why have you sought me out, young barber?”

“Tell me about the school in Persia.”

“It’s in the town of Ispahan, in the western part of the country.”

“Why did you go so far?”

“Where else was I to go? My family had no desire to apprentice me to a physician, for though the admission grieves me, over most of Europe my profession is composed of a poor lot of leeches and knaves. There is a large hospital in Paris, the Hôtel Dieu, that is merely a pesthouse for the poor into which screaming men are dragged to die. There is a medical school in Salerno, a sorry place. Through communication with other Jewish merchants my father was aware that in the countries of the East the Arabs have made a fine art of the science of medicine. In Persia the Muslims have a hospital at Ispahan that is truly a healing center. It is in
this hospital and in a small academy there that Avicenna makes his doctors.”

“Who?”

“The outstanding physician in the world. Avicenna, whose Arab name is Abu Ali at-Husain ibn Abdullah ibn Sina.”

Rob made Merlin repeat the foreign melodiousness of the name until he had it memorized.

“Is it hard to reach Persia?”

“Several years of dangerous travel. Sea voyages, then a land voyage over terrible mountains and vast desert.” Merlin looked at his guest keenly. “You must put the Persian academies out of mind. How much do you know of your own faith, young barber? Are you familiar with the problems of your anointed Pope?”

He shrugged. “John XIX?” In truth, beyond the Pontiff’s name and the fact that he led Holy Church, Rob knew nothing.

“John XIX. He is a Pope who stands astride two giant churches instead of one, like a man seeking to ride two horses. The Western Church ever shows him fealty, but in the Eastern Church there is constant muttering of discontent. Two hundred years ago Photius became a rebellious Patriarch of the Eastern Catholics in Constantinople, and ever since, the movement toward a schism in the Church has gathered strength.

“You may have observed in your own dealings with priests that they mistrust and dislike physicians, surgeons, and barbers, believing that through prayer they themselves are the rightful guardians of men’s bodies as well as their souls.”

Rob grunted.

“The antipathy of these English priests toward medical men is nothing compared to the hatred which Eastern Catholic priests hold for the Arab physicians’ schools and other Muslim academies. Living cheek by jowl with the Muslims, the Eastern Church is engaged in a constant and earnest war with Islam to win men into the grace of the one true faith. The Eastern hierarchy sees in the Arab centers of learning incitement to heathenism and a grievous threat. Fifteen years ago Sergius II, who was then Patriarch of the Eastern Church, declared any Christian attending a Muslim school east of his patriarchate to be sacrilegious and a breaker of the faith, and guilty of heathen practice. He applied pressure on the Holy Father in Rome to join him in this declaration. Benedict VIII was newly elevated to the Seat of Peter, with forebodings of becoming the Pope who oversaw the dissolution of the Church. To appease the discontented Eastern element, he readily granted Sergius’ request. The penalty for heathenism is excommunication.”

Rob pursed his lips. “It is severe punishment.”

The physician nodded. “More severe in that it carries with it terrible retribution under secular law. The legal codes adopted under both King Aethelred and King Canute deem heathenism a principal crime. Those convicted of it have met with awful punishments. Some have been clothed in heavy chains and sent to wander as pilgrims for years until the shackles rust and fall away from their bodies. Several have been burned. Some were hanged, and others were cast into prison where they remain to this day.

“For their part, the Muslims do not yearn to educate members of a hostile and threatening religion, and Christian students have not been admitted to academies in the Eastern Caliphate for years.”

“I see,” Rob said bleakly.

“Spain may be possible for you. It is in Europe, the absolute western fringe of the Western Caliphate. Both religions are easier there. There are a few Christian students from France. The Muslims have established great universities in cities like Cordova, Toledo, Seville. If you are graduated from one of these, you’ll be acknowledged a scholar. And though Spain is hard to reach, it is not nearly so hard as the journey to Persia.”

“Why did
you
not go to Spain?”

“Because Jews are permitted to study in Persia.” Merlin grinned. “And I wanted to touch the hem of Ibn Sina’s garment.”

Rob scowled. “I don’t wish to travel across the world to become a scholar. I want only to become a sound physician.”

Merlin poured more wine for himself. “It puzzles me—you are so young a roebuck, yet wearing a suit of fine stuff and weapons with which I cannot indulge myself. The life of a barber has its rewards. Then why would you become a physician, which will offer more arduous labor and questionable advantage of wealth?”

“I’ve been taught to dose several ailments. I can snip off a mangled finger and leave a neat stump. But so many people come to me and pay over their coins, and I know nothing of how to help them. I’m ignorant. I tell myself that some might be saved if I knew more.”

“And though you study medicine for a score of lifetimes, there will come to you people whose illnesses are mysteries, for the anguish of which you speak is part and parcel of the profession of healing and must be lived with. Still, it’s true that the better the training, the more good a doctor may do. You give the best possible reason for your ambition.” Merlin drained his cup reflectively. “If the Arab schools are not for you, you must sift the doctors of England until you find the best of the poor, and perhaps you may persuade someone to take you as prentice.”

“Do you know of any such physician?”

If Merlin recognized the hint, it went unacknowledged. He shook his head and got to his feet.

“But each of us has earned his rest, and tomorrow we shall face the question refreshed. A good night to you, young barber.”

“A good night, master physician.”

In the morning there was hot pea gruel in the kitchen and more blessings in Hebrew. The family sat and broke their night’s fast together, scrutinizing him covertly while he examined them. Mistress Merlin appeared perpetually cross and in the cruel new light a faint line of dark hairs was visible on her upper lip. He could see fringes peeping out from under the kirtles of Benjamin Merlin and the boy named Ruel. The porridge was good quality.

Merlin inquired politely whether he had had a good night. “I have given thought to our discussion. Unfortunately, I can think of no physician I’m able to recommend as a master and an example.” His wife brought to the table a basket of large blackberries, and Merlin beamed. “Ah, you must help yourself to these with your gruel, for they are flavorsome.”

“I would like you to take me as your apprentice,” Rob said.

To his great disappointment, Merlin shook his head.

Rob said quickly that Barber had taught him a great deal. “I was helpful to you yesterday. Soon I could go alone to visit your patients during severe weather, making things easy for you.”

“No.”

“You’ve observed that I’ve a sense of healing,” he said doggedly. “I’m strong and could do heavy work as well, whatever is necessary. A seven-year apprenticeship. Or longer, as long as you like.” In his agitation he rose to his feet, jogging the table and sloshing the gruel.

“It is impossible,” Merlin said.

He felt baffled; he’d been certain Merlin liked him. “Do I lack the qualities necessary?”

“You have excellent qualities. From what I have seen, you would make an excellent physician.”

“What, then?”

“In this most Christian of nations I would not be suffered as your master.”

“Who would care?”

“The priests here would care. They already resent me as one forged by the Jews of France and tempered at an Islamic academy, seeing this as
cooperation between dangerous pagan elements. Their eyes are on me. I live in dread of the day when my words are interpreted as bewitchery or I forget to christen a newborn.”

“If you won’t have me,” Rob said, “at least suggest a physician to whom I should apply.”

“I’ve told you, I recommend no one. But England is large and there are many doctors I do not know.”

Rob’s lips tightened and his hand settled on the hilt of his sword. “Last night you told me to sift the best of the poor. Who is the best of the physicians of your acquaintance?”

Merlin sighed and acceded to the bullying. “Arthur Giles of St. Ives,” he said coldly, and resumed eating his breakfast.

Rob had no intention of drawing, but the wife’s eyes were on his sword and she was unable to stifle a shuddering moan, certain her prophecy was being fulfilled. Ruel and Jonathan were looking at him somberly, but Zechariah began to cry.

He was sick with the shame of how he had repaid their hospitality. He tried to fashion an apology but couldn’t, and finally he turned away from the Frenchy Hebrew spooning his gruel and left their house.

21

THE OLD KNIGHT

A few weeks earlier he would have sought to rid himself of shame and anger through studying the bottom of a cup, but he had learned to be wary of the drink. It seemed clear that the longer he did without drunkenness, the stronger were the emanations he received from people when he took their hands, and he was placing an increasing value on the gift. So instead of liquor he spent a day with a woman in a glade on the banks of the Severn, a few miles beyond Worcester. The sun had made the grass almost as warm as their blood. She was a seamstress’s helper with poor needle-pricked fingers and a hard little body that became slippery when they swam in the river.

“Myra, you feel like an eel!” he shouted, and felt better.

She was trout-quick but he was clumsy, like some great sea monster, when they went down together through the green water. Her hands parted his legs and as she swam through them he stroked the pale tight flanks. The water was chill but they made love twice in the warmth on the bank and he left his ire in her, while a few feet away Horse cropped the grass and Mistress Buffington sat and watched them calmly. Myra had tiny pointed breasts and a bush of the silkiest brown hair. More a plant than a bush, he thought wryly; she was more girl than woman, although it was certain she had been with men before.

“How old are you, dolly?” he asked idly.

“Fifteen year, I’m told.”

She was exactly of an age with his sister Anne Mary, he realized, and was saddened to think that somewhere that girl was all grown but unfamiliar to him.

He was struck suddenly by a thought so monstrous that it left him weak and seemed to dim the sunlight.

“Has your name always been Myra?”

The question produced an astonished smile. “Why, of course that is my name, Myra Felker. What else would it be?”

“And were you born hereabouts, dolly?”

“Dropped by my mother in Worcester, and here I have lived,” she said cheerfully.

He nodded and patted her hand.

Still, he thought in gloomy revulsion, given the situation it wasn’t impossible that someday he could bed his own sister all unknowingly. He resolved that in the future he must have nothing to do with young females who might be Anne Mary’s age.

The depressing thought ended his holiday mood, and he began to gather up his clothing.

“Ah, must we leave, then?” she said regretfully.

“Yes,” he said, “for I must go a long way to get to St. Ives.”

Arthur Giles of St. Ives turned out to be a crashing disappointment, although Rob had had no right to high expectation, for clearly Benjamin Merlin had made the recommendation only under duress. The physician was a fat and filthy old man who appeared to be at least slightly mad. He kept goats and must have maintained them within his house part of the time, for the place stank abominably.