‘Look at this thigh bone,’ my master said, demonstrating the bone. ‘Look how wonderfully it is constructed, the best craftsman could not make something so perfect. It is built with the minimum material, so that it is light and yet it is very strong.’
Those who had eagerly followed the party into the infirmary now took their leave, emptying the contents of their stomachs on the fresh snow outside.
The German cook called out rather loudly, ‘Too much rosemary! For the love of Christ . . . too much!’ as he ran out into the compound holding his stomach in his hands.
I began to feel unwell, remembering with distaste my earlier indiscretions. Somehow I managed to control these feelings by concentrating on the formidable skill of the two men.
Once the ends had been filed to my master’s satisfaction he motioned for the infirmarian to straighten the leg and the young boy uttered a faint sound, like the breath that escapes the mouth of a dying man. My master, in turn, kept the two sides of the wound together as Eisik (who remained conspicuously silent) began with great precision to stitch the wound with what looked like string or fine rope given to him by Asa.
‘Sheep’s entrails, dried in the sun?’ my master asked, obviously impressed.
Asa explained, as Eisik plunged the large needle deep into the man’s thigh, making me wince with each insertion. ‘Toughened with wax . . . better than string and kinder on the wound.’
Afterwards Asa retrieved a jar from the shelf to one side of his workbench from which he removed with his own hands a paste which he placed on the inside of a clean rag, doubling it, so that there was a layer of rag between the leg and the paste when he placed it deftly on the wound. I knew that it must be a poultice, for my mother had also used this curative method. He bound this firmly with a bandage of sorts, and said, ‘A mixture of garlic, fenugreek, and calendula essence made into a fine paste. Placed not directly on the wound but betwixt two layers of cloth . . . Do you agree, my colleagues?’ he asked amiably, some semblance of enthusiasm returning to his eyes.
‘Perfected from the flesh of marigolds!’ Eisik remarked, forgetting that all eyes were upon him.
‘A fine mixture,’ my master concurred, ‘we have used a similar paste on wounds in the Holy Land, have we not, Eisik? Very fine for preventing fermentation of the skin.’
Asa’s brown eyes sparkled, ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I believe caused through the infiltration of imperceptible particles.’
However far and distant the changing aspects of that time appear to my frail mind, dear reader, one thing has remained; that little room, aglow with the fire of enthusiasm and industry, where three men, divided by race and philosophy, existed for the barest moment in total harmony and concord, in a universal and divine communion , mindless of past and future, living only in the present.
Then I noticed the maiden, she had made not a sound. I would have expected that she would cry out, or leave as all the others. Instead, she stood motionless, her hood over her face, with only her father’s arm for comfort. This intrigued me. Who indeed were these people?
Moments later Asa held the leg firmly in place while my master, with Eisik’s help, used the two straight lengths of wood to splint it. ‘He shall have a bad limp, if he lives . . .’ He indicated that he was done by the wave of a hand, and several monks lifted the patient, still wrapped in blankets, carefully into the bath that had been prepared to my master’s orders.
‘You must immerse his head too, but not his leg,’ Eisik hastily added.
They proceeded as instructed, allowing the man’s head to sink below the surface, pulling him back up after a short space, but it was some moments before we could see colour return to his cheeks, and this was a sign that he should be taken out of the bath, dried, and placed in a bed in the empty dormitory.
The inquisitor had remained at the back of the group, watching with creased face, dark and impassive. Now he moved forward with a gesture of great condescension. ‘If the three of you are done congratulating yourselves,’ he said contemptuously, ‘this cannot in any way delay our investigations, we will proceed as planned!’
My master turned to him, and they exchanged a look of mutual dislike.
Moments passed, the shadows changed and the two men held their stare. My master was the first to speak, ‘As is your will, Rainiero.’
‘Yes, as is my will,’ said the other through his teeth.
Then the two walked away from each other and I breathed a sigh of gratitude that the heavens did not open up and strike them for their arrogance.
I told myself, ‘How fragile is the human spirit . . .’