The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

the first time in many months, Artus, whose grief had been unrelenting since Gauzelin’s death, allowed himself a witty rejoinder:

      ‘If they are able to judge, it is because you have cured them, which is more than can be said for the majority of our physicians.’ He had taken a deep breath before asking in a faltering voice the question that had been plaguing him all along: ‘He, my physician, was fond of bloodletting. It worried me and yet he swore by its effectiveness.’

      ‘Oh, how fond they are of bloodletting! In your son’s case it was pointless, I fear, though, judging from your description of his symptoms, the little boy would have died anyway.’

      ‘What was he suffering from in your opinion?’

      ‘A disease of the blood mostly found in very young children or those over sixty. It is quite possible that the same sickness in a less severe form also took your wife. The condition is incurable.’

      Strangely, Joseph’s diagnosis had eased the Comte’s terrible suffering. Gauzelin’s death had not been due to his physicians’ – and consequently his own – shortcomings, but to a twist of fate that they had been powerless to prevent.

      Joseph had subsequently found sanctuary at the château. The Comte granted him full use of the library and the freedom to come and go as he pleased and this, together with the Comte’s influence, made him feel secure. Gratitude had gradually given way to respect, for Artus d’Authon was a man of his word and, one day, in the course of conversation he had said to Joseph:

      ‘Should your people’s plight worsen – as I fear it may – then I strongly advise you, for appearance’s sake, to convert. My chaplain will attend to it. Should the idea prove abhorrent to you, Charles II d’Anjou, King Philip’s* cousin, whilst complying in Anjou with the monarch’s severe treatment of the Jews, is far more tolerant in his earldom of Provence and his kingdom of Naples. Charles is a cautious but shrewd man and the Jews bring him wealth. Naples seems far enough away to offer more safety. I would help you travel there.’

      Joseph could tell by the solemn look in the eyes gazing intently at him that, come what may, he could trust this man’s word.

      The Comte enjoyed such robust health as to make him the despair of any doctor wishing to practise his art. And so Joseph treated the minor ailments of the Comte’s household or the more serious illnesses afflicting the serfs, which were mostly caused by deprivation or lack of hygiene. The old physician had long given up trying to fathom the contradictions in man and had reached the conclusion that it was a futile search. His patients showed their gratitude by bringing him small gifts and bowing as they passed him on the street. They took him for an

      Italian scholar or powerful sage, called upon by their master to look after their health. Children would run along behind him, taking hold of his robe as though it were a lucky charm. Women would stop him, shyly informing him in hushed tones of a recovery or a pregnancy, and slip him a basket of eggs, a bottle of cider or a milk roll sweetened with honey. Men would bare an arm or a leg to show him that a skin ulcer he had treated had disappeared. Joseph chose not to scrutinise their smiles, their awkward speech, their faces, to avoid identifying those who would have denounced him to the secular authorities had they known he was a Jew.

      He walked over to the large lectern where Clément, his mouth gaping in astonishment, was in the process of devouring a Latin translation.

      ‘What is it you are reading that so surprises you?’

      ‘The treatise on fraudulent pharmaceutical practices, master.’

      ‘Oh yes, the one by Al-Chayzarî that dates back two centuries.’

      ‘It says here that in order to increase their earnings pharmacists were in the habit of cutting Egyptian opium with Chelidonium or wild lettuce sap or even gum arabic to make it go further. The deception can be detected by mixing the powdered form with water. Chelidonium gives off a smell of saffron, lettuce a slightly sickly odour and gum arabic makes the liquid taste bitter.’

      ‘Fraudulent practice has existed since time immemorial, and I suspect it always will – there is much money to be made from being dishonest. A good physician, or pharmacist, should know how to detect it in order to be sure of the effectiveness of the medicine he prescribes to his patients.’

      Clément looked up and, unable to contain himself any longer, asked him the question he had been burning to put to him since their first meeting:

      ‘Master … Your knowledge is so vast and so varied … Have you ever heard of a scholar by the name of Vallombroso?’

      Joseph knitted his bushy grey eyebrows and replied:

      ‘Vallombroso is not a man but a monastery in Italy. I am told they have carried out some astonishing mathematical and astronomical studies there, and that the friars are excellent at medicine.’

      ‘Oh …’

      Disappointment was written all over the child’s face. Now he would never be able to understand the scribbled notes in the big red journal.

      ‘Why do you ask?’

      ‘I …’ Clément stammered.

      ‘Is it as bad as all that?’ Joseph coaxed him gently.

      ‘I read somewhere that … but please do not imagine for a moment that I give any credence to such nonsense, I read that Vallombroso was the name quoted in a theory according to which the Earth is not fixed in the heavens …’

      The colour drained from the physician’s face and he ordered sharply:

      ‘Be quiet! No one must ever hear you speak of such things.’

      Joseph glanced around nervously. The large, bright room, freezing cold in winter, which they were using as a study, was empty.

      He moved closer to the child and bent down to whisper in his ear:

      ‘The time is not yet ripe. Mankind is not ready to hear and accept the truth … The Earth is not fixed. It spins on its own axis – thus explaining the existence of day and night – and moreover it rotates around the sun, always following the same course, which is what produces the seasons.’

      Clément was stunned by the perfect logic of it.

      ‘Do you understand, Clément, that this is a secret? If anyone were to find out that we share this knowledge, it could cost us our lives.’

      The child nodded his agreement then spoke in a hushed voice:

      ‘But does this mean that the astrologers are all mistaken?’

      ‘All of them are. What is more, it seems logical to assume that other planets exist which we do not yet know about. And this is why you should not put your faith in astrological medicine’s current teachings.’ Joseph paused briefly before continuing: ‘It is now my turn to ask you to let me into a secret … young woman.’

      Clément’s cry of astonishment rang out in the soundless room.

      ‘For you are indeed a girl, are you not?’ Joseph continued in a whisper.

      Clément, still speechless, was only able to nod.

      ‘And you will soon be eleven … Has anybody ever explained to you the … physiological peculiarity characterising the fair sex?’

      ‘I don’t know. I know I’ll never grow a beard and that there exists a fundamental physical difference between boys and girls,’ the child ventured.

      ‘I thought as much. Well now, let us start with that – cosmogony can wait!’

      Clément’s shock quickly gave way to panic, and in an almost inaudible voice he tearfully implored:

      ‘No one must know about it, master. No one.’

      ‘I realise that. Do not fear. We are joined together by dangerous secrets now, as well as by our thirst for knowledge.’

      They turned as one towards