fire that Blas Diez lit in the great open fireplace kept falling over into a red heap. He sat down in front of it and warmed his hands.
Yes, he meant it. He had understood this for a long time. Should this little island kingdom be able to remain in the midst of the great Turkish Empire then one had to be finished with peace. One had to take up that which the order of St. John promised to do. To always, everywhere, and by all means fight the unbelievers. And why not? Who believed any longer in the only way to heaven? Did not the Sultan have more faith than those in Rome?
Seven to nine. Besides their own six votes, the Frenchmen had also managed to gather three. He could only wonder which.
When Blas came in about an hour later with more sticks of wood, he asked as gently as he could:
“Blas, have you heard anything about how they voted?”
“Yes, Lord, there were nine for Señor Villiers and seven for Lord Turcopoler.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes, for Lord Thomas Docwra, but as to who voted for whom, that is anyone’s guess.”
The Chancellor got up, walked over to his chamber servant and grabbed him by his coat with his strong hands on both sides of the neck lining where the shirt’s lace flowed out.
“Docrwra! What do you mean—who said that?”
“They all say it. Tomaso with Pomerolx, Pierre and Andre’ in the French house, and our own boy up there . . .”
It was the entire well-informed servant staff. Good to have them all together. He would not need to speak of the matter with some equal.
“Thank you, Blas. You can go.”
Really, they had acted so shamelessly! Let him piece together some miserable compromise that ended in such a fiasco! And for such an order he had risked his life a thousand times, froze on the sea, slept in a coffin, ate moldy bread with rancid oil, vomited with disgust and fatigue, was wounded six times and had splinters in his legs on a heaving galley for three horrible days.
What had he done wrong? He was born during the sign of the lion, and he had let the day’s best astrologers discern his fate. When God withdrew such luster, the planets still manifested it in heaven. And they said that he would do as well as he wanted if he only did the right thing at the right time.
Had he not acted boldly enough? Maybe it was a lesson for next time. The play would go on. Now he could act freely, unburdened from all sentimental consideration.
The Hospital
There was a little Greek from Simi looking up at the ceiling in one of the small rooms in the hospital, the Religion’s great infirmary, “Our lords, the palace of the sick.” He was barely twenty years old and newly enlisted in the fleet. No sooner had he checked into the grand barracks than he caught fever, and seemed to have nothing but water, mucus, and blood pouring out of him. Doctor Apella had just diagnosed him as non-contagious. He laid him down next to an unfortunate comrade within four stone walls with a little window to the street and an open fireplace on the inner wall. There were some pieces of wood burning in the fireplace, and it felt good against the cool atmosphere.
He lay there hoping that brother Frans—who was always called Shooter-Frans— would look in. He spoke Greek, and there weren’t many who did here. Yes, Doctor Apella understood Greek, but not any of the priests, who normally came in during the morning rounds after the last mass in the grand hall. The little Greek longed to see a priest come, a true priest in a black coat and a high round coal black hat and a gold cross on his chest. A priest like Father Eusevio back home in Simi. He felt forlorn, depressed, and very, very worn out.
But Brother Frans never came. Today he was responsible for the cleaning in the grand hall. He stood there by a pillar at the far end of the long row that supported the high ceiling and gave a helpless look down the endless floor. The thirty-two beds with their canopies and drapes looked like a tent caravan camp along a street. Everything was strewn about the beautiful brick floor, the result of careless servants and thoughtless knights. It had been cold. The sick were coughing and had high fevers. Because it was winter, no boats went out and the knights had time to address their small ailments, rashes, boils, and colic troubles. The ward filled up fast. One could see what a struggle it had been to keep everything in order all fall. Every knight had the right to have an attendant with him. That was the worst. Their shirts and slippers, warm ruffles and nightcaps, prayer books and medicine bottles were all strewn about without the least respect for regulations. There in the middle of the hall the notice was posted that nothing should be found in the hall but that which the sick needed with them in bed. The rest was to be stowed neatly in the small storeroom made expressly for that purpose. These were found built into the wall behind every bed. This was how doctor Apella wanted to find it when we walked his rounds. He would begin those rounds in about half an hour.
Nothing suited Shooter-Frans worse than putting others to work. He gave his order as if he asked a favor. He looked sad when he had to tell someone that the chamber pot absolutely had to be emptied and that it was not good to put the food tray on it. It was taxing for him to get over his fears and go about stammering out his tactful reminders. As a rule he would promise to clean, fold, and wipe up so that it would all get done. Not until brother Bartolomeo came running and warned that the doctor was crossing the square would the work get into full swing. Yet, even when the doctor stood in the arched doorway at the far side of the colonnade, which ran around the garden, it still wasn’t all quite perfect in the hall. But they still hoped to dodge a reprimand for neglecting their work.
Doctor Apella now stood there on the cold blue winter day. He was short and stout with a round face, wide bent nose and protruding eyes, a little melancholic, sometimes anxious and most often observing as usual. He was a remarkable man, this Jewish doctor. He came here and opened a private practice like most of the others. He was efficient and received many thankful patients even among the knights. That was how he converted and was baptized. In baptism, he chose the name Giovanni Battista, a meaningful homage to the order of St. John and their patron saint.
The doctor had a complete escort with him as usual. There was the director, Dominus Infirmarius, and the surgeon, brother Gierolamo. Then there were two of the knights’ own accountants, who oversaw everything day and night and would approve the expenses by drawing some unreadable doodle under them in the books. Shooter-Frans, who could read passably, but could not write, suspected—for good reason—that a good share of the knights were not very familiar with the art of writing.
Doctor Apella greeted the personnel with usual nods in all directions. He couldn’t see the sick, because they were behind his heavy curtain. They needed this in the cold. The fireplace was only by the short wall and only the closest beds were glad for it. For the sake of the cold, all the window shutters were shut at the base of the ceiling. This made it dark, but not much warmer.
The doctor began his rounds at the southern end. There he had his own cause, the coughing and lung diseased, those who had kidney stones or rashes and those who only lost weight and faded away. He would stand with them all and let them talk, passing the time with them with his big friendly eyes. He would pry open all the bottles and jars and check to see how much they had consumed since his last visit. He altered prescriptions, checked their boils, and dressed their wounds. He was a remarkable healer, Doctor Apella, studied and book smart, even of the fine and cultured sort. He never touched a sore and apparently never picked up a knife. He left that to sawbones and surgeons, who worked with their hands and had come a long way if they ever came to be considered as hospital staff.
That is what Brother Gierolamo did. After many years as a simple blood letter, boil cutter,
