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, and leg healer, he got enough of a reputation to be a doctor when it came to treating wounds and bone fractures. So he came to the hospital and was enlisted as a serving brother. Soon he had a reputation that rivaled doctor Apella’s, but the doctor wasn’t at all jealous. He could stand and look on with great interest when Brother Gierolamo stuffed the bowels back in a belly that the Turks had made a hole in. Then he soothed them with warm oil, and made sure that there wasn’t any hole in them. Doctor Apella used to give good advice on the matter of the plasters that one would set. They could have long discussions over whether one should stitch it together at once, or just put on another draw plaster that kept the edges of the wounds together.
So the round gradually reached the other end of the hall. There brother Gierolamo took the lead. Here were the broken legs, boils, and leg sores that he tended to with a knife and ointment as well as his own homemade medicine. In the bed furthest down lay Amery, who was brother Gierolamo’s pride of the day. Brother Gierolamo had mastered an art that no one else here knew how to do. He could clear bowels so it went right through. Such happened often by pikes and scimitars in the waist or just a simple dagger during a fight in harbor. They were considered almost hopelessly lost. But one time Brother Gierolamo, who was from the Piedmont, had traveled north of the Alps. He swore that he would never do it again because while he was there he only encountered sour weather, sour cabbage, sour oil, and sour wines. But a good thing happened to him: the art of repairing bowels. He had learned it from brother Henrik, an old wound healer, who served in the German Order. He had shown him how to cut away the damaged bit, force in a little silver tube approximately three quarters of an inch in through the cut, and with folded in edges, sew together both intestine ends over it and bind them fast. He first tried the art on a serving brother who was wounded in the abdomen when he tried to board a pirate ship. All were grieved for his sake, because he was an unusually capable man. All were just as glad when he was pieced back together. It was pretty hard, because he was a strong brother. It was hard to hold him even after giving him two doses of opium under the nose. He still lived in the greatest of good health and maintained that he could feel the silver ring if he fasted for a while and pressed his hands under his navel. Since then Brother Gierolamo kept a little store of such silver rings among his instruments and he had accomplished the same feat many times. Many suffered heartburn after eating, the wicked fever that nothing could stop, as a side effect. But some escaped.
The prospects looked good for Brother Amery. He felt cool and good today and said that he was hungry. The doctor and Brother Gierolamo were agreed, though, that he ought to continue to fast longer if he valued his life. When he persisted asking, the doctor became angry and said that he who presumed to give him so much as a breadcrumb would end up in the tower.
They finished up in the great hall and now came all the smaller halls, which were in a row on the upper floor around the great courtyard. Each of these smaller halls had doors opening up out onto the colonnade. The people in these halls were from the boats in the harbor, from the city, and the villages in the countryside. They were somewhat sorted out according to their ailments. There was a room for childbearing women and another for those who had scabies and rashes. The room furthest away in the corner was the dysentery room. The doctor went in there too, but he didn’t let anyone but brother Frans come with him. He looked in on the little Greek and shook his head. Then he looked at the other one, and said that he could drink red wine diluted with two parts warm water. Then he ordered that the latrine bucket be filled with lime at least one hour before it was emptied.
Shooter-Frans stood and looked at the little Greek, who was not much more than a little boy. He lay there red from fever with a damp film over the eyes. Brother Frans had seen many dysentery patients before and could normally predict what would happen. This one had about eight hours left, maybe twelve. He would have gladly stayed with him, but the doctor went and he had to follow.
After the rounds were completed, there was inventory. They changed the bed linen often in the hospital. The Religion prided itself on keeping the hospital clean to the great amazement of many visitors. But this demanded constant supervision of the stores. Brother Frans counted, piled, folded, recorded the count, and started again. He could not stop thinking about the little Greek. Time passed, and now he had nothing left to do. All alone, he had come from the islands. Do you think they knew at all at home that he was sick?
Finally, he finished the first part of the inventory. He had counted through the quilts, sheets, mattresses, bed curtains, tin mugs, feather pillows, and delousing powder. It was almost dinnertime. Shooter-Frans passed by to look in on the dysentery room. It was as he expected. The little Greek was even worse. He walked over and stood by the furnace