#14d
Alexandria: September, 1420 (continued)
Marzuq leaded Bjorn to a couch along a wall and made him recline. The physician called one of his assistants who brought him an ornate wooden box. Marzuq delicately opened it. Half of it was filled with an impressive array of metallic instruments of various shapes and sizes, most of them having one or several blades. The other half contained small glass and clay jars as well as a small gnawed wooden board. He handed the piece of wood to the Vicking and gave him unintelligible instructions. Bjorn understood what he had to do though and placed the plank in his mouth, where he could bite it at leisure. The assistant quickly came back again with a little brazier and a pot of boiling water.
Marzuq took a piece of cloth, quickly dipped it in the boiling water, grabbed one of the bladed instruments and briefly exposed it to the flame. After that, he bent over Bjorn and masterfully incised the suppurating wound. It was painful already, but still nothing in comparison with what was to come. The doctor enlarged the sore, put his scalpel away and began to rub inside with the smoking towel. Bjorn bit like a demented. A nauseating mixture of blood and pus flowed down his arm. Marzuq insisted until he could see only blood. Finally satisfied, he threw the spoiled cloth, opened one of his jars, poured some green-brown powder in his palm and slowly mixed it with hot water to obtain a supple paste he applied in the bleeding wound. That done, he unfolded a strip of white cloth and neatly bandaged the arm.
Bjorn kept his eyes closed for a moment, staring at the multicolored will-o’-the-wisp dancing in the dark. Marzuq was speaking to him, but he had to wait for Petronos’ translation, which came in a whisper.
“He says you will keep the scar forever. Your arm won’t completely recover either. Finally, you will need further care in the weeks to come. How long do you intend to stay?”
The Viking released the wooden piece from his jaws. He swallowed, which partly eliminated the sawdust taste on his tongue.
“I don’t know yet. But I will need your help again within a few minutes. Could you please thank the physician for me?”
Time to rise again. He tried not to lean on his left arm, but the pain forced the tears out of him nonetheless. Ahmed took his hand to help him on his feet, but the carriage wheeled forward and nearly sent Bjorn over the couch. They remained in precarious equilibrium for a few seconds, much like a weird looking mobile, until Bjorn managed to slowly restore his stand.
“Ah… m’o’ahii’hommmhh…” Ahmed said, showing his confusion.
“What does he say?”
Petronos shook his head.
“I don’t know any better than you. Thugs have cut his tongue a few years ago.”
“Oh, okay. Never mind. Tell him I’m not upset and know he just wanted to help.”
Ahmed smiled brightly, displaying his brown stumps. But Bjorn still had something at the top of his head:
“Now, do you know if there is a Christian preacher in this hospital, one coming from Croatia, in the Balkans?”
“The Balkans?”
“Rum.”
Petronos thought a while and asked:
“What's his name?”
Bjorn was reluctant to reveal such details, but he would achieve nothing on his own.
“Tzourillas.”
“Give me a minute. If he's here, I'll find him.”
He asked Ahmed a few questions and the both of them went, the legless crippled furiously slapping the blind's flanks to give him directions. They met several groups of people and came back to Bjorn, who was beginning to worry as his presence and the name of his contact were getting known throughout the hospice. Finally, they came back to him.
“It's an old guy sleeping on a bench in the southeastern corner of this court.”
He was approximately pointing toward a passageway. Bjorn nodded with a smile before realizing that the other one could not see him.
“Thanks. Your help has been much appreciated. I don't know which god you worship, but may his blessing be upon you.”
Petronos shrugged.
“See, we have to help each others. Don't hesitate to ask if you need me. I'm always around.”
Bjorn stepped into the other court and followed the peristyle to the specified place. The old preacher was lying on a crude stony bench, mouth and eyes shut. His waxy face looked like it was dead, with only the moving shadows of the foliage to bring life in this still expression. Bjorn sat on his side. Looking carefully, he finally noticed the breast slightly moving with inspirations and expirations. He waited a few minutes. At long last, he whispered:
“Mister Tzourillas?”
The old man jolted and emitted a faint shriek. His right eye opened, allowing his washed out pupil to twirl around until it spotted Bjorn. He obviously had difficulties to focus and probably saw his interlocutor more or the less as an indistinct shape. He relaxed and closed his eye back. The left half of his face was paralyzed and looked like a flaccid piece of cloth embedding his skull. He murmured a question in what Bjorn recognized as Latin strongly tainted by a Slavic accent.
“I don’t understand Latin, old man, but I guess you inquired about my identity. My name is Bjorn Zonaras and I am the Emperor’s personal hatchet man.”
The preacher sighed.
“Don’t bother killing me then. I’ve been seized by a stroke and my days are numbered in spite of the good doctors’ attention.”
Bjorn had a kind smile.
“I’m not here to kill you, only to deliver a message.”
“From the Emperor?”
“I’m not sure, but I would say either him or the Patriarch of Constantinople.”
“What is that message?”
“I do not know. I have not broken the seal.”
Tzourillas re-opened his eye.
“You mean it is a
written message.”
Bjorn shrugged.
“Seems obvious to me, yes”
“And how do you hope me to read it in my current state?”
Bjorn was confused.
“I don’t know… How could I have guessed you would be so ill?”
“Will you read it for me?”
Bjorn swallowed.
“I can’t read sir.”
The sick man slowly shook his head:
“I hope for you that you’re better with a blade than with a feather then…”
“To each his own trade, sir: I more or less know mine. What do we do now?”