“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain quietly, not willing to continue a debate that could only lead to greater acrimony.
One of the jugglers was standing atop a stool placed on a barrel and was spinning a dish on a stick, his face rigid with concentration. the plate leveled out and the juggler took a second stick, and using his shoulder to brace the second plate, began to set that one spinning as well. He had just got the plate moving when a bull of a soldier deliberately lurched into the barrel, setting the juggler, the plates and stick, the stool, and the crowd around him scattering. As the juggler landed, he screamed as his collar-bone broke.
Sanct’ Germain motioned to Ruda to stop. “The man is hurt,” he said when Ruda expressed surprise at the foreigner’s concern.
“He’s a juggler,” said Ruda as if speaking to someone addled in his wits.
“All the more reason to help him; his arms are his living. If he should lose the use of one, he might as well take up a begging bowl and be done with it.” Ignoring the look disbelief the sartrium shot him, Sanct’ Germain went over to the juggler, who was now lying curled into a ball of agony. “I am going to look at your injury,” he informed the juggler as he dropped to his knee beside him.
The juggler shrieked as Sanct’ Germain touched him, and kicked out feebly; a few of the men who had run off now came back to see what was happening, looming over the juggler and the foreigner as if waiting for more entertainment.
“Ruda,” said Sanct’ Germain, “would you be good enough to send a servant to fetch my bondsman? I assume he is in the stable.” He could see the shine of sweat on the juggler’s face and the white line around his mouth; in a little while the man would begin to shake from cold, and then it would be more difficult to help him.
Ruda sighed with exasperation. “Why bother?” he asked.
“Because he is suffering,” said Sanct’ Germain, and tried again to touch the juggler. “You have broken the front of your shoulder, the bone that is at the top of your chest,” he said, doing his best to calm and reassure the man as he made another attempt to examine the injury; he sensed more than saw blood, and realized that the broken bone had penetrated the skin. “Can you lie back?”
The juggler whimpered. “The pain,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Sanct’ Germain, “But it will be no worse if you will lie on your back.” He was not sure this was the case, but he knew that he could not treat the man if he remained huddled in a ball.
One of the men-at-arms of the villa whispered a crude joke to his companion and the two men laughed; the juggler who had been balancing the sausage rushed up, his face pale with worry. A moment later, the senior juggler was beside him, worry in every aspect of his demeanor. Neither man dared to speak.
“If you three will move back?” Sanct’ Germain said to the men-atarms whose shadows were falling across the disabled juggler; reluctantly the men complied, one of them grumbling that now he could not see what was happening.
Then the crowd was shoved aside as Leovigild pressed through the knot of men, dragging Rogerian behind him. “What’s this?” he demanded as he caught sight of Sanct’ Germain on the ground beside the juggler. He came nearer, arms akimbo, his brow thunderous as he stared down at his foreign guest. “Have you been slighted? Did that fellow offer you an affront?”
“No,” said Sanct’ Germain patiently. “He had the misfortune to be thrown from his perch and has broken a bone from his fall: this one, here, in the front of his shoulder.” He pointed to the place on himself as he looked about in the hope that some of those watching would understand the severity of the situation; what he saw did not encourage him. “Rogerian, would you bring my red chest? I believe I have medicaments that will help relieve his hurts.”
Rogerian acted promptly. “Of course, my master; immediately,” he said before he hurried back toward the stable, shoving his way through the gathered men-at-arms, jugglers, musicians, and slaves. By the time he returned with the chest, the juggler was lying supine, Sanct’ Germain’s black pluvial covering him. Rogerian had to force his way back to Sanct’ Germain. “What do you need, my master?”
“The anodyne paste in the green vial,” said Sanct’ Germain, not looking around. “You know the one.”
“That I do,” said Rogerian, opening the chest and taking out what Sanct’ Germain had asked for. “What else?”
Before Sanct’ Germain could answer, the senior juggler spoke up. “Is he going to die?”
“I hope not,” said Sanct’ Germain. “If he takes no putrid humors, he will recover.” He did not want to admit how worried he was; the juggler was clammy and his breathing quick and shallow.
“But you will treat him?” The senior juggler clasped his hands together, imploring the black-clad foreigner as if Sanct’ Germain were lord of the villa and not Gardingio Witteric.
“I can tell you nothing more until I have dressed the wound. I will need a good-sized table to lay him on if I am to set this bone.” He smeared some of the pasty substance from the vial over the bleeding, torn skin. “It must be set if he is to have any chance of recovery.”
“It is not fitting that a juggler should be taken into the villa,” said Ruda stiffly. “He is not sworn to the Gardingio.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sanct’ Germain, “but Gardingio Witteric has received the jugglers and let them entertain his men-at-arms: he has some obligation to see to their well-being while they remain. If he fails to treat them well, his reputation will damaged, and that would be intolerable to him.” He stood up. “Find me a table I can use, and I will undertake to set the broken bone.”
Ruda stared at Sanct’ Germain in angry disbelief. “You cannot give orders here. You are here on sufferance as much as much as they.”
Sanct’ Germain glanced toward Leovigild. “Sartrium, can you find a table where I can do my work?”
“That I will,” said Leovigild. “You will have to answer to the Gardingio if I act against his will.” With that warning, he pushed through the crowd, shouting to Wamba and Childric to aid him.
“You are an ungrateful guest,” said Ruda, and spat to show his contempt.
“He is not,” said a loud, hoarse voice from the entrance to the villa; Gardingio Witteric strode forward, those gathered around the fallen juggler moving back to open a pathway. “If he can help this man, let him show it.”
Everyone hearing this knew Sanct’ Germain was being tested; two of the men-at-arms muttered bets with each other on the outcome, spitting and slapping their palms to seal the wager. As if aware of this additional excitement, the senior juggler made a wretched attempt at a smile, ducking his head ingratiatingly, first to Gardingio Witteric and then to Sanct’ Germain.
“A table first, then,” said Sanct’ Germain, his manner composed as if he were unaware of the challenge he had been issued.
“Let him have what he wants,” said Gardingio Witteric, and the men around him sprang into a action to obey.
In short order, a trestle table had been assembled of saddle stands and planking near the entrance of the single open room in the outer walls that had been allocated to the jugglers’ use; the crowd watching had grown, and the women of the household had gathered in the narrow windows of the second floor of the villa to see the excitement.
“Shall we lift him for you?” Leovigild asked, not quite able to conceal his reluctance to render such service to a mere juggler.
“Never mind,” said Sanct’ Germain as he knelt and carefully took the semi-conscious man in his arms; he did his best to shift the juggler’s torso and arms as little as possible, doing his utmost to minimize the pain he gave, and to minimize the additional damage such moving could inflict. He stood slowly so that the juggler would not be shaken or jarred, and laid him on the improvised table. This uncanny display of strength gained the awed approval of all the men who saw it, a circumstance that troubled Sanct’ Germain, who preferred to keep this capability to himself whenever possible. As he adjusted his pluvial around the juggler, he asked one of the man’s companions. “What is his name?”
The senior juggler hesitated. “Alboin,” he said at last. “He is a Lombard.”
Gardingio Witteric chuckled unpleasantly. “And fallen so far; named for a King and reduced to wandering the world with a pack of vagabonds,” he mused aloud. “Well, the Lombards are always inclined to take on more than they can accomplish.” He took a wider stance as if preparing to defend himself against attack. “Still, do what you can for him, Sanct’ Germain.”
“It is my intention,” was Sanct’ Germain’s answer. “If your people would step back a bit, my task would be easier.” He addressed himself to Gardingio Witteric. “If I have no room to work, I cannot help this man.”
“Oh, very well,” Gardingio Witteric sighed. “Do as he says.” He gave a single, fussy gesture to indicate his men-at-arms should do as Sanct’ Germain requested.
Leovigild stood his ground. “If you have need of me,” he said stubbornly.
“Not just at present, sartrium,” said Sanct’ Germain as he folded his pluvial back from Alboin’s injury and inspected it for bleeding; the blood flow was lessening and becoming tacky to the touch, although there was already heat in the wound. “Rogerian,” he said, “take his left arm, stretch it out and hold it firmly. He will probably fight you, but do not let go until I tell you.”
Rogerian paid no notice to the new wave of excitement that passed through the crowd; he took the juggler’s wrist and stretched out his arm, holding it though Alboin moaned and struggled against him.
“There are pieces of bone in the wound. I will have to pull them out later, after the break is set,” Sanct’ Germain said as he took his position to realign Alboin’s collar-bone. When he moved, he was so swift that any watching him were certain he had accomplished the feat by magic: he tugged the juggler’s right arm out and up with his right hand, and with his left, pressed the bone back into position.
Alboin screamed and fainted.
“You have killed him,” Ruda said with grim satisfaction. “The Gardingio will have your life for it.”
Sanct’ Germain moved aside. “You will see he is still breathing.” He motioned the senior juggler to approach. “Verify it for yourself. You as well, Ruda. Come look at him and tell me if he is dead or not.”
The senior juggler put his hand to Alboin’s mouth, and nodded. “He breathes. The bone is in place.”
Reluctantly Ruda came to the side of the table and stared down. “He speaks truth. The man is breathing.”
There was a general sigh from the crowd, some in relief, some in disappointment; the jugglers exclaimed their thanks aloud and the senior juggler crouched down to kiss Sanct’ Germain’s foot.
“That’s not necessary,” Sanct’ Germain said at once, trying to conceal his distaste. “I have done nothing more than any other physician would do.” He saw Gardingio Witteric was studying him attentively. “I have only set the bone,” he said to explain himself. “The man has not yet recovered. There is time for gratitude when the man can practice his skills once more.”
“You set the bone and he is still alive,” said the Gardingio. “Not even the farrier could manage that.”
“Possibly not,” Sanct’ Germain said, bending over Alboin, his fingers pressed lightly to the unconscious man’s neck to check his pulse. “He has a way to go before there is cause for hope.” This was nothing more than the truth, but it served as a warning to the jugglers and menat-arms alike.
Leovigild spoke up. “Sanct’ Germain cured Wamba when he was taken with fever, and gave ease to a traveler who had blackened feet. I saw it all.”
“The traveler did not live,” Sanct’ Germain reminded the sartrium.
“Who does, with cold-blackened feet?” Leovigild asked, and was answered with muttered agreement. “At least he was not screaming, or shaking himself to pieces in spasms.” His pride in Sanct’ Germain’s accomplishment was obvious and his boasts were listened to by everyone but Sanct’ Germain himself.
“Did you do this?” Gardingio Witteric demanded, coming toward Sanct’ Germain impulsively. “Have you the power to assuage the agony of blackened limbs?”
“Sometimes I can provide an anodyne,” Sanct’ Germain said cautiously: he had given the traveler syrup of poppies, and that had made his passage out of this life less arduous than it would have been without the ameliorative slumber the syrup of poppies bestowed.
“You can do this for other hurts?” Gardingio Witteric asked before anyone else could speak.
“Sometimes, yes; it depends on the injury and the nature of suffering. Not all ills may by relieved in this world.” He wanted to give his full concentration to Alboin, but knew that if he refused to answer the Gardingio, he might well be expelled from the villa without his men-at-arms, horses, mules, or any other possessions. “There is suffering that only a man’s God may treat.”
“True enough,” said Gardingio Witteric, beginning to pace around the table where Alboin lay. “Well, we shall see how he goes on. In a few days, if he has not taken a fever, it may be possible to tell if he has any sensation in his hand.”
The senior juggler clapped his hands to his face in a show of horror. “Nothing so terrible as that.”
“We will not know for a time,” Sanct’ Germain warned. “It would not be wise to hope for too much until then.” He was aware that Gardingio Witteric was dissatisfied with these remarks, and added, “There are things that cannot be rushed, any more than a blossom can be rushed on a branch. When Alboin is able to tell how much he can move his hand, then we will know something.”
“And if the man has no sensation in his hand, what then?” Gardingio Witteric challenged.
“Then we must wait until the bone knits to find if he has any strength in the arm. If he does, he can learn some new skills. If he does not, then . . .” He let his words die away. When he spoke again, his manner was brisk. “The sooner I can pull the splinters from the wound, the sooner his shoulder can be bandaged and the greater his chance for recovering the use of his hand and arm.”
“Oh, very well,” the Gardingio fumed. “Tend to the juggler. If you have need of anything from my household, send your servant to fetch it, and if it is not unreasonable, it shall be yours.”