looked tired and Bartholomew wondered what nocturnal activities he had been pursuing. He was certain they would not have had much to do with trepanation, cutting the skull open to relieve pressure on the brain, the subject of the day.
Bartholomew had been taught how to perform a
number of basic operations by Ibn Ibrahim, and was considered something of an oddity in the town for knowing both surgery and medicine. He believed that medicine and surgery could complement each other, and wanted his students to have knowledge of both, despite the fact that most physicians looked down on surgical techniques as the responsibilities of barbers.
Another problem he faced was that those students who had taken major orders were forbidden to practise incision and cautery by an edict passed by the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215.
‘What is trepanation?’ he asked. He had described the operation the previous term, but was curious to know who had remembered and who had not.
There was a rustle in the room as some students
shuffled their feet, and one or two hands went up.
Bartholomew noted that the first belonged to Thomas Bulbeck, who was his brightest student.
‘Master Gray?’ Bartholomew asked maliciously, knowing that Gray would not have the faintest idea what
trepanation was because he had missed the previous lecture.
Gray looked startled. ‘Trepidation,’ he began, his usual confident manner asserting itself quickly, ‘is a morbid fear of having your head sawed off.’
Bartholomew fought down the urge to laugh. If these young men were to be successful in their disputations, there was no room for levity. He saw one or two of the students nodding sagely, and marvelled at Gray’s abilities to make the most outrageous claims with such conviction.
Secretly, he envied the skill: such brazen self-assurance in certain situations might give a patient the encouragement needed to recover. Bartholomew was a poor liar,
and his Arab master had often criticised him for not telling a patient what he wanted to hear when it might make the difference between life and death.
‘Anyone else?’ he asked, standing and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Bulbeck’s hand shot up. Bartholomew motioned for him to answer.
‘Trepanation,’ he said, casting a mischievous glance at Gray, ‘is the surgical practice of removing a part of the skull to relieve pressure on the brain.’
‘Surgery!’ spat one of the Franciscans in disgust. ‘A tradesman’s job!’
Bartholomew wandered over to him. ‘A patient comes to you with severe headaches, spells of unconsciousness, and uncoordinated movements. What do you do, Brother Boniface?’
‘Bleed him with leeches,’ Brother Boniface replied promptly.
Bartholomew thrust his hands in the folds of his tabard and suppressed a sigh of resignation. Wherever he went, people saw bleeding as a panacea for all manner of ailments, when other, far more effective but less dramatic, methods were to hand. He had lost many a patient to other physicians because of his refusal to leech on demand, and some had not lived to regret it. ‘And what will that do?’
‘It will relieve the patient of an excess of bad humours and reduce the pressure in the brain. Without the use of surgery,’ he concluded smugly.
‘And what if that does not work, and the patient becomes worse?’ asked Bartholomew, sauntering to the window and sitting on one of the stone window seats, hands still firmly in his gown to prevent himself from grabbing the arrogant friar and trying to shake some sense into him.
‘Then it is God’s will that he dies, and I give him last rites,’ said Boniface.
Bartholomew was impressed at this reasoning. Would that all his cases were so simple.’ But anyone who becomes ill and who is not given the correct treatment may die,’
he said, ‘and any of you who are unprepared to apply the cure that will save the patient should not become physicians.’
There was a sheepish silence.
Bartholomew had been taught how to perform a
number of basic operations by Ibn Ibrahim, and was considered something of an oddity in the town for knowing both surgery and medicine. He believed that medicine and surgery could complement each other, and wanted his students to have knowledge of both, despite the fact that most physicians looked down on surgical techniques as the responsibilities of barbers.
Another problem he faced was that those students who had taken major orders were forbidden to practise incision and cautery by an edict passed by the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215.
‘What is trepanation?’ he asked. He had described the operation the previous term, but was curious to know who had remembered and who had not.
There was a rustle in the room as some students
shuffled their feet, and one or two hands went up.
Bartholomew noted that the first belonged to Thomas Bulbeck, who was his brightest student.
‘Master Gray?’ Bartholomew asked maliciously, knowing that Gray would not have the faintest idea what
trepanation was because he had missed the previous lecture.
Gray looked startled. ‘Trepidation,’ he began, his usual confident manner asserting itself quickly, ‘is a morbid fear of having your head sawed off.’
Bartholomew fought down the urge to laugh. If these young men were to be successful in their disputations, there was no room for levity. He saw one or two of the students nodding sagely, and marvelled at Gray’s abilities to make the most outrageous claims with such conviction.
Secretly, he envied the skill: such brazen self-assurance in certain situations might give a patient the encouragement needed to recover. Bartholomew was a poor liar,
and his Arab master had often criticised him for not telling a patient what he wanted to hear when it might make the difference between life and death.
‘Anyone else?’ he asked, standing and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Bulbeck’s hand shot up. Bartholomew motioned for him to answer.
‘Trepanation,’ he said, casting a mischievous glance at Gray, ‘is the surgical practice of removing a part of the skull to relieve pressure on the brain.’
‘Surgery!’ spat one of the Franciscans in disgust. ‘A tradesman’s job!’
Bartholomew wandered over to him. ‘A patient comes to you with severe headaches, spells of unconsciousness, and uncoordinated movements. What do you do, Brother Boniface?’
‘Bleed him with leeches,’ Brother Boniface replied promptly.
Bartholomew thrust his hands in the folds of his tabard and suppressed a sigh of resignation. Wherever he went, people saw bleeding as a panacea for all manner of ailments, when other, far more effective but less dramatic, methods were to hand. He had lost many a patient to other physicians because of his refusal to leech on demand, and some had not lived to regret it. ‘And what will that do?’
‘It will relieve the patient of an excess of bad humours and reduce the pressure in the brain. Without the use of surgery,’ he concluded smugly.
‘And what if that does not work, and the patient becomes worse?’ asked Bartholomew, sauntering to the window and sitting on one of the stone window seats, hands still firmly in his gown to prevent himself from grabbing the arrogant friar and trying to shake some sense into him.
‘Then it is God’s will that he dies, and I give him last rites,’ said Boniface.
Bartholomew was impressed at this reasoning. Would that all his cases were so simple.’ But anyone who becomes ill and who is not given the correct treatment may die,’
he said, ‘and any of you who are unprepared to apply the cure that will save the patient should not become physicians.’
There was a sheepish silence.
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