Boccanegra’s eyebrows rose. “This scribe knows more of medicine than most women of her ilk.”
I went back to my old excuse. “My husband died thus. But he could have been saved, I was told, had the augur been applied to his skull in good time. . . .” I snuck a look at the priest’s face again, wondering whether under one of those eyelids one pupil was dilating now, as the nerve responsible for its contraction was crushed under the advancing edge of brain displaced by blood.
Boccanegra rubbed his chin with one hand. “In some cases injury to the skull and its tender contents may only be relieved by an aperture such as you describe.” I held my breath but my mind was racing. Come on, make up your mind, Dottore, before we lose him. “This procedure is, however, more often the purview of the military surgeon.” Boccanegra said this in a lofty tone, as if he were placing himself far above the surgeon’s lowly existence, but something about his demeanor made me wonder whether all that confidence was real. If I was going to convince Boccanegra to let me take over, I’d need to know what he was thinking. I took the direct route. It was surprisingly easy to slip into his head and find what I needed, and once I could read his thoughts I almost laughed out loud. The man was absolutely terrified. He’d never done a trephination; in fact, he’d never done any surgery at all. Clearly my experience trumped his. If I offered help, he’d have to take it.
“Dottore, my knowledge is, of course, vastly inferior to your substantial expertise . . . but I did, in my husband’s last desperate hours, assist the surgeon with the procedure, which might have saved him had it been applied in time. If I assist you, perhaps we could save this young priest from a similar fate.” At last, Boccanegra nodded, and I knew I was not imagining the relief in his face. From his case of tools he pulled out a surgical knife, a hand drill operated by a wood-handled crank, and a frightening-looking chisel. Primitive, maybe, but sharp: they would have to do. Sterilization was clearly not an option, but while Boccanegra wiped his forehead with a voluminous sleeve, I surreptitiously grabbed a pitcher of wine from a side table and dipped the tools into it. I hoped the alcohol content in watered wine was high enough to help.
I moved in to position the priest’s head. My hand itched with familiarity as I picked up the knife and sliced through the skin at the temple, then peeled away the flap to expose the bone. Boccanegra, amazingly, let me proceed. He blotted the swell of blood from the skin with a cloth as I switched to the drill and made first one hole, then another, the drill’s sharp point disappearing into bone. Our patient didn’t even squirm as I drilled the tight ring of circles through his skull, then connected them with the chisel, sending tiny shards of bone flying from the wound. When the flap of bone lifted, I almost thought I could hear the hiss of escaping pressure, as if from a tire tested by a handheld gauge. There it was, the fresh clot I’d expected to see, mixed with an ooze of recent blood. I scooped it out and dumped it into a bloodletting bowl Boccanegra had on his instrument tray. Boccanegra, competent despite his unfamiliarity, found the bleeder and stopped its flow, holding firm until the bleeding subsided. I sutured it closed and we replaced the bone, then the flap of skin. Boccanegra closed the wound with a needle threaded with catgut.
I stepped back while Boccanegra turned to find a dressing. I watched the priest, counting breaths. One, two, three . . . more regular now. I snuck a look under his eyelids—pupils blessedly equal.
Boccanegra reassumed control seamlessly. “The good priest must rest now. I will bleed him, then dose him with Papaver. Thank you, Monna Trovato, for your layperson’s assistance in this grave matter.” I was about to protest—he’d bled plenty already—but I didn’t want to push my uninvited medical authority too far. I looked over my shoulder as we left the pellegrinaio and saw the dottore setting out another tray of evil-looking instruments.
* * *
I went back to see Bartolomeo the next day. I’d read about the high survival rate after trephination, which had been practiced since the Stone Age, but I’d had a hard time believing it, until now.
The priest looked up at me wide-eyed as I walked up to his cot. “The cathedral’s spirit, come to my aid,” he said. “Thanks to the Blessed Virgin for sending you.” I didn’t bother to correct him.
“How do you feel?”
“I cannot recall anything after leaving my chamber on the morning Messer de’ Medici was to be hanged.”
“That’s not unusual after a blow to the head.”
“Truly?” He looked relieved. “I feared a devil had captured my soul. But with the aid of the Virgin who guards us all, and you, her messenger of healing, I have been restored.” His brow creased with distress again. “The accused did not repent before his death. I failed in my most fervent prayers and he descended into the pit of hell, damned for all eternity, while I stood by, powerless to bring him to God’s side.”
“He was a murderer.”
“It was my role to guide his soul to the heavens.”
“I don’t think anyone could have wrenched that soul away from where it was headed. Maybe your efforts spared him some torment.”
“Your words bring comfort,” the priest said earnestly, and his facial expression changed suddenly with the labile fluidity of a child’s. “The Virgin herself holds you in her heart.”
“I pray that’s true, but I’m just a scribe. Thank you for the compliment.”
“It is not a compliment, Monna . . . ?”
“Beatrice Alessandra Trovato. And I really am just a scribe.” I smiled at him. He seemed like a very nice, if excessively sensitive, young man.
“Father Bartolomeo the Timid, they call me. With good reason.” He smiled wryly. “Ever since the moment I beheld you running through the Duomo, I knew you were a spirit brought to this earth with some heavenly purpose.” Before I could ask him what he meant, Boccanegra appeared at his side. I curtsied and made my exit. As I left the pellegrinaio it struck me what Bartolomeo had said. Was it possible that he had witnessed the night of my arrival in the fourteenth century?
Every time I went to visit again over the next few days, Bartolomeo was either sleeping or in the company of some caretaker. I allowed myself to hope that he might hold a key to my return to my own time, however innocent he seemed. The last time I went to see him, the cot was empty. Umiltà told me that the priest had returned to the cathedral where he lived and worked.
* * *
The following morning I went to Mass in the cathedral. A wizened stick of a priest stood at the pulpit delivering a sermon as dry as his visage. At the end of the service I wandered around, looking into the side chapels. Finally, I recognized Bartolomeo kneeling in prayer. He looked up as I passed.