Shadow of God (45 page)

When the Sultan stepped up the magnitude of his assault, the casualties rose proportionately. There were fewer civilians coming to the hospital now, for, over time, they had discovered suitable hiding places from the cannon salvos. But, more of the knights were exposed to danger. Not only were they injured as they stood their guard on the battlements, but knights were now being killed or wounded in the small sorties that were sent out to harass the Turkish troops.

Melina had just put the babies back to sleep in the little nest she had made of blankets and cloth in the protected little room in the hospital. She was returning to the ward when she nearly ran right into the Grand Master.

“
Pardon, Monsieur
,” she said.

“Melina,” Philippe said, more ill at ease than Melina had ever seen him. “I was coming to see you and Doctor Renato.”

Melina saw now that the Grand Master was accompanied by a young woman, nearly Melina’s age she supposed. Thirty, thirty-five, perhaps, wearing a long, blue dress far too elegant to have been made in Rhodes. Both women were immediately struck by the extraordinary resemblance they had to each other. Philippe interrupted their thoughts.

“
Permettez-moi de vous presenter Hélène.
Hélène, this is Melina.”

The two women nodded their heads, but did not speak. Philippe went on, now formally as if giving orders to his troops.

“Hélène will stay here in the hospital with you, Melina. Please show her what needs to be done. I haven’t time to talk with the good doctor now, so please introduce Hélène to him. God bless you both for what you are doing for us.”

The women curtsied formally to the Grand Master and waited silently until he left. Melina took both of Hélène’s hands in hers and said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. We need every bit of help we can get. Most of the women in the city are afraid to come out. We’re very shorthanded. Come, let’s find the doctor.”

Hélène followed behind Melina as they hurried down the stairs and into the huge main ward. As they descended the stone stairs, Hélène said, “I have no experience at this. I hope I don’t do something terribly wrong and hurt somebody.”

“Don’t worry. I knew nothing at first. But, you learn fast here. I’ll help you, and so will Doctor Renato.”

They made their way among the gathering crowd of wounded and searched the great hall for the doctor.

They found Renato bent over the operating table talking to a young knight Melina recognized as Michael. He was from the
langue
of England, and had been recovering from a severe infection in his arm. The knights had been preparing their swords when this young man’s hand had slipped while sharpening his own. He had sustained a nasty gash in his left hand. Renato had instructed all the knights in the cleansing of wounds. But in his haste, the young knight had merely wrapped his hand in a piece of fabric and continued his work. The hand became infected, and he sought help from the doctor a few days later when he noticed red lines streaking from his hand up the outer aspect of his arm. That night his whole arm became painful and he could feel tender knots bulging from his armpit. By morning, his hand was so swollen that he could not close his fist, and he became feverish.

Renato had gently berated the young knight for his foolishness. “How many Muslims will you kill if I have to cut off your arm? How many can you fight if you lie dead of gangrene?”

Michael had merely shaken his head and said, “Forgive me, Doctor. I should have listened to you. But, there is so little time. The ships of the Turks were within sight of our islands, and …”

“It’s all right. I will do what I can, but you’re a very sick young man.”

Renato had worked day and night on the infected hand. He had given the knight as much wine and opium as he thought safe, and
then began to cut away the infected flesh. Each day there was more dead tissue, and each day the doctor debrided what was clearly infected, trying to save the function of the hand. On the third day, a green, foul-smelling pus began to seep from the hand. Renato washed the pus away, and for a time it seemed as if he were gaining on the infection.

But, on the fourth day, Michael’s condition worsened as the infection became generalized. He became delirious and went in and out of coma. His fever was high and he was no longer able to take anything by mouth. In his delirium, he began to flail about and had to be restrained with leather straps. Renato sent word to the Grand Master that an amputation was necessary. Philippe was desolate. “The Muslims have just set foot on our shore,” he told Docwra, “and we might lose one of our brave young men already.”

Now Renato was gently talking to the young knight, explaining that the only way to save his life was to sacrifice the gangrenous arm.

Melina stepped next to Renato and tapped him gently on the shoulder. Renato turned, giving her a wan and empty smile. Then he noticed Hélène standing just behind Melina. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Yes?”

“This is Hélène, Doctor. The Grand Master has brought her here to help us. Where is she needed?”

If Renato were puzzled, he did not show it. There was no time in his life now for anything but business. He said, “Well, she’s just in time to help here. If you can stand it, my dear, we need someone to wash the wound as we proceed. Can you do it?”

Hélène felt a wave of revulsion wash over her at the sickly sweet smell of the gangrene. Then she looked into the eyes of the young knight, aware that her squeamishness was nothing compared to his suffering.

“
Oui, monsieur. Je suis prêt.
” I’m ready.

The knights placed Michael on a wooden table and bound him tightly with wide leather straps. Renato laid out the instruments.

Jean de Morelle was there assisting the doctor. The knights took regular turns at duty in the hospital, and Jean had been working for
most of the day. He helped Renato arrange the last of the instruments, then waited at Michael’s side.

Hélène could not help but fix her eyes on the brown stains dried deep into the wood of the table. Unlike the dark finish on the furniture, this finish was the color of death. The many lives that had lain in the balance had leaked their blood onto this table, creating a deep patina that would never be erased. Hélène had never witnessed any surgery before, but she knew what was in store for this brave young knight, and the thought made her chest tighten and her stomach heave.

Renato rolled up his sleeves and donned a long leather apron to protect his clothes. Jean tied the apron strings for the doctor, then grasped Michael’s infected arm in his strong hands. He held on tightly high above the elbow almost to the shoulder. The young knight was nearly unconscious. They all hoped that he would stay that way until the worst of the operation was over. But, just in case, Jean placed a leather-covered stick between the young man’s teeth.

Finally, after briefly looking over his table of instruments, Renato picked up a steel blade, twelve inches long, attached to a polished wooden handle. With a circular motion that lasted less than four seconds, Renato sliced through the uninfected skin and muscle that surrounded the upper arm of the young man. His knife just grazed the bone, and the doctor stopped immediately to keep from dulling his blade.

Hélène stared wide-eyed as more of the knight’s blood was spilled among the dark stains on the table and the floor.
My God, this slaughter,
she thought.
These tables will soon be filled with the bodies of more knights. The floors will run red with their blood. And only this man,
she thought, looking up at Renato,
can save them.

Renato dropped the knife onto his instrument table as gouts of blood spurted from the bleeding vessels. Bright-red fountains erupted from the large artery near the bone, while deep purple tides flowed steadily from the boy’s severed veins. Hélène felt a lump rise in her throat. She tried not to look at the boy’s arm, but could not take her eyes off the terrible spectacle. She swallowed hard to keep the contents of her stomach from spilling out.

Renato reached for the pile of clean rags that were stacked next to his knives and wadded a mass of them together. He used the rags to staunch the flow of blood and pushed the cut margins further above and below his incisions, exposing the white bone. Morelle held tightly to Michael’s arm as the young man began to squirm around in his delirium and pain.

Renato took Hélène’s hands and placed them against the wads of cloth that were now changing from white to bright red with the continued bleeding. In a nearly trance-like state, Hélène did as the doctor bid her. She held on hard to the tamponade of cloth as she willed herself to stay erect and awake. Her ears ringing, she fought not to faint at this crucial moment in the operation.

Within a minute, the young knight’s blood was flowing through the wadding, seeping between Hélène’s fingers and onto the floor. The color of the blood changed from red to crimson to maroon; then congealed into shining shivering lumps at Hélène’s feet. One large clot had fallen on her shoe, and she could not make herself flick it off. It was almost as if casting that knight’s blood aside would be an insult. Instead, she stared fixedly at it, unable to bring her eyes back to the now mercifully unconscious boy.

Renato reached up and twisted the leather tourniquet tighter about the knight’s upper arm. The bleeding slowed, but did not stop.

“Oil! Oil!” Renato shouted to Jean. The knight reached out and took the copper pot of boiling oil off the metal stand over the flames. He held the copper container by its wooden handle and carried it carefully to the table.

Renato turned to Hélène. “Remove the cloths, my dear.”

Hélène pulled the sodden rags away and dropped them into a wooden bucket on the floor.

Then to Jean, Renato said, “Go ahead, quickly! Pour it!”

Jean hesitated. He swallowed hard to keep the contents of his stomach from rising in his chest. He began to breath rapidly, and sweat appeared on his forehead and around his lips.

“Pour, damn it!”

He tipped the small pot and poured a stream of bubbling, steaming oil onto the bleeding surfaces of the amputation wound.
The young knight let out such a scream that everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to see the poor boy’s face. He was barely alive, his eyes closed. But, his handsome face was contorted with the pain. The cutting had been almost bearable. But, the oil…

The oil steamed and spattered as it touched the cooler, moist flesh of the partially severed arm. There was a hissing noise as it coagulated the blood seeping from the vessels. The crimson muscle turned brown, contracting like a separate living thing, shriveling away from the heat.

As the odor of the oil-seared muscle reached her nose, Hélène had to swallow forcibly again to keep from throwing up. This time she was only partially successful. She would never get used to the smell.

The bleeding slowed to a mere trickle. Renato reached down and picked up a steel saw with fine, off-set teeth. The blade was about twelve inches long and two inches wide, it tapered slightly toward the tip to allow access to tighter spaces.

Without hesitation, Renato sawed through the bone with less than ten forward strokes. Hélène closed her eyes, grimacing at the gritty sound of the blade cutting through the bone. Her teeth ached, and she found herself squeezing the boy’s hand so tightly that she realized she might hurt the hand she was trying to comfort. Then she saw the utter stupidity of that idea, that she could do anything worse than was being done already. But still she eased her grip while keeping her eyes shut tight against the noise.

When the noise stopped, she relaxed the muscles in her face, which now ached with the force of her contraction. She opened her eyes and heard the saw drop to the table top. She saw Renato holding the boy’s left hand in his own. His right hand cradled the elbow of the now amputated limb. It was as if the doctor were shaking the hand of the young man whose arm he had just cut off.

Renato dropped the arm into the wooden bucket, on top of the bloodied rags. He turned his attention to the cut end of the bone. From the large hollow marrow cavity, a steady stream of dark blood and velvety purple marrow issued forth. Renato took a wad of bee’s
wax from the table and rolled it between his palms. He held it briefly over the flame of the oil lamp and shaped it into an oblong sphere. Then he inserted it into the marrow cavity and wedged it home. The bleeding stopped.

In that brief interval of inactivity, Hélène once more became aware of the
variety
of smells in the room. The mingling of distinguishable odors drew her complete attention. The aroma of the hot oil overwhelmed almost everything. But, as she concentrated, she could detect the smell of the coagulated blood, then the disinfectant and the wine. Then, to her dismay, she smelled the faint odor of her own vomit.

Hélène shook her head and tried to focus. She looked at Michael, who seemed now to be asleep. Renato had pulled something out of a clean dish that was sitting on the table next to his instruments. He held what looked like a shining cap, the kind worn by Catholic clergy. Though she didn’t recognize it, it was the recently removed bladder of a sheep. Renato applied it to the end of the stump as a dressing. He tied the bladder in place over the stump with sheep’s sinews and wrapped the whole arm in cloth bandages. Then he made a sling and secured it to Michael’s chest.

The doctor let out a great sigh and looked to Hélène. “Thank you, my dear, for all your help. You have now seen the worst, and are still standing. You’re a brave woman, indeed. You should be proud. Now, go pray for him. Michael’s life is in God’s hands.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” And with that, she slipped quietly to the floor in a dead faint.