Falconer’s offer.
‘Master, I need also to read the new logic of Aristotle…’
Falconer sighed, seeing he was to get no peace today.
‘Come in, boy. You need to read Sophistici elenchi . Look, it is over there beside the chimney breast.’
He pointed out a toppling stack of his most cherished books and papers. At the bottom of the heap, less used because they were the approved texts, were to be found books such as the rather dull Historia Scholastica . Falconer’s more esoteric and well-thumbed works lay on the top, amongst them works by the Arab mathematician Al-Khowarizmi, medical works of Galen and a geography text called De Sphaera Mundi . The boy tiptoed across the cluttered room, marvelling at the strange collection of objects on the large central table that dominated the space. Animal bones jostled with dried plants and stones which had weird shapes inscribed on their surfaces. Two scrolls lay open, their edges held down with pebbles and a rusty dagger. He could not decipher the writing on them.
‘Hebrew. The texts are both Hebrew translations of Arabic works by Averroes. I am trying to discover the true original text from examining the errors in both translations.’
Falconer’s explanation of the scratchings on the scrolls was bewildering to Mithian. He was afraid he would never understand the simplest of texts expounded in ordinary lectures at the university. Let alone be able to put into Latin or English a Jewish version of an Arabic work. He sighed deeply.
‘Yes, master. I think I had better learn my Aristotle first.’
He turned to the heap of books, not sure where to begin even now. How was he to identify which text was which amidst this pile of paper and parchment? Perhaps he had better first move the pots and vials that lay atop them. He picked up a stone jar and sniffed its contents. Recoiling in horror, he nudged the pile of books, and had to grab at a couple of other pots that began to slide off the top.
‘Here, here. Let me do that.’ Falconer shrugged off his blanket and leaped nimbly across the room. Though he was a large, rangy man, his footwork was still neat and sure, due to long years spent dodging swords and daggers in his youth. He had been a mercenary in many of the skirmishes that played out across Europe and along the trade routes that he had chosen to explore before settling to a scholastic life. He grabbed the foul-smelling pot from his student and steadied the others. Gingerly, Peter Mithian took one in each hand and transferred them to the cluttered table.
‘You need to take care with some of these pots. What they contain could be quite deadly if swallowed.’
Mithian shuddered, stepping away from the pots and vials as Falconer transferred them from the pile by the chimney breast. Then the regent master slipped out a roughly bound sheaf of papers from the middle of the heap.
‘There it is. The Aristotle you so wish to consult, Peter. Learn it well, for I shall test you on it when next you are in my school.’
Mithian groaned. What he had feared had come to pass. Master Falconer would now single him out for special attention and he would no longer be able to hide in the shadows.
‘Thank you, master. For this, and for the mattress. I have already brought it in from the shed and set it to dry out by the fire.’
‘Which I am sure you now have burning well and warmly.’
Falconer’s parting shot gave the boy good reason to hurry from his master’s presence. He rushed down to check on the fire that he had roused from the embers of the night before. Falconer, meanwhile, picked up one of the pots and peered at the label he had bound around it. The ink had smeared and the label was illegible. Truth to tell, he could not remember what the contents were and why they stunk so much. Perhaps he would take it round to Saphira and see if her new knowledge of poisons would serve to identify it. Insatiably curious though, he poked his finger in, wiggled it around and withdrew
‘Master, I need also to read the new logic of Aristotle…’
Falconer sighed, seeing he was to get no peace today.
‘Come in, boy. You need to read Sophistici elenchi . Look, it is over there beside the chimney breast.’
He pointed out a toppling stack of his most cherished books and papers. At the bottom of the heap, less used because they were the approved texts, were to be found books such as the rather dull Historia Scholastica . Falconer’s more esoteric and well-thumbed works lay on the top, amongst them works by the Arab mathematician Al-Khowarizmi, medical works of Galen and a geography text called De Sphaera Mundi . The boy tiptoed across the cluttered room, marvelling at the strange collection of objects on the large central table that dominated the space. Animal bones jostled with dried plants and stones which had weird shapes inscribed on their surfaces. Two scrolls lay open, their edges held down with pebbles and a rusty dagger. He could not decipher the writing on them.
‘Hebrew. The texts are both Hebrew translations of Arabic works by Averroes. I am trying to discover the true original text from examining the errors in both translations.’
Falconer’s explanation of the scratchings on the scrolls was bewildering to Mithian. He was afraid he would never understand the simplest of texts expounded in ordinary lectures at the university. Let alone be able to put into Latin or English a Jewish version of an Arabic work. He sighed deeply.
‘Yes, master. I think I had better learn my Aristotle first.’
He turned to the heap of books, not sure where to begin even now. How was he to identify which text was which amidst this pile of paper and parchment? Perhaps he had better first move the pots and vials that lay atop them. He picked up a stone jar and sniffed its contents. Recoiling in horror, he nudged the pile of books, and had to grab at a couple of other pots that began to slide off the top.
‘Here, here. Let me do that.’ Falconer shrugged off his blanket and leaped nimbly across the room. Though he was a large, rangy man, his footwork was still neat and sure, due to long years spent dodging swords and daggers in his youth. He had been a mercenary in many of the skirmishes that played out across Europe and along the trade routes that he had chosen to explore before settling to a scholastic life. He grabbed the foul-smelling pot from his student and steadied the others. Gingerly, Peter Mithian took one in each hand and transferred them to the cluttered table.
‘You need to take care with some of these pots. What they contain could be quite deadly if swallowed.’
Mithian shuddered, stepping away from the pots and vials as Falconer transferred them from the pile by the chimney breast. Then the regent master slipped out a roughly bound sheaf of papers from the middle of the heap.
‘There it is. The Aristotle you so wish to consult, Peter. Learn it well, for I shall test you on it when next you are in my school.’
Mithian groaned. What he had feared had come to pass. Master Falconer would now single him out for special attention and he would no longer be able to hide in the shadows.
‘Thank you, master. For this, and for the mattress. I have already brought it in from the shed and set it to dry out by the fire.’
‘Which I am sure you now have burning well and warmly.’
Falconer’s parting shot gave the boy good reason to hurry from his master’s presence. He rushed down to check on the fire that he had roused from the embers of the night before. Falconer, meanwhile, picked up one of the pots and peered at the label he had bound around it. The ink had smeared and the label was illegible. Truth to tell, he could not remember what the contents were and why they stunk so much. Perhaps he would take it round to Saphira and see if her new knowledge of poisons would serve to identify it. Insatiably curious though, he poked his finger in, wiggled it around and withdrew
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