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Authors: Alfredo Colitto
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Cremona. If he managed to subdue them, his reign would acquire solidity. Mondino thought of what he would do if the sovereign turned up at the gates of Bologna, as Barbarossa had done so long ago. His Ghibelline faith encouraged him to negotiate an honourable peace, but if the city decided to take up arms and fight, he would fight. In such an uncertain world, the freedom of the comune came before every other consideration.
A clap of thunder shook him out of his daydream, and he remembered the reason that he had got up from his writing table. He went to fetch the bundle of notes for his book from a shelf. There were hundreds of leaves, thick with notes and drawings,where the structure of the human body was described point by point and organ by organ. Mondino loved to imagine his treatise finished and bound in leather as a great book, with its simple title stamped in gold: Anothomia . A book that physicians in years to come would study with a respect equal to that which the jurists reserved for the work of the great Irnerius. And that, like the work of Irnerius, would be integrated and improved with the advance of human knowledge, while nonetheless remaining the discipline’s essential foundation.
For the moment, however, the treatise consisted more than anything else of an accumulation of notes that Mondino continually revised, and that he did not yet dare to write down in fair copy. He needed to discover more and explore further before offering his findings to the world like a map to be followed without risk of getting lost.
Thus, to unearth the secret that enabled blood to be changed into iron could represent a step forward of enormous importance. It was risky, certainly, but the gift of never running risks belonged to Liuzzo, not to him. His uncle was an excellent physician, but he lacked the desire to go forward. He restricted himself to applying rules decided on by others, and perhaps precisely because of that he had managed to make his way rapidly in the Studium .
Liuzzo prized results,but was not prepared to expose himself in any way to obtain them. Mondino had decided not to say anything at all to him about current events. His uncle would take fright and try to stop him, making his life impossible.
As though conjured up by his thoughts, Liuzzo appeared on the threshold.
‘Good evening, Uncle. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘You too could go down and visit your father, from time to time,’ said Liuzzo, in a reproachful tone. ‘He told me that he hasn’t seen you yet today.’
‘That’s not fair. I went down not long ago. He was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.’
His father was ill. Mondino was sure that he had a carcinoma, or a sarcoma, as Galen defined it, in his left lung. Sure enough, if he turned on to his right side he couldn’t breathe, because his good lung was compressed by the weight of his body and the left, overcome by the tumour, didn’t inflate properly. It was incurable and there was nothing they could do but make the old man as comfortable as possible in the last months of his life. Mondino and his three sons, Gabardino, Ludovico and Leone, took turns sitting with the old man whenever they had a bit of free time.
Liuzzo came into the study and went over to the writing table, which was strewn with papers. ‘All your time is taken up with making these notes,’ he said, sighing. ‘When you’re not giving a lesson, you write. And at night, instead of going to sleep like any other good Christian, you dissect corpses. It’s not only your father who never sees you any more. Even your children know that they can’t rely on you nowadays. When Leone needs advice, he turns to Pietro and Lorenza.’
Pietro and Lorenza were a couple of family retainers whom Mondino had taken into service when his wife died. They were young and full of energy, and their little girl brought life to the house with her merry shouting.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ insisted Liuzzo.
‘What do you
A clap of thunder shook him out of his daydream, and he remembered the reason that he had got up from his writing table. He went to fetch the bundle of notes for his book from a shelf. There were hundreds of leaves, thick with notes and drawings,where the structure of the human body was described point by point and organ by organ. Mondino loved to imagine his treatise finished and bound in leather as a great book, with its simple title stamped in gold: Anothomia . A book that physicians in years to come would study with a respect equal to that which the jurists reserved for the work of the great Irnerius. And that, like the work of Irnerius, would be integrated and improved with the advance of human knowledge, while nonetheless remaining the discipline’s essential foundation.
For the moment, however, the treatise consisted more than anything else of an accumulation of notes that Mondino continually revised, and that he did not yet dare to write down in fair copy. He needed to discover more and explore further before offering his findings to the world like a map to be followed without risk of getting lost.
Thus, to unearth the secret that enabled blood to be changed into iron could represent a step forward of enormous importance. It was risky, certainly, but the gift of never running risks belonged to Liuzzo, not to him. His uncle was an excellent physician, but he lacked the desire to go forward. He restricted himself to applying rules decided on by others, and perhaps precisely because of that he had managed to make his way rapidly in the Studium .
Liuzzo prized results,but was not prepared to expose himself in any way to obtain them. Mondino had decided not to say anything at all to him about current events. His uncle would take fright and try to stop him, making his life impossible.
As though conjured up by his thoughts, Liuzzo appeared on the threshold.
‘Good evening, Uncle. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘You too could go down and visit your father, from time to time,’ said Liuzzo, in a reproachful tone. ‘He told me that he hasn’t seen you yet today.’
‘That’s not fair. I went down not long ago. He was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.’
His father was ill. Mondino was sure that he had a carcinoma, or a sarcoma, as Galen defined it, in his left lung. Sure enough, if he turned on to his right side he couldn’t breathe, because his good lung was compressed by the weight of his body and the left, overcome by the tumour, didn’t inflate properly. It was incurable and there was nothing they could do but make the old man as comfortable as possible in the last months of his life. Mondino and his three sons, Gabardino, Ludovico and Leone, took turns sitting with the old man whenever they had a bit of free time.
Liuzzo came into the study and went over to the writing table, which was strewn with papers. ‘All your time is taken up with making these notes,’ he said, sighing. ‘When you’re not giving a lesson, you write. And at night, instead of going to sleep like any other good Christian, you dissect corpses. It’s not only your father who never sees you any more. Even your children know that they can’t rely on you nowadays. When Leone needs advice, he turns to Pietro and Lorenza.’
Pietro and Lorenza were a couple of family retainers whom Mondino had taken into service when his wife died. They were young and full of energy, and their little girl brought life to the house with her merry shouting.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ insisted Liuzzo.
‘What do you
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