The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [72]
“To be in the position to make a genuine difference, Carroll,” he mused. “How few get that chance, no matter how brilliant or talented. What a stroke of luck, to be here, at this time.”
“Whatever luck may be involved,” I said, “it is no more than you have earned.”
“Thank you for saying so,” he said, and then heaved a sigh. “Still, it is an enormous privilege … and an enormous responsibility.”
Two people who spend as much time together as the Professor and I can sense when conversation is no longer desired and, seconds later, seemingly at the same instant, we each reached into our respective valises and withdrew a book.
I had brought a second volume of Turk’s Plato, this one containing Republic. I knew of the essay, of course, but had never delved into it. It seemed appropriate now to read of the philosopher-king while traveling with a man who might actually fit the role. I placed the volume in my lap, crossed my leg in order to rest it on my thigh, and then lifted the cover open with my thumb.
I felt myself start. Cut into the inside of the front board was a latchkey. It was shiny and black and I knew instantly that its home was a door on Wharf Lane that led to the lair from which Turk had conducted his nefarious activities.
I quickly shut the book and saw the Professor eyeing me.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, Dr. Osler,” I said. “Quite all right. I was just thinking of the enormity of my good fortune.”
“All of it deserved,” replied the Professor, accepting the explanation. “What are you reading?”
When I told him, he smiled and nodded. “Good man. Plato is indispensable.”
“And you?” I asked, anxious to deflect focus from the volume in my hands.
“It’s called Servetus and Calvin. Written by Robert Willis, a Scottish physician, about ten years ago.” I was certain now that he did not think anything amiss. He closed the book gently and ran his fingertips lightly across the front. It had a black cloth cover, with imitation gold letters on the spine; an inexpensive volume but one, from the manner with which he handled it, that had substantial meaning for him. “Do you know of Servetus?”
I confessed that I did not.
“He was a remarkable man and a brilliant physician, responsible for one of the great discoveries in anatomy, one which altered the course of medicine for all time.”
I was no medical historian to be sure, but nor was I a novice, and I could not imagine any great discovery in anatomy of whose attribution I was unaware. I had read, I was certain, of all the great anatomists—Galen, Vesalius, Harvey, even the Arabs, Avicenna and Averroës. The Professor sat across from me, amused at my perplexity, and eventually raised a cautionary finger.
“Ah, Carroll, I did not say Servetus received credit for his discovery.”
“Who did?”
“Harvey.”
“You mean that Servetus discovered blood circulation before Harvey?”
“Precisely. Seventy-five years before, to be exact. In 1553.” The Professor tapped the cover of the book. “Servetus confined his theory largely to pulmonary circulation, but hypothesized about greater circulation and even the presence of capillaries. Until then, everyone had missed the role of the heart, even Vesalius.”
“Why didn’t Servetus receive credit if his discovery preceded Harvey’s?”
“Servetus’ discovery was contained in a theological text he called Christianismi Restitutio—the ‘Restoration of Christianity’—which was judged heretical by both Catholics and Protestants. One thousand copies were printed and all were thought to have been destroyed, most on the order of John Calvin, who presided at the trial at which poor Servetus was condemned. He was burned at the stake in Geneva … a grisly death … they used green wood that burned slowly and Servetus was roasted for thirty minutes before he finally died. It was not until over a century later that the first surviving copy of Christianismi Restitutio surfaced, well after Harvey had published his great work in 1628. Three copies