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1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz: Chapter One
Last updated: Wednesday, March 30, 2016 22:19 EDT
1636 Calling Dr. Phil
Part One
The beginning
1606
The World’s Greatest Apprentice Alchemist
1606, Augsburg, Bavaria
Twelve year old Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz held tightly to his mother’s hand as she stopped in front of the Augsburg assay office of the of the Fugger banking family.
“This is the place,” Maria Elisabeth Bombast said as she turned and crouched down so her eyes were at the same level as Phillip’s. “Papa Johann didn’t leave us much when he died.” Maria’s scowled. “Your step-brothers will not help. A place here is the best I can afford.”
Phillip nodded. His stepfather had been reasonably successful apothecary in Bad Überkingen, but a condition of his marriage to Mama had been that most of his estate would go to his children by his first wife. Phillip suspected that Mama had not understood the details of the marriage contract. “I understand, Mama.”
“The nice man at the assay office will see that you get the training you’ve always wanted.” She stared into his eyes. “Never forget who your great grandfather was, Theophrastus, and do his memory proud.”
Phillip wished his mother wouldn’t use his middle name. It was such a silly name, and people made fun of him when they heard it. He stared at the building that was going to be his home for the next eight or so years while he served his apprenticeship. “I won’t forget, Mama.”
Maria laid a hand on Phillip’s shoulder and pushed him towards the door. “On you go, Theophrastus. Mama has to go now. I’ll write to let you know where I’m living when I’m settled.”
Phillip glanced up at his mother. Even at thirty-four her painted beauty still attracted the attention of men. He knew it wouldn’t be long before she married again. “Goodbye, Mama.”
“Be good for mother, dearest.”
Phillip glanced back one last time just before he entered the building. His mother was still there, watching. He waved one last time before stepping across the threshold.
Senior journeyman Jakob Reihing led Phillip firstly to the housekeeper, where he was supplied with more bedding than he’d ever had before, then past his laboratory before being taken to the dormitory where he would be living for the next six to eight years while he served his apprenticeship. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” Jakob said.
“This” was a standard wood framed bed with a canvas mattress cover. Phillip nodded his acceptance and laid his bedding and bags down on the trunk at the foot of the bed.
Jakob gave Phillip a padlock and key. “That’s for the bed trunk. Don’t lose the key. I have a spare, but you’ll have to pay for any replacement.”
The ability to secure his private possessions was something new for Phillip. The only way he’d been able to protect his possessions from his step-siblings had been to hide them. With a lockable trunk, he would no longer have to hope people wouldn’t find his hiding places. Phillip held the padlock and key tightly to his chest. “Thank you, Herr Reihing.”
“Right. Report back to me when you’re made your bed and put your things away.”
After Jakob left the room Phillip got to work. Firstly he found a bundle of herbs from his bag, and then he opened the canvas cover of the mattress. The straw smelt fresh, but Phillip had learned that that didn’t always mean it were free of vermin. He sprinkled some of his herbs over the straw before closing the canvas and making his bed. Then he put his clothes away in the bed trunk. The final thing he put in his trunk were the journals he’d been keeping. They recorded all that he’d so far learned about alchemy and the apothecary’s art. He used the padlock he’d been given to secure the truck and hurried to Herr Reihing’s laboratory.
That evening
“Hey, what’s the smell?” Christoph Baer asked as he followed Phillip into their room.
Phillip was still ruminating over the very good dinner he’d just eaten and didn’t immediately hear his roommate’s comment.
“Hey, Gribbleflotz, Baer asked you a question!” Heinrich Weidemann said as he thumped Phillip.
That caught Phillip’s attention. “What?” he asked, rubbing his arm where Heinrich had hit him.
“What’s the smell?” Heinrich asked.
Phillip sniffed. He didn’t smell anything unusual, and he said so.
“There’s something different about the smell of the room, and you’re the only change, so what is it?” Frederik Bechler, the third apprentice sharing the room with Phillip asked.
Phillip became immediately defensive. He sniffed the air again. “Do you mean the herbs I spread over the straw in my mattress?” he asked.
Christoph approached Phillip’s bed and sniffed. “That’s it. Why did you spread herbs over the straw?” he asked.
“They keep away vermin.” Phillip was afraid the older apprentices would hurt him, so he resorted to a technique he’d used in his stepfather’s household. “I’ve got some more if you’d like to spread it over your own mattresses, and I’ve got another mixture that promotes good sleep,” he offered as he opened his trunk and produced a couple of bags of herbs.
“How would you know about herbs and vermin?” Heinrich asked. “And what are you doing with bags of them?”
“My stepfather was an apothecary. These are his herbal mixtures for bedding.” Phillip said. “They’re very effective.”
Christoph and Frederik immediately accepted the offer. Heinrich looked from the cloth bags in Phillip’s hand to his bed. His face went through all sorts of contortions before he finally added his acceptance.
The next morning
Phillip woke suddenly. There had been a strange sound. Then he remembered where he was, and relaxed.
“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s time to get up,” Christoph said as he shook Phillip.
“I’m awake,” Phillip said as he pulled the covers aside so he could get out of bed. “What do I do now?”
“Just follow us,” Christoph said. “Do you know where you’ll be working today?”
“With Herr Reihing,” Phillip said.
Heinrich snorted. “A green boy like you won’t be working with Herr Reihing.”
“Give over, Heinrich,” Frederik said. “Phillip means he’ll be working in Herr Reihing’s laboratory.” He turned to Phillip. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Phillip nodded.
“Most of the apprentices in his laboratory are okay, but you’ll want to watch out for Bernhard Bimmel though,” Christoph said. “He can be nasty.”
“He’s not that bad,” Heinrich muttered.
“Just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean he’s not a bully,” Christoph said. He turned to Phillip. “That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. What’s in those little bags you gave us to put under out pillows?”
“It’s just a mixture my stepfather used to make. He was an apothecary. I have the recipe.”
“Well, I’m with Christoph,” Frederik said. “Thanks to your herbal mixture, I had a really good night’s sleep. See you later,” he said as he headed off to breakfast.
Heinrich was the last of Phillip’s roommates to leave. He paused beside Phillip long enough to mutter his thanks for the sleep promoting herbs before he too disappeared. Phillip watched him walk off, surprised at the reaction of his roommates to such a simple thing. He was brought back to the real world when his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was missing valuable eating time, and he hurried off after his roommates.
Herr Reihing’s laboratory, the Assay Office
Except for its size the laboratory where Phillip was to work wasn’t too different from his late stepfather’s work room. He was able to recognize many of the apparatus from his years helping his stepfather as Jakob Reihing led him around the laboratory, explaining what things were and what they were used for.
Jakob stopped by a couple of beer barrels sitting on a bench with taps installed. “Working in the laboratory, you’re going to get thirsty. Don’t try drinking from these barrels. They contain stale beer that we are distilling to make aqua vitae. If you want a drink, there are barrels of small beer over there.”
Phillip followed the direction Jakob was pointing and located the barrels tucked away in a corner by the door to the outhouse. “I understand, Herr Reihing.”
Phillip was then led past the brick furnaces with their circular openings on the top into which alembic were placed to a work bench where there were a range of different sized pestles and mortars. Jakob tapped on the shoulder of the journeyman working there. “Wilhelm, this is Phillip Gribbleflotz. He’ll be helping you.” He turned to Phillip. “Wilhelm will look after you. Just do whatever he tells you to do, and don’t worry. There’s not a lot that can go wrong with a mortar and pestle.”
The moment Jakob left Wilhelm Neuffer put Phillip to work grinding up green vitriol. It was work Phillip had done before; although he’d usually ground dried herbs and seeds rather than minerals, so he didn’t need a lot of instruction or supervision. After a few minutes watching to check Phillip knew what he was supposed to be doing, Wilhelm returned his attention to his own pestle and mortar.
Several days later
As the new boy Phillip was starting at the bottom. It was his job at the end of each day to sweep the laboratory and clean out the furnace. The ashes had to be collected in metal buckets and dumped into a stone pit in the yard and dampened down with water until they were safe enough to leave. Then he had to bring in kindling to set the fires in the furnace ready for the next day. All of this was done under the watchful eye of Wilhelm. At the beginning of each day, while Wilhelm got the fire started, it was his job to ensure the wood baskets were full and haul in the buckets of water that some of the jobs performed in the laboratory required. It was hard work, not helped by the fact that he had to put in a full day grinding green vitriol as well.
A combination of a hot and windless summer’s day and the heat radiating from the furnace meant that it was stiflingly hot in the laboratory. Phillip dragged his shirtsleeve across his sweaty forehead and glanced across to his supervisor. At least Wilhelm looked just as hot and bothered as Phillip. Unfortunately, he didn’t look like he was slowing down, so Phillip shook out his tiring right arm to relieve the muscles and got back to grinding.
They weren’t the only ones feeling the effects of a long day in the hot laboratory. One apprentice in particular was suffering more than everyone else. Martin Brenner was a fourth year apprentice, and as such he should have known better than to let himself dehydrate while watching over the retort furnace where temperatures ranged from barely hot enough to distill aqua vitae at one end to hot enough to decompose green vitriol at the other. He had a headache coming on, and he was losing his ability to concentrate. Because of this he missed the first signs that the outlet from an alembic hood was clogging up on one of the retorts being used to make Oil of Vitriol.
Several minutes later Martin felt an urge to go to the toilet, and after a quick, superficial glance at the retorts, he hurried off. The close proximity of the casks of small beer to the door leading to the outhouse reminded him that he hadn’t had anything to drink since noon, so he quickly filled a mug and gulped it down before heading for the privy.
Naturally, nobody bothered to check up on the work of a fourth year apprentice when they were only supervising distillations, so while he was gone no one noticed that the alembic’s outlet had become completely clogged.
The moment the outlet clogged up the pressure in the alembic had started to grow. By the time Martin returned a few minutes later and started walking around the fire checking that condensate was flowing from all of the alembics the pressure in the clogged alembic was climbing rapidly. The situation might have been saved if the clogged alembic hadn’t been the last one he checked. By the time he got to it the pressure inside had reached critical levels.
The small beer Martin had gulped down had been too little too late, and consumed too quickly to alleviate his dehydration, so his thought processes weren’t as good as they could have been. Instead of shouting out a warning and waiting for Herr Reihing, he tried to deal with the blocked alembic himself. He grabbed a couple of pads made from rags to protect his hands and reached for the alembic. The slight twisting action he applied as he tried to lift it rubbed the alembic against the firebrick circle in which it sat, creating a scratch in glass vessel. It wasn’t much of a scratch, but it was too much for the now critically stressed vessel and it exploded in a spray of glass and a cloud of superheated sulphuric acid vapor. The acid cloud quickly enveloped Martin, condensing on his skin. As he inhaled to scream at the pain he dragged the blisteringly hot vapors into his lungs.
Nobody in the laboratory could miss the explosion of the alembic. Phillip all but dropped what he was doing, but managed to hold onto the pestle he was holding long enough to bump it onto the bench he’d been working at to stare in horror what had happened. It would have been bad enough if the exploding alembic had contained aqua vitae, as the apprentice would probably have caught fire, but what he was witnessing suggested something much worse.
A man splashed with burning alcohol might try to beat out the fire. He might also drop to the ground and writhe about as he struggled to put out the flames. Either way, one thing you could be sure of was that he wouldn’t be quiet about it. This apprentice hadn’t uttered a sound.
A hand grabbed Phillip by the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll need your help,” Wilhelm said as he dragged Phillip towards an apprentice who was screaming about his face burning.
“Take your hands away from your face, Bernhard,” Wilhelm said as he tried to pull the apprentice’s hands away from his face. “Shit!” Wilhelm muttered. “Gribbleflotz, we need water to wash away the acid.”
Phillip was sufficiently over his shock by now that he was able to string a couple of thoughts together. Acid, given that he’d spent the last few days grinding green vitriol meant Oil of Vitriol, a particularly corrosive acid, especially in the concentrations it was likely to be straight from the distillation retort. From the few times his stepfather and stepbrothers had suffered acid splatters he knew they needed to dilute, and if possible wash the acid off as quickly as possible. He glanced around, hoping to locate one or other of the buckets he’d brought in during the course of the day, but there was none close. What he did see close by though, was the barrels of stale beer. Beer was mostly water, so surely that would be good enough. “The beer barrels,” he said, tugging at Wilhelm’s hand.
Wilhelm’s eyes lit up. “Yes, beer. That’ll neutralize the acid. Good thinking, Gribbleflotz.” Wilhelm dragged Bernhard towards the barrels. The moment he reached then he opened the tap on one of them and thrust Bernhard’s face under the flow of stale beer. “Herr Reihing’s going to need my help with Martin,” Wilhelm said as he grabbed Phillip’s hands and set them to holding Bernhard’s face under the flowing beer. “Make sure you flush the Oil of Vitriol from his eyes.”
Phillip swallowed at the idea of being responsible for the older apprentice, but Wilhelm was already hurrying towards the now still body of the apprentice who’d been at the center of the explosion. Phillip stayed with Bernhard, washing his eyes and face with stale beer until a woman arrived to take over the task.
That night
The dining hall was filled with quiet conversation that evening. The death of Martin Brenner was all most wanted to talk about. Those that had been there were being interrogated by those that had missed it. Many of them were embellishing their roles, and then there were those like Phillip, who’d been close enough to see what the acid vapor had done to Martin and would rather forget what they’d seen.
Phillip was doing his best to appear just another interested bystander, eager to hear about the heroics of others, when a shadow was cast over the table.
“You Phillip Gribbleflotz?” Bernhard Bimmel asked.
There was a collective inhaling of breath, which confused Phillip. He recognized the large youth as the person he’d helped in the laboratory. “Yes. How are you feeling?”
“Very lucky. I’m told I have you to thank that I didn’t lose my sight.”
Phillip shook his head. “All I did was what Herr Neuffer told me to do.”
“Herr Neuffer told me he thought to use water to wash off the Oil of Vitriol, and that it was your idea to use the stale beer. Herr Reihing says that the stale beer saved my sight. So thanks. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, just ask.”
Phillip muttered “You’re welcome.” and after a glance around the table, Bernhard walked back to his table.
There was a massive sigh of relief from the table as Bernhard walked away. “Do you know who that was?” Christoph demanded in a whisper.
“He’s one of the apprentices who got splattered by Oil of Vitriol.” The name Wilhelm had used popped into his head. “Herr Neuffer called him Bernhard.”
“That was Bernhard all right.” Christoph said. “I don’t think you need to worry about him bullying you.”
That was when Phillip recognized the name from the warnings his roommates had given him. He stared in the direction Bernhard had gone in silence.”
“How’d you save Bernhard’s sight? Have you been holding out on us?” Christoph asked.
Phillip looked at the interested faces looking his way and sighed. He had so hoped for his actions to go unnoticed. “I was in the laboratory when the alembic exploded. Herr Neuffer saw that that Bernhard was in trouble and dragged me along to help look after him. I continued to wash away the Oil of Vitriol with stale beer from the barrels in the laboratory while Herr Neuffer joined Herr Reihing to help him tend to Herr Brenner.’
“How did you know to wash away the Oil of Vitriol with stale beer?” Frederik asked. “Is that something you learned from your stepfather?”
Phillip was all ready to admit that he’d only proposed using the stale beer because he hadn’t known where to find water to wash away the Oil of Vitriol, but one of the other apprentices at the table asked if he’d been burnt and the opportunity to correct the misapprehension was lost. Phillip answered by showing a few red marks on the back of his hand. “Only a little bit when I was washing the Oil of Vitriol off Bernhard.”
“Does it hurt?” Another apprentice asked.
“Not now. I’ve smeared a special burn ointment over it,” Phillip said.
“Does it work on ordinary burns?” Christoph asked.
Phillip nodded. The apothecary who’d made it had used the same ointment on the burns a couple of the apprentices had suffered when they dropped or grabbed hot items in the shock of the exploding alembic.
“Can you get me some?” Frederik asked. “I’m always getting small burns from coming into contact with hot alembics.”
Again Phillip nodded. He’d watched the apothecary very closely as he’d prepared the ointment and was sure he had or could get all the ingredients to make it. “I can make it.”
“What else do you know how to prepare?” Christoph asked.
Phillip hesitated. After a moment he described some of the things he’d helped his stepfather make. The man would have been horrified if he’d realized Phillip had kept accurate records of everything he’d helped him make in the last few years of his life. Some of the concoctions he’d prepared were extremely dangerous in the wrong hands, and hands didn’t come much wronger than those of a teenage boy. It was fortunate that although Phillip had the recipes and knew how to make them, he didn’t know what some of the more dangerous concoctions were supposed to treat.
Over the next month Phillip started to fit in. Compared to his experiences in his stepfather’s household, life was good, but there was still a blight on his life — his clothes. An apprentice was usually given two “new” sets of clothes a year, and it was going to be another five months before Phillip saw the first of them. That meant he had to continue wearing the clothes he’d brought with him. There wasn’t really much wrong with them, if one ignored the washed out colors and poor fit. They were warm and well patched. One might even say “overly well patched”, with one pair of pants being more patches than pants. But that was what one had to live with when your clothes were hand-me-downs.
Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to have better clothes.
Things came to a head that morning as Phillip dressed. He was pushing an arm down a sleeve when suddenly his fingers went through the fabric at the elbow. He examined it to see if he could sew the edges together, but the fabric was too worn. He was going to have to sew on a patch. Reluctantly he pulled on another shirt and went in search of the housekeeper.
He ran the housekeeper to ground in her workroom. “Frau Kilian, do you have any scrapes of fabric I can use to patch my shirt?” he asked, showing the elbow he needed to patch.
Veronika Kilian lowered what she was working on and held out her hand for the shirt. After fingering it for a few seconds she nodded. “The girl is busy at the moment, but she should be able to have it done by Friday.”
“Oh, no, Frau Killian,” Phillip protested. “I can repair it myself, but I need some fabric to use as a patch.”
“You can sew?” Veronika asked.
Phillip nodded and gestured to some of the repairs on his shirt.
“Hmmm. Someone has obviously tried to teach you how to sew.”
“My mother,” Phillip said proudly.
Veronika’s brow lifted for a moment in response to that statement. “If you’re willing to do your own sewing, I can ask Sofia to supply you. Come along, and we’ll make the arrangements now.”
The next day
Phillip was sitting on his bed sewing when Christoph and Frederik entered the bedroom. “What’re you doing?” Christoph asked.
Philip was prepared for the question. There was no way he was going to admit to having to repair his clothes, so he lied. “Adding some color and style to my wardrobe.” He held a shirt up to show them how he’d revamped its look by sewing matching scarlet patches over the elbows of the washed out blue shirt.
Frederik pointed at a large strip of fabric in a vivid green. “What are you going to do with that piece?”
“I thought I’d use it to line the collar,” Phillip said, making sure his grip on his shirt hid the worn areas the green strip was going to cover.
“Where did you get the material?” Christoph asked.
“From Frau Kilian. She’s letting me have some scraps.” Phillip didn’t mention that he was paying for the scraps by helping with the sewing.
“Can you sew patches like those on the elbows of my shirt?” Frederik asked.
Phillip didn’t immediately answer. He didn’t want to say no, but there was the small matter of getting the necessary cloth from Frau Kilian.
“I can pay,” Frederik said, fumbling for his purse.
That changed things. “If you’d like to tell me what colors and type of cloth you’d like the patches made out of, I’ll see if I can get some suitable material.”
“Thanks, Phillip.”
A couple of days later Phillip stole a few minutes during the noon break to see if he could find some suitable material for Frederik’s patches. Being a logical youth, he’d asked Frau Kilian for advice and she’d given him the direction of a local rag collector, where he struck gold.
The rag collector usually sold his linens and cottons to the paper makers, but papermakers preferred white or near white rags, and didn’t pay much for dyed cloth, whereas Phillip was looking for strong colors. The deal was mutually satisfactory. Phillip got good pieces of material in a variety of colors, and the rag collector got a little more than he would have got from the paper makers.
The next Sunday Frederik made an entrance to the dining room in his newly revamped shirt. All credit for the work was directed to Phillip, who immediately received half a dozen new requests to revamp clothes. It was to become a regular little earner for Phillip. He was never going to get rich dressing up shirts and pants for his fellow apprentices, but the few pfennigs they could afford to pay him allowed him to feed his growing addiction to color.
April 1607
Phillip had been an apprentice for nearly a year, and his mother hadn’t written to him once. He had hoped that she would at least remember his birthday, but that had been and gone without a word. He kicked out at a stone on the road and idly watched it careen down the road as he continued to plod along beside the Fuggerei’s new apothecary.
The Fuggerei was a social housing complex founded by and supported by the Fugger family for the needy citizens of Augsburg and Herr Reihing had ordered him to assist Thomas Schmidt while he collected various materials — herbs, fungi, and bits of plants, including a lot of willow branches — to be used in the preparation of remedies for the residents of the Fuggerei. It had turned out much more interesting than he’d expected, because Herr Schmidt was a bit of a natural teacher. Either that or he liked the sound of his own voice so much he was happy to talk about anything. Whatever, deliberately or otherwise, Phillip had learned a lot about the various plants they’d collected and what they were used for. And maybe, if he was lucky, Phillip hoped he’d be asked to help prepare the various treatments Herr Schmidt intended to make.
“I hear that your stepfather was an apothecary in Bad Überkingen,” Thomas said as they walked back to the assay office facility. “With that and your own interest in materia medica I’m surprised you didn’t apprentice to an apothecary.”
Phillip turned to look at Thomas. “My great grandfather was Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus, and I want to be the world’s greatest alchemist, just like he was.”
“Paracelsus?” Thomas asked.
Phillip nodded.
“Are you sure he’s your great grandfather?” Thomas asked.
Phillip realized Herr Schmidt had obviously heard that Paracelsus never married and supposedly never had any children. “Mama says that her father, my maternal grandfather, is the illegitimate son of Paracelsus, and that the family passed him off as the son of Paracelsus’ cousin in order to secure an inheritance.”
“That’s an interesting story,” Thomas said.
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. My mama wouldn’t lie,” Phillip protested.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure your mother wouldn’t lie to you,” Thomas said. “So you want to be like Paracelsus? Are you planning on going to university?”
“One day,” Phillip muttered. “But I need to improve my Latin first. My stepfather insisted that I help him in his shop rather than go to a specialist Latin school.”
“Well, if you like, I can have a word with Master Paler. Maybe he can arrange for you to take lessons.”
Phillip’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you, Herr Schmidt.”
That evening
Thomas Schmidt placed his glass carefully on the little table beside the chair before collapsing into the chair opposite the assay office’s senior chemist. Once there he picked up his glass of wine and sipped it. “That Phillip Gribbleflotz is an interesting character. Did you know he wants to learn Latin so he can go to university one day?”
Paul Paler looked over his wineglass. “Why would he want to go to university?”
Thomas sniggered. “He wants to follow in his great grandfather’s footsteps.”
“What’s so funny about that? Lots of boys Gribbleflotz’ age want to follow in the footsteps of a famous ancestor. Who’s he hoping to emulate?”
“Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.”
Paul was caught with a mouthful of wine, which he managed to spray everywhere as he tried vainly to smother a laugh. While he mopped up the wine he looked at Thomas. “Paracelsus never married.”
Thomas nodded. “But that doesn’t mean he never had any children.”
“I don’t remember ever reading about any bastard children.”
Again Thomas nodded. “But just because you didn’t hear about them doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.”
“Come off it, Thomas. Paracelsus himself was the bastard son of a bastard son. It’s not likely the Bombastus family would let a little thing like illegitimacy stop them laying claim to Paracelsus’ son.”
“Unless they had a better reason to keep it quiet.”
“What possible reason could the Bombastus family have for keeping yet another bastard a secret?”
“What if they wanted to pass off the child as the son of Paracelsus’ childless cousin in order to secure an inheritance?”
Paul whistled. From everything he’d ever heard about the family he could see them doing that. “Is that what young Gribbleflotz claims happened?”
“That’s the gist of the story his mother told him, and just in case there is an element of truth to it, we should keep it between ourselves. His grandfather is still alive, and you know what families are like when it comes to inheritances.”
Paul nodded his agreement, but such a story just begged to be told to one’s trusted confidants — on the strict understanding that it wasn’t to be passed on. In less than a week everyone at the assay office knew that Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz believed himself to be the great grandson of Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, also known as Paracelsus, one of the renaissance’s greatest scientists.
A lot of people hearing the story didn’t believe it, and a few of the apprentices expressed the intention of confronting Phillip over the issue. However, they were actively discouraged from doing this when Bernhard Bimmel stood up. He didn’t say he believed Phillip’s story, but he made it clear in his own inimitable way that he supported Phillip’s right to believe that he was the great grandson of Paracelsus.
June 1608
At least one of the apprentices in the little classroom listened attentively as the teacher went over the lesson. Phillip had been attending Latin classes ever since that plant gathering expedition with Thomas Schmidt and he was sure he was making progress. The teacher left the homework on the blackboard for the students to copy down in their books and then they were free to report to their supervising journeymen.
Phillip was intercepted by Wilhelm Neuffer the moment he appeared outside Jakob Reihing’s laboratory. “Ah, good. You’re here. How’s the Latin going?” Wilhelm asked as he walked with Phillip to the local equivalent of a cloakroom.
“Very well, Herr Neuffer.”
“Good. Well, put your books away and grab your apron. We’ll be doing something new today.”
“What?” Phillip asked eagerly as he hastily donned his heavy leather protective apron.
“Today we start you making Oil of Vitriol.”
Phillip didn’t miss a step even as the words generated an image of Martin Brenner being enveloped in a cloud of acidic vapor in his mind. “I used to help my stepfather make Oil of Vitriol.”
“And do you think that means you’re qualified to make Oil of Vitriol?” Wilhelm asked.
Phillip shook his head. “No, Herr Neuffer.”
“Good. There are only two ways to make anything here — the way I teach you to do it and the wrong way. Remember, that. Now, are you ready to start?”
“Yes, Herr Neuffer.”
Wilhelm took Phillip through the whole process, from heating the ground green vitriol, or copperas as it was also called, until it lost its green and blue color, to the roasting in a glass retort and collecting the vapors — although as the laboratory was still experiencing a period of safety consciousness after the accident that killed Martin Brenner Phillip’s role was mostly limited to watching and keeping the fire stoked so that it burned as hot as possible.
The resulting condensate had a slightly yellow color. Of course, the roasting of the green vitriol took a long time, so it was sometime the next day before he got to watch Wilhelm test the strength of the acid they’d produced. The way the hole appeared in the rag where he’d dripped a little Oil of Vitriol was suitably impressive. It was as if he’d held a flame to the rag, although it didn’t catch alight. It was certainly a timely reminder to always wear his heavy leather apron to protect not only his clothes, but also his skin.
Over the next few months Phillip learned to make Oil of Vitriol, aqua fortis, aqua regia, acidum salis, and even high strength aqua vitae — which were not intended for human consumption, not even if diluted with fruit juice.
December 1608
“Come on, Gribbleflotz. Everyone knows you’re virtually left to run the distilling furnace on your own,” Bernhard Bimmel said.
Phillip had been quietly sitting on his bed sewing lime green cuffs to a shirt when the deputation of senior apprentices appeared with their simple request.
“But making illicit aqua vitae — what if I’m caught,” Phillip protested. There had been cases of apprentices being caught running illicit stills, and he didn’t want to risk their punishment. He said so.
“But that’s what’s so good about you doing it using the laboratory furnace. Who’s going to notice if you were to run a few extra alembic?” Heinrich Weidemann asked.
That was getting too close to home for Phillip. He had to share a room with Heinrich, and he could so easily make his life hell. But still Phillip resisted.
“We’ll make it worth your while,” Bartholomäus Kellner added.
Bartholomäus’ involvement almost rolled up Phillip’s resistance there and then. He was the assay office’s best hope of victory over the Goldsmith’s guild in the next Schützenfest. They were unlikely to punish him for possession of illicit alcohol, and if they didn’t punish Bartholomäus, then it was highly unlikely that they would punish his co-offenders.
“You’re the best there is, Phillip,” Christoph said. “Just look at how long they’ve left you on making acids. Nobody else has been stuck with that job as long as you have.” Frederik and Heinrich chimed in with their agreement.
“That just means I’m a slower learner than everyone else,” Phillip protested.
“Right,” Frederik said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’re such a slow learner that Herr Reihing and Herr Neuffer are happy to leave you running the distilling apparatus without supervision.” He stared intently at Phillip. “When I had my turn on the stills, I had both of them constantly breathing down my neck.”
“They only did that because they don’t want a repeat of what happened with Martin,” Christoph said. There were murmurs of agreement from the other apprentices.
“Herr Neuffer regularly checks up on me,” Phillip said.
Christoph nodded. “Sure he does. But I bet it’s only to check that you’re drinking enough. I’ve been watching him, and he barely gives the retorts and receivers more than a cursory glance when you’re running them.” He looked imploringly at Phillip. “They trust you, Phillip. They trust you to work on your own like they trust nobody else. You’re perfect for the job.”
Phillip searched the hopeful faces gathered around him. He didn’t know why they wanted the aqua vitae for their Twelfth Night party — well, actually he did know, but he didn’t understand why they wanted it triple distilled. That was much too strong to drink.
They were so earnest, and they were saying such flattering things about his capabilities. It would be nice to prove them correct, but Phillip wasn’t prepared to burn all of his bridges. “How about I try to sneak in an extra retort tomorrow and see how that goes? If that doesn’t raise any suspicions, then I’ll make as much as I can for your party.”
That offer was gratefully accepted, and most of the apprentices left, leaving Phillip with just his roommates.
“It’s going to be a great party,” Frederik said.
“I haven’t made any aqua vitae yet,” Phillip pointed out.
“But you will. We’re counting on you.”
And that, as far as Phillip was concerned, was the problem. Now he had to make the illicit aqua vitae, without getting caught.
Friday January 9, 1609
Ulrich Hechstetter, the head of the Augsburg assay office, sipped from the glass of strong liquor and sighed. “It’s a very good tipple, with not a hint of where they got the aqua vitae.” He looked across the senior staff lounge towards Master Paul Paler and his senior journeyman Jakob Reihing. “That means they must have triple distilled it. Do you have any idea where they hid the still?”
Paul shook his head. “We looked in all the usual places, but they hid it well this year.”
Ulrich though back to his days as an apprentice. “And none of the senior staff realized they had a still running? Surely they had to have someone attending to it constantly?”
“You’d think so,” Paul agreed. “But none of the journeymen reported unusual absences.” He snorted. “They made it look like they weren’t going to try and produce some strong alcohol for their Twelfth Night party this year.”
“Which should have started the alarm bells ringing.” Ulrich followed another sip with another sign of contentment. “Well, we’ll know better next year.”
Jacob chuckled and took a sip from his own glass. “It was nice of the apprentices to give the senior staff a couple of bottles.”
“It was cursed impertinent,” Ulrich muttered before taking another sip. “They were rubbing our noses in the fact that they were able to make more than enough for their party without us catching them.”
April 1609
Paul Paler was deep in thought as he read a report when there was a perfunctory knock on his door and the head of the assay office walked in. “Herr Hechstetter,” He said as he dropped the report and shot to his feet.
“Sit down, Paul,” Ulrich said as he pulled over a chair and sat down. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”
Paul fell back into his seat. “Yes, Herr Hechstetter?”
“Bartholomäus Kellner has complained about inconsistencies between different barrels of gunpowder. I want you to do something about it.”
“Powder? Barrels?” Paul stared at Ulrich in confusion for a few seconds before a light dawned. “Oh, you’re talking about gunpowder for the Schützenfest.”
“Of course I’m talking about the Schützenfest. And this year we are not going to be beaten by the Goldsmith’s guild.”
Paul winced. The annual festival was supposed to be a demonstration of the readiness of the guilds to do their part to defend the city, but with no war threatening the city, the competitions had become a matter of bragging rights. Unfortunately, in the Augsburg inter-guild shooting competition, the Goldsmith’s guild had placed higher than the assay office for each of the last ten years. To say it was getting embarrassing didn’t really convey the weight of feeling in the assay office. “I’ll see about checking the powder and get back to you.”
“I want a bit more from you than just confirmation that there is a problem, Paul. I want a solution.” Ulrich stared at Paul for a few seconds before leaving.
Paul looked at the papers he’d laid on his desk and sighed. They were important, but not as important as keeping his boss happy. He got to his feet and went in search of his senior journeyman.
Paul glanced around the laboratory, taking in the various apprentices hard at work. His gaze settled for a few seconds on the only apprentice who didn’t turned to see who’d come in before continuing the search for the senior journeyman who ran the laboratory. He located Jakob Reihing off in one corner and gestured for him to join him. It took only a few minutes to explain to Jakob what Ulrich Hechstetter wanted.
“Phillip Gribbleflotz can do the testing,” Jakob said. “It’s well within his capabilities, and you only have to show him how to do something once.”
“Gribbleflotz? Isn’t that the boy who claims to be the great grandson of Paracelsus?”
Jakob nodded. “That’s him over there.” He gestured towards the youth Paul had noticed earlier. He was still diligently checking some distillation vessels.
“Is he deaf or something?” Paul asked. “He’s the only apprentice that didn’t look around when I walked in.”
“Or something,” Jakob said. “He’s not easily distracted from whatever it is he’s working on.”
“And what’s he working on?”
“Right now, he’s making aqua fortis.”
The mention of the strong acid reminded Paul of a message he’d been asked to pass on. “That reminds me. The assayers asked me to thank you for the high quality of the acids you’ve been producing lately. They really appreciate how consistently pure they’ve been over the last few months.”
“That’s mostly because of Phillip. He’s got a knack for producing very pure acids and such.”
“A knack?” Paul asked.
Jacob shrugged. “He’s certainly very capable for his age and training. Maybe he really is the great grandson of Paracelsus.”
Paul responded to that suggestion with a derisive snort. “Just do whatever you have to do to attract his attention so we can tell him what he’s going to be doing for the rest of the day.”
Phillip was deeply involved in controlling the distillation of the aqua fortis from the mixture of green vitriol and saltpetre when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He kept his eyes on what he was doing. “Yes?”
“I need to talk to you, Phillip,”
Phillip recognized his supervisor’s voice. He also recognized from the tone that he should stop what he was doing immediately. Reluctantly he raked away the coals heating the vessel and turned to face Jakob. The man beside him came as a shock. “Master Paler.”
“Phillip, Jakob here says that you are just the person to run some tests for me.”
Phillip didn’t know how to reply, so he turned to his supervisor in mute appeal.
“Master Paler wants you to check the various barrels of gunpowder used by the shooting team for consistency.”
That sounded interesting, but there was one major difficulty. “I don’t know how to do that, Herr Reihing.”
“That’s all right. I’ll show you what has to be done, and then leave you to get on with it.”
Although he was proud that Herr Reihing thought he could perform this new task, he knew it wouldn’t make him any friends with the other apprentices. He could already feel their eyes boring into his back. “When do I start?”
“Report to me as soon as you’ve finished your current distillations,” Jakob said.
That evening the other apprentices crowed around Phillip when he returned to the dormitory.
“What were you doing with Herr Reihing today?” Heinrich asked.
“He wanted me to help him test some gunpowder for consistency.”
“And why would Herr Reihing want you to help him do that, instead of someone with more training?”
“Such as yourself, Heinrich?” Christoph suggested.
“Yes, me. After all, I’ve only got another year to go in my apprenticeship.” Heinrich turned his attention back to Phillip. “So, why did he drag you away from the production of acids, Gribbleflotz?”
“You’re only complaining because they moved you to the furnace while Phillip was away,” Christoph said.
Heinrich sent Christoph a quelling glare before turning back to Phillip.
Phillip shrugged. He had no idea why he’d been singled out. But that wasn’t going to appease his current audience. However, Herr Reihing had told him why the powder was being tested. “He said Herr Kellner thought the quality of the power the shooting team was using wasn’t consistent between the barrels.”
“So you had to check to the quality of the powder,” Christoph said. “Go on; tell us how you did that.”
Christoph’s plea was seconded by the rest of the apprentices; even Heinrich indicated he was interested.
“Well, firstly we did a simple visual test,” Phillip explained. “Herr Reihing said that over time gunpowder could separate into its component parts. So we looked for signs of that. Then we did a flash test.”
“What’s that?” Heinrich asked.
“You fill a small copper thimble with gunpowder and invert it onto a piece of clean parchment. Then you use a red-hot iron probe to ignite it. You can determine the quality of the powder by the marks it leaves on the parchment.”
“I bet you can’t do that,” Heinrich muttered.
“Leave off, Heinrich,” Frederik said. “Even if you aren’t interested, I am.” He turned to Phillip. “Why do you use a copper thimble?”
“It doesn’t have to be a copper thimble. That’s just what Herr Reihing used. Any small container will do. The idea is to use exactly the same amount of gunpowder every time so you can compare the results,” Philip explained.
“And I suppose you invert the thimble over the parchment rather than just pour it out so the shape of the mound of gunpowder is the same in each experiment?” Frederik asked.
Phillip nodded. He wasn’t surprised at the sudden drop off in hostility. Gunpowder was something dear to all their hearts. Most, if not all of them, had tried to make some with varying degrees of success at some stage, and Phillip was no exception. There was something about gunpowder that appealed to teenage boys.
“And that’s what you’ve been doing all afternoon, igniting gunpowder?” Christoph asked.
“No, but the other tests aren’t so much fun.” Phillip wasn’t being entirely honest, because he’d actually enjoyed doing the other tests, but he knew his audience would consider them boring.
“Let us decide if it’s fun or not,” Heinrich said.
“Well, what I had to do was take a sample from each barrel of gunpowder, wash them in warm water, and then I had to filter each solution and weigh the residues. The difference between the weight of the initial samples and the residue is the amount of saltpetre in the original sample.
“I’ve had to do something like that before,” Heinrich muttered, “and it’s so finicky to do that you’re welcome to it.”
Jakob passed on Phillip’s results to Paul Paler, who in turn passed them on to Ulrich Hechstetter.
“Here are the results from the gunpowder tests,” Paul said as he handed over Phillip’s report. “The gunpowder in the store can be divided into two groups with different levels of saltpetre. I’ve marked the barrels as being either batch one or batch two.”
“So that’s the end of it. Thanks, Paul. I’ll pass the news onto Bartholomäus Kellner.”
“There is something else,” Paul said hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“It’s just a suggestion,” Paul muttered.
“Yes?” Ulrich prompted.
“Jakob seems to think that there were a lot of impurities in the gunpowder, and that we could make better gunpowder than we’re getting from Master Böcklin by using purer ingredients,” Paul said.
Ulrich shook his head. “Master Böcklin would never stand for us making gunpowder.”
“That’s what I told Jakob,” Paul said. “But he pointed out that Phillip Gribbleflotz has a proven ability to make really pure acids, and that it wouldn’t hurt to let him try and do the same with saltpetre and sulphur. If he can deliver purer saltpetre and sulphur, then you could ask Master Böcklin to use it to make a special batch of gunpowder for the shooting team.”
Ulrich had heard about the high quality of the distillates young Gribbleflotz was making, and the idea that he might be able to work his special magic over the ingredients for gunpowder had a certain appeal. “That could give us the edge we need to beat the Goldsmith’s this year. I’ll have a word with Georg and see if he’s amenable.”
A couple of days later Ulrich dropped in on Paul with the news. “Master Böcklin is happy to make a special order for us, especially if we provide him with the raw materials. So I want you to get Gribbleflotz started refining the saltpetre and sulphur as soon as possible.”
Paul passed on the instruction to Jakob Reihing, who took charge of teaching Phillip how to refine saltpetre and sulphur. The first step was to provide him with a copy of Lazurus Ercker’s 1580 Treatise on Ores and Assaying to read. It was in Latin, and Phillip spent the next week fighting his way through the long section on saltpetre. In addition to learning the theory of making saltpetre, it did wonders for his Latin skills.
With the theory in place Jakob took Phillip through the various stages of preparing saltpetre, from the collection of the earths, through the treatment with lye and washing in warm water, and ending with the boiling away of the resulting filtered saltpetre solution to give the desired white powder. In comparison, the production of very pure sulphur was easy.
Once he was sufficiently sure that Phillip knew what he was supposed to be doing, Jakob left him to it. As he poured his first samples of wash water through the cloth filter into the evaporating pan Phillip couldn’t help but think about the opportunity to make more triple distilled aqua vitae that was going to waste. The high proof alcohol was a valuable trade commodity amongst the apprentices, but Herr Reihing was paying too much attention to his progress for him to risk running any retorts on the furnace.
July 1609, the day of the Schützenfest
Phillip shaded his eyes as he tried to look through the window of the local book store. There were a couple of interesting looking titles on display. Unfortunately, there was no way he could afford them as a mere apprentice.
“Stop drooling, Phillip,” Christoph Baer said.
“Yes,” Frederik Bechler said in agreement. “The Fuggers are good employers, but even they don’t give their apprentices enough to buy books.”
Phillip gave the practical alchemy books a last regretful look before pushing himself away for the window. “I can dream,” he said.
“Sure. How much money do you have?” Frederik asked.
“Nearly two gulden.”
“And how much were the books you were drooling over?”
Phillip sighed. “Four gulden.”
“You could always try betting on the shooting contests,” Christoph suggested. “Last year our team was four to one to finish ahead of the Goldsmith’s. That would’ve given you enough to buy two of those books.”
“They finished behind the Goldsmith’s guild last year,” Phillip pointed out.
“Right, but this year things are going to be different,” Frederik said.
Phillip shook his head. “The new gunpowder isn’t enough to guarantee our team will beat the goldsmith’s guild.”
“But if they do, think of the payout. Come on, I want to see what odds the bookmakers are offering.”
Christoph was willing, so Phillip made it unanimous. After all, they were just going to check the odds. He didn’t have to lay a wager.
Phillip studied the bookmaker’s odds board and was happy to see that he wasn’t going to be asked to risk his hard earned money. Beside him, his companions weren’t quite so happy.
“Five to four? What kind of odds are those?” Frederik complained. “Last year you were offering four to one for the assay office to beat the Goldsmith’s guild.”
The bookmaker gave the Frederik an enigmatic smile. “That was last year.”
Frederik continued grumbling as he handed over some coins and received a betting slip in return. Christoph followed suit, then both of them turned to look enquiringly at Phillip.
He shook his head. “It’s not worth it. Even if I bet all my money I wouldn’t win enough to buy one of those books.”
Lucas Ehinger, ever the professional bookmaker, smiled at Phillip. “Perhaps I could interest you in a wager on the Schützenkönig? The odds are very attractive.”
Phillip shook his head. “No thanks.” The competition for the Schützenkönig required that shooters take turns shooting at a bird on a pole. There were prizes for the shooter who shot off a wing, a leg, and the head, but the big prize — being crowned Schützenkönig — went to whoever shot the last piece of the bird off the wooden pole on which it was mounted. That might sound like a test of accuracy, but no single shot was going to sever a limb or head, and it could take more than forty hits to reduce the bird to the point there was none of it left on the pole. As each competitor was allowed only one shot per turn at the shooting line, the shot that finally destroyed the bird, and it was a real bird, not a wooden or stuffed dummy, could come at any time. It was, as far as Phillip was concerned, more a matter of luck than ability, and the almost flat thirty to one odds the bookmaker was offering on the thirty approved competitors suggested he agreed.
“If you’re not going to bet we might as well see if we can get a good spot to watch the shooting,” Frederik said.
Christoph agreed and they set off. They hadn’t gone far before Frederik started muttering about the snake in the grass who’d shortened the odds so much by betting heavily on the assay team to beat the Goldsmith’s. Christoph joined in, making suggestions of who he thought might have been responsible. Phillip’s contributions were half-hearted. Phillip wasn’t particularly angry at the people who had shortened the odds. In fact, he was somewhat fond of them. However, he was glad neither Christoph nor Frederik had thought to wonder how a third year apprentice, who wasn’t paid a wage, happened to have nearly two gulden. Phillip might not like to risk his money by gambling, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared to sell information to people who did.
The crowds had returned to the range ahead of them, and Phillip and his friends were forced to stand near the back of the crowd as the three-man teams competing in the inter-guild competition marched with all due pomp and ceremony onto the range. There was a delay while the team captains introduced their teams to the referees, and then the referees broke up into two groups. A group of three walked the hundred yards down range to where the target stood while the rest of them took their places at the shooting line.
Phillip could barely make out the circle of painted wood in the distance. Beside it was the referees’ hut, where the three scorers would shelter when a competitor was firing. He knew from the practice shots he’d been permitted to take with one of the hand crafted wheel-lock target rifles the assay office owned that the competitors would be aiming at something little bigger than a pinhead above the foresight of their rifles. How anybody could hit such a small target he couldn’t understand. Certainly he’d missed it with all ten shots Bartholomäus had allowed him.
Over the course of the competition each shooter would take five shots from a standing position. If he hit the target a referee would wave a flag across the target. Another would plug the hole the bullet made with a wooden peg and write an identifying number beside the peg. The third referee kept a record of who was shooting and where their shots went.
At the shooting line, when a shooter scored a hit a referee would present him with a small flag. The successful shooter would then walk over to another referee, who would record the hit. The flags would then be placed somewhere prominent so the spectators could see who was winning. The maximum score a team could get was fifteen hits, but that almost never happened. Any ties would be decided based on which team had their hits closest to the bull’s eye.
“You were lucky,” Otto Hofbauer of the Goldsmith’s guild said as he begrudgingly shook Ulrich’s hand.
Ulrich’s smile was bright enough to blind a man as he accepted Otto’s acknowledgment of defeat. “Luck had nothing to do with it. It was our team’s superior shooting that beat your team.”
“And a special production run of gunpowder,” Otto muttered.
Ulrich allowed his smile to drop down to a mere grin. “Sour grapes, Otto. All we did was buy the best gunpowder Georg could make.”
“Gunpowder that Georg refused to sell to anyone else.”
“Of course he refused to sell to anyone else. He made it using super pure saltpetre and sulphur we supplied him with just for our order.”
“It gave you an unfair advantage.”
Ulrich’s smile blossomed again in the face of Otto’s disgruntled expression. “But I’m sure Georg offered to make you a special batch of powder if you could provide him with the ingredients.”
“He did,” Otto said.
“There you are then. You have only yourselves to blame for not taking Georg up on his offer.”
Otto gave Ulrich a sour look. “We did take him up on his offer. Unfortunately, the powder Georg made from our ingredients wasn’t as good as yours.”
“Oh dear, that means your ingredients can’t have been as pure as ours.” Ulrich put on his best fake sympathetic face. “That doesn’t say much for the quality of your training. The training we provide is so good we were able to leave the task of purifying the ingredients to a mere third year apprentice.”
Otto snarled a response before storming off, leaving Ulrich almost purring.
“That wasn’t very nice,” his wife told him.
“But it felt so good.” He glanced down at his wife. “We finally beat the Goldsmith’s guild, and not by just a few points. We beat them by the biggest margin there has even been between us.”
“And all because a third year apprentice thought he could make better gunpowder using pure ingredients,” Magdalena said.
Ulrich shook his head. “Georg has always known that the purer the ingredients the better the powder.”
“So why doesn’t he always use purer ingredients?”
“Because it’s not that easy to make purer ingredients, and the small improvement in performance doesn’t usually justify the extra costs.”
“Except when it means the assay office can beat the Goldsmith’s guild?”
Ulrich felt the heat rising and knew he was blushing. “Except when it means we can beat the Goldsmith’s guild,” he agreed.
Magdalena was about to say something more when Georg Böcklin and his wife intercepted them. While his wife distracted Magdalena, Georg pulled Ulrich to one side. “Someone has inquired about getting some of the special powder I made for you. Can you give me a price to supply me with the high purity saltpetre and sulphur?”
Ulrich was immediately suspicious. “Would that someone be Otto Hofbauer?” he asked.
“No, it was Wolfgang Manlich.”
“From the brewer’s guild? What does he need better powder for?” Ulrich asked. “He won two of his events.”
“He might be by and far the best shot in Augsburg, but the competition in the intercity competitions is fierce, and he wants every advantage he can get. And seeing how Bartholomäus Kellner, using the special powder I made for you, leapt up five places compared with his score last year in the open one hundred yard competition, he seems to think that powder might be just the edge he needs.”
Ulrich had absolutely no idea how much it had cost to produce the super pure saltpetre and sulphur, so he resorted to the old standby. “It’s going to be expensive,” he said.
“Of course it’s going to be expensive,” Georg agreed. “I’ve bought supposedly super pure ingredients before. But I’ve never used anything as good as the saltpetre and sulphur you provided me with. If the price isn’t too much more than I’ve paid previously, I’m interested in buying as much as you can get me.” He looked at Ulrich expectantly. “So, how much is it going to cost per pfundt?”
In the face of Georg’s determination Ulrich had no choice but to admit he didn’t know. “But I’m sure I can get you a price soon.”
“How soon?” Georg asked. “Herr Manlich wants to start practicing with the new powder before he leaves for the next Schützenfest.”
“I’ll see that you have a price by Wednesday.”
“Thank you.” Georg collected his wife and they walked off.
Ulrich was still watching Georg and his wife walk away when he felt a jab in the ribs. That was a signal from Magdalena that he’d been ignoring her. He hastened to remedy the situation before she jabbed him again. “Yes?”
“I asked you what Herr Böcklin wanted,” she said.
“He just wanted to know how much it would cost to buy a supply of our new super pure saltpetre and sulphur.”
“But the assay office doesn’t sell super pure saltpetre and sulphur,” Magdalena said.
“We do now.” Ulrich noticed Paul Paler and his wife were close by. He changed direction and headed towards them. “Paul,” he called out.
Paul reacted to his name being called out by turning towards Ulrich. “Yes, Herr Hechstetter?”
“I promised Georg Böcklin that I would give him a price for super pure saltpetre and sulphur by Wednesday. See to it.”
“Yes, Herr Hechstetter.”
Paul Paler muttered into his beard as he glared after his boss. It was just like Herr Hechstetter to offload a job like that onto him and expect an answer in a couple of days.
“What did you say?” Elisabeth Welser asked.
Paul smiled at his wife. “Nothing you want to hear. Herr Hechstetter wants me to calculate a price to supply Herr Böcklin with super pure saltpetre and sulphur by Wednesday.”
“You won’t have time to do that. We’re going round to mother’s tomorrow.”
That was a good enough reason to insist he had to do it himself, but using that excuse to avoid his mother-in-law probably wasn’t worth the domestic strife it was bound to cause. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure Jakob Reihing will be able to assemble the necessary figures before Wednesday.”
“Good!” There was a certain something in the way Elisabeth said the word that told Paul he’d made a wise decision. “And there’s Anna Maria and Jakob. Why not ask him now?”
Paul glanced in the direction Elisabeth was pointing and easily identified Jakob and his wife. They looked happy, and he really didn’t want to break the mood, as he knew the news he had to impart would surely do.
“Come on,” Elisabeth said as she tugged at his arm. “Anna Maria, Jakob,” she called. “Wait a moment.”
Paul saw Jakob and his wife had heard and had stopped so they could catch up. Reluctantly he let Anna Maria drag him towards them.
“How can we help you?” Jakob asked.
“Herr Hechstetter just promised Herr Böcklin that he would give him a price for super pure saltpetre and sulphur by Wednesday, and I need you to collect the necessary information so I can work out a price.”
“Oh, that’s easily done,” Jakob said.
“It is?” Paul was surprised at how happy Jakob appeared to be at having such a task dumped on him at such short notice.
Jakob nodded his head. “Phillip Gribbleflotz is a compulsive note taker. I’m sure he’ll have all the information you need to calculate a price in his notes. I should be able to get you all the information you need by lunch time tomorrow.”
The next day Paul presented himself in Ulrich’s office. “Herr Hechstetter, I have the pricing estimates for the super pure saltpetre and sulphur you requested.”
“Already? That was quick work.” Ulrich held out a hand for the piece of paper Paul was holding. “I hope they’re accurate.”
“The apprentice charged with purifying the saltpetre and sulphur kept very detailed notes on everything to do with the task. From his notes it was a simple task to calculate how much it cost to produce the saltpetre and sulphur, and therefore how much we would have to sell it for to make a profit.”
“That’ll be young Phillip Gribbleflotz again?”
Paul nodded. “I’ve already set him to making more saltpetre and sulphur.”
Ulrich glanced up for the estimate he was reading. “Good, good. We really must do something for the young man to demonstrate our appreciation for his good work.”
“Well, he’s an apprentice, and they’re always short of money,” Paul suggested.
A few days later
Phillip laid down his pen and flexed his hands. He’d used the money Master Paler had given him to buy writing paper, and he was now was slowly copying a collection of treatises on alchemy by his great grandfather that he’d found in the assay office’s library. This hand written copy would be the beginning of his own library
August 1609
The parcel arrived for Phillip in the post. Mail of any kind for the apprentices was rare, and parcels, especially anything the size of the parcel Phillip received, were doubly rare. So there was a lot of interest in the parcel and his fellow apprentices gathered around Phillip as he examined the parcel.
“Who’s it from, Phillip?” Frederik asked.
Phillip pointed to the return address written on the parcel. “It’s from my mother.” He stared at the address. Last time he’d heard from his mother she’d been in Stuttgart, living in the household of her father, his grandfather. But the parcel had been posted in Neuburg. It was possible that his grandfather, who was a surgeon in the service of the duke of Württemberg, had been sent to Neuburg, but according to the only other letter he’d received from his mother since he started his apprenticeship he’d been firmly settled in Stuttgart.
Phillip untied the string that was holding the parcel together and carefully opened the wrapping to expose a number of worn journals and a letter. He opened the letter and quickly read it before shoving it under his shirt. Then he turned his attention to the journals. He picked the top one up reverently and opened it.
“What’d she send you?” Frederik asked.
Phillip lowered the journal. “These are some of my great grandfather’s diaries. My grandfather left them to Mama, but she had to wait for probate to be granted before she could take possession of them and send them to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear your grandfather died,” Christoph said.
Phillip could only nod in acceptance of Christoph’s sympathy. He certainly couldn’t tell him that his grandfather had died a year ago and his mother hadn’t bothered to let him know until now.
“Those are really the diaries of Paracelsus?” Frederik asked.
Phillip held one of them open on the front page and pointed to the name written there.
“Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim,” Frederik read. “That must be a diary from before he adopted the name of Paracelsus.”
Phillip checked the dates in the half dozen diaries he’d received. “That one is from his time at the University of Ferrara and the others cover his subsequent travels.”
“And your mother had them? You really are the great grandson of Paracelsus,” Heinrich Weidemann said with a touch of awe intermixed with disbelief.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Christoph asked.
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