Chapter 59

Barber Surgeon

At some point in his early adolescent years Pons and Rosa the witch woman parted company. Not with acrimony, nor with concern. She could not bind this wild child to her will and he would not suffer her rule.

Striking out into the world on his own he had only the possessions on his person which he had acquired over his lifetime - the clothing on his back, a hand axe, a couple of fine bone combs, a good sharp knife which he had stolen, and spring scissors (similar to shears used for fleecing sheep - save the blades were daintier). He honed the edges keenly and set up as a barber and began to solicit for customers outside of a barracks.

At first no one would trust a teen barber, but he persisted by offering discounts for multiple customers, and almost daring the soldiers into it. He was able to scratch together a living. Over time he made himself a fixture about the barracks and acted as a sort of servant.

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The men-at-arms came to look at him as a useful mascot. Shut up in winter quarters, or when whores and wine were unavailable or unaffordable; the next best thing was dice and course talk of campaigns fought, ambushes sprung, and sieges laid. Pons listened as he combed the lice out of hair.

“What is the best way to kill an enemy?” he would ask.

Each soldier had an opinion, they all loved to brag, and to show you how.

Pons learned as he shaved.

Watching Rosa had been useful to him. He could also lance a boil, pare away a callous, and remove a splinter as well as an arrow. He knew a bit about which plants and poultices to have handy, was not squeamish at all about stitching up a gash from a blade. He was handy, ruthless, swift, and precise at tooth extraction.

He was not a - sniff your bile and look at the color of your piss in a vial - sort of barber and he never said he was. As for the humors: yellow bile was what you puked, phlegm was what you coughed up and spit out, blood was blood, but black bile? No one could really explain black bile to him. Pons would have been laughable to a classical physic, but - after a battle, unless you had a proper army surgeon on hand… Pons was the fellow you wanted.