"Don’t give up hope. If anyone can restore the vision to your eyes, it is he”

Madrid, Spain, Late 1400s–1500s

King John II lay in bed, moaning in pain. His face was awash with sweat, and the servants grouped around his bedside were anxious. There were several layers of heavy bandages wrapped around his eyes.

“It hurts me so…” King John groaned. “Were I to have all the gold in the world, I would trade it all just to see again.”

“Today might very well be that day.” One of the advisers glanced out the large window beside the king’s bed. “When he arrives, your life might very well be changed forever. You might be able to gaze once more at a sunrise, at your palace, your family…. Don’t give up hope. If anyone can restore the vision to your eyes, it is he.”

“Your words are no exaggeration.” The king pulled at the bandages. “But the hour is later than I expected. I thought he was supposed to be here by now. Summon my fastest horsemen and have them sent to his home. Bring him immediately!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Not far from the palace, Aviasar Ibn Crescas, the most famed surgeon in all of Spain, was finishing his prayers. He hurriedly put away his tallis and tefillin in the concealed room inside his home. His movements were quick and quiet, with a sense of real urgency.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Aviasar’s breath vanished. He stared at the door, his heart hammering in fear.

“Who is it?”

“Father, it is I.”

Aviasar breathed a sigh of relief.