In 500... (or less)

Holding It

It was just a little tinge at first. He could hold it.

"As I was saying, dear child, it is from Copernicus that we understand that the planets in fact orbit our Sun," he said, squirming a little as the urge hit him again.

"But sir," the young lady protested. "Our teachers insist that Aristotle..."

"We shall change all of that, young lady," he interrupted. "The math and the observations do not support Aristotle. Our friend Copernicus hath lain the foundation, and my assistant and I shall set about proving it."

Yet more drink was poured at the table. He did not want to be rude, but drinking more would only make it worse. His assistant sensed his discomfort.

"Teacher," he whispered. "Perhaps you ought to excuse yourself. You seem agitated."

"Rubbish," the teacher answered. "It would be quite impertinent to leave the banquet early. I shall be fine."

But he could not deny nature. He wriggled uncomfortably, his leg began to bounce of its own accord. Perhaps his student was correct.

The conversation had swung to other topics. He could not find a sufficient pause in which to interject and announce an exit. Then there was the matter of exchanging pleasantries with the nobles he had not yet spoken to before he could leave.

The words kept coming, he no longer heard their meaning, all of his attention remained focused on his growing issue and how to solve the problem. Math he could handle, devising a solution to satisfactorily breach social etiquette was a far more challenging problem.

"I beg your forgiveness," he said, abruptly sliding his chair from the table. "It is getting late. I must take my leave of you."

Many glances of shock and surprise greeted him, along with stern looks of disappointment that they had not yet spoken with the imperial astronomer. He could not oblige them of conversation, at least not with dry breeches. He had to leave.

"Please stay." He recognized the voice. He hated Ursus. He could not leave a banquet of willing listeners to him. The nerve of the guy, stealing work and passing it off as his own.

"Perhaps I could tarry awhile longer," he replied, ignoring the pleas of his kidneys and bladder to make a hasty exit.

His whole body shuddered and yet he held his faculties, determined to find a more appropriate time to relieve himself.

The banquet seemed to last forever. It was late into the night before he was able to finally depart. He scrambled to the nearest toilet. It was too late.

Only a few painful drops came out.

"It is too late," he said. "The urge remains but the body will not let it loose."

He lingered for days, finally summoning his pupil to his side near the end.

"The planetary tables, my boy, you must finish them."

"Yes Master," the student replied.

"Kepler, my son, I have lived like a sage and died like a fool." 

On Oct. 24, 1601, the great astronomer Tycho Brahe passed into the ages, 11 days after refusing the leave a banquet to relieve himself.