I stopped at the stall of a baker to inspect his sparse offerings. I was vexed when he demanded two silver denari in exchange for two loaves of bread, particularly as they were so misshapen and burnt at the crust.

Before the affliction, two pennies would have bought me ten loaves, I said.

Before the affliction, you would have had ten bakers to choose from instead of only me, he replied without apology.

That does not make it right to hold the rest of us to ransom. It is not Christian of you.

Christian? he said with an angry laugh. Why would anyone adhere to Christian scruples when God has so clearly abandoned us to the devil?

So it is more important now than ever to show charity toward our fellow man.

He raised one of the loaves in his filthy hand. Before the affliction, he said, my wife would have shaped them, my oldest son would have baked them to perfection, and my youngest son would have brought them to market. Now there is only me. And I do none of their jobs as well. You worry about two precious denari? I would trade a wheelbarrow of gold florins to have any one of my family back.

I was ashamed for having bartered so hard with the grief-stricken man. I passed him the two coins and expressed my sorrow for his loss.

You had better get accustomed to rising prices, friend, he said. Mark my words. If any of us survive this pestilence, then surely the world order will change.

How so?

There will not be enough tradesmen or laborers left alive for the wellborn to continue to value our worth at nothing, as they have always done before.

As I made my way home, I considered the baker’s words. Perhaps he was correct. I have heard that six hundred perished in Genova in a single day alone in January. Before the plague’s descent, people would complain that the streets of the town were too crowded and the countryside overfarmed. I suspect we will not hear the same complaints muttered again for generations to come, if ever.

Upon my return, I was surprised to see a welcome guest waiting at my door. Don Marco greeted me with even more exuberance than usual. It is true, good doctor, the effusive abbot cried as he patted my shoulders. God has answered my prayers and here you are in fine health.

I would not describe my health as fine, but I am thankful for your prayers. They could only have helped.

I invited Don Marco inside. I served him wine and bread, which he hungrily devoured.

How do the brothers fare? I asked.

Sadly, three more brothers have passed. However, such tragedies are much less frequent than in the days before God blessed the San Giovanni Monastery with those invincible creatures.

I am pleased to hear it.

Don Marco lowered his cup and viewed me with unusual gravity. Doctor Pasqua, the Archbishop told me you drank the blood of our rats, he said. Could this really be so?