The stout soldier would not cross the entryway, but he motioned to the man on the farthest of the mattresses near to the wall. Him! he commanded.

The wet rattles emanating from the chests of the men inside confirmed they had been afflicted by plague. I did not recognize the first person I passed, nor the second, although I could tell from his vacant countenance and still chest that he had already died. However, I had met the third man before. He was one of the two priests who had previously escorted me to see the Archbishop. He looked up at me with a face drenched in sweat and eyes large with fear, but he said nothing as I continued past.

When I reached the far mattress, I did not immediately recognize the old man lying at my feet. His complexion was gray and he shook like a leaf in a storm, despite the furs bundled about him. It was not until he opened his eyes that I realized I was gazing down upon the Archbishop’s esteemed physician, Doctor Volaro.

I did not call for you, Volaro said in a voice that trembled as violently as the rest of him.

When did you fall ill? I asked as I knelt beside him.

Send for a real physician, he commanded in a weak voice. I want none of the primitive ways of you barbers.

I am doubtful any doctor, physician or surgeon, will be of service to you, I said truthfully.

And yet you can?

No, sir, I said in the kindest voice I could summon. Your condition is too advanced for intervention.

Your opinion is not worthy of my consideration, Volaro said as he struggled to roll over and show his back to me.

The soldier beckoned me over to the doorway. He led me down the corridor to the Archbishop’s chamber. We had to wait at the door for several moments before being granted access. I stepped into a room that was as warm as a fever. The fire inside raged like a funeral pyre. The Archbishop sat as before on his raised chair and fidgeted with the ring on his finger as I approached. As I neared, he shook the same finger at me. You have attended Doctor Volaro and my priests? he asked.

I have, Your Grace, I said, bowing before him. They appear to all suffer from the chest plague. One of them has already died.

Yes, he said. Despite our best precautions, the plague has still invaded this house of God.

It appears to be inescapable, Your Grace.

And yet you have escaped it, Doctor Pasqua.

I did not escape it, Your Grace. However, I was fortunate to survive it.

By consuming the blood of rats. Is that not so?

I cannot say, Your Grace.

You will share with me the remedy that has offered you such protection! he shouted.

It was not so much the Archbishop’s sudden show of temper, but the demand itself, that made my neck hairs bristle. I thought of Don Marco’s offer to provide sanctuary for Gabriella and her family. The idea of the Archbishop’s men harvesting rats at the monastery troubled me. What if they were to happen upon the Jews?