Your Grace, I said. It is my humble opinion that no remedy will be of assistance to the good doctor or the still-living priest confined with him.

It is far too late for them, he said with a dismissive wave. They are merely biding time until their imminent heavenly summons.

For whom do you need the remedy?

Me!

Are you unwell, Your Grace?

No, not yet. However, now that the pestilence has crept into my home, no one is safe. I wish to be prepared.

I was overcome with the urge to protect Gabriella’s only possible route of escape. Therefore, I did what I never would have imagined possible. I lied to the highest representative of God in all of Genova. Your Grace, I said. The blood of rats has no curative power whatsoever.

The Archbishop leaned forward and narrowed his gaze. You told me the contrary in this very room.

I did, Your Grace, I said. At the time, I believed it to be so. But, alas, every patient I have since treated with the humors of those rats has died an agonizing death.

Except for you, he said with an accusatory glare.

No. I was not spared by the rat humors. There is an alternate remedy.

And why have you not disclosed this to me sooner?

I was not convinced of its benefit until recently, I said, inventing the words as I spoke them. To be frank, you were most clear about your skepticism and your suspicion of sorcery. I feared that you might view this remedy as such.

What remedy?

I will tell you, Your Grace. However, it is an unseemly concoction, I am afraid.

These times do not allow for sensitive ears.

The paste is made from ground daffodils, crocus, and peonies, I said the names of the first flowers that came to mind. I mix in several spices along with the blood of a healthy sheep and the urine of a cow. And forgive me, Your Grace, but there is one more ingredient that is most indelicate.

Tell me!

To this mixture, I add the semen of a male goat. It is an essential element.

Disgusting. And yet, you are convinced of the effectiveness?

The medicine can work miracles, I said. The proof is standing here before you.

The Archbishop viewed me silently for so long that it felt as though he were peering directly into my dishonest soul. It took all my strength to hold his gaze. Finally, he said, You will prepare me this medicine.

It will be my honor, I said with another deep bow.

Go now!

Your Grace, may I impose a small request of my own?

I am God’s holy servant. You do not expect payment for this concoction?

Not at all, Your Grace. I merely wanted to ask your assistance in another matter regarding the family of my friend Jacob ben Moses.

A Jew, he said as if referring to an odious highwayman. What sort of assistance?

I described to the Archbishop, in vague terms, the assault upon the Jews by the flagellants. As I spoke, I sensed he was already aware of the happenings inside the Jewish quarter.