My poor Rafael had been beaten mercilessly and flogged for two days before Don Marco encountered him. The abbot himself would have most probably died there as well, had the Archbishop not succumbed to the plague, thus permitting one of the other priests to free him.

My tears stain the parchment as I record these last moments of Rafael’s life. He understood that death was hovering over him as he lay on the floor of that dungeon. Still, Don Marco assures me that Rafael died as he had lived, with such bravery and generosity of spirit. He used his final words to implore the abbot to relay the depth of his love for me, and he made Don Marco promise to protect me. Only after the abbot had sworn his word did Rafael close his eyes and inhale his final breath. How the thought of that moment breaks my heart anew.

The Archbishop’s misguided vengeance was not confined to my Rafael. He also ordered his soldiers to raze the Jewish quarter. I have heard from one of the other monks that there is nothing left of our village but ash. I only thank God that Rafael had succeeded in convincing my brother and sister to flee eastward with their families prior to the Archbishop’s fit of rage.

In the past three months, Don Marco has been true to his word. I have remained under the protection of the monks here at San Giovanni. I had considered going off in search of what remains of my family. However, two months ago, when the bleeding stopped and the morning sickness descended, I found a new purpose in my existence. For I now carry the child of Rafael Pasqua.

It is fulfillment enough of my life to know that the legacy of this great doctor, a man who showed such courage and kindness in the darkest of times, will live on not only through this written record but also through our son or daughter and, God willing, the many offspring that are to follow.

Chapter

Sixty-Five

Concrete forms still crisscross the pit. Mounds of dirt and rubble are piled higher than ever. But everything else is different. The ground no longer vibrates. The buzz and whir of heavy machinery has been silenced. And the diggers, trucks, and bulldozers are nowhere to be seen. Even the smell of diesel on the breeze has been replaced by an earthy petrichor after the recent rainfall. The construction workers are all gone, too. Only a few white-clad WHO technicians wander the site scouring for last vestiges of the plague and the rodents that carried it.

Alana stands between Justine and Byron at the top of the pit, watching the technicians work below them. “I kind of wish I had seen it,” she says.

“What?” Byron’s brow creases. “The old monastery?”

“Yeah. While it was still standing.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Justine grimaces. “That creepy old church was harboring the next Armageddon under its floors.”

“Maybe so,” Alana says, thinking of the translation of Pasqua’s diary that she just finished reading. “But also a ton of history.”