As I waited, an older monk in the black habit of the Benedictine order joined me. He greeted me with a cheerful talkativeness that stood in stark contrast to the cold silence of my escorts. He introduced himself as Don Marco, abbot of the San Giovanni Monastery. He told me he had come to pay his respects to the Archbishop and to ask for his blessing at the monastery, where many of the brothers had fallen ill. When he learned of my profession, his eyes lit like candles and his smile grew wider.

He took my hand in both of his. His palms, rough with calluses, felt more like those of a laborer than a cleric. Good doctor, do you not see how God works in the most magnificent and amusing ways? Don Marco said. Perhaps you would deign to visit our humble monastery in San Giovanni. You see, our local physician has chosen a most inopportune time to seek sabbatical.

I was ashamed to hear that another of my colleagues must have abandoned his duty and fled for his own safety. I felt obligated to accept the abbot’s invitation to visit his monastery, and I assured him I would do so before the Sabbath.

He shook my hand gleefully and told me that God loves nothing more than to surprise His supplicants with such unexpected blessings.

Soon after Don Marco departed, another priest, a tidy young man with an officious manner, entered the antechamber to inform me the Archbishop would see me.

I was relieved to discover that Archbishop Valente was not prostrate, as I had feared, but rather seated in a raised chair that resembled a throne in its ornateness. A fire raged in the fireplace at his back. Despite his slender build, thinning blond hair, and fair skin, which stood out against his crimson robe, the Archbishop appeared to be in fine health.

As I stood in front of him, he read from a parchment, tapping the page with a forefinger that bore the most striking jewel-encrusted silver ring I had ever seen. In time, he lowered the document to his lap and assessed me with his intelligent gray eyes.

Doctor Pasqua, my parishioners have told me of the fine work you are doing for the people of Genova in these trying times, the Archbishop said. On behalf of the Church, please accept my gratitude.

You are most welcome, Your Grace, I said. I am simply practicing my craft as best as I am able.

Indeed, the Archbishop said gravely. The Holy Father and we, his servants, are doing all we can to comfort the faithful and to seek their salvation. Until we achieve this inevitable grace, our flock will need the assistance of able earthly practitioners such as yourself.

I bowed my head, but I resisted the urge to add that in my observation the Church is doing little more than adding fuel to the bonfire of panic with apocalyptic sermons.

This scourge, the Archbishop said. You have witnessed it firsthand for several weeks now?