It was not until we reached the fourth bed that I recognized a condition I could actually address. This monk’s armpits were painfully swollen with massive buboes. He lay before us silently, but the dried tears on his cheeks evidenced his agony. I hurriedly pulled my surgical instruments from my satchel. I stood as far back from the bed as I could as I lanced his swellings. Even still, I had to back away from the eruption of pus that greeted my knife.

And so it went all morning and into the afternoon. Two more brothers, including the one with the blackened fingers, died. I cannot claim to have made much, if any, difference for the fate of those cursed monks. But as we returned to the cloister, the abbot praised me as if I were a returning hero of war. He insisted on serving me more wine and bread. And I have to admit, it was hunger more than politeness that compelled me to accept this time.

As I was finishing my wine, I heard scratching somewhere below me. Two black rats emerged from under the table and scurried toward the wall, their long tails disappearing through a hole between the bricks.

It took a moment before I realized why the commonplace sight seemed so striking. I had seen more rats over the past month than I had in my entire life, but none of them had been alive. After all, this sickness was indiscriminate in its choice of victims. Livestock and animals were equally susceptible as people. Dead dogs, cats, and goats rotted on the streets of Genova until the stench became so unbearable that someone was forced to clear the carcasses. But dead rats outnumbered every other dead animal by at least ten to one.

What is it? Don Marco asked me.

Those rats, I said. They appear to be in good health.

It is true, good doctor, Don Marco said. In the initial weeks of this pestilence, we would find dead rats littered all over. However, in the past week I have seen robust rats scurrying about the premises. We have even caught the miserable vermin trying to feed off the remains of our brothers, he said with a shudder.

You no longer see rat carcasses? Only healthy rats?

He considered this for a moment. Yes. I suppose so. And it can only mean one thing, good doctor.

What is that?

For whatever reason, God has blessed these rats.

My chest pounded as if I were climbing the hill to the monastery again. It indeed meant something. However, I did not believe it had much to do with divine providence.

Chapter

Twelve

Alana grips the armrest of Nico’s SUV, as the vehicle races around another corner. The Ospedale San Martino appears ahead. The media vans are her first tip-off to the mayhem awaiting them.

Nico abandons the car on the opposite side of the street and rushes for the entrance. They elbow their way through reporters and camera crews crowding the main door. A security guard at the door checks Nico’s ID, before letting them enter.