I stopped a man whose highborn status was apparent from his fine purple tunic. He introduced himself as one of the town councilmen.

Good sir, I said. What is the source of this terrible commotion?

Have you not heard? The councilman gawked at me as though I must be simple. He flung his arm in the direction of the frailly constructed row houses. Those dwellings are all plague-infested!

What part of Genova is not? I asked.

Maybe so, but it has been found that the sickness is spreading from those houses to the rest of our community.

Found by whom?

Why, the Archbishop himself!

There was a sinking at the pit of my stomach. I did not ask the gentleman why or how the Archbishop had determined that a single row of houses could account for a pestilence that was known to spread anywhere and everywhere. Instead, I asked what could cause the people inside such agitation.

Is it not obvious? The doors and windows, man!

When I looked closer, I could see that wooden slabs covered every opening. The doors and windows had all been boarded shut, the fates of the houses’ inhabitants sealed as tightly as the openings.

The council has confined them inside there to die? Whether or not they are even infected?

What choice do we have? the councilman said. This is the will of God.

Are you so foolish as to believe that mere wood and nails can somehow contain a pestilence that is immune to air, fire, or water?

I believe the word of God, sir.

You mean the Archbishop, do you not?

Here in Genova, he speaks for God.

With that pronouncement, the councilman marched off.

I hurried to purchase the few essential supplies I had come for. However, I did not return directly home. Instead, I followed the narrow path up to the palace of the Archbishop. Without escort or invitation, I rapped on the imposing doors. When there was no response, I banged harder.

The door creaked open. A soldier filled the threshold, his sword drawn. He stepped forward and swung it toward my head, close enough that I could feel the air across my cheek. I stumbled back.

What business have you here? the soldier shouted, twisting his blade back and forth at the level of my heart.

I need to address the Archbishop.

His Grace sees no man without an appointment! he barked in his rough street dialect. Who knows who carries the pestilence in their chest or on their shoes?

I carry no plague. I am Rafael Pasqua, the barber-surgeon. His Grace has summoned me before.

The large door slammed shut so hard it shook on its hinges. I stood there in the street like a fool, uncertain whether to stay or retreat. Moments later the door rumbled open again and the same soldier stepped out. He looked as unwelcoming as before, but his blade was now sheathed. Come! he barked.

I silently followed the soldier through the palace and into the Archbishop’s chamber. The fire was again raging, making the room uncomfortably warm. The Archbishop was perched on his elevated seat, and he again read from parchments.