I awoke this morning in nightclothes so drenched it was as though I had slept in a pond. Every inch of me ached as if I had been clubbed by the same mob that had beaten Jacob. The worst of all was the pain in my right groin. I recognized it for a bubo by the outline of the firm swelling alone.

In spite of the discomfort, the sweats, and a fatigue like none I had ever known, my initial response was not one of fear. On the contrary, I felt relief. My toil would come to an end and my loneliness would soon be dispatched. I would be reunited with Camilla. The thought brought me peace. And I allowed myself an indulgence I had not in years. I continued to lie in bed as daylight saturated my room.

After several minutes, the ache in my bones lessened or, perhaps, I was just dulled to it. However, it was the sense of obligation, not survival, that eventually forced me up from bed.

Even through the haze of fevers and sweats, I recognize I was being given an extraordinary opportunity to document the suffering of the plague firsthand through the senses of a learned practitioner. The same duty to posterity that compelled me to begin my diary weighs even heavier upon me now. However, strong as my conviction remains, determination alone might not be enough for me to see this endeavor through. A pronounced quiver has crept into my script. This pestilence saps my strength further by the minute. God alone knows how many entries I have left in me to compose.

After rising from bed, I forced myself to drink a few sips of water and swallow a few pieces of bread. I had to rest after such minimal effort. The bulge in my groin was even more incapacitating than the fatigue. Each step was agony. When I donned my trousers, the pressure of the wool against the swollen bubo was too much to bear.

I had only one option for addressing the bubo, to lance it myself, but I broke out in a sweat at the prospect. The logistics of the procedure also presented a unique challenge. In the end, I had to tie a mirror to the post above the bed in order that I could lie down and still observe my hands during surgery.

My fingers were trembling as I dug the sharpened blade into the center of the bubo. So intense was the pain that I had to bite down on a leather strap to endure the procedure without crying out. Thick yellowish discharge burst forth like a miniature fountain. The stench was more awful than even the sight of it. But the relief was deeply gratifying. It was as if a heavy boot had been lifted off my thigh.

As I lay there, pressing a rag to my groin to stop the bleeding, my thoughts turned again to the rats of the San Giovanni Monastery. Could it be true? Could those godless vermin really have become immune to this plague?