Silvio shakes his head gravely. “The plague, she has visited Genoa before. And she left a mark on San Giovanni then, too.”

“You mean the Black Death?” Alana asks.

Silvio nods vigorously. “In 1348. The plague nearly wiped out the monastery.”

Alana stiffens. “As in San Giovanni? Your same monastery?”

“Sì. Long before the bulldozers and cranes visited.” Silvio waves to the volumes squeezed into the bookshelf. “It is all documented there. In the history books and journals. Some of them are even written by eyewitnesses.”

Alana is still digesting the news after they part ways with Silvio. Outside, in the stairwell, she grabs Byron by the arm. “It’s a big coincidence, don’t you think?” she says.

“You mean that the plague was in Genoa before?”

“Not just Genoa, Byron, but at the San Giovanni Monastery.”

“The Black Death was everywhere back then, Alana.”

“Maybe so.”

“You’re not thinking . . .”

“There’s no living sample anywhere in the world of the strain of Yersinia that caused the Black Death. Not even in a Level Five lab. I checked.”

“But . . .”

“Scientists in England have reconstructed its ancient genome from bone marrow found in a burial site in Hereford. They’ve cracked its full genetic code, Byron.”

“And you want us to compare the DNA of our current outbreak to the strain that caused the Black Death? Like we just did for the bioweapons?”

The implications of what she is suggesting suddenly sink in, and she almost shudders. “I think we have to.”

He studies her for a moment as if he might argue, but then he nods. “I think so, too.”

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Today is the twentieth day of February. Eleven days have passed since I contracted this pestilence. My fever has broken, the wounds are healing, and I grow a stronger by the day. However, I have shrunk to the point that my skin puckers between my ribs, and the mere effort of rising from bed to table tires me.

One of the cruel oddities of this infliction is that those who survive often go on to perish from weakness and neglect, because other members of their family are either dead or too terrified to tend them. I have no doubt I would be among those victims were it not for the attention I have received from the family of Jacob ben Moses.

Gabriella comes every morning. She carries with her fresh water from the well and more than enough food for a day. I am so hungry that perhaps I would find any victuals to be delicious, but I have developed a taste for the Hebrew food that they call kosher. My mouth waters at the scent of it.

Gabriella has also become my eyes and ears to the world outside of my room. The news she brings is not what I would want to hear but is no less than what I expect. The affliction continues to sack our once-proud Genova in a way that no invading army ever has. Gabriella tells me that the market is barren and public order has decayed in the heart of the town, forcing her to alter her route to and from my home to avoid the danger. Ne’er-do-wells maraud freely, stealing from the homes of the dead and the dying. They imbibe and gamble wantonly out on the streets in a manner that the city council and the church never before would have tolerated. The few remaining gravediggers charge such a king’s ransom that only the wealthiest can afford Christian burials for their loved ones. More and more victims of this plague are dumped into the sea or, sadder still, left to rot where they fall.