Dario did not seem nervous.
Brave men seldom are. Their stoic courage makes them think they are invincibile, able to fight off any threats. As for our daughter, Chiara, now two years old, she was healthy and active as any child of that age, a blossom ever open to the sun.
Beatrice,
Annunziata, and a small retinue of servants lived with us. I permitted no one to leave the palazzo for any reason. We existed on bread made from flour stored in our pantry, milk from our goats, whatever we could grow in our garden, and meat from the chickens or sheep we raised ourselves. I made sure everyone bathed regularly, rose and retired early, and remained in perfect health.
We en
tertained ourselves. Among his many other gifts, Dario had a beautiful voice. He sang with tender expression, and on many evenings, when I sat with Beatrice in the garden after putting little Chiara to bed, Dario would serenade us with luscious tones and beautiful songs. Beatrice would often join him, her delicate and clear voice chiming in as exquisite as a cascade of water from a fountain.
For many years
thereafter, I would recall the sight of them singing together; their voices and united melody mocking me. The pungent fragrance of orange-blossom still floats towards me on the air and a yellow moon burns round and full in the dense sky. I remember how they leaned their two heads together, one fair, the other dark – my husband and my best friend, two people whose lives were a million times dearer to me than my own. Those were the happiest of days. Days of self-delusion always are!
As spring ebbed into summer, the plague
spread with appalling persistence. The people of Vicenza became mad with terror. And still, my family remained unaffected. It was as if Chiara was our good luck charm against the plague. Her innocent mischievousness and chatter distracted us from our fears.
On one of the coolest mornings of the scorching summer,
I woke earlier than usual. Dario slept soundly at my side. The fresh breeze outside tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. I dressed softly, careful not to disturb him. As I was about to leave the room, some instinct forced me to turn and look at him once more. How enticing he was, smiling in his sleep.
My
heart fluttered with love as I gazed down at him, chest bared, one naked, muscular leg above the covers. We had been married for three years and my passion and love for him had increased. I raised one of his golden locks that shone like a sunbeam on his pillow, and kissed his forehead. Then I left him.
A gentle
breeze met me as I stepped outside. As I walked past the outside hearth, I noticed Dario had forgotten his silver tinderbox there. I ran my fingers over the engraved scrollwork around our intertwined initials, C and D, that decorated it, recalling his smile when I had given it to him as a gift. How happy I had been to give it to him. How happy he had been to receive it. My heart warmed at the memory as I slipped it into my belt purse to return to him later.
I
strolled along the garden paths. A draught scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves invigorated me after the heat of the past few days. Absorbed in thoughts of family and household, I wandered further than I intended and found myself on a path long abandoned. Curious, I followed the winding footway. Overgrown with trees and foliage, it was shady and cool. I continued down the narrow path until I glimpsed rooftops through the leafage of the trees. The path had brought me to the perimeters of Vicenza. Fearful of the plague, I knew I should not continue and I turned round to return home.
A
sudden sound startled me; a moan of intense pain, a smothered cry emitted by some poor creature in torture. I turned in that direction, and saw, lying face down on the grass, a boy, a little vegetable-seller of eleven or twelve years of age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of vegetables, lovely but dangerous to eat in this time of plague.
“
What ails you?” I asked, leaning close to him, placing my hand upon his forehead. The heat of his body burned my palm. His fetid breath scorched me when he coughed.
He
shuddered as he looked at me with pitiful eyes set in a beautiful face, scarlet with suffering. “The plague,
signora
!” he moaned. “The plague! Keep away from me, for the love of God! I am going to die!”
I
hesitated. I had touched the boy and inhaled his breath. For myself, I had no fear, but for my husband and child, I did. For their sakes, I must be vigilant. Yet, I could not abandon this poor boy and resolved to help him. “Courage, do not lose heart! Not all illnesses are the plague. Rest here till I return. I am going to fetch a healer for you.”
The little fellow looked at
me with incredulous, wretched eyes, and tried to smile. He pointed to his stomach, and tried to speak, but to no avail. Then he writhed about in the grass like a wounded animal.
I
left him and hurried away. Soon, I reached a small piazza bathed by the sun’s intense heat. I noticed a few worried-looking men standing uselessly about. To them, I explained the boy’s predicament and beseeched them for assistance. They all hung back. No one offered to accompany me, not even for all the silver coins I offered them. Annoyed at their cowardice, I hurried on, in search of a healer.
Through the streets I went, making inquiries. Several hours passed before I found
a healer and knocked on her door.
The
sallow-faced, wrinkled, old woman listened to my account of the condition in which I had left the little vegetable-seller. Then she shook her head and refused to follow me. “He is as good as dead,” the hag said with callous curtness. “Better hail one of the
beccamorti.
They will fetch his body.”
Frustration rose inside me.
“You refuse to help him?”
The healer bowed her head with sarcastic politeness.
“
Signora
must pardon me! If I touch a plagued corpse, I would endanger my own health and I would be unable to help others who may need me. I bid you a good-day!” Then she disappeared, slamming the door in my face.
E
xasperated, and though the heat and the putrid odour of the sun-baked streets made me feel faint and sick, I forgot all danger to myself. I stood in the middle of this plague-stricken city at a loss as to what to do next.
A sombre, but gentle voice greeted
me from behind. “You seek aid,
signora
?”
I s
pun about.
A tall
, lanky monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pallid features, stood before me. I greeted him with respectfully and explained my need.
“
I will go at once.” He spoke with compassion. “But I fear the worst. I have remedies with me, but it may be too late to help the boy.”
Relief coursed through me. I had come upon a cleric who faced the pestilence
without fear when others I had met had scuttled away like frightened rabbits. “I will bring you to him,” I offered. “I would not let a dog die unaided, much less this poor lad, who seems friendless and without kin.”
The monk
studied me as we walked. “You do not reside here?”
I
gave him my name and described the location of my home.
By his nod, he indicated he knew of
me.
“
At that height we are free from the pestilence,” I said. “I understand the panic that prevails in the city, but the situation is made worse by the cowardice displayed for those poor souls who have been afflicted.”
“
But what else can the people do? Their hearts are set on life. When death, common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark shadow.”
“
But you, dear brother,” I began, and stopped to cough, conscious of a sharp throbbing pain in my temples.
“
I am a servant of Christ. The plague holds no fear for me. Unworthy as I am, I am ready and willing to face all manner of death.” He spoke with firmness, yet without arrogance.
I
looked at him with admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame me. I clutched his arm to prevent myself from falling. The street rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in a blur of blue. The feeling gradually passed, and I heard the monk’s voice as though it came from a long way off, asking me what was the matter.
I
forced a smile. “I believe it is the heat,” I said. “I feel faint, feeble. I had best stay here. Please see to the boy.
Dio
!” My weakened legs collapsed beneath me and I experienced a shooting pain, bitter and harsh as though a sword had been plunged into my flesh.
I
sank to the ground shuddering. Without hesitation, the lanky monk helped me to my feet. He half carried, half led me to a nearby inn. Inside, he helped me sit on a wooden bench and called for the proprietor, a man he seemed to know very well. Although I felt very ill, I was conscious and could understand everything that was happening around me.
“
Attend to her well, Giovanni,” the monk said. “She is the Contessa Carlotta Mancini. You will not regret caring for her. I will return within an hour.”
“
Contessa Mancini!
Santissima Madonna
! She has caught the plague!”
I knew it was possible, for it took only a few hours before one contracted the plague after exposure.
“Hush, fool!” the monk exclaimed. “You cannot know that. A stroke of the sun is not the plague! See to her well or, by Saint Peter, there will be no place for you in Heaven!”
The
landlord appeared terrified at the uttered curse. He retreated and returned with pillows to place beneath my head. The monk held a glass to my lips. It contained some herbal mixture, which I swallowed without thought.
“
Rest here, my lady,” he said with a calming tone. “These people will treat you kindly. I will hasten to the boy and in less than an hour will return to you again.”
I r
estrained him with my hand on his arm. “Wait,” I murmured. “Let me know the worst. Do you think I have the plague?”
“
I hope not!” he replied with compassion. “But it is possible. You may have contracted it from the boy. It does not take long for the plague to spread from one person to another. If this is the case, you are young and strong. You can fight it. Do not be afraid.”
“
I am not afraid, but please promise me one thing. Send no word of my illness to my husband. You must swear it. Even if I am unconscious or dead, swear you will ensure no one takes my body back to my villa. I cannot risk making my family ill. Swear it! I cannot rest till I have your word.”
“
I swear it, my lady,” he answered, solemnly. “By all I hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.”
His words reassured
me. The safety of my loved ones was certain. I thanked him with a mute gesture, too weak to say anything more. He disappeared from my sight.
I lost all semblance of time.
My thoughts meandered into a confusion of bizarre delusions. I could see the interior of the room where I lay. The landlord polished his glasses and bottles, casting anxious glances in my direction. Groups of men peered at me through the doorway, but the moment they saw me, they fled.
A cloud floated above
my face and in its centre, a face emerged. “Dario! My love, my husband!” I cried, stretching out my arms to clasp him. Instead, I realized the landlord held me in his embrace. I struggled to push him away.
“
Cretino
!” I shrieked. “Let me go, my husband’s lips are the only ones to kiss me, not yours, let me go!”
Another man advanced and seized
me. He and the landlord overcame me and forced me back on the pillows. Exhaustion robbed me of strength. I ceased to struggle. The landlord and his assistant stared down at me.
“
She’s dead!” one of them whispered.
I
heard them. Dead? Not me! The pain my chest was unbearable, my breathing shallow because of it. Scorching sunlight streamed through the open door of the inn. Thirsty flies buzzed with persistent loudness. Voices sang, though I could not distinguish the words.
I yearned
for Dario. What had Beatrice said about him?
As pure as a flawless diamond and as unapproachable as the farthest star.
That idiotic
landlord still buffed his wine-bottles, his fearful round face oily with heat and grime. I did not understand why he was there, for I saw myself resting on the banks of a cool river where huge trees grew wild and a drowsy lion slept in the sun, its jaws open wide and eyes aglitter with hunger. A boat slipped silently through the water. In it, I beheld a woman, her features similar to those of Beatrice. The woman drew out a long thin stiletto as she approached. Brave Beatrice! She meant to attack the lion on the shore. She stepped onto the bank and passed the lion, unaware of its presence. Instead, she headed straight toward me with a rapid, unwavering step. I was the one Beatrice sought. Beatrice thrust the cold metal stiletto into my heart and drew it out dripping with blood! Once, twice, three times she stabbed me, and yet, I did not die. I thrashed about and moaned in torment. Then a dark shadow came to stand over me.