The Plague Doctor's Daughter

11. Matteo

This must have been what it felt like to be dying. His head throbbed, his guts twisted, and even his skin ached at the slightest touch. If this was how he was meant to depart this life, Matteo wished he would just be finished with it.

Wrapping his arm around his midsection, he rolled onto his side and hung his head off the sofa's edge. He made it just in time as a bitter stream of bile erupted from his throat, splashing into the basin on the floor. Matteo groaned and spit, but the awful taste lingered on his tongue. A sip of wine would remedy that, but it would also start the vicious cycle once again. Nothing he'd eaten or drank since midday had stayed down. It was a miracle there was anything remaining to come back up even now.

It took all of Matteo's energy to turn himself onto his back again. Propping his long legs up on the carved arm of the much too short piece of furniture, he got as comfortable as he could. Using his sitting room to wait out what he had first assumed to be a temporary bout of lightheadedness seemed like a good idea at the time. But that was hours ago and now he longed for the comfort of his large bed in the adjacent chamber.

He was clearly too weak to make it across the palazzo's slippery wooden floors alone, yet there was no one to call for assistance. His parents had locked themselves away in their own suites on the other side of the Procurator's residence as soon as they had heard he'd taken ill. And even the servants were told to avoid direct contact with the young man whose whims and requests were usually fulfilled at a moment's notice.

But Matteo couldn't fault any of them. This was the protocol when anyone—even the only son of a high ranking government official—was suspected of having the plague. Only the physician who'd been summoned by the guards could see him now. Whether it was to pronounce a cure or to relegate him to the island of death remained to be seen.

Nausea overtook Matteo again. As a wave of heat and then chill rolled over his body, he closed his eyes and tried to still his uneven breathing. There was nothing he wanted less than to throw up again. Thankfully, even as a bead of sweat rolled over his brow, the urge to vomit slowly subsided.

Taking the brief moment of tranquility, he attempted to rest. If only he could sleep through this torture, perhaps he'd wake with renewed vigor and health. Yet as he thought back to everything he knew about the rampant disease that had taken so many of his fellow citizens' lives in the past few months, he knew that his hopes were unfounded.

The plague was relentless and indiscriminate, tainting man, woman, and child irrespective of their wealth or status. His position in Venetian society couldn't save him from a horrible death. Only God's grace could offer him a renewed chance at life, if he were found worthy of it. And right now, he—Matteo Barozzi—was not certain whether he would pass that test.

How would he, when he'd hardly had a chance to live and prove himself? So many better men including dozens from the Great Council had been taken since this pestilence reared its ugly head last summer. If those like Pietro Sanudo, aged sixty-eight but well-versed in philosophy, theology, and alchemy, or Luca Polani, a relatively young man of forty who'd owned the largest fleet of merchant ships in the Veneto, could succumb to the disease, then why would he—a man of not yet twenty with little interest in anything but pleasure and frivolity—be spared?

A phlegmy cough shook Matteo's eyes open, but there wasn't much to see. The room was bathed in darkness, save for the faint glow of the embers in the hearth on the far wall.

He had neglected to light candles earlier, and there'd been no one else around to throw more logs on the fire. The mix of light and shadows played on the frescoed, high ceiling making it appear as though the angelic putti were playing an innocent game of hide-and-go-seek from above.