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.
If he were lucky, he'd soon join them. Metaphorically, of course. Matteo had no intention of ending up on the gilded ceiling of a Venetian palazzo, only in the place the opulent artwork represented: Heaven. If God didn't deem him pious enough to be redeemed in this life, perhaps He would do so in the next one. But for all of his musings, Matteo didn't really want to die. He wanted to hunt wild boar again in the hills of Firenze, sail across the Adriatic to trade with Dalmatia, and see the sunrise from atop the Palazzo Ducale. This last wish would have probably baffled most people both in its banality and unexpectedness, but to Matteo, it was perfectly normal.
Ever since his father was appointed Procurator and his family had lived at their current residence, the sun's path in the mornings had been blocked by the largest single building in the lagoon. And after once having seen a workman adjusting whatever a workman usually adjusts on top of the roof, Matteo had promised himself that one day, he'd climb to the top to see that elusive sunrise. If he could overcome his aversion to heights, that is. And not die tonight, of course.
Now Matteo was hungry, but at the same time, the thought of food repulsed him. The last thing he ate had been Clara Delfini's hare pastry that had remained in his pocket after the Grand Council adjourned. It was then, standing at the bottom of the great staircase of the Palazzo Ducale, that he hastily stuffed the juicy morsels into his mouth right before Marco Dandolo coughed nearby. Simone had been so insulted by the act that he nearly struck the old man before his son Frederico intervened. Matteo had already suspected then that Dandolo's waxen pallor and ragged breathing were something more than the tell-tale signs of age. And it turned out that he had been right. They were the calling card of the plague, and he has shared this foul air by being at the wrong place at the wrong time!
Another weak cry left his throat at the memory, a futile attempt to summon sympathy in a house full of people determined to save themselves. The only solace Matteo got was from knowing that in their place, he would have done the same.
A key in the lock clicked before the salon door creaked open.
Who's there? Matteo wanted to ask, but he was to weak to even part his dry, cracked lips.
Footsteps sounded before the door closed again, followed by the lock shutting them both in.
Matteo—his mind foggy from the lack of sleep and sustenance—attempted to raise his head off the sofa enough to see the newcomer, which tipped his reclining figure off balance.
"Don't move!" exclaimed an unexpectedly soft voice before a figure came into view. Kneeling beside him and grabbing his shoulders, the masked visitor pushed him back into a reclining position before he could crash onto the floor.
For a moment, Matteo's heartbeat accelerated. Blinking rapidly, he reminded himself that the person behind the mask was there to help him. He was sure of it, no matter how frightening the sight. Because in all of his time living in the city famously obsessed with anonymity, Matteo had never encountered this particular mask at such close proximity. When a plague doctor wore the beaked hood of his profession, it meant danger was nearby, and it was better to get out of the way.
"Dottore Rienzo," Matteo greeted the physician, his voice hoarse and weak. "I am greatly obliged for your attention at such late hour."
The figure in the dark cloak nodded and held up his gloved hand to discourage further interaction.
Matteo complied, watching as the doctor set down his bag of potions and herbs near the hearth before returning to his side. After glancing at the dirty basin, the doctor pushed it away with his foot and kneeled once more. For the longest time, he merely observed his patient, tilting his head from side to side in order to get a full view of Matteo's head, face and neck. The opaque eyes on the bird-like mask twinkled in the low light, and tufts of dried plants stuck out from the elongated beak, occasionally tickling Matteo's skin. He even pulled up Matteo's shirt—his tunic long discarded—and pressed against his belly, making him wince in pain.
It was a macabre ritual to experience, and it must have been just as odd to witness. All the while, the doctor remained quiet, but his patient—true to his nature even in dire illness—eventually found a great need to speak.
"Will I die?" he asked the biggest worry on his mind. "Because if so, I would want to say farewell to my family, even it is from afar."
When there was no response but a renewed wave of observing and prodding, Matteo continued. "It was that old fool, Councilor Dandolo who brought this upon me. He dared cough in my presence yesterday," he said. "Why, I couldn't even properly enjoy my pie. Good thing I had eaten most of it already by then. The wild game wouldn't have kept for another day."
At this, the doctor stopped, and to Matteo's surprise, he began to slowly remove his gloves.
"What are you doing? You will be fouled by the miasma!" Matteo exclaimed in horror as the physician stood and walked to his medical bag.
But Rienzo did not heed the warning, pulling out several small bottles, various bundles of dried herbs, and a small pot. After he poured water from the wash jug into the pot, he gingerly placed the metal vessel on top of the glowing embers with the help of a poker. The liquid took almost no time to warm because he soon bent over the fire once more to sprinkle a handful of crushed herbs into it. When the concoction had steeped for long enough, he poured the steaming contents into a fine cup.
Matteo of course only saw brief snippets of the preparations, as the doctor's back was often turned to obscure his work. But the actions and results were clear. He had made some type of tea. Perhaps there was hope of recovery, after all.
Returning to Matteo's side, the doctor handed the cup to his patient. "Drink."
The command was guttural and forced; one could even call its sound unnatural, especially compared to the way the doctor had spoken earlier. Matteo, however, was too focused on imbibing the healing potion to care about such details. Lifting the delicate china to his lips, he carefully sipped its contents.
The hot drink tasted of chamomile, a flower familiar to him from his days as a restless child. His mother often had its smooth, sweat tea prepared by a servant to calm him. Tonight, the beverage quickly brought on a similar feeling, making Matteo's confused mind no less clear, but definitely less agitated. The anger in his belly also gradually subsided, the previous battles taking place deep in his intestines quashed.
When he had emptied the last drop from the cup, the doctor took it away only to return with a bottle. Uncorking it, he poured a tiny amount of the clear liquid onto his delicate finger before dabbing the potion at the base of Matteo's ears. Even before the mixture touched his skin, he could smell the strong scent of peppermint. The sharp aroma burned his nostrils, clearing his airways enough to recognize the faint smell of soot in the air. But this was a small price to pay for the room around him stopping from spinning as he regained his composure.
Matteo attempted to observe the doctor take a similar level of care in putting away the tools of his trade as he did in unveiling them, but at some point, fatigue overcame him. The next few hours—or was it only minutes—blended together as he drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally peeking through his lashes to verify that he was still both alive and being watched over. And each time, the doctor stood or sat nearby—whether in a chair by the wall, on the sofa across from him, or at the fire inspecting the mantle—ever vigilant.
For this, Matteo was unspeakably thankful. As he woke from his increasingly uncomfortable slumber feeling more refreshed than before, his thoughts immediately fell to how he was going to repay the man's work. For he was sure that he would not be dying any time soon, and that was all due to the miracle performed on him by Augostino Rienzo.
Yet when he opened his eyes, the figure slumped in the gilded armchair, head propped in hand and struggling not to fall asleep, was definitely not the local Medico della Peste. The lack of mask made that quite clear. And when their gazes locked, it was impossible to tell who was more shocked at the sight, but Matteo spoke first.
"You're a girl!" he exclaimed, bolting upright as through he'd been struck by lightning.