The Plague is Rampant in Florence - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Blackest Time"

BOOK EXCERPT

The plague is rampant in Florence. This is a conversation between Carlo Roselli the owner of an apothecary shop and Franco Guarino, a doctor who treats the afflicted.

Doctor Guarino arrived shortly after Signor Roselli opened the apothecary. Roselli greeted his friend. “It gets worse every day. Some come here asking for treatments to protect them from the sickness. Others are already afflicted and plead for a cure, and I can’t help any of them, the well or the sick. And if I’m besieged like this, I can’t imagine what it must be like for you.”

Guarino shrugged and dropped onto a chair. “We’ve trained them to believe that we have the knowledge to cure their ills; then when the worst comes along, as it has now, we tell them we can do nothing to rid them of the disease.”

Roselli nodded his agreement. “It pains me to tell them all we can offer is herbane or hemlock to relieve the pain. Yesterday a man came begging for something for his son. The man was in tears. He said the boy couldn’t move and was just lying in bed, moaning. I’ve heard similar stories before, and each time my helplessness makes me angry. When I told the man there is no cure, he implored me to give him something to end his son’s suffering.”

“What did you do?” Guarino asked.

“I gave him belladonna and cautioned him to give the boy only a drop or two. I warned him that a larger dose would act as a poison. He thanked me profusely and clasped the vial with both hands as he rushed from my shop.” After a pause, Roselli added quietly, “He understood what I was telling him. I blackened my soul and set him on a path to stain his own.”

“If that action blackens your soul, then take comfort in knowing yours is no darker than mine,” Guarino said. “I have done the same. I believe my decisions fit my oath to eliminate suffering, and I can only hope that a merciful God shares that view.”

Roselli leaned on the counter, placed a consoling hand on Guarino’s arm and said, “We live in difficult times, Franco, more difficult than some men can bear. Yesterday, my priest told me he trembles every time he is called to deliver last rites. He can’t bring himself to anoint the dying by touching their foreheads and hands, so he sprinkles holy oil on them and signs the cross above them. He prays God will accept his actions as fulfillment of the sacrament.

“It must be even more difficult for you, Franco. As a doctor, you’re called to the homes of those in such misery that they can’t even rise from their beds. Yet you go, despite knowing you can’t make them whole. Few men have your courage.”

Guarino laughed. “Courage? No, I’m not courageous. I cower every time I set foot inside a house reeking with the stench of death. Only a fool would not be afraid. I visit their houses, but not for the dying because they’re never even aware of my presence and there is nothing I can do for them. When it’s time to surrender their souls to the angels, no medical treatment can save them.”

Roselli asked, “If you can’t help them, why do you go to them?”

“My purpose is to treat the other members of the family. I test their urine because imbalances in humors make people susceptible to the disease. Balancing their humors can help those not yet affected stave off the disease. I know of houses where all but one person has perished. They all breathed the same air, so it must be that the one who didn’t contract the disease had his humors in balance.”

Roselli said, “Priests say the disease finds those who dwell on death and despair. They tell people to avoid such thoughts by spending time in gardens and engaging in cheerful conversation.”

Guarino scoffed. “That advice might have merit, but how can anyone think cheerful thoughts when a dear one is dying in the same room? If I were to tell family members not to keep a constant vigil with the dying, they wouldn’t listen. I was called to the home of a long-time friend who had been stricken. I told his wife to keep her distance and not touch him; then, as I was leaving and barely outside the bedroom door, she dropped to her knees at his bedside and cradled his hand in hers. She was in good health when I saw her; yet she lived not another five days, so perhaps the priests are right in saying that dwelling on despair can unbalance the humors.

“I’ve taken to wearing gloves when I visit the sick. My mother always wore gloves when she labored in the garden to protect her hands from thorns. She claimed the practice originated with the ancient Romans. Am I being foolish expecting gloves might shield me from the disease? Perhaps. I’ve certainly been ridiculed by my colleagues who swear the disease travels through the air in particles like dust. They say it’s foolish to believe that sickness can be transferred by touching someone. I have a few friends who wash their hands with vinegar after contacting sick patients, but they won’t admit to doing so for fear of being mocked.”

Doctor Guarino shook his head, then continued. “Do you recall the arrogant bastard at the last guild meeting who planned to flee the city and tried to convince other doctors to leave. He said we have no cure, so why expose ourselves by going to the homes of the sick where the bad air is concentrated? I can’t refute his argument because it’s true that many doctors have died after visiting plague victims. I test myself often to be sure that my humors remain balanced, but I also credit the goddess Fortuna for keeping me safe.”