The people of Messina, realizing that the death racing through them was linked with the arrival of the Genoese galleys, expelled the Genoese from the city and harbor with all speed. But the illness remained in the city and subsequently caused enormous mortality. It bred such loathing that if a son fell ill of the disease his father flatly refused to stay with him, or, if he did dare to come near him, was infected in turn and was sure to die himself after three days. Not just one person in a house died, but the whole household, down to the cats and the livestock, followed their master to death. Because of the scale of the mortality, many Messinese looked to make confession of their sins and make their wills, but priests, judges, and notaries refused to visit them, and if anyone did visit their houses, whether to hear confession or draw up a will, they were soon to die themselves. Indeed the Franciscans and Dominicans, and others who were willing to visit the sick to hear their confession and impose penance, died in such large numbers that their priories were all but deserted. What more is there to say? Corpses lay unattended in their own homes. No priests, sons, fathers, or kinsmen dared to enter; instead, they paid porters large sums to carry the bodies to burial. The houses stood open, with all the jewels, money, and treasure in full view, and if someone wanted to enter there was nothing to stop them; for the Plague struck so suddenly that at first there were not enough officials and then there were none at all.
As we pulled into the busy harbor I saw the long row of galleys flying Genoese flags like our own nave’s—twelve hulls lined up along the shore. What was the lag between arrival of the vector and the first deaths—weeks? How long would it take before the rat fleas, hiding in clothing, chests, hair, and animal hides, found new hosts and infected them with deadly bacteria? How long would it take before those bacteria multiplied by the thousands, then millions? How long before the first victim would succumb? I didn’t know how much time I had to get Clara, Gabriele, and myself out of here.
The industrious bustle of the port seemed painfully innocent. Merchants hawked huge baskets of gleaming silver fish, the sun shone, and our sailors furled the sails and shouted to one another, assured of good drink and fresh food and water on land. I felt the way I did when I looked through old photo albums with Benjamin, seeing pictures of our mother in kneesocks and a calico high-waisted dress, knowing the future that she couldn’t know—the birth of her three children, and the death of two. It was hard to picture the disaster I knew was coming in the face of such busy normalcy.
I saw Gabriele as we were preparing to disembark, his bright hair partially covered by a green felt hat and his cloak fastened with a metal clasp in the shape of two overlapping leaves. He was elegantly dressed for his first visit with Messina’s rector. When Cane stopped to direct the guards to load our belongings onto a cart, Gabriele moved in a step behind me. Clara was engaged with the trunk and we had a few moments unobserved.
“Do not turn to regard me, Beatrice,” he whispered. It was all I could do to prevent myself from doing just that. I strained my ears to hear his voice over the din of the harbor.
“I am bound for the Ospedale to present my letter of introduction to the rector. After I have established myself there, I will attempt to find a way in which we might leave the city quickly, if it should come to that. I will come for you. Can you nod to acknowledge you have heard me?” I lowered my chin subtly, wishing I could see his face. His breath was warm on the back of my neck.
“May the Virgin keep you safe, my sweet Beatrice,” he said. I watched him walk away from me and melt into the crowd of the harbor.
Clara finished supervising the loading of our belongings and came to my side. “What are you looking at, Signora?” She followed my gaze. “Is that Messer Accorsi, the painter? Whatever is he doing here in Messina?”
“I’m told he secured a commission here.”
“Was he on our ship? He must have been, to arrive at just the same moment. And the entire voyage we had no knowledge of his company! Or did you know and hide it from me?” She smiled conspiratorially.
“I’ve only recently found out myself,” I said, avoiding her question.
“Isn’t that extraordinary, Signora?”
“Quite,” I said, and I watched Gabriele’s disappearing figure as long as I dared, blinking to keep his image from blurring.
* * *
We made our way from the ship to Lugani’s Messina outpost, up the slope from the curve of the harbor and through the city’s narrow streets. The most established merchants often operated branches of their business—fondaci—in other cities. I knew from my scribal assignments that Lugani had fondaci as far flung as Barcelona and Mallorca in addition to Sicily. Lugani motioned me to stay with him while Clara dealt with our baggage under Cane’s direction. I was relieved to be free of Lugani’s right-hand man for a while.
The Messina fondaco was in the plump hands of a man named Provenzano degli Uberti, who was, I quickly learned, a Genoese transplant reluctant to be sweating it out in Messina. He ran the Sicilian headquarters of the trading business, which included a warehouse, an office, and a small storefront. The shop was stocked with jars of spices, blocks of creamy beeswax, spools of brightly colored silk thread, and small dense cakes of solid dye. Bolts of cloth—silk, linen, and wool, in a range of colors—lined up below the lowest wooden shelf on each wall of the shop. There was a strong smell of sandalwood in the air. Provenzano—I thought of him by his first name because Lugani used it—smiled from behind a large wooden desk when we entered his office. He struggled to extricate himself from his narrow armchair. Bursting free, he bowed in greeting.
“Messer Lugani, what a great pleasure to have your company at last. We suffer for lack of culture in this unsophisticated town. The Messinese like to call it a city, and we do indulge them for the sake of business, of course.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief that looked too damp to absorb anything more.
Provenzano waddled around the desk and squinted at me. “And who is this lovely creature you’ve brought back from your travels? Our plain sparrow feathers are dull in comparison to her resplendent plumage.” There was something so sweetly comical and self-deprecating about him that I found myself smiling in response.
“This is Monna Beatrice Trovato, my new scribe. She will be joining us at the fondaco until the shipments we have brought are fully inventoried, and our next ventures firmly under contract.” Those were the first details I’d heard about the endpoint of my employment with him. I hoped I could finish in time to escape the Plague.
“Delightful, delightful,” Provenzano said. “We are in great need of a scribe just now.”
“Indeed? Please elaborate,” Lugani said.
My heart sank as Provenzano explained that the contents of the entire warehouse needed cataloging; I wasn’t going anywhere soon. Lugani and his Sicilian fattori wasted no time before getting down to business. I spent the rest of the day in the warehouse with the two of them.
Wool, dyes, alum, raw hides, silk, velvet and leather, oil, wine, salt, ceramics, carved wood, and even some minor artworks were piled up in Lugani’s warehouse. By the time the light through the high small windows dimmed and we could no longer see the products we were cataloging, I was exhausted and starving.
Lugani asked Provenzano to show me to my quarters, which were conveniently part of the fondaco complex. The whole business was behind a high stone wall with a locked gate, keeping people in as well as out; any thoughts I’d had of escaping unnoticed withered at the sight.