by Eric Flint
The servant pulled his steaming horse to a halt. “My lord! Come quickly!” he panted. “The mistress…and the young mistress…bitten…by…snake.”
They spurred their horses to a gallop.
The neat little manor house was in chaos. Screaming women—not the injured ones—and there were people running around frantically.
“Be quiet!” commanded Cosimo, with an icy and effective authority that Francisco had not seen him employ before. In the sudden silence, he said, “Now. You,” he pointed to one of the older dames. “Take us to the ladies. Caviliero, I believe you are a physician, so could you accompany me? The rest of you remain here. Be quiet and wait on my commands.”
Francisco drew his traveling kit from his saddlebag as he dismounted. “The snake. Did it get away and, if so, did anyone see it? I need to know what kind it was,” he explained to Cosimo.
“The signorina. She cut it in half,” said one elderly servant, by the looks of him a gardener.
“Bring it to us. And be careful; they can still bite and poison, even when dead.”
He followed Cosimo, led by an elderly servitor, into a salon where the two women lay, on a settle and a daybed, surrounded by the entertainments of ladies of the gentry—tambour frames, a basket of delicate whitework, and a number of books. Francisco wasted no time, checked for a pulse on the older woman, found it weak but racing and erratic. She moaned feebly and panted. Then to the plump girl—and that was worse. At first, taking the limp, cold, clammy hand, he thought she was dead, but there was a pulse at her throat—he could find nothing on the wrist—faint, slow and weak.
“Is she dead?” asked Cosimo.
“Not yet, Your Grace,” said Francisco, loosening the neckband of her dress by the simple expedient of cutting it.
The gardener came in with a still-twitching snake—both halves speared onto a garden fork and held as far from himself as possible.
“What is it?” asked Cosimo.
Francisco had seen a fair number of snakes in Africa and Arabia as a slave, and a few in Italy. This one was the color of a savage bruising: purple heading toward black with a dirty yellow underside. It also had a vee pattern in brighter yellow on its head scales. The head had been cut in half, so that was less easy to see. It was very distinctive, and yet new to him. “I’ve not seen the like of it, I’m afraid.”
“What is to be done?” asked Cosimo. He was maintaining an icy calm but Francisco could see that the man was as taut as a bowstring, and despite the façade, deeply upset.
“I will find the bites and apply a tincture to them. I don’t know if it will help, Your Grace. And then it will be a matter of managing the symptoms and time.”
“It bit Lady Calimet on the hand,” said the gardener, “and when she screamed and the signorina ran to her—she had been cutting some herbs with me—it lunged and bit her on the leg. She cut it with the shears in her hand.”
“How long ago did this happen?” asked Francisco.
“Oh, not long, master. Just before the None bell.”
Like most rustics, he probably could not read or tell the time, but nonetheless, that could not have been an hour ago.
Cosimo must have seen his expression. “That’s bad, is it?”
Francisco nodded. “It is very soon for this extreme a reaction. Your Grace, I will be honest with you,” he said, as he located the two puncture wounds on the feebly panting older woman’s hand. “I’d send for a priest. And get me a couple of men to move the bed and settle closer together. I’ll want a stool so I can sit between them. And I’ll want someone who can understand what I tell them to do and will obey orders.”
“That will be me,” said Cosimo de’ Medici calmly. “Unless you have one among your men who will have more experience?”
“No, Your Grace. But it is likely to be grim,” said Francisco, cleaning the wound, noting the swelling and mottled bruising developing up her arm. The hand was clammy and her brow was beaded with sweat.
“I can cope,” said Cosimo. “I will go and give the orders.”
He came back to find Francisco cutting the fabric away from the younger woman’s thigh. Francisco stopped briefly to allow them to move the settle. “Should I have them fetch a bed?” asked Cosimo.
Francisco shook his head. “Later. Your Grace, it appears she only got one fang—I can only find one puncture wound. But her heart rate is decreasing and very weak. I am going to administer a tincture of belladonna. It’s a poison, but it does increase the heart rate. But it may kill her if she gets too much.”
“She’s dying anyway,” said Cosimo, his voice harsh. “Do it. I’ve heard you are one of the best physicians in Italy.”
“An exaggeration,” said Francisco as he carefully measured out the dose. “I do know someone who will be, though.”
As he said that, his other patient began to twitch and moan, and that took their attention. “One with barely a heartbeat, the other with a weak racing erratic heart. An odd poison,” said Francisco, “although different toxins affect the body differently.”
The priest came at this point. Francisco left him to his business and paid attention to the younger woman again. The heartbeat was faster and at least discernable now.
But then things went from there to worse with the older woman. Francisco tried various stopgaps, even a low dose of the belladonna. It was not particularly effective and he tried several of his other drugs, with no better result. Eventually, her heart fluttered its last and stopped. Fortunately, the younger woman had gradually started breathing slightly better during this time, but then she, too, had a relapse, and Francisco was too busy dealing with her to concern himself with the dead. Violetta, however, did respond to a second dose of belladonna tincture. The trouble was the response was just so slow, administered like that.
He was in for a long afternoon and then night. But by just after dawn the next day, he began to feel he would not lose the second patient. She was still comatose, and still had clammy extremities, but her breathing and pulse had stabilized. Cosimo came in, looking gray and exhausted himself, bringing with his own hands a goblet of wine for Francisco.
They had long since passed from “Your Grace” and “Caviliero” to first name terms. “I have sent two of my men back to Florence, to fetch the best of her physicians, Francisco. I should have thought of it last night. At least they could give you some rest.”
Francisco took a deep gulp of the wine. He felt he’d earned it. “Well, the good news is I think that they will not be needed. She’s certainly gotten no worse and has possibly improved slightly.”
“You, sir, are a miracle worker,” said Cosimo. “I curse myself that I thought this would be a suitable place for them. It was the only one of my cousin’s estates that he had not sold to fund his military adventure. And that, purely because there was a lawsuit pending on it at the time. Lady Calimet resented my charity, and I am afraid my wife disliked her very much. But Violetta…she was always my favorite among the cousins. I pray she lives.”
“It might well have been a miracle,” said Francisco tiredly, “or the prayers of the priest. Look, she was young, strong and had only one fang of venom, and was the second person bitten. Whatever that snake was, it was very deadly. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her mother, but Cosimo, you must realize that it is not over yet. Her heart or her liver—they could be damaged. So could her nerves. She may never recover consciousness, and may never recover movement. We just don’t know.”
There was a long silence. Finally Cosimo said: “Earlier, much earlier, you said you knew the best physician in Italy.”
“What? Oh. I know the young man who will become that. Marco Valdosta. I assisted him in the treatment of the Doge when the Doge was poisoned. Privately, I will tell you I was sure Petro Dorma would never recover. But Marco seems to have, and I mean this literally, a healing touch.”
There was another long silence. Then Cosimo nodded. “I will write immediately to beg him to come to see her. May I mention your na
me?”
“Certainly. But, to be realistic, we should wait a day or two, and see if she makes any progress or…relapses. I’ll stay on hand to stop these doctors of yours from undoing my good work.” He smiled, which turned into a yawn.
“Do you think he would come?” asked Cosimo, patting the girl’s hand.
“Marco? It would be difficult. The Doge seems determined to keep him close, I gather. But…well, you could arrange to send Violetta to see him. I don’t think travel will make a great deal of difference to her. It is not as if she has any broken bones. It is some distance, but a part of the journey may be accomplished by river and by sea. I will be going some of the way myself and could watch over her. But we need to check that she is stable, first.”
“I will immediately send a messenger to the Doge to beg this favor, at least to have Signor Valdosta examine her.”
“Oh, Marco Valdosta’s problem is that he would help anyone,” said Francisco tiredly.
“I will still send messengers, and have my men organize transportation and a suitable escort. But I would be further in your debt, Francisco Turner, if you could at least see her safe to the river, and bestowed on a fast, comfortable vessel for Venice. And…if you ever look for another employer, look no further than Florence. Land and titles are yours for asking.”
“I’m flattered, but I merely did what I could. And the girl is far from safe or healed.”
“I saw your effort, read the stresses on your face, Francisco Turner. If you could have dragged them through by sheer force of will, you would have. You are a physician born, not a soldier, I am afraid.” It was said with a smile and a hand on his shoulder.
“Funnily enough, that’s also what Marco said. You’re both wrong, projecting yourselves onto my nature. I’d rather be a man who drinks beer and reads books, and avoids sick or injured people.”
“I don’t particularly believe you, but I shall send you a suitable gift of books,” said Cosimo. “Which brings me to another subject. One I wished to broach in some security that I could not be overheard. The Church is apparently preparing itself—and giving warning to a few trusted individuals—that there may be another outbreak of the Plague of Justinian, in the Duchy of Milan. Church warnings are not always to be trusted, but I would still like to send word on to Carlo Sforza. And as his personal physician, I should imagine you would be consulted.”
“We have had this rumor already sent on to us,” said Francisco. “I’m not sure that it is anything but an attempt to destabilize the Duchy of Milan, Cosimo. The disease is always recorded as originating in the East, and has always spread from the ports into the interior.”
“Ah. I did not know that. Still, I suppose someone could sail up the Po River with it. I doubt that the rumor is being set about as a tactic against Carlo Sforza. I could be wrong but, well, Monsignor di Marino is a man of some honor. He’s a great humanist.”
“I hope I’m right, simply because we have never successfully stopped the plague. It just burns itself out, when it runs out of people.”
“That is even more terrifying coming from you, Francisco. Well, I hope it is a mere vicious rumor then. How odd to hope for that.”
Francisco was too tired, just then, to analyze what Cosimo had said. He was just grateful that the girl survived his short sleep, and he was able to somewhat forcefully dissuade the physician from Florence from cupping her. Violetta de’ Medici showed no signs of recovering consciousness, although the circulation to her limbs had improved somewhat. Francisco took that as a good sign: less blood was being directed to her vital organs and some could be spared to warm her hands and feet. Of course, there was no telling what damage had been done to those organs already.
Cosimo had arranged a horse-borne litter for his cousin, a letter to Marco Valdosta, another to Doge Petro Dorma, and a majordomo to bear the letters and to see to the transportation and any other matters. The man had suitable funds and the right to draw on more from a certain banker on the Rialto Bridge. They would have an escort of fifteen guards.
“Enough to make it not worth an attack by petty bandits and unlikely to attract the attention of the large ones,” said Cosimo. “Sometimes indistinguishable from the local nobility. A sick woman, though, is not likely to be considered a valuable hostage, or worth their trouble.”
“And I will have my eight rascals to add to that, as far as the Po River, where we will put her aboard a vessel. She’ll be safe enough, and travel fast enough.”
By now, Francisco was quietly certain of what he had begun to suspect the afternoon before: Cosimo de’ Medici was in love with his “little” fat cousin. Probably not as a lover in the physical sense, but as an affair of the heart. There was a gap of many years between them and Cosimo was married, but Francisco had seen that often enough. He’d probably have accepted her marriage to someone suitable, because that was the nature of the man. But he would cherish a soft spot for her and woe betide the fellow if he hurt Violetta. Cosimo de’ Medici might seem a mild and sensible man, but Francisco had seen enough of him during the period they’d fought for the women’s lives, to realize he could be brutally efficient, and was very well able to outthink most Italian nobles. Cosimo was also fabulously wealthy. He had the money and the intellect to crush them, even if not the martial prowess.
So, besides for other reasons, that made Francisco hope the girl lived and recovered fully. He was Carlo Sforza’s man, and Sforza needed allies, especially ones like Cosimo de’ Medici.
Chapter 11
Venice
Marco had received a message from Brother Mascoli that some of the water-people wished to see him. By now, even Venice’s spies accepted that he spent time in the poor Hypatian chapel, and had also accepted that they could not follow him in there. There wasn’t much, besides spend their time pretending to pray, that the most ardent spy could do in the chapel. They’d tried watching the place, and found it was empty of other people waiting for Marco, and that no one came when he went there. It was not a rendezvous that they could see. They’d even searched it and found the little water-chapel below. But that—while odd—definitely could not be accessed unless one were a fish, except through the church above. So a man might as well have a mug of wine, in the tavern across from the door, and wait…and see which other agents were doing the same.
Those who came to see Marco in the water-chapel had no problem swimming there, of course. But people preferred to deny the existence of tritons and undines and nyxes and others of that kind, unless they were in trouble, and then they’d believe anything.
“Your friend Francisco did not want to be my lover,” said Rhene, pouting a little. “But he did give me this message for you.”
Marco took it eagerly, cracked the sealing wax, drew the cork with his teeth, and then fished in the bottle with the tweezers from his bag of medical supplies to extract the folded letter. He read it hopefully. He’d been doing considerable research into the subject, and so far, found little to comfort him. But Francisco’s knowledge was years ahead of his! And indeed, he hadn’t disappointed him—although the idea of it starting in Venice horrified Marco. He had a pregnant wife here, apart from anything else. The very idea of his precious Katerina being at that sort of risk was enough to make him shudder.
“Oh, this is wonderful! I need another message taken back to him. I didn’t know Francisco knew anything about magic in the area of healing. I thought he was very skeptical about it.”
“He is in my debt. I will be going to see him again. But I think that he has left Milan.”
Marco bit his knuckle. The need to prepare for the onset of the disease was obviously urgent, but another secure way of sending secret messages was not apparent to him. “I will give you a message for him anyway. Please, give it to him when you next see him.”
He dug a piece of paper from his bag, blessing the fact that he had a quill and several small bottles of ink in different colors that he used in various medical situations. It was amusing in a way that it was Fran
cisco who had showed him how to do this, to mark the progress of inflammation. “They’ll believe that it is magical, of course. They always do, for anything they don’t understand. Sometimes it seems that very belief helps.”
Marco trimmed the quill and wrote:
“My dear Friend in Medicine,
I thank you so much for your reply, which has brought me much relief. The good Father Thomas Lüber of Baden, who informed me of the problem, had told me that no cure or effective treatment has so far been known. Please, I beg of you, share this knowledge with us.
I shall see what can be done to persuade Maria to return to Corfu. We will miss my niece terribly, but her health is a priority with us, too.
I have as yet been unable to identify the snake which bit the patient you consigned to my care. Her progress is very slight, and I do not know that she will ever recover.
Later, after he had given the resealed bottle to Rhene, he left the chapel and went to the Doge’s palace. He had less trouble in securing an interview with Petro Dorma than most people, but he still had some time to kick his heels before he was ushered in. Petro was thinner than he’d been before the poisoning, and was still prone to get tired quickly and to grumble almost incessantly about the dull diet. On the other hand, his old energy with work and his sharpness of focus did seem to be returning. That was good for Venice, and good for his young physician’s happiness, if not because it turned more of the rich and powerful and terrified of poison to Marco for protection. He’d always seen himself as tending the sick because they needed help, not because they were wealthy or poor.
“You’ve come to tell me that I am cured at last and can eat what I like?” said the Doge, mock hopefully. “That fat goose-liver pâté studded with truffles is good for me?”
“No such luck,” said Marco. “I heard you felt quite queasy after buttered scallops yesterday.”
