DELUGE

by Lisa T. Bergren

  I shivered and pulled my cloak closer, looking down at my son’s tiny face. He slept, unaware that he was going home for the very first time to the castello that would one day be his. My heart swelled with joy, even as I obsessed over the idea of getting close to a roaring fire in the hearth of the Great Hall and driving away the chill that was settling in my bones.

  As Castello Forelli came into sight, her golden flags waving in the stiff winter wind, I saw that every possible person was now bundled and waiting on her walls. When they saw us, they cheered, their combined voices warming the chilled air with the name Forelli! Forelli! Forelli!

  Never had I had a clearer sense of home.

  The gates were opened, and maids and squires and knights and cooks and stewards all spilled out in a continuous stream, surrounding us. Surrounding us, welcoming us, begging for peekaboo views of the tiny “prince,” as I’d taken to calling Fortino…

  Behind us, the gates closed, and then, I saw them, Mom and Dad. They waited by the big doors of the Great Hall, stately, as if they were presiding over the castello in our absence. But I could tell by their expressions that they fairly burst with anticipation. And judging from their appearance, they’d only arrived shortly before us. Mom, with her normally perfect braid, had blonde hair sticking out all over the place, and her dress was rumpled, even dirty. Dad, well, he looked like he’d risen from his bed and hadn’t given a thought to changing his clothes or combing his hair. But I didn’t care—I was just glad they were home, finally ready to meet their tiny grandson.

  Marcello pulled to a stop, dismounted, and then came to me, easing me down, the baby still in my arms. We shared a grin, and I handed him his son. Marcello cradled him, lifted him a little and began turning slowly.

  “Welcome, my people, your future lord, Fortino Betarrini Forelli!”

  There was an audible gasp, then sighs, and people were clapping and crying, pressing in, kissing our cheeks, touching the baby’s head…And then they made a way. A visible passage for my parents. We moved toward them, my eyes on Mom and Dad, wondering anew at the gift this moment was. When I came here, I had no father. He’d been long dead. And yet he’d been restored to me, as Mom had been restored to me in another way altogether.

  I had to hand it to them. Both looked first at me, as if the babe wasn’t there. They reached out to me, Mom cupping my cheek, Dad taking my arm, and pulled me to them, even as they ushered us inside, out of the wind. “Gabi,” was all they said. But it was enough. And yet in the utterance of my name they’d seem to have said, We’re proud of you…We wish we had been with you…what is this gift?

  “Madre, Padre,” I said, Mom, Dad… “This is your grandson.”

  We circled in close. I soon sensed Lia and Luca moving in, too, with me and Marcello, the babe.

  “And now we are seven,” I said lowly. I looked at each of them.

  “A holy number, Tomas would say,” Marcello whispered, stroking his son’s head.

  “A perfect number,” Mom said. Eagerly, she gestured for me to give her grandson to her—with a hopeful “May I?”—and I happily complied. She cradled him close and Dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders, openly weeping. I’d never seen him cry so much.

  “Do you know?” he whispered, turning red-rimmed eyes toward me. “Do you know what this means to me? A moment I could so easily have missed. Would have missed. To see you with my grandson,” he said in a hush, and we were all crying then. “So perfect. So perfect! Oh, how I love you all!”

  We pressed in, none of us willing to let the moment slip away.

  “A new generation upon us,” Marcello said, holding his gaze on each of us a moment, letting it sink in. “Hope. Do you feel that, my family? Hope. Cling to it. Do not let it go. Regardless of the dark days ahead. When we feel despair, when we feel loss, remember this. Hope. Light. It fairly blinds us now, but some day we will need to hold this memory in our hearts. Remember it. Remember it.”

  I stared at him.

  And I thought that never, ever, had I loved Marcello Forelli more than I did in that moment.

  PART III

  PESTILENCE

  1348

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  GABRIELLA

  It came to Italia as we expected.

  Months after Marcello had resigned his post as one of the Nine, ignoring the confusion and outrage of the other eight. In the last hundred years, such a resignation had never been witnessed. But we knew there was no way we could be in the city when it arrived. It was the only way to ensure a chance at survival.

  It came when our son, Fortino Betarrini Forelli, had grown a mess of curls and the fiercest determination to defy every parental directive sent his way, and delighted in tottering after Chiara Greco—a soulful, thoughtful girl of five—who doted on the little boy as if she were the mother hen, and he, her chick.

  It came just when we were hoping we were wrong, or something had changed and it wasn’t going to come after us like a dragon.

  The Black Plague.

  The darkest of terrors.

  It was as if we held to some holy, horrific prophecy, hearing news of its arrival along our coastal cities, and moving swiftly, striking down one in three. January swept into February, spreading the plague among those who huddled around winter fires. It reached further, deeper, in March into April. But summer was the worst.

  Come the heat of August, the cities raged, weeped, keened their horrified, mourning cry.

  And Marcello paced.

  Paced and paced, torn between the knowledge he held and the history unfolding before him, powerless to stop it.

  Worse, he began to drink, into the night, alone, staring into the fire. Glass after glass of wine, calling for more when the carafe was empty.

  His republic called for him, begged to him, hoping that he held some magical fire-retardant to the inferno unfurling all around. But there was nothing. Not even the knowledge within my parents’ minds could stave off what was to come. What they built within Castello Forelli, and by repetition, Castello Greco, was merely their best guess at a defense.

  Food. Water. Medicinals, in the most basic sense.

  And so we waited. Listening as it closed in, a narrowing funnel, the danger ever nearer, within a few days’ ride.

  Then it arrived within our borders. Toscana. Then within reach of us, in the northeast.

  Messengers arrived.

  Messengers we would not admit.

  We demanded they break the wax seals, and read aloud the words from the other side of the gates.

  It came to us, story after story of disease and death.

  But still, Castello Forelli would not open her gates.

  We listened.

  We returned missives.

  We distributed food.

  But we would not open our gates.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EVANGELIA

  At first, the men watched in mute disbelief as Marcello and Luca turned those at our gates away. Out of respect, they did as they were asked, but I could see them peering after their captain and lord in complete confusion. It was so out of character for the Forellis—to reject those in need rather than greet them with mercy—that I guessed they simply hoped it was a phase of sorts, and that Marcello and Luca would soon give in.

  They did not.

  They had no choice, really. To take to giving away food and medicines would mean that anyone with need—and there would be many, in time—would take to camping outside our walls. While the walls were tall and thick, Mom and Dad had been clear; they didn’t want those who were sick right outside. It was simply too close. People, even people who were well, inevitably attracted vermin. And vermin inevitably made their way past the highest and thickest walls.

  For a time, Marcello sent crates of supplies to the villages within our lands—Cavo and Annini and Carini—weekly. A knight would volunteer, load two mules, take them to the villages, and then spend a week in the hunter’s hut to be certain he had not taken sick. For months,
they all returned. Then one did not, and the system failed. Because when the next knight went out, he found the last one dead in the hunter’s hut, hauled him out and buried him, then took sick himself. He ended up at our wall, begging to be admitted.

  Luca refused him. “Forgive me, brother,” he said. “For the good of all within, we cannot. Go and make your peace with God, and find a good place to lay your weary head in the woods. We shall pray for your soul.”

  He’d left the wall, then, not looking at anyone else. Not even me.

  Over the weeks that followed, the knights’ and servants’ disbelief and confusion turned into simmering indignation…

  …then despair…

  …then resignation…

  …then apathy…

  …which was the toughest of all for us to take.

  “We came here to embrace life,” I said to Gabi, under my breath, as we took our daily walk around the perimeter of the castle. “To take what came to us, even if it meant facing death. Remember? That’s what we said. We wanted to hold on to that feeling of living, truly living, rather than just making it through the day. That’s what we discovered here. That’s what we wanted to hold on to. Now, how are we any different?”

  She set down little Fortino and rolled the leather ball for him, and he happily chased after it, kicking it, in that awkward, stiff-legged way of toddlers. But she said nothing. Because she was thinking? Or disagreed?

  Four knights passed us, with nods of greeting, and I remained silent until we were beyond them.

  “Back home,” I continued, “People get home from school and work and just drive inside their garages, barely waving at neighbors. Never taking the time to get to know them. Remember? We hated that. But now, how are we any different? You and I both know that we’re staying off the wall because we can’t stand it. Turning away from everyone out there. It’s easier for us to stay down here, pretending they don’t exist.”

  She shook her head. “You think I don’t live with that guilt every day? My husband’s guilt? No one feels this weight more than Marcello. No one. Have you seen him? It’s eating him alive.”

  Her eyes told me it frightened her far more than I knew.

  “We simply have to weather this, Lia. Make it through. No, it’s not how we want to live. But if we want to live, we have to stay the course. Remain strong. Keep our eyes on the horizon and keep setting our feet toward it, day by day, month by month, year by year. Not just enduring, but waiting with expectation for a reprieve. For change.”

  “This is only year one,” I whispered, more a thought I was digesting than telling her anything she didn’t know.

  Gabriella just bent and scooped up squirming Fortino and kissed his neck, then held him up to me. “This is what we will concentrate on through the year and beyond. New life, even in the face of death.”

  I took Fortino in my arms. He patted my cheeks. “Awww, Via,” he said, unaccustomed to me not greeting him with a smile and assuming something was wrong. “It’s okay,” he said in English, having learned our automatic comforting words. “It’s okay.”

  I stared at his big brown eyes, the glossy curls that looked like they’d come off of big rollers. Felt the comforting, compact weight of his little body. Knew that I’d die to save him, as I would any of the rest of my family.

  “It’s there, Lia,” Gabi whispered, slipping her arm around my waist. “Life. It’s just going to be a little less obvious for a few years.”

  ***

  Whereas I came to accept it, Tomas and Adela only became more agitated as the months passed.

  Quietly married just as the plague began, they looked like anyone else in the castello in simple garb, but inside, they remained the holiest people I knew. And it was that pull toward grace and mercy that called them outside the walls.

  Time and again they approached Marcello and Luca. Together. Apart. Begging them to open the gates to those who were in need. Citing Scripture. Citing basic moral code. Citing civility. Humanity.

  Until they gave up and one day, were in the dining hall, bags packed, asking to be let out. “We cannot remain,” Tomas said, lifting his chin and sad eyes to Marcello. “We can no longer turn our backs on our sisters and brothers.”

  Adela wrapped her hands around his arm, but she looked as resolute as he was.

  “Leave us,” Marcello growled, speaking to every knight and servant in the hall, but only looking at Tomas and Adela. I tensed. He’d already been drinking for a while. I knew, from experience, that it was never best to approach him at this hour of the day.

  In two minutes, only family remained, and the heavy door was shut. Only the fire crackled in the massive hearth. All else was silent for several heavy seconds.

  Luca stepped down from the dais and went over to them, trying to intervene. “You cannot leave. ’Tis the only way to weather this storm—to remain in the shelter of this castello. You know this.”

  Adela moved to take his hands, looking up at him. “But we are called to enter the storm, brother. The Lord calls us to those in need.”

  Luca shook his head. “’Tis not the way of wisdom,” he said. “Look what happened to our men we sent out with supplies! Do you wish to invite death to visit?”

  “We shall not fear it,” she said. “The Lord shall protect us or he shall smite us, but whatever comes,” she paused to take Tomas’s hand, “we are ready to accept it.”

  “What we cannot accept is remaining here,” Tomas said. “No matter how great our love and respect is for you, brothers,” he said, nodding to Marcello and Luca and Dad, “and you, my sisters,” he added, looking to me, Lia and Mom, “we cannot ignore the need of those outside the walls.”

  “We are not ignoring them,” Marcello said, rubbing his face, his eyes ringed and bloodshot, “we simply cannot aid them in the way you wish to see.”

  “You are not aiding them at all, beyond some food and supplies,” Tomas returned. “I do not understand this and cannot live with it. They need us out there, Marcello.”

  “They need to see us and feel our touch,” Adela said.

  “You cannot!” Luca cried. “You shall wish death upon yourselves!”

  “Our own blood brothers may have taken ill by now,” Tomas said, methodically rolling up his sleeve to show the triangular tattoo that he, Luca and Marcello all carried. “We shall go to each of them, shelter with them for a time, and minister to those in need around each of their homes.”

  Luca was shaking his head. “I forbid it,” he said, angry and desperate. “As Adela’s last male relative, I forbid it.”

  Adela’s grip on Tomas’s arm tightened. “I answer only to my husband and my God.”

  “You are a fool!” Luca said to her. “You nearly died, that day, when you were in the hands of the Fiorentini. We saved you! And now you toss away your life?” His face and tone turned to pleading. “I know this makes no sense to you. I know it feels wrong. But I beg you, sister, brother, to trust us in this. ’Tis the only way to preserve our lives. To stay away from those who ail.”

  “Those who give away their lives shall gain it, and those who cling to life will lose it,” Tomas said, and I assumed it was Scripture he quoted.

  Luca stared back at him. “Are you so ready to give away your life? And my sister’s? Do you care so little for the gift and beauty of your bride’s life?” The last words came out in a sneer, and he stepped closer to the shorter, pudgier man.

  Tomas did not react. “I would give my own life to save your sister’s,” he said. “I love her with everything I have in me. God has graced me mightily,” he said, looking down at her, “with the gift of a wife. But he has spoken to us. And he calls us not to remain here, but to go out, to where there is need. He has called us not to minister to the healthy, but to those who ail.”

  Luca sighed heavily and stepped away, lifting a hand. “Cease. No more of the Holy Writ. Please.”

  “You object to it,” Tomas said gently, “and you refuse to look upon our marking, because you know
what we do. You know truth. You know righteousness. You know what you are called to do…to serve. But you are at war with your own hearts.”

  Marcello shook his head, his eyes hollow and distant. “You do not know the whole of it.”

  I stared hard at him, wondering if he would cave, tell them at last what it was that we faced. How the plague would last. And last, and last…this battle against the unseen enemy.

  But he did not.

  “We do not know the whole of it,” Adela pressed, looking not to him but to Luca, “but you will not tell us all that you know.”

  “Or believe you know,” Tomas said. “Only the Lord knows what lies ahead of us.”

  Or those who come from the future, I thought. But it caught me, that thought. Did I know, truly know, all? We only knew a portion, really. The main, overwhelming, scene-stealing storyline. But what sorts of subplots might go on beneath in the next few years, adding texture and depth? The thought gave me an odd surge of hope. Could the plague be our backdrop, but not the stage itself?

  “We shall not keep you here as prisoners,” Marcello said, his face slack with weariness and defeat. “But just as I begged you to not go to Rodolfo Greco because I feared the worst—and you ended up on the wall, with a noose about your neck—so, now, do I beg you not to go out there.”

  Tomas stared back at Marcello, remembering. He had been so close to death that day. One push away from strangulation atop the wall of Castello Paratore.

  “We all were spared that day, were we not?” Tomas asked softly.

  I thought about it. Dad taking the sword through the chest. Gabi hanging over the edge of the precipice. The rocks launched from the catapult, so narrowly missing us. The knights who came against us, thirsting for our blood.

  And yet we had been spared. Every one of us.

  “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. ’Tis never ours to hold, regardless of how we like to pretend it is,” Tomas said.