by Debbie Rix
Bracciolini wished him Godspeed, and accompanied by his servants, Mattheo and Vincenzo, Niccolò rode out of Florence that night. Their journey was one hundred and sixty miles. If they managed twenty-five miles a day, it would take them nearly a week to get back. Desperate to rescue his daughter and son, Niccolò was determined to get to Venice as soon as possible. He drove the horses and his servants hard. They arrived in Venice barely five days later, to find the house locked and deserted.
He went at once to the Council and demanded to know what had happened and where his children had been taken.
‘What evidence was there of plague?’ he asked.
‘The boy had marks on his face, arms and legs – suppurating sores, they appeared to be.’
‘And my daughter?’
‘She appeared well, and was taken to the Lazaretto Nuovo, with one of your servants, I believe.’
‘And how did you come to notice my son and his “suppurating sores?”’ Niccolò asked.
‘It was reported; that is all I can say. Someone told us that they had their suspicions. We sent our inspectors and they confirmed it.’
Niccolò racked his brains, trying to work out who amongst their acquaintances would have ‘reported’ such a thing.
‘And how long will they remain there?’ Niccolò asked the official.
‘Some forty days in the Vecchio, and then another thirty on the Nuovo – seventy in all – as long as they stay alive, of course.’
‘You know as well as I do that if he was not ill when he arrived, he almost certainly will be by the time he leaves… If he ever gets to leave at all.’ Niccolò sat, his head in his hands. Finally, he stood. ‘I need to get into my house,’ he said.
‘No, the house is quarantined – also for forty days. You may enter once again in a little over a month’s time; as soon as we are sure that any trace of the disease has been eliminated.’
Niccolò wanted to argue with them, to shout and scream, ‘My children are well, and you are probably going to kill them with your meddling.’ But he knew well enough that nothing could be achieved by arguing. The decision had been taken and he must abide by it. He would have to find some other way of helping Maria and Daniele.
He found temporary lodgings in a taverna near the Piazza San Marco and slept fitfully that night. The following morning, he walked to his house down the lane that led past the convent. He stood at the side door and pushed, more in hope than anticipation, wishing it to open. But it was locked, and there were strong wooden barriers nailed across the door barring entry. A tall young man with blond hair, who had been hovering in the lane nearby, approached him.
‘Excuse me, Signor,’ he said to Niccolò. ‘Forgive me, but do you know the family that live in this house?’
‘I do – and well. I live in this house – or at least I did. Why?’
‘Are you Maria dei Conti’s father?’
‘I am.’
‘Sir, I am a friend of your daughter… A good friend. She sent me a message telling me what had happened to her. I presume that is why you are returned? She told me that you were in Florence.’
Niccolò looked up at the man in some surprise.
‘You appear to know much of my business and that of my daughter.’
‘Sir, please. I mean no harm. I am a merchant too, as you are. I come from Nuremberg. I was recently introduced to your daughter.’ The young man paused.
‘Go on,’ said Niccolò.
‘Sir, I seek only to help her and her brother. I know that they have been taken in error. I am sure there is nothing wrong with Daniele. It is all a terrible mistake. I am here to help you, Sir. To offer you any assistance.’
The two men retreated to the taverna on the Piazza and Peter told Niccolò all that he knew of Maria and Daniele’s predicament.
‘I know she wrote you a letter. She has become friends with a young nun in the convent over there.’ He gestured towards San Zaccaria.
‘Yes,’ said Niccolò. ‘She mentioned her to me in one of her letters – Polisena, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Polisena. She is the friend of a friend of mine. She is there against her will, if you understand?’
‘I do Peter. I understand well. But what of her?’
‘Maria spoke to her as she was being taken away, I understand. It was fortunate that she was working in the garden that day. She said it was all a terrible mistake and asked Polisena to make sure that I knew, so that I could help her.’
‘Maria must have great faith in you,’ said Niccolò.
‘I certainly hope so. Sir, I am willing to try to rescue her – if you will allow it.’
‘That surely would be impossible,’ said Niccolò darkly.
‘No, I do not think so. I have been making enquiries about this island.’
‘Poveglia?’
‘Yes. It is a boat ride away. I can row a boat. Surely we can rescue them both.’
‘Well, I admire your bravery. But even if we could rescue them, and I am doubtful, what then? They will be tracked down in Venice and returned to the island immediately. The authorities take any suggestion of the plague very seriously.’
‘Yes, well, I agree that it is a complex problem. But I have a solution.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sir, I love your daughter, and I believe she loves me. I give you my word that I have not dishonoured her in any way, but just a few days ago, we discussed marriage. She was concerned that she has no dowry, or at least was not sure if she did. But I do not care, Sir. She is the most remarkable woman I have ever met. I am a merchant from Germany. My family – we do not require any dowry. We are successful. Besides, I’m sure my father would be delighted to know that you are also a merchant. He has always wanted our family to be united with another great mercantile family. I am sure I can persuade my father. And if you would allow us to marry, I would take her straightway to live with me in the north, far from here. I would take her brother too – if you would allow it. She has often mentioned that he yearns for a more active life. I could take him into my business, Sir, and care for him.’
Niccolò sat quietly through Peter’s speech. ‘You take a lot on your young shoulders, Peter Haas.’
‘I am ready for it, believe me.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Niccolò spoke again. ‘I have spent the last twenty-five years travelling the world. I have seen and done many things – things that would amaze you, Peter. I have met Emperors and Princes: men of extraordinary wealth and power; who married hundreds of wives – women who must be burned alive when their husband dies. I have seen all manner of wild animals and strange creatures. I have travelled by sea, and on land. I have studied languages and religions. And I was married to a beautiful woman from the land of India. I had four children with my wife and lost two of them, and her, to plague in Egypt. I returned to Venice hoping to live peacefully until my death with my two remaining children. But the truth is that my children are travellers, as I have been. They have lived all over the world and travelled from the moment they were born. They have only known adventure. They are both brave and capable. If my daughter truly loves you and wishes to marry you, then who am I to prevent it? And as for my son, I know that he struggles with life here in Venice. He misses his active life on the road.
‘Of one thing, I am certain. If I leave him on Poveglia for forty days, he will almost certainly die. Maria will probably survive on the quarantine island, if she is there. But I know my daughter, and what I fear is that she will have gone with Daniele. She would not let him face that on his own. So, young Peter Haas, let us rescue them, for they will not survive on that island, full as it is of illness and depravity. But I beg you, do not betray me. If we do this, you must take them away from here. If you go back on your word, I will never forgive you.’
‘We will not fail; and I will not betray you, sir. You have my word – my merchant’s bond.’
Chapter Eleven
The Island
Maria and Daniele kn
ocked on the old oak door of the hospital. After a few minutes, they heard a rasping, rattling cough, as a woman – grey-haired and dishevelled, in filthy clothes – opened the door.
She took in the two well-dressed young people standing on the doorstep. Both were tall and attractive; neither showing any signs of illness. The girl wore a long dark blue gown over a linen camicetta. Her dark hair was covered by a turban of rich dark red silk and, over it all, a dark cloak of the finest wool cloth. The boy, a head taller than his sister, also fashionably turbaned, was wearing dark red hose, with a sage green coppia held in place with a narrow leather belt.
‘Well, you’re a fine sight,’ said the woman, looking the young people up and down.
Maria and Daniele glanced nervously at one another.
‘You’d better come with me,’ was all she said, before leading them up two flights of stone stairs to the top of the house. Judging by her appearance, she was neither a nurse, nor a nun; she was simply a serving woman who had survived more by luck than judgement, and now appeared to be in sole control of over two hundred sick and dying patients.
As the old woman opened the door to the ward, Daniele gasped. Rows of beds stretched away from them, with two or three patients to a bed. The bed linen was filthy; the patients’ clothing in tatters. The stench of humanity was overwhelming, in spite of the fact that several of the high, barred windows had been opened. The bedlam on the ward was so at odds with the glorious sunny day outside that Maria could hardly take in what she was seeing.
‘These people are in a terrible state,’ she said sharply to the woman.
‘So they are, and what did you expect?’
‘And where are we to sleep?’ Maria asked incredulously.
‘There’s a bed there – in the middle. It’s just been emptied,’ said the woman.
‘Emptied?’ said Maria.
‘They were taken away an hour or more back.’
Maria cast an anxious glance at Daniele. ‘And you expect us to sleep in that bed, in those sheets, where people have just died?’
‘It’s there, or the floor,’ said the woman.
Maria took a coin out of her pocket and showed it to the woman. ‘There is more where that came from if you find us a bed next to the wall and remove all the sheets. I have brought our own bed linen and will change it myself.’
The woman eyed the coin and snatched it from Maria’s hand before marching into the ward. She dragged the bed down to the far end, and tore the soiled linen off it, throwing it onto the floor.
‘There… Happy now?’ she asked.
Maria and Daniele walked down the centre of the ward. As they passed each bed, bony hands reached out to them begging for help.
‘I am cold… Help me?’ asked one.
‘Water… Please…’ pleaded another.
A young man clutched at his stomach before vomiting violently. He tried to lean over the edge of the bed, but the putrid mess spewed over the sheet and onto his flimsy nightshirt. He sank back onto the soiled mattress, apparently unaware of the filth in which he was now lying.
The patients were in various states of sickness. Most appeared to be suffering from the bubonic form of the disease; the skin on their necks, armpits or groins erupted with vast boils the size of eggs; boils that appeared to be black but were actually due to bleeding beneath the skin. In spite of herself, Maria was revolted at the sight of these poor unfortunate people.
At their allotted bed, Maria took out the sheets that Alfreda and Bella had thoughtfully packed for them. She made up the bed, fighting back tears, desperately trying to remain in control for Daniele, who stood, his back to the wall, staring in horror at the people with whom they would spend the following forty days.
‘Daniele,’ she said to him, ‘look out of the window. You can see the sky from our bed. The clouds are beautiful today. Look… See?’
But he could not hear her. He stood quite transfixed, unable to move.
The bed made up, she guided him to sit on the edge, facing the wall.
‘Look Daniele. . . at the sky. . . out there. That is what you must concentrate on. Would you like something to eat? Alfreda has packed some delicious cheese and bread.’
He shook his head.
The serving woman returned to the ward with a bowl of water and began, ineffectually, to mop up the vomit on the floor. She muttered as she worked. The young man who had been sick raised his head from his soiled pillow and begged her for water to drink.
‘I have water, but it’s not for drinking, you filthy devil. Look at this mess you’ve made.’
Daniele, overhearing this exchange, rose indignantly to his feet. ‘Get that boy some water,’ he demanded. ‘He is sick, he cannot help it.’
The woman looked at Daniele with such hatred that he physically recoiled. He sat back down on the bed next to his sister. But he found his courage again. ‘Where is the water?’ he demanded. ‘I shall bring him some.’
Maria clutched at his arm: ‘Daniele, no!’
‘I cannot sit here and watch this,’ he said.
He strode decisively between the row of beds and down the stairs. On the floor below, he passed two other wards, one on either side of the staircase, each containing as many sick and dying people as the ward above – all of them begging for help, crying, vomiting. He ran down the stairs two at a time now, and rushed over to the front door, yanking it open. He inhaled the clean, salty air that blew in off the lagoon, breathing in deeply.
Returning to the house, he found what passed for a kitchen: a dingy space at the back with a large fire in the grate – long since extinguished. There was a well in one corner with a pump. He took a wooden bowl from a shelf and pumped the water out of the well, filling the bowl. He grabbed two small ceramic cups and returned to the ward, where he ladled water into the mouths of the thirsty patients.
Maria, overwhelmed by his generosity of spirit and bravery, rushed across to him and quickly tore the turban off his head and wrapped it around his mouth. She did the same with her own turban, freeing a length long enough to tie around her face; she also took a cup and went round the ward, helping the patients to drink.
Returning to the kitchen, the pair searched for provisions. There was a crust of bread on the table, blue with mould. A pot of what might have once been gruel lay solidifying near the fire. In a cupboard near the fireplace, Maria found a sack of rice and another of barley. There were a few onions, but little more.
Daniele went outside into the garden and found some pieces of wood to light the fire. An old man appeared as he gathered the wood into his arms.
‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded of the young man.
‘Gathering wood of course – to light a fire,’ Daniele said defiantly. The man was frail, older even than his own father. He was bent over with arthritis. He was no threat to the tall healthy boy who stood boldly before him. ‘What is your job here?’ he asked the old man.
‘I bury them,’ said the old man darkly. ‘Over there, behind the hedge, in the pit.’
Daniele swallowed hard and turned his back on the man.
The old serving woman returned to the kitchen and stared at the two young people, as Maria pumped water from the well and attempted to clean the kitchen whilst Daniele laid wood in the fireplace.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded the woman indignantly.
‘I am trying to cook some food for those poor people up there,’ replied Maria.
The woman stared at the pair suspiciously. ‘Why are you here? You don’t look sick.’
‘There has been a mistake,’ answered Maria. ‘Now pump that well and fill that bowl with water. And light that fire. We need to get some hot water and cook some food for the patients who are well enough to eat.’
The woman shrugged her shoulders and did as she was told, apparently grateful to be relieved of the responsibility of caring for two hundred sick people.
While Maria cleaned the kitchen and cooked up some of the rice with a little of the o
nion, Daniele went from bed to bed offering water and comfort where he could. He found that he was quite unafraid. He clung to the belief that the turban wrapped round his mouth would protect him. It had protected his father and it would do the same for him.
Once the patients had all been offered water and food, Maria suggested to the serving woman that they begin to wash the linen. ‘If a patient dies, their sheets should be removed and boiled up over the fire, ready for a new patient.’
The old woman looked doubtful, but did as she was told. As sheets hung on a line to dry, Maria and Daniele went outside into the garden and sat on the edge of the jetty looking longingly out to sea. As they removed their masks and allowed the sunshine to warm their faces, they could see distant fishing boats, even the occasional galleon sailing towards Malamocco.
‘Why can’t we just leave here?’ said Daniele. ‘Perhaps we could attract attention somehow, and get one of those boats to come and rescue us.’
‘Cara, they all know this is the plague island. Who would come to help us? No, we are here until the boatman comes and take us to the Lazzaretto Nuovo. We must resign ourselves to that and just endure it. But Daniele, I am proud of you for standing up to that horrible old woman. You were right. If we must be here, then at least we can try to help. But we must be vigilant, and keep our faces covered at all times in there. Do you promise me?’
Later that night, their work finished, they returned to their ward and lay down exhausted on their bed.
Daniele was asleep within seconds. Maria lay gazing at the moon, dreaming of Peter, and of their home on the Rio dei Greci. She was startled from her thoughts by the appearance of an old woman patient who had been in the bed near the door and asleep when they arrived. She shuffled towards Maria.
‘What do you want?’ she asked the old woman, grabbing her mask and pulling it up over her face. She tried to pull Daniele’s mask over his face too, but he moaned in his sleep and turned away from her towards the wall.
