I pulled my eight-inch dagger from my belt and held it in front of me.
“Come now, She-Wolf,” he said, like I was a silly five-year-old. “Do you wish me to take off your entire arm with my sword? Put that down.”
The blade felt light and nimble in my hands. But he was right; it was no match for his powerful sword.
He lunged forward, surprisingly fast, grabbed hold of my forearm and turned, sending me flying over his back and onto my own, in the dirt, disarmed. He immediately was on me, pinning my arms to the ground, barely allowing me to breathe with his weight on my belly. He grinned exultantly at me, then over at Marcello.
“Gabriella!” Marcello screamed. But he could not get past the two knights that held him at bay.
From what I could see, five Forelli knights lay dead on the ground. Only three of this man’s mercenaries were beside them. And I knew they came with far greater numbers.
Lord Greco lifted a fallen soldier’s shield and casually set it behind him to protect his head and upper torso from Lia’s arrows. “So…Lady Gabriella, I say it once again. Come with me, as my willing hostage. Mayhap, in time, we can work out an exchange with Sir Forelli.”
“Never,” I said, wanting to spit in his face, but judging from how things were going, I was fairly certain it would just lob up and fall back on me. I cast around for any reason to get us out of this predicament.
Plague.
I tried to laugh but found it hard with him sitting on my diaphragm.
“What amuses you?” he asked, his handsome eyes squinting.
“You are already dead.”
He raised a brow and glanced around. “On the contrary, it is Sir Forelli’s men who seem to be anxious to meet their Maker.”
“You will too, soon enough.”
He shook his head a little, as if I was merely wasting time. My fingers were going numb, the circulation cut off beneath his knees.
“Do you not wonder why we were out here? So close to Firenze’s border, with so few?” I asked, a note of triumph in my voice. “Did you not wonder why you suddenly had a chance to attack?”
He paused, waiting for it.
“Because we have plague among us, you fool. Plague.” P-L-A-G-U-E. My grin widened.
It took me a moment to understand that he was off of me. I could breathe again. I coughed and rolled to my side, then hurried to my feet, crouched, ready for another attack. But Lord Greco’s eyes were scanning our group.
“You dogs sent home a prisoner—in exchange for Lord Paratore—infected with plague. We went to assist his wife this day, in her vineyard, when he returned. Was he the only one?” I advanced upon him, shaking with fury, sensing my advantage, his fear. “Or did you send every ill man you could find home to our people? Is there no sense of decency about you? No shred of morality?”
He stared back at me, hard. And then I knew. They had sent back prisoners who were suffering from illness, of one sort or another. Of all the underhanded, horrible war tactics…
“Signore Giannini kissed my hand, embraced our men in greeting,” I spit out. “There is plague among us, and now, mayhap, among you, too.”
Finally he read my righteous anger as truth. “Cease your attack!” he cried, backing up. “Retreat! There is plague among them!”
I didn’t bother to tell him that it was too late, that they were probably already exposed. Run home and infect all your people. Go! I felt mean for a sec, but I was definitely in that eye-for-an-eye mode.
Marcello arrived beside me, panting, bleeding at his brow. But he seemed okay. He edged in front of me as Lord Greco mounted his horse and looked over to us. He wiped his upper lip of sweat, crossed himself as if to ward off evil spirits, gave Marcello a long look, and without another word, galloped away, his troops behind him.
“He seemed…reluctant to fight you and your men,” I said to Marcello. “Though it didn’t keep him from coming after me.”
“At one time, during more peaceful times, our fathers traded. They were with us every year.”
“So he knows your land well.”
Marcello nodded grimly. “I doubt they ever returned to Firenze, since their time in Siena. They simply were lying in wait for us, for the opportunity to try and kidnap you.”
“Will he know where we’re heading?”
“It will not be difficult to guess,” he said. “But we have little choice.” His eyes moved to the men, gathering together around the bodies of their fallen comrades. We’d managed to take down five of Greco’s men. But they’d left us with eleven dead. Only thirteen knights left. My heart pounded.
“Bury them,” Marcello said to the men. “We cannot take their bodies back to Castello Forelli anyway.” There was a note of defeat in his voice, the first I’d ever heard there. I knew he considered all of the men friends, brothers. I could only find some gladness in the fact that Luca, Pietro, and Giovanni, his closest friends, were not among the dead. But I, too, knew all of the dead by name.
I placed a hand on his arm, waited for his sad eyes to meet mine for a moment, and said, “I am sorry for your pain.”
“Far greater would my pain be had they captured you,” he said, touching my chin.
I returned his sad, somber smile and looked to Luca, who was helping Lia from the tree. I hurried over to her, and we embraced, with Luca awkwardly standing to the side, as if he wished he were in on our hug-fest.
“Your arrows flew straight and true,” he said, smiling down at her.
“If only my aim had been as straight and true,” she returned ruefully. “It was most difficult, with the branches.”
“And yet those branches kept you safe from our enemy’s strikes,” he said.
All three of us looked up. I swallowed hard when I saw the fifty or more arrows lodged in the trunk and branches all around Lia’s position. I hugged her again. “Oh, Lia.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, through teeth chattering from nerves. Her blue eyes met mine. “We should go, Gabi. Grab Mom and get out of here.”
She spoke in English, but Luca obviously understood. His face fell from concern to hurt. He turned and edged away. Lia glanced his way, and a tinge of sorrow crossed her face, but then she looked back to me. “We should go,” she repeated, pulling me a few paces away, where we could speak in privacy. “Before we’re all dead.”
“But you were the one who said we should stay,” I returned fiercely.
“Yeah, well, that was a serious dose of reality,” she said, gesturing toward the men, hauling the dead bodies away.
“We’re miles from the tombs and the castello now,” I said, piecing together my argument as I went. “We need to get to safety, see to the sick, before we think of home again.”
She shook her head. “If we get the plague, we’ll never make it to the tombs. In the dark, we could make our way—”
“Did you hear what Marcello said to me? As the men attacked? Fight to the death. Clearly, if we’re caught and hauled off to Firenze, it won’t be pretty. Our only chance is to stay with the men.”
She shrugged. “We won’t get caught.”
“You think.”
“I think.”
Marcello neared, obviously wondering what was up. But Lia and I were only looking at each other.
“Even if we were able to get back there,” I said, “grab Mom, and make it to the tombs. Then what? We arrive back in our time to what? To spread the next round of the bubonic plague in the twenty-first century?”
“No,” she said. “The tunnel would heal us, just as it healed you of the poison and your wound.”
She was right, of course. But I couldn’t let on that I agreed with her. I couldn’t leave. Not now. I would always wonder if Marcello had died of the plague, whispering my name, wishing I were there. I didn’t know if I could live w
ith that on my conscience—that I’d taken care of myself and left him to face it alone.
I glanced at him, standing there, watching us argue in English, arms folded, then looked back to my sister. “What if the tomb doorway doesn’t heal us this time, Lia? What if that was just a one-time deal?”
“They have medicine for the plague, in our time,” she said, delicate brows lowering over her eyes.
“Medicine for the twenty-first century version of the plague. What if it’s evolved? Different? You know, like H1N1? Or the flu? How it’s always different, every year? What if they can’t stop it? What if we’re responsible for bringing back the greatest horror the world’s seen in some time?”
Her pretty lips clamped shut.
“You know how many people died in the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918?” I asked, pressing her now, knowing I was gaining some ground.
She rolled her eyes. She always loved it when I pulled out health stats.
“Fifty million. A third of the world’s population got it.” I shook my head. “No, we fight this bug here. We’re not taking it home.”
“Whatever, Gabi,” she said, edging past me. “You’re making an excuse. You know it as well as I.” She walked toward her horse. Luca silently helped her mount and then turned to his own.
I sighed and followed, Marcello right behind me.
It was almost completely dark now.
I hoped no other loyal Fiorentini or mercenaries lurked, willing to risk illness in order to capture the handsome price on our heads.
Because right then, I was running low on the will to fight.
CHAPTER 11
When we arrived, the people from the large manor had scurried out as if warring tribes would soon be upon them, rather than their own protector, Sir Forelli. They looked frightened and stayed well clear of us as they left on wagon and horse for the safety of the castello. We huddled together in the main room of the house, weapons at the ready, guards at the perilously short walls, all night. And we’d given up on keeping the “most exposed” away from the rest, since in the battle, we’d all intermingled in order to survive.
I was just dozing off at sunrise, my head dropping to Marcello’s shoulder like a thousand-pound weight, when a guard banged open the door. Marcello and Luca and a couple of others were immediately on their feet but eased when they saw Pietro’s face. “M’lord, a thousand pardons,” he said, “but the Sienese contingent has arrived. They ask to speak to you.”
“Good,” Marcello grunted, following him out. I could hear the relief in his voice. He motioned to me and took my hand, but we left Lia where she was, sleeping in the corner.
We climbed narrow steps—short half timbers stuck in the mud of the wall—to the top and looked out upon a brilliant Tuscan morning. Warm light glowed across the thick forest and grasses of the hill before us. The Sienese knights were a hundred feet away, keeping their distance.
“M’lord,” one called, lifting a hand toward Marcello. “I am Captain Alberto Bicchieri. The Nine have sent us here to provide protection as you and your company regain your health.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Marcello called back. “We are greatly relieved you are here. We suffered an attack by Lord Greco of Firenze en route here. He may linger yet.”
“We shall make certain he returns to his side of the border,” the captain pledged with a cocky grin as his horse danced beneath him. “You are in good health, m’lord?”
“Indeed,” Marcello returned. “As of yet, none of us show any symptoms. We were forced to leave Signore Giannini, from the vineyard south of the castello.”
“May God protect you all. We shall set our ranks in groups of thirty men, on all four sides of the manor, sir, with scouts on all sides as well. If anyone is coming our way, we’ll know of it.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Marcello called. “There are more reinforcements on their way?”
“Fret not, m’lord,” the captain returned. “We are well aware of your…vulnerabilities.” He gazed at me for a second. “Reinforcements have been sent for and should arrive by sundown.”
“Very well,” Marcello said. “Thank you, Captain.”
We left after the captain pledged to get us any supplies we found lacking, and returned to the main hall of the manor. Now that our meager walls were guarded, we felt safe enough to retire to separate quarters instead of huddling together like a bunch of refugees. I was just thinking longingly of settling atop a straw tick—I was so tired that I thought I might be able to catch a few z’s, even on a bed of nails—when Lia appeared at my door. “Gabi! Come.”
I followed her to a room on the first floor. She was going too fast for conversation. When we reached the doorway, she glanced back at me, and the terror in her eyes filled me with a deep dread.
Oh no. No, no. NO.
Luca was by the fire, shivering, sweating profusely, Marcello by his side.
Lia shook her head worriedly in my direction, daring to hold his hand in hers after feeling his pulse. “It’s fast,” she said. “So fast, Gabi.” She looked like she was about to faint herself.
“You really shouldn’t be in here, Lia.”
“None of us should,” she muttered, looking at Luca. “What’s the point?” she said. “We’ve clearly all been exposed.” One maid had refused to leave with the others, claiming she was too old to die anyplace but Villa Orci. She arrived with a bowl of water and rags but then stepped back.
I knelt beside Luca and wondered what I could do. I didn’t really know about treatments for bubonic plague, though I’d stumbled upon information about it once when my lymph nodes had been swollen. The size of his nodes had tripled in hours, making his neck look gross, bulbous. I reached for his hand; at least there was no sign of the gangrene that Signore Giovanni had suffered. Yet.
He was panting, his eyes unfocused. Delirious. There was no trace of the Luca I knew.
“Marcello, can you remove his shirt?” I asked. But as soon as we saw his bare chest, I wished I hadn’t.
Lia gasped. All around his armpits were spiderwebs of broken blood vessels.
“Water,” I muttered to a knight behind me, who was hovering in the doorway, though I asked more to appease my dry throat than to force any down Luca’s. I knew why I was freaking. This plague was as horrible as the stories said, taking down one after another. Luca. Not Luca, Lord. Please…
He was beautiful. His chest was well muscled, perfectly formed. But I could not keep my eyes from the purple webs. “Please, Marcello, raise his arms,” I said.
“Are you certain?”
I nodded, and he moved to reluctantly do as I bade.
Lia and I leaned back when we saw it. Lymph nodes, the size of grapes when they were normal, were now as big as eggs, one beside the other. And the smell—one of the nodes had burst, leaving an odd pit beneath the skin where it once had been.
I shook my head, trying to get my mind around it. “He was perfectly fine just hours ago, right?” I looked to Marcello, then Lia, and they both nodded back at me.
How would we fight such an aggressive monster? How, God, how?
Luca’s belly was not distended, but below his belly button, there was more discoloration. Lymph nodes in the groin, too, I dimly remembered.
Wincing, Lia turned away from Luca. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“We must bleed him, m’lady,” the maid said to me. Over her shoulder, a knight arrived with the requested water pitcher and clay goblet.
“Bleed him?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard her.
“The buboes,” she said, nodding toward Luca, referring to the swollen lymph nodes. “We must cut them open, let them bleed out, then stuff them with eggshells and lily root.”
“Eggshells and lily root,” I repeated.
“Mischiato con uno stronzo,” she added, as if I sho
uld know this.
Stronzo. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic. The woman actually wanted me to mix eggshells, lily root, and some of our business from the chamber pot, and pat it into his open wounds. I was no doctor, but I was as good as they were going to get. And I was pretty sure that putting poop on a wound was a bad idea. In fact, I was pretty sure that cutting open the buboes was a bad idea to begin with.
“Some say that if you put a red hen beside the buboes at night,” the maid added, “that it’ll drag out the poison.”
I stared at her. She was serious. I remembered a story my dad had told me. About the priests in Siena taking down the statues of Venus and other goddesses and gods in the piazza, certain that the plague was the result of God’s condemnation. They chopped up old Venus and then sneaked bits of her into the mud of Firenze’s new wall, hoping it’d transfer the Divine’s attention from Siena to their enemies.
Even the educated had become desperate, steeped in superstition.
This is gonna get really, really ugly.
At that moment, I wished I’d said yes to Lia. That we’d made a run for it. Grabbed Mom. Hightailed it home.
But with one look at Marcello, patiently waiting on my direction, then Luca, so bravely fighting this dreaded disease, I knew I had to stay here, with them, to the bitter end. Fight it out.
For them. For us, somehow, too.
I knew it looked grim for Luca. Bursting buboes couldn’t be a good sign. Or could it? Was it like a blister busting open, the skin tearing away and then healing?
I scratched a tiny bite on my arm and wondered if I’d been bitten, if a tick or flea had infected me, too. But I knew that was silly—that I was more likely to have gotten it from Signore Giannini when he kissed my hand.
I’d once happened upon a medical show where they demonstrated how far spit flew when someone coughed with their mouths uncovered. During a particularly gross-out segment, they had a child blow out candles on a birthday cake, and then they shined a blue light on it. It was covered. I mean covered. I hadn’t eaten a piece of birthday cake since.
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