Chapter 3
June 1635
Firenze
“Are you awake, my friend?”
Gregorio roused to find someone gently patting the side of his face. He opened his eyes, finding them bleary, and blinked several times to try and clear them before focusing on the gray-bearded face that hung before him. “I…think so,” he said.
“Good.” The face retreated a little, and Gregorio could now see that it was attached to a body that wore nice clothes, including a hat in the Tuscan style. “Do you know where you are?” The man’s voice was pleasant and sounded native to Tuscany, albeit with a hint of a different tone.
Gregorio closed his eyes and thought. He remembered leaving Roma and going north between the Apennine Mountains and the west coast. He was headed for…He opened his eyes. “Firenze?”
“Ah, you know that much.” The other man smiled. “But do you know where you are in Firenze?”
Gregorio looked around. He was in a very small, very spare room with no furniture but the cot on which he lay and the stool on which the man sat. “Not really. A hospice?”
“Close, my friend. You are in the Ospedale di Santa Maria Nuova. You were found sprawled on the Via del Servi across from the cathedral, so since the ospedale is near there, you were brought here. The concern, of course, is that you might have plague.” The man shrugged. “There is no evidence of plague, but you are not a well man. Do you know from what you suffer?”
“Are you a dottore?”
The man smiled. “Ah, I see I have not introduced myself. Dottore Giuda Loria, graduate of the University of Padua, at your service.” He placed a hand on his chest and gave a slight bow from where he was seated on the stool. “And you are?”
“Gregorio Agricola…” a chill shook him for a moment, “…and I have marsh fever.”
The doctor pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “A relapse?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, that would match my observations. You sound sort of like a Tuscan, but you are not dressed like one. Traveling?”
“Yes,” Gregorio admitted with reluctance. “North.”
“Well, you are going to have to break your travels for a least a few days while we feed you up and rebuild your strength somewhat. As fevers go, this is not the worst I’ve seen, but it has obviously taken a toll on you.”
“I cannot afford…”
“This is a community ospedale, friend Gregorio. You will stay here until I release you, and Firenze will provide for you. Understood?”
After a moment, Gregorio nodded. “Yes, Dottore. Understood.”
“Good. Now get some rest.”
As the doctor rose from the stool, Gregorio suddenly remembered why he was traveling. He jerked upright and looked around with panic, even though his head was spinning.
“What?” the doctor said. “What is wrong?”
“My pack!” Gregorio said. “My bag! Where is it?”
The doctor pointed to the head of the cot. “There, serving as your pillow.”
Gregorio slumped in relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
The doctor shrugged. “It was nothing. Now, get some rest.” He paused in the doorway. “Since you are not suspected now of having plague, the staff will move you to the men’s ward later today. Rest,” he repeated, “and I or another doctor will check on you tomorrow.”
With that, the doctor was gone, and Gregorio lay back on his bag with a sigh, wrapping his cloak around himself.
***
It was the middle of the next morning when Doctor Loria appeared again. By then, Gregorio had been in the men’s ward since just before the serving of supper the night before. A small bowl of chicken soup with a few scraps of real chicken in it, but mostly root vegetables. There was enough of it in which to dip the piece of very stale barley bread he’d been given to soften it enough to chew without breaking his teeth. Not as good a meal as he would have gotten at his chapterhouse, but he’d certainly had worse in his life.
The men’s ward had a dozen cots, most of which were occupied. The patients were mostly elderly men ill with one thing or another, although one man had apparently been on the losing side of a knife fight at a tavern the night before. Between his moans and the wheezy snores of several of the elder patients, Gregorio hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
Attendants walked through periodically, mostly to check on the knifing target and help him get to the chamberpot. Everyone else was apparently expected to get themselves to it, or be assisted to it by the more able of the patients. Gregorio helped with that a couple of times.
Midway through the morning, the attendants came and chivvied or helped all of the patients to go through a door to a small garden just outside the ward. Most of them clustered in a group of seats near the door, but Gregorio made his way farther out on a bit of lawn to sit on a bench in the sun. This was where the doctor found him, sitting quietly with his bag on his lap.
Gregorio looked up as the doctor settled beside him, saying, “So, my friend, how are you today?”
“Still somewhat shaky, I fear,” Gregorio said, “but better than yesterday. I was able to eat last night, anyway, for all that the soup was not as good as my mother’s.”
Doctor Loria chuckled. “If you can complain about the food, you are getting better. It wouldn’t be served at the Grand Duke’s table, but it is healthful enough to keep you alive.”
Gregorio shared the chuckle, looking over at the doctor as he did so. He studied his beard for a moment. “Are you a Jew?”
The doctor’s mouth quirked. “I am,” he responded quietly. “And no, I am not wearing the badge or the hat. Grand Duke Ferdinand does not often enforce that rule, especially with doctors. So,” he brushed his hand down his luxurious beard, “I am as you see me. Does that bother you or frighten you?”
“No,” Gregorio said after a moment. “Jews are good doctors. Everyone knows that.” He mustered a small smile.
Doctor Loria beckoned with two of his fingers and leaned toward Gregorio. “I know your secret, my friend. For all that you tried to disguise it by hacking your hair off with your knife blade, the hair growing in your tonsure is not hidden. So, given the news of the past days, you are running from Roma, yes?” He put his hand on Gregorio’s arm as he started. “Calm, my friend. Calm. I have no desire to reveal you to anyone. I am not, after all, a Christian, so your disputes are not mine. And even if they were, if you are fleeing Borja, my sympathies are with you. So, yes? No? What are you about?”
“Yes, I’m fleeing Roma.” Gregorio hung his head. “I’m not brave. I’m not a fighter. I saw too many people die the day the Spaniards assaulted. I didn’t want to be one of them.”
“I do not blame you, my friend. I, too, have seen too many things like that.” The doctor patted his arm. “Having listened to more of your manner of speech and by your name, I would say you are not from Tuscany. Am I right?
“Yes,” Gregorio nodded. “From a little village not far outside of Innsbruck, in Tyrol.”
“So are you going home?”
“No. I need to get farther away from Roma than that. And…”
“And?” the doctor prompted after a moment.
“I promised to deliver a message.”
“Ah.” Doctor Loria leaned back a bit, and nodded his head. “So you would keep a promise. Admirable. How much farther do you have to travel beyond Innsbruck?”
“A long way. Much farther.” Gregorio was trying to keep his answers short. He didn’t want to give anything away.
“Ah.” The doctor said nothing more, which gladdened Gregorio.
After a moment, Doctor Loria stood and placed a hand on Gregorio’s shoulder. “We’ll see how you’re doing tomorrow. Rest.”
The evening and the following morning happened much as the previous times had, but that Doctor Loria arrived somewhat later in the day. Gregorio was standing near a small oleander tree, cupping one of its blossoms in his hand, when he heard someone move up behind him.
“A lovely fragrance, is it not?”
Gregorio looked over his shoulder to see the doctor standing there with a smile on his face, looking at the oleander. “It is,” he agreed. “The smell reminds me of some of the Vatican gardens.”
“Ah.” Loria nodded. “They are common in the grand duke’s gardens as well. My wife has two not much bigger than this one in her garden. We often sit by them in the evening, as the stars come out. How are you doing today?” The doctor changed topics without a break or hesitation, but kept looking at the oleander.
“Better than yesterday,” Gregorio said as he turned his own gaze back to the tree. “Strong enough to stand and walk about, but not enough to go back on the road, I suspect.”
Loria pursed his lips and nodded twice. “Actually, that’s good progress. Marsh fever is nothing to take lightly. Mal aria we call it now, based on the description by the esteemed historian Leonardo Bruni in his famed Historiarum Florentini Populi. Have you read it?”
Gregorio shook his head. “No. I can’t say that I’ve even heard of it.”
“I have,” the doctor said. “All twelve volumes of it. An interesting work in some respects, albeit a bit pretentious in others. But in one chapter he describes the fever as being due to bad air, hence, mal aria. And of all the things that he wrote in that work, that has become almost commonplace.” He shook his head. “One cannot account for tastes, I suppose.”
Gregorio released the blossom to bob at the end of its branch, and clasped his hands on his bag. “No, I dare say one cannot. I hope to gain strength soon,” he said with a sigh. “I dare not stay here much longer. It’s too close to Roma.”
“The message that you bear,” Loria murmured, “does it have aught to do with the book in your bag? Gently,” the doctor said as Gregorio stiffened and his hands clutched the bag, “gently. No one knows but me. I checked the bag for identifying marks when you were brought in. I read Greek—I know what you carry—but it is none of my concern. I only ask because I may be able to help.”
Gregorio took a deep breath, then let it out as he consciously relaxed his shoulders and loosened his hands’ grip on the bag. He took another deep breath and released it as well before replying.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“Then I may be able to help,” Loria murmured as he turned to look behind them at where the attendants were beginning to gather the other patients and lead them inside again.
“How so?”
“I have friends who are in Firenze right now who will be leaving for Venezia very soon. They may be willing to let you ride with them. Even if that’s not your destination, it would get you farther on your journey.”
“Jews?”
Loria’s mouth quirked under his moustache. “Of course, Jews,” the doctor said. “Come, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Gregorio held his hand up, then touched his hair. “Is there a barber…”
Loria nodded. “Tomorrow.”
***
Gregorio was allowed a chance to bathe that afternoon, although he wasn’t able to launder his clothing. He looked forward to the arrival of night, but unfortunately for him he didn’t sleep well after the attendants turned out the lamps in the ward. He kept waking from nightmares of Jesuits and musketeers beating in his door and dragging him out to face…he didn’t know what. He kept waking up before that point. The last time he just sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. He hugged his bag to his chest, and tried to take slow deep breaths. After a time, he was calmer, and he looked around the ward.
There was a bit of moonlight coming in a window. He could kind of see his fellow patients. The old man named Giuseppe was talking in his sleep, asking for wine. Gregorio chuckled a little at that. The slightly younger man named Enrico, the one with the broken arm, was snoring. That got a head shake. Most of the others were curled up on their cots, motionless but for their breathing, although it did appear that Pietro had his thumb in his mouth. Gregorio shook his head at that, too.
Gregorio stared at the beam of moonlight coming through the window for what felt like a long time. It gave him a sense of serenity to see the white light, a sense of God’s design still being in place. He felt his tension and fear drain away, leaving him in peace. “Saint Jerome,” he murmured, “I am still trying to fulfill my charge.” His calmness and peace increased, and a feeling of approval washed over him. He rolled back onto his cot, pillowing his head on his right arm and wrapping his left arm around his bag. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and knew nothing more until the morning.
***
The barley rolls the men were given the next morning were fresh, and still slightly warm from the baker. They were also given a small pot of slushy drippings, with bits of suet and lard floating in it, to share and spread upon the bread. Gregorio let the others go first, so there wasn’t much left when he got to the pot. He tore his roll into pieces and wiped the inside of the pot, popping the greasy bits of bread into his mouth and enjoying the savory-sweet flavor of the drippings and fat. That was good eating, as far as Gregorio was concerned. It reminded him of when he was a small child in his mother’s kitchen, and the little scraps she would feed him while she was cooking.
After the meal, they were led to the chapel to hear a short mass led by the neighborhood priest. Gregorio participated gladly. He had missed that so very much while on the road. He walked back to the ward afterward, smiling.
Dr. Loria came early that morning, arriving at the ward not long after the patients had returned from the mass. He had another man with him that he brought to Gregorio first. “Tomas, this is Gregorio. Shave him, please, head and beard.”
“What…” Gregorio began.
“Delousing, or to cool you from the fevers,” the doctor said with a bit of a grin. “Take your pick. But it will…” he waved his hand at Gregorio’s hair. Gregorio grimaced, but nodded In acceptance.
While the barber worked, Loria made the rounds of the patients, talking to them, feeling foreheads, taking pulses at the wrist. He came to Gregorio just as Tomas was wiping the remains of the oil from Gregorio’s face and scalp.
“And how are you today, my friend?” Loria winked as he followed the same routine of forehead and wrist.
Gregorio waited until the doctor had finished before he said, “A bit cooler.” He ran his hand over his naked scalp. “Also tired. I had some trouble sleeping last night. But I feel stronger.”
“Good,” Doctor Loria nodded. “Good. You look steadier, as well. Come with me.”
The doctor stood and began walking, beckoning to Gregorio to keep up with him. Gregorio followed, and found the doctor’s pace easy enough to match. They walked around a couple of corners and out the main door of the ospedale to find themselves walking across a small piazza to the Via Sant’ Egidio The doctor turned west, and Gregorio perforce followed him.
“A beautiful day, is it not?” Loria said with a smile.
Gregorio looked around at the bustling traffic on the street. “It is,” he agreed.
The doctor kept up a running commentary on the various imposing buildings they passed, including when they turned into the piazza surrounding the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Flore. Gregorio took in the sight of that imposing edifice, and made a swift sign of the cross as they passed the western end of it.
Not long after that, they turned into a smaller side street, passing through a set of large gates as they did so. Gregorio looked at Doctor Loria and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, we are now in the ghetto,” the doctor said quietly. “From here to the gate at the other end is owned by the Medici family, who collect rents from all of the Jewish residents and tradesmen who live and work here.”
Gregorio said nothing. He’d heard of the ghettos in the cities of Italy, but had never seen one before. Looking around, it didn’t look much different from other somewhat rundown neighborhoods he had seen in Roma. The people were different, in clothing and hair and beard styles. They looked a little poorer than he had expected, but he knew that life in the ghetto, even though it provided some protections, was still not exactly easy.
He glanced over at Loria, who was staring straight ahead with a set expression on his face. Ahead was a small wagon with two horses, with two large men standing behind it. As Gregorio and Loria neared, a third man stepped out of a door and stood watching them approach.
“Davit,” the doctor said, stopping at the heads of the horses.
“Giuda,” was the reply.
“This is the man I told you about.” The doctor’s voice was calm, measured. Gregorio looked over at him, to see that same set expression in place. “Gregorio Agricola.” Davit nodded, but said nothing more.
Loria turned to Gregorio. “Gregorio, this is my friend Davit ben Jachobe. He is the son of Jachobe ben Israel, a moneylender in Bologna, who travels often on his father’s business.”
From the looks of the gray threads scattered through Davit’s short beard and the gray stripes in his chin whiskers, Davit was probably older that Doctor Loria, Gregorio decided. He certainly wasn’t any younger.
Davit looked Gregorio up and down, and pursed his lips for a moment. “Giuda tells me you have reason to travel north and to remain out of official eyesight.”
Gregorio swallowed. “Not so much official eyesight,’ he murmured. “More out of ecclesiastical eyesight.”
“Are you a heretic?” Davit demanded. “Will the Inquisition be coming after you?”
“I’m not a heretic,” Gregorio said in an even lower tone. “As to the other…I…don’t think so. With all the turmoil in Roma, I doubt that anyone knows of me or has missed me. And I also doubt that anyone suspects what I have done. But I cannot take the chance of anyone in Roma finding me.”
“Well, if the current authorities in Roma might be displeased with you,” Davit said with a bit of a smile, “that speaks well of you. And just what is it that you have done?”
“I have promised to deliver a message…and a gift.” Gregorio closed his mouth, resolved to say no more.
Davit looked him over again, taking his time. At length, he gave a single sharp nod. “These are Sansone Cintoia and Bartolomeo Lenzi, my drivers and companions. When you travel with us, you will obey orders from any of us, understand?”
“Yes, messere,” Gregorio said.
“Good. Get in the wagon.”
Davit turned to the others. Loria stepped up to Gregorio and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go with blessings of the Most High, my friend.”
“Thank you.” Gregorio ducked his head, unsure of what else he should say.
Loria smiled, clapped his shoulder again, and walked away.
“In the wagon, now.” Davit was standing with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. Gregorio scrambled into the back of the wagon, and when he looked up, Doctor Loria was out of sight.
Davit vaulted onto the front seat of the wagon, and Sansone and Bartolomeo took the horses’ bridles in hand. With a tug, the horses leaned into their collars and the wagon started moving down the street, away from the gate through which Gregorio had entered the ghetto. A handful of minutes later they passed through the gate at the other end of the ghetto and entered back into the main streets of Firenze.
Gregorio took a deep breath. He was on his way again. A sense of relief eased into his mind, and he relaxed, leaning back against a barrel. He looked up at the sun, and smiled.