The city around Matteo was eerily quiet as he strode along its streets. A quarantine had been implemented at the onset of the most recent outbreak, making the citizens virtual prisoners. No one was permitted to enter or leave the city walls, with the exception of the plague doctor. Matteo's contract with the city stipulated that he would treat the sick residents, and in return, all his needs would be provided for. Because his needs were few, the city administrators immediately agreed to the paltry compensation he requested.
The quarantine had brought some of the city's poorest to the brink of starvation, but no one dared to approach Matteo for aid. Even those weak with hunger fled when they saw him. His outfit was admittedly sinister-looking, but he knew it served to protect him from illness. Though the June morning was growing warm, Matteo wore a black overcoat of oiled leather. The outer garment covered his body from the neck to the ankles. His wide-brimmed hat, also black, was similarly oiled to prevent contamination. He wore thick gloves while carrying a sturdy wooden cane. But it was Matteo's mask that instilled such terror in the city citizens. Covering his entire face, the mask bore a protrusion in the shape of a bird's beak. The beak, a compartment of sorts, was now filled with wormwood herb to ward off bad air and the smell of death. The mask's eyeholes were covered by glass.
Matteo reached the home of a prominent merchant whose daughter was ill. It was the merchant who answered the door, and he was quick to explain that the servants he normally employed had fled or succumbed to sickness. "Are you alone?" the man demanded of Matteo.
"I am."
The merchant furrowed his brow. "Are you not required to be accompanied by a custodian at all times?"
Matteo was glad for the mask, which concealed his exasperation. "My former custodian is dead, and the city has found no replacement for him." The custodian had been responsible for ensuring Matteo observed proper quarantine procedures following his treatment of plague victims, but the elderly man had himself fallen ill and did not survive. Matteo had just emerged from his own self-imposed quarantine. By now, he was used to those frequent periods of solitude.
The merchant, while none too happy about the breach of protocol, wasn't about to turn away the only man willing to treat his daughter. "Beatrice took to her bed with fever and headache three days ago," he explained while leading Matteo through the house. "The plague felled her mother only last summer, and due to the lack of reliable help, Beatrice has become a kind of helpmate to me. She oversees the household and cares for my younger children, who are now at the home of my brother." The merchant spoke in a rush, betraying his anxiety. "Beatrice is of the age to be married, but she wishes to remain here for the time being. I do not know how I would manage without her, Doctor."
Matteo fought back the urge to tell this man that many were forced to survive under circumstances far more dire than his. Instead, he followed the merchant to Beatrice's room. The heavy drapes had been parted, and as Matteo glanced around, he could see the room's fine furnishings. Beatrice, a young woman of nineteen, lay on the bed with a sheet covering her from the waist down. Her long hair, the color of burnished copper, fanned out on the pillow in tousled strands. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly. Matteo could hear her deep, even breaths. He noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her brow was damp with sweat.
Beatrice's father lingered at the door. "She has gradually worsened these past several days, and I haven't been able to rouse her since yesterday evening."
Matteo drew closer to the bed. Beatrice didn't stir or show any awareness of his presence. Extending his cane, Matteo used it to draw the sheet back farther, revealing more of the simple shift the woman wore. His gaze swept over her body as he looked for boils on her skin. A soft sigh escaped him when he found none. "You say she took to her bed with a headache. Did she complain of bodily aches? Did she suffer from chills or vomiting before she fell into this... stupor?"
"No, Doctor. When my wife, God rest her soul, became ill with the plague a year ago, her sickness began with a headache, but she worsened far more quickly than my Beatrice."
Before Matteo could speak again, Beatrice released a throaty moan. He stared at her intently, waiting for her to wake, but she didn't open her eyes. Instead, her hips began rocking, their rhythmic motion unmistakable. Behind his mask, Matteo's eyes widened. When he turned to the merchant, the man averted his eyes. "This is not the plague," Matteo told him.
Beatrice's father reluctantly looked at Matteo again. "But she appears feverish, Doctor. Perhaps the illness is taking longer to manifest in my daughter?"
Matteo took a step back from the bed. Beatrice arched her spine, spreading her legs wider. "I'm sorry; there's nothing I can do for her. This affliction will have to run its course."
"Please!" The merchant's face grew stricken. "Please help her. She is a good and wholesome girl, and if word gets out about her... sickness, she will have no chance of finding a suitable husband."
Matteo was about to refuse, for patients on the verge of death waited for his visit to their homes. He had no time to waste trying to protect this wealthy woman's marriage prospects. But before he could utter a word, Beatrice released a whimper. Her hips still moved, yet she seemed powerless to stop her body's obscene display.
He had encountered this peculiar affliction only once before, when as a young man, he had accompanied an older, more experienced physician on his rounds through a remote village. Recalling the physician's method of administering a cure made Matteo grow warm beneath his overcoat. He turned to the merchant again. "I will examine your daughter more closely to determine if I'm able to help her, but you must leave us."
The man hesitated a moment, then nodded and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Matteo took a deep breath, drawing in the bitter smell of wormwood. After setting his cane aside, he sat down on the edge of Beatrice's bed and removed his gloves. The woman balled her hands into fists, all the while moving as though she were copulating with some unseen being. Matteo placed his palm on her forehead. Her skin was warm but not feverish.
It was then that Beatrice stilled beneath his touch. Slowly she woke, her lids opening to reveal large brown eyes. "Am I dreaming?" she asked in a raspy voice. "Are you here to take me to my mother?"
"No," Matteo replied. "I'm a doctor." His words were muffled by the mask he still wore, and he didn't know if Beatrice could understand him in her confused state. As it was now quite clear the young woman had no infectious illness, Matteo decided to remove his mask. Sweeping strands of dark hair back from his perspiring face, he offered Beatrice a faint smile. The odor lingering in the room struck him then, for he no longer had the wormwood to combat it. It was not the smell of death, which he'd grown accustomed to, but rather the scent of Beatrice's arousal. Sharp and pungent, it clung to his nostrils. He swore he could taste it on his tongue.
The life of a plague doctor was often brief and inevitably lonely. Matteo had no family, and it had been many months since he'd lain with a woman. His days were spent seeing patients, most of whom were beyond help, while also compiling a written record of deaths. When he wasn't venturing into plague-ridden cities, he languished in quarantine, waiting for the beginnings of a fever or for the first boil to appear. He had long ago learned to subdue his carnal desires, but he now found Beatrice's scent maddening. Her nipples, hard beneath the shift she wore, beckoned to his hands and his mouth.
Matteo forced himself to hold her gaze. "Your father summoned me, for he believed you were gravely ill."
"Am I?" Beatrice looked around the room. "How long have I been resting?"
"Three days," Matteo replied, "but I am certain you haven't contracted the plague."
"Three days!" Her eyes grew wide, and she tried to sit up. "I must take care of the household, and my brothers and sisters."
Matteo placed a hand on her shoulder, easing her back onto the bed. "Beatrice, you're still not fully well. I promised your father I would try to help you."
"I feel fine now," she insisted. Yet she lay back against the pillow without further protest.