In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  “You are the one they call Gio?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, madam, so it please you,” she said. The words didn’t sound like her own. She sounded like a marionette, a puppet she had seen in a funny market show. She tried to think of which puppet it had been. Ah, yes, Gio thought. That was the line from the foolish servant just before getting a beating.

  Well done, Gio, she thought. You cannot speak but invite a beating.

  The woman descended the steps, her feet peeking from beneath the full blue robes. She had little feet in little slippers. These were not feet like Gio’s.

  “Rise!” the woman commanded.

  Gio did.

  The woman’s face was beautiful, a young Sicilian with deep black hair that fell around her shoulders, her golden skin making her green eyes flash. Gio had imagined that these women, these women who lived other lives, would be so much more beautiful than herself.

  I was right, Gio thought.

  “I have heard from my servants that you are a learned healer,” the woman said. It sounded like a challenge.

  “I offer herbs to those who need them,” Gio replied. “What treatments I know of.”

  “You know of this plague?” the woman asked.

  “I have seen it,” Gio replied. “I know nothing of it.”

  The woman considered the answer.

  “Have you anyone you love?” the woman asked.

  Gio swallowed and glanced down. “Only God,” she said. She could feel her cheeks growing hot from the embarrassment. It was a stupid way to reply.

  “Is that all?” the woman snapped.

  “Is that not enough?” Gio replied.

  “I can think of one person you love,” the woman said.

  Gio bit the inside of her cheek. Who was this? What did she know of Gio or Lazarro? The smell of roasting lamb and stale beer from up above reminded Gio of something. She knew this smell, this combination of everything that should be pleasant but made her queasy.

  “Do you know whom I speak of?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Gio lied.

  “Everyone loves themselves,” the woman answered. “Even people like you.” She said “people” as if there were a question.

  Gio exhaled. The women knew nothing of her.

  “Can you treat this plague?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know. I have not tried. It kills the victims so fast. I do not think there is hope.”

  “Oh, but there is!” The woman smiled and crooned as if talking to a pet. “Hope is the pearl beyond price, the one thing a man would give his entire inheritance for. Hope is the only treasure in the world now. And it is scarce. Men will kill for it.”

  “I do not understand,” Gio said. She swallowed again. A memory pressed its hands against her neck, waiting for her to remember and scream before it tightened its hold.

  “You don’t understand what? Treasure?” the woman asked. “You’ve probably never been rich enough to hold two coins at the same time.”

  “What do you want of me?” Gio asked. Whatever it was, she would agree at once and then flee. This plague had brought companions to help it spread. Greed was the first.

  Greed.

  The word brought to mind other words, words that had stained her life. “Reminding me I have a fine wife only reminds me that I have no fine mistress.”

  “You are Dario’s daughter, Panthea,” Gio said. “This is his castle.”

  At the mention of Dario’s name, the woman flinched, looking away. “You know nothing of my father. If he needed healing, he would never go to a woman like you.”

  “I know more than you think,” Gio said. She did not care that her voice trembled, or that Panthea could hear the terror she felt.

  “Your life depends on it,” Panthea said, pulling her skirts to walk back up the stairs. She did not turn back to look at Gio as she talked. “When the cellar door opens, a fool will be thrown to you. Try to cure him if you can.”

  “What if I cannot?” Gio asked.

  “If you love your life, you will find a way to cure it. I shall have no consequences if you fail. Every one of them will pay me first, whether they get a cure or not. The rest of the castle is well quarantined from this area, so we will be safe. I think you can get through a good dozen before it takes you, too.”

  A smaller figure was forced into the light at the top of the stairs.

  “Do not send me back out there!” a boy’s voice cried. “I got this Gio for you. Let me be done, mistress!”

  “Find the nobles. Find anyone with a heavy purse. Proclaim that in the house of Dario, in the cellar on the north end, there is a renowned healer. She can cure this plague. But she is greedy and wants much money. Tell them I have negotiated. Their fee need not be so great. But they must come at once.”

  “No, please,” he cried. “It is horrid! And the smells—I might die from those alone!”

  “For every paying customer you send me, I will set aside a fat gold coin for you. Think of your mother. She needs this money, doesn’t she? Did she raise a son who would spit in her face like this? Have you no love for her?”

  There was more conversation, but Gio did not hear it.

  The door was closing, taking with it the light.

  The man’s eyes were white with fear, his arms and legs thrashing against the men who were forcing him into a house. The men fighting him were well fed and muscular, not like the men who spent their days haggling over prices, fighting only against stingy customers. Armando had moved quickly, calling knights and good men from many estates.

  The men forced the terrified man into the house, slamming the door shut on him, nailing it closed.

  Mariskka looked up and down the lane. Many doors were nailed shut.

  But this was not the cause of the screaming she had heard, those awful shrieks. These men were already moving on to another house, yelling for plague victims to identify themselves. Plague houses would be nailed shut, with all inside.

  “Do not bring the plague into the streets!” the men yelled, “or we will kill you before it does!”

  “The plague may yet show you mercy,” called another. “We will not! Do not test us!”

  Whatever shrieks had come from that end of the lane, those people were beyond her saving now. Mariskka ran down the rougher lane, stubbing her toes on the uneven stones until she bled, the jagged cuts collecting dirt and leaves and other rubbish. Mariskka wanted two things right then more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, more than money, more than that cursed watch or the cursed manuscript.

  “Tennis shoes and hand sanitizer,” she said. “I took you two for granted.” She sighed, trying to keep moving without her toes collecting further filth. “I would give anything for you now.”

  The small shrines plastered against the walls of every home obscured her vision, so she had to squint to be sure she saw it right. A woman was leaning out of an upper window, dangling a baby into the street below, shrieking.

  Stumbling to the spot under the window, Mariskka extended her arms.

  The woman was covered in death welts, her face so red it hurt to look upon it, a tongue protruding out from swollen, cracked lips. She was dying of dehydration, Mariskka thought. It might kill her before the plague. What virus or bacterium could drain all a person’s fluids so fast? Nothing like it had ever been seen in her own age.

  “Don’t touch that child!” a man screamed at her. “It comes from a plague house!” The man was watching from his doorway. He was armed with a dagger that had a broken blade, covered in rust. He made no effort to hide it from her, laying it flat against his belly as he yelled.

  Mariskka had once imagined a mother’s love would be soft. She had lost her mother too young to remember it well. She had daydreamed about mothers, the kind who cradled
their children in the night and rubbed their arms when they were hurting. But this woman’s eyes were fierce, her face brutal.

  Mariskka looked back at the man in the doorway, then lunged for the baby. The woman wailed, pulling the baby into the window with her.

  The beating began with a kick to her calves, sending her to the ground. Mariskka was stunned, not able to connect the force she felt with what she saw. She saw men moving all around her, like a pack, but could not process their faces. She thought maybe one kick broke her rib, but she couldn’t decide which kick, or which rib either. Maybe every kick had broken a rib. Mariskka tried to think back to nursing school. How many ribs did she have?

  The mother was back, in the window, leaning against the frame to keep herself upright. Mariskka saw her scanning the street in every direction. No one would save her child. Mariskka’s spirit eyes saw too.

  Dark mists were collecting under her window, jaws snapping at the baby in jest. They pretended to devour it. Why were the angels harder to see? Mariskka wondered. Why did you have to look hard for the good in this world?

  Del Grasso was moving up the lane, keeping his bulky frame close to the bricks along his side. The men were busy beating Mariskka. They did not see him.

  Mariskka gave her body to them, willing them to strike harder, to drive their boots deeper. She began to taste the most exquisite wine flowing in her mouth. It could have been blood, but she was not considering it. She was welcoming death. The baby would be saved.

  Del Grasso extended his arms to the mother, but she shook her head no. She saw the men beat Mariskka, their boots stomping her. She would not drop her baby down into that.

  One man stepped back from Mariskka, twisting his lips in satisfaction, as if he had had a good meal.

  He’s going to stop beating me, Mariskka thought. They’ll all stop. But the baby isn’t safe yet.

  She was on her back, staring at their faces, being jerked like a rag doll with every blow. She whipped around to her stomach and lunged for the man who had stopped, biting him hard on his calf. He screamed as he tried to kick her off, sending all the men into a new round of blows and curses.

  Del Grasso kicked down the door. It cracked in with one sharp split.

  Mariskka counted eighteen more blows. I should be dead by now, she thought. I didn’t know I was this hard to kill. It must be the estrogen.

  Del Grasso emerged with the wailing baby.

  “Leave off,” one man said to the others. “She’s as good as dead anyway.”

  They saw Del Grasso, their eyes moving together.

  Mariskka struggled to reach up and bite another one but could not raise her head. She saw the healing angel, the one with the wings of a vulture, moving toward her. Mariskka let her head flop back down and waited for him.

  Del Grasso held the baby to his shoulder with one hand. With his other, he held out a cleaving knife, well oiled and sharp, turning it so that it winked at them all.

  “Are you mad?” they said to him. “It was in a plague house!”

  Del Grasso tightened his grip on the child and took a step back, glancing in either direction behind him. “There are no marks on this babe,” he called.

  “It might yet be sick!” they screamed at him. “Leave it to die!”

  They began taking steps toward him, small steps, Mariskka saw, no man wanting to put his foot farther out than another’s.

  “I have butchered animals twice your size,” Del Grasso replied. “My blade can split thicker necks than yours.”

  The dark spirits were leaving the men, moving toward Del Grasso, with their dripping grey jowls and snapping teeth, spindly hooked fingers on fibrous arms. They were going to torment him with fear.

  Mariskka moaned. It was the best she could do to warn him.

  Del Grasso caught Mariskka’s gaze, and recognition passed between them. Del Grasso understood death as she did. He had seen enough of it. Death was not eternal; Death was the only true mortal God ever created. It is no wonder we stare in horror at it, she thought.

  Del Grasso knew judgment too. That was not a hard sign to miss. It was in his face. She understood their mistake. Big dogs were thought to be mean dogs; big men were thought to be cruel men. Del Grasso lifted his chin, a silent acknowledgment, and disappeared down a lane, carrying the baby.

  Mariskka was alone again, alone except for the terrified faces staring down from window ledges, some who were trapped, and those who hid from death. Curtains moved back into place as she looked in any direction. The living wished to shut out the foul odors, knowing that foul odors caused plague. Though she was bleeding, none offered help. None could see her being tended to by the angel.

  Others were receiving visitors, men and women carrying all manner of bags and satchels. Mariskka knew their type too well; they were the medieval version of multilevel marketers. Medieval fright was as good as modern greed to get people to buy, and buy these people would. Their down lines would be dead by morning, she thought. Not that they would listen, though. Not in any age.

  A young man staggered into the lane, laughing, holding his sides and bending at the waist, unable to contain his hysteria. Mariskka watched the movement of his head to decide if he was drunk or crazy. Or just young, she thought. That could be every bit as disorienting.

  She could not get a clear glimpse of him long enough to decide; a woman stumbled out into the street, just as hysterical, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. They disappeared into a home, and Mariskka stood, feeling strength coming back, the angel moving on to another home, slipping in between the cracks of a door nailed shut. She followed to see what could have made them laugh, wiping her face clean with the edge of her sleeve and trying not to notice the blood stains. Mariskka edged the door open, craning her neck to see inside without having to take one more step closer in.

  Young men and women were sitting, roosting really, all over someone’s home. There were kegs of beer and flasks of wine, some flasks lying on their side, dripping red wine onto the floor. There were noises of passion, and the sound, from way in the back, of a youth being sick from too much alcohol. These had chosen to gorge on sin before they died.

  Mariskka grew cold. A night wind had found her lane and was sweeping past, grazing her shoulders with its brittle teeth. She shivered and thought of refuge, a chance to rest her battered bones. She closed the door on the youths, saying a prayer.

  Night was coming. Night was coming for them all.

  Panthea went over the ledger again. The inkwell was dry, and she did not know where her father kept the extra ink. Digging the quill into the glass sides of the jar, willing it to find some retained ink, she tried to keep writing.

  The flame of her candle was the only present comfort. It was a good light that did not tremble like her hands. Panthea set the quill down to shake her hands out and force herself to think.

  The ledger showed thirty servants remained with her. She did not know how many had fled. It had never occurred to her to ask her father how many they kept in total. After all, servants were for serving, and as long as she was comfortable, it was no matter if they were one or a hundred.

  She had seen the larder and wondered how to estimate her provisions against her needs. She would need more, very soon. The feast had used much of what they had. The problem she could not resolve was this: Whichever servant she sent out on this errand would of course have to return and bring the goods inside. Contact would be made in this way with the plagued village. If Panthea sent her smartest servant, he might know well how to escape the sickness, but if he was damned by God and caught the plague (and how could she know this in advance?) then her loss would be twofold. She would lose her smartest servant and expose her estate to this evil. She could send a fool, but she assumed these were already plagued by another sort of judgment.

  She could not resolve the issue.


  “I can do nothing tonight,” she said to herself. “I should content myself with today’s business.”

  It was something her father had often said. Panthea could understand him more now. Great plans never ended in the same form they began. It did not matter if small things went awry. Panthea was crafting something the world had never seen before, an estate controlled by a woman, a woman who commanded all of Italy. She could do that. She should not be bothered if it didn’t move as she planned. There were no plans for this.

  A shadow moved on the wall. Panthea jerked her head to catch it, to find its source. She was raw from surprise, every unfolding moment of the last three days sickening her, sweeping her off balance. Panthea felt she had no place to put her feet. Perhaps that was why she was pacing so often today, unable to rest. Anywhere she put her feet seemed wrong, felt dangerous. Nothing was solid anymore. She kept feeling the world being jerked out from beneath her.

  A wind outside made the wooden beams above creak. Panthea heard the doors outside pop as they settled into the hinges. Nothing was firm, Panthea’s fear reminded her. Not even this castle.

  “Panthea!”

  Someone called to her from outside the castle.

  She knew the voice.

  Pushing open the glass window, set into the wall on stubborn, dry hinges, she leaned out to look on him.

  Armando stood in the meadow outside her window, holding Fidato’s reins. Panthea’s heart softened. Seeing him there, healthy, strong, ready to ride, soothed her nerves. All was not lost if Fidato was well.

  “What are you doing with my horse?” Panthea yelled down to Armando.

  “Panthea, this death spreads too fast. I cannot contain it within the village. You must flee!”

  His tone of concern offended her. He should be crazed with fear and anxiety about her. Such simple concern was an affront.