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1340, City of Florence,
Palazzo Aldobrandini
One day, as the water sickness was still flourishing among the wealthy, a messenger interrupted Ginevra on her rounds, and said her services were required at the home of the mighty Aldobrandini clan. The master of the house was desperate to cure his son and heir.
When Ginevra arrived, however, she was greeted by the lady, a small woman who could barely walk under the costly textile draped about her person. “Signorina Nun-Helper,” Lady Aldobrandini cooed at their introduction, “I am pleased you are here as it soothes my vexed husband. But, woman to woman, I must tell you your presence is redundant.” She inclined her head toward a flabby man in velvet physicians’ robes. He was picking at a lunch of roast piglet with bejeweled fingers. “You see, I have already engaged the exclusive services of Maestro Ficini there, who is attending his every medical need. He has been diligently applying the most scientific remedy, and we are only waiting for it to take effect.”
Ginevra was taken aback. In all her house calls, she had not seen another physician, and in truth she was a bit disappointed. She’d hoped that treating such a high-profile patient might finally allow her to practice her healing arts in the open—but she had not grown so bold that she would interfere with the work of a licensed doctor. Perhaps, though, she could prove herself a useful and clever assistant to the maestro, so he would speak kindly on her behalf later.
“Of course, Dama,” she said, bowing her head. “Maestro, with your permission, may I behold your illustrious work?”
Lady Aldobrandini nodded her acquiescence, pleased that Ginevra so readily deferred to the carefully selected and outrageously expensive Maestro Ficini. The maestro reluctantly put down his greasy knife, and the three of them went to the bedchamber where the child lay. When Ginevra saw him, it was all she could do to hold in a gasp of horror, for the little thing was wasted away almost to bone, and his skin had a strange and sticky sheen Ginevra had never seen before.
“Ahh, Maestro, here is a patient in dire need of your help if I ever saw one,” said Ginevra leerily. “What causes the appearance of his skin? It is something unfamiliar to me.”
Lady Aldobrandini looked quickly to the doctor.
Maestro Ficini rolled his eyes, annoyed that he had to explain the complexities of his methods to the women. “It is an ointment of lard and exotic oils that is much too subtle for a midwife to mix. It does not surprise me that you do not know of it.”
“Of course, and, forgive my ignorance, but what is its purpose?”
“The child is too dry from the fever; it helps to keep him moist. But really it is only for his own comfort, because not an hour ago I fed him a Venetian theriac and he will be well in the morning—provided he does not fall asleep at all tonight, in which case the healing effects of the drug will not be able to manifest.”
“A Venetian theri—what?”
“Theri-AC. Ack! It is the most potent of medicines, a precise mixture of all sorts of rare and wonderful compounds.”
“It is the most effective cure for any disease, the maestro tells me,” interjected Lady Aldobrandini. “It is only through his extensive network that he was able to procure it.”
“Quite,” said the physician, “and I was most grateful for the opportunity to be of service to your family, Dama.”
Lady Aldobrandini smiled. “You see, Signorina, my husband has been overly eager in calling for your help. You’ll stay here the night because my lord expects it, but we have no need of your direct assistance. My maid will take you to the kitchen for refreshment and a place to sleep.”
Ginevra allowed herself to be led away. She had never heard of the pill the maestro mentioned, but it did not look like it was working. What she saw was a little boy white with fever, his discomfort increased by a coating of lard. But the lady was satisfied with the current treatment and it was, after all, her own child. And the doctor did seem awfully confident that he was going about things the right way. Ginevra spent a fretful night on a mat in the kitchen of the great house. She dreamed she was walking through a field, but her feet became stuck and she realized the field was lard and at the other end was the girl with the twisted lip holding up her bowl for bread.
She was awakened roughly in the morning by the maid: “My mistress calls for you, her son has worsened.” They hurried back to the bedchamber, and there found the maestro pacing back and forth, muttering confused and panicky things about how he had been given the child’s incorrect birth date and therefore the medicine had been administered on the wrong day. It seemed he had found himself in the professionally embarrassing position of the boy having remained conscious through the night, but the wonderful theriac pill still had not worked.
Lady Aldobrandini was now ignoring the physician’s presence, on her knees at the bed of her son. She had placed relics, little bundles of bones wrapped in ribbon, on his forehead, and was repeating a healing prayer so long in use that Ginevra’s mother had said it when she fell sick as a child:
Bones, Bones, Bones
Keep him from death
As Christ conquered death
Bones, Bones, Bones
Then she saw Ginevra. “YOU—you will cure my son now with your remedies...”
“But...the maestro, surely he is—”
“PLEASE, you will help him. You would not let a child die?”
Ginevra looked down at the bed and saw the little boy was barely strong enough to breathe.
“...I...I am sorry, Dama...he is so sick...it is too late for my...”
Just then the Lord Aldobrandini, who was a man used to things going his way, entered the chamber fully expecting a merry scene of recovery. Instead, a room full of chaos with the maid now crying, his wife staring angrily at Ginevra, and the expensive physician talking to himself. In the midst of this was his dear little son closer to death than even the day before.
