Joyce 馃悵 Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee

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The Plague in 14th Century Florence. The Maid鈥檚 Story

The Plague in 14th Century Florence. The Maid鈥檚 Story

I was unable to update this, so I will inflict it upon you again.

Disease fascinated me even as a young child.聽 A report we were assigned in second grade [7-years-old] was given in front of the class.聽 I did mine on African Sleeping Sickness [go figure] and put my classmates to sleep.

I did, however, keep my teacher awake every time I mentioned a transmission factor.聽 It was a word I neglected to look up and I saw her squirm, shift, and grimace every time I uttered it.

The word was 鈥渃oitus.鈥

This was the first piece I wrote that finally told me I was a writer.

Now on to:

The Plague in 14th Century Florence. The Maid鈥檚 Story

It is the third day of June in this the year of our Lord, 1348, in the city Florence of Italy. The heat is not yet enough to tempt the opening of the windows. I am grateful, for every day the streets fill with the bodies of those having died during the night鈥攁nd sometimes from the聽night聽before or the night before that. Carcasses, no matter their position in the community, smell much the same in the full bloom of day.

I have cared for my young mistress for the seventeen years of her life. Her family has cared for me all of聽mine. If she survives, she will never be the same innocent I held to my breast in her infancy. Death has touched her and made her beautiful, grey聽eyes shallow pools with no reflection.

She sits by the window and stares at the garden left untended since my son died of the pestilence. It has been this way since the death of the last of her loved ones鈥攈er聽betrothed. It was a love match to be sure, and a more handsome,聽kind聽youth I have not known since the younger days of my boy.

I am too old for the horror, the screams, the revelry, and the madness. I am tired and afraid; not for myself, but for the child.



Enough of self-pity and what is past. I will leave soon to fetch the urine of the virgin daughter of my friend who lives near Ponte Vecchio: a covered bridge lined with聽deserted聽shops where goldsmiths sold their wares just a short while ago.

Every day I bathe my mistress in warm water laced with urine to ward off the sickness.

The doctor said any urine, though not of a relative, would do. The rumor of my grandmother鈥檚 great love for one of the old masters and his for her makes me hesitant to use my own.

The virgin鈥檚 water is pure; and when my mistress鈥檚 mother became ill, my son bade her drink a mix of herbs and the water. She wore a bag of defecation about her neck. It did not save her, but I pray that using these things before the sickness can set in with the girl will prevent it from doing so.

I find it hard not to reflect on the horrors of yesterday. It is, perhaps, better than surmising about what is yet to come.


As I leave my home, I see a group of bechini鈥攎en who bear the bodies of the dead to their final resting-place鈥攋ust up the street. I know I must settle back into the stone doorway, or they will take the offerings I carry for the virgin鈥檚 mother.


But no鈥攍ook, they are occupied with Maria鈥檚 daughter鈥攑oor thing. Maria is standing near the side entrance. We both watch as the jocular bechini stroll through the gate: one with his arm around the sobbing girl鈥檚 shoulder, the other with his arm encircling her waist, nuzzling her slender neck. The girl pulls away from one man only to move into the other.聽 Her long brown hair sways with the effort.聽

Maria is making no move to protest, and in short order, I see why: Her husband聽lies dead on a slab a short distance from the front doorway, a beautifully embroidered tablecloth covering his body up to his nose as if death could be denied by this simple act of exposure.

As I move from the doorway, Maria鈥檚 tormented gaze meets mine, and I understand. She wrenches her gaze from me, and I know the price for the bechinis鈥 services becomes dearer each day.

The longer I am out here, the weaker my stomach is becoming from the smells and the debauchery. I find it hard not to stop to vomit as I quicken my steps to avoid meeting others. To stop for something so trivial could bring disaster. But no, I will the bile rising in my throat back to its chamber and continue on my way to Ponte Vecchio: 鈥淭he Bridge of the Dead Goldsmiths.鈥

I clap my hand painfully over my mouth to stifle a titter over the thought of such a gruesome epithet for the beautiful bridge. Flesh meets flesh, hand to face, and moisture spits painfully into the center of my eye as it returns to its source. I find myself envying my young mistress鈥 senseless state, and worse still the dead, in my anguished reunion with the outside world.


Ahead gathers a chanting crowd in the Piazza Della Signoria. On reaching the people on the outskirts, I learn that the Council of Eight has announced the arrival of a group of flagellants. They are moving across the bridge as we speak, and I am deterred from going farther. I know if I do not join the crowd, I may be condemned by their Master as a heretic and burned alive for my trouble. I begin to sway with the others, moving closer towards my goal as I croon the words in harmony with the voices around me:



鈥淕od will save us.

We repent our sins.

Pain will cleanse us.

Now it begins.鈥



But I am past the days of believing that watching a collection of fools scourging themselves with spike-tipped whips to the point of bloody unconsciousness will save us.



I have found my way into the alley where the home of my friend waits with the precious liquid. The alley is cobbled with flat gray stones. Every few steps, I move one way or the other to avoid treading on some poor soul left to rot or be eaten by the hogs.

The tears return, but now it is not sadness that brings them: It is the acrid smell of decomposing flesh. Again, I choke down the bile mixed with the remnants of my last crude meal as I stand in front of the door I have been seeking.

I enter uninvited as agreed and am struck by the thought that the smell is no less inside than out. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see them huddled in the corner.

The child鈥檚 head rests on her mother鈥檚 breast鈥攈er once blue eyes bleached white by death. Isabel, her mother, looks to have died sometime after her daughter, and I wonder if it was not from a broken heart rather than the pestilence.

As I draw a piece of coarse linen over what is left of them, I know God has forsaken us all. I will go home now鈥搕o die with my child. That will give me some solace. If she dies before me, a dose of gentle poison will do. If God strikes me sick before her, there will be enough for us both.


Copyright 1999 Joyce Bowen


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