The Plague Doctor

By Curtis Rock

Stipan Andric is a Croatian plague doctor hired by the Catholic Church to treat the inhabitants of Mons Manomorta, a secluded mountain community made up of the remnants of a Crusader military order with a dark history. As he begins his work, he discovers that there is more at play on the mountain than just the Black Death. There is an ancient evil lurking, one that wishes to reclaim its former power in the world. Follow Dr. Andric as he uncovers the secrets of Mons Manomorta and battles against this malevolent force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781649793041

Curtis Rock

Curtis Rock hails from Livonia, Michigan. He lives somewhere in Arizonawith his wife where he enjoys the desert living.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Roman justice was without mercy. He always knew it in the arena and he knew it now. He was dying and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. The chill bore down into him, sinking into his bones like a lead weight. The knowledge and realization of his impending fate and the feeling of helplessness was driving him mad. He had come so close yet to have it all taken away. The only taste of freedom he would really know again would be in the afterlife, if there was such a thing. He was unsure now given his present circumstances. Things were just growing dimmer. He foresaw no need for coins or a ferryman to guide him across an infernal river in his future. You did not endure the suffering he did and then frolic in the Elysian Fields for eternity. It defied logic.

The pain was horrific and eternal. He had never known that he could physically hurt so much. The pain would ebb and flow like the tide. Just when he thought it had subsided it would flare anew. He had never experienced such throbbing hell in his miserable existence. It hurt worse now than when they originally drove the rusty nails through his wrists. They told him to feel blessed for receiving nails instead of being tied to the cross. Most of the others were just tied to their wooden beams. This was Crassus’s justice.

The groans of his compatriots filled his ears like a macabre orchestra that was reaching its crescendo. He tried with all of his might to come off the accursed cross, but the ropes and nails would not budge despite his greatest efforts. He was growing weaker with each waking moment and it would only be a matter of time before he expired. There was no other way out, no other release but death. It was inevitable, or it was supposed to be.

During the day, the soldiers would come and torment him, using his name as a joke, asking him repeatedly if he was the one that led this misfit group not knowing his true identity. Little did they know that he was the one they had been looking for all along, right before their accursed eyes he stood, bound on the cross like his men, slowly expiring in a most disgraceful way. Of course, none of his men would reveal who he was, and he was not about to reveal his identity to the legions to spare himself any further torment. His men were too loyal. He had ensured that all disloyalty had been purged from their ranks long ago. You could free the slave, but some could not change their subservient states of mind or their greed for gold. Loyalty was paramount to any revolt, any movement that intended to change the status quo.

But alas, he had failed spectacularly and now he hung on a cross, drying in the sun like a piece of jerky and shivering in the dark night air, dying like the rest of his men. According to their former and present masters, they had forfeited their right to existence and now hung tied or nailed to crosses out in view of the full public, a warning to all that dare defy the power and authority of Rome. The road was lined with crosses going up the Appian Way toward the Eternal City and away from it.

During the day, the sun bleached his skin and exacerbated his suffering, but the nights were equally as torturous. They were cold and damp, with chill winds that caused him to shiver burning precious energy as he slowly suffocated and drowned in his own fluid filled lungs. The scourging he received before they tied him on the beam and drove the nails through his wrists did him no favors. Shock was overtaking him as the elements assaulted and battered his body. His sole focus became trying to shift his position so that he could breathe unobstructed, but to no avail. Both of his legs were broken and shifting his weight just migrated the great pain somewhere else.

People would pass on the road, but no one would dare look at him. During the day they would hurry along, ignoring his pleas and his men’s pleas for the sweet release of mercy or just a drop of water. None obliged out of fear of finding themselves on crosses next to them. Any mercy would be treated harshly by the legions. No one would speak to them, no one would soothe them, no one would put them out of their misery.

On the third day, he could barely hold his head up. All were dead around him or were close to it. His spirit persevered but his body was failing. Night had fallen, and he was not sure if he would make it to dawn. The groans and protestations of suffering had grown muted this evening compared to the first night. On the road before him, an occasional cart would pass but they were few and far between. Bandits watched the roads like wolves. The night was a perilous time to be traveling.

He was wallowing in his torment when he heard what he thought was a faint sucking sound coming from one of the crosses down to his left. He heard a hoarse voice crackle in protest, but it was soon muffled. There was a rustling of foliage and he could hear heavy footfalls on the round stones of the road near him.

Who is there? he groaned. He was not sure if anyone could hear his words. The moon was full but obscured by cloud cover. Every now and then the clouds would move, and the faint beams of Luna would grace him with her graceful presence.

Still live do you? a foreign voice replied.

It was startling to hear another’s voice, especially in the stark darkness of night. He tried to raise his head to see who was before him but all he managed to do was open one wary eye.

If I can, my lungs will draw breath.

Defiant to the end as always, which is expected. That is why I am speaking to you friend. That is why my Master has chosen you, the voice replied. It was a youthful voice, but wrapped in a thick Oriental accent. There was something peculiar to it, something unnatural that would have made him draw his sword absent present circumstances.

He was barely able to hold his head to see who stood before him. In the pale moonlight, off to his left he could make out a youthful face, his head crowned in a Phrygian cap and clad in the garments of the East. He had once seen an ambassador from Pontus clad in the same garb. The man had shallow, pale red eyes like an albino. He exchanged him a sly smile to reveal overgrown canine teeth, honed to a sharp point like a wolf or a lion. His visage betrayed someone with a ravenous hunger. The youth looked barely alive but firm and fit. Even more peculiar, he held in one of his hands an upside-down torch that defied logic.

What are you? he inquired, his shallow breaths almost obscuring his words. He was not one to be superstitious but there was something about this youth that made him uneasy.

Just a traveler friend—just a humble vagabond clearing the path for my master, the youth replied softly, and here to make you an offer and to let you ascend to your true station.

The word ‘offer’ struck him. He was in no position to accept any ‘offer’ now. He was barely alive. His heartbeat was growing fainter with each passing minute like the flame of a candle drowning in a pool of wax. He had heard many ‘offers’ in his life and found the bargains wanting and a man who would keep his end of the arrangement an even rarer occurrence.

I am in no shape to accept as long as I hang on accursed cross.

Let me soothe your burden friend, the youth offered almost cheerfully.

Suddenly, he felt relief as the nail that tortuously bound his feet together fell out of the cross and the nails that held his arms were removed and the bindings that held both arms fast to the upper part of the construct were undone. He would have fallen flat to the ground in a distressed heap if the stranger had not helped him down. He lay down sobbing uncontrollably. He had yearned to be free of his predicament but now it was like a dream.

Your wounds are grave friend. Even though you are free of the cross you will still die, that is unless you take my gift…if I may call it that. It is one of the grandest prizes in all the universe. To some it is a blessing but to others it is an eternal curse. You will be reborn but first you must see the truth. You will bear witness to the greatness of my Master. You will partake in his mysteries and be his faithful servant much like me.

He looked up at the stars and the Milky Way. Comets streaked across the sky. He wanted to live. He fought so hard to be free but had come up short. Now he had an opportunity to keep on fighting if what the youth promised was true.

The Master can give you the vengeance you crave. You will have retribution. I can promise you that. All you must be is present and give aid and comfort. If you so decide on your own freewill to be blessed with my Master’s gift, then you may very well never feel the sting of the sun on your skin, but you will live forever. You will be vital and more powerful than you have ever been. The choice is yours.

What of my men?

I have already converted several of them to my master. They eagerly joined when they found out that you will be leading them to the Paradise.

I want revenge on the one who did this to me. I want him to feel as much pain as my men and I have endured because of his craven victory. His riches have overpowered our will to be free.

Such as it ever was my friend and such as it ever will be. Men have always sought control over other men and to treat them like craven livestock or pets for their pleasure. They come to you with the honeyed words of good intent, but the result is always the same. The hope was all but a hoax to make you let your guard down, and the change always transforms into chains. They always take advantage of you. The Master is not like that. The Master’s gift will make you the master of men. They will fear you.

Fine, do it. He had surrendered.

He was beaten down. Physically his body was on the verge of expiring and his mind was beholden to strange and terrifying hallucinations. The strange youth moved closer to him and propped his body up underneath his arm. He looked out in the distance and could see the shades of men growing closer. Two of the shades pushed a massive stone before them and the moonlight seemed to be focused toward the top of the monolith. But instead of a jagged top he saw the outline of a human head carved into the top of the stone. It was lifelike and wore a cap much like the one the youth before him wore. The moonlight made it look like the stone was birthing the man. He had to be dreaming.

He wanted to scream when the eyes of the face opened, and words came out of its mouth followed by a jet of water. But he could not move. The youth held him in a paralyzing grip.

Behold the blessing of the Master, the youth growled as his canine teeth had elongated like a serpent’s fangs. A dog nuzzled his side as a snake crawled across his leg and a scorpion stung his genitals. Soon the fangs were sunk into the soft supple flesh of his throat and he could feel the youth sucking the life blood out of him like a predator smothering its prey. He convulsed, and all began to grow black.

Welcome to your rebirth.

These were the last words he heard as he entered oblivion, never to dance and frolic in the hot midday sun ever again, but he would live on. He would live forever in the creases of shadows and the long darkness, a base creature, bereft of humanity. He would be a predator, with his prey all those that once oppressed him, and the human beings he once sought to set free. He had been a rebel, a leader of historic importance but now he would serve his new Master to his fullest extent until the end of his days. Once a slave and always a slave.

Chapter 2

Stipan wondered why dogs always ate the dead. They seemed to specifically seek out the plague dead and feast on the hastily disposed of bodies. He could see them along the perimeter of the wall wrestling with limbs and torsos and he could do nothing but walk away. He had minimal human compassion for the recently deceased and did not feel like fighting off a ravenous pack of hounds while he had present business inside the castle. The town was less than spectacular but the real riches were locked behind the walls of the keep. The Church always had gold to spare.

The door was locked fast when he first tried the handle. His efforts were mighty and his intentions righteous, but the lock would not give, much to his consternation. Finally, he banged a mighty fist in loud frustration, trying to draw the attention of those inside. He could hear faint rustling behind him and figured the watchful peasants that surrounded this religious fort were more than aware of his presence and what he signified. These were desperate times and he did not much feel like fighting off starving ruffians for the few coins on his person. His uniform gave away his station and the fear it instilled was usually enough to keep him safe, but a brave brigand may still attempt to test his mettle if it meant a couple of coins to buy wine or some ale.

Stipan’s physical efforts echoed through the portal before he heard a rustle on the other side of the wood and the clank of keys banging together on a chain. The door opened slowly, and he could see a bishop standing before him, his face frozen in a permanent scowl.

You must be the Croat we contacted about our predicament on the mountain, the man said in the local tongue. Quickly in with you before the peasants and other undesirables try to enter. Leave your weapons with the steward. You have no need of them here. This is a House of God after all.

Stipan hesitated briefly but thought the better of it and handed the waiting porter his dagger and sword.

Your mask too, the bishop ordered. There are no masks in this House of God. The Cardinal will not allow it.

As you wish, Stipan said as he obliged and removed his protective mask and gave it to the waiting steward. It was ratty and tattered anyway. He was long overdue for a new one. I found your message awaiting me when I left quarantine and hurried as quickly as I could. I am always willing to listen to offers of employment from the Holy See, he replied.

Yes, you come highly recommended by a multitude of towns and other dioceses. It is our hope that your contract demands are reasonable for we have grave need of you.

You will find that I do not work cheaply but that I am worth what you will pay me, Stipan grinned.

The bishop examined the man standing before him. He was above average in height, with a slight potbelly and crisp hazel, deeply set eyes. Many cowlicks danced crazily through his hair and streaks of gray waved through the strands like rays of pure moonlight. His face was adorned with an army of healed scars and a very determined look. His shoulders were broad with a thick neck rising like a massif from the plains. Croats had a reputation for being fierce; too bad there were not more of them. They had been overwhelmed by the sheer superior number of Magyars, and now the Turks were having a go at them. But they had also held off the dreaded Mongols.

The clergyman led him to the dining hall where he could see seated at the head of the table a cardinal surrounded by a cackling herd of bishops. By a wall were chained an assortment of hounds begging for scraps from the feasting clergy and armored guards with their halberds resting comfortably on their shoulders. They eyed him suspiciously but did not move from their posts. Part of him wanted them to challenge them. They would find that there was more to him than met the eye.

Stipan rolled his eyes at the apparent luxury and hollow security on display, and an utter disdain for the reality of the world outside the walls of this fortified castle that passed for a House of God. He preferred dealing with monasteries. At least they believed in what they were shoveling, were generally honest, and their ale was amazing. Every now and then he would meet a pious bishop, but they were few and far between. Usually they were nothing more than glorified politicians. The entrenched clergy were no better than the spoiled nobles and wealthy merchants he had dealt with in towns past. They generally were second sons of noble families. Regardless, their money spent the same.

He was left to stand before the head of the table as the holy men feasted. The Cardinal was a rather rotund looking gentleman who had as many greasy jowls as he had teeth in his mouth, with sharp, narrow eyes that immediately began analyzing his person. Most of the bishops possessed small, beady eyes like rats, supported by weak facial features and an absence of or generally lacking chins. He was not impressed but had to hide his disdain. Cardinals were serious business, supposedly princes of the church and with serious money to spend and easy access to his Holiness’s ear. This particular gentleman before him was rumored to be a distant cousin of the current pope.

Good evening Stipan Andric. I do hope that you gave confession before appearing before us. Reports of your honorable deeds in Marseille have reached even our humble ears, one of the men at the table proclaimed in smarmy voice.

Stipan stared him down without saying a word, his fierce eyes doing the talking. The offending bishop recoiled back in his seat at his obvious display of strength and willpower. The guards stood a little more erect.

Alas, my efforts were in vain for far too many have perished from this dreadful pestilence, may the good Lord show mercy in death to them that was missing in life. Pray tell why you have summoned me? I am just out of quarantine after some dreadful business in Pavia. I had hoped to recover from my strenuous efforts before entering into another contract, but I always oblige the Church when there is holy business to be done.

There was an uncomfortable silence broken only the sound of jaws masticating and throats nervously clearing themselves. The men at the table all looked at each other nervously like they wanted to say something but were afraid to. Only the Cardinal seated in the middle maintained his bearing. He looked at Stipan with deadly serious eyes, his expression unchanging as his jowls quivered and shook.

"We have lost contact with a town, a place known as Mons Manomorta, and his Holiness is very concerned that the town is lost to all. We are all afraid that this ‘calamity’ has reached an extreme level of godlessness there and we need your services. We need a doctor of your particular talents for this task, and your reputation precedes you. Zagreb, Trieste, Ragusa, Marseille…we need someone with your experience. We need a veteran Il Medico della Peste. You so far have had a knack for not getting sick and you come highly recommended. You are said to be very effective. The Death cannot hold you the way it crushes others in its horrific grip."

You pay me the right number of ‘florins’ and acquiesce to my contract demands, and I’ll get on the table here and dance like a drunken Moor, if they do indeed drink, he replied. I have been lucky. I am well versed and practiced in my arts and it has kept me safe, at least so far. I have something extra that other doctors do not have.

His attempt at humor was met with a flat, emotionless expression from the Cardinal. None of the bishops giggled, but he could hear a guard or two snickers in response. All the clergy were aghast at his lack of decorum. Plague doctors were supposed to be silent and respectful. Stipan did not care. He had been around enough death and dying to stop caring a long time ago. He was also very hungry. In fact, he was famished. He had just left quarantine and craved a real meal and a flagon of wine. After all the death and calamities, he had just witnessed, he wished to feel alive. The Cardinal and the bishops sat there stuffing their faces with no regard for their guest’s wants or needs. The Cardinal did not offer one tender morsel to his guest who had subsisted on stale bread and porridge for several weeks.

We will pay you handsomely and offer you citizenship in this town, if you so wish, but you must successfully complete your task. We have need of your peculiar skills. Your rumored time with the Ottomans and your knowledge of Oriental mysteries will be useful.

I was but a young child when the Ottomans carried me away from the loving embrace of my family. I paid them back by abandoning them at the first opportunity that presented itself. I have no knowledge of far Eastern mysteries outside of the Mohammadan rituals I bore witness to in my time with them, he remarked. Mons Manomorta? Up in the mountains is it not? Founded by a militant order of most pious, some would say extreme zealots, who fought the Saracens. They were rumored to have become entangled in some dark Oriental mysteries and conspiracies, and then went into seclusion with the Holy See’s reluctant blessings afterward to do as they please? Is that not correct? How can his Holiness be that concerned with what is going on in some mountainous backwater while he sits holed up in his palace in Avignon? This will cost you at least a one hundred florins and nice, tidy home here in town with the larder and cupboards provisioned once a month for five years.

His Holiness is concerned about any of his lands and any loyal servants of the Lord who need his help. We will your honor your requests and go one step further by offering you a special uniform and materials to carry out your duties. You will be doing the Lord’s work after all, and easily identifiable as a man going about sacred duties.

A uniform. I have never been offered a uniform before. This must be important work.

That is all fine and good, but please do not forget the wine too from your finest monasteries, he quipped.

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence as he watched the clergy squirm.

And who settles a town up in the mountains like that? The humors have to be horrible, even worse that what I have encountered in Rome or Neopolis.

The Order of Acre was given their refuge, their redoubt, over many strenuous objections within the Church. They were very persuasive, for some reason that is unknown to me. A bunch of vicious louts they were and remain, but up there they have settled, out of view from our prying eyes doing who knows what. It has always been its own unique place, a place shrouded in mystery, very difficult for us to control because of the great difficulty in reaching it. They built it upon the ruins of an old Etruscan temple that the Romans razed to the ground in antiquity, if my memory serves me correctly.

You have to be a lunatic to get that close and intimate with the earth, Stipan replied. He helped himself to a bottle of wine on the table in front of the amassed holy men. The Cardinal gave him a cross look but did not stop him as he downed half the contents of the bottle.

You can keep that particular bottle if you so like, the holy man hissed with a great degree of disdain.

Thank you kind sir, I am extremely thirsty for some reason and I drink for the thirst yet to come. I am surprised that you even let me in here for an audience. I should have worn my mask to really make you all feel uneasy and frighten you and your peers. Alas, your men insisted that I take it off. It does an effective job of keeping the brigands away and protecting me from this dreaded pestilence, he joked as he supped the sweet, sweet wine. No one laughed again. He found that for some reason the clergy always had the best of everything, the best food, the best drink, and the best women if you pried hard enough.

He was alien to them and was only there out of bare necessity. They were too cowardly to admit it. He was the son of some sort of rich farmer, from some backwater across the Adriatic where the things that went bump in the night seemed all too real and were. They had heard the rumors of what the House of Osman had done to him. That seemed to follow him like a stench that he could not shake. It was unfortunate but in some ways to his benefit as well. The House of Osman scared the Church. Everyone knew it. They were the gravest threat to the outstanding order now as the Mongols had shrunk back toward the East and bogged themselves down in a series of succession crises that fractured and fragmented their strength.

Stipan was not some minor noble forced into the clergy like the men gathered in front of him, dressed like pious supplicants for a God that they ignored when they wanted to and who in turn was now ignoring the world of His creation as His Plague wrecked a vengeance never seen before in the annals of history. He waded through hell and lived to see another day. He dared not voice what he really thought of them and their Church just for the purposes of preserving his immortal soul and own personal liberty. He needed the coin to fund his other endeavors. He had dreams after all and holy contracts were very lucrative.

It is a town unlike any other in the entire region, or in all of Europe for that matter. It belongs in the far-flung Levant with those who swear fealty to the accursed House of Osman and the poor Armenians our Eastern brethren are always having difficulty with. We only show concern over Mons Manomorta because it lies in our lands and we hope to contain the spread of the pestilence in that accursed place. We wish for whatever has infected that redoubt to remain there for we fear it may creep down upon us and be our eternal end. It is rumored to be a most ‘virulent’ form of the pestilence in full bloom, explained the Cardinal. Perfect for you to go there and treat them with the skill and mercy you are known for Doctor.

But your ‘lands’ as you call them, are overrun with petty warlords and brigands. With his Holiness in Avignon, your grip on this area is tenuous at best. How am I to execute my duties when I will be waylaid by bandits and other undesirables on my way there? Like I have said, my uniform and station do an impressive job at keeping them at bay usually given their natural fear of the pestilence, but some might get a little brave or desperate, especially when the information gets out of where I am going and who has paid me to go.

Let us deal with that Stipan Andric. We fear that the Black Death has made its way there. Of course, in your line of work the mortality rate is quite high, but there have been no reports from the past emissaries we have sent there. We have the area under quarantine and have kept what we fear a secret, but we are unsure how long we can keep the matter silent. No one ever goes there anyway other than to trade in the bare necessities. We fear that there are those seeking refuge there that have turned their backs on the Gospels, and the Plague has laid them all low to the point that they are sinning in direct contravention of the Church. We have received reports and heard disturbing rumors that they are worshipping a pagan Eastern deity there. But either way it is bad for trade, and bad for the Church and his Holiness.

What is it you want me to do there? I am just a humble doctor, treating those victims of this calamity almighty God has deemed fit to curse us with.

Of course, we want you to treat all who suffer from this calamity, this scourge of God sent to purify us all, be they rich or poor but there is something peculiar happening in Mons Manomorta, something we have no concrete knowledge about and cannot explain, the Cardinal said, as he locked his arrogant and imperious gaze on Stipan’s face. He wore a stern and condescending visage and was an imposing, if not particularly intimidating presence. Those that dealt with death every day never feared lesser men and their prattling.

As I have said, Mons Manomorta has always been a mystery, always been peculiar from its consecration by the Etruscans to its continued existence now. The Romans destroyed it and sowed it with salt for a reason. There was something lurking there that they wanted no part of. The Black Death has made it even more mysterious and frightening. There is more happening up there on that mountainous redoubt than disease. The Order of Acre brought more than foreign customs back with them, continued the bishop.

Stipan reached across the table and grabbed a piece of meat off a large silver serving tray. His hunger had gotten the better of him. He had passed too long in quarantine eating lesser rations. One of the bishops moved to skewer his hand with a fork but he easily evaded the clumsy blow.

So, you would like for me to report back to you anything peculiar I find then? Poke my beak around and see if they’re offering prayers to Lucifer?

The men looked at each other and spoke in hushed whispers. He could see the Cardinal’s greasy jowls moving up and down as he spoke. He was not much of a lip reader, but it seemed like the men were holding back relevant information. There was something major tidbit they were not telling him, but not much did he care. He was in grim business, but it paid well. The Church always paid him extravagantly well and eagerly bought his silence when necessary.

It is not Lucifer we are worried about, the Cardinal replied cryptically as he passed the contract in front of Stipan. In fact, we wish it was the work of the Devil.

He gladly took the paper and looked it over to ensure that he was not selling his soul to some minor demon the Cardinal worshipped in secret. He waved for a writing instrument and was promptly given one. He signed his signature like the exquisite calligraphy of an Ottoman sultan and the Cardinal eagerly snatched the parchment back, handing it back to a chamberlain who affixed the Cardinal’s seal to the document.

"I see that your sense of reason does not match your horrific manners and protocol good Doctor. The Order of Acre is not to be trifled with by the likes of you. They played at dark, sinister things