Giacomo did not particularly like Venice. He also did not not like it, either. It had been his home after all for the past ten years, making him almost completely forget his prior life in his native Algiers. In fact, he had no strong feelings toward his adopted home with the exception of the canals. Those he hated. If he had to get anywhere, he had to make a choice: hire a gondola, which was costly, yet was often the fastest and most direct option or go by foot and spend an inordinate amount of time and energy navigating the endless maze of alleys and bridges.

While even the innocent rocking of the gondola made his stomach churn, when he was out on an errand for the Barozzi household and they were providing the oarsman's coin, Giacomo chose the canals. But this morning, the boy of fifteen whose stature and demeanor fooled most into thinking he was a grown man was on a personal journey, so land it was.

The sun had already begun its climb in the sky, and Giacomo hoped he wouldn't be too late. He would hate to waste his precious free time getting from San Marco's to somewhere within the Arsenale only to find he'd missed what he'd gone for. Then again, he didn't even know exactly where he was going, so tardiness was the least of his worries.

His decision to go had almost been an afterthought. He had overheard the peculiar preacher many times, speaking of doomsdays and reckoning to anyone who would listen and even those who did their best to avoid him. But Giacomo couldn't completely avoid the man who looked anything but a proper man of the cloth. He'd taken up a prime spot in front of the Doge's church just meters away from the Procurator's residence to proselytize, and when he spoke, his strange sermons were unavoidable to a servant standing guard at the doors.

So Giacomo listened. And at first, he found the talk of repentance, charity, and faith along with the promise of salvation to be no different than what the other Christians assured. The possibility of the latter being achieved by the former because of Jesus's own sacrifice was of course inconsistent with what his own faith believed. In Islam, only the Mercy of Allah could save. But as the days, then weeks, and finally months wore on and more and more people died, Giacomo's convictions wavered. Perhaps he should have started looking at other means of deliverance?

The final push was personal. Last night, Signore Matteo had fallen ill, and for a few, dreadful hours, the whole Barozzi household thought that all had been lost—that God had forsaken them and that a beloved member of the family would soon be the latest victim of the pestilence. If someone as virile as Matteo could succumb to the disease, then everyone was at risk.

Thankfully, Matteo's condition turned out to be something else, but it made Giacomo realize that he was not ready to die. And if there were another way that he could protect himself against the plague, he wanted to keep his heart and mind open to it. Which was why he was now hastily criss-crossing the island.

Taking the Riva Degli Schiavoni along the southern waterfront would have been the easiest before cutting up north through one of the smaller alleys into the Castello district. But that was a popular route and would be most well-trafficked. Today, Giacomo wanted anonymity and as little attention drawn to his destination as possible.

His mind raced as fast as his feet as he neared his destination. How many else would show up? Who else would be there? Would they even let a servant boy in, much less a Moor? The public announcement about a special demonstration aimed at only those who were willing to hear the true Word of God was directed at anyone standing close enough at the time. But who else truly listened?

Giacomo stopped a moment to catch his breath, leaning his hand against the rough stucco of an exterior wall of some rich man's abode. He was close now, at the entrance to the Sotoportego di Corte Nova. This alley was much like many others in Venice, passing not just between two buildings, but also under the second story. More like a tunnel, it served as a convenient place to briefly escape the sun's glare in the summer and rain during bad weather.

But this particular passage was special for other reasons, or so Giacomo had heard. Rumors had that anyone who said a prayer while walking through it would be spared from the plague, and that is why no citizen who lived on the other side within the New Court had died of the disease. Giacomo didn't believe in hearsay nor superstition. His uncle had raised him to rely on the evidence of his eyes, not ears. Yet as he stepped into the brief darkness that the passageway offered, he mumbled a quick invocation to Allah. What could it have hurt?

He was through the short tunnel by the time the prayer was over. On the other side, the alley continued deeper into the district, and if he continued on the same heading, Giacomo would eventually reach the shipyard. Ten minutes later, he found himself exactly there.

Now came the hard part. The industrial buildings used to craft and store oars and sails, chains and rope, and cannons and guns to outfit the hulls of galleys and other sailing vessels were numerous and nearly identical. The open yards in between were stacked high with both logs and milled timber, waiting to be fashioned into the best fleet in the Mediterranean. The day was young, but workmen had already begun preparations for the limited production still taking place. Yet somewhere within this vast complex was his destination; the only clue as to where would be a prominent number "12" somewhere on its facade.

"Look for the twelve, and path to the kingdom of Heaven will be revealed to you," the preacher had said back in San Marco's piazza.

So that is what Giacomo did.

Walking the western perimeter without actually setting foot into the shipyard, he inspected the buildings from afar. But none displayed the sought after identifier. It was no use. The area was immense and it would take him hours to traverse the entire thing. Even then, he could easily miss the marker. He should have asked for more specific directions, then he wouldn't be idling away his time.

The slamming of a door caught Giacomo's attention. Three buildings in, from under the second set of double-windows, a mother and child ran out. The boy clutched his arm against his chest as he wailed. The woman shielded him with her body from whatever they were fleeing, the look on her face both frightened and angry.

Although Giacomo could not fathom what they were doing in the shipyard, he surmised that—like him—they did not belong there. Taking this as a sign, he slipped through the entrance when no one was looking and ran in their direction. They eventually met half-way.

"Did you come from building twelve?" he asked in an attempt to stop the woman for a word. "The one with the preacher, I mean?"

"You stay away if you know what's good for you!" she exclaimed without slowing. "Beware of false prophets and their promises."

Giacomo looked after her, but was only met with the sight of her back. Should he follow and ask what she meant by the admonition?

He turned toward the building, now close enough to see a large number twelve scrawled in chalk on its wooden door. In the opposite direction, the woman and child were disappearing through the gates. His question was moot, so he started toward the door.

The inside was dim. Although lit by the sun streaming through arched windows on either side, the large space seemed to swallow the light. Coils of finished rope in various thicknesses were stacked against the walls, while wheels hung from the ceiling. Fine particles of hemp floated among the dust in the air like fairies.

But it was neither the look or the purpose of the place that caught Giacomo's eye. He had no more interest in a rope yard than in the general business of shipbuilding, which was to say none at all. Rather, it was the group of about fifty or so individuals in the other end of the room that earned his scrutiny.

So engrossed were these men and women in what they were watching that none paid heed to the newcomer, allowing Giacomo to quietly slip into the back row of the semicircle facing the far wall. With his considerable height, he could easily see over the shoulders of the two men in front of him and immediately recognized the preacher who was standing at the center of attention. Behind him, a group of twelve individuals were lined up, shoulder-to-shoulder. They were an odd mix—appearing to be from all walks of life and social standing—but they all shared one thing in common.

All had fresh bandages on their left wrists, some with tell-tale signs of blood seeping through.

Having arrived obviously well into whatever was happening, Giacomo did not know what to make of this sight, but as all eyes were fixed on the preacher, he bit his tongue and kept watching.

The man had his eyes closed, hands folded, and head bowed. He was neither young, nor old, but with harsh features that once seen, could never be forgotten. His mouth, even when closed, was wide and his face was sunken. His hair was thin, and his clothing worn. When he raised his head and opened his eyes, he automatically trained them on Giacomo.

The boy stood still, afraid to even breathe and feeling like his soul was being pierced by an invisible dagger the whole time. Only when the preacher blinked and looked away did Giacomo dare to exhale.

Although the preacher was dressed more like a peasant than a noble, he wore a large, silver pendant around his neck that likely had value. It also appeared to have an elaborate designed scratched onto its surface, but it was too far for Giacomo to decipher. Now lifting the sigil from where it rested on his chest, the preacher first kissed it and then placed it flat against the brows of the nearest participant.

"Do not harm the earth or the sea or the trees, until after we have sealed the servants of God on their foreheads," he said in a deep authoritative voice before stepping aside and repeating the identical invocation with all of the dozen.

When he was done, he faced the audience and lifted his hands toward the sky.

"Psalm sixty-eight, verse twenty tells us: God is to us a God of deliverances and salvation; and to God the Lord belongs escape from death, setting us free."

"Amen," echoed the entire audience, save for Giacomo.

Lowering his hands, the preacher continued while sweeping his gaze across the faces of the attendees. "The Lord is our home, and like a well-built house, He gives our spirit the strong walls needed to keep us safe. But as it is in His power to knock down a brick rampart, no matter how sturdy with a strong wind were it part of His divine plan, He can just as easily test our faith even as we stand at the edge of our own grave to determine if we are worthy of redemption. What we might at first consider to be the end of life would actually reveal itself to be freedom from death. But never forget, that it is only the Lord who may choose our manner of death in this physical realm, and His will is unquestionable and invulnerable to judgment."

Most in the audience nodded, spurring him to continue.

"Whether we take our last breath peacefully from age, unexpectedly from misfortune, or woefully from illness, our passing into Eternal Life is at His hands. And if we are ready to accept Him and His love for us, then He will reward us accordingly even as our mortal flesh rots. In Him, with Him, for Him we will never die, but rather flourish and multiply, propagating the next generation to walk the Earth."

Several people mumbled a low, "Amen," but he still wasn't done.

"In the womb, we have eyes, but see not; we have ears, but hear not. We also thrive in darkness, nourished by the blood of our maternal creator. My brothers and sisters, today some of you have received a blessing that few ever will, which—if you are truly worthy—will perhaps return you to that blissful state, closer to our Heavenly Creator. Because those He graces get to enjoy Heaven right here on Earth."

A low murmur ran through the crowd. The audience seemed pleased with what they heard, although Giacomo wasn't quite sure what the preacher meant. His own religion also rewarded believers with a place in the afterlife, but he didn't understand the Christian concept of Heaven on Earth that the others in the room appeared to covet. If it was just a fancy way to refer to avoiding the plague, which is what he'd heard this group had found a way to do, then he wished they'd just come out and say so.

"But fear not! All won't be lost for those who aren't chosen, for you can also be saved," the preacher continued, as if he'd heard Giacomo's musings. "Your redemption will be no less holy, even if it serves to extend your time amongst the living to spread His Word and continue to do his work. So go back to your homes, my brothers and sisters, and look at the strong walls surrounding you. Think of how the Lord's love uplifts your souls at this time of great uncertainty with a similar strength as those kiln-fired bricks. If you are comfortable in placing your chance at eternal salvation on the whims of an invisible pestilence, that is your decision and I say, go in peace. But if you want to be in control of your own destiny, then return here next week and stand before me to accept God's gift to you."

At this, the preacher stepped forward and shook the nearest man's hand. Everyone else clamored to get close to him, but Giacomo backed away. He wasn't sure what he'd heard or seen. He needed to think on the matter and perhaps consult with his uncle. But one thing he was sure of.

If there was a way for him to survive the plague, he was going to take it.