As soon as I was granted full authority over plague control, I rushed to the scene.
If I were one of those clueless nobles, running around without a plan would only cause trouble.
But seeing the chaos here, I couldn’t help but think, “Good thing I got involved.”
“No matter how much panic and fear have gripped everyone, some real lunatics have shown up.”
Monks, their heads shaved in the characteristic tonsure style, had stripped off their upper garments and were whipping themselves with flagellation whips.
While these whips, meant for penitence, weren’t designed to kill or torture, they were still gruesome. Blood dripped from their backs as they paraded around.
“Deus, forgive us! Save us, this city, and this land!”
“We repent for our sins!”
“Take me if you must, but spare these people!”
Meanwhile, plague doctors, wearing their iconic beak-shaped masks, were creating their own commotion.
“He’s suffering from persistent diarrhea—clearly a sign of the plague. In such cases, we must use Saint Vickery’s chicken cure.”
With that, they placed a freshly cleaned chicken near the patient.
“The disease will transfer from the patient to the chicken, and he will recover soon.”
“Thank you, doctor!”
“Repent for your sins, and Deus will heal you.”
Having lived in this medieval fantasy world, I was already well-acquainted with its backwardness.
But this wasn’t just ignorance—it was barbarism, outright endangering both the sick and the healthy.
The real problem was that, by the medical standards of the Tuscan Empire, this was considered proper treatment.
Even in 20th-century America, they once encouraged children to smoke cigarettes for long life and turned soldiers into addicts, claiming it helped them march better.
Ignorance is indeed a sin.
Now, as a hero of this otherworld, it was time to enlighten these medieval minds.
“Stop this madness right now! Are you trying to kill everyone?”
My outburst drew glares of pure hatred, especially from the self-flagellating masochists and the plague doctors.
The flagellants, their religious fervor challenged, were indignant.
“All diseases are tools of Deus to make us repent!”
“This poor, faithless soul lacks true understanding!”
The plague doctors, on the other hand, stared daggers at me, offended that someone dared threaten their livelihood.
“Where does an ignorant fool like you get the nerve to speak of medicine?”
However, the sight of my clothes seemed to quell their rage instantly.
Apparently, the appearance of an otherworldly hero mode could even cure anger issues.
I immediately invoked the authority granted to me by the mayor of Pisa.
“Prepare to subdue them.”
At my command, the soldiers behind me leveled their muskets and spears at the crowd.
“I am Fabio de Rothschild, Baron of Rothschild. The mayor of Pisa has granted me full authority over plague control.”
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In the Tuscan Empire, a declared epidemic essentially meant martial law.
In short, disobeying me could result in public executions without consequences.
“From now on, you will all follow my instructions. Failure to comply will result in death.”
I’m not some maniac addicted to killing.
But when necessary, I wouldn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a second to execute someone in my role as a noble of the Tuscan Empire.
Perhaps it was the combination of authority, power, and noble status, but the fanatics and opportunistic quacks suddenly became remarkably docile.
“First, you flagellants will stop your self-punishment immediately. Plague doctors, you will follow my instructions to treat the infected and isolate them from the general population.”
I also issued clear directives on what they needed to do immediately:
When I finished explaining, the leader of the flagellants—a man who seemed to represent the group—asked me a question.
“I understand your instructions. But is it not right to repent through physical suffering? Deus has sent this plague as a rod of punishment for our sins. Should we not endure hardships and sincerely repent so that Deus will forgive us and heal the sick more quickly?”
This was precisely why I had approached the bishop before the mayor.
Logically dismantling his argument would have been easy—citing the scriptures’ plague-management guidelines and questioning whether he thought he knew better than Deus.
But doing so would inevitably provoke the ire of other clergy, who would see this as an attack on their livelihood.
Now, with the bishop’s authority supporting me, I didn’t need to fear such repercussions.
“This is insubordination, but since your question stems from genuine faith, I will let it slide.”
The representative visibly trembled as he realized how close he’d come to death.
“What’s your name?”
“I am Giuseppe, the head of a small mendicant monastery.”
Usually, persuasion works best when delivered with kind words.
But these people weren’t merely ignorant; their actions were downright malicious.
Once the situation stabilized, they would inevitably start extorting money from the sick and survivors, pretending to offer confessions or last rites.
Sure, I profit from wars and other ventures, but at least I’m no hypocrite.
“Are you claiming to be more knowledgeable than the Bishop of Pisa?”
The clergy of Deus operate under a rigid hierarchy, stricter than even the military.
The bishop is equivalent to a general, while the head of a small monastery is at best a captain—and in a mendicant order, more likely a lieutenant.
“The Bishop of Pisa has deemed my methods more aligned with scripture. Besides, wasn’t your flagellation never officially endorsed by the Holy Father?”
Even though the Deus Church is steeped in materialism, its upper echelons are filled with educated individuals.
From their perspective, the flagellants’ actions were tolerable at best, a nuisance at worst.
“Follow my instructions here. Any objections?”
“None, sir! Absolutely none!”
Leaning close to Giuseppe, I whispered, “If I hear of anyone in your group disobeying my guidelines, I’ll grant you the privilege of meeting His Eminence the Cardinal in the capital.”
In other words, I’d have them sent to the Inquisition.
This kind of threat was necessary to ensure compliance from these money-hungry zealots.
Giuseppe immediately began leading efforts to isolate the infected.
See? Threats work wonders on fanatics blinded by greed.
Turning to the plague doctors, I issued their orders.
“You will be responsible for treating the sick, separating the infected from the healthy, and disposing of the dead. When this plague subsides, you’ll be rewarded with one gold coin per person treated. Make sure no one accuses you of taking advantage of this situation.”
“Yes, sir!”
“If any of you exploit the citizens of Pisa or the serfs of nearby villages, I’ll personally ensure you beg for death.”
Using their fake medical credentials to extort dying patients is a line even I, with all my profit-driven tendencies, wouldn’t cross.
‘Of course, if they were my enemies, exceptions could be made.’
“This operation is under my command and my responsibility. Any violations of orders will result in a court-martial.”
Though I intended to merely intimidate and reprimand offenders, anyone caught stealing or hoarding resources would be reported to the Count of Pisa.
The count, eager to restore public trust, would likely punish them harshly—perhaps even executing them publicly.
Having issued my commands, I headed straight to the infirmary where the sick were being treated.
This was the most important part of my mission here.
Taking the hands of the patients, I offered words of comfort.
“Don’t worry about treatment costs. Just focus on recovering. Even the Count of Pisa wishes for your recovery.”
I made sure to sprinkle in some praise for the count, but the people here—and throughout the empire—would remember me.
Unlike other nobles, Baron Rothschild stood out as someone willing to shed tears for the afflicted and spend his wealth selflessly to save lives.