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Tonight, we’re not following kings, warriors, or saints. We’re following a tailor’s apprentice in Renaissance Europe… as his skin blooms with red sores, his neighbors whisper of sin and punishment, and the local barber-surgeon arrives with hot cups and mustard plasters.

There are no miracles here. Just fever. Isolation. And a slow, painful transformation that leaves the body disfigured — and the memory quietly erased.

This is the horrifying fate of a smallpox victim. And in the Renaissance, you wouldn’t need to be cursed or criminal to suffer it. Just unlucky.

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