The Distant Cartograph
The streets of Naples in the year 1348 were a labyrinth of stone and sweat, where the smell of rotting fish from the harbor mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of iron filings and the damp, heavy exhalation of the sea. It was a city that worked in the shadows of the basilicas, a place where every coin had a weight and every debt a name, and I, Enzo Marino, moved through its narrow arteries with...
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