He did not recognize her astonishment at his identity, but would be otherwise pleased to know his name had survived that long in the future. He'd intended to immortalize himself after all, but such thoughts were far away and his last concern. To die now in this sickbed put an end to such aspirations and let him care only for an end to the mindlessness of disease. Or whatever it was she'd said. Influenza? Was that it?
Cesare forced himself to look at her--he was sick and not dying after all--to hear her words so he would understand what was happening. She was taking time to explain, he owed it to her and to himself to listen to it. He shivered despite the burn in his body and paused for a long moment before he managed to nod almost imperceptibly his understanding. He must wait it out, must trust her judgment, her care and reserve his strength to see him through.
"The food," he rasped, sounding more tired than anything. "I can't keep it down," implying that it was more than vomit that pushed it from his system. "It pains me and I want nothing but to spew it out again," his hand traveled low over his abdomen and lingered there, though there was no pain at the moment. He had avoided eating the last day or so, sickened and without appetite but dreading also the result of consuming food in this place.