The Palace (12 page)

Frost had made the air crisp and the sky was winter-bright. Under the trees
where leaves had fallen the earth gave off a ripe, pungent smell, like a fruit
compote. There was very little wind, so the coolness of the morning was not as
noticeable to the six horsemen who rode in their own wind around the crest of
the hill.

"Ah, it is beautiful here!" Laurenzo cried as he reined in near the spiky
shadows of a small grove of pine trees. "This is what I needed: the touch of the
country again."

Agnolo Poliziano, who hated long rides, grimaced as he pulled up his big
Spanish mare. "I wish you'd content yourself with a touch, then. This has been
more like a beating."

But Laurenzo laughed. "Come, old friend, admit it. You cannot like anything I
like. It could be your favorite dish, and you would scorn it."

"No fear there." Poliziano smiled unexpectedly. "You can't smell, Laurenzo,
and you have no idea what food is really like."

Three more horses were pulled up. The first was ridden by il Conte Giovanni
Pico della Mirandola and he gestured to the two men with him. "Ficino here
insists that Socrates would not enjoy a morning like this, but I think he is
wrong. Ragoczy here will not take sides, so we've come to you."

"We discussed that last night," Laurenzo said with a certain inattention. "I
thought it was agreed that Socrates was probably not a horseman." He tugged at
his gloves and looked back. "Poor Giacomo," he remarked to the sixth horseman.
"I should have lent you a sweeter-tempered mount. Never ride Fulmine that way.
He must have a firm hand or he becomes fractious."

Giacomo Pradelli, envoy from Mantova, gratefully pulled the tricky roan
gelding in beside Laurenzo. "It is not that important, Magnifico," he said,
lying heroically. He tried to change the subject by saying, "I have rarely seen
land in such good heart. Fiorenza is fortunate, for many reasons."

"Excellent." Laurenzo grinned in sudden amusement. "I will tell Gonzaga that
he is most blessed in this representative, and that I will want to purchase more
of his library next year." He turned in his saddle to the foreigner on the next
gray stallion. "Well, mio caro stragnero, you have nothing to say?"

"I did not attend your banquet, Magnifico. I do not know what was said. I
agree that the land is in good condition, even though some of the crops were
spoiled by early rain. What other opinion should I offer?" He brought his horse
up beside Laurenzo's. "I saw deer in the hills as we rode here. For all the
chill, it is a beautiful morning."

"I am sorry that our tradition excluded you last night," Laurenzo said, and
met Ragoczy's eyes.

"No matter. I didn't expect to be included." This was so wholly without
rancor or jealousy that the guarded look left Laurenzo's face and Ragoczy went
on, "I, too, have traditions which I honor, Magnifico. I don't criticize yours."

"It is an annual event, for those of us who were at the Accademia. Only seven
may attend. But I would still like to hear your views. Won't you tell me what
you think?"

"About Socrates?" He played with the end of his reins. "You mean, do I think
Socrates was a horseman?" He saw Laurenzo nod, and he wondered what to answer.
He recalled the ferocious old Greek and his studied slovenliness, his sharp
tongue that would put Poliziano to shame, and his eager acceptance of praise. "I
haven't read much Plato," Ragoczy ventured cautiously.

"And that, Francesco, is not an answer." The way ahead was steeper and
Laurenzo held back, steadying his horse. Then he turned to his riding
companions. "Mark this course: down the hill to the spring, jump the log below,
then beside the old stone fence to the creek, over the creek and along to Sacro
Infante, over the fence and down the slope to the Genova road. Quickly."

It was a treacherous course, and they all knew it. Laurenzo paused only long
enough to say to Giacomo Pradelli, "Not you, my friend. Fulmine would have you
out of the saddle on the first turn. Meet us at the Genova road. There is a safe
path not far from here. You may ride down easily."

"Let me guide him," Poliziano said quickly. "I hate these stupid
competitions, Laurenzo. You know I hate them. Why should I risk my horse and my
neck to please you? And if—"

"Very well." Laurenzo's smile was still very bright as he interrupted
Poliziano. "But I warn you that I won't stand for complaints from you if you
miss the excitement." He waited while Poliziano took

Giacomo Pradelli away from the other horsemen, and then gave one loud shout,
and the four riders were off down the steep hill.

Two pheasants exploded out of the brush as the horsemen raced past, and their
cries filled the morning as they flew into the sky.

Laurenzo cleared the log first, shouting for pleasure as his big bay stallion
negotiated the hazardous landing and recovered easily, leaving deep gouges in
the moist bank as he lengthened his stride as he galloped toward the old stone
fence that ran for several leagues through the Tuscan hills.

Il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola followed close on Laurenzo's path, but
he was a more reckless rider and his lack of caution cost him as he took his
horse over the log, for the showy white mare balked, reared suddenly, lost her
footing and then threw Pico back onto the soggy earth around the spring. Muddied
and laughing, Pico got to his feet, rubbing at his hip. His wool riding mantle
was smeared with mud and his leggings were soaked through. "Go on!" he shouted,
and got out of the way of Ragoczy's gray stallion.

Ficino was pushing Ragoczy to a faster pace, his own dun gelding racing hard
to take the lead. "Move aside!" he shouted to the foreigner.

"Pass me!" Ragoczy called back, and spurred his stallion on. His riding style
was somewhat different from that of the Fiorenzeni, for his saddle was of a very
modified low design, having little support in front of or behind the rider.
Ragoczy rode with his stirrup leathers uncommonly short, in the Persian manner,
and as he chased after Laurenzo, he rose in them, so that his body was above the
saddle entirely.

Marsilio Ficino broke out laughing at this and kicked his mount more
determinedly.

Laurenzo was several lengths ahead, riding beside the stone fence at an easy
gallop, his dark hair whipping around his head as he turned back to wave,
confident of his lead.

Now Ficino slapped his horse's neck with the end of the reins and yelled
encouragement to his dun gelding. Slowly he came abreast of Ragoczy's gray
stallion. "Give way, foreigner!" he shouted.

Without a word in answer, Ragoczy shifted his balance slightly forward and
his gray bounded ahead. The path was growing narrower, and there was no longer
room for more than one horse at a time. Ragoczy did not hesitate. He pulled on
the rein, adjusted his weight once more, and steadied his gray over the fence in
a stunning display of horsemanship.

In the field, sheep scattered as the gray landed, and under Ragoczy's firm
control the horse did not falter, keeping by the fence as he raced to catch
Laurenzo.

Ficino had watched the jump in stunned silence. Then he pulled in his dun
gelding and let the horse walk the trail. There was no use continuing now, for
the contest was plainly between Laurenzo and Ragoczy. He shook his head and let
his thoughts wander into the bright, sweet-scented morning.

Ragoczy cleared the creek less than two lengths behind Laurenzo, but his
confidence faded as he saw the huge white cloister walls of Sacro Infante of the
Celestiane Sisters loom up ahead of him. He could not jump the fence again to
Laurenzo's side, for the quarters were far too close for safety. The only
alternative was to go around the high convent walls.

"Qual dolor!" Laurenzo called mockingly to him, satisfaction making his smile
glow.

Once again Ragoczy did not waste breath in an answer. He prodded his stallion
and tugged the rein. Part of him was running with the horse, stretching for the
gallop, steadying the pace until the stallion's mad rush flowed like water over
the ground. He was almost around the convent when the ringing of a bell startled
the gray, and he broke the steady rhythm of his stride. If it were not for
Ragoczy's iron control, the gray would have bolted. But the bell stopped and the
danger was past. Even though Ragoczy cursed the lost seconds, he knew that there
was still time to recover lost ground on the descent to the Genova road. He
doubted he would do badly there.

Laurenzo's large eyes grew even larger as he saw Ragoczy round the third wall
of the convent, still keeping up with him. He measured the distance between them
in a glance, then dug his heels into his horse's flanks.

The last league or so became a scramble, for the hill there was very steep,
and the men were both determined. Loose rocks and bits of earth slid down the
slope, threatening to upset the horses' precarious footing. Below, on the Genova
road Agnolo Poliziano and Giacomo Pradelli were waiting, and Agnolo wore a
large, annoying smile.

In the final rush, Ragoczy forced his gray to a near-run, and the big
stallion overtook Laurenzo's mount, touching the road just moments before the
other stallion could.

Both horses were breathing heavily and their coats were dark with sweat.
Laurenzo patted his stallion and said, somewhat sourly, "Morello would have
beaten you, Ragoczy. He never lost a race."

"Morello?" Ragoczy asked and he took a deep breath.

"He was Magnifico's horse for years," Agnolo explained, delighted that
Laurenzo had been beaten at last. "And he may be right, but I don't know. I've
never seen anyone ride like that. It's positively heretical."

The breeze had picked up, and now that the race was over, the air felt
unexpectedly icy. Laurenzo frowned darkly. "I raised Morello from a colt. I fed
him every day, and if I did not feed him, he would refuse to eat. He would stamp
his feet when he saw me coming. Not like this beast."

"Come, Magnifico," Agnolo mocked, "don't take it out on the horse. Admit that
Ragoczy outrode you." He smiled seraphically at Giacomo Pradelli, and awaited
developments.

But Ragoczy was determined to avoid an argument. "Magnifico, if I had not
ridden as I did, you would have felt cheated. You've said before that you
dislike being flattered. It was an even match, and I think I had a fair amount
of luck." He ignored the clouded look in Laurenzo's eyes. "Another day you will
certainly best me. It's been many, many years since I've seen riding to match
yours." It was no more than the truth, but he did not mention that he measured
the years in centuries.

Some of the scowl faded as Laurenzo said, "It is true that I like a good
contest."

Poliziano used this to plant another barb. "What you mean is that you like to
win."

"Of course." He was about to defend himself when Ragoczy interrupted him.

"He would not be good at competitions if he didn't like to win. That's what
made the race worthwhile." Ragoczy hoped that would put an end to the poisonous
darts Poliziano was delighting in. "And, Magnifico, you have many more skills
than I do."

"Perhaps," Laurenzo allowed, somewhat mollified. He waved to Marsilio Ficino,
who had ridden up at last. "The last of our number. I gather Pico has gone back
to the villa to change."

"I would imagine so." Ficino looked at the party and sighed. "It's so lovely
a day. I saw a few grapes still on the vine. They're past using, but the smell
was delicious."

By now, the worst of Laurenzo's temper had gone, and he was able to shrug his
shoulders. "I wasn't aware of it." He walked his horse up to the head of the
party and looked at his companions. "We're close enough to Fiorenza that I think
I'll return today. It's less than an hour to the Porta San Gallo. Ride with me,
amici miei, and enjoy the hills."

Marsilio Ficino was pleased to see that Laurenzo's mood was pleasant, and he
started to sing, his cracked baritone making his companions laugh. "Very well,
then," he said as he broke off, "I don't do it well. You, Laurenzo—you always
make good songs."

Laurenzo responded happily. "I haven't made songs this way for a while. Let
me think." His horse was trotting now, and Laurenzo motioned the others to keep
even with him. "What shall I sing of?"

"Make a farce," Poliziano said quickly.

"Please," Ficino said.

"Love," ventured Giacomo Pradelli.

"And you, Francesco? What would you like me to sing of?"

Ragoczy thought seriously for a moment, and his intent gaze was fixed on the
hills beyond them. "Sing about your life, Magnifico. Everything you are stems
from that."

"Sta bene," he agreed. "And when I am through, you must sing about
your
life."

"But, Magnifico—" Ragoczy objected, and was cut short by Poliziano.

"Good. The foreigner should sing." He laughed derisively and turned to the
others. "Perhaps then da San Germano will be something less of a mystery. Make
him sing, Laurenzo."

Although he was irritated by the peremptory tone, Ragoczy knew it was not
worth fighting about. "Whatever Magnifico does, I will do my poor best to learn
from."

The road was gentle, winding through the lovely hills like a stream, and it
descended gradually, so that the way was never steep. There was little traffic
on it, and what there was made way for the illustrious party.

"Ah, I have my rhymes, I think," Laurenzo said after a pause. He hummed
experimentally and then began to sing. His tenor voice had been roughened over
the years, and the melody was simple for that reason. "Fra le dovizie della
dolce amor," he began and quelled the ribald laughter that greeted this opening,
saying, "There is no wealth that compares to love, amici miei." He cleared his
throat and continued. "Fra le dovizie della dolce amor/ Io son perduto, son io
sognator."

"I wouldn't call it sleepwalking, myself," Poliziano said.