The Palace (14 page)

Her laugh was uncertain. "I cannot forget. What a little box of a place it
was; barely room for our bed. And the balcony, where we ate. Everything there
that was wonderful was part of you, Lauro. I wish we had stayed there forever."

"And I." He lifted her face and bent to kiss her. "That's another thing I had
forgot—how sweet your lips are. Again, Demetrice."

When she pulled away from him she was shaken. She looked at him with luminous
eyes. "Sancta Maria, what am I going to do?"

Laurenzo stood back from her, the beginnings of a frown on his brow. "What do
you mean, tesoro mio? I am here, and I will always take care of you. Never doubt
that."

"I don't." She forced herself to move away from him, to go to the window and
look out at the city. "It's been snowing for more than three days."

"Yes." He waited a moment, and then came across the library to her. "Demetrice.
Tesoro. Listen to me. Please."

Reluctantly she turned to him. "Lauro. Carissimo Lauro." She looked up into
his dear, ugly face and bit her tongue to keep from crying.

"Yes," he said very gently. "Yes, I know, Demetrice. And it is hard for me,
too." He drew her away from the window. "But there is time yet. A little time.
And I promise I will not leave you alone and friendless in the world."

Demetrice let herself be led back to the bench, and as Laurenzo sank down on
it, she held his head against her breast. "Do you remember that morning we rose
before sunrise and walked through the woods? I think I would sell my soul to
have that time again."

"Demetrice," he said softly. "It is hard enough without this. And your soul
is too precious to fling it away so uselessly. It is for your soul that I love
you, for without it… without your soul, even the greatest pleasures are empty."

"But don't you want that time again?" She managed to keep her voice steady as
she asked the question.

"More than you will ever know. And if I could have it again, it would not be
for a few months, but for years." He felt her hands tighten.

"Lauro. Oh, Lauro." In vain she searched for the right words, but they eluded
her.

"What do you want of me?" he asked when they had been silent too long.

"I want you to live." Demetrice almost choked on this outburst. She put her
hands to her face and moved away from him so that he could not see she wept.

"Demetrice, you must not. For me." He was too tired to follow her across the
room. "Tesoro mio, I beg you."

Her cry was full of anguish; she forced her fist into her mouth to stop it.
"I can't bear it."

"You must." He caught and held her with his eyes and slowly she regained
control of herself. "I am depending on you. How else can I know that everything
I value here is safe? Look around you." The sweep of his arm took in the whole
library. "I've worked most of my life for this. Who will guard it for me? Who
will protect it? Piero? It means nothing to him. Agnolo? As long as it brings
him notice, perhaps. Marsilio? He's older than I am, anima mia. But, you say,
there's Pico? But he will not be here, he will be in Roma, protecting his own
interests. You, Demetrice, you care for these books, and love them as much as I
do. You know that they are more than words on paper. You know that they are the
very soul of the world. You cherish them."

"But I couldn't stay here, if you weren't…" She faltered, and her eyes
strayed to the tables and shelves around her.

"Then stay elsewhere. Who in Fiorenza pleases you? Who would you like to live
with? Who would you want to learn from?" He asked the questions lightly, his
smile almost successful.

"I wouldn't want…"

"Demetrice." The name stung her with its sharpness. "I haven't the strength
for this. I am asking you to help me. If you are unwilling to, say so."

She saw the force of his implacable will in his face. Slowly she came back
across the room toward him, and resisted the urge to embrace him. "What must I
do?"

"You must find someone who will care for you. Not marriage, if that isn't
what you want. But you need to have a household to live in. I would suggest a
scholar, because you love learning. And learning cures many things, mio tesoro.
In time, it will cure your hurt." He let his hand fall on her shoulder as she
sank to the floor beside him. "Tell me who, then, and I will see that it is
arranged."

"I don't know. Perhaps Piero…" She thought of Laurenzo's son and shook her
head. "No. I guess not."

The room was darker and the firelight gilded them both. "You should not stay
here after I… leave."

She tried to think, sifting through the scholars she knew. And then, in
sudden realization, she said, "Ragoczy."

"Francesco?" He considered it. "I'll talk to him. He may be willing. He has
been a better friend to me than many Fiorenzeni. You will learn much from him."

Now that she had said it, she felt doubts. "Do you think I should? He is a
foreigner."

"That may give you greater protection. Do you like him?"

Demetrice traced out a faded outline on her gonella before she answered. "I
don't know. There's something about him. He has always been very kind to me, but
I feel that he could be very terrible. Perhaps it's because he's not Fiorenzan."

"Perhaps. I admit he is a mystery. But, as you say, he's kind, and he
certainly has a great deal of knowledge. You must ask him to teach you Turkish."

"Does he speak it?" It wasn't really a question, and she was not surprised
when Laurenzo did not answer.

"Tell me, tesoro mio: if I had been just Lauro, and not de' Medici, if there
were only my face and not my wealth, would you still have loved me?" He was
staring into the fire and his hand on her shoulder was tense.

She looked up at him, seeing his lantern jaw, his broken nose, his broad,
irregular forehead. Though she tried, she could not imagine him as anything
other than he was, but she answered without hesitation, "Of course I would."

He sighed and his hand relaxed. "Poor Clarice," he said, speaking of his
wife. "She really didn't like it here. She never forgot she was a Roman Orsini
out in the provinces."

"Piero's wife is another Orsini," Demetrice pointed out.

"That's different. Piero doesn't love Fiorenza. Clarice didn't object to my
mistresses, but she was infernally jealous of Fiorenza. I suppose it was
natural. She died unhappy, and much of it was my fault. Well, it's done." With
an effort he pushed himself off the reading bench. "Forgive me, tesoro mio, but
I must go. I have to ration my strength. How that irks me."

Demetrice got to her feet quickly. "Lauro, is there much pain?"

He turned to look down at her. "No, not very much. And when there is, I have
a cordial. Ragoczy gave it to me. The effect is marvelous, I promise you."

She heard the bitterness in his voice and she closed her eyes, fighting for
composure.

Laurenzo relented. "No. No, mio tesoro." He turned her face to him. "Go to
your foreign alchemist with my blessing. But do not forget me awhile."

"Dio mi salva!" she whispered and blindly tore herself away from him. She
steadied herself against the trestle table, her hands holding the wood so
tightly she feared the table would break, or her hands. When she heard the door
close behind him, she turned again, and stared at the door. Though she tried to
think, her mind remained stubbornly rooted to Laurenzo.

Somewhat later Demetrice surprised the understeward Sergio by searching him
out and asking him to deliver a letter for her.

"Certamente, Donna. Where shall I take it?" He was already pulling off his
long apron, and wishing that his winter cloak was warmer.

"Take it to Palazzo San Germane To Francesco Ragoczy." Her eyes were dry and
her hands no longer shook. She handed over the letter and a dolcezza in the
amount of two gilli d'or.

"To Ragoczy," he said as he pocketed the little coins. "At Palazzo San
Germane"

Text of a letter from Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando to Francesco
Ragoczy da San Germano:

To his respected friend and illustrious teacher, Francesco Ragoczy da San
Germano, at his palazzo in Fiorenza, Gian-Carlo sends his most affectionate
greetings.

Your builder who is now embarked for London arrived here a few days ago, and,
as you instructed me, I sought him out. Even after two pots of wine he was most
reticent. He is calling himself Riccardo, but he isn't yet used to the name, and
I gather that his name is Carlo. I prodded him much, but he said nothing more
than that a cousin of his had secured him a position in England and that he was
going there to take it up. He claims to be from Mantova, but his accent is
purest Fiorenzan. You need have no fear that Carlo will betray you. I have seen
none of the others, though I have heard from Cola Galeazzo in Genova and he
informs me that another builder, called Lodovico, has left Genova for Lisboa.
There has been no word from Dietrich Wundermann in Wien yet, but I am sure your
third builder will pass through there when winter is over.

I have taken the liberty of importing a printing press from Cologne. The old
Dogaressa has taken an interest in books, and very much wanted a press. Should
you receive a letter from her, you will know why.

Your house here has sustained some slight damage in a recent storm. Repairs
have been made following your instructions, and the building is once again as
sound as you desire. Most of the damage was to the east front, but the roof also
took a beating. The foundations are secure as ever, and not one drop of water
has ever seeped through.

Your letter of October 10 recommended that I find a new supply of sandalwood,
and at last I have. There is a merchant, nominally a Greek, but with more than a
touch of Egyptian about him. His name is Darios Kyrillye and his merchandise is
of a superior quality. His prices are as reasonable as one can expect. From what
I have learned from him, he also has access to certain dyes. If you like, I will
find out more.

The iridescent glass you sent to us arrived intact, and I will present it to
il Doge tonight, with your compliments. All the glassmakers will be mad to learn
your secret.

For the time being I will say farewell. There is much to do before the festa
tonight, and the servants need instructions. Should you desire anything more of
me, your instructions will be followed most promptly.

Until you return to Venezia and I am once again under your immediate
supervision, I commend my work to you, and ask that you will forgive any error I
have made.

Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando

 

In Venezia, December 6, 1491, the Feast of San Nicolo

Donna Estasia threw her silver-handled brush across the room and turned
expectantly to her companion.

"But I wasn't finished, bella mia," Ragoczy said, letting her glorious
chestnut hair pour through his fingers.

"It's been brushed enough," she said, pouting. Her petulance was
unattractive, for it narrowed her large hazel eyes and pinched her ripe-lipped
mouth. "You never take off your clothes. I haven't seen you naked," she
complained.

"No." He had begun to braid her hair into a single plait down her back.

"Stop that!" She gave an angry toss to her head and her hair spilled over her
shoulders once again. Very deliberately she buttoned the top of her shift.

Ragoczy leaned back, resting against the pillar at the foot of her bed. "Very
well, Estasia. What offense have I committed?"

"You do not please me. That's offense enough." Her expression dared him to
contradict her.

"And how do I not please you?" There was kindness in his face, and a certain
frightening sympathy. "Is it because every time we are together, we make love?"

"We do
not
make love." She stared up, and then thought better of it.
"You… you disgust me."

"You take no joy from me?" he asked, smiling, but the smile was sad and
strangely old.

"You know I take joy. And you pleasure more than anyone else. And
it is
not enough
!" She fumbled with a few of the jars on her vanity table. "You
say you are not a eunuch, but I don't believe it. You won't even let me touch
you."

"I told you when we began that I wouldn't. You understood then. Why change
now?" He reached out and took her hand. "Estasia, you know what I am. I can't be
anything else."

Her shoulders dropped miserably. "Won't you even try?"

Almost reluctantly he moved nearer to her. "But come, bella mia, with whom
else can you be so fulfilled and so chaste?"

"I don't
want
to be chaste. I want to be drunk with your flesh. You
treat my body as something sacred that cannot be defiled. But I am a widow, I
know what I want. Let me be profane." She clung to his arm. "Please, Francesco.
Just once. If you are a man, act the man."

"Diletto, remember what I told you the first time I came to you?"

Sulking now, she released his arm. "Of course. You always remind me. But I
didn't know you
meant
it when you said how you would love me. How
should I guess that you meant it?"

"You should know because I said it." He pointed to the small, valuable mirror
of clear Venezian glass on her vanity table. "Look there. Tell me what you see."

"I won't be distracted!"

"I'm not distracting you. Look in your mirror and tell me what you see."

Angrily she snapped her head around and picked up her mirror. For a moment
she looked into it; then, more impatiently she put it down. "Well?"

"What did you see?" His oddly penetrating eyes were on her face. "Tell me,
Estasia."

"I saw my face, of course." There was a mulish set to her jaw, and her
pointed chin jutted forward.

"And what else?"

"Oh, Francesco, stop this. I don't want your tutoring now. I want your body.
I want you to possess me. I want to be vanquished by you."