The Palace (18 page)

"On the orders of the crucified Christ!" said the apparent leader, stepping
forward and looking about him with scorn. "It was Christ Who whipped the
moneychangers from the temple, and it will be the spirit of Christ that drives
the moneylenders from la Repubblica!" He raised his hand in a kind of Roman
salute and the band of young men with him sent up an approving shout.

"Oh, God," Laurenzo muttered, and started around the table.

"No, Magnifico," Ragoczy stopped him. "You are my honored guest. It's for me
to deal with this." He vaulted over the table and came lightly down the stairs.
"Well, good citizens, what do you want of us? If you were intent on ruining our
evening, you have succeeded. You have also ruined my brand-new door, not to
mention the louvers. If you wish to pray, pray and be done with it. Otherwise,
get out before I summon the Lanzi to deal with you." It was no idle threat.
Fiorenza's mercenary troops were paid with Medici gold, and would defend
Laurenzo without question.

"I am Mario Spinnati," the leader announced. "I am a follower of the prophet
Girolamo Savonarola, who has seen the Wrath of God that is to come. You, with
your vanities and your pleasures and your worldliness, will bring damnation upon
us. The Sword of God's Vengeances is poised even now over our heads, and only
repentance will save us." He opened his arms and set his jaw as if waiting for
the nails. "Repent! Make God's suffering your own!"

Ragoczy sighed. "Get out, good citizens."

By now, all of the guests had assembled in the loggia, and two of the French
actors had come in from their room, their powdered faces masking their very real
fear.

Mario Spinnati shook his head, and he motioned to the other men with him.
"We're prepared to deal with you," he said, an expression crossing his face that
was unpleasantly eager. At his signal, the men in gray cassocks pulled their
hands from the folds of their clothes. They held cudgels, scourges, and two had
chains.

Ragoczy never moved, but there was a tension about him. "I must ask my
guests," he said, his quiet voice carrying to every part of the room, "to leave,
although the festival is not over. Ruggiero, go to the Lanzi immediately."

The men in cassocks were still crowding into the loggia, which was now quite
cold. Ragoczy's elegant guests were alarmed now, and two or three of them cast
about worriedly for an exit.

"Amici miei," Ragoczy said calmly, his eyes never leaving the hostile group
in the doorway, "there are two halls on this floor. Use them." He pitched his
voice a little louder as the first murmurs of panic ran through the guests. "Laurenzo,
you know where my quarters are. Go there. One of the servants will see you
safely out of here." Then, without waiting for comment or assistance, he walked
directly up to Mario Spinnati. "You are a sacrilegious coward, to hide your
viciousness behind the Cross." Very coolly he slapped the man in the gray
cassock.

"
Blasphemy
!" Spinnati shouted, and flung himself at Ragoczy,
confident that he could beat the smaller man to his knees.

He was mistaken. As he rushed on the foreigner, Ragoczy ducked under his arm,
and rising behind him, grabbed his shoulder, and with a gentle twist threw his
opponent to the floor.

"La vendetta d'Iddio!" Spinnati's followers shouted in a ragged cheer, and
surged into the loggia, upsetting the long tables of food in their path. Shouts
and cries went up from the guests as they bolted for the hallways.

Ragoczy heard his name behind him and turned to see Botticelli near him, his
big hands fixed in the collar of one of the cassocked invaders. "Where shall I
put him?" he shouted.

"Out!" Ragoczy answered, and jumped aside as one of the men in gray rushed at
him, swinging a chain. Amazingly, Ragoczy reached for the chain and let it wrap
around his arm. The fine velvet of his giornea was savagely ripped, and the silk
shirt beneath it tore under the impact of the chain. But his hand never faltered
and as the chain wound the last of its length to his shoulder, Ragoczy jerked
sharply and pulled the man in gray off his feet. As he fell to the floor,
Ragoczy bent and rolled him aside.

Even the French actors were fighting, but a few of them were taking a painful
drubbing for their efforts. In the other doorway, Amadeo stood, his heavy ladles
falling like hammers on the men who rushed at him. Tall and cadaverously thin,
Amadeo resisted them like a supple pine tree withstanding the full force of a
gale.

"Francesco!" The voice was Laurenzo's, and it came from the gallery above.
Ragoczy turned just in time to avoid the lash of an iron-tipped scourge. He felt
hands reach for him, and for a moment his arms were pinned to his side while the
penitent's scourge raked his face.

Sandro was down on one knee, and three of the men in gray rushed on him,
sticks upraised. There was blood in Sandro's red-blond curls, and he doubled
over, trying to protect himself from the blows.

"Ah, Gran' Dio! for my knives!" Amadeo bellowed as his ladles were tugged
from his hands. He brought up his arm to ward off the small whip that was
snaking toward his head.

Three more strokes of the scourge had bloodied Ragoczy's face, and the fourth
was about to land when his white-burning rage overcame him. In two quick
movements he kicked backward and felt bones snap under the sharp blows. As the
men in cassocks screamed, he pushed them away with an even jab with each arm.
Then he turned to the cassocked man with the scourge. He jumped, and at the
height of his jump, he lashed out with his legs, his booted heels crashing on
the man's chest and shoulders. As he landed, Ragoczy wasted no time on his
tormentor, but launched himself at the men around Botticelli. He kicked out at
the back of the knees of the man nearest him, and as he fell, Ragoczy pushed him
into his closest fellow penitent. The two went down, arms and legs thrashing.

"Sandro! Roll away!" Ragoczy shouted the words even as he reached for the
third man in gray, and grabbed the man's wrist, pulling it high behind him
before rapping him smartly in the small of his back.

He had disabled two more of the gray-robed fanatics when a man on horseback
forced his mount through the door and dropped the handle of his lance on the
floor with a resounding crack. When there was not immediate silence, he dropped
the lance handle again.

"Stop at once!"

The frantic battle slowed, then straggled into silence. Men broke apart,
almost like guilty lovers. There was blood on the new-laid marble and it ran
with the upset food.

"Who is master here?" the lancer asked, his horse advancing farther into the
loggia.

Ragoczy, his face torn, his clothes ruined, staggered forward. "I am," he
said through bruised lips.

"What happened?" the lancer demanded. Beyond the door, a dozen more mounted,
armed and armored men waited.

"We were celebrating Twelfth Night," Ragoczy said wearily. "These… these
citizens"—he made the word a profanity—"not content to honor the laws of their
city, invaded my palazzo, threatened and beat my guests…" He had to stop a
moment as he looked around the wreck of his loggia. "They were," he said
ironically, "quite thorough."

But the lancer was incredulous. "These good penitents? They are godly men,
Signor."

"So were the Knights Templar." Ragoczy was too disheartened to argue. "Take a
look, good sir. Do you see anything here that indicates we
invited
this chaos?"

In the door to the actors' room, three of the Frenchmen held their bruised
bodies and moaned.

"If you made a mockery of them—" the lancer began somewhat uncertainly, but
was interrupted by a high, slightly nasal voice from the gallery.

"Capitano Amara," Laurenzo said, "believe what Ragoczy tells you."

Ragoczy looked up and saw his friend's drawn, waxen face peer over the
gallery railing. "You see, caro stragnero, I would not leave." He almost
laughed, but turned again to Capitano Amara. "If you like, I will verify his
complaint."

But Capitano Amara hurriedly apologized. "No, Magnifico. I can see how it
was. They were maddened by their fervor and could not resist attacking the
festival here."

"Something like that," Ragoczy agreed dryly as he helped Botticelli to his
feet. "Are you all right, Sandro?"

The big man winced. "I think so. They didn't harm my hands or my eyes. I'll
recover."

Laurenzo was coming down the broad staircase now, and Ragoczy saw that he
still held the ruby cup. "Capitano," he said silkily, "this was not a matter of
religious inspiration, it was an act of wanton-vandalism. Any rogue may call
himself a holy man, but the damage he does reveals his true nature, does it
not?"

Mario Spinnati, nursing a broken collarbone, wanted to object, but saw the
martial light in Magnifico's eyes, and thought better of it.

God did not require him to pursue this matter, and to push the fight further
would be prideful.

A broken lyra di braccia leaned crazily against the wall. Ragoczy picked it
up and its last intact string snapped, and the sound was so poignant that
without thinking, Ragoczy hugged the elaborate little viol to his chest.

"Ah, no, Francesco," Laurenzo said as he came up to him. He took Ragoczy's
free hand in his, making sure that Capitano Amara saw this gesture. "I will send
my servants to clean up this unpardonable shambles."

"It's not necessary," Ragoczy said quietly. He felt a certain disgust with
himself for the pleasure he had taken in his rage. He thought he had put that
behind him more than a thousand years ago.

"What is it, Francesco?" Laurenzo said, alarm in his voice.

"Nothing, Magnifico; nothing." He looked up at Capitano Amara. "I trust you
will get these maniacs out of my home? Immediately?" He sighed, putting one arm
across Laurenzo's back. "Come, let me take you to my library. I must bathe, but
I will join you there directly." He took a last look at the wreckage and the men
in gray cassocks. He nodded to Botticelli. "Come, Sandro. You too. Thank God
they didn't get to my inner rooms." He was thinking about the rooms hidden
behind the elaborately carved panels on the landing, but Laurenzo saw it another
way.

"Your library! At least it's safe." Now that excitement no longer possessed
him, he was trembling, and it was not until much later that night that he
realized he had taken comfort and support from Francesco's bloody arm across his
back.

Text of a letter from Agnolo Poliziano to the medical school at Padova:

To the esteemed medical faculty of the Accademia Medica in Padova, the
Fiorenzeno Agnolo Poliziano sends his respectful request for instruction on a
matter in which they are known to be expert.

Good physicians, I have been told that you are more skilled than all
physicians from ancient time until the present, and that your knoweldge of the
illness of mankind is so vast that the disease you have not seen is a mere
figment of imagination.

So, good physicians, I humbly desire, as a mere sufferer, that you give me
the advantage of your skills and all-encompassing knowledge.

I have a friend—and though you mayn't believe it, this is true, and it is for
this friend and not myself that I seek your help—who, for the last year or so
has been in failing health. I will describe the course of the illness to you,
and from your varied experience you will surely know what ails him and what must
be done to save him.

This friend, then, has long been plagued with gout. But until some time
rather more than a year ago, he had only few problems, and they were such that
they passed quickly. This man is an active man, of intellect and energy. He does
not imagine pain where it does not exist. Remembering that, consider this: he
has had swelling of his joints, in his hands, elbows and knees most especially.
I have not seen him bootless, so I can tell you nothing of his feet. When this
swelling occurs, it is painful, and is often accompanied by periods of great
weakness, which have grown worse in the last six months. He has had times when
his weakness was such that he could not stand upright or hold a quill.
Occasionally now he says he has great knots in his stomach and his bowel, and
the agony which distorts his features at such times would touch even your
callous hearts. Of late, he has had bruises on his skin and a kind of fever that
is sufficient only to dry his body and give it heat. His strength is failing
him, and I cannot tell him that I fear for his life, but, good physicians, I do.

Tell me, what is it that has so terribly attacked my friend? What robs him of
his strength? What disease or devil of curse has done this? And what will defeat
it? What process of your skill will it yield to? If you can tell me this, do so
as quickly as you can get a messenger to Fiorenza. Even now I fear that there is
too little time.

Do not, I beg you, debate among yourselves, or hold learned discussions on
the possible outcome of this disease, or do not decide on some unorthodox way to
treat him on the grounds that the new cure is more exciting than the old. If
there is medicine, send it. If a surgeon must be sent, send him. If only the
Egyptians have skill in this matter, find an Egyptian. But do it quickly. If you
spend too long congratulating one another on your perception and knowledge, your
expertise will benefit a corpse. If the medical arts know nothing of this
disease, do not flock to Fiorenza in the hope of observing yet another death
from causes unknown. I would leave my friend some little dignity, and to have
physicians hovering about like ravens would rob him of his courage as well as
making a mockery of his death.

Respond as soon as may be, good physicians. The time is short. It is already
the Feast of the Purification. I want an answer by Easter.

Agnolo Poliziano

 

In Fiorenza, February 2, 1492