The Palace (27 page)

Joacim Branco held his bleeding hands up to ward off the blows which
continued to fall on his back and sides. Beside him his apprentice Narciso
Boscino groaned as the long cudgels pounded his shoulders and arms.

Biagio Spinnati chuckled as his solid kick drove the tall Portuguese
alchemist forward onto the flagged street. His somber guarnacca was spattered
with blood, and this displeased him. He motioned to his companions. "Ehi, Ugo,
Clemente, leave that one. He's almost out, anyway. This one." He kicked Branco
again. "Get
him
on the back. Break his legs."

Ugo complied immediately, and the first blow he gave Joacim Branco made the
alchemist double up, gagging suddenly as pain exploded through his bowels.

"Look at him," Biagio cried, and wet his lips with his tongue. "He's going to
foul himself."

Joacim Branco had got to his knees and his long arms were wrapped tightly
across his stomach. The pain in his guts ravened like a mad beast. He fought to
control himself, and was absurdly pleased that he did not vomit.

Clemente Sprezzando came away from belaboring Narciso and gave Branco a last
resounding blow across the neck and shoulders. He crowed with delight as the
alchemist fell unconscious at his feet.

"I wish their master was here," Biagio said breathlessly. "I'd pay him back
for what he did to Mario."

The other two were already tiring of the game, but Clemente asked, "Was he
the one who broke your brother's bones?"

"Yes. May God damn him forever!" He gave Joacim one last vicious kick. "And
now that Mario's become a monk, he can't take vengeance for himself."

"Well, we've done it for him," Ugo said, proud of himself.

"In part." There was a grim set to Biagio's mouth as he moved away from the
two alchemists. "Maybe they'll die," he mused, then changed his mind. "No. I
want them to tell Ragoczy. I want him to know what's in store for him."

This brought a sour smile to Clemente's dissolute young face. "You could
write a message and nail it to his door. That palazzo of his has three big
wooden doors. Paint the message on it."

"Or carve the message in. 'Godless foreigner,' perhaps." The idea obviously
appealed to Biagio. He turned the matter over in his mind, and started out of
the narrow alley near the public granary where they had waylaid the alchemists.

"That's not a good way," Clemente warned. "It takes time to carve a message,
and if you got caught, Ragoczy could take us to court. He might be a foreigner,
but la Signoria would take his part then. They'd have to."

Even Ugo agreed. "But it would be great, hacking up that big carved front
door. The two side doors aren't nearly as good. The front one has those scenes
from ancient times."

Biagio was reluctant to turn away from the plan. "We could throw stones at
the door. Some of them would be sure to damage it, and unless the alchemist came
out immediately, he could never find out who had done the damage."

They were walking toward la Via Porta Rossa, the alley behind them. It was
not entirely safe to be abroad at dusk, but none of the three minded. They had
never been approached by desperate men, and secretly they were disappointed.

"Do you think the old alchemist will tell his master?"

Biagio shrugged. "Who knows? He'll have to tell him something. But he doesn't
know us."

Clemente frowned. "He might identify us if he sees us."

"Who'd believe him?" Biagio grinned. "I'm going to San Marco. Mario will want
to hear what we've done."

It was several hours later when Joacim Branco had come sufficiently to his
senses to be able to make his way through the silent streets to the side door of
Palazzo San Germano. He was almost too exhausted to knock, and when he did, he
despaired of ever being heard. Before he could lift his arm a second time, there
was the sound of bolts lifting, and in a moment Francesco Ragoczy faced him, his
lucco of embroidered black velvet almost making him look like a habited monk.

"Branco!" he said, horrified, and clapped sharply. "Ruggiero! We need help
here." He had already reached to support the Portuguese alchemist, and his small
hands searched out the worst of his hurts swiftly and gently. "Who did this?"

"I don't know," Joacim Branco mumbled through smashed lips. "They waylaid
Narciso and me. I think Narciso is dead."

"Where?"

"In an alley. Off la Via Porta Rossa. Near the Medici bank."

Ruggiero had appeared as Joacim Branco said the last. Ragoczy never turned
away from the battered man as he gave instructions to his manservant. "Ruggiero,
take Araldo and Pascoli, go to the alley off la Via Porta Rossa near the Medici
bank. Narciso Boscino lies there beaten, and perhaps dead. Bring him back here
immediately so that we may tend to him."

"I will."

"Be sure you take weapons with you. There may be more trouble. Short swords
should do." He had caught Joacim Branco's weight as he neared fainting again.
"Close this door. I'll take Branco to the chamber at the end of the courtyard.
It's closest." He had an awkward moment as he lifted Branco into his arms,
because the Portuguese was a head taller than Ragoczy. But an instant later he
held the injured man like some strange, outsized infant. He waited long enough
to be sure Ruggiero knew his instructions, then carried Joacim Branco to the
bedchamber at the end of the hall that opened onto the courtyard.

He had just put the man down when Masuccio and Gualtiere hurried into the
room. Both were understewards and were not wholly prepared for what they saw.

"Christ and the Angels!" Gualtiere gasped as he saw the bleeding, bruised
legs where the torchlight fell on them.

Ragoczy spoke with asperity. "Never mind oaths and prayers. I need basins of
water, clean cloths, and herbs… I'll get them later. But water and cloths,
quickly. Quickly!" He was pulling Joacim Branco's long robes off him, but in
several places blood had matted the cloth to his wounds, and resisted the gentle
tugging.

Gualtiere had seized the opportunity to escape and had gone for basins of
water, but Masuccio stood quite still, petrified by what he saw.

"You've seen broken bones before," Ragoczy snapped, wanting to bring the
understeward out of his shock.

"Not like that," Masuccio whispered.

If Ragoczy had not been so worried for Joacim Branco, he would have given a
few sharp, pithy words to Masuccio, but it was a luxury he could not afford, nor
could Branco. So he said, "Get me clean cloths. Immediately."

The sound of swiftly retreating footsteps told Ragoczy that Masuccio had
gone, and in a few minutes other steps approached. Without turning, Ragoczy
said, "We have to soak his robes off and open wounds. Start with the left arm:
it's the worst. Be very gentle."

"Certainly," said Demetrice Volandrai. She came to the side of the bed and
Ragoczy saw that she carried a tray with a basin, clean rags, and a pair of
shears. She still wore the countryman's smock she had donned to work in
Ragoczy's hidden alchemical laboratory, and her crown of braids was covered with
a simple kerchief. "I gather you need my help."

There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. He was glad she was so composed,
and hoped that dealing with the hideous damage done to Joacim Branco would not
prove to be too much for her. "Yes, I do. Or rather, Joacim does. But he's badly
hurt. If you can't face that, you'd be more help in the kitchen."

"Which is to say, no help at all." She had put the tray down and came to
stand beside him. For a moment only her features reflected her revulsion, and
then she mastered herself. "What must I do?"

By this time Ragoczy had pulled away as much of Branco's clothing as he could
without causing greater hurt. "Where the cloth has adhered to the wounds, you
must soak it loose. Don't hurry. It takes time. Do this as slowly as necessary.
Change cloths often. And make sure the water is warm but not hot. Also, there is
a compound—you can find it in my laboratory, in the herb cabinet. It's got the
Eye of Horus on it. Put a handful of that in the warm water and it will help
prevent infection."

She nodded. "I'll be back quickly. Where should I begin?"

Ragoczy's attention was once again focused on Joacim Branco, but he said
somewhat remotely, "Start with the left arm. Be very careful. His bones are
broken on both sides of the elbow."

"Will it ever heal, Francesco?" She was in the door, but she turned back to
ask the question.

"If you mean, will it mend, yes, after a fashion. But if you mean will he
ever use it again, and will it be strong, I'm afraid it's extremely unlikely."
His words were crisp, and tinged with anger. "Fortunately, Joacim is
right-handed, and the cuts on his right arm will heal cleanly."

Nodding in acceptance of this evaluation, Demetrice left the room, bound for
the herb cabinet in Ragoczy's hidden laboratory.

Ruggiero did not return for more than an hour, and when he did arrive, Araldo
and Pascoli carried Narciso's stiffening body between them.

"What is it, old friend?" Ragoczy asked in his native tongue.

Residual fury burned in Ruggiero's eyes. He answered in Latin. "I went to la
Loggia dei Lanzi, I went to il Palazzo della Signoria, I went to Santa Maria del
Fiore, I went to Santissima Annunziata. No one, no one was willing to hear my
complaint or take the body for burial. I wanted to make sure the authorities
knew what is happening in the streets of Fiorenza. But no one cared. No one
listened."

Araldo and Pascoli were more frightened than exhausted, and Araldo had
courage enough to say, "Master, one of the Domenicani said that Narciso was
under a curse for practicing forbidden arts, and that his death was an Act of
God."

Ragoczy raised his finely drawn brows. "Act of God? With most of his ribs
kicked in and his skull broken?" He was growing angry, but said, "My temper is
not aimed at you, my stewards. You've done everything and more that I could have
asked of you, and you have done it well. Be good enough to carry the body into
the reception room off the loggia. It's only a few hours until dawn, and I'll go
to la Signoria as soon as the day's session begins. The matter will be cleared
up quickly." He wished he was as confident as he sounded.

"And Branco?" Ruggiero asked as the two understewards carried Narciso's body
to the front of the palazzo.

"Badly hurt. Do you remember that physician we knew in Constantinople? The
one they burned for sorcery?" He shook his head again as he thought of the waste
of the man's life and skill. "I wish we had him here now. I've been trying to
recall how he dealt with the kind of break Joacim has. You don't happen to know
what he did, do you?"

"You mean Leoninas?" Ruggiero frowned. "He held the bones together with fine
wires. But that's all I remember."

Ragoczy made a gesture of exasperation. "I've racked my brain trying to think
of what to do, but nothing seems to work." He indicated that his manservant
should follow him back to the bedchamber where Joacim Branco lay. "I'll want
clothes set out at first light." He touched his embroidered velvet lucco. "This
is quite ruined, I'm afraid."

"What will you wear?" Ruggiero knew that he was dirty himself, and asked, "If
you are going to be busy here, may I bathe in your tub?"

"Of course," Ragoczy said impatiently. "But draw fresh water for me at first
light. I'll want to bathe before I dress."

Ruggiero again considered the matter of clothing for his master. "Do you have
any preference in the matter?"

"I'm going to la Signoria. Make it something impressive."

So it was that some time before eight of the morning clock, Francesco Ragoczy
da San Germano, in full black scholar's robes and red professorial cap from la
Universidad de Salamanca, strode into il Palazzo della Signoria and demanded to
talk to i Priori.

The guard who stopped him asked what his business was.

"I wish to bring to the attention of the Console the dreadful conditions of
their streets after dark. Last night one of my colleagues was badly beaten and
his apprentice killed by three young men. It happened only a few steps from
here."

The guard looked confused, and began to say in an overly concerned way, "It's
true that there is danger abroad at night, and for that reason it was most
unwise for your colleague to venture out. Now, while it's lamentable that his
apprentice should have been killed, you can't be—"

But Ragoczy cut him short, "Buon Signore," he said icily, "are you going to
announce me to the clerk, or are you going to talk forever?"

Bristling, the guard defended himself. "You can't just march in here and
demand to see the Console. Only Fiorenzeni have that right. You must ask for a
time to address them—"

"Show me to the clerk, Signore, or I will turn around and shout it through
the city that I will pay five hundred fiorini d'or for the capture of the men
who hurt Magister Branco and killed his apprentice, who was a Fiorenzan."

The guard hesitated. He knew the foreigner's reputation well enough to
realize that he would do exactly what he threatened to do. Authority and
prudence warred in his heart. Prudence won. He lifted his pike from Ragoczy's
path. "The clerk is in the reception chamber, Ragoczy."

"Thank you," Ragoczy said sweetly as he entered il Palazzo della Signoria. He
walked up the stairs quickly, sensing the new hostility around him. The other
men in the governmental building were reserved, and a few of them made soft
comments about the foreigner.

The clerk's reception room was crowded, and Ragoczy resigned himself to a
long wait. He folded his hands into his square sleeves and fixed his eyes on
some distant point far beyond the windows.

More than an hour later the clerk looked up, ready to motion to Ragoczy, when
a merchant in somber clothes moved forward. "I am a Fiorenzan. By right I should
be taken first."