The Palace (28 page)

"But he has waited longer," the clerk objected mildly.

"Let him wait!" He turned to Ragoczy, real hatred in his face. "Foreign
alchemist! Godless heathen!"

Ragoczy brought his attention back from the distant hills. "I admit to being
an alchemist, and certainly I am foreign. But I am not a heathen, and as someone
who owns land in Fiorenza, I have the same rights as you, my friend."

"I am not your friend!" the merchant exploded, his round face taking on a
dark hue. He came nearer to Ragoczy. "You should not be allowed in this city.
There should be laws against it. You contaminate the place, and for you, we all
face destruction."

Though he was fairly certain now that the merchant was a follower of
Savonarola, he asked, to make sure. "And do you disapprove only of me, or of the
whole of Fiorenza?"

"God alone approves. It is not for me to approve, it is my lot to obey the
will of God."

Ragoczy nodded wearily, and motioned to the clerk. "Since it would be useless
to try to conduct my business with this man present, I will wait until he is
through. And then, I trust, you will allow me to present my complaint in full?"

The merchant glared at him. "I know you, Francesco Ragoczy. You damned
Palleschi!"

This had obviously been intended to provoke him, but Ragoczy laughed
outright. "If you mean I stand by Medici Palle, you're right. Laurenzo was my
friend." He stopped abruptly.

"You're proud of it?"

"Signore," Ragoczy said to the merchant, "you have business with the clerk.
It is so urgent that you have insisted that your dealings precede mine. Very
well. But get on with it. My business is also urgent." He turned back to the
window, oblivious of the fierce scowl the merchant directed at him.

When at last the clerk was willing to hear him, Ragoczy had thought out the
matter completely.

"You have a complaint?" the clerk asked, starting to prepare another
parchment.

"I do indeed. Ordinarily I would ask to address i Priori themselves, but it
appears that I can't. Therefore, I will leave my complaint with you, and trust
that the Console will hear of it soon enough."

Gradazo Ondante tapped his quill and stood a little straighter. "It's my
function to see that all complaints are heard by the Console."

"I'm aware of that." He forestalled any objection to this remark by getting
immediately to the matter. "I am Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, by rank,
Conte." He had never used his title before in Fiorenza. He saw the officious
clerk's eyes widen a little and his attention was caught. Ragoczy went on. "I
have a palazzo on the north side of the city, near Santissima Annunziata. I
conduct various experiments—"

"Many of which are contrary to Fiorenzan law," Gradazo Ondante interrupted
him, but with a self-deprecating smile.

"Fiorenzan law is strangely pliant in some matters. And I have," Ragoczy went
on, not allowing Ondante to sidetrack him, "the honor to count several
distinguished alchemists among my associates. One, Magister Joacim Branco, has
come from Portugal to Fiorenza to continue his studies. He took an apprentice
some months ago. Last night, Signore Ondante, Magister Branco and his
apprentice, Narciso Boscino, were attacked by three young Fiorenzan men,
well-dressed and educated in their speech. They beat Magister Branco until his
bones were broken, and they killed Narciso Boscino. It was not an accident that
they did. Both his skull and his ribs were broken."

Gradazo Ondante paled at this. "When did it happen? And where?"

"Last night, at dusk. The place was an alley off la Via Porta Rossa. Magister
Branco heard one name, Clemente. He did not know if other names were used, being
then too much in pain to understand what was being said."

"And the apprentice is dead?" Gradazo Ondante held the parchment before him
as if it could ward off such bad news.

"He is dead. He lies in my palazzo. It is unfortunate that no church would
accept the body last night. I feel it necessary to mention that Narciso Boscino
was Fiorenzan. His father is an apothecary and has a house in la Via della
Primavera. If you find it difficult to pursue the matter for me, then I am sure
you will for Signore Boscino."

The parchment rustled as the Clerk Ondante gripped it more tightly. "I will
report this to the Console."

"That is your duty," Ragoczy agreed.

"Beaten, you say, and bones broken?" He was clearly worried, and found it
increasingly difficult to meet the foreigner's penetrating eyes. "The
Portuguese?"

"Pray send some official physician to my palazzo and let him testify to the
extent of Branco's injuries."

"And Boscino killed?"

"The body lies in my reception room. He should be in a church. There are
prayers that should be spoken for the repose of his soul."

The clerk nodded rather distantly and said, "Yes. Of course. It will be seen
to. We'll send a messenger to his father—"

Ragoczy interrupted him. "I have taken that liberty. My understeward Araldo
carried the news to Signore Boscino at first light. It would be better to send a
priest."

"Certainly." The clerk was more distressed now. "It will be seen to. You may
be assured of that."

"When?" The question hung in the air between them, almost a visible presence.

"When?" the clerk repeated. "Ah… Soon. Yes. Soon."

"Today?" Ragoczy suggested.

"Yes. Perhaps. Soon." With those gasped words, Gradazo Ondante fled the
reception room.

As Ragoczy walked back toward Palazzo San Germano, his thoughts were as dark
as his frown. It was rather more than a year since Laurenzo died, and the city
seemed stunned without him. He watched two young men in the robes of the
Universita di Pisa, the braid down their backs indicating they studied law. Both
the young men were apprehensive, one of them glancing uneasily at the tall spire
of Santa Maria Novella, a few blocks away.

He was so preoccupied with the unhappy students that he failed to notice the
five or six youngsters who followed him. Then a pebble struck his shoulder from
behind, and he spun around.

"Antichrist! Antichrist! Antichrist!" the boys shouted as Ragoczy faced them.
"Foreign Antichrist!"

"What… ?" Ragoczy was more startled than frightened. "What is this?"

The next pebble struck his forehead, drawing blood.

At the sight of this victory, the boys began throwing more pebbles, as well
as anything else that came to hand—dung, bits of fallen roof tiles.

As he turned once more, Ragoczy noticed that the two Pisan law students were
nowhere in sight. He was also aware that the few people in the street were
encouraging the boys, and a few made the sign against the evil eye.

More boys rushed to join Ragoczy's tormentors, and as they ran through the
streets, he tried to evade them, ducking down ancient narrow streets and racing
through busy corners. Once he nearly upset a butcher's stall, and paused only
long enough to toss a few coins to the butcher, who immediately stopped cursing.

Then he saw the elegant bulk of Brunelleschi's San Lorenzo ahead, and he ran
into the church, almost knocking against the elderly Benedettan Brother who
stood near the door to aid the sick and the infirm into the church.

"Forgive me, Brother," Ragoczy said, and was about to explain when the crowd
of boys rounded the corner and set up a cry at the sight of their quarry.

The monk put his hand on Ragoczy's shoulder briefly. "Go in, my son. They
dare not enter here." And he folded his arms over his chest and took up his
stance in the center of the door.

Ragoczy was grateful for the rest, for though he was not out of breath, the
long run had awakened his ancient fears again. He walked down the nave,
remembering the last time he had been in San Lorenzo. Then the church had been
draped in black and all Fiorenza dressed in mourning.

Outside, the boys railed at the old monk, howling for the blood of the
foreigner. Inside, Francesco Ragoczy sat down on the unadorned tomb of his
friend and waited.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Olivia:

To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in Fiorenza, Olivia sends her lifelong
affection.

I had your letter of May 12 in good time, and I am indeed sorry to learn the
rumors we have heard here are true. This is not the first time we've seen this
happen, old friend. It was you yourself who told me that hatred and destruction
are easier than love and creation. I can tell, from what you choose not to say
to me, that you fear for everything you love in Fiorenza. Be sensible, then, and
return to Venezia. There is art there, and music, and joy. You will not be
stoned in the streets, your associates will not be beaten. Or come to me in
Roma. We will visit all the places we knew when we met. You will see for
yourself how the city has changed. And if you like, you may have an audience
with the Pope (though I advise against it. Rodrigo Borgia is rapacious, and the
cost of such an interview would be high. His Holiness Alessandro VI, may God or
someone bless him, has been using his office to enrich himself and his family).

It will take a great deal to make this Borgia pope turn against Savonarola,
but I agree that it would make everything easier. If I learn anything about it,
I will surely let you know. I have heard that the Camaldolese prior in Fiorenza
and one of the Francescani are unalterably opposed to Savonarola. So, too, is
the Agostiniano Fra Mariano, but it is expected of the latter, since he was one
of the Medici favorites.

Dear Sanct' Germain, it hurts me to read your letter. You have so much
loneliness and despair in your words. Yes, I realize you said nothing of those
feelings, but after all this time, I know you as I know the lines of my palms or
the sound of the Tiber. For the sake of your friends, spare yourself this
anguish. Return to your Carpathian mountains, if you can avoid the carnage
there. Play music again. If you can't leave Fiorenza, take that student of
yours—Demetrice, I think you said her name is— take her to you. Share your life
with her. Love her. You say that she has your secret and honors it. You say that
she is intelligent. If she mourns for Laurenzo still, as you do, your pleasure
together will soothe her heart. And yours, Sanct' Germain. I promise you that. I
was in mourning when we first met, and when my terror was gone, I went into your
arms more eagerly than ever I have before or since. Why do you lock yourself
away when the greatest wish of your heart is to be open, to be loved without
lies or pretense?

Yes, and now you're out of patience with me. If more than a thousand years
cannot buy me a few privileges with you, you're impossible.

Send me word, my dear, if you should have need of me. As long as I have earth
in my shoes, I am at your service. I owe you so much, and there is so little I
can do to redeem that debt, now or ever. But what I can do, I will. You have
only to ask. And do not, I beseech you, debate too long whether or not you need
help. When the time comes, if it comes, send me word.

Now I must hand this to Cardinale Giovanni's messenger, who will carry it to
Fiorenza. And I will leave for Palazzo Borgia, where tonight they are keeping
the Feast of Moses the Prophet in what they fondly think of as Roman style. If
only they knew. I'm wearing this silk gown that is somewhat in the fashion of
Byzantium and tied with cords in the old Greek way, and I have been assured that
this ridiculous costume is most authentic.

Be kind to yourself, and be on guard for your safety. And if you can, spare
yourself more pain.

With my love and my life, this comes from

Olivia

 

In Roma, September 4, 1493

October had turned hot and Fiorenza shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. On
the streets, almost no one moved, and those few men abroad were bowed with the
weight of the heat.

Sandro Filipepi had spent a disturbing morning with la Priora di Sacro
Infante. Suor Merzede insisted that Estasia should remain at the convent for
another month. It was the third such extension la Priora had required, and
Sandro was beginning to be profoundly worried. A letter sent to Estasia's
relations in Parma had not helped him, for they had authorized Sandro to act in
their stead and trusted that he would do whatever was best for Estasia.

On impulse, as he came through la Porta alia Lanza, he turned eastward,
toward the tall rounded bulk of Santissima Annunziata. The walk was not
pleasant, and he realized he was not anxious to speak to Ragoczy. But he knew
that he owed it to his afflicted cousin. Crossing la Piazza San Marco, he was
struck for the first time by the paradox of that little square. On the north,
San Marco, the Domenican church and convent that had housed Fra Angelico, Beato
Antoninus and now Girolamo Savonarola. On the south side of la piazza,
surprisingly still on this hot afternoon, la Galleria dell'Accademia, that
remarkable school where Plato and Aristotle were as revered as the lives of the
saints, where Greek and Latin were taught, where the things Savonarola most
despised flourished.

A frown creased Sandro's craggy face. Perhaps Simone was right, and
Savonarola would save Fiorenza. But he could not trust the little Domenican
prior. The learning and the love of human endeavor taught in l'Accademia
appealed to him more. He walked through Piazza San Marco, and soon turned on the
flagged lane to Palazzo San Germane

The sound of the knocker was solemn, and Sandro was startled by the gloom it
created in his mind. He was almost ready to abandon the idea of seeing Ragoczy
when he heard footsteps, and in a moment, Ragoczy himself opened the door.

"Botticelli," he said with a genuine smile as he held the door open. "Come
in. It's sweltering out there."

In spite of himself, Sandro warmed to this welcome. He went through the door
into the loggia and sighed. "It
is
hot. I didn't realize how hot." He
wiped his flushed face with his loose outer sleeve and stared enviously at the
flowing robe of Persian taffeta Ragoczy wore. "I wish I had one of those."