The Palace (33 page)

"But we have been forbidden to work on this day. Savonarola himself has
declared that all must pray and worship for salvation from dawn until sunset."
Sesto was genuinely concerned, for there were new and unpleasantly punitive laws
affecting those who were lax in their religious exercises.

"For how long," Ragoczy mused, "has it been a sin to succor these in need?
Undoubtedly I am mistaken in thinking that feeding the hungry and comforting
those in distress are acts of charity."

Under this rebuke Sesto squirmed. He nodded, but said with a finger upraised
in warning, "If i Lanzi will not give me the ass and the barrels,
you
can fetch the spring water, stragnero."

As soon as Sesto was gone, Ragoczy held up his vial. "Here, Demetrice. Give
this to her. Moisten her lips with it, and then, when she can swallow, tip it
down her throat."

"What is it?" She took the vial as she asked, and unstoppered it, turning a
little of the clear liquid onto her fingers. These she touched to Feve's lips.

The woman sobbed. "I can't… My mouth…"

"More on the lips," Ragoczy said crisply and moved the two feeble rushlights
nearer the bed.

Demetrice did as he instructed her, ignoring Feve's futile attempts to force
her gentle hands away.

"Now. Not too fast." Ragoczy watched as Demetrice poured the shining liquid
down Feve's throat. Feve gasped, coughed and for an instant seemed to choke on
the fluid. Then she swallowed deeply, and sighed.

"What is it?" Demetrice asked again, not taking her eyes from Feve. "What
does it do?"

Ragoczy shook his head, saying somewhat obscurely, "The process is something
like the others you have learned. The liquid is for healing. If the body is not
too much harmed, it can stop some diseases. It begins very humbly," he added in
a different voice, "as moldy bread. It is transformed into a white substance,
and then, through another process, into that clear liquid."

Only Demetrice's raised brows expressed her surprise, and with it, a kind of
apprehension. Before she could stop the words, she asked, "And would it have
helped Laurenzo?"

"No."

She recognized that cold, remote tone, and knew that she should say no more,
that her first question had been unwise. "But didn't you give him some medicine
in a vial… ?" She broke off as Feve began to cough. A swift, worried glance at
Ragoczy told her that there was no great danger to Feve yet.

Easily, smoothly, he said, "I gave him two vials, one was a cordial for pain,
the other… the other a compound to… to buy a little time. It was all I could do.
You credit me with more skill than I have, Demetrice, if you think that I, or
anyone, can restore blood that is rotten. This"—he nodded toward Feve—"occasionally
can be treated. But the other, no."

"I'm sorry, San Germano," she said, and there was a heightened color in her
face to punctuate her apology, "I had no right. But I hated so to see him die…"
Again she stopped. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what would have
become of me."

Ragoczy looked down at the neat row of vials in his large wallet. "We'll wait
a bit and give her some more of the fluid. If that greenish cast has left her
skin after that, she will have a good chance to survive—that is, if Sesto can
get some decent food for her. One of the charitable Confraternite should be
willing to help. If she doesn't improve, we'll know that we've done all that we
can." He joined her beside the bed and looked down at Feve. There was a
strangeness in his face, both infinitely sad and infinitely distant, as if he
looked down the centuries with sorrow.

Demetrice had never seen an expression like this before, and it frightened
her. In spite of herself, she shrank from his hand as he laid it on her
shoulder. Immediately she felt ashamed and she said with difficulty, "That… that
was not what you think."

"You have no idea what I think," he said, and turned away.

Lightning was pricking the dusk-thickened clouds by the time Sesto returned.
He kicked open the door with a shout and in a few moments there was the rumble
of a barrel being rolled into the hall.

"I have brought you spring water," Sesto announced as he came to the doorway.
Under the grime his face was gray with fatigue and he leaned against the rough
frame as if every muscle in him ached.

"Excellent," Ragoczy said, and looked down at Demetrice. "If I bring you
water, will you wash Feve? Until she's clean again, there will be no chance for
her."

Demetrice nodded. She was determined to atone for her earlier mistakes, which
had in her mind by now taken on the importance of disastrous and irremediable
blunders.

Already Ragoczy had turned his attention to Sesto. "I will need your largest
basin and fresh cloths. And there must be other blankets to put on the bed. If
you haven't any clean ones, go to the priests at Santa Maria del Fiore. They
have such things. Tell them it is an emergency."

Sesto nodded, somewhat numbly. "Why don't you go?" he asked.

"Because I am a foreigner, I am a landholder, and it is known that I am
ineligible to receive charity." Ragoczy put his hand to his eyes.

"But they know you're working with the sick…" Sesto sighed and gave up. He
went into the hall and was almost at the door when a high, thin cry came from
the depths of the house. He stopped abruptly. "Ilirio! He's awake. He's alive."
With more strength than he knew he had, Sesto pushed the second barrel aside and
stumbled into the main room of the house.

In the corner was an old, rockerless cradle, and in it, Sesto's son cried,
twisting in his swaddling bands. His infant face was screwed into a reddened,
enraged mask. Eagerly Sesto reached into the cradle and lifted Ilirio out,
crooning to the child as he carried it back to the room where Feve lay.

"What is it?" Ragoczy asked, frowning as Sesto came into the squalid room
once more. "We need those blankets."

"It's Ilirio," Sesto said, holding up his squalling son. "He's hungry. He
wants the breast."

"No." Ragoczy stood ready to block Sesto's way.

"But he's hungry. He must have milk." Sesto held up the baby and said to
Demetrice, "Buona Donna, it is as I say."

"I know he's hungry," Ragoczy began, attempting to explain.

A particularly loud burst of thunder blocked out Sesto's objection and set
the baby to screaming. Sesto busied himself tending his son, and then renewed
his arguments. "Don't deny him. He could die if he has no food…"

"If you let him nurse when his mother is so full of sickness, he will most
surely die." The words were harsher than Ragoczy had intended, and Sesto glared
at him while Ilirio shrieked.

"The prior of San Marco said that God will save the mother who holds her
infant to the breast. He says it is holy, and holy things drive out all ill. It
is heresy to deny this, Savonarola says."

Instead of answering this with anger, Ragoczy shook his head slowly. "Believe
what you want, Cuorebrillo. Believe that demons have poisoned your well, believe
that this is a judgment upon you, believe that a woman giving suck is proof
against disease." He stared down at Feve, and knew that the woman who lay there
in torment would not survive the night. "You have all believed that, and in the
last eight days, more than fifty of you have died."

One of the rushlights winked out and Sesto stared at it, and murmured,
"Libera me, Domine."

At this point Demetrice decided to interfere. She pushed herself to her feet
and wiped the sweat from her face. "It's very hot, and I must bathe your wife,
Signore Cuorebrillo. If il Conte Ragoczy says that your wife is too ill to nurse
your baby, then it is true. Get me water and blankets and cloths so that I may
finish my work."

To Ragoczy's surprise, Sesto stopped arguing. "As you say, Buona Donna. But
what of the child?"

"You must take him to Perpetua della Porta San Nicolo. She will nurse him
until your wife is well." Already Demetrice was working on the guttered
rushlight to see if there was sufficient oil to make it burn again.

"And how will I pay her?" Sesto was quickly becoming angry. "I am a poor man.
I have no gold."

"But I do." Ragoczy untied the small purse that hung beside his wallet. "Do
as Donna Demetrice instructs you."

Sesto looked from his fainting, shivering wife to his crying child, then took
the purse. He started to say something, changed his mind, and with Ilirio still
in his arms, rushed from the room. A few moments later the street door slammed
shut behind him.

Demetrice let out a long sigh, then resumed her place beside Feve. "It will
be good to be home," she said to Ragoczy as she adjusted the soiled blankets
over the stricken woman again. Feve moaned and plucked at the thin brown wool
fitfully before she began to cough once more.

"We won't be home for some time yet," Ragoczy said, a hint of a smile in his
eyes at her use of the word "home." "When we are through here, there are still
three other houses to visit. In this terrible heat, the disease will spread
rapidly."

The one burning rushlight began to falter, giving out a few sputtering flames
before it started to fade.

"There won't be any light without it," Demetrice said, more to herself than
to Ragoczy. "I'll need light."

"I'll bring you more lamps," Ragoczy said, and left the room, to return a few
minutes later with four tallow candles. The rushlight was only a small blue
spark in the corner of the room, and he thrust one of the twisted straw wicks
into the brightness. There was light in the room again, and Ragoczy set the
candles about the room.

"Where did you find them?" Demetrice asked rather absently as she studied
Feve, who had begun to toss restlessly.

"One was under their Madonna shrine, and the others were in the main room.
They'll give you a few hours of light, but then we'll need something else."

"Will we be here that long?" Demetrice said in an undervoice.

As he had done many times that afternoon, Ragoczy went to the sick woman,
touched her forehead, her hot, dry hands, the side of her neck. "I don't think
so."

"You should fetch a priest, then," Demetrice told him, then bit her lower lip
to stop from weeping in vexation. She was losing her battle for the life of Feve
Cuorebrillo, and she hated losing.

Apparently Ragoczy understood, for he reached over and touched her arm
affectionately. "I know, amica mia. And it never gets easier. Never."

A peal of thunder deafened them for a few moments, and then it was quiet
again. Demetrice said, "She will need a priest, San Germano. Look at her."

"No priest will come. Yesterday Savonarola declared that the plague is of
infernal origin, and that it is a damnable act to give last rites to those who
are dying."

Outraged, Demetrice got to her feet. "He can't mean it. This woman deserves
better." She was almost too angry to speak, and she took an agitated turn about
the small room. "This is unforgivable. It's infamous!"

"That may be, but it is also the law." Ragoczy hesitated, then pulled two
stoppered silver bottles from his wallet. They were both quite small, of
exquisite workmanship, and each was marked with the Cross. "Here. This is
consecrated oil, and this is holy water. You take Communion regularly and have
confessed just two days ago. Mark her forehead for her. That way, Sesto need not
know."

Demetrice nodded, then knelt before the silver bottles in Ragoczy's hands,
crossing herself and closing her eyes to pray. When she was done, she took the
bottles and reverently approached the bed.

When Sesto returned he was drenched by the downpour which at last signaled a
break in the weather. The blankets he carried were also soaked, but by then they
were no longer necessary.

Text of a letter to Piero di Laurenzo de' Medici from an unknown person:

To Piero de' Medici one who wishes him well sends warnings:

Charles of France covets your land, Medici. His expedition into Italia is for
the purpose of gaining strength and holdings, not to restore peace. You think
that he will not harm you, but I tell you that he will see you driven from your
home and will install those who are compliant and willing at the head of your
government.

If you act at once, you may avert disaster. Beware of enemies. Remember that
Savonarola favors the French, and regard his advice with caution. Remember that
Il Moro, Lodovico Sforza, has borrowed large sums of money from Genova and is
working for your downfall. Remember that your father refused titles from the
French so that he might retain his independence and the independence of la
Repubblica Fiorenzen.

Heed this well and act quickly. Or be exiled and disgraced forever.

A friend from the north

 

July 10, 1494

The crowd this hot summer morning had been disappointingly small, and
Savonarola had castigated the entire congregation for the lack of fervor the
Fiorenzeni were showing him. His threats of the dire fate awaiting the lax
worshipers were enough to make three women faint, and he felt somewhat
mollified.

He lingered at Santa Maria del Fiore to have a few words with i Priori, for
many of the city's dignitaries were alarmed about the coming of the French.

"You will see," he told the apprehensive men who had gathered around him,
"that this Charles of France is a godly king, not a man of flesh and com." He
was pleased to see how soberly i Priori were dressed. No more bright-colored
guarnacche with embroidered edges, no more brocades. The men wore the lucco,
which was not unlike a cassock, and all were made of simple, dark-dyed wool.
Aside from the collars of their office, none of the men wore jewelry. Even their
shoes were plain, having no slashings or elegantly turned-back linings. He
considered the matter, then decided he would mention this new mode. "It is
gratifying to see you have put vanity behind you and are turning your thoughts
to other concerns. To see men of your station and responsibility forgetting
their dignity and strutting like peacocks is always distressing. But now, in
your simple garments and humble manner, at last your true worth may be seen, not
for the display you make in the world, but for the excellence of soul you show
to God."