The Palace (39 page)

Out on the Gran' Canale the moonlight spilled in silver profusion, touching
the gentle waves with a diamond luster that shone against the dark tarnish of
the night. The moon lent its color to the golden front of Ca' d'Oro, and dappled
the fine marble of the great houses and palazzi, and in the back canals, where
there was squalor and poetry, the moonlight hid that meanness in its gauzy
deception. As sometimes happened in winter, the night was clear and calm and for
once the Feast of the Circumcision was not marred by gales and rain.

The courtyard of il Palazzo del Doge, unfinished as it was, still rang with
the laughter and music of the great celebration as the great, glittering throng
surged from one elaborate room to another, here to drink wines from every part
of the world where Venezian ships sailed, there to hear singers from Spain and
Denmark. Il Doge himself, Agostino Barbarigo, strolled among the guests in his
splendid official garments, the large gold buttons undone so that his simple
black gonnetta showed against the elaborate brocade. He was a good host, his
dark eyes and bristling beard as arresting as his cap of office.

In one large salone with the walls the same smoldering blue as the sea at
high summer, il Doge Barbarigo came upon a lively discussion between the foreign
Conte Francesco Ragoczy and a young sea captain, Ulisso Viviano, and he paused
to join in.

"But if there is a New World in the Atlantic, and not just another side of
India, we Veneziani should exploit it. Think of my name, Ragoczy. I was destined
to go there. There is no place in the world that interests me so much as the New
World and it would be a great pity if Spain alone were allowed to have it.
Think. It would take no more than three ships for the first voyage, just enough
to get there and see for ourselves what it's like. I already have a trusted crew
who have gone everywhere with me. They are eager for the chance to have such an
adventure. You have two ships in port right now, and in a month, another will
arrive. I promise you a good return on your investment."

"Do you?" Ragoczy's face was polite but his eyes were bored. This was the
third time Viviano had accosted him with plans for the New World.

"Of course. Think of it. Jewels. Gold. Spices. Two or three voyages and our
fortunes are made."

"Unless you should be killed, or the ships not survive the seas, or the
foreign people not want you there." Ragoczy shook his head.

"What you mean, Viviano," il Doge interrupted, "is that
your
fortune would be made. Ragoczy is rich already, and no thanks to you. Or have
you forgotten that you lost one of his ships two years ago?" He turned away from
the young captain and regarded the foreigner with an appreciative eye. "The gold
you've given the state for the adornment of la Scuola di San Giovanni
Evangelista would outfit half a dozen such expeditions." He took Ragoczy's hand
in his and pulled him away from the aggrieved Viviano, remarking as he did,
"He's fairly honest, and he's ambitious. You could do worse things than finance
him. The matter with your ship was more misfortune than bad judgment." He had
brought Ragoczy into another, smaller room that was still being completed.
Half-finished murals filled the walls, and the carved wainscoting was not
entirely in place. Il Doge gestured to the murals. "What do you think? I like
the style, but I admit that I wish I had your friend Botticelli here to do some
of it."

"Ask him, then." Ragoczy had done little more than glance at the murals.

"I have. He refused." Il Doge sighed and gestured fatalistically. "What is
it, Francesco? You're not yourself tonight."

Ragoczy shook his head, then changed his mind and answered the question.
"Tonight, had things been different in Fiorenza, Laurenzo would be celebrating
the anniversary of his birth. He would have been forty-nine. And instead,
Fiorenza is in the sway of Savonarola, who is fighting with the Pope as he grows
in power."

"Have you had word from Fiorenza?" Barbarigo asked, taking a professional
interest in political gossip.

At that, Ragoczy's frown darkened. "No. And I should have."

"Well, the winter is severe in the mountains. Perhaps the message is delayed.
I've had two messengers killed since September and the merchants say that it
isn't safe to travel. But I have need of your advice, Ragoczy. You come from
Transylvania."

"Yes. But many years ago." He rarely made a secret of his homeland,
particularly when there was so much disruption going on in that part of the
world.

"Did you know Matthias Corvinus?" Il Doge was too offhand, and Ragoczy knew
he was leading up to a much more important question.

"Not intimately. I saw him once or twice. He was a courageous man. His second
wife brought him to Napoli often, for she loved her own country. He was liked in
Roma, and those I knew in Fiorenza who met him regarded him with respect. Why?"

"Well, Matthias often suggested that Venezia and Hungary should make common
cause against the Turks. He had some powerful arguments to put forward—not just
the demands of a threatened king, but reasons that would be advantageous to both
our countries. Now that Matthias is dead, I have sent certain messages to
Ulaszlo and have had no answer. I don't understand. I know that the messages
were delivered, but Ulaszlo is silent."

"What did you want of him?" Ragoczy wondered aloud as he turned away from il
Doge.

"I invited him to come to Venezia, to take part in a council that might be
mutually advantageous. You'd think—"

Ragoczy snorted. "King Dobre? Do something on his own? If his Austrian
masters think it might be beneficial, you may be sure he'll take part in your
council. But remember that he's Austria's toy. Dobre, Barbarigo, means
assent-giver. He earned his nickname."

Il Doge shook his head. "I feared it might be that. Well, I'll send one more
message, and if there is no response, I'll try dealing with France, though
there's less reason for them to help us." He looked at the unfinished murals
once more. "I hope I live long enough to see them complete," he said softly
before he turned and walked to the door. There something more occurred to him
and he turned back to

Ragoczy, saying, "Do you know la Donna Cassandra Fedele? She's a poet, you
know. Her work is read quite widely. She's recently had a letter from Fiorenza.
Perhaps she'll be willing to give you news of your friends there." He glanced
over his shoulder. "She's here tonight. You ought to seek her out."

"Grazie, Signor' Doge. Perhaps I will." As he said it he very much doubted
that he would actually speak with the distinguished old poet, but to his
surprise, she sought him out somewhat later in the evening.

She was a delicately boned woman, of great dignity and a strange, deceptive
fragility, and when she spoke, her low, musical voice was the most beautiful
sound in the world. "Ragoczy," she said as she came up to him. "You are il Conte
Francesco Ragoczy, aren't you?" Being so remarkable a woman, and not young, she
was allowed certain social freedoms denied many other Venezian women. She rarely
flaunted her unique independence in the world's face, but she found it useful to
be able to converse with men at will, instead of waiting for a properly
chaperoned and constrained moment.

"Donna Cassandra," he said with a moderate bow. "I am very honored that you
know me. I have for many years known who you are, and have admired your work.
Poliziano first acquainted me with it."

"Ah, Agnolo. I miss him very much." She drew a deep breath and said more
briskly, "I've been hoping for the opportunity to speak to you." She drew her
arm through his, and added in her most polite tones, "I have never learned how
you manage to look so completely elegant in plain black. The rest of us are got
up like peacocks, and you outshine us all."

He adapted his mood to hers. "Well, this plain black, as you choose to call
it, is sculptured velvet, and the slashes are edged in silver and red. It is not
quite as plain or as severe as you seem to think. And my order," he said as he
touched the silver-and-ruby chain where the eclipse medallion hung, "is not
precisely inconspicuous."

She smiled her approval. "Very good. Did you learn that in Fiorenza? I've
heard that the conversation there used to be remarkably audacious."

"No," he said, adding outrageously as she led him to a window alcove somewhat
away from the celebration, "if I were to tell you where I learned that, you
wouldn't believe me."

Donna Cassandra Fedele sat down and indicated that Ragoczy should do so as
well. "I am concerned about Marsilio Ficino. You know him, don't you?"

"Somewhat." It was a cautious answer and Donna Cassandra accepted it as such.

"I have had a letter from him. It disturbs me very much. He sounds so much
unlike himself, despondent, fearful. You know more about Fiorenza than I do. I
wonder if you will read his letter and tell me what you think."

Ragoczy studied her fascinating, lined face. There was no duplicity there,
and no guile. He nodded. "Very well. When would you like me to call on you?"

"You need not go to that trouble," she said brightly. "I brought the letter
with me, for I hoped to see you, or someone from Fiorenza." She reached into the
small old-fashioned purse tied to her belt, and pulled out the tightly folded
parchment. This she handed to him, saying nothing, waiting while he opened it
and read.

Before he had finished, Ragoczy's dark eyes were burning and his face was
white. At one point his small hands tightened convulsively, crumpling the fine
parchment. Startled by his own violence, he put the letter onto his knee and
smoothed it carefully, not seeing the words as his fingers covered them. "I'm
sorry, Donna Cassandra. I wrinkled your letter. I didn't mean…"

Her flinty old eyes were sympathetic. "You know these people, Ragoczy. Their
misfortune must alarm you."

"Demetrice," he said, and for a moment he saw her as he had seen her last,
her face filled with light. "In prison." Ragoczy disliked anger. He knew what it
did to others, and over the centuries had grown to despise what anger made him
capable of doing. The anger that filled him now was welcome as rain in time of
drought, as the warmth of a fire in midwinter.

Donna Cassandra's sharp old eyes studied him, and as he rose, she nodded to
herself. "Do you wish to leave?" She received no answer to this question. "Il
Doge seeks to honor you tonight, at the midnight meal. If you leave before then,
you will offend him."

"I never eat." Ragoczy held out the letter to her. "I must thank you, Donna
Cassandra. The news is bad, but you have relieved my mind. At least now I know
what I must do, and whom I must deal with." He touched the chain that hung
across his chest and traced the eclipse device with his fingers. "Your letter
was written on November seventh. Have you had any word since then?"

Before she answered, Donna Cassandra folded the parchment and once again
tucked it into her purse. As she looked up, a French musician with a lute in his
hands bowed to her.

"I have set two of your verses to music, Donna rispettata," he said in poorly
accented Italian. "I would be honored to sing them to you."

Ragoczy knew the musician was talented and at another time he would have
wanted to hear the songs, but now he gave Donna Cassandra an impatient nod and
she met his eyes with understanding.

"You honor my verses too much," she told the musician. "And I want very much
to hear your work. But here it is crowded and there is too much talk to disturb
you. Come, if you will, to my home tomorrow and we will spend a pleasant hour
together."

The musician bowed deeply. "You overwhelm me," he declared, and turned away
to find his companions so that he could boast of his triumph.

"Have you had any word?" Ragoczy repeated when the musician was gone.

"No. But there is a man here in Venezia," she said, and there was a measuring
quality to her words. "He arrived two days ago. He came through Fiorenza late in
the year. I believe he'll be here tonight, but a little later. He's Polish, a
student of languages, and has been in Roma for more than a year." There was a
slight malicious smile on the poet's face. "I don't know how he fared there, but
if his Italian is any example of his prowess as a scholar, he'll need more than
the libraries of Roma to teach him anything." She broke off. "No. It's not the
Polish scholar who annoys me, it's the arrogant Borgias. He has been praising
them, and I dislike that."

"I'll seek out this scholar when he arrives." There was a grimness about his
mouth as he spoke. "I'll need news of Fiorenza. As recent as possible."

Donna Cassandra gave a short, canny laugh. "Unless I am badly mistaken,
you're about to leave Venezia again. Do not be away for so long this time,
Ragoczy. I'm an old woman, and there is little time left for me. I do hate
spending it among fools. You're an intelligent man, and there are lamentably few
intelligent men in this world. I enjoy your conversation, when you're willing to
speak. One day you must tell me what you think of the ruins that were discovered
near Udine last spring."

He knew he owed her a great deal, so rather than give her a curt response, he
said, "The ones at Casa Sole?"

"Yes." She stared out at the milling, gorgeous crowd. "Most of them neither
know nor care about the ruins. The people are dead and buried who built it, and
what can it mean to them that their homes are brought to light. But you know it
is important."

"Well," Ragoczy suggested with a shrug and an air of nonchalance that was
belied by the glitter at the back of his eyes, "if the name is any indication,
there was a temple of the sun there once."

"Or," Donna Cassandra said as she watched Ragoczy, enjoying the restlessness
she saw in him, "it may mean the house of the unique one."