The Palace (4 page)

"You must make allowances, Massimillio. Since Laurenzo cannot smell, he
misses much of your wonderful cooking." Demetrice sipped her wine and had
another bite of pork-and-veal pie.

"Poor man!" He finished his wine and replenished his cup. "Trebbiano is very
nice," he said judiciously. "For all the talk of it being workingman's wine, it
is very nice."

By this time Demetrice had eaten most of the pie and her tortolini were
almost gone. She smiled warmly at the cook and said mendaciously, "How much I
would like confetti, but I fear, Massimillio, that it is such a cold night, and
your excellent food is so satisfying, that I had much better have some broth, to
keep me warm."

Grudgingly Massimillio admitted this was wise and turned back to the
cavernous kitchens to heat the broth. As he put the kettle on the coals of the
hearth, he remarked, "That foreigner, the one Laurenzo likes so much. With the
unchristian name."

"Ragoczy?" Demetrice suggested.

"That is the man. He has us all in an uproar. I have heard that his kitchen
is going to be terribly odd. Now, you may say that is his foreign ways, and no
doubt it would account for it, but," he added darkly, drawing down the corners
of his mouth, "you may be sure that he will have to find cooks elsewhere if he
intends to make us change our ways." As he spoke, he reached into one of the
small drawers of the divided chest that flanked his cooking table and pulled out
a handful of seeds. "I am adding more coriander, to help keep you warm."

"You are kind, Massimillio." Demetrice had come to the door and stood
watching the huge man as he added his finishing touches to the broth, which had
begun to simmer.

"Ah, Donna Demetrice, it is a simple matter to be kind to you. You are good,
you are pleasant, you like what I cook. I don't mind making special meals for
you, because you enjoy them and it pleases me to watch you eat." He poured some
of the steaming broth into a large wooden mug. "There. Now, when you have
finished that, I fear you must leave, for I have much to do before tomorrow. Two
Bolognese merchants and the officers of the Arte della Lana and the Arte di
Calimala are to take their meal at midday tomorrow with Laurenzo. They will
speak of nothing but cloth and money and will not taste so much as the ginger in
my savor sanguino."

"Poor Massimillio." Demetrice felt genuine sympathy for the huge man. "Well,
if you will, save me some leftovers and we can share a late meal together."

The cook turned to her, startled. "Will you not be eating with the others?"

"Not if they mean to talk only of cloth and money." There was a teasing light
in her eyes as she stretched out her hand to him. "It will be much more pleasant
to have my meal here, with you. Il comestio is nicer in good company."

"All meals are nicer in good company," Massimillio announced with awful
hauteur. Then he relented somewhat, saying, "It will be a treat to share the
meal with you. I am making a berlingozzo and a minestra of spring lamb, for we
have just got the first new lambs."

Although these were not the greatest delicacies available to the Fiorenzan
upper class, they were still special treats. Demetrice smiled delightedly. "If
they do not enjoy your art, Massimillio, be certain that I will."

"Bella mia. I will perish of joy," he announced, and took back the empty cup
she handed him. "Now, you must rush off to your bed, or the virtue of the broth
will be for nothing."

Demetrice thanked him again, and left the kitchen for her small bedroom,
three floors above. She tasted the ginger, garlic and coriander long after she
had extinguished the candle and pulled the worn damask hangings around her bed.

Text of a letter from Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi to Leonardo da Vinci:

To Leonardo in Milano, his friend Botticelli sends his affectionate greetings
on our Beato Antoninus' Day:

I am sending with this a wallet containing some new tinctures that may
interest you. Laurenzo's new friend, the alchemist I have told you of before,
developed them. I have used them myself and have found that the colors they
produce are of rare luminosity. Try them, I urge you.

I had your letter of March 27 in good time. If you are as much distressed by
the Sforzas as you say, then why do you remain? You know that Laurenzo would
welcome your return, and surely there is work for you to do in Fiorenza that
will interest you as much as your work in Milano. Consider, then, caro amico,
for you are much missed here. Even that sharp-tongued Poliziano speaks of you
affectionately.

You will perhaps be saddened to learn that Laurenzo has not been well. As has
been his practice in the past, he has taken the waters and he insists that he is
better. But I am worried. His hands often swell and he is sometimes weak without
reason. Often of late, his kinswoman Donna Demetrice Volandrai reads to him,
sometimes the works of Plato, sometimes new tales. It has become his habit to
spend his evenings thus. Yet his mind is keen, and he is, as always, seeking out
gifted artists. That young student of Ghirlandajo is part of the Medici
household now, and for all your loathing of marble sculpture, you would admit
that young Buonarroti has talent. Laurenzo is pleased with his progress, which,
considering his youth, is remarkable. I think that Magnifico would prefer it if
his own sons showed the promise of Michelangelo Buonarroti. Giovanni is for the
Church, of course, and his mind is as tenacious as it is agile. But Piero is
another matter. Piero has done little but indulge himself since he was old
enough to ask his father for favors. He has not changed since you knew him—he is
as capricious as a child, forever making demands.

Yet all is not bleak here. There was a great festival on Ascension Day, and
all Fiorenza went into the fields to catch grasshoppers and to sport. There was
a special Requiem Mass that day, at San Lorenzo, in memory of Giuliano. That
deed will forever be a stain on the house of Pazzi, who would appear to be
well-named, so insane was that act.

We have heard that you are still in the habit of buying birds in the market
and setting them free. A friend of that alchemist I already mentioned has
recently come from Venezia, and made a stop in Milano while the city was still
talking about your most recent escapade. Leonardo, amico, you will not save the
birds. They will only be caught again and someone else will eat them. How is it
that you can invent such terrible weapons of war, and think nothing of examining
the bodies of the dead most thoroughly, but balk at eating songbirds?

In reference to your love of machines, you would be delighted at the new
palazzo that Ragoczy, the alchemist, is building. It is in the Genovese style,
and he has added every innovation imaginable. The builders all gossip about it.
He has modified his bath, and made a special chamber for storing and heating
water, instead of making a holocaust. The chamber is about the size of two
traveling chests, and adjoins the bath closely. It is tarred and lacquered so
that it cannot leak, and the water is fed to the bath through a pipe with a
spigot. He has also invented a new sort of oven for his cooks, one made of
metal, which he claims is more efficient (though why he should want cooks when
he never dines, I cannot conceive). Many of the cooks in the city have said they
would have nothing to do with such an instrument. I understand that he has a
very simple, hard bed, but that everything else is wholly magnificent. If you do
not want Laurenzo for a patron, then consider Ragoczy. He has a great deal of
wealth and loves beautiful things almost as much as the Medicis. When I told him
of your silver lute, the one you fashioned in the shape of a horse's head, he
was delighted. You need not fear his generosity—he is quite wealthy and
completely honorable. I have myself seen some of his jewels, and their size and
beauty would stagger even you. At Christmas he presented Laurenzo with an
emerald as large as the pietra dura bowl of Laurenzo's silver cup. He, Ragoczy,
knows many secret processes with metals. You would enjoy his conversation as
well, Leonardo, for he is an erudite conversationalist and his range of
interests is broad.

I pray you will consider coming once again to Fiorenza. We all here miss you.
We miss your songs as much as your excellent work, for all you say you never
finish anything. Whatever Milano offers you, Fiorenza can give you. Remember
that you are loved here, and that the blessings of your friends follow you
wherever you go, even home.

My cousin Estasia calls me to table, so I must end this. With the hope that
our next greeting will be face to face, this brings you the affection of your
friend

Sandro

 

In Fiorenza, on the 10th day of May, 1491

Not all the morning mist had cleared yet, though there was the promise of
heat in the air. Fiorenza shimmered in the spring light, so that the tall,
stone-fronted buildings seemed touched with gold. On this splendid day the
streets were full, the people already preparing for yet another festival. At la
Piazza della Signoria banners of all the Artei were already being strung, each
proclaiming the importance and function of one of the powerful guilds that were
the heart and breath of the city.

"Well, mio caro stragnero," Laurenzo said to the alchemist who rode beside
him and had shared his morning gallop, "what have you in your distant home to
compare to this?"

Ragoczy smiled, but his dark eyes were remote. "We have nothing like this,
Magnifico." His gray horse scampered over the stone paving, still fresh, still
playful, and the sound of his hooves echoed crisply off the street.

"And even if he did," drawled the third member of the riding party, "he is
much too well-mannered to say so, at least to you, Medici."

Laurenzo's attractive, ugly face darkened, but he made no reply, occupying
himself with the sportiveness of the big roan stallion he rode. When he had
brought his mount even with Ragoczy's he turned to the other man. "Agnolo, he
need hardly concern himself with courtesy when you are by."

Agnolo Poliziano barked out a laugh, then said more somberly, "I do not know
why you allow
me
such liberty, then, Laurenzo. Or is it out of respect
for Ragoczy's rank? He says nothing of his birth, but I will wager you half of
the gold in your damned bank that he is better-born than any of us, though he is
a foreigner."

At this Laurenzo smiled, and though the smile did not come as easily as it
had a few years ago, it was still utterly charming and even Agnolo Poliziano
could not resist answering it with one of his own. "Neither of us is nobly born,
Agnolo. We cannot be. You, I, we are simply citizens of Fiorenza. But you"—he
turned to Ragoczy—"you undoubtedly have a title recognized somewhere. I have
often wondered what it is. Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano. Da San Germano." He
tasted the words. "Where is San Germano, Francesco Ragoczy, and what is it to
you?"

By now they had crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and not far ahead la Palazzo
della Signoria pointed its spire into the festive morning. Fiorenza was a city
of spires, of towers and turrets, but the topheavy spire of il Palazzo della
Signoria was the symbol of la Repubblica, and therefore was unique in the city.

Laurenzo motioned Ragoczy and Poliziano to rein in their horses. "It is very
crowded. We will need another way." He thought for a moment, and took advantage
of this hesitation to repeat his question to Ragoczy. "Where is San Germano?"

Ragoczy did not answer Laurenzo's inquiry at once. He had turned similar
probings aside before. His eyes were fixed in the distance, on the gently
rolling Tuscan hills with their villas keeping watch over Fiorenza, but his
expression was far more remote than the hills he watched. "My homeland is… far
away, in ancient mountains, where even now Turks and Christians are slaughtering
each other. It is called Wallachia now, and Transylvania." He stopped rather
abruptly, looking once again at Laurenzo. "It is a happier thing to be simply a
citizen of Fiorenza, Magnifico, than to be a Prince of the Blood and a lifelong
exile."

A band of youngsters surged out of la Via de' Bend and at the sight of
Laurenzo set up the shout of "Palle! Palle!"

Laurenzo acknowledged this with a nod and a wave, calling out a few friendly
words after them, then turned again to the haunted face of his foreign friend.
"Exile," he said, and there was despair in his voice.

Ragoczy said nothing; his dark eyes were enigmatic.

"Better an exile in Fiorenza than King of the World," Agnolo Poliziano said
nastily as he watched the children run down a side street. "Why else did you
recall me after sending me away? Certainly you must value life in Fiorenza above
all others. Or are you anxious to send me away again, to remind me about exile?
What excuse will you find this time, now that your wife is dead, and cannot
object to me?"

Once again Laurenzo de' Medici hesitated before speaking. "When I am most
tempted to see you flung into the Arno, bellissimo Agnolo," he said at last, "I
have only to touch myself here"—he fingered a long scar on his throat—"and I
recall that if you had not been there on that bloody Easter, I would have died
beside my brother, and the Pazzis would rule Fiorenza. You cannot provoke me, my
friend. I am too much in your debt."

"Admirable. Admirable. What splendid sensibility. What sublime philosophy,"
Poliziano marveled. "And without me you cannot finish your library, not that
that enters into it. But remember that I have not finished ransacking Bologna
for you yet." He swayed dangerously in his studded saddle as his horse bucked at
the sudden sound of trumpets. "The devil take Beato Antoninus! I wish
him
heavenly joy of that clamor!"

"The procession will begin soon," Laurenzo said to no one in particular.
"We'd better hurry."