The Palace (41 page)

In the end it took Ragoczy six days to reach Fiorenza, a speed that would
have been good in the summer and was amazing in the dead of winter while snow
blocked many of the roads and ice made all travel precarious. One of the
fourteen horses Ragoczy rode between Chioggia and Pietramala had split his hoof
on the muddy gravel of the old mountain trail Ragoczy had used for a shortcut,
and he had had to kill the animal before walking three hours through a numbing
sleet to a little village where he had found warmth and a mule to carry him to
Pietramala.

Ragoczy demanded a great deal of even his tremendous strength, and he was
feeling worn when at last he came through the pass in the mountains and looked
down on the tan walls and red roofs of Fiorenza shining in the wan, slanted
light of a winter sunset. He knew he had to hurry or the gates of the city would
be closed to him and he would have to seek shelter in one of the monasteries in
the hills. He pulled on the reins and the white mare responded slowly, making a
soft, distressed whicker as she began the descent to the valley.

"I know," Ragoczy said as he patted her neck. "And you have done well. There
will be food and rest for you inside Fiorenza's walls. You deserve it." He
shifted his weight and once again was glad for his lightweight Persian saddle.

Only la Porta Santa Croce was open, guarded by three lancers carrying Swiss
pikes, waiting restlessly for their duty to end. Church bells were still
sounding vespers, and by law, until the last of them had tolled, la Porta Santa
Croce could not be closed.

The stranger on the white mare attracted more than the usual attention from
the guards, for he was elegantly attired in a cloak of green Russian brocade
lined in marten fur, and his high boots of golden leather had jewels embedded in
their heels. His fur cap was Hungarian and a golden loop dangled from one
earlobe. When he reached out his small hand to the captain of the gate, he was
seen to be wearing embroidered gloves and a sleeved coat of Russian leather dyed
a dark green.

"Name?" The captain studied the stranger covertly, his curiosity piqued by
the fine clothes and arrogant carriage of the man on the white mare.

"I am Germain Ragoczy. I come from Hungary." The white mare shied away from
the captain's pike and Ragoczy controlled her with skilled ease. "Please step
back, soldier. You frighten my horse."

The guard captain was not used to being addressed in that manner, and even as
he stepped back, he found himself both hating and envying the grand hauteur of
Ragoczy's manner. To vex Ragoczy, he decided to ask a few more questions. "What
is your business in Fiorenza, Ragoczy?"

"I am here to claim my uncle's estate," Ragoczy responded, deliberately
mispronouncing a few words.

"Your uncle, if that's what he was, left this city under threat of arrest,"
the captain informed the newcomer with a certain air of smugness.

"Where is my uncle's palazzo, soldier?"

There was a flicker of anger in the captain's eyes. "I said that your uncle
left here under threat of arrest."

Ragoczy nodded. "Very likely. Where is his palazzo?"

"To the north. Near Santissima Annunziata." He pointed toward the dome of the
Servanti church, though it was dwarfed by the huge dome of Santa Maria del
Fiore. "It's deserted, though. No one lives there now. You'll be alone there."

"Deserted?" Ragoczy feigned outrage. "My uncle said that he had left someone
in charge of his palazzo. Tell me where I may find his agent. This is
inexcusable."

"It's not my place to answer that," the captain said with an unctuous smile
as he stood aside to let Ragoczy pass, thinking as he did that he would have to
inform i Lanzi and the young men of la Militia Christi that the nephew of the
demonic Ragoczy was in the city. He stood while the doors were pulled to and
barred; then he knelt with his men and prayed, as the new laws required.

Riding along the darkening streets, Ragoczy looked in vain for the statues
that had been the delight of Fiorenza. The pale stone walls were cold, the
windows unadorned, and no brightness relieved this bleak prospect. One banner
caught his eye as he rode past San Marco, a white banner lettered in red that
proclaimed
Nos Praedicamus Cristum Crucifixum
.

When at last he reined his mare in at the gates of the courtyard of Palazzo
San Germano, he saw other lettering, this on the walls, accusing him of satanism,
of desecration. At that moment he admitted to himself that he was filled with
foreboding. He had not believed that Fiorenza had changed so much, or that
Savonarola truly had the political strength to defy Papal authority. But he knew
now that he had underestimated the Domenican prior. Fiorenza was utterly his and
he ruled as surely and as unofficially as Laurenzo ever did. For Fiorenza,
Savonarola's excommunication was proof of his godliness and his willingness to
accept martyrdom at the hands of a corrupt and venal Pope.

Slowly, his body heavy with fatigue and years, Ragoczy came down out of the
saddle and led his mare toward the stable at the side of the palazzo. He ignored
the crudely drawn insults, and the figures that went with them, huge horned men
with tails and enormous, erect phalluses. He thought ironically that Estasia had
accused him of what she had wanted him to be, which was impossible, but had
neglected to say what he in fact was. Pushing open the stable door, he saw that
there had been rifling there. Most of his tack was gone, and one of the wagons
had been stripped of all harness and metal.

"Come, Gelata," he said, tugging gently on the reins and pulling the mare
into the stable. He had settled on the name when he had first seen her standing
in a frosty field where her color blended almost perfectly with the sparkling
ground. Reluctantly she followed him into the stable and looked around, her
curiosity revealing her distress.

Ragoczy looped the reins over a saddle rack that was now empty, and made
quick search of the stable. There was some grain, enough to give the mare
tonight, but tomorrow other arrangements would have to be made. He found a
shovel near the back of the stable, and with it he began to clean out the stall
nearest the palazzo wall, since this would be the warmest part of the stable. He
worked steadily, his face impassive, his movements mechanical, until the stall
was cleared; then he looked into the loft above for straw. Luckily some still
remained and from the smell was not too musty. Ragoczy forked the straw down to
the stall, and spread it out, a new bed for his Gelata. At last he led the mare
into the stall, removing her saddle and bridle before bringing her grain and
water.

When he was sure the mare would eat, he left the stable and went through the
connecting door to the courtyard. In the dark he was unable to see what, if any,
damage had been done to the courtyard. He hoped that his mosaics were still
intact, but refused to waste time looking for torches now. There would be light
in the morning.

As he entered the hallway to the front loggia, his boots sounded absurdly
loud in the empty building. The palazzo was cold, for no fires had burned there
since November. A smell reminiscent of mushrooms hung on the air and dust marred
the shine of the floor. In the loggia the chairs were overturned and the
elaborate hangings were torn or missing altogether.

Nothing in his expression revealed his fury at this wanton destruction.
Ragoczy strode quickly through the loggia and turned to the stairs. On the
landing he touched the heavily carved wood paneling and was relieved to discover
that the interior lock was in place. He went back down the stairs and in a short
while was descending into the kitchens.

There had been little damage here, and most of the utensils were still in
place, still clean and waiting for Amadeo to return. Ragoczy wondered what had
become of his cook, but the thought was fleeting. It was more important to build
up a fire in the stove so that the mildew would be got rid of. He set himself to
that task, and when the kindling at last began to smolder, Ragoczy leaned back
against the huge cook's table and sighed. He waited while the fire took hold of
the wood piled in the stove, and then he added more wood. He was confident that
there would be heat for several hours as he closed the grating and checked the
flue one last time.

The concealed entrance to his hidden rooms had gone undetected, and he opened
the door carefully, in case the crossbow trap had been set. There was no ominous
twang as the spring released the quarrel, no wood-shattering impact as the
quarrel ripped through the door. Ragoczy went into the dark stairwell and began
his slow climb to the hidden rooms above. He found the unlit stairs oppressive,
though his eyes saw better in the night than most. That he should return to his
own palazzo like a thief, stealing into the rooms, not daring to light a candle!
At the top of the stairs he entered the antechamber that adjoined his alchemical
laboratory. This room was his own private retreat, and everything was as he had
left it. The monastically hard bed stood against the far wall, its narrow
mattress lying on a thin layer of earth. There was a small chest containing a
few articles of clothing and other accessories. And on the wall near the door
was Botticelli's
Orpheus
that was a portrait of Laurenzo. As Ragoczy
struck flint and steel to light the candle, he found himself staring at the
picture. Again he asked himself why Sandro had not written to him, and the
answers that crowded his mind distressed him.

With the candle in his hand, Ragoczy inspected the laboratory, and found that
it was in order. On one of the long tables were several sheets of parchment
filled with notes in Demetrice's neat, sloping hand. She had advanced in her
studies, Ragoczy realized as he read over the records. The beginning of a smile
pulled at the corner of his mouth, and quickly faded as concern for her took
possession of
him
once again.

As he paced through the laboratory, Ragoczy wondered what had happened to his
servants. Araldo, Pascoli, Gualtiere and Masuccio had been sent money late in
autumn, and had accepted their fees. And Amadeo should have stayed on. Had they
been imprisoned as well, or had they fled Fiorenza? He could not ask directly,
of course, but there had to be some way to find out what had happened.

Little more than an hour later, Ragoczy had pulled off his gorgeous clothes,
and in his familiar severe black house gown, he slept on the good earth that had
nurtured him for more than three thousand years.

Text of a proclamation given by Girolamo Savonarola, Prior di San Marco:

To the devout citizens of Fiorenza:

As the glorious season of Lent comes upon us, it is fitting that all pause
and reflect on the great sacrifice that God's Son made for us. And as it is good
that we emulate the love of God, it will be appropriate that our observance of
this most holy time be observed with the most religious practices.

To that end, there will be several events at which pious men may demonstrate
their faith. Let every one of you search your hearts and examine your conscience
so that these solemn festivals will truly reflect the humility and submission to
God's Will which must surely be the strength of the state in this world, and the
path to grace in the next.

On February 19 there will be a day of public expiation of sin, wherein those
who have erred will confess and will beg forgiveness of Almighty God before the
citizens of la Repubblica Fiorenzen. They will kiss the feet of those they have
offended and will wear about their necks signs designating their sins. These
they will wear through the entire Lenten fasts until Easter Sunday.

From February 24 through Good Friday, the Militia Christi will be empowered
to inspect any and all houses in the city, and to seize all vanities and
sacrilegious objects, texts, paintings, as well as all items of bodily adornment
not acceptable to good Christian life.

On March 4 there will be a Bonfire of Vanities, wherein all these items will
be burned to signify our rejection of worldly vice. Those who have resisted the
admonitions of the faithful of God would do well to give up their venal
trumperies and consign their excesses to the flames. What is a piece of molded
brass that damns you but the reflection of the Devil? Its beauty is a lie, a
vile seduction away from the stern glory of God. Search your hearts and be sure
that God will judge you without excuse.

The great festival of Lent will culminate on March 10, when those who have
been accused of heresy will stand before the citizens of Fiorenza and either
acknowledge their errors or accept the fate they in their pr ie have chosen. If
it seems harsh, remember that they themselves have chosen eternal flames in the
life that is hereafter, and that it is only fitting that they embrace those
flames in this world. If the exhortations and examinations of the Domenicani
Brothers cannot bring them to recant their heinous impiety, then it is truly the
duty of the beloved of God to cast these pernicious souls from them as we would
cast away a viper or would kill a mad dog.

Pray for guidance, Fiorenza, so that this purging of vanity may indeed be
complete and sincere, so that God, Who reads your hearts and from Whom nothing
is hidden, may at last turn upon this city and see it as a shining light of
faith where before the idolators pagan fires burned.

By order of Girolamo Savonarola, with the consent of la Signoria, i Priori
and the Console, January 18, 1498.

The morning was not far advanced when Ragoczy left Palazzo San Germane. Ice
glittered treacherously on the flagged streets and Ragoczy walked cautiously,
his high boots of bright blue tooled leather cracking the ice as his heels
struck. Today he wore a heavy woolen sleeved tunic of periwinkle blue lined in
ermine. Each of the sleeves and both the front and back panels were edged in
elaborate gold-and-pearl embroidery. Instead of a gathered chemise, he wore a
simple square-cut shirt with a standing collar. His cap was of fur-trimmed
velvet and he still wore one gold earring. He knew he attracted attention as he
walked toward la Via Nuova. The somberly dressed Fiorenzeni watched his progress
and whispered among themselves. He held his head arrogantly and pretended to
ignore the stir he was creating.