The Palace (48 page)

Natale accepted this, for prayer was still the surest medicine known in
Fiorenza. He fussed around Ragoczy's bed one last time and then bid him good
night.

Ragoczy lay back and waited, certain that Ugo would come to see how ill he
was.

Ugo did not disappoint him. A few hours later, when night had settled over
the city like some gigantic cold bird, the door opened a few inches and Ugo's
face peered into the darkened room.

"Who's there?" Ragoczy called in the merest thread of a voice. He rose onto
his elbows as if it were the greatest effort, and he clutched the crucifix in
his right hand.

"It's Ugo," he said, coming into the room. He was dressed in a dark, drab
houseman's gown, but Ragoczy could see that there was a badge on his sleeve, not
the eclipse of his own household, but the fiery sword above the city, the badge
of the Militia Christi.

"I've been praying," Ragoczy said as he lay back, seemingly overcome by
exhaustion. "But I'm still not well."

Ugo tried not to smile and almost succeeded.

Weakly Ragoczy motioned to Ugo to come nearer. "I don't know what's wrong. Is
there a physician in the city who could help me?"

"You should think of your soul, not your body," Ugo sneered, and came to
stand by the side of the bed.

"I have thought of my soul," Ragoczy said, raising the crucifix so that Ugo
would be sure to see it. "But my prayers are not strong enough. Or I am too
ill." He lapsed back into Hungarian as he turned away from Ugo.

There was an undertone of excitement in Ugo's next question. "What's wrong,
master? What sickness is this?"

"I don't know." Ragoczy managed to sound both angry and frightened. "I have
done nothing. But shortly after Mass I felt faint and now I am filled with pain,
as if a fire burned in my vitals." He looked back at Ugo. "Pray with me. I want
you to pray with me."

"Of course." Ugo dropped to his knees beside the bed and pulled his crucifix
from under his robe. The chain around his neck was very fine and the crucifix of
silver. "Dear Lord God, Who looks into every heart and knows all things," he
said almost automatically, "though I am wholly unworthy to address You, yet I
ask You to hear me for the sake of Your Son Jesus and this stranger who
suffers."

Ragoczy echoed the words, smiling with gentle cynicism at the peculiar
arrogance in Ugo's tone of voice, as if his assumption of humility automatically
granted him superiority over those who did not abase themselves. "That is good,
Ugo," he murmured, putting one small hand over Ugo's, which was joined in
prayer.

Ugo continued to pray, but Ragoczy appeared to be weakening still. Some
little time after midnight, Ragoczy stopped Ugo, claiming to be even worse. "I
thank you, Ugo," he whispered. "But I fear I need a priest."

This announcement hardly disturbed Ugo. He crossed himself and rose. "What
for, master? Surely you are not in need of Last Rites?"

"I may be." Ragoczy nodded. "Prayer hasn't helped…"

"Let me send for Savonarola. He has great strength and God has inspired him
to do great things." For the first time Ugo was speaking with genuine
enthusiasm. "He will come. I know he will. And his prayers will make you well."

This was exactly what Ragoczy had hoped for, but he said, "Savonarola is a
busy man, with many responsibilities. It would be wrong to disturb him on this
matter." He left off, panting, one hand clenched on his chest.

"He will come," Ugo promised him. "I will tell him that you are very ill and
likely to die without his help." He crossed the room quickly, and added from the
door, "I'll wake Natale and he will pray with you while I am gone."

So Ragoczy would have to continue the sham. "I am grateful," he said weakly,
and as soon as Ugo had left the room, stretched and rubbed himself to work the
tightness out of his muscles.

Natale said little, but he brought candles into the bedchamber and stood them
around the bed. He felt Ragoczy's icy forehead and his face grew grave. When he
had put the room in order, he drew a chair near to Ragoczy's bed and said, "Do
you want me to read the Scriptures to you? I have them in my chamber."

"Yes. I need to hear holy words" He was lying still, hardly breathing, when
Natale returned a few minutes later. "Good. You are back," he breathed as Natale
once again took his place in the chair by the bed.

It was more than an hour later when Ugo at last returned. He burst into
Palazzo San Germano and raced up the grand staircase, the sound of his shoes
announcing him as much as his eager shout. "He's coming," he cried joyfully.
"He's really coming!" With this shout he burst into Ragoczy's bedchamber, to be
met by the cold fury in Natale's face.

"Recall, if you please, that our master is ill unto death. And comport
yourself properly."

Ugo tried to assume the proper demeanor, and almost managed it. His face was
somber, but his eyes danced. "It's only that I am happy for our master that
Savonarola will come to pray for his recovery," he said defensively.

Natale had a very poor opinion of Savonarola's power, it seemed, for he
folded his arms over his chest and said at his most withering, "If there is
healing at all, God is the physician. To praise the priest who prays is like
praising the rain in time of drought. Each had done only what God gives it to
do."

"That's not so," Ugo objected, knotting his hands belligerently. "Savonarola
is inspired by God, and God hears him when he prays. He has visions. He knew
when Medici was going to die, and he did. He knew that the French would enter
Fiorenza."

"Of course he did," Natale scoffed. "He might as well have invited them."
Abruptly he stopped the argument. "Our master lies ill and in fear of his life.
I won't discuss this now. You may wait at the door for this Savonarola, and when
he is come, secure it once again, in case desperate persons try to enter here."

It was difficult for Ugo to admit that Natale's dignity impressed him, but he
responded with unaccustomed promptness. He was in the hall when he remembered to
ask how Ragoczy fared.

To answer the question, Natale went to the door and spoke in a low voice,
hoping that Ragoczy would not hear him. "He's failing. I don't know if he will
last until dawn, let alone sunset. He's cold as the grave already, and there's
not a drop of sweat on him. When he can speak he says that his bowels are full
of devils. He will take no nourishment. See what your Savonarola can do against
that." He did not stay to hear Ugo's shocked words, but went back to the chair
at Ragoczy's bedside.

As Ugo went down the stairs once more, his mind was troubled. If Ragoczy were
indeed hovering near death, then it might be senseless to waste Savonarola's
powers on him. He dared not admit, even to himself, that Savonarola would
perhaps be inadequate to the task of healing his master through prayer. He
stopped in the loggia, thinking that Palazzo San Germano was a lonely place.
There should be more to the household than one Hungarian noble and two servants.
He recalled that the other Ragoczy had entertained lavishly on occasion, and
that he had had more servants. It was a pity that the nephew was not so generous
except in matters of vanity. The clothes he wore were grand enough to be worth a
year of Masses. And see, he thought smugly to himself, what has become of him.
For all his gorgeous clothes and his great station, he lies abed with burning in
his guts, and calls for humble monks to help him.

He was still occupied with similar edifying reflections when there was a
sharp rap on the door, which jarred him out of his reverie.

As the door opened, Girolamo Savonarola stepped across the threshold, a pyx
in one hand, the Scriptures in the other. His Domenican habit was somewhat
disarranged, a silent testament to the haste in which he had prepared. He paused
just inside the loggia and glared at the magnificence of the room. "What vanity
is here," he remarked. "And this is the man you would have me pray for? A man
who wallows in luxury?"

Ugo stared down at his feet, saying petulantly, "It is not this man who built
the palazzo, it was his uncle. You said you would pray for him."

"Yes. I will pray." He looked back at Ugo. "You have done well, my son. You
have told us much of this man that could not be learned otherwise without
breaking the seal of confession. And his confessor is Francescano." This last
was said with sudden rancor, but he went on calmly enough. "You have carried out
your responsibilities here quite well. In preferring the welfare of holy Church
to the momentary advantage of your employer, you earn yourself a place in
heaven." He gave Ugo a rather preoccupied blessing, then asked, "Where does he
lie, this stranger?"

"In his bedchamber. I will show you if you follow me." Ugo had barred the
door, and was trying to maintain his composure in the presence of his hero.
"Will you follow me, good Prior? My master is waiting for you."

"I will come," Savonarola said, motioning to Ugo to precede
him
up the
stair.

The scent of burning herbs assailed them as they entered Ragoczy's
bedchamber. Natale was still at the task of putting more of the herbs into one
of the braziers that stood near the carved and painted bed in which Ragoczy lay.
Natale moved quickly as Ugo came into the room, and in a moment he had brought
the prayer stool to the side of the bed. As he passed Ugo, he muttered, "I still
think this is foolish."

Ugo made no retort, but the satisfaction in his face was easily read.

Savonarola pushed past the two servants and approached the bed with the
intensity of a hunter stalking bear. At last he put out his hands to Ragoczy's
face and felt how gelid he was. "You are in mortal danger," he informed Ragoczy.

Ragoczy nodded, a motion that was so slight it barely pressed the pillow. "I
fear so," he agreed. He tried to lift his crucifix but the effort was too great.
He closed his eyes, knowing that if Savonarola looked too deeply, he would know
that he was in no danger whatever. "Pray for me, good Prior. You are my last
hope."

The Domenican prior hesitated, oddly pleased with the stranger's
helplessness. He looked at the face, so tormented and so peaceful, and
reluctantly admired the bravery of the man, who endured his suffering with
patience. "Are you resigned to accept whatever God wills?" he asked.

"I am." The words were so soft that Savonarola had to strain to hear them.
The foreigner tried to cross himself, but the gesture was feeble, ineffective
and his hand dropped back to his side.

An unfamiliar frustration gnawed at the monk as he fell to his knees. He went
through the first of the ritual with the barest modicum of attention while he
tried to fathom what it was about the stranger that bothered him. "Holy Father
God, Son and Holy Spirit, Sacred Trinity, I beg that You will hear me and grant
my prayer. For I have served You all my life, given You my devotion and my
faith. In Your name I have scourged vice and sin from the land, and in Your name
are the mighty and the worldly cast down. Therefore, I ask that You look upon
this unworthy mortal who lies before You, and examine his heart. If he is worthy
of Your great gifts, if he be not eaten up with venality, if he is capable of
understanding Your mercy, then heal him of this great ill that threatens to take
his life."

Ugo watched, rapt and attentive, while Natale stood apart, his face a mask,
showing no emotion of any kind.

Savonarola lifted his hands, and his harsh voice filled the room. "I ask that
You hear me, I ask that You come into this suffering creature, and for Your
glory, heal him. I ask that You chastise him with this sickness, so that he will
ever turn away from sin. And if he is corrupt and vain, then I ask that You
strike him, so that his sins will no longer contaminate the earth, so that he
will be banished from the company of men to dwell with demons in the eternal
fires of hell, where all who are vicious must go. Judge this man, I ask of You.
If his life is one of merit, save him, now and forever. But if he aspires to be
redeemed and is bloated with evil, destroy him as You have destroyed all those
who have mocked You."

On the bed, Ragoczy moved a little, and made a sound in his throat. His
fingers moved restlessly over the covers.

"See this man. See what a creature he is. If his illness is a judgment on him
for his impiety, cast him forth and let him howl in hell through all time. Save
him only if he is virtuous, and if You find him worthy of life, and if You are
willing to let me be the means of his recovery." Savonarola's voice had risen to
a kind of shriek and he rose high on his knees. He stayed that way for some
little time while the herb-scented smoke grew denser. Then slowly he sank back
onto his heels. "I can do no more. Now it is God Who will decide whether I am to
have the glory of saving this man's life." He got to his feet somewhat
unsteadily, the pyx still dangling from the chain in his hand.

Natale coughed, and the sound was perilously near a snort. Ugo turned on him,
glaring, then turned back to Savonarola. "You have done more than anyone could
have asked. If he dies, it is as you say, the will and judgment of God. And if
he lives, then it is your prayers that have saved htm, for his own did not prove
effective." He knelt before the little prior. "You are a man of miracles,
blessed Savonarola. No one can deny that." There was a certain defiance in the
last words, and he waited for Natale to take up the argument.

But there was none. On the bed, Ragoczy moved again, and with a tremendous
effort sat up. His bedshift was disarrayed, and he moved with difficulty. He
looked squarely at Savonarola. "Good Prior," he said in a weak, clear voice, "I
thank you for your prayers. God has heard you."

It was difficult to know who was the most startled. Ugo gave a kind of
scream, and Natale's eyes filled with tears. Savonarola turned white and there
was an unpleasant light in his green eyes.