The Palace (50 page)

Shamefaced, confused, the two young men frowned, exchanged bewildered looks,
and let go of Ruggiero.

"Ferrugio," Ragoczy told him, "see to Natale."

Ruggiero nodded and without a word shouldered his way through the young men
and climbed the stairs to where Natale lay.

No one spoke as Ragoczy walked around the pile in the middle of his floor. He
bent and touched one of the spinettino's keys and the string jangled tunelessly.
There was a kind of blind pain in his face at the sound. Next he picked up one
of the jade lions. The front right paw was broken off and the right side of the
head was smashed, turning the lovely jade cloudy, as if it were a plant touched
by frost. Ragoczy stood, holding the jade lion in the crook of his arm. His
glance never wavered from the little statue.

"Get out of my house. All of you." His words were distant, quiet, terrifying.

Most of the young men were glad to obey, sensing that they were escaping a
danger far greater than they knew. They went stiffly, a residual fear making
them clumsy.

But Ezechiele Aureliano stood his ground. "You have no right to do this. The
Militia Chris—"

Ragoczy spun around on him. "I have no right?
I
?" The wrath in his
voice, in his eyes was so fierce that Ezechiele Aureliano backed away from it
and stumbled as his foot caught against some debris on the stairs. "You say
that, you who caused this… this
obscenity
!"

Ezechiele scrambled to get away from Ragoczy. He missed his footing once
again, but then fled, shouting as he went, "You'll regret this, stragnero!"

When the door had crashed shut, Ragoczy stood very still, his hands lovingly,
mournfully assessing the damage to the jade lion. At last he put it down on the
stair and turned his attention to Ugo, who waited, sullen and defiant, on the
landing.

"They're good Christians," Ugo began, ready to defend the Militia Christi and
the destruction they had brought to Palazzo San Germano.

"They are pernicious savages." His brows flicked together. "And you are one
of them."

"I believe with the holy prior of San Marco…"

Ragoczy ignored this entirely. He asked of Ruggiero, who leaned over Natale,
"How is he, Ferrugio?"

"I don't think his skull was cracked, but the blow has left a serious
bruise." Ruggiero stood. "He'll have to lie down for a while, and he may need a
physician later."

"I'll carry him to his chamber." Ragoczy pushed past Ugo, moving
fastidiously, as if unwilling that any part of his garment should touch his
servant.

"But what about me?" Ugo demanded as Ragoczy reached Natale.

Ragoczy barely glanced back at him. "You not only permitted, you invited the
destruction of my valuables. What would you do, in my position?"

"I would be grateful that my servants wish to save me from hell." This was
shouted. The sound was strident and it was obvious that Ugo knew he had gone
beyond what could be tolerated.

"Would you? Then you may be grateful that I will not allow you to remain here
where there is so much sin and vice. You have until sunrise tomorrow to leave
this place. If you are not gone by then, I will send for i Lanzi. Believe this."
Ragoczy looked away from Ugo, and his icy contempt vanished. "I'm ashamed. He
was harmed in my service."

Ruggiero seemed not to hear this. "His chamber is waiting, master. I'd carry
him, but I'm not strong enough yet." He was embarrassed to admit this, and under
the dark dye his skin flushed.

"Never mind." Ragoczy bent, then lifted Natale into his arms, carrying him as
easily as he would a child. On the stair below, Ugo stifled a gasp, realizing
what strength Ragoczy must possess to carry a man larger than himself without
noticeable effort.

Undecided, Ugo took one hesitant step up the stairs, then changed his mind,
fearing what Ragoczy might do to him. He knew now that he had been treated with
great forbearance, and that he could not count on Ragoczy's continued restraint.
Until he had seen Ragoczy overwhelm the Militia Christi, he thought he had never
seen anyone more compelling and more dangerous than Savonarola. Those traits had
attracted him to the little Domenicano, because force fascinated him. Now he had
seen someone stronger, much stronger, someone who used that strength with
formidable, alien discipline. By comparison, Savonarola's railing at sin was
only childish histrionics. Ugo walked down the stairs, dejected, and could not
bring himself to look at the beautiful broken things piled up before him. He
hurried away to the cellars, feeling cheated, feeling lost.

When Natale was safely in bed, Ragoczy and Ruggiero returned to the loggia.
They both were reluctant to sort out what was piled there, but at last Ragoczy
dropped to one knee. "Make a list, Ruggiero. I want a record of what was done."

"As you wish, master." He studied Ragoczy compassionately, knowing how much
Ragoczy loved beautiful things.

Ragoczy had retrieved a miniature of a Byzantine prince which looked more
like an icon than a portrait. He stared at it, rubbing the archaic face with his
thumb. "Well, at least the
Orpheus
is safe. I should have put more of
this in the hidden rooms."

"Don't chide yourself," Ruggiero admonished him.

"Who better? You'd think by now I would have learned…" He broke off. "Make
the list, old friend. I'm going to find a physician." He turned away so that
Ruggiero could not see and would not pity his grief.

Text of a letter from Germain Ragoczy to i Priori and la Signoria:

To you excellent governors of Fiorenza, I, Germain Ragoczy, nephew and heir
to the holdings and estate of Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, am driven by
circumstance to address a complaint.

The day before yesterday, in the evening, members of the Militia Christi came
to Palazzo San Germano and engaged in acts of vandalism to a considerable
extent. Attached to this letter is a list of the items they destroyed. Though I
am in sympathy with the cause of religion, the callous invasion of private homes
cannot be tolerated, no matter what your current laws permit.

Some of the items which the young men saw fit to seize and damage or destroy
are neither my property nor the property of my uncle, and as they are my
responsibility, I am now bound by the law and my conscience to make good on
those pieces of art, those musical instruments and those goods that were, in
fact, the property of others, most of whom are not, in fact, Fiorenzeni.

If you have provisions for restitution of damages, I would appreciate a
meeting to decide the amount at your earliest convenience.

At this time, I would like to remind you that you have yet to hear my
petition for the release of Donna Demetrice Volandrai, who is currently being
held at an unknown place on a charge of heresy. Perhaps when you allow me to
present my claim for settlement, you would be willing to hear my petition on her
behalf.

I ask you good Priori to consider my position. I have many obligations to my
uncle, not only as his heir, but as benefits the honor of our ancient house. You
are anxious to discharge the law equitably; no less am I anxious to see that I
accomplish my tasks. Certainly it is to our mutual benefits to settle all these
matters as quickly as possible.

Be certain that I await your response most eagerly and will place myself
entirely at your disposal.

 

Germain Ragoczy

 

At Palazzo San Germano, March 2, 1498

A fine, driving rain had made the stones slippery, and the hazard of crossing
them was great. Thin shards like fingers plucked at him from then beds of loose
mortar as he made his way over the castle walls. Ragoczy was forced to cling
desperately as his feet and hands struggled to maintain their hold on the slick
wall. Once a narrow ledge crumbled under his left foot and he had to clasp the
wet stones in a fervent embrace while he searched for secure footing on another
perilous outcrop.

After what seemed hours, but in fact was little more than thirty minutes,
Ragoczy lifted himself onto the stone frame of the high window of Demetrice's
cell. He paused there, in part to listen to the sounds within and in part to
steady himself. The castle was quiet, the quiet of a frightened animal in
hiding. The air around it seemed to quiver with unnamable dismay. His fine brows
twitched together. What could have happened here, that fright permeated the very
stones? Still frowning, he dropped silently to the floor of the cell, landing in
a crouch, prepared to fight.

When he was not attacked, he straightened up and made his way, with more
caution than seemed necessary, to the darkest corner of the cell, where
Demetrice's straw pallet covered the floor. "Demetrice?" he said softly, and the
walls murmured her name after him, eerily.

The cell was empty. He touched the fetters hanging open over the pallet, the
cold iron telling him nothing, except that she had been gone from the cell for
some time. His fear for her increased as he patted the chilly, sodden straw. He
felt for his cloak which she had hidden there, and discovered it was gone.

He went to the heavy door, worry making him awkward. Very carefully he tugged
at the brace, and to his surprise the door swung inward on recently oiled
hinges. Very carefully, every sense acute, he stepped out into the narrow,
torchlit hall, his eyes moving restlessly over the time-darkened stones. To the
left and the right the hall was the same. There was no indication of which way
she might have gone, or of where she could have been taken. He lingered,
undecided, at the door of her cell.

A metallic scrape and clang echoed along the hall, the reverberation making
it impossible to tell where the sound had originated. At the sound a shriek of
despair came from the adjoining cell, and other wordless voices joined the
heart-rending lament.

Ragoczy ducked back into the cell, and dropped himself into the far corner,
under the window. He pulled his old black guarnacca around him, so that he
became part of the deepest shadows. Now he was grateful that he had risked
wearing black, for in any of the gaudy colors he wore as disguise he would have
been as bright as a tilting target. He pressed himself to the uneven stone floor
and waited.

There were steps in the hall, heavy sounds from two, and light, faltering
steps from the third. At last they paused and in a moment the cell door creaked
open. Wavering torchlight licked the walls with brightness as two of the jailers
pushed Demetrice nearer her pallet.

"Hold your arms up," one of them ordered.

"I can't." Her voice was quite calm, but more tired than Ragoczy had ever
heard it. There were scuffing steps and a soft gasp, and the unmistakable chink
of metal closing on metal and the crinkle of chain. Then the heavy steps
retreated and the door was pulled to. Then there was the solid impact of a bolt
driven home and a lock turning.

Only when these sounds had died away and there were no more footfalls in the
hall did Demetrice allow herself to sob.

Ragoczy got to his feet slowly, unmindful of the dank walls and the cold now.
He looked through the gloom of the cell, and with all his heart in his voice he
said, "Demetrice. Demetrice mia."

She stifled her tears and her eyes widened as she peered into the dark. "San
Germano?"

"Yes." He came nearer, stopped less than an arm's length from her. As his
eyes searched her face, he whispered, "Are you well? Were you hurt?"

She nodded affirmation but said, "No." Her voice was unsteady but she
stubbornly refused to weep. "But I was frightened. So frightened." In
supplication she extended her manacled arms to him. "Please. San Germano.
Please." Her voice broke.

Tenderly he took her in his arms. Softly he kissed her forehead, her eyelids,
the curve of her cheeks and at last her mouth, her lips parting under his. They
stood so for some time, until her breath quickened and color came back into her
face. Ragoczy stepped back and was secretly pleased that Demetrice leaned toward
him as he did. "Gioia mia, wait, wait." He reached for the iron that bound her
wrists. "First this."

But she pulled away. "No. Last time they saw the locks were broken and they
said it was devil's work, like the broken bars on the window, though I told them
that I had thrown a loose stone at a bird perched there, and the bars…" She bit
her lower lip as tears filled her eyes. "No. No."

Ragoczy wiped her face. "About the chains. What did they tell you?"

"These are new. See? They were blessed by the monks, so that I could not
escape again. They said if I did, they would know for sure. They said they would
cast the devils from me." She stopped abruptly and horror filled her eyes.

"Ah, Demetrice." There was so much sorrow, so much regret in the way he spoke
her name. "If you are frightened, then in the morning before I leave you, I will
secure you once again so that they will never know. Give me your hands."

It was an effort for her to lift them. "I can't. No."

A terrible thought lanced through him. "Torture? Have they tortured you?"

She shook her head numbly. "Not yet. Today they tied me by the hands and
lifted them high in the air with a rope over a beam. I had to stand on tiptoe or
my shoulders would ache. After a while I ached no matter what I did. They gave
me no water, and the torturers searched my body for devil's marks. At least,"
she added contemptuously as she fought revulsion, "that's what they said they
did. But I think they did it for their pleasure."

Ragoczy had seen other men who derived their satisfaction from humiliation
and pain, as he once, long ago, had derived it from terror. He said nothing,
letting Demetrice speak so that she could rid herself of the shame she had
endured so that it would not fester in her, poisoning her life.