The Palace (56 page)

"I will talk to her," Ruggiero said as he went to the door. "I'll wait for
you at the courtyard gate when you bring her. That way, Fra Sansone won't have
to be distressed by her." Suddenly he pulled the door open and Fra Sansone
stepped back guiltily.

"I have instructions," he said, and glared into the measuring room.

"So you have," Ragoczy agreed. "By all means tell your superiors every word
that passed between Ferrugio and me." He smiled sweetly and strode across the
room. "It's growing late. I'll leave for San Marco shortly." For the benefit of
Fra Sansone he added, "I trust you'll have everything in readiness to receive
the body."

Ruggiero bowed slightly, his houseman's gown whispering as it brushed the
floor.

San Marco shone in the dusk, every window alight, and the brightness spilling
out onto the street and the buildings around it, filling Piazza San Marco with a
square of brilliance that spilled from the open door of the church.

Ragoczy entered by that door, his silken sleeved tunic throwing back the
scintillating lights from hundreds of tiny, polished diamonds worked into the
neck and shoulder of the fine white brocade that was further decorated with
black piping at the high neck, down the front closing, and at the hem and
wrists. White boots reached almost to his knees and the black heels were studded
with polished gems. A short white cape hung over one shoulder and was held
across the chest with braided cords of black silk. His white cap made his dark
hair even darker and set off his dark eyes.

One of the Domenicani who bustled through the church, preparing for the great
event that was to come in the morning, saw him and stopped his errand to ask,
"You are the foreigner, aren't you?"

"I am. I wonder if you will be kind enough to direct me to whoever is
empowered to release bodies?" He spoke respectfully and with a becoming
deference to the monk.

"What body?" Belatedly he rolled up two of the parchments he held and tucked
them under his arm.

"I understood from Fra Sansone that the bodies of the condemned heretics were
to be brought here. Since one was the servant of my uncle, I feel it my duty to
give her proper burial, even though she may not lie in hallowed ground." He
leaned toward the monk and added, "I know the request is irregular. But I have
obligations."

"Of course, of course," the monk said nervously and fingered the parchments
under his arm. "That would be Fra Cataline. He's on the south side of the
church. There's a little room there, near the side door…" He glanced nervously
around. "That's Fra Cataline."

"Thank you, good Brother," Ragoczy said, wishing he had had a chance to see
what was written on the parchments. He turned and crossed the church, pausing
only long enough to genuflect before the altar.

A number of monks waited outside the little room near the south door of the
church. Ragoczy moved up to them and asked if there was some problem. No one
answered him.

He decided to get attention. "Where is Fra Cataline? I must see him. It's
urgent." His voice was loud enough to be heard throughout the church. He had a
thick accent so that his very foreignness would force response from those around
him.

Almost at once a man of late middle age in a Domemcan habit burst out of the
little room. His expression was harassed as he glared at the monks. "I've told
you that you can take no one until I finish the certificates!"

"A thousand pardons, good Brother. But it was I who called you." Ragoczy
shouldered his way through the monks and regarded Fra Cataline evenly.

Fra Cataline regarded the glittering stranger with curiosity. "And who are
you?"

"Germain Ragoczy," he replied, bending the full force of his compelling eyes
on Fra Cataline. "I have come to claim the body of Demetrice Volandrai. She died
last night, while in your care."

"Claim her?" Fra Cataline said with an exasperated gesture. "You must do that
after the burning."

"What?" Ragoczy resisted the impulse to grab the monk and shake him. "Why not
now? Surely there's no purpose in keeping her here longer."

Fra Cataline gave an exaggerated sigh. "Of course not. The bodies aren't
here, any of them. They were earlier."

"Then where are they?" His voice was low and his manner respectful, but Fra
Cataline quailed before him. The other monks, seeing their fellow's barely
concealed terror, stepped back and crossed themselves, taking covert glances at
the foreigner in white.

"At… at la Piazza della Signoria," Fra Cataline stammered, then turned away
from Ragoczy's eyes. "The prior, the blessed Savonarola, has given orders… that
all who have died unrepentant be burned with the other heretics."

Ragoczy's eyes closed. Anger, pain and despair coursed through him and for an
instant he felt a fierce desire to rend and maim every Domenicano monk in all of
Fiorenza. This passed and was replaced by determination that was fed by his
sense of impending loss.

"Signor stragnero…" Fra Cataline said uncertainly, "you may have the ashes.
Our prior won't forbid that."

Abruptly Ragoczy swung around on his heel and as the monks parted before him,
his swift strides took him from the church. His thoughts raced before him, and
by the time he arrived back at Palazzo San Germano he had his instructions ready
for Ruggiero.

"But what if it isn't possible?" his manservant asked when he had heard the
new instructions.

Ragoczy shook his head, and his dark eyes were sad. "Then, my old friend,
leave Fiorenza instantly. Make sure the Botticellis are carried on my mare.
She's fast and her gaits are even."

"And you?" He knew the answer, but fear drove him to ask.

"It will be too late for me, Ruggiero. If I fail to save Demetrice, I'll be
dead. Truly dead."

Text of a letter from Suor Merzede, Superiora of the Celestiana convent,
Sacro Infante, to Girolamo Savonarola, prior of San Marco:

 

With a humble heart, the Superiora of Sacro Infante sends her greetings to
the blessed Girolamo Savonarola, prior of San Marco, in Fiorenza.

Though I have no wish to distress you, or bring difficulties upon you, good
Prior, I must write to you before the matter is out of hand. You have proclaimed
that tomorrow there is to be a great auto-da-fe wherein many heretics will be
burned to the glory of God and the salvation of Fiorenza. You have further
ordered that Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli be there to tell of her
visions and to sing her hymns.

Good Prior, most earnestly I beg you to reconsider. I realize you think that
I am jealous of Suor Estasia, and certainly her particular abilities have
brought her a great deal of attention, and have much influenced the life of all
of us at Sacro Infante. But I did not become a nun to receive praise, but so my
life might be of service to God. I am grateful that our convent has become
well-known, for it is in this way we are granted the opportunity to do good in
the world.

Good Prior Savonarola, I must warn you that Suor Estasia is not well. She has
been fasting most rigorously for the last month and it has made her weak. But
more than that, she is filled with strange sensations. She herself has said that
never has she experienced such sensations, and though they are for her most
rewarding, as they increase in severity they make her behave strangely. Last
night she opened her habit and scourged herself unmercifully and in a way that I
cannot in modesty describe. She said that such chastisement purged all the
devils of the flesh, but there was a fever in her eyes as she said that.

I greatly fear that if you bring her to Fiorenza now and expose her to all
the heady excitement that must attend such an occasion, Suor Estasia will be
cast into such a state that she may do herself or others some hurt. Being
inspired by the Holy Spirit, she does not always remember the limitations of her
human body and therefore is vulnerable to many things.

You may recall some of the excesses she committed before she was redeemed to
God through her confession to you, and subsequent absolution. Her soul is still
volatile and for that reason the light of piety burns in her more brightly than
in many of us. Pray for her, but do not, I ask you, expose her to such an
experience. Only last week her cousin Sandro Filipepi visited her, and he
himself expressed concern for her. You know that someone as devout in the
exercise of his faith as is Filipepi would not worry capriciously.

Surely the heretics will burn equally well whether Suor Estasia is there or
not. And surely Fiorenza will derive as much benefit from the auto-da-fe with
Suor Estasia here, in prayer, as it would if Suor Estasia addressed them herself
from those wooden platforms that have been constructed for the burning.

It is not too late. I will await an answer to this tonight. I will keep the
vigil with Suor Estasia. Already she lies in the chapel, her face pressed
against the stones, her arms out to the side in imitation of Our Dear Lord. She
has hardly moved for more than an hour but she has declared that her devotion
must be perfect, and she must be wholly consumed in the radiance of God. She has
her scourge with her, the one you presented to her, the one with metal hooks on
the seven lashes.

Good Prior, I fear for her. I fear what she might do. Let her remain here
where she may be protected and looked after by her Sisters, who love and revere
her. Her faith is strong but flesh is fragile. Do not test her beyond her
endurance. God cannot want that of her, and if you ask it, you do her a terrible
disservice. Her reverence for you is such that if she were a woman living in the
world, I would say that you had become the God of her idolatry and that her
devotion bordered on the blasphemous.

Consider well, good Prior, and do not endanger one who is as selfless in her
zeal as Suor Estasia. I will await your answer while I keep the night vigil with
Suor Estasia. If at dawn you have sent no answer, I will most reluctantly send
her to you, as you have commanded me to do.

In all things, I am most obedient to you after my obedience to God and my
order.

Suor Merzede Superiora of Sacro Infante Celestiane Sisters

 

Sacro Infante, near Fiorenza, 9th day of March, 1498

The first light of dawn lay like a stain along the hills east of Fiorenza.
The streets were still dark but the red roofs had taken on a subtle glow, as if
they smoldered. Above the river a low, wraithlike mist hung, waiting to creep
away at the touch of the morning. Birdcalls had just begun, anticipating the
church bells.

But this morning Fiorenza was already awake. Around la Piazza della Signoria
the people were gathering as they had gathered to watch the burning of Vanities.
Today it was another burning, this time of heretics, and though some of the
citizens shook their heads sadly, thinking it a scandalous day, that Fiorenza
was as dangerous as Spain, more of the citizens reprimanded them for the
weakness of their faith and assured their faltering fellows that there was as
much good in burning heretics as there was in burning Vanities.

The Militia Christi was busy in la piazza, building up the fagots around the
stakes which were set up on wooden platforms; as the fires took hold, the floors
of the platforms would collapse and would, in effect, bury the wretched heretics
in flame. There were nine such platforms, and a tenth structure along the front
of il Palazzo della Signoria waited for Savonarola to harangue the condemned one
last time before the fires were kindled. Builders inspected the platforms,
searching for flaws and imperfections.

As the morning bells began to ring over Fiorenza, a group of monks approached
la piazza. Most of the monks carried one end or the other of a hurdle on which
were tied those destined for the stake. Seven of the heretics gazed
unbelievingly at the city around them.

Their eyes were red and blurred with suffering. Under their penitent's robes
their abused bodies were matted with blood and filth. The remaining two heretics
were naked, one man and one woman. The man had succumbed to the torture of the
boot, and the legs which dangled on either side of the hurdle were nothing more
than distorted sacks of crushed bone. The other was Demetrice, her flesh eerily
pale so that even the hideous bruises were dimmed by her loss of blood. One
concession had been made: she was tied facedown on the hurdle so that she would
not be wholly exposed to the inquisitive eyes of the crowd.

A murmur of interest filled the waiting people. They were not too great a
number yet, not more than two or three thousand. These were the fascinated, the
angry, the eager. They pressed forward to watch as the heretics were moved from
their hurdle to the platforms and secured there in chains. It was a slow
process, and by the time the task was complete, the sun was just lifting over
the eastern horizon, sending long streamers of golden light down the mountains
and into Fiorenza. The mist over the river was beginning to dissipate.

From the western quarter of town, the Domenicani of Santa Maria Novella came
in procession, and with full deliberation they stopped before each of the nine
platforms while Fra Stanislao pronounced anathema on the heretics.

The crowd was more restless now, and rapidly growing in numbers. The Militia
Christi left the platforms and set to work policing the limits of the crowd,
making sure that the citizens would be far enough away from the fires to keep
from being singed by the terrible heat. The citizens grumbled at this treatment,
but complied.

At last Savonarola arrived, and after a few words with Fra Stanislao and
Ezechiele Aureliano, he mounted the long platform by il palazzo and looked over
the crowd. He felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight. In spite of everything,
he had at last humbled Fiorenza and saved her. Neither the power of the Medicis
nor the power of the Pope had been sufficient to stay his crusade against sins.
Glowing with an emotion which he did not know was pride, he stepped forward,
raising his skinny arms to heaven.