The Palace (59 page)

Ruggiero acknowledged this with a sound between a groan and a sigh as he gave
his mount a sharp kick in the ribs. He could tell from the way the animal moved
that he was not used to carrying so much weight.

Clouds had blown across the sky and there was a stiff wind blowing by the
time they stopped again. Ragoczy motioned for a rest and turned in the saddle.
"They're no more than a quarter-hour behind us now," he said without rancor.
"We'd better start looking for a hiding place, or some boulders we can roll down
the hill on them."

Ruggiero nodded but said nothing. It was late afternoon and he ached from the
long and difficult ride. The next change of horses was still almost an hour
away, and he knew with icy certainty that long before then the lancers would be
upon them. He glanced at the lump that was Donna Demetrice. "What do you think
we should do about her?"

"Well"—Ragoczy sighed—"if it comes to a fight, we must make sure she's out of
the way. There may be trees we can hide her under, or a barn somewhere." He knew
as well as Ruggiero that it was highly unlikely. "We'll put one of the chests
with her, and hope that one of us can explain what she must know." Wearily he
set his horse in motion once again.

It was much darker when at last they heard the sound of hooves behind them,
and knew they could not escape any longer. Ragoczy felt a certain pleasure in
coming out of the saddle to fight at last. They were at the crest of a little
rise, and that gave them a mild advantage in sight, but as they had nothing to
use, neither cannon nor gun nor crossbow, the matter was unimportant. Ruggiero
took the horses and led them off the road, to a little stream that gushed
merrily down the hillside. Ragoczy called after him, "Make sure you stay on this
side of the water. If Demetrice wakes, without earth in her shoes she won't be
able to cross it."

"How long until sundown?" Ruggiero asked as he tethered the horses near the
stream.

"I'm not sure. The clouds are so heavy it's hard to tell. I doubt if it's
much more than an hour away, if that." He pushed at a large boulder that stood
beside the road, but even his preternatural strength could not move it. "It will
give us some cover, that's something," he said. He remembered the horn and wood
bow that he had carefully packed in the chests that were to follow him. At the
time it had seemed advisable to travel with as little burden as possible, and he
had long felt that weapons invited trouble. Now he missed the bow. And his
swords, one of Toledo and one of Damascus steel. There was a third sword, a very
special one, that he had won in combat with a Japanese warrior very far from
home, but that, too, was packed away.

He walked to where Ruggiero had tethered the horses. "I want some rope," he
said.

Ruggiero thought a moment. "How long?"

"Somewhat wider than the road." His eyes met Ruggiero's and there was renewed
hope in them. Ruggiero nodded and began to search through the small packs both
of them carried on the front of their saddles. At last he produced a thin rope
measuring about four times the height of a man.

After that they worked quickly, securing the rope at one end and hiding
themselves at the other. "Remember, Ragoczy said as they tested it once more,
"don't lift it until the first horses are almost on it."

"I won't," he said.

"As soon as the first lancers are down, grab whatever weapons you can get
your hands on. If you can't reach the lancer, go for the horse's legs. It will
cripple the horse, but it can't be helped. It's a waste." He glanced up as the
first few drops of rain spattered down. He narrowed his eyes. "Mud may help."

Ruggiero tried to smile and failed. "My master…"

"What is it, old friend?"

Ruggiero thought over the words and at last said, "It was worth it." Then he
turned away and put his mind to trapping horses.

The waiting was difficult, but it did not last long. In a short while the
clop and jingle of the lancers grew nearer, blending oddly with the gentle purr
of the rain.

"Ready?" Ragoczy whispered as the lancers were almost upon them.

Ruggiero made a gesture. Ragoczy nodded and set his legs. "
Now
!"

The rope snapped up, tightening across the lead horses' knees. The horses
reared, stumbled and plunged as the pair of horses behind them pushed into them.
One of the two lead horses slid and fell on its side and in a moment there was
chaos.

Waiting only until they were certain that the lancers were too much
disordered to present a united defense, Ruggiero and Ragoczy raced from behind
the boulder that had hidden them, moving precariously near flying hooves and
twisting bodies.

Ragoczy reached the column first, and with care he snatched a double-handed
broadsword from one of the lancers. As soon as he had a firm hold of the
scabbard he stepped back, holding his prize to him until he could toss the
scabbard away and bring the blade into play.

The lancers toward the rear were not caught in the trap and they were forming
themselves for attack, ready to take on Ragoczy and Ruggiero.

Ruggiero had grabbed a lance, and though the weapon was unwieldy on the
ground, he set it where he could use it while braced against the boulder.

The rain was pelting down quite heavily now and the road was becoming slick
with mud. Ragoczy almost had his feet go out from under him as he avoided the
thrust of a short sword from one of the lancers. He moved away from the road,
knowing that his white garments made him a better target than Ruggiero, who wore
rust-colored clothing.

Near the end of the column orders were barked out, and six mounted men left
the road, fanning out as they did, their lances held low.

Ragoczy moved back toward the trees, going carefully so that he would not
slip on the wet ground. The sword he carried was worse than useless, for as long
as the lancers held their weapons, he could not get close enough to fight them.

Ruggiero shouted to him, but the words were lost in the howl of the wind. He
dared not look around now, for the lancers were much too close, and a lance in
the back would be the true death as surely as the flames would be.

There was another shout, and louder, and the sound of more horses. Even the
lancers pursuing Ragoczy heard it, and for a moment they hesitated, looking
around for the source of the noise.

He had barely time to raise his head before Ragoczy saw perhaps twenty
mounted men come hurtling around the bend of the road. At the sight of the
lancers, the brigands—for they most certainly were brigands, as their long
swords and old-fashioned armor showed— checked their plunge, but only long
enough to draw their weapons and plunge furiously into battle.

Ragoczy did not wait to see more. He signaled Ruggiero and raced for the
trees. He was soaked now, and his finery hung on him in clinging layers. He
paused under the trees and waited for Ruggiero to catch up with him.

"How long will that go on?" Ruggiero asked, cocking his head back toward the
road.

"I don't know. Not long, I'd think." He looked up through the leaves into the
rainy sky. The clouds were bloated with water and there was almost no color left
in them. "Sunset," Ragoczy said tersely, and started off through the woods.

The horses were still tethered, waiting where they had been left. Nearby,
under an inadequate and clumsy shelter of cut branches, lying on the sack she
had been carried in all day, was Demetrice. Her face, now wet, was no longer
deathly pale. A faint blush colored her cheeks, and though she was still, it was
the stillness of sleep, not of death.

Ragoczy went onto his knee beside her. The old gonella of rustred velvet she
wore was heavy with water and he shook his head at the feel of it.

The noise of the fight was much louder; then there were shouts and horses
were heard fleeing.

"The lancers are winning, I think," Ragoczy murmured. "We can't stay here
much longer."

"Will she waken?" Ruggiero wondered aloud. "Or should we carry her?"

Gently Ragoczy touched her face and noticed that her mouth softened into a
smile. "We wake her, Ruggiero." He took her hand in his, ignoring the rain and
the renewed scuffle of horses on the road behind them. "Demetrice," he said
softly. "Demetrice."

Her eyelids tightened, and then very slowly they opened. She looked around,
bewildered, seeing the forest, the rain, the dark, and the face of Ragoczy,
glistening with rain, leaning above her. "Fran… cesco?" she said and put one
hand to her head. "Don't leave yet."

"I'm afraid we have to," he said, tightening his grip on her hand.

"How did it get so wet? Is it another torture? Did the jailers do it?" The
questions came quickly, with no time for answers. She rolled onto her side and
held herself on her elbow. "But this isn't my cell!"

"No," Ragoczy said, and waited.

"Where are we?" This was almost a cry and her amber eyes were wild. "What
place is this?"

"We're on the road to Bologna. Well, not quite on the road." He was silent
while she tried to understand. Suddenly she snatched her hand away from him and
pulled her wrist close to her face. The two neat cuts were still there, but
seamed and white, like the scars on ancient wounds. Her eyes flew to his again.
"You
did
do it."

"Yes." He longed to take her into his arms again, but he knew her shock was
too great to allow that. Instead he put his hand to her cheek. "Demetrice, this
morning, though you were dead, you were chained to a stake in la Piazza della
Signoria and the wood around you was lighted. If you had been alive, the same
thing would have happened."

"No." Demetrice tried unsteadily to rise. "But what are we doing here?"

Ragoczy's smile was almost apologetic. "We're trying not to be caught either
by brigands or by lancers. And we must leave quickly."

She let him pull her to her feet and she held his hand tightly as he led her
to the horses. As she got into the saddle, she saw the chests tied to Ragoczy's
and Ruggiero's saddles, and said, "I hope you have dry clothes in there."

"Well, no," Ragoczy said as he mounted once more.

"What do you have in there, then?"

There was a noticeable pause before he answered. "There is earth from Rimini
in the chests. Your native earth."

She frowned, and for the first time she felt the icy prickle of belief touch
her spine. "My native earth?" she asked slowly.

"You'll find you need it, Demetrice. All of our kind do." Then, before she
could say anything more, he kicked his horse to a trot and in a little time they
were once more on the road to Bologna.

Text of a letter from Marsilio Ficino in Fiorenza to the poet Cassandra
Fedele in Venezia:

 

To my very dear colleague and valued friend Cassandra Fedele, Marsilio Ficino
sends greetings from Fiorenza on this Feast Day of San Germano di Parigi.

I thank you from the depths of my heart for the delightful poems you sent me
last month. They came at a good time, for April was filled with excitement and
your poems complemented that excitement for me.

By now you must have heard that Savonarola has been condemned as a heretic,
but perhaps you did not know that the sentence, hanging and burning, was carried
out just five days ago, in la Piazza della Signoria, the same place that he
committed his atrocious auto-da-fe little more than two months ago. It was an
eerie feeling, watching him as he hung high over the heads of the few people who
gathered to watch him. Some monks, in an excess of zeal, cried to him to perform
a miracle now, if indeed God inspired him and protected him. I don't know
whether he heard or not, because the flames were very bright and he was quickly
hidden in the smoke.

I have not much admired Alessandro VI, but in this he has done well. His
judgment was ruthless, but nothing less than ruthlessness would have prevailed
against one as wholly demented as Savonarola had become. It may be true that
even a Borgia is useful to the Papacy.

Fiorenza has not recovered from the excesses of Savonarola's reign. Many of i
Priori and the Console are his creatures and only time and calm judgment will
remove their influence from our government. But yesterday I saw a young woman
wearing a lace wreath in her hair, and it was heartening. The fast days are not
so strictly enforced now, and since the Militia Christi has been disbanded many
of our citizens are bringing their beautiful things out of hiding once again. I
will not live to see Fiorenza restored, I know, but I am grateful to God for
letting me live long enough to know that the city is not lost, and that all the
things that Cosimo and Piero and Laurenzo cherished have not died.

I understand that Ragoczy is in Venezia. When next you see him, remember me
to him, will you, my friend? He did a very courageous thing coming back to
Fiorenza as he did. It probably would not be wise for him to visit us again, but
his bravery will be long remembered here.

Sandro has taken his cousin's death very badly. She is the one who immolated
herself during the auto-da-fe. I think she must have been mad, but Sandro is
much tormented in his soul. He paints very little now, but talks of doing a vast
allegory in praise of Suor Estasia. It may be that in doing such a painting he
will at last resign himself to the Will of God and learn to forgive himself for
what was, after all, none of his doing.

I have come upon some excellent translation of Aristotle, which I am taking
the liberty of sending to you with this letter. My messenger is one of the
servants of Cardinal Giovanni, for though he is not allowed back in Fiorenza,
his servants are. As he is carrying other messages on to Venezia, he was kind
enough to offer to bring you this.

Be certain that this bears my love and my blessing to you. You will never
know how much your kindness meant to me in my time of greatest despondency. But
I know, and God knows, and it will shine from you like the purest light when the
Judgment comes to us all. In this world and in the next I treasure you, Donna
Cassandra.

Marsilio Ficino

 

In Fiorenza, the 28th day of May, 1498