The Palace (17 page)

Ragoczy opened the door of San Lorenzo, and the cold wind poked icy fingers
at them, making them shiver.

Through tightened teeth Laurenzo said, "Well, my good friends, you are more
than I deserve. But what does that matter now? Come, take me across la piazza. I
suppose I must deal with these Portuguese."

A letter and bill from the Arte master to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

Respected Signor Ragoczy, stragnero, the members of the several Arti who have
worked on the construction and finishing of your palazzo in the street behind
Santissima Annunziata have now completed your work to the letter of your
instructions. There is included with this an accounting of charge incurred
beyond the amount paid to us in advance.

Most of the work would have been done before now, but as I took the
opportunity to inform you, three of the builders left before the work was done
and are in fact no longer in Fiorenza, and this occasioned some delay.

We are grateful for the generous thanks you have bestowed upon us. It is not
the custom here for men to give every Arte member five fiorini d'or for work,
but, as you said, it was not our usual work, and the specifications were
unusual. We are appreciative of your gifts.

Your houseman, Ruggiero, had been given the keys and bolts as you requested,
and all is in readiness for your reception on Twelfth Night and your tribute to
Medici.

If you question the total of the items in the account that comes with this,
send word and I will be pleased to review the costs with you.

May the season of Christ's birth be a joyous one for you. It is a pleasure to
have so distinguished a stragnero in Fiorenza.

For all the Arte members,

Justiniano Montegelato

 

In Fiorenza, December 29, 1491

 

The jugglers had finished their performance and two acrobats were now walking
on their hands the length of the loggia of Palazzo San Germano. One of them held
blazing torches in his tightly clenched toes, the other balanced full cups of
wine on the soles of his feet as he went. They were accompanied by three
musicians, one playing drums and cymbals, one with a shepherd's bagpipe, and one
plucking on a lute. Their tunes, though simple and purposefully loud, could not
penetrate the noise of the gathering.

Since the loggia of Palazzo San Germano was in the Genovese tradition, it did
not give ready access to the street, and on this frozen winter day Francesco
Ragoczy's guests were glad of the privacy, for it meant extra warmth. Louvers
covered the huge window, and they were closed against the snow-laden wind that
raged in from the northeast.

The two rooms adjoining the loggia were also filled. In one of them a troupe
of French actors performed farces for the guests and in the other great pots of
wine were heated on a huge brazier. Amadeo, Ragoczy's cook, supervised this
operation, adding a secret mixture of spices to each pot so that the heady smell
was almost as intoxicating as the beverage itself.

Ragoczy sat with his honored guests at a long table set up on the broad
landing of his grand staircase. He was dressed in a magnificent giornea of black
velvet, with slashed sleeves edged in red satin exposing his shirt of shiny
white silk. His high-standing collar was edged in red as well, and set off the
foreign order of silver and rubies around his neck. His Russian boots had
jewel-inlaid heels that clicked when he walked.

Beside him at the table was Laurenzo de' Medici in a brocaded gown of dark
blue silk that had been sent to him by the sultan in

Turkey, and under it he wore a lucco of gold satin. He wore no jewelry, and
those who knew him thought he looked fatigued.

"… But of course the poor foolish girl was a Siciliana, and did not perfectly
understand what her master had said." Laurenzo smiled in anticipation of the
joke as he leaned toward Marsilio Ficino and the alchemist Federigo Cossa. "So
she served the soup in the
chamber
pot!" His laughter was almost as
hearty as it had been a few years before, and the merriment around him masked
his failing spirits. He reached for his silver cup, when Ragoczy stopped him.

"No, Magnifico. I have a better cup for you." He stood up and clapped his
hands sharply, and in a moment Ruggiero seemed to materialize at his side.
Ragoczy took a package from his houseman and turned back to Laurenzo. "Magnifico,
it is the time for giving gifts, in remembrance of the gifts given to Christ.
Other men, too, have given gifts at the winter solstice. The Romans made merry
and complimented each other at the Saturnalia. In the north many peoples have
long given the dark of the year over to festivals and pleasures. Far away in
China, there are celebrations now to mark the coming of the sun. So it is
fitting that though I am a stranger in Fiorenza, and though my people are not
like yours, still your customs go well with mine, and it is a privilege to honor
them." He had the attention of most of his guests by then, and he spoke with
greater force. "But ceremony is an empty thing if it lacks sincerity. So it is
doubly appropriate for me to entertain you now. Fiorenza has been a haven to me,
and your affection as welcome to me as rain is to parched soil. On January
first, five days ago, you entered your forty-fourth year. In recognition of
that, and in honor of the forty-three years you have given to Fiorenza, I
present you with the fruit of my Art." He gave the package to Laurenzo with the
profound bow usually reserved for princes.

Brows raised questioningly, Laurenzo held the package for a moment. Then he
tugged at the gold threads that bound it and pulled the wrapping away from an
intricately carved box of inlaid wood and semiprecious stones. He hesitated,
enjoying the splendid box.

"Open it," Ragoczy suggested.

"Here?" Laurenzo touched the side of the box where the de' Medici arms were
set in jade and polished rubies. He pressed the scalloped shield and the lid
moved back to reveal the contents.

There was an awed sigh as Laurenzo removed the cup from the box. It was
supported on a base of silver and Fiorenzan gold that had been intricately
formed to the letters
laur med
around the
jeweled column holding the cup itself. Redder than the Medici palle, this small
bowl seemed to be made of one entire hollowed ruby. It glowed with inner fire,
and no wine could match its depth. In silence Laurenzo held it up, turning it in
the light, tears of pleasure in his large eyes. When he spoke at last, his voice
was husky. "Caro stragnero, I have no words."

This broke the spell and there was applause from the other guests. It was a
superb gesture, and they admired it as much as they appreciated the art.

Laurenzo stood suddenly, tipping over his chair as he rose. "Wine! Bring me
the best that you have!"

Ruggiero withdrew quickly and Ragoczy said to his guest, "I have an old
vintage from Burgundy. My servant is bringing it to you." He turned away
slightly, and added, "I have another thing for you, Laurenzo. A thing you
requested of me."

Immediately Laurenzo dropped his voice, whispering, "Is it… ?"

Ragoczy shrugged uncomfortably. "In this vial." He took it from his sleeve
and slipped it into Laurenzo's hot, dry fingers.

"But surely…" Laurenzo stopped, and there was something at the back of his
eyes that grew bright with understanding. He held out the cup. "Well, whether
you drink or not, I will, and gladly." As the fragrant Burgundy poured into the
red jeweled cup, he said quietly to Ragoczy, "You don't
eat
either, do
you?"

"Oh, I take nourishment when I need it, never fear," Ragoczy murmured, and
bent to set Laurenzo's chair on its legs again. When he stood up again, Ruggiero
had put the wine down. "There, Magnifico. A noble wine and a unique cup. A
well-deserved tribute to the man who is the heart of Fiorenza."

The guests echoed this enthusiastically, some of the men shouting ribald
comments, a few of the women complimenting him with eager smiles.

Laurenzo drank, then put the cup down, satisfaction and fever making his face
glow. "No," he said simply, and so honestly that protestations were obviously
not expected. "I have some ability as a poet, or so I tell myself, but it is not
that which gives the city its life, it is the artists and musicians and teachers
who are the true heart of Fiorenza."

Ragoczy gave Laurenzo a wry smile. "They would not be here if you and your
father and his father were not willing to pay for them, Magnifico. If artists
starve, they leave precious little to the world. If musicians sing their songs
to the walls of a hovel, their music dies with their breath." He sat down and
motioned for Laurenzo to do the same, saying in an undervoice, "Put a little of
the oil in the vial into your wine. A drop or two is all that's needed. If you
should run out of it, tell me, and I will give you more. But don't take too
much. Whenever you drink, a few drops in the cup will suffice. It won't help you
any more to take more than that, and too much of it will very possibly make you
sick."

"As you wish," Lauienzo said softly, and brought the vial out of his square
silk sleeve. As he dropped a little of the oil into his wine, he smiled
appreciatively at Ragoczy's giornea. "You're much more Fiorenzan tonight than I
am, Francesco. That velvet was made here, and the cut of your clothes would mark
them Fiorenzan anywhere in Europe. The bodice looks molded to you, the mantle
and slashings are perfect, and if the skirting is not double-pleated, you may
have every stick of furniture I own."

"Well," Ragoczy said with the ghost of a smile, "you, being native, may dress
however you wish. But I, being foreign, must not abuse your custom."

"Which is why you have such a preference for Spanish pourpoints, I suppose?"
He took another sip of the wine. "This is very good. Little as I like the
French, for all that I keep on good terms with them, I admit they have a way
with wine. Is it wholly coincidental that the wine bears your name?"

"A conceit, Magnifico. Nothing more." Ragoczy was looking away across the
loggia. Near the room where the players entertained were several members of the
Confraternita del Bigallo, those influential men whose private charity was
helping the poor, providing them with shelter and clothing. Near them were three
foreign scholars, Dutch or English by the look of them. All but one of the
Signoria were here. Many of the women were lavishly dressed, some in fur-trimmed
dresses of velvet with brocaded gauntlets cut so that their fine lawn sleeves
could puff through. Near the four officers of the Confraternita della
Misericordia, Ragoczy saw Demetrice in earnest conversation with two instructors
from l'Accademia. She was wearing the new gonella Ragoczy had given her, one in
silk of the most verdant green. A new arrival caught her attention, and she went
with a welcoming smile to greet Botticelli, who strolled up to her, still
looking lanky in his unaccustomed finery.

"Francesco," Laurenzo said softly, and brought Ragoczy's attention back to
the table where they sat. "You need have no fear of me."

"I don't know what you mean," he lied.

"I mean," Laurenzo said with deliberate patience, "that you can trust me. I
will not betray you."

"Betray me?" Ragoczy searched for an excuse to leave the table and found
none.

"Do you remember that day, last fall, when we came upon that ruin? The one
where the old man offered to cut his throat for you?" Laurenzo was idly tracing
designs on the white table covering with his forefinger.

"Yes," Ragoczy said through clenched teeth.

"Yes. Do you remember that I went inside the temple?" He didn't wait for a
reply. "There were many strange things in the temple, Francesco. Among them a
scroll, with writing in a foreign language."

"Was there?" Ragoczy could not ask Laurenzo to abandon his questions without
drawing unwanted attention to them. "I didn't see it. What did it say?"

"I couldn't read it. But I did recognize the writing." He paused, then drank
the last of his Burgundy, and reached for the jug to pour another cupful. "I'd
seen it before."

"Indeed."

"On your arms, Francesco." He looked away, into the gorgeous throng of
people. He was almost bored as he went on. "Pray don't embarrass both our
intelligences by saying you don't know what I'm talking about. If you wish to
keep silent, so be it. But…" Here he faltered, staring down into his wine. "The
wine and the cup are one jewel. 'Stragnero della morte,/ stragnero dell'amor',"
he quoted to himself.

Ragoczy felt torn. "My silence," he said awkwardly, "is hard-learned, and
there is good reason for it. Believe that. And believe that neither you nor your
Fiorenza nor its people stand in any danger from me."

Laurenzo nodded heavily and drank more of the wine. "Sta ben'. I must be
content with that." He waved to Botticelli, and motioned him to come to the
table on the landing. "Sandro will like this. I thank you for it, Francesco. And
for the other."

Sandro was just starting up the broad staircase when there was a commotion
behind him and the thick louvers were forced open.

Startled silence fell on the people in the loggia as they turned toward the
intruders and the sudden cold that raced through the room.

Ragoczy was already on his feet. "What is this?" he demanded.

In another moment the door, too, was broken open and a band of young men in
ash-colored cassocks swarmed into the loggia. Three of them held up a banner
proclaiming "
Nos Praedicamus Cristum Crucifixum
."

"Savonarola!" Laurenzo shouted. "You're Savonarola's followers. What right do
you have to come here?" As he stumbled to his feet he upset the red cup, and the
Burgundy spread over the white linen tablecloth. "On whose orders do you come
here?"