The Palace (2 page)

"Admirable," Ragoczy said dryly.

"Mock me if you wish, Patron, it does not change the matter. You say you want
us to build a house that will stand a thousand years. Va bene. You instruct us
in our work. I do not like it, but you are the Patron. But even you cannot pay
enough for me to put up a palazzo that is a shell only." He set his hands on his
hips again and leaned forward. "You may mock me, but you will not mock my
building!"

Ragoczy nodded. "What integrity!" There was neither bitterness nor
condemnation in the words. "I promise you that I have no wish for any empty
building. Why would I pay for so much special labor if I did not want to live
here? Why else would I care how you lay the foundations?… Well?"

Gasparo shrugged. "As you say, we are being paid to build a palazzo for you.
If you want it built with lacquered straw, what is it to me?" He folded his
heavy arms over his chest.

Ragoczy nodded. "Precisely. And what can I be but flattered and grateful that
you care so much for my home? You must let me thank you for your courtesy." He
strode over to Gasparo, his arms open. "Come, will you not touch cheeks with
me?"

Gasparo Tucchio was stunned. Never in his life had a gentleman offered him
this familiarity. He flushed, rubbed his gritty hands on his workman's breeches.
"Patron, I…"

Ragoczy embraced the builder heartily, and Gasparo realized what great
strength was contained in that elegant, compact body. Very awkwardly he returned
the hug, aware of the heavy stubble of his day-old beard on the smooth cheek of
the foreigner.

The other builders watched, one or two of them acutely embarrassed. Though it
was true Fiorenza was a Repubblica, this went far beyond the social equality
they all took pride in. This was unheard of. Enrico soothed his wounded
dignity—for as the supervisor, surely he was more entitled to this unbecoming
display—by saying softly to Giuseppe, "Foreign manners. Outrageous. The Patron
cannot know what he is doing."

Giuseppe nodded vigorously. "It is well enough for us of the Arte to touch
cheeks, but not with one of his station."

But for Gasparo, at that moment if the foreigner in black with the
unfathomable eyes had asked him to dig foundations from Fiorenza to Roma, he
would have done it without question. There was no mockery in that handsome face,
no insult in his conduct.

"Eccellenza…" he began, then faltered.

"Amico, I have been a prince, and I have been a beggar. I do not scorn you
because you work with your hands. If you did not build, then all of Fiorenza
would still live in tents, as it did when the Romans first built their camp
here."

Gasparo nodded eagerly. "As you say, Patron."

"Work well, then, my builders. You will all have proof of my gratitude." He
managed to include them all in the sweep of his arm. Then he turned, ran two or
three steps, and vaulted upward toward the edge of the pit, swung on his arms,
landed cleanly but for a clod dislodged by the heel of one boot.

Lodovico made a low whistle, and Enrico blinked. Carlo and Giuseppe busied
themselves with emptying their sacks. Only Gasparo smiled, and he smiled hugely.

From above them Ragoczy called down, "I am going to add to your woes, I am
afraid." He gestured to someone or something out of sight. In a moment another
man stood beside him. "This is Joacim Branco. He will be my lieutenant during
the building. You are to follow his instructions to the very limit. I will be
satisfied with nothing less than the best of what you are capable. I know your
skill to be great. I know you will succeed."

The newcomer beside Ragoczy was amazingly tall, even by Fiorenzan standards.
He had long, lean hands, a narrow body and a face like the spine of a book. He
wore a rather old-fashioned houppelande in the Burgundian fashion and his
unconfined hair drifted around his face like cobwebs. "Good afternoon,
builders," he said in a voice so solemn that it tolled like the bell of San
Marco.

"Another foreign alchemist," Lodovico said to Gasparo, just loud enough to be
certain Joacim Branco could hear.

"That is correct," Ragoczy agreed, and smiled. "His skill is formidable. You
will do well to obey him implicitly." Suddenly he laughed. "Come, you need not
worry that he will disgrace you with ridiculous demands. Magister Branco is a
reasonable man, much more reasonable than I am, I promise you."

Magister Joacim Branco achieved a sour smile. He bowed very slightly, very
stiffly.

Enrico rolled his eyes heavenward and silently asked Santa Chiara what he had
ever done to deserve this. "Welcome, Magister," he managed to say.

Ragoczy murmured something to the tall Portuguese at his side; then he
addressed the men in the pit one last time. "There is special earth to be laid
with the foundation. That you will do tomorrow. Today it is enough that you make
the gravel even in preparation."

This time Gasparo's voice had real distress in it. "But, Patron, if it rains,
we cannot lay a foundation. It will be ruined. It will not bear the weight of
the building. It will crack…"

"I give you my word that there will be no rain tonight, or tomorrow, or
tomorrow night. There will be enough time for you to set the foundation and to
install the four corner pieces. After that, it will not matter if it rains; the
foundation will be solid and you may make yourselves a shelter with the corner
pieces." With an expansive gesture Ragoczy turned away, leaving the Magister
Joacim Branco alone at the edge of the excavation.

Giuseppe finished spreading the gravel from his sack and looked up. "Jesu,
Maria," he whispered, and had to stop himself from making the Sign of the Cross.

Joacim Branco had come to the very edge of the pit, and in the cold wind the
long sleeves of his houppelande flapped like tattered wings. He stood very
still.

It was Enrico who broke the silence. "Magister? Would you care to come down?"

To the relief of the builders the alchemist did not jump into the pit, but
made his way down the causeway. As he came nearer it was seen that he held
several containers in his hands. He put these down on the gravel and turned to
Enrico. "At the fence there are two carts. I will need them."

"How heavy are they?" Lodovico asked, not willing to move.

"They are well-laden. It will take a man apiece to pull them." He turned back
to his containers, having no more interest in the builders.

Enrico shrugged fatalistically and pointed to Giuseppe. "You and Carlo bring
down the carts. Gaspar' and Lodovico can carry down the last of the gravel."

With a sigh Gasparo trudged back up the slope and reluctantly shouldered
another sack of gravel. He thought for a moment about the Patron, about his
social solecism, and he grinned.

He was still grinning later as he sat with Lodovico drinking a last cup of
hot spiced wine. The night had turned cold, providing an excuse for a larger
measure of drink.

"But eggs, Gaspar',
hen's eggs
!" Lodovico was saying for the third
time.

"If it is what the Patron wants, we'll put eggs in the mortar. Shells and
all." He raised his wooden cup. "To Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, generous
madman that he is."

"Ah, since he touched cheeks with you, you approve every foolish scheme he
and that alchemist of his bring forth. If he wanted to cement the palazzo with
blood, you'd wield a butcher's ax for him." He stared into the fragrant steam
that rose from his wine. "Where is all your jeering now, Gaspar'?"

Gasparo Tucchio smiled again, and wondered if he was getting drunk. "It is
nothing to me if he wishes to be a laughingstock. And think of the tales we'll
have to tell the Arte. Who has done anything to compare with it? Oh, I know.
You're thinking of Ernan', and his stories about building the cage for
Magnifico's giraffe. But that is nothing to the tales we'll have. And when the
others come to finish the walls and lay the floors, we'll have stories to amaze
even them." He tossed off the rest of the wine and considered signaling the
tavern-keeper for more.

"But why does he do it? What is his gain? For if money speaks a universal
language, as he said, then he must profit by our work." Lodovico considered
this, and his face grew wary. After a moment he extended his cup to Gasparo.
"Here. My head is growing heavy. Finish this up."

Gasparo's reluctance was for form's sake only. "If you are sure… And the
night is cold. Why not?" He took the cup and filled his mouth with the fragrant
wine. How grand it felt, as if he were floating. What if he was a little drunk?
It did a man good to drink on such a cold night.

"I wonder what happened to the rain?" Lodovico mused.

"It held off awhile, like the Patron said," Gasparo replied after he had
swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"How did he
know
it would?" This question was more to himself than
to Gasparo, and so he paid little attention to the answer. "Well, he's an
alchemist. They know things."

Lodovico frowned and shifted in his chair. "Hen's eggs he gives us, and clay,
and special earth and special sand, which must be mixed in a certain order.
Why?" He stood up, almost upsetting the bench he shared with Gasparo.

"Here, now," the older builder objected as his seat teetered dangerously. "Lodovico,
stop it. Sit down and drink another cup, like a Christian."

For a moment Lodovico stiffened; then he forced his mouth to smile as he sank
back down onto the bench. "Va bene. Landlord! Another for both of us." He set
his face in a mask of good fellowship and leaned back.

As soon as their cups had been refilled and Gasparo had decided which of the
cups was his, Lodovico smiled guilelessly. "Ah, it is hard for a man alone, is
it not?"

Gasparo nodded heavily. "It is, amico mio. Tonight I can hardly bear to go
home. You'd think," he said, drinking deeply, "that a man widowed as long as
I've been would get used to it. But no. This night, every night, I think of
Rosaria. She was an excellent woman—thrifty, pleasant, agreeable, devoted—a
treasure among women." He pulled his hands over his eyes and then picked up his
cup again. "You're young, you're young. You don't know what it is to be old and
alone."

"You are not old, Gasparo."

But Gasparo shook his head and wagged a finger at Lodovico. "I'm
thirty-eight. Thirty-eight. Another ten years and I'll be a toothless old hulk.
A lonely, toothless old hulk." His sorrow at this thought overcame him and he
finished off the rest of his wine.

This was going better than Lodovico dared hope. "It's a pity that age is not
respected as it should be." He leaned closer to Gasparo and switched his full
cup for Gasparo's nearly empty one. "It's not enough that you should lose your
family and wife, but there's hardly enough money to keep you alive when you can
no longer work." This turned out to be a miscalculation. Gasparo pulled himself
up straight and said, almost without slurring, "My father was sixty-eight before
he stopped working. We Tucchios are strong folk. We work till we drop." His face
sagged a little. "My father was a good man. A good man. He helped raise the
Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore…"

But Lodovico did not allow his companion to wander. "But think of that
palazzo. Think of the wealth of the Patron. With even a little of it a man could
live well."

"Here, now." Gasparo slewed around on Lodovico, a belligerent light in his
eye. "Are you suggesting that we rob our Patron? We're builders, man, not
thieves. We do not steal from our Patron, from, any Patron."

"But he's
rich
," Lodovico protested. "And he's foreign."

"All the more reason." With pompous care Gasparo dragged himself to his feet.
"We're Fiorenzeni, Lodovico. Well,
I
am, at least. We don't rob
foreigners. You put that out of your mind." He leaned forward. "I see what it
is. You're drunk. You shouldn't have had that last cup of wine." He swayed and
steadied himself. "I'll forget what you said, Lodovico. It was the wine
talking."

Inwardly Lodovico cursed but he managed a fatuous smile. "You're right," he
agreed. "Too much wine."

With the tenacity of drunkenness, Gasparo persisted. "The thing is not to be
thought of. Now, you go home, you sleep this off. I'll forget you ever spoke to
me of this." He finished the last of his wine and put the cup down with
exaggerated care.

"Thank you, Gaspar'," Lodovico said, making no attempt to disguise his sneer.

"Well," Gasparo said with a sudden change to the affable, "it's been
pleasant. Very pleasant. Good to talk. We don't talk enough, Lodovico. Too much
work. We should talk more."

Lodovico removed Gasparo's hand from his shoulder. "Tomorrow, perhaps. But
I've got to leave now." It had, he thought, been a most unprofitable evening.
But in time he might, turn it to good use. He rose to his feet and shammed
confusion. "Which way… ?"

Gasparo clapped an affectionate arm around his shoulder. "Ah, Lodovico,
you're a good man. A good man. Now, there's the door. You'll be grateful for the
wine when we're out in the night." He reeled toward the door, dragging Lodovico
with him.

With a great deal of ingenuity Lodovico disengaged himself from Gaspare's
bearlike embrace. "My head… My head…" He leaned against the wall for support.
"Go on ahead," he said, waving Gasparo toward the door.

Gasparo laughed good-naturedly, waved vaguely to Lodovico and the landlord,
lunged through the door and was gone.

"Another?" the landlord asked Lodovico.

"No. No." He stood in the center of the tavern for some little time, his face
closed in thought, his bright eyes calculating. Then, with an unattractive
smile, he tossed a coin to the landlord and went out into the bright, cold
night.

The text of a note from Donna Estasia Catarina di Arrigo della Cittadella da
Parma, housekeeper for her cousin, Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi, to Francesco
Ragoczy da San Germane. Delivered by hand to the house of the alchemist Federigo
Cossa on the night of March 21, 1491: