The Palace (21 page)

PART II

Francesco Ragoczy

da San Germano

Io sono stragnero

per sempre ed ancor';

Stragnero della morte,

stragnero dell' amor'.

I am a stranger

always and ever;

Stranger to death,

stranger to love.

—Francesco Ragoczy

Text of a letter from Pietro Delfino, the Superior-Generale of the
Camaldolese monks of Santa Maria degli Angioli in Fiorenza, to His Holiness,
Innocento VIII, in Roma:

With deepest humility and the most profound reverence the Superior-Generale
of Santa Maria degli Angioli sues for the gracious attention of the Pope, His
Holiness, Innocento VIII, Heir to San Pietro, Vicar of Christ on Earth.

I most piously beg to bring to Your Holiness's attention a situation which
has arisen in this Tuscan city of Fiorenza. While it is true in the past that
Papal ire has been directed at this city, surely it was out of worldly malice
and not holy charity that your predecessor used us so harshly. We have always
been sincerely devoted to the True Faith, and mere political concerns are of
little importance to sincere Christians, or to such strict monks as we of the
Camaldolese Order.

It ill becomes a monk to speak against any other man or woman in Orders, and
I have searched my soul for sin and error most rigorously, and I beseech Your
Holiness to vent the whole weight of Papal wrath upon me if I do this for any
reason but the purity of belief and the Glory of God.

Your Holiness, there is a prior in Fiorenza, a member of the distinguished
Brothers of San Domenico. He is a preacher, and is gathering a very large number
of converts around him. He has taken credit for the great misfortune suffered
recently by this city, the death of Laurenzo de' Medici, who, though a worldly
man and surely stuffed with sin, at least had the virtue of loving his city and
defending it. This prior, then, has taken credit for Laurenzo's death, not as a
murderer, but from having knowledge of that event given directly to him by God.
It shames me to tell Your Holiness that there are many sufficiently blind and
misled who believe him, and who are struck dumb with terror at his ravings.

This is not Christianity, this is not the Way of Christ. Your Holiness,
Savonarola is sent to test us, to see if indeed we are weak and faithless enough
to be deceived. Though many people wander in error from the Light of the Lord,
some have courage to resist the temptations of this godless man.

Before Fiorenza is lost to the pagan worship of false prophets, before those
souls for whom we pray always have forsaken the salvation which the Son of God
purchased so dearly for them, Good Holy Father, intervene here and cast that man
from the bosom of the Church, for surely there we nurture a viper who could
poison us all. Put him to the test before the Office for the Congregation of the
Faith, and see what your good Inquisitors might do. They are his fellow
Domenicani. If he is in the right, they will discover it. If he is not, then the
secular arm must enforce the penalty for blasphemy, for to speak as if from the
Mouth of God and to tell lies is the greatest blasphemy known.

Your Holiness, my good Brothers have heard of your recent indisposition. We
are giving time to special prayers for your speedy recovery, through the Grace
of God, His Son, the Holy Spirit and the Blessed Intervention of the Blessed
Virgin.

In the name of Christ Who died for us and Who is Risen in Glory, I most
humbly submit to your judgment and welcome your chastisement should I be fallen
in error.

Pietro Delfino Superior-Generale, Camaldolese Santa Maria degli Angioli

 

In Fiorenza on the Feast of the Visitation, July 2, 1492

 

The second scream was louder than the first and brought Sandro Filipepi
upright in his bed, sleep banished completely by that sound of bubbling terror.

He swung out of bed, shoving the hangings aside as he moved, and reached for
the candle that always stood on the small table by the window. A third scream
almost made him drop the flint from his clumsy fingers, but he forced his
attention to the light, and in a moment the spark touched the wick, and he was
no longer in darkness. He hesitated only long enough to find a chemise and pull
it on over his head before he took up his candle and hurried into the hall.

Farther down the corridor, Simone's face appeared, a study in fright and
disapproval. "It's Estasia," he said unnecessarily and condemningly.

"I know." Sandro brushed past his brother, shielding the candle flame with
his hand. When he got to her door, he knocked once out of habit, but the renewed
shrieks told him she could not hear. He waited long enough to test the latch,
then forced the door open with a sudden blow from his arm and broad shoulder.

Estasia's room was faintly illuminated in the single candle's light, but it
showed Sandro the wholly disordered state of the place. Bedclothes were strewn
about and cosmetic pots thrown against the walls to break and spill their
contents on the furniture and floors. The bed hangings were torn down on one
side, and on the other, Estasia pulled at the draperies and screamed. Her
nightshift was in tatters and her body was marked with deep scratches. Tangled
hair framed the terror in her face as she twisted against the hangings to turn
toward the door.

"Estasia," Sandro said as calmly as he could when he had taken in her
disordered state. "Don't be frightened, cousin."

"Satana! Satana!
Apage Satanas
!" She raised her hand as if to ward
off a blow, then her fingers curved, and talonlike, they raked her breasts as
she keened, her teeth set tightly, her face distorted with pain and fear.

Sandro came a few steps farther into the room, his rough-hewn features set
with worry. "Estasia, you mustn't."

With an incoherent cry, Estasia wrenched herself out of the hangings and fled
across the room to crouch in the farthest corner, her hands over her face.

A quick glance around the room revealed the candelabrum tossed under
Estasia's vanity table. Sandro bent to retrieve it, and as soon as it was
upright again, he lit the two candles that were still whole. Putting his candle
down beside the other two, he bent low and tried to approach Estasia.

"No! No! God have mercy upon me. Deliver me from the fiends of hell. Sweet
Lord, it is you I want. Forgive my defilement. Make me pure again. I pray you, I
beg you…" Her words tumbled out in breathless desperation as she pressed close
to the wall, eyes averted and wild. "Save me, save me, save me, save me, save
me." Again she tried to cross herself, and again her nails gouged mercilessly at
her soft flesh.

By now Sandro was near enough that he could grab her wrists. "Estasia, you
must not hurt yourself this way," he said firmly as he reached for her.

In the next instant he was almost knocked over as Estasia lunged at him, her
hands set to scrape his face with her long nails. He slid backward, shocked and
quite sobered by this attack. The next approach he made toward her was
considerably more cautious and he had grabbed one of her soft pillows. Just
before he reached for her, he thrust the pillow into her arms, and then, as she
tore frantically at the pillow, he pinioned her arms behind her. He was strong,
with the untiring strength of a painter who must spend hours doing meticulous
brushwork on huge, high walls. The tendons stood out on the backs of his hands
in ridges and his big shoulders were as taut as those of men twenty years his
junior.

Estasia lashed out with her feet and twisted, breaking away from her cousin
with shrieks of panic. "Save me, dear God, sweet, kind God. I am vile. I know I
am vile. But take me out of hell, I beg you." She dropped to the floor, moaning.
"Oh, God, take me out of this hell. Don't abandon me. Don't leave me here alone.
Save me. Take me to You. Embrace me with Your love. Save me. Save me." She began
to sob, great spasms shuddering through her body. "I want only You. Don't leave
me, God. I will put all sin behind. Just don't forsake me. Please. Please.
Please. God, don't leave me in hell. I repent. I promise I will do only as You
command. But there are fiends here, and they torment my body." She cried out as
her own right hand lacerated her cheeks.

Sandro stood unsteadily and watched Estasia as she writhed on the floor in
the shards of broken jars and their cosmetic contents. "Estasia," he tried
again, moving closer, but not close enough to warrant another attack. "Stop,
Estasia. Wake up. You are not in hell, and I am not a demon."

She ignored this, pulling herself along the floor, her wretchedness evident
in every aspect. "Take me, God. Save me. Deliver me from the fiends of hell who
assault my flesh. Wrap me in the wings of angels. Heal me with Your touch, with
Your look. Let me be one with You. Save me. Save me. Unite me with Your Hosts in
Grace." Languidly she rolled, and supine, she reached up yearningly, inviting an
embrace.

Thinking that the worst of her fright was over, Sandro once again moved
closer to Estasia. She smiled up at him and as he bent to lift her, she wrapped
her arms around his knees and pressed her face against his thighs. "I am Yours.
I worship You," she whispered against his legs. Anxiously she lifted his
chemise, and her exploring hands moved upward.

"Ah!" she cried and her hands became talons. "You're a man! You're sent to
tempt me."

The touch of those long nails on his genitals filled Sandro with icy, numbing
fear. As quickly as he could he broke free of Estasia's hold, stumbling in his
haste.

She was already on her feet, rushing toward him, her hands ready to strike.
"Fiend! Fiend! Tormentor!"

Sandro moved quickly around the end of the bed and quickly pulled down the
last hanging. As Estasia rushed at him, he wrapped the heavy fabric around her.
The binding was crude, and the knots clumsy, but they held Estasia in spite of
her violent convulsions. It took some little time for Sandro to wrestle her onto
the bed, and longer still to quieten her.

When at last her hysterical outbursts had deteriorated into hiccups, Sandro
sat on the side of the bed. He had opened a window and the night smells of high
summer filled the room, sweetening the reek of spilled perfumes and ointments.

"Protect me, God. Save me," Estasia muttered as she tried to roll off her
bed.

"Estasia, listen to me," Sandro ordered her, much of the kindness gone from
him. "What's wrong, Estasia?" He asked the question he'd wanted to avoid for a
little while yet. "Are you with child? Is that the reason for your fear?"

Her laughter at this was hideously shrill. "With child?" she gasped. "With
child?"

But Sandro was quickly losing patience with her. "You have had at least two
lovers in the last year. It's not impossible."

This stern common sense had no effect on Estasia. She let out another high
wail of laughter, and then regarded her cousin coyly. "I don't want a child. I
want… I want…" Her face contorted and she would have cried out if Sandro had not
slapped her once.

"I won't have this, Estasia!" He waited while she stifled her impulse to
scream again. "You thought you were in hell. If not for pregnancy, then why?"
His rugged face softened with compassion. "Don't be frightened of me, Estasia.
Tell me what the matter is, and let me help you."

She twisted away from him. "I
was
in hell," she insisted in a small
voice. "I was in hell and devils hurt me while I burned. They flogged me with
silken lashes. They took me with members like burning clubs." She swallowed and
a shiver ran through her.

"Estasia, if there is sin on your soul, go to church and confess it. Free
yourself of the fires of hell."

Again Estasia laughed, this time in a sensuous purr. She rolled as far as her
wrappings would let her. "And tell the priest what the fiends do to me? The poor
priest, he won't know what I'm talking about." She inhaled sharply, pleasurably.
"It was a nightmare. It terrified me. I thought I would be destroyed. It was
wonderful
." She stretched a little and smiled.

There was a sound at the door, and Sandro turned his head. "Yes?"

Simone, severe and righteous, stood in the doorway, and with him was an
apprehensive young Servanto Brother. "I heard what our cousin was suffering, so
I have brought help for her."

"That was good of you, Simone," Sandro said, resisting his first impulse to
snap at his brother. He stood reluctantly and stared down at his cousin's
lovely, demented face. "Perhaps you're right," he said wearily. "I don't know
what to do for her." He nodded to the Servanto Brother. "Would you like to be
alone with her?"

The monk could not have been more than sixteen years old, and his immaturity
showed in the eager, apprehensive glance he gave Estasia. "I… I don't… Is she
violent?"

"Not at the moment. She was earlier," Sandro admitted, with a comprehensive
glance around the room.

As if in contradiction, Estasia screamed. "A priest! Oh, God, save me!"

The Servanto Brother stared at her in alarm and clutched his breviary more
firmly. "Buona Donna," he began, and was cut short by another of Estasia's
shrieks. He turned helplessly to Simone.

"She is suffering pangs of sin," Simone announced with deep satisfaction. He
shoved the monk a little farther into the room. "If only she will confess, these
visions of hell will vanish."

"Visions of hell?" the young Servanto asked, and repeated the question to
Sandro.

"That is what she said." Sandro was tired of the atmosphere of excess that
surrounded Estasia now. He frowned. "Don't encourage her, Brother," he said to
the Servanto. "And you shouldn't either, Simone."