The Palace (30 page)

Piero de' Medici had just come in from a fine ride through the hills around
Fiorenza. His face was flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile almost erased the
petulance from his mouth. He strode through the reception chamber of Palazzo de'
Medici, calling for wine and some of the sweets that Massimillio made for him
and that were his favorites.

"Pardon, Signore," said one of the understewards as the new slave was sent
running to the kitchen.

Piero stopped. "What is it, Sergio?" He already showed an annoyed frown. "I
want to change."

Sergio nodded, but said, "There is a physician to see you, master. He was
sent by la Signoria. He's been waiting all morning."

"What does he want?" He wanted to be patient, remembering for a moment how
generously his father had given his attention to every messenger and fool la
Signoria had foisted off on him.

"I don't know, master. He didn't choose to tell me." Sergio stood aside, as
if waiting to lead Piero into the little room off the larger court that Laurenzo
had used for his study, and Piero now avoided whenever possible.

"Oh, very well." Piero's sigh was exaggerated so that Sergio could not miss
it. "A physician, you say?"

"Yes, master. He has addressed la Signoria, and i Priori felt that you should
hear what he has to say." He held the door for Piero and followed him across the
court. "If you will recall, there was a note ten days ago about the physician…"

"That?" Piero scoffed. "One of those Padovan medicals who is forever giving
warning of this disaster or that. As bad as Savonarola, finding doom in every
raindrop."

Sergio walked faster so that he could open the door for Piero. As he did, he
announced, "Piero di Laurenzo de' Medici. This is Aenea Ermanaricco."

The man in the former scholar's robes rose respectfully, his somber face and
intelligent eyes revealing a certain disappointment. "God give you good day,
Medici," he said with full courtesy. "I had the honor to meet your father some
years ago."

He could have said nothing worse to Piero. "Yes. My father seems to have
known everyone in the world, if I'm to believe the petitioners who come here."
He strolled across the room to the unused writing table. "There's something you
wish to discuss with me? About some tale you told la Signoria?" He sat on the
edge of the table, one leg swinging negligently, showing his mud-spattered boots
and patterned leggings as well as his contempt.

"Signore de' Medici, you've fallen heir to a tremendous responsibility. And
you are, if I may say so, very young to shoulder so great a burden."

"Indeed? And yet, my father, whom you met, or so you say, was no more than
twenty-one when he assumed that same responsibility. So you see, it runs in the
family. We have power early in life, and learn to deal with the burden while
we're still strong and eager, and we don't wait until we're old and doddering to
lead the state." He smiled sweetly, his light-colored hair framing his face like
the bright halos of Botticelli's angels.

"Yes," Ermanaricco's brows drew together. "Have you read the material I
presented to i Priori?"

Piero's smile was more of a sneer. "I glanced over it, but it really didn't
seem important. Perhaps you'd be willing to explain it to me while I wait for my
cook to prepare a little food for me?"

This time the physician hesitated before answering, and there was deepening
worry in his face. "I'll try, Signore. But allow me a little time with you."

"You have it," Piero assured him mendaciously. "Begin, good physician. I'm
certain you'll amaze me."

Ermanaricco bit his lower lip, then began. "If you have read the report, then
you will know that last year there were three cases of plague in Fiorenza. And
there were more cases in the houses beyond the Porta San Frediano. In all,
seventeen souls returned to God from the visitation of the plague."

"Who were these people?" Piero asked, trying to remember anyone he knew who
had been ill.

"For the most part, wool carders. It would appear that some degree of
infection came with wool into the city. There is always some vermin with the
wool, and it is currently believed by the faculty of the Universita di Padova
that much infection accompanies vermin."

Piero laughed. "How far the study of medicine has come, when learned men are
reduced to studying vermin."

The physician would not be provoked. "If medicine is to save anyone, there
must be nothing we will not study," he said sharply, then resumed his
explanation. "There is a great deal of concern now about the coming summer.
Plague is always worst in hot weather, and I am very much afraid that if nothing
is done, then there will be more infection this year."

"And you want me to do something?" Piero demanded, and his dangling leg
stopped swinging. "You come to me for that?"

"There is no one else, Medici," the physician said gently. "Fiorenza has
always looked to your family to lead them away from danger."

"What danger?" Piero asked. "You can't tell me that, can you? You say that
there may be a plague, and it might come this summer." He waited, then shook his
head. "No, Ermanaricco, that's not enough. What kind of plague is this? Black
plague? The pox? Swine plague? Or is this new?"

As Piero mocked him, Aenea Ermanaricco's serious face had turned grim. "It is
a kind of swine plague. The unfortunates who become infected by it succumb to
putrescent humors and an infusion of blood."

If this picture upset Piero, he gave no sign of it. He was on his feet now.
"I'm not frightened, physician. But tell me, what am I to do in order to prevent
any Fiorenzan from dying of putrescent humors?"

Although he realized he pleaded in vain, Ermanaricco said, "You must pull
down all the old houses where there is a great deal of filth, and where too many
people live close together. You must build more privies for the poor and you
must see that all wells are cleaned, and that everyone who works carding wool is
examined by physicians to detect any sign of illness at least once a week."

Piero's expression was frozen. "I see. And of course, you think that I will
pay for this?" He paused. "You ask Fiorenzeni to tear down their houses for
nothing? You ask physicians to examine wool carders once a week out of charity?"

The physician pulled at his dark pleated gown. "It would be worth it,
Medici."

The little room was cool and the noise from the courtyard was muffled, and
there was as much privacy there as anywhere in il Palazzo de' Medici. Piero was
glad of it, for it allowed him a chance to do some plain speaking. "Are you
aware of the situation in Napoli? Do you know what Ferrante's death will mean to
Italia? Do you? And did you know that Il Moro Sforza is wooing the French king
into Italia to conquer us? Did you know that? The King of England seized our
bank in London, and to this day, we have recovered none of the money he took
from us. Henry Tudor has said that he will not give back one English farthing.
He has stolen over eight thousand fiorini d'or. Or hadn't you heard? Siena and
Genova both want to take Livorno away from Fiorenza. Does that matter to you?
Well? And you expect me to worry about a handful of wool carders who might fall
ill this summer?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Come back again, in June,
and tell me then if there is any sign of the plague, and perhaps then we can
arrange to pull down buildings and clean wells."

Ermanaricco's face was still now, and he looked as if he had been struck. "It
will be too late then. Your citizens will be dying by then. The only way to stop
the plague is to prevent it from getting a hold in the city."

"Then let me suggest that you go to the priests and ask them to pray. Ask the
Virgin or San Cosmo e San Damiano to help you. But they haven't done very well
by our house recently."

"If you will not help," the physician said slowly, "then tell me who might.
You can busy yourself with your hunting and your festival and your whoring.
That's your choice. But I must do whatever I can to prevent this plague."

It was Piero's turn to be insulted. Color stained his face and his full mouth
was rigid. "Talk that way, Ermanaricco, and you will find yourself talking to
the walls. Stone walls." He walked to the door and turned back. "I want to hear
no more of this. If the old men at la Signoria want to believe you, that is
their affair, but I will have no more of you. If you try to speak to me again, I
will have you thrown into prison until you are no longer dangerous." He clapped
his hands loudly and Sergio appeared beside him almost instantly. "I suppose you
overheard."

Sergio was silent.

"I said, I suppose you overheard."

The understeward ground his teeth, but he answered, "A few words, master.
Only a few."

"Well, they were nonsense," Piero snapped. "If you parrot this madman's
predictions around, you will find that neither I nor any of my friends will
employ you. Then you can join those foolish Domenicani and prate of doom." He
turned on his heel and went back across the courtyard.

For a few moments Aenea Ermanaricco was still; then he drooped in his robes
and gave Sergio a resigned look. "You did hear?"

"Yes," Sergio admitted. "I'm sorry, physician."

He shook his head as much from disgust as worry. "Don't be sorry for me,
steward. Be sorry for those poor people who will die this summer. They deserve
your pity, not I." His fists clenched and he released them with an effort.

Sergio hesitated a moment, then said, "I don't know if I should tell you
this, physician. But Magnifico's cousin, Donna Demetrice Volandrai, is still in
the city, at the house of the foreign alchemist."

"Palazzo San Germano?" Ermanaricco asked. He had heard something of the
foreigner, most of it respectful, but in these fear-clouded days, it was hard to
know what to believe. "What could she do?"

"Well, she is a scholar. She might be able to speak to some of the others,
and they might be able to talk to my master…" His words trailed off uncertainly
and he thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his apron.

"Do you think it likely?" He opened his hands again. "Well, I am desperate
enough to try even that. And it is good of you," he added ruefully, "to help
this madman."

There was sadness in Sergio's face. "Piero is not very much like his father."
He held the door open, prepared to escort the Padovan physician from the house.

"He's not," Ermanaricco agreed, and picked up from the reading table a
parchment, which he rolled and tied with a wide ribbon. "I'll take your advice
and try my luck with the cousin. Or do you think il Conte will prevent me from
seeing her?"

Sergio had not yet grown used to hearing Ragoczy called il Conte, and so he
did not respond at once. "He's not likely to stop you. I know that there have
been things said about him recently, but they're not accurate. He's foreign, but
he was Laurenzo's friend."

The physician considered this. "I'll see what he says. If Donna Demetrice
Volandrai will help me, you will have my gratitude for every life that is
spared." He swept past the understeward and out into the larger courtyard of
Palazzo de' Medici, and without waiting for Sergio, made for the entrance with a
long, swinging stride.

Text of a letter from Febo Janario Anastasio di Benedetto Volandrai, brother
of Donna Demetrice, to Marsilio Ficino written in classic Greek:

To his most revered master and beloved scholar, Marsilio Ficino, his former
pupil Febo di Benedetto Volandrai sends his greetings and affections from the
estate of Landgraf Alberich. Grossehoff, near Wien.

As you see, illustrious master, I have not yet left here to continue my
studies, but it is a great joy for me to tell you that at the end of August I
will quit my post here and journey to Paris, where I will enroll at the
Universite at last. I have been in communication with three of the great
scholars there and I am assured that I will be welcome. Also, the great English
University at Oxford has assured me that I might find a home for myself at
Balliol college there.

I cannot tell you how much this pleases me. It has been a kind of purgatory
here, for though I have enjoyed teaching the Landgraf's sons, there are few men
here who love scholarship as I do, and I yearn for the company of intelligent
men, and the good conversation they have, the fellowship and the understanding.
It is the greatest delight of my life to be entering, once again, into the
company of men of learning.

This opportunity, this realization of dreams, my sister, Demetrice, has made
possible. It was she who sent me the necessary funds, and provided me with
letters of introduction which she said were the gifts of Francesco Ragoczy, who
is, I understand, her benefactor. She claims that he is nothing more, except her
teacher, but I must confess that the only blot on my happiness is the fear that
perhaps she has compromised herself for my sake. I realize that Ragoczy was a
friend of Il Magnifico's, but Laurenzo has been dead for almost two years, and
his effect has lessened. Surely this foreigner might by now have made
arrangements other than the ones originally concluded with Laurenzo.

Certainly my sister could not sell herself to such a man, but she might,
however, misguidedly, take a lover of less worth than her own. There is some
rumor, I have heard from Poliziano, that Ragoczy is titled, but we have all seen
strangers who claim titles for their aggrandizement. If he is indeed a Conte,
then Demetrice may count herself fortunate to have won his devotion and to have
gained his protection. But if he is some adventurer, she may be hardly used and
find herself deserted and friendless.

In short, my dear, respected master, I am of two minds about this sudden
fortune of mine. If indeed the gift comes freely, and if indeed this Ragoczy
treats my sister with honor, then my satisfaction is unmarred. But if Demetrice
has been foolish for my sake, send me word of it, and I will do what little lies
in my power to remedy her disgrace. Otherwise, I will leave for Paris with a
glad heart.

Of course I realize that her tale of being a student of Ragoczy's is a
gesture to me, so that I need not feel she is forgetting her education. Well, if
he allows her the use of his library, she will have a chance to read and her
learning will not be wasted. You may not believe this, dear Ficino, but when we
were younger, she was thought to be the better student of the two of us. That
didn't last, but some part of her nature still finds pleasure in study, which is
rare in women. Undoubtedly she should have found a husband and been a mother,
but since she seems destined to remain unmarried and has no vocation for the
Church, it is just as well that she plays at scholarship. Laurenzo, you may
remember, credited her with great intelligence, and she took an absurd
satisfaction in this praise.

What, by the way, is your opinion of the news out of Spain about the land to
the west of us, far across the ocean? I have heard a little about this new
discovery, but I am inclined to discount it. The Spaniards are greedy for more
land, and for power. It would be like them to claim they have found a new world
if only to solidify their position in Europe.

Write to me here, or in Paris when you can. I confess that I am hungry for
news and the words of my old friends. Only Demetrice's letters come regularly
since Lucio Facciabianco went into Orders.

With my love and respect, I commend myself to you, dear master, and pray that
your skills entrusted to me will be a credit to you when I am in Paris.

Febo Volandrai

 

On the Feast of Benedetto di Subiaco, March 21, 1494, near Wien