The Palace (32 page)

Because the day was hot, the stench was worse. Fiorenza was plum-ripe with
gutter smells and a slow, insidious rot that ate away the old buildings near the
river. Heavy, low clouds moved sluggishly through the sky, and occasionally a
discontented snarl of thunder echoed through the hills.

There was little traffic on the street and only one ferry moved over the
river. Everyone that could be inside was, and there were services in four of the
churches to pray for rain. Even the massive doors of il Palazzo della Signoria
were closed and the Console had adjourned to hear Girolamo Savonarola preach. A
few stalls were set up in il Mercato, but almost no one came to buy, and the
vegetables and meat wilted and stank in the enveloping heat. In the buildings of
l'Arte della Lana the looms were still and many of the weavers were in church
with the masters of the city. Only one of the silkmakers was busy today. In
defiance of the order of il Prior di San Marco, Buovo Frugatti kept shop, and
the spinning and clickings of his silk looms were strangely loud in the humid
afternoon.

Ragoczy had changed from his house gown to a guamacca, for the short, flared
garment was not only more typically Fiorenzan, it was cooler, being made of
black-dyed Egyptian cotton. The slashed sleeves today revealed only Ragoczy's
well-muscled arms, and not his usual fine white silk shirt. He had substituted
Venezian silk hose for the standard calzebrache, and his boots were ankle-high
and heeled after the Hungarian fashion. The wallet tied to his broad black
leather belt was quite large, and at least half its contents were forbidden
substances under the stringent new regulations affecting physicians and
apothecaries.

"But I want to help you, San Germano," Demetrice protested as he went into
the courtyard.

"You will do that by staying here." He tried to move by her but she blocked
the way, and her jaw was set with determination. "If it is dangerous to me, it
must be dangerous to you."

"Must it?" He met her eyes, a certain anger behind his flippancy. "You're
mortal, Demetrice. Disease can strike you down as surely as it killed Laurenzo.
But I have died once, and no disease can touch me. Destroy my spine, and I will
die the true death. Chop off my head or burn me or pull me limb from limb, and I
will perish at last. No disease will do that. So you will stay here, if you
would please me."

Her arm still blocked his way. "There are other dangers. Or have you
forgotten so soon what happened to Magister Branco?"

"I haven't forgotten," he said softly. "And if that's your best argument,
then think what might befall you if you were with me and I was attacked. The
Palleschi are as much targets for mischief as strangers like me, especially now
with the Medici house in such disorder. And you are known as a Palleschi, aren't
you?"

For the first time she did not answer at once. "Yes, I'm a Palleschi. It's an
honor to be a Palleschi!" Her jaw came up again. "Let me maintain that honor,
San Germane When Laurenzo was alive, he never refused to aid his city, no matter
what the danger. If Piero won't uphold his family, then let me."

Ragoczy knew it would be a simple matter to push her out of the way and leave
Palazzo San Germano without her. Yet he did not want to cheat her. "Is this a
debt, then?" he said kindly.

She nodded, and her amber eyes met his directly. "It's a debt."

"Are you certain there is no other way you might pay it? You still have much
to do with Laurenzo's library." As he spoke he felt himself weaken. "He would
not ask you to walk through fire, amica mia."

"I would have done it if he wished it." At last she lowered her arm blocking
Ragoczy's away. "He wouldn't have to ask me. Just as he didn't have to ask you."

"Yes." Ragoczy looked at her, seeing worry lines around her eyes that hadn't
been there two months ago. "Do you understand that the people are dying of swine
plague? Do you know what it's like?" He looked beyond her. "I've seen it many
times. In Roma, in Egypt, in my homeland. It is a terrible way to die. And there
is little anyone can do to save the victims. Syrup of poppies will lessen the
pain and poultices sometimes will help. But beyond that, all we can do is offer
help to ease dying."

Demetrice looked at him and her expression was solemn. "If you will wait a
few moments more, I will be ready to go with you."

Ragoczy capitulated. "Very well, Donna mia. I will wait for you. Wear
something that you can burn when we are through, and be sure that you discard
the garment before we come into the palazzo. I will give you a solution to wash
with, and you must use it when you discard your garment. Otherwise you may carry
infection in to the servants."

"I will do whatever you think I should. You have only to tell me." She
paused, as if she were about to say something more, and then she turned and
hurried into the palazzo.

When she returned she wore a sensible gonella cut off just below the knees
and tied at the waist with three stout cords. Her rosy-blond hair was tucked
away under a linen cap and she had put high kitchen boots on her feet.

"Will this do?" she asked. There was nothing provocative in the question and
her manner was briskly impersonal.

"It will do very well indeed. Where did you find the kitchen boots?"

"They're mine. I've had them since before my father's death. You'll see where
the cloth tops are worn. I won't mind giving them up, if that concerns you." She
fastened her wallet to her belt and watched him. "Shall we go, San Germano?"

He had thought to attempt to dissuade her, but he knew now it would be
useless. He shrugged, but warned her, "If there is too much danger I will send
you away. And you must not seek to argue with me then."

Demetrice was glad to agree to that stricture. "I'll do it."

He almost smiled. "Good. I'll be in no mood to brook opposition." Then he
stood aside and they walked out into the street.

As they passed San Marco they could hear chanting and occasional outbursts of
prayer. The frightened cries blended with the singing in a terrible harmony.
Ragoczy felt his body tighten as he listened to the sounds.

"What is it?" Demetrice asked, seeing his discomfort.

"I was… remembering." Plainly he did not want to discuss the matter.

"Remembering what?" Demetrice persisted.

"Many things," he snapped. Then, as they crossed to la Via Larga he relented.
"I've seen all kinds of delusions. I was remembering what happened shortly after
the Domenicani were founded, and what they, in their zeal, did to the Cathars."

"The Cathars?" Demetrice frowned. "I don't know if I've heard of them."

"The Albigensians, if you prefer." As they went past il Palazzo de' Medici,
Ragoczy said, "Piero hasn't given orders to pull down the old buildings where
the plague is yet. He'll regret it."

"I've heard of the Albigensians. They were heretics."

"No," Ragoczy snapped. "That's the verdict of the Domenicani. Before they, in
good faith, destroyed the Cathars, they explained that it was because the
Cathars were heretics. That was not the Cathars' opinion, believe me." He shook
his head. "It isn't the time to discuss this."

"But will you, later?" She had to hurry to keep up with him, and as her
breath grew short, she realized that his breathing was even and there was no
sign of sweat on his face in spite of the heat of the day and his quick pace.

"Perhaps." He was silent then, and shortly they came to la Via degli
Arcangeli. It was a narrow, mean street, and the old buildings crowded close
together, touching one another as if taking strength from the presence of other
equally ancient wrecks. There were sewer smells here, and the scent of rancid
food. But the stranger odor of sickness was stronger than any other, and its
putrid touch lingered on the air, its corrupting flavor masking all other
smells.

Ragoczy saw that Demetrice had whitened. "It's worse inside," he warned her.
"If you go in, you must breathe that smell. If you can't, I'll escort you home."

She shook her head and bit her lip. "No. I'll stay. I'll manage."

"If that's what you want." He went to the third house from the corner. It had
a black stripe painted on the door, and beyond, there was the sound of weeping.
Ragoczy knocked once, twice, and then called out, "Cuorebrillo, it is Ragoczy."

It seemed that no one had heard, and Ragoczy repeated his knocking. This time
there was a breaking off of sobs, and a scuffling and scraping indicated that
they would be admitted.

Sesto Cuorebrillo was twenty-seven years old and looked fifty. His soft brown
hair was already frosted with white and his face was gouged deeply with the
marks of pox and sorrow. He stared at Ragoczy with red-rimmed eyes, then,
dumbly, held the door open.

"I have brought more help with me, Cuorebrillo," Ragoczy said as he stepped
into the dark, filthy room. "This is Donna Demetrice, who does me the honor to
be my student."

Cuorebrillo glared at her. "As she honored Laurenzo? Well, you are too late.
Annamaria died this morning and Lugrezia is failing too fast." He wiped his face
with a dirty apron and crossed himself as an afterthought. "Come this way."

"What of your wife, Sesto? And your other children?" Ragoczy was gentle, but
he demanded an answer.

"Feve is not well, and has laid down to mourn. Cosmo, Gemma and Ermo have
been taken to the good Cisterceni Brothers at San Felice until the danger is
over, or until we are all dead. Only Ilirio is left. He's too young to be taken
away. Without his mother, he will die because we have no money for a wet nurse."

"Take him to la Casa Ospedale delle Madre," Demetrice said, knowing that the
home for nursing mothers and foundlings rarely turned anyone away. "Take the
infant and your wife there."

Sesto scoffed. "They will not admit anyone from a house visited by plague. It
endangers all the others." Bitterly he turned away, and started back into the
house. "Go away. Go away. Leave us to our ends. Go away."

"Cuorebrillo," Ragoczy said, and though he had not raised his soft, low
voice, the name carried as if it had been shouted. "Take us to your wife. I
promise you we will do her no harm."

"Per tutti gli angeli! Let us die peacefully! Leave her alone. She's had too
much of sorrow." Quite suddenly Sesto brought his hands to his face as he wept.

Demetrice went up to him. There was neither revulsion nor fear in her as she
took the poor man by his shoulders. "Signore Cuorebrillo, do not abandon hope.
It is a great sin to forget the Mercy of God. Surely your wife must be given
every chance to live. If we do less than that, then we're worse than wolves
ravening in the fields. We know that it is wrong to let her suffer, but wolves
do not. Let us see her. If there is nothing else to do, we can at least pray for
her together."

The low, ill-lit room was filthy and the thick, fetid smell like a blanket
pressed to the face. Sesto raised his head slowly and looked around the room. "Buona
Donna, the rest of the house is no better."

"With your family so ill and yourself worn beyond endurance, I'd be much
troubled if it were otherwise." Demetrice nodded philosophically. "If Our Lord
could touch lepers without fear, what is a little dirt to me?"

Sesto stared at her as if she was mad, but turned and led the way down a
narrow hallway, remarking as he went that the floor sagged but probably wouldn't
break.

Ragoczy went behind Demetrice, pointing out to her white patches on the old
wooden walls. "There, do you see? These buildings should have come down a long
time ago. Laurenzo mentioned that he'd wanted to take down these hovels and make
new houses for the poor beyond la Porta Santa Croce. It's a shame there was not
time enough to see it done."

Up ahead of them Sesto had stopped at a doorway, and as he motioned to
Ragoczy and Demetrice, he lifted the thin, torn curtain that covered the
opening. "Feve, sposa," he said in a small, heartbroken voice, "the foreigner
has come again. There is a woman with him, the one you said was so pretty when
il Magnifico came back from the country with her. We were fishing for our supper
and we saw them ride by."

It was doubtful that his Feve heard any of this babble. She lay on a hard bed
in blankets soaked with sweat and urine. Her eyes were distant and glittering
with fever, her hair lay in great matted tangles on her pillow, and she trembled
under the three thin blankets though the room was stiflingly hot.

Demetrice paused on the threshold to cross herself, and to school her
features to show none of the dismay that filled her.

Through parched and blistered lips, the woman on the bed croaked out, "Buona
Donna… You must… not… I'm dying…"

Ragoczy had come into the room behind Demetrice and his first glance told him
that there was very little hope of saving Feve now. But he opened the wallet he
carried and brought out a small glass vial. If he was upset by the surroundings
or worried about the woman's condition, there was nothing in his calm, assured
manner to show it.

Taking Ragoczy for her model, Demetrice went to the side of the bed. "You are
not to despair, Feve," she said evenly, and turned to the door where Sesto
lingered. "We'll need water."

"Don't take it from the old well," Ragoczy cautioned. "Leave the city on the
east and take fresh water from the Santa Croce spring."

Sesto's eyes widened, then narrowed. "That will take a great deal of time.
You might do anything while I'm away."

Ragoczy straightened up and regarded Sesto silently. Then he said, "Cuorebrillo,
if this plague is in the city, then your wells may be contaminated. There would
be no benefit in giving water from wells where the disease lurks. Therefore, you
must get your water from uncorrupted springs. If you go to i Lanzi, you will get
the loan of an ass and two barrels. That way you will not have to return for a
few days and there will be fresh water for you, and for the others who live in
these disgraceful hovels."