The Palace (38 page)

Demetrice watched him, her face serene, her eyes troubled. "They think you
killed Gasparo Tucchio," she said at last. "They think you made a pagan
sacrifice of him."

"Of course," Ragoczy said with disgust. "They'll be saying every filthy thing
they can about me in a few days."

She was alarmed now and reached out to touch his arm. "Oh, no, San Germano,
not after what—"

He cut her short, placing his fingers gently to her lips. "And you must let
them." He spoke softly, and the gravity of his expression defied contradiction.
"Donna mia, if you defend me, you will be in danger. Condemn me with the rest. I
ask you to do this for me. Agree with those who vilify me."

Her eyes searched his face. "But why, San Germano?"

"Because, cara," he said as he pulled on his other boot, "if they are willing
to believe that I am diabolic, that I desecrate altars, that I cause demons to
attack women, they may never discover what I truly am. A sacrilegious ravisher
is a bogey to frighten children and give adults a few moments of titillation.
But a vampire? A vampire is a dangerous, hideous, voracious thing that will kill
them all in their beds." Impulsively he reached out and took her face in his
small hands. "Demetrice, you have trusted me until now. Will you trust me
again?"

She felt a sting behind her eyelids and she blinked to stop the tears. "If
that is what you want, San Germano."

For the first time he kissed her mouth. It was a swift delicate kiss, their
lips hardly touching. Then he straightened up and reached for his large leather
wallet that lay open on the chest. As he tied it to his belt, he said, "I've
made arrangements to have Joacim Branco moved to Siena. There is an alchemist
there who is willing to look after him. He will need more care than you will be
able to give him, if God's Hounds get after you."

At this mention of the Domenicani nickname, Demetrice flinched. "They will
leave me alone, I think. They have too little to gain from me. I'm not
notorious. I'm not important." She rose and was secretly pleased to find that
her knees were steady and her hands no longer shook.

"That may not be enough," Ragoczy warned her. His wallet was secured, and he
reached into the chest, drawing out two long poignards, which he turned into the
sheaths in his sleeves. "I will want to hear from you every month. Ruggiero is
making out a deed even now that will give you title to this palazzo until such
time as I myself return to claim it. There is money enough in the coffers in the
measuring room to keep taxes paid and to allow you a few servants. I'll sign the
document before I go."

This was too confusing for her. "Wait," she objected, then was silent as she
saw how weary he looked. "Are you able to travel? You seem tired."

"If you were my age, you'd be tired, too," he said with a poor attempt to
cheer her. "No, you deserve an honest answer. I am able to travel, though I'm…
hungry. Well, that will wait. My need isn't urgent." He tugged his cloak from a
peg by the door and motioned her to follow him.

Demetrice stood her ground and she barely flinched as she spoke. "If you are,
as you say, hungry… you need not be."

Ragoczy stopped in the act of opening the hidden door. "Ah, sweet Demetrice."
There was a gentle, sad rebuke in the words. "I don't ask that of you. Look at
you. Your mouth is white with dread. You're as malleable as a marble statue." He
came nearer, but not so near that her fear overcame her. "Amica mia, I take
blood from those who want me. You make yourself an unwilling sacrifice. I'm
grateful for the gesture. I know what it costs you to face me now. But no."

"No?" Demetrice's eyes widened, and she found herself on the verge of anger.
"If you think I will not satisfy you…"

Carefully he took her hands in his. "No, Demetrice. I fear that
I
will not satisfy
you
." He gave her time to consider this, but went back
to the door, drawing her after him. "There are papers yet to sign." As he led
her onto the landing of the grand staircase, he secured the door carefully. "I
think it would be wise," he said as he regarded the hidden door, "if you change
the entrance system for the door. And lock all entrances but this one and the
one through the kitchen ceiling. The palazzo will probably be searched again."

"But why?" She climbed the stairs beside him. "Surely you don't think that
the Console would allow the Lanzi to come here again? There would be no point to
it."

"If Girolamo Savonarola wants this building searched again, it will be
searched. If he wants its contents, he will try to seize them. That, in part, is
why the land will be deeded to you."

She regarded him through widened eyes. "But women cannot own property. If
there is real opposition, la Signoria will authorize the sale of the property."

They had reached the top of the stairs and Ragoczy gestured her toward his
own chamber. "This is a provisional deeding. You are acting only as my agent and
representative. Unless I refuse to pay taxes, neither la Signoria nor Savonarola
can claim this building."

Her face was dubious, but she said, "If you're sure…"

Once again he stood aside for her as they entered his chamber. "Donna mia, I
am not certain that the Emperor Caligula is not at this moment a haloed angel.
But knowing what I do of Caligula, if he's an angel, heaven is not what I've
been told it was. Be calm, Demetrice. If the laws of Fiorenza are so overset as
to take this place away from you and me, you may be sure you will have warning,
for much worse will have occurred already."

As he closed the door to his chamber, Ruggiero came from the alcove where
Ragoczy's writing table stood. He held a parchment document in his hand. "It's
ready, master. Your signature and that of Donna Demetrice are all that's
needed."

Ragoczy made his signature with his left hand, then gave the quill to
Demetrice. "There," he said, pointing to the place prepared for her name. While
Demetrice read the parchment, Ragoczy spoke to Ruggiero. "Are you ready, old
friend?"

Ruggiero nodded. "I leave tomorrow at noon, on the road to Pisa. From Pisa I
will go to Modena, then to Milano, and on to Venezia. It must be a quick
journey, and at Pisa I will hire guards so that I and your goods will not fall
victims to brigands." He repeated these instructions in a flat voice, like a
student repeating a lesson.

"Do you think you'll be able to leave so soon?" Ragoczy made a gesture to
include the furnishings of his room. "You have a lot to take with you."

"I will leave at noon," Ruggiero said evenly. "If I am detained by la
Signoria, I will use the Papal summons Olivia sent you. Even Savonarola dares
not deny that."

"Not yet," Ragoczy allowed. "Very well. Do as you think the wisest." He took
the finished document from Demetrice as she finished sanding her signature. He
rolled the deed, bound it with ribbon and reached for his wax and seal. In a
moment he had affixed his eclipse crest to the seal.

Ruggiero took the deed, holding it carefully while the wax cooled. "Your
horse should be ready, master," he said in a carefully neutral tone. "It's the
Turkish stallion. He's in good form, and he's strong. You'll be many leagues
from here before he'll have to rest."

"The Turkish stallion," Ragoczy approved, then turned again to Demetrice.
"Cara, you can still change your mind."

She shook her head. "No. I do want to stay." She looked toward the dark
windows. "And you must be gone soon. It will be dawn in little more than an
hour."

He nodded. "I want you to send me monthly reports. There will be scholars and
monks journeying between here and Venezia, and they will carry messages.
Brigands don't attack monks and scholars very often—it's not worth the trouble.
If you have need of me, send for me and I will come. If there is no one you can
trust with a message, go to Sandro Filipepi, and he'll see that I hear from
you."

Demetrice shrugged. "If that's your wish, I'll do it, but you're worrying
needlessly. What could possibly happen to me? I have your generosity and the
strength of the Medicis to protect me."

Inwardly, Ragoczy felt that neither of these assets would be of any use if
she were marked by Savonarola, but he said nothing. Loyalty like hers always
humbled him, and he refused to help destroy it. He went toward the door, then
turned back to her.

"San Germano? What is it?"

"I don't want to leave you." There was so much feeling, so much compassion in
his words that she blinked in amazement and took an involuntary step forward.

Very softly in the distance there was the sound of sheep's bells, jingling as
the flocks were led into the hills.

It was enough. Demetrice shook her head and hung back. "No. It's too late.
You must go."

Ragoczy met her amber eyes. "Don't break faith with me, Donna mia."

"I won't." She managed a bit of a smile, and then added, "You said something
about angels earlier. Do you believe in them, then?"

"No." He turned his head sharply as the sound of the bells came again. For
the last time he looked at her. "I believe in you, Demetrice. And that is
enough." He left quickly, his boots striking the marble floor like small
explosions as he hurried through the silent palazzo to the stable.

Demetrice stood in the window, watching the sky turn from slate to silver to
rose, listening to the sheep bells, and church bells and the distant birds. Once
or twice she thought she heard the distant, receding thunder of a running horse,
but there were so many other sounds that she could not be sure.

Text of a letter from la Signoria to Girolamo Savonarola, prior of San Marco:

With reverent humility, i Priori della Signoria send their greetings to
Girolamo Savonarola, Prior di San Marco, and beg that he will approve the
measures i Priori and the Console have taken after much prayer and discussion.

First: should the efforts of the foolish Piero de' Medici to placate the Most
Royal Charles of Francia come to naught, we of la Signoria would count it most
wise to banish him, his family, and all his kin from la Repubblica, for they are
most impious and dangerous.

Second: in the event that the same King Charles is the ascendant in his
dealings with the unfortunate Piero de' Medici, there should be measures taken
to ensure the welcome of his Gracious Majesty to Fiorenza, and a good welcome
for his troops. This would assure King Charles of our good faith as well as
guarantee that Fiorenza would not suffer from mistreatment at the hands of the
Franchesi soldiers.

Third: that fast days should be made mandatory, and strictly observed. The
suggestion that you were willing to make to us, that there should be a squadron
of young men who would see that these new measures are observed and respected is
in every way desirable, and i Priori are more than willing to form such a group.
It will provide good and holy works for our young men, and will ensure that the
law is carefully and regularly observed.

Fourth: the Lanzi should be empowered to act on behalf of the religious
leaders of Fiorenza as well as on the orders of the civic government. Heresy, as
you were good enough to remind us, strikes not only at the Church, but at the
State, for a state that is not founded on the fear of God, that does not adhere
to the teaching of the Church, is doomed to destruction in this world, and utter
damnation in the next.

Fifth: that those associating with suspected heretics, magicians, alchemists,
and other Godless men should be put under observation, their right to travel
revoked, their confessions recorded and questioned for error, their houses
searched and whatever is profane and sacrilegious seized. Further, those who
continue to consort with known blasphemers should be imprisoned and examined by
your most pious and excellent Domenicani, so that their souls may be saved.

Sixth: the harboring of criminals, heretics, and other desperate persons will
be punishable with the same severity as the crime for which the person harbored
is punished. Lenience in matters of the law, as you have pointed out to us, has
brought Fiorenza to the dreadful pass that now threatens her very existence.

Seventh: those openly questioning or scoffing the new laws should be shown
their error and made to recant their views in public confession.

We seek your guidance in these matters, as in all matters, and we pray that
through your wisdom and the justice of i Priori and the Console, our lives, our
Fiorenza and our honor will be preserved, if it is the Will of God.

 

G. Ondante clerk, la Signoria

 

In Fiorenza, October 12, 1494

PART III

Donna Estasia Catarina

di Arrigo della

Cittadella da Parma

Su! Su! Sorge coll' aurora

Brillo è l' etenità

Gloria splenderà

L' ombra della vita spentò in un' ora.

Up! Up! Rise with the dawn

Shining eternally

Glory resplendent glows.

And in an hour, life's shadow is gone.

—Suor
Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli

Text of a letter from Marsilio Ficino to the Venezian poet Cassandra Fedele:

 

To his admired colleague and respected friend Cassandra Fedele, her old
adviser Ficino sends greetings from Careggi.

It's been too long since we have exchanged letters, and though I realize this
is more my fault than yours, still I find myself anxious to hear from you, to
learn what you are doing. Your recent works have been true inspiration for me at
a time when little else can move me to any emotion but sorrow.

As I sit in this underground room at Laurenzo's old villa, I am caught up
with my memories. It was just three years ago that Piero and his family were
exiled. It was three years ago that young Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola
died, though he was little more than thirty. To have his death follow so soon on
that of Agnolo Poliziano's was a great blow to me. So here I sit, the last of
them, waiting for death to reunite us. A terrible thing for a priest to say?
You'll recall that Socrates chose death, and Our Lord welcomed it. I feel as if
I have outlasted my time, and that I am overdue to leave this world. What good
am I? I am forbidden to teach, my friends are dead or far away and my works
gather dust in locked chambers.

I went into Fiorenza last week, which was a mistake. You would not know the
place now, Cassandra. There is no joy there. Even the grave delights of worship
are gone, and though the churches are full, there is fear and desperation there,
not solace, wisdom and triumph.

You no doubt see now why I write so rarely. What I have to tell you saddens
me, and my heart is too full of sorrow already. Tonight, if Laurenzo were still
alive, if Fiorenza was now as it was six years ago, there would have been a
feast to celebrate the birth of Plato and we would have spent the night in the
pleasures of philosophy and good fellowship.

Now, those sons of Pierfrancesco de' Medici call themselves Popolano, as if
they are shamed by the memory of Cosimo and Laurenzo. Fiorenza calls them
traitors, but it was Cosimo and Laurenzo who glorified the city while
Pierfrancesco's line had paid to have Botticelli's murals of the Pazzi
conspirators destroyed, and Laurenzo's verses defaced. I never believed it would
come to this, that Fiorenza would so soon forget the family that loved her, and
filled her with all the beauty of the world, gave her the treasures of learning
and art to adorn her.

The young Flemish scholar I told you of last year, de Waart, has had to flee,
for he is under suspicion of being an alchemist and irreligious. As strict as
the laws were made two years ago, they are now even stricter. They have fallen
heavily on all of us —not just de Waart, but every man of learning. Educated men
are suspect, and that kind young woman Demetrice Volandrai, whom Laurenzo loved
so dearly and who has been living in the palazzo of il stragnero Francesco
Ragoczy, has been imprisoned on some ridiculous excuse. Apparently it has been
decided that it is sinful for a woman to be able to read Greek.

This religion is like a plague, sweeping everything before it, robbing the
city of life, of hope. If I were not so old, and so weary of life, I think I
might leave Fiorenza, dear as she is to me and much as I have loved to live
here. It is agony to see her brought so low, that she is powerless and despised
everywhere when once she was a beacon to all the world.

I have sought consolation in philosophy and in the practice of my faith, but
I am overcome. I have been a priest for more than twenty years, and now, when I
most desire the strength of my vocation, I am weak and filled with doubts. I see
Girolamo Savonarola standing at the center of Fiorenza, defying the Pope and his
excommunication, and I remember that Laurenzo also refused to accept such a
Bull, and I wonder, is it that I loved Laurenzo and fear Savonarola that makes
it seem that Laurenzo's act was one of enlightened courage and Savonarola's one
of arrogant pride?

There. I made a vow not to burden you with this, Donna Cassandra. You have
too gentle a heart to have it weighted down with my despondency. But every time
I take my quill in hand, grief possesses me and I am helpless to deny it. You
may seek to cheer me, if you like, but I feel now as if my heart was a cinder,
and that it will never glow with fire again. Perhaps

Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli is right, and it is in heaven only that
hope, joy and glory reside. That's what her visions tell her. And I, like San
Tommaso, find only doubts.

Before I trouble you more, I will say farewell for a time. When my mind is
less oppressed I will write to you once more, and tell you the beautiful sights
I have seen, and the pleasure I have in learning. In spring the countryside will
be beautiful, and there will be fewer brigands, perhaps, to assault travelers.
Certainly there will be some happiness in the world, if it is only a new flower
in the hills or a barnyard full of chicks.

I commend myself to your kindness, and thank you again for the fruits of your
talent. This, with my blessings, and my most genuine affection.

Marsilio Ficino

 

At Careggi, near Fiorenza, November 7, 1497