The Palace (47 page)

Savonarola leaped at that. "Yes. Very well. If God were to elevate me, so
that I hung over la Piazza della Signoria, surrounded in radiance, borne aloft
on a cloud, would you then be convinced?" The brightness of his eyes stilled the
derision in the prior of Santa Croce's throat. "Would that be enough?"

"Yes," Orlando Ricci said slowly. "That would be enough."

"Then on that day you will tell the Pope that you believe with me, and
recognize that my inspiration is divine?" Savonarola was very excited now, and
he leaned toward the older man.

The Francescano studied the Domenicano. At last he said in a slow, measured
voice that echoed through all of Santa Croce, "If the day should come when you
are elevated above la Piazza della Signoria and you then perform a miracle
before all the citizens of Fiorenza, then, if the work you do is Godly, I will
recant all that I have said in opposition to you."

Savonarola's thick lips widened to a smile. "I was at Sacro Infante today.
Suor Estasia has had a vision that would fulfill your conditions for me." He
knew that Ricci was not one of those who put their faith in Suor Estasia's
gifts, but he thought it would be a victory indeed if this obstinate old man
could be made to endorse both himself and the Celestian nun.

"Then we should know in time if her vision is true." He shrugged easily. "I
am old enough that I may be in my grave when your miracle finally happens." From
the tone of his voice, he expected this to be the case. He watched Savonarola.
"Was that all, reverend Prior of San Marco, or have you more to say to me?"

"There are two other matters," Savonarola snapped, his temper flaring anew.
"You realize that this Bonfire of Vanities must have general civic support if it
is to be of any use to the souls of Fiorenza."

Rather apologetically, Prior Ricci interrupted him. "Well, no, I don't
realize that. I don't realize the need to burn the things you describe as
vanities. Much of what has been destroyed already was to the glory of God and
Fiorenza. You are making this city a wasteland, and I refuse to lend my help to
such an endeavor."

Savonarola raised his voice. "It is the will of God. Our Lord sought out the
solitude of the wilderness for His meditation."

"A city is not a wilderness!" Prior Orlando Ricci was angry now. "Our city
has been the greatest adornment in all of Italia, and that includes Roma. Three
more years of your programs, and the meanest hamlet in Sicilia will be
preferable to Fiorenza. No, I will not assist you. I will not tell my
congregations to heed your warnings. I will resist your madness with my last
breath, and I pray that God will let me live long enough to see you cast into
the burning pits of hell." His face was white and his body shook with rage. He
lowered his voice. "I can't ask your forgiveness, good Prior, because I repent
nothing I have said. And before I bring more sin upon myself, I will say
farewell."

In spite of his outward satisfaction, Savonarola had been disturbed by
Ricci's outburst. "I will pray for you," he said stiffly.

"And I will pray for you." The prior of Santa Croce turned away from the
prior of San Marco, and in a moment he was gone into the shadows of the
venerable Francescan church, leaving Savonarola alone in the echoing nave.

Text of a letter to i Priori di Fiorenza from Lodovico da Roncale:

To the respected leaders of la Repubblica Fiorenzena, I, Lodovico da Roncale,
Brother in the Arte of builders, wish to reveal a potential danger in the midst
of our beloved country.

In four days all of Fiorenza will atone for our sins, and each will be called
upon to confess all our guilty secrets. In accordance with the admonition of the
great prior of San Marco, I come forward now with a matter that should have been
brought to your attention when I returned to Fiorenza, more than three years
ago. At the time it didn't seem important because the culprit had fled before I
could accuse him. But now that the nephew has returned, the need is born anew
and I take the liberty of addressing you.

As your records will reveal, I was one of the builders first hired to work on
il Palazzo San Germano for il stragnero Francesco Ragoczy. There were four of us
who were selected from that number to do secret work on the building, and we
were sworn to secrecy by a heathenish oath which we were made to sign in blood.
This Francesco Ragoczy practiced alchemy, which was no secret. But where he
practiced it, and to what end, has never been discovered. That is because his
hidden rooms have always remained that, and no one knows what ungodly things
were done behind those hidden doors. Even my old Arte Brother Gasparo Tucchio
was uneasy in his mind about the building. And we have only Ragoczy's word that
Gasparo ever left his palazzo that night he disappeared.

You should make a thorough search of the place, including the secret rooms.
The Militia Christi are empowered to enter buildings and search through them, so
it is fitting that they go there. Behind the carved wood at the landing of the
grand staircase there is a door. It is concealed in the carving. But to gain
entrance, there is part of the carving that moves, and it is this that releases
the latch of the door. Try there.

The reward that the Arte offered for the discovery of Gasparo Tucchio, dead
or alive, will be welcome to me, for I am in great need. And it would help me
clear my conscience if the mystery were at last solved.

I have taken the liberty of speaking to the nephew, suggesting that he should
assist me, as I was an employee of his uncle, and entitled to a certain sum for
all that I did. He is a very haughty man, and accused me of trying to blackmail
him. A fine thing when a man can't offer his loyalty to an employer. The nephew
says he knows nothing of such matters, and it appears to be true that he and his
uncle were not close.

This is being written for me by Fra Giorgio at San Felice, and it is he who
will see it is delivered. I swear to him and to you that this is the truth, and
that I want my heart free of deception when the day of contrition arrives.

I hope that you will pursue the matter I have disclosed to you. And I thank
you for your willingness to hear me.

 

the mark of Lodovico da Roncale member of the builders' Arte by the hand of Fra Giorgio, San Felice

 

In Fiorenza, February 15, 1498

Under his tongue the Host was bitter. Ragoczy listened to the last prayers
and benedictions with scant attention as he wondered what next to do. For the
wafer that had been given to him at the Communion rail was poisoned.

The atonement service had been very long, taking most of the morning and all
of the afternoon. And now that it was over and the Mass had been celebrated,
most of Fiorenza was sunk into a kind of lethargy. Idly Ragoczy tried to
identify the poison, and how swiftly it was supposed to act. He decided that he
would not be expected to collapse during the Mass. It was not in the spirit of
the occasion, he thought with disgust. No, this day had been for the humiliation
of Fiorenza, for bringing shame on everything that had made it beautiful. Death
was for later. He would have a little time, then. He returned his attention to
the end of the Mass.

When the service was over, Ragoczy lingered only long enough to exchange a
few words with Sandro Filipepi. Their manner together was that of polite
strangers, but Ragoczy said, "My petition to the Console for Donna Demetrice's
release has not been acted upon yet. This worries me, Botticelli. Have you any
suggestions?"

Sandra's golden eyes were troubled. "The whole accusation is ridiculous. All
they would have to do is ask her a few questions and they will know she is no
heretic."

"Do you know how Domenicani ask questions?" Ragoczy asked gently. "First they
take you into a dark room where you are stripped and put into a penitent's robe.
Then the torturer shows you his instruments and tells you what they do. And then
the Domenicani tell you that if you give them the answers they want, you will
not be tortured or put to the Question. Demetrice is a woman of integrity and
courage. It would take more than threats to make her say what the Domenicani
want to hear. So they would rack her perhaps, since the rack is not torture
because it doesn't break the skin. And if she resisted that and did not die,
they would resort to torture, probably the boot or hot pincers. And eventually,
so that the agony would stop, she would say anything they wanted to hear.
Anything. And so would you, Sandro."

Sandra's face had paled as Ragoczy spoke, but he said, "That may be in Spain,
but this is Fiorenza."

"You say this, who are willing to burn your paintings for a little peace?"
The incredulity in Ragoczy's voice was rough with hurt.

Unable to meet Ragoczy's compelling eyes. Sandro turned away, a definite hurt
in his face. "I don't think… Not her."

"Not her?" Ragoczy's question mirrored his disbelief. "And why not her? She
was part of the Medici household, which is bad. She loved Laurenzo, which is
worse. And she studied at Palazzo San Germano, which is utterly damning. Between
those factors and her well-educated mind, she is condemned already."

"But until the petition is heard, there's supposed to be only imprisonment."

"Savonarola can't afford that. Eventually Pope Alessandro will act against
him. It must happen soon, because no Pope can afford to tolerate such monumental
defiance. If Savonarola is to maintain his position, he must act quickly. The
Console is in his power already. If he told them the hearing of the petition
must be waived, it would be. Or do you doubt that, Sandro?"

Botticelli shook his head heavily. "No. You're right, God pardon us all,
you're right." With a strange, mournful gesture he turned away from Ragoczy and
moved quickly away from him through the thinning crowd.

From Santa Maria del Fiore the walk to Palazzo San Germano usually took about
ten minutes. Today Ragoczy deliberately took longer. He forced himself to move
slowly, uncertainly, as if he were feeling ill. This care was rewarded, as
various citizens stopped him to ask if he needed help, which he always politely
declined in such a way as to confirm his illness.

It was almost half an hour later that he entered Palazzo San Germano, to be
greeted by Ugo and Natale, two stewards he had hired the week before. Natale was
well into middle age and felt a determined loyalty to the Medici family, who had
employed him three years before. He had been proud to serve Ragoczy because his
supposed uncle had been such a noted Palleschi, expressing support of the
Medicis long after their popularity had waned. Ugo was another matter, being
younger, very earnest, and, Ragoczy suspected, working under orders from the
Console or Savonarola. That was foolish, Ragoczy thought, but as long as they
worked well, Ugo's fanaticism mattered little.

"Are you well, master?" Natale asked with real concern when the great door
closed behind Ragoczy.

"I don't know. I don't feel myself." Quite deliberately Ragoczy faltered on
the second step as he attempted to climb the grand staircase. "I… I'm dizzy."

Natale was the first to respond. He rushed to Ragoczy's side and gave him his
arm for support. "There, master. Lean on me."

Ragoczy let some of his weight sag onto Natale's shoulder and spoke weakly.
"I'm feeling hot and cold at once." He muttered another complaint in Hungarian,
and turned to Natale. "I'm ill. I must get to my bed." With a skillful imitation
of the dogged tenacity of the sick, he tried once again to climb the stairs.

"No, master," Natale said, restraining him. "Ugo will go ahead of you and
prepare your chamber. You must wait here. Don't hurt yourself more."

Ragoczy accepted this. "I'll wait." He turned quickly to Ugo and saw the
smile the young man wore before he could assume an expression of concern. "But
work quickly, Ugo."

Ugo raced up the stairs. When he had turned along the gallery, Ragoczy looked
at Natale. "Will you get me a warming pan? I don't think I can endure a cold bed
just now."

"You must not try to climb the stairs alone," Natale warned.

"I may try again, but if I'm too weak, I will wait for you." He lifted a
languid hand. "I don't think I can go far."

Although Natale wore an expression of doubt, he accepted this assurance.
"I'll be as fast as possible, master. And I will bring a brazier to burn in your
room. There are healing herbs that will make healthful smoke for you…"

Ragoczy stopped him. "I know you will do as you think best, and that I will
be grateful for it."

Natale gave him a quick smile. "You're kind, master." He made sure Ragoczy
was supported by the banister, then hurried away toward the stairs to the
cellars.

Now that he was alone, Ragoczy at last took the poisoned wafer from under his
tongue. He looked at it, sniffed it, and wished he had a chance to use his
laboratory, so tantalizingly near, to test the bread and find out what
Savonarola had given him. He put the little wafer in his long silken sleeve and
resolved to rise in the middle of the night and test the bread.

By the time prandium was being served in those few houses that were not
honoring the fast day, Ragoczy lay between linen sheets in what he thought of as
his public bed. It, too, rested on a layer of earth, and he lay back, doing his
best to feign increasing illness.

At first Natale declared his intention of watching his master through the
night, but Ragoczy said in a raspy tone, "No. I have a bell by me to summon you,
and I will if it's necessary. But I will need you to be alert tomorrow, if I am
worse." He touched the elaborate jeweled crucifix that hung around his neck. "I
want to pray alone."