The Palace (49 page)

From the bed, Ragoczy went on, letting his voice grow stronger as he spoke.
"The fire that burned in my guts is dying. My hands are growing warm. Good, holy
Prior, you have done this. It was your work alone that affected me. I feel as
though I had been filled up with loathsome poison and have been purged of it."
He determined to be less grim. "I owe you much, Prior. Here." With trembling
hands he reached to the table beside his bed and took one of the rings he had
worn earlier that day. It was a large polished emerald, one that had come from
Burma. He felt a momentary pang at the thought of giving it up, but it was a
small price to pay to have beaten Savonarola at his own game. "Here. Take this.
It is the best that I have. Be certain that in later days I will see you are
paid as you deserve."

Woodenly Savonarola approached the bed, and with no expression whatever he
held out his hand for the ring. "This is a great vanity," he said automatically,
hardly looking at the jewel.

"Then sell it and use the money for the glory of the Church." Perhaps, he
thought, that would save it from the Bonfire of Vanities.

"I will consider it." He took the ring, and without another word he strode
from the room.

"See him out, Ugo," Natale said, and as soon as the younger servant was gone,
he approached the bed. "Did he do it, master? Was it his prayers?"

Ragoczy wondered briefly how far he could trust Natale. He looked at the
servant. "I don't know, Natale. But I do know that I had little chance for
survival without his help." If he had not died, he would have been accused of
diabolism or other heretical arts, for Savonarola was waiting for him to die.
And if he had not asked for help, his death was required.

"Ugo will have it all over Fiorenza that this was a miracle and that
Savonarola saved you." There was a measure of reproach in that statement.

"Let him. Let Savonarola have full credit, so long as he will also take full
responsibility." He did not know how flinty his dark eyes had become as he
stared at the door.

Natale flinched at the sight of his master, but wisely decided to say
nothing. A man brought back from the brink of death was entitled to his anger.

Later that night, when the promise of dawn waited in the eastern sky, Ragoczy
left his bed and went at last to his laboratory, the poisoned wafer in his hand.
He thought momentarily about the desperation that had driven Savonarola to so
rash an act, and though he disliked to admit it, he began to have doubts that he
would prevail.

As he set to work on the wafer, he banished those worries from his mind,
resolved to accept defeat only when he died the true death.

By sunup he was back in his bed, ready to receive the long line of visitors,
who, through the day, came to congratulate him on his fortunate healing.

Text of a letter from Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi to Francesco Ragoczy da
San Germano:

To the nephew of his old friend Francesco Ragoczy, Botticelli sends his
greetings and rejoices with him that he was spared from death by the
intervention of Prior Savonarola.

I heard of your deliverance only a few hours after it happened, but I have
been busy with a commission and therefore have not had time enough to send you
this note until now. First, let me tell you how pleased I am that you escaped
death. If you were the most despised man in Fiorenza, yet no one would wish you
to die alone, unprotected and friendless in a foreign country. But my pleasure
extends to more than your rescue. A few days ago you warned me of what might
befall those who are in the keeping of the Domenicani, and you described to me
some of the wrongs done in Spain, intimating that such might occur here. Now
that Savonarola has miraculously restored you to health, how can you think that
such a man as he would ever allow any man or woman in his care to be harmed in
the way you described? Think of the prayers that Savonarola said for you, and
then consider Donna Demetrice's plight. Be certain that she stands in no danger
from one so selfless as Savonarola.

Rather than suspect this excellent Domenicano, be sure that you are sincere
and prompt in the expression of your thanks. You owe him too much, Ragoczy, to
accuse him capriciously of crimes he would never commit.

I have had your note saying that you will not return the painting I have
requested. I can't come and take it away from you, of course, but I warn you now
that the Militia Christi might enter your palazzo and if they should find it,
they are very likely to confiscate it and it will be burned, in any case. I ask
you, if you do have it, return it to me. I cannot pay you what you paid me for
it, but that should not be a consideration between us, because this is to the
mutual benefits of our souls.

Francesco, Francesco, you were my friend, why do you refuse me this? I didn't
paint it for you, you merely took over Laurenzo's commission. I know it is not a
question of money, because you are too rich to care about the price of the work.
But does not my peace mean something to you? Are you unwilling to help me gain
the calm I have missed for so long? I ask you again, send me the painting.

Again, I am glad you didn't die. I will pray for you,

Sandro

 

Via Nuova, Fiorenza, the 23rd day of February, 1498

Prior Orlando Ricci opened his hands, a gesture of despair. "I have done all
that I can, Signor Ragoczy. I have had no response from His Holiness, and my
authority is neither greater nor lesser than Savonarola's. But he has usurped
the force of the state as well as the leadership of his Order. In the face of
that power, I am impotent."

Ragoczy nodded slowly. "I see. And there's nothing else either of us can do?"
He looked up at the ornate beams that crowded the ceiling, almost blocking the
view of the vault. "Can we delay him, even a week?"

"What good would that do?" the Francescano asked. "The week would give him
more opportunity to create a climate of approval for his auto-da-fe. And you, if
you were strong in your opposition, might make yourself suspect. If he once
convinces Fiorenza that heresy is rife in the city and that only the stake will
abolish it, then the city will indeed be laid waste with the fire of God's
Wrath, just as he predicted." He turned to look toward the altar, framed by
tall, thin windows that in the morning were alive with light; but now, with the
sun low in the west, a bright smear behind clouds, the whole church seemed drab,
forlorn and lifeless.

Although it was dangerous to do so, Ragoczy decided to trust the prior of
Santa Croce, "I have heard from… an associate of mine, living in Roma, that Pope
Alessandro intends to issue a formal charge of heresy against Savonarola. My
information is not official," he added as a caution to Orlando Ricci. "I don't
know if the Pope will make the charge, not wholly. But I have found that my…
associate is very reliable."

"Heresy?" If the old Francescano was surprised by the word, it did not reveal
itself in his words or his bearing. "Heresy. At last."

Ragoczy was silent. "Do you think we could force a delay? Knowing this?"

The prior of Santa Croce regarded the foreigner in the elegant dark red
damask silk. "Why should it matter to you?"

"If I'm to be human, I must care about humanity. And I have an obligation to
my uncle's servant."

Orlando Ricci winced. "I beg you not to dissemble with me. The fabrication of
a nephew will do well enough for most of Fiorenza, but I pray you will be honest
with me. I have known you to be Francesco Ragoczy from the day after you
returned."

Ragoczy's face was guarded, but a tension was winding in him. "How?"

"Your voice when you sing. I heard you once or twice when you and Laurenzo
would stroll about the streets singing. When you've heard as many monks singing
flat as I have, you value a voice that is true. And there is a quality to your
voice when you sing, a texture that I've never heard before or since." He
laughed once, very sadly. "The other day I heard you join in a hymn, and I
knew."

"I hope, good Prior, that others are not so acute." After a moment of silence
he said, "What will you do? I am under pain of arrest still. The accusation of
diabolism still stands."

"My dear Ragoczy, you've stood in this church for the last hour and I have
not seen you shrink from me, from the altar or any holy thing here. We've passed
powerful shrines with relics and you have not cried out in pain, nor have burns
or welts appeared on your skin. You regard all these things with becoming
respect and you do not stink of brimstone. Because of this and because of the
source of the accusations against you, I'm reserving my judgment. And I honor
you for your courage, whatever you are." He turned and said in another voice,
"It's nearly time for vespers. I must leave you. But come again, as soon as you
have confirmation on the Pope's action. You have my word that I'll give you what
help I can, but it may not be much. There is too much fear and support for
Savonarola in Fiorenza and any aid I give must be in secret. On the day
Savonarola is cast out as the devil in monk's robes that he is, I will
acknowledge in public all you have done for Fiorenza." With that he sketched a
blessing in Ragoczy's general direction before hurrying away through the church.

Ragoczy did not linger at Santa Croce. Night was already gathering in the
sky, and he had a great deal to do before the next morning, when he would again
try
to
address the Console on Demetrice's behalf. He was grateful that
Ruggiero had arrived at Palazzo San Germano at last, for there were tasks that
only Ruggiero could perform for him. His manservant had recovered from the worst
of his wounds, though he still limped when he walked. Between that limp and the
dark stain on his skin which had been colored with oil of walnuts, he was quite
effectively disguised, and at the moment answered to the name of Ferrugio.

While Ragoczy paused in la Via della Primavera to speak with a spice
merchant, the supposed Ferrugio was vainly attempting to keep a large troop of
Militia Christi from ransacking Palazzo San Germano. He shouted to the youths as
they pulled a huge, elaborately framed painting of the
Triumph of Paris
off the wall. The heavy frame cracked as it hit the marble floor, and two of the
young men set to work with short knives, slicing through the handsome face of
Paris and the opulent curve of Helen's shoulder.

From the landing of the grand staircase four of the Militia Christi searched
the elaborate carving for the release of the lock of the hidden chambers rumored
to be at the back of the landing. As he watched, Ruggiero was secretly pleased
that he had taken the time to be sure that entrance had been locked from the
inside.

Two more of the young men were racing up the stairs to the gallery on the
second floor when Natale appeared, holding a steward's staff. "Not one step
farther, ragazzi." He moved the staff so that it effectively blocked the top of
the stairs.

The leader of the group glared. "You must move. It's our duty to seize
vanities."

"Not while I'm here to stop you." Natale looked as if there were nothing he
would like better than to smash a few of the arrogant young men with his thick
staff. Smiling, the Militia Christi took the challenge.

Even before he reached the main door of Palazzo San Germano, Ragoczy knew
something was seriously wrong. Though nearly half a block away, he began to run,
his long cloak of tooled red leather flying out behind him like wings.

The sound was hideous, a combination of nails pulled from their beds and
crockery breaking. Ragoczy paused on the threshold, his face set into grim lines
as he saw Ugo conferring with a leader of this troop of publicity sanctioned
vandals. Near the top of the stair Natale lay in a heap, a large reddened lump
on his forehead. Two of the young men held Ruggiero, mocking his attempts to
break away from them.

In the middle of the loggia, scattered and broken on the marble floor in
addition to the ruined painting were several brass scales and gauges from his
measuring room, a small spinettino, a large viol, two T'ang Dynasty jade lions,
a bolt of Turkish silk, a few carved rosewood chairs, a number of enameled
bowls, and a tied bundle of illuminated music manuscripts. As Ragoczy watched,
four more of the young men ran in dragging a large screen of intricately carved
wood inlaid with ivory. They tossed this onto the heap, cheering as the delicate
wood broke.

"
Stop! At once
!" Ragoczy's command filled the loggia like the
tolling of a great bell.

It was as if the air had been sliced with an ax. All the young men stopped
abruptly, and turned toward the elegant figure in the door. The clatter of
broken wood falling on marble seemed horridly loud, and as ominous as the sound
of cannon.

Ragoczy walked into the silence, cold rage in his penetrating eyes. His jaw
tightened as he looked down at the wreckage before him. Then he lifted his gaze
to the troop of Militia Christi.

Afterward none of them could say why they had been so frightened. Ragoczy was
unarmed, a man of no more than medium height, elegant to the point of
foppishness. And yet as his dark, luminous eyes met each of theirs in turn, a
kind of dread touched them, a sense that Ragoczy's foreignness was more than a
matter of language and geography.

The leader of the troop raised his chin. "We are empowered to eliminate all
Vanities—"

"
Be silent
." The words were soft, almost a whisper, and they stung
like a lash.

The leader glared defiantly. "I am Ezechiele Aureliano. Savonarola himself
entrusted me—"

"I said be silent." He spoke conversationally and his menace was all the
greater. He regarded the two young men holding Ruggiero. "Release my houseman.
Now
."