The Palace (10 page)

Three riders were down, one with a broken leg, and two of the horses were
hurt. The third struggled to its feet and continued to run with the others.
There was no move to stop it, for it was the horse that won the race, with or
without its rider.

Where la Via della Terme met la Via de' Tornabuoni the horses had to jog
sharply to enter la Via del Parione. It was a dangerous move and five horses
collided, two going down in a welter of hooves and tangled legs. One of the
riders dragged himself away from the collision, blood spreading over his face
where his horse had kicked him. His steps faltered as he got to the edge of the
street, and after a moment he fell. The crowd shouted its distress and when all
the horses were by, the barrier that blocked the side streets opened and two
Carmeliani Brothers pulled the bleeding rider from the street. A little later a
small party of butchers came for the horses.

The horses spread out as they galloped across la Piazza Goldoni, and two
riders tried to pull one another from their mounts' backs. In the confusion they
created one was thrown by his frightened horse and the other had to wrap his
arms around his horse's neck to stay astride.

Suddenly the course narrowed again as the race entered il Borgo Ognissanti.
For a moment it looked like the horses would not give way, and there would be a
terrific pile-up of mounts and riders. It had happened before, and the danger
was very great it would happen in this palio. But at the last moment the rider
for the Arte of silk weavers let his mount drop back, and the race thundered
down the narrow street.

Above the racing horses, from the safety of second-story windows, the people
of Fiorenza shouted encouragement to their favorite riders and hooted at the
others. They threw flowers on the competitors, and waved streamers. The sound
was echoed and magnified by the straight stone walls until the whole of il Borgo
Ognissanti roared like the sea.

Here the street was straight, and here the riders maneuvered for advantage.
One of the riders was forced against the wall and he screamed in sudden agony as
his knee crashed against a protruding iron grille. His horse reared and the man
was thrown.

Another horse tried to move away from the fallen rider and crashed into two
more horses. Panicked now, the horses tried to get free of the steep, confining
walls. The lead, a sturdy dun horse, bounded ahead, tossing his rider as he
broke away from the press of other horses. The rider scrambled for safety, but
was caught a glancing blow from a spotted mare belonging to the joiners Arte. He
stumbled and fell.

Horses, riders and spectators all cried out as the rider was trampled by the
racing horses. Swerving aside from the broken body, three more horses ran
together. There was a scurry of hooves on the stone flags, and then the race
continued, leaving two injured horses, one badly hurt, and one dead man in its
wake.

Through Piazza Ognissanti they rushed, this time giving no quarter as they
plunged into the narrow Borgo once again. Four horses ran against the walls,
unable to stop in time to avoid the impact. At the barriers there were cries of
dismay as the last of the four horses rolled against the wooden structure,
nearly knocking it over.

Horrified at the carnage that had erupted before their eyes, the Osservanti
Brothers ran from their church to help the fallen, battered riders.

The palio was stringing out now, with the stronger horses and more capable
riders taking the lead. At the sharp turn into la Via degli Orti Oriceilari
there was only one casualty when a horse, taking the turn too tightly, missed
his footing and sprawled to the pavement. The horses immediately behind him
scrambled and then resumed their gallop. But now the race was divided into two
separate units, one about six lengths behind the other.

The turn into la Via della Scala was steep, and three horses went down, but
here there was little hurt done, for though the turn was acute, there was a
small plot of open ground and the horses went around those that had fallen.

Ahead was the magnificent bulk of Santa Maria Novella, and the cheering
crowds behind the barricades at the piazza in front of the church. The first
group of six horses shot past and made the difficult turn into la Via del Moro.

Francesco Ragoczy had not watched the palio. His taste for that kind of sport
had worn itself out in the blood of the Roman arena. So he was pleased when the
horses passed. Quickly he left the home of his alchemist friend Federigo Cossa
and stepped into la Via del Moro.

Shouts around him warned him that something was very wrong, and in a moment
he saw the second group of horses come hurtling around the turn, their flanks
dark with sweat. Two of the horses were without riders, but by the expression in
the eyes of the men still mounted, he knew they were terrified for him.

He turned and pushed on the door, but it was secure and any knocking he might
do would be lost in the noise of the race. He sprinted away from the door,
reaching for the iron grille over the nearest window.

The horses were rushing nearer and Ragoczy did not waste time looking at
them. He climbed up the grille, but was nowhere near high enough to be out of
range of the frantic race.

"Oh, Signor'!" cried a voice above him, and Ragoczy glanced up to see hands
extended down to him.

He reached up, stretching high over his head in desperation. His fingers
almost touched those above him when he overbalanced and fell backward into the
street and into the path of the palio.

He heard the gasp of the crowd as the horses came down upon him. He drew
himself into a ball and tried to roll free of the relentless hooves. He felt
more than saw a horse stop short and rear over him. It was riderless and
frightened.

People were shouting now, and someone was trying to climb over the nearest
barricade. The horse neighed as it tried to trample the black-clad man
underfoot.

The rest of the race was gone. Ragoczy rolled to the side of the street and
carefully began to stretch.

A babel of shouts broke out, voices telling him to lie still, to thank God,
to be certain he was whole, to get out of the street. He clapped his hands over
his ears and shook his head, hoping that this gesture would quiet the people
around him. But it did not. There was consternation, and the horse which had
tried to kill him came and nudged him nervously.

Ragoczy pulled himself onto one knee, moving slowly to avoid frightening the
horse. He reached up and tugged the fetlock, and when the well-shaped bay head
was near enough, he blew gently into the horse's nostril.

"There," he said quietly, hoping that his soft voice would penetrate through
the noise around him. "There, you see? I am your friend. I won't hurt you. I
won't frighten you." He waited a bit, ignoring the cries and shouts around him.
Then, when he was sure that the horse would not bolt, he stood, rubbing the
broad neck and talking reassuringly.

Cheers erupted around him, and somewhat startled, Ragoczy looked up. The
people were waving handkerchiefs and pelting him with flowers.

Keeping a soothing hand on the bay horse, Ragoczy nodded and bowed slightly
and was rewarded with howls of adulation. He said to the horse and himself,
"What unexpected glory."

No one nearby heard this sardonic remark. Ragoczy listened for a moment, an
ironic smile twisting his mouth. At last he bowed again, and then, with
practiced ease, he took a handful of mane and vaulted onto the bay's back.

The tumult grew louder as Ragoczy rode the horse down the street, and with a
wave, turned into the last palio street, la Via de' Cerretani. He was by far the
last rider to reach il Duomo and the huge civic stand erected there. Already the
crowd was surging over the barriers toward the strong sorrel mare that had won
the race.

Ragoczy's appearance stopped them, and brought a whispered silence to the
Piazza del Duomo.

On the civic stand, Laurenzo de' Medici looked up from making the award, and
a certain grimness which had tightened his wide, thin-lipped mouth vanished. "So
you aren't dead after all. I had heard you were."

"Appearances are deceiving," Ragoczy said as he brought his horse to a halt
by the stand.

"You were unwise enough to venture into la Via del Moro before the race was
over."

"Ah, but I didn't know that." He patted the bay before slipping off its back.
"Not a bad horse, you know. I was pleasantly surprised."

At that Laurenzo laughed. "As always, you delight me, mio caro stragnero. Let
me congratulate you on your lucky escape."

"I gather it was one of the few today," Ragoczy said as he climbed the
platform stairs.

Immediately Laurenzo was more serious. "Yes. There were four deaths today, a
new record, unfortunately. Even Lionello here"—he gestured to one of the riders
who stood near him—"is hurt, though he did stay on across the finish line."

Lionello was holding his arm at a painful angle and the smile he attempted
had more of pain than satisfaction in it.

"What did you do to yourself?" Ragoczy asked.

"It is nothing," Lionello protested, eyeing the elegant foreigner with
distrust. "I will be better soon."

"No doubt," Ragoczy agreed dryly. "But it would be wiser if you will let me
see your shoulder. If you have cut yourself on metal, as I think you have, you
must allow me the opportunity to treat you. I have a salve that will ease the
pain and prevent any illness or inflammation of the wound."

Piero clicked his tongue impatiently, but Laurenzo met Ragoczy's dark eyes
steadily. "On behalf of Fiorenza, I thank you for that."

Ragoczy made a dismissing gesture and turned to Lionello. "Come to my palazzo
before the feast and I will treat your hurts. Do not be afraid. I'm only an
alchemist, not a sorcerer. You are welcome to bring a friend, if you like." He
was plainly amused at Lionello's alarm, and added, "I'm much less of a risk than
your cuts are, believe me."

Lionello flushed and stammered a promise to avail himself of Ragoczy's
services.

The officers of the winning Arte came forward to get their mare, and a huge
shout went up. The bells of Santa Maria del Fiore tolled out their immense joy
and the trumpets sounded as a signal to begin the victory procession that would
go a few short blocks to la Piazza della Signoria.

Before taking his place in the procession, Laurenzo said to Ragoczy, "I am
happy for you, caro stragnero. But I admit that I'm puzzled."

"Puzzled? But why?" Ragoczy asked with utmost innocence.

"I am puzzled because there are three dusty hoof marks on your back,
Francesco. They look like direct blows. And so I wonder, though I am glad for
your lucky escape."

"Grazie, Magnifico. I was careless." He felt a rush of chagrin as he realized
how foolish his bravura had been.

"Sta ben'." Laurenzo nodded to Ragoczy and carefully descended the stairs to
the street. Piero followed after him, a dissatisfied scowl on his beautiful
face.

"How long will this take? I want to go hunting today." He spoke softly, but
Laurenzo turned on him.

"You! Be silent. You will have to forgo your hunting. This is more important.
You are a Fiorenzeno, my son. To be a Medici and a Fiorenzeno, you must be
willing to give up your hunting once in a while. Younger men than you have been
willing to."

Piero's face set with anger. "I know. I have heard all about your diplomatic
missions when you were less than twenty. It's not fair to expect me to be you."

Laurenzo looked away from Piero, across the spires of the city. "No, perhaps
it isn't."

Then he was gone in the procession while Ragoczy remained on the platform,
his face inscrutable, his eyes perplexed and full of sorrow.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from a Roman woman
writing in colloquial Latin and signing herself Olivia:

To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in Florentia, or whatever that camp is
calling itself these days, Olivia sends her undying friendship.

I have heard from our friend Niklos Aulirios that you have settled
temporarily by the Arno and have for the time being given up your house in
Venezia. Undoubtedly you know what you are doing, but you might consider coming
to Roma instead of staying in Fiorenza, for say what you will about the place,
it is still only a Roman camp trying to be a city. You needn't remind me of the
artists and poets and musicians there, for Medici is forever sending one or more
of them to the pope as family courtesy.

You wouldn't recognize Roma, my friend; it is all quite different. The Temple
of Saturn that you liked so much and visited often is now a church, tremendously
respectable. Almost no one remembers its past, and if they do, they ignore
it—rather like the Empress Theodora and her past, which was much worse than
simply being a heathen temple.

The Flavian Circus is called the Colosseum now, and is partly destroyed. That
might upset you. Fire and siege have done a great deal to ruin the city's
beauty, but I must say that I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. I did try
Alexandria for a while, and I spent a few years in Athens, but they are not
Roma, and I was not at home there. Roma is the place of my native soil.

Do you remember that first time you came to me? How frightened I was of you
then. You wanted to give terror, but instead you gave passion. And it was a
little later that you said you no longer wanted to survive on fear. You felt
that fulfilled desire gave you a satisfaction you had not known before. I can
still see your face, so full of loneliness and anguish. Are you, I wonder, as
much alone now as you were then? Don't torment yourself, Sanct' Germain
Franciscus. As you taught me yourself, there is delight in this world, and until
you die the true death, life will call to you, and you must answer.

There, I have lapsed into philosophy. I must be getting old. And the reason
for my letter is not to share reminiscences but to warn you of the latest
developments in Roma.

As I might have told you some time ago, I have attached myself to the Papal
court. In that respect, then, let me inform you that the cardinals are playing
politics again, and Rodrigo Borgia is gaining strength. I have met Rodrigo, and
he is a clever man. Beware of him. And if you should ever meet his son Cesare,
avoid him at all cost. Cesare is a monster, my friend. He has terrified his
sister (though she is a foolish woman and has not an ounce of real courage) and
the rumor is that he shares her bed. If that is so, I feel for her.

You know, I have often thought that our condition is unfair to the men of our
numbers. We women still have sexual congress as well as the pleasures of our
kind, but you men lose the means of that usual satisfaction. Is the joy you have
enough, I wonder, or do you miss the other?

Once again I'm becoming philosophical. Well, never mind. I won't trouble you
with awkward questions any longer.

Do send me word, when you have the chance, as to how it is with you. I think
of you often. It would be a pleasure to see you once more, Sanct' Germain
Franciscus, and to have long and possibly even philosophical talks.

Guard yourself well, my friend. You always have, but sometimes I fear that
your care makes you vulnerable. I would lose a part of my soul, I think, if you
were to die the true death.

As always, this brings you the true affection of

Olivia

 

On the 19th of October, 1491, Christian reckoning