The Palace (13 page)

"I wouldn't call it being lost, either," Ficino said, at his most knowing.

"Let him go on." There was a sharpness in Ragoczy's words, and the others
were quiet.

"Tuoi nodi diletti mi ferma/ Colla febre di gioia mi manca. Ma piu bramo la
pace per il mio cor/ Or' senza speranza, e senza rancor." Laurenzo's expression
was somber as he finished the song. He turned to Ragoczy. "That is my life, mio
caro stragnero. Sweet bonds hold me and joy is a fever, but now, peace is too
dear."

Ragoczy nodded, and ignored the demands that the others made. He felt the
cold of the morning like a finger trace the line of his back. "I see," he said.

"Now," Laurenzo said, shaking off his mood with an effort. "Now it is your
turn, Francesco. I have sung a song of my life, and you must sing one of yours."

"What about that homeland you say is so precious?" Poliziano asked, and
laughed with the others.

"Sing, Francesco," Laurenzo said, and it was more than an order. For a moment
his eyes met Ragoczy's, and the plea in them was plain.

Ragoczy nodded. "I'll need to get my rhymes," he announced. "I will follow
your form, I think, Magnifico. But I am not responsible if the song is terrible.
I don't usually sing on horseback."

Ficino reached over and gave Poliziano a warning rap on the shoulder. "In
that case, we'll be quiet so you can think."

But Ragoczy already knew what the words would be, as he had known even before
Laurenzo had begun his song. His hesitation was for effect only. He sang softly,
but the sound of his voice was curiously penetrating. "Io sono stragnero/ per
sempre ed ancor';/ Stragnero della morte,/ stragnero dell' amor'."

"Is that all?" Poliziano was incredulous. "It's hardly a quatrain. What about
that homeland, Ragoczy? How does it compare to Fiorenza? This is insufficient—"

"Be quiet, Agnolo," Laurenzo told him without turning in the saddle. "None of
us have the right to ask more." He looked at Ragoczy and there was profound
compassion in his brown eyes. "You did not need to say so much."

"You wanted to know what my life is," Ragoczy responded with a shrug. He felt
his gray stallion's neck and said in another voice, "He seems recovered. We can
pick up the pace again, Magnifico, if you are in a hurry."

Laurenzo nodded and raised his hand. "We go faster," he called out to the
other three riders. Then he spurred his stallion and gave him his head down the
long way to the walls of Fiorenza.

They entered the city through la Porta San Gallo and reined in as la Via San
Gallo became la Via de' Ginori. The city was active and as they neared la Piazza
San Lorenzo, Ragoczy called out to Laurenzo. "Should we leave you, Magnifico?"

"No!" His horse was walking easily, avoiding carts and pedestrians out of
long habit. "No, all of you come in and share a cup of wine with me. Comestio
will be served soon. I know Massimillio will be glad for so many vigorous
appetites."

The others greeted this invitation eagerly, but Ragoczy declined. "You must
excuse me. It is not my custom to eat at this time of day."

"It is not your custom to eat at all," Poliziano said curtly.

Ragoczy did not respond to this barb. "Perhaps I should leave you with your
other guests, Magnifico?"

The sudden rumble of cart wheels drowned Laurenzo's answer, but he repeated
himself when the noise was less. "Come in anyway, Francesco. I wish to talk to
you."

"Tante grazie, Magnifico."

They swung through la Piazza San Lorenzo and around to the main entrance of
il Palazzo de' Medici in la Via Larga. At a sign from Laurenzo the ironwork
grille over the great doors was opened and they entered the main courtyard.

Laurenzo came out of the saddle slowly, in an effort to hide the weakness
that threatened to overcome him. He staggered as he touched the ground, and to
keep his balance, he reached out for the stirrup. A small metal ornament had
come loose and it sank its steel prong into Laurenzo's ungloved hand. Quickly
Laurenzo sucked away the blood, and turned to his guests. No one had noticed, he
saw with relief. He clenched his hand around one glove to stanch the bleeding.

"Well?" Agnolo challenged. "What about comestio?"

"Go with Gabriele there." Laurenzo gestured to his houseman, who had come
into the courtyard a moment ago. "He will see that you're fed."

"And you?" Ficino asked.

"I will join you directly, as soon as I have changed my riding mantle for a
guarnacca." He started across the courtyard, saying over his shoulder, "Ragoczy,
accompany me."

Ragoczy gave his gray's reins into a servant's hands, and followed his host
into the arched doorway. They went in silence up one narrow flight of stairs,
and they were almost at the top when a bright stain on the step ahead stopped
Ragoczy. "Magnifico?"

Laurenzo paused. "Yes?"

"Are you bleeding?" The question hung between them and after a moment
Laurenzo resisted the urge to disclaim.

"I cut my hand. It was a foolish blunder—I slipped getting out of the
saddle." He tried to make light of it. "I've been riding since I could walk. But
I cut myself like a damned novice."

"May I see it?" Ragoczy was only one step below him, and his small hand was
already extended.

Laurenzo hesitated, then held out his hand. The glove he held dropped to the
stairs. "It's not very bad," Laurenzo said, looking at the cut on the side of
his palm. Blood still oozed sluggishly from the wound and his palm was stained
with it.

There was anguish in Ragoczy's face. "How long," he said tightly, "has your
blood smelled of apricots?"

At that Laurenzo laughed. "Apricots? I don't know. I can't smell. Does it
really smell of apricots?"

Ragoczy closed his eyes. "Yes."

Immediately Laurenzo sobered. "Is it a bad sign?"

"It is." Ragoczy forced himself to meet Laurenzo's eyes.

There was no shock in his face, but the acceptance of this hurt him. "I know
I am ill, Francesco. I've known for some time. But you, with your salves and
alchemical skill, might know what remedy there is."

Ragoczy was silent.

"Ah." Laurenzo nodded. "It is my death."

He could not deny it. Ragoczy bent and picked up Laurenzo's glove.

"And there is nothing you can do." If he felt despair, it did not color his
voice. He took his glove and turned it over in his hands, looking at the stained
embroidery on the fine green leather. "It's ruined," he said.

"Laurenzo…" Ragoczy spoke calmly, though he was filled with desolation and
helplessness. "I can make a cordial. It will not cure you, but it will help the
pain, when there is pain."

"I have to thank you. Well." He swallowed. "I trust you, mio caro stragnero.
I know you have told me the truth. But I cannot help but wish you are wrong."
Laurenzo was about to resume his climb up the last few stairs, but stopped and
reached out to grab Ragoczy's shoulder with his long, swollen fingers. "What is
it, Francesco? What is it that kills me?"

His words came with difficulty. "It's your blood, Laurenzo. It's rotten. It
is no longer like blood. And even the power I possess is useless against it."

"Your power. But there may be others with different powers." Laurenzo's brown
eyes were bright as he leaned forward. "Perhaps there is one with enough power
and knowledge to cure me."

Ragoczy shook his head. "No one can save you." He saw Laurenzo cross himself.
"If I had tears, Magnifico, they would be for you. But I have none."

"It would make no difference if you did." He turned away brusquely and went
the rest of the way up the stairs alone.

A letter from Girolamo Savonarola to Andrea Belcore, Superior Generale of the
Dominican Order:

On this Most Holy Feast of the Presentation, Girolamo Savonarola, Prior of
San Marco in Fiorenza, is moved most reverently to address himself to his
Superior Generale, Andrea Belcore, in Roma:

Most Reverend Father of the Brothers of San Domenico, I pray most humbly that
you will hear my petition with a compassionate heart and not turn away from my
request out of vain and worldly considerations.

As you know, it has been given to me by God to see visions, and that these
visions all warn of the impending Day of Wrath which shall fall upon the
wickedness of the world. Because the strength of these visions is such that I
cannot deny them, I must beseech you to allow me more time to preach. There is
so much in my soul, so much of the Light of God, that it is a torture for me to
remain silent.

In this vain and corrupt city, my words are badly needed, for the souls
wander in darkness, drawn over the world by temptations and desires. If I am to
fulfill that divine mission that I took upon myself when I donned my habit, you
must grant me my request, so that the danger around us is known and these
unfortunate Fiorenzeni will no longer seek sins as if they were salvation, but
will bow instead before the Throne of Glory, and in penitential remorse, confess
themselves and be forgiven.

I know well that since His Holiness wed his son to the daughter of the
perfidious Medici he has seen the world through Laurenzo's eyes. But I pray most
fervently that you will not be likewise blinded and will allow me to preach the
truth as I am moved to do. It is not I who makes the pronouncements, but the
Holy Spirit, speaking through me. I am the vessel filled by the visions God
sends to me. In all humility, I ask that you do not desert that great Holy
Spirit that has chosen me as its medium to be heard in the world.

In devoted and prayerful obedience, I commend to you the hope and the
spiritual life of

 

Girolamo Savonarola Brothers of San Domenico Prior of San Marco

 

In Fiorenza, November 22, 1491

"Is this the last of it?" Demetrice Volandrai asked of il Conte Giovanni Pico
della Mirandola.

He nodded and took up the loose sheets of closely written parchment. "Yes.
I'm grateful you're so fast with the translations, Donna Demetrice. I doubted
that a woman, even a scholarly woman, could have done so much in so little
time."

She raised her brows. "I have nothing else to do with my time, Conte. Why
should I not finish in so reasonable a period?"

Il Conte Giovanni laughed and took her hand. "Well, you know, most women are
easily distracted. But you, bella Donna, are so capable that I am
amazed
at your skill every time I see you."

Demetrice's smile remained fixed as she withdrew her hand. "Since I have
neither husband nor family to occupy my attention, I am grateful that there is
so much for me to do." She rose from her bench in Laurenzo de' Medici's library
and looked toward the fire that crackled in the grate. Her old gonella was thin
and the shawl around her shoulders did not compensate for that thinness.

Pico was still speaking, his beautiful pleasant face ruddy with cold and
goodwill. "You should have made a superior scholar, had you been a man. Or a
noble. It is a pity your skill cannot be used to better advantage." He inclined
his head and prepared to leave. "I hope we will work together again, in future."

"But you are going to Roma, Conte, and I remain here."

"Perhaps you will allow me to make other arrangements." He came closer to
her. "Think of it, carina, with my protection you will have not only the
learning you crave, but other pleasures as well. You are an attractive woman—not
pretty, but not displeasing to me. I could do much for you."

She could feel his breath on the side of her head as he pressed close to her
back, and she had a flash of anger. But there was no use in making enemies in
her cousin's house. She closed her hands into fists. "I am not at liberty to
discuss this," she said in a controlled voice.

"I will speak to Laurenzo, if that is what worries you." He touched the edge
of her jaw and in that moment she remembered another man who had touched her,
and she had been filled with rapture for it. But with Pico it was otherwise. She
could feel his lack of force even as he sought to make a conquest of her. She
wrenched away from him and moved nearer the fire. Her color was heightened, and
her breath came quickly. "Please, Conte, I cannot think of your offer until I
have done all the tasks my cousin has set for me. After all he has done on my
behalf, it would be poor of me indeed to leave him without anyone to take my
place."

"Very well. I am in no hurry." Pico sketched a bow in her direction, and then
with the sheaf of parchments in his hand, he let himself out of the library.

Anger and shame were still warring within her some time later when the door
opened and Laurenzo stepped into the room.

"Demetrice, do you have time… ?" He stopped as he saw her face. "Tesoro mio,
what is it?"

She stopped pacing and tried to smile. "It is nothing. Indeed, I don't know
why it bothered me so much…" She came across the room and her heart tightened in
her chest as she saw how thin he had become. "Oh, Lauro."

He took her outstretched hands in his. "Distraught, Demetrice? Tell me."

"It's nothing. I should not have taken offense. None was meant. But I cannot
bear it when I am weighed and measured like so much sausage." Without thinking
about it, she went into his arms. "Lauro mio, I'm frightened."

He smoothed the tendrils of rosy-blond hair back from her face and tilted her
head up. "Why, tesoro mio? There is nothing to be afraid of."

There was no way for her to put her fear into words, for to speak the words
would make her fright too real. She laid her head against his wide shoulder and
said in a small voice, "Do not leave me, Lauro."

"Demetrice." He held her more tightly, as if taking strength from her. Some
little while later he said, "Do you remember those beautiful days at the hunting
lodge?"