The Palace (42 page)

When he turned into la Via Nuova he made a point of looking about as if
uncertain which house to choose. At last he walked uncertainly to Sandro
Filipepi's door and knocked.

The wind off the hills was touched with snow, and when the door was opened by
Simone, he shivered before he saw the elegant foreigner on the doorstep.

"Please," said Ragoczy in commanding accents, "is the painter called
Botticelli here?"

Simone disliked the stranger on sight. He was too foreign, too colorful, too
elegant to be in Fiorenza. Everything that had corrupted Fiorenza before the
godlike Savonarola shone in the man in blue.

"This is his house," Simone said grudgingly, "but Signor' Filipepi is at
prayers." Simone was ready to close the door, but could find no excuse for
shutting out the visitor, who plainly was not going to leave.

"At prayers?" It wasn't really a question. Ragoczy thought of his last talk
with Sandro, and found that there was a cold fear in him. "When would he be
available to speak with me? I have business with him I am Germain Ragoczy."

The name got all the reaction he hoped it would. "Ragoczy? You dare show
yourself in Fiorenza?"

Deliberately Ragoczy made his accent heavier. "Yes. I understand that my
uncle did not make himself liked in Fiorenza." He crossed his arms and stared at
Simone. "I am here to settle his estate, and for that I must speak with the
painter Botticelli."

"Come back later," Simone said, and started to close the door.

Somehow, and Simone never quite knew how, the stranger stopped the door and
without any obvious force stepped into the small entryway, letting the door
swing shut behind him. "You will tell him that I am here, and that I wish to
talk with him. In private."

Short of throwing the stranger out bodily, there was little Simone could do
now. "I will tell him," he muttered. "In Fiorenza it's considered inexcusable to
force your way into houses where you have not been invited."

Ragoczy raised his finely drawn brows. "Indeed? And yet I am told the youths
of the Militia Christi do it every day. Strange how one may be misinformed."
There was a faint sneer in his smile as he watched Simone hurry toward the large
room at the rear of the house that had been Sandra's studio for several years.
Left alone, Ragoczy glanced around the walls, remembering that often Sandro hung
his latest commissions here as a display until their owners claimed them. What
he saw startled him. Gone were the soft, sensuous paintings of wonderfully human
gods and goddesses. Gone were the lyric sketches of men and women working,
playing, fighting, laughing. Instead the walls held deeply religious works, the
Virgin, Christ, martyred saints at the moments of greatest travail. Ragoczy
frowned. This wasn't the bright, easy style of three years ago. Now the
paintings were dark, hesitant, strangely introverted. He paused by a large
painting on finely sanded wood, depicting the martyrdom of San Sebastiano, and
realized, with a pang, that the agonized face and tortured body all transfixed
with arrows were those of the artist.

"My brother will receive you." Simone had returned silently and took a
certain degree of gratification when he saw the visitor start at the sound of
his voice. "I see," he added with a satisfied expression, "that you are admiring
Sandro's work. He has certainly done much to glorify God of late. Before, as you
may know, he spent his time in the vain expression of venal pleasures. But
this"—Simone nodded approvingly—"this is worthy of the name of art, for its sole
purpose is the praise of God."

The chill Ragoczy had felt as he approached this house had little to do with
the weather, and it increased as he watched Simone point out the various new
works. "You see here, this new painting of the Virgin accepting the Holy Spirit
into her? See the modest humility of her downcast eyes, the manner in which she
covers her body so that the holy moment is not rendered profane by her pleasure
or her flesh? Sandro didn't always paint so. For many years he indulged his
senses and led men to lust and error with the nakedness of pagan deities. If you
will follow me, I will take you to him." Simone turned quite abruptly and
stalked off down the hall without waiting to see if the foreign visitor was
behind him.

Ragoczy kept pace a few steps behind Simone, his thoughts racing. From what
Simone had said, it was possible that Sandro had succumbed to the teachings of
Savonarola, but perhaps it was that he had not wanted to antagonize the fierce
little Domenican. He was still apprehensive as Simone held open the door to
Sandro's studio and announced, "Ragoczy."

Sandro looked up from the wide table where he had spread out a number of
preliminary sketches. Three years had aged him. There were more and deeper lines
in his craggy face, and his tawny-red hair was paler now, some of the loose
curls being almost white. He gave Ragoczy a piercing look, then put down two of
the sheets of paper and came around the end of the table. "I'm Sandro Filipepi,"
he said, touching Ragoczy's outstretched hands but not his cheeks.

"I am Ragoczy," he said, looking around the room.

"Simone said you were here about your uncle." He was plainly anxious to
return to his work. "You resemble him, you know."

"So I have been told." He cast a significant glance at Simone. "Signor'
Filipepi, if I might speak with you alone?"

Aside from one brief questioning look, Sandro accepted this, saying to his
brother, "Simone, I'm certain you have duties that require your attention. When
Signor Ragoczy is ready to leave, I'll call for you."

Simone drew himself up in indignation, turned sharply and punctuated his
departure with a slam of the door.

For some few moments neither of the two men said anything; then Ragoczy
indicated the sketches on the table. "May I look?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Sandro stood out of the way, remarking as Ragoczy picked up two
of the sheets and held them up, "I can't make up my mind. If you've got any
ideas, I'd be glad to hear them. Your uncle had a good eye for art. I hope you
do, too."

Holding the sketches so that the white winter light fell on them, Ragoczy
studied the swiftly drawn charcoal lines, the quick studies of hands and faces
twisted with fear. "What are you planning?"

Sandro rubbed his hair before he answered. "It's supposed to be the
Slaughter of the Innocents
. But try as I will, I can't get the feeling I
want. See there? That hand ought to awake sympathy and pity when you see it, but
all it looks like is one of those studies Leonardo's done of the hands of the
dead. And the face there, that one?"—he pointed to a portion of the paper where
a young woman with wide eyes and open mouth shrieked silently—"it's lifeless.
There's no terror, though there ought to be." He took the paper from Ragoczy and
set it aside. "It's not just this one. Recently all my work is like that. I pray
and I pray but the gift isn't there. It isn't easy anymore. It isn't a
pleasure." He dropped into one of the rough chairs by the wall.

Ragoczy saw at once what Sandro said was true. He felt a pang of grief as he
realized that Sandro knew as well as he did that his work was not what it had
been.

"It's not important. That wasn't what brought you here." Sandro pushed
himself out of his chair and forced a conviviality into his voice that he did
not feel. "I hope you don't mean to tell me that Francesco is dead. It's more
than I could endure today."

In that moment Ragoczy knew he could trust Sandro to keep his secret. "No.
I'm not going to tell you that."

Sandro nodded. "Good. I've lost too many of my friends. I don't want to hear
that another one is gone. Francesco was a remarkable man. I never felt quite
easy about his leaving. I warned him, did you know? I urged him to leave
Fiorenza. But now I don't know. I wish he had stayed. I wish someone had stayed
who might have stopped what's happened. It's happened to Fiorenza. It's happened
to me." He put his hands to his face, then forced them to his sides again. "I
didn't want to believe. I still don't want to. But there isn't any choice now.
And so I accept, and I confess with the others and I paint what's safe. They
leave me alone if I do that. I never knew what it could be like. I didn't know
Fiorenza would change so much."

Ragoczy stood still, listening to Sandro's hurt-filled words. He clenched his
hands to keep from offering the artist comfort.

"Well," Sandro said, mastering himself. "I trust you won't repeat me. My
position here is precarious enough without that." He gave Ragoczy a puzzled
look. "I don't know why I said that to you. It must be your face." He turned
away, adding with a miserable attempt at casual conversation. "Your uncle was a
great mystery, but he was kind. I was always very fond of him."

Gently Ragoczy said, "And I of you, Sandro." This was spoken in his own
beautifully modulated voice, in excellent Italian, without a trace of the
contemptuous manner he had shown to Simone.

Sandro was still for a moment; then he spun around, his golden eyes intent.
"Francesco?"

"Yes." He waited, not knowing what Botticelli's reaction might be. He saw
Sandro's face tighten and doubt pricked at him. Sandro could still give him
away. It would be an easy matter to go to i Lanzi and tell them that the satanic
criminal had returned.

Finally Sandro spoke. His words were soft. "You're a fool, Francesco."

Ragoczy shrugged.

Then Sandro came back around the table and embraced him heartily, touching
cheeks with him and very nearly laughing. "You're the greatest fool in the
world. Gran' Dio, do you know what they'd do to you, those good pious men, if
they caught you?"

"I have some idea," Ragoczy said dryly as he stepped back from Sandro. He did
not add that he'd seen it many times before.

"Then why did you come back?"

"Because," he answered with calm deliberation, "Demetrice Volandrai is in
prison. And I must get her out."

The enormity of this announcement stunned Sandro. When he could speak, he
said, "But you can't, Francesco. You'd be sent to the stake with her."

"Are they sending her to the stake?" Even Ragoczy was surprised at how easily
he asked the question, as if it were nothing more than a matter of upholstery or
a topic for a debate.

"Not yet, but they will." Once again he sank into the chair. "How did you
find out?" He didn't give Ragoczy a chance to answer. "You think I should have
told you? If there had been any way, I would have. But I couldn't. Truly I
couldn't." He broke off and slammed his clenched fist against the table leg.
"That's a lie. I might have found a way. I ought to have found a way. But I'm
too frightened, Francesco. I'm frightened for myself." Self-loathing thickened
his voice. "I didn't know I was a coward until now."

"Sandro. Amico." Ragoczy spoke compassionately. "You needn't do this to
yourself." He came across the room and put his hand on Sandro's shoulder. "I'm
not angry."

"I am." Sandro shifted his shoulder so that Ragoczy could no longer touch it.
"I hate what I've become."

Ragoczy sighed and moved away from Botticelli. He knew he was close to defeat
and he searched his mind for something to say, something that would heal the
rift that gaped between them like an open wound.

It was Sandro who broke the silence. "I can't promise anything, because I may
not keep it. But I will try to help you. Don't rely on me. Don't ask things of
me except silence. Oh"—he nodded—"I know I can do that much. You're Ragoczy's
nephew. What's your name again?"

"Germain."

"Germain Ragoczy. An arrogant foreigner full of pride. I'll do that much. And
it's little enough." He stared out the window, a deep fatigue in his face now.
"What do you want of me, Francesco? What must I do?"

"Why, nothing. Keep my secret." He slung one leg over the edge of the table
and balanced there. "I have to find Demetrice, if she's still alive."

"She is. For a little while. The Domenicani want to be sure there is someone
to burn at their auto-da-fe." He shook his head. "An auto-da-fe in Fiorenza. Who
would have believed it, even five years ago?"

Ragoczy's face was suddenly serious. "When will it stop? Do you realize that
in less than four years Fiorenza had gone backward more than a century?" Idly he
toyed with a brush Sandro had put out to mend. "Do you know where Demetrice is?"

"No. She's not inside the city walls. None of them are." He rose slowly this
time. "I don't know if I can find out. Estasia might know something, and she
might not. And heaven only knows if she'll tell me."

"Estasia?" Ragoczy put the brush aside. "What has she to do with this?"

"Ah." Sandro made a gesture of utter disgust. "Since she's taken vows, she's
the idol of Savonarola's followers. They flock to hear her prophesy, to tell her
visions. She sings hymns and they become as popular as Laurenzo's ditties were
eight years ago."

"Then Donna Estasia is the nun they're all talking about?" He slammed his
fist onto the table. "I should have realized that. Suor Estasia del Mistero
degli Angeli. How like her. How entirely like her." He gave Sandro a rueful
smile. "You're right, amico. I am a fool. I saw the name. I have heard about
her. But I didn't think that Estasia would take the veil. But what else is left
for her? She cannot be satisfied by men any longer, and what else is there but
God and the Devil?"

"She tried the Devil first," Sandro reminded him. "But, of course, she was
bound to. And perhaps she'll tire of God." He picked up one of his sketches and
crumpled it savagely.

Ragoczy waited until Sandro's violence had passed; then he took Botticelli's
hand. "If you can find out where Demetrice is, I would be grateful. But don't
take needless risks."

"No," Sandro said bitterly. "I wouldn't do that."

"Stop castigating yourself," Ragoczy said impatiently. "It won't help any of
us now." His eyes moved over the room, seeing neglect, noticing the many
partially completed works. "How long have you had trouble painting?"