The Palace (43 page)

There was a flash of indignation that died as quickly as it appeared. "About
half a year. Since I've given in to them, I'd guess." He opened his hands in
resignation. "There isn't much left in me. I'm over fifty, did you know? I
haven't the strength I used to have." Turning away, he stared out the window
into the pale glare of the sky.

"If I found you a patron somewhere else, would you leave?"

Sandro did not turn to ask, "By patron do you mean yourself?"

"Perhaps. There are others who would be pleased to employ you."

The tilt of his head showed that Sandro was considering this. "If I could
paint still, yes. But what I'm doing now isn't worthy of patronage. Only the
priests like it, and those who want to barter for heavenly favor." He snorted
with disgust and did not see the sadness of Ragoczy's expression. It was a while
before he spoke again. "Do you still have the
Orpheus
I did for
Laurenzo?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Would you let me have it again?" He asked this awkwardly and refused to face
Ragoczy when he spoke.

"Why do you want it?"

Sandro clung to his elbows and said miserably, "There is to be a Bonfire of
Vanities on the fourth day of March. You knew that? And I have sworn to burn my
pagan and fleshly works, or those that I can put my hands on."

"That's a stupid joke," Ragoczy snapped.

Sandro's golden eyes met his dark ones. "It's not a joke. I have sworn to
burn those works that are deemed vain."

"No." Fury and devastating sorrow warred in him. "Why? What possessed you?
You can't do it." He turned on Botticelli. "Answer me. Why?"

As his big shoulders sagged, Sandro leaned back against the wall.

"Because then they'll leave me alone. If I burn the paintings, they'll forget
me." He spoke in a calm, flat tone. "You haven't been here, Francesco. There are
times I think I'd sell my soul for peace."

"That's what you have done." Ragoczy took an angry step forward. "It isn't
worth it, Sandro. Peace is too small a gain." Suddenly there was hurt in his
eyes and his next words were a plea. "Sandro. Listen to me. You haven't the
right to do this. They haven't the right to ask it of you. It's worse than
killing children, because children at least can defend themselves. But art, art
goes into the world unarmed, vulnerable to every quirk of fate, and it must
survive only by its power to move men not to destroy it. You wonder why you
can't paint the
Slaughter of the Innocents
? Think of what you're doing
now. It's the same thing. But this is more evil, for even Herod didn't insist
that the families put their children to the sword. Look. Sandro. There is so
little in this world that is beautiful and so much that is hurtful. But the most
fragile beauty can be infinitely stronger than everything that has been done
with blood and fire and sword, and neglect." His chest felt tight and he paused
to swallow against it. "No one—no one—has the right to destroy what another has
done. And to make you destroy your own work…" Again he stopped, and his voice
was coldly level when he said, "I believe in neither heaven nor hell. Yet I wish
there were hell, and that its greatest tortures were reserved for men like
Savonarola. Forswear your oath. Abjure it. If not for yourself, Sandro, then for
the sake of your work."

Through this Sandro had stood silent, his eyes not quite looking at Ragoczy.
He crossed his arms, waiting for Ragoczy to stop, and when at last he did,
Sandro said, "Perhaps you'd better leave now."

"Sandro…"

"No. I've made my bargain. I'll keep it and be damned." He took quick, jerky
steps to the door and held it open, calling for his brother. Before Simone
appeared, he turned to Ragoczy and said in a soft, fierce whisper, "Never say
anything to me about my work again. Ever. For the sake of Demetrice, I'll keep
your secret, but ask nothing more of me. Now go." He waited until Ragoczy had
come to the door.

"Sandro," Ragoczy said. "I beg you."

"Good-bye, stragnero," Sandro said, and went back into his studio, closing
the door behind him.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Olivia, written in
the colloquial Latin of imperial Rome:

 

To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus, Olivia sends loving, exasperated
greetings.

What in the name of all the gods is the matter with you? You got out of
Fiorenza by fortunate chance with the threat of burning over you. And now you
have gone back. Have you forgotten that if you burn, you die the true death, as
surely as if your head were severed from your body, or your spine crushed? And
if you have not forgotten, why have you returned there?

Yes, yes, I know. You are in disguise. You've taken precautions. But how do
you know they'll be successful? Don't remind me that I worry too much. One of us
had better worry, and you seem to be incapable of it.

Here is the information you wanted. Your letter reached me in good time. The
ship from Venezia to Napoli had good winds and surprisingly calm seas, and your
associate Gian-Carlo brought it to me with all speed. What a beautiful man he
is, Sanct' Germain. It would be a pleasure to make him one of our blood. But
since you haven't, I restrained myself as well. I gather he doesn't know about
you. He called you an alchemist and a shipowner, but nothing else.

Alessandro VI very much wants to enforce the excommunication of Savonarola.
Apparently he tried to bargain with the Domenicano first, offering Savonarola a
cardinal's hat, provided that all preaching stop and that Savonarola leave
Fiorenza and come to Roma (where he can be more truly watched). I understand
that Savonarola's reply was that he preferred a martyr's crown to a cardinal's
hat. You may be sure that as soon as it is possible, Alessandro will arrange it.
Certainly Savonarola's rule in Fiorenza cannot last much longer, not with the
Pope against him. For say what you will about the Borgia carnality and
corruption, he is still the Pope and has the full authority of the

Church behind him. Girolamo Savonarola is a madman, if he thinks he can defy
the Pope, even so unholy a Pope as Alessandro VI.

There is a movement afoot now, promoted by His Holiness and by young Cardinal
Giovanni de' Medici, to bring a charge of heresy against Savonarola. It would be
simple to demonstrate it: resistance to Papal edict is heretical, and it is very
well known that Savonarola has continued to preach, to serve Mass, to use the
Church as the base of his authority. You may be certain that by summer Rodrigo
Borgia (or Pope Alessandro, as he prefers to be called) will have his revenge.

I don't know how the Fiorenzeni stand on this matter, but I warn you, my dear
friend, that the Pope will not hesitate to use all the force at his command to
bring down Savonarola. He may send troops if Fiorenza will not give up their
Prior di San Marco. There has been too much flaunting of the power of Roma and
the Pope. This Borgia pope is willing to go to war, if that is necessary, to put
an end to the rule of Savonarola.

Are you demented, that you insist on this mad course? Believe me, Savonarola
is desperate. He has very little time to finish his work, and if that includes,
as you say it does, the trial and burning of his own set of heretics, there will
be no one safe from accusation. If by some fluke you actually manage to convince
Fiorenza that you are your own nephew, you will still be suspect, being an even
more uncertain figure than your "uncle" was.

I've spoken to His Holiness, and he has promised to send orders to Fiorenza
specifically forbidding the trial and burning of heretics until the state of
Savonarola's faith is determined. He has also assured me that he will require
the immediate release of all those held in prison. It should be no later than
March 17 when the documents arrive. Because of the seriousness of the situation
in Fiorenza, the Pope has scheduled the issuing of those orders for seventeen
days from today. The only thing he has ever done more quickly was arrange his
daughter's marriage. In less than two months, Demetrice will be free.

If you were nothing to me, your danger and foolish loyalty would mean little.
But you are precious to me. And one of the reasons you are precious, I admit it,
is that you are willing to risk everything for those you love. So pay no
attention to my railing at you. Do as you must. As you did for me, so long ago.

My dearest, dearest friend, guard yourself well. I wish you good fortune. I
wish you success. I wish you victory.

Olivia

 

In Roma, the 26th day of January, 1498

There were patches of snow at the side of the road and Ragoczy's breath came
in steamy puffs as he urged the white mare up the hill. The sky overhead was
slate-colored and fading quickly as the afternoon waned.

"This is the last one, Gelata. If there's nothing here, we'll go back to
Fiorenza." He gave the mare a reassuring pat and then once again turned his
attention to the old, narrow road.

He had been riding into the hills for the last four days, ever since he had
had a short note from Sandro telling him that all accused heretics were being
kept in one of the old castles in the hills. He had not learned which one, but
he gathered it could not be more than about three hours' ride from Fiorenza, for
monks were able to go there and return on the same day.

Today he had ridden eastward, and had found a number of villas, a few outpost
forts, one of which was almost certainly now being used as a base by one of the
gangs of brigands that had become the plague of travelers.

As he rounded the next bend, he caught a glimpse of stone fortifications, of
the sort built in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He pulled Gelata to a halt
as he looked ahead, searching for signs of life. Then, cautiously, he dismounted
and led Gelata away from the road. He was glad now that she was white, for in
the forest, against the patches of snow, she was harder to see. When he was sure
she would be safe, he tied her reins to a tree and began to make his way toward
the battlements he'd seen.

As he moved through the trees he reminded himself that this might be just
another dead end. He had been hopeful the first few times he'd investigated old
castles, but his hope had proven groundless and now he had resigned himself to a
long search. His first inclination had been to follow the Domenicani Brothers
from San Marco, but he had heard they often used devious routes to avoid being
followed, and for that reason he knew they would be easily alerted if they saw
him. So he had chosen this way, a tiresome search, and only on days when the
Domenicani Brothers did not leave Fiorenza.

The stone walls rose up near him now, great solid blocks of stone with short,
squat arches marking the windows and door. Smoke belched from three of the
chimneys and Ragoczy was mildly encouraged. At least the castle was occupied. He
wondered if it could be another brigand stronghold, and rejected the idea at
once. A castle was too obvious. And there had been no sentries, no guards to
give the alarm at his approach.

A sound stopped him, the sound of chanting. He stood still, hardly breathing.
The chanting grew louder, and Ragoczy moved nearer the shadow of the wall. From
this vantage point he had a glimpse of the inner courtyard beyond the open sally
port a few steps beyond him. As he watched, a procession of more than a dozen
Domenicani crossed the courtyard and entered what Ragoczy assumed to be the
castle chapel on the far side of the courtyard.

When the monks were all out of the courtyard, Ragoczy moved quickly,
beginning a swift search of the outside of the castle. For part of the way he
had to cling to the walls of the castle, a rocky drop behind him. He was more
than halfway over the cliff front of the castle when he heard a sound. Again he
froze, glad that his greenish-brown cloak blended so well with the rocks.

The noise was repeated, a sound barely human. Somewhere not far from
Ragoczy's precarious hold on the stone of the castle, a man was coughing.

Ragoczy looked up. About two arm-lengths above he saw a narrow, barred
window. A little farther along the wall there was another, and another beyond
that. Patiently he began to climb higher, his small feet finding purchase on the
stones where a weaker man would not have the strength or the ability to move.
His progress was slow, but before the sunlight had wholly been swallowed by the
clouds and dusk, he had come even with the first window. He took hold of the
bars that covered the window, and pulled himself across the window, looking into
the narrow, dark cell beyond.

The man in the cell coughed again and the fetters which secured him to the
wall chinked softly. As far away as he was from the prisoner, Ragoczy knew the
man was ill and was likely to die. He considered breaking into the cell and
carrying the man to safety. But he knew from the sound of his coughing that
there was little chance the man would live, even if he were put into a warm bed
immediately and given every available medicine. Ragoczy's face darkened, and
reluctantly he moved on.

The next cell held two men, brothers, by the look of them. They stared at
each other in sullen silence, fear and hatred almost palpable in the clammy
stone room.

After that there was a woman, an old woman in tattered rags. She knelt on the
uneven stones that were her floor and prayed, her ancient rosary moving swiftly
through her fingers.

Ragoczy had come to the farthest point of the castle, at the steepest part of
the cliff. A little farther beyond, level ground waited. There were two more
windows, but the forces of wind and rain had smoothed the stone so that moving
over it, no matter how carefully, was far more dangerous than the rest of the
wall had been. He waited while he steadied himself, gathering force for the
climb. Then he started to inch his way toward the next window.