The Palace (51 page)

"They asked me questions. The same questions over and over. It made no sense.
And then they made me watch while they examined another woman, an older woman.
She had refused to answer their questions at all, and so they were doing hideous
things to her, with heated irons. Her skin. The smell." Suddenly she gagged and
leaned against the wall. "When she fainted, they told me that if I would not
admit my heresy, they would brand me. And worse." Her legs grew weak and she
dropped onto the straw of her pallet, shivering uncontrollably.

He sank down beside her. "Gioia mia." Carefully, kindly he drew her into his
embrace. "You have much courage, Demetrice, and I honor you for it. And I
promise you with my blood that I will not let them kill you. Not now or ever."
This time his kiss was more urgent, evoking a response from her.

A gust of wind filled her cell and the cold drove her more tightly against
him. "Don't leave me, San Germano," she whispered into his shoulder.

"I won't." He smoothed her hair back from her face and asked "Shall I lie
beside you to keep you warm, be your companion for tonight? Or do you want…
more?"

"Can you just lie beside me?" she wondered aloud.

"Of course. I would prefer to love you, but that, amica mia, is up to you.
Either way, I will not leave you unless you tell me to go." His voice was low,
persuasive, musical. With an effort he refrained from touching her.

She stared down at the manacles binding her wrists and the chains attached to
the bracket sunk deep into the wall. Her arms ached abominably and her head felt
like ice. "I hate this," she said with loathing in her voice. She hesitated,
then thrust both hands toward Ragoczy. "Unfasten them. But only if you can lock
them before you go."

"Certainly," he said, and took great pains as he pulled the fetters apart.
"You see? I need only put this pin back, so, and they will lock as well as
ever." As he spoke he kissed her arms where the metal had chafed her. "Now, cara
Demetrice," he said with more ease than he felt, "what do you want me to do?"

He had removed his short mantle and reached to put it over her shoulders, but
she drew back as it touched her. "It's wet!"

"Yes. It is raining tonight," he said, a sad amusement lurking in his eyes.
"Does it displease you?"

"Oh, no. No. But if your clothes are wet, you might become ill, or take
chill…" She stopped, looking confused.

"That," he said ironically, "is impossible, amica mia."

"Is it? But if you stay that way, in damp clothing…" Then she gave a soft cry
and flung herself into his arms. "I don't care if you're soaking. I don't care
if water poured from the ceiling. Hold me. Dio infinito, hold me." All her
strength was in her arms then, and she ignored the pain of it and pressed close
to Ragoczy, feeling the thick woolen guarnacca and his chest and thighs beneath.
His moist clothes did not bother her at all.

He returned her kisses ardently, lingeringly. His hands sought out the
opening of her penitent's robe, and then, before he roused her more, he breathed
deeply and held back from her. "Demetrice, gioia mia, listen to me. Listen."

She tugged at his clothes, now needing more from him. "San Germano, I don't
mind the damp, truly I don't. The mantle will dry soon enough." Then she saw his
face and knew it was not the wet clothes that concerned him. At once she was
serious. "What is it?" she asked, not touching him, apprehension in every line
of her body.

"You know what I am, Demetrice. And you are still disgusted by it,
occasionally." He saw her objection and hurried on. "I know you weren't
disgusted before. It isn't myself that disturbs you, it's the idea of what I
am."

"But I was wrong. You're not like that at all." She had flushed, knowing how
accurate he was. She was not comfortable with his vampirism, even though he had
given her transcendent pleasure.

"I
am
like that, Demetrice. It's my nature. And if I love you too
often, if you welcome me too much, you will be… tainted by me. If I taste of you
tonight, so soon again, there is some very little danger. Not much, for usually
it takes several… encounters before the transference is possible. But when there
is such intensity, so much love…"

"Are you saying that I might become a vampire?" There was no accusation in
her question. The horrors she had known in the last two days had banished her
more trivial disgust of what he was.

"If we continue this way. Five times, perhaps six at the most, and the thing
is certain." He held her face in his hands, yearning in his eyes. "There are no
words for how I want you. Even the most profound are paltry beside the feeling
that wells in me now as I see you, touch you, feel the sweet weight of your body
against mine. Demetrice, if you could endure to share blood with me, I would
rejoice to have you among my kind. But you shy away at that thought. Even now,
when you've already spent one night in my arms, you think distastefully of what
was done. Oh, you don't forget the pleasure, but the method bothers you." He
dropped his hands to his sides. "If you cannot endure my love, then deny me. For
your sake, deny me."

"Deny you?" She was incredulous. "With the threat of the rack waiting for me?
With the stake to look forward to?" Her laughter became a sob. "I loved one man
with all my being and I lost him. And I thought that no one would ever reach me
so completely again. You, you are what I thought never to find. My memories of
Lauro are as sweet and as bitter as they ever were. But you have given me
another love, as rich as wine. Not only with your body, though that is much more
than I guessed it might be, but with your care. I know how much you risk for
me."

"Do you?" His hands covered hers.

"San Germano, if my life is to end soon, then let me die consumed with love.
I can think of nothing better to know in this world than your love. I want
nothing more."

"And if you live, what then?" He tilted her face upward.

"Then I still want you." As she said it, she knew it was the truth. She moved
back from him, pulling away, but only far enough to open her penitent's robe.

The cell was cold, and gooseflesh rose on her pale skin. Ragoczy saw this,
and reached for his mantle, and then changed his mind, casting the sodden
garment aside. With skillful, loving hands he warmed her and his lips made a
litany of her flesh. There were many hours ahead on this blustery March night
and he took the time this afforded him to discover all the wonder of her, and to
praise her until what passed between them was an anthem that in its beauty
banished fear.

When at last she dozed, replete, in the circle of his arms, she murmured,
"Remember the manacles."

He kissed the curve of her breast again. "I'll remember," he promised, and
gathered her close against him.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Gian-Carlo Casimir
di Alerico Circando.

To his reverend teacher and beloved friend, Gian-Carlo in Venezia sends hasty
greetings to Fiorenza.

I have your orders and I will carry them out as you have instructed me. I
leave this evening for Mestre, will go from there to Padova, then I will travel
south to Bologna, where I will wait for you. I will send a messenger to Fiorenza
if you have not arrived in Bologna by the tenth day of April. Should I discover
that you have been taken by Savonarola's Domenicani, I will make every attempt
to free you, and to that end, I carry a letter from Il Doge Barbarigo. Should
that prove to be useless, I have also the letter from your Roman associate,
Olivia. If I discover that you have died or been killed, I have your burial
instructions and only if your spine is broken or your body wholly crushed or
burned am I to see it laid in holy ground. Otherwise, I am to bear your remains
back to Venezia in the chest you have already provided.

If you have other instructions, or there is a change in what I must do, I
will be at la Locanda dei Sassi Verdi. The innkeeper is named Isidoro da
Rivifalcone, and he is paid to be discreet. Any message you send will be
delivered promptly, and your confidence respected.

Until I see you again, I will faithfully carry out your instructions and pray
for your safe return.

Gian-Carlo

 

In Venezia, the 4th day of March, 1498

Near la Loggia della Signoria the fagots were being stacked, ready for the
Bonfire of Vanities that would begin soon after Mass was over at Santa Maria del
Fiore. Two large troops of Militia Christi supervised the placing of the wood,
while others established barriers in la Piazza della Signoria to keep the
expected crowd at bay. The afternoon was wonderfully bright, preternaturally
clear though the air was cold.

On the north side of la Piazza della Signoria a small group of artists stood
with Sandro Filipepi. One of them, an ugly young man whose powerful arms and
chest declared him to be a sculptor, kept looking at the paintings that were
leaned up against the nearest building. Occasionally he shook his head.

With the artists was the white-haired Marsilio Ficino, his old eyes fading
now both in color and sight. "Botticelli," he said in an undervoice as he
plucked at the artist's sleeve, "don't do it."

Sandro shrugged Ficino's hand away. "I have sworn I would. I have no choice."

The old philosopher shook his head. "You always have a choice. It's immoral
to ask this if you. You aren't bound by your oath, not to an excommunicant
monk." He looked once toward the stacked paintings. "At least spare the
Solomon and Sheba
. It's biblical, Sandro. It's a religious painting."

"Is it?" Sandro asked vacantly. "With Solomon reclining with Sheba, his hand
on her hip and her breasts thrust forward? It's lascivious. Think of the lust it
incites." He spoke as if by rote, the words curiously flat.

"But Solomon loved Sheba. Aren't the prophets and kings in the Testaments
allowed to love anymore?" Ficino saw that Sandro was no longer listening. He
turned away, furious at his own helplessness.

In a little while the Vacca began its slow, mooing toll, calling the citizens
to la Piazza della Signoria. The youths of the Militia Christi gathered together
near their carefully stacked wood and waited for the procession that had just
left the cathedral.

The sound of chanting blended with the droning peal of the bell, casting a
gloomy pall across the bright day. The chanting grew louder, the monks being now
under the spell of the occasion. A few of them danced as the procession neared
la Piazza della Signoria, their bodies moving in strange, almost spastic
gyrations, as if enthralled.

By this time la piazza was quite full and the Militia Christi were once again
enforcing the boundaries they had established earlier. Many people strained to
get nearer, to watch more closely the destruction of the precious Vanities that
were waiting for the flames.

When at last the procession entered la Piazza della Signoria the gathered
crowd was greedily silent. This is what they had come to see. The monks chanted
faster, more loudly, and those devout who watched fell to their knees and began
to pray aloud. The sound of prayer became an antiphony to the chanting and the
sound of the bell. The monks in their black habits over white cassocks moved
around the entire piazza, their chanting becoming a shout. In response the crowd
began a rhythmic clapping. This, too, became faster until the continuous noise
rolled like thunder over the red roofs of the city.

Then, abruptly, all fell silent as Savonarola mounted the steps of la Loggia
della Signoria to address them. They waited while the prior of San Marco glared
at them, while he motioned significantly to the fagots. At last he spoke. "Today
God has given you an opportunity!" He held his hands up to indicate that they
were not to interrupt him. "God has granted you a reprieve that you may repent
at last your great and terrible sins!"

A sigh like the distant sea rushed through the huge crowd. Almost all of
Fiorenza's forty thousand people shared in that sigh, and pressed forward in
anticipation.

"Here! Today! At last you will have an opportunity to show your devotion to
the will of God. Here you will cast away those worldly baubles that bind you to
your sins!" He motioned to the Militia Christi. "These young soldiers of God
will prepare. You will see their piety shining in their eyes as they light the
fires that burn for your salvation!"

The gentle sound grew louder, and more of the monks began to dance. A few
people in the crowd near the front of the barricades began to sway in sympathy
with the dancing monks.

Two bonfires were laid as the monks danced. The Militia Christi worked fast,
the young men eager for the approval of Savonarola and the praise of the
citizens of Fiorenza. The first bonfire was quite large and stood on the south
side of la piazza. But the other was somewhat smaller, on the northeast side of
la piazza, and it was here, on this smaller bonfire, that attention was focused,
for this was where Sandro Filipepi, known as Botticelli, was to burn his works.
Ezechiele Aureliano had been given the responsibility of laying the fire, and he
worked with zeal. He had five young men to help him and he supervised them with
a fine air of authority.

"Sandro, let me take one or two of these away." The voice was soft, gently
modulated, with only a trace of a foreign accent.

Botticelli turned swiftly and saw Ragoczy at his side. "Francesco!"

"Germain," he corrected with a smile. "Let me take two of the paintings.
Spare those. There will still be more than twenty to burn. Surely no one will
miss these."

Sandro's eyes grew hard. "I can't do that."

"Why not? Let me take the
Persephone
. That legend has always
appealed to me. The painting is not offensive. Only the Domenicano's madness
would see it so." He had not spoken loudly, but Sandro had the impression that
he was shouting.