The Palace (9 page)

Lodovico, remembering that he had claimed to be hungry, was the first to
accept this invitation, hurrying out of the room into the lamp-lit dusk of the
palazzo.

Only Gasparo waited. "I will want to talk to the Patron, Ruggiero, and
discuss this document."

Ruggiero's expression was one of faint surprise. "Do you have objections now
that you have signed it?" he wondered aloud.

"No. But I wish to know how the conditions will be met, and when we will be
able to arrange a way to make payments."

"Well," Ruggiero said, "he should be back within the hour, and if you like,
you may wait for him. Or, if you prefer, tomorrow morning he will spend an hour
with you."

Gasparo remembered the meal waiting below. "The morning will be fine." He was
about to leave, then added, "If he comes before we are finished with the
prandium, I'll talk to him then." He reached for a sack and put his tools into
it, humming and occasionally breaking into song. He paid no attention to the
alchemist and houseman until he interrupted himself. "That's been in my mind all
day. Have you ever had that problem? You get a song into your thoughts, and do
what you will, it won't leave?" He shook his head, stowed the tied sack near the
sawhorses and went off singing in earnest.

Ruggiero smiled broadly and looked at Joacim Branco. "Did you recognize it,
that song?"

The Portuguese alchemist frowned severely. "I did. These damned Fiorenzeni
have not the least respect for genius. Singing the verse of Dante as if it were
some trivial ditty." He snorted his disgust as he put the document in the wide
sleeve of his houppelande.

"You're offended?" Ruggiero shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps I'm
perverse, but I like it." He gestured for the alchemist to precede him out of
the room.

"It is all very well for you to laugh," Joacim Branco said, "but it is
typical of these people." He was silent, and when he spoke again, it was on
another subject. "The wagons have arrived. I told them to wait in the stables."

"Very good." They were descending the grand staircase now, and Ruggiero
looked carefully about. "The largest of the boxes should go into the second
hidden room. The others can wait for my master to dispose of as he wishes."

The tall alchemist walked on without speaking, but as he and Ruggiero crossed
the courtyard, he said, "I have studied the Great Work all my life, but never
have I known of another artifex who slept with his mattress on raw earth, or
lined his shoes with earth, or who mixed earth with the substance of his house.
Where is the merit in that?"

Ruggiero was unperturbed. "It is a discipline of his own. My master wishes
always to remember the earth from which he sprang. All flesh is clay," he
reminded Joacim Branco. "It is the earth that nurtures, that sustains him."

Joacim Branco scowled. "I understand that. But the Great Work should
transcend earth."

"My master would not dispute that." He stood aside and let the alchemist pass
him as they entered the narrow hall that led from the courtyard to the stables.

"It is well that he knows his limitations, and is not filled with pride,"
Joacim Branco said, somewhat mollified. "I find his austerity excessive, but his
intent is good."

"I shall tell him you think so," Ruggiero murmured, and entered the stables.

There were three heavily laden oxcarts in the stables and each was driven by
two draymen in Venezian clothing. "Well met, Cristofo," Ruggiero said to the
horsemen who had been the escort. "How was your journey?"

"About what could be expected," Cristofo answered casually as he swung out of
the saddle. "There were two attempted robberies. I tell you, the brigands on the
roads are becoming dangerous. We fought them off, of course, and accounted for
ourselves successfully. But Sforza of Milano should look to his travelers.
Things were better when i Visconti ruled there." He shrugged philosophically.
"The athanor is in the second wagon, and we put the jewels there, too. Is it too
late to get a meal?"

"No. There is food, if you want to take your draymen to the kitchen. The
cook's name is Amadeo and he is expecting you."

Cristofo motioned to the men with him. "We eat," he said laconically.

Ruggiero watched while the men left the wagons; then he told Cristofo where
to find the kitchen.

When they were alone with the oxcarts, Joacim Branco began his inspection. He
moved from wagon to wagon, lifting lids and handling the various things he
found. The athanor particularly delighted him. "I have never seen one better
made. Surely we achieve the Egg in this. Ragoczy does well."

"I'm pleased you approve," Ruggiero said, but his sarcasm was lost on Joacim
Branco.

"We must start at the next new moon. It would be wrong to wait longer." He
touched the bricks of the athanor lovingly, lingeringly. "This is superb."

Ruggiero did not dispute anything Joacim Branco said, but when the men
returned from their meal, he made sure it was the largest, earth-filled box that
was moved first.

"But the athanor…" Joacim Branco protested.

"My master wants his orders followed." Ruggiero spoke gently. "He said that
the largest box should be moved first, to his room. I intend to do as he
wished."

Joacim Branco hesitated, then came down from the oxcart with the athanor.
With ill-concealed annoyance he helped the draymen move the largest box to
Ragoczy's room on the second floor of Palazzo San Germano.

Text of a letter from Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola to the French
scholar Jean-Denis Gastone de Sangazure:

To that most able classicist and scholar, Pico della Mirandola sends Platonic
greetings, and asks that Gastone de Sangazure remember him to his distinguished
friends of the University of Paris.

It has been much too long, my friend, since we have exchanged letters, and I
know that in part blame must fall to my own laziness. It is to be hoped that
this will remedy some of the trouble and redeem me in your eyes.

Fiorenza is much the same, which is to say that it is always changing. There
is a scheme afoot to widen more of the streets, but that will mean demolishing
more buildings, and the Signoria is reluctant to do so. There is also the new
bridge which everyone wants to design and build. It will be west of the others,
and the first foundations have been laid, but the bridge itself will take some
time to finish, if only to accommodate all the discussion.

Laurenzo has obtained a number of manuscripts in French and has set his
cousin Demetrice
VoJandrai
to translating them
. If only you were
here, you might have that pleasure. But if Laurenzo's library cannot lure you
from Paris, nothing can.

How I wish you had been with us last week. It was a pleasant week, with the
season just beginning to turn. On Wednesday Laurenzo decided to explore some of
the ancient ruins on the hills above Fiorenza. He finds the works of that lost
civilization fascinating, and wanted to search for various artifacts. Angelo was
not here, for he is still buying manuscripts for Laurenzo, and has been in
Ferrara for more than a month. But Ficino was available, and I, and that foreign
alchemist, Ragoczy. The four of us made up a party and rode into the hills.

At first we found only crumbling walls and a few stretches of paving with
grasses shooting up between the stones. But then, in a curve of a hill, very
much secluded and out of the way, we came upon a building, and though it was
roofless, most of the rest was intact and remarkably well-preserved.

You can imagine Laurenzo's delight. He was off his horse and almost into the
building before the rest of us knew what was happening. Ragoczy was not far
behind him, and stopped Laurenzo from entering, reminding him that stone that
old is often unsafe. Laurenzo was grateful for the caution, but decided to
explore the building, trusting that San Cosmo and San Damiano, who have been
the Medici patrons for generations, would not fail him now.

The building was an odd one, filled with strange objects we'd never seen
before, which Ragoczy suggested might be religious or votive offerings. It was
as acceptable an explanation as any, for the place did have the look of a
temple.

After an hour or so, we were prepared to leave when an incredibly old man,
terribly wizened and filthy, came hurrying over the brow of the hill, yelling at
us, and making gestures in his anger that were as comical as they were useless.
When he had come up to us, he was quite purple with rage. He called us defilers,
profaners, sacrilegious fools for entering a temple of the undying thing. I
could not follow half of what the creature said. So overwhelming was his passion
that he struck out at Laurenzo with a small club he carried. Of course there was
no way he could have injured Medici, but apparently Ragoczy didn't realize this.
He moved his horse between the old man and Laurenzo and told him, quite calmly,
to stop at once.

You would not have believed the change in the old man. In one instant he was
as ferocious as Mars, and in the next he cringed and went whiter than his smock.
He begged Ragoczy to forgive him and promised to serve him better. He apologized
for the state of the temple and told him that there were so few Rasna left that
worship had been abandoned.

Marsilio Ficino and I were nearly overcome with laughter. Laurenzo said it
was unkind to mock the mad, though he was amused himself. But Ragoczy was very
much alarmed. You must understand that the old man had fallen down in complete
prostration before him and kept calling him the undying lord, and asking
forgiveness because there was no blood on the altar.

At first Ragoczy tried to reason with the old man, but when the fool tried to
cut his throat as an offering to Ragoczy, it was too much for the foreigner, and
he leaped out of his saddle and forcibly restrained the old man, saying that
such an offering was not acceptable to him. He succeeded in calming the old man
(he has quite a way, Jean-Denis, for all that he is lacking in height and
dresses with monkish restraint), and then urged us to depart before the old man
could again become aroused.

Laurenzo commended Ragoczy for his compassion, and Ragoczy suggested that
perhaps the Good Sisters at Sacro Infante might be willing to take charge of the
old man. They are Celestiane, you know, and often care for the mad. Laurenzo
agreed and has written to the Superior of Sacro Infante, though what the outcome
will be, no one knows.

I leave for Roma next month, and will stay there until my petition is heard.
I will be some little while, I think. If there is anything you want from there,
such as books or information, I beg you will send me a list. I've included a
list of books I would like to have, and if you should discover any of them, pray
buy them and I will repay you with money or in kind. A letter to il Cavaliere
Benedetto Gian-Rocco Fredda da Modena near Castel Sant'Angelo will find me most
quickly.

Do not follow my example, Jean-Denis, but let me hear from you often and
soon. I know I have been shamefully lax, but perhaps your expert example will
spur me to better efforts, though I make no promises. But in spite of my
inattention, you may be sure that this brings you my warmest friendship and deep
respect.

Giovanni Pico della Mirandola

 

In Fiorenza, October 1, 1491

 

P.S. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Guardian Angels, and there is a great
celebration planned, including a palio. A race like that one certainly puts
Guardian Angels to the test. Two men were killed in the palio last year.

There had been rain earlier but now the clouds were clearing and the people
of Fiorenza were ready for the great palio. All along the tortuous route they
waited at windows, in protected doorways and loggias to see the maddened plunge
of two dozen saddleless, bridleless horses and their honored riders. Even the
Osservanti Brothers were watching at the door of Ognissanti, their brown cowls
hiding anticipatory smiles.

From his vantage place at the end of the course, Laurenzo de' Medici waited
and cursed the cold. His knuckles were more swollen than usual and the cold made
them ache. He turned to his son, saying, "I'll be glad when you're willing to do
all this. Perhaps next year. Then I can have more time for my poetry and
library."

Piero shrugged somewhat petulantly. "I don't like palios," he remarked to the
air. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't insisted."

Laurenzo felt anger well up in him, and resisted it. "No, neither do I. But
it is Fiorenzan, and we are Fiorenzeni, you and I. Remember that this is a
Repubblica, and that the Signoria rules here."

At that Piero laughed. "They're all picked men. They'd do whatever you tell
them."

"Perhaps. But if I acted contrary to the good of the city too often, I would
be exiled in short order. Make no doubt about it, my son. We rule on
sufferance."

"If you're worried, become a Grand Duca under the protection of France.
You've been offered it. You can claim it."

Laurenzo di Piero de' Medici looked at his firstborn son as if he was seeing
him clearly at last. "I have no desire to be anything but a citizen of Fiorenza.
To be a creature of the King of France repels me." He studied Piero's beautiful,
haughty face, frowning slightly.

"Oh, well, it would probably be more stupid than this is, so perhaps you're
right." He turned away and heard the muffled clap of a cannon and the great
shout from Ponte Vecchio. "They've begun."

"Sta bene," Laurenzo said fatalistically and forced himself to smile broadly
at Marsilio Ficino, across the Piazza del Duomo.

Ficino returned the smile, and waved. He was in a second-story window,
leaning precariously out of it. Even at that distance he could see that
Laurenzo's hands were giving him trouble. He frowned a moment, then turned his
attention to the narrow streets, listening for the cheer and cries that marked
the progress of the race. From the shouts, he guessed that the horses had
crossed il Ponte Vecchio and were now turning from la Via por Santa Maria onto
la Via della Terme. That treacherous left-hand turn would have casualties, he
thought, and had his thoughts confirmed by a sudden outburst of screams.