The Palace (16 page)

The heavy doors of il Palazzo della Signoria swung suddenly wide, and
Laurenzo de' Medici stumbled through them into the bright glare of winter
sunshine. He swayed unsteadily a moment, and his long-lidded eyes narrowed; then
he clapped loudly.

"You! Claudio! My horse." His voice sounded horribly shrill in his own ears,
but the young mercenary guard leaped to obey. As he waited, he stared in horror
at his hands. They were still shaking, and the joints were grotesquely swollen.
Even his elbows and knees were tender and enlarged, and despite Ragoczy's
cordial, they hurt when he moved.

"Your horse, Magnifico." Claudio held the sorrel stallion, waiting
expectantly.

In that single, terrible moment, Laurenzo feared he would not be able to
mount without help. "Grazie, Claudio," he snapped, and took the reins, forcing
himself to walk easily. He was close to fainting as he pulled himself into the
saddle, grateful that his sorrel stood still despite his clumsiness. It took all
his will to tighten his hands on the reins, to pull the sorrel's head around. He
let the horse set its own pace through the crowded streets, concentrating on
keeping his seat. It was really such a short distance between il Palazzo della
Signoria and il Palazzo de' Medici that he was determined to get there without
surrendering to the dreadful weakness and pain that washed through him like a
tide of fire.

As he neared la Via Larga and his home, he saw that there was a great deal of
activity near the door, and too late he remembered that two scholars from
Portugal were supposed to arrive that day. He knew it would be impossible to
receive them in his current condition, so as he entered la Piazza San Lorenzo,
he reined Ms sorrel toward the church, away from il Palazzo de' Medici.

Pain disoriented him as he came out of the saddle, and for a moment he stood
stupidly in front of San Lorenzo, not recognizing the Benedettan Father who came
forward, distress and affection in his face. "Mio Laurenzo." He touched
Laurenzo's arm as he spoke. "Is there anything the matter?"

"No," Laurenzo said distantly as he mastered himself. "I am in need of
prayer, Father. So I came here. My brother…"

"Of course," the priest said softly, and led the way into the splendid church
of Brunelleschi that Laurenzo's grandfather had donated. There was still some
construction going on, but it was away from the main body of the church.

Laurenzo stopped before genuflecting. Agony consumed his legs as he dropped
to his knee, and he got to his feet with considerable difficulty. He felt
terribly cold and had to clamp his teeth together to keep them from chattering.
When he knew he could walk without reeling, he approached the altar. "Strange,"
he said softly. "I have worshiped here for most of my life, but never, since he
died here, have I looked at the altar and not seen my brother lying, just there,
bleeding. It was long ago, but as fresh to me as if it had happened yesterday,
or this morning."

"I'll leave you alone for prayer, Laurenzo," the priest said, and reminded
himself to pray for the health and soul of il Magnifico.

"Ah, Giuliano," Laurenzo said to the empty altar, "how I have missed you. And
now, with death plucking at my sleeve, I wish you were here. I could die more
easily if you were here. I suppose I am condemned to burn. The prior of San
Marco certainly thinks so. Have I been vain, Giuliano, to love learning, and
beauty? I am willing to burn for Volterra. It was a despicable act, and my most
sincere repentance will not restore that city. If I must burn, let it be for
Volterra, not for the things I have loved." He stopped and asked in a lighter
tone, "Is that profound faith, or a poet's vanity? Or is it what you used to
chide me for—that I have never learned to lose, that even if I am damned for
eternity, it must be on my own terms."

He looked up at the vault of the church, as he had often done, and admired
the splendor of the building. But neither there nor at the altar did he feel a
holy presence. "There's too much Medici and not enough God," he said, and almost
laughed at his own effrontery. A line of one of his poems came back to him, a
line he had written in yearning and remembered now in despair. "O dio, o sommo
bene, or come fai,/ che te sol cerco e non ti truovo mai?" All his life he had
sought that supreme good, and now, when he wanted it most, it seemed farthest
away. He folded his aching hands and began to pray.

Across la Piazza San Lorenzo in her third-floor room of il Palazzo de'
Medici, Demetrice Volandrai paused in what she was saying to look into the
street again.

"What is it, Donna mia?" Her visitor came across the room to join her at the
window, his black Spanish pourpoint gleaming in the cold light. A narrow ruff of
tied lace framed his features, which had been transformed from the courtesy of a
moment ago to deep concern.

"There. At San Lorenzo." She pointed down toward the active confusion below
them.

"What? There's a mule, which may mean that they have a bishop with them…"

"No. There." Her finger moved a little. "It's Laurenzo's horse."

Ragoczy recognized the sorrel once it was pointed out to him, but he said,
"He probably has business with the superior there."

"But he said he would be at la Signoria…" She stopped awkwardly. "I suppose I
shouldn't let it worry me."

Very gently Francesco Ragoczy took her hand in his. "Donna Demetrice, what
frightens you?"

She looked away, out the window again. "It's nothing, da San Germano." Her
lapse into formality had a different effect than what she thought it would.

"No, Donna, don't cheat your grief." He came closer and his compelling dark
eyes met hers. "I know what you fear. And I fear it too."

She wavered between relief and insult, but relief won. "What did he tell
you?"

"Nothing. I told him." Ragoczy looked down into la
Piazza
. San
Lorenzo again. "Perhaps you're right." He turned back. "Would you like to check
San Lorenzo? If we're wrong, and he is fine, and is with a priest, he'll be
angry."

Demetrice did not hesitate. "Yes. Oh, yes. I don't care if he's furious…" She
went across the little room and picked up a long rust-colored shawl and flung it
around her shoulders. "You see," she said in a hurried apology, "if he only
wanted to talk to the priests, he could have come here, then walked across la
piazza
. But he didn't come back home."

Though Ragoczy shared her apprehension, he said lightly, "And then again, he
may have seen that pack of Portuguese at the door and sought refuge for a moment
before facing them." He followed her out of the room, closing the door after
him.

"Of course," she said reasonably, and with no confidence in her argument,
"and he might have sent the horse back with one of the priests while he went
elsewhere. He often goes to the menagerie after a meeting. Do mind the stairs
here, they're very steep."

"I will." They hurried down to the second floor, and then took a side stair
to the sculpture garden at the rear of il Palazzo de' Medici.

"There's no one here today, grazie agli angeli," she said as she opened the
door to the small courtyard. "It would be useless to go this way if the
sculptors were here." She indicated the door. "If you'll draw back the bolts…"

At last Laurenzo raised his head and sighed. "Giuliano mio," he said softly,
"do you remember that night we went serenading, and you brought two jars of that
strong Spanish wine? It's a miracle we made it home. Our mother was outraged.
That was just after Piero was born, wasn't it? And now Piero is a husband." He
rubbed his face, trying to clear his thoughts. "Your son is fine. You'd like
him. He'll go far in the Church." He leaned forward against the Communion rail.
"We hanged most of the conspirators, including the bishop. Sandro's done a
splendid mural of it—of the hanging. I wrote some verses for the traitorous
swine. But you're still dead, in spite of it. Giuliano." He walked toward the
simple tomb of his brother. "I've always meant to have a proper monument built
for you. I should have done it earlier. But I'm forty-two years old, Giuliano.
How should I know I would have so little time? Do you remember our plan? That
when I was thirty-five I'd leave governing to you, and at last devote myself to
poetry. Maybe even retire into the country? I haven't done that. I wish now I
had." He fingered the plain marble. "Our peace has been expensive, but at least
the price was paid in gold, not lives. You were always so lighthearted. It's
cold in Fiorenza. I left la Signoria just a little while ago. Giuliano, I could
not hold my quill to sign the proclamation for the Nativity festival." Slowly,
painfully, he dropped to his knees beside his brother's tomb, and leaning his
arms against the stone, he hid his head in the bend of his elbows.

Somewhat later he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Startled more than
annoyed, he turned to ask the priest to leave him alone for a little while
longer. "Demetrice," he said, very much surprised.

She had prepared herself to see worse, and so was quite composed in spite of
the ravaged smile he gave her. "Yes. You have to pardon us, but I saw your
horse…"

"Us?" He looked around, somewhat dazed. "Ragoczy," he said as he recognized
the black-clad figure. "But what are you doing here?"

Ragoczy came nearer. "I had been to see Donna Demetrice about her move to
Palazzo San Germane. She's willing to be my housekeeper, and since that consists
mainly of keeping track of my books and paying for household supplies, she will
have time for her own work, and for your library. I am indebted to you, Laurenzo,
for thinking of me." The words were easy and his smile polite, but Laurenzo was
not fooled.

"Thank you, amico mio, but you don't have to indulge me. I am glad you have
come. Both of you." He regarded Ragoczy. "I'm not sure why you did. I have
thought—forgive me if I am mistaken—that you wanted no part of my dying."

There was silence between them in that echoing church. "Very well, Magnifico.
I suppose you have the right." He dragged one of the congregation benches
nearer, oblivious of the nerve-shattering sound the wood made on the marble
floor. He moved the bench close to Giuliano's tomb and sat on it, his back to
the rest of the church. "Many, very many years ago, I watched a cruel…
amusement. Three people I loved with my life were torn apart. There was no way I
could save them or stop their deaths. They died utterly and hideously. I watched
them die." He kept his eyes on Laurenzo's drawn face so that he would not think
again of the Roman Circus, and would not see it, hear it—and worse, smell it, as
he had in his mind so many times in the intervening centuries.

"Were they your family?" Laurenzo asked compassionately.

"They were my blood."

"Ah." Laurenzo leaned against his brother's tomb again. He reached up to
catch Demetrice's fingers in his own, murmuring, "Mio tesoro." Then he turned
back to Ragoczy. "How long ago was it?"

Ragoczy bit back his answer, and said, truthfully, "Less than half my
lifetime ago. The memory is vivid still." He went on in a different voice, "I
vowed after that I would never again care too deeply for anyone. The pain of
loss is too great. So I have had pleasures in abundance, but few joys. I have
had study and learning, and travel. I have had things of beauty to treasure. And
music, always music."

"But alone?" Laurenzo said, and needed no answer. "Your song— I remember. Mio
caro stragnero, how sad that you are still a stranger." He tried to rise then,
but his weakness prevented it.

Ragoczy was glad to have an end to this uncomfortable intimacy. He got to his
feet, saying, "Demetrice, il Magnifico wants our assistance. You get on that
side. Take him under the arm, as I do, and we'll help him to his feet. Laurenzo,
if you will walk between us, I promise you won't fall. And all Fiorenza will be
jealous of the favor you show us." Already he was on one knee beside Laurenzo,
his hands in place. He waited while Demetrice readied herself.

"I hate this… this weakness," Laurenzo said with quiet venom.

Neither Ragoczy nor Demetrice was offended. "There are times, Magnifico…"
Ragoczy said as he nodded. In a sudden, upward pull Laurenzo was on his feet
between his companions. "There are times when even the most despised things have
value."

Laurenzo was leaning heavily on both of them as he marshaled his strength.
After a short silence he asked slowly, "Can I bargain, Francesco? I know there
is no hope for me, and little help, either. It's not the pain—your cordial still
works well enough for that. But is there a way I can cheat my death, if only for
a little while?"

"No one can cheat death forever," Ragoczy said in a strange voice, and gave
an odd, bitter laugh. "But there are ways to borrow time, a little time. It
cannot be long." He could not bring himself to say how very few weeks his friend
had left.

"But there is a way to have a month, isn't there? Or a few days?" His
desperation distorted his features.

"If there is anything that can be done, I will do it. Believe that." With a
nod to Demetrice, they began to walk with Laurenzo to the door.

"I haven't crossed myself," Laurenzo said as they moved to the back of the
church. "I must."

"Magnifico, God knows your condition," Ragoczy said almost angrily. "He
knows, and if He is just, as your faith says He is, He will not mind if you
don't acknowledge Him at the door."

Demetrice's manner was more calm. "Lauro, you praise charity and tolerance in
others. Show the same to yourself."

Laurenzo allowed himself to be persuaded, saying ruefully, "I feel like an
old man. My bones ache, my fingers are twisted, I totter along between you. I
look on death, and fear possesses me, but there's also a sense of deep relief."
He stared down at his hands, and then draped his arms across his friends'
shoulders. "I used to have such beautiful hands. They made up for my face,
almost. Now look at them. They're gnarled as trees. Well, God
will
teach me humility before my life is over, I suppose."