The Palace (36 page)

Gasparo was about to make a stumbling explanation as to why this wasn't
necessary when the door opened once more and Demetrice came back into the room.
She carried a tray with slices of light-colored cheese and a bowl of fragrant
chunks of preserved fruit. There was also a jug of wine on the tray, and a piece
of meat pie.

"Amadeo thought this might be to your satisfaction, Signore Tucchio," she
said as she held the tray out to him. "There is a little table in the alcove
there, and if you set the books on it aside, you'll find it a pleasant place to
eat. I've had many meals there." As she spoke she moved across the room to the
alcove and nodded toward the leather-bound books that covered it. "Just stack
them in the corner."

"Certainly. In the corner." Gasparo hurried to Demetrice's assistance,
pulling the huge volumes into his arms.

Laughing, Demetrice set the tray on the table. "There. You can look out that
lozenge window there. You can see San Lorenzo and Santa Maria Novella if you
lean forward a little." She stood beside the table until Gasparo was settled.
"We'll be working, but don't be disturbed. Nothing very terrible is going on
just now."

Gasparo nodded his thanks and pulled out his knife to eat.

When Demetrice came back to the two beehive-shaped athanors, Ragoczy said to
her very softly, "Elegantly done, amica mia. You're a marvel."

She grinned frankly at his praise. "All Fiorenza knows that foreign noblemen
have no manners." Her light, bantering tone left her a moment as she added, "You
deserve some courtesy, if only from me. You've been kind to me when no one else
was willing to be. And whether it is for Laurenzo or for me, I thank you."

Ragoczy's dark eyes met her amber ones, and there was an enigmatic expression
in them that she couldn't read. "At first, amica mia, it was for Laurenzo. But
no longer." Then, before she could ask him any questions, he picked up one of
the flasks. "This needs more of the oil from Madras added. You'll find it in the
chest there by the hearth."

Demetrice almost fled to the chest, and by the time she had found the oil,
she had regained her tranquillity.

It was somewhat after dark when Gasparo Tucchio at last left Palazzo San
Germane He had been well-fed, and the wine was the best he had tasted in many
days. Ruggiero had engaged him in a game of chess, and Gasparo had played
lavishly and lost with joy.

A low mist had come up from the Arno and it gave the whole city a pale,
unreal splendor, like a kingdom seen in dreams. It also lent an insidious chill
to the air, as Gasparo discovered when he was a little way from Palazzo San
Germane He wrapped his arms over his chest for warmth and listened to the
chanting from Santissima Annunziata. It was not much past the ninth hour, and if
he walked quickly, he would be home before the mist penetrated his clothes.

As he neared the river the mist grew denser, rendering the buildings around
him almost invisible. Gasparo listened intently, but there was little to hear
except the soft murmur of the Arno.

He turned onto a street he was reasonably sure was la Via Tornabuoni. It
would take him to il Ponte Santa Trinita, and from there over the river to his
little house behind Santo Spirito, where the Agostiniano Brothers marked out the
night with prayers and psalms.

As he neared the bridge he heard uncertain footsteps and laughter
accompanying slurred words. There were two women, Gasparo decided, and three
men. If they were discovered together, particularly if they were as drunk as
they sounded, then they would be publicly denounced by Savonarola the next time
he preached. Gasparo felt a twinge of anger at the prior of San Marco, and a
touch of pity for the men and their companions. For a few minutes Gasparo stood
in the fog, an innocent eavesdropper, as the men and women sported together and
in their disordered way debated where they should go to enjoy one another. At
last the party drew away in the fog, and Gasparo realized with a start that he
was bitterly cold.

Now he moved quickly and his old bones ached. He saw the bridge ahead, a
strange, dark shape in the white mists. It was a welcome, though insubstantial
presence, and Gasparo stepped onto it with a certain ill-defined relief.

The few buildings that clung to the bridge loomed over him in the dark, and
the sound of the river was louder, almost like thousands of footsteps, following
him as he crossed the bridge.

When he had almost reached the south side of the Arno, Gasparo stopped,
cocking his head. In spite of the cold he willed himself to remain silent, to
keep from shivering while he listened. For a moment it seemed to him that there
was indeed someone following him, creeping stealthily nearer along the bridge.
But as he forced himself to hear every sound, Gasparo could distinguish nothing
but the noise of the river.

He had just started walking once more when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Frightened and angry, he turned to give his assailant a blow from his clenched
fists. But before his arm was raised high enough to strike, there was a thrust
below his ribs, and a sharp, hot pain spread swiftly, crazily through him.
Bewildered, he took the knife by the handle and tried to pull it out of his
chest. And then he dropped his hands. It was too much work. As Lodovico
approached him, Gasparo opened his mouth to tell him something. But blood ran
out and he could no longer speak. He felt a strange lassitude come over him as
Lodovico lifted him, and slowly, so slowly, raised him over the edge of the
bridge and let him fall lightly, drifting through the fog.

Long before his body splashed into the river, Gasparo Tucchio was dead.

Text of the confession of Donna Estasia Catarina di Arrigo della Cittadella
da Parma, made to Savonarola and published in Fiorenza on the Feast of the
Guardian Angels, October 2, 1494:

In the name of God the Father, Christ the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. This
is the confession of the heinous sins and crimes committed by Donna Estasia
della Cittadella, widow of a merchant of Parma, given of her own free will and
in her own words, without additions, commentary or embellishments.

Gentle Savior, Holy Son of God, grant that my confession is whole, without
any interest beyond the expiation of sin and the redemption of my soul.

For many months I have been visited by devils, and they have led me to great
wrongs. It is the fault of my flesh, which is too easily roused, and which I
have vowed to master with fasting and scourges. I have made my body the house of
sin and men have wallowed there. In my vanity, I have been happy to be
beautiful, desirable, a woman to be looked at with lust in the heart. I have
reveled in the wanton pleasures of lascivious congress, joining my flesh with
the men who have pleased me. What temptation there is in the flesh, the
loathsome, sensuous flesh that lures us all to desecration, to the delirium that
drowns the songs of the angels.

All but one of my lovers have confessed and have repented their debauchery,
and for that reason they should not be shamed by me, though I desire to be free
of the stench of my filthy liaisons. The five men who have made peace with God
are forgiven in heaven and will sin no more. And theirs were sins common to all
of you, the bestial ruttings of animals, sating themselves in their passions on
my body.

In deep humility and utter self-abasement, I beg those good men to forgive me
for the transgression we shared. I urge them to forget the tangle of our limbs,
the frenzy of coupling, the sweat, the sounds, the cries we made in the act.
Their thoughts should never again dwell on the languorous sighs and the
trembling flanks pushed together in heat, the taut sinews, the perfumed nights
in silken sheets.

The devils that torment me do not visit them, and it is just, for it is my
sin that brought them to their error, and their repentance shows me the way to
the Mercy Seat.

Whether the other lover was a devil or a man, I cannot say. He was a
foreigner, a rich stranger who chose, for some unnamed reason, to live among us.
He was a man of great wealth, and for that worldly consideration, such is the
venality of Fiorenza that all accepted the stranger and did him honor.

He came to me first three years ago. He had seen me once, at a distance. We
had exchanged no word. But I knew that he desired me and that he would not be
satisfied until he had possessed me. He importuned me later and I denied myself
to him. He swore a great oath then, declaring that he would ravish me if he had
to kill my cousins to do it.

I dreaded the man. And I feared that he would bring my other lovers to some
hurt, and so I refused to see them again. I hid in my cousin's house and feared
to go abroad because I dreaded finding that foreigner waiting, stalking me as a
cruel lion stalks the baby antelope. Whenever I saw his splendid black clothing,
or heard his soft, accented words, I was ready to swoon with terror. But there
was nothing I could do to escape him. There was no place in Fiorenza safe from
him, for he was an alchemist, and privy to all sorts of forbidden secrets that
gave him powers none but the holiest of men could resist.

At last I could not fight his will. He chose a night when Sandro and Simone
were away and forced his way into the house. Though I tried to defend myself
against him, he prevailed and at last bound me to my own bed. He was of enormous
proportions and he tore my body with his virile member which he thrust into me
mercilessly, spending his seed many times that night. He beat me cruelly with
whips of silk, and forced me to anoint his member with holy oil before he used
me with unnatural brutality.

But this was not enough for him. He came again to my bed, and ravished me in
ways I dare not describe, save to say that sinful men sometimes use boys as he
used me. He told me then that his seed would not fill me with child, but with
devils, that my flesh would be a temple for devils. How much I despaired then,
and how my tears fell when I was alone and none could see them.

Then I hoped to be rid of his passion. I tried to confess, but the devils he
had put into my body gagged me and caused me such torture that I could not
endure the holy words the good priest said to me.

When he came to me the next time, he gave me a vile drink, and I was not in
my senses while he rutted over me. But when I was again able to think and see,
imagine my horror, my complete end of hope as I realized I had been carried to a
church, and there in the dark, with black candles burning, my lover had bound me
to the altar.

It maddened him when I pleaded with him to kill me, but to spare the sacred
objects and building from this depraved, profane use. He silenced me by renewed
violations of my body, laughing when I could not keep from screaming.

When at last his member was depleted, he gathered his spilled seed into the
Chalice and forced me to drink of it. Then he took the crucifix from the wall.
It appalls me even to think of this, let alone describe it, but I must tell you
or the devils in my flesh will overcome me once again. He used the crucifix on
my body as he had used his gigantic member. I was too shamed, too horrified to
cry out, and later, I was driven to madness by the infamy of the acts he had
forced upon me.

Devils have taken my flesh, used my body, and all at his instigation. He has
caused my thoughts to turn away from the joys of heaven and to worship at the
torments of hell.

I have been forsaken by God for my lusts and my sins, and unless there is
more power in the Lord God than there is in the foreigner's devils, I am damned
for eternity.

Pray for me, good Prior. Pray for me and drive the devils out of my flesh.
Chastise me! Show me my vileness! If it will drive out the devils, flay me with
knives! I will endure humiliation, exposure, odium, calumny. Scourge me! Beat
me! Cast out that foreign devil, for it is he who commands the demons in my
body. I will spend the rest of my life on my knees if only to be free of him.

Most heartily I repent my sins, those committed knowingly, and those that
were forced upon me. I admit my transgressions and my errors. I accept the
judgment made on me and will gladly perform any act of contrition demanded of
me. In anguish, in humility, in total submission I await your decision, blessed,
blessed Girolamo Savonarola. You who have never been corrupted in the flesh,
have mercy on me. See my suffering and save me. Save me! Save me!

Verified as a correct and exact transcription of the confession of Donna
Estasia Catarina di Arrigo della Cittadella da Parma, taken at Sacro Infante
September 29, 1494.

Girolamo Savonarola Prior di San Marco Domenicano

In flagrant disregard of half of the sumptuary laws in Fiorenza, Massimillio
had prepared a subtiltie of liver paste which he had molded in the form of a
wreath of laurel leaves, reminding of the friendship Poliziano had shared with
Laurenzo, and he had colored the wreath black with a paste of mashed pepper and
juniper berries. Within the wreath was the name Agnolo Ambrogini Poliziano.

There was little mirth at Palazzo de' Medici this last night of September.
Poliziano's death a few days before had shocked the few remaining Medici
stalwarts, and now there were more rumors about the advance of King Charles of
Francia.

Piero sat at his high table with Ficino and a handful of his Medici and
Tornabuoni relatives, and from his immoderate laughter and the anxious looks his
wife cast him from her place at the women's table, it was plain that he had
drunk more wine than was good for him. He signaled one of the servants to bring
him more of the liver-paste laurel wreath, then he refilled his cup.

"Is that wise?" Ficino asked with the audacity reserved for senior scholars.