The Palace (40 page)

"Another temple, still." Ragoczy dismissed it and looked about the room. "You
must excuse me, Donna Cassandra. You've been very kind to me, and it is
impertinent of me to leave you so rudely, but I see Gian-Carlo at last and
there's much I need to say to him." He bowed swiftly, his formality as minimal
as was possible on such a grand occasion.

"Yes, of course. I will hear about this when you return. And be sure you
speak to the Pole." She waved him away reluctantly, then turned her keen eyes to
a young couple who thought their meeting was unobserved.

Gian-Carlo acknowledged Ragoczy's wave with one of his own and came through
the crowd to meet him. He was resplendent in a short Venezian giacchetta of
turquoise silk shot with gold thread, which was worn above particolored silken
hose of turquoise and white. His shirt, which puffed through the slashes in his
tightly fitted sleeves, was of ostentatious gold silk and his codpiece was
fastened to his belt with shiny white ribbons. He wore a tall velvet cap on his
soft brown hair and at the moment his face was bright with wine and pleasure. He
grinned at his mentor. "Francesco," he said a great deal more casually than was
polite, "I wondered where you'd got to."

Ragoczy took Gian-Carlo by the elbow and whispered to him, "I must talk to
you. Now."

The unfamiliar brusqueness of this command bewildered Gian-Carlo, but he
willingly followed Ragoczy to a smaller room where games of chance occupied one
group of men at a large table. There was a degree of privacy in that room, and
Ragoczy added to it by drawing Gian-Carlo toward the farthest corner.

"It's disrespectful of me to say it, but you look terrible, Francesco. Your
face is the color of chalk. Are you ill?"

"No. It would not matter if I was." He watched Gian-Carlo through narrowed
eyes, wondering how much of a risk this beautiful man of thirty-three was
willing to take for his teacher. He knew that Gian-Carlo was honorable and
sincere, but would he, faced with the threat of imprisonment or death, keep
faith with Ragoczy? Not if he knew the whole of Ragoczy's secret. Once or twice
he had thought to tell Gian-Carlo what he was, and trust that their friendship
would survive the telling. But at the last he had always drawn back, and now he
dared not put Gian-Carlo's loyalty to the test, either with the truth or in
asking him to come to Fiorenza. Even so, the question he asked startled the
young Veneziano. "Do you know where I can get clothes made for me in less than a
week?"

Gian-Carlo scowled. "Have Attilio do it. He does all your clothes, doesn't
he? He's pretty fast."

"No. Not Attilio. He'd question too much. Who does your clothes?"

"I get the cloth from Eugenio, mostly, and Sabina Nimbue makes it up." He
moved uneasily. "Francesco, what's this all about?"

Ragoczy did not answer that question at first. "Would she make up clothing
for me? Quickly? In a week? I'll need a fair number of garments, in the
Hungarian style. And in colors."

"Colors?" Gian-Carlo said, scandalized. "You never wear colors."

"I'm going back to Fiorenza in ten days." This announcement, given as it was
in an offhand way, stunned Gian-Carlo.

"But they'll arrest you." He thought, fleetingly, that Ragoczy was mad or
drunk. But he knew Francesco never touched wine, and that he was frighteningly
sane.

"Only if they know who I am. I will return as… my nephew, I think. Come to
claim his inheritance. That has a probable ring, doesn't it? My heir would go to
Fiorenza if there was a valuable piece of property involved, wouldn't he? My
hair is shorter, and if I speak Italian badly and wear bright colors in the
Hungarian style, there are few who would question me. Not enough of my old
friends are there still. Only Sandro…" He stopped. Why hadn't Sandro sent him
word of Demetrice's imprisonment? He realized that had been worrying him since
Donna Cassandra had shown him Ficino's letter. Marsilio had said nothing about
Sandro, so he had assumed the artist was well, but it might be that Botticelli,
too, had fallen into disfavor with the stringent new regime of Fiorenza.

"Francesco?" Gian-Carlo's reluctant interruption pulled him away from these
new and unpleasant thoughts.

"I will see you have my measurements. Deliver them tomorrow to Sabina Nimbue
and tell her that I will require the garments in eight days. Price is no
concern. She may charge me whatever she must to do the work. If she has to hire
more needlewomen, tell her that I will pay their wages and give them five gold
ducati apiece for every garment finished in seven days or less."

Gian-Carlo shook his head. "I'll do it, if that's what you want, but you're
taking your life in your hands if you return to Fiorenza. How long do you think
you'll go unrecognized? Your housekeeper… what's her name? She'll know you in a
moment."

Ragoczy's face darkened. "She's in prison. That's why I'm going back."

"In prison?" Gian-Carlo scowled and it took him a moment to collect his
thoughts. "If she's in prison, all the more reason for you to stay away. She may
have denounced you already. They're not very kind to alchemists in Fiorenza
recently. What was she sent to prison for? Perhaps she deserved it."

At that moment Ragoczy hated Gian-Carlo, and along with the instant of fury,
he realized with a certain humor that Gian-Carlo had not offered to go with him
or to go in his place. He felt his hatred leave him, and he said very gently,
"If you were the one in prison, would you still feel that way?" He did not
expect an answer, which was just as well, for Gian-Carlo flushed scarlet and
could not meet Ragoczy's dark eyes. "Gian-Carlo, I must go."

"Yes." He muttered the word. "But will you take someone with you? If not me,
Ruggiero? You must not go into that viper's nest unguarded. They might imprison
you as well, even if they believe that you're your own nephew."

Ragoczy shrugged. "I doubt it. They have nothing to gain from that, but they
might not let me stay there very long. That's just as well. If I'm to free
Demetrice, it must be done quickly."

"Francesco," Gian-Carlo said with clumsy kindness, "have you considered that
it might not be possible? That she might already… that perhaps…"

"That perhaps she's already dead?" Ragoczy suggested harshly. "Yes. I've
considered that. I understand there is a scholar who is to attend this
celebration sometime tonight who has recently been in Fiorenza, and I hope he
will give me news."

Gian-Carlo gestured to the crowd in the adjoining room. "One scholar in all
this? How will you find him?"

At that Ragoczy's humor returned a little and he almost laughed. "I
understand he's Polish. It won't be difficult."

"I see." Gian-Carlo had already accepted the fact that Ragoczy was determined
to return to Fiorenza, and decided not to try to persuade him to do otherwise.
His own misgivings were still strong and he wished he had the force of argument
on his side, for he liked Ragoczy and was anxious to learn more from him. But he
inclined his head in elegant capitulation, thinking as he did that although he
knew Ragoczy was the shorter of the two of them, the foreigner always contrived
to seem to be the taller. "Tell me what you want made and give me your
measurements in the morning. You said colors? Do you have any choices?"

"The brighter the better. And of Hungarian cut. If it's possible, at least
two of the roundels should have the pearl embroidery which is still fashionable.
Use my store of pearls if you must. I want it to seem that I'm part of the
Hungarian court."

There was a tacit understanding between Gian-Carlo and Ragoczy that the
Veneziano would ask him no questions concerning his background, but now Gian-Carlo's
curiosity overcame him. "You have been away from your homeland a long time,
haven't you?"

"Yes. A long time." Then, abruptly Ragoczy was himself again. "Gian-Carlo,
see that I have those clothes. Tomorrow I will need to arrange for money, and I
must send a message to Teodoro in Cavarzere to meet me in Chioggia with horses
in ten days. I'll need a good mount. I want to make Pontelagoscuro the first day
and Bologna the second."

At this brutal suggestion Gian-Carlo blanched. "San Filippo, you'll kill your
horse! It's impossible to do in twice the time."

"Teodoro must arrange for changes of mount for me along the way. I still have
horses at Pietramala, don't I?" He had left such matters in Gian-Carlo's hands
the last year when it had seemed unlikely that he would return to Fiorenza for
some time.

"Yes. Dionigi Fano at Il Bosco has them. There are four mares and two
stallions."

"Good." Ragoczy rubbed his hands in anticipation. "What color are they? Is
there one that isn't gray?"

"There's one white mare."

"I'll want her." He saw Gian-Carlo's shocked face and he relented a little.
"If I'm going to survive the viper's nest, as you call it, I must at least
confuse them. Just as I never wear colors, I always ride gray horses."

"A message will go to Teodoro at first light." Gian-Carlo put his hand to his
eyes. "Bright clothes, heavily embroidered, in eight days. Horses ready for you
between here and Fiorenza, and you want the white mare from Dionigi Fano." He
rolled his large blue eyes upward, as if appealing to heaven for comment.

"Very good," Ragoczy approved. "And now I must try to find the Polish
scholar. When I have spoken with him, I must leave. Tell Riccardo to have the
gondola here in an hour."

"I will." With a last, resigned sigh, Gian-Carlo strolled away, his brilliant
smile masking the icy dread he felt.

Text of a letter from Antek Kazielawa to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano,
written in Polish:

To the distinguished gentleman Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano in Venezia,
Antek Kazielawa sends his greetings, and gives himself the honor to relate to
Sr. Ragoczy what he saw and heard while he stayed in the Toscana city of
Fiorenza.

Journeying north from Roma, where I had continued my studies of antique
languages, I arrived in Fiorenza at the end of October and was anxious to learn
more at the library established by Cosimo de' Medici, who was called Pater
Patriae. It was most disheartening that the Medici family is in great disgrace
in the city so that even the books gathered by Cosimo and the magnificent
Laurenzo are held in contempt and suspicion. With the aid of several Francescani
Brothers from Santa Croce —who are opposed to the new order, if I have
understood them correctly and it is not just more of the rivalry between the
Francescani and Domenicani—I was at last granted access to those books of
ancient scholarship which are the topics of my life studies.

Over the years I have so often heard the praises of Fiorenza sung that my
disappointment was all the greater when I discovered how far removed from her
former glory Fiorenza is today. Where before all I heard was talk of the
splendid art, the elegant conversation, the wonderful entertainments, the high
learning, the delights in all things philosophical and graceful, to find the
city so somber, so glum, and practicing an austerity more in line with the lives
of the saints than the Spartans, I fear I was too deeply shocked to understand
at first that this was not typical of Fiorenza.

Much can be blamed on the poor wool and textile trade, which has fallen off
very much of late, and perhaps it is true that poor crops have made fast days
more necessary. There is also a certain unrest which is the heritage of the
French. But most of the unfortunate erosion of scholarship and the equally
lamentable decline of the arts comes from the new religious fervor that had
taken control of almost all the people.

While I was there I saw many religious processions, but the strangest of all
was of Domenicani Brothers who danced through the streets, garlands on their
heads, singing hymns and beseeching God to visit them with His Holy madness. All
the while their prior, one Savonarola, who has been excommunicated, marched with
them and exhorted them to pray and to accept the presence of the Spirit of God.
No one attempted to stop this prior, though it is a sin to hear him.

It was at the height of this strange procession that Suor Estasia del Mistero
degli Angeli was called by Savonarola to come forth and speak of her visions.
Even the monks who had been dancing paused and were rapt in the glory of her
words. She was faint with fasting and there were scourge marks on her face
(which is all of her that could be seen, for this pious woman covers her hands
as well as the rest of her body, so that she cannot seek contact with any but
the Most High), but she spoke with an elation that wholly entranced her
listeners. Then she began to sing a new hymn, and the monks took it up, and were
soon dancing as if in a trace. All those who saw this fell to their knees in
awe, and Savonarola called upon all of Fiorenza to bear witness to the Power and
Might of God. As Suor Estasia finished her hymn, she fell at Savonarola's feet,
which she kissed with the greatest devotion before she swooned, and had to be
carried away by her Celestiane Sisters, who have their convent a little way
beyond the city walls. Since Suor Estasia has brought Sacro Infante so much
fame, the Sisters have had to build another wing on their hospital where they
minister to those who are not whole in their minds. The Superiora, one Suor
Merzede, has observed that there seems to be more madness in the world, not
less, and for this Savonarola rebuked her severely and has suggested that since
Suor Estasia has shown the greatest evidence of grace, it is she and not Suor

Merzede who should head the convent. But there Suor Estasia begged the Prior
di San Marco to forgive Suor Merzede and to recognize her good works.

Those who saw and heard this and were not moved by this outpouring of the
Mystery of God were later denounced and made to confess their errors before all
the people who filled Santa Maria del Fiore, their cathedral. Public penance was
imposed on them and various Domenicani Brothers were sent to harangue the few
who denied the holiness of the day.

While I was there in Fiorenza, I was twice visited by a troop of young men,
not yet of an age to be bridegrooms, who entered my quarters and searched for
vanities and other religiously proscribed objects and texts. It is their custom
to do so, and they have been given authority to enter everywhere by i Priori and
la Signoria, who are governors of la Repubblica Fiorenzen, but who are much
influenced by the Domenicano Girolamo Savonarola.

Recently those who will not submit to the new rule have been subject to more
persecution than they have felt before, and I gather that for some time their
treatment has been harsh. The accusation of heresy is being made and it is the
intent of the Domenicani to try and judge all those who have had that offense
laid at their door. Many have been detained in prison, but as yet there has been
no further action taken against them (or, rather, there had not been when I left
Fiorenza, which was just after the Feast of San Nicolo in early December), and
it had been agreed to defer the matter until the Holy Season of Christ's Birth
had been celebrated and those facing accusation have time for reflection on
their errors.

I trust that this account is acceptable to you. Your Polish is so excellent
that I've assumed you read it as fluently as you speak it. If I was in error,
you have only to tell me and I will render this into Latin. It is not common to
find a man in Italy who speaks Polish as well as you do. Most of the time
Italian or Latin is spoken, and those of us with foreign tongues must do as best
we can to be understood. It may be that because you are a foreigner, too, you
have so much sympathy for my position. I admit that Italian often bewilders me,
since it lacks much of the order of Latin. Is it because you travel that you've
learned my language? Forgive the question. I know it is not appropriate of me to
ask.

If there is any more information I might give you, Sr. Ragoczy, I beg you
will do me the honor of coming to the house of Lino Vazzomare near San Gregorio.
I assure you that it has been a pleasure to serve you in this matter.

Antek Kazielawa

 

In la Serenissima Venezia, January 4, 1498