The Palace (55 page)

He made the nick high on his chest, then slipped the knife back into his
boot. With urgent open lips he kissed her again, then leaned back. "Come to me,
Demetrice. Come to my life."

Before his compelling words had reluctance faded. As her mouth touched the
wound he breathed sharply, pleasurably. He drew her nearer and at last she lay
atop him, pressing his body with her own, desiring to blend her flesh with his
until they became wholly united in rapture.

When at last he moved she accommodated him, exulting as his sharp kisses
loosened the last bar against her joy. Nurtured by his love, glorified by his
lips, she surrendered the inmost part of herself and was filled with triumph.

She was still trembling with the force of her victory when he spoke to her
again. "Demetrice, are you ready?" She heard the question as she sometimes heard
thought, in a majestic awesome sound. Without speaking she held out her hands.

"The great women of Roma, when the Caesars ruled there, would have their
musicians play to them as they died this way. We have no musicians here, and no
perfumed bath. But I will hold you, amica mia, and if you like, I will sing to
you." He tried to read her face in the gloom, but could not.

The little knife was cold so he held it to warm it. The cuts were quickly
made, two neat incisions slid in under the wrist tendons. After making sure that
the arteries were indeed severed, Ragoczy braced himself against the wall and
pulled her into his arms, holding her close to him. "You must keep your hands
down, amante mia. Press your palms to the floor so that the cuts stay open." His
arms tightened and there was a distant look in his eyes. Somewhat later he began
very softly to sing, not the melancholy laments of lost love or the soaring
lyrics of passion, but Laurenzo's time-haunted praise of fleet, brief youth. "Quant'e
bella giovinezza/ Che si fugge tuttavia/ Chi vuol esser lieto, sia;/ Di doman no
c'è certezza."

Dreamily Demetrice recognized Laurenzo's words, and she felt a tug at her
soul as she remembered the happily sleepless nights in his arms. For a moment
the memories were so real that Laurenzo's presence was almost tangible. And then
she felt Ragoczy's small hand smooth back her hair, and she wondered at his
generosity that gave her not only his love to comfort her, but Laurenzo's as
well. She tried to smile, but it was too much effort. Instead, she snuggled
closer to his chest and with a contented sigh closed her eyes.

Text of a letter from Febo Janario Anastasio di Benedetto Volandrai to
Marsilio Ficino, written December 10, 1497, and delivered on April 19, 1498:

 

To his most deeply revered master and teacher, Febo Volandrai sends his
respectful greetings from Paris.

This will come to you through the good offices of René Benoit Richesse, a
fellow student of mine who is journeying to Mantova and Roma to continue his
studies. He has agreed to deliver this in exchange for an afternoon in your
company, learning from you. I trust that for my honor you will agree.

I have heard only recently of my sister's arrest, and I find myself quite
helpless. How did she come to be so accused? I thought that all was well with
her and that she was still under the protection of the foreigner. I can only
assume that she is still studying alchemy, which I warned her was unwise. Of
course, the whole matter is foolish and I am certain that a few questions will
have settled the problem long before this reaches you.

But that brings me to the reason for this letter. I need your advice, dear
master. I have been uneasy in my mind for some time about my sister's situation
there as the housekeeper for the foreigner. She assures me that there is no
fleshly dealing in their association, and with the foreigner gone so many years
now, I believe that if there was earlier, the passion by now must be over. Yet
she continues in his care. It is not good for her to be thus beholden to him.
Foreigners are often unaware of the difficulty they impose on others in cases
like these, and it is in general preferable that the matter be solved.

My studies are such that I cannot interrupt them just now, but if you think
it wise, I will send for my sister and find some appropriate employment for her
here in Paris. With the stigma of heretical accusations attached to her
reputation, life in Fiorenza may be quite difficult for her. In another six
months I will have a break in my studies and then I may journey again to
Fiorenza to find Demetrice and bring her away with me.

Of course, if you think it would be possible, it would be more convenient for
me if she remained there in Fiorenza, but not, of course, if there is any real
danger to her. I trust to you to tell me in what danger she stands and to
suggest what solutions will be the best for all concerned.

You realize, I'm certain, that I feel very much in Demetrice's debt. It was
she who provided the funds for my continued studies here, and I'm very grateful.
But she would be the first to tell you that such hard-won education should not
be treated lightly. Remember this when you write to me of her. Most certainly
I'm aware of my obligations to her, but I know she would be greatly disappointed
if I despised the sacrifices she has made for me only to rush to Fiorenza to
find all this has been a minor disruption or a foolish mistake, long since
explained and resolved.

Should her benefactor return to Fiorenza, I urge you to speak to him as my
deputy and suggest that he cut his association with her, since it is largely
from that association that this, current difficulty springs. I am sure you will
know how best to say it so that he will understand what is expected of him. It's
unfortunate that he had to take her in, for it was inevitable that there would
be some trouble arising from that. But vision in retrospect is always so much
clearer. Had I realized how very much compromised she was by her situation, I
would have insisted that she join me in Wien. But no one told me and I have had
little opportunity to consider her particular situation until recently.

I pray you will write to me as soon as is practical for you. Unless there is
genuine danger, don't interrupt your work unnecessarily. Demetrice is most
competent for a woman and no doubt would resent interference from you or me if
she was able to deal with it herself.

With the hope that you are well, my dear master, and that your fears for
Fiorenza have proved groundless, I commend myself to you and express in advance
my gratitude for your good counsel, and your kindness to my sister.

Febo J. A. di B. Volandrai

 

In Paris, at the Universite, December 10, 1497

It was late afternoon before Fra Sansone brought news of Donna Demetrice's
death to Palazzo San Germane. The large monk was still suspicious about his
unnatural sleep the night before, and he regarded Ragoczy with an unfriendly
eye. "Word has been sent," he said in querulous tones.

"Of what?" Ragoczy asked in a bored voice, though he hoped it was about
Demetrice.

"The heretic woman has revealed herself." Fra Sansone was satisfied with the
news. "She has committed the ultimate sin and taken her own life, confirming her
confession."

Ragoczy turned away from his table where he was measuring out spices into the
balance of one of his brass scales, a look of mild irritation clouding his
features. "What do you mean?"

Fra Sansone was delighted at the question. "I mean, foreigner, that the woman
you were so determined to save has shown herself to be a heretic and rather than
face the purifying flames has taken her own life in the night."

Though it was difficult, Ragoczy forced himself to react slowly. "That's
impossible," he said, irritated. "My uncle assured me she is… was someone who
lived by Christian principles. You Domenicani might have killed her through
torture, but it's ridiculous to say that she committed suicide." He finished
measuring the spices and tipped the fragrant powder into a small box, turning
his attention to the next container. "Who told you this?"

Irritation was getting the better of Fra Sansone, and because of it he
revealed more than he had intended. "I had it from Fra Stanislao himself, not an
hour ago. The woman was to have recounted her heretical acts today, but when the
guards came to her cell less than an hour after sunrise, she was already cold.
Her wrists had been cut and there were mysterious marks all over her body."

Ragoczy remembered the marks, and knew there was nothing mysterious about
them. "Indeed?" he said.

"Yes. She and three others died last night, but she was the only one to
abandon Christ and take her own life. The others proved their innocence in
succumbing to the Question. They will be given Christian burial after the
auto-da-fe. But she is another matter." Fra Sansone lifted his hands and folded
them piously. "She will be thrown into a pauper's grave at the crossroads."

"Perhaps the good Domenicani will allow me to see to her burial," Ragoczy
suggested with just enough uncertainty to satisfy Fra Sansone. "My uncle
enjoined me to see that she is cared for. I cannot let her be so wholly
abandoned."

"She was a heretic," Fra Sansone reminded him, glaring.

"She was also my uncle's housekeeper," Ragoczy said firmly and at last turned
away from weighing spices. "Where is she?"

This was not precisely what Fra Sansone had hoped for, but he grudgingly
answered the question. "She will be brought to San Marco after sunset. If you go
there, you may be able to arrange to see to her burial." His face set into
unattractive lines. "But it may not be possible. They may insist that she be
buried as the heretic she was. Ask anything you want, however." His expression
was most unpleasant now. He glanced around the weighing room, at the shelves
filled with various instruments of measurement. "Vanities," he proclaimed.

"How can you say that?" Ragoczy asked, determined to maintain his pose.
"These are all used often, and it is not a sin that besides being functional,
they are beautiful." He put his hand on the spice chest, a piece of heavily
carved furniture with fifty little drawers in its front. "Any stout wooden box
will hold spices and any well-made chest may be fitted for drawers, but would
you not prefer this to mere pieces of wood made into a box, with no thought to
the grain and the color?"

Fra Sansone scoffed as his hands at his sides twisted at the remembered
pleasure of breaking things. "If your soul is worth two pieces of fitted wood,
what is it to me?"

"The Cross, I believe, was made with two pieces of fitted wood. Certainly an
excellent example." His tone was absent, for he once again busied himself with
measuring spices. Though he could hear Fra Sansone's anger in his breathing, he
paid no attention as he carefully drew open the little drawer filled with
cinnamon. Before he began to spoon out the powdered spice, he said, "If you have
anything more to say, please say it now. If not, leave me, and be sure that you
close the door tightly. Otherwise the wind may scatter the powder. And spices,
you know, are almost as costly as gold."

"I will leave you," Fra Sansone said between his teeth.

"Thank you. Oh, and if you see Ferrugio, send him to me, will you?" The angle
of his head and the slight condescension in his voice were masterpieces of
arrogance, and they produced the expected results: Fra Sansone muttered a
response and rushed out of the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him.

When Ruggiero came to the measuring room somewhat later, his worried face
told Ragoczy that he already knew of Demetrice's death. "You were too late?" he
asked softly.

"No. The Domenicani were." He half-sat on the edge of the table, one leg
dangling negligently, his high red boot catching the light as his foot swung.
"They're bringing her here, to San Marco. I'll go there after sunset and claim
the body. We can lay her in her native earth—and I trust you have it?—tonight
and she will be ready to leave with us in the morning. If we go before the
auto-da-fe, we'll have many leagues between us before anyone knows we've left."

Ruggiero nodded. "I have the earth. Not very much, but I ordered the
alchemist in Rimini to send more to Venezia, and I've dispatched instructions to
Gian-Carlo."

They spoke in that strange tongue that was Ragoczy's native language. "Is
this precaution necessary?" Ragoczy asked, amused.

Ruggiero shrugged. "I saw Fra Sansone in the gallery as I came up the
stairs."

"It's wisest, then." He chuckled, picturing the frustration of the listening
monk. "Where have you put the earth? And how much is there?"

"At the moment there are two sacks of it in the stable." He paused and went
on somewhat awkwardly. "Are you certain that she will make the change? You've
only been with her three times. It might not be enough." Ruggiero's passive face
was at variance with the worry in his voice. "I admire her. I wouldn't like to
lose her."

"It is enough," Ragoczy said shortly. "We shared blood."

This sufficiently startled Ruggiero that he raised his brows and let out a
low whistle. "You told me you doubted she'd be willing."

"And I was. But they tortured her yesterday—pardon, that's incorrect. They
only Questioned her, because her skin was not deliberately broken. They were
going to do more today. By comparison, vampirism was welcome." An old, old
bitterness hardened his voice. "After we shared blood, she let me cut her wrists
and the thing was assured."

Ruggiero nodded, and said with a little difficulty, "Do you think she'll
mind?"

He had voiced a fear that had been haunting Ragoczy since the night before.
"I don't know. I wish there were a way to have her released, alive. If I could
have had her case delayed long enough to stop Savonarola, it would have been
another matter. She would have had a choice then. As it is, she's not used to
the idea. She accepted me because the alternative was death by torture. Not a
very flattering thought, is it?" He shook off his mood. "Well, we won't know
until late tonight. If she is truly angry, I'll have to arrange for her to go
elsewhere until she understands."