The Palace (58 page)

Savonarola started toward her, and she reached for him, drawing him against
her side, which was still welted with angry red from the use of her scourge.
Languidly she kissed his mouth as her hand pressed at his habit, seeking his
genitals. The Domenican prior of San Marco yelled and struck out blindly with
both hands, then ran back toward Suor Merzede, his face filled with revulsion.

The fires were burning fiercely and Suor Estasia smiled at the raging pyres.
Slowly, deliberately she climbed down from the platform as Francesco Ragoczy had
shortly before. She looked at the furnace that the stakes had become and she
looked at the crowd that watched her with awe-stricken eyes. She began to sing.

Ragoczy was almost through the crowd when three Domenicani Brothers started
in pursuit of him. The press of people made it hard for them to reach him, but
they slowed his escape as well. Carefully he moved Demetrice so that she was
better balanced, then he began to look for a weapon other than the knife in his
boot.

The first Domenicano to reach him was easily dealt with. The monk was older
and unhealthily stout. Ragoczy's arm delivered at full force across his belly
sent him to his knees at once. The second and third were another matter. Ragoczy
forced himself through the crowd as the Domenicani got nearer.

The fire boomed with fury as Suor Estasia stood before it, her face alight
with love. "Behold me, God, how I long for you." She pressed her hands between
her thighs, throwing her head back as her first spasm shook her. "Your love,
God, Your all-consuming love." She stretched her hands forward into the fire,
laughing delight as the skin blistered and blackened. "Let me be part of You!"
she cried. "O God, my lover, my spouse, my savior and redeemer!
Nothing but
You! Ravish me! Destroy me
!"

There was a horrified silence in the crowd now, and everyone who could see
strained to watch as Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli walked, burning, into
the fire.

Text of testimony written by the prior of Santa Croce, Orlando Ricci,
presented as part of the Process against the excommunicant Domenicano Girolamo
Savonarola:

To His Holiness Pope Alessandro VI, Pontifex Maximus, Fra Orlando Ricci of
Santa Croce in Fiorenza commends himself and in dutiful compliance to His
Holiness's instructions, gives account of that terrible day, March 10 of this
year, wherein the perfidious heretic Girolamo Savonarola caused to be burned
eight men and women of Fiorenza on false charges of heresy, which said burning
resulted incidentally in five additional deaths: those of Suor Estasia del
Mistero degli Angeli, a builder called Lodovico da Roncale, two young men of the
Militia Christi (which unjust and tyrannous organization of Fiorenzeni youths
the said Savonarola employed to carry out his illegal schemes) and a young woman
who in her effort to save her father who was one of the martyred souls, rushed
into the fire and died.

Many of those who stood by were burned. Some had great blisters, some had
hair and eyebrows singed away. There was much catastrophic confusion and it
seemed for a time that the whole city must burn, for there were none to bring
water, though the Arno is only a few steps away from la Piazza della Signoria.

Before these terrible fires were lit, the said Savonarola exhorted the people
to approve the acts, declared that they were pleasing to God and that as such
would redeem the city from sin. Now, this is proof of Pride, of infamous Vanity,
of the most gross blasphemy, for an excommunicant is without the access to God,
and being denied the sacraments is in a state of mortal sin.

The activities of this said Savonarola have been disastrous to Fiorenza for
other reasons as well. Good men have been driven away from us because of his
accusations and activities. Many of the scholars who were wont to live and teach
in Fiorenza have fled in fear for their lives. Artists of great repute who with
their work have adorned all Roma as well as Fiorenza are no longer willing to
paint here, since their work is judged by the severe and unreasonable standards
of the San Marco Domenicani. Musicians cannot work, for music is forbidden most
days. Mercers, seamers, and other merchants have not been able to sell their
wares, for they have been forbidden to make or purchase such textiles as are
deemed vain by Savonarola. As most of Fiorenza lives by the loom, such edicts
condemn the people to hunger and poverty. Foreigners, who previously flocked
here to learn of us, now are afraid to come within our walls because they might
be accused of heresy on the weight of being foreign alone.

Good, Holy Father, the evil of the said Savonarola is an offense to God and
the Church. The stench of him reaches even to heaven, where angels vomit from
it. For the sake of our religion, for the sake of peace, for the sake of
Fiorenza, condemn this mad excommunicant priest as he condemned so many others.
He is a rabid dog, infecting all he bites.

This I swear is true, and by my vows as a Francescano, I pray God that I be
cast out and damned for eternity if I have said anything that was not accurate
and honest. I cannot say that I am without malice, for I hold much against the
creature who has caused Fiorenza so much suffering. I pray God that He will lift
this burden from my heart so that I may forgive this heinous enemy of mankind as
Our Lord forgave those who brought Him to shameful death.

Orlando Ricci Prior of Santa Croce Francescano

 

In Fiorenza, March 12, 1498

Ruggiero held the bay gelding's head as Ragoczy tied the large bundle to the
saddle. "Are you sure she's secure? It might be dangerous once we start to
move."

"It will hold," Ragoczy said, giving the straps an experimental tug. "Where
do we change horses?"

"There is a place on the road to Bologna. They raise racehorses there. I have
purchased four for our use."

"Good." Ragoczy looked back over his shoulder to the thick black cloud
hanging over la Piazza della Signoria. "We must leave soon. The worst of it is
almost over, and one of those Domenicani I fought with is sure to be coming
around." He brushed the soot and cinders off his white silk. "What about Fra
Sansone?"

Ruggiero almost smiled. "He had the misfortune to lock himself into one of
the cellars. An odd mistake, but he was not aware of the danger."

Ragoczy's fine brows raised. "You must tell me sometime how you managed
that." He went to the packhorse and pulled at the straps. "The paintings?"

"They're there. Under the sacks."

"Excellent." He reached for Gelata's bridle but paused one more time to touch
the shapeless bundle that held Demetrice. "I hope there's enough earth. She must
wake tonight if we're to get to Bologna in the appointed time." This required no
comment and got none. "It can't be helped," Ragoczy said quietly. A moment later
he had vaulted into the saddle and was pulling Gelata's head around. He took a
last look at the courtyard of Palazzo San Germane "I will miss this house. I
will miss Fiorenza." Then, without another word, he dug his jeweled heels into
Gelata's side and rode out of the iron gates. Ruggiero followed immediately,
leading the two other horses.

The gate to Palazzo San Germano was left open, for it was empty but for
crates that would soon be gone as well.

Passage through the streets was easy. No one had left the auto-da-fe yet and
there were few strangers entering Fiorenza these days. Ragoczy made for la Porta
Santa Croce, glancing occasionally toward the stern dark tower of il Palazzo
della Signoria, where an iron lion clung to the pole that topped it.

The two lancers on guard at the gate were more interested in the chaos around
la Piazza della Signoria, and aside from an inquisitive look at the two
packhorses, made no attempt to stop Ragoczy and Ruggiero as they rode out of
Fiorenza. But neither of them took comfort from this. They had at the most an
hour before they were pursued. Savonarola had been cheated, and he would not be
satisfied until punishment had been meted out.

The road into the hills was filled with the awakening splendor of early
spring. Freshets ran beside the track and new flowers rose from the earth. The
scent was almost clean enough to take away the ghastly odor of roasting flesh
that still filled Ragoczy with disgust.

At the top of the second rise, Ragoczy called a halt and looked back toward
Fiorenza. Most of the smoke over la Piazza della Signoria was drifting away. The
fires at last were dying. At this distance the city seemed unreal, a kind of
toy, and the Arno a strip of silver laid through it to give it worth. The pale
walls, of the houses and their red roofs reminded him of pictures he had seen
long ago in Greece. As he watched, he saw a line of tiny horsemen leave the
Santa Croce gate in double file. The sun winked on their metal breastplates.

"Lanzi," Ragoczy said, pointing.

"How far behind us?" Ruggiero was nervous.

"Not quite an hour. If we didn't have the other horses and the burdens they
carry, it would be time enough. But as it is, I don't know."

"Shall we look for a place to hide?" Ruggiero suggested, not very hopefully.

"And be trapped?" Ragoczy frowned. "I wish there was another road through the
mountains. It's too dangerous to strike out on our own." He turned in the
saddle. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to outrun them. How long until we
get to the first change of horses?"

Ruggiero looked even more uncomfortable. "More than an hour. The farm is in a
little hollow higher in the hills."

"It will require skill, old friend." There was no blame in his words, just a
kind of fatigue. "No faster than a trot, or the horses will drop out from under
us."

The sun was almost overhead when they came to the farm. No one rushed out to
see them and no smoke curled from the chimney. Ragoczy gave Ruggiero an
inquisitive look. "They're gone. I thought it best. They were paid in advance,
and told to go to market or to church."

"Are you sure the horses will be here?" Ragoczy asked sharply. "I don't want
to be trapped here. Gelata can't take another hour of this."

"They're here. I had their oaths."

Ragoczy knew how capriciously oaths could be kept, but he said nothing. He
swung out of the saddle and looped Gelata's reins over the gate to the paddock.
The stables were beyond the paddock, a low building with wide doors and a roof
badly in need of repair. As he walked across the paddock he felt eyes on him,
and bent over to draw his knife from his boot. He reached the stable, still
convinced he was being watched. He opened the door carefully and peered into the
dark. Four horses were tethered inside. He closed the door, and as silently as
possible he went around the building, his knife ready, to the far door.

This, too, proved to be safe, and deciding that the lancers who pursued them
accounted for the sensation, he went into the stable and inspected the horses.
He ran his hands over the legs of each horse, searching for trouble and finding
none. He checked their hooves and found them sound, though one of them was
unshod. He would put Demetrice on the unshod horse, since she was the lightest
burden. Satisfied, he went to the door and signaled to Ruggiero.

They changed mounts quickly, working silently most of the time. Ragoczy still
had the nagging sensation that they were under observation, but nothing
supported the feeling. In a quarter of an hour they were ready to be on their
way again, but it was with a slight pang that Ragoczy turned Gelata loose in the
paddock. She was a fine mare, full of stamina and with little temperament to mar
her responsiveness.

The road grew steeper and as high clouds gathered in the west, the sunlight
began to fade. Ruggiero said nothing but he knew as well as Ragoczy that the
distance between them and the lancers was narrowing. It was well past noon when
the dun gelding carrying the chests began to labor, his breath coming in great
gulps and sweat darkening his mouse-colored coat.

"What ails the beast?" Ragoczy snapped, glancing back at the dun. The horse's
eyes were rolling and his tongue protruded. Hating to do so, Ragoczy pulled in
and dismounted, catching the dun's lead rope and going to his head. Heaving
flanks and foam told their tale. Ragoczy patted the dun's neck, then checked him
out with determined hands. At the end of it he gave Ruggiero a bleak look. "I
couldn't swear to it, but I'll wager he was given salt last night and all the
water he could drink this morning. With all that in his gut, it's amazing he got
this far."

Ruggiero blinked in alarm. "But why?"

"Who knows. But it wasn't for any good." He began to unstrap the chests from
the packsaddle. "We'll have to carry these on our mounts." He nodded at
Ruggiero's dismay. "Yes, I know. The lancers may very likely catch us. But what
else can we do? We haven't any cannon, or even a sword between us. We can't
ambush them, and we can't leave the trail, not now. There's a storm building up
in the west, and we can't afford to be lost in it." By now he had undone the
first of the chests. "Here. Strap it to your saddle."

Ruggiero obeyed automatically, saying as he finished attaching the chest
straps, "What about brigands?"

"That had crossed my mind," Ragoczy admitted. He had the other chest off the
dun now, and was securing it to the saddle of the roan he rode. "I hope we're
wrong. But I wouldn't depend on it."

With an uneasy glance at the unwieldy bundle that held Demetrice, Ruggiero
asked, "Will it work, do you think?"

Ragoczy shrugged. "I hope so. But I don't know." He finished lashing down the
chest and climbed back into the saddle. "We must not force the horses now. We
may need them later for a sprint."