"Plato says even Socrates got drunk. It's in the
Symposium
. When I
was a child, Poliziano tried to teach that to me, and when I wouldn't do the
translation, he beat me. Well, he's dead now. Too bad. He was younger than my
father was."
Ficino gave Piero a look half of sympathy, half of disgust, then turned away
from his young host.
Near the foot of the men's table a musician played melancholy songs on his
lute. He paused to say to Francesco Ragoczy, "I see you can't eat either."
"No. I can't." He smoothed the front of his black velvet giornea and adjusted
the silver links around his neck that held his order in the sign of the eclipse.
"Agnolo was a sharp-tongued devil, but he was a brilliant scholar. His poetry
was good, too." The musician ran his fingers down the strings, making a light,
plaintive sound. "Young Buonarroti will miss him the most. Agnolo always loved
his work and encouraged him. He could be like that, you know."
Ragoczy looked up at the musician. "I know." Quite suddenly he rose and moved
away from the dining tables. He stopped by the chest where the food was set out
and glanced toward Massimillio, who hovered in the doorway. "It was well done,
Massimillio. A wonderful tribute."
The cook's eyes were moist. "I have served the Medici household for most of
my life. But how much longer? Even now Piero hints that he has little use for
me, and there are few in Fiorenza now who would want me. There is little use for
Palleschi in this city."
"As one Palleschi to another," Ragoczy said as he nodded toward the design of
red balls, the famous Medici palle, that were carved into the doorway, "it will
not always be so. The Medici and Fiorenza are linked together, and they will be
separated only when one or the other is dead."
Massimillio sighed. "If it were so, I would have nothing to fear. But la
Signoria mutters about us. If Savonarola has his way, there won't be a Medici
left in Fiorenza."
Ragoczy nodded slowly and looked over the forlorn banquet. "If you should
decide to leave, there is a man in Genova. His name is Arturo Peligrino. Go
there, if you must leave Fiorenza, and say that San Germano sent you to him."
The huge cook studied Ragoczy's face, as if doubting the words, or fearing
mockery.
With an ironic smile, Ragoczy looked up at Massimillio. "Signore
Peligrino lives in la Via della Diva Marina. He is a merchant who buys and
sells jewels and spices. He won't turn you away, you have my word on that."
"How do you know?" Massimillio blurted out.
"Because I own his ships. And because, unlike myself, Peligrino loves good
food." Ragoczy picked up one of the juniper berries that garnished the
liver-paste wreath and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. The little
berry broke and its sharp scent freshened the air. With a final reminder to
Massimillio to remember Arturo Peligrino in Genova, Ragoczy left the banquet
room and wandered through the familiar halls of Palazzo de' Medici. He smiled
sadly at the beautiful statues, the paintings, the furniture. There were many
things with the laur med, marking them as Laurenzo's.
Though there was no particular pattern to his wandering, Ragoczy came at last
to the library. He stood at the door, wondering if he should go in. Laurenzo had
loved his books with tenderness that Ragoczy valued and shared. And bitter,
harsh-tongued Poliziano had often turned affectionate and delighted in the
company of books. Would there be ghosts in the library? Ragoczy asked himself.
Would the room be full of Laurenzo and Poliziano? His hand was on the door latch
when the sound of his name made him turn almost guiltily.
"Francesco," Botticelli said again as he hurried toward him. He was still in
his cloak and the spattering of rain dampened his clothes. His boots were muddy
and he was slightly out of breath.
"Sandro," Ragoczy said, turning to touch cheeks with the tall painter. "I
didn't know you'd be here."
"I didn't know it, either," he said as he shrugged out of his cloak. "Sergio
said that you were not with the others, and I thought I might find you here."
There was a certain distraction to his words and worry scored his rough-hewn
features into a medieval mask.
"What is it?" Ragoczy asked, sensing that Filipepi's concern went beyond
mourning for Agnolo Poliziano. "Are you well?"
Using the corner of his cloak, Sandro blotted the rain from his hair and
face, then leaned heavily back against the wall. "Oh, Gran' Dio. I don't know
how to say this."
"Say what?" There was a stab of worry in him now. "Is Demetrice well? Have
they found Tucchio yet?"
Botticelli shook his head and made a complicated gesture of mingled annoyance
and grief. "No. Demetrice is fine. You've seen her more recently than I have.
Tucchio is still missing. No, that's not it."
He took a deep breath. "I wish it were Demetrice. Or Tucchio. I wish it were
anything but…"
Then Ragoczy knew. "Estasia?"
"Yes," Sandro said through clenched teeth. "I've just come from Sacro Infante."
He moved swiftly, grabbing Ragoczy by the shoulders in a powerful grip. His
golden eyes were intense as he leaned toward Ragoczy. "Do you swear on your
eternal soul,
on your eternal soul, stragnero
, that you told me the
truth about what passed between Estasia and you?"
It would have been a simple matter for Ragoczy to break free of this grip,
but he accepted Sandro's desperation and made no effort to get away. In a level
voice he answered, "I swear it was the truth. I swear it by my life, by my
blood, and by my immortal soul."
"Did you beat her? Did you defile her in church?" The hot, relentless eyes
bored into Ragoczy's.
Ragoczy stifled the laugh in his throat. "I did no more or less than I told
you before. I never entered her body as a man. I pleased her as best I could in
my manner, and she pleased me. I will swear that by anything you like. I have no
reason to lie. And if my pride demanded that I lie to you, it could be easily
disproved. Estasia herself…"
The strong fingers released him and Ragoczy stood back from Sandro as he
said, "Estasia has confessed."
"Confessed? Confessed what?"
"Today, to Savonarola himself. I was there. I heard her. There was more
blasphemy in her new piety than ever there was in pagan rites. And Savonarola
listened to it, believed it, hoarded the horrible things she said like a miser
counting gold. He wanted to believe her. He wanted her to lie about herself." He
met Ragoczy's dark eyes with pain. "He wanted her to lie about you, Francesco."
So it had come at last, Ragoczy thought, and knew that he had been waiting
for it. His small, beautiful hands clenched and he forced them to open. "What
did she say?" he asked softly.
Botticelli's eyes sickened. "It was foul. Disgusting."
"What did she say?" Ragoczy asked again, and something of his calm
communicated itself to Sandro.
"She talked of sacrilegious acts, of being violated on a church altar…"
Ragoczy turned his face away, as if to avoid a blow. His dark eyes filled
with anguish. "What else?"
"Isn't that enough?" Sandro demanded with sudden violence.
"
No
." The word was barely a whisper but it struck home. "Not if I
must defend myself against her accusations."
"Defend yourself?" Sandro said, and ran his fingers through his tawny hair.
There was white in it now, and it fell in loose curls like an askew halo. "Cristo
e San Dismo! You can't defend yourself, man. That's what I'm trying to tell you.
She's branded you satanic, Francesco. You've got to leave. Now. Tonight. They'll
arrest you tomorrow if you stay."
"Satanic?" He frowned. "What did she say that made me satanic? Your first
questions—is that what she's said? That I raped her on a church altar? Truly? As
her confession?"
"Yes."
"And the confession? Was it public?"
Sandro nodded, looking very tired now. "It's to be published on the Feast of
the Guardian Angels." He looked up at the ceiling, studying the carved and
painted beams, but forced his mind back to his foreign friend. "Do you need
help?"
Ragoczy's rather vacant expression changed at once. "No. No. I will manage.
It would be bad for you if it became known you helped me. You must not let
anyone know you came to me this evening."
Botticelli could not meet his eyes. "I'm shamed, Francesco. That one of mine
should do you so intolerable a wrong…" He slammed his fist against the top of
his thigh. "Let me make amends."
"How?" Ragoczy asked without condemnation. "If there ever is a way I might
need your help, be sure I'll ask for it. It may be that I'll need friends in
Fiorenza."
"Then count me one," Sandro said quickly, his intensity returning. "No matter
what occurs, I will be your friend."
"But not publicly," Ragoczy warned. "It may be dangerous to be my friend,
once this confession is known." His glance traveled along the ill-lit hall to a
bronze statue. There, frozen in the metal, a seated Daphne was already sprouting
limbs and leaves as a gloriously nude Apollo reclined to embrace her, forever
too late. Laurenzo had loved it, and recently Piero had asked Ragoczy if he
cared to buy it.
"That's true," Botticelli admitted. "But it may be known that I came to find
you." He was somber, and then he chuckled. "If you give me a blow on my face, I
will be able to say that I tried to apprehend you, we fought, and after striking
me, you fled. My report will take some time to give." Then the mischief was gone
from his eyes. "I need to do this to aid you. For my honor."
"As you wish." He gave a last look to the library door. "I should have gone
in." He recalled then the first time Laurenzo had entertained him, and how he
had brought Ragoczy to the library as the afternoon sunlight filled the room
with golden splendor. He was delighted that Ragoczy shared his love of books,
and he had said as he fingered the gilt-and-leather binding of a volume of Dante
Alighieri,
I have had seven children from my wife, and others elsewhere. But
these are my best-loved children, the children of my soul
. Laurenzo's smile
then had given his ugly face a beauty that Ragoczy missed now with an intensity
that was close to pain.
"Francesco?" Sandro ventured, alarmed.
"It's nothing," Ragoczy said, not knowing how desolate his eyes were. With an
effort he pushed his memories aside. "There's not much time, is there?"
"No." Botticelli studied the backs of his hands, and said, as if he were
talking of the weather, or a bit of unfounded gossip, "There will be a warrant
for your arrest issued. It may have been given already. It will come from la
Signoria, but it is on the order of Savonarola. He needs you, or someone like
you, so that he can reveal more danger to the people. If it weren't you, it
would be someone else."
"Of course. But do you know, Sandro, I wish it weren't me?" He touched cheeks
with the artist. "I thank you again for the risk you took for me. I will not
forget what you've done."
Botticelli looked somewhat relieved, as if his guilt were lessened. "When do
you go?"
"Soon." He studied Sandro's lived-in face a moment. "Are you sure you want me
to strike you?"
"Yes, of cour—" He was silenced as Ragoczy's fist slammed into his cheek. His
ears rang, his vision clouded and wavered as he staggered backward, arms flung
out to keep from falling.
By the time he had steadied himself and overcome his dizziness, Ragoczy was
gone.
The warrant for the arrest of il stragnero il Conte Francesco Ragoczy da San
Germano, issued to i Lanzi by the Console, i Priori and la Signoria:
13By the consent and order of all the government of Fiorenza, i Lanzi are
mandated to seize and hold the perfidious diabolist known as il Conte Francesco
Ragoczy da San Germano, and to deliver him up with all speed to the officials of
la Repubblica for prosecution as a notorious blasphemer and heretic. All
precautions to prevent his escape or his suicide must be taken. This Ragoczy is
guilty of atrocious crimes against the State and God and it is essential that he
feel the full weight of the law, temporal and spiritual.With the full authorization of the Console, i Priori, and la Signoria
September 30, 1494
The lantern which she held aloft shed a dim, ruddy light over Demetrice's
face as she came through the hidden door and said, very softly, "They've gone."
Ragoczy turned to her as he finished adjusting his heavy riding mantle. "Did
they believe you?"
"Of course. There was no reason not to. I let them search the rooms and they
found nothing." She put the lantern down on the nearest chest and sank onto a
low stool. "I was frightened, San Germano. I've never seen any of the lancers
like that." She pressed her hands together to stop their trembling.
"Demetrice," Ragoczy said in a different tone as he stopped tugging on his
heavy leggings, "if you're frightened, then come with me. You'll be safe in
Venezia. Think carefully. I don't want to leave you in danger."
She shook her head and turned her face up to him. "San Germano, how can you
understand? This is my home. Fiorenza is where I live. I would die away from
it."
"I understand," he assured her. "More than you know."
"You're very old, aren't you?" she asked, not really hearing what he had said
to her. "It must seem foolish to love this city so, or to want to stay here."
Ragoczy reached for his riding boots, and before pulling them on, he held
them up and tapped the thick soles. "Do you know what's in them?" he said, and
there was a command in his tone that caught her attention and held it.
"No." Her face had lost some of its fear and there was the familiar spurt of
curiosity in her eyes.
"Earth," he said shortly. "My native soil. Without it I would be unable to
cross running water or walk in the sunlight for fear of being burned as you
would be by hot metal. Don't tell me about the pull of home. I know it. I have
known it for more than three thousand years, in lands you know nothing of. The
earth is my life as much as blood is." He took one of the boots and began to tug
it on.