The Palace

PART I Chapter Twelve

The jugglers had finished their performance and two acrobats were now walking on their hands the length of the loggia of Palazzo San Germano. One of them held blazing torches in his tightly clenched toes, the other balanced full cups of wine on the soles of his feet as he went. They were accompanied by three musicians, one playing drums and cymbals, one with a shepherd's bagpipe, and one plucking on a lute. Their tunes, though simple and purposefully loud, could not penetrate the noise of the gathering.
Since the loggia of Palazzo San Germano was in the Genovese tradition, it did not give ready access to the street, and on this frozen winter day Francesco Ragoczy's guests were glad of the privacy, for it meant extra warmth. Louvers covered the huge window, and they were closed against the snow-laden wind that raged in from the northeast.
The two rooms adjoining the loggia were also filled. In one of them a troupe of French actors performed farces for the guests and in the other great pots of wine were heated on a huge brazier. Amadeo, Ragoczy's cook, supervised this operation, adding a secret mixture of spices to each pot so that the heady smell was almost as intoxicating as the beverage itself.
Ragoczy sat with his honored guests at a long table set up on the broad landing of his grand staircase. He was dressed in a magnificent giornea of black velvet, with slashed sleeves edged in red satin exposing his shirt of shiny white silk. His high-standing collar was edged in red as well, and set off the foreign order of silver and rubies around his neck. His Russian boots had jewel-inlaid heels that clicked when he walked.
Beside him at the table was Laurenzo de' Medici in a brocaded gown of dark blue silk that had been sent to him by the sultan in
Turkey, and under it he wore a lucco of gold satin. He wore no jewelry, and those who knew him thought he looked fatigued.
"... But of course the poor foolish girl was a Siciliana, and did not perfectly understand what her master had said." Laurenzo smiled in anticipation of the joke as he leaned toward Marsilio Ficino and the alchemist Federigo Cossa. "So she served the soup in the chamber pot!" His laughter was almost as hearty as it had been a few years before, and the merriment around him masked his failing spirits. He reached for his silver cup, when Ragoczy stopped him.
"No, Magnifico. I have a better cup for you." He stood up and clapped his hands sharply, and in a moment Ruggiero seemed to materialize at his side. Ragoczy took a package from his houseman and turned back to Laurenzo. "Magnifico, it is the time for giving gifts, in remembrance of the gifts given to Christ. Other men, too, have given gifts at the winter solstice. The Romans made merry and complimented each other at the Saturnalia. In the north many peoples have long given the dark of the year over to festivals and pleasures. Far away in China, there are celebrations now to mark the coming of the sun. So it is fitting that though I am a stranger in Fiorenza, and though my people are not like yours, still your customs go well with mine, and it is a privilege to honor them." He had the attention of most of his guests by then, and he spoke with greater force. "But ceremony is an empty thing if it lacks sincerity. So it is doubly appropriate for me to entertain you now. Fiorenza has been a haven to me, and your affection as welcome to me as rain is to parched soil. On January first, five days ago, you entered your forty-fourth year. In recognition of that, and in honor of the forty-three years you have given to Fiorenza, I present you with the fruit of my Art." He gave the package to Laurenzo with the profound bow usually reserved for princes.
Brows raised questioningly, Laurenzo held the package for a moment. Then he tugged at the gold threads that bound it and pulled the wrapping away from an intricately carved box of inlaid wood and semiprecious stones. He hesitated, enjoying the splendid box.
"Open it," Ragoczy suggested.
"Here?" Laurenzo touched the side of the box where the de' Medici arms were set in jade and polished rubies. He pressed the scalloped shield and the lid moved back to reveal the contents.
There was an awed sigh as Laurenzo removed the cup from the box. It was supported on a base of silver and Fiorenzan gold that had been intricately formed to the letters laur med around the jeweled column holding the cup itself. Redder than the Medici palle, this small bowl seemed to be made of one entire hollowed ruby. It glowed with inner fire, and no wine could match its depth. In silence Laurenzo held it up, turning it in the light, tears of pleasure in his large eyes. When he spoke at last, his voice was husky. "Caro stragnero, I have no words."
This broke the spell and there was applause from the other guests. It was a superb gesture, and they admired it as much as they appreciated the art.
Laurenzo stood suddenly, tipping over his chair as he rose. "Wine! Bring me the best that you have!"
Ruggiero withdrew quickly and Ragoczy said to his guest, "I have an old vintage from Burgundy. My servant is bringing it to you." He turned away slightly, and added, "I have another thing for you, Laurenzo. A thing you requested of me."
Immediately Laurenzo dropped his voice, whispering, "Is it... ?"
Ragoczy shrugged uncomfortably. "In this vial." He took it from his sleeve and slipped it into Laurenzo's hot, dry fingers.
"But surely..." Laurenzo stopped, and there was something at the back of his eyes that grew bright with understanding. He held out the cup. "Well, whether you drink or not, I will, and gladly." As the fragrant Burgundy poured into the red jeweled cup, he said quietly to Ragoczy, "You don't eat either, do you?"
"Oh, I take nourishment when I need it, never fear," Ragoczy murmured, and bent to set Laurenzo's chair on its legs again. When he stood up again, Ruggiero had put the wine down. "There, Magnifico. A noble wine and a unique cup. A well-deserved tribute to the man who is the heart of Fiorenza."
The guests echoed this enthusiastically, some of the men shouting ribald comments, a few of the women complimenting him with eager smiles.
Laurenzo drank, then put the cup down, satisfaction and fever making his face glow. "No," he said simply, and so honestly that protestations were obviously not expected. "I have some ability as a poet, or so I tell myself, but it is not that which gives the city its life, it is the artists and musicians and teachers who are the true heart of Fiorenza."
Ragoczy gave Laurenzo a wry smile. "They would not be here if you and your father and his father were not willing to pay for them, Magnifico. If artists starve, they leave precious little to the world. If musicians sing their songs to the walls of a hovel, their music dies with their breath." He sat down and motioned for Laurenzo to do the same, saying in an undervoice, "Put a little of the oil in the vial into your wine. A drop or two is all that's needed. If you should run out of it, tell me, and I will give you more. But don't take too much. Whenever you drink, a few drops in the cup will suffice. It won't help you any more to take more than that, and too much of it will very possibly make you sick."
"As you wish," Lauienzo said softly, and brought the vial out of his square silk sleeve. As he dropped a little of the oil into his wine, he smiled appreciatively at Ragoczy's giornea. "You're much more Fiorenzan tonight than I am, Francesco. That velvet was made here, and the cut of your clothes would mark them Fiorenzan anywhere in Europe. The bodice looks molded to you, the mantle and slashings are perfect, and if the skirting is not double-pleated, you may have every stick of furniture I own."
"Well," Ragoczy said with the ghost of a smile, "you, being native, may dress however you wish. But I, being foreign, must not abuse your custom."
"Which is why you have such a preference for Spanish pourpoints, I suppose?" He took another sip of the wine. "This is very good. Little as I like the French, for all that I keep on good terms with them, I admit they have a way with wine. Is it wholly coincidental that the wine bears your name?"
"A conceit, Magnifico. Nothing more." Ragoczy was looking away across the loggia. Near the room where the players entertained were several members of the Confraternita del Bigallo, those influential men whose private charity was helping the poor, providing them with shelter and clothing. Near them were three foreign scholars, Dutch or English by the look of them. All but one of the Signoria were here. Many of the women were lavishly dressed, some in fur-trimmed dresses of velvet with brocaded gauntlets cut so that their fine lawn sleeves could puff through. Near the four officers of the Confraternita della Misericordia, Ragoczy saw Demetrice in earnest conversation with two instructors from l'Accademia. She was wearing the new gonella Ragoczy had given her, one in silk of the most verdant green. A new arrival caught her attention, and she went with a welcoming smile to greet Botticelli, who strolled up to her, still looking lanky in his unaccustomed finery.
"Francesco," Laurenzo said softly, and brought Ragoczy's attention back to the table where they sat. "You need have no fear of me."
"I don't know what you mean," he lied.
"I mean," Laurenzo said with deliberate patience, "that you can trust me. I will not betray you."
"Betray me?" Ragoczy searched for an excuse to leave the table and found none.
"Do you remember that day, last fall, when we came upon that ruin? The one where the old man offered to cut his throat for you?" Laurenzo was idly tracing designs on the white table covering with his forefinger.
"Yes," Ragoczy said through clenched teeth.
"Yes. Do you remember that I went inside the temple?" He didn't wait for a reply. "There were many strange things in the temple, Francesco. Among them a scroll, with writing in a foreign language."
"Was there?" Ragoczy could not ask Laurenzo to abandon his questions without drawing unwanted attention to them. "I didn't see it. What did it say?"
"I couldn't read it. But I did recognize the writing." He paused, then drank the last of his Burgundy, and reached for the jug to pour another cupful. "I'd seen it before."
"Indeed."
"On your arms, Francesco." He looked away, into the gorgeous throng of people. He was almost bored as he went on. "Pray don't embarrass both our intelligences by saying you don't know what I'm talking about. If you wish to keep silent, so be it. But..." Here he faltered, staring down into his wine. "The wine and the cup are one jewel. 'Stragnero della morte,/ stragnero dell'amor'," he quoted to himself.
Ragoczy felt torn. "My silence," he said awkwardly, "is hard-learned, and there is good reason for it. Believe that. And believe that neither you nor your Fiorenza nor its people stand in any danger from me."
Laurenzo nodded heavily and drank more of the wine. "Sta ben'. I must be content with that." He waved to Botticelli, and motioned him to come to the table on the landing. "Sandro will like this. I thank you for it, Francesco. And for the other."
Sandro was just starting up the broad staircase when there was a commotion behind him and the thick louvers were forced open.
Startled silence fell on the people in the loggia as they turned toward the intruders and the sudden cold that raced through the room.
Ragoczy was already on his feet. "What is this?" he demanded.
In another moment the door, too, was broken open and a band of young men in ash-colored cassocks swarmed into the loggia. Three of them held up a banner proclaiming "Nos Praedicamus Cristum Crucifixum."
"Savonarola!" Laurenzo shouted. "You're Savonarola's followers. What right do you have to come here?" As he stumbled to his feet he upset the red cup, and the Burgundy spread over the white linen tablecloth. "On whose orders do you come here?"
"On the orders of the crucified Christ!" said the apparent leader, stepping forward and looking about him with scorn. "It was Christ Who whipped the moneychangers from the temple, and it will be the spirit of Christ that drives the moneylenders from la Repubblica!" He raised his hand in a kind of Roman salute and the band of young men with him sent up an approving shout.
"Oh, God," Laurenzo muttered, and started around the table.
"No, Magnifico," Ragoczy stopped him. "You are my honored guest. It's for me to deal with this." He vaulted over the table and came lightly down the stairs. "Well, good citizens, what do you want of us? If you were intent on ruining our evening, you have succeeded. You have also ruined my brand-new door, not to mention the louvers. If you wish to pray, pray and be done with it. Otherwise, get out before I summon the Lanzi to deal with you." It was no idle threat. Fiorenza's mercenary troops were paid with Medici gold, and would defend Laurenzo without question.
"I am Mario Spinnati," the leader announced. "I am a follower of the prophet Girolamo Savonarola, who has seen the Wrath of God that is to come. You, with your vanities and your pleasures and your worldliness, will bring damnation upon us. The Sword of God's Vengeances is poised even now over our heads, and only repentance will save us." He opened his arms and set his jaw as if waiting for the nails. "Repent! Make God's suffering your own!"
Ragoczy sighed. "Get out, good citizens."
By now, all of the guests had assembled in the loggia, and two of the French actors had come in from their room, their powdered faces masking their very real fear.
Mario Spinnati shook his head, and he motioned to the other men with him. "We're prepared to deal with you," he said, an expression crossing his face that was unpleasantly eager. At his signal, the men in gray cassocks pulled their hands from the folds of their clothes. They held cudgels, scourges, and two had chains.
Ragoczy never moved, but there was a tension about him. "I must ask my guests," he said, his quiet voice carrying to every part of the room, "to leave, although the festival is not over. Ruggiero, go to the Lanzi immediately."
The men in cassocks were still crowding into the loggia, which was now quite cold. Ragoczy's elegant guests were alarmed now, and two or three of them cast about worriedly for an exit.
"Amici miei," Ragoczy said calmly, his eyes never leaving the hostile group in the doorway, "there are two halls on this floor. Use them." He pitched his voice a little louder as the first murmurs of panic ran through the guests. "Laurenzo, you know where my quarters are. Go there. One of the servants will see you safely out of here." Then, without waiting for comment or assistance, he walked directly up to Mario Spinnati. "You are a sacrilegious coward, to hide your viciousness behind the Cross." Very coolly he slapped the man in the gray cassock.
"Blasphemy!" Spinnati shouted, and flung himself at Ragoczy, confident that he could beat the smaller man to his knees.
He was mistaken. As he rushed on the foreigner, Ragoczy ducked under his arm, and rising behind him, grabbed his shoulder, and with a gentle twist threw his opponent to the floor.
"La vendetta d'Iddio!" Spinnati's followers shouted in a ragged cheer, and surged into the loggia, upsetting the long tables of food in their path. Shouts and cries went up from the guests as they bolted for the hallways.
Ragoczy heard his name behind him and turned to see Botticelli near him, his big hands fixed in the collar of one of the cassocked invaders. "Where shall I put him?" he shouted.
"Out!" Ragoczy answered, and jumped aside as one of the men in gray rushed at him, swinging a chain. Amazingly, Ragoczy reached for the chain and let it wrap around his arm. The fine velvet of his giornea was savagely ripped, and the silk shirt beneath it tore under the impact of the chain. But his hand never faltered and as the chain wound the last of its length to his shoulder, Ragoczy jerked sharply and pulled the man in gray off his feet. As he fell to the floor, Ragoczy bent and rolled him aside.
Even the French actors were fighting, but a few of them were taking a painful drubbing for their efforts. In the other doorway, Amadeo stood, his heavy ladles falling like hammers on the men who rushed at him. Tall and cadaverously thin, Amadeo resisted them like a supple pine tree withstanding the full force of a gale.
"Francesco!" The voice was Laurenzo's, and it came from the gallery above. Ragoczy turned just in time to avoid the lash of an iron-tipped scourge. He felt hands reach for him, and for a moment his arms were pinned to his side while the penitent's scourge raked his face.
Sandro was down on one knee, and three of the men in gray rushed on him, sticks upraised. There was blood in Sandro's red-blond curls, and he doubled over, trying to protect himself from the blows.
"Ah, Gran' Dio! for my knives!" Amadeo bellowed as his ladles were tugged from his hands. He brought up his arm to ward off the small whip that was snaking toward his head.
Three more strokes of the scourge had bloodied Ragoczy's face, and the fourth was about to land when his white-burning rage overcame him. In two quick movements he kicked backward and felt bones snap under the sharp blows. As the men in cassocks screamed, he pushed them away with an even jab with each arm. Then he turned to the cassocked man with the scourge. He jumped, and at the height of his jump, he lashed out with his legs, his booted heels crashing on the man's chest and shoulders. As he landed, Ragoczy wasted no time on his tormentor, but launched himself at the men around Botticelli. He kicked out at the back of the knees of the man nearest him, and as he fell, Ragoczy pushed him into his closest fellow penitent. The two went down, arms and legs thrashing.
"Sandro! Roll away!" Ragoczy shouted the words even as he reached for the third man in gray, and grabbed the man's wrist, pulling it high behind him before rapping him smartly in the small of his back.
He had disabled two more of the gray-robed fanatics when a man on horseback forced his mount through the door and dropped the handle of his lance on the floor with a resounding crack. When there was not immediate silence, he dropped the lance handle again.
"Stop at once!"
The frantic battle slowed, then straggled into silence. Men broke apart, almost like guilty lovers. There was blood on the new-laid marble and it ran with the upset food.
"Who is master here?" the lancer asked, his horse advancing farther into the loggia.
Ragoczy, his face torn, his clothes ruined, staggered forward. "I am," he said through bruised lips.
"What happened?" the lancer demanded. Beyond the door, a dozen more mounted, armed and armored men waited.
"We were celebrating Twelfth Night," Ragoczy said wearily. "These... these citizens"-he made the word a profanity-"not content to honor the laws of their city, invaded my palazzo, threatened and beat my guests..." He had to stop a moment as he looked around the wreck of his loggia. "They were," he said ironically, "quite thorough."
But the lancer was incredulous. "These good penitents? They are godly men, Signor."
"So were the Knights Templar." Ragoczy was too disheartened to argue. "Take a look, good sir. Do you see anything here that indicates we invited this chaos?"
In the door to the actors' room, three of the Frenchmen held their bruised bodies and moaned.
"If you made a mockery of them-" the lancer began somewhat uncertainly, but was interrupted by a high, slightly nasal voice from the gallery.
"Capitano Amara," Laurenzo said, "believe what Ragoczy tells you."
Ragoczy looked up and saw his friend's drawn, waxen face peer over the gallery railing. "You see, caro stragnero, I would not leave." He almost laughed, but turned again to Capitano Amara. "If you like, I will verify his complaint."
But Capitano Amara hurriedly apologized. "No, Magnifico. I can see how it was. They were maddened by their fervor and could not resist attacking the festival here."
"Something like that," Ragoczy agreed dryly as he helped Botticelli to his feet. "Are you all right, Sandro?"
The big man winced. "I think so. They didn't harm my hands or my eyes. I'll recover."
Laurenzo was coming down the broad staircase now, and Ragoczy saw that he still held the ruby cup. "Capitano," he said silkily, "this was not a matter of religious inspiration, it was an act of wanton-vandalism. Any rogue may call himself a holy man, but the damage he does reveals his true nature, does it not?"
Mario Spinnati, nursing a broken collarbone, wanted to object, but saw the martial light in Magnifico's eyes, and thought better of it.
God did not require him to pursue this matter, and to push the fight further would be prideful.
A broken lyra di braccia leaned crazily against the wall. Ragoczy picked it up and its last intact string snapped, and the sound was so poignant that without thinking, Ragoczy hugged the elaborate little viol to his chest.
"Ah, no, Francesco," Laurenzo said as he came up to him. He took Ragoczy's free hand in his, making sure that Capitano Amara saw this gesture. "I will send my servants to clean up this unpardonable shambles."
"It's not necessary," Ragoczy said quietly. He felt a certain disgust with himself for the pleasure he had taken in his rage. He thought he had put that behind him more than a thousand years ago.
"What is it, Francesco?" Laurenzo said, alarm in his voice.
"Nothing, Magnifico; nothing." He looked up at Capitano Amara. "I trust you will get these maniacs out of my home? Immediately?" He sighed, putting one arm across Laurenzo's back. "Come, let me take you to my library. I must bathe, but I will join you there directly." He took a last look at the wreckage and the men in gray cassocks. He nodded to Botticelli. "Come, Sandro. You too. Thank God they didn't get to my inner rooms." He was thinking about the rooms hidden behind the elaborately carved panels on the landing, but Laurenzo saw it another way.
"Your library! At least it's safe." Now that excitement no longer possessed him, he was trembling, and it was not until much later that night that he realized he had taken comfort and support from Francesco's bloody arm across his back.
Text of a letter from Agnolo Poliziano to the medical school at Padova:
To the esteemed medical faculty of the Accademia Medica in Padova, the Fiorenzeno Agnolo Poliziano sends his respectful request for instruction on a matter in which they are known to be expert.
Good physicians, I have been told that you are more skilled than all physicians from ancient time until the present, and that your knoweldge of the illness of mankind is so vast that the disease you have not seen is a mere figment of imagination.
So, good physicians, I humbly desire, as a mere sufferer, that you give me the advantage of your skills and all-encompassing knowledge.
I have a friend-and though you mayn't believe it, this is true, and it is for this friend and not myself that I seek your help-who, for the last year or so has been in failing health. I will describe the course of the illness to you, and from your varied experience you will surely know what ails him and what must be done to save him.
This friend, then, has long been plagued with gout. But until some time rather more than a year ago, he had only few problems, and they were such that they passed quickly. This man is an active man, of intellect and energy. He does not imagine pain where it does not exist. Remembering that, consider this: he has had swelling of his joints, in his hands, elbows and knees most especially. I have not seen him bootless, so I can tell you nothing of his feet. When this swelling occurs, it is painful, and is often accompanied by periods of great weakness, which have grown worse in the last six months. He has had times when his weakness was such that he could not stand upright or hold a quill. Occasionally now he says he has great knots in his stomach and his bowel, and the agony which distorts his features at such times would touch even your callous hearts. Of late, he has had bruises on his skin and a kind of fever that is sufficient only to dry his body and give it heat. His strength is failing him, and I cannot tell him that I fear for his life, but, good physicians, I do.
Tell me, what is it that has so terribly attacked my friend? What robs him of his strength? What disease or devil of curse has done this? And what will defeat it? What process of your skill will it yield to? If you can tell me this, do so as quickly as you can get a messenger to Fiorenza. Even now I fear that there is too little time.
Do not, I beg you, debate among yourselves, or hold learned discussions on the possible outcome of this disease, or do not decide on some unorthodox way to treat him on the grounds that the new cure is more exciting than the old. If there is medicine, send it. If a surgeon must be sent, send him. If only the Egyptians have skill in this matter, find an Egyptian. But do it quickly. If you spend too long congratulating one another on your perception and knowledge, your expertise will benefit a corpse. If the medical arts know nothing of this disease, do not flock to Fiorenza in the hope of observing yet another death from causes unknown. I would leave my friend some little dignity, and to have physicians hovering about like ravens would rob him of his courage as well as making a mockery of his death.
Respond as soon as may be, good physicians. The time is short. It is already the Feast of the Purification. I want an answer by Easter.
Agnolo Poliziano
In Fiorenza, February 2, 1492