The louvers had been replaced and the marble of the loggia was scrubbed clean. It was more than six weeks since the followers of Savonarola had made havoc of Francesco Ragoczy's Twelfth Night festival. The rooms which flanked the loggia were in good order, one being devoted to music, the other to the reception of guests.
The night was not too far advanced, but already most of the city was asleep. At San Marco, the Domenicani had finished their chanting, but the Servanti at Santissima Annunziata had one hour to sing yet before their devotional day was through.
Ragozcy sat in his chamber that overlooked the galleried courtyard of his palazzo. He stared out into the night, but apparently did not see the gentle snow that drifted on the north wind. On his lap was an open book, a bound manuscript of poetry written in a singularly forceful hand. With the poetry was commentary in the same hand, given reluctantly. "For," Laurenzo had written some years before, "if the poems have merit, there is no need for this explanation, and if they have not, my additions will not make them any better."
After some little time he closed the book and rubbed at his eyes. The gouges from the penitent's scourge had disappeared from his face, but the memory was fresh enough to give him a momentary twinge. He rose and crossed the room and stood looking out, not into the snow, but into the years that eddied past his eyes thicker than the snowflakes. His face, if anyone had seen it then, was touched with age, making his skin transparent and somehow brittle. He had no more wrinkles than usual, but there was a shadow on him and it turned his face to a skull.
He heard the door behind him open and Ruggiero's familiar footsteps. Without turning, Ragoczy said, "What good am I, old friend? I have one... endowment... and where I wish most to bestow it, I cannot. Mortality defeats me." The words were spoken in a tongue unknown to any of the scholars of Fiorenza.
Ruggiero answered in the same language, but from the hesitance and cumbersome phrasing, it was plain that he did not speak it natively, as did his master. "You've watched many others die, You-Who-Frees. Why does it pain you so with Medici?"
"I don't know." He was still. "I've seen blood like his before, many times. But often the sufferers were young, and it was unkind to wish them more pain. But Laurenzo isn't young. And there is so much life in him. All I can give him is two months, at the most. I've had something more than three thousand years, and I cannot lend him thirty of them, or three." He put his hand to his eyes. "You think I ought to leave Fiorenza, don't you? Perhaps you're right. Gian-Carlo keeps urging me back to Venezia. But I can't go yet, Ruggiero. I gave my word. It may be foolish of me, but I still honor it."
"I have never found it foolish, master." Ruggiero had reverted to Lathi. He came a little farther into the room. "Master, there is a woman to see you."
"A woman? Demetrice? Why didn't you say so?" He turned around and once again spoke in Tuscan dialect.
"No, master, it is not Demetrice. It is Filipepi's cousin, Estasia." His lined face was carefully blank.
"What in the name of all long-forgotten gods does she want?" The words were angry, but his face was sad. He sank his small hands in the loose curls of his dark hair. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her you were busy and it might not be possible for you to interrupt your work." As he spoke, he picked up Laurenzo's book of commentary. "I will tell her that, if you wish."
"Is she alone?" Ragoczy asked after a moment. He fingered the silver-and-ruby chain around his neck.
"Yes, she came alone. On foot."
"How like her." He condemned her even as he worried. So Estasia's search for sensation had gone to a point where she now openly courted danger. The streets of Fiorenza were not safe after dark for men; for women the risks were much greater. "And I can't send her home without escort. Very clever."
"I can show her to a guest room and put one of the housemaids to sleep there with her." Ruggiero was as conscious of the proprieties as Ragoczy.
"What good will that do? She would only have to say that I had lain with her first, and then summoned the housemaid. Well, at least I don't keep slaves, so my staff can all give testimony in open court. Where is she now?"
"I took her to the small chamber off the inner court. The one with the two Chinese jade lions in it. I've asked Amadeo to serve her some refreshments. He's been complaining that his work isn't appreciated, so he can apply his skill to Donna Estasia's palate. He was making batter bread in a skillet when I left. Apparently he plans to roll the breads around soft cheeses and sweet boiled fruits." Ruggiero thought a moment. "He is inventive. And he likes cooking."
"Just as well." Ragoczy paced the length of the room. "I'd better see her. She's been... unpredictable recently."
Ruggiero preserved his calm. "I gather she is a trying woman. Do you want me to lead you down?"
Ragoczy laughed once. "I don't need a bodyguard, old friend. You say she is in the room with the jade lions. Tell her I will join her directly."
With a slight bow Ruggiero withdrew.
When Ragoczy emerged from his chamber some time later, he wore a red Persian robe that was so thickly embroidered in black that the red showed through like embers in a dying fire. He wore Hungarian heeled boots of black tooled leather and a house gown under the robe of Chinese silk brocade in a black so dense that it seemed a living shadow. He moved with a liquid grace that made the heavy robe flow behind him like wings. On his breast he wore a polished ruby that shone lambent on the silk.
Estasia had finished the stuffed batter breads Amadeo had made for her, and now she reclined on a low divan of rosewood upholstered in Indian damask. She had opened her long cloak to reveal a camora of sheerest linen. As she heard the sound of the door, she turned and her eyes widened as she saw her host. "Francesco," she breathed, half in fear and half in need.
His manner was disturbingly remote. "I am honored to see you, Donna Estasia. But do you think it was wise to come here, for the night is cold and the streets are perilous."
She started up, but hesitated. "But I hadn't seen you in... a while."
"You told me to leave." He moved across the room but not toward her and she realized how forbidding he could be.
"But you knew I didn't mean it. Not forever, Francesco. I thought you'd be back. Because you need me."
"You are mistaken, diletto." He sat on a strangely carved chair that had once been the chair of a Byzantine emperor.
Flushing, she snapped, "I am not. I know you have to have blood." Her defiance faded.
"Yes. But it needn't be yours." He waited while she tried to gather her thoughts. "Did you come here to see whether or not I am wasting away?"
She shot him a look of hot anger, then smiled with sudden cunning. "No. I came to see your palazzo, Francesco. I have heard so much about it that I could no longer wait for an invitation from you."
He was politely incredulous. "At ten in the night?"
Her titter was the only thing that kept her from screaming in rage. "You always said I should see it. And now that I am here, you want to put me off. I can't come in the day, you know that. I must mind my cousin's house. I wasn't tired and I know you don't sleep much. I was sure you'd welcome me." She was on her feet now, and she came toward him with long, sensuous steps. "Oh, Francesco, I'm sorry for what I said, for the way I behaved. You don't know how much I've missed you. At night I lie in bed and wish for the touch of your lips."
Ragoczy had not moved, and there was such indifference in his expression that Estasia found her desire for him increasing. "At night, don't you want to be with me? I think of you, Francesco. I think of the way your hands arouse me. In my thoughts, you capture me and bind me, all open, so that nothing in me is hidden from you. And then you possess me, assaulting me with your flesh. With all your flesh. No matter how I twist in my bonds, I cannot escape you. You overwhelm me, until what I am is only what you will me to be. I succumb to you, I am lifted out of myself." She was next to him now and she pressed the curve of her hip against his shoulder. "Don't you want me, Francesco? Even a little bit?"
Bitterly he realized that part of him did indeed want her, as much to ward off his sorrow as to satisfy his hunger. He rose quickly. "You want to see the palazzo? Come with me." His words were brusque as he swept from the room, not waiting to see if she followed him.
The tour was thorough and swift. He led the way down halls and through rooms, his long stride never slackening. In vain Estasia tried to keep him still, to linger in his music room with his lutes and viols, to pause in his library and hear descriptions of the books and the exotic foreign manuscripts, to tarry in the room with his elaborate bath. He gave short, curt answers to her questions and refused to listen to her rushed enthusiasm. Finally, when they had come once more to the foot of his grand staircase, she grabbed at his arm.
"Francesco, you must stop."
"Very well." He halted and turned to look at her. "I hope that you liked my palazzo, Donna."
Her hazel eyes were bright with tears of chagrin and annoyance. "Yes, I did, no thanks to your manner. Francesco, I will not be treated like some disgraceful, cast-off woman who must be tolerated because of the hold her knowledge gives her."
Ragoczy's smile was unpleasantly ironic. "You must forgive me. I thought from our last encounter that's what you were. I wonder how I can have been so strangely deceived?"
"Stop it!" She felt ready to drum her heels on the floor. "All right. I was mistaken. I should never have made threats to you. I'm sorry I did." Suddenly her voice changed, and she said meltingly, "If you want me to leave, I'll leave. It's the price I must pay for my foolishness. But, oh, Francesco, if I had it to do again, I would never let you go. When Paolo comes, he only stuffs himself into me, bucks a few times and it's over. He doesn't touch me, or caress me, or set me afire with his lips. And, Francesco, I'm so lonely."
Against all his better judgment, he felt himself weaken to that last miserable cry. Reluctantly he touched her shoulder. "My poor Estasia, we're all lonely."
Her face was as frightened as a child's in pain. "But I don't want to be. I can't bear it. Francesco!" She flung herself against his chest sobbing hysterically.
And after a while, he embraced her.
Text of a letter from Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano to Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando:
To Gian-Carlo in Venezia, Ragoczy in Fiorenza sends greetings.
I had your letter of December 10 only a week ago. The courier was set upon by brigands and has just recently recovered from the beating he was given so that he could continue on to Fiorenza. I am sending this with a knight in the train of the Papal legation to Austria, which will be stopping in Venezia soon. That's by Olivia's arrangements.
Tomorrow I am going to the Medici villa at Careggi. Laurenzo has been taken there so that he will recover more quickly in serene surroundings, or that is the ridiculous explanation for the move. When Laurenzo returns to Fiorenza, it will be on his bier. Why must they make this terrible pretense? They are robbing him of his last days in triviality, thinking that it will spare him anguish. If they would but read his poetry, or look into his eyes, they would not hurt him this way. Last week they took his giraffe from the city menagerie out to his villa, so that the animal would cheer him. But Laurenzo is not some child to be diverted with live toys.
In his absence, of course, that Domenicano prior Savonarola has been declaring that this means the end of Laurenzo. And of course he's right. But la Signoria and the Medici followers all deny it, which is foolish. For now, when Laurenzo dies, Savonarola will seize upon his death as proof of his prophetical powers, and the Medici court will be jeered by the monk's converts.
Enough of this. It's futile. This brings my instructions to you regarding my villa in that city. First, do not close it. Continue as you have done so well already. This authorizes you to produce another cask of gold and to present it to il Doge with my compliments. Also, I have found a new source of paper, one Helmut
Sternhaus in Liege. Order as much as the old Dogaressa wants for her press, and keep her supplied within reason. Use your good sense as a guide. Also, for yourself, purchase and outfit two ships. With your experience on my behalf and your own skill, you should turn them to good advantage.
Please commission three murals for the main room of the villa, one that is allegorical, showing the contrast of mortality and immortality. I leave it to you to choose the artist, but let it be someone with skill and passion. You may pay whatever is reasonable for the work.
Look for me to return sometime next year. I have given Laurenzo my word that I will stay in Fiorenza one year and one day after his death. If il Doge wants news of me, tell him that I am still practicing my Art, and that my especial knowledge is his to command-that, in case he wants more gold.
I thank you for your care of my affairs and your devotion. And since on this day Fiorenza is celebrating the Feast of the Archangel Gabriel, what can I do but hope that he bring you good fortune and extend his protection to you.
Ragoczy da San Germano
In Fiorenza, March 24, 1492 his seal; the eclipse
