Gasparo Tucchio had been waiting almost an hour and he was becoming annoyed. He had walked through the cellars of Palazzo San Germano, but since he had helped build them, there was little to surprise him, and nothing he wanted to criticize. At last he settled in the room adjoining the kitchen and listened to Amadeo sing while he made the pastry for the meat pies that would feed the household at prandium.
Ruggiero found him there and began with an apology. "It's truly unfortunate that you had to be kept waiting."
"If it's because you've decided that now my Arte brothers are out of Fiorenza that you no longer need to honor the contract we all signed..." He had risen and now he thrust his thumbs into his wide leather belt.
"Of course not," Ruggiero said quellingly. "There are some minor matters that had to be attended to before I could devote my attention to you." He did not mention that the minor matter was a complaint brought by one of the Domenicani from San Marco, and was little more than a veiled threat. "Often a visit from the Domenicani is longer than others."
"Them!" Gasparo almost spat in disgust. "What do they expect of decent men? I attend Mass, I take Communion, I know the Credo, the Paternoster and the Ave Maria. I honor the saints on their feast days and I don't blaspheme. Beyond that, it's up to them. It's useless for them to carry on so. That prior, the one at San Marco. He's too arrogant by half." Gasparo stopped abruptly, his brow clearing. "Well, it's no concern of yours, is it, good houseman?"
Ruggiero was secretly relieved to hear such sentiments from Gasparo, but he maintained his reserve. "The Brothers spend so much time thinking of heaven that they assume we must all do the same." He motioned to the door. "Come, I want to review the accounts with you."
Gasparo nodded, but was not willing to let the matter of the Domenicani go quite yet. "Life everlasting! They tell us that's the reward for suffering and dishonor in this world. Well, I have given the matter some thought," he said in a louder tone as they came up the back stairs to the second floor. "I have thought about life everlasting. I don't think I'd like it much."
Pausing on the stairs, Ruggiero said, "Not like it much? Now, why is that?"
"Well, if it is to be the same thing over and over-praising God and sustained by the glory of heaven-a few weeks of that, let alone an eternity of it, would drive a man distracted. Now, I understand that the Turks are promised women and pleasure in heaven, and that's more to my liking. Damn it, Ruggiero, if I weren't a faithful Christian, I'd turn Turk and hope for a plump little angel with a bouncy behind." He laughed at this, but stopped when he saw the black-clad man at the top of the stairs. "Eccellenza," he murmured respectfully.
"Oh, come, Gasparo," Ragoczy said as he extended his hands to the builder. "Fiorenza is a Repubblica. What do I need with title here?" As he had the first time they met, he touched cheeks with Gasparo, then stood back smiling. "So you think you would not enjoy eternal life?"
"I would not!" Gasparo covered his embarrassment with bluster.
"Eternal life," Ragoczy mused and stood aside for Ruggiero and Gasparo as they walked down the hall. "Perhaps we aren't supposed to enjoy it?"
Gasparo threw up his hands. "If we can't enjoy it, then why do we tolerate the struggles of this one?" He was not quite as overbearing toward Ragoczy, and there was a defensive gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes.
"The next room, Ruggiero," Ragoczy said, then remarked lightly, "I have an old friend..."-he nodded at the words-"yes, she is a very old friend. And she would tell you that you are being philosophical, Gasparo. You must meet her one day."
"If she is in Fiorenza, I will be glad to know her." For an instant he imagined himself with the rich men and their splendid ladies, and he grinned uncomfortably.
"She is, sadly, in Roma. But who knows? One day she may come here." They had gone into a small room on the second floor, one with long tables and various measuring devices. There were three kinds of clocks, each inaccurate in its own way; there were brass scales with any number of weights, ranging in size from something hardly larger than a pea to a great shining spool that was bigger than a melon; there were other weighing spools, including one that dropped from a beam and was made of highly polished wood; there were counters, some that were familiar to Gasparo, like his own tally stick, to little frames with beads strung in them; there were devices that measured distance, time, shape, weight, bulk, every kind of quantity that could be reckoned. Gasparo whistled involuntarily.
"Please take one of the chairs." Ragoczy pointed to an elegant chair of rosewood, a far more sophisticated piece of furniture than any he had ever seen before. Gingerly he lowered himself onto it, and waited, wondering if it would collapse.
Ruggiero had gone to the far end of one of the tables and had gathered up three leather bags that clinked when he moved them. These he handed to Ragoczy, and then he withdrew to the door.
"There is gold in these pouches, Gasparo, in the amount we agreed upon last year. I want you to open each of the bags and count the coins there. Then I will seal them, and you will put a mark on the seal, just as it says in the contract. If you wish, you may come with me when I deliver the pouches to the various messengers who will deliver them. But you may be assured that they are all honest merchants and priests."
Gasparo almost blinked as he watched Ragoczy. "There's no need..." What was it about the elegant stragnero that so unnerved him? Gasparo wondered as he held his hand out for the first of the pouches.
There was a suggestion of a laugh in Ragoczy's voice. "You are well within your rights, and your obligations, to question me, and to demand proofs."
"But, Eccellenza..." He took the pouches, and opened the first, counting the gold as it spilled into his hand. "Yes, it is correct, of course." He waited while the pouch was sealed, and then he drew a cat's paw in the hot wax. He touched the second pouch, and opened it somewhat carelessly. Three of the fiorini fell to the floor, and Gasparo dropped to his knees to pick them up. "Sorry, Eccellenza. A clumsy mistake..."
"Tell me," Ragoczy said, ignoring Gasparo's predicament, "have you heard from your Arte brothers?"
At last Gasparo had gathered up the coins. Puffing a little as he got to his feet, he answered, "Yes, I have heard from them. Giuseppe has taken a Polish wife and says he has learned more in bed than anywhere else. He likes Krakow and is working on a new church there, doing parts of the ceiling. He enjoys it, having never done such ornamental work here. Carlo says that London is cold and that the English are strange. He has seen the king once, and finds him lacking when compared with Laurenzo, who was only a banker."
"The Tudors are new to royalty. Tell Carlo to forgive them," Ragoczy murmured. "And Lodovico?"
Now Gasparo frowned. "Lodovico is dissatisfied. He does not like Lisboa after all, and may go into Spain. The work he has been doing is not to his liking, and he complains that his skill is not appreciated. I don't know what to suggest, Eccellenza. If there is someone in Spain whom you know and who might be willing to transfer funds for him, it might be best for him to go there."
"And when he becomes bored with Spain, he will go into France, and we'll have to arrange matters once again." Ragoczy sighed. "But I suppose it must be done. Very well, I agree. When the pouch is sent, there will be a note that will introduce him to certain persons in Spain. He will have to go to Burgos first. After that, I will do what I can to see that he is happily settled."
Gasparo had finished counting the coins in the second pouch and waited to affix his sign to the hot wax. When that was done, he stared lugubriously at the third pouch, then opened it. "Well, I know you are generous, Eccellenza..."
"I have asked you, amico, not to give me a title." Ragoczy set his eclipse seal above Gasparo's mark.
"I don't give it to you," Gasparo growled. "You have it. It clings to you like a halo to a saint. There are fools who do not know remarkable men when they see them." He stopped talking to finish his counting. "The amount is correct," he said with unaccustomed formality. "All three pouches are what you have said they would be."
Ragoczy nodded and sealed the third pouch. "You should have letters from all three men before the end of the year. If you do not, come to me and tell me. If for some reason I should not be here, send a messenger, one you can trust, to this man in Venezia. His name is Gian-Carlo Circando and the messenger should find him in a new palazzo not far from Piazza San Marco."
Gasparo stared at the parchment that Ragoczy handed him. "Why will he do this?" he demanded, suspicious once again.
"He will do this because I employ him. He's an honest man, and has managed my affairs there most honorably."
"Now, now," Gasparo said with a gesture, "don't bristle up at me, Eccellenza. If you say the man is honorable, then he is, and that's an end to it." He got to his feet and stretched. "Your palazzo turned out quite well. Everyone talks about it."
"Mille grazie," Ragoczy said as he handed the pouches to Ruggiero. "If that is so, much of the credit must be yours, Gasparo. If you and your builders hadn't done such a superb job, it would not have been the success it is."
Gasparo was prepared to disclaim even as he flushed with pride, but there was a knock at the door.
"Yes?" Ragoczy called out somewhat sharply, motioning Ruggiero to answer the door.
Demetrice stood on the threshold, two heavy leather-bound books in her hand. "Excuse my interruption, San Germano, but I have a few questions about these books."
The sharp look faded from Ragoczy's face. "Come in, Donna Demetrice. I am just settling a matter with this good man, Gasparo Tucchio, who is a distinguished member of the builders' Arte."
"Bonta Donna," Gasparo muttered politely.
"Donna Demetrice is looking after my library as well as running my household," Ragoczy explained, for though it was no disgrace for a man to house the woman for whom he had a devotion, he was not anxious to have that stigma attached to their relationship. "What is it, my dear scholar?"
She offered the books to him. "What language is this? I don't know it, and I have no title I can list it for."
Ragoczy went to her and examined the books. "They are manuscripts in Persian, but an older version than is used currently. This one in red leather is the chronicle of conquest long ago, some five hundred years before Christ. And this one in the dark brown binding is a religious tract, dealing with the gods of Egypt as well and India and Persia." He handed the second back to her, but held the first for a moment. "The Persians were very warlike then, and their methods were cruel."
Demetrice opened the book and stared at the unfamiliar script as if the intensity of her gaze might bring her understanding. Then she sighed, closed the book and took back the other. "Well, I will list them with your other foreign books, and note their age. If Laurenzo had known you had these..." She stopped very suddenly. "I will see you in the library after prandium," she said in another tone, and let herself out of the room.
In the silence that hung in the air after Demetrice's departure Gasparo fumbled with the wallet that hung on his belt. At last he looked at Ragoczy, and felt a strange compassion for the stranger in black. Before he could stop the words, he said, "Don't blame yourself, Eccellenza."
"What?" Ragoczy fairly snapped the question, then went on smoothly, "I stopped blaming myself more years ago than you can imagine, my friend. But I have never grown used to my... impotence, for want of a better word." For a moment he both heard Estasia's taunts and saw the grief Demetrice had sealed away in her soul. He turned suddenly and went to the small scales, removing another stack of gold coins as he glanced back at Gasparo. "You have a fee as well, Gasparo. I think that you will find this is sufficient." He scooped the coins into a wooden box and handed it to the builder. "I have taken the liberty of adding a ring which I hope you will honor by wearing."
Gasparo stammered. "Eccellenza... I do not... I don't think... You can't mean-"
Ragoczy cut him short. "Gasparo, amico, it would please me to have you accept this. There is so little I can do by way of thanks for the office you fill for me. Take the ring, prego."
For a moment Gasparo was still. He looked toward Ruggiero, but the houseman's expression told him nothing. "Eccellenza," he said in a choked voice, "if ever I were to call any man master, it would be you. I will wear your ring, and proudly." He pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from crying. "I am your man until death, Francesco Ragoczy." And Gasparo Tucchio, of the builders' Arte, who had never bowed to any man, dropped to his knee like a cavaliere and kissed Ragoczy's hand.
Text of a letter from Piero di Laurenzo de' Medici to i Priori della Signoria:
To the honorable gentlemen of i Priori della Signoria, Piero de' Medici sends his greetings and regrets that he cannot deliver them in person.
Your summons came as I was preparing to leave for the country and it is unfortunate that I could not delay my departure so that I could speak to you myself and make an end to this misunderstanding at once. For that reason, I am sending this to you by the hand of my cousin Giuliano, who will leave Ambra this afternoon so that you may have this message first thing in the morning.
But let me address myself to your grievances. First, you claim that I am not attending to the business of Fiorenza. Rest assured that the city is very much in my thoughts. Our bank, as you yourselves have often pointed out to me, has come to an unhappy pass, and requires much of my time. My father left it in a terrible state which it appears I must remedy. For that reason, Medici funds will not be available civically as they have been in the past. I realize that I promised several of the artists who are beautifying Fiorenza that my family would pay them, but I don't think it will be possible now.
Your second complaint indicates that you feel I should not deal with either His Holiness Alessandro VI or with the King of France. How am I to manage a business that is international if I do not negotiate with these men? You say that you fear they will get the better of me. Surely I can understand your worry about the Pope, for he is a Borgia, but why does France concern you? His Majesty has no hold on me, and if he chooses to honor me and my house with gifts, there is no harm in my gracious acceptance. You think that because of my youth that I will be duped by these men. I may be young, good Priori, but I am not a fool. I will remind you that my father was my age when he undertook to guide la Repubblica.
While we are trading disappointments, I would like you to know that I consider your condemnation of my recent additions to our bank impertinent. If I am to recoup our fortunes, I must furbish up our building. Also, I thought you would agree that Federigo Cossa, the alchemist, had gone beyond the bounds in charging that ridiculous amount for the wholly inferior gold he made for me. What choice had I but to exile him?
This lack of leadership you disparage would be less of an issue if you would support my decisions. I cannot work if I find my path impeded by you tedious old men. You have always obeyed my father's instructions, and there is no reason why you cannot now obey mine. In future I will expect you to follow my lead.
At present I plan to remain in the country for perhaps ten days. I want to see the harvest brought in, and when that is done, I will return to Palazzo de' Medici. If necessary I will stay here a few days longer, for there may be an opportunity to do some hunting, and I have had little chance to hunt these last few months.
Look to see me, then, in the first week in November. I will call upon you, and I hope I will find you in a more tractable mood. Until then I commend myself to you and request your assistance and good wishes for the accomplishment of my duties.
Piero di Laurenzo de' Medici
At Ambra, Poggio a Caiano, October 23, 1492
P.S. Your threat of formal censure means very little to me. My father, you will recall, was excommunicated, and it made no difference to him. If he could ignore a Pope, why should I fear you?
