It was late afternoon before Fra Sansone brought news of Donna Demetrice's death to Palazzo San Germane. The large monk was still suspicious about his unnatural sleep the night before, and he regarded Ragoczy with an unfriendly eye. "Word has been sent," he said in querulous tones.
"Of what?" Ragoczy asked in a bored voice, though he hoped it was about Demetrice.
"The heretic woman has revealed herself." Fra Sansone was satisfied with the news. "She has committed the ultimate sin and taken her own life, confirming her confession."
Ragoczy turned away from his table where he was measuring out spices into the balance of one of his brass scales, a look of mild irritation clouding his features. "What do you mean?"
Fra Sansone was delighted at the question. "I mean, foreigner, that the woman you were so determined to save has shown herself to be a heretic and rather than face the purifying flames has taken her own life in the night."
Though it was difficult, Ragoczy forced himself to react slowly. "That's impossible," he said, irritated. "My uncle assured me she is... was someone who lived by Christian principles. You Domenicani might have killed her through torture, but it's ridiculous to say that she committed suicide." He finished measuring the spices and tipped the fragrant powder into a small box, turning his attention to the next container. "Who told you this?"
Irritation was getting the better of Fra Sansone, and because of it he revealed more than he had intended. "I had it from Fra Stanislao himself, not an hour ago. The woman was to have recounted her heretical acts today, but when the guards came to her cell less than an hour after sunrise, she was already cold. Her wrists had been cut and there were mysterious marks all over her body."
Ragoczy remembered the marks, and knew there was nothing mysterious about them. "Indeed?" he said.
"Yes. She and three others died last night, but she was the only one to abandon Christ and take her own life. The others proved their innocence in succumbing to the Question. They will be given Christian burial after the auto-da-fe. But she is another matter." Fra Sansone lifted his hands and folded them piously. "She will be thrown into a pauper's grave at the crossroads."
"Perhaps the good Domenicani will allow me to see to her burial," Ragoczy suggested with just enough uncertainty to satisfy Fra Sansone. "My uncle enjoined me to see that she is cared for. I cannot let her be so wholly abandoned."
"She was a heretic," Fra Sansone reminded him, glaring.
"She was also my uncle's housekeeper," Ragoczy said firmly and at last turned away from weighing spices. "Where is she?"
This was not precisely what Fra Sansone had hoped for, but he grudgingly answered the question. "She will be brought to San Marco after sunset. If you go there, you may be able to arrange to see to her burial." His face set into unattractive lines. "But it may not be possible. They may insist that she be buried as the heretic she was. Ask anything you want, however." His expression was most unpleasant now. He glanced around the weighing room, at the shelves filled with various instruments of measurement. "Vanities," he proclaimed.
"How can you say that?" Ragoczy asked, determined to maintain his pose. "These are all used often, and it is not a sin that besides being functional, they are beautiful." He put his hand on the spice chest, a piece of heavily carved furniture with fifty little drawers in its front. "Any stout wooden box will hold spices and any well-made chest may be fitted for drawers, but would you not prefer this to mere pieces of wood made into a box, with no thought to the grain and the color?"
Fra Sansone scoffed as his hands at his sides twisted at the remembered pleasure of breaking things. "If your soul is worth two pieces of fitted wood, what is it to me?"
"The Cross, I believe, was made with two pieces of fitted wood. Certainly an excellent example." His tone was absent, for he once again busied himself with measuring spices. Though he could hear Fra Sansone's anger in his breathing, he paid no attention as he carefully drew open the little drawer filled with cinnamon. Before he began to spoon out the powdered spice, he said, "If you have anything more to say, please say it now. If not, leave me, and be sure that you close the door tightly. Otherwise the wind may scatter the powder. And spices, you know, are almost as costly as gold."
"I will leave you," Fra Sansone said between his teeth.
"Thank you. Oh, and if you see Ferrugio, send him to me, will you?" The angle of his head and the slight condescension in his voice were masterpieces of arrogance, and they produced the expected results: Fra Sansone muttered a response and rushed out of the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him.
When Ruggiero came to the measuring room somewhat later, his worried face told Ragoczy that he already knew of Demetrice's death. "You were too late?" he asked softly.
"No. The Domenicani were." He half-sat on the edge of the table, one leg dangling negligently, his high red boot catching the light as his foot swung. "They're bringing her here, to San Marco. I'll go there after sunset and claim the body. We can lay her in her native earth-and I trust you have it?-tonight and she will be ready to leave with us in the morning. If we go before the auto-da-fe, we'll have many leagues between us before anyone knows we've left."
Ruggiero nodded. "I have the earth. Not very much, but I ordered the alchemist in Rimini to send more to Venezia, and I've dispatched instructions to Gian-Carlo."
They spoke in that strange tongue that was Ragoczy's native language. "Is this precaution necessary?" Ragoczy asked, amused.
Ruggiero shrugged. "I saw Fra Sansone in the gallery as I came up the stairs."
"It's wisest, then." He chuckled, picturing the frustration of the listening monk. "Where have you put the earth? And how much is there?"
"At the moment there are two sacks of it in the stable." He paused and went on somewhat awkwardly. "Are you certain that she will make the change? You've only been with her three times. It might not be enough." Ruggiero's passive face was at variance with the worry in his voice. "I admire her. I wouldn't like to lose her."
"It is enough," Ragoczy said shortly. "We shared blood."
This sufficiently startled Ruggiero that he raised his brows and let out a low whistle. "You told me you doubted she'd be willing."
"And I was. But they tortured her yesterday-pardon, that's incorrect. They only Questioned her, because her skin was not deliberately broken. They were going to do more today. By comparison, vampirism was welcome." An old, old bitterness hardened his voice. "After we shared blood, she let me cut her wrists and the thing was assured."
Ruggiero nodded, and said with a little difficulty, "Do you think she'll mind?"
He had voiced a fear that had been haunting Ragoczy since the night before. "I don't know. I wish there were a way to have her released, alive. If I could have had her case delayed long enough to stop Savonarola, it would have been another matter. She would have had a choice then. As it is, she's not used to the idea. She accepted me because the alternative was death by torture. Not a very flattering thought, is it?" He shook off his mood. "Well, we won't know until late tonight. If she is truly angry, I'll have to arrange for her to go elsewhere until she understands."
"I will talk to her," Ruggiero said as he went to the door. "I'll wait for you at the courtyard gate when you bring her. That way, Fra Sansone won't have to be distressed by her." Suddenly he pulled the door open and Fra Sansone stepped back guiltily.
"I have instructions," he said, and glared into the measuring room.
"So you have," Ragoczy agreed. "By all means tell your superiors every word that passed between Ferrugio and me." He smiled sweetly and strode across the room. "It's growing late. I'll leave for San Marco shortly." For the benefit of Fra Sansone he added, "I trust you'll have everything in readiness to receive the body."
Ruggiero bowed slightly, his houseman's gown whispering as it brushed the floor.
San Marco shone in the dusk, every window alight, and the brightness spilling out onto the street and the buildings around it, filling Piazza San Marco with a square of brilliance that spilled from the open door of the church.
Ragoczy entered by that door, his silken sleeved tunic throwing back the scintillating lights from hundreds of tiny, polished diamonds worked into the neck and shoulder of the fine white brocade that was further decorated with black piping at the high neck, down the front closing, and at the hem and wrists. White boots reached almost to his knees and the black heels were studded with polished gems. A short white cape hung over one shoulder and was held across the chest with braided cords of black silk. His white cap made his dark hair even darker and set off his dark eyes.
One of the Domenicani who bustled through the church, preparing for the great event that was to come in the morning, saw him and stopped his errand to ask, "You are the foreigner, aren't you?"
"I am. I wonder if you will be kind enough to direct me to whoever is empowered to release bodies?" He spoke respectfully and with a becoming deference to the monk.
"What body?" Belatedly he rolled up two of the parchments he held and tucked them under his arm.
"I understood from Fra Sansone that the bodies of the condemned heretics were to be brought here. Since one was the servant of my uncle, I feel it my duty to give her proper burial, even though she may not lie in hallowed ground." He leaned toward the monk and added, "I know the request is irregular. But I have obligations."
"Of course, of course," the monk said nervously and fingered the parchments under his arm. "That would be Fra Cataline. He's on the south side of the church. There's a little room there, near the side door..." He glanced nervously around. "That's Fra Cataline."
"Thank you, good Brother," Ragoczy said, wishing he had had a chance to see what was written on the parchments. He turned and crossed the church, pausing only long enough to genuflect before the altar.
A number of monks waited outside the little room near the south door of the church. Ragoczy moved up to them and asked if there was some problem. No one answered him.
He decided to get attention. "Where is Fra Cataline? I must see him. It's urgent." His voice was loud enough to be heard throughout the church. He had a thick accent so that his very foreignness would force response from those around him.
Almost at once a man of late middle age in a Domemcan habit burst out of the little room. His expression was harassed as he glared at the monks. "I've told you that you can take no one until I finish the certificates!"
"A thousand pardons, good Brother. But it was I who called you." Ragoczy shouldered his way through the monks and regarded Fra Cataline evenly.
Fra Cataline regarded the glittering stranger with curiosity. "And who are you?"
"Germain Ragoczy," he replied, bending the full force of his compelling eyes on Fra Cataline. "I have come to claim the body of Demetrice Volandrai. She died last night, while in your care."
"Claim her?" Fra Cataline said with an exasperated gesture. "You must do that after the burning."
"What?" Ragoczy resisted the impulse to grab the monk and shake him. "Why not now? Surely there's no purpose in keeping her here longer."
Fra Cataline gave an exaggerated sigh. "Of course not. The bodies aren't here, any of them. They were earlier."
"Then where are they?" His voice was low and his manner respectful, but Fra Cataline quailed before him. The other monks, seeing their fellow's barely concealed terror, stepped back and crossed themselves, taking covert glances at the foreigner in white.
"At... at la Piazza della Signoria," Fra Cataline stammered, then turned away from Ragoczy's eyes. "The prior, the blessed Savonarola, has given orders... that all who have died unrepentant be burned with the other heretics."
Ragoczy's eyes closed. Anger, pain and despair coursed through him and for an instant he felt a fierce desire to rend and maim every Domenicano monk in all of Fiorenza. This passed and was replaced by determination that was fed by his sense of impending loss.
"Signor stragnero..." Fra Cataline said uncertainly, "you may have the ashes. Our prior won't forbid that."
Abruptly Ragoczy swung around on his heel and as the monks parted before him, his swift strides took him from the church. His thoughts raced before him, and by the time he arrived back at Palazzo San Germano he had his instructions ready for Ruggiero.
"But what if it isn't possible?" his manservant asked when he had heard the new instructions.
Ragoczy shook his head, and his dark eyes were sad. "Then, my old friend, leave Fiorenza instantly. Make sure the Botticellis are carried on my mare. She's fast and her gaits are even."
"And you?" He knew the answer, but fear drove him to ask.
"It will be too late for me, Ruggiero. If I fail to save Demetrice, I'll be dead. Truly dead."
Text of a letter from Suor Merzede, Superiora of the Celestiana convent, Sacro Infante, to Girolamo Savonarola, prior of San Marco:
With a humble heart, the Superiora of Sacro Infante sends her greetings to the blessed Girolamo Savonarola, prior of San Marco, in Fiorenza.
Though I have no wish to distress you, or bring difficulties upon you, good Prior, I must write to you before the matter is out of hand. You have proclaimed that tomorrow there is to be a great auto-da-fe wherein many heretics will be burned to the glory of God and the salvation of Fiorenza. You have further ordered that Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli be there to tell of her visions and to sing her hymns.
Good Prior, most earnestly I beg you to reconsider. I realize you think that I am jealous of Suor Estasia, and certainly her particular abilities have brought her a great deal of attention, and have much influenced the life of all of us at Sacro Infante. But I did not become a nun to receive praise, but so my life might be of service to God. I am grateful that our convent has become well-known, for it is in this way we are granted the opportunity to do good in the world.
Good Prior Savonarola, I must warn you that Suor Estasia is not well. She has been fasting most rigorously for the last month and it has made her weak. But more than that, she is filled with strange sensations. She herself has said that never has she experienced such sensations, and though they are for her most rewarding, as they increase in severity they make her behave strangely. Last night she opened her habit and scourged herself unmercifully and in a way that I cannot in modesty describe. She said that such chastisement purged all the devils of the flesh, but there was a fever in her eyes as she said that.
I greatly fear that if you bring her to Fiorenza now and expose her to all the heady excitement that must attend such an occasion, Suor Estasia will be cast into such a state that she may do herself or others some hurt. Being inspired by the Holy Spirit, she does not always remember the limitations of her human body and therefore is vulnerable to many things.
You may recall some of the excesses she committed before she was redeemed to God through her confession to you, and subsequent absolution. Her soul is still volatile and for that reason the light of piety burns in her more brightly than in many of us. Pray for her, but do not, I ask you, expose her to such an experience. Only last week her cousin Sandro Filipepi visited her, and he himself expressed concern for her. You know that someone as devout in the exercise of his faith as is Filipepi would not worry capriciously.
Surely the heretics will burn equally well whether Suor Estasia is there or not. And surely Fiorenza will derive as much benefit from the auto-da-fe with Suor Estasia here, in prayer, as it would if Suor Estasia addressed them herself from those wooden platforms that have been constructed for the burning.
It is not too late. I will await an answer to this tonight. I will keep the vigil with Suor Estasia. Already she lies in the chapel, her face pressed against the stones, her arms out to the side in imitation of Our Dear Lord. She has hardly moved for more than an hour but she has declared that her devotion must be perfect, and she must be wholly consumed in the radiance of God. She has her scourge with her, the one you presented to her, the one with metal hooks on the seven lashes.
Good Prior, I fear for her. I fear what she might do. Let her remain here where she may be protected and looked after by her Sisters, who love and revere her. Her faith is strong but flesh is fragile. Do not test her beyond her endurance. God cannot want that of her, and if you ask it, you do her a terrible disservice. Her reverence for you is such that if she were a woman living in the world, I would say that you had become the God of her idolatry and that her devotion bordered on the blasphemous.
Consider well, good Prior, and do not endanger one who is as selfless in her zeal as Suor Estasia. I will await your answer while I keep the night vigil with Suor Estasia. If at dawn you have sent no answer, I will most reluctantly send her to you, as you have commanded me to do.
In all things, I am most obedient to you after my obedience to God and my order.
Suor Merzede
Superiora of Sacro Infante
Celestiane Sisters
Sacro Infante, near Fiorenza, 9th day of March, 1498
