The Palace

The heavy doors of il Palazzo della Signoria swung suddenly wide, and Laurenzo de' Medici stumbled through them into the bright glare of winter sunshine. He swayed unsteadily a moment, and his long-lidded eyes narrowed; then he clapped loudly.

"You! Claudio! My horse." His voice sounded horribly shrill in his own ears, but the young mercenary guard leaped to obey. As he waited, he stared in horror at his hands. They were still shaking, and the joints were grotesquely swollen. Even his elbows and knees were tender and enlarged, and despite Ragoczy's cordial, they hurt when he moved.

"Your horse, Magnifico." Claudio held the sorrel stallion, waiting expectantly.

In that single, terrible moment, Laurenzo feared he would not be able to mount without help. "Grazie, Claudio," he snapped, and took the reins, forcing himself to walk easily. He was close to fainting as he pulled himself into the saddle, grateful that his sorrel stood still despite his clumsiness. It took all his will to tighten his hands on the reins, to pull the sorrel's head around. He let the horse set its own pace through the crowded streets, concentrating on keeping his seat. It was really such a short distance between il Palazzo della Signoria and il Palazzo de' Medici that he was determined to get there without surrendering to the dreadful weakness and pain that washed through him like a tide of fire.

As he neared la Via Larga and his home, he saw that there was a great deal of activity near the door, and too late he remembered that two scholars from Portugal were supposed to arrive that day. He knew it would be impossible to receive them in his current condition, so as he entered la Piazza San Lorenzo, he reined Ms sorrel toward the church, away from il Palazzo de' Medici.

Pain disoriented him as he came out of the saddle, and for a moment he stood stupidly in front of San Lorenzo, not recognizing the Benedettan Father who came forward, distress and affection in his face. "Mio Laurenzo." He touched Laurenzo's arm as he spoke. "Is there anything the matter?"

"No," Laurenzo said distantly as he mastered himself. "I am in need of prayer, Father. So I came here. My brother..."

"Of course," the priest said softly, and led the way into the splendid church of Brunelleschi that Laurenzo's grandfather had donated. There was still some construction going on, but it was away from the main body of the church.

Laurenzo stopped before genuflecting. Agony consumed his legs as he dropped to his knee, and he got to his feet with considerable difficulty. He felt terribly cold and had to clamp his teeth together to keep them from chattering. When he knew he could walk without reeling, he approached the altar. "Strange," he said softly. "I have worshiped here for most of my life, but never, since he died here, have I looked at the altar and not seen my brother lying, just there, bleeding. It was long ago, but as fresh to me as if it had happened yesterday, or this morning."

"I'll leave you alone for prayer, Laurenzo," the priest said, and reminded himself to pray for the health and soul of il Magnifico.

"Ah, Giuliano," Laurenzo said to the empty altar, "how I have missed you. And now, with death plucking at my sleeve, I wish you were here. I could die more easily if you were here. I suppose I am condemned to burn. The prior of San Marco certainly thinks so. Have I been vain, Giuliano, to love learning, and beauty? I am willing to burn for Volterra. It was a despicable act, and my most sincere repentance will not restore that city. If I must burn, let it be for Volterra, not for the things I have loved." He stopped and asked in a lighter tone, "Is that profound faith, or a poet's vanity? Or is it what you used to chide me for-that I have never learned to lose, that even if I am damned for eternity, it must be on my own terms."

He looked up at the vault of the church, as he had often done, and admired the splendor of the building. But neither there nor at the altar did he feel a holy presence. "There's too much Medici and not enough God," he said, and almost laughed at his own effrontery. A line of one of his poems came back to him, a line he had written in yearning and remembered now in despair. "O dio, o sommo bene, or come fai,/ che te sol cerco e non ti truovo mai?" All his life he had sought that supreme good, and now, when he wanted it most, it seemed farthest away. He folded his aching hands and began to pray.

Across la Piazza San Lorenzo in her third-floor room of il Palazzo de' Medici, Demetrice Volandrai paused in what she was saying to look into the street again.

"What is it, Donna mia?" Her visitor came across the room to join her at the window, his black Spanish pourpoint gleaming in the cold light. A narrow ruff of tied lace framed his features, which had been transformed from the courtesy of a moment ago to deep concern.

"There. At San Lorenzo." She pointed down toward the active confusion below them.

"What? There's a mule, which may mean that they have a bishop with them..."

"No. There." Her finger moved a little. "It's Laurenzo's horse."

Ragoczy recognized the sorrel once it was pointed out to him, but he said, "He probably has business with the superior there."

"But he said he would be at la Signoria..." She stopped awkwardly. "I suppose I shouldn't let it worry me."

Very gently Francesco Ragoczy took her hand in his. "Donna Demetrice, what frightens you?"

She looked away, out the window again. "It's nothing, da San Germano." Her lapse into formality had a different effect than what she thought it would.

"No, Donna, don't cheat your grief." He came closer and his compelling dark eyes met hers. "I know what you fear. And I fear it too."

She wavered between relief and insult, but relief won. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. I told him." Ragoczy looked down into la Piazza. San Lorenzo again. "Perhaps you're right." He turned back. "Would you like to check San Lorenzo? If we're wrong, and he is fine, and is with a priest, he'll be angry."

Demetrice did not hesitate. "Yes. Oh, yes. I don't care if he's furious..." She went across the little room and picked up a long rust-colored shawl and flung it around her shoulders. "You see," she said in a hurried apology, "if he only wanted to talk to the priests, he could have come here, then walked across la piazza. But he didn't come back home."

Though Ragoczy shared her apprehension, he said lightly, "And then again, he may have seen that pack of Portuguese at the door and sought refuge for a moment before facing them." He followed her out of the room, closing the door after him.

"Of course," she said reasonably, and with no confidence in her argument, "and he might have sent the horse back with one of the priests while he went elsewhere. He often goes to the menagerie after a meeting. Do mind the stairs here, they're very steep."

"I will." They hurried down to the second floor, and then took a side stair to the sculpture garden at the rear of il Palazzo de' Medici.

"There's no one here today, grazie agli angeli," she said as she opened the door to the small courtyard. "It would be useless to go this way if the sculptors were here." She indicated the door. "If you'll draw back the bolts..."

At last Laurenzo raised his head and sighed. "Giuliano mio," he said softly, "do you remember that night we went serenading, and you brought two jars of that strong Spanish wine? It's a miracle we made it home. Our mother was outraged. That was just after Piero was born, wasn't it? And now Piero is a husband." He rubbed his face, trying to clear his thoughts. "Your son is fine. You'd like him. He'll go far in the Church." He leaned forward against the Communion rail. "We hanged most of the conspirators, including the bishop. Sandro's done a splendid mural of it-of the hanging. I wrote some verses for the traitorous swine. But you're still dead, in spite of it. Giuliano." He walked toward the simple tomb of his brother. "I've always meant to have a proper monument built for you. I should have done it earlier. But I'm forty-two years old, Giuliano. How should I know I would have so little time? Do you remember our plan? That when I was thirty-five I'd leave governing to you, and at last devote myself to poetry. Maybe even retire into the country? I haven't done that. I wish now I had." He fingered the plain marble. "Our peace has been expensive, but at least the price was paid in gold, not lives. You were always so lighthearted. It's cold in Fiorenza. I left la Signoria just a little while ago. Giuliano, I could not hold my quill to sign the proclamation for the Nativity festival." Slowly, painfully, he dropped to his knees beside his brother's tomb, and leaning his arms against the stone, he hid his head in the bend of his elbows.

Somewhat later he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Startled more than annoyed, he turned to ask the priest to leave him alone for a little while longer. "Demetrice," he said, very much surprised.

She had prepared herself to see worse, and so was quite composed in spite of the ravaged smile he gave her. "Yes. You have to pardon us, but I saw your horse..."

"Us?" He looked around, somewhat dazed. "Ragoczy," he said as he recognized the black-clad figure. "But what are you doing here?"

Ragoczy came nearer. "I had been to see Donna Demetrice about her move to Palazzo San Germane. She's willing to be my housekeeper, and since that consists mainly of keeping track of my books and paying for household supplies, she will have time for her own work, and for your library. I am indebted to you, Laurenzo, for thinking of me." The words were easy and his smile polite, but Laurenzo was not fooled.

"Thank you, amico mio, but you don't have to indulge me. I am glad you have come. Both of you." He regarded Ragoczy. "I'm not sure why you did. I have thought-forgive me if I am mistaken-that you wanted no part of my dying."

There was silence between them in that echoing church. "Very well, Magnifico. I suppose you have the right." He dragged one of the congregation benches nearer, oblivious of the nerve-shattering sound the wood made on the marble floor. He moved the bench close to Giuliano's tomb and sat on it, his back to the rest of the church. "Many, very many years ago, I watched a cruel... amusement. Three people I loved with my life were torn apart. There was no way I could save them or stop their deaths. They died utterly and hideously. I watched them die." He kept his eyes on Laurenzo's drawn face so that he would not think again of the Roman Circus, and would not see it, hear it-and worse, smell it, as he had in his mind so many times in the intervening centuries.

"Were they your family?" Laurenzo asked compassionately.

"They were my blood."

"Ah." Laurenzo leaned against his brother's tomb again. He reached up to catch Demetrice's fingers in his own, murmuring, "Mio tesoro." Then he turned back to Ragoczy. "How long ago was it?"

Ragoczy bit back his answer, and said, truthfully, "Less than half my lifetime ago. The memory is vivid still." He went on in a different voice, "I vowed after that I would never again care too deeply for anyone. The pain of loss is too great. So I have had pleasures in abundance, but few joys. I have had study and learning, and travel. I have had things of beauty to treasure. And music, always music."

"But alone?" Laurenzo said, and needed no answer. "Your song- I remember. Mio caro stragnero, how sad that you are still a stranger." He tried to rise then, but his weakness prevented it.

Ragoczy was glad to have an end to this uncomfortable intimacy. He got to his feet, saying, "Demetrice, il Magnifico wants our assistance. You get on that side. Take him under the arm, as I do, and we'll help him to his feet. Laurenzo, if you will walk between us, I promise you won't fall. And all Fiorenza will be jealous of the favor you show us." Already he was on one knee beside Laurenzo, his hands in place. He waited while Demetrice readied herself.

"I hate this... this weakness," Laurenzo said with quiet venom.

Neither Ragoczy nor Demetrice was offended. "There are times, Magnifico..." Ragoczy said as he nodded. In a sudden, upward pull Laurenzo was on his feet between his companions. "There are times when even the most despised things have value."

Laurenzo was leaning heavily on both of them as he marshaled his strength. After a short silence he asked slowly, "Can I bargain, Francesco? I know there is no hope for me, and little help, either. It's not the pain-your cordial still works well enough for that. But is there a way I can cheat my death, if only for a little while?"

"No one can cheat death forever," Ragoczy said in a strange voice, and gave an odd, bitter laugh. "But there are ways to borrow time, a little time. It cannot be long." He could not bring himself to say how very few weeks his friend had left.

"But there is a way to have a month, isn't there? Or a few days?" His desperation distorted his features.

"If there is anything that can be done, I will do it. Believe that." With a nod to Demetrice, they began to walk with Laurenzo to the door.

"I haven't crossed myself," Laurenzo said as they moved to the back of the church. "I must."

"Magnifico, God knows your condition," Ragoczy said almost angrily. "He knows, and if He is just, as your faith says He is, He will not mind if you don't acknowledge Him at the door."

Demetrice's manner was more calm. "Lauro, you praise charity and tolerance in others. Show the same to yourself."

Laurenzo allowed himself to be persuaded, saying ruefully, "I feel like an old man. My bones ache, my fingers are twisted, I totter along between you. I look on death, and fear possesses me, but there's also a sense of deep relief." He stared down at his hands, and then draped his arms across his friends' shoulders. "I used to have such beautiful hands. They made up for my face, almost. Now look at them. They're gnarled as trees. Well, God will teach me humility before my life is over, I suppose."

Ragoczy opened the door of San Lorenzo, and the cold wind poked icy fingers at them, making them shiver.

Through tightened teeth Laurenzo said, "Well, my good friends, you are more than I deserve. But what does that matter now? Come, take me across la piazza. I suppose I must deal with these Portuguese."

A letter and bill from the Arte master to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

Respected Signor Ragoczy, stragnero, the members of the several Arti who have worked on the construction and finishing of your palazzo in the street behind Santissima Annunziata have now completed your work to the letter of your instructions. There is included with this an accounting of charge incurred beyond the amount paid to us in advance.

Most of the work would have been done before now, but as I took the opportunity to inform you, three of the builders left before the work was done and are in fact no longer in Fiorenza, and this occasioned some delay.

We are grateful for the generous thanks you have bestowed upon us. It is not the custom here for men to give every Arte member five fiorini d'or for work, but, as you said, it was not our usual work, and the specifications were unusual. We are appreciative of your gifts.

Your houseman, Ruggiero, had been given the keys and bolts as you requested, and all is in readiness for your reception on Twelfth Night and your tribute to Medici.

If you question the total of the items in the account that comes with this, send word and I will be pleased to review the costs with you.

May the season of Christ's birth be a joyous one for you. It is a pleasure to have so distinguished a stragnero in Fiorenza.

For all the Arte members,

Justiniano Montegelato

In Fiorenza, December 29, 1491