The Palace

In flagrant disregard of half of the sumptuary laws in Fiorenza, Massimillio had prepared a subtiltie of liver paste which he had molded in the form of a wreath of laurel leaves, reminding of the friendship Poliziano had shared with Laurenzo, and he had colored the wreath black with a paste of mashed pepper and juniper berries. Within the wreath was the name Agnolo Ambrogini Poliziano.

There was little mirth at Palazzo de' Medici this last night of September. Poliziano's death a few days before had shocked the few remaining Medici stalwarts, and now there were more rumors about the advance of King Charles of Francia.

Piero sat at his high table with Ficino and a handful of his Medici and Tornabuoni relatives, and from his immoderate laughter and the anxious looks his wife cast him from her place at the women's table, it was plain that he had drunk more wine than was good for him. He signaled one of the servants to bring him more of the liver-paste laurel wreath, then he refilled his cup.

"Is that wise?" Ficino asked with the audacity reserved for senior scholars.

"Plato says even Socrates got drunk. It's in the Symposium. When I was a child, Poliziano tried to teach that to me, and when I wouldn't do the translation, he beat me. Well, he's dead now. Too bad. He was younger than my father was."

Ficino gave Piero a look half of sympathy, half of disgust, then turned away from his young host.

Near the foot of the men's table a musician played melancholy songs on his lute. He paused to say to Francesco Ragoczy, "I see you can't eat either."

"No. I can't." He smoothed the front of his black velvet giornea and adjusted the silver links around his neck that held his order in the sign of the eclipse.

"Agnolo was a sharp-tongued devil, but he was a brilliant scholar. His poetry was good, too." The musician ran his fingers down the strings, making a light, plaintive sound. "Young Buonarroti will miss him the most. Agnolo always loved his work and encouraged him. He could be like that, you know."

Ragoczy looked up at the musician. "I know." Quite suddenly he rose and moved away from the dining tables. He stopped by the chest where the food was set out and glanced toward Massimillio, who hovered in the doorway. "It was well done, Massimillio. A wonderful tribute."

The cook's eyes were moist. "I have served the Medici household for most of my life. But how much longer? Even now Piero hints that he has little use for me, and there are few in Fiorenza now who would want me. There is little use for Palleschi in this city."

"As one Palleschi to another," Ragoczy said as he nodded toward the design of red balls, the famous Medici palle, that were carved into the doorway, "it will not always be so. The Medici and Fiorenza are linked together, and they will be separated only when one or the other is dead."

Massimillio sighed. "If it were so, I would have nothing to fear. But la Signoria mutters about us. If Savonarola has his way, there won't be a Medici left in Fiorenza."

Ragoczy nodded slowly and looked over the forlorn banquet. "If you should decide to leave, there is a man in Genova. His name is Arturo Peligrino. Go there, if you must leave Fiorenza, and say that San Germano sent you to him."

The huge cook studied Ragoczy's face, as if doubting the words, or fearing mockery.

With an ironic smile, Ragoczy looked up at Massimillio. "Signore

Peligrino lives in la Via della Diva Marina. He is a merchant who buys and sells jewels and spices. He won't turn you away, you have my word on that."

"How do you know?" Massimillio blurted out.

"Because I own his ships. And because, unlike myself, Peligrino loves good food." Ragoczy picked up one of the juniper berries that garnished the liver-paste wreath and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. The little berry broke and its sharp scent freshened the air. With a final reminder to Massimillio to remember Arturo Peligrino in Genova, Ragoczy left the banquet room and wandered through the familiar halls of Palazzo de' Medici. He smiled sadly at the beautiful statues, the paintings, the furniture. There were many things with the laur med, marking them as Laurenzo's.

Though there was no particular pattern to his wandering, Ragoczy came at last to the library. He stood at the door, wondering if he should go in. Laurenzo had loved his books with tenderness that Ragoczy valued and shared. And bitter, harsh-tongued Poliziano had often turned affectionate and delighted in the company of books. Would there be ghosts in the library? Ragoczy asked himself. Would the room be full of Laurenzo and Poliziano? His hand was on the door latch when the sound of his name made him turn almost guiltily.

"Francesco," Botticelli said again as he hurried toward him. He was still in his cloak and the spattering of rain dampened his clothes. His boots were muddy and he was slightly out of breath.

"Sandro," Ragoczy said, turning to touch cheeks with the tall painter. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I didn't know it, either," he said as he shrugged out of his cloak. "Sergio said that you were not with the others, and I thought I might find you here." There was a certain distraction to his words and worry scored his rough-hewn features into a medieval mask.

"What is it?" Ragoczy asked, sensing that Filipepi's concern went beyond mourning for Agnolo Poliziano. "Are you well?"

Using the corner of his cloak, Sandro blotted the rain from his hair and face, then leaned heavily back against the wall. "Oh, Gran' Dio. I don't know how to say this."

"Say what?" There was a stab of worry in him now. "Is Demetrice well? Have they found Tucchio yet?"

Botticelli shook his head and made a complicated gesture of mingled annoyance and grief. "No. Demetrice is fine. You've seen her more recently than I have. Tucchio is still missing. No, that's not it."

He took a deep breath. "I wish it were Demetrice. Or Tucchio. I wish it were anything but..."

Then Ragoczy knew. "Estasia?"

"Yes," Sandro said through clenched teeth. "I've just come from Sacro Infante." He moved swiftly, grabbing Ragoczy by the shoulders in a powerful grip. His golden eyes were intense as he leaned toward Ragoczy. "Do you swear on your eternal soul, on your eternal soul, stragnero, that you told me the truth about what passed between Estasia and you?"

It would have been a simple matter for Ragoczy to break free of this grip, but he accepted Sandro's desperation and made no effort to get away. In a level voice he answered, "I swear it was the truth. I swear it by my life, by my blood, and by my immortal soul."

"Did you beat her? Did you defile her in church?" The hot, relentless eyes bored into Ragoczy's.

Ragoczy stifled the laugh in his throat. "I did no more or less than I told you before. I never entered her body as a man. I pleased her as best I could in my manner, and she pleased me. I will swear that by anything you like. I have no reason to lie. And if my pride demanded that I lie to you, it could be easily disproved. Estasia herself..."

The strong fingers released him and Ragoczy stood back from Sandro as he said, "Estasia has confessed."

"Confessed? Confessed what?"

"Today, to Savonarola himself. I was there. I heard her. There was more blasphemy in her new piety than ever there was in pagan rites. And Savonarola listened to it, believed it, hoarded the horrible things she said like a miser counting gold. He wanted to believe her. He wanted her to lie about herself." He met Ragoczy's dark eyes with pain. "He wanted her to lie about you, Francesco."

So it had come at last, Ragoczy thought, and knew that he had been waiting for it. His small, beautiful hands clenched and he forced them to open. "What did she say?" he asked softly.

Botticelli's eyes sickened. "It was foul. Disgusting."

"What did she say?" Ragoczy asked again, and something of his calm communicated itself to Sandro.

"She talked of sacrilegious acts, of being violated on a church altar..."

Ragoczy turned his face away, as if to avoid a blow. His dark eyes filled with anguish. "What else?"

"Isn't that enough?" Sandro demanded with sudden violence.

"No." The word was barely a whisper but it struck home. "Not if I must defend myself against her accusations."

"Defend yourself?" Sandro said, and ran his fingers through his tawny hair. There was white in it now, and it fell in loose curls like an askew halo. "Cristo e San Dismo! You can't defend yourself, man. That's what I'm trying to tell you. She's branded you satanic, Francesco. You've got to leave. Now. Tonight. They'll arrest you tomorrow if you stay."

"Satanic?" He frowned. "What did she say that made me satanic? Your first questions-is that what she's said? That I raped her on a church altar? Truly? As her confession?"

"Yes."

"And the confession? Was it public?"

Sandro nodded, looking very tired now. "It's to be published on the Feast of the Guardian Angels." He looked up at the ceiling, studying the carved and painted beams, but forced his mind back to his foreign friend. "Do you need help?"

Ragoczy's rather vacant expression changed at once. "No. No. I will manage. It would be bad for you if it became known you helped me. You must not let anyone know you came to me this evening."

Botticelli could not meet his eyes. "I'm shamed, Francesco. That one of mine should do you so intolerable a wrong..." He slammed his fist against the top of his thigh. "Let me make amends."

"How?" Ragoczy asked without condemnation. "If there ever is a way I might need your help, be sure I'll ask for it. It may be that I'll need friends in Fiorenza."

"Then count me one," Sandro said quickly, his intensity returning. "No matter what occurs, I will be your friend."

"But not publicly," Ragoczy warned. "It may be dangerous to be my friend, once this confession is known." His glance traveled along the ill-lit hall to a bronze statue. There, frozen in the metal, a seated Daphne was already sprouting limbs and leaves as a gloriously nude Apollo reclined to embrace her, forever too late. Laurenzo had loved it, and recently Piero had asked Ragoczy if he cared to buy it.

"That's true," Botticelli admitted. "But it may be known that I came to find you." He was somber, and then he chuckled. "If you give me a blow on my face, I will be able to say that I tried to apprehend you, we fought, and after striking me, you fled. My report will take some time to give." Then the mischief was gone from his eyes. "I need to do this to aid you. For my honor."

"As you wish." He gave a last look to the library door. "I should have gone in." He recalled then the first time Laurenzo had entertained him, and how he had brought Ragoczy to the library as the afternoon sunlight filled the room with golden splendor. He was delighted that Ragoczy shared his love of books, and he had said as he fingered the gilt-and-leather binding of a volume of Dante Alighieri, I have had seven children from my wife, and others elsewhere. But these are my best-loved children, the children of my soul. Laurenzo's smile then had given his ugly face a beauty that Ragoczy missed now with an intensity that was close to pain.

"Francesco?" Sandro ventured, alarmed.

"It's nothing," Ragoczy said, not knowing how desolate his eyes were. With an effort he pushed his memories aside. "There's not much time, is there?"

"No." Botticelli studied the backs of his hands, and said, as if he were talking of the weather, or a bit of unfounded gossip, "There will be a warrant for your arrest issued. It may have been given already. It will come from la Signoria, but it is on the order of Savonarola. He needs you, or someone like you, so that he can reveal more danger to the people. If it weren't you, it would be someone else."

"Of course. But do you know, Sandro, I wish it weren't me?" He touched cheeks with the artist. "I thank you again for the risk you took for me. I will not forget what you've done."

Botticelli looked somewhat relieved, as if his guilt were lessened. "When do you go?"

"Soon." He studied Sandro's lived-in face a moment. "Are you sure you want me to strike you?"

"Yes, of cour-" He was silenced as Ragoczy's fist slammed into his cheek. His ears rang, his vision clouded and wavered as he staggered backward, arms flung out to keep from falling.

By the time he had steadied himself and overcome his dizziness, Ragoczy was gone.

The warrant for the arrest of il stragnero il Conte Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, issued to i Lanzi by the Console, i Priori and la Signoria:

By the consent and order of all the government of Fiorenza, i Lanzi are mandated to seize and hold the perfidious diabolist known as il Conte Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, and to deliver him up with all speed to the officials of la Repubblica for prosecution as a notorious blasphemer and heretic. All precautions to prevent his escape or his suicide must be taken. This Ragoczy is guilty of atrocious crimes against the State and God and it is essential that he feel the full weight of the law, temporal and spiritual.

With the full authorization of the Console, i Priori, and la Signoria

September 30, 1494