The Palace (Saint-Germain #2)

The Palace (Saint-Germain #2) Page 31

Out on the Gran' Canale the moonlight spilled in silver profusion, touching the gentle waves with a diamond luster that shone against the dark tarnish of the night. The moon lent its color to the golden front of Ca' d'Oro, and dappled the fine marble of the great houses and palazzi, and in the back canals, where there was squalor and poetry, the moonlight hid that meanness in its gauzy deception. As sometimes happened in winter, the night was clear and calm and for once the Feast of the Circumcision was not marred by gales and rain.

The courtyard of il Palazzo del Doge, unfinished as it was, still rang with the laughter and music of the great celebration as the great, glittering throng surged from one elaborate room to another, here to drink wines from every part of the world where Venezian ships sailed, there to hear singers from Spain and Denmark. Il Doge himself, Agostino Barbarigo, strolled among the guests in his splendid official garments, the large gold buttons undone so that his simple black gonnetta showed against the elaborate brocade. He was a good host, his dark eyes and bristling beard as arresting as his cap of office.

In one large salone with the walls the same smoldering blue as the sea at high summer, il Doge Barbarigo came upon a lively discussion between the foreign Conte Francesco Ragoczy and a young sea captain, Ulisso Viviano, and he paused to join in.

"But if there is a New World in the Atlantic, and not just another side of India, we Veneziani should exploit it. Think of my name, Ragoczy. I was destined to go there. There is no place in the world that interests me so much as the New World and it would be a great pity if Spain alone were allowed to have it. Think. It would take no more than three ships for the first voyage, just enough to get there and see for ourselves what it's like. I already have a trusted crew who have gone everywhere with me. They are eager for the chance to have such an adventure. You have two ships in port right now, and in a month, another will arrive. I promise you a good return on your investment."

"Do you?" Ragoczy's face was polite but his eyes were bored. This was the third time Viviano had accosted him with plans for the New World.

"Of course. Think of it. Jewels. Gold. Spices. Two or three voyages and our fortunes are made."

"Unless you should be killed, or the ships not survive the seas, or the foreign people not want you there." Ragoczy shook his head.

"What you mean, Viviano," il Doge interrupted, "is that your fortune would be made. Ragoczy is rich already, and no thanks to you. Or have you forgotten that you lost one of his ships two years ago?" He turned away from the young captain and regarded the foreigner with an appreciative eye. "The gold you've given the state for the adornment of la Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista would outfit half a dozen such expeditions." He took Ragoczy's hand in his and pulled him away from the aggrieved Viviano, remarking as he did, "He's fairly honest, and he's ambitious. You could do worse things than finance him. The matter with your ship was more misfortune than bad judgment." He had brought Ragoczy into another, smaller room that was still being completed. Half-finished murals filled the walls, and the carved wainscoting was not entirely in place. Il Doge gestured to the murals. "What do you think? I like the style, but I admit that I wish I had your friend Botticelli here to do some of it."

"Ask him, then." Ragoczy had done little more than glance at the murals.

"I have. He refused." Il Doge sighed and gestured fatalistically. "What is it, Francesco? You're not yourself tonight."

Ragoczy shook his head, then changed his mind and answered the question. "Tonight, had things been different in Fiorenza, Laurenzo would be celebrating the anniversary of his birth. He would have been forty-nine. And instead, Fiorenza is in the sway of Savonarola, who is fighting with the Pope as he grows in power."

"Have you had word from Fiorenza?" Barbarigo asked, taking a professional interest in political gossip.

At that, Ragoczy's frown darkened. "No. And I should have."

"Well, the winter is severe in the mountains. Perhaps the message is delayed. I've had two messengers killed since September and the merchants say that it isn't safe to travel. But I have need of your advice, Ragoczy. You come from Transylvania."

"Yes. But many years ago." He rarely made a secret of his homeland, particularly when there was so much disruption going on in that part of the world.

"Did you know Matthias Corvinus?" Il Doge was too offhand, and Ragoczy knew he was leading up to a much more important question.

"Not intimately. I saw him once or twice. He was a courageous man. His second wife brought him to Napoli often, for she loved her own country. He was liked in Roma, and those I knew in Fiorenza who met him regarded him with respect. Why?"

"Well, Matthias often suggested that Venezia and Hungary should make common cause against the Turks. He had some powerful arguments to put forward-not just the demands of a threatened king, but reasons that would be advantageous to both our countries. Now that Matthias is dead, I have sent certain messages to Ulaszlo and have had no answer. I don't understand. I know that the messages were delivered, but Ulaszlo is silent."

"What did you want of him?" Ragoczy wondered aloud as he turned away from il Doge.

"I invited him to come to Venezia, to take part in a council that might be mutually advantageous. You'd think-"

Ragoczy snorted. "King Dobre? Do something on his own? If his Austrian masters think it might be beneficial, you may be sure he'll take part in your council. But remember that he's Austria's toy. Dobre, Barbarigo, means assent-giver. He earned his nickname."

Il Doge shook his head. "I feared it might be that. Well, I'll send one more message, and if there is no response, I'll try dealing with France, though there's less reason for them to help us." He looked at the unfinished murals once more. "I hope I live long enough to see them complete," he said softly before he turned and walked to the door. There something more occurred to him and he turned back to

Ragoczy, saying, "Do you know la Donna Cassandra Fedele? She's a poet, you know. Her work is read quite widely. She's recently had a letter from Fiorenza. Perhaps she'll be willing to give you news of your friends there." He glanced over his shoulder. "She's here tonight. You ought to seek her out."

"Grazie, Signor' Doge. Perhaps I will." As he said it he very much doubted that he would actually speak with the distinguished old poet, but to his surprise, she sought him out somewhat later in the evening.

She was a delicately boned woman, of great dignity and a strange, deceptive fragility, and when she spoke, her low, musical voice was the most beautiful sound in the world. "Ragoczy," she said as she came up to him. "You are il Conte Francesco Ragoczy, aren't you?" Being so remarkable a woman, and not young, she was allowed certain social freedoms denied many other Venezian women. She rarely flaunted her unique independence in the world's face, but she found it useful to be able to converse with men at will, instead of waiting for a properly chaperoned and constrained moment.

"Donna Cassandra," he said with a moderate bow. "I am very honored that you know me. I have for many years known who you are, and have admired your work. Poliziano first acquainted me with it."

"Ah, Agnolo. I miss him very much." She drew a deep breath and said more briskly, "I've been hoping for the opportunity to speak to you." She drew her arm through his, and added in her most polite tones, "I have never learned how you manage to look so completely elegant in plain black. The rest of us are got up like peacocks, and you outshine us all."

He adapted his mood to hers. "Well, this plain black, as you choose to call it, is sculptured velvet, and the slashes are edged in silver and red. It is not quite as plain or as severe as you seem to think. And my order," he said as he touched the silver-and-ruby chain where the eclipse medallion hung, "is not precisely inconspicuous."

She smiled her approval. "Very good. Did you learn that in Fiorenza? I've heard that the conversation there used to be remarkably audacious."

"No," he said, adding outrageously as she led him to a window alcove somewhat away from the celebration, "if I were to tell you where I learned that, you wouldn't believe me."

Donna Cassandra Fedele sat down and indicated that Ragoczy should do so as well. "I am concerned about Marsilio Ficino. You know him, don't you?"

"Somewhat." It was a cautious answer and Donna Cassandra accepted it as such.

"I have had a letter from him. It disturbs me very much. He sounds so much unlike himself, despondent, fearful. You know more about Fiorenza than I do. I wonder if you will read his letter and tell me what you think."

Ragoczy studied her fascinating, lined face. There was no duplicity there, and no guile. He nodded. "Very well. When would you like me to call on you?"

"You need not go to that trouble," she said brightly. "I brought the letter with me, for I hoped to see you, or someone from Fiorenza." She reached into the small old-fashioned purse tied to her belt, and pulled out the tightly folded parchment. This she handed to him, saying nothing, waiting while he opened it and read.

Before he had finished, Ragoczy's dark eyes were burning and his face was white. At one point his small hands tightened convulsively, crumpling the fine parchment. Startled by his own violence, he put the letter onto his knee and smoothed it carefully, not seeing the words as his fingers covered them. "I'm sorry, Donna Cassandra. I wrinkled your letter. I didn't mean..."

Her flinty old eyes were sympathetic. "You know these people, Ragoczy. Their misfortune must alarm you."

"Demetrice," he said, and for a moment he saw her as he had seen her last, her face filled with light. "In prison." Ragoczy disliked anger. He knew what it did to others, and over the centuries had grown to despise what anger made him capable of doing. The anger that filled him now was welcome as rain in time of drought, as the warmth of a fire in midwinter.

Donna Cassandra's sharp old eyes studied him, and as he rose, she nodded to herself. "Do you wish to leave?" She received no answer to this question. "Il Doge seeks to honor you tonight, at the midnight meal. If you leave before then, you will offend him."

"I never eat." Ragoczy held out the letter to her. "I must thank you, Donna Cassandra. The news is bad, but you have relieved my mind. At least now I know what I must do, and whom I must deal with." He touched the chain that hung across his chest and traced the eclipse device with his fingers. "Your letter was written on November seventh. Have you had any word since then?"

Before she answered, Donna Cassandra folded the parchment and once again tucked it into her purse. As she looked up, a French musician with a lute in his hands bowed to her.

"I have set two of your verses to music, Donna rispettata," he said in poorly accented Italian. "I would be honored to sing them to you."

Ragoczy knew the musician was talented and at another time he would have wanted to hear the songs, but now he gave Donna Cassandra an impatient nod and she met his eyes with understanding.

"You honor my verses too much," she told the musician. "And I want very much to hear your work. But here it is crowded and there is too much talk to disturb you. Come, if you will, to my home tomorrow and we will spend a pleasant hour together."

The musician bowed deeply. "You overwhelm me," he declared, and turned away to find his companions so that he could boast of his triumph.

"Have you had any word?" Ragoczy repeated when the musician was gone.

"No. But there is a man here in Venezia," she said, and there was a measuring quality to her words. "He arrived two days ago. He came through Fiorenza late in the year. I believe he'll be here tonight, but a little later. He's Polish, a student of languages, and has been in Roma for more than a year." There was a slight malicious smile on the poet's face. "I don't know how he fared there, but if his Italian is any example of his prowess as a scholar, he'll need more than the libraries of Roma to teach him anything." She broke off. "No. It's not the Polish scholar who annoys me, it's the arrogant Borgias. He has been praising them, and I dislike that."

"I'll seek out this scholar when he arrives." There was a grimness about his mouth as he spoke. "I'll need news of Fiorenza. As recent as possible."

Donna Cassandra gave a short, canny laugh. "Unless I am badly mistaken, you're about to leave Venezia again. Do not be away for so long this time, Ragoczy. I'm an old woman, and there is little time left for me. I do hate spending it among fools. You're an intelligent man, and there are lamentably few intelligent men in this world. I enjoy your conversation, when you're willing to speak. One day you must tell me what you think of the ruins that were discovered near Udine last spring."

He knew he owed her a great deal, so rather than give her a curt response, he said, "The ones at Casa Sole?"

"Yes." She stared out at the milling, gorgeous crowd. "Most of them neither know nor care about the ruins. The people are dead and buried who built it, and what can it mean to them that their homes are brought to light. But you know it is important."

"Well," Ragoczy suggested with a shrug and an air of nonchalance that was belied by the glitter at the back of his eyes, "if the name is any indication, there was a temple of the sun there once."

"Or," Donna Cassandra said as she watched Ragoczy, enjoying the restlessness she saw in him, "it may mean the house of the unique one."

"Another temple, still." Ragoczy dismissed it and looked about the room. "You must excuse me, Donna Cassandra. You've been very kind to me, and it is impertinent of me to leave you so rudely, but I see Gian-Carlo at last and there's much I need to say to him." He bowed swiftly, his formality as minimal as was possible on such a grand occasion.

"Yes, of course. I will hear about this when you return. And be sure you speak to the Pole." She waved him away reluctantly, then turned her keen eyes to a young couple who thought their meeting was unobserved.

Gian-Carlo acknowledged Ragoczy's wave with one of his own and came through the crowd to meet him. He was resplendent in a short Venezian giacchetta of turquoise silk shot with gold thread, which was worn above particolored silken hose of turquoise and white. His shirt, which puffed through the slashes in his tightly fitted sleeves, was of ostentatious gold silk and his codpiece was fastened to his belt with shiny white ribbons. He wore a tall velvet cap on his soft brown hair and at the moment his face was bright with wine and pleasure. He grinned at his mentor. "Francesco," he said a great deal more casually than was polite, "I wondered where you'd got to."

Ragoczy took Gian-Carlo by the elbow and whispered to him, "I must talk to you. Now."

The unfamiliar brusqueness of this command bewildered Gian-Carlo, but he willingly followed Ragoczy to a smaller room where games of chance occupied one group of men at a large table. There was a degree of privacy in that room, and Ragoczy added to it by drawing Gian-Carlo toward the farthest corner.

"It's disrespectful of me to say it, but you look terrible, Francesco. Your face is the color of chalk. Are you ill?"

"No. It would not matter if I was." He watched Gian-Carlo through narrowed eyes, wondering how much of a risk this beautiful man of thirty-three was willing to take for his teacher. He knew that Gian-Carlo was honorable and sincere, but would he, faced with the threat of imprisonment or death, keep faith with Ragoczy? Not if he knew the whole of Ragoczy's secret. Once or twice he had thought to tell Gian-Carlo what he was, and trust that their friendship would survive the telling. But at the last he had always drawn back, and now he dared not put Gian-Carlo's loyalty to the test, either with the truth or in asking him to come to Fiorenza. Even so, the question he asked startled the young Veneziano. "Do you know where I can get clothes made for me in less than a week?"

Gian-Carlo scowled. "Have Attilio do it. He does all your clothes, doesn't he? He's pretty fast."

"No. Not Attilio. He'd question too much. Who does your clothes?"

"I get the cloth from Eugenio, mostly, and Sabina Nimbue makes it up." He moved uneasily. "Francesco, what's this all about?"

Ragoczy did not answer that question at first. "Would she make up clothing for me? Quickly? In a week? I'll need a fair number of garments, in the Hungarian style. And in colors."

"Colors?" Gian-Carlo said, scandalized. "You never wear colors."

"I'm going back to Fiorenza in ten days." This announcement, given as it was in an offhand way, stunned Gian-Carlo.

"But they'll arrest you." He thought, fleetingly, that Ragoczy was mad or drunk. But he knew Francesco never touched wine, and that he was frighteningly sane.

"Only if they know who I am. I will return as... my nephew, I think. Come to claim his inheritance. That has a probable ring, doesn't it? My heir would go to Fiorenza if there was a valuable piece of property involved, wouldn't he? My hair is shorter, and if I speak Italian badly and wear bright colors in the Hungarian style, there are few who would question me. Not enough of my old friends are there still. Only Sandro..." He stopped. Why hadn't Sandro sent him word of Demetrice's imprisonment? He realized that had been worrying him since Donna Cassandra had shown him Ficino's letter. Marsilio had said nothing about Sandro, so he had assumed the artist was well, but it might be that Botticelli, too, had fallen into disfavor with the stringent new regime of Fiorenza.

"Francesco?" Gian-Carlo's reluctant interruption pulled him away from these new and unpleasant thoughts.

"I will see you have my measurements. Deliver them tomorrow to Sabina Nimbue and tell her that I will require the garments in eight days. Price is no concern. She may charge me whatever she must to do the work. If she has to hire more needlewomen, tell her that I will pay their wages and give them five gold ducati apiece for every garment finished in seven days or less."

Gian-Carlo shook his head. "I'll do it, if that's what you want, but you're taking your life in your hands if you return to Fiorenza. How long do you think you'll go unrecognized? Your housekeeper... what's her name? She'll know you in a moment."

Ragoczy's face darkened. "She's in prison. That's why I'm going back."

"In prison?" Gian-Carlo scowled and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts. "If she's in prison, all the more reason for you to stay away. She may have denounced you already. They're not very kind to alchemists in Fiorenza recently. What was she sent to prison for? Perhaps she deserved it."

At that moment Ragoczy hated Gian-Carlo, and along with the instant of fury, he realized with a certain humor that Gian-Carlo had not offered to go with him or to go in his place. He felt his hatred leave him, and he said very gently, "If you were the one in prison, would you still feel that way?" He did not expect an answer, which was just as well, for Gian-Carlo flushed scarlet and could not meet Ragoczy's dark eyes. "Gian-Carlo, I must go."

"Yes." He muttered the word. "But will you take someone with you? If not me, Ruggiero? You must not go into that viper's nest unguarded. They might imprison you as well, even if they believe that you're your own nephew."

Ragoczy shrugged. "I doubt it. They have nothing to gain from that, but they might not let me stay there very long. That's just as well. If I'm to free Demetrice, it must be done quickly."

"Francesco," Gian-Carlo said with clumsy kindness, "have you considered that it might not be possible? That she might already... that perhaps..."

"That perhaps she's already dead?" Ragoczy suggested harshly. "Yes. I've considered that. I understand there is a scholar who is to attend this celebration sometime tonight who has recently been in Fiorenza, and I hope he will give me news."

Gian-Carlo gestured to the crowd in the adjoining room. "One scholar in all this? How will you find him?"

At that Ragoczy's humor returned a little and he almost laughed. "I understand he's Polish. It won't be difficult."

"I see." Gian-Carlo had already accepted the fact that Ragoczy was determined to return to Fiorenza, and decided not to try to persuade him to do otherwise. His own misgivings were still strong and he wished he had the force of argument on his side, for he liked Ragoczy and was anxious to learn more from him. But he inclined his head in elegant capitulation, thinking as he did that although he knew Ragoczy was the shorter of the two of them, the foreigner always contrived to seem to be the taller. "Tell me what you want made and give me your measurements in the morning. You said colors? Do you have any choices?"

"The brighter the better. And of Hungarian cut. If it's possible, at least two of the roundels should have the pearl embroidery which is still fashionable. Use my store of pearls if you must. I want it to seem that I'm part of the Hungarian court."

There was a tacit understanding between Gian-Carlo and Ragoczy that the Veneziano would ask him no questions concerning his background, but now Gian-Carlo's curiosity overcame him. "You have been away from your homeland a long time, haven't you?"

"Yes. A long time." Then, abruptly Ragoczy was himself again. "Gian-Carlo, see that I have those clothes. Tomorrow I will need to arrange for money, and I must send a message to Teodoro in Cavarzere to meet me in Chioggia with horses in ten days. I'll need a good mount. I want to make Pontelagoscuro the first day and Bologna the second."

At this brutal suggestion Gian-Carlo blanched. "San Filippo, you'll kill your horse! It's impossible to do in twice the time."

"Teodoro must arrange for changes of mount for me along the way. I still have horses at Pietramala, don't I?" He had left such matters in Gian-Carlo's hands the last year when it had seemed unlikely that he would return to Fiorenza for some time.

"Yes. Dionigi Fano at Il Bosco has them. There are four mares and two stallions."

"Good." Ragoczy rubbed his hands in anticipation. "What color are they? Is there one that isn't gray?"

"There's one white mare."

"I'll want her." He saw Gian-Carlo's shocked face and he relented a little. "If I'm going to survive the viper's nest, as you call it, I must at least confuse them. Just as I never wear colors, I always ride gray horses."

"A message will go to Teodoro at first light." Gian-Carlo put his hand to his eyes. "Bright clothes, heavily embroidered, in eight days. Horses ready for you between here and Fiorenza, and you want the white mare from Dionigi Fano." He rolled his large blue eyes upward, as if appealing to heaven for comment.

"Very good," Ragoczy approved. "And now I must try to find the Polish scholar. When I have spoken with him, I must leave. Tell Riccardo to have the gondola here in an hour."

"I will." With a last, resigned sigh, Gian-Carlo strolled away, his brilliant smile masking the icy dread he felt.

Text of a letter from Antek Kazielawa to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, written in Polish:

To the distinguished gentleman Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano in Venezia, Antek Kazielawa sends his greetings, and gives himself the honor to relate to Sr. Ragoczy what he saw and heard while he stayed in the Toscana city of Fiorenza.

Journeying north from Roma, where I had continued my studies of antique languages, I arrived in Fiorenza at the end of October and was anxious to learn more at the library established by Cosimo de' Medici, who was called Pater Patriae. It was most disheartening that the Medici family is in great disgrace in the city so that even the books gathered by Cosimo and the magnificent Laurenzo are held in contempt and suspicion. With the aid of several Francescani Brothers from Santa Croce -who are opposed to the new order, if I have understood them correctly and it is not just more of the rivalry between the Francescani and Domenicani-I was at last granted access to those books of ancient scholarship which are the topics of my life studies.

Over the years I have so often heard the praises of Fiorenza sung that my disappointment was all the greater when I discovered how far removed from her former glory Fiorenza is today. Where before all I heard was talk of the splendid art, the elegant conversation, the wonderful entertainments, the high learning, the delights in all things philosophical and graceful, to find the city so somber, so glum, and practicing an austerity more in line with the lives of the saints than the Spartans, I fear I was too deeply shocked to understand at first that this was not typical of Fiorenza.

Much can be blamed on the poor wool and textile trade, which has fallen off very much of late, and perhaps it is true that poor crops have made fast days more necessary. There is also a certain unrest which is the heritage of the French. But most of the unfortunate erosion of scholarship and the equally lamentable decline of the arts comes from the new religious fervor that had taken control of almost all the people.

While I was there I saw many religious processions, but the strangest of all was of Domenicani Brothers who danced through the streets, garlands on their heads, singing hymns and beseeching God to visit them with His Holy madness. All the while their prior, one Savonarola, who has been excommunicated, marched with them and exhorted them to pray and to accept the presence of the Spirit of God. No one attempted to stop this prior, though it is a sin to hear him.

It was at the height of this strange procession that Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli was called by Savonarola to come forth and speak of her visions. Even the monks who had been dancing paused and were rapt in the glory of her words. She was faint with fasting and there were scourge marks on her face (which is all of her that could be seen, for this pious woman covers her hands as well as the rest of her body, so that she cannot seek contact with any but the Most High), but she spoke with an elation that wholly entranced her listeners. Then she began to sing a new hymn, and the monks took it up, and were soon dancing as if in a trace. All those who saw this fell to their knees in awe, and Savonarola called upon all of Fiorenza to bear witness to the Power and Might of God. As Suor Estasia finished her hymn, she fell at Savonarola's feet, which she kissed with the greatest devotion before she swooned, and had to be carried away by her Celestiane Sisters, who have their convent a little way beyond the city walls. Since Suor Estasia has brought Sacro Infante so much fame, the Sisters have had to build another wing on their hospital where they minister to those who are not whole in their minds. The Superiora, one Suor Merzede, has observed that there seems to be more madness in the world, not less, and for this Savonarola rebuked her severely and has suggested that since Suor Estasia has shown the greatest evidence of grace, it is she and not Suor

Merzede who should head the convent. But there Suor Estasia begged the Prior di San Marco to forgive Suor Merzede and to recognize her good works.

Those who saw and heard this and were not moved by this outpouring of the Mystery of God were later denounced and made to confess their errors before all the people who filled Santa Maria del Fiore, their cathedral. Public penance was imposed on them and various Domenicani Brothers were sent to harangue the few who denied the holiness of the day.

While I was there in Fiorenza, I was twice visited by a troop of young men, not yet of an age to be bridegrooms, who entered my quarters and searched for vanities and other religiously proscribed objects and texts. It is their custom to do so, and they have been given authority to enter everywhere by i Priori and la Signoria, who are governors of la Repubblica Fiorenzen, but who are much influenced by the Domenicano Girolamo Savonarola.

Recently those who will not submit to the new rule have been subject to more persecution than they have felt before, and I gather that for some time their treatment has been harsh. The accusation of heresy is being made and it is the intent of the Domenicani to try and judge all those who have had that offense laid at their door. Many have been detained in prison, but as yet there has been no further action taken against them (or, rather, there had not been when I left Fiorenza, which was just after the Feast of San Nicolo in early December), and it had been agreed to defer the matter until the Holy Season of Christ's Birth had been celebrated and those facing accusation have time for reflection on their errors.

I trust that this account is acceptable to you. Your Polish is so excellent that I've assumed you read it as fluently as you speak it. If I was in error, you have only to tell me and I will render this into Latin. It is not common to find a man in Italy who speaks Polish as well as you do. Most of the time Italian or Latin is spoken, and those of us with foreign tongues must do as best we can to be understood. It may be that because you are a foreigner, too, you have so much sympathy for my position. I admit that Italian often bewilders me, since it lacks much of the order of Latin. Is it because you travel that you've learned my language? Forgive the question. I know it is not appropriate of me to ask.

If there is any more information I might give you, Sr. Ragoczy, I beg you will do me the honor of coming to the house of Lino Vazzomare near San Gregorio. I assure you that it has been a pleasure to serve you in this matter.

Antek Kazielawa

In la Serenissima Venezia, January 4, 1498