The Palace (Saint-Germain #2)

The Palace (Saint-Germain #2) Page 7

There had been rain earlier but now the clouds were clearing and the people of Fiorenza were ready for the great palio. All along the tortuous route they waited at windows, in protected doorways and loggias to see the maddened plunge of two dozen saddleless, bridleless horses and their honored riders. Even the Osservanti Brothers were watching at the door of Ognissanti, their brown cowls hiding anticipatory smiles.

From his vantage place at the end of the course, Laurenzo de' Medici waited and cursed the cold. His knuckles were more swollen than usual and the cold made them ache. He turned to his son, saying, "I'll be glad when you're willing to do all this. Perhaps next year. Then I can have more time for my poetry and library."

Piero shrugged somewhat petulantly. "I don't like palios," he remarked to the air. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't insisted."

Laurenzo felt anger well up in him, and resisted it. "No, neither do I. But it is Fiorenzan, and we are Fiorenzeni, you and I. Remember that this is a Repubblica, and that the Signoria rules here."

At that Piero laughed. "They're all picked men. They'd do whatever you tell them."

"Perhaps. But if I acted contrary to the good of the city too often, I would be exiled in short order. Make no doubt about it, my son. We rule on sufferance."

"If you're worried, become a Grand Duca under the protection of France. You've been offered it. You can claim it."

Laurenzo di Piero de' Medici looked at his firstborn son as if he was seeing him clearly at last. "I have no desire to be anything but a citizen of Fiorenza. To be a creature of the King of France repels me." He studied Piero's beautiful, haughty face, frowning slightly.

"Oh, well, it would probably be more stupid than this is, so perhaps you're right." He turned away and heard the muffled clap of a cannon and the great shout from Ponte Vecchio. "They've begun."

"Sta bene," Laurenzo said fatalistically and forced himself to smile broadly at Marsilio Ficino, across the Piazza del Duomo.

Ficino returned the smile, and waved. He was in a second-story window, leaning precariously out of it. Even at that distance he could see that Laurenzo's hands were giving him trouble. He frowned a moment, then turned his attention to the narrow streets, listening for the cheer and cries that marked the progress of the race. From the shouts, he guessed that the horses had crossed il Ponte Vecchio and were now turning from la Via por Santa Maria onto la Via della Terme. That treacherous left-hand turn would have casualties, he thought, and had his thoughts confirmed by a sudden outburst of screams.

Three riders were down, one with a broken leg, and two of the horses were hurt. The third struggled to its feet and continued to run with the others. There was no move to stop it, for it was the horse that won the race, with or without its rider.

Where la Via della Terme met la Via de' Tornabuoni the horses had to jog sharply to enter la Via del Parione. It was a dangerous move and five horses collided, two going down in a welter of hooves and tangled legs. One of the riders dragged himself away from the collision, blood spreading over his face where his horse had kicked him. His steps faltered as he got to the edge of the street, and after a moment he fell. The crowd shouted its distress and when all the horses were by, the barrier that blocked the side streets opened and two Carmeliani Brothers pulled the bleeding rider from the street. A little later a small party of butchers came for the horses.

The horses spread out as they galloped across la Piazza Goldoni, and two riders tried to pull one another from their mounts' backs. In the confusion they created one was thrown by his frightened horse and the other had to wrap his arms around his horse's neck to stay astride.

Suddenly the course narrowed again as the race entered il Borgo Ognissanti. For a moment it looked like the horses would not give way, and there would be a terrific pile-up of mounts and riders. It had happened before, and the danger was very great it would happen in this palio. But at the last moment the rider for the Arte of silk weavers let his mount drop back, and the race thundered down the narrow street.

Above the racing horses, from the safety of second-story windows, the people of Fiorenza shouted encouragement to their favorite riders and hooted at the others. They threw flowers on the competitors, and waved streamers. The sound was echoed and magnified by the straight stone walls until the whole of il Borgo Ognissanti roared like the sea.

Here the street was straight, and here the riders maneuvered for advantage. One of the riders was forced against the wall and he screamed in sudden agony as his knee crashed against a protruding iron grille. His horse reared and the man was thrown.

Another horse tried to move away from the fallen rider and crashed into two more horses. Panicked now, the horses tried to get free of the steep, confining walls. The lead, a sturdy dun horse, bounded ahead, tossing his rider as he broke away from the press of other horses. The rider scrambled for safety, but was caught a glancing blow from a spotted mare belonging to the joiners Arte. He stumbled and fell.

Horses, riders and spectators all cried out as the rider was trampled by the racing horses. Swerving aside from the broken body, three more horses ran together. There was a scurry of hooves on the stone flags, and then the race continued, leaving two injured horses, one badly hurt, and one dead man in its wake.

Through Piazza Ognissanti they rushed, this time giving no quarter as they plunged into the narrow Borgo once again. Four horses ran against the walls, unable to stop in time to avoid the impact. At the barriers there were cries of dismay as the last of the four horses rolled against the wooden structure, nearly knocking it over.

Horrified at the carnage that had erupted before their eyes, the Osservanti Brothers ran from their church to help the fallen, battered riders.

The palio was stringing out now, with the stronger horses and more capable riders taking the lead. At the sharp turn into la Via degli Orti Oriceilari there was only one casualty when a horse, taking the turn too tightly, missed his footing and sprawled to the pavement. The horses immediately behind him scrambled and then resumed their gallop. But now the race was divided into two separate units, one about six lengths behind the other.

The turn into la Via della Scala was steep, and three horses went down, but here there was little hurt done, for though the turn was acute, there was a small plot of open ground and the horses went around those that had fallen.

Ahead was the magnificent bulk of Santa Maria Novella, and the cheering crowds behind the barricades at the piazza in front of the church. The first group of six horses shot past and made the difficult turn into la Via del Moro.

Francesco Ragoczy had not watched the palio. His taste for that kind of sport had worn itself out in the blood of the Roman arena. So he was pleased when the horses passed. Quickly he left the home of his alchemist friend Federigo Cossa and stepped into la Via del Moro.

Shouts around him warned him that something was very wrong, and in a moment he saw the second group of horses come hurtling around the turn, their flanks dark with sweat. Two of the horses were without riders, but by the expression in the eyes of the men still mounted, he knew they were terrified for him.

He turned and pushed on the door, but it was secure and any knocking he might do would be lost in the noise of the race. He sprinted away from the door, reaching for the iron grille over the nearest window.

The horses were rushing nearer and Ragoczy did not waste time looking at them. He climbed up the grille, but was nowhere near high enough to be out of range of the frantic race.

"Oh, Signor'!" cried a voice above him, and Ragoczy glanced up to see hands extended down to him.

He reached up, stretching high over his head in desperation. His fingers almost touched those above him when he overbalanced and fell backward into the street and into the path of the palio.

He heard the gasp of the crowd as the horses came down upon him. He drew himself into a ball and tried to roll free of the relentless hooves. He felt more than saw a horse stop short and rear over him. It was riderless and frightened.

People were shouting now, and someone was trying to climb over the nearest barricade. The horse neighed as it tried to trample the black-clad man underfoot.

The rest of the race was gone. Ragoczy rolled to the side of the street and carefully began to stretch.

A babel of shouts broke out, voices telling him to lie still, to thank God, to be certain he was whole, to get out of the street. He clapped his hands over his ears and shook his head, hoping that this gesture would quiet the people around him. But it did not. There was consternation, and the horse which had tried to kill him came and nudged him nervously.

Ragoczy pulled himself onto one knee, moving slowly to avoid frightening the horse. He reached up and tugged the fetlock, and when the well-shaped bay head was near enough, he blew gently into the horse's nostril.

"There," he said quietly, hoping that his soft voice would penetrate through the noise around him. "There, you see? I am your friend. I won't hurt you. I won't frighten you." He waited a bit, ignoring the cries and shouts around him. Then, when he was sure that the horse would not bolt, he stood, rubbing the broad neck and talking reassuringly.

Cheers erupted around him, and somewhat startled, Ragoczy looked up. The people were waving handkerchiefs and pelting him with flowers.

Keeping a soothing hand on the bay horse, Ragoczy nodded and bowed slightly and was rewarded with howls of adulation. He said to the horse and himself, "What unexpected glory."

No one nearby heard this sardonic remark. Ragoczy listened for a moment, an ironic smile twisting his mouth. At last he bowed again, and then, with practiced ease, he took a handful of mane and vaulted onto the bay's back.

The tumult grew louder as Ragoczy rode the horse down the street, and with a wave, turned into the last palio street, la Via de' Cerretani. He was by far the last rider to reach il Duomo and the huge civic stand erected there. Already the crowd was surging over the barriers toward the strong sorrel mare that had won the race.

Ragoczy's appearance stopped them, and brought a whispered silence to the Piazza del Duomo.

On the civic stand, Laurenzo de' Medici looked up from making the award, and a certain grimness which had tightened his wide, thin-lipped mouth vanished. "So you aren't dead after all. I had heard you were."

"Appearances are deceiving," Ragoczy said as he brought his horse to a halt by the stand.

"You were unwise enough to venture into la Via del Moro before the race was over."

"Ah, but I didn't know that." He patted the bay before slipping off its back. "Not a bad horse, you know. I was pleasantly surprised."

At that Laurenzo laughed. "As always, you delight me, mio caro stragnero. Let me congratulate you on your lucky escape."

"I gather it was one of the few today," Ragoczy said as he climbed the platform stairs.

Immediately Laurenzo was more serious. "Yes. There were four deaths today, a new record, unfortunately. Even Lionello here"-he gestured to one of the riders who stood near him-"is hurt, though he did stay on across the finish line."

Lionello was holding his arm at a painful angle and the smile he attempted had more of pain than satisfaction in it.

"What did you do to yourself?" Ragoczy asked.

"It is nothing," Lionello protested, eyeing the elegant foreigner with distrust. "I will be better soon."

"No doubt," Ragoczy agreed dryly. "But it would be wiser if you will let me see your shoulder. If you have cut yourself on metal, as I think you have, you must allow me the opportunity to treat you. I have a salve that will ease the pain and prevent any illness or inflammation of the wound."

Piero clicked his tongue impatiently, but Laurenzo met Ragoczy's dark eyes steadily. "On behalf of Fiorenza, I thank you for that."

Ragoczy made a dismissing gesture and turned to Lionello. "Come to my palazzo before the feast and I will treat your hurts. Do not be afraid. I'm only an alchemist, not a sorcerer. You are welcome to bring a friend, if you like." He was plainly amused at Lionello's alarm, and added, "I'm much less of a risk than your cuts are, believe me."

Lionello flushed and stammered a promise to avail himself of Ragoczy's services.

The officers of the winning Arte came forward to get their mare, and a huge shout went up. The bells of Santa Maria del Fiore tolled out their immense joy and the trumpets sounded as a signal to begin the victory procession that would go a few short blocks to la Piazza della Signoria.

Before taking his place in the procession, Laurenzo said to Ragoczy, "I am happy for you, caro stragnero. But I admit that I'm puzzled."

"Puzzled? But why?" Ragoczy asked with utmost innocence.

"I am puzzled because there are three dusty hoof marks on your back, Francesco. They look like direct blows. And so I wonder, though I am glad for your lucky escape."

"Grazie, Magnifico. I was careless." He felt a rush of chagrin as he realized how foolish his bravura had been.

"Sta ben'." Laurenzo nodded to Ragoczy and carefully descended the stairs to the street. Piero followed after him, a dissatisfied scowl on his beautiful face.

"How long will this take? I want to go hunting today." He spoke softly, but Laurenzo turned on him.

"You! Be silent. You will have to forgo your hunting. This is more important. You are a Fiorenzeno, my son. To be a Medici and a Fiorenzeno, you must be willing to give up your hunting once in a while. Younger men than you have been willing to."

Piero's face set with anger. "I know. I have heard all about your diplomatic missions when you were less than twenty. It's not fair to expect me to be you."

Laurenzo looked away from Piero, across the spires of the city. "No, perhaps it isn't."

Then he was gone in the procession while Ragoczy remained on the platform, his face inscrutable, his eyes perplexed and full of sorrow.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from a Roman woman writing in colloquial Latin and signing herself Olivia:

To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in Florentia, or whatever that camp is calling itself these days, Olivia sends her undying friendship.

I have heard from our friend Niklos Aulirios that you have settled temporarily by the Arno and have for the time being given up your house in Venezia. Undoubtedly you know what you are doing, but you might consider coming to Roma instead of staying in Fiorenza, for say what you will about the place, it is still only a Roman camp trying to be a city. You needn't remind me of the artists and poets and musicians there, for Medici is forever sending one or more of them to the pope as family courtesy.

You wouldn't recognize Roma, my friend; it is all quite different. The Temple of Saturn that you liked so much and visited often is now a church, tremendously respectable. Almost no one remembers its past, and if they do, they ignore it-rather like the Empress Theodora and her past, which was much worse than simply being a heathen temple.

The Flavian Circus is called the Colosseum now, and is partly destroyed. That might upset you. Fire and siege have done a great deal to ruin the city's beauty, but I must say that I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. I did try Alexandria for a while, and I spent a few years in Athens, but they are not Roma, and I was not at home there. Roma is the place of my native soil.

Do you remember that first time you came to me? How frightened I was of you then. You wanted to give terror, but instead you gave passion. And it was a little later that you said you no longer wanted to survive on fear. You felt that fulfilled desire gave you a satisfaction you had not known before. I can still see your face, so full of loneliness and anguish. Are you, I wonder, as much alone now as you were then? Don't torment yourself, Sanct' Germain Franciscus. As you taught me yourself, there is delight in this world, and until you die the true death, life will call to you, and you must answer.

There, I have lapsed into philosophy. I must be getting old. And the reason for my letter is not to share reminiscences but to warn you of the latest developments in Roma.

As I might have told you some time ago, I have attached myself to the Papal court. In that respect, then, let me inform you that the cardinals are playing politics again, and Rodrigo Borgia is gaining strength. I have met Rodrigo, and he is a clever man. Beware of him. And if you should ever meet his son Cesare, avoid him at all cost. Cesare is a monster, my friend. He has terrified his sister (though she is a foolish woman and has not an ounce of real courage) and the rumor is that he shares her bed. If that is so, I feel for her.

You know, I have often thought that our condition is unfair to the men of our numbers. We women still have sexual congress as well as the pleasures of our kind, but you men lose the means of that usual satisfaction. Is the joy you have enough, I wonder, or do you miss the other?

Once again I'm becoming philosophical. Well, never mind. I won't trouble you with awkward questions any longer.

Do send me word, when you have the chance, as to how it is with you. I think of you often. It would be a pleasure to see you once more, Sanct' Germain Franciscus, and to have long and possibly even philosophical talks.

Guard yourself well, my friend. You always have, but sometimes I fear that your care makes you vulnerable. I would lose a part of my soul, I think, if you were to die the true death.

As always, this brings you the true affection of

Olivia

On the 19th of October, 1491, Christian reckoning