Joacim Branco held his bleeding hands up to ward off the blows which continued to fall on his back and sides. Beside him his apprentice Narciso Boscino groaned as the long cudgels pounded his shoulders and arms.
Biagio Spinnati chuckled as his solid kick drove the tall Portuguese alchemist forward onto the flagged street. His somber guarnacca was spattered with blood, and this displeased him. He motioned to his companions. "Ehi, Ugo, Clemente, leave that one. He's almost out, anyway. This one." He kicked Branco again. "Get him on the back. Break his legs."
Ugo complied immediately, and the first blow he gave Joacim Branco made the alchemist double up, gagging suddenly as pain exploded through his bowels.
"Look at him," Biagio cried, and wet his lips with his tongue. "He's going to foul himself."
Joacim Branco had got to his knees and his long arms were wrapped tightly across his stomach. The pain in his guts ravened like a mad beast. He fought to control himself, and was absurdly pleased that he did not vomit.
Clemente Sprezzando came away from belaboring Narciso and gave Branco a last resounding blow across the neck and shoulders. He crowed with delight as the alchemist fell unconscious at his feet.
"I wish their master was here," Biagio said breathlessly. "I'd pay him back for what he did to Mario."
The other two were already tiring of the game, but Clemente asked, "Was he the one who broke your brother's bones?"
"Yes. May God damn him forever!" He gave Joacim one last vicious kick. "And now that Mario's become a monk, he can't take vengeance for himself."
"Well, we've done it for him," Ugo said, proud of himself.
"In part." There was a grim set to Biagio's mouth as he moved away from the two alchemists. "Maybe they'll die," he mused, then changed his mind. "No. I want them to tell Ragoczy. I want him to know what's in store for him."
This brought a sour smile to Clemente's dissolute young face. "You could write a message and nail it to his door. That palazzo of his has three big wooden doors. Paint the message on it."
"Or carve the message in. 'Godless foreigner,' perhaps." The idea obviously appealed to Biagio. He turned the matter over in his mind, and started out of the narrow alley near the public granary where they had waylaid the alchemists.
"That's not a good way," Clemente warned. "It takes time to carve a message, and if you got caught, Ragoczy could take us to court. He might be a foreigner, but la Signoria would take his part then. They'd have to."
Even Ugo agreed. "But it would be great, hacking up that big carved front door. The two side doors aren't nearly as good. The front one has those scenes from ancient times."
Biagio was reluctant to turn away from the plan. "We could throw stones at the door. Some of them would be sure to damage it, and unless the alchemist came out immediately, he could never find out who had done the damage."
They were walking toward la Via Porta Rossa, the alley behind them. It was not entirely safe to be abroad at dusk, but none of the three minded. They had never been approached by desperate men, and secretly they were disappointed.
"Do you think the old alchemist will tell his master?"
Biagio shrugged. "Who knows? He'll have to tell him something. But he doesn't know us."
Clemente frowned. "He might identify us if he sees us."
"Who'd believe him?" Biagio grinned. "I'm going to San Marco. Mario will want to hear what we've done."
It was several hours later when Joacim Branco had come sufficiently to his senses to be able to make his way through the silent streets to the side door of Palazzo San Germano. He was almost too exhausted to knock, and when he did, he despaired of ever being heard. Before he could lift his arm a second time, there was the sound of bolts lifting, and in a moment Francesco Ragoczy faced him, his lucco of embroidered black velvet almost making him look like a habited monk.
"Branco!" he said, horrified, and clapped sharply. "Ruggiero! We need help here." He had already reached to support the Portuguese alchemist, and his small hands searched out the worst of his hurts swiftly and gently. "Who did this?"
"I don't know," Joacim Branco mumbled through smashed lips. "They waylaid Narciso and me. I think Narciso is dead."
"Where?"
"In an alley. Off la Via Porta Rossa. Near the Medici bank."
Ruggiero had appeared as Joacim Branco said the last. Ragoczy never turned away from the battered man as he gave instructions to his manservant. "Ruggiero, take Araldo and Pascoli, go to the alley off la Via Porta Rossa near the Medici bank. Narciso Boscino lies there beaten, and perhaps dead. Bring him back here immediately so that we may tend to him."
"I will."
"Be sure you take weapons with you. There may be more trouble. Short swords should do." He had caught Joacim Branco's weight as he neared fainting again. "Close this door. I'll take Branco to the chamber at the end of the courtyard. It's closest." He had an awkward moment as he lifted Branco into his arms, because the Portuguese was a head taller than Ragoczy. But an instant later he held the injured man like some strange, outsized infant. He waited long enough to be sure Ruggiero knew his instructions, then carried Joacim Branco to the bedchamber at the end of the hall that opened onto the courtyard.
He had just put the man down when Masuccio and Gualtiere hurried into the room. Both were understewards and were not wholly prepared for what they saw.
"Christ and the Angels!" Gualtiere gasped as he saw the bleeding, bruised legs where the torchlight fell on them.
Ragoczy spoke with asperity. "Never mind oaths and prayers. I need basins of water, clean cloths, and herbs... I'll get them later. But water and cloths, quickly. Quickly!" He was pulling Joacim Branco's long robes off him, but in several places blood had matted the cloth to his wounds, and resisted the gentle tugging.
Gualtiere had seized the opportunity to escape and had gone for basins of water, but Masuccio stood quite still, petrified by what he saw.
"You've seen broken bones before," Ragoczy snapped, wanting to bring the understeward out of his shock.
"Not like that," Masuccio whispered.
If Ragoczy had not been so worried for Joacim Branco, he would have given a few sharp, pithy words to Masuccio, but it was a luxury he could not afford, nor could Branco. So he said, "Get me clean cloths. Immediately."
The sound of swiftly retreating footsteps told Ragoczy that Masuccio had gone, and in a few minutes other steps approached. Without turning, Ragoczy said, "We have to soak his robes off and open wounds. Start with the left arm: it's the worst. Be very gentle."
"Certainly," said Demetrice Volandrai. She came to the side of the bed and Ragoczy saw that she carried a tray with a basin, clean rags, and a pair of shears. She still wore the countryman's smock she had donned to work in Ragoczy's hidden alchemical laboratory, and her crown of braids was covered with a simple kerchief. "I gather you need my help."
There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. He was glad she was so composed, and hoped that dealing with the hideous damage done to Joacim Branco would not prove to be too much for her. "Yes, I do. Or rather, Joacim does. But he's badly hurt. If you can't face that, you'd be more help in the kitchen."
"Which is to say, no help at all." She had put the tray down and came to stand beside him. For a moment only her features reflected her revulsion, and then she mastered herself. "What must I do?"
By this time Ragoczy had pulled away as much of Branco's clothing as he could without causing greater hurt. "Where the cloth has adhered to the wounds, you must soak it loose. Don't hurry. It takes time. Do this as slowly as necessary. Change cloths often. And make sure the water is warm but not hot. Also, there is a compound-you can find it in my laboratory, in the herb cabinet. It's got the Eye of Horus on it. Put a handful of that in the warm water and it will help prevent infection."
She nodded. "I'll be back quickly. Where should I begin?"
Ragoczy's attention was once again focused on Joacim Branco, but he said somewhat remotely, "Start with the left arm. Be very careful. His bones are broken on both sides of the elbow."
"Will it ever heal, Francesco?" She was in the door, but she turned back to ask the question.
"If you mean, will it mend, yes, after a fashion. But if you mean will he ever use it again, and will it be strong, I'm afraid it's extremely unlikely." His words were crisp, and tinged with anger. "Fortunately, Joacim is right-handed, and the cuts on his right arm will heal cleanly."
Nodding in acceptance of this evaluation, Demetrice left the room, bound for the herb cabinet in Ragoczy's hidden laboratory.
Ruggiero did not return for more than an hour, and when he did arrive, Araldo and Pascoli carried Narciso's stiffening body between them.
"What is it, old friend?" Ragoczy asked in his native tongue.
Residual fury burned in Ruggiero's eyes. He answered in Latin. "I went to la Loggia dei Lanzi, I went to il Palazzo della Signoria, I went to Santa Maria del Fiore, I went to Santissima Annunziata. No one, no one was willing to hear my complaint or take the body for burial. I wanted to make sure the authorities knew what is happening in the streets of Fiorenza. But no one cared. No one listened."
Araldo and Pascoli were more frightened than exhausted, and Araldo had courage enough to say, "Master, one of the Domenicani said that Narciso was under a curse for practicing forbidden arts, and that his death was an Act of God."
Ragoczy raised his finely drawn brows. "Act of God? With most of his ribs kicked in and his skull broken?" He was growing angry, but said, "My temper is not aimed at you, my stewards. You've done everything and more that I could have asked of you, and you have done it well. Be good enough to carry the body into the reception room off the loggia. It's only a few hours until dawn, and I'll go to la Signoria as soon as the day's session begins. The matter will be cleared up quickly." He wished he was as confident as he sounded.
"And Branco?" Ruggiero asked as the two understewards carried Narciso's body to the front of the palazzo.
"Badly hurt. Do you remember that physician we knew in Constantinople? The one they burned for sorcery?" He shook his head again as he thought of the waste of the man's life and skill. "I wish we had him here now. I've been trying to recall how he dealt with the kind of break Joacim has. You don't happen to know what he did, do you?"
"You mean Leoninas?" Ruggiero frowned. "He held the bones together with fine wires. But that's all I remember."
Ragoczy made a gesture of exasperation. "I've racked my brain trying to think of what to do, but nothing seems to work." He indicated that his manservant should follow him back to the bedchamber where Joacim Branco lay. "I'll want clothes set out at first light." He touched his embroidered velvet lucco. "This is quite ruined, I'm afraid."
"What will you wear?" Ruggiero knew that he was dirty himself, and asked, "If you are going to be busy here, may I bathe in your tub?"
"Of course," Ragoczy said impatiently. "But draw fresh water for me at first light. I'll want to bathe before I dress."
Ruggiero again considered the matter of clothing for his master. "Do you have any preference in the matter?"
"I'm going to la Signoria. Make it something impressive."
So it was that some time before eight of the morning clock, Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, in full black scholar's robes and red professorial cap from la Universidad de Salamanca, strode into il Palazzo della Signoria and demanded to talk to i Priori.
The guard who stopped him asked what his business was.
"I wish to bring to the attention of the Console the dreadful conditions of their streets after dark. Last night one of my colleagues was badly beaten and his apprentice killed by three young men. It happened only a few steps from here."
The guard looked confused, and began to say in an overly concerned way, "It's true that there is danger abroad at night, and for that reason it was most unwise for your colleague to venture out. Now, while it's lamentable that his apprentice should have been killed, you can't be-"
But Ragoczy cut him short, "Buon Signore," he said icily, "are you going to announce me to the clerk, or are you going to talk forever?"
Bristling, the guard defended himself. "You can't just march in here and demand to see the Console. Only Fiorenzeni have that right. You must ask for a time to address them-"
"Show me to the clerk, Signore, or I will turn around and shout it through the city that I will pay five hundred fiorini d'or for the capture of the men who hurt Magister Branco and killed his apprentice, who was a Fiorenzan."
The guard hesitated. He knew the foreigner's reputation well enough to realize that he would do exactly what he threatened to do. Authority and prudence warred in his heart. Prudence won. He lifted his pike from Ragoczy's path. "The clerk is in the reception chamber, Ragoczy."
"Thank you," Ragoczy said sweetly as he entered il Palazzo della Signoria. He walked up the stairs quickly, sensing the new hostility around him. The other men in the governmental building were reserved, and a few of them made soft comments about the foreigner.
The clerk's reception room was crowded, and Ragoczy resigned himself to a long wait. He folded his hands into his square sleeves and fixed his eyes on some distant point far beyond the windows.
More than an hour later the clerk looked up, ready to motion to Ragoczy, when a merchant in somber clothes moved forward. "I am a Fiorenzan. By right I should be taken first."
"But he has waited longer," the clerk objected mildly.
"Let him wait!" He turned to Ragoczy, real hatred in his face. "Foreign alchemist! Godless heathen!"
Ragoczy brought his attention back from the distant hills. "I admit to being an alchemist, and certainly I am foreign. But I am not a heathen, and as someone who owns land in Fiorenza, I have the same rights as you, my friend."
"I am not your friend!" the merchant exploded, his round face taking on a dark hue. He came nearer to Ragoczy. "You should not be allowed in this city. There should be laws against it. You contaminate the place, and for you, we all face destruction."
Though he was fairly certain now that the merchant was a follower of Savonarola, he asked, to make sure. "And do you disapprove only of me, or of the whole of Fiorenza?"
"God alone approves. It is not for me to approve, it is my lot to obey the will of God."
Ragoczy nodded wearily, and motioned to the clerk. "Since it would be useless to try to conduct my business with this man present, I will wait until he is through. And then, I trust, you will allow me to present my complaint in full?"
The merchant glared at him. "I know you, Francesco Ragoczy. You damned Palleschi!"
This had obviously been intended to provoke him, but Ragoczy laughed outright. "If you mean I stand by Medici Palle, you're right. Laurenzo was my friend." He stopped abruptly.
"You're proud of it?"
"Signore," Ragoczy said to the merchant, "you have business with the clerk. It is so urgent that you have insisted that your dealings precede mine. Very well. But get on with it. My business is also urgent." He turned back to the window, oblivious of the fierce scowl the merchant directed at him.
When at last the clerk was willing to hear him, Ragoczy had thought out the matter completely.
"You have a complaint?" the clerk asked, starting to prepare another parchment.
"I do indeed. Ordinarily I would ask to address i Priori themselves, but it appears that I can't. Therefore, I will leave my complaint with you, and trust that the Console will hear of it soon enough."
Gradazo Ondante tapped his quill and stood a little straighter. "It's my function to see that all complaints are heard by the Console."
"I'm aware of that." He forestalled any objection to this remark by getting immediately to the matter. "I am Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, by rank, Conte." He had never used his title before in Fiorenza. He saw the officious clerk's eyes widen a little and his attention was caught. Ragoczy went on. "I have a palazzo on the north side of the city, near Santissima Annunziata. I conduct various experiments-"
"Many of which are contrary to Fiorenzan law," Gradazo Ondante interrupted him, but with a self-deprecating smile.
"Fiorenzan law is strangely pliant in some matters. And I have," Ragoczy went on, not allowing Ondante to sidetrack him, "the honor to count several distinguished alchemists among my associates. One, Magister Joacim Branco, has come from Portugal to Fiorenza to continue his studies. He took an apprentice some months ago. Last night, Signore Ondante, Magister Branco and his apprentice, Narciso Boscino, were attacked by three young Fiorenzan men, well-dressed and educated in their speech. They beat Magister Branco until his bones were broken, and they killed Narciso Boscino. It was not an accident that they did. Both his skull and his ribs were broken."
Gradazo Ondante paled at this. "When did it happen? And where?"
"Last night, at dusk. The place was an alley off la Via Porta Rossa. Magister Branco heard one name, Clemente. He did not know if other names were used, being then too much in pain to understand what was being said."
"And the apprentice is dead?" Gradazo Ondante held the parchment before him as if it could ward off such bad news.
"He is dead. He lies in my palazzo. It is unfortunate that no church would accept the body last night. I feel it necessary to mention that Narciso Boscino was Fiorenzan. His father is an apothecary and has a house in la Via della Primavera. If you find it difficult to pursue the matter for me, then I am sure you will for Signore Boscino."
The parchment rustled as the Clerk Ondante gripped it more tightly. "I will report this to the Console."
"That is your duty," Ragoczy agreed.
"Beaten, you say, and bones broken?" He was clearly worried, and found it increasingly difficult to meet the foreigner's penetrating eyes. "The Portuguese?"
"Pray send some official physician to my palazzo and let him testify to the extent of Branco's injuries."
"And Boscino killed?"
"The body lies in my reception room. He should be in a church. There are prayers that should be spoken for the repose of his soul."
The clerk nodded rather distantly and said, "Yes. Of course. It will be seen to. We'll send a messenger to his father-"
Ragoczy interrupted him. "I have taken that liberty. My under-steward Araldo carried the news to Signore Boscino at first light. It would be better to send a priest."
"Certainly." The clerk was more distressed now. "It will be seen to. You may be assured of that."
"When?" The question hung in the air between them, almost a visible presence.
"When?" the clerk repeated. "Ah... Soon. Yes. Soon."
"Today?" Ragoczy suggested.
"Yes. Perhaps. Soon." With those gasped words, Gradazo Ondante fled the reception room.
As Ragoczy walked back toward Palazzo San Germano, his thoughts were as dark as his frown. It was rather more than a year since Laurenzo died, and the city seemed stunned without him. He watched two young men in the robes of the Universita di Pisa, the braid down their backs indicating they studied law. Both the young men were apprehensive, one of them glancing uneasily at the tall spire of Santa Maria Novella, a few blocks away.
He was so preoccupied with the unhappy students that he failed to notice the five or six youngsters who followed him. Then a pebble struck his shoulder from behind, and he spun around.
"Antichrist! Antichrist! Antichrist!" the boys shouted as Ragoczy faced them. "Foreign Antichrist!"
"What... ?" Ragoczy was more startled than frightened. "What is this?"
The next pebble struck his forehead, drawing blood.
At the sight of this victory, the boys began throwing more pebbles, as well as anything else that came to hand-dung, bits of fallen roof tiles.
As he turned once more, Ragoczy noticed that the two Pisan law students were nowhere in sight. He was also aware that the few people in the street were encouraging the boys, and a few made the sign against the evil eye.
More boys rushed to join Ragoczy's tormentors, and as they ran through the streets, he tried to evade them, ducking down ancient narrow streets and racing through busy corners. Once he nearly upset a butcher's stall, and paused only long enough to toss a few coins to the butcher, who immediately stopped cursing.
Then he saw the elegant bulk of Brunelleschi's San Lorenzo ahead, and he ran into the church, almost knocking against the elderly Benedettan Brother who stood near the door to aid the sick and the infirm into the church.
"Forgive me, Brother," Ragoczy said, and was about to explain when the crowd of boys rounded the corner and set up a cry at the sight of their quarry.
The monk put his hand on Ragoczy's shoulder briefly. "Go in, my son. They dare not enter here." And he folded his arms over his chest and took up his stance in the center of the door.
Ragoczy was grateful for the rest, for though he was not out of breath, the long run had awakened his ancient fears again. He walked down the nave, remembering the last time he had been in San Lorenzo. Then the church had been draped in black and all Fiorenza dressed in mourning.
Outside, the boys railed at the old monk, howling for the blood of the foreigner. Inside, Francesco Ragoczy sat down on the unadorned tomb of his friend and waited.
Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Olivia:
To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in Fiorenza, Olivia sends her lifelong affection.
I had your letter of May 12 in good time, and I am indeed sorry to learn the rumors we have heard here are true. This is not the first time we've seen this happen, old friend. It was you yourself who told me that hatred and destruction are easier than love and creation. I can tell, from what you choose not to say to me, that you fear for everything you love in Fiorenza. Be sensible, then, and return to Venezia. There is art there, and music, and joy. You will not be stoned in the streets, your associates will not be beaten. Or come to me in Roma. We will visit all the places we knew when we met. You will see for yourself how the city has changed. And if you like, you may have an audience with the Pope (though I advise against it. Rodrigo Borgia is rapacious, and the cost of such an interview would be high. His Holiness Alessandro VI, may God or someone bless him, has been using his office to enrich himself and his family).
It will take a great deal to make this Borgia pope turn against Savonarola, but I agree that it would make everything easier. If I learn anything about it, I will surely let you know. I have heard that the Camaldolese prior in Fiorenza and one of the Francescani are unalterably opposed to Savonarola. So, too, is the Agostiniano Fra Mariano, but it is expected of the latter, since he was one of the Medici favorites.
Dear Sanct' Germain, it hurts me to read your letter. You have so much loneliness and despair in your words. Yes, I realize you said nothing of those feelings, but after all this time, I know you as I know the lines of my palms or the sound of the Tiber. For the sake of your friends, spare yourself this anguish. Return to your Carpathian mountains, if you can avoid the carnage there. Play music again. If you can't leave Fiorenza, take that student of yours-Demetrice, I think you said her name is- take her to you. Share your life with her. Love her. You say that she has your secret and honors it. You say that she is intelligent. If she mourns for Laurenzo still, as you do, your pleasure together will soothe her heart. And yours, Sanct' Germain. I promise you that. I was in mourning when we first met, and when my terror was gone, I went into your arms more eagerly than ever I have before or since. Why do you lock yourself away when the greatest wish of your heart is to be open, to be loved without lies or pretense?
Yes, and now you're out of patience with me. If more than a thousand years cannot buy me a few privileges with you, you're impossible.
Send me word, my dear, if you should have need of me. As long as I have earth in my shoes, I am at your service. I owe you so much, and there is so little I can do to redeem that debt, now or ever. But what I can do, I will. You have only to ask. And do not, I beseech you, debate too long whether or not you need help. When the time comes, if it comes, send me word.
Now I must hand this to Cardinale Giovanni's messenger, who will carry it to Fiorenza. And I will leave for Palazzo Borgia, where tonight they are keeping the Feast of Moses the Prophet in what they fondly think of as Roman style. If only they knew. I'm wearing this silk gown that is somewhat in the fashion of Byzantium and tied with cords in the old Greek way, and I have been assured that this ridiculous costume is most authentic.
Be kind to yourself, and be on guard for your safety. And if you can, spare yourself more pain.
With my love and my life, this comes from
Olivia
In Roma, September 4, 1493