Ruggiero held the bay gelding's head as Ragoczy tied the large bundle to the saddle. "Are you sure she's secure? It might be dangerous once we start to move."
"It will hold," Ragoczy said, giving the straps an experimental tug. "Where do we change horses?"
"There is a place on the road to Bologna. They raise racehorses there. I have purchased four for our use."
"Good." Ragoczy looked back over his shoulder to the thick black cloud hanging over la Piazza della Signoria. "We must leave soon. The worst of it is almost over, and one of those Domenicani I fought with is sure to be coming around." He brushed the soot and cinders off his white silk. "What about Fra Sansone?"
Ruggiero almost smiled. "He had the misfortune to lock himself into one of the cellars. An odd mistake, but he was not aware of the danger."
Ragoczy's fine brows raised. "You must tell me sometime how you managed that." He went to the packhorse and pulled at the straps. "The paintings?"
"They're there. Under the sacks."
"Excellent." He reached for Gelata's bridle but paused one more time to touch the shapeless bundle that held Demetrice. "I hope there's enough earth. She must wake tonight if we're to get to Bologna in the appointed time." This required no comment and got none. "It can't be helped," Ragoczy said quietly. A moment later he had vaulted into the saddle and was pulling Gelata's head around. He took a last look at the courtyard of Palazzo San Germane "I will miss this house. I will miss Fiorenza." Then, without another word, he dug his jeweled heels into Gelata's side and rode out of the iron gates. Ruggiero followed immediately, leading the two other horses.
The gate to Palazzo San Germano was left open, for it was empty but for crates that would soon be gone as well.
Passage through the streets was easy. No one had left the auto-da-fe yet and there were few strangers entering Fiorenza these days. Ragoczy made for la Porta Santa Croce, glancing occasionally toward the stern dark tower of il Palazzo della Signoria, where an iron lion clung to the pole that topped it.
The two lancers on guard at the gate were more interested in the chaos around la Piazza della Signoria, and aside from an inquisitive look at the two packhorses, made no attempt to stop Ragoczy and Ruggiero as they rode out of Fiorenza. But neither of them took comfort from this. They had at the most an hour before they were pursued. Savonarola had been cheated, and he would not be satisfied until punishment had been meted out.
The road into the hills was filled with the awakening splendor of early spring. Freshets ran beside the track and new flowers rose from the earth. The scent was almost clean enough to take away the ghastly odor of roasting flesh that still filled Ragoczy with disgust.
At the top of the second rise, Ragoczy called a halt and looked back toward Fiorenza. Most of the smoke over la Piazza della Signoria was drifting away. The fires at last were dying. At this distance the city seemed unreal, a kind of toy, and the Arno a strip of silver laid through it to give it worth. The pale walls, of the houses and their red roofs reminded him of pictures he had seen long ago in Greece. As he watched, he saw a line of tiny horsemen leave the Santa Croce gate in double file. The sun winked on their metal breastplates.
"Lanzi," Ragoczy said, pointing.
"How far behind us?" Ruggiero was nervous.
"Not quite an hour. If we didn't have the other horses and the burdens they carry, it would be time enough. But as it is, I don't know."
"Shall we look for a place to hide?" Ruggiero suggested, not very hopefully.
"And be trapped?" Ragoczy frowned. "I wish there was another road through the mountains. It's too dangerous to strike out on our own." He turned in the saddle. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to outrun them. How long until we get to the first change of horses?"
Ruggiero looked even more uncomfortable. "More than an hour. The farm is in a little hollow higher in the hills."
"It will require skill, old friend." There was no blame in his words, just a kind of fatigue. "No faster than a trot, or the horses will drop out from under us."
The sun was almost overhead when they came to the farm. No one rushed out to see them and no smoke curled from the chimney. Ragoczy gave Ruggiero an inquisitive look. "They're gone. I thought it best. They were paid in advance, and told to go to market or to church."
"Are you sure the horses will be here?" Ragoczy asked sharply. "I don't want to be trapped here. Gelata can't take another hour of this."
"They're here. I had their oaths."
Ragoczy knew how capriciously oaths could be kept, but he said nothing. He swung out of the saddle and looped Gelata's reins over the gate to the paddock. The stables were beyond the paddock, a low building with wide doors and a roof badly in need of repair. As he walked across the paddock he felt eyes on him, and bent over to draw his knife from his boot. He reached the stable, still convinced he was being watched. He opened the door carefully and peered into the dark. Four horses were tethered inside. He closed the door, and as silently as possible he went around the building, his knife ready, to the far door.
This, too, proved to be safe, and deciding that the lancers who pursued them accounted for the sensation, he went into the stable and inspected the horses. He ran his hands over the legs of each horse, searching for trouble and finding none. He checked their hooves and found them sound, though one of them was unshod. He would put Demetrice on the unshod horse, since she was the lightest burden. Satisfied, he went to the door and signaled to Ruggiero.
They changed mounts quickly, working silently most of the time. Ragoczy still had the nagging sensation that they were under observation, but nothing supported the feeling. In a quarter of an hour they were ready to be on their way again, but it was with a slight pang that Ragoczy turned Gelata loose in the paddock. She was a fine mare, full of stamina and with little temperament to mar her responsiveness.
The road grew steeper and as high clouds gathered in the west, the sunlight began to fade. Ruggiero said nothing but he knew as well as Ragoczy that the distance between them and the lancers was narrowing. It was well past noon when the dun gelding carrying the chests began to labor, his breath coming in great gulps and sweat darkening his mouse-colored coat.
"What ails the beast?" Ragoczy snapped, glancing back at the dun. The horse's eyes were rolling and his tongue protruded. Hating to do so, Ragoczy pulled in and dismounted, catching the dun's lead rope and going to his head. Heaving flanks and foam told their tale. Ragoczy patted the dun's neck, then checked him out with determined hands. At the end of it he gave Ruggiero a bleak look. "I couldn't swear to it, but I'll wager he was given salt last night and all the water he could drink this morning. With all that in his gut, it's amazing he got this far."
Ruggiero blinked in alarm. "But why?"
"Who knows. But it wasn't for any good." He began to unstrap the chests from the packsaddle. "We'll have to carry these on our mounts." He nodded at Ruggiero's dismay. "Yes, I know. The lancers may very likely catch us. But what else can we do? We haven't any cannon, or even a sword between us. We can't ambush them, and we can't leave the trail, not now. There's a storm building up in the west, and we can't afford to be lost in it." By now he had undone the first of the chests. "Here. Strap it to your saddle."
Ruggiero obeyed automatically, saying as he finished attaching the chest straps, "What about brigands?"
"That had crossed my mind," Ragoczy admitted. He had the other chest off the dun now, and was securing it to the saddle of the roan he rode. "I hope we're wrong. But I wouldn't depend on it."
With an uneasy glance at the unwieldy bundle that held Demetrice, Ruggiero asked, "Will it work, do you think?"
Ragoczy shrugged. "I hope so. But I don't know." He finished lashing down the chest and climbed back into the saddle. "We must not force the horses now. We may need them later for a sprint."
Ruggiero acknowledged this with a sound between a groan and a sigh as he gave his mount a sharp kick in the ribs. He could tell from the way the animal moved that he was not used to carrying so much weight.
Clouds had blown across the sky and there was a stiff wind blowing by the time they stopped again. Ragoczy motioned for a rest and turned in the saddle. "They're no more than a quarter-hour behind us now," he said without rancor. "We'd better start looking for a hiding place, or some boulders we can roll down the hill on them."
Ruggiero nodded but said nothing. It was late afternoon and he ached from the long and difficult ride. The next change of horses was still almost an hour away, and he knew with icy certainty that long before then the lancers would be upon them. He glanced at the lump that was Donna Demetrice. "What do you think we should do about her?"
"Well"-Ragoczy sighed-"if it comes to a fight, we must make sure she's out of the way. There may be trees we can hide her under, or a barn somewhere." He knew as well as Ruggiero that it was highly unlikely. "We'll put one of the chests with her, and hope that one of us can explain what she must know." Wearily he set his horse in motion once again.
It was much darker when at last they heard the sound of hooves behind them, and knew they could not escape any longer. Ragoczy felt a certain pleasure in coming out of the saddle to fight at last. They were at the crest of a little rise, and that gave them a mild advantage in sight, but as they had nothing to use, neither cannon nor gun nor crossbow, the matter was unimportant. Ruggiero took the horses and led them off the road, to a little stream that gushed merrily down the hillside. Ragoczy called after him, "Make sure you stay on this side of the water. If Demetrice wakes, without earth in her shoes she won't be able to cross it."
"How long until sundown?" Ruggiero asked as he tethered the horses near the stream.
"I'm not sure. The clouds are so heavy it's hard to tell. I doubt if it's much more than an hour away, if that." He pushed at a large boulder that stood beside the road, but even his preternatural strength could not move it. "It will give us some cover, that's something," he said. He remembered the horn and wood bow that he had carefully packed in the chests that were to follow him. At the time it had seemed advisable to travel with as little burden as possible, and he had long felt that weapons invited trouble. Now he missed the bow. And his swords, one of Toledo and one of Damascus steel. There was a third sword, a very special one, that he had won in combat with a Japanese warrior very far from home, but that, too, was packed away.
He walked to where Ruggiero had tethered the horses. "I want some rope," he said.
Ruggiero thought a moment. "How long?"
"Somewhat wider than the road." His eyes met Ruggiero's and there was renewed hope in them. Ruggiero nodded and began to search through the small packs both of them carried on the front of their saddles. At last he produced a thin rope measuring about four times the height of a man.
After that they worked quickly, securing the rope at one end and hiding themselves at the other. "Remember, Ragoczy said as they tested it once more, "don't lift it until the first horses are almost on it."
"I won't," he said.
"As soon as the first lancers are down, grab whatever weapons you can get your hands on. If you can't reach the lancer, go for the horse's legs. It will cripple the horse, but it can't be helped. It's a waste." He glanced up as the first few drops of rain spattered down. He narrowed his eyes. "Mud may help."
Ruggiero tried to smile and failed. "My master..."
"What is it, old friend?"
Ruggiero thought over the words and at last said, "It was worth it." Then he turned away and put his mind to trapping horses.
The waiting was difficult, but it did not last long. In a short while the clop and jingle of the lancers grew nearer, blending oddly with the gentle purr of the rain.
"Ready?" Ragoczy whispered as the lancers were almost upon them.
Ruggiero made a gesture. Ragoczy nodded and set his legs. "Now!"
The rope snapped up, tightening across the lead horses' knees. The horses reared, stumbled and plunged as the pair of horses behind them pushed into them. One of the two lead horses slid and fell on its side and in a moment there was chaos.
Waiting only until they were certain that the lancers were too much disordered to present a united defense, Ruggiero and Ragoczy raced from behind the boulder that had hidden them, moving precariously near flying hooves and twisting bodies.
Ragoczy reached the column first, and with care he snatched a double-handed broadsword from one of the lancers. As soon as he had a firm hold of the scabbard he stepped back, holding his prize to him until he could toss the scabbard away and bring the blade into play.
The lancers toward the rear were not caught in the trap and they were forming themselves for attack, ready to take on Ragoczy and Ruggiero.
Ruggiero had grabbed a lance, and though the weapon was unwieldy on the ground, he set it where he could use it while braced against the boulder.
The rain was pelting down quite heavily now and the road was becoming slick with mud. Ragoczy almost had his feet go out from under him as he avoided the thrust of a short sword from one of the lancers. He moved away from the road, knowing that his white garments made him a better target than Ruggiero, who wore rust-colored clothing.
Near the end of the column orders were barked out, and six mounted men left the road, fanning out as they did, their lances held low.
Ragoczy moved back toward the trees, going carefully so that he would not slip on the wet ground. The sword he carried was worse than useless, for as long as the lancers held their weapons, he could not get close enough to fight them.
Ruggiero shouted to him, but the words were lost in the howl of the wind. He dared not look around now, for the lancers were much too close, and a lance in the back would be the true death as surely as the flames would be.
There was another shout, and louder, and the sound of more horses. Even the lancers pursuing Ragoczy heard it, and for a moment they hesitated, looking around for the source of the noise.
He had barely time to raise his head before Ragoczy saw perhaps twenty mounted men come hurtling around the bend of the road. At the sight of the lancers, the brigands-for they most certainly were brigands, as their long swords and old-fashioned armor showed- checked their plunge, but only long enough to draw their weapons and plunge furiously into battle.
Ragoczy did not wait to see more. He signaled Ruggiero and raced for the trees. He was soaked now, and his finery hung on him in clinging layers. He paused under the trees and waited for Ruggiero to catch up with him.
"How long will that go on?" Ruggiero asked, cocking his head back toward the road.
"I don't know. Not long, I'd think." He looked up through the leaves into the rainy sky. The clouds were bloated with water and there was almost no color left in them. "Sunset," Ragoczy said tersely, and started off through the woods.
The horses were still tethered, waiting where they had been left. Nearby, under an inadequate and clumsy shelter of cut branches, lying on the sack she had been carried in all day, was Demetrice. Her face, now wet, was no longer deathly pale. A faint blush colored her cheeks, and though she was still, it was the stillness of sleep, not of death.
Ragoczy went onto his knee beside her. The old gonella of rust-red velvet she wore was heavy with water and he shook his head at the feel of it.
The noise of the fight was much louder; then there were shouts and horses were heard fleeing.
"The lancers are winning, I think," Ragoczy murmured. "We can't stay here much longer."
"Will she waken?" Ruggiero wondered aloud. "Or should we carry her?"
Gently Ragoczy touched her face and noticed that her mouth softened into a smile. "We wake her, Ruggiero." He took her hand in his, ignoring the rain and the renewed scuffle of horses on the road behind them. "Demetrice," he said softly. "Demetrice."
Her eyelids tightened, and then very slowly they opened. She looked around, bewildered, seeing the forest, the rain, the dark, and the face of Ragoczy, glistening with rain, leaning above her. "Fran... cesco?" she said and put one hand to her head. "Don't leave yet."
"I'm afraid we have to," he said, tightening his grip on her hand.
"How did it get so wet? Is it another torture? Did the jailers do it?" The questions came quickly, with no time for answers. She rolled onto her side and held herself on her elbow. "But this isn't my cell!"
"No," Ragoczy said, and waited.
"Where are we?" This was almost a cry and her amber eyes were wild. "What place is this?"
"We're on the road to Bologna. Well, not quite on the road." He was silent while she tried to understand. Suddenly she snatched her hand away from him and pulled her wrist close to her face. The two neat cuts were still there, but seamed and white, like the scars on ancient wounds. Her eyes flew to his again. "You did do it."
"Yes." He longed to take her into his arms again, but he knew her shock was too great to allow that. Instead he put his hand to her cheek. "Demetrice, this morning, though you were dead, you were chained to a stake in la Piazza della Signoria and the wood around you was lighted. If you had been alive, the same thing would have happened."
"No." Demetrice tried unsteadily to rise. "But what are we doing here?"
Ragoczy's smile was almost apologetic. "We're trying not to be caught either by brigands or by lancers. And we must leave quickly."
She let him pull her to her feet and she held his hand tightly as he led her to the horses. As she got into the saddle, she saw the chests tied to Ragoczy's and Ruggiero's saddles, and said, "I hope you have dry clothes in there."
"Well, no," Ragoczy said as he mounted once more.
"What do you have in there, then?"
There was a noticeable pause before he answered. "There is earth from Rimini in the chests. Your native earth."
She frowned, and for the first time she felt the icy prickle of belief touch her spine. "My native earth?" she asked slowly.
"You'll find you need it, Demetrice. All of our kind do." Then, before she could say anything more, he kicked his horse to a trot and in a little time they were once more on the road to Bologna.
Text of a letter from Marsilio Ficino in Fiorenza to the poet Cassandra Fedele in Venezia:
To my very dear colleague and valued friend Cassandra Fedele, Marsilio Ficino sends greetings from Fiorenza on this Feast Day of San Germano di Parigi.
I thank you from the depths of my heart for the delightful poems you sent me last month. They came at a good time, for April was filled with excitement and your poems complemented that excitement for me.
By now you must have heard that Savonarola has been condemned as a heretic, but perhaps you did not know that the sentence, hanging and burning, was carried out just five days ago, in la Piazza della Signoria, the same place that he committed his atrocious auto-da-fe little more than two months ago. It was an eerie feeling, watching him as he hung high over the heads of the few people who gathered to watch him. Some monks, in an excess of zeal, cried to him to perform a miracle now, if indeed God inspired him and protected him. I don't know whether he heard or not, because the flames were very bright and he was quickly hidden in the smoke.
I have not much admired Alessandro VI, but in this he has done well. His judgment was ruthless, but nothing less than ruthlessness would have prevailed against one as wholly demented as Savonarola had become. It may be true that even a Borgia is useful to the Papacy.
Fiorenza has not recovered from the excesses of Savonarola's reign. Many of i Priori and the Console are his creatures and only time and calm judgment will remove their influence from our government. But yesterday I saw a young woman wearing a lace wreath in her hair, and it was heartening. The fast days are not so strictly enforced now, and since the Militia Christi has been disbanded many of our citizens are bringing their beautiful things out of hiding once again. I will not live to see Fiorenza restored, I know, but I am grateful to God for letting me live long enough to know that the city is not lost, and that all the things that Cosimo and Piero and Laurenzo cherished have not died.
I understand that Ragoczy is in Venezia. When next you see him, remember me to him, will you, my friend? He did a very courageous thing coming back to Fiorenza as he did. It probably would not be wise for him to visit us again, but his bravery will be long remembered here.
Sandro has taken his cousin's death very badly. She is the one who immolated herself during the auto-da-fe. I think she must have been mad, but Sandro is much tormented in his soul. He paints very little now, but talks of doing a vast allegory in praise of Suor Estasia. It may be that in doing such a painting he will at last resign himself to the Will of God and learn to forgive himself for what was, after all, none of his doing.
I have come upon some excellent translation of Aristotle, which I am taking the liberty of sending to you with this letter. My messenger is one of the servants of Cardinal Giovanni, for though he is not allowed back in Fiorenza, his servants are. As he is carrying other messages on to Venezia, he was kind enough to offer to bring you this.
Be certain that this bears my love and my blessing to you. You will never know how much your kindness meant to me in my time of greatest despondency. But I know, and God knows, and it will shine from you like the purest light when the Judgment comes to us all. In this world and in the next I treasure you, Donna Cassandra.
Marsilio Ficino
In Fiorenza, the 28th day of May, 1498