October had turned hot and Fiorenza shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. On the streets, almost no one moved, and those few men abroad were bowed with the weight of the heat.
Sandro Filipepi had spent a disturbing morning with la Priora di Sacro Infante. Suor Merzede insisted that Estasia should remain at the convent for another month. It was the third such extension la Priora had required, and Sandro was beginning to be profoundly worried. A letter sent to Estasia's relations in Parma had not helped him, for they had authorized Sandro to act in their stead and trusted that he would do whatever was best for Estasia.
On impulse, as he came through la Porta alia Lanza, he turned eastward, toward the tall rounded bulk of Santissima Annunziata. The walk was not pleasant, and he realized he was not anxious to speak to Ragoczy. But he knew that he owed it to his afflicted cousin. Crossing la Piazza San Marco, he was struck for the first time by the paradox of that little square. On the north, San Marco, the Domenican church and convent that had housed Fra Angelico, Beato Antoninus and now Girolamo Savonarola. On the south side of la piazza, surprisingly still on this hot afternoon, la Galleria dell'Accademia, that remarkable school where Plato and Aristotle were as revered as the lives of the saints, where Greek and Latin were taught, where the things Savonarola most despised flourished.
A frown creased Sandro's craggy face. Perhaps Simone was right, and Savonarola would save Fiorenza. But he could not trust the little Domenican prior. The learning and the love of human endeavor taught in l'Accademia appealed to him more. He walked through Piazza San Marco, and soon turned on the flagged lane to Palazzo San Germane
The sound of the knocker was solemn, and Sandro was startled by the gloom it created in his mind. He was almost ready to abandon the idea of seeing Ragoczy when he heard footsteps, and in a moment, Ragoczy himself opened the door.
"Botticelli," he said with a genuine smile as he held the door open. "Come in. It's sweltering out there."
In spite of himself, Sandro warmed to this welcome. He went through the door into the loggia and sighed. "It is hot. I didn't realize how hot." He wiped his flushed face with his loose outer sleeve and stared enviously at the flowing robe of Persian taffeta Ragoczy wore. "I wish I had one of those."
Ragoczy responded promptly. "Give my houseman your measurements and I will have one made for you. What color would you like? You needn't wear black as I do. There is a splendid blue and a shade like ripe peaches, almost the color of your hair."
"It's not necessary, Conte," Sandro said, suddenly diffident.
"Conte?" Ragoczy repeated the title. "This is Fiorenza, amico, and a Repubblica. You've called me Francesco before. Why say Conte now?"
Sandro turned away. "I don't know. But I haven't seen much of you, and lately there's been... trouble..." He stopped, not knowing what to say.
Ragoczy finished for him, his voice soft. "I know, Sandro. They're calling me Il Conte Stragnero now, aren't they?"
"I have heard that," Sandro admitted with difficulty. "But, truly, Francesco, nothing is meant by it. It's the fear, that's all." He felt miserable talking this way to his foreign friend.
"That's all? What is there worse than fear?" With a gesture he invited Sandro into his reception room off the loggia. "What may I get you? Amadeo is very good with wines and fruits." He had already clapped his hands, and Ruggiero appeared in the doorway.
"I'm sorry I was busy at the back of the courtyard, master. I would have opened the door." He nodded to Botticelli. "It's an honor to see you again, Signore."
"And you, Ruggiero," Sandro said automatically.
"Fetch our guest whatever Amadeo thinks is worthy of his art," Ragoczy told Ruggiero.
"If I fetch all that, master, Signore Filipepi won't be able to leave until late tomorrow." His smile was genuine. "We've had few guests of late. I'm certain you know why."
"Yes." Sandro sighed, and sank into one of the Turkish chairs away from the windows. "Bring me whatever you wish, so long as it is cool. I've walked to Sacro Infante and back today, and in this heat, I feel my years."
There was a moment of silence; then Ruggiero bowed and withdrew and Ragoczy studied his guest, saying in a colorless way, "And how did you find Donna Estasia?"
"I don't know." His expression was complicated, drawing from his real concern as well as his irritation. "One day she is better, much like herself of old. Then she is charming and speaks of nothing but home and how much she would like to return to us. And on another day she lies in her little cell and whimpers, saying that she sees her own damnation, and then she will speak to no one, not Suor Merzede, not me. And on some days she welcomes her damnation, and what she says terrifies me. She was like that today. She clung to me and cried out as if we lay together. The good Sisters all behave as if she has done nothing outrageous, but..." He stared across the room toward the windows where Ragoczy stood, a shadow against the distant glare of the day.
"Why did you seek me out today, Sandro?" The question was gentle as he turned to face his guest.
"I... I'm not sure, Francesco."
"Because, perhaps, that I was Estasia's lover, once?" There was no shame in taking an unhindered widow to his bed, but he knew that Sandro had been trapped between his brother's austerity and his cousin's sensuality. He went on, "That was over some time ago. She tired of me, I think. I know I could no longer please her."
The relief in Sandro's face was amazing. "That's it, at least in part."
"And you were wondering if ever she behaved then as she does on occasion now?" He had come nearer Sandro and his eyes were compassionate.
"I don't mean... You needn't..."
"Who has a better right?" Ragoczy chose another of the Turkish chairs, a few steps from Sandro's, and sat, using the time to think.
"If you'd be willing..." He stopped. "Most men wouldn't mind, not Fiorenzeni, but now, things are different. It's not seemly to talk of the sports of love..."
"You mean that the Domenicani are getting stronger and that they take a dim view of the pleasures of the body." He said this harshly, recalling other times he had seen the Brothers of Saint Dominic come to power, and the havoc their fierce Christianity wrought. "I'll answer your questions, Sandro. I doubt if either of us will run to San Marco afterward."
This time Sandro almost smiled. "You're right, amico. Why I should be so uncertain..."
Ragoczy could think of several excellent reasons for Sandro's uncertainty, but kept them to himself. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. I can't account for what's happened to her. Someone must know-"
"As you wish." Ragoczy cut Sandro short before he could begin another convoluted apology. "It was shortly after I came here that I had the pleasure to meet Donna Estasia. It was on a Sunday afternoon, one of those splendid days at Palazzo de' Medici, when Laurenzo had most of the talents in Fiorenza under his roof for a meal and entertainment." He stopped, and a feeling very like physical pain filled him. "Do you remember those afternoons?"
Sandro, too, was moved. "Yes, I remember."
"You had come, and brought Estasia with you. You and young Buonarroti were off somewhere having a delicious argument about the relative virtues of sculpture and painting, and Estasia was bored. She didn't read very well, spoke only Tuscan and had few interests beyond her home and womanhood. So I spoke to her, since I was a stranger then, and knew no more than half a dozen of Laurenzo's circle then. She was glad to have someone to talk to, someone as foreign as I, someone as unknown. She asked me to withdraw with her for an hour or so, and when we were alone, loosened her bodice to let me fondle her breasts."
On the afternoon this had happened, Sandro would have been pleased to learn of it, and would have felt no embarrassment. But that was almost three years ago, and now he shifted awkwardly in the Turkish chair and gazed out through the windows rather than meet Ragoczy's eyes. "I see."
"She asked me to come to her bed a few months later, and you know that I did." He looked at Sandro's uncomfortable face. "It was not quite what you think. She took no risks with me."
Quickly Sandro turned to look at him. "No risks?"
"I gave her pleasure after my fashion, and took mine of her, but I promise you, never in the manner most men use women." He stopped, and said easily, "I'm incapable of it."
Sandro's skin was fair, and for that reason blushed all the more brightly. "You needn't-"
Again Ragoczy stopped him. "I'm telling you this so that you will understand Donna Estasia somewhat better, and perhaps be able to help her more. She was not willing to accept my... limitations, after a while."
Ruggiero came into the room then, with an engraved golden tray holding a tall ewer and a single glass cup. "Amadeo has made a sweet in the Muslim manner. It's called a sherbet. It's quite cooling."
Sandro was grateful for the interruption, and gave Ruggiero all of his attention as the chilled fruit pulp was poured into the cup and honey mixed with it.
"Will you want me soon, master?" Ruggiero asked when Botticelli had been served.
"I don't think so. If you would rather return to your work."
"I would." He inclined his head to Ragoczy, then added as an afterthought, "Donna Demetrice is working with me. The task should be finished soon." He was reluctant to say more about the shipment of alchemical compounds which had arrived that afternoon from Modena.
"That's fortunate. I will call Araldo if I need anything."
Ruggiero nodded and was gone.
"I haven't seen Donna Demetrice in some time," Sandro mused.
But Ragoczy would not be sidetracked. "When you leave, if you like, we can go through the court and you may have conversation with her then."
Reluctantly Sandro nodded. "You're right. This must come first." He took a little of the sherbet, savoring the mixture. Then he put the cup down and regarded his host carefully. "What happened between you and my cousin, Francesco?"
"For a while we enjoyed each other. I thought that was all she wanted-a safe, exotic foreigner who was willing to satisfy her flesh..."
"But you said that you are not able..."
Ragoczy smoothed the front of his house gown. "There are other ways, amico mio, and for a time they were enough." He paused, wondering how much Sandro needed to know. "I was mistaken about her. I didn't realize that she had other expectations." He left his chair and once again went to stare out into the pale afternoon. "She didn't want me because I was foreign and safe. She wanted me because I offered her a new sensation. And when that sensation was exhausted, she demanded more. There was nothing more I could do."
"Could or would?" Sandro asked shrewdly, his discomfort all but gone.
"If you must have it, would. I won't give that excitement that takes its pleasure in hurt." He had spoken curtly, and he said, to soften the blow, "Sandro, no one lives who could be all the things your cousin demands in a lover. It's not her fault. It's not anyone's fault. But as long as she has such needs, she will be unhappy. With time, she may be rid of her trouble. But I can't do more than I already have. She's angry with me. Because I failed her too much." As he said this, Ragoczy picked up the little Greek flute which was lying on a chest under the window. He held it, his fingers on its simple stops.
"I see." He had more of the sherbet. "She has refused to confess. She says that the devils torment her flesh when she tries to pray, and that she can't ask for forgiveness."
"I'm sorry." Ragoczy at last came to stand near Sandro. "Botticelli, protect yourself. Without meaning to, she might do you great harm."
"She might do the same for you."
Ragoczy shrugged. "Just fuel to the fire. Anything is believed of a foreigner. I'm prepared to leave, if I must. But you"-he touched Sandro's arm-"you live here. You work here. This is your home. It would be easy for her, without any such intention, to destroy you, amico. So be on guard."
The warmth and affection in Ragoczy's voice startled Sandro. He put the cup down, rising as he said, "I will. And I am grateful to you. You told me... so much you needn't have."
"Would you like to see Donna Demetrice?"
Sandro nodded, accepting that this difficult interview was at an end. "No. She must still be busy. I will call another time, if you'll have me."
"Of course." Ragoczy had started to move to the door, but Sandro caught his shoulder with one big paint-stained hand. He pulled the smaller man around and touched his cheek with his own.
Ragoczy was still, and then, in his soft, slightly accented manner, he said, "Thank you. For your humanity."
Sandro was somewhat taken aback, and frowned, suspecting some sarcasm or bitterness, but as he followed Ragoczy to the huge door at the loggia, he realized that the foreigner's thanks had been genuine. He tried, as he stood in the door, to respond somehow, but Ragoczy had become remote.
"Come next week, and Amadeo will make a banquet," he said in a rather formal way.
Sandro was chagrined. "I'm afraid I can't then. Simone is keeping a fast, and I have agreed to keep it with him."
The ghost of a frown clouded Ragoczy's eyes a moment. "Very well. Come when you want. You are welcome." He was about to close the door, but he added, "There are many things to be on guard against, Sandro. Don't be deceived."
"What do you mean?" Sandro's rough-hewn features grew tight with worry.
"Nothing," Ragoczy said, then relented. "We lose as much to affection as we do to hatred, amico mio. Remember that." Then, with a kind gesture, he turned away to hide his face.
Text of a letter from Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:
To his excellent and deeply respected teacher, Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, in Fiorenza, Gian-Carlo in Venezia sends his urgent greetings.
I have had word from Luis Santiago y Choranes that the builder Lodovico is not satisfied with his work in Spain and desires to go into France. I will, if you wish, write to Reynard Puydouce and request that he act as your agent in this matter.
But I am very much afraid that this will not serve. This is the second change the man has made, and nothing we have arranged has suited him. He did not like building villas in Lisboa, he hasn't liked working on two big churches in Spain. He has indicated that he doesn't want to do anything else, and he is not willing to settle on a farm.
This is contrary to your instructions, but I would like to hire an assassin to deal with the man. He cannot be managed any other way. If you delay taking his life, he will bring you nothing but trouble. You have said that you will not make light of your oath. But you do not make light of this man if you have him killed-you recognize him for the danger he is.
If you are willing to authorize it, I know of a man, a Genovese, who will do the thing for a hundred gold ducati. He comes highly recommended and is known to be both discreet and honest. No one who has hired him in the past has ever been blackmailed by him, and none of them were ever implicated in any murder he undertook.
This message may be long in reaching you, for the winter storms have been very severe, and travelers have spoken of nothing but trouble on the road. It has been so bad that even the brigands have not been about much. I will send this with a party of monks going to Ferrara, and then hope that it will be sent on from there.
Your recommendation that I buy leather goods from Poland was excellent. I have a large order in your warehouse and there is a great deal of interest in the boots. The heels, as you remarked, are particularly desirable for horsemen and might indeed start a fashion. I plan to order more when the spring comes and passage to Krakow is possible again.
The shipment of resins from Egypt has been taken by pirates and it will be at least a year before I can get more for you. I am at present trying to find other sources, but so far my inquiries have led nowhere. If you know of a merchant who can supply the resins, other than the Egyptian, let me know.
Il Doge has granted you the right to build the extra rooms you requested onto your palazzo here. As you guessed, the seven pounds of gold speeded the petition to il Doge in good time.
Send me word of you as soon as the weather allows. The news we have here of Fiorenza is almost all bad. Anything is believed now that the Domenicano Savonarola is risen so high. Until I hear from you again, I commend myself and all my work to you.
Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando
In Venezia, January 18, 1494, the Feast of i Santi Piero e Paolo