Under his tongue the Host was bitter. Ragoczy listened to the last prayers and benedictions with scant attention as he wondered what next to do. For the wafer that had been given to him at the Communion rail was poisoned.
The atonement service had been very long, taking most of the morning and all of the afternoon. And now that it was over and the Mass had been celebrated, most of Fiorenza was sunk into a kind of lethargy. Idly Ragoczy tried to identify the poison, and how swiftly it was supposed to act. He decided that he would not be expected to collapse during the Mass. It was not in the spirit of the occasion, he thought with disgust. No, this day had been for the humiliation of Fiorenza, for bringing shame on everything that had made it beautiful. Death was for later. He would have a little time, then. He returned his attention to the end of the Mass.
When the service was over, Ragoczy lingered only long enough to exchange a few words with Sandro Filipepi. Their manner together was that of polite strangers, but Ragoczy said, "My petition to the Console for Donna Demetrice's release has not been acted upon yet. This worries me, Botticelli. Have you any suggestions?"
Sandra's golden eyes were troubled. "The whole accusation is ridiculous. All they would have to do is ask her a few questions and they will know she is no heretic."
"Do you know how Domenicani ask questions?" Ragoczy asked gently. "First they take you into a dark room where you are stripped and put into a penitent's robe. Then the torturer shows you his instruments and tells you what they do. And then the Domenicani tell you that if you give them the answers they want, you will not be tortured or put to the Question. Demetrice is a woman of integrity and courage. It would take more than threats to make her say what the Domenicani want to hear. So they would rack her perhaps, since the rack is not torture because it doesn't break the skin. And if she resisted that and did not die, they would resort to torture, probably the boot or hot pincers. And eventually, so that the agony would stop, she would say anything they wanted to hear. Anything. And so would you, Sandro."
Sandra's face had paled as Ragoczy spoke, but he said, "That may be in Spain, but this is Fiorenza."
"You say this, who are willing to burn your paintings for a little peace?" The incredulity in Ragoczy's voice was rough with hurt.
Unable to meet Ragoczy's compelling eyes. Sandro turned away, a definite hurt in his face. "I don't think... Not her."
"Not her?" Ragoczy's question mirrored his disbelief. "And why not her? She was part of the Medici household, which is bad. She loved Laurenzo, which is worse. And she studied at Palazzo San Germano, which is utterly damning. Between those factors and her well-educated mind, she is condemned already."
"But until the petition is heard, there's supposed to be only imprisonment."
"Savonarola can't afford that. Eventually Pope Alessandro will act against him. It must happen soon, because no Pope can afford to tolerate such monumental defiance. If Savonarola is to maintain his position, he must act quickly. The Console is in his power already. If he told them the hearing of the petition must be waived, it would be. Or do you doubt that, Sandro?"
Botticelli shook his head heavily. "No. You're right, God pardon us all, you're right." With a strange, mournful gesture he turned away from Ragoczy and moved quickly away from him through the thinning crowd.
From Santa Maria del Fiore the walk to Palazzo San Germano usually took about ten minutes. Today Ragoczy deliberately took longer. He forced himself to move slowly, uncertainly, as if he were feeling ill. This care was rewarded, as various citizens stopped him to ask if he needed help, which he always politely declined in such a way as to confirm his illness.
It was almost half an hour later that he entered Palazzo San Germano, to be greeted by Ugo and Natale, two stewards he had hired the week before. Natale was well into middle age and felt a determined loyalty to the Medici family, who had employed him three years before. He had been proud to serve Ragoczy because his supposed uncle had been such a noted Palleschi, expressing support of the Medicis long after their popularity had waned. Ugo was another matter, being younger, very earnest, and, Ragoczy suspected, working under orders from the Console or Savonarola. That was foolish, Ragoczy thought, but as long as they worked well, Ugo's fanaticism mattered little.
"Are you well, master?" Natale asked with real concern when the great door closed behind Ragoczy.
"I don't know. I don't feel myself." Quite deliberately Ragoczy faltered on the second step as he attempted to climb the grand staircase. "I... I'm dizzy."
Natale was the first to respond. He rushed to Ragoczy's side and gave him his arm for support. "There, master. Lean on me."
Ragoczy let some of his weight sag onto Natale's shoulder and spoke weakly. "I'm feeling hot and cold at once." He muttered another complaint in Hungarian, and turned to Natale. "I'm ill. I must get to my bed." With a skillful imitation of the dogged tenacity of the sick, he tried once again to climb the stairs.
"No, master," Natale said, restraining him. "Ugo will go ahead of you and prepare your chamber. You must wait here. Don't hurt yourself more."
Ragoczy accepted this. "I'll wait." He turned quickly to Ugo and saw the smile the young man wore before he could assume an expression of concern. "But work quickly, Ugo."
Ugo raced up the stairs. When he had turned along the gallery, Ragoczy looked at Natale. "Will you get me a warming pan? I don't think I can endure a cold bed just now."
"You must not try to climb the stairs alone," Natale warned.
"I may try again, but if I'm too weak, I will wait for you." He lifted a languid hand. "I don't think I can go far."
Although Natale wore an expression of doubt, he accepted this assurance. "I'll be as fast as possible, master. And I will bring a brazier to burn in your room. There are healing herbs that will make healthful smoke for you..."
Ragoczy stopped him. "I know you will do as you think best, and that I will be grateful for it."
Natale gave him a quick smile. "You're kind, master." He made sure Ragoczy was supported by the banister, then hurried away toward the stairs to the cellars.
Now that he was alone, Ragoczy at last took the poisoned wafer from under his tongue. He looked at it, sniffed it, and wished he had a chance to use his laboratory, so tantalizingly near, to test the bread and find out what Savonarola had given him. He put the little wafer in his long silken sleeve and resolved to rise in the middle of the night and test the bread.
By the time prandium was being served in those few houses that were not honoring the fast day, Ragoczy lay between linen sheets in what he thought of as his public bed. It, too, rested on a layer of earth, and he lay back, doing his best to feign increasing illness.
At first Natale declared his intention of watching his master through the night, but Ragoczy said in a raspy tone, "No. I have a bell by me to summon you, and I will if it's necessary. But I will need you to be alert tomorrow, if I am worse." He touched the elaborate jeweled crucifix that hung around his neck. "I want to pray alone."
Natale accepted this, for prayer was still the surest medicine known in Fiorenza. He fussed around Ragoczy's bed one last time and then bid him good night.
Ragoczy lay back and waited, certain that Ugo would come to see how ill he was.
Ugo did not disappoint him. A few hours later, when night had settled over the city like some gigantic cold bird, the door opened a few inches and Ugo's face peered into the darkened room.
"Who's there?" Ragoczy called in the merest thread of a voice. He rose onto his elbows as if it were the greatest effort, and he clutched the crucifix in his right hand.
"It's Ugo," he said, coming into the room. He was dressed in a dark, drab houseman's gown, but Ragoczy could see that there was a badge on his sleeve, not the eclipse of his own household, but the fiery sword above the city, the badge of the Militia Christi.
"I've been praying," Ragoczy said as he lay back, seemingly overcome by exhaustion. "But I'm still not well."
Ugo tried not to smile and almost succeeded.
Weakly Ragoczy motioned to Ugo to come nearer. "I don't know what's wrong. Is there a physician in the city who could help me?"
"You should think of your soul, not your body," Ugo sneered, and came to stand by the side of the bed.
"I have thought of my soul," Ragoczy said, raising the crucifix so that Ugo would be sure to see it. "But my prayers are not strong enough. Or I am too ill." He lapsed back into Hungarian as he turned away from Ugo.
There was an undertone of excitement in Ugo's next question. "What's wrong, master? What sickness is this?"
"I don't know." Ragoczy managed to sound both angry and frightened. "I have done nothing. But shortly after Mass I felt faint and now I am filled with pain, as if a fire burned in my vitals." He looked back at Ugo. "Pray with me. I want you to pray with me."
"Of course." Ugo dropped to his knees beside the bed and pulled his crucifix from under his robe. The chain around his neck was very fine and the crucifix of silver. "Dear Lord God, Who looks into every heart and knows all things," he said almost automatically, "though I am wholly unworthy to address You, yet I ask You to hear me for the sake of Your Son Jesus and this stranger who suffers."
Ragoczy echoed the words, smiling with gentle cynicism at the peculiar arrogance in Ugo's tone of voice, as if his assumption of humility automatically granted him superiority over those who did not abase themselves. "That is good, Ugo," he murmured, putting one small hand over Ugo's, which was joined in prayer.
Ugo continued to pray, but Ragoczy appeared to be weakening still. Some little time after midnight, Ragoczy stopped Ugo, claiming to be even worse. "I thank you, Ugo," he whispered. "But I fear I need a priest."
This announcement hardly disturbed Ugo. He crossed himself and rose. "What for, master? Surely you are not in need of Last Rites?"
"I may be." Ragoczy nodded. "Prayer hasn't helped..."
"Let me send for Savonarola. He has great strength and God has inspired him to do great things." For the first time Ugo was speaking with genuine enthusiasm. "He will come. I know he will. And his prayers will make you well."
This was exactly what Ragoczy had hoped for, but he said, "Savonarola is a busy man, with many responsibilities. It would be wrong to disturb him on this matter." He left off, panting, one hand clenched on his chest.
"He will come," Ugo promised him. "I will tell him that you are very ill and likely to die without his help." He crossed the room quickly, and added from the door, "I'll wake Natale and he will pray with you while I am gone."
So Ragoczy would have to continue the sham. "I am grateful," he said weakly, and as soon as Ugo had left the room, stretched and rubbed himself to work the tightness out of his muscles.
Natale said little, but he brought candles into the bedchamber and stood them around the bed. He felt Ragoczy's icy forehead and his face grew grave. When he had put the room in order, he drew a chair near to Ragoczy's bed and said, "Do you want me to read the Scriptures to you? I have them in my chamber."
"Yes. I need to hear holy words" He was lying still, hardly breathing, when Natale returned a few minutes later. "Good. You are back," he breathed as Natale once again took his place in the chair by the bed.
It was more than an hour later when Ugo at last returned. He burst into Palazzo San Germano and raced up the grand staircase, the sound of his shoes announcing him as much as his eager shout. "He's coming," he cried joyfully. "He's really coming!" With this shout he burst into Ragoczy's bedchamber, to be met by the cold fury in Natale's face.
"Recall, if you please, that our master is ill unto death. And comport yourself properly."
Ugo tried to assume the proper demeanor, and almost managed it. His face was somber, but his eyes danced. "It's only that I am happy for our master that Savonarola will come to pray for his recovery," he said defensively.
Natale had a very poor opinion of Savonarola's power, it seemed, for he folded his arms over his chest and said at his most withering, "If there is healing at all, God is the physician. To praise the priest who prays is like praising the rain in time of drought. Each had done only what God gives it to do."
"That's not so," Ugo objected, knotting his hands belligerently. "Savonarola is inspired by God, and God hears him when he prays. He has visions. He knew when Medici was going to die, and he did. He knew that the French would enter Fiorenza."
"Of course he did," Natale scoffed. "He might as well have invited them." Abruptly he stopped the argument. "Our master lies ill and in fear of his life. I won't discuss this now. You may wait at the door for this Savonarola, and when he is come, secure it once again, in case desperate persons try to enter here."
It was difficult for Ugo to admit that Natale's dignity impressed him, but he responded with unaccustomed promptness. He was in the hall when he remembered to ask how Ragoczy fared.
To answer the question, Natale went to the door and spoke in a low voice, hoping that Ragoczy would not hear him. "He's failing. I don't know if he will last until dawn, let alone sunset. He's cold as the grave already, and there's not a drop of sweat on him. When he can speak he says that his bowels are full of devils. He will take no nourishment. See what your Savonarola can do against that." He did not stay to hear Ugo's shocked words, but went back to the chair at Ragoczy's bedside.
As Ugo went down the stairs once more, his mind was troubled. If Ragoczy were indeed hovering near death, then it might be senseless to waste Savonarola's powers on him. He dared not admit, even to himself, that Savonarola would perhaps be inadequate to the task of healing his master through prayer. He stopped in the loggia, thinking that Palazzo San Germano was a lonely place. There should be more to the household than one Hungarian noble and two servants. He recalled that the other Ragoczy had entertained lavishly on occasion, and that he had had more servants. It was a pity that the nephew was not so generous except in matters of vanity. The clothes he wore were grand enough to be worth a year of Masses. And see, he thought smugly to himself, what has become of him. For all his gorgeous clothes and his great station, he lies abed with burning in his guts, and calls for humble monks to help him.
He was still occupied with similar edifying reflections when there was a sharp rap on the door, which jarred him out of his reverie.
As the door opened, Girolamo Savonarola stepped across the threshold, a pyx in one hand, the Scriptures in the other. His Domenican habit was somewhat disarranged, a silent testament to the haste in which he had prepared. He paused just inside the loggia and glared at the magnificence of the room. "What vanity is here," he remarked. "And this is the man you would have me pray for? A man who wallows in luxury?"
Ugo stared down at his feet, saying petulantly, "It is not this man who built the palazzo, it was his uncle. You said you would pray for him."
"Yes. I will pray." He looked back at Ugo. "You have done well, my son. You have told us much of this man that could not be learned otherwise without breaking the seal of confession. And his confessor is Francescano." This last was said with sudden rancor, but he went on calmly enough. "You have carried out your responsibilities here quite well. In preferring the welfare of holy Church to the momentary advantage of your employer, you earn yourself a place in heaven." He gave Ugo a rather preoccupied blessing, then asked, "Where does he lie, this stranger?"
"In his bedchamber. I will show you if you follow me." Ugo had barred the door, and was trying to maintain his composure in the presence of his hero. "Will you follow me, good Prior? My master is waiting for you."
"I will come," Savonarola said, motioning to Ugo to precede him up the stair.
The scent of burning herbs assailed them as they entered Ragoczy's bedchamber. Natale was still at the task of putting more of the herbs into one of the braziers that stood near the carved and painted bed in which Ragoczy lay. Natale moved quickly as Ugo came into the room, and in a moment he had brought the prayer stool to the side of the bed. As he passed Ugo, he muttered, "I still think this is foolish."
Ugo made no retort, but the satisfaction in his face was easily read.
Savonarola pushed past the two servants and approached the bed with the intensity of a hunter stalking bear. At last he put out his hands to Ragoczy's face and felt how gelid he was. "You are in mortal danger," he informed Ragoczy.
Ragoczy nodded, a motion that was so slight it barely pressed the pillow. "I fear so," he agreed. He tried to lift his crucifix but the effort was too great. He closed his eyes, knowing that if Savonarola looked too deeply, he would know that he was in no danger whatever. "Pray for me, good Prior. You are my last hope."
The Domenican prior hesitated, oddly pleased with the stranger's helplessness. He looked at the face, so tormented and so peaceful, and reluctantly admired the bravery of the man, who endured his suffering with patience. "Are you resigned to accept whatever God wills?" he asked.
"I am." The words were so soft that Savonarola had to strain to hear them. The foreigner tried to cross himself, but the gesture was feeble, ineffective and his hand dropped back to his side.
An unfamiliar frustration gnawed at the monk as he fell to his knees. He went through the first of the ritual with the barest modicum of attention while he tried to fathom what it was about the stranger that bothered him. "Holy Father God, Son and Holy Spirit, Sacred Trinity, I beg that You will hear me and grant my prayer. For I have served You all my life, given You my devotion and my faith. In Your name I have scourged vice and sin from the land, and in Your name are the mighty and the worldly cast down. Therefore, I ask that You look upon this unworthy mortal who lies before You, and examine his heart. If he is worthy of Your great gifts, if he be not eaten up with venality, if he is capable of understanding Your mercy, then heal him of this great ill that threatens to take his life."
Ugo watched, rapt and attentive, while Natale stood apart, his face a mask, showing no emotion of any kind.
Savonarola lifted his hands, and his harsh voice filled the room. "I ask that You hear me, I ask that You come into this suffering creature, and for Your glory, heal him. I ask that You chastise him with this sickness, so that he will ever turn away from sin. And if he is corrupt and vain, then I ask that You strike him, so that his sins will no longer contaminate the earth, so that he will be banished from the company of men to dwell with demons in the eternal fires of hell, where all who are vicious must go. Judge this man, I ask of You. If his life is one of merit, save him, now and forever. But if he aspires to be redeemed and is bloated with evil, destroy him as You have destroyed all those who have mocked You."
On the bed, Ragoczy moved a little, and made a sound in his throat. His fingers moved restlessly over the covers.
"See this man. See what a creature he is. If his illness is a judgment on him for his impiety, cast him forth and let him howl in hell through all time. Save him only if he is virtuous, and if You find him worthy of life, and if You are willing to let me be the means of his recovery." Savonarola's voice had risen to a kind of shriek and he rose high on his knees. He stayed that way for some little time while the herb-scented smoke grew denser. Then slowly he sank back onto his heels. "I can do no more. Now it is God Who will decide whether I am to have the glory of saving this man's life." He got to his feet somewhat unsteadily, the pyx still dangling from the chain in his hand.
Natale coughed, and the sound was perilously near a snort. Ugo turned on him, glaring, then turned back to Savonarola. "You have done more than anyone could have asked. If he dies, it is as you say, the will and judgment of God. And if he lives, then it is your prayers that have saved htm, for his own did not prove effective." He knelt before the little prior. "You are a man of miracles, blessed Savonarola. No one can deny that." There was a certain defiance in the last words, and he waited for Natale to take up the argument.
But there was none. On the bed, Ragoczy moved again, and with a tremendous effort sat up. His bedshift was disarrayed, and he moved with difficulty. He looked squarely at Savonarola. "Good Prior," he said in a weak, clear voice, "I thank you for your prayers. God has heard you."
It was difficult to know who was the most startled. Ugo gave a kind of scream, and Natale's eyes filled with tears. Savonarola turned white and there was an unpleasant light in his green eyes.
From the bed, Ragoczy went on, letting his voice grow stronger as he spoke. "The fire that burned in my guts is dying. My hands are growing warm. Good, holy Prior, you have done this. It was your work alone that affected me. I feel as though I had been filled up with loathsome poison and have been purged of it." He determined to be less grim. "I owe you much, Prior. Here." With trembling hands he reached to the table beside his bed and took one of the rings he had worn earlier that day. It was a large polished emerald, one that had come from Burma. He felt a momentary pang at the thought of giving it up, but it was a small price to pay to have beaten Savonarola at his own game. "Here. Take this. It is the best that I have. Be certain that in later days I will see you are paid as you deserve."
Woodenly Savonarola approached the bed, and with no expression whatever he held out his hand for the ring. "This is a great vanity," he said automatically, hardly looking at the jewel.
"Then sell it and use the money for the glory of the Church." Perhaps, he thought, that would save it from the Bonfire of Vanities.
"I will consider it." He took the ring, and without another word he strode from the room.
"See him out, Ugo," Natale said, and as soon as the younger servant was gone, he approached the bed. "Did he do it, master? Was it his prayers?"
Ragoczy wondered briefly how far he could trust Natale. He looked at the servant. "I don't know, Natale. But I do know that I had little chance for survival without his help." If he had not died, he would have been accused of diabolism or other heretical arts, for Savonarola was waiting for him to die. And if he had not asked for help, his death was required.
"Ugo will have it all over Fiorenza that this was a miracle and that Savonarola saved you." There was a measure of reproach in that statement.
"Let him. Let Savonarola have full credit, so long as he will also take full responsibility." He did not know how flinty his dark eyes had become as he stared at the door.
Natale flinched at the sight of his master, but wisely decided to say nothing. A man brought back from the brink of death was entitled to his anger.
Later that night, when the promise of dawn waited in the eastern sky, Ragoczy left his bed and went at last to his laboratory, the poisoned wafer in his hand. He thought momentarily about the desperation that had driven Savonarola to so rash an act, and though he disliked to admit it, he began to have doubts that he would prevail.
As he set to work on the wafer, he banished those worries from his mind, resolved to accept defeat only when he died the true death.
By sunup he was back in his bed, ready to receive the long line of visitors, who, through the day, came to congratulate him on his fortunate healing.
Text of a letter from Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:
To the nephew of his old friend Francesco Ragoczy, Botticelli sends his greetings and rejoices with him that he was spared from death by the intervention of Prior Savonarola.
I heard of your deliverance only a few hours after it happened, but I have been busy with a commission and therefore have not had time enough to send you this note until now. First, let me tell you how pleased I am that you escaped death. If you were the most despised man in Fiorenza, yet no one would wish you to die alone, unprotected and friendless in a foreign country. But my pleasure extends to more than your rescue. A few days ago you warned me of what might befall those who are in the keeping of the Domenicani, and you described to me some of the wrongs done in Spain, intimating that such might occur here. Now that Savonarola has miraculously restored you to health, how can you think that such a man as he would ever allow any man or woman in his care to be harmed in the way you described? Think of the prayers that Savonarola said for you, and then consider Donna Demetrice's plight. Be certain that she stands in no danger from one so selfless as Savonarola.
Rather than suspect this excellent Domenicano, be sure that you are sincere and prompt in the expression of your thanks. You owe him too much, Ragoczy, to accuse him capriciously of crimes he would never commit.
I have had your note saying that you will not return the painting I have requested. I can't come and take it away from you, of course, but I warn you now that the Militia Christi might enter your palazzo and if they should find it, they are very likely to confiscate it and it will be burned, in any case. I ask you, if you do have it, return it to me. I cannot pay you what you paid me for it, but that should not be a consideration between us, because this is to the mutual benefits of our souls.
Francesco, Francesco, you were my friend, why do you refuse me this? I didn't paint it for you, you merely took over Laurenzo's commission. I know it is not a question of money, because you are too rich to care about the price of the work. But does not my peace mean something to you? Are you unwilling to help me gain the calm I have missed for so long? I ask you again, send me the painting.
Again, I am glad you didn't die. I will pray for you,
Sandro
Via Nuova, Fiorenza, the 23rd day of February, 1498