The morning was not far advanced when Ragoczy left Palazzo San Germane. Ice glittered treacherously on the flagged streets and Ragoczy walked cautiously, his high boots of bright blue tooled leather cracking the ice as his heels struck. Today he wore a heavy woolen sleeved tunic of periwinkle blue lined in ermine. Each of the sleeves and both the front and back panels were edged in elaborate gold-and-pearl embroidery. Instead of a gathered chemise, he wore a simple square-cut shirt with a standing collar. His cap was of fur-trimmed velvet and he still wore one gold earring. He knew he attracted attention as he walked toward la Via Nuova. The somberly dressed Fiorenzeni watched his progress and whispered among themselves. He held his head arrogantly and pretended to ignore the stir he was creating.
When he turned into la Via Nuova he made a point of looking about as if uncertain which house to choose. At last he walked uncertainly to Sandro Filipepi's door and knocked.
The wind off the hills was touched with snow, and when the door was opened by Simone, he shivered before he saw the elegant foreigner on the doorstep.
"Please," said Ragoczy in commanding accents, "is the painter called Botticelli here?"
Simone disliked the stranger on sight. He was too foreign, too colorful, too elegant to be in Fiorenza. Everything that had corrupted Fiorenza before the godlike Savonarola shone in the man in blue.
"This is his house," Simone said grudgingly, "but Signor' Filipepi is at prayers." Simone was ready to close the door, but could find no excuse for shutting out the visitor, who plainly was not going to leave.
"At prayers?" It wasn't really a question. Ragoczy thought of his last talk with Sandro, and found that there was a cold fear in him. "When would he be available to speak with me? I have business with him I am Germain Ragoczy."
The name got all the reaction he hoped it would. "Ragoczy? You dare show yourself in Fiorenza?"
Deliberately Ragoczy made his accent heavier. "Yes. I understand that my uncle did not make himself liked in Fiorenza." He crossed his arms and stared at Simone. "I am here to settle his estate, and for that I must speak with the painter Botticelli."
"Come back later," Simone said, and started to close the door.
Somehow, and Simone never quite knew how, the stranger stopped the door and without any obvious force stepped into the small entryway, letting the door swing shut behind him. "You will tell him that I am here, and that I wish to talk with him. In private."
Short of throwing the stranger out bodily, there was little Simone could do now. "I will tell him," he muttered. "In Fiorenza it's considered inexcusable to force your way into houses where you have not been invited."
Ragoczy raised his finely drawn brows. "Indeed? And yet I am told the youths of the Militia Christi do it every day. Strange how one may be misinformed." There was a faint sneer in his smile as he watched Simone hurry toward the large room at the rear of the house that had been Sandra's studio for several years. Left alone, Ragoczy glanced around the walls, remembering that often Sandro hung his latest commissions here as a display until their owners claimed them. What he saw startled him. Gone were the soft, sensuous paintings of wonderfully human gods and goddesses. Gone were the lyric sketches of men and women working, playing, fighting, laughing. Instead the walls held deeply religious works, the Virgin, Christ, martyred saints at the moments of greatest travail. Ragoczy frowned. This wasn't the bright, easy style of three years ago. Now the paintings were dark, hesitant, strangely introverted. He paused by a large painting on finely sanded wood, depicting the martyrdom of San Sebastiano, and realized, with a pang, that the agonized face and tortured body all transfixed with arrows were those of the artist.
"My brother will receive you." Simone had returned silently and took a certain degree of gratification when he saw the visitor start at the sound of his voice. "I see," he added with a satisfied expression, "that you are admiring Sandro's work. He has certainly done much to glorify God of late. Before, as you may know, he spent his time in the vain expression of venal pleasures. But this"-Simone nodded approvingly-"this is worthy of the name of art, for its sole purpose is the praise of God."
The chill Ragoczy had felt as he approached this house had little to do with the weather, and it increased as he watched Simone point out the various new works. "You see here, this new painting of the Virgin accepting the Holy Spirit into her? See the modest humility of her downcast eyes, the manner in which she covers her body so that the holy moment is not rendered profane by her pleasure or her flesh? Sandro didn't always paint so. For many years he indulged his senses and led men to lust and error with the nakedness of pagan deities. If you will follow me, I will take you to him." Simone turned quite abruptly and stalked off down the hall without waiting to see if the foreign visitor was behind him.
Ragoczy kept pace a few steps behind Simone, his thoughts racing. From what Simone had said, it was possible that Sandro had succumbed to the teachings of Savonarola, but perhaps it was that he had not wanted to antagonize the fierce little Domenican. He was still apprehensive as Simone held open the door to Sandro's studio and announced, "Ragoczy."
Sandro looked up from the wide table where he had spread out a number of preliminary sketches. Three years had aged him. There were more and deeper lines in his craggy face, and his tawny-red hair was paler now, some of the loose curls being almost white. He gave Ragoczy a piercing look, then put down two of the sheets of paper and came around the end of the table. "I'm Sandro Filipepi," he said, touching Ragoczy's outstretched hands but not his cheeks.
"I am Ragoczy," he said, looking around the room.
"Simone said you were here about your uncle." He was plainly anxious to return to his work. "You resemble him, you know."
"So I have been told." He cast a significant glance at Simone. "Signor' Filipepi, if I might speak with you alone?"
Aside from one brief questioning look, Sandro accepted this, saying to his brother, "Simone, I'm certain you have duties that require your attention. When Signor Ragoczy is ready to leave, I'll call for you."
Simone drew himself up in indignation, turned sharply and punctuated his departure with a slam of the door.
For some few moments neither of the two men said anything; then Ragoczy indicated the sketches on the table. "May I look?" he asked.
"Go ahead." Sandro stood out of the way, remarking as Ragoczy picked up two of the sheets and held them up, "I can't make up my mind. If you've got any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them. Your uncle had a good eye for art. I hope you do, too."
Holding the sketches so that the white winter light fell on them, Ragoczy studied the swiftly drawn charcoal lines, the quick studies of hands and faces twisted with fear. "What are you planning?"
Sandro rubbed his hair before he answered. "It's supposed to be the Slaughter of the Innocents. But try as I will, I can't get the feeling I want. See there? That hand ought to awake sympathy and pity when you see it, but all it looks like is one of those studies Leonardo's done of the hands of the dead. And the face there, that one?"-he pointed to a portion of the paper where a young woman with wide eyes and open mouth shrieked silently-"it's lifeless. There's no terror, though there ought to be." He took the paper from Ragoczy and set it aside. "It's not just this one. Recently all my work is like that. I pray and I pray but the gift isn't there. It isn't easy anymore. It isn't a pleasure." He dropped into one of the rough chairs by the wall.
Ragoczy saw at once what Sandro said was true. He felt a pang of grief as he realized that Sandro knew as well as he did that his work was not what it had been.
"It's not important. That wasn't what brought you here." Sandro pushed himself out of his chair and forced a conviviality into his voice that he did not feel. "I hope you don't mean to tell me that Francesco is dead. It's more than I could endure today."
In that moment Ragoczy knew he could trust Sandro to keep his secret. "No. I'm not going to tell you that."
Sandro nodded. "Good. I've lost too many of my friends. I don't want to hear that another one is gone. Francesco was a remarkable man. I never felt quite easy about his leaving. I warned him, did you know? I urged him to leave Fiorenza. But now I don't know. I wish he had stayed. I wish someone had stayed who might have stopped what's happened. It's happened to Fiorenza. It's happened to me." He put his hands to his face, then forced them to his sides again. "I didn't want to believe. I still don't want to. But there isn't any choice now. And so I accept, and I confess with the others and I paint what's safe. They leave me alone if I do that. I never knew what it could be like. I didn't know Fiorenza would change so much."
Ragoczy stood still, listening to Sandro's hurt-filled words. He clenched his hands to keep from offering the artist comfort.
"Well," Sandro said, mastering himself. "I trust you won't repeat me. My position here is precarious enough without that." He gave Ragoczy a puzzled look. "I don't know why I said that to you. It must be your face." He turned away, adding with a miserable attempt at casual conversation. "Your uncle was a great mystery, but he was kind. I was always very fond of him."
Gently Ragoczy said, "And I of you, Sandro." This was spoken in his own beautifully modulated voice, in excellent Italian, without a trace of the contemptuous manner he had shown to Simone.
Sandro was still for a moment; then he spun around, his golden eyes intent. "Francesco?"
"Yes." He waited, not knowing what Botticelli's reaction might be. He saw Sandro's face tighten and doubt pricked at him. Sandro could still give him away. It would be an easy matter to go to i Lanzi and tell them that the satanic criminal had returned.
Finally Sandro spoke. His words were soft. "You're a fool, Francesco."
Ragoczy shrugged.
Then Sandro came back around the table and embraced him heartily, touching cheeks with him and very nearly laughing. "You're the greatest fool in the world. Gran' Dio, do you know what they'd do to you, those good pious men, if they caught you?"
"I have some idea," Ragoczy said dryly as he stepped back from Sandro. He did not add that he'd seen it many times before.
"Then why did you come back?"
"Because," he answered with calm deliberation, "Demetrice Volandrai is in prison. And I must get her out."
The enormity of this announcement stunned Sandro. When he could speak, he said, "But you can't, Francesco. You'd be sent to the stake with her."
"Are they sending her to the stake?" Even Ragoczy was surprised at how easily he asked the question, as if it were nothing more than a matter of upholstery or a topic for a debate.
"Not yet, but they will." Once again he sank into the chair. "How did you find out?" He didn't give Ragoczy a chance to answer. "You think I should have told you? If there had been any way, I would have. But I couldn't. Truly I couldn't." He broke off and slammed his clenched fist against the table leg. "That's a lie. I might have found a way. I ought to have found a way. But I'm too frightened, Francesco. I'm frightened for myself." Self-loathing thickened his voice. "I didn't know I was a coward until now."
"Sandro. Amico." Ragoczy spoke compassionately. "You needn't do this to yourself." He came across the room and put his hand on Sandro's shoulder. "I'm not angry."
"I am." Sandro shifted his shoulder so that Ragoczy could no longer touch it. "I hate what I've become."
Ragoczy sighed and moved away from Botticelli. He knew he was close to defeat and he searched his mind for something to say, something that would heal the rift that gaped between them like an open wound.
It was Sandro who broke the silence. "I can't promise anything, because I may not keep it. But I will try to help you. Don't rely on me. Don't ask things of me except silence. Oh"-he nodded-"I know I can do that much. You're Ragoczy's nephew. What's your name again?"
"Germain."
"Germain Ragoczy. An arrogant foreigner full of pride. I'll do that much. And it's little enough." He stared out the window, a deep fatigue in his face now. "What do you want of me, Francesco? What must I do?"
"Why, nothing. Keep my secret." He slung one leg over the edge of the table and balanced there. "I have to find Demetrice, if she's still alive."
"She is. For a little while. The Domenicani want to be sure there is someone to burn at their auto-da-fe." He shook his head. "An auto-da-fe in Fiorenza. Who would have believed it, even five years ago?"
Ragoczy's face was suddenly serious. "When will it stop? Do you realize that in less than four years Fiorenza had gone backward more than a century?" Idly he toyed with a brush Sandro had put out to mend. "Do you know where Demetrice is?"
"No. She's not inside the city walls. None of them are." He rose slowly this time. "I don't know if I can find out. Estasia might know something, and she might not. And heaven only knows if she'll tell me."
"Estasia?" Ragoczy put the brush aside. "What has she to do with this?"
"Ah." Sandro made a gesture of utter disgust. "Since she's taken vows, she's the idol of Savonarola's followers. They flock to hear her prophesy, to tell her visions. She sings hymns and they become as popular as Laurenzo's ditties were eight years ago."
"Then Donna Estasia is the nun they're all talking about?" He slammed his fist onto the table. "I should have realized that. Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli. How like her. How entirely like her." He gave Sandro a rueful smile. "You're right, amico. I am a fool. I saw the name. I have heard about her. But I didn't think that Estasia would take the veil. But what else is left for her? She cannot be satisfied by men any longer, and what else is there but God and the Devil?"
"She tried the Devil first," Sandro reminded him. "But, of course, she was bound to. And perhaps she'll tire of God." He picked up one of his sketches and crumpled it savagely.
Ragoczy waited until Sandro's violence had passed; then he took Botticelli's hand. "If you can find out where Demetrice is, I would be grateful. But don't take needless risks."
"No," Sandro said bitterly. "I wouldn't do that."
"Stop castigating yourself," Ragoczy said impatiently. "It won't help any of us now." His eyes moved over the room, seeing neglect, noticing the many partially completed works. "How long have you had trouble painting?"
There was a flash of indignation that died as quickly as it appeared. "About half a year. Since I've given in to them, I'd guess." He opened his hands in resignation. "There isn't much left in me. I'm over fifty, did you know? I haven't the strength I used to have." Turning away, he stared out the window into the pale glare of the sky.
"If I found you a patron somewhere else, would you leave?"
Sandro did not turn to ask, "By patron do you mean yourself?"
"Perhaps. There are others who would be pleased to employ you."
The tilt of his head showed that Sandro was considering this. "If I could paint still, yes. But what I'm doing now isn't worthy of patronage. Only the priests like it, and those who want to barter for heavenly favor." He snorted with disgust and did not see the sadness of Ragoczy's expression. It was a while before he spoke again. "Do you still have the Orpheus I did for Laurenzo?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Would you let me have it again?" He asked this awkwardly and refused to face Ragoczy when he spoke.
"Why do you want it?"
Sandro clung to his elbows and said miserably, "There is to be a Bonfire of Vanities on the fourth day of March. You knew that? And I have sworn to burn my pagan and fleshly works, or those that I can put my hands on."
"That's a stupid joke," Ragoczy snapped.
Sandro's golden eyes met his dark ones. "It's not a joke. I have sworn to burn those works that are deemed vain."
"No." Fury and devastating sorrow warred in him. "Why? What possessed you? You can't do it." He turned on Botticelli. "Answer me. Why?"
As his big shoulders sagged, Sandro leaned back against the wall.
"Because then they'll leave me alone. If I burn the paintings, they'll forget me." He spoke in a calm, flat tone. "You haven't been here, Francesco. There are times I think I'd sell my soul for peace."
"That's what you have done." Ragoczy took an angry step forward. "It isn't worth it, Sandro. Peace is too small a gain." Suddenly there was hurt in his eyes and his next words were a plea. "Sandro. Listen to me. You haven't the right to do this. They haven't the right to ask it of you. It's worse than killing children, because children at least can defend themselves. But art, art goes into the world unarmed, vulnerable to every quirk of fate, and it must survive only by its power to move men not to destroy it. You wonder why you can't paint the Slaughter of the Innocents? Think of what you're doing now. It's the same thing. But this is more evil, for even Herod didn't insist that the families put their children to the sword. Look. Sandro. There is so little in this world that is beautiful and so much that is hurtful. But the most fragile beauty can be infinitely stronger than everything that has been done with blood and fire and sword, and neglect." His chest felt tight and he paused to swallow against it. "No one-no one-has the right to destroy what another has done. And to make you destroy your own work..." Again he stopped, and his voice was coldly level when he said, "I believe in neither heaven nor hell. Yet I wish there were hell, and that its greatest tortures were reserved for men like Savonarola. Forswear your oath. Abjure it. If not for yourself, Sandro, then for the sake of your work."
Through this Sandro had stood silent, his eyes not quite looking at Ragoczy. He crossed his arms, waiting for Ragoczy to stop, and when at last he did, Sandro said, "Perhaps you'd better leave now."
"Sandro..."
"No. I've made my bargain. I'll keep it and be damned." He took quick, jerky steps to the door and held it open, calling for his brother. Before Simone appeared, he turned to Ragoczy and said in a soft, fierce whisper, "Never say anything to me about my work again. Ever. For the sake of Demetrice, I'll keep your secret, but ask nothing more of me. Now go." He waited until Ragoczy had come to the door.
"Sandro," Ragoczy said. "I beg you."
"Good-bye, stragnero," Sandro said, and went back into his studio, closing the door behind him.
Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Olivia, written in the colloquial Latin of imperial Rome:
To Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus, Olivia sends loving, exasperated greetings.
What in the name of all the gods is the matter with you? You got out of Fiorenza by fortunate chance with the threat of burning over you. And now you have gone back. Have you forgotten that if you burn, you die the true death, as surely as if your head were severed from your body, or your spine crushed? And if you have not forgotten, why have you returned there?
Yes, yes, I know. You are in disguise. You've taken precautions. But how do you know they'll be successful? Don't remind me that I worry too much. One of us had better worry, and you seem to be incapable of it.
Here is the information you wanted. Your letter reached me in good time. The ship from Venezia to Napoli had good winds and surprisingly calm seas, and your associate Gian-Carlo brought it to me with all speed. What a beautiful man he is, Sanct' Germain. It would be a pleasure to make him one of our blood. But since you haven't, I restrained myself as well. I gather he doesn't know about you. He called you an alchemist and a shipowner, but nothing else.
Alessandro VI very much wants to enforce the excommunication of Savonarola. Apparently he tried to bargain with the Domenicano first, offering Savonarola a cardinal's hat, provided that all preaching stop and that Savonarola leave Fiorenza and come to Roma (where he can be more truly watched). I understand that Savonarola's reply was that he preferred a martyr's crown to a cardinal's hat. You may be sure that as soon as it is possible, Alessandro will arrange it. Certainly Savonarola's rule in Fiorenza cannot last much longer, not with the Pope against him. For say what you will about the Borgia carnality and corruption, he is still the Pope and has the full authority of the
Church behind him. Girolamo Savonarola is a madman, if he thinks he can defy the Pope, even so unholy a Pope as Alessandro VI.
There is a movement afoot now, promoted by His Holiness and by young Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici, to bring a charge of heresy against Savonarola. It would be simple to demonstrate it: resistance to Papal edict is heretical, and it is very well known that Savonarola has continued to preach, to serve Mass, to use the Church as the base of his authority. You may be certain that by summer Rodrigo Borgia (or Pope Alessandro, as he prefers to be called) will have his revenge.
I don't know how the Fiorenzeni stand on this matter, but I warn you, my dear friend, that the Pope will not hesitate to use all the force at his command to bring down Savonarola. He may send troops if Fiorenza will not give up their Prior di San Marco. There has been too much flaunting of the power of Roma and the Pope. This Borgia pope is willing to go to war, if that is necessary, to put an end to the rule of Savonarola.
Are you demented, that you insist on this mad course? Believe me, Savonarola is desperate. He has very little time to finish his work, and if that includes, as you say it does, the trial and burning of his own set of heretics, there will be no one safe from accusation. If by some fluke you actually manage to convince Fiorenza that you are your own nephew, you will still be suspect, being an even more uncertain figure than your "uncle" was.
I've spoken to His Holiness, and he has promised to send orders to Fiorenza specifically forbidding the trial and burning of heretics until the state of Savonarola's faith is determined. He has also assured me that he will require the immediate release of all those held in prison. It should be no later than March 17 when the documents arrive. Because of the seriousness of the situation in Fiorenza, the Pope has scheduled the issuing of those orders for seventeen days from today. The only thing he has ever done more quickly was arrange his daughter's marriage. In less than two months, Demetrice will be free.
If you were nothing to me, your danger and foolish loyalty would mean little. But you are precious to me. And one of the reasons you are precious, I admit it, is that you are willing to risk everything for those you love. So pay no attention to my railing at you. Do as you must. As you did for me, so long ago.
My dearest, dearest friend, guard yourself well. I wish you good fortune. I wish you success. I wish you victory.
Olivia
In Roma, the 26th day of January, 1498