The Palace (Saint-Germain #2)
Page 35All the benches for the congregation were filled, though it was only a Tuesday, and a market day at that. Near the altar a number of Domenicani Brothers made their final reverent preparations for the Mass their prior was to celebrate that morning. There was a small group of Trinitariani Brothers near the door, one of them carrying a breviary from which he was reading aloud.
Just before the hour of the Mass struck, there was a stir at the back of San Marco. The foreigner Germain Ragoczy stood in the door, resplendent in a roundel of rusty-gold silk. His stiff velvet cap was lavishly sewn with seed pearls and he carried a small golden dagger tucked into his tooled leather belt. The heels of his boots were loud in the hush that greeted his arrival, and every eye followed him as he walked down the aisle. Pausing to genuflect and cross himself most devoutly, he glanced over the assembled Fiorenzeni, and realized with some dismay that even hard-bargaining merchants were in the church, ready to hear Mass and Savonarola's sermon.
A somewhat wheezy chord on the organ gave the signal that the celebration of the Mass was about to begin. Because it was the season of Lent, the monks who entered the church were singing the Dies Irae, their awe-inspiring words sung with a tinge of smug satisfaction.
There was a formal attention paid to the Mass, but when the spiky figure of Girolamo Savonarola mounted the Oratory of San Marco, a new excitement ran through the congregation. Ragoczy could sense the hold Savonarola had over Fiorenza in the taut, almost somnambulistic faces around him. There were women with fists clenched under their chins, their eyes filled with terrified adoration. Ragoczy felt a strange sickness in his mind. He had seen such expressions before, long ago, when Babylonian mothers had watched their infants being thrown into the burning maw of their god, Baal.
"It is the time of year," Savonarola said, "when the sacrifice of Our Lord is remembered. The joyous time of His Birth is past and now is the time when we must contemplate the utter love of His Agony, the death on the Cross." His glance raked over the congregation, accusing every person there of consenting in the death of Jesus Christ. He waited while his faithful squirmed, and then, when he was certain that they were eager for his chastisement, he nodded. "Think of the nails that pierce the beauty of His sacred flesh. Think of the pain He suffered so that you might have glory in paradise. Think of His Passion, as he hung from His bleeding wounds." Again he paused. "And not one of you is worthy of this. Not one of you is worth the dust in His shadow."
Two older men in the congregation had dropped to their knees now, and their convulsive sobs echoed through San Marco.
"Yet here you are, accepting the Eucharist as if grace were available to anyone willing to bend a knee and take a piece of bread into his mouth. How do you live with your hypocrisy, Fiorenzeni? You, who claim to worship that holy being, are not willing to give up your ornaments, your vanities, your profane teachings, or your merchants' pride." He regarded them all with scorn. "So little is asked of you, compared with what He willingly gave, and you refuse Him."
There were more people weeping, and Ragoczy felt his jaw tighten in anger. He pressed his hands together and lowered his head so that no one could see the rage in his eyes.
"I have called for a sacrifice, and you deny it. You hide your trinkets from the Militia Christi so that you may take your little pleasures. But those pleasures damn you to hell, where the fires will consume you eternally. Then those petty delights will not mitigate your suffering. Then, when it is too late, you will bitterly regret your worldliness."
The sermon was to last only ten minutes, but it was more than an hour later that those of the congregation who were taking Communion filed slowly up to the rail. Many were startled to see the elegant foreigner Germain Ragoczy join them, his hands piously clasped, his eyes bent downward in humility.
Today Savonarola himself served Communion, and he gave Ragoczy a look that in one less holy would have been jealous derision. When he came to the foreigner, he held the Host over the Chalice to make the Sign of the Cross. But instead of placing the wafer between Ragoczy's lips, he asked, "Have you fasted?"
Ragoczy answered him honestly. "For three days, good Prior."
But Savonarola was not satisfied with this response. "Your uncle did not take Communion, and he attended Mass rarely."
"My uncle," Ragoczy said in awkward Italian, "was not one of your Church. He was not allowed to take Communion with you. It would have been a great sin if he had."
Savonarola tapped the Chalice, frowning. "He belonged to the Eastern Church? We were united with them, and in agreement, until they disavowed our unity. Those who worship in the Eastern churches are in error. They should confess their sins and be received into the True Church and be given grace. For they do not have the excuse of the heathen, who have not heard the True Church in her might proclaim the promise of God."
"That may be." Then, with a dryness that was lost on Savonarola Ragoczy added, "My uncle was born some years before the brief unification of the Roman and Eastern churches. He would not have profaned your sacraments knowingly."
"Yes."
"You kneel before me, you know that it is a grievous sin to take Communion if you have any sin upon your soul. You ask for the consecrated Host to be given you."
Ragoczy had an impulse to challenge Savonarola, to remind the Domenican that it was he, not Ragoczy, who was under the pain of excommunication, and that as a result he had no right to serve Mass, let alone question the state of the souls of those seeking Communion, which would not be valid in any case, being, as it was, Savonarola, the excommunicant, who had performed the consecration. "I ask for the Host, yes."
"You are dressed in unchristian finery, Ragoczy," the prior said, apparently enjoying the discomfort he was causing.
"It is appropriate to my rank." Ragoczy was secretly relieved that Fiorenzan sumptuary law still provided that men of title not demean their dignity with common dress. He waited for Savonarola's response.
The congregation had become silent once again, relishing this new confrontation. The veneration they had for Savonarola made them see him as a stern judge protecting them from blasphemy and wrong. But the splendid stranger attracted their notice as well, for his answers were respectful, dutiful and modest. In a few, Ragoczy stirred memories of the Medici days, of the civic pride and the fun of palios, of masques, of processions and tournaments.
"Are you bound by them?" Savonarola scoffed. "If you are indeed born noble, our laws, though superior to yours no doubt, must still be beneath you."
Ragoczy hesitated long enough to bite back a scathing reply. Instead he gazed reverently up into Savonarola's ungainly face. "Good Prior, I don't know why you question me in this way. I have had much hardship in my life. My land is in the hands of Turks and my people are slaughtered. I have fought my enemies for the glory of Christ, and I have done all that I might to protect my subjects. All I desire while I am in Fiorenza is to live in an honorable way, within the laws of la Repubblica and God."
They had arrived at an impasse. Savonarola's voice grew more harsh. "It is an easy thing for a foreigner to claim rank, particularly in a country where war has made so much confusion."
At that Ragoczy let a little of his temper show, and he spoke with asperity. "My lineage is ancient. There have been those of my blood in my native mountains since before the time of Christ. Our line is unbroken to this day, and distinguished."
"And you yourself? What is your degree of nobility?"
"I was born a prince." It was, he thought with a sardonic light in his eyes, quite true. But that had been considerably more than three thousand years ago, and the people who had given him that rank had long since scattered abroad and were lost in other populations.
"You wear no coronet," Savonarola pointed out.
"You have stated that Fiorenza is a Repubblica, and as such is not receptive to coronets. Italia is not my country. Unless I am called to a royal court, such as the court in Napoli, or to the great court of the Pope, it would be the most profound disrespect for me to wear it."
By now the congregation was wearying of the sport and there was a soft muttering as some of the people jostled one another and began to glance out the high windows at the blustery sky.
Holding the bread under his tongue, Ragoczy crossed himself and bowed his head with real devotion. He found the feel of the bread distracting, and tried to remember what it had been like to eat food. That had been so long ago and his recollection was remote, distorted, like a reflection in troubled water. Slowly he rose and returned to his place on the bench, anxious for the Mass to end.
When at last it was over, Ragoczy made his way through the departing Fiorenzeni to the clerk of la Signoria.
Gradazo Ondante had aged much in the last three years. Where before he wore his importance with officious fussiness, he now was bowed under the weight of his responsibilities, and his body was like badly joined sticks under his drab lucco. He gave Ragoczy a curious glance and said, "You have a certain resemblance to your uncle. He was an older man than you, of course, and I think somewhat taller. But there is a similarity."
"Did you know my uncle well?" Ragoczy asked politely, wondering how many others in Fiorenza shared Ondante's opinion.
"I had to deal with him occasionally. He was an imposing man, quite stern and severe." He folded his hands and there was a certain apprehension in his words when he asked, "Why did you wish to speak to me?"
Ragoczy decided to broach the simpler matter first. "I am anxious to regularize my claim to my uncle's lands and goods. No one has yet been willing to tell me what documents and proofs I must present to i Priori in order to do this."
Somewhat dryly Ondante observed, "Your uncle had a better command of our language, too." His eyes focused on the middle distance. "I will have to ask i Priori themselves what they will require of you. Will there be any problem if there is a certain delay? Until the end of Lent it will be difficult to conduct the proper investigation into your claim."
Inwardly Ragoczy cursed. He smiled condescendingly. "If that's what must be done, then how can I object?" In another voice he asked, "And my petition to the law courts, that my uncle's housekeeper and agent be freed, or at least remanded to my custody?"
"Oh. Yes. That." Ondante was plainly uncomfortable. "I have not yet had the opportunity to show your petition to the Console. It is a difficult matter. Very difficult. You see, the matter of her heresy-"
"Possible heresy," Ragoczy corrected him gently.
"Possible heresy. Yes. It hasn't been settled. And it isn't... it isn't desirable that she be given her liberty until it is shown that she is faithful and redeemed to Holy Church."
"But I have offered to vouch for her, and to be responsible for her." This was said so reasonably that Ondante flinched.
"Yes. But your situation is so irregular... It's very difficult," he said again, as much to himself as to Ragoczy. "But I will try. It's not fitting that a young woman should... The prison is severe, I understand. I'll see if there's anything..." His voice dwindled to silence.
"I would appreciate it." Ragoczy realized that he was once again attracting attention, and decided to use it to his advantage. "I feel," he said with sincerity ringing in every word, "that as my uncle's heir, I must do all that he would want for those whom he employed. It is most unbecoming of a man of position to forget the ones who have done him a service, and I know that my uncle was most grateful to his housekeeper. It would be disgraceful to my honor and the honor of my family if I were to neglect my duty to that good woman."
Those members of the congregation who had pressed nearer to listen nodded their approval. Though it was suspicious that Ragoczy was so obviously foreign, his sentiments were worthy of any Fiorenzan.
As Ragoczy turned to leave San Marco, he saw out of the corner of his eye that from a doorway near the Oratory, Savonarola was watching him.
Text of a letter from Francesco Ragoczy to the Francescan prior of Santa Croce, Orlando Ricci:
To the most reverend prior of Santa Croce, Germain Ragoczy, heir to il stragnero il Conte Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, sends his greeting and beseeches the assistance of the good Francescano.
My heart is much wrung by the many difficulties I have encountered of late and it is with a sense of desperation that I, a foreigner and one without friends in la Repubblica Fiorenzena, turn to you, good Prior, for your guidance and help.
I know not how to think. Here is my uncle's housekeeper and pupil, a woman of learning and merit, confined to prison on the heinous charge of heresy by a monk who is in flagrant violation of all the power, might and glory of the Catholic Church. Girolamo Savonarola was excommunicated by Pope Alessandro. Yet he preaches at Santa Maria del Fiore and San Marco, he gives laws to the state and he is respected by all. And his accusations against Fiorenzan citizens are heeded and accepted, though he himself stands accused by higher authority of great wrongs.
The Vallombrosiani Brothers and the Camaldolesiani Brothers stand unalterably opposed to this Savonarola, but there is no move to free those unfortunates who languish in prison as a result of his laws and his pronouncements.
Where may I go for help? I must do all that I can to save this woman who discharged her duties to my uncle with such capable skill. Surely there is some way.
As you know, I am new to Fiorenza and there is no one I know well enough to ask for this help. If you feel that it would not be wrong, your guidance and prayers will be much valued by me.
The power of this Savonarola frightens me, for not only do his political decisions strike at the very foundations of the state, his religious doctrines and contempt for papal authority are a blow at the heart of the Catholic Church. No one can think himself safe, for the state is rendered useless and the Church impotent by his proud rebellion. And just as the few angels who fell from heaven for their misguided loyalty to Lucifer, so the people of Fiorenza stand in like danger from their affection and respect for this Savonarola.
Your words on this are most eagerly awaited. I put my trust in your wisdom and the goodness of your Order. And with humility and gratitude, I await your response.
Germain Ragoczy
In Fiorenza at Palazzo San Germano, the 8th day of February, 1498