The Palace
PART I Chapter Nine

"Is this the last of it?" Demetrice Volandrai asked of il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.
He nodded and took up the loose sheets of closely written parchment. "Yes. I'm grateful you're so fast with the translations, Donna Demetrice. I doubted that a woman, even a scholarly woman, could have done so much in so little time."
She raised her brows. "I have nothing else to do with my time, Conte. Why should I not finish in so reasonable a period?"
Il Conte Giovanni laughed and took her hand. "Well, you know, most women are easily distracted. But you, bella Donna, are so capable that I am amazed at your skill every time I see you."
Demetrice's smile remained fixed as she withdrew her hand. "Since I have neither husband nor family to occupy my attention, I am grateful that there is so much for me to do." She rose from her bench in Laurenzo de' Medici's library and looked toward the fire that crackled in the grate. Her old gonella was thin and the shawl around her shoulders did not compensate for that thinness.
Pico was still speaking, his beautiful pleasant face ruddy with cold and goodwill. "You should have made a superior scholar, had you been a man. Or a noble. It is a pity your skill cannot be used to better advantage." He inclined his head and prepared to leave. "I hope we will work together again, in future."
"But you are going to Roma, Conte, and I remain here."
"Perhaps you will allow me to make other arrangements." He came closer to her. "Think of it, carina, with my protection you will have not only the learning you crave, but other pleasures as well. You are an attractive woman-not pretty, but not displeasing to me. I could do much for you."
She could feel his breath on the side of her head as he pressed close to her back, and she had a flash of anger. But there was no use in making enemies in her cousin's house. She closed her hands into fists. "I am not at liberty to discuss this," she said in a controlled voice.
"I will speak to Laurenzo, if that is what worries you." He touched the edge of her jaw and in that moment she remembered another man who had touched her, and she had been filled with rapture for it. But with Pico it was otherwise. She could feel his lack of force even as he sought to make a conquest of her. She wrenched away from him and moved nearer the fire. Her color was heightened, and her breath came quickly. "Please, Conte, I cannot think of your offer until I have done all the tasks my cousin has set for me. After all he has done on my behalf, it would be poor of me indeed to leave him without anyone to take my place."
"Very well. I am in no hurry." Pico sketched a bow in her direction, and then with the sheaf of parchments in his hand, he let himself out of the library.
Anger and shame were still warring within her some time later when the door opened and Laurenzo stepped into the room.
"Demetrice, do you have time... ?" He stopped as he saw her face. "Tesoro mio, what is it?"
She stopped pacing and tried to smile. "It is nothing. Indeed, I don't know why it bothered me so much..." She came across the room and her heart tightened in her chest as she saw how thin he had become. "Oh, Lauro."
He took her outstretched hands in his. "Distraught, Demetrice? Tell me."
"It's nothing. I should not have taken offense. None was meant. But I cannot bear it when I am weighed and measured like so much sausage." Without thinking about it, she went into his arms. "Lauro mio, I'm frightened."
He smoothed the tendrils of rosy-blond hair back from her face and tilted her head up. "Why, tesoro mio? There is nothing to be afraid of."
There was no way for her to put her fear into words, for to speak the words would make her fright too real. She laid her head against his wide shoulder and said in a small voice, "Do not leave me, Lauro."
"Demetrice." He held her more tightly, as if taking strength from her. Some little while later he said, "Do you remember those beautiful days at the hunting lodge?"
Her laugh was uncertain. "I cannot forget. What a little box of a place it was; barely room for our bed. And the balcony, where we ate. Everything there that was wonderful was part of you, Lauro. I wish we had stayed there forever."
"And I." He lifted her face and bent to kiss her. "That's another thing I had forgot-how sweet your lips are. Again, Demetrice."
When she pulled away from him she was shaken. She looked at him with luminous eyes. "Sancta Maria, what am I going to do?"
Laurenzo stood back from her, the beginnings of a frown on his brow. "What do you mean, tesoro mio? I am here, and I will always take care of you. Never doubt that."
"I don't." She forced herself to move away from him, to go to the window and look out at the city. "It's been snowing for more than three days."
"Yes." He waited a moment, and then came across the library to her. "Demetrice. Tesoro. Listen to me. Please."
Reluctantly she turned to him. "Lauro. Carissimo Lauro." She looked up into his dear, ugly face and bit her tongue to keep from crying.
"Yes," he said very gently. "Yes, I know, Demetrice. And it is hard for me, too." He drew her away from the window. "But there is time yet. A little time. And I promise I will not leave you alone and friendless in the world."
Demetrice let herself be led back to the bench, and as Laurenzo sank down on it, she held his head against her breast. "Do you remember that morning we rose before sunrise and walked through the woods? I think I would sell my soul to have that time again."
"Demetrice," he said softly. "It is hard enough without this. And your soul is too precious to fling it away so uselessly. It is for your soul that I love you, for without it... without your soul, even the greatest pleasures are empty."
"But don't you want that time again?" She managed to keep her voice steady as she asked the question.
"More than you will ever know. And if I could have it again, it would not be for a few months, but for years." He felt her hands tighten.
"Lauro. Oh, Lauro." In vain she searched for the right words, but they eluded her.
"What do you want of me?" he asked when they had been silent too long.
"I want you to live." Demetrice almost choked on this outburst. She put her hands to her face and moved away from him so that he could not see she wept.
"Demetrice, you must not. For me." He was too tired to follow her across the room. "Tesoro mio, I beg you."
Her cry was full of anguish; she forced her fist into her mouth to stop it. "I can't bear it."
"You must." He caught and held her with his eyes and slowly she regained control of herself. "I am depending on you. How else can I know that everything I value here is safe? Look around you." The sweep of his arm took in the whole library. "I've worked most of my life for this. Who will guard it for me? Who will protect it? Piero? It means nothing to him. Agnolo? As long as it brings him notice, perhaps. Marsilio? He's older than I am, anima mia. But, you say, there's Pico? But he will not be here, he will be in Roma, protecting his own interests. You, Demetrice, you care for these books, and love them as much as I do. You know that they are more than words on paper. You know that they are the very soul of the world. You cherish them."
"But I couldn't stay here, if you weren't..." She faltered, and her eyes strayed to the tables and shelves around her.
"Then stay elsewhere. Who in Fiorenza pleases you? Who would you like to live with? Who would you want to learn from?" He asked the questions lightly, his smile almost successful.
"I wouldn't want..."
"Demetrice." The name stung her with its sharpness. "I haven't the strength for this. I am asking you to help me. If you are unwilling to, say so."
She saw the force of his implacable will in his face. Slowly she came back across the room toward him, and resisted the urge to embrace him. "What must I do?"
"You must find someone who will care for you. Not marriage, if that isn't what you want. But you need to have a household to live in. I would suggest a scholar, because you love learning. And learning cures many things, mio tesoro. In time, it will cure your hurt." He let his hand fall on her shoulder as she sank to the floor beside him. "Tell me who, then, and I will see that it is arranged."
"I don't know. Perhaps Piero..." She thought of Laurenzo's son and shook her head. "No. I guess not."
The room was darker and the firelight gilded them both. "You should not stay here after I... leave."
She tried to think, sifting through the scholars she knew. And then, in sudden realization, she said, "Ragoczy."
"Francesco?" He considered it. "I'll talk to him. He may be willing. He has been a better friend to me than many Fiorenzeni. You will learn much from him."
Now that she had said it, she felt doubts. "Do you think I should? He is a foreigner."
"That may give you greater protection. Do you like him?"
Demetrice traced out a faded outline on her gonella before she answered. "I don't know. There's something about him. He has always been very kind to me, but I feel that he could be very terrible. Perhaps it's because he's not Fiorenzan."
"Perhaps. I admit he is a mystery. But, as you say, he's kind, and he certainly has a great deal of knowledge. You must ask him to teach you Turkish."
"Does he speak it?" It wasn't really a question, and she was not surprised when Laurenzo did not answer.
"Tell me, tesoro mio: if I had been just Lauro, and not de' Medici, if there were only my face and not my wealth, would you still have loved me?" He was staring into the fire and his hand on her shoulder was tense.
She looked up at him, seeing his lantern jaw, his broken nose, his broad, irregular forehead. Though she tried, she could not imagine him as anything other than he was, but she answered without hesitation, "Of course I would."
He sighed and his hand relaxed. "Poor Clarice," he said, speaking of his wife. "She really didn't like it here. She never forgot she was a Roman Orsini out in the provinces."
"Piero's wife is another Orsini," Demetrice pointed out.
"That's different. Piero doesn't love Fiorenza. Clarice didn't object to my mistresses, but she was infernally jealous of Fiorenza. I suppose it was natural. She died unhappy, and much of it was my fault. Well, it's done." With an effort he pushed himself off the reading bench. "Forgive me, tesoro mio, but I must go. I have to ration my strength. How that irks me."
Demetrice got to her feet quickly. "Lauro, is there much pain?"
He turned to look down at her. "No, not very much. And when there is, I have a cordial. Ragoczy gave it to me. The effect is marvelous, I promise you."
She heard the bitterness in his voice and she closed her eyes, fighting for composure.
Laurenzo relented. "No. No, mio tesoro." He turned her face to him. "Go to your foreign alchemist with my blessing. But do not forget me awhile."
"Dio mi salva!" she whispered and blindly tore herself away from him. She steadied herself against the trestle table, her hands holding the wood so tightly she feared the table would break, or her hands. When she heard the door close behind him, she turned again, and stared at the door. Though she tried to think, her mind remained stubbornly rooted to Laurenzo.
Somewhat later Demetrice surprised the understeward Sergio by searching him out and asking him to deliver a letter for her.
"Certamente, Donna. Where shall I take it?" He was already pulling off his long apron, and wishing that his winter cloak was warmer.
"Take it to Palazzo San Germane To Francesco Ragoczy." Her eyes were dry and her hands no longer shook. She handed over the letter and a dolcezza in the amount of two gilli d'or.
"To Ragoczy," he said as he pocketed the little coins. "At Palazzo San Germane"
Text of a letter from Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:
To his respected friend and illustrious teacher, Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, at his palazzo in Fiorenza, Gian-Carlo sends his most affectionate greetings.
Your builder who is now embarked for London arrived here a few days ago, and, as you instructed me, I sought him out. Even after two pots of wine he was most reticent. He is calling himself Riccardo, but he isn't yet used to the name, and I gather that his name is Carlo. I prodded him much, but he said nothing more than that a cousin of his had secured him a position in England and that he was going there to take it up. He claims to be from Mantova, but his accent is purest Fiorenzan. You need have no fear that Carlo will betray you. I have seen none of the others, though I have heard from Cola Galeazzo in Genova and he informs me that another builder, called Lodovico, has left Genova for Lisboa. There has been no word from Dietrich Wundermann in Wien yet, but I am sure your third builder will pass through there when winter is over.
I have taken the liberty of importing a printing press from Cologne. The old Dogaressa has taken an interest in books, and very much wanted a press. Should you receive a letter from her, you will know why.
Your house here has sustained some slight damage in a recent storm. Repairs have been made following your instructions, and the building is once again as sound as you desire. Most of the damage was to the east front, but the roof also took a beating. The foundations are secure as ever, and not one drop of water has ever seeped through.
Your letter of October 10 recommended that I find a new supply of sandalwood, and at last I have. There is a merchant, nominally a Greek, but with more than a touch of Egyptian about him. His name is Darios Kyrillye and his merchandise is of a superior quality. His prices are as reasonable as one can expect. From what I have learned from him, he also has access to certain dyes. If you like, I will find out more.
The iridescent glass you sent to us arrived intact, and I will present it to il Doge tonight, with your compliments. All the glassmakers will be mad to learn your secret.
For the time being I will say farewell. There is much to do before the festa tonight, and the servants need instructions. Should you desire anything more of me, your instructions will be followed most promptly.
Until you return to Venezia and I am once again under your immediate supervision, I commend my work to you, and ask that you will forgive any error I have made.
Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando
In Venezia, December 6, 1491, the Feast of San Nicolo