Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace

THE PALACE

St. Germain Book 2

By

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

CONTENTS

PART I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART II

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

PART III

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

THE PALACE

an historical horror novel

ST. MARTIN'S PRESS

NEW YORK

New York, N.Y. 10010. Manufactured in the United States of America

for the master of us all,

Robert Bloch

Although the setting and many of the characters are based on real places and people,

this is wholly the product of the writer's imagination. While every effort has been

made to present Renaissance Florence as accurately as possible, the work is a

fantasy and should be regarded as such.

PART I

Laurenzo di Piero

de' Medici,

called Il Magnifico

***

Quant 'e bella giovinezza

Che si fugge tuttavia.

Chi vuol esser lieto, sia;

Di doman non c'èe certezza

How beautiful a thing is youth

Which so completely flees us.

Whoever desires to be merry, let him;

For tomorrow is never certain.

—Laurenzo de' Medici

***

Text of a document confirming the sale of land filed with la Signoria in Fiorenza

on November 5, 1490:

Know by this statement and testimony that I, Giovanni Baptiste Andreo di

Massimo Corsarrio, merchant of the city of Fiorenza and citizen of the Repubblica,

freely, on this day, have transferred all claim to land owned by me beyond the

grounds of SS. Annunziata near the wall of the city to the alchemist Francesco

Ragoczy da San Germano for the sum of six hundred fifty fiorini d'or.

It is further stipulated that neither I nor my heirs nor debtors may lay any title or

claim to this land, and that it is the property of said Francesco Ragoczy da San

Germano until such time as he, his heirs or debtors dispose of it under the rights and

obligations of the laws of la Repubblica.

Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano declares that it is his intention to build a

palazzo in the Genovese style on this land, and to that end has hired my own

builders to do the work, in accordance with the regulations of the Arte, and to that

end has deposited with me four cut diamonds valued by Tommaso Doatti Capella,

the jewel merchant, at one thousand four hundred fiorini d'or, against payment of

wages to the builders for construction of the palazzo, which shall begin immediately.

All conditions of transfer being satisfactorily met, this testament is to be regarded

as complete and final.

Sworn to this day, the Feast of San Zachario, in Fiorenza, in 1490

Giovanni Baptiste Andreo di Massimo Corsarrio, cloth merchant, Fiorenzeno his

seal, a blue hand upraised on a field of red and white lozenges

Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, alchemist, stragnero his seal, the eclipse on

a field of silver

witnesses:

Tommaso Doatti Capella, jewel merchant, Veronese

Laurenzo di Piero de' Medici, banker, Fiorenzeno

1

In spite of the cold wind, Gasparo Tucchio was sweating. He swung the ninth

sack of gravel onto his broad shoulder and began the careful, dangerous walk down

into the large pit that would be the foundation of the foreigner's new palazzo. He

shifted the weight experimentally and swore.

"Ei! Gaspar', not so fast!" Lodovico da Roncale said as he, too, shouldered a

load. "Careful, careful, do not slip," he said somewhat breathlessly as they made

their way into the excavation.

"Damned foreigner," Gasparo muttered as he took careful, mincing steps down

the steep incline. " 'Dig it out to half again the height of a man,' he says. 'Fill it a

hand's breadth with gravel,' he says. He will supply us with cement, he says. He will

tell us how to mix it. Arrogant. Arrogant. He wants the gravel level, he wants the

corner mountings dug down even farther. He must think he's some kind of old

Roman."

Behind him Lodovico chuckled through his panting. "You're too stiff-rumped,

Gaspar'. Even foreigners have good ideas once in a while."

Gasparo snorted. "I've been a builder all my life, and so was my father before me.

He helped raise the Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore. I've worked every day that I

could since I grew a beard, and never, never have I worked on anything like this. Say

what you want, Ragoczy is mad." To punctuate this opinion he swung the sack off

his shoulder and onto the floor of the deep, broad pit.

"Good, good," said Enrico, their supervisor, as the sacks were spilled out.

"Another five or more sacks and there will be enough."

"Five?" Gasparo demanded. "It's too cold. It's late. Sundown comes soon. We

can finish tomorrow."

Enrico smiled blandly. "If you carry one more, and Lodovico carries one more,

and if Giuseppe and Carlo bring down their sacks now, and carry one more each,

then there will be six sacks. It is not too difficult, Gasparo."

Gasparo made no reply. He glared at the carefully dug hole and shook his head.

"I don't understand it," he said to himself.

Giuseppe dropped his sack of gravel beside Gasparo's. "What do you not

understand, you old fake?" His leather doublet was open to the waist, so that his

rough-woven shirt hung loosely around him. "You hate work, that's all. It wouldn't

matter if Laurenzo himself had ordered the work, you'd still complain."

The others laughed at this, nodding their agreement, which annoyed Gasparo.

"Are you so eager to work for that foreigner, then? When have any of you been told

how to make a building? It isn't right." He kicked tentatively at the gravel already

spread over most of the bottom of the excavation. "If he were here, I'd tell him what

I think, that's all."

An amused, beautifully modulated voice spoke from above. "And what would

you say to me?"

The working men stopped, looked up. Gasparo shied a pebble across the gravel

and said something under his breath.

At the rim of the pit stood Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano. His dark,

fur-lined roundel over a black silk doublet and perfectly white shirt proclaimed him a

stranger as much as his slight accent and the foreign order around his neck on a

silver chain that was studded with rubies. He wore heeled Russian boots on his small

feet, embroidered black gloves, and a French chaperon on his unfashionably short

dark hair. "Well? What is it?"

Gasparo glared. "I said," he lied, "that we might as well go home. It's going to

rain."

"But not for some while yet. You need not fear to finish your work." He jumped

lightly into the pit, landing easily on the unstable footing. The builders exchanged

uneasy glances. None of them could have taken that drop without injury.

"You are doing well," Ragoczy was saying, walking across the gravel floor. "You

should be ready to cement it."

Enrico bowed ingratiatingly. "I hope that you are satisfied, Patron. We have

worked to your orders."

"All of you?" Ragoczy asked, looking at Gasparo. "Be that as it may, I am

satisfied. Yes. You have done well. I thank you."

"We are grateful, Patron." He waited, watching the foreigner stride around the

graveled bed of the pit.

Ragoczy bent and picked up a handful of gravel. "Why? I thought my opinion

meant little to you." He tossed one of the pebbles into the air and caught it, tossed it

and caught it.

Three of the builders stopped their work, eyeing Ragoczy with suspicion, but

Gasparo strode up to the black-clad stranger. "Your opinion is worth nothing," he

said belligerently. "You know nothing of buildings. I have been a builder all my life,

and my father before me. I tell you that all these precious instructions of yours are

useless and a waste of time." He waited for the blow or the dismissal.

None came. "Bravo," Ragoczy said softly, smiling. "You may very well be right,

amico mio. But nonetheless, you will do it my way."

Gasparo's jaw moved forward and he put his hands on his hips. "Yes? Why will

we continue with this foolishness?"

"Because, carino, I am paying you. So long as I give you the money you earn,

you will build whatever I tell you to, in whatever manner I tell you. Otherwise you

may find your money elsewhere." He paused, still smiling. Although he was of

slightly less than average height, something about him—it may have been the smile,

or the dark clothes, or his disquieting air of command—dominated the builders in

the pit. "If I were to tell you to build a Moorish citadel or a Chinese fortress, if you

wanted to be paid, you would do it."

Even Enrico and Lodovico laughed at this, and Gasparo nodded his

encouragement. "If you think, stranger, that you have any power here in Fiorenza…"

"I think," Ragoczy said wearily, "that money speaks a universal tongue. I think

that even in Fiorenza you members of your Arte understand that." He threw the

gravel in his hand away, listening as the stones spattered where they hit.

Again the builders exchanged looks and Lodovico nodded knowingly to himself.

"The way you build now in Fiorenza, this palazzo will stand… what?—perhaps

three centuries." Ragoczy's face was desolate. "But what is that? Three centuries,

four, five, are nothing. I want my palazzo to stand for a thousand years." He laughed

ruefully. "Vain hope. But make the attempt, good builders. Humor me and build

according to my outrageous instructions."

"A thousand years?" Gasparo was dumbfounded. He stared at the stranger, and

thought that perhaps Ragoczy was mad. "What use will this be to you in a thousand

years? Or in a hundred?"

"It is a home," Ragoczy answered simply.

Lodovico snickered and winked broadly at Giuseppe. "But the Patron has neither

chick nor child. He has not even a wife. What heirs of his will live here in a thousand

years? Or in a hundred?"

"Heirs?" It was as if a door had closed in Ragoczy. He stopped moving and his

dark eyes narrowed, their penetrating gaze suddenly alarming. "Those of my blood

will come after me, never fear. You have my word on that."

There was silence in the foundation excavation and the cold wind whipped around

them, but the chill the builders felt came more from the foreigner in black than from

the air.

Gasparo beetled his brow as his indignation swelled. "We do not make funerary

monuments, Eccellenza. If that is what you wish, talk to stonecutters, not to us."

There was a new light in Ragoczy's eyes as he looked at the thick-bodied builder.

"Does it matter so much to you, amico?"

"I am a builder," Gasparo announced as he clapped one huge hand to his chest.

"I make houses for the living, not the dead."

Behind Gasparo, the other builders nodded nervously, and Carlo took courage,

giving Gasparo an approving gesture.

"Admirable," Ragoczy said dryly.

"Mock me if you wish, Patron, it does not change the matter. You say you want

us to build a house that will stand a thousand years. Va bene. You instruct us in our

work. I do not like it, but you are the Patron. But even you cannot pay enough for

me to put up a palazzo that is a shell only." He set his hands on his hips again and

leaned forward. "You may mock me, but you will not mock my building!"

Ragoczy nodded. "What integrity!" There was neither bitterness nor

condemnation in the words. "I promise you that I have no wish for any empty

building. Why would I pay for so much special labor if I did not want to live here?

Why else would I care how you lay the foundations?… Well?"

Gasparo shrugged. "As you say, we are being paid to build a palazzo for you. If

you want it built with lacquered straw, what is it to me?" He folded his heavy arms

over his chest.

Ragoczy nodded. "Precisely. And what can I be but flattered and grateful that

you care so much for my home? You must let me thank you for your courtesy." He

strode over to Gasparo, his arms open. "Come, will you not touch cheeks with me?"

Gasparo Tucchio was stunned. Never in his life had a gentleman offered him this

familiarity. He flushed, rubbed his gritty hands on his workman's breeches. "Patron,

I…"

Ragoczy embraced the builder heartily, and Gasparo realized what great strength

was contained in that elegant, compact body. Very awkwardly he returned the hug,

aware of the heavy stubble of his day-old beard on the smooth cheek of the

foreigner.

The other builders watched, one or two of them acutely embarrassed. Though it

was true Fiorenza was a Repubblica, this went far beyond the social equality they all

took pride in. This was unheard of. Enrico soothed his wounded dignity—for as the

supervisor, surely he was more entitled to this unbecoming display—by saying softly

to Giuseppe, "Foreign manners. Outrageous. The Patron cannot know what he is

doing."

Giuseppe nodded vigorously. "It is well enough for us of the Arte to touch

cheeks, but not with one of his station."

But for Gasparo, at that moment if the foreigner in black with the unfathomable

eyes had asked him to dig foundations from Fiorenza to Roma, he would have done

it without question. There was no mockery in that handsome face, no insult in his

conduct.

"Eccellenza…" he began, then faltered.

"Amico, I have been a prince, and I have been a beggar. I do not scorn you

because you work with your hands. If you did not build, then all of Fiorenza would

still live in tents, as it did when the Romans first built their camp here."

Gasparo nodded eagerly. "As you say, Patron."

"Work well, then, my builders. You will all have proof of my gratitude." He

managed to include them all in the sweep of his arm. Then he turned, ran two or

three steps, and vaulted upward toward the edge of the pit, swung on his arms,

landed cleanly but for a clod dislodged by the heel of one boot.

Lodovico made a low whistle, and Enrico blinked. Carlo and Giuseppe busied

themselves with emptying their sacks. Only Gasparo smiled, and he smiled hugely.

From above them Ragoczy called down, "I am going to add to your woes, I am

afraid." He gestured to someone or something out of sight. In a moment another

man stood beside him. "This is Joacim Branco. He will be my lieutenant during the

building. You are to follow his instructions to the very limit. I will be satisfied with

nothing less than the best of what you are capable. I know your skill to be great. I

know you will succeed."

The newcomer beside Ragoczy was amazingly tall, even by Fiorenzan standards.

He had long, lean hands, a narrow body and a face like the spine of a book. He wore

a rather old-fashioned houppe-lande in the Burgundian fashion and his unconfined

hair drifted around his face like cobwebs. "Good afternoon, builders," he said in a

voice so solemn that it tolled like the bell of San Marco.

"Another foreign alchemist," Lodovico said to Gasparo, just loud enough to be

certain Joacim Branco could hear.

"That is correct," Ragoczy agreed, and smiled. "His skill is formidable. You will

do well to obey him implicitly." Suddenly he laughed. "Come, you need not worry

that he will disgrace you with ridiculous demands. Magister Branco is a reasonable

man, much more reasonable than I am, I promise you."

Magister Joacim Branco achieved a sour smile. He bowed very slightly, very

stiffly.

Enrico rolled his eyes heavenward and silently asked Santa Chiara what he had

ever done to deserve this. "Welcome, Magister," he managed to say.

Ragoczy murmured something to the tall Portuguese at his side; then he

addressed the men in the pit one last time. "There is special earth to be laid with the

foundation. That you will do tomorrow. Today it is enough that you make the gravel

even in preparation."

This time Gasparo's voice had real distress in it. "But, Patron, if it rains, we

cannot lay a foundation. It will be ruined. It will not bear the weight of the building. It

will crack…"

"I give you my word that there will be no rain tonight, or tomorrow, or tomorrow

night. There will be enough time for you to set the foundation and to install the four

corner pieces. After that, it will not matter if it rains; the foundation will be solid and

you may make yourselves a shelter with the corner pieces." With an expansive

gesture Ragoczy turned away, leaving the Magister Joacim Branco alone at the edge

of the excavation.

Giuseppe finished spreading the gravel from his sack and looked up. "Jesu,

Maria," he whispered, and had to stop himself from making the Sign of the Cross.

Joacim Branco had come to the very edge of the pit, and in the cold wind the long

sleeves of his houppelande flapped like tattered wings. He stood very still.

It was Enrico who broke the silence. "Magister? Would you care to come down?"

To the relief of the builders the alchemist did not jump into the pit, but made his

way down the causeway. As he came nearer it was seen that he held several

containers in his hands. He put these down on the gravel and turned to Enrico. "At

the fence there are two carts. I will need them."

"How heavy are they?" Lodovico asked, not willing to move.

"They are well-laden. It will take a man apiece to pull them." He turned back to his

containers, having no more interest in the builders.

Enrico shrugged fatalistically and pointed to Giuseppe. "You and Carlo bring

down the carts. Gaspar' and Lodovico can carry down the last of the gravel."

With a sigh Gasparo trudged back up the slope and reluctantly shouldered

another sack of gravel. He thought for a moment about the Patron, about his social

solecism, and he grinned.

He was still grinning later as he sat with Lodovico drinking a last cup of hot

spiced wine. The night had turned cold, providing an excuse for a larger measure of

drink.

"But eggs, Gaspar', hen's eggs!" Lodovico was saying for the third time.

"If it is what the Patron wants, we'll put eggs in the mortar. Shells and all." He

raised his wooden cup. "To Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, generous

madman that he is."

"Ah, since he touched cheeks with you, you approve every foolish scheme he and

that alchemist of his bring forth. If he wanted to cement the palazzo with blood,

you'd wield a butcher's ax for him." He stared into the fragrant steam that rose from

his wine. "Where is all your jeering now, Gaspar'?"

Gasparo Tucchio smiled again, and wondered if he was getting drunk. "It is

nothing to me if he wishes to be a laughingstock. And think of the tales we'll have to

tell the Arte. Who has done anything to compare with it? Oh, I know. You're

thinking of Ernan', and his stories about building the cage for Magnifico's giraffe.

But that is nothing to the tales we'll have. And when the others come to finish the

walls and lay the floors, we'll have stories to amaze even them." He tossed off the

rest of the wine and considered signaling the tavern-keeper for more.

"But why does he do it? What is his gain? For if money speaks a universal

language, as he said, then he must profit by our work." Lodovico considered this,

and his face grew wary. After a moment he extended his cup to Gasparo. "Here. My

head is growing heavy. Finish this up."

Gasparo's reluctance was for form's sake only. "If you are sure… And the night

is cold. Why not?" He took the cup and filled his mouth with the fragrant wine. How

grand it felt, as if he were floating. What if he was a little drunk? It did a man good to

drink on such a cold night.

"I wonder what happened to the rain?" Lodovico mused.

"It held off awhile, like the Patron said," Gasparo replied after he had swallowed

and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"How did he know it would?" This question was more to himself than to

Gasparo, and so he paid little attention to the answer. "Well, he's an alchemist. They

know things."

Lodovico frowned and shifted in his chair. "Hen's eggs he gives us, and clay, and

special earth and special sand, which must be mixed in a certain order. Why?" He

stood up, almost upsetting the bench he shared with Gasparo.

"Here, now," the older builder objected as his seat teetered dangerously.

"Lodovico, stop it. Sit down and drink another cup, like a Christian."

For a moment Lodovico stiffened; then he forced his mouth to smile as he sank

back down onto the bench. "Va bene. Landlord! Another for both of us." He set his

face in a mask of good fellowship and leaned back.

As soon as their cups had been refilled and Gasparo had decided which of the

cups was his, Lodovico smiled guilelessly. "Ah, it is hard for a man alone, is it not?"

Gasparo nodded heavily. "It is, amico mio. Tonight I can hardly bear to go home.

You'd think," he said, drinking deeply, "that a man widowed as long as I've been

would get used to it. But no. This night, every night, I think of Rosaria. She was an

excellent woman—thrifty, pleasant, agreeable, devoted—a treasure among women."

He pulled his hands over his eyes and then picked up his cup again. "You're young,

you're young. You don't know what it is to be old and alone."

"You are not old, Gasparo."

But Gasparo shook his head and wagged a finger at Lodovico. "I'm thirty-eight.

Thirty-eight. Another ten years and I'll be a toothless old hulk. A lonely, toothless

old hulk." His sorrow at this thought overcame him and he finished off the rest of his

wine.

This was going better than Lodovico dared hope. "It's a pity that age is not

respected as it should be." He leaned closer to Gasparo and switched his full cup

for Gasparo's nearly empty one. "It's not enough that you should lose your family

and wife, but there's hardly enough money to keep you alive when you can no longer

work." This turned out to be a miscalculation. Gasparo pulled himself up straight

and said, almost without slurring, "My father was sixty-eight before he stopped

working. We Tucchios are strong folk. We work till we drop." His face sagged a

little. "My father was a good man. A good man. He helped raise the Duomo of Santa

Maria del Fiore…"

But Lodovico did not allow his companion to wander. "But think of that palazzo.

Think of the wealth of the Patron. With even a little of it a man could live well."

"Here, now." Gasparo slewed around on Lodovico, a belligerent light in his eye.

"Are you suggesting that we rob our Patron? We're builders, man, not thieves. We

do not steal from our Patron, from, any Patron."

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: