In the end it took Ragoczy six days to reach Fiorenza, a speed that would have been good in the summer and was amazing in the dead of winter while snow blocked many of the roads and ice made all travel precarious. One of the fourteen horses Ragoczy rode between Chioggia and Pietramala had split his hoof on the muddy gravel of the old mountain trail Ragoczy had used for a shortcut, and he had had to kill the animal before walking three hours through a numbing sleet to a little village where he had found warmth and a mule to carry him to Pietramala.

Ragoczy demanded a great deal of even his tremendous strength, and he was feeling worn when at last he came through the pass in the mountains and looked down on the tan walls and red roofs of Fiorenza shining in the wan, slanted light of a winter sunset. He knew he had to hurry or the gates of the city would be closed to him and he would have to seek shelter in one of the monasteries in the hills. He pulled on the reins and the white mare responded slowly, making a soft, distressed whicker as she began the descent to the valley.

"I know," Ragoczy said as he patted her neck. "And you have done well. There will be food and rest for you inside Fiorenza's walls. You deserve it." He shifted his weight and once again was glad for his lightweight Persian saddle.

Only la Porta Santa Croce was open, guarded by three lancers carrying Swiss pikes, waiting restlessly for their duty to end. Church bells were still sounding vespers, and by law, until the last of them had tolled, la Porta Santa Croce could not be closed.

The stranger on the white mare attracted more than the usual attention from the guards, for he was elegantly attired in a cloak of green Russian brocade lined in marten fur, and his high boots of golden leather had jewels embedded in their heels. His fur cap was Hungarian and a golden loop dangled from one earlobe. When he reached out his small hand to the captain of the gate, he was seen to be wearing embroidered gloves and a sleeved coat of Russian leather dyed a dark green.

"Name?" The captain studied the stranger covertly, his curiosity piqued by the fine clothes and arrogant carriage of the man on the white mare.

"I am Germain Ragoczy. I come from Hungary." The white mare shied away from the captain's pike and Ragoczy controlled her with skilled ease. "Please step back, soldier. You frighten my horse."

The guard captain was not used to being addressed in that manner, and even as he stepped back, he found himself both hating and envying the grand hauteur of Ragoczy's manner. To vex Ragoczy, he decided to ask a few more questions. "What is your business in Fiorenza, Ragoczy?"

"I am here to claim my uncle's estate," Ragoczy responded, deliberately mispronouncing a few words.

"Your uncle, if that's what he was, left this city under threat of arrest," the captain informed the newcomer with a certain air of smugness.

"Where is my uncle's palazzo, soldier?"

There was a flicker of anger in the captain's eyes. "I said that your uncle left here under threat of arrest."

Ragoczy nodded. "Very likely. Where is his palazzo?"

"To the north. Near Santissima Annunziata." He pointed toward the dome of the Servanti church, though it was dwarfed by the huge dome of Santa Maria del Fiore. "It's deserted, though. No one lives there now. You'll be alone there."

"Deserted?" Ragoczy feigned outrage. "My uncle said that he had left someone in charge of his palazzo. Tell me where I may find his agent. This is inexcusable."

"It's not my place to answer that," the captain said with an unctuous smile as he stood aside to let Ragoczy pass, thinking as he did that he would have to inform i Lanzi and the young men of la Militia Christi that the nephew of the demonic Ragoczy was in the city. He stood while the doors were pulled to and barred; then he knelt with his men and prayed, as the new laws required.

Riding along the darkening streets, Ragoczy looked in vain for the statues that had been the delight of Fiorenza. The pale stone walls were cold, the windows unadorned, and no brightness relieved this bleak prospect. One banner caught his eye as he rode past San Marco, a white banner lettered in red that proclaimed Nos Praedicamus Cristum Crucifixum.

When at last he reined his mare in at the gates of the courtyard of Palazzo San Germano, he saw other lettering, this on the walls, accusing him of satanism, of desecration. At that moment he admitted to himself that he was filled with foreboding. He had not believed that Fiorenza had changed so much, or that Savonarola truly had the political strength to defy Papal authority. But he knew now that he had underestimated the Domenican prior. Fiorenza was utterly his and he ruled as surely and as unofficially as Laurenzo ever did. For Fiorenza, Savonarola's excommunication was proof of his godliness and his willingness to accept martyrdom at the hands of a corrupt and venal Pope.

Slowly, his body heavy with fatigue and years, Ragoczy came down out of the saddle and led his mare toward the stable at the side of the palazzo. He ignored the crudely drawn insults, and the figures that went with them, huge horned men with tails and enormous, erect phalluses. He thought ironically that Estasia had accused him of what she had wanted him to be, which was impossible, but had neglected to say what he in fact was. Pushing open the stable door, he saw that there had been rifling there. Most of his tack was gone, and one of the wagons had been stripped of all harness and metal.

"Come, Gelata," he said, tugging gently on the reins and pulling the mare into the stable. He had settled on the name when he had first seen her standing in a frosty field where her color blended almost perfectly with the sparkling ground. Reluctantly she followed him into the stable and looked around, her curiosity revealing her distress.

Ragoczy looped the reins over a saddle rack that was now empty, and made quick search of the stable. There was some grain, enough to give the mare tonight, but tomorrow other arrangements would have to be made. He found a shovel near the back of the stable, and with it he began to clean out the stall nearest the palazzo wall, since this would be the warmest part of the stable. He worked steadily, his face impassive, his movements mechanical, until the stall was cleared; then he looked into the loft above for straw. Luckily some still remained and from the smell was not too musty. Ragoczy forked the straw down to the stall, and spread it out, a new bed for his Gelata. At last he led the mare into the stall, removing her saddle and bridle before bringing her grain and water.

When he was sure the mare would eat, he left the stable and went through the connecting door to the courtyard. In the dark he was unable to see what, if any, damage had been done to the courtyard. He hoped that his mosaics were still intact, but refused to waste time looking for torches now. There would be light in the morning.

As he entered the hallway to the front loggia, his boots sounded absurdly loud in the empty building. The palazzo was cold, for no fires had burned there since November. A smell reminiscent of mushrooms hung on the air and dust marred the shine of the floor. In the loggia the chairs were overturned and the elaborate hangings were torn or missing altogether.

Nothing in his expression revealed his fury at this wanton destruction. Ragoczy strode quickly through the loggia and turned to the stairs. On the landing he touched the heavily carved wood paneling and was relieved to discover that the interior lock was in place. He went back down the stairs and in a short while was descending into the kitchens.

There had been little damage here, and most of the utensils were still in place, still clean and waiting for Amadeo to return. Ragoczy wondered what had become of his cook, but the thought was fleeting. It was more important to build up a fire in the stove so that the mildew would be got rid of. He set himself to that task, and when the kindling at last began to smolder, Ragoczy leaned back against the huge cook's table and sighed. He waited while the fire took hold of the wood piled in the stove, and then he added more wood. He was confident that there would be heat for several hours as he closed the grating and checked the flue one last time.

The concealed entrance to his hidden rooms had gone undetected, and he opened the door carefully, in case the crossbow trap had been set. There was no ominous twang as the spring released the quarrel, no wood-shattering impact as the quarrel ripped through the door. Ragoczy went into the dark stairwell and began his slow climb to the hidden rooms above. He found the unlit stairs oppressive, though his eyes saw better in the night than most. That he should return to his own palazzo like a thief, stealing into the rooms, not daring to light a candle! At the top of the stairs he entered the antechamber that adjoined his alchemical laboratory. This room was his own private retreat, and everything was as he had left it. The monastically hard bed stood against the far wall, its narrow mattress lying on a thin layer of earth. There was a small chest containing a few articles of clothing and other accessories. And on the wall near the door was Botticelli's Orpheus that was a portrait of Laurenzo. As Ragoczy struck flint and steel to light the candle, he found himself staring at the picture. Again he asked himself why Sandro had not written to him, and the answers that crowded his mind distressed him.

With the candle in his hand, Ragoczy inspected the laboratory, and found that it was in order. On one of the long tables were several sheets of parchment filled with notes in Demetrice's neat, sloping hand. She had advanced in her studies, Ragoczy realized as he read over the records. The beginning of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and quickly faded as concern for her took possession of him once again.

As he paced through the laboratory, Ragoczy wondered what had happened to his servants. Araldo, Pascoli, Gualtiere and Masuccio had been sent money late in autumn, and had accepted their fees. And Amadeo should have stayed on. Had they been imprisoned as well, or had they fled Fiorenza? He could not ask directly, of course, but there had to be some way to find out what had happened.

Little more than an hour later, Ragoczy had pulled off his gorgeous clothes, and in his familiar severe black house gown, he slept on the good earth that had nurtured him for more than three thousand years.

Text of a proclamation given by Girolamo Savonarola, Prior di San Marco:

To the devout citizens of Fiorenza:

As the glorious season of Lent comes upon us, it is fitting that all pause and reflect on the great sacrifice that God's Son made for us. And as it is good that we emulate the love of God, it will be appropriate that our observance of this most holy time be observed with the most religious practices.

To that end, there will be several events at which pious men may demonstrate their faith. Let every one of you search your hearts and examine your conscience so that these solemn festivals will truly reflect the humility and submission to God's Will which must surely be the strength of the state in this world, and the path to grace in the next.

On February 19 there will be a day of public expiation of sin, wherein those who have erred will confess and will beg forgiveness of Almighty God before the citizens of la Repubblica Fiorenzen. They will kiss the feet of those they have offended and will wear about their necks signs designating their sins. These they will wear through the entire Lenten fasts until Easter Sunday.

From February 24 through Good Friday, the Militia Christi will be empowered to inspect any and all houses in the city, and to seize all vanities and sacrilegious objects, texts, paintings, as well as all items of bodily adornment not acceptable to good Christian life.

On March 4 there will be a Bonfire of Vanities, wherein all these items will be burned to signify our rejection of worldly vice. Those who have resisted the admonitions of the faithful of God would do well to give up their venal trumperies and consign their excesses to the flames. What is a piece of molded brass that damns you but the reflection of the Devil? Its beauty is a lie, a vile seduction away from the stern glory of God. Search your hearts and be sure that God will judge you without excuse.

The great festival of Lent will culminate on March 10, when those who have been accused of heresy will stand before the citizens of Fiorenza and either acknowledge their errors or accept the fate they in their pr ie have chosen. If it seems harsh, remember that they themselves have chosen eternal flames in the life that is hereafter, and that it is only fitting that they embrace those flames in this world. If the exhortations and examinations of the Domenicani Brothers cannot bring them to recant their heinous impiety, then it is truly the duty of the beloved of God to cast these pernicious souls from them as we would cast away a viper or would kill a mad dog.

Pray for guidance, Fiorenza, so that this purging of vanity may indeed be complete and sincere, so that God, Who reads your hearts and from Whom nothing is hidden, may at last turn upon this city and see it as a shining light of faith where before the idolators pagan fires burned.

By order of Girolamo Savonarola, with the consent of la Signoria, i Priori and the Console, January 18, 1498.