Gasparo Tucchio was out of breath by the time he got to the courtyard of Palazzo San Germano. While he tugged at the bellrope he gulped air, cursing when he had the energy to do so.

When at last Araldo came to the gate, Gasparo glared at him from under his heavy brows. "What took you so long?"

Araldo raked a glance over Gasparo in his rough builder's clothes. "Do you have business with anyone in this palazzo?" He was still too young to carry off his haughtiness well, and Gasparo lost his temper.

"Do I have business?" he mocked. "Let me tell you, cockerel, that if you don't bring me to your master at once, it will be the worse for him and the worse for you. If one of the servants is to throw me out, have it be Ruggiero, for he has that authority, and you do not!" His big hands clung to the wrought-iron grille that opened into the courtyard. "I laid the foundation of this building, puppy. And I'll pull this gate off its hinges if I have to."

Gathering what little was left of his dignity, Araldo unlocked the gate and held it for the older man. "I didn't know," he muttered as a kind of excuse. "We must be cautious."

"Good. There's reason to be cautious. Now, where's your master?" Gasparo was ready to expand his argument. He stood squarely in front of Araldo, hands on his hips, his badger-gray hair brushed by the wind that smelled of harvest.

Araldo began to explain why it was that Ragoczy could not see him when the door to the house opened and Ruggiero stepped out into the courtyard. He wore a houseman's gown, but over it had tied a long apron with many pockets, and in one hand he carried a ring of keys.

"Ah! Ruggiero!" Gasparo waved and trod across the mosaic tiles to Ragoczy's manservant. "I've got to see il Conte. Immediately."

Ruggiero met Gasparo and touched cheeks with him. "I will be pleased to lead you to him." Ruggiero was wholly unperturbed by Gaspare's sudden appearance and his insistent demands.

"Then tell that young upstart that," Gasparo demanded, his temper still ruffled. "He tried to keep me out. As if he could."

Ruggiero regarded Araldo a moment. "Is that true?" he asked the young man.

"I didn't..." Araldo flushed to the roots of his light brown hair. "With all the trouble and the theft and... And he's only a builder."

Gasparo took instant exception to that. "I am a member of my Arte, and proud of it. And my father was before me. He was one of those who raised the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore. Who are you, a houseman without an Arte, to cast aspersions on me? And if," he went on, not giving Araldo time to reply, "you think that working for a foreign noble grants you the right to act as if your blood were the same as your master's, then you're mistaken. There's no man in Fiorenza who is as fine or as good or as... knightly as your master. Learn from him, if you want to know how to treat others." He turned on his heel and stalked across the courtyard.

As Araldo twisted the lock in the gate, he said to Ruggiero in a fierce undervoice, "Why did you let him talk to me that way? I had the right to keep him out. Ragoczy said so."

"He said, in fact, that you were to be cautious in whom you admitted. But he didn't tell you to refuse our friends. We must cherish our friends, Araldo; there are so few of them."

On the other side of the courtyard, Gasparo called to Ruggiero and gestured his impatience. "Where is il Conte?"

Ruggiero had left Ragoczy and Demetrice in the hidden rooms behind the stairs, rooms that Gasparo had helped build. "He is at his studies," Ruggiero said cautiously.

"Ah! Good. I know where to find him. You needn't lead me." The old builder stepped through the door into the hallway. He paused to give the building his critical consideration. He could not approve of all the oddities of design, but on the whole it was very nice. The workmanship, he congratulated himself, was superb, and anyone who saw it would never know that the palazzo had been built in little more than a year, roughly a quarter of the time that was usually needed for a building of this size. But he refused to linger. With one last proud nod, he entered the loggia and moved toward the stair. It had been a while since he had been there, and it took him a few moments and a false start to find the hidden latch amid the complicated wood carving. Then he found the bough of fruit with the apples that were guarded by a dragon, and he knew which one to turn.

The first of the three rooms behind the stair was empty and almost dark. One solitary candle burned on a huge wooden chest that had several bands of iron around it.

Gasparo blinked and stumbled as his foot struck a low bench. He shouted as he tried to move away from the obstacle, and was tripped by another wooden form, probably a stool, because it turned over with a dreadful clatter.

In the next moment there was light in the door, and Ragoczy, a lantern in his right hand, a sword in his left, stepped into the room. At that moment his neat, stocky body seemed huge, and there was something sinister, forbidding about him.

"Eccellenza!" Gasparo cried out from where he had fallen. "It's Tucchio. I must talk with you."

Immediately the menace was gone, and Ragoczy, his sword cast aside, had come across the room, his hand extended to his friend. "Gasparo," he said as he pulled Gasparo to his feet. "Buon' amico. Whatever possessed you to do that? If you had tried to come into the laboratory, you would have been killed."

"Killed?" Gasparo was brushing himself off, but this stopped him. "How, killed?"

Ragoczy gave him a rueful, charming smile. "Since the palazzo was broken into, I have taken certain... precautions. There is a notched crossbow rigged to the door. Be grateful that you fell, Gasparo." He took the builder by his shoulders and touched cheeks with him. "It must be very important, whatever brought you here." He motioned Gasparo to go past him into the laboratory.

"Well, it is," Gasparo said defensively, then found himself in a brightly lit room filled with strange glass flasks and many instruments he had never seen.

Most puzzling of all were the two brick structures in the middle of the laboratory. Each sat in a large box of sand, and each looked like a brick beehive with a thick iron door in its side. At the moment, Donna Demetrice Volandrai was bending over one of them, making some minor adjustment in the rounded top. Without turning from this delicate task, she said, "San Germano, close the door. I can't keep the heat even if you don't."

Obediently Ragoczy closed the door behind Gasparo. "Accept my apologies, magistra."

Still Demetrice did not turn. "It's all very well for you to tease me," she said with asperity that was belied by a slight smile, "but if we get dross instead of gold, what then?" She made a last-minute shift of the bricks, then stood back, putting one hand to her rosy forehead. When she turned, she was startled to see Gasparo.

"We have a visitor," Ragoczy explained, mischief in his dark eyes. "Don't be worried: Gasparo was one of the four who built these rooms. He has sworn a Blood Oath not to reveal what is here."

Demetrice sank onto one of the nearer chairs. "I didn't doubt your wisdom or your choice," she said, but there was still no real rebuke in her tone. "It will be another two hours before the crucible can be moved again. I'm going to ask Amadeo to make me a meal. What time of day is it?" she asked as she pulled the linen cap from her head.

"Roughly midafternoon. Never mind whether this is prandium or comestio. Get something to eat." He had crossed the room to her side and gently touched her shoulder with one small hand. "You're wearing pourself out, amica mia."

She made an effort to shake off her fatigue. "No. I've been too lazy the past few months and I'm paying for my sloth now." She got to her feet. "I will leave you to talk with this builder." She nodded to Gasparo. "May I bring you anything when I come back? Amadeo has some very good preserves just now. I could bring some served over cheese."

Ragoczy said with some amusement, "Bring whatever you think would please Signore Tucchio. But in good quantity." He stood aside to let her pass, and as she got to the door, he added, "Mille grazie, Demetrice."

"Niente," she responded, and went out of the room.

"An excellent woman. Superb. Delightful," Gasparo said, letting his enthusiasm grow. "You are a fortunate man, and if she does not have your devotion, you are a fool, Eccellenza." When Ragoczy said nothing, he went on. "I know, since that foolish Domenicano has taken the reins of Fiorenza, we're not supposed to have pleasure of the flesh. We can't wear fine clothes, we can't eat good foods, we can't sing anything but hymns, we can't go anywhere but to church. And we must not touch women but for their fecundity. Fools! Asses!" He glared at the foreigner in black. "That's not why I came."

"I didn't think it was." Ragoczy motioned Gasparo to a chair of bent wood and tooled leather. "Sit down, Gasparo, and tell me what the trouble is."

Gasparo approached the chair cautiously, then dropped into it as if he was afraid it would bolt from under him. "I have had word, Eccellenza."

"From whom? About what?" Ragoczy had put down his lantern and busied himself with one of several stands of candles. A slight breeze from the high, hidden windows moved the flames and carried the warm scent of harvesttime into the room.

"From a builder I know who now lives in Francia. He writes to me occasionally. He's a good man. He sent me an earlier message, but the man carrying it was killed by brigands on the road to Genova. He didn't learn until June that I hadn't got the message, and he sent me another as quickly as possible." Now that he had got to Ragoczy, Gasparo was finding it difficult to tell him the news, for he feared Ragoczy would vent his anger on him. And Gasparo would not find it in his heart to blame him if he did.

"I'm sorry to hear about the messenger, but that isn't what brought you here, is it?"

Apparently Gasparo didn't hear him. "But what can you expect with the Franchese king coming into Italia, bringing men-at-arms? The brigands used to be soldiers. What else do they know but killing and pillage?" He leaned back in the chair and sighed.

"Come, Gasparo, whatever you have to say cannot be that horrible. We'll agree that the roads are becoming more dangerous than ever, and that someone should do something about the brigands, though, of course, neither of us can. And I'll be glad to assure you that you speak to me in confidence." Ragoczy had brought another chair into the center of the room, and now he sat near Gasparo. "What has Lodovico done?"

Gasparo jumped visibly. "Santa Chiara, how did you know?"

Ragoczy shook his head. "Who else would perturb you this much? We know that Carlo is happily settled, and Giuseppe is doing very well for himself. And Lodovico had said he was going into Francia. Tell me: did you ask your friend there to seek out Lodovico, or what?"

Shamefacedly Gasparo said, "Yes. Here I am, an honorable Fiorenzeno, and I ask a Franchese-a Franchese, Eccellenza-to find a Fiorenzeno for me. To spy on him." His big hands locked together in his distress. "Do I think Lodovico is capable of betraying his oath? Why else would I ask Alain to seek him out?"

"You arranged it because it is you, Gasparo, who are a man of honor, and it is your honor alone that keeps you from condemning Lodovico now." Ragoczy leaned forward and his compelling eyes fixed on Gasparo's. "You are bound by your oath, and you want to keep it. That's a trust worthy of a Pope. But you are loyal to your friend, and it pains you to have these suspicions. Am I right?"

Gasparo nodded. "Yes. You're right. How could I have been so mistaken about Lodovico? You understand, Eccellenza," he went on, coming to grips with his news at last, "Alain found Lodovico, and spent a few nights drinking with him. And then Lodovico departed. He said he was coming back to Fiorenza. He said he knew of a rich man who had many secrets in his palazzo, and that it would be an easy matter to steal them. He said he was tired of living in foreign lands and being scorned for the convenience of a man who was not even a Fiorenzeno, let alone Italiano. Alain tried to find out more, and in his letter he tells me that Lodovico wants gold, a lot of gold, so that he can at last have the pleasures and happiness that rich men know." Gasparo scrambled out of the chair and paced the length of the room. "He means to come here, Eccellenza. He means to rob you, or worse."

"Yes. I realize that." There was something in Ragoczy's calm that angered Gasparo.

"Is that all you have to say? Does it mean nothing to you that a man is going to try to rob you, perhaps try to kill you?"

Ragoczy paused to reach out and pinch a guttering candle. "Yes, it means a great deal to me. It means much more that you warned me. I am very much touched that you were able to keep faith with me. If you had not been able to, I couldn't blame you."

Gasparo snorted. "I took a Blood Oath." To emphasize this he slammed his broad hands down on the nearest table, and the candles jumped at the blow.

Slowly Ragoczy rose from his chair. "Blood Oaths are broken every day, amico mio, in a thousand ways. Think of the Commandments we all break out of habit. Your loyalty is rare, and I treasure it as much as I treasure..."-his smile was tinged with a kind of self-mockery-"my soul."

With a deep sniff which he managed to turn into a cough, Gasparo faced Ragoczy. "Well?"

But Ragoczy was busying himself with the opalescent contents of an oddly shaped glass flask hung over a low-burning lantern. He gave Gasparo a quizzical look. "Well what?"

Gasparo straightened his shoulders. "I'm ready. Whatever your punishment is, mete it out. I deserve it. I should not have chosen Lodovico, and we both know it."

As he took the flask and moved it gently so that the strange liquid swirled in it, Ragoczy said, "Of course we know it. But I thought I made it clear that I don't hold you responsible. I'm very grateful. You've done all that anyone could or would do. That's enough. I'd be a fool to ask more. And often I've had much less."

"You mean there is no punishment?" Gasparo said, incredulous. He had seen even the fairest of masters whip a man for much less.

"No. Why should there be? Would it change anything?" At last he set the flask aside and turned his full attention to Gasparo. "If you hear any more, I would like to know of it, and as soon as possible. I suppose it's too much to hope that Lodovico will contact you, but if, perhaps, he does, find out what you can."

"Of course, Eccellenza." Gasparo nodded vigorously before he started toward the door.

"And if you learn through the other builders, oh, anything that bothers you, tell me that as well. It's inconvenient that Lodovico chose this time to come back, but I suppose it was inevitable." He came across the room to Gasparo and put an arm across the builder's burly shoulders. "I am very much in your debt. If there is any way I might be of service to you, tell me, and you have my word that it will be done."

Gasparo was about to make a stumbling explanation as to why this wasn't necessary when the door opened once more and Demetrice came back into the room. She carried a tray with slices of light-colored cheese and a bowl of fragrant chunks of preserved fruit. There was also a jug of wine on the tray, and a piece of meat pie.

"Amadeo thought this might be to your satisfaction, Signore Tucchio," she said as she held the tray out to him. "There is a little table in the alcove there, and if you set the books on it aside, you'll find it a pleasant place to eat. I've had many meals there." As she spoke she moved across the room to the alcove and nodded toward the leather-bound books that covered it. "Just stack them in the corner."

"Certainly. In the corner." Gasparo hurried to Demetrice's assistance, pulling the huge volumes into his arms.

Laughing, Demetrice set the tray on the table. "There. You can look out that lozenge window there. You can see San Lorenzo and Santa Maria Novella if you lean forward a little." She stood beside the table until Gasparo was settled. "We'll be working, but don't be disturbed. Nothing very terrible is going on just now."

Gasparo nodded his thanks and pulled out his knife to eat.

When Demetrice came back to the two beehive-shaped athanors, Ragoczy said to her very softly, "Elegantly done, amica mia. You're a marvel."

She grinned frankly at his praise. "All Fiorenza knows that foreign noblemen have no manners." Her light, bantering tone left her a moment as she added, "You deserve some courtesy, if only from me. You've been kind to me when no one else was willing to be. And whether it is for Laurenzo or for me, I thank you."

Ragoczy's dark eyes met her amber ones, and there was an enigmatic expression in them that she couldn't read. "At first, amica mia, it was for Laurenzo. But no longer." Then, before she could ask him any questions, he picked up one of the flasks. "This needs more of the oil from Madras added. You'll find it in the chest there by the hearth."

Demetrice almost fled to the chest, and by the time she had found the oil, she had regained her tranquillity.

It was somewhat after dark when Gasparo Tucchio at last left Palazzo San Germane He had been well-fed, and the wine was the best he had tasted in many days. Ruggiero had engaged him in a game of chess, and Gasparo had played lavishly and lost with joy.

A low mist had come up from the Arno and it gave the whole city a pale, unreal splendor, like a kingdom seen in dreams. It also lent an insidious chill to the air, as Gasparo discovered when he was a little way from Palazzo San Germane He wrapped his arms over his chest for warmth and listened to the chanting from Santissima Annunziata. It was not much past the ninth hour, and if he walked quickly, he would be home before the mist penetrated his clothes.

As he neared the river the mist grew denser, rendering the buildings around him almost invisible. Gasparo listened intently, but there was little to hear except the soft murmur of the Arno.

He turned onto a street he was reasonably sure was la Via Tornabuoni. It would take him to il Ponte Santa Trinita, and from there over the river to his little house behind Santo Spirito, where the Agostiniano Brothers marked out the night with prayers and psalms.

As he neared the bridge he heard uncertain footsteps and laughter accompanying slurred words. There were two women, Gasparo decided, and three men. If they were discovered together, particularly if they were as drunk as they sounded, then they would be publicly denounced by Savonarola the next time he preached. Gasparo felt a twinge of anger at the prior of San Marco, and a touch of pity for the men and their companions. For a few minutes Gasparo stood in the fog, an innocent eavesdropper, as the men and women sported together and in their disordered way debated where they should go to enjoy one another. At last the party drew away in the fog, and Gasparo realized with a start that he was bitterly cold.

Now he moved quickly and his old bones ached. He saw the bridge ahead, a strange, dark shape in the white mists. It was a welcome, though insubstantial presence, and Gasparo stepped onto it with a certain ill-defined relief.

The few buildings that clung to the bridge loomed over him in the dark, and the sound of the river was louder, almost like thousands of footsteps, following him as he crossed the bridge.

When he had almost reached the south side of the Arno, Gasparo stopped, cocking his head. In spite of the cold he willed himself to remain silent, to keep from shivering while he listened. For a moment it seemed to him that there was indeed someone following him, creeping stealthily nearer along the bridge. But as he forced himself to hear every sound, Gasparo could distinguish nothing but the noise of the river.

He had just started walking once more when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Frightened and angry, he turned to give his assailant a blow from his clenched fists. But before his arm was raised high enough to strike, there was a thrust below his ribs, and a sharp, hot pain spread swiftly, crazily through him. Bewildered, he took the knife by the handle and tried to pull it out of his chest. And then he dropped his hands. It was too much work. As Lodovico approached him, Gasparo opened his mouth to tell him something. But blood ran out and he could no longer speak. He felt a strange lassitude come over him as Lodovico lifted him, and slowly, so slowly, raised him over the edge of the bridge and let him fall lightly, drifting through the fog.

Long before his body splashed into the river, Gasparo Tucchio was dead.

Text of the confession of Donna Estasia Catarina di Arrigo della Cittadella da Parma, made to Savonarola and published in Fiorenza on the Feast of the Guardian Angels, October 2, 1494:

In the name of God the Father, Christ the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. This is the confession of the heinous sins and crimes committed by Donna Estasia della Cittadella, widow of a merchant of Parma, given of her own free will and in her own words, without additions, commentary or embellishments.

Gentle Savior, Holy Son of God, grant that my confession is whole, without any interest beyond the expiation of sin and the redemption of my soul.

For many months I have been visited by devils, and they have led me to great wrongs. It is the fault of my flesh, which is too easily roused, and which I have vowed to master with fasting and scourges. I have made my body the house of sin and men have wallowed there. In my vanity, I have been happy to be beautiful, desirable, a woman to be looked at with lust in the heart. I have reveled in the wanton pleasures of lascivious congress, joining my flesh with the men who have pleased me. What temptation there is in the flesh, the loathsome, sensuous flesh that lures us all to desecration, to the delirium that drowns the songs of the angels.

All but one of my lovers have confessed and have repented their debauchery, and for that reason they should not be shamed by me, though I desire to be free of the stench of my filthy liaisons. The five men who have made peace with God are forgiven in heaven and will sin no more. And theirs were sins common to all of you, the bestial ruttings of animals, sating themselves in their passions on my body.

In deep humility and utter self-abasement, I beg those good men to forgive me for the transgression we shared. I urge them to forget the tangle of our limbs, the frenzy of coupling, the sweat, the sounds, the cries we made in the act. Their thoughts should never again dwell on the languorous sighs and the trembling flanks pushed together in heat, the taut sinews, the perfumed nights in silken sheets.

The devils that torment me do not visit them, and it is just, for it is my sin that brought them to their error, and their repentance shows me the way to the Mercy Seat.

Whether the other lover was a devil or a man, I cannot say. He was a foreigner, a rich stranger who chose, for some unnamed reason, to live among us. He was a man of great wealth, and for that worldly consideration, such is the venality of Fiorenza that all accepted the stranger and did him honor.

He came to me first three years ago. He had seen me once, at a distance. We had exchanged no word. But I knew that he desired me and that he would not be satisfied until he had possessed me. He importuned me later and I denied myself to him. He swore a great oath then, declaring that he would ravish me if he had to kill my cousins to do it.

I dreaded the man. And I feared that he would bring my other lovers to some hurt, and so I refused to see them again. I hid in my cousin's house and feared to go abroad because I dreaded finding that foreigner waiting, stalking me as a cruel lion stalks the baby antelope. Whenever I saw his splendid black clothing, or heard his soft, accented words, I was ready to swoon with terror. But there was nothing I could do to escape him. There was no place in Fiorenza safe from him, for he was an alchemist, and privy to all sorts of forbidden secrets that gave him powers none but the holiest of men could resist.

At last I could not fight his will. He chose a night when Sandro and Simone were away and forced his way into the house. Though I tried to defend myself against him, he prevailed and at last bound me to my own bed. He was of enormous proportions and he tore my body with his virile member which he thrust into me mercilessly, spending his seed many times that night. He beat me cruelly with whips of silk, and forced me to anoint his member with holy oil before he used me with unnatural brutality.

But this was not enough for him. He came again to my bed, and ravished me in ways I dare not describe, save to say that sinful men sometimes use boys as he used me. He told me then that his seed would not fill me with child, but with devils, that my flesh would be a temple for devils. How much I despaired then, and how my tears fell when I was alone and none could see them.

Then I hoped to be rid of his passion. I tried to confess, but the devils he had put into my body gagged me and caused me such torture that I could not endure the holy words the good priest said to me.

When he came to me the next time, he gave me a vile drink, and I was not in my senses while he rutted over me. But when I was again able to think and see, imagine my horror, my complete end of hope as I realized I had been carried to a church, and there in the dark, with black candles burning, my lover had bound me to the altar.

It maddened him when I pleaded with him to kill me, but to spare the sacred objects and building from this depraved, profane use. He silenced me by renewed violations of my body, laughing when I could not keep from screaming.

When at last his member was depleted, he gathered his spilled seed into the Chalice and forced me to drink of it. Then he took the crucifix from the wall. It appalls me even to think of this, let alone describe it, but I must tell you or the devils in my flesh will overcome me once again. He used the crucifix on my body as he had used his gigantic member. I was too shamed, too horrified to cry out, and later, I was driven to madness by the infamy of the acts he had forced upon me.

Devils have taken my flesh, used my body, and all at his instigation. He has caused my thoughts to turn away from the joys of heaven and to worship at the torments of hell.

I have been forsaken by God for my lusts and my sins, and unless there is more power in the Lord God than there is in the foreigner's devils, I am damned for eternity.

Pray for me, good Prior. Pray for me and drive the devils out of my flesh. Chastise me! Show me my vileness! If it will drive out the devils, flay me with knives! I will endure humiliation, exposure, odium, calumny. Scourge me! Beat me! Cast out that foreign devil, for it is he who commands the demons in my body. I will spend the rest of my life on my knees if only to be free of him.

Most heartily I repent my sins, those committed knowingly, and those that were forced upon me. I admit my transgressions and my errors. I accept the judgment made on me and will gladly perform any act of contrition demanded of me. In anguish, in humility, in total submission I await your decision, blessed, blessed Girolamo Savonarola. You who have never been corrupted in the flesh, have mercy on me. See my suffering and save me. Save me! Save me!

Verified as a correct and exact transcription of the confession of Donna Estasia Catarina di Arrigo della Cittadella da Parma, taken at Sacro Infante September 29, 1494.

Girolamo Savonarola

Prior di San Marco

Domenicano

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