"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

In Fiorenza, on the 10th day of May, 1491
 3
Not all the morning mist had cleared yet, though there was the promise of heat in
the air. Fiorenza shimmered in the spring light, so that the tall, stone-fronted
buildings seemed touched with gold. On this splendid day the streets were full, the
people already preparing for yet another festival. At la Piazza della Signoria banners
of all the Artei were already being strung, each proclaiming the importance and
function of one of the powerful guilds that were the heart and breath of the city.
"Well, mio caro stragnero," Laurenzo said to the alchemist who rode beside him
and had shared his morning gallop, "what have you in your distant home to compare
to this?"
Ragoczy smiled, but his dark eyes were remote. "We have nothing like this,
Magnifico." His gray horse scampered over the stone paving, still fresh, still playful,
and the sound of his hooves echoed crisply off the street.
"And even if he did," drawled the third member of the riding party, "he is much
too well-mannered to say so, at least to you, Medici."
Laurenzo's attractive, ugly face darkened, but he made no reply, occupying
himself with the sportiveness of the big roan stallion he rode. When he had brought
his mount even with Ragoczy's he turned to the other man. "Agnolo, he need hardly
concern himself with courtesy when you are by."
Agnolo Poliziano barked out a laugh, then said more somberly, "I do not know
why you allow me such liberty, then, Laurenzo. Or is it out of respect for Ragoczy's
rank? He says nothing of his birth, but I will wager you half of the gold in your
damned bank that he is better-born than any of us, though he is a foreigner."
At this Laurenzo smiled, and though the smile did not come as easily as it had a
few years ago, it was still utterly charming and even Agnolo Poliziano could not
resist answering it with one of his own. "Neither of us is nobly born, Agnolo. We
cannot be. You, I, we are simply citizens of Fiorenza. But you"—he turned to
Ragoczy—"you undoubtedly have a title recognized somewhere. I have often
wondered what it is. Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano. Da San Germano." He
tasted the words. "Where is San Germano, Francesco Ragoczy, and what is it to
you?"
By now they had crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and not far ahead la Palazzo della
Signoria pointed its spire into the festive morning. Fiorenza was a city of spires, of
towers and turrets, but the topheavy spire of il Palazzo della Signoria was the symbol
of la Repubblica, and therefore was unique in the city.
Laurenzo motioned Ragoczy and Poliziano to rein in their horses. "It is very
crowded. We will need another way." He thought for a moment, and took advantage
of this hesitation to repeat his question to Ragoczy. "Where is San Germano?"
Ragoczy did not answer Laurenzo's inquiry at once. He had turned similar
probings aside before. His eyes were fixed in the distance, on the gently rolling
Tuscan hills with their villas keeping watch over Fiorenza, but his expression was far
more remote than the hills he watched. "My homeland is… far away, in ancient
mountains, where even now Turks and Christians are slaughtering each other. It is
called Wallachia now, and Transylvania." He stopped rather abruptly, looking once
again at Laurenzo. "It is a happier thing to be simply a citizen of Fiorenza,
Magnifico, than to be a Prince of the Blood and a lifelong exile."
A band of youngsters surged out of la Via de' Bend and at the sight of Laurenzo