"Yarbro,.Chelsea.Quinn.-.St.Germain.02.-.Palace.(V1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

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."
"But he's rich," Lodovico protested. "And he's foreign."
"All the more reason." With pompous care Gasparo dragged himself to his feet. "We're Fiorenzeni, Lodovico. Well, I am, at least. We don't rob foreigners. You put that out of your mind." He leaned forward. "I see what it is. You're drunk. You shouldn't have had that last cup of wine." He swayed and steadied himself. "I'll forget what you said, Lodovico. It was the wine talking."
Inwardly Lodovico cursed but he managed a fatuous smile. "You're right," he agreed. "Too much wine."