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large as the pietra dura bowl of Laurenzo's silver cup. He, Ragoczy,
knows many secret processes with metals. You would enjoy his conversation as
well, Leonardo, for he is an erudite conversationalist and his range of
interests is broad.
    I pray you will consider coming once again to Fiorenza. We all here miss you.
We miss your songs as much as your excellent work, for all you say you never
finish anything. Whatever Milano offers you, Fiorenza can give you. Remember
that you are loved here, and that the blessings of your friends follow you
wherever you go, even home.
    My cousin Estasia calls me to table, so I must end this. With the hope that
our next greeting will be face to face, this brings you the affection of your
friend
    Sandro
     
    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