Frost had made the air crisp and the sky was winter-bright. Under the trees where leaves had fallen the earth gave off a ripe, pungent smell, like a fruit compote. There was very little wind, so the coolness of the morning was not as noticeable to the six horsemen who rode in their own wind around the crest of the hill.

"Ah, it is beautiful here!" Laurenzo cried as he reined in near the spiky shadows of a small grove of pine trees. "This is what I needed: the touch of the country again."

Agnolo Poliziano, who hated long rides, grimaced as he pulled up his big Spanish mare. "I wish you'd content yourself with a touch, then. This has been more like a beating."

But Laurenzo laughed. "Come, old friend, admit it. You cannot like anything I like. It could be your favorite dish, and you would scorn it."

"No fear there." Poliziano smiled unexpectedly. "You can't smell, Laurenzo, and you have no idea what food is really like."

Three more horses were pulled up. The first was ridden by il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola and he gestured to the two men with him. "Ficino here insists that Socrates would not enjoy a morning like this, but I think he is wrong. Ragoczy here will not take sides, so we've come to you."

"We discussed that last night," Laurenzo said with a certain inattention. "I thought it was agreed that Socrates was probably not a horseman." He tugged at his gloves and looked back. "Poor Giacomo," he remarked to the sixth horseman. "I should have lent you a sweeter-tempered mount. Never ride Fulmine that way. He must have a firm hand or he becomes fractious."

Giacomo Pradelli, envoy from Mantova, gratefully pulled the tricky roan gelding in beside Laurenzo. "It is not that important, Magnifico," he said, lying heroically. He tried to change the subject by saying, "I have rarely seen land in such good heart. Fiorenza is fortunate, for many reasons."

"Excellent." Laurenzo grinned in sudden amusement. "I will tell Gonzaga that he is most blessed in this representative, and that I will want to purchase more of his library next year." He turned in his saddle to the foreigner on the next gray stallion. "Well, mio caro stragnero, you have nothing to say?"

"I did not attend your banquet, Magnifico. I do not know what was said. I agree that the land is in good condition, even though some of the crops were spoiled by early rain. What other opinion should I offer?" He brought his horse up beside Laurenzo's. "I saw deer in the hills as we rode here. For all the chill, it is a beautiful morning."

"I am sorry that our tradition excluded you last night," Laurenzo said, and met Ragoczy's eyes.

"No matter. I didn't expect to be included." This was so wholly without rancor or jealousy that the guarded look left Laurenzo's face and Ragoczy went on, "I, too, have traditions which I honor, Magnifico. I don't criticize yours."

"It is an annual event, for those of us who were at the Accademia. Only seven may attend. But I would still like to hear your views. Won't you tell me what you think?"

"About Socrates?" He played with the end of his reins. "You mean, do I think Socrates was a horseman?" He saw Laurenzo nod, and he wondered what to answer. He recalled the ferocious old Greek and his studied slovenliness, his sharp tongue that would put Poliziano to shame, and his eager acceptance of praise. "I haven't read much Plato," Ragoczy ventured cautiously.

"And that, Francesco, is not an answer." The way ahead was steeper and Laurenzo held back, steadying his horse. Then he turned to his riding companions. "Mark this course: down the hill to the spring, jump the log below, then beside the old stone fence to the creek, over the creek and along to Sacro Infante, over the fence and down the slope to the Genova road. Quickly."

It was a treacherous course, and they all knew it. Laurenzo paused only long enough to say to Giacomo Pradelli, "Not you, my friend. Fulmine would have you out of the saddle on the first turn. Meet us at the Genova road. There is a safe path not far from here. You may ride down easily."

"Let me guide him," Poliziano said quickly. "I hate these stupid competitions, Laurenzo. You know I hate them. Why should I risk my horse and my neck to please you? And if-"

"Very well." Laurenzo's smile was still very bright as he interrupted Poliziano. "But I warn you that I won't stand for complaints from you if you miss the excitement." He waited while Poliziano took

Giacomo Pradelli away from the other horsemen, and then gave one loud shout, and the four riders were off down the steep hill.

Two pheasants exploded out of the brush as the horsemen raced past, and their cries filled the morning as they flew into the sky.

Laurenzo cleared the log first, shouting for pleasure as his big bay stallion negotiated the hazardous landing and recovered easily, leaving deep gouges in the moist bank as he lengthened his stride as he galloped toward the old stone fence that ran for several leagues through the Tuscan hills.

Il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola followed close on Laurenzo's path, but he was a more reckless rider and his lack of caution cost him as he took his horse over the log, for the showy white mare balked, reared suddenly, lost her footing and then threw Pico back onto the soggy earth around the spring. Muddied and laughing, Pico got to his feet, rubbing at his hip. His wool riding mantle was smeared with mud and his leggings were soaked through. "Go on!" he shouted, and got out of the way of Ragoczy's gray stallion.

Ficino was pushing Ragoczy to a faster pace, his own dun gelding racing hard to take the lead. "Move aside!" he shouted to the foreigner.

"Pass me!" Ragoczy called back, and spurred his stallion on. His riding style was somewhat different from that of the Fiorenzeni, for his saddle was of a very modified low design, having little support in front of or behind the rider. Ragoczy rode with his stirrup leathers uncommonly short, in the Persian manner, and as he chased after Laurenzo, he rose in them, so that his body was above the saddle entirely.

Marsilio Ficino broke out laughing at this and kicked his mount more determinedly.

Laurenzo was several lengths ahead, riding beside the stone fence at an easy gallop, his dark hair whipping around his head as he turned back to wave, confident of his lead.

Now Ficino slapped his horse's neck with the end of the reins and yelled encouragement to his dun gelding. Slowly he came abreast of Ragoczy's gray stallion. "Give way, foreigner!" he shouted.

Without a word in answer, Ragoczy shifted his balance slightly forward and his gray bounded ahead. The path was growing narrower, and there was no longer room for more than one horse at a time. Ragoczy did not hesitate. He pulled on the rein, adjusted his weight once more, and steadied his gray over the fence in a stunning display of horsemanship.

In the field, sheep scattered as the gray landed, and under Ragoczy's firm control the horse did not falter, keeping by the fence as he raced to catch Laurenzo.

Ficino had watched the jump in stunned silence. Then he pulled in his dun gelding and let the horse walk the trail. There was no use continuing now, for the contest was plainly between Laurenzo and Ragoczy. He shook his head and let his thoughts wander into the bright, sweet-scented morning.

Ragoczy cleared the creek less than two lengths behind Laurenzo, but his confidence faded as he saw the huge white cloister walls of Sacro Infante of the Celestiane Sisters loom up ahead of him. He could not jump the fence again to Laurenzo's side, for the quarters were far too close for safety. The only alternative was to go around the high convent walls.

"Qual dolor!" Laurenzo called mockingly to him, satisfaction making his smile glow.

Once again Ragoczy did not waste breath in an answer. He prodded his stallion and tugged the rein. Part of him was running with the horse, stretching for the gallop, steadying the pace until the stallion's mad rush flowed like water over the ground. He was almost around the convent when the ringing of a bell startled the gray, and he broke the steady rhythm of his stride. If it were not for Ragoczy's iron control, the gray would have bolted. But the bell stopped and the danger was past. Even though Ragoczy cursed the lost seconds, he knew that there was still time to recover lost ground on the descent to the Genova road. He doubted he would do badly there.

Laurenzo's large eyes grew even larger as he saw Ragoczy round the third wall of the convent, still keeping up with him. He measured the distance between them in a glance, then dug his heels into his horse's flanks.

The last league or so became a scramble, for the hill there was very steep, and the men were both determined. Loose rocks and bits of earth slid down the slope, threatening to upset the horses' precarious footing. Below, on the Genova road Agnolo Poliziano and Giacomo Pradelli were waiting, and Agnolo wore a large, annoying smile.

In the final rush, Ragoczy forced his gray to a near-run, and the big stallion overtook Laurenzo's mount, touching the road just moments before the other stallion could.

Both horses were breathing heavily and their coats were dark with sweat. Laurenzo patted his stallion and said, somewhat sourly, "Morello would have beaten you, Ragoczy. He never lost a race."

"Morello?" Ragoczy asked and he took a deep breath.

"He was Magnifico's horse for years," Agnolo explained, delighted that Laurenzo had been beaten at last. "And he may be right, but I don't know. I've never seen anyone ride like that. It's positively heretical."

The breeze had picked up, and now that the race was over, the air felt unexpectedly icy. Laurenzo frowned darkly. "I raised Morello from a colt. I fed him every day, and if I did not feed him, he would refuse to eat. He would stamp his feet when he saw me coming. Not like this beast."

"Come, Magnifico," Agnolo mocked, "don't take it out on the horse. Admit that Ragoczy outrode you." He smiled seraphically at Giacomo Pradelli, and awaited developments.

But Ragoczy was determined to avoid an argument. "Magnifico, if I had not ridden as I did, you would have felt cheated. You've said before that you dislike being flattered. It was an even match, and I think I had a fair amount of luck." He ignored the clouded look in Laurenzo's eyes. "Another day you will certainly best me. It's been many, many years since I've seen riding to match yours." It was no more than the truth, but he did not mention that he measured the years in centuries.

Some of the scowl faded as Laurenzo said, "It is true that I like a good contest."

Poliziano used this to plant another barb. "What you mean is that you like to win."

"Of course." He was about to defend himself when Ragoczy interrupted him.

"He would not be good at competitions if he didn't like to win. That's what made the race worthwhile." Ragoczy hoped that would put an end to the poisonous darts Poliziano was delighting in. "And, Magnifico, you have many more skills than I do."

"Perhaps," Laurenzo allowed, somewhat mollified. He waved to Marsilio Ficino, who had ridden up at last. "The last of our number. I gather Pico has gone back to the villa to change."

"I would imagine so." Ficino looked at the party and sighed. "It's so lovely a day. I saw a few grapes still on the vine. They're past using, but the smell was delicious."

By now, the worst of Laurenzo's temper had gone, and he was able to shrug his shoulders. "I wasn't aware of it." He walked his horse up to the head of the party and looked at his companions. "We're close enough to Fiorenza that I think I'll return today. It's less than an hour to the Porta San Gallo. Ride with me, amici miei, and enjoy the hills."

Marsilio Ficino was pleased to see that Laurenzo's mood was pleasant, and he started to sing, his cracked baritone making his companions laugh. "Very well, then," he said as he broke off, "I don't do it well. You, Laurenzo-you always make good songs."

Laurenzo responded happily. "I haven't made songs this way for a while. Let me think." His horse was trotting now, and Laurenzo motioned the others to keep even with him. "What shall I sing of?"

"Make a farce," Poliziano said quickly.

"Please," Ficino said.

"Love," ventured Giacomo Pradelli.

"And you, Francesco? What would you like me to sing of?"

Ragoczy thought seriously for a moment, and his intent gaze was fixed on the hills beyond them. "Sing about your life, Magnifico. Everything you are stems from that."

"Sta bene," he agreed. "And when I am through, you must sing about your life."

"But, Magnifico-" Ragoczy objected, and was cut short by Poliziano.

"Good. The foreigner should sing." He laughed derisively and turned to the others. "Perhaps then da San Germano will be something less of a mystery. Make him sing, Laurenzo."

Although he was irritated by the peremptory tone, Ragoczy knew it was not worth fighting about. "Whatever Magnifico does, I will do my poor best to learn from."

The road was gentle, winding through the lovely hills like a stream, and it descended gradually, so that the way was never steep. There was little traffic on it, and what there was made way for the illustrious party.

"Ah, I have my rhymes, I think," Laurenzo said after a pause. He hummed experimentally and then began to sing. His tenor voice had been roughened over the years, and the melody was simple for that reason. "Fra le dovizie della dolce amor," he began and quelled the ribald laughter that greeted this opening, saying, "There is no wealth that compares to love, amici miei." He cleared his throat and continued. "Fra le dovizie della dolce amor/ Io son perduto, son io sognator."

"I wouldn't call it sleepwalking, myself," Poliziano said.

"I wouldn't call it being lost, either," Ficino said, at his most knowing.

"Let him go on." There was a sharpness in Ragoczy's words, and the others were quiet.

"Tuoi nodi diletti mi ferma/ Colla febre di gioia mi manca. Ma piu bramo la pace per il mio cor/ Or' senza speranza, e senza rancor." Laurenzo's expression was somber as he finished the song. He turned to Ragoczy. "That is my life, mio caro stragnero. Sweet bonds hold me and joy is a fever, but now, peace is too dear."

Ragoczy nodded, and ignored the demands that the others made. He felt the cold of the morning like a finger trace the line of his back. "I see," he said.

"Now," Laurenzo said, shaking off his mood with an effort. "Now it is your turn, Francesco. I have sung a song of my life, and you must sing one of yours."

"What about that homeland you say is so precious?" Poliziano asked, and laughed with the others.

"Sing, Francesco," Laurenzo said, and it was more than an order. For a moment his eyes met Ragoczy's, and the plea in them was plain.

Ragoczy nodded. "I'll need to get my rhymes," he announced. "I will follow your form, I think, Magnifico. But I am not responsible if the song is terrible. I don't usually sing on horseback."

Ficino reached over and gave Poliziano a warning rap on the shoulder. "In that case, we'll be quiet so you can think."

But Ragoczy already knew what the words would be, as he had known even before Laurenzo had begun his song. His hesitation was for effect only. He sang softly, but the sound of his voice was curiously penetrating. "Io sono stragnero/ per sempre ed ancor';/ Stragnero della morte,/ stragnero dell' amor'."

"Is that all?" Poliziano was incredulous. "It's hardly a quatrain. What about that homeland, Ragoczy? How does it compare to Fiorenza? This is insufficient-"

"Be quiet, Agnolo," Laurenzo told him without turning in the saddle. "None of us have the right to ask more." He looked at Ragoczy and there was profound compassion in his brown eyes. "You did not need to say so much."

"You wanted to know what my life is," Ragoczy responded with a shrug. He felt his gray stallion's neck and said in another voice, "He seems recovered. We can pick up the pace again, Magnifico, if you are in a hurry."

Laurenzo nodded and raised his hand. "We go faster," he called out to the other three riders. Then he spurred his stallion and gave him his head down the long way to the walls of Fiorenza.

They entered the city through la Porta San Gallo and reined in as la Via San Gallo became la Via de' Ginori. The city was active and as they neared la Piazza San Lorenzo, Ragoczy called out to Laurenzo. "Should we leave you, Magnifico?"

"No!" His horse was walking easily, avoiding carts and pedestrians out of long habit. "No, all of you come in and share a cup of wine with me. Comestio will be served soon. I know Massimillio will be glad for so many vigorous appetites."

The others greeted this invitation eagerly, but Ragoczy declined. "You must excuse me. It is not my custom to eat at this time of day."

"It is not your custom to eat at all," Poliziano said curtly.

Ragoczy did not respond to this barb. "Perhaps I should leave you with your other guests, Magnifico?"

The sudden rumble of cart wheels drowned Laurenzo's answer, but he repeated himself when the noise was less. "Come in anyway, Francesco. I wish to talk to you."

"Tante grazie, Magnifico."

They swung through la Piazza San Lorenzo and around to the main entrance of il Palazzo de' Medici in la Via Larga. At a sign from Laurenzo the ironwork grille over the great doors was opened and they entered the main courtyard.

Laurenzo came out of the saddle slowly, in an effort to hide the weakness that threatened to overcome him. He staggered as he touched the ground, and to keep his balance, he reached out for the stirrup. A small metal ornament had come loose and it sank its steel prong into Laurenzo's ungloved hand. Quickly Laurenzo sucked away the blood, and turned to his guests. No one had noticed, he saw with relief. He clenched his hand around one glove to stanch the bleeding.

"Well?" Agnolo challenged. "What about comestio?"

"Go with Gabriele there." Laurenzo gestured to his houseman, who had come into the courtyard a moment ago. "He will see that you're fed."

"And you?" Ficino asked.

"I will join you directly, as soon as I have changed my riding mantle for a guarnacca." He started across the courtyard, saying over his shoulder, "Ragoczy, accompany me."

Ragoczy gave his gray's reins into a servant's hands, and followed his host into the arched doorway. They went in silence up one narrow flight of stairs, and they were almost at the top when a bright stain on the step ahead stopped Ragoczy. "Magnifico?"

Laurenzo paused. "Yes?"

"Are you bleeding?" The question hung between them and after a moment Laurenzo resisted the urge to disclaim.

"I cut my hand. It was a foolish blunder-I slipped getting out of the saddle." He tried to make light of it. "I've been riding since I could walk. But I cut myself like a damned novice."

"May I see it?" Ragoczy was only one step below him, and his small hand was already extended.

Laurenzo hesitated, then held out his hand. The glove he held dropped to the stairs. "It's not very bad," Laurenzo said, looking at the cut on the side of his palm. Blood still oozed sluggishly from the wound and his palm was stained with it.

There was anguish in Ragoczy's face. "How long," he said tightly, "has your blood smelled of apricots?"

At that Laurenzo laughed. "Apricots? I don't know. I can't smell. Does it really smell of apricots?"

Ragoczy closed his eyes. "Yes."

Immediately Laurenzo sobered. "Is it a bad sign?"

"It is." Ragoczy forced himself to meet Laurenzo's eyes.

There was no shock in his face, but the acceptance of this hurt him. "I know I am ill, Francesco. I've known for some time. But you, with your salves and alchemical skill, might know what remedy there is."

Ragoczy was silent.

"Ah." Laurenzo nodded. "It is my death."

He could not deny it. Ragoczy bent and picked up Laurenzo's glove.

"And there is nothing you can do." If he felt despair, it did not color his voice. He took his glove and turned it over in his hands, looking at the stained embroidery on the fine green leather. "It's ruined," he said.

"Laurenzo..." Ragoczy spoke calmly, though he was filled with desolation and helplessness. "I can make a cordial. It will not cure you, but it will help the pain, when there is pain."

"I have to thank you. Well." He swallowed. "I trust you, mio caro stragnero. I know you have told me the truth. But I cannot help but wish you are wrong." Laurenzo was about to resume his climb up the last few stairs, but stopped and reached out to grab Ragoczy's shoulder with his long, swollen fingers. "What is it, Francesco? What is it that kills me?"

His words came with difficulty. "It's your blood, Laurenzo. It's rotten. It is no longer like blood. And even the power I possess is useless against it."

"Your power. But there may be others with different powers." Laurenzo's brown eyes were bright as he leaned forward. "Perhaps there is one with enough power and knowledge to cure me."

Ragoczy shook his head. "No one can save you." He saw Laurenzo cross himself. "If I had tears, Magnifico, they would be for you. But I have none."

"It would make no difference if you did." He turned away brusquely and went the rest of the way up the stairs alone.

A letter from Girolamo Savonarola to Andrea Belcore, Superior Generale of the Dominican Order:

On this Most Holy Feast of the Presentation, Girolamo Savonarola, Prior of San Marco in Fiorenza, is moved most reverently to address himself to his Superior Generale, Andrea Belcore, in Roma:

Most Reverend Father of the Brothers of San Domenico, I pray most humbly that you will hear my petition with a compassionate heart and not turn away from my request out of vain and worldly considerations.

As you know, it has been given to me by God to see visions, and that these visions all warn of the impending Day of Wrath which shall fall upon the wickedness of the world. Because the strength of these visions is such that I cannot deny them, I must beseech you to allow me more time to preach. There is so much in my soul, so much of the Light of God, that it is a torture for me to remain silent.

In this vain and corrupt city, my words are badly needed, for the souls wander in darkness, drawn over the world by temptations and desires. If I am to fulfill that divine mission that I took upon myself when I donned my habit, you must grant me my request, so that the danger around us is known and these unfortunate Fiorenzeni will no longer seek sins as if they were salvation, but will bow instead before the Throne of Glory, and in penitential remorse, confess themselves and be forgiven.

I know well that since His Holiness wed his son to the daughter of the perfidious Medici he has seen the world through Laurenzo's eyes. But I pray most fervently that you will not be likewise blinded and will allow me to preach the truth as I am moved to do. It is not I who makes the pronouncements, but the Holy Spirit, speaking through me. I am the vessel filled by the visions God sends to me. In all humility, I ask that you do not desert that great Holy Spirit that has chosen me as its medium to be heard in the world.

In devoted and prayerful obedience, I commend to you the hope and the spiritual life of

Girolamo Savonarola

Brothers of San Domenico

Prior of San Marco

In Fiorenza, November 22, 1491