The Dragon Waiting

by John M. Ford

  Cynthia felt hollowness in her chest. She turned and walked away.

  "I did not wish to involve you," Vittorio Ricci said after his daughter. His voice was unsteady. "But they must watch us at all times. You heard what Ser Lorenzo said about spies "

  She heard him begin to sob, and her step almost faltered, but she kept going: let him weep, she thought. Let him cry enough tears for the both of them.

  She was indeed thinking about spies.

  She went to the kitchen, got an egg, an orange, and a bit of lard in a bowl. Then she went up to her rooms, closed the door, and locked it.

  Cynthia took off her cloak, then her gown, and sat down in her shift before her dressing mirror. Next to the mirror was a pencil drawing, careful renderings of her by the artist from Vinci. It was a gift, in exchange for being allowed to watch her at dissections. She looked at the sketch, and the glass, and traced lines of bone and sinew in her face and throat. She unfastened the gold-and-pearl necklace, put it on the table.

  She cracked the egg into the bowl, setting the shell aside, then dipped a brush into the clear albumen and applied it to the corners of her eyes and mouth, and more lightly to the rest of her face. She fanned the skin, feeling the egg drying, tightening, crinkling.

  Lard and a little ash made her hair gray and dull and stringy. When the egg white had dried, she peeled the orange and used a piece of the peel to stipple on brown pigment.

  She picked up the necklace, put her fingers on the crocus-flower pendant, squeezed and twisted; the petals opened on tiny hinges, revealing a hollow space within. When Lorenzo gave her the charm, he had made a silly romantic joke about love-philtres, spilled in an unsuspecting young man's wine. She took a tiny vial of blue crystals from her medical kit, filled the golden flower with the cyanide of potassium, then closed the petals.

  Using the forceps and scalpel from her kit, Cynthia removed the membrane from within the eggshell and cut out two circles with tiny holes in their centers. She leaned toward the mirror, tugged her eyelid open, carefully applied a white disc of membrane to the eyeball. A tiny spot of pupil showed in milkiness. She did the same to her other eye.

  Moving mostly by touch, she went to the wardrobe and selected a long gray gown with a short hood and cape. She pulled on white stockings and brown sandals. A carved staff came from the back of the closet. She tucked the necklace into her sash.

  She went out of the house through the rear. She hoped not too many people recalled the blind sibyl from Lorenzo's Vita Juliani.

  She walked around in back streets for a while, getting used to her diminished vision and the use of her staff, trying to blink as little as possible.

  She reached the river Arno, looked across at the high slim tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and Brunelleschi's enormous Pantheon dome, the wonder of Fiorenza; they were bright in the afternoon light. There was no haze at all.

  There was a bench nearby; from it she could see down the street to the front of her house. There she sat down, her staff held erect, and watched, and waited.

  There was a continuous stream of people on the streets, many of whom bowed or saluted to her as they passed. A young man knelt before her and asked for a prophecy of success; she recited an ambiguous little verse from Lorenzo's play and told him he wore too much gold on his doublet, which was quite true. He stared into her filmed eyes with astonishment and sheer terror, then pressed a gold florin into her palm and took off down the street.

  She almost smiled. Then she went back to watching.

  Shortly she saw him: a man in a drab green gown, who appeared at the corner of the Ricci house one, two, three, four times. She

  gave him one more orbit of the house, just in case he was merely very lost; then another man appeared, talked for a moment to the one in green. The first man started up the street toward Cynthia, while the second took up the circuit of observation.

  She sat quite still as the man in green approached, wondering if she had been recognized despite her disguise—or if she had been seen at the very beginning, and they were coming to tell her that the game was over—

  The man passed by far to her right, without even a glance toward her; he started across the river.

  She gave him thirty heartbeats, all she could stand to wait, then started after him.

  Once in the central city, he took a roundabout path through alleys and crowds; she would have lost him if her staff and blindness had not cleared a way for her.

  Then, finally, he vanished, and she was certain she had in fact lost him; she kept walking, hoping for a miracle—and nearly collided with her target in the arch of a doorway.

  The door opened as they were disengaging, and a small man looked out. He had dark eyes and a hooked nose, and wore a black robe of coarse stuff. He was physically young, but his expression held an ancient bitterness. "Good day, holy mother," he said, and made a bizarre gesture.

  Cynthia had to exert herself not to stare at him; there was an intensity about him, palpable as heat. "Blessed be," she said, then turned and walked on, sweeping her staff before her. She heard the door close.

  Cynthia turned at the next corner, turned again, came to the back of the house. The windows were shuttered with iron. There was a rickety wooden stairway to the upper floor.

  She reached to her eyes and pulled out the membranes, squinting hard against the suddenly dazzling light. She went up the stairs cautiously, freezing at the creak of every step.

  The upper door was not locked. She slipped off her sandals and moved silently inside.

  The upstairs hall was cool and pleasantly dim to her sore eyes. It was very quiet.

  A voice filtered up from below. Cynthia stepped through an open door into a small and sparsely furnished room; within, the voice carried clearly through the vent from the hypocaust. She listened at the grille.

  "... stayed in. The young woman locked herself in her room. That's all they've done."

  "You see, it takes little to frighten the guilty." It was the intense man's voice.

  "My lord..."

  "Brother."

  "Brother," said the other voice, "are you certain the doctors conspire with the Medici tyrants? I did not see—"

  "You did not see? Did not see? You are a spy in the gods' own cause of freedom; what did you not see? Is there something you do not tell me?"

  "No, brother Savonarola," said the first voice, much subdued.

  "You understand, brother," said the intense voice, gently now, "that only in the good Duke of Milan is the salvation of Italy; that once the Medicis have destroyed the valiant Sforza with their usurious practices, they will sell both Florence and Milan to the Eastern Empire, that Lorenzo Medici may rule as the detestable Francesco Rovere defiles Rome "

  Cynthia drew back from the vent. So it was Milan. And—since the man downstairs had denounced them in the same lying breath— perhaps Byzantium as well.

  She wondered how such treachery could exist in the world. Dangle the word "tyranny" in front of some young simpletons and they would bite at it, like a carrot on a stick. And the ass would pull the cart—whoever might be driving.

  But now she had a name: Savonarola. And she could find this house again, blindfolded—but she would return with the Gonfalonier of Justice and an armed troop at her back.

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  She held still, but the room was tiny; she would be seen through the door. There was a narrow closet door, which she opened, finding enough room for herself within. She closed the door.

  The footsteps entered the room.

  Cynthia's heart raced, swelling up into her throat; she thought it must sound clear as a drum. The closet was empty except for a heap of linens on the floor. They were stiff, entangling her feet, and they stank. She touched her sash, where the golden crocus was hidden.

  There was a rustle of cloth outside the closet. Savonarola's voice came clearly through the door. "O Maximin Daia, divine Emperor, aid thy servant in this his midnight hour; let Milan, city of the un
holy Edict, where the godless Julian usurped the crown of Rome, now be thine instrument of destruction, first upon this city of aliens, then upon Milan itself, that that Empire that once you ruled may come once more into holy light...." There was a sound like a handclap. "For women are worshiped here, and Jews walk in the streets. " Another clap. "Aid me, Daia. Aid me, Zeus Friend of Men...." By the third strike Cynthia knew the sound: a leather whip on flesh.

  "Forgive me—" Crack.

  Soon there was only whimpering, and the steady fall of the lash. The stifling air of the closet, the sour linens, filled Cynthia's head, and with every crack of leather she shivered uncontrollably. The pendant with the blue crystals was just beneath her hand.

  After ten thousand years the last sound stopped. Holding her staff with both hands, she used it to push the closet door open.

  Savonarola lay quite still, face-down in a naked heap on the floor. Blood still oozed from the freshest scars across his back; those were laid over older stripes, and still older ones. She moved around him, unable to look away. She had a vision of him rising suddenly to his feet, pointing the whip at her, pinning her to the wall with his eyes and voice. But he did not move.

  Cynthia realized that there was still pity in her. Then, perhaps, there was still hope for her soul.

  There was no one else on this floor, certainly no hostages. She went downstairs; that floor was empty as well, even of servants. There did not seem to be a cellar entrance.

  There was a moan from upstairs. Cynthia put on her sandals and went out into the street.

  It was nearly dark when she returned home. She slipped in quietly, went to her room, began washing off the disintegrating makeup.

  There was a knock. "Cynthia?"

  "A moment, Father." She brushed her hair back, tossed on a cloth robe, and opened the door.

  Vittorio held a candle and a goblet of wine. "You went out. Where did you go? I thought... they might have taken you as well."

  "I—" How much should she tell him? He had no head for intrigue; that was why they had been so vulnerable. "I just had to walk for a while. I won't be having dinner at home, either; I'm going to the Palazzo Medici."

  "I heard no invitation."

  "I was invited after you left. Besides, you know we're welcome. Do you want to go? You shouldn't sit around the house so much—"

  "No. No." Vittorio looked distraught. The candle wobbled. "Must you go out tonight, daughter? If a spy should think you are informing ..."

  "Please, Father, stop it."

  Vittorio closed his eyes. Cynthia could feel his pain. But there was no more time to waste. "I must dress now, or I'll miss the first course, and have to make up excuses."

  "All right. Will you... at least have some wine, before you go, if I'm to dine alone?"

  She smiled. For all his weaknesses, he was a good man, and the best doctor in Florence, and she loved him very, very much. She took the goblet. It was a warm, sweet red wine punch, one of her favorites, and she drank most of the cupful. "Thank you, Father."

  Vittorio nodded, took the goblet, reached for the door.

  "Father... Lorenzo will send guards home with me, if I want. Will that make you feel better?"

  He nodded again. She could see the tears starting. Quickly he closed the door.

  She turned back to the dressing mirror, lighting two more candles against the growing darkness. The flames jumped, wavered. Cynthia felt warm. She turned toward the window. Her chair felt wobbly. She stood; the chair toppled with a distant, echoing crash. She turned around, her robe sweeping out half a circle, looked at the closed door; it was bent out of shape. The room revolved on without her. She took a step; her foot went miles to the floor. The only thing clear in her mind was the formulary description of the hypnotic in the wine. It was too late now to vomit it up.

  Too late, too late, too bloody late.

  Darkness drowned her mind.

  Cynthia dreamed of her family: they were in a vindictive Hell of the sort she had never believed in, on an island surrounded by a burning lake; when Cynthia reached toward them, the fire rose. She could only get so close; it would engulf them an instant before she could reach them. The fire did not seem to burn Cynthia, but she had no boat nor anything to bridge the flames with. Yet no sensible god, none worthy of intelligent worship, would create a punishment that never ended; there must be some solution to the puzzle, some way out.

  And just as she thought she had reasoned it out, she woke up, with no memory but of faces in the fire.

  She was wearing her nightdress. Vittorio stood by the bed, holding a tray of food. He was her father, and a doctor who saw female patients every day; yet she felt more invaded by his changing her clothing than his drugging her.

  There was direct sunlight through her window, so it was afternoon. But afternoon of what day? The next, she supposed. He could have kept her asleep for any length of time, but he would not risk her starving, and to be fed she must be awake.

  He said "I've brought you—"

  "You know very well I won't touch it."

  He looked at his hands on the tray. "I am sorry I... did what I did. There is nothing wrong with any of this meal."

  "Then you eat it." She swung her legs out of bed, sat up. Her head was not at all clear. Vittorio put the tray down and put his hands on her shoulder and arm, then reached to the foot of the bed for a robe to drape around her.

  She looked hard at him, and saw that the look hurt him, and did not care.

  She stood, tearing away from him, went to the wardrobe, and took out the first gown her hand touched. Vittorio turned, trying to say something but not forming the words. Cynthia threw the robe on the bed. She grasped her nightdress with both hands and pulled it over her head, standing naked and defiant and shivering.

  Her father stood up, walked past her out of the room. He turned only to pull the door shut behind him.

  Cynthia began to dress. There was a flash of bright metal near her foot; the crocus pendant. She picked it up, held it until it was quite warm and the golden petals marked the skin of her palm.

  The banquet hall of the Palazzo Medici was set for twenty. There was one person at the table: Marsilio Ficino sat picking at an appetizer and gulping wine.

  He looked up at Cynthia. It seemed to take him a long time to recognize her. "Oh…Dottorina. Come in. Sit down. There's plenty." He stood up, still holding the wine pitcher, and sat down at the next place in line, filling its goblet, taking a spoonful of its fruit cup. "I know how to do it. You start on that side and work that way."

  "Where is Messer Lorenzo?"

  "Lorenzo is... indisposed. And Ser Giuliano is ridden off... excuse me, has ridden off... to Pisa, to bring back Professore Dottore Leone. Is ridden off? Off ridden is, in German."

  "Is there no one in the house?"

  "I am. You are. He is. Lorenzo's parties are no fun without Lorenzo."

  Ficino was not just drunk, Cynthia realized; in fact, he was not particularly drunk at all. He had been left alone, which bred melancholy in him; and she knew that in one of Ficino's temperament a melancholy could kill.

  She knocked the goblet from his hand, splashing red over yards of tablecloth and settings. She took him by the arm and lifted him from his seat; it took a moment for his bad leg to lock, but finally he stood looking up at her. The bleakness in his eyes threatened to draw her in as well. She asked the gods who sent his visions to leave his spirit in his body, just for now.

  "All right, Dottorina. Your slave. What do you desire?"

  "Have Lorenzo moved to the quiet chamber."

  "He can't stand."

  "Bed and all, then! We'll also need a brazier, and a kettle. And two bottles of brandy."

  "Is that his problem, Dottorina? He's in labor?"

  She almost slapped him, but saw his faint smile and realized that his fickle humor had returned. She could not smile at all, she found, but Ficino would be well.

  Unless Lorenzo died, of course, in which case nothing mattered an
yway.

  Lorenzo de' Medici was dying.

  His arms and legs were contorted, in pain at rest and red agony in motion. But that was not the worst of it. His skin was hot and very dry, and she knew he would be itching everywhere; his kidneys were beginning to fail, and if that went beyond a certain point there would be no way on earth to save him... except the treatment that had saved Galeazzo Maria Sforza. And she would kill Lorenzo first.

  She slammed the door of the quiet chamber, heard its bolt fall. Lorenzo and Giuliano each had a key. One brother would open the door, or the other would.

  Ficino was pouring the brandy into the kettle. Cynthia took the pendant from around her neck, opened it, emptied the yellow powder within into the liquid.

  "And what is that?" Ficino said.

  "Colchicum extract."

  "Oh," the poet said, very softly. "I understand."

  Dosage and time were crucial. Lorenzo was to receive two measured spoonfuls of the infusion every hour. Cynthia had taken a little German clock from its shelf upstairs; it took ten minutes to prove that just staring at the hands was intolerable. Then Ficino began reciting poetry to the tick of the clock; and he knew volumes. The first hour passed. Two more spoonfuls. The second hour. Two more. The third. Ficino's voice began to rasp, and he wished for an untainted bottle of brandy. Cynthia tried to sing, as she had improvised at summer's end, but that had been too long ago. She could not invent words. She could not even remember a song. There was no music in her.

  By the seventh hour Lorenzo had visibly relaxed. He asked for and drank a little water. Cynthia sponged his forehead, then, at his nod, gently bathed his arms and legs. His fingers were nearly straight.

  After Cynthia fed him the dose for the eighth hour, Lorenzo breathed in and out slowly and said, "Well, Luna...well, well." They were all silent for fifteen minutes by the clock; then Lorenzo began to recite a poem. It was Dante Alighieri, from the Commedia dell'Uomo, the part where the poet has finally reached the correct exit from the corridors and courts of Pluto's kingdom. He had always loved Dante's puns on Pluto's cave, and Plato's.