The second scream was louder than the first and brought Sandro Filipepi upright in his bed, sleep banished completely by that sound of bubbling terror.

He swung out of bed, shoving the hangings aside as he moved, and reached for the candle that always stood on the small table by the window. A third scream almost made him drop the flint from his clumsy fingers, but he forced his attention to the light, and in a moment the spark touched the wick, and he was no longer in darkness. He hesitated only long enough to find a chemise and pull it on over his head before he took up his candle and hurried into the hall.

Farther down the corridor, Simone's face appeared, a study in fright and disapproval. "It's Estasia," he said unnecessarily and condemningly.

"I know." Sandro brushed past his brother, shielding the candle flame with his hand. When he got to her door, he knocked once out of habit, but the renewed shrieks told him she could not hear. He waited long enough to test the latch, then forced the door open with a sudden blow from his arm and broad shoulder.

Estasia's room was faintly illuminated in the single candle's light, but it showed Sandro the wholly disordered state of the place. Bedclothes were strewn about and cosmetic pots thrown against the walls to break and spill their contents on the furniture and floors. The bed hangings were torn down on one side, and on the other, Estasia pulled at the draperies and screamed. Her nightshift was in tatters and her body was marked with deep scratches. Tangled hair framed the terror in her face as she twisted against the hangings to turn toward the door.

"Estasia," Sandro said as calmly as he could when he had taken in her disordered state. "Don't be frightened, cousin."

"Satana! Satana! Apage Satanas!" She raised her hand as if to ward off a blow, then her fingers curved, and talonlike, they raked her breasts as she keened, her teeth set tightly, her face distorted with pain and fear.

Sandro came a few steps farther into the room, his rough-hewn features set with worry. "Estasia, you mustn't."

With an incoherent cry, Estasia wrenched herself out of the hangings and fled across the room to crouch in the farthest corner, her hands over her face.

A quick glance around the room revealed the candelabrum tossed under Estasia's vanity table. Sandro bent to retrieve it, and as soon as it was upright again, he lit the two candles that were still whole. Putting his candle down beside the other two, he bent low and tried to approach Estasia.

"No! No! God have mercy upon me. Deliver me from the fiends of hell. Sweet Lord, it is you I want. Forgive my defilement. Make me pure again. I pray you, I beg you..." Her words tumbled out in breathless desperation as she pressed close to the wall, eyes averted and wild. "Save me, save me, save me, save me, save me." Again she tried to cross herself, and again her nails gouged mercilessly at her soft flesh.

By now Sandro was near enough that he could grab her wrists. "Estasia, you must not hurt yourself this way," he said firmly as he reached for her.

In the next instant he was almost knocked over as Estasia lunged at him, her hands set to scrape his face with her long nails. He slid backward, shocked and quite sobered by this attack. The next approach he made toward her was considerably more cautious and he had grabbed one of her soft pillows. Just before he reached for her, he thrust the pillow into her arms, and then, as she tore frantically at the pillow, he pinioned her arms behind her. He was strong, with the untiring strength of a painter who must spend hours doing meticulous brushwork on huge, high walls. The tendons stood out on the backs of his hands in ridges and his big shoulders were as taut as those of men twenty years his junior.

Estasia lashed out with her feet and twisted, breaking away from her cousin with shrieks of panic. "Save me, dear God, sweet, kind God. I am vile. I know I am vile. But take me out of hell, I beg you." She dropped to the floor, moaning. "Oh, God, take me out of this hell. Don't abandon me. Don't leave me here alone. Save me. Take me to You. Embrace me with Your love. Save me. Save me." She began to sob, great spasms shuddering through her body. "I want only You. Don't leave me, God. I will put all sin behind. Just don't forsake me. Please. Please. Please. God, don't leave me in hell. I repent. I promise I will do only as You command. But there are fiends here, and they torment my body." She cried out as her own right hand lacerated her cheeks.

Sandro stood unsteadily and watched Estasia as she writhed on the floor in the shards of broken jars and their cosmetic contents. "Estasia," he tried again, moving closer, but not close enough to warrant another attack. "Stop, Estasia. Wake up. You are not in hell, and I am not a demon."

She ignored this, pulling herself along the floor, her wretchedness evident in every aspect. "Take me, God. Save me. Deliver me from the fiends of hell who assault my flesh. Wrap me in the wings of angels. Heal me with Your touch, with Your look. Let me be one with You. Save me. Save me. Unite me with Your Hosts in Grace." Languidly she rolled, and supine, she reached up yearningly, inviting an embrace.

Thinking that the worst of her fright was over, Sandro once again moved closer to Estasia. She smiled up at him and as he bent to lift her, she wrapped her arms around his knees and pressed her face against his thighs. "I am Yours. I worship You," she whispered against his legs. Anxiously she lifted his chemise, and her exploring hands moved upward.

"Ah!" she cried and her hands became talons. "You're a man! You're sent to tempt me."

The touch of those long nails on his genitals filled Sandro with icy, numbing fear. As quickly as he could he broke free of Estasia's hold, stumbling in his haste.

She was already on her feet, rushing toward him, her hands ready to strike. "Fiend! Fiend! Tormentor!"

Sandro moved quickly around the end of the bed and quickly pulled down the last hanging. As Estasia rushed at him, he wrapped the heavy fabric around her. The binding was crude, and the knots clumsy, but they held Estasia in spite of her violent convulsions. It took some little time for Sandro to wrestle her onto the bed, and longer still to quieten her.

When at last her hysterical outbursts had deteriorated into hiccups, Sandro sat on the side of the bed. He had opened a window and the night smells of high summer filled the room, sweetening the reek of spilled perfumes and ointments.

"Protect me, God. Save me," Estasia muttered as she tried to roll off her bed.

"Estasia, listen to me," Sandro ordered her, much of the kindness gone from him. "What's wrong, Estasia?" He asked the question he'd wanted to avoid for a little while yet. "Are you with child? Is that the reason for your fear?"

Her laughter at this was hideously shrill. "With child?" she gasped. "With child?"

But Sandro was quickly losing patience with her. "You have had at least two lovers in the last year. It's not impossible."

This stern common sense had no effect on Estasia. She let out another high wail of laughter, and then regarded her cousin coyly. "I don't want a child. I want... I want..." Her face contorted and she would have cried out if Sandro had not slapped her once.

"I won't have this, Estasia!" He waited while she stifled her impulse to scream again. "You thought you were in hell. If not for pregnancy, then why?" His rugged face softened with compassion. "Don't be frightened of me, Estasia. Tell me what the matter is, and let me help you."

She twisted away from him. "I was in hell," she insisted in a small voice. "I was in hell and devils hurt me while I burned. They flogged me with silken lashes. They took me with members like burning clubs." She swallowed and a shiver ran through her.

"Estasia, if there is sin on your soul, go to church and confess it. Free yourself of the fires of hell."

Again Estasia laughed, this time in a sensuous purr. She rolled as far as her wrappings would let her. "And tell the priest what the fiends do to me? The poor priest, he won't know what I'm talking about." She inhaled sharply, pleasurably. "It was a nightmare. It terrified me. I thought I would be destroyed. It was wonderful." She stretched a little and smiled.

There was a sound at the door, and Sandro turned his head. "Yes?"

Simone, severe and righteous, stood in the doorway, and with him was an apprehensive young Servanto Brother. "I heard what our cousin was suffering, so I have brought help for her."

"That was good of you, Simone," Sandro said, resisting his first impulse to snap at his brother. He stood reluctantly and stared down at his cousin's lovely, demented face. "Perhaps you're right," he said wearily. "I don't know what to do for her." He nodded to the Servanto Brother. "Would you like to be alone with her?"

The monk could not have been more than sixteen years old, and his immaturity showed in the eager, apprehensive glance he gave Estasia. "I... I don't... Is she violent?"

"Not at the moment. She was earlier," Sandro admitted, with a comprehensive glance around the room.

As if in contradiction, Estasia screamed. "A priest! Oh, God, save me!"

The Servanto Brother stared at her in alarm and clutched his breviary more firmly. "Buona Donna," he began, and was cut short by another of Estasia's shrieks. He turned helplessly to Simone.

"She is suffering pangs of sin," Simone announced with deep satisfaction. He shoved the monk a little farther into the room. "If only she will confess, these visions of hell will vanish."

"Visions of hell?" the young Servanto asked, and repeated the question to Sandro.

"That is what she said." Sandro was tired of the atmosphere of excess that surrounded Estasia now. He frowned. "Don't encourage her, Brother," he said to the Servanto. "And you shouldn't either, Simone."

Estasia had begun to sing; the tune was popular and the lyrics she set to it remarkably lewd. As the three men watched, she wriggled nearer to them and began to move her tightly bound hips in a slow, sensuous counterpoint to her song. She interrupted herself to say, "At least the fiends of hell know what to do with a woman. Simone, you're useless-you're constipated with religion. Sandro, ah, Sandro, if you had been willing, I would never have needed other lovers. You paint such lovely, lovely nudes, surely it would have pleased you to come to my bed. Take off this stuff you've bound me with. Look at my breasts. They're like ripe fruit. Touch them. Take them in your mouth and taste the sweetness."

"Stop this, Estasia," Sandro said as he walked slowly to the door. He could see a blush on the monk's face and the formal indignation on his brother's. He sighed. "If you want to deal with her, Brother, I would appreciate it. Who knows? Confession might help."

"I... I will try, Signor. But if she really is possessed of devils..." He stopped and set his jaw. "Devils are for the Domenicani. Our order is for praises."

Sandro gestured helplessly. "You must do as you think best, Brother. But if she screams again I may throttle her." With that, he shouldered his brother aside and went down the long hall toward his bedchamber.

"You must exhort her," Simone said in a steely voice as he glared at the monk. "Listen to her. No woman who is chaste and modest would sing that way."

Estasia heard this and laughed. "The words don't frighten the boy, Simone," she said mischievously. "It's what the words do to him. Sandro may have no use for my body, but I wager that monk does." She tried to find a position where she could see the young monk more clearly. Her hazel eyes brightened as she realized that he was good-looking and fairly athletic. "Does your body know what I want, monk?" she teased. "Exhort me all you like. I'll be happy to learn of you."

Simone stopped her suggestive words. "Where the devil is, pain will cast him out." He trod across the floor, bits of broken jars crunching underfoot. He reached down and took hold of her tangled chestnut hair. Harshly he jerked her head back, pleased at her gasp. "There, you see? She's not so willing a servant of the devil now." He tightened his hold on her hair and Estasia strained to save herself from Simone's abuse.

The Servanto Brother was at once shocked and curious. He came nearer the bed and looked down at the woman there, seeing how thoroughly she was tied in her own bed hangings. "Don't hurt her any more, Signor," he said after a moment.

"We must not be gentle with Satan," Simone admonished the young monk.

"But we must not judge until we know that it is Satan we punish. To do otherwise is prideful." For all his youth, he was shrewd enough to see the distorted satisfaction in Simone's stern face. He directed his attention to Estasia, making a gesture to dismiss Simone.

But Simone was not going to leave immediately. "You cannot be alone with her, Brother. What if she were to become violent again?"

"She is well-confined, Filipepi," the monk said gently. "If there is trouble, I will call. Surely you won't be so far away that you cannot rush to my defense?" He had a pleasant moment of victory as Simone lowered his head, crossed himself and backed out of Estasia's bedchamber. "My dear sister," the monk said firmly to Estasia as he knelt by the bed, "I am Fra Enzo, from Santissima Annunziata. You are in distress."

Estasia ran her tongue over her lips. "Oh, yes. And you must help me, Fra Enzo."

He nodded and clasped his hands together. "Tell me your affliction and together we shall pray for guidance of your soul."

A half-turn brought her even nearer to the monk. "Fra Enzo," she whispered, "you can do so much more for me. I have faith that you can."

Fra Enzo was young enough to be flattered by this, but he did his best to maintain his dignity. "We must ask for the help of heaven." He began to recite the First Psalm, Ms eyes closed, his voice rich with sincerity.

"I know a better way to worship," Estasia said softly. She lay back and waited for Fra Enzo to give her his attention.

When he finished the psalm, Fra Enzo opened his eyes and smiled earnestly at Estasia. "You have heard Holy Writ without terror and cries. The Devil, if indeed he holds you, is very weak. Tell me what happened and be free of the toils of hell."

Estasia's half-smile was disconcerting in the soft light. "Very well, Fra Enzo. You must forgive me..."

The monk was alarmed and reprimanded her gently. "It is not I who will forgive you, sister. It is God Himself Who will forgive your errors."

"But through you." The tone of her voice was disquieting. "Shall I tell you what I thought the fiends of hell did to me? Shall I tell you what their lusts were?" She laughed. "They possessed me..."

Fra Enzo was on his feet. "Sister, it is neither fitting nor decorous for you to speak this way. If the Devil himself were holding you, you would find my presence a torment. But you don't. And you think because I am young and that my face is fair to you, that I am foolish enough to be lured by you." His indignation rose with his voice. "I have had to endure this before. You think because my face and form please you that my vocation is a lie. I am a monk because that is all I have ever wished to be. I take pleasure in my vows, and in chastity, poverty and obedience. You won't trick me, Donna." He turned abruptly and stormed out of the room, his young face deeply flushed.

Simone, who had been waiting near the door, drew himself up in haughty surprise as Fra Enzo came up to him. "What has happened, good Brother?"

"That woman is no more possessed than I am," he said with asperity. "To think that men like you are fooled." He did not pause, but went quickly out of the house.

When Sandro had once again secured the door, he came back to his brother. "Well, Simone, what now?"

"We must get a confession from her. Obviously, the Servanto was too young to understand in what peril her soul stands. His advice was good: we must take her to the Domenicani."

Sandro's expression was filled with disgust. "Let well enough alone, Simone. You are as bad as she, feeding her illusions this way."

"The Devil," Simone said, growing very solemn, "is the father of lies. Take care that you do not admit him into your heart through such misguided tolerance."

"Santa Chiara protect us." Sandro sighed. "As you wish. If in the morning Estasia still desires to confess, by all means, take her to confession, just so long as there is an end to this nonsense." Sandro hesitated before adding, "That includes your nonsense, too, Simone. I won't have any more discord in my house. I have too many commissions to complete, and I can't work with you and Estasia nettling each other." He put his hand on Simone's shoulder to soften his rebuke. "You know that artists are difficult. So, if it will make it easier for you, pray for me."

There was icy disapproval in Simone's angular face. "You are the master here. Of course I will do as you wish."

"Simone, don't..." He stopped. It was useless. He went past his brother into Estasia's bedchamber once more. "Cousin?"

The voice that answered him was flat, hard and practical. "You may untie me now, Sandro. My nightmare is over. I'll be sensible. Who knows? I may even go to confession, if only to keep peace in the house."

Sandro approached her bed and saw that there was no more voluptuous passion in her posture. Her vixen's face was set and her hazel eyes regarded him coldly. "Move nearer, Estasia. Let me free you from those bonds." She responded in silence, waiting patiently as Sandro loosened the knots he had made in her bed hangings. At last the chore was done and he stood back. "I'll send in the two slaves tomorrow to clean up. You needn't trouble yourself with the chore."

"Thank you." Her tone was absolutely colorless.

Although he had started for the door, Sandro stopped. "Are you all right, Estasia?"

"I'm quite well," she said in the same emotionless voice. "You need not fear I will repeat my unfortunate scene tonight."

Those words, so sincerely uttered, should have reassured Sandro, but instead he wondered what next she would do. If it was not nightmare that disturbed his household, what else might it be? And when?

He found no answer, and no peace for the rest of that warm summer night as she closed her door behind him.

Text of a letter from Leonardo da Vinci to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

To the alchemist Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, Leonardo sends his thanks and greetings from Milano.

You must forgive the inelegance of my script, but as I am left-handed, I usually simplify the matter and write the other direction. I have heard from Botticelli that you have the knack of writing with both hands equally well-and I would assume, in either direction. I wish I were as fortunate as you. I think I could cut my tasks in half with such a talent.

Let me thank you for the dyes and pigments you were good enough to send me. I particularly like that blue, which you say will not fade when mixed with oil or prepared in an egg tempera. I have tried the latter and am in general quite pleased with it. But I wish it-and the others as well-were faster-drying. You must have heard by now how impatient I become and a faster-drying paint would please me very much indeed. If you have any particular knowledge in your skill that would make it possible to speed the drying of paint, but with no loss of depth and color, I would become your apprentice, I promise you.

It is the ultimate frustration of an artist's life that nothing he ever produces is as superior, as excellent as the image he has of it in his mind. I don't know if it is as true in your particular discipline or not, but I have found over the years that nothing I have done-nothing-is as fine as the vision from which it sprang. I hate to say a piece is finished when it is less than I know it could be. That is one of the reasons I like building the various engines I have a certain reputation for. With an engine, it is always what it ought to be, and works fairly much as expected. An engine can be finished, but art, never.

I am sorry to hear that all is not well in Fiorenza. There is nothing I can do beyond expressing my regret. And that must be enough. Our mutual friend Sandro is much troubled, and I understand that of late he has had conversation with you. It may please you to know that he takes comfort in your knowledge and remarkably wide experience. He tells me that you have been to India, and have seen temples as vast as the center of Roma. How fortunate for you. If I were not bound to Sforza and my other patrons, I think I would ramble the world over.

Perhaps, if you are ever in Milano, you will visit with me, and tell me some of the tales that have so enthralled Sandro. And if you have any other colors, paints, dyes, pigments or varnishes, I would deeply appreciate it if you would share them with me. How rare it is to find someone who not only loves art, but understands the colors and tools behind it.

Be kind enough to extend my greetings to Botticelli and those friends of Medici who were there when I was. I wager Magnifico is much missed. Even I, in Milano, miss him. I thank you again, a thousand times, for your gift. This should reach you quickly, for it comes with the herald of Il Moro to that young man who will never replace his father. Well, the world could never endure true excellence for long. Look to yourself, then, Ragoczy, as I will look to my own safety. And with that warning, I will send you my respects and all such.

da Vinci

Unfortunately in Milano, September 15, 1492