The older Franciscan who had spoken to Violetta earlier turned and faced us women. “Why,” he asked kindly, “is Fra Domenico afraid to enter the fire without the Host? Is not his faith enough to preserve him? And why does not Savonarola put an end to the arguments? If he grows impatient with our demands, why does he not simply walk through the flames himself?”
Violetta did not answer. She frowned at the
ringhiera
, where her husband and the Franciscans stood arguing with Fra Girolamo.
“Coward!” someone shouted.
A few scattered drops of rain began to fall. Safe beneath the shelter of the loggia, I watched them strike the railing.
“Coward!” another voice cried. “Enter the fire!”
“He is afraid!” a man called. “Don’t you see? He is afraid!”
Thunder boomed, frighteningly close; Violetta started and seized my arm. Domenico stood, solid and thick and relentless, in the quickening rain, while Savonarola continued to argue with the Priors.
Thunder, again, then a shriek: “He lied to us! He has always lied to us!”
Torrents of water crashed down in gray sheets, quickly flooding the piazza. Lightning dazzled. We wives left our seats and scurried to the center of the loggia. I peered out at the square: Domenico had not budged. Amazingly, neither had the crowd. They had come to learn the truth about the prophet, and would not leave without satisfaction.
The fire, which had blazed fiercely an instant before, was quenched; the wood and the brush were sodden with water rather than oil.
The people’s enthusiasm was just as quickly extinguished. Men shouted over the roar of the rain.
“God Himself disapproves!”
“Fra Girolamo conjured up the storm, lest it expose his lies!”
My husband and Valori sent a representative dashing into the rain to speak to the commanders of the soldiers. They began to urge the crowd to disperse and go home. But the men in the piazza—most of them men who had cast their little red crosses to the ground—would not leave.
“Why would you not enter the fire?”
“Sodomite!”
“Heretic!”
“Liar!”
The wives grew frightened; they hurried to the
ringhiera
, to their husbands’ sides. I went to stand beside Francesco. Savonarola was nearby, quite dry, but trembling as though the rain had soaked him through.
“I cannot leave without an escort! The Franciscans have turned the people against me!”
“I will arrange for one,” Valori said, and disappeared inside the palazzo. Francesco sent a page out into the piazza to summon Claudio.
While we were riding home, the deluge let up as quickly as it had come. Francesco looked out the window and let go an odd, catching sigh.
“It is over.”
W
e returned to the palazzo and Francesco did not venture out again that day. He ordered the gate closed and locked, and set stablehands armed with swords to guard it; then he went into his study and did not come out, even for supper.
My father failed to come to supper as well, which concerned me. I had not seen him in several days, but Francesco had forbidden anyone to leave the palazzo that night. Our street, fortunately, was quiet, but I could see the glow of torchlight coming from the west, where the monastery and church of San Marco lay.
Earlier that morning, Isabella had been nervously waiting with the women of San Marco—out of curiosity, not faith—to hear the outcome of the Trial by Fire. When Savonarola arrived, she said, he told the women that the Franciscans had delayed for so long that they angered God, Who sent the storm. The women were skeptical—even more so when their husbands arrived, furious with their prophet. Isabella reported that the parishioners had actually begun to battle the monks, and so she had left out of fright.
The next day was Palm Sunday. Francesco did not attend church,
but chose again to remain home and forbade the rest of us to leave. This day, however, he had visitors, all at different times. The head of the
piagnoni
, Francesco Valori, called early in the morning and spoke privately to my husband in his study; he came and left wearing the stricken expression of a man who had discovered all his gold turned to sand. The second caller was a young messenger with a letter; my husband insisted on taking delivery of it personally.
The third caller was a prominent member of the
Arrabbiati
, one Benedetto de’ Nerli. He arrived at night, after supper, and apologized for the lateness of the hour, but said that he had pressing need to speak to Ser Francesco.
My husband received him in our great sitting room. I had heard the disturbance and came down; although I was not invited to sit with the men, I hovered near the open door and listened. Ser Benedetto had a deep, resonant voice and spoke very clearly, for which I was grateful.
“I come bearing bad news,” Ser Benedetto began.
Francesco’s voice was faint, slightly sarcastic. “I can’t imagine how the situation could grow worse.”
Ser Benedetto ignored the comment and continued, steady and forthcoming. “The
piagnoni
have lost their leader. Francesco Valori was killed tonight.”
There came a silence, as my husband digested this tragedy. “How did it happen?”
“He was attending vespers at San Marco. A group of roughs disrupted the service and threatened to burn his house. It grew ugly; they took him by force, but he managed to escape. When he got to his house, he hid in a cupboard; the group followed and shot his wife in the forehead with a crossbow. Then they found Valori and started to drag him to the Signoria—”
“A foolish course, if they wanted to harm him,” my husband interjected. “He would find safety there.”
Ser Benedetto’s tone turned abruptly cool. “Perhaps not.” He paused to let his innuendo sink in, then continued. “On the way to the Signoria, they came across Vicenzo Ridolfi and Simone Tornabuoni . . .”
I knew the names. These men were relatives of two of the beheaded men, Lorenzo Tornabuoni and Niccolò Ridolfi.
“They can hardly be blamed for wanting revenge on Valori, who spearheaded the campaign to behead their loved ones. They had taken to the streets, as have so many others who hope for Savonarola’s arrest. Tornabuoni wielded a pruning hook . . .”
I closed my eyes.
“. . . and split Valori’s skull in two, while Ridolfi cried, ‘You will never govern again!’ As far as I know, Valori’s body is still lying out in the street.”
“Why are you telling me this?” my husband asked. His tone was not cold or defensive, as I would have expected; there was a hint of receptiveness in it.
“For the current session, as you know, the Signoria is split evenly between your party and mine. If it remains equally divided, there will be no legal way to resolve the question of Savonarola. It will be decided in the streets, with bloodshed, and all the citizens suffering.
“But if—”
My husband interrupted. “If just one
piagnone
prior were to change his loyalties and side with the
Arrabbiati
. . .”
“Precisely. Justice could be administered swiftly, and many lives spared.”
“Ser Benedetto,” my husband said, with the same warm graciousness he extended to any honored guest. “I shall think on what you have said. And I shall give you my answer in the morning, when the Signoria convenes.”
“Let it be no later,” Ser Benedetto said, and I heard the warning in it.
I heard the warning, and was happy. I wanted Fra Girolamo to burn. Even more, I wanted Domenico to burn with him.
On Monday morning, my husband told me to have the servants prepare the house for a prestigious guest, who would be coming to stay with us for a few weeks; then he left for the Signoria. Even though the
streets were calmer, thanks to the small battalions of neighborhood troops maintaining the peace, he did not travel alone: He requested that Claudio drive him, and he had two armed men accompany him in the carriage.
I was stranded at home, without a driver. Zalumma and I could always ride on horseback together, if we desperately needed to leave the house—but it was always safer to have a male companion, and that was under normal circumstances, not uncertain times like these. And every servant that might act as chaperone was far too busy obeying Francesco’s orders to ready the palazzo for our guest.
I chafed to see my father. I decided that as soon as Francesco returned, I would insist on going to visit my father, to be sure that he was well. I envisioned the conversation with Francesco in my mind: his refusal, saying it was not safe, and my insistence, saying that I would have Claudio and the two armed men to protect me.
Zalumma and I fetched Matteo from the nursery and took him down to the garden, since the day was pleasant. We chased him and giggled, and I clasped his hands and wrists and whirled him round in a circle until his feet lifted off the ground.
I intended to exhaust us both. I knew of no other way to brighten my thoughts. But for the first time, Matteo tired first. Head lolling, he slept in my arms—almost too heavy now to hold—and I walked beside Zalumma past the rosebushes.
Zalumma kept her voice low. “What do you think will happen to Savonarola?”
“I think that Francesco will join the
Arrabbiati
,” I said, “and that Savonarola will die. Be burned at the stake, just like Mother said. She was right about the five headless men, don’t you remember?”
“I remember.” Zalumma gazed at a distant olive grove on a hill, at some secret memory. “She was right about many things.” Her tone hardened. “I’ll be glad when he dies.”
“It won’t change anything,” I said.
She snapped her head about to look at me in disbelief. “What do you mean? It will change
everything
!”
I sighed. “The same people will be running Florence. It won’t change anything at all.”
Afterward, when Matteo was asleep in the nursery and the servants were all downstairs eating in the kitchen, I went to Francesco’s study.
It was foolish, going in the middle of the day, but I was consumed by restlessness and a mounting sense of worry. And I had not even considered how I would get to Leonardo if I found a new letter.
It is time to join the
Arrabbiati
and sacrifice the prophet. We have already translated into action your suggestion of luring Piero to Florence and making public example of him. The people are still angry; we will give them a second scapegoat. Otherwise, with Savonarola gone, they might soften too much toward the Medici. We are taking Messer Iacopo’s plan as our model: I shall expose the traitor in the midst of his crime, take him to the piazza for public spectacle, and rely on mercenary troops as reinforcement. Those mercenaries failed Messer Iacopo years ago—but ours, I assure you, will not fail us
. Popolo e libertà!Seek out Lord Priors who will support us in this move. Recompense them generously. Guarantee them important roles in the new government to come; but only you will be my second
.Let us not confine our public spectacle to Piero. We must dispense with all Medici brothers—for if even one survives, we are not free of the threat. Cardinal Giovanni presents the least danger, and my agents will try to deal with him in Rome, where he will surely stay
.But the youngest—he is the most dangerous, having all the intelligence and political acumen his eldest brother lacks. And in your house sleeps the perfect lure to bring him to Florence
.
I dropped silently to the floor as if downed by an assassin’s blade and sat, gasping, my skirts furling about me, the impossible letter in my lap. I was too stunned to embrace its contents. I dared not. My father had been right: If I knew the full truth, Francesco and Claudio would read it in my face, my every gesture.
For the sake of my father and my child, I chose to become numb. I could not let myself think or feel. I could not let myself hope or rage.
I rose on trembling legs, then carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I went up the stairs to my room. Slowly, deliberately, I took a book from the trunk and set it on my night table, where Isabella would be sure to see it.
Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs, in the corridor; as I went to open the door, Zalumma pulled it open first.
She did not notice that I was stunned, wild-eyed, pale. Her black brows, her lips, were stark, broad strokes of grief.
“Loretta,” she said. “From your father’s house. She is here. Come quickly.”
He was dying, Loretta said. Three days earlier, his bowels had turned to blood, and he had not been able to eat or drink. Fever left him often delirious. Not plague, she insisted. Plague would not have brought the bloody flux. For two days, he had been asking for me.
And each time Loretta had come, Claudio or Francesco or one of the armed men had sent her away.
Loretta had driven herself in the wagon. I did not stop or think or question; I said nothing to anyone. I went immediately to the wagon and climbed in. Zalumma came with me. Loretta took the driver’s seat, and together we left.
It was a terrible ride over the Arno, over the Ponte Santa Trinità, over the murky waters where Giuliano supposedly had drowned. I tried to stop the words repeating in my mind, to no success.
But the youngest—he is the most dangerous
. . . .
And in your house sleeps the perfect lure
.
“I can’t,” I said aloud. Zalumma looked worriedly over at me, but said nothing. The letter had to be a trap; Francesco must have discovered me rifling through his desk, or else Isabella had lost her nerve and told all. It was impossible, of course. The world could not have known he was alive and not told me.
I drew a deep breath and remembered that my father was dying.
The ground beneath my feet had tilted sideways, and I was clawing for purchase.
For the first time in my life, I entered my father Antonio’s bedchamber. It was midday; a cool breeze blew outside. In my father’s room, it was dark and hot from the fire, and the air stank of unspeakable things.