The Birth of Venus (18 page)

Twenty-three

S
O MANY OF THE SERVANTS ASKED TO ATTEND THE
sermon next morning that there was almost no one left to guard the house. It was a story repeated through the city. A smart thief could have made away with cartloads of wealth that Sunday, though he would have to have had a strong stomach for hell to sin at such a moment—like using the darkness after Christ’s crucifixion to pick the pockets of the crowd.

While the poor put on their best clothes, it was the rich who dressed for the occasion, turning their fur collars inward and making sure their jewels were well hidden, in keeping with the new Sumptuary Laws. Before we left, Erila and I inspected each other for anything dubious or frivolous that might be revealed under our cloaks. Our modesty proved not to be enough. As we crossed the square toward the cathedral it was clear something was wrong. The place was awash with people and there were angry voices, punctuated by the sound of women crying. We had barely got to the steps when our way was blocked by a heavyset man in rough clothing.

“She can’t come in,” he said rudely to my husband. “Women are barred.”

And there was such aggression in his voice that for a moment I wondered if he knew something more about us and it made my blood run cold.

“Why is that?” my husband said coolly.

“The friar preaches on the building of the godly state. Such matters are not for their ears.”

“But if the state is godly, what could he possibly say that could offend us?” I said loudly.

“Women are barred,” he repeated, ignoring me and addressing my husband. “The business of government is for men. Women are weak and irrational and should be kept in obedience, chastity, and silence.”

“Well, sir,” I said, “if women are indeed—”

“My wife is a vessel of exemplary virtue.” Cristoforo’s fingers pinched a line of flesh under my sleeve. “There is nothing even our most diligent Prior Savonarola could instruct her on that she does not practice naturally.”

“Then she would better go home to tend the house and let the men be about their business,” he said. “And that veil of hers should have no edging and cover her face properly. This is a state of plain virtue now, not messed with rich man’s fancies.”

Six months before he would have found himself whipped home for such disrespect, but now his insolence was so confident that there was nothing to reply. As I turned I saw the same scene being played out at a dozen points on the steps around us: prominent citizens being humiliated by this new coarse piety. It was easy to see how it worked: As the rich dressed down, so the poor had less reason to look up to them. And it struck me, not for the last time, that if this was indeed the beginning of the New Jerusalem, it had a smell of more than spiritual revolution about it.

My husband, however, who would have seen it as clearly as I, wisely chose not to take offense. Instead he turned and smiled at me. “My dear wife,” he said, with studied sweetness and silly language, “go you now home with God and pray for us. I will join you later and relate what, if anything, is said that does affect you.”

So we bowed and parted like players in a bad rendition of Boccaccio’s tales, and he disappeared into the cavernous interior.

AT THE FOOT OF THE STEPS, ERILA AND I FOUND
OURSELVES
IN A
sea of women torn between piety and indignation at their exclusion. I recognized a few whom my mother might have counted as equals, women of grace and means. After a while a group of boys, their hair cut short, and dressed more like penitents than youths, came up and started herding us away to the edge of the square. It seemed to me they used the excuse of their holiness to prod and demean us as they would never have been allowed to do before.

“This way.” Erila grabbed me and pulled me to one side. “If we stay here we’ll never get in.”

“But how can we? There are guards everywhere.”

“Yes, but not every door is for the rich. With luck they’ll have picked lesser thugs for lesser people.”

I followed her out of the crowd and around the side of the cathedral until we found a door where the river of people was less grand but moving with such force that it was impossible for the vergers at the entrance to police everyone surging inside. As we pushed ourselves forward we could hear a rising tide of sound from within. It seemed that Savonarola had appeared at the altar, and suddenly the crush was heavier and the momentum faster as the great cathedral doors began to close.

Inside, Erila pulled me quickly backward, so that we pressed ourselves into the space between the second screen door and the church wall. Any earlier and someone would have spotted us. Any later and we would not have got in. I sneaked a glance out over the mass of bodies and saw we weren’t the only women to defy the ban, because a few moments into the mass there was a great commotion to the left and an elderly woman was rough-handled out the doors, the men hissing at her as she went. We kept our heads down, folding ourselves into the gloom of the interior.

When the service reached the sermon, the whole cathedral fell silent as the little monk made his way to the pulpit. This would be the first time he had preached publicly since the new government had been formed. While it might not have added to his stature (though to be fair from where I stood I couldn’t see him anyway), it had clearly blown a greater force into him. Or maybe it was indeed God. He spoke with such an easy familiarity about Him.

“Welcome, men of Florence! Today we meet to do great business. As the Virgin made her way to Bethlehem in preparation for the coming of our Savior, so our city takes the first steps along the road that will lead it to redemption. Rejoice, citizens of Florence, for the light is at hand.”

An opening ripple of approval ran through the crowd.

“The voyage is begun. The ship of salvation is launched. I have been with the Lord these days, seeking His advice, begging His indulgence. He has not left my side, day or night, as I have prostrated myself before Him awaiting His orders. ‘O God,’ I have cried, ‘give this great duty to another. Let Florence guide herself through this stormy sea and let me go back to my solitary haven.’ ‘It is impossible,’ the Lord replies. ‘You are the navigator and the wind is in the sails. There can be no turning back now.’”

Another roar rose up around him, louder this time, further urging him on, so that I could not help but think of Julius Caesar, who each time he spurned the crown incited the mob to offer it him again with even more fervor.

“‘Lord, Lord,’ I say to Him, ‘I will preach if I must. But why need I meddle with the government of Florence? I am but a simple monk.’ Then the Lord says in a terrible voice. ‘Take heed, Girolamo. If you would make Florence a holy city, its godliness must be built on deep foundations. A government of true virtue. This is your task. And though you may fear it, I am with you. As you speak, so my words flow over your tongue. And thus the darkness will be penetrated, until there is no place for the sinners to hide.

“‘But never mistake the severity of the journey. The very fabric is rotten, eaten away with the wormwood of lust and greed. Even those who think themselves godly must be brought to justice; those men and women of the church who drink my blood from gold and silver chalices and care more for the cups than for me, they must be taught again the meaning of humility. Those who worship false gods through pagan tongues must have their mouths sealed. Those who stoke the fires of the flesh must have the lust burned out of them. . . . And those who look at their faces before my own must have their mirrors smashed and their eyes turned inward to see the stain on their souls. . . .

“‘And in this great work men will lead the way. For as the corruption of man began with the corruption of woman, so their vanity and frailty must be guided by stronger hands. A truly godly state is one where the women stay behind closed doors and their salvation rests in obedience and silence.

“‘As the pride of Christendom goes to war to win back my Holy Land, so the glorious youth of Florence will take to the streets to wage battle on sin. They will be an army of the godly. The very ground will sing with their footsteps. And the weak, the gamblers, the fornicators, and the sodomites, all those who flout my laws shall feel my wrath.’ Thus saith the Lord to me. And thus I obey. Praise be His name, in heaven and on earth. Praise be to this our great work in building the New Jerusalem.”

And I swear, if it were not God then I do not know who was inside him, because he did indeed seem like a man possessed. I felt a shudder go through me, and for that moment it made me want to tear up my drawings and ask for forgiveness and God’s light, though the yearning came more from fear than any joy of salvation. Yet even as I felt it and the congregation rose up with one voice to praise him, I could not help but also be reminded of the sound that rose from Piazza Santa Croce on the day the city held her annual football contest, and the way the men in the crowd roared out their approval at every instance of sudden skill or aggression.

I turned to Erila to see how she was affected, and as I did I lifted my head a fraction, just as the man in front of me chose that moment to shift his weight to get a better view. And so his sideways glance caught mine and I knew instantly we were discovered. A whisper went up toward us, and Erila, more attuned than I to the speed of male violence, grabbed and pulled me through the crowd until we reached the crack in the door and spit ourselves out, safe but shaking, into the cool sunshine of a bright December morning in the New Jerusalem.

Twenty-four

W
HILE SAVONAROLA PREACHED HIS GODLY CITY FROM THE
pulpit, Erila and I took to the streets. The idea of living behind closed doors with only seclusion and piety for company made me cold with fear. Even without the stain of my husband’s sins I would fail every test that Savonarola’s God would set me, and I had risked too much to go meekly into that darkness now.

Most days we went to the market. Though women may be temptation on the streets, the business of shopping and cooking must still be done, and if the veil was thick enough it was sometimes hard to tell the curious from the obedient. I do not know what Florence’s Mercato Vecchio is like now, but then it was a wonder: a circus of sensation. Like everything else in our city it was stained with the mess of living, but that also gave it its vibrancy and style. Inside the square were elegant airy loggias, each constructed by and decorated for the trades they housed. So under the medallion portraits of animals were the butchers and under the fish the fishmongers, vying for the attention of your nostrils with bakers, tanners, fruit sellers, and a hundred steaming food stalls, where you could buy anything from stewed eel or roasted pike fresh from the river to chunks of pork stuffed with rosemary and sliced off the carcass as it dropped its juices off the spit. It was as if all the smells of life—the yeast, the cooking, the death, and the decay—had been thrown together in a great stewpot. I have found nothing to compare to it, and during those first dark winter days of God’s kingdom in Florence it felt like all that I had craved and was most afraid to lose.

Everyone had something to sell, and those who had nothing sold their nothingness. There was no loggia for the beggars, but they had their pitch nevertheless—on the steps of the four churches that stood like sentinels around the square. Erila said there were already more beggars since Savonarola had taken control. But whether that was because there was more hardship or more piety—and therefore greater expectations of charity—it was hard to know. The one who really captivated me was the wrestler. He was standing on a plinth near the western entrance to the square and a crowd had already gathered around him. Erila said she knew him of old. Before he was a mountebank he had been a professional fighter who took on all comers in the mud reaches by the river. In those days he had had a manager who took bets for him, and there was always a crowd to be found shouting on the contestants, as they stumbled and groaned in the black quicksand until both parties emerged looking like devils. She told me later that she had once seen him bury another man’s head so deep in the mud that he could only signal his surrender by the waving of his arms.

But such spectacles had been built on gambling, and in the wake of the new laws he had no option but to find another use for his magnificent body. He was naked to the waist, the cold sending his breath out as smoke. His upper torso was more like an animal’s than a man’s, his muscles so prominent and thick that his neck reminded me directly of a bull. He made me think of the Minotaur and its howling attack on great Theseus in the center of the labyrinth. But his was a different aberration of nature.

His skin had been oiled until it shone, and along his arms and across and around his chest was a painting (though what paint could adhere to such oily human skin?) of a great serpent. And as he flexed his muscles, making his skin ripple, so its thick green and black curves gleamed and slithered along his upper arms and across his torso. It was a most monstrous and magical sight. I was entranced, so much so that I pushed my way rudely to the front till I was standing right below him.

The richness of my cloth drew attention to my purse and he leaned over toward me. “Watch carefully, little mistress,” he said, “though you may have to lift your veil to see the wonder properly.” I moved aside my muslin and he grinned at me, a gap as wide as the Arno between his front teeth, then lifted out his arms toward me so this time, when the snake crawled, it was so close I could almost touch it. “The Devil is a serpent. Beware of the hidden sins in the pleasure of a man’s arms.”

By now Erila was tugging at my sleeve, but I threw her off. “How did you do that to your body?” I said eagerly. “What paints did you use?”

“Put some silver in the box and I’ll tell you.” The snake leaped upward onto his other shoulder.

I dug into my purse and threw half a florin in the box. It sat glimmering there amid the dull copper. Erila gave a theatrical sigh at my gullibility and grabbed my purse out of my hand, stuffing it inside her own bodice for safekeeping.

“So tell me!” I said. “It cannot be paint. In which case it must be dye?”

“Dye and blood,” he said darkly, squatting down now so he was indeed close enough to touch, close enough to see the film of sweat and oil on his skin and smell the sourness of his body. “First you cut into the skin, little cuts, snip snip snip, then one by one you prick in the colors.”

“Oh. Does it hurt?”

“Hah. I screamed like a baby,” he said. “But once it was started I wouldn’t let them stop. And so every day my snake grows prettier and more lithe. The Devil serpent has a woman’s face, you know. To tempt men. Next time I go under the knife I’ll ask them to give it your features.”

“Ach!” Erila’s voice, sniping with contempt. “Listen to this flattery. He just wants another coin.”

But I shooed her away. “I know who did this,” I said quickly. “It was the dyers of Santa Croce. You’re one of them, yes?”

“I was,” he said, and he stared at me more closely. “How did you know that?”

“I have seen their skin patterns. I went there once, as a child.”

“With your father, the cloth merchant,” he said.

“Yes! Yes!”

“I remember you. You were small and bossy and had your nose into everything.”

I laughed out loud. “Really! You really remember me!”

Erila tutted loudly. “I’ve got her purse already, bonehead. There’s no more silver to be had.”

“I don’t need your money, mistress,” he growled. “I make more waving my arms than you do on the streets after dark when they can’t tell your color from the black of the night.” And he turned his attention back to me. “Yes, I remember you. You had fine clothes and this ugly scrunched-up face. Still, you weren’t afraid of anything.”

I registered his words like a small knife jab. I might have taken a step back but his face came closer. “But I tell you something. I didn’t think you were ugly. Not at all. I thought you were luscious.” And as he said the word he sent the snake rippling languidly across his body toward me, at the same time flicking his tongue around his lips till the tip came out and waggled at me. It was a gesture of such naked lust that I felt my stomach turn with queasy excitement. I moved away quickly and pushed toward Erila, who was already free from the crowd, and as I went I heard his crude laughter ringing out over my head.

She was so angry at my disobedience that for a few moments she wouldn’t talk to me. But as the crowd thinned, she stopped and turned to me. “You all right?”

“Yes,” I said, though I suspect it was clear I wasn’t. “Yes.”

“So now maybe you see why ladies on the streets take chaperones. Don’t worry about him. His days are numbered. Once the new army finds him they’ll have him strung up so fast that both of his precious snakes will go limp with terror.”

But I could not shrug off either the beauty of his body or the truth of his observations about my own.

“Erila?” I stopped her again.

“What is it?”

“Am I really so ugly that he would recognize me after all these years?”

She snorted and grabbed me to her in a fast hug. “Aah, it wasn’t your ugliness he remembered, it was your courage. God help us, it’ll get you into more mischief than your looks ever will.”

So she pulled me down the narrow streets toward home.

BUT THAT NIGHT I COULD NOT GET HIS SKIN OUT
OF MY MIND.
I slept badly, the muscles of the snake squeezing my dreams into nightmares until I woke in a sweat, fighting its coils off my body. My gown was soaked cold on my skin. I peeled it off and stumbled to my wardrobe chest to find another. In the dim light from the outside torches, I caught the reflection of my upper torso in the small burnished mirror on the paneled wall. The sight of my nakedness held me there for a moment. My face was full of heavy shadow and my curves trapped darkness under my breasts. I thought of my sister on her wedding day, shining with the confidence of her beauty, and suddenly I could not bear the contrast. The mountebank was right. There was nothing in me to delight the eye. I was so ugly that men remembered me only for my hideousness. I was so ugly even my husband found me distasteful. I remembered the painter’s description of Eve as she fled Paradise, howling into the darkness, newly ashamed of her own nakedness. She had been wooed by a serpent also, its forked tongue piercing her innocence as its coils squeezed life from its prey. I climbed back into my bed and curled in on myself. After a while my finger strayed toward my cleft, seeking a comfort from my body that no one else would ever give. But the night was full of sin now and my fingers were afraid of the sweetness they might find, and instead I cried myself to sleep with my loneliness for company.