The Palace (25 page)

She held back from him, still uncertain.

"Do I frighten you?" He had not intended the words to be so revealing, but
his despair could not be disguised.

"No," she said quickly. "You have never frightened me." It was almost the
truth.

"Not even now, knowing what I am?"

She could no longer read the expression in his eyes, but she knew they
searched her face. "You've said you won't harm me, and I believe you, San
Germane If you were to cast me out for imposing this confidence on you, I would
not fear you. But I would certainly be angry," she added with a smile.

Kindly, gently he drew her into his arms and touched her cheeks with his. "Demetrice,
do you know what it is not to be loathed?"

There was nothing she could say in answer, but she felt a deep sympathy for
Ragoczy, and realized what his question must mean. She returned his embrace
briefly.

But it was Ragoczy who stepped back first. "Come," he said in quite a
different tone. "It's icy here. You must have a bath or you will take a fever."

Demetrice accepted this, and admitted to herself that she was chilled through
the bone. She made no demur but followed him into the hall, glad to have the
warmth of the palazzo around her, and the awakened comfort of the friendship of
Francesco Ragoczy da San Germane.

Text of a letter from il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola to Marsilio
Ficino:

To his friend in Fiorenza, Marsilio, Pico sends greetings in Plato from Roma.

You must be the first to hear of my good news. The Pope has at last granted
me an audience for my petition. Who would have thought that Rodrigo Borgia, of
all men, would be willing to hear me? But it may be that I will have the
infamous ban against my work lifted at last. Pray for me, Marsilio.

I have seen Cardinale Giovanni (and I must have heard a thousand times now
the pun about Giovin' Giovann', and grown heartily sick of the witticism). Of
course Giovanni is young, and of course it is obvious that the seven tassles on
his hat have not aged him or given him an old man's wisdom. But he is very much
a Medici, and a Fiorenzan to the marrow. If you think that the Orsinis look down
on Fiorenza, it is nothing compared to the way our young Cardinale views Roma.
But he is clever and he will learn. He is also ambitious and likes to lose even
less than his father did. Laurenzo might not like what his son is doing here,
but he would be proud of him, nonetheless.

There are some very disquieting rumors in Roma, however, about what Piero has
done to Fiorenza. The ambassador from Genova has been hinting that Genova would
be interested in acquiring Pisa and Livorno, which would be disastrous for la
Repubblica Fiorenzena. Unless Piero takes control of the bank from his
Tornabuoni uncle and stops leaving statecraft to that other Piero, Dovizio da
Bibbiena. It's all very well to have a secretary to copy out letters and to
organize appointments. But it is more than enough if they run the state. It
would have been better if Piero had had a Fiorenzena to wive. Alfonsina is much
worse than Clarice ever was. It's past help now. They've been married almost
three years. Not even a Borgia Pope would annul that.

This was the first year we didn't gather on November 7 to honor the birthday
of Socrates. I felt very empty on that day. It was not only that I am here in
Roma, but it was the knowledge that no such meeting occurred in Fiorenza. I have
very often missed Laurenzo, but never more than that day just a month ago.

I am sending a few poems with this, and since it will be carried by Cardinale
Giovanni's messenger, I am confident that it will reach you in good time. Do, I
ask you, read them and when you have had time to consider their merit—if
any—send me word. Your criticism has always been of great use to me.

Be kind enough to greet all my friends in Fiorenza in my name. I hope to
return as soon as Alessandro grants my petition. In the meantime I commend
myself and all my work to you.

Giovanni Pico, Conte della Mirandola e Concordia

 

In Roma on the Feast of San Ambrosio di Milano, December 7, 1492

 

The great nave of Santa Maria del Fiore was almost full, the benches crowded,
and many people sitting huddled on the floor. It was a terribly bright, cold day
and a shattering wind carried the breath of the snow-clad hills into the city
and the cathedral.

Since Savonarola had been granted the right to preach in the cathedral, his
followers had grown in number and it seemed that this day they were all
determined to hear the ferocious little Domenicano speak. It was a holy time of
year, and that promised fervid sermons. The service was unbearably long, the
Mass seeming to go on forever. The congregation murmured and joggled and rustled
as each person tried to endure the ritual before Girolamo Savonarola could speak
to them. Finally there was an impatient hush and an expectant shuffling as
people sat straighter, hoping for a better view of the angular little man
walking stiffly toward the oratory of the cathedral.

Simone Filipepi glared at his cousin Donna Estasia, sitting woodenly beside
him. "Listen to him, cousin," he hissed in her ear. "His words will reward your
patience."

Estasia had hated the whole thing. From the moment that morning when Simone
had almost dragged her from the house, to the long wait as the cathedral filled,
it had all seemed hideous. Her head ached, she was cold, and the three hours
they had sat on the hard bench so that they might be near Savonarola when he
spoke seemed to her the height of folly and a waste of time. She let her
thoughts stray back to the night before. Ettore, her new lover, had been a
disappointment. He had been clumsy, too hurried, and when he had taken his
pleasure, he had hurried away from her, making some flimsy excuse about needing
to be fresh in the morning. Not for the first time she scolded herself mentally
for having been such a fool about Ragoczy. She had been capricious and it had
cost her the pleasure she took with him.

Around her the people leaned forward as the incongruously big, harsh voice of
the prior of San Marco began to fill the cathedral. "With a sorrowing, humble,
repentant heart," he announced, "I have prayed. I have prayed that the
destruction that is to come will not fall while Fiorenza is yet so ripe with
sins."

This awful pronouncement was a most promising beginning. The congregation
strained to hear more.

"Oh, Fiorenza, you must repent while there is still time. My visions tell me
that the time is short. Fiorenza will be as a desert, laid waste and barren. It
is not my voice that tells you this, it is the Voice of God that speaks through
me!"

Simone shot a look at Estasia, and seeing the wanton, arrogant smile she
wore, whispered, "You are vile!"

Savonarola leaned forward in his oratory, his bright green eyes snapping with
purpose. "Dress yourselves in humble white, for purity, O Fiorenzeni. Plagues
and war will come to destroy you if you do not repent. I have seen the Sword of
the Wrath of God over this city, and it came with the storm and devastation
followed."

This is what the people had come to hear. A few of the congregation cried out
for mercy and shouted they had repented.

"The early Christians, who gladly wore their martyrs' crowns, lived in
simplicity amid the corrupt luxury of Roma. They knew that the truth lies only
in the words of Christ, in the Gospels and Testaments. They, who had the power
of an empire around them, turned away from the fallacious teachings and accepted
the Will of God."

Estasia sighed and looked around the cathedral, a smile in her eyes as she
saw handsome men in the crowd. There was one, obviously rich, perhaps from Pisa,
by the cut of his clothes. As he glanced her way she signed to him, and hoped he
would seek her out after the sermon.

"You have fallen away from this. You read the heresy of Plato and Aristotle,
and think that you can entertain their notions as well as the Teachings of
Christ. You are deceived. Plato and Aristotle even now rot and burn in hell!" He
held up his hand to quiet the muttering in the congregation. "They are in hell!
I have seen it through the Grace of God. And you, you read their works and
congratulate yourselves when you understand them. What you understand is the way
to perdition!" This time he let the groan run its course.

The young Pisan saw Estasia and nodded to her, a soft, sensual anticipation
warming his features.

"You read of the forbidden excesses of the friends of Socrates, of congress
between men, which the Testaments most strictly forbid. The Word of God commands
that sodomites be burned alive. What prideful folly to overlook that command."
He saw some of the men wince and others bristle at his words. "Yes, you resist.
You are rank with corruption and you revel in your perversity. You are like the
Romans of old, who killed good Christians and today shovel coals in hell and
bemoan their fate."

Simone saw the exchange between Estasia and the young Pisan nearby. He
grabbed her hands roughly. "You're no better than a whore. Learn to live in
humility. Learn to despise the flesh."

"Oh, Simone." Estasia sighed petulantly, and pretended to give the preacher
from Ferrara her attention.

"How you emulate those Romans, and take pride in it. You have horse races,
and gamble on the outcome. If there is to be salvation, the palio must end.
Every one. You bet on cards and dice and all manner of disgusting sport. You
caper more lasciviously than any pagan at festival time, and give yourselves
over to the monstrous sins of the flesh at carnival. You paint your women, and
you allow even holy art to show the Mother of God as simpering, jeweled and
scented as a harlot in the court of Caesar." He pointed to a new Madonna
recently added to the cathedral decorations. "See there? See? Her eyes are not
humble and pure. Her countenance is bold, inviting, and the hand at her breast
fools no one. It is not to nourish Our Lord, but to pervert the minds of this
congregation."

Every eye turned to the Madonna, and there was a murmur of horrified
agreement.

"Is it any wonder that the most respected matron in this city still bedecks
herself in paint and struts abroad in indecent splendor. And think of those
degraded women who truly follow that life, who are terrible in their lusts. Any
woman of this city might be a prostitute, wallowing in the rankness of desire.
You have seen them. You have touched them. You are contaminated by those bits of
rotten meat with eyes!"

This time the wailing was almost overwhelming. Savonarola stood still, his
hand upraised. Then slowly, deliberately he brought it down, pointing out
various members of the congregation. "You have sought out lewd women for
unnatural pleasures!" he declared as he singled out a slender young woman
sitting modestly with her family. She shrieked and put a hand to her suddenly
pale face, denying it as tears welled in her eyes.

"You…" Savonarola next picked out a woman of more than forty years. "You have
decked yourself in man's clothing, and against all the laws of the state and
God, you have traveled abroad without shame."

There was spirit in the woman, for she shouted back, "What am I supposed to
do? Wear petticoats and be raped by brigands?"

Savonarola ignored this, and his baleful glance settled on Estasia. "You, you
wanton, luxurious, depraved! You are a channel of iniquity. What death lurks in
that fair body. Vicious carnality fills your thoughts. And for that you will be
punished in hell forever. You will be penetrated in every orifice by the minions
of the devils and you will bear in every part the seething offspring of Satan.
Your flesh will rupture and run, and the decay of your soul will fill all hell
with its stench!"

Estasia blinked and shook her head mechanically. "No. No."

But the congregation was howling for more, shouts rising from the general
roar as guilt and remorse overwhelmed them.

"Look upon her!" Savonarola shouted. "You and she are alike, Fiorenza! Fair,
fair, temptingly fair, you conceal your rottenness beneath a facade of the most
voluptuous pleasures. But see her!" He leveled both hands at her, and Estasia
tried to twist away. "See how her face contorts. See how she writhes. The Devil
has seized her by the hair! She spreads her legs and moans like the whore she
is! But who among you could endure her now?"

Estasia had fallen to the floor, where she clutched at the ankles of people
near her. She was whimpering, pulling at her bodice so that her breasts were
exposed. Methodically she began to scratch the rounded flesh, her nails leaving
deep bloody tracks in her skin. "I repent! I repent! Have pity! Have pity!"

Wholly embarrassed by this turn of events, Simone tried to drag Estasia to
her feet, but as he touched her, she screamed. "Estasia, control yourself!" he
ordered her, pulling his hands away from her. "You're disgracing yourself!"

Savonarola's voice rose above this. "How long, Fiorenza? How long before God
sickens entirely of you? How long before your corrupt loveliness offends Him
beyond all tolerance and love? You walk on the brink of eternity and you flirt
with chaos!"

Estasia fell forward, her face white. Her bodice was almost in shreds and her
hands now clawed at her face. She sobbed convulsively through tightly closed
teeth. The people she touched shrank away from her and some of them prayed.

"You see that woman touched by the Chastening Hand of God, yet you dare not
look too closely. But it is you who might next be touched! Repent, O Fiorenza.
Prostrate yourself at the Throne of Mercy before the Wrath of God overwhelms
you!"

As Estasia tried to get to her feet, she was twitching and her face wore a
distorted expression of hopelessness and dissatisfaction. She clasped her hands
and raised them heavenward. "Help me! Help me! Spare me!" She began to draw
herself forward, knocking over the bench before her and keening as the
rough-hewn wood tore at her arms.