The Palace (52 page)

"I cannot. I took an oath."

"Break it. For your work. For those beautiful, fragile creatures whose flesh
is cloth and paint." Suddenly he took Botticelli by the shoulders and looked
searchingly into the artist's golden eyes. "Sandro, do you know what you're
doing? Truly know?"

Across la Piazza della Signoria Savonarola was shouting to the Militia
Christi, praising them more fulsomely than before, reciting the names of the
dedicated young men who were soldiers for God, for redemption. The young men, as
they heard their names called in turn, glowed with embarrassed pride.

Botticelli tried to break away from Ragoczy's hold, and was somewhat startled
to find he could not. The foreigner's hands were much stronger than he had
realized, and the compact, muscular body would resist anything but outright
assault. "Leave me alone, Francesco."

One last, desperate time Ragoczy pleaded with Botticelli. He saw out of the
corner of his eye that the Militia Christi was coming to gather up the
paintings, and that their arrogant leader, Ezechiele Aureliano, was smiling in
malevolent anticipation. "This is wasted, Sandro. Because next to them"—he
nodded toward the paintings— "neither you nor I nor that maniac Domenicano mean
anything. There is more humanity, more reality in those figures than in half of
the people gathered here to watch. Sandro. Please."

"You'd better leave, Ragoczy." His voice was flat, and without waiting for
Ragoczy to respond, he turned to the nearest of the Militia Christi. "I'm ready.
Help me carry the paintings."

The smile on Aureliano's face widened in spite of his efforts to appear
solemn. "You must do it, Filipepi. Otherwise it isn't real sacrifice."

For just a moment there was a kind of sickness in Sandro's face, a loathing.
Then it was gone and he shrugged. "Very well. Show me what I must do." He
shouldered his way past Ragoczy, refusing to meet the reproach in his face.

"The small ones first," Aureliano instructed. "Save the large ones for last.
The most indecent is the
Diana and Actaeon
. It's large enough to save
for the last. This
Jupiter and Io
or the
Semele
will do for
Savonarola's lesson."

"Lesson?" Sandro asked, the word almost strangled him as he spoke it.

Aureliano's face was wonderfully bland as he regarded the painter. "Yes, of
course. Savonarola will use your work, that you yourself so justly condemn, to
inspire others to destroy their Vanities. He will show the error of the work,
and tell how it damns us all."

Botticelli put his hands to his mouth as if he feared he might vomit. He
forced himself to be calm, and when he could, he lowered his hands and said,
"That isn't necessary."

"But it is." Aureliano was grinning unashamedly. "If you are not sincere in
your repentance, then how can we expect sincerity of others? The corruption
inherent in the art will be revealed, and where lust has been engendered there
will now be only disgust." He rocked back on his heels.

Sandro glanced wildly around him, looking for help. There were only the
mocking faces of the young men and a few Domenicani Brothers separating the
paintings into stacks. He took one step forward, but his way was blocked by the
Militia Christi. Beyond, the monks continued their work. Botticelli wondered
fleetingly what would happen if he cast himself instead of his work into the
flames. He started toward the nearest monk, who bent over the
Persephone
and
Semele
, and it was only then that he saw the monk wore heeled boots
of blue leather. He almost laughed at that, amazed at Ragoczy's audacity. He
felt a moment of elation, which he quickly stifled. He looked at Ezechiele
Aureliano and his heart tightened like a fist in his chest.

"We will begin soon," the Militia Christi leader said. "Whenever you're
ready."

Sandro gave one last, quick glance at his
Semele
and
Persephone
,
then said, "Very well. Bring the
Jupiter and Io
. More people know that
story."

"You must carry it." Aureliano stood very straight and the twist of his mouth
was faintly contemptuous.

"Why not?" Sandro said to the air, and went to the stack of paintings. He
picked up the
Jupiter and Io
, studying it critically, as if it were
someone else's work, someone he did not know. lo reclined, languid, abandoned,
surrounded and supported by a cloud that was aglow with all the colors of dawn
and sunset, a cloud that was like a man, perhaps, with a handsome face dimly
perceptible in the cloud. The line of Io's neck was particularly effective, he
thought, and the movement in the cloud that might be hands. He was startled to
realize the work was good, better than he had ever thought his painting to be.

"Filipepi." Aureliano spoke sharply, cutting through Sandro's thoughts.

"I'm coming," Sandro said, and reluctantly took the gilded frame in his
hands. The Militia Christi made a path for him through the crowd and as Sandro
entered the empty center of la Piazza della Signoria he heard the rustle of the
people made suddenly silent.

Botticelli followed Aureliano through la piazza toward the Loggia della
Signoria, where Savonarola waited for him. He studied the little Domenican
prior, aware now of how ugly Girolamo Savonarola was, how angular, how shrunken.
He experienced a moment of terrible revulsion, and then it was over.

"Fiorenza," Savanarola cried out as Botticelli brought the painting to him.
"Here is one who has grown great in his fame and in his error, for he has been
driven to paint such things as Christian men must be shamed to look upon. Here."
He reached for the painting and motioned for two of the Militia Christi youths
to lift the painting into the air. "See the fruit of his talent, which might
have shown the world the glories of God! Here is the aggrandizement of lust, the
representation of pagan pleasures. See the wantonness of the woman, how she
displays her body without shame, how she is made lewd by the voluptuousness of
her thighs which welcome the monstrous intrusion of Jupiter, who is no better
than the Devil!"

The crowd was pressing forward, eager to see the painting and be disgusted.
Sandro heard the strange sound the people made, and he wanted then to cry out to
them that Savonarola was mistaken, that this was painted to show pleasure, and
the delight of the body. This was not lust, but beauty. Behind him there was a
sound of flint striking steel, and almost immediately the rush of flames as
lighted straw was tossed onto the smaller bonfire, kindling the wood laid there.

"But Sandro Filipepi has repented his sin," Savonarola announced to Fiorenza.
"See, with his own hands he takes this iniquitous work" —he motioned to Sandro
to do so—"and with his own hands, in pious acceptance of the strictures of God,
he consigns the perfidious thing to the flames!"

Sandro moved as if asleep. He took the painting and clasped it to his chest
as he carried it to the flames. Hotter than the waiting fire, self-hatred raged
in him as he lifted the picture and cast it onto the fire.

The crowd and the flames roared together and Sandro looked through the flames
to see the exultant figure of his brother, Simone, as he raised his hands to
heaven, and beyond him, framed by a black Domenican hood, the stricken face of
Francesco Ragoczy.

As the stink of burning paint and cloth filled la Piazza della Signoria,
Ragoczy pressed the
Semele
and the
Persephone
close against
him under the Domenican habit. When he could bear to look no longer, he made his
way through the crowd, murmuring that he had to return to San Marco.

He was halfway there when another groan from the crowd told him that a second
painting had been consigned to the flames.

Transcription of a vision of Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli:

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. In
reverence to the Blessed Virgin and all the company of saints, angels and
martyrs who are the Hosts of Heaven, let it be set down here what the Power of
God has shown to me.

When I was languishing in the world, a prey to all the follies of the flesh
and the cravings of the body, before my soul conquered my sin-ridden thoughts, I
shared the abode of my cousin Sandro di Mariano Filipepi, who is known also as
Botticelli. It was there that I saw so many of those shameless paintings which
yesterday were given to the cleansing flames. Thinking on that glorious moment,
I turned my thoughts to God and His Splendor, of His Radiance that shines so
brightly that the Archangels are all but blinded by it. Before Him all the kings
of the earth fell in awe, and there was nothing so beautiful as His beauty. The
most sacred painting was a humble, insulting reflection of His Glorious Beauty.
The most sublime hymn was screeching compared to the sweetness of His Voice.

My soul soared aloft, rapt in the sight of Him, and there I saw how the fires
of Fiorenza reached to heaven. The stench of burning paintings and finery
reached God as the most fragrant incense. The vile ashes of clothes, furniture,
wigs, lace, brazen statues that littered la Piazza della Signoria were changed
and formed a flowering wreath that crowned His brow and shone with the Light of
His Face.

The leap of the flames was a dance to Him, and the prayers that rose to Him
sounded with the loveliness of lutes and trumpets. As the tokens of Vanity and
Envy were consumed, God was glorified. For there is nothing so beautiful as God.
Nothing better merits our souls than the thought of God. Nothing better adorns
us than virtue and worship, for piety weaves a robe that not even the master of
l'Arte di Calimala can duplicate.

In the vision I saw God embrace Fiorenza in acceptance of this sacrifice, and
the fiery sword that burned in His right hand was turned from us and raised
toward the hellish sink that is Roma. But He was watchful, for not all shared in
our offering. There were some who would not give up their worldly goods for the
greater rewards and treasures of heaven. Those unchristian souls who took away
two of the paintings that were to be burned will share with the pagan works all
the fires of hell. God will not be cheated, and even now He waits to destroy
those who mocked the sincerity of our purged sins.

My voice is hoarse from singing His praises. My eyes are heavy from the joy
of beholding His Glory. My poor weak body is sunk in fatigue from the vigils of
prayer and fasting that have brought me close to the Throne of God.

God has given me to know that His great plan for the Salvation of Fiorenza is
soon to be accomplished. Savonarola will be raised up, and unworthy though I am,
unbearable, all-consuming glory, bright as flowers in the sun, will be my lot
through the goodness and the Mercy of God.

O Fiorenza, be fervent in your prayers. Be rigorous in your faith. Do not now
desert the triumph that is so near at hand. As we cast out the unrighteous and
the heretical ones who have brought us this terrible depravity, be sure that
there will be joy in paradise and that we will be redeemed through the acts we
perform in these days. Set an example in holiness that all the world will seek
to emulate. Free yourself from the hideous bonds of the flesh and learn to
praise the might of God with your chastity and your devotion. Reflect on the
Mercy of God, that will receive the greatest sinner in heaven if he repent.

The Love of God pierces all armor and defeats all opposition. The armies of
angels and saints and martyrs are in heaven for our salvation and the elevation
of our souls. I have seen how much joy is felt in heaven when one sinner casts
sin away and embraces virtue. I have seen the compassion of the angels for those
who are tempted, and the tears that are shed by those holy beings would rend the
heart of the most corrupted and venal of men.

What is love among men when compared to the celestial fraternity? What is
success in the world when death strikes down even the mightiest and the greatest
treasures turn to dust? Only the Glory of God remains. And if we turn from God,
we turn from the Eternal Source of life and the Eternal Goodness that is the
light of the world.

By the pen of Fra Milo

from the lips of Suor
Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli

 

At Sacro Infante, near Fiorenza, the 5th day of March, 1498

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Ragoczy demanded as he was ushered
into the Madonna chapel of Santa Maria Novella. He pulled his arms free of the
grasp of the two lancers who had brought him to the old Domenican church and
glared into the darkness. Next to the mercenary soldiers his bearing was
disturbingly aristocratic, and his indignation was as genuine and legitimate as
the medieval frescoes on the far wall. Ragoczy straightened his heavily
embroidered sleeveless coat that was worn over a sleeved tunic of stiff green
satin. His heeled boots were tooled blue leather and the hat on his
short-cropped loose curls was thickly sewn with pearls.

Two of the old Domenicani Brothers seated behind the long table set up in the
Madonna chapel exchanged worried glances, but the third, a man of little more
than twenty, regarded Ragoczy sternly. "You will be seated. It is for us to ask
questions."

"I'll stand," Ragoczy said shortly, and looked again at the young Domenicano.
Something stirred in his memory. The night of the celebration… what was it?
Twelfth Night! The monk before him had been the leader of the followers of
Savonarola who had broken into his palazzo and caused such havoc. His face did
not change expression, but he realized that he was much more vulnerable than he
had thought at first.

"You are Germain Ragoczy, are you not? Heir to the perfidious Francesco
Ragoczy da San Germano?"

Ragoczy gave him a haughty stare. "I would not have put it that way. But
Francesco Ragoczy was my uncle and I am his heir. If I am ever allowed to settle
his estate." This pointed remark was not wasted. The two older Domenicani
exchanged looks and one very slightly shook his head.