Lorenzo coughed and sputtered as the chalky draft was poured a little at a time down his parched throat. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had put together a collection of gems, the finest of its kind in all Christendom, painstakingly assembled over a lifetime. And in the past week, he had ingested a good part of that priceless, incomparable collection. Lazaro di Pavia, the Milanese charlatan, had wheedled from him, for medicinal purposes, not just rubies, zircons, emeralds, and a sizable quantity of gold and silver, but over two cups of pearls.
It soon became clear to everyone around him that, despite the extravagant measures being taken, Lorenzo’s high hopes for recovery were unfounded. His condition deteriorated. Rapidly. The pulverized precious stones had settled like lead in his guts, clogging already-constricted passageways and further challenging a failing digestive and circulatory apparatus. Then it was discovered that not all of the precious ingredients were making their way into Lorenzo’s medication, but rather into the bottomless pockets of the attending physician. Justice was summarily administered. Without ceremony, Lazaro had managed to get his throat slit and his body thrown down a well.
There was no need to inform Lorenzo of the exact circumstances of that disappearance, just as, over the years, so many of the more unseemly and grisly details in the day-to-day running of his administration had been kept from him.
As a ruler, Lorenzo had proven himself no better or worse than other men of his time. In fact, as head of state, he had been more pleasant and congenial than most and altogether more tolerable as a tyrant than, say, Fillipo Maria Visconti, the duke of Milan, or one of his successors, Galeazzo Maria Sforza. The former, a fat, filthy man whose weak, deformed legs were altogether incapable of sustaining his inordinate bulk, took no greater pleasure on hot summer days than stripping the clothes from his hideous body and rolling naked, howling, in the dirt in his garden. He was so ugly that he refused to let his portrait be painted. The sight of a naked sword so shattered his composure that it would send him into a screaming nervous fit. He had a special soundproof room constructed in his palace because he was afraid of thunder. He delighted in nothing so much as a practical joke, his favorite being to produce from his sleeve a live snake, even during interviews of the utmost seriousness where business of state was being conducted. And after his death, things in Milan went from bad to worse.
Milan’s Galeazzo Maria Sforza was noted for his instability and his bizarre, sadistic fascination with the disarticulation of the human body. With singular intensity, he personally designed, supervised, and participated in the torture and systematic dismemberment of his real and imagined enemies, who were, of course, legion. The moans of the dying were music to his ears; corpses were his special obsession. When it was a question of tyrants then, Florence was certainly more fortunate than Milan.
Lorenzo’s sins as a ruler were more of omission than commission. Under his stewardship, the Florentine government functioned much as the governments of the other city-states of the Italian peninsula did. Espionage, bribery, torture, and murder were the preferred instruments of both domestic and foreign policy. Secrecy, distrust, and treachery were the only constants in the ever-changing equation by which power was defined and calculated.
Lorenzo’s place in this government, along with his responsibility for its misdeeds, however, was more ambiguous than in most other states. For himself, he claimed no official title, not king or even duke. He was referred to, simply and informally, as the first citizen, a fiction as transparent as that promulgated by Augustus Caesar, who at the time when he ruled the entire world, styled himself only primus inter pares—first among equals. Like Caesar, Lorenzo’s authority, when he chose to exercise it, was absolute.
What set him apart from the other tyrants of his day was that he seldom chose to exercise that power directly. His interest in government and public life rarely extended beyond ostentatious display: the lavish spectacle, the parade, the progress, the tournament, the pomp and extravagance of the official state visit. Lorenzo left the serious work of government to his subordinates. And those sometimes-unworthy lieutenants went about their business with bold resolve.
Lorenzo’s laissez-faire attitude was doubly destructive, for not only was he the uncrowned head of state, but, more important, he was the head of the largest family-owned commercial enterprise in the world—the Medici bank. The failure of Lorenzo’s leadership at the bank was just as egregious as his failure at statesmanship.
He had given far too much latitude to his branch managers and leaned too heavily on the advice of the unscrupulous and the incompetent. The results were not long in manifesting themselves. Because of excessive and ill-conceived loans, the London branch folded. In short order, Bruges, Milan, Rome, Naples, and Lyon followed. The entire organization and the family whose wealth and power it sustained were on the verge of collapse.
On his deathbed, Lorenzo was not unaware of his shortcomings as a banker and statesman, yet he had hoped to make amends before being reduced to his present condition. A little over two years ago, at the peak of his powers, he would have scoffed at the notion of his own mortality. That was when the friar had come to town and begun preaching. At first, the friar spoke out against him almost hesitantly, reproaching him for his lack of vigilance, criticizing his style of living. At Lorenzo’s instigation, some of his men promised to look into the matter and suggest to the friar that he find another topic for his sermons. They were sent back to Lorenzo with an impertinent admonishment—Repent or the wrath of God will surely descend upon you!
After that, the denunciation of Lorenzo from the pulpit became the theme most frequently treated in the friar’s sermonizing. Lorenzo paid little attention to it and went about his business, or rather his pleasure, in the usual manner, until the friar’s preaching took a singular and arresting turn. One fateful Sunday, he went beyond excoriation, calls for repentance, and vague threats of divine retribution. Saying that God had revealed it to him, he went on to predict the date of Lorenzo’s death.
“Nonsense!” had been the amused reaction in cultivated Medicean circles, and even Lorenzo, never before in better health or spirits, had laughed at the idea and dismissed the friar as a crank. Now, two years later, Lorenzo was no longer laughing at the credulity and naiveté of those who credited prophecy. The week fixed by the friar for his death had arrived—and he was dying. Notwithstanding the unmitigated worldliness of his life, Lorenzo’s concerns now were for the fate of his immortal soul. Panic gripped him when he considered the possibility of its everlasting damnation.
Making up his mind, he spoke to Angelo Poliziano, who was in almost constant attendance upon him. His voice was faint. “Angelo, call him, call the friar,” he wheezed. “I must have his blessing before I die.”
Angelo tried to discourage him. “Why don’t I call Fra Mariano instead. You can confess to him and set your mind at rest.”
“Oh, Angelo, Angelo,” he moaned in his agony. There can be no rest for me. Don’t you understand? Not without his blessing.”
So Angelo called them both.
The two friars were a study in contrast. Fra Mariano, the Medicean chaplain, was stately, plump, officious, clean-shaven, manicured, and powdered. He radiated conviviality and generosity of spirit. His attitude toward Lorenzo was affectionate, even fawning.
The other friar, who so terrified the most powerful man in Florence, was diminutive by comparison. He hung back, an almost invisible witness to the bustling ministrations of Mariano. But Lorenzo felt his presence as he felt the steady, blinding pain that knifed through his feverish and tortured body.
Angelo brought Fra Mariano, who removed a fine silk stole from a velvet-lined case that also contained the blessed sacrament. He sat at the dying man’s bedside, composed himself, made the sign of the cross, and indicated that he was ready to begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .” Lorenzo uttered the formula in a voice that was all but inaudible. The priest had to bend so close that, along with the words,
Lorenzo’s uneven breath reached him, reeking of decay.
The deathbed confession that issued from his cracked lips was not a recital of heinous crimes and monstrous evil deeds. It was an enumeration of overindulgences and lapses, of petty jealousies and infidelities. Dissolute, and at times foolish, he had never been wantonly cruel. He had taken money and used it freely for his own pleasures, but he had not done so maliciously. He had stolen, if stolen was the word, since he had always intended to pay it back, from the public treasury. He had “appropriated” money from the bank. He had squandered the patrimony left in his trust for two younger cousins, leaving them penniless. He had even dipped heavily into the inheritance of his own son. But he had never meant to harm anybody by these actions.
As Lorenzo counted out his sins, he stole many an anxious glance over the head of his chubby, ingratiating confessor and his eyes found the wraithlike figure of the other friar—the unforgiving, immovable judge, the silent, accusatory presence waiting calmly, waiting, he thought, to snatch his soul.
When Lorenzo had finished recounting his sins and had sincerely begged that they be forgiven, Fra Mariano granted him absolution. The priest then removed the sacred host from an exquisite gold box and administered Holy Communion. The communicant, unable to chew and barely able to swallow on account of his inflamed throat, allowed the sacred wafer to dissolve slowly in his mouth. Exhausted by his efforts, but deriving some small consolation from having received the sacraments, he eased back into his bed. His breathing seemed less labored as Fra Mariano respectfully withdrew, leaving Lorenzo de’ Medici alone in the room with Savonarola.
Lorenzo looked up, his large brown eyes wide-open, imploring forgiveness. But he saw no mercy in the face standing over him. The jaw was set, teeth clenched, stern and unforgiving, and the friar’s green eyes burned with the cold-blooded fury of an Old Testament prophet. Lorenzo the Magnificent felt small and mean and broken and ashamed. He looked away.
“I’m dying,” he stammered, hoping that the extremity of his condition might inspire some pity in this severe man. Savonarola made no reply.
“I called you here to ask your blessing.”
“To ask it or to command it, Lord Medici?” snapped the friar.
“To beg for it, if need be,” said the dying man.
“What hath the Lord wrought?” replied the friar. “Behold His power! The exalted have been humbled, and the mighty have been laid low!” He spoke softly, but with intensity.
“Your blessing, Father. Can you deny the last request of a dying man?”
“You’ve made your confession and been absolved. What further need have you? Of what value is my blessing to you?” said the friar.
“I wish to reconcile myself to you, to set things right so that I can die at peace with you, with my city, with the world.”
“It seems that you have more than reconciled yourself with the world, since you have spent your entire life pursuing her vanities and sinful pleasures. The city, you have made your personal harlot, and as for me, I am unimportant. It is not with me that you should seek to reconcile yourself, but with Almighty God. It is not I who stand in judgment, but He!”
The friar continued, addressing Lorenzo caustically, “Why not call on your pagan sages, your Greeks? Why do you not turn now to your Plato and Aristotle for help? Implore their blessings? Have them accompany you into the afterlife?”
Lorenzo bowed to these reproaches, but the anger and righteous indignation of the preacher had been aroused: “Your belly has been filled with wine, and your kidneys have rotted with excess. Your hands are stained with the blood of the poor. The nameless poor! Are you even aware of the barbarities inflicted upon them in your name? Do you know about Martuccio, the hermit who died in the hospice of Santa Maria Nuova, torn to pieces by your torturers? They stripped the soles from his feet and held them over the fire until he screamed and the fat ran. They forced him to walk on a bed of salt so that the coarse, crusted stuff burned into his open wounds. And what were his crimes? No real charges were ever brought against him. And it was too late to clear the matter up or question him because he was already dead! These are the fruits by which you are known outside of the charmed circles of your palace and your gardens. These are the deeds credited to your account.
“And you seek my blessing? You want to place your body and soul in my hands. Then do so! Your body you have already destroyed, scourged it with lust and drunkenness, and, as I foretold, it is failing you now. Your soul in my keeping will also get its just rewards—I will hand it over to eternal fire.” He spoke with an eerie detachment.
“And what of Christ’s mercy, can there be none for me? Is there no recourse?” asked Lorenzo urgently.
“Christ’s mercy is extended to those who repent, and to those who believe,” said the friar firmly. “Have you repented, Lord Medici? And do you believe?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lorenzo racked with sobs. He would have wept, had there been enough moisture in his shriveled glands to produce the salty tears.
The friar’s voice turned icy cold, like that of a judge passing sentence or a merchant proposing a dangerous but profitable exchange. “Three conditions,” he said.
“Yes, anything,” Lorenzo grasped desperately, eagerly at the friar’s hand, the hand that might save him. Savonarola withdrew it and stepped back.
“First, will you renounce the error of your worldly wisdom? Will you throw yourself upon God’s mercy and acknowledge your faith in his compassion?”
Lorenzo indicated that he would.
“Will you promise to restore everything that you have unjustly taken from others, through subterfuge, deceit, and fraud?”
Again, Lorenzo gave his consent.
“Finally, will you renounce your tyranny and that of your family, and restore to Florence her liberty?”
Lorenzo sat bolt upright. His eyes flashed. “I’ve made Florence the greatest city in the world! I’ve made her the envy of all Christendom! Under me, she has flourished and grown rich. She is a new city! Under me! Can I renounce that? Can I renounce the city I have created?”
“You have built, Lord Medici, indeed. But what have you built? Monuments to your own greed! You have built so that your name might become immortal. When Christ comes again in his glory to judge the living and the dead, what will He say of your building then? Will He count the number of fine villas and palaces, the number of frescos, the number of chapels you put up to assuage your guilt?
“Is He concerned that in a thousand years men will speak kindly of the Medici, of their bounty and good taste? Of their buildings and monuments? Will He be impressed? Moved? Or will He ask how those monuments were constructed? With what materials? With the blood and bones of the poor! On their broken backs! And why? So that the high and mighty Medici name might survive in men’s memories! That is your immortality! The immortality of a pagan and a blasphemer! That is what you have sought, a thousand years of earthly glory. And that is what you have been granted—that and a thousand thousand years of the fires of eternal damnation!” The friar did not look at Lorenzo as he delivered his indictment, but seemed to be addressing a larger, phantom audience. When he finished, he stood as still as a bronze statue.
Lorenzo’s eyes bulged. There was abject terror in them, but mixed with a deep-seated, uncontrollable anger and pride. He was shaking. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. In the poorly lit regions of his soul, in the inner reaches of his being, something stopped him. He could not bring himself to renounce his life as he had lived it and his accomplishments. He had striven. He had reached. Would he be damned for that? He could not accept the friar’s arguments, could not accept his terms. Sick with fear over the possible consequences of this realization, Lorenzo de’ Medici slowly turned his face to the cold, unanswering stone wall.
Lorenzo’s final hours were not peaceful or blessed ones. For the rest of that day, he thrashed deliriously, gnawed by doubt and fear, by anxiety over the fate of his immortal soul. Would God forgive h
im? Or was he damned for all eternity, as Savonarola had resoundingly declared? Did this holy man, this strange, intense, merciless man speak for God Himself, as so many maintained? Was he indeed the prophet, the scourge of the Lord?
This single, agonizing question fed on what little strength was left in Lorenzo. In the end, he was all but oblivious to the excruciating physical pain in his limbs. Finally, worn out, he slipped into a coma. By midnight, precisely as Savonarola had predicted, he was dead.
Lorenzo de’ Medici went to his grave unable to resolve a dilemma that would convulse Florence for years to come. Was this Savonarola a saint or a madman?
After his meeting with Lorenzo, Savonarola was driven back to Florence in a Medici carriage, emblazoned everywhere, inside and out, with the Medici balls. The stony silence with which he had ultimately confronted the unrepentant Lorenzo and in which he now sat did little to betray the turmoil inside him. He too was trembling and on fire, for in his mind, frightful images were beginning to take shape, crowding in upon him—images of disaster, of catastrophic change, of upheaval, and streets running with blood.
In this rush of apocalyptic images, one stood out more clearly than all the others; one demanded his attention. He saw a hand, and in that hand, a mighty, flaming sword, poised in the stormy sky over Florence. On the sword was the inscription, Gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter. Already the sermon he would preach was beginning to crystallize and to organize itself around that vision and that inscription—The sword of the Lord over the earth—swiftly and soon!
A storm was raging that night, not only in the tortured visions of Savonarola, but in the world at large, blowing great gusts of wind and rain against the shuttered windows of Florence. It was past midnight when the friar, returning to his modest cell and study in the convent of San Marco, knelt to pray on the cold tile floor. It was dark, but he lit no lamp or candle. That night, he knew, his illumination would come from within.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 17