He did not answer. He merely regarded me pleasantly.
“But if,” I said, “this so-called miracle fails . . . if the people refuse to unite behind Savonarola . . . then what will happen?”
“Violence,” he said.
“If they have no choice but to let Savonarola be ruined—if they murder him or arrange for him to die—then they’ll have no use for my father. For Antonio . . .”
His expression softened; he felt sorry for me. But I could see, too, his reserve.
“What can I do?” I believed wholeheartedly in my mother’s prophecy that death was coming for the prophet. “The longer I stay, the more dangerous it is for my father. You must help us. Take us out of Florence. Take us with you to Milan.”
“Lisa . . .” I heard pity in his tone. “If I could have, I would have done so long ago. But it is not so easy. There are you, and your father, and your child . . . and your slave, I assume. Four people. And you realize, of course, that your comings and goings are watched. That is why I have stayed here, at Santissima Annunziata, because you can come here regularly without arousing suspicion. But you will never make it past the city gates so long as your husband retains any influence.”
“So I am to stay,” I asked bitterly, “until it is too late, and my father dies?”
My words hurt him, but his voice remained gentle. “Your father is not a helpless man. He has survived this long. And the time will come soon enough for you to leave. I promise you that. It will come.”
“It will never come soon enough,” I said.
I wish now I had been wrong.
LXVI
Florence became hungry for Savonarola’s proffered miracle, and thus came about the event known as the Trial by Fire. During Fra Girolamo’s silence, Fra Domenico had replaced him in San Marco’s pulpit. He was not as popular as his master, being stubborn and somewhat dim-witted—but he was extraordinarily tenacious and fanatically devoted to Savonarola. He doggedly maintained that each word that fell from Fra Girolamo’s lips had been placed there by God.
Others had begun to preach as well—including an outspoken Franciscan at Santa Croce, Fra Francesco da Puglia, who offered a bold challenge:
“I will walk through the fire with any man who wishes to prove that Savonarola is a prophet who speaks God’s truth. For I believe Fra Girolamo to be a liar and a heretic—and that anyone who walks through the fire believing otherwise will die. I would not expect to survive, myself . . . but certainly, anyone who walked successfully through the flames, believing and trusting in Fra Girolamo, could then be assured he speaks the truth.”
Domenico learned of the challenge. And one Sunday he announced, from his lectern in San Marco, that he intended to enter the fire. His vehement proclamation so moved his congregation that each man and woman enthusiastically offered to enter the fire with him.
A wild enthusiasm swept the city. For once, both the Arrabbiati and the piagnoni were in agreement: Savonarola should take the challenge and prove beyond question whether he was or was not anointed by God.
Both parties presented the suggestion to the Signoria, who approved the event at once, and announced that a stage would be constructed in the Piazza della Signoria, and the spectacle would be held on a Saturday, the seventh of April, at the hour past midday. Everyone was eager to see the contest take place. As the respected Arrabbiato Leonardo Strozzi put it: “We require speedy clarification as to Savonarola’s inspiration: God, or the Devil.”
Everyone was eager but Savonarola. He regretted the fact, he said, that his followers were eager to indulge in a test which might result in another’s death; surely they already had ample proof of his inspiration and should need no more. He publicly rebuked Domenico for putting him in a position “that might prove dangerous to others.” He tried—and failed—to convince the piagnoni that the trial was a useless, prideful display.
But he could not stop it. “If my master will not enter the flames,” said Domenico, cleverly, “then I will enter them myself and prove he is God’s chosen one.”
And so, on Saturday, the seventh of April, at ten o’clock in the morning, my husband and I rode in our carriage to the Palazzo della Signoria. Extraordinary precautions had been taken: Foreigners had been expelled and all of the city gates had been locked. Florence was patrolled by small neighborhood armies, and her streets filled with piagnoni making their way on foot to the square. All but three approaches to the piazza had been blocked, and those three were guarded by the Signoria’s own soldiers.
Women were not permitted to view the spectacle—at least, those women without powerful husbands and a carriage. My husband was now one of the most influential men in Florence: He had finally been elected Lord Prior for the current session. We had thrown a party to celebrate the event—quite a lavish one, though none of his piagnoni associates seemed to mind.
Francesco took great pride in wearing the long scarlet tunic of the prior, and this morning was no exception. The instant the guards saw the tunic, they bowed. Francesco greeted the guards with a courteous, condescending gesture, and we were waved on. Half the time, my husband graced me with his benign, calm smile; half the time, he was silent and frowning. I believe he nursed hope that somehow circumstances would resolve themselves in Savonarola’s favor.
Our destination was the palazzo, where Francesco excused himself to join the other Lord Priors, who sat in the ringhiera, a railed, covered patio in front of the palazzo which gave the best view of the square. I sat a short distance away, in a discreet little loggia outfitted with comfortable chairs for wives of government officials, of which there were four. My companion was Violetta, the golden-haired wife of Francesco Valori, he who had rabidly called for the head of Bernardo del Nero. It was a cool morning, but Violetta had brought a fan and waved it nervously, as she spoke of the miracle that was surely coming. How wonderful, she said, to see the Arrabbiati silenced at last.
I occupied myself with the surroundings. The Lord Priors, including Gonfaloniere Valori and my husband, sat next to the massive stone lion, the regal Marzocco sculpted by Donatello. Near the lion rested one end of a long wooden platform. Raised high off the ground, it was not quite wide enough for two men to walk along it side by side. Beneath it was a trench filled with limbs and brush; atop these lay neat stacks of unbaked bricks, to prevent the platform from being consumed by the fire. This contraption spanned a respectable distance, from one end of the piazza almost to the other.
The atmosphere was rather like Carnival. The weather was bright, cloudless, and exhilarating. Those pedestrians who had entered the piazza early were jubilant. The piagnoni indicated their loyalties by carrying little red crosses and singing hymns; the Arrabbiati and the uncommitted sang bawdy songs and called out jokes to one another. Though Savonarola had called on the faithful to fast, servants emerged from the palazzo and offered us ladies bread and cheese and wine, as if we were at a joust.
At last two men appeared with jugs and began heavily dousing the wood and brush with oil. Other men appeared bearing torches and set the trenches ablaze; the crowd cheered. Dark smoke billowed heavenward. For about an hour, the people remained cheered and excited as the fire caught hold and grew—but then the excitement faded to restlessness.
After another hour, our boredom was eased by the appearance of the Franciscans: They arrived together, gray-robed and disorderly, a scattered flock of pigeons. Their spokesman went at once to the priors in the ringhiera, and they all huddled together, conferring. In the meantime, the rest of the Franciscans took their place in a loggia adjacent to ours.
Violetta startled us all; she set down her fan and went over to our stone railing and hissed down at the Franciscans: “Why does he speak to them? Will your brother not enter the fire?”
This drew the disdainful gaze of a young monk, who against the advice of his elders turned around to answer her. “He will enter. He is not afraid. But we have reason to believe that Fra Domenico”—for it was he and not Savonarola who steadfastly mai
ntained he would enter the fire—“wears garments that are bewitched.”
“Lies!” Violetta countered. I and a Buonomo’s wife pulled her back to her seat.
The Dominicans were late in arriving; the Signoria reluctantly sent a mace-bearer to escort them to the piazza. They arrived most dramatically: Fra Domenico led the way, carrying on his shoulder a martyr’s cross almost as tall as he. Savonarola followed, bearing a small silver receptacle containing the Sacred Host, for he had insisted that Domenico would not be safe unless he carried the Host with him into the flames. Behind them came the men of the congregation of San Marco, bearing torches and more of the little red crosses, and then came the rest of the friars.
The crowd erupted with hisses and catcalls, shouts of joy and sobs. Men screamed curses, blessings, prayers, and insults. Monks, both Franciscan and Dominican, began to sing.
At last San Marco’s entourage took their places at a safe distance from the Franciscans; and then Francesco Valori, the gonfaloniere, beckoned for Domenico and Savonarola to come to the ringhiera.
I watched rather than heard the discussion: Valori spoke to Savonarola, who made an exasperated gesture. Domenico—who by then had abandoned his cross—put a hand upon his master’s shoulder to calm him. And then Valori and my husband led Domenico into the Palazzo della Signoria.
The crowd grumbled. They had waited a long time and did not understand Domenico’s sudden disappearance. But we women did, and I was not surprised to see Domenico emerge shortly afterward in a Franciscan robe. Violetta nudged me, and said, in a voice loud enough for the nearby Franciscans to hear: “You see? If his clothes had been bewitched, he would not have so quickly and graciously removed them. He is not afraid to enter the fire.”
Fra Domenico and Savonarola began to make their way to the entry of the trial platform, where two soldiers and Fra Giuliano, the young Franciscan who had volunteered to enter the fire with Domenico, stood. And then the young Franciscan monk stepped forward and interrupted—which caused Domenico and Savonarola to hurry back to the ringhiera.
The crowd sighed in irritation.
Valori, my husband, and two other piagnoni intercepted Domenico and explained something rapidly to him. Domenico shook his head in disgust, but once again let himself be led into the palazzo.
Beside me, Violetta snapped her fan shut, dropped it into her chair, and went to the railing that overlooked the loggia. “What is it now?” she challenged. “I suppose you are going to tell me that Domenico himself is bewitched, and so cannot enter the fire!”
An older Franciscan turned to her. “Of course not, Madonna. But is it not possible that Fra Domenico’s undergarments might also be as bewitched as his outer ones? Perhaps it is hard for you to understand, but there are those of us who believe sincerely that Fra Girolamo’s power does not spring from God, but from a far more sinister source.”
“This is absurd!” Violetta leaned low over the railing. “You are just stalling because you are afraid!”
“Of course we are afraid,” the monk answered calmly. “We know that Fra Giuliano will die when he enters the fire. We have but one question.”
Violetta waited, frowning, for the answer.
“If Fra Girolamo is not afraid—and he knows that God will spare him and prove him a prophet—why does he not enter the fire at once and settle the matter?”
Violetta drew back; she retook her seat and fanned herself frantically, muttering about the unfairness of the Franciscans. But I saw a glimmer of doubt in her eye. A cool breeze caused my veil to flutter. I looked out and up at the once-clear sky. Sudden winds had gathered swift clouds that smelled of rain.
Once again, Domenico emerged, presumably having surrendered the possibly accursed undergarments. At last he went to gather up the large cross he had carried into the square.
Gonfaloniere Valori tapped him on the shoulder and gestured for the cross to be laid down. Domenico obeyed wearily.
A few men in the crowd booed in disgust.
Another monk had joined the young Fra Giuliano by this time, and the two went together a third time to the government officials in the ringhiera. Savonarola was waiting there, next to the silver receptacle containing the Host, which had been set reverently upon a table. When the two Franciscans starting speaking to the officials, Savonarola began to shout. He pointed vehemently at the silver receptacle, at the other monks, at my husband and Francesco Valori. Savonarola turned then to Domenico, and it became clear, from Domenico’s shaking head, that an impasse had been reached.
“What is it, what is it?” Violetta called.
The monks below us did not answer, but I looked at Savonarola’s emphatic gesture at the silver receptacle and said, “They do not want to let Domenico carry the Host.”
It was a point everyone had agreed on from the beginning. A Dominican friar had dreamed that Domenico successfully traversed the fire because he had been holding a consecrated wafer; Savonarola insisted that Domenico be allowed to do so. Before now, the Franciscans had offered no objection.
Furious, Domenico strode into the piazza and stood stubbornly at the entrance to the trial platform, staring into the flames; his angry demeanor contrasted with the sweet hymns being sung by his brothers. The wind whipped his robe about his legs, his torso. Overhead, the sky was darkening.
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.”
LXVII
We 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, Mona Lisa Page 44