Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘You’re wrong – my father saw him in San Gimignano,’ the first woman sighed. ‘But it was years ago.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah – se lo tu dici.’

  Ezio rode on past them, his heart heavy. But his spirits rose when he saw a familiar figure coming along the road to meet him.

  ‘Salute, Ezio,’ said Machiavelli, his serious-humorous face older now, but more interesting for the etching of the years.

  ‘Salute, Niccolò.’

  ‘You’ve picked a fine time for a homecoming.’

  ‘You know me. Where there’s sickness, I like to try to cure it.’

  ‘We could certainly use your help now,’ Machiavelli sighed. ‘There’s no doubt Savonarola couldn’t have got where he is now without the use of that powerful arte-fact, the Apple.’ He held up his hand. ‘I know all about what has happened to you since last we met. Caterina sent a courier from Forlì two years ago, and more recently one arrived with a letter from Piero in Venice.’

  ‘I am here for the Apple. It has been out of our hands far too long.’

  ‘I suppose in a sense we should be grateful to the ghastly Girolamo,’ said Machiavelli. ‘At least he kept it out of the new Pope’s hands.’

  ‘Has he tried anything?’

  ‘He keeps trying. There’s a rumour that Alexander’s planning to excommunicate our dear Dominican. Not that that’ll change much around here.’

  Ezio said, ‘We should get to work on retrieving it without delay.’

  ‘The Apple? Of course – though it’ll be more complicated than you might think.’

  ‘Hah! When isn’t it?’ Ezio looked at him. ‘Why don’t you fill me in on things?’

  ‘Come, let’s go back to the city. I’ll tell you everything I know. There’s little to relate. In a nutshell, King Charles VIII of France finally managed to bring Florence to its knees. Piero fled. Charles, land-hungry as ever – why the hell they call him “the Affable” is beyond me – marched on to Naples, and Savonarola, the Ugly Duckling, suddenly saw his chance and filled the power-vacuum. He’s like any dictator anywhere, tinpot or grand. Totally humourless, totally convinced, and filled with an unshakeable sense of his own importance. The most effective and the nastiest kind of Prince you could wish for.’ He paused. ‘One day I’ll write a book about it.’

  ‘And the Apple was the means to his end?’

  Machiavelli spread his hands. ‘Only in part. A lot of it, I hate to say, is down to his own charisma. It isn’t the city itself he’s enthralled, but its leaders, men possessed of influence and power. Of course some of the Signoria opposed him at first, but now –’ Machiavelli looked worried. ‘Now they’re all in his pocket. The man everyone once reviled suddenly became the one they worshipped. If people didn’t agree, they were obliged to leave. It’s still happening, as you’ve seen today. And now the Florentine council oppress the citizens and ensure that the mad Monk’s will is done.’

  ‘But what of decent ordinary people? Do they really act as if they had no say at all in the matter?’

  Machiavelli smiled sadly. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do, Ezio. Rare is the man willing to oppose the status quo. And so – it falls to us to help them see their way through this.’

  By now the two Assassins had reached the city gates. The armed guards of the city, like all police, serving the interest of the state without reference to its morality, scrutinized their papers and waved them through, though not before Ezio had noticed another pack of them busy piling up the corpses of some other uniforms who carried the Borgia crest. He pointed this out to Niccolò.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Machiavelli. As I said, friend Rodrigo – I’ll never get used to calling the bastard Alexander – keeps trying. He sends his soldiers into Florence, and Florence sends them back, usually in pieces.’

  ‘So he does know the Apple’s here?’

  ‘Of course he does! And I must admit, it’s an unfortunate complication.’

  ‘And where is Savonarola?’

  ‘He rules the city from the Convento di San Marco. Almost never leaves it. Thank God Fra’ Angelico didn’t live to see the day Brother Girolamo moved in!’

  They dismounted, stabled their horses, and Machiavelli arranged lodgings for Ezio. Paola’s old house of pleasure was shut down, along with all the others, as Machiavelli explained. Sex and gambling, dancing and pageantry, were all high on the list of Savonarola’s no-nos. Righteous killing, and oppression, on the other hand, were fine.

  After Ezio was settled, Machiavelli walked with him towards the great religious complex of Saint Mark. Ezio’s eyes ranged the buildings appraisingly. ‘A direct assault against Savonarola would be dangerous,’ he decided. ‘Especially with the Apple in his possession.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Machiavelli. ‘But what other option is there?’

  ‘Aside from the city leaders, who doubtless have vested interests, are you convinced that the people’s minds are fundamentally their own?’

  ‘An optimist might be inclined to take a bet on it,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘My point is, they follow the Monk not by choice, but by dint of force and fear?’

  ‘No one apart from a Dominican or a politician would argue with that.’

  ‘Then I propose we use this to our advantage. If we can silence his lieutenants and stir up discontent, Savonarola will be distracted, and we’ll have a chance to strike.’

  Machiavelli smiled. ‘That’s clever. There ought to be an adjective to describe people like you. I’ll speak with La Volpe and Paola – yes, they’re still here, though they’ve had to go underground. They can help us organize an uprising as you free the districts.’

  ‘Then it’s settled.’ Ezio was troubled, though, and Machiavelli could see it. He led him to the quiet cloister of a little church nearby, and sat him down.

  ‘What is it, friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Two things, but they are personal.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘My old family palazzo – what’s become of it? I hardly dare go to look.’

  A shadow passed across Machiavelli’s face. ‘My dear Ezio, be strong. Your palazzo stands, but Lorenzo’s ability to protect it lasted only as long as his own power, his own life. Piero tried to follow his father’s example but after he was kicked out by the French the Palazzo Auditore was requisitioned and used as a billet for Charles’s Swiss mercenaries. After they had moved south, Savonarola’s men stripped it of everything that was left in it, and closed the place down. Have courage. One day you will restore it.’

  ‘And Annetta?’

  ‘She escaped, thank God, and joined your mother at Monteriggioni.’

  ‘That at least is something.’

  After a silence, Machiavelli asked, ‘And what is the second thing?’

  Ezio whispered, ‘Cristina –’

  ‘You ask me to tell you hard things, amico mio.’ Machiavelli frowned. ‘But you must know the truth.’ He paused. ‘My friend, she is dead. Manfredo would not leave, as many of their friends left after the twin plagues of the French and Savonarola. He was convinced that Piero would organize a counter-offensive and get the city back. But there was an horrific night, soon after the Monk came to power, when all those who would not voluntarily commit their belongings to the bonfires of the vanities which the Monk organized to burn and destroy all luxurious and worldly things, had their houses ransacked and put to the torch.’

  Ezio listened, making himself stay calm, though his heart was bursting.

  ‘Savonarola’s fanatics,’ Machiavelli went on, ‘forced their way into the Palazzo d’Arzenta. Manfredo tried to defend himself, but there were too many pitted against him and his own men… And Cristina would not leave him.’ Machiavelli paused for a long moment, fighting back tears himself. ‘In their frenzy, those religious maniacs cut her down too.’

  Ezio stared at the whitewashed wall in front of him. Every last detail, every last crack, even the ants moving across it, all were thrown into dreadful focus.

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p; 27

  How every hope of ours is raised in vain,

  How spoiled the plans we laid so fair and well,

  How ignorance throughout the earth doth reign,

  Death, who is mistress of us all, can tell.

  In song and dance and jousts some pass their days,

  Some vow their talents unto gentle arts,

  Some hold the world in scorn and all its ways,

  Some hide the impulses that move their hearts.

  Vain thoughts and wishes, cares of every kind

  Greatly upon this erring earth prevail

  In various presence after nature’s lore;

  Fortune doth fashion with inconstant mind,

  All things are transient here below and frail,

  Death only standeth fast for evermore.

  Ezio let the book of Lorenzo’s sonnets fall from his hand. The death of Cristina made him all the more determined to remove its cause. His city had suffered long enough under the rule of Savonarola, too many of his fellow citizens, from every conceivable walk of life, had fallen under his spell, and those who disagreed were either discriminated against, driven underground, or forced into exile. It was time to act.

  ‘We have lost to exile many people who might have helped us,’ Machiavelli explained to him. But even Savonarola’s chief enemies outside the city-state, I mean the Duke of Milan and our old friend Rodrigo, Pope Alexander VI, haven’t been able to dislodge him.’

  ‘And what of these bonfires?’

  ‘The most insane thing of all. Savonarola and his close associates organize groups of their followers to go from door to door, demanding the surrender of any and all objects they deem to be morally questionable, even cosmetics and mirrors, let alone paintings, books considered to be immoral, all sorts of games including chess, for God’s sake, musical instruments – you name it; if the Monk and his followers think they distract from their take on religion, they’ve been brought to the Piazza della Signoria, placed on huge bonfires, and burned.’ Machiavelli shook his head. ‘Florence has lost much of value and much of beauty in this way.’

  ‘But surely the city must be getting weary of this kind of behaviour?’

  Machiavelli brightened. ‘That is true, and that feeling is our best ally. I think Savonarola genuinely believes that the Day of Judgement is at hand – the only trouble is, it shows no sign of coming, and even some who started out believing in him fervently are beginning to falter in their faith. Unfortunately there are many of influence and power here who still support him without question. If they could be removed…’

  So began for Ezio a frenetic period of hunting down and dispatching a series of such supporters, and they did indeed come from all walks of life – there were an artist of note, an old soldier, a merchant, several priests, a doctor, a farmer, and one or two aristocrats, all of whom clung fanatically to the ideas imbued in them by the Monk. Some saw the folly of their ways before they died; others remained unshaken in their conviction. Ezio, as he carried out this unpleasant task, was more often than not threatened with death himself. But soon the rumours began to filter through the city – talk heard in the late hours, mutterings in illicit tavernas and back alleys. The Assassin is back. The Assassin has come to save Florence…

  It saddened Ezio to the core to see the city of his birth, his family, his heritage so abused by the hatred and insanity of religious fervour. It was with a hardened heart that he plied his trade of death – a cold icy wind cleansing the bastardized city of those who had pulled Firenze from her glory. As ever, he killed with compassion, knowing that no other way was possible for those who had fallen so far from God. Through these hours of darkness, he never once swerved from his duty to the Creed of the Assassin.

  Gradually the general mood of the city wavered, and Savonarola saw his support ebbing, as Machiavelli, La Volpe and Paola worked in tandem with Ezio to organize an uprising, an uprising guided by a slow but forceful process of enlightenment of the people.

  The last of the ‘targets’ for Ezio was a beguiled preacher, who at the time Ezio tracked him down was preaching to a crowd in front of the church of Santo Spirito.

  ‘People of Florence! Come! Gather round. Listen well to what I say! The end approaches! Now is the time to repent! To beg God’s forgiveness. Listen to me, if you cannot see what is happening for yourselves. The signs are all around us: Unrest! Famine! Disease! Corruption! These are the harbingers of darkness! We must stand firm in our devotion lest they consume us all !’ He scanned them with his fiery eyes. ‘I see you doubt, that you think me mad. Ahhhh… but did the Romans not say the same of Jesus? Know that I, too, once shared your uncertainty, your fear. But that was before Savonarola came to me. He showed me the truth! At last, my eyes were opened. And so I stand before you today in the hope that I might open yours as well!’ The preacher paused for breath. ‘Understand that we stand upon a precipice. On one side, the shining, glorious Kingdom of God. On the other – a bottomless pit of despair ! Already you teeter precariously on the edge. Men like the Medici and the other families you once called masters sought earthly goods and gain. The abandoned their beliefs in favour of material pleasures, and they would have seen you all do the same.’ He paused again, this time for effect, and continued: ‘Our wise prophet once said, “The only good thing that we owe Plato and Aristotle is that they brought forward many arguments which we can use against the heretics. Yet they and other philosophers are now in hell.” If you value your immortal souls you’ll turn back from this unholy course and embrace the teachings of our prophet, Savonarola. Then you will sanctify your bodies and spirits – you will discover the Glory of God! You will, at last, become what our Creator intended: loyal and obedient servants!’

  But the crowd, already thinning out, was losing interest, and the last few people were now moving away. Ezio stepped forward and addressed the beguiled preacher. ‘Your mind,’ he said. ‘I sense it is your own.’

  The preacher laughed. ‘Not all of us required persuasion or coercion to be convinced. I already believed. All I have said is true!’

  ‘Nothing is true,’ replied Ezio. ‘And what I do now is no easy thing.’ He unsprung his wrist-blade and ran the preacher through. ‘Requiescat in pace,’ he said. Turning away from the kill, he pulled his cowl close over his head.

  It was a long, hard road, but towards the end Savonarola himself became the Assassins’ unwitting ally, because Florence’s financial power waned: the Monk detested both commerce and making money, the two things which had made the city great. And still the Day of Judgement did not come. Instead, a liberal Franciscan friar challenged the Monk to an ordeal by fire. The Monk refused to accept, and his authority took another knock. By the beginning of May 1497, many of the city’s young men marched in protest, and the protest became a riot. After that, taverns started to reopen, people went back to singing and dancing and gambling and whoring – enjoying themselves, in fact. And businesses and banks reopened as, slowly at first, exiles returned to the city quarters now liberated from the Monk’s regime. It didn’t happen overnight, but finally, a year almost to the day after the riot, for the man clung doggedly to power, the moment of Savonarola’s fall seemed imminent.

  ‘You’ve done well, Ezio,’ Paola told him, as they waited with La Volpe and Machiavelli before the gates of the San Marco complex, together with a large, expectant and unruly crowd gathered from the free districts.

  ‘Thank you. But what happens now?’

  ‘Watch,’ said Machiavelli.

  With a loud crash a door opened above their heads and a lean figure swathed in black appeared on a balcony. The Monk glowered at the assembled populace. ‘Silence!’ he commanded. ‘I demand silence!’

  Awed despite themselves, the crowd quietened.

  ‘Why are you here?’ demanded Savonarola. ‘Why do you disturb me? You should be cleansing your homes!’

  But the crowd roared its disapproval. ‘Of what?’ one man yelled. ‘You’ve already taken everything!’

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p; ‘I have held my hand!’ Savonarola shouted back. ‘But now you will do as I command! You will submit!’

  And from his robes he produced the Apple and raised it high. Ezio saw that the hand which held it lacked a finger. Instantly, the Apple started to glow, and the crowd fell back, gasping. But Machiavelli, remaining calm, steadied himself and unhesitatingly threw a knife which pierced the Monk’s forearm. With a cry of pain and rage, Savonarola let go of the Apple, which fell from the balcony into the throng below.

  ‘Nooooo!’ he screamed. But all of a sudden he seemed diminished, his demeanour both embarrassing and pathetic. That was enough for the mob. It rallied, and stormed the gates of San Marco.

  ‘Quick, Ezio,’ said La Volpe. ‘Find the Apple. It can’t be far away.’

  Ezio could see it, rolling unheeded between the feet of the crowd. He dived in among them, getting badly knocked about, but at last it was within his grasp. Quickly he transferred it to the safety of his belt-pouch. The gates of San Marco were open now – probably some of the brethren within considered that discretion was the better part of valour and wanted to save their church and monastery as well as their own skins by bowing to the inevitable. There were not a few among them too who had had enough of the Monk’s tiresome despotism. The crowd surged through the gates, to re-emerge, some minutes later, bearing Savonarola, kicking and screaming, on their shoulders.

  ‘Take him to the Palazzo della Signoria,’ commanded Machiavelli. ‘Let him be tried there!’

  ‘Idiots! Blasphemers!’ yelled Savonarola. ‘God bears witness to this sacrilege! How dare you handle His prophet in this way!’ He was partly drowned out by the angry shouts of the crowd, but he was as livid as he was frightened, and he kept it up – for the Monk knew (not that he thought in quite these terms) that this was his last roll of the dice. ‘Heretics! You’ll all burn in hell for this! Do you hear me? Burn!’