Suicide Kings

by Christopher J. Ferguson

  With a last suspicious look at Savonarola, Diana tore into her breakfast. When had she last eaten? She could barely remember. Even now she hadn’t realized how much hunger weakened her body until the food lay before her. Savonarola watched her with a look of interest, even amusement.

  “I feel sorrow about your mother,” he told her after some minutes of silence. His voice echoed through the room, deep and foreboding.

  Diana hesitated, her fork hovering over a plate still half full with food. “I appreciate your words,” she replied, her own voice crisp, high, contrasting his own. “My efforts proved insufficient to see to her best welfare.”

  Savonarola plucked a grape from his plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing with deliberation. “When I began as a novice with the order, my master bade me to inscribe a copy of the Gospels. I was never one who had talent with pen or paint, but I labored at this task with devotion sometimes twenty hours a day. My mistakes were frequent, and when made required that the task be abandoned and started anew. So much paper, valuable paper wasted on my pitiful attempts. My master chastised me with his words and with his fists. Finally, my skills improved so with the most Herculean of efforts, I scribed a magnificent set of the gospels.” Savonarola’s lips twisted into a grimace of a smile. “Each page lovingly crafted, engraved with the finest drawings my hand had ever made before or since. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever created.”

  Diana watched him, chewing on a boiled egg.

  Savonarola’s eyes slid sideways, locking on her own, his voice dropping an octave. “When I had finished, my master looked over what I had done. Without a word, without an explanation, he threw the completed work into the fire and left me alone with the embers of months of painstaking effort.”

  Savonarola sipped from his wooden cup, swallowed loudly. “How I hated him—hated him as Satan must hate Christ.”

  Diana stopped eating, staring at Savonarola without knowing how to respond. At last she asked, “Have you forgiven him now?”

  Savonarola chuckled. “A year after this event he suffered apoplexy and died. But on his deathbed I came to him. I don’t know if he could hear me in his last moments, but I spoke of what he had done. And then I asked him to forgive me.”

  Diana put down her fork, appetite slipping away.

  “Your mother is now with God,” Savonarola said simply.

  “With how she sinned, with the Council, won’t she spend time in Purgatory?”

  Savonarola regarded her with his watery eyes. “Don’t you see, girl? We are already in Purgatory. Destined to repeat out our sins over and over, until at last we see through them and mend the tears in our soul. Then, and only then, shall we be prepared to enter into the grace of God. Your mother saw her own sins, suffered and died for them. Her time with us has come to its end. I feel great joy for her.”

  She watched him quietly. Her body remained too exhausted to allow her much emotional reaction to his words. She didn’t know what to think really. What could he know about the fate of her mother’s soul? Pondering it offered nothing of value. The afterlife…her mother’s afterlife was too remote. All that mattered now was in this life her body moldered in the grave.

  Savonarola must have sensed that her thoughts wandered for his eyes glinted in the way that they did and he changed topics saying, “I’m sure you haven’t come to me this morning to receive a homily.”

  Diana straightened in her chair with a deep intake of breath. “You know that I’ve been trying to discover who has killed my mother. In truth I have not yet been very successful in my efforts.”

  He nodded, “I am well aware of the course you’ve set for yourself. I’d suggest that perhaps you have been more successful than you give yourself credit for. A little girl floundering in the dark could easily be ignored and you certainly have not been ignored.”

  She looked down for a second. She had difficulty remaining focused and confident around Savonarola. Each new statement required her to summon up her courage. “It seems to me that our goals in this case are as mutual as we might expect. For different reasons we each want to get at the heart of the Sacred Council of Apostles. I would like you to help me. I would like you to grant me authority to conduct my investigation in the name of the Republic of Firenze.”

  Savonarola regarded her silently for a long, uncomfortable moment. “You understand that what you ask for is unprecedented. For a woman to involve herself in the work of men to such a degree, you will anger many who are not your enemy simply for flaunting the rules of society. Under different circumstances I would condemn you myself.”

  She met his gaze, unwavering. “I understand that for which I ask. I am willing to accept whatever costs may come.”

  Savonarola puckered his lips, thinking. He then gestured to the lurking shadow servants, calling for one of them to bring him parchment, pen, and ink. These were quickly delivered and without word, Savonarola set himself to scribbling on the parchment. Several minutes passed in this manner, and Diana remained quiet, sensing this was no time to interrupt.

  His work completed, Savonarola pushed the parchment across the table to her. “This is a warrant that grants you authoritative powers on behalf of the Republic of Firenze. With this writ, citizens of Firenze are compelled to answer your questions subject to seizure and criminal penalties on failure to comply.”

  She picked up the writ. The parchment felt heavy in her hands. Now that it was done, now that she had gotten what she’d come for, she no longer felt certain that she wanted this.

  “You’ll find it won’t open every door in Firenze,” Savonarola murmured, one hand holding his face partially obscuring his words. “Nonetheless, you are now in a position of power, real power, however temporarily. The enemies you make will be permanent.”

  She tucked the writ into her dress. She stood up, her legs still wobbly from the stresses of the past day. “I thank you, Friar, for entrusting me with this authority.”

  He nodded. “I hope I will not be proven wrong about you. You are a very brave and determined young woman. The ranks of the saints are filled with such brave and determined young women. It is an unfortunate fact most of them died violently.”

  Diana swallowed and bowed her head in respect. Then, feeling that further words could gain her no more than she’d already gotten, she turned and left back the way she had come, through dark corridors until finally greeted by the light of day.

  ****

  The stone fortress of her family palazzo seemed like an alien structure when finally it came into view. She stopped in the street and regarded it for a moment. Columns of stone rose up toward the sky, the artifice interrupted at ground level only by the family coat of arms. On a brass plaque, three roses intertwined reaching up together for the sky. She approached the coat of arms and ran her fingers along the cold metal. When she was a child she had imagined that the three roses signified her family: mother, father, herself, an inseparable unit. Silly of course. The coat of arms predated any of them. Now such flights of imagination seemed all that much more foolish. Her hand dropped to her side.

  “Lady Diana?” a voice hesitantly called.

  She turned. One of the Swiss mercenaries watching the door drew near to her. Tall, red-haired, rugged, he came carefully as if in fear that a careless move might cause her to explode. “We’ve been scouring the city for you.”

  She knew the tone in his voice: fear. What could a man such as him have to fear of her? “I’m here now,” she told him, disinclined to explain herself. “I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you.” She brushed past him, through the door, coming home.

  Inside warm air crept into her cold skin, reaching her aching bones. Standing in the entrance hall, looking up at the ceiling. As a little girl she must have once stood like this and looked up at the images there, the half-nude woman futilely fleeing from the unwanted embrace of a satyr. The fleeting tendrils of a memory eluded her.

  A hand on her shoulder. Siobhan scrutinized her with concern. “I fea
red the worst,” the Irish girl told her.

  So she had guessed the depths of Diana’s misery. Diana opened her mouth to speak, to say something, to apologize perhaps, but no words suited. She met Siobhan’s eyes, unsure of what to say.

  Siobhan lowered her own glance, taking Diana into her arms and holding her there for a moment. Warmth passed between them, a welcome change from the cold outside. Still there was a barrier even Siobhan could not penetrate. “Come.” Siobhan pulled away from the embrace. “There is someone you must see.”

  Siobhan took her by the hand, and without a further word, led her upstairs. Diana followed, too tired and drained to resist. The girl brought her to a guest bedroom, spacious and lavishly designed. Light poured in through a wide window, illuminating a woman’s figure sitting by a writing desk wrapped in a thick blanket. Golden hair cascaded down the woman’s shoulders. A flash of green underneath the blanket. The woman wore one of her mother’s dresses.

  Siobhan stepped aside at the door, allowing Diana to enter. This she did without a word.

  The woman at the desk turned at the sound of their entrance. Francesca. She arose, dropping the blanket. There she stood, still weak, her legs quivering with even this effort. Isabella Savrano’s green dress gleamed with magnificence in the late morning sun. Francesca di Lucca seemed like a seraph basked in God’s radiance.

  Diana locked eyes with the other woman, unable to speak. At last, Francesca approached, her steps like those of a newborn fawn. She stopped a few feet from Diana. “In my death I saw many faces. I thought that they were angels, but when I woke the only face I saw was you. You were my angel.”

  Diana raised her hands just up from her sides a bit, palms out helplessly. She tried to respond, found no words, and then at last blurted, “That doesn’t make any sense!” She burst out laughing as she said those words, but even as she laughed she knew it was fragile and that somehow, Francesca standing there in her mother’s dress, incoherent as ever, had been the one to pierce her.

  Even before she felt Francesca’s thin arms around her the tears began to come. She collapsed into Francesca’s embrace, unmindful of the other woman’s weakened state. Sobbing turned to shudders and she clenched up handfuls of her mother’s dress in angry fists. The two of them slowly collapsed to their knees. Francesca rocked her back and forth, like she was a frightened child. Diana buried her face into Francesca’s neck as the tears flowed unstoppable and raw, burning her eyes.

  Siobhan joined them, kneeling down and wrapping her own arms around the two of them, lending her strength to their fragile embrace.

  “It’s all right, Diana,” Francesca whispered over and over. “We three are bound together. We three will surely prevail.”

  ****

  A good while later when there were no tears left to be spent, the three of them sent for a bowl of fruit and sequestered themselves into a forgotten upper floor room. With a bottle of fine wine between them, and the requested plate of figs, they tried to make some sense of their predicament.

  “Besides ourselves,” Siobhan asked, “who can we trust?”

  “Friar Savonarola,” Diana pronounced, “for only so long as our interests coincide.” She already had explained to them her reasoning—that her mother would have died in flames had Savonarola wished her dead. The other two agreed and it was decided.

  “It’s like a rabbit kit finding concordance with a bear working together to dig up roots,” Siobhan observed with a somber voice. “So long as there are enough roots, they remain fast friends. Once the roots run out, the rabbit kit starts looking tasty to the bear.”

  “What about your father,” Francesca offered meekly. “Could we turn to him?”

  Diana shrugged sadly. “He has been less than supportive. For what I know, he might very well have killed my mother himself.”

  “I doubt that, but she won’t listen to me,” Siobhan added.

  “Perhaps we could take this matter to Cardinal Lajolo?” suggested Francesca.

  “With the luck you’ve had in a Catholic convent, I’d just prefer to keep the religiously inclined authorities at bay,” Siobhan groused. “Bad enough we’ve got Savonarola watching over our shoulders.”

  “Perhaps I could confide in Bernardo?” Diana thought out loud.

  “Just because you fancy him,” Siobhan replied, “doesn’t mean you can trust him. You’ve spent time with him twice. Besides, your other paramour, Niccolo, has been less than helpful, despite being well advised on current matters.”

  Diana nodded. Siobhan was right.

  “Wait, you have two suitors?” Francesca looked at her with wide eyes.

  “It’s a bit more complex than that.” Diana looked down at her hands.

  “It would be a deliciously romantic tale if one or both of them mightn’t have murdered her mother,” Siobhan clarified rather bluntly.

  “Oh,” Francesca said, still looking amazed.

  Diana looked sideways at the older girl. “You’ll have more than your share of suitors now that you’re out of that convent.” At once, she realized she’d misspoken, assumed too much. “You’re not going back, are you?”

  Francesca stared down at her hands. “I don’t think I’m welcome. They haven’t even inquired after me.”

  “Odd about that, don’t you think?” Siobhan piped in. “Here they have a nun returned from the dead, as good a miracle as any. If that wouldn’t bring in the gold I don’t know what would. That they don’t show any interest speaks of guilt to me.” She nodded as if her opinion was the surest thing ever.

  Diana looked up, watched her friend for a moment. It was odd.

  Francesca twisted a little ring around on her finger. “I’m not sure what direction my life takes now. If they don’t take me back, I’ll be a scandal to my family.” She sighed. “And even if they don’t, I don’t feel released from the vows I made to God.”

  Diana’s heart sank. “I’m very sorry that my situation has brought harm to you, Francesca.”

  Francesca reached out and patted her hand. “It’s nothing you could help. Whatever is happening, it is part of God’s plan. His plan for us may not always be pleasant, but it always has purpose.”

  “I wish I could always be as sure of that,” Diana said.

  “So,” observed Siobhan, “it seems that, aside from the dubious exception of the Mad Friar, we can trust no one?”

  A minute of silence underscored her comment.

  “Then it will be just the three of us,” Francesca concluded softly, at last.

  “That’s two good friends more than I had when I started,” Diana said with a smile for them both. “We’ll begin with you Francesca. I’m reasonably certain the same poison was used on you as on my mother.”

  Francesca turned paler than before. “I can’t think of why someone would want to kill me. As I told you before, no one has imparted any knowledge about the death of your mother unto me.”

  “You don’t know who might’ve slipped you the poison?” Siobhan pressed. “Someone who might have brought food the day Diana visited you?”

  Diana chewed on her tongue a bit at that. Thinking, thinking…

  Francesca shook her head. “I can’t remember much of that night, past when I prophesied for Diana. I wish that I could!”

  Siobhan looked visibly disappointed, but Diana said, “It’s all right. Probably a side effect of the poison. Nothing you could do about it.”

  “Why that particular poison with such an odd effect?” Siobhan wondered aloud. “Why not something like arsenic to get the job done without error?”

  “Arsenic brings on a bloody agonizing death. It could easily raise suspicions of poisoning. Nightshade brings a quicker, less messy semblance of death, consistent with apoplexy, which comes on all the time. By the time the drug wears off, it is too late. As we saw.” Diana squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of her mother’s corpse, grasping desperately for freedom.

  “I was fortunate that the ground was too frozen, and the
gravedigger’s spade broke,” Francesca said with wonder. “And that you were clever enough to figure out what they did to me, Diana.”

  Diana looked at her and nodded. Who, though, were they? She was beginning to have a suspicion as to one of those involved. “I’m not sure how much you should thank me. I believe it is my fault that you were poisoned in the first place.”

  “Why?” Francesca asked, clearly disbelieving.

  “Because you had prophesied to me about my investigation. Prophesies that began to come true.” She looked up and met Francesca’s gaze. “And I told someone about that.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fire on Babylon

  Seeing the convent at Saint Cecilia always filled Diana with wonder. Even in the depth of winter, God’s hand seemed to brush against the place. Every stone, every tree, every pane of glass seemed in the perfect spot. Only today were the cracks in the edifice becoming apparent. A pile of rubble toppled unattended where the wall of Francesca’s cell had been torn down to remove what had then been believed to be her dead body. The livelihood of the place, the frenetic energy of the sisters who did so many good works in the city bled out of that wound in the convent wall. Those few sisters who stood outside the place watched Diana with a helpless wonder as she approached, no longer a mere penitent, but increasingly the woman who would undo them. Diana felt their eyes on her and in their gaze felt a flare of real power swell within her. Flanked by two of Agon’s tall Swiss, and wielding Savonarola’s writ, she was now as powerful a force as she could ever hope to be. A fleeting moment, she reminded herself. With her mother’s death avenged, she’d cast it away herself if Savonarola didn’t wrench it from her. She could only hope to flirt with such darkness for so long without becoming afflicted by it. She had enough gloom of her own to contend with for the foreseeable future.

  Diana rapped her hand against the thick wooden door. The young and plump novitiate who answered, watched her with doe eyes. “I’m here to see Sister Ophelia,” Diana stated.