by Linda Proud
He brought the contemplation to an end with a short prayer. ‘Let us wish this peace for our friends, for our century, for the world.’
And then, as if in response to his words, a cock crew. It was many hours before dawn. Pico smiled. ‘Ah the cock, the sacred cock, the call to awaken.’
The cock crowed again and its yodelling sounded across the land beyond the fortress. In that moment I knew that all life is a dream.
33
THE DEATH OF RIARIO
1488
SOME ITEMS OF NEWS ARE SUCH THAT YOU HEAR THEM even when in a French prison. One was the very sudden death of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s daughter, Luigia, shortly before her wedding to Giovanni di Pierfrancesco. Cause of death: ‘a fever’. The other was that Girolamo Riario, that name which rolls round the mouth like vomit, Riario, the ‘nephew’ of Pope Sixtus (in fact, his son), the man who had conceived and executed the plot against the Medici using the Pazzi as his puppets, who had escaped the retribution that fell on the Pazzi, who had married Caterina Sforza and become Lord of Imola, that cowardly turd was dead. Evviva! At the news, Cristoforo and I grasped each other by the arms and danced. Pico turned to the guard who had brought us this news. ‘How did he die?’
‘He got in a fight over gambling debts and was thrown from a window of his own castle.’
Urrah!
‘Lorenzo will be pleased,’ said Pico.
‘Lorenzo pleased?’ I said. ‘Far from it. He will be annoyed and frustrated.’ Lorenzo had been trying for years to have Riario assassinated but without success. Who, after all, had been behind those three insurrections in Forlì? ‘The only thing that would quench Lorenzo’s lust for Riario’s death is to have done it himself, to have pushed his own thumbs into Riario’s windpipe and seen his vile, selfish eyes bulge at the realisation of death.’
Now I was frustrated, trapped as I was in prison with only one version of a story to go on. ‘Who pushed him from the window?’ I asked the guard.
‘A hired soldier he owed money to.’
‘Are you sure?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s what they’re saying.’
‘And what of Caterina Sforza?’
‘Ah, now, she…’ Here the guard settled himself on a bench to tell us the interesting part, how the good people of Forlì had risen up yet again and captured her, throwing her into the city’s prison. ‘They tried to take the castle but failed. Caterina sent a message to the people saying that, if they released her, she would order the castle to surrender. They knew better than to trust her but when she offered to leave her children as hostages, then the people agreed. After all, when a mother pledges her children, she means it, does she not? Back inside the castle, however, Lady Caterina appeared on its battlements and laughed at the people of Forlì, saying they could keep her children. After all, she said, she had one left in Imola and another in her womb.’ Here the guard leant back and roared with laughter.
‘Beh! She is Medea!’ Pico said in distaste. ‘That woman is not human.’
‘So did the people take the children?’
‘No. An army arrived from Milan just in time and rescued them and encouraged the people to pay obeisance to their new ruler, the Countess of Imola and Lady of Forlì.’
Once the guard had gone, taking the stench of the world with him, Pico said we needed to contemplate, to cleanse and purify the soul. ‘How fascinating the world is! How it grips us! Leave it now and come with me to the silent place.’
I sat down, closed my eyes and tried but, oh, really, sometimes the temptations of the mind are just too great. I pictured Riario being pushed from the window, and imagined myself doing the deed. I pictured him falling through the air, his arrogant face contorting in terror. I imagined the cracking thud of him hitting the ground. I saw Riaro’s broken body spreadeagled, so vividly I could taste his blood. But it was over too quickly, so I went through the sequence again. Then my mind roamed about, thinking up a premeditation of this apparently random manslaughter. I imagined how a man in the pay of the Medici had attained a position in the army of Riario and finally, one April day in 1488 – the tenth anniversary of the murder of our Giuliano, as it happened – contrived to get the bastard thrown out of the window. The imagination is a wonderful thing, and often far closer to the truth than hearsay.
Some time later Pico slapped me on the knee and I awoke with a start. ‘A man becomes what he dwells on,’ he told us. ‘So what is it to be, Tommaso, God – or the corpse of a murderer? Shall we start again?’
34
THE MIDGET MONARCH
1488
A FEW DAYS LATER WE WERE TAKEN DOWN THE WINDING stairs to the great hall. It was empty apart from the guards at attention along the walls. We waited. At last a far door opened and a personal guard in resplendent finery entered but appeared to be attending no one. You would have thought a king would march in behind such a guard. It was only as they came towards us that we noticed the young dwarf at their centre, dressed as a king. His large features were disproportionate to his head, which itself was disproportionate to his body. He was all eyes, nose and mouth, like a frog. Was this a joke at our expense? Were we to be tried by a fool? Thankfully I did not laugh: something in the attitude of the guard told me to take the dwarf seriously, to keep my face as straight as an ambassador’s.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Pico, sweeping low in a bow. Swallowing my surprise, I had a coughing fit.
Charles, King of France, suffered from more than one nervous tic and could not frame a proper sentence in French let alone Latin. Even so, majesty must be honoured and I prostrated myself along with my companions before this misshapen youth. He bade us rise and invited Pico to sit with him. Then he examined Pico in a most informal manner, asking him questions about his religion and philosophy.
‘Do not trouble me with the theology of St Thomas Aquinas or Duns Scotus. I cannot understand the language of the universities. Speak to me in my own language and tell me about magic and Cabala.’
So in French and as if speaking to a child or a woman, Pico told the king about his nine hundred theses, their plan and intention, why philosophy unites when religion only divides, and about magic and Cabala. He spoke in the language of the courts, engaging the king with his sincerity and enthusiasm. No one could look in the luminous eyes of Pico della Mirandola and suspect him of anything but what he confessed to: the desire to know God.
‘I see no fault in you,’ said the king at last. ‘It’s the pope, not me, wants you in prison. Great men, lots of them, yes, demanding your release. Duke of Milan. Lorenzo de’ Medici. My own council, doctors of the Sorbonne, everyone supports you. But the pope, he won’t listen. No. Pride, of course. He’s denounced you as a heretic so now he has to stick to it. Yes. Have patience, my friend. We shall win. Meanwhile you can stay here, but in my own apartments. Yes.’
‘Your Majesty, I thank you, but we have grown to love our accommodation in the tower.’
To my surprise, I found myself nodding in agreement, along with Cristoforo. Accordingly we returned to our eyrie and awaited our fate. Oblivious to what was happening outside, we only discovered later that, such was the support of the king and his council, and of the Sorbonne, that even the papal nuncios were won over. Only the pope remained convinced of Pico’s heresy.
Not long afterwards we were again taken down the stairs to the reception hall. This time we were greeted by an emissary of the king who told us we were free on condition that we left the country. He presented Pico with a safe conduct signed by the king’s sister, Anne, who was regent of France until Charles came of age. ‘His Majesty wishes you well and he wishes you gone,’ said the emissary. ‘You are to go to Rome and make your peace with His Holiness. Letters precede you.’
A week or so later, when we were in Turin, Pico announced that we were going to go to Germany. During his studies he had become enamoured of the works of Nicholas of Cusa, and to fall in lo
ve with the work is to fall in love with the man. He wanted to go and stand on the ground where Nicholas had lived. Patient Cristoforo dissuaded him, saying that the king’s safe conduct did not allow us to leave the road south to Rome. Pico said that the only authority who could truly grant safe conduct was God. Even while the two were bickering, a courier arrived from Florence with a letter. Writing on behalf of Lorenzo, Ficino invited Pico to Florence, where he would be safe from prosecution and free to continue his studies.
‘Ha!’ said Cristoforo and rolled his glad eyes heavenward to that Person with whom he colluded in the protection of his master. Defeated, Pico smiled ruefully and told us to make ready to take the road again. South, to Florence.
Dover, June 4th, 1506
We are to set out on a small caravel bound for France but are waiting for good weather. In June! The day is as grey as February and a chill wind blows up the channel, making fools of us in our summer clothes. The captain assures us that all will be well, that he makes this crossing once a fortnight and has not been sunk yet.
‘Always a first time,’ Erasmus replies. ‘And there will only be a first time.’
Just being in Dover has put him in a ferocious mood, remembering the last time he was here. Our walk across the docks to the waiting ship was made bitter and furtive by his conviction that it was all going to happen again, that he was going to be robbed by Customs officers and was going to end up destitute in Paris as before. Now that we have gained the ship, he finds new fears and goes about looking for rotting timbers and torn sails.
The number of our party is seven. King Henry’s physician decided his sons needed two tutors and so we have a man called Clyfton with us, as well as a royal courier who has been commissioned to act as our guide. I am much irritated by this as I need no guide, and especially not an English one with airs above his station. The man wears the royal insignia of a red and white rose as if it were the crown itself. As soon as we were aboard, and out of the jurisdiction of the king’s court, Erasmus made it clear to Clyfton that, so far as he is concerned, Clyfton is the teacher while Erasmus is the director of studies. ‘I have drawn up a programme of reading for the voyage,’ he said. ‘Here it is.’ Leaving the man speechless, he escaped with me to our cabin.
At sea, June 5th, 1506
The storm that Erasmus dreaded has now whipped up in the straits. The wind howls in the sails and the ship is bucking like a wild horse. This is as much as I can write.
In sight of France, June 7th, 1506
In between bouts of sickness, Erasmus and I talk like boys, mostly about love. He has told me the romantic story of his parents, and about the girls he has adored. Is he an innocent virgin, this monk? He will not say, but I suspect he is not. He evades my questions with little sermons on generalities. I also evade his.
‘You say that love between men is purer than love between a man and a woman.’
‘Pico said that. I was merely repeating it.’
‘So do you believe it?’
‘I believe there is the possibility of Platonic love between a man and a woman. I achieved it, I think, with Maria Poliziana.’
‘Is that why you did not marry her? To keep the love pure?’
‘Marriage is not a corruption of pure love. Far from it.’
‘Then why did you not marry her?’
Can I tell him, he, my closest friend? No. I have left it too long. He will laugh so hard the boat will sink. Another time, perhaps, when he is drunk. ‘She died. They all died, my friend. I am returning to a land of ghosts.’
Go back to find that which you have lost. When John said that, I thought at once of Maria. There is a double aspect to my Eurydice: Elena-Maria. Both lost, but both irretrievably? I saw Elena buried. I was only told about Maria’s death. But even if she does live, she is lost to me. I cast her off with the world. I laid her on Savonarola’s altar as my sacrifice. Do I wish I had done differently? Of course.
France
Paris, June 12th, 1506
Sick from the sea journey, we stayed at Hammes Castle for a few days before we moved on. Erasmus is still not well and moaned all the way to Paris. Trusting no one locally, he writes to Linacre about his swollen glands, throbbing temples and the ringing in his ears. He says from now on, it is land all the way and he will never go again by sea if he can possibly avoid it. He also says that we shall have to rest in Paris until he is recovered. How convenient, given that he wants to find a French publisher for his writings.
While Clyfton, the courier and the boys amuse themselves with the sights of this fair city, I have time to get ahead, for Erasmus has had all I’ve written and is now snapping at my heels, impatient to hear about Savonarola.
‘Stop scribbling!’ he says. ‘Just tell me about him. Whenever his name comes up, you become a very Hermes of silence.’
I try, I do try, but the effort to transmute thought into speech makes my eyeballs turn up in my head and my mouth hang open. Every single thing I want to say is tripped and opposed by its contrary. If I think with my quill, at least I can make many crossings out and additions. Perhaps, just perhaps, if I set it all down as it happened, I will discover for myself the truth about the man and be able to state it without getting into an argument and being accused of impiety. But this matter troubles me so much that I find I am reluctant even to write about it. I have to explore my own heart, my faith, my beliefs, and so confront my own agonising doubt. The question is, Was Savonarola the prophet people now say he was, or was he the antichrist?
35
THE FRIAR OF BRESCIA
1488
IT WAS ON THE ROAD THROUGH LOMBARDY THAT WE MET a notary coming from Brescia who told us about a Dominican friar lecturing so passionately on the Book of Revelation that he was causing the people to repent of their sins and turn to God.
While I was scratching my head, wondering where I had heard the name ‘Girolamo Savonarola’ before, Pico told us, vibrating like a bowstring after an arrow has been shot, that he knew the man well. ‘I met him in Reggio, four years ago. It was at a convocation. I had just left university, and he, he had just been expelled from Florence.’
Ah, yes! I remembered the friar I had met outside the Palazzo de’ Medici on the day that Venus was unveiled. ‘Expelled? He was merely transferred to another city, one where they like their wood rough-hewn and not polished.’
‘He told me he was expelled by the Medici for speaking the truth.’
I laughed. ‘He was just a buzzing fly that other men were complaining about. Angelo says that any man who would speak in public absolutely must have command of the periodic sentence.’
Now it was Pico who laughed, fond memories of his friend aroused by what I had said. ‘Goodness is what counts, not a man’s syntax, and Girolamo Savonarola is a good man. In amongst all those sophists at the convocation, he stood apart as a man of simple conviction. So, he has found his voice, has he? Confidence was all he lacked.’
I heard later, within San Marco, that Savonarola’s transformation from an inept, barely audible preacher to the great orator he became was due to Pico. Savonarola’s treatment in Florence had crushed him but the young man he met in Reggio, who told him repeatedly, ‘Speak the truth, whatever the cost, speak the truth,’ had given him new vigour.
Pico suddenly announced that we were to turn back and go to Brescia, but Cristoforo grabbed his reins. ‘We have the king’s safe conduct on the road and Lorenzo’s protection when we are in Florence. We must not divert.’
‘Cristoforo! You are a slave to fear. Must you always be swayed by caution?’
‘If I would keep you alive, yes, I must.’
Frustrated and grumbling, Pico turned his horse back in the right direction. Cristoforo looked at the sky and shrugged. We continued on our way south and as we travelled we met others with news of this fiery preacher. Whether or not it was true that a halo appeared over Savonarola’s h
ead while he was in the pulpit, he was certainly making sufficient impression that his reputation was running through the veins of Italy.
On our arrival in Florence, Pico went directly to the Palazzo de’ Medici. This time Angelo abandoned his duties to meet him there.
‘Angelo!’ said Pico at once. ‘There is a friar…’
‘You are condemned for heresy; you’ve been in prison; I thought I had lost you forever; why do you want to tell me about a friar? Come, Lorenzo is waiting.’
‘Magnifico,’ Pico said to Lorenzo, as soon as the niceties of reunion and expressions of gratitude had been performed. ‘There is in Brescia a true man of God, preaching the gospel in such a way that his audience is filled with terror and love in equal measure. He is no sophist, no erudite priest or loquacious monk, but a man full of integrity and the power of Truth. His name is Girolamo Savonarola.’
‘I know that name. Was he not here at San Marco a few years ago? So graceless and offensive that the Vicar General did not know what to do with him. I told him to send him to Reggio.’ Lorenzo gazed on Pico with amusement.
Angelo laughed. Pico scowled.
‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘he has changed, I know not how or why, but he has found his voice, and it is a voice we should listen to. I tell you, this is the man who will put the Church right.’
Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. Then, like an indulgent father who can deny his son nothing, he relented and told Pico to compose a letter, inviting Savonarola back to Florence, which Lorenzo would put his name to.