by Linda Proud
‘There is nothing in your book about this. No indication at all.’
‘Not yet, but if there is to be any more story, then, well – I had to tell you this part in person.’
‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘It is well for the man of truth to be honest. You have deceived us. All these years, and you could not tell us, your friends? Then you are no friend, to keep such a secret!’
With that he walked out and has not spoken to me since. What do I do now? The rumours of war coming up from the south are growing ever stronger. I can only go east, to Venice, but I will not leave before I have made my peace with Erasmus. I sent him a note, to which I received a terse reply, that I am to make my peace with God before I try making it with any man.
80
THE COMPANY OF THE LIBRARY
1494
AND NOW I HAVE ANOTHER CONFESSION FOR YOU, ERASMO, should you ever read this. Whether it will make you think better of me or worse, I do not know, but my experience in Savonarola’s cell was not that of conversion, and I did not become a Dominican as a matter of faith. In the middle of my prayers in that cell came a vision, a vision of a book – that book of Hermes which had belonged to Lorenzo. What was it doing at San Marco? Now that I thought about it, the Medici collection of books stored at the monastery seemed to have swelled, not diminished, in recent times. I joined the others in the library but had only half an ear to the discussion while I looked about curiously. Yes, there was a discrimination against the poets, but their books were still dusted and cared for. And the more I looked, the more my suspicion was confirmed: there were volumes here that Lorenzo had once kept for his private use. Someone was using the library as a depository for Medici treasures.
As soon as the meeting was over, and I had evaded Savonarola and his enquiry about my decision, I went to the Palazzo de’ Medici and sought out Lascaris, who looked after the house library.
‘I have been commissioned to make a copy of the Poimandres of Hermes. Poliziano tells me that the best edition is that made for Lorenzo. May I borrow it?’
The librarian looked at me guardedly then told me to wait. After a few minutes he returned with Cardinal Giovanni, who wanted to know who the commission was for, and why I would not be satisfied with any of the plentiful copies of the book easily available. I kept spinning lies, trapping myself in a web of my own making.
Finally he interrupted me. ‘Why are you lying, Tommaso?’
‘I saw the Hermes at San Marco and wondered why it was there.’
‘A donation, made at Lorenzo’s own request. Many of his books went there.’
‘I have heard that there is going to be a restriction on the borrowing of pagan books from San Marco.’
‘I have heard it, too. I trust it will not happen.’
‘But what if it does? Are you not anxious to retrieve the Medici collection?’
He considered me awhile, chewing his lip. His eyes might have been bulbous, but there was great intelligence in them. He exchanged a glance with Lascaris, who gave a barely imperceptible nod of his head. The Cardinal turned back to me.
‘In times such as these, we all have to lie. Lorenzo’s books were put in the monastery by me.’ The body of a buffoon enclosed a sharp wit that could see the future as clearly as any prophet. ‘If the French come, if they take Florence, they will loot the palazzo and take the Medici library. It seemed to me that the safest place to keep the books was in San Marco. I arranged it with Savonarola: our library is a separate collection, merely being stored there.’
‘And do you still think it is the safest place?’
‘I trust the Friar.’
‘Savonarola’s intentions may be pure but I do not trust those closest to him. How long will it be before disapproval of reading the ancient authors becomes a ban? How long before those books are put away, only to disappear? Each one is worth a fortune, and the brethren are committed to relief of the poor. This is the library, the great library, which Lorenzo assembled for the benefit of mankind. Will we see it turned into bread?’
The Cardinal inhaled. ‘I think God may have sent you to me.’
I twitched. I thought I had escaped God.
The Cardinal turned to Lascaris for his opinion. Lascaris nodded again. ‘Invite him in.’
‘Into what?’ I asked.
‘I am forming a company, a band of loyal men. Loyal to the Medici, yes, but loyal most of all to books and to learning, to the freedom of mind and to study. It is their sworn and secret duty to protect the Medici library in whatever befalls us.’
What is love? It is that which makes you act contrary to all sense and reason, that which makes you risk loss, even the loss of life. It is that devotion to something which makes you quite naturally virtuous. And my love is for books. For learning. For the great renewal of men by the wisdom of antiquity.
‘I would do whatever you ask of me.’
‘Would you? Would you truly?’
‘I would, even without knowing what it is that you have in mind.’
Cardinal Giovanni looked at me compassionately. ‘We’ve been looking for someone who is able and willing to give up everything.’
I swallowed.
‘If you were to take this duty on, Tommaso, it would serve us best if you were in the monastery. Go to Savonarola, throw yourself at his feet and ask to be accepted into the brotherhood. Savonarola is very disposed to giving his friars work to which they are naturally suited, so it will not be difficult to get yourself placed in the library. I believe it was my father’s wish that you marry Maria Poliziana. This you must sacrifice, for the greater good. I realise that it is no small thing I ask of you. At the same time, I do not think I am asking you to do something wholly distasteful. And yet, this conversation must never be repeated to anyone. As far as even your closest friends will know, even Ficino, Pico and Poliziano, you have chosen this path after an experience of conversion.’
One way, perhaps the only sure way, of coming off the fence is to be pushed.
With my head held down by Fra Silvestro’s bony hands, I watched my curls floating to the floor to make a heap of vanity. As they fell, they died, the light going out of them, and became sordid matter to be swept up and burned.
‘Will you not send them to the wigmaker?’ I asked, half hoping I could buy them back and wear them again some day. ‘They would fetch a good price.’ Fra Silvestro sniffed and kept clicking the shears.
My past lay on the floor, my youth, my time as a man of the Medici, in a pile of hair. A young novice swept it into a wooden bucket and took it away.
81
FALLING STARS
1494
FORTUNA IS POPULAR IN ANY AGE WHEN MEN ARE superstitious about their fate and ascribe everything to the starry heavens. She, the goddess who gives and who takes away, is depicted with a wheel to show her cyclical nature. In our enlightened age, we have deposed her. We study the ancients and argue that the events that befall Man are the result of natural law and not the arbitrary fate meted out by an inconstant goddess of the Roman pantheon. Both Ficino and Pico differentiated between true astrology and superstition. Understanding now that, though the stars may be signs, they are not causes, we begin to look at them with fresh eyes, wondering indeed what in fact they are.
The ages of mankind do not begin and end on certain days. There is overlap, a long period when peoples of vastly different beliefs and outlooks dwell together in our cities. Such is our age. As wisdom pours out of ancient texts, awakening our scholars to a reasonable universe, so the mass of people continue in the old barbarous ways. And not only the people. Some gods and goddesses, finding themselves outmoded, have not gone lightly into retirement. Fortuna in particular. Whether we believed in her or not was immaterial: she gathered her strength for a mighty turn of her wheel, creaking and heavy, to pitch our men of reason to their – predicted – ruin.
Within the enclosure of th
e monastery, we heard all the news of the city and abroad, often sooner than anyone else. We were not cut off from the world in any respect. One day in the library Fra Domenico told me of the death of the Patriarch of Aquileia and I had to keep my face calm, to nod indifferently and say, ‘Oh?’
‘He was a heretic,’ he told me solemnly.
Ermolao Barbaro was dead. The knowledge seeped through my veins. ‘Oh? In what way a heretic?’
‘One of these pagan scholars parading about in church robes. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.’
‘But what was his heresy?’
‘He was translating Aristotle.’
‘That is hardly heresy. Theology has been based on Aristotle since St Thomas Aquinas.’
‘But his translations differed from those of the Angelic Doctor…’ Fra Domenico went on to explain about the sin of philosophy and accurate translation whilst inside I was folding up and weeping.
‘Did they try him for this?’ I asked.
‘They were going to, but he was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Poisoned.’
‘Who by?’
Fra Domenico shrugged. ‘Does it matter? God’s Will is done. His ways are mysterious – and most wonderful. It is a message from heaven to all scholars to return to sacred scripture. I trust they will hear it. Eh?’
Pico came in later, his eyes red and swollen, and told me the full story. Ermolao’s death had not been instant. A message had come to Poliziano from Ermolao’s servant, Didymus, and Angelo and Pico had swiftly bought and sent an expensive antidote, but it had not arrived in time. Barbaro had died, they heard; more, he had been denied the last rites and was buried in unconsecrated ground.
Pico brought his head close to mine. ‘Listen, I approve of what you have done, and wish I could do it myself, but how can I? How have you given yourself to a Church that asks you to surrender reason? To accept things on faith? To dispense with what you know because the authorities are scared of Truth? How have you done that? For my part it would be too great a sacrifice.’
I nodded. ‘It was God’s will – that is all I can say. But who would poison dear, sweet Barbaro?’
‘Envy, Spite, Malice, Ignorance – there are all manner of contenders. I do not know. He is dead.’ Fresh tears swelled in Pico’s eyes.
‘The friars here think it was the wrath of God and that all scholars must take heed.’
Pico’s lip curled. ‘A bright star in the firmament of literature is snuffed out. God can only weep.’
‘How is Angelo?’
‘Inconsolable. There is some evil force attacking our friend, stirring up and agitating his emotions to such a degree that his brain is afflicted. He does not study now but spends his time writing verses – doggerel – to Alessandra Scala. He says she replies in fine, Attic Greek, but it is not the lady who is writing, it is her tutors. The Greeks are using her as bait to lure our Angelo into a trap. They mean to humilitate him, not merely embarrass him, but humiliate him to such an extent that his reputation will be ruined and he will not be seen in public again. I keep warning him but he will not listen. He wants that bait so much. It is unbearable.’
‘You think he has no chance of winning the lady, then?’
‘None whatsoever. She is already betrothed to Michele
Marullus. Did you know that? It is Marullus behind it all, of course. Wherever there are Greeks gathered, you hear jokes about Poliziano, and cruel laughter. His past sins are coming to haunt him, and there is no Lorenzo to shield him from the mob. Every insult he has ever delivered is being returned four-fold. It is like watching a bear being made to dance and then brought to its knees amidst howls of derision.’
‘And Maria? What of her?’
‘She continues to live with him, her brother’s housekeeper, but complaints are being made by neighbours, even those at Fiesole. There has even been an accusation put in the tamburazione that it is an incestuous relationship, and that Angelo Poliziano is abusing his nephews. Written in bad Italian. The hand of a Greek, I have no doubt. They are destroying him, Tommaso. I want him to come here to San Marco – it is the only refuge these days.’
‘What, you would have him do what you cannot and surrender his own reason? Give up his professorship and become a friar?’ I laughed.
‘For him it is a simple choice between sanity and madness.’
‘Between sanity and Maria. Who would look after her? You?’ My voice was catching but it was time to speak plainly. ‘You do know she is in love with you, don’t you?’
‘Of course, and that love is returned, but it is Platonic. I cannot be encumbered by a wife. Apart from anything else, my time is short. A daughter of the Rucellai family, a very sibyl by all accounts, has told Savonarola, in a voice much like his own, that I will be dead in the time of the lilies. Have I not heard that before?’
‘So, in the month of May. But every year has a month of May.’
‘It has nothing to do with the month of May. The lily is the standard of the French, remember.’
Merchants arriving in Florence from the north were bringing news of the King of France mustering his troops. The French were preparing their invasion.
God, Savonarola had cried recently from the pulpit, his eyes starting in prophetic vision, God will take the King by the bridle and lead him into Italy!The sword of the Lord is upon us! Only those among you who are just may rejoice – for the rest, you vile and worthless slaves, for now you may continue to besmirch yourselves. Fill your bellies with wine that your kidneys rot with the excess, stain your hands with the blood of the poor, for this is your portion and your lot. But know that your bodies and your souls are in my hands, and soon your bodies will be exhausted by scourges, and your souls I shall condemn to eternal fire!
‘When they cross the Alps,’ Pico said, ‘they will bring my death. The time of the lilies is coming.’
Having allied Florence to Naples, Piero had destroyed Lorenzo’s hard-won balance of power. Now, heaping error on error, Piero was determined that Florence should resist the French. He sent Lorenzo and Giovanni di Pierfrancesco to negotiate with the King. They returned, professing failure.
When the people rioted and tried to expel Piero, we closed the gates of the monastery and went to our prayers. It was about that time that we heard that King Ferrante of Naples had died. Savonarola’s first prophecy, about the death of Lorenzo, the Pope and the King, had now been fulfilled, and the second prophecy, of the invasion of the French, was upon us.
82
THE COMING SCOURGE
1494
IT WAS DURING A MEETING OF THE SAN MARCO ACADEMY, which the Pierfranceschi had begun to attend, that officers of the Signoria came, accompanied by armed men, and arrested the brothers on a charge of treason, saying that it had been discovered that they were conspiring with the French. The brothers jumped to their feet but were quickly overwhelmed. My friend Zenobio was arrested with them, guilty, it seemed, of nothing more than being their cousin.
All three were condemned to death.
Their supporters took flight, including Michele Marullus. What else could he do? The cause was simple enough: he was implicated in the plot and therefore joined the French. Poliziano, however, seemed to believe that Marullus had only ever courted Alessandra Scala to spite him, and that now, so shortly after their betrothal, he had abandoned her.
Not only the friends of the Pierfranceschi were flying to France; so, too, were the enemies of Borgia. It seemed each day there was news of fresh desertions from Rome, including Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, he who is now our Pope Julius.
In Italy we had perfected the art of war. Using mercenary forces, it was rare for men to be killed in battles. Oh, yes, there were some sieges for the sake of appearance, and certainly the people suffered in times of war. But bloody battlefields were a thing of the past. The French, however, had a standing ar
my of forty thousand men trained to kill. They also had a new weapon: horse-drawn guns which fired iron shot. And they were on the move. All diplomatic activity to persuade King Charles against an invasion was in vain. Every morning we woke up with our thoughts solely upon the creeping lava flow that was the French.
Poliziano never visited San Marco, not even the library, but from the casino of Lorenzo’s garden he sent regularly for books. Whenever I could, I arranged to deliver them myself, trying to repair our friendship. Since I had become a Dominican, he had been off-hand with me, even cold, but on the day the Pierfranceschi were released, he was more voluble.
‘I will never get used to you looking like a magpie,’ he said with distaste when, in answer to his request, I took him what we had on Africa. He felt the cloth of my habit between finger and thumb. ‘Does it itch?’
‘It is supposed to itch, to remind me that the body is my slave and not my master. It helps me turn my mind to God.’
He stared at me, those puddle-dark eyes penetrating through to the innermost part of me where the truth lay.
His desk in the loggia of the casino looked out into lush shrubberies that twittered with birds. The city was shut out by walls, cypresses hid the view of towers and domes: we could have been in the country. This idyllic accommodation had been given to him freely by Piero de’ Medici.
‘Have you heard?’ Angelo asked. ‘I’m not sure how much you hear in that enclosure.’
‘We hear everything, believe me.’
‘About the Pierfranceschi being released?’
Indeed I had. Early that morning Piero had gone to the Bargello himself to accompany his cousins into freedom, a freedom that he himself had arranged, ‘in his magnanimity,’ said Poliziano.
‘What freedom is it,’ I enquired, ‘if they are confined to their villa? It sounds like house arrest to me.’
‘It would be a fool who would let them loose. But they are out of prison. The whole city is cheering Piero. Have you ever known a more prudent, magnificent, moderate, humane or friendlier man?’