Savonarola’s bare feet kicked and jerked as the quivering rope throttled him. The hangman descended and walked to the marble terrace, then took the stairs to ground level. The crowd parted as he made his way to the foot of the gallows, an unlit torch in his hand.
Spasms of nausea seized my gut. The three men twisting and wriggling above the platform were to be burned alive. Savonarola struggled, writhing and kicking as if he could somehow free himself from the choking noose.
The hangman had lit his torch, but before he could shove it into the brushwood someone burst from the crowd clutching a burning brand. “Now,” he shouted, his eyes on the friar, “I can burn the man who wanted to burn me!”
And he thrust the flaming brand into the brushwood.
As smoke curled upwards the flames spread quickly, snapping and popping, but not loudly enough to smother the friar’s screams. Some in the mob tossed small bags of gunpowder into the fire. The sacks sparked and burst, feeding and spreading the flames, the conflagration forcing the onlookers back. The bodies on the gibbet blackened and blistered and smoked.
After a time, the burnt arms dropped into the fire, followed soon after by the charred, twisted legs, sending showers of sparks into a sky darkened by smoke. The hangman chopped down the gallows and it crashed into the fire in a shower of burning embers.
I saw a trio of men off to the side, two leaning against a cart, the third holding the halter of a sway-backed horse whose eyes had been covered with a piece of cloth. One of the men never took his eyes off the gallows, and when he was called in by the hangman to pile more wood on the fire, he carefully noted the position of the friar’s charred body parts before he heaped brushwood on them.
“Let there be no remains to tempt the relic hunters,” the hangman commanded. “You know what to do.”
Later that day, when the fire had cooled to a heap of smoking ash, the trio prepared to shovel the debris into the cart. But the vigilant one called a halt. Wading into the smouldering ash, he dug out the three hot chains and tossed them behind him, urging the others not to waste valuable iron. While his companions were occupied, he quickly sifted through the ashes at his feet, stooped, and slipped something into his pocket.
In short order the debris of execution had been shovelled into the cart and transported to the river nearby. At the foot of a covered bridge, the three men dumped the ashes into the swirling brown water, careful to sweep the last speck from the cart.
“That’s done, then,” said one.
“To be sure,” said the other.
The third brushed his hand over his trouser pocket and nodded.
Five
I
LIKE A BUBBLE RISING sluggishly through dark liquid, I slowly freed myself from sleep, and from the horrifying spectacle in the city square.
There was no doubt in my mind that I had witnessed the gruesome death of Girolamo Savonarola, along with that of two fellow Dominicans. When I felt up to it I would check the details later in the prof’s books, but only for formality’s sake. I knew what I’d find.
My bedroom window was full of cheery morning light that mocked the aura of gloom and dread surrounding me. I forced myself to get out of bed, almost tripping on something. Cursing, I tossed the book I had dropped on the floor the night before onto the bed. I staggered down to the bathroom one floor below, scooped water from the tap into my mouth, then stepped under a lukewarm shower. I returned to my room, pulled on my clothes, and made my way to the kitchen.
My father was at the table. Hearing the scrape of my chair legs on the floor, he peered over the top of his newspaper and looked me over.
“Up late last night?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You look like you been rode hard and put up wet, as they say in the cowboy movies.”
“Right.”
“There’s some scrambled eggs and grilled bacon in the oven,” Dad offered. “The bacon’s nice and crisp.”
My stomach lurched.
“And there’s toast,” he added cheerily. “But I’m afraid it’s burnt.”
I barely made it through the back door before I retched violently into the flower bed.
AFTER FORCING DOWN a cup of clear tea I walked down the hill to the Demeter, hoping to find Raphaella alone in the store. No such luck. I pushed through the door, setting off a discreet buzz, and was bathed in the odour of yeast, vitamins, dried legumes, medicinal herbs, and peanut butter from the machine at the end of the counter. Mrs. Skye stood behind the pine counter in her usual green smock, fitting a new roll of paper into the cash register. She looked up.
“May I help you?” she enquired impersonally.
“Fine, thank you, Mrs. Skye. And how are you?”
She hated it when I referred to her as Mrs., but sometimes I got fed up with her attitude. She’d known me for over a year but always treated me like a stranger, hoping, I guessed, that if she was rude enough I’d abandon Raphaella.
“My parents are well, too,” I pushed on. “They send their best.”
Mrs. Skye made a
Raphaella came through from the back room wearing a green smock with HEALTH IS WEALTH across the front, a caption not up to her usual witty standard. Or maybe I just wasn’t in the mood. When she saw me she stopped.
“Uh-oh, another dream,” she stated, eyes boring into mine. “Come on.”
She took my hand and led me into the back room, a large space jammed to the ceiling with shelves holding boxes, jars, bottles, clear plastic bags of beans, nuts, grains, and other foods, and furnished with a small table and two chairs. A few cartons with Chinese writing on them sat on the floor by the alley door.
I grabbed her and held her tightly. Raphaella kissed me, then pried herself free and filled the kettle and plugged it in. I pulled her to me again.
“I’m kind of glad to see you,” I said.
She pushed me into a chair. I watched as she bustled around, preparing some kind of drink and searching out just the right nutrition bar for someone who had witnessed a legal murder.
“I saw his execution,” I said. “Him and two other monks.”
“Tell me everything,” Raphaella said, plunking a steaming mug onto the table. “And drink this slowly.”
I did as she asked. By the time I had finished describing my vision, I had eaten the bar and drunk two cups of the weird this-will-be-good-for-you tea.
“Now we know the answer to the question you asked me yesterday in the library.”
Raphaella nodded. “ ‘Why does the spirit leave the odour of smoke behind?’ ”
“Right. It’s ironic in a gory way,” I mused, folding the nutrition-bar wrapper into increasingly tiny squares and pretending my hands weren’t shaking. “The preacher who wanted to burn certain so-called sinners ended up being burned himself.” I looked up at Raphaella. “But that’s not really justice, is it? Nobody deserves to die like that.”
“No.”
“Are people who design executions so the maximum amount of suffering is inflicted sick? Is something inside
