bedchamber, I read and reread his answer until Zalumma finally insisted I blow out the candle.
Though it had rained steadily the day before, the evening of the second day was as beautiful as one could hope for in early April. As we rode up to the church of San Lorenzo, the sun hung low in the sky, its warmth offset by a cool breeze.
My father had not exaggerated concerning the size of the crowd that came to hear the friar preach. The throng covered the church steps and spilled out into the piazza; yet despite the size of the gathering, there was no sense of excitement, no liveliness or joy here. It was as hushed as a funeral, the quiet broken only by sighs and softly murmured prayers. Every form was draped in somber colors. There were no women dressed brightly for display, no flash of jewels or gold. It was as though a great flock of chastened ravens had gathered.
There was no possible way for us to push through the crowd to hear. For a moment, I grew sick with fear: Did my father intend for us to stand outside in the piazza? If so, all was lost…
Yet as my father helped me climb from the carriage, Giovanni Pico appeared; he had been awaiting us. The act of setting eyes upon him still made me flinch.
My father embraced Pico, but I knew him well enough to notice his enthusiasm was feigned. There was just a hint of coolness in his smile, which faded almost instantly when he drew away-a little too swiftly.
His arm upon my father’s shoulder, the Count turned and led us toward the church. The crowd parted for him; most recognized him and bowed, acknowledging his close tie to Fra Girolamo. He sidled easily into the sanctuary, guiding my father as he held my arm and pulled me along; Zalumma followed closely.
San Marco had been filled to capacity when I had last heard Savonarola preach, but here in San Lorenzo people eschewed all social niceties and sat pressed against one another, shoulder to shoulder, barely able to raise their arms to cross themselves. Though it was a cool night, the church was heated by the great number of bodies; the air was close, redolent of perspiration, filled with the sound of breathing, sighing, praying.
Pico led us to the front of the church, where the bulky monk Domenico held our place. I turned my face away lest he or the others see my hatred.
He lumbered past us, speaking briefly only to Pico, and disappeared into the throng. Only then did I look about me-and notice the distinctive and familiar face of a gangly, tactiturn youth. It took me a moment to recall where I had seen him: in the Palazzo Medici, sitting silently with Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci. It was the sculptor Michelangelo.
Service began. The ritual of Mass was brief, pared to its bones in acknowledgment that the people had not come to partake of the Eucharist; they had come to hear Savonarola speak.
And so he did. The sight of the homely little monk gripping the edges of the pulpit pierced me far more painfully than the presence of Pico, or even the murderer Domenico.
When the preacher opened his mouth and the sound of his rasping voice filled the cathedral, I could not prevent a tear from spilling onto my cheek. Zalumma saw and gripped my hand tightly. My father saw, too; perhaps he thought my sadness sprang from repentance. After all, many listeners-mostly women but some men, too-had begun to weep as soon as Savonarola uttered his first sentence.
I could focus little on his words; I caught only snatches of the sermon:
The Holy Mother Herself appeared unto me and spoke…
The scourge of the Lord approaches… Cling you unto sodomy, O Florence, to the filth of men loving men, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto the love of riches, of jewels and vain treasures, while the poor cry out for want of bread, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto art and adornment which celebrates the pagan and fails to glorify Christ, and the Lord will strike you down. Cling you unto earthly power, and the Lord will strike you down.
I thought of Leonardo, who by then had surely, wisely, returned to Milan. I thought of Lorenzo, who was bound to remain, though his own people’s hearts were being poisoned against him. I thought of Giuliano the elder, whose earthly remains rested here, and wondered if he listened with horror from Heaven.
Disaster shall befall you, Florence; retribution is at hand. The time is here. The time is here.
I turned and whispered to Zalumma. I put my hand to my forehead and swayed as if dizzied. My actions were not entirely feigned.
She reacted with concern. She leaned past me, toward my father, and said, “Ser Antonio, she is ill; I fear she will faint. It is the crowd. With your leave, I will take her outside briefly for some air.”
My father nodded and made a quick, impatient gesture for us to go; his eyes were wide and shining, directed not at us, but at the man in the pulpit.
Pico, too, was so captivated by the words of Fra Girolamo that he paid us no mind. I turned-to find standing directly behind me a man, tall and thin, with a long, sharp chin, whose face provoked an elusive and unpleasant recognition. He nodded in acknowledgment; startled, I nodded in return, though I could not place him.
Zalumma and I forced our way through the barrier of contrite flesh-first to the great open doors, then down the stairs, then through the throng in the piazza, who pressed as closely as possible toward the church, hoping to catch a word, a glimpse, of the great prophet.
Once we were free, I craned my neck in search of the driver. He was nowhere to be found-a relief. I nodded to Zalumma and we hurried to the church garden, walled in and hidden behind a gate.
Inside, beyond the stony memorials to the dead and a path lined with bloomless, spiny rosebushes, two cloaked men-one tall and one of average height-stood beneath the branches of a budding tree. The light was fading, but when the shorter pulled back his hood, I recognized him at once.
“Giuliano!” I half ran to him, and he to me. Our respective escorts-his scowling and sporting a long sword- remained two paces behind us.
He took my hand-this time with some awkwardness-and bent to kiss it. His fingers were long and slender, as his father’s must have been before they grew twisted from age and disease. We stared at each other and lost our tongues. His cheeks were flushed and streaked with tears.
After a struggle to regain composure, he said, “Father is so sick he can barely speak; today he did not recognize me. The doctors are worried. I was afraid to leave him.”
I squeezed his hand. “I am sorry. So sorry… but he has been very sick and recovered before. I will pray for him, for God to heal him.”
He gestured with his chin at the sanctuary. “Is it true, what they say? That Savonarola preaches against him? That he says unkind things?”
I answered reluctantly. “He has not spoken of him by name. But he condemns those with wealth and art and power.”
Giuliano lowered his face; his curling brown hair, chin length, spilled forward. “Why does he hate Father? He is in such pain now… I can’t bear to hear his groaning. Why would anyone want to destroy everything my family has done to help Florence? All the beauty, the philosophy, the paintings and sculptures… My father is a kind man. He has always given freely to the poor…” He lifted his face again and eyed me. “You don’t believe such things, do you, Madonna? Are you one of the
“Of course not!” I was so offended by the statement that my ire convinced him at once. “I would not be here at all, were it not for the chance of seeing you. I despise Fra Girolamo.”
His shoulders slumped slightly, relaxed by my words. “For that I am glad… Lisa-may I address you so?” At my nod, he continued. “Lisa, I regret that my sorrow intrudes on us at this meeting. For I have come to speak of a matter you might find preposterous…”
I drew in a breath and held it.
“The evening you came to visit us-I have thought of nothing else. I think of nothing but you, Lisa. And though I am too young, and though my father might have objections, I want nothing more…” He grew embarrassed and dropped his gaze as he fumbled for words. For my part, I could scarce believe what I was hearing, though I had dreamed of it often enough.
He still held my hand; his grip tightened, and his fingers began to worry my flesh. At last he looked up at me and said, his words rushing together: “I love you-it is awful; I cannot sleep at night. I want no life without you. I wish to marry you. I am young, but mature enough to know my own mind; I have borne more responsibility than most my age. Father would want a more strategic match, I am sure, but when he is better, I have no doubt that I could make my case to him. We would have to wait a year, perhaps two, but…” At last he ran out of breath, then took in a great gulp of air and said, his eyes shining not with tears now, but pure fear, “Well, first I must know how
