was a show of the most fervent support. Or, more likely, a show of Francesco’s desire to monitor his mouthpiece and public reaction to him.
There was no weeping that day in the Duomo, no emotion in the air; the citizens were sober-eyed and cautious, and when Savonarola ascended to the lectern, they fell expectantly silent.
Fra Girolamo’s appearance was disturbing. He had been fasting during his months of silence and was even more haggard than before, his eyes dark, glittering holes in a face of yellowed ivory. He gripped the sides of the podium and stared out at the crowd; he exuded a vibrant misery, a desperation so profound he was compelled to share it or go mad. His breathing came so hard and furious that I could see the heaving of his chest from where I sat.
When he at last spoke, I was startled: I had forgotten how shrill and grating his voice was.
He began with his tone low, basely humble, as he recited the text. “Lord, how my tormentors are increased. How many are they that rise up against me.”
He bowed his head and, for a full minute, was too moved to speak. At last, he said, “I am merely a tool of the Lord. I seek no fame, no glory; I have begged God that I might live the simple life of a monk and take the vow of silence, never to darken the pulpit again. Those of you who have criticized me, who have said that I should have intervened in Florence’s politics of late: Do you not see that I held myself back out of humility, not cruelty? It was not I who wielded the axe, not I…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “O Lord, let me close my eyes and lay me down! Let me enjoy a silent season! But-God does not hear me. He will not let me rest!”
And the friar took a gulp of air that produced a ragged sob. “God will not let me rest. It is His will that I speak- speak against the princes of this world, without fear of retaliation.”
Beside me, Francesco tensed.
“Do I disrespect the papacy?” Fra Girolamo asked. “No! It is God’s own institution. Did not Jesus say, ‘On this rock I shall build my Church’? And indeed, all good Christians must honor the Pope and abide by the Church’s laws.
“But a prophet-or a pope-is merely an instrument of God, not an idol to be worshiped. And a prophet who lets his tongue be stilled can no longer be an instrument…
“Just as a pope who flouts the laws of God is a broken tool, a worthless instrument. If his heart is filled with wickedness, if his ears will not hear, how can God use him? He cannot! And so good Christians must discriminate between God’s laws and man’s.
“Alexander is a broken tool, and his excommunication of me heretical. You who have come today recognize this in your hearts. Those who have stayed away for fear of the Pope are cowards, and the Lord shall deal with them.”
I glanced over at my husband. Francesco’s eyes were cold, staring straight ahead. The Duomo was unusually silent and Savonarola’s words echoed off the high vault of the cupola.
The preacher sighed and shook his head ruefully. “I try to speak well of His Holiness, but when I come here-to God’s holy place-I am obliged to speak the truth. I must confess what God Himself has told me.
“‘Girolamo,’ He said, ‘if you are banned on Earth, then you will be blessed a thousandfold in Heaven.’”
The prophet lifted his arms to the ceiling and smiled up as if listening to God; and when God had finished speaking, the friar cried in answer: “O Lord! If I should ever seek absolution from this excommunication, send me straight to the bowels of Hell!”
I heard a rush of air in the cathedral. It came from the listeners, each letting go an outraged gasp. Francesco was among them.
Then the friar humbly bowed his head. When he looked back up at his congregation, he spoke in a reasonable, gentle voice. “But how shall I address my critics, who say I do not speak for God? I tell you now, the Lord in His infinite wisdom shall soon give a sign to silence them forever. I have no desire to tempt God-but if compelled, I will give Florence her miracle.”
Francesco was intense and distracted during the walk back to the carriage. He was so absorbed by his thoughts that when I spoke to him, he glanced up at me and for an instant seemed not to recognize me.
“Fra Girolamo needs a miracle,” I said, with cautious respect. “Let us hope God provides one soon.”
My husband gave me a searching look, but did not reply.
In the studio at Santissima Annunziata, I stared at the portrait on the easel. The paint was still drying-a coating of the palest shell pink, which brought a gentle bloom to my cheeks and lips-so I dared not touch it, though my finger hovered, yearning, over a spot in the hollow of my neck.
“There is a bit of blue there,” I said. And green; the merest hint of a vein lurking beneath the skin. I followed the line with my finger; I felt that if I could set it down on the panel, I would feel my own pulse. “It looks as though I’m alive.”
Leonardo smiled. “Have you not noticed it before? At times, I think I can see it beating. Your skin is quite translucent there.”
“Of course not. I have never stared in the mirror that long.”
“A pity,” he said, without a trace of mockery. “It seems that those who possess the greatest beauty appreciate it the least.”
He spoke so honestly that I was embarrassed; I changed the subject at once. “I will sit now.”
And, as always, before I sat for him, I recited the letter. He listened, frowning slightly, and when I finished, he said, “They have grown desperate. If Savonarola does not get his miracle, they will feed him to the wolves and try another strategy. He will never give up.”
“And he-whoever he is-wants to seize control of Florence.” I paused. “Who
Leonardo did not answer immediately.
I pressed. “How can it hurt for me to know these things? If I’m captured, I’m already likely to be killed because I know of these letters. After all, I know that this man wanted to kill the Pope; I know that Ascanio Sforza and his brother Ludovico are involved.”
He studied me a moment, then let go a small sigh. We both knew that I was right. “His name is Salvatore. He is the illegitimate son of Francesco de’ Pazzi,” he answered. “He was perhaps ten years old at the time of Giuliano’s murder, when many of his family were executed by Lorenzo and the rest were exiled. They lost everything: their possessions, their lands… He and his mother fled to Rome.
“Most of the Pazzi are good, honorable people; they had been horribly wronged by Lorenzo, and there was a good deal of bitterness. But they simply wanted to return to Florence, to their ancestral home.
“In the case of Salvatore, however-his mother instilled him with intense hatred and bitterness from an early age. He was very precocious and ambitious; he decided, early on, to take Florence for the Pazzi, out of revenge.”
“It all repeats,” I said. “Lorenzo took his revenge, and now the Pazzi want theirs.”
“Not all of the Pazzi. Just Salvatore. He took advantage of the family’s position as papal bankers in order to ingratiate himself with the Pope.”
I leaned forward, perplexed. “Then why… why would he get involved with Savonarola?”
Leonardo took the chair across from mine. “That,” he said, “is a very long story. It began with Giovanni Pico. As
