Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

“What is it, what is it?” Violetta called.

The monks below us did not answer, but I looked at Savonarola’s emphatic gesture at the silver receptacle and said, “They do not want to let Domenico carry the Host.”

It was a point everyone had agreed on from the beginning. A Dominican friar had dreamed that Domenico successfully traversed the fire because he had been holding a consecrated wafer; Savonarola insisted that Domenico be allowed to do so. Before now, the Franciscans had offered no objection.

Furious, Domenico strode into the piazza and stood stubbornly at the entrance to the trial platform, staring into the flames; his angry demeanor contrasted with the sweet hymns being sung by his brothers. The wind whipped his robe about his legs, his torso. Overhead, the sky was darkening.

The older Franciscan who had spoken to Violetta earlier turned and faced us women. “Why,” he asked kindly, “is Fra Domenico afraid to enter the fire without the Host? Is not his faith enough to preserve him? And why does not Savonarola put an end to the arguments? If he grows impatient with our demands, why does he not simply walk through the flames himself?”

Violetta did not answer. She frowned at the ringhiera, where her husband and the Franciscans stood arguing with Fra Girolamo.

“Coward!” someone shouted.

A few scattered drops of rain began to fall. Safe beneath the shelter of the loggia, I watched them strike the railing.

“Coward!” another voice cried. “Enter the fire!”

“He is afraid!” a man called. “Don’t you see? He is afraid!”

Thunder boomed, frighteningly close; Violetta started and seized my arm. Domenico stood, solid and thick and relentless, in the quickening rain, while Savonarola continued to argue with the Priors.

Thunder, again, then a shriek: “He lied to us! He has always lied to us!”

Torrents of water crashed down in gray sheets, quickly flooding the piazza. Lightning dazzled. We wives left our seats and scurried to the center of the loggia. I peered out at the square: Domenico had not budged. Amazingly, neither had the crowd. They had come to learn the truth about the prophet, and would not leave without satisfaction.

The fire, which had blazed fiercely an instant before, was quenched; the wood and the brush were sodden with water rather than oil.

The people’s enthusiasm was just as quickly extinguished. Men shouted over the roar of the rain.

“God Himself disapproves!”

“Fra Girolamo conjured up the storm, lest it expose his lies!”

My husband and Valori sent a representative dashing into the rain to speak to the commanders of the soldiers. They began to urge the crowd to disperse and go home. But the men in the piazza-most of them men who had cast their little red crosses to the ground-would not leave.

“Why would you not enter the fire?”

“Sodomite!”

“Heretic!”

“Liar!”

The wives grew frightened; they hurried to the ringhiera, to their husbands’ sides. I went to stand beside Francesco. Savonarola was nearby, quite dry, but trembling as though the rain had soaked him through.

“I cannot leave without an escort! The Franciscans have turned the people against me!”

“I will arrange for one,” Valori said, and disappeared inside the palazzo. Francesco sent a page out into the piazza to summon Claudio.

While we were riding home, the deluge let up as quickly as it had come. Francesco looked out the window and let go an odd, catching sigh.

“It is over.”

LXVII

We returned to the palazzo and Francesco did not venture out again that day. He ordered the gate closed and locked, and set stablehands armed with swords to guard it; then he went into his study and did not come out, even for supper.

My father failed to come to supper as well, which concerned me. I had not seen him in several days, but Francesco had forbidden anyone to leave the palazzo that night. Our street, fortunately, was quiet, but I could see the glow of torchlight coming from the west, where the monastery and church of San Marco lay.

Earlier that morning, Isabella had been nervously waiting with the women of San Marco-out of curiosity, not faith-to hear the outcome of the Trial by Fire. When Savonarola arrived, she said, he told the women that the Franciscans had delayed for so long that they angered God, Who sent the storm. The women were skeptical-even more so when their husbands arrived, furious with their prophet. Isabella reported that the parishioners had actually begun to battle the monks, and so she had left out of fright.

The next day was Palm Sunday. Francesco did not attend church, but chose again to remain home and forbade the rest of us to leave. This day, however, he had visitors, all at different times. The head of the piagnoni, Francesco Valori, called early in the morning and spoke privately to my husband in his study; he came and left wearing the stricken expression of a man who had discovered all his gold turned to sand. The second caller was a young messenger with a letter; my husband insisted on taking delivery of it personally.

The third caller was a prominent member of the Arrabbiati, one Benedetto de’ Nerli. He arrived at night, after supper, and apologized for the lateness of the hour, but said that he had pressing need to speak to Ser Francesco.

My husband received him in our great sitting room. I had heard the disturbance and came down; although I was not invited to sit with the men, I hovered near the open door and listened. Ser Benedetto had a deep, resonant voice and spoke very clearly, for which I was grateful.

“I come bearing bad news,” Ser Benedetto began.

Francesco’s voice was faint, slightly sarcastic. “I can’t imagine how the situation could grow worse.”

Ser Benedetto ignored the comment and continued, steady and forthcoming. “The piagnoni have lost their leader. Francesco Valori was killed tonight.”

There came a silence, as my husband digested this tragedy. “How did it happen?”

“He was attending vespers at San Marco. A group of roughs disrupted the service and threatened to burn his house. It grew ugly; they took him by force, but he managed to escape. When he got to his house, he hid in a cupboard; the group followed and shot his wife in the forehead with a crossbow. Then they found Valori and started to drag him to the Signoria-”

“A foolish course, if they wanted to harm him,” my husband interjected. “He would find safety there.”

Ser Benedetto’s tone turned abruptly cool. “Perhaps not.” He paused to let his innuendo sink in, then continued. “On the way to the Signoria, they came across Vicenzo Ridolfi and Simone Tornabuoni…”

I knew the names. These men were relatives of two of the beheaded men, Lorenzo Tornabuoni and Niccolo Ridolfi.

“They can hardly be blamed for wanting revenge on Valori, who spearheaded the campaign to behead their loved ones. They had taken to the streets, as have so many others who hope for Savonarola’s arrest. Tornabuoni wielded a pruning hook…”

I closed my eyes.

“… and split Valori’s skull in two, while Ridolfi cried, ‘You will never govern again!’ As far as I know, Valori’s body is still lying out in the street.”

“Why are you telling me this?” my husband asked. His tone was not cold or defensive, as I would have expected; there was a hint of receptiveness in it.

“For the current session, as you know, the Signoria is split evenly between your party and mine. If it remains