The Palace
PART III Chapter Six

The whitewashed walls of Sacro Infante seemed to glitter against the dark earth, the new wing still looking painfully raw. A high wind plucked the bare trees with long, lunatic fingers, making them moan. Though the sky was scrubbed bright, a promise of storms came at the back of the wind.
In the chapel, Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli knelt on the cold stones, her hands clasped around her upraised rosary. Her face was dreadfully thin and of a translucent fineness that was quite otherworldly.
She was not alone. Nearby a little man in a Domenican habit watched her, his somewhat protuberant green eyes shining as he studied Suor Estasia. He had been waiting for rather more than an hour but Suor Estasia had shown no sign of coming out of her trancelike state. Savonarola was growing impatient. His sandaled feet ached with cold and he wanted desperately to hear of Suor Estasia's latest visions.
"What do you see?" he demanded in a whisper as he rose from the narrow bench that stood near the altar, generally reserved for the use of those who were too old or too disabled to stand in chapel. His strides were rapid, predatory, as he paced around the whitewashed room. He resisted an urge to seize Suor Estasia by the shoulders and shake her.
But something of his irritation must have penetrated the cloud of her meditation, and at last she lowered her rosary and stared around her, as someone waking from an unpleasant dream in an unfamiliar room might. She put one swathed hand to her forehead, a gesture that for all its restraint was strangely theatrical.
"Suor Estasia?" Savonarola said, coming near her. He bent so that she could see his face.
Suor Estasia blinked, then cried out as she threw herself at Savonarola's feet, tears suddenly flooding her eyes. "Oh, my adored Prior, my light of salvation, my heavenly brother." She grasped his foot and drew it toward her lips. Eagerly she prostrated herself before Savonarola, her face pressed tightly against the leather straps of his sandals.
Urgent as his need was, Savonarola savored that moment, permitting himself a faint smile in appreciation of Suor Estasia's abasement. Then he bent and touched her shoulder. "My child, tell me what you saw."
Her hazel eyes, made huge by the gauntness of her face, shone up at him and her face was radiant. "Oh, holy Prior, I see the glory that you have revealed to me."
"But what was your vision? God sends different fragments of Himself to all those who worship Him and are blessed. What you have seen is not necessarily known to me through my visions." He motioned for her to rise, as always feeling uncomfortable beside this woman who was almost half a head taller than he.
Again Suor Estasia pressed her hands together, and tipping her head back, she began to murmur psalms in rapid, rhythmic Latin.
This time Savonarola could not contain himself. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "You must tell me. God has given you these visions to aid me in this salvation. You are to tell me at once what you saw."
The psalms stopped and Suor Estasia lowered her head, her face strangely composed, almost vacant. "I saw," she said, dreamily studying Savonarola's eyes, "I saw you surrounded in glory, high above la Piazza della Signoria. You were bright, very bright, shining with a light that no one could look upon. Beneath you, the monks of all the Orders of Fiorenza raised their hands and called for a miracle."
Savonarola's eyes brightened. "What more, Suor Estasia?"
She frowned, trying to recapture the tremendous elation. "I remember I was thinking how sweet was the brightness around you, how it opened its arms, reaching to embrace you. Then, amid the brightness you were lost in a cloud and there were sounds, such sounds, as I have never in this world heard, and they filled my ears until it was a delirium. Ah, I wanted to follow you, to be consumed as you were in that brightness." She stretched out her arms, lifting them as if to welcome a lover.
"A glory on earth? Before all the world?" He was unaware of the greed he felt. Slowly he knelt on the uneven stone floor and said softly, "Suor Estasia, let us pray that this is a true vision, the revelation of God to the world. To be lifted up before all of Fiorenza and taken into radiance." He crossed himself quickly and ducked his head toward his hands.
Suor Estasia dropped to her knees with the slow, languid movement of a swimmer under water. Of their own volition her hands sought her rosary and she held the crucifix between her fingers, lifting the little silver Corpus to her lips as she joined Savonarola in prayer.
When Savonarola left Sacro Infante, he was satisfied at last that Suor Estasia's vision was genuine. He had seen the feverish light in her eyes and had heard her call aloud to God as she lay supine on the chapel floor, her arms stretched out in imitation of the Body of Christ above her.
Suor Merzede had stopped him before he left and had expressed concern for Suor Estasia, insisting that what the other nun had seen was not a true vision from God, but a kind of madness. For her envy and folly, Savonarola told Suor Merzede to beg her bread until Good Friday and to use her flail more when she prayed in her cell.
In less than an hour he was within the walls of Fiorenza and crossing the city toward the Francescani stronghold of Santa Croce near the eastern limits of the walls, not far from il Ponte alle Grazie.
Pausing in la Piazza della Signoria, he stared at the bulk of il Palazzo della Signoria, that formidable building, of darker stone than the rest of the city. He thought about what Suor Estasia had told him, and wondered how long it would be before he looked down on the people of Fiorenza, exalted, hidden in brightness. What would the corrupt Pope's condemnation mean then?
His thoughts were interrupted by a group of youths in the stark dress of the Militia Christi. Each in turn came to him for blessing and Savonarola turned his mind from visions to the reality that confronted him. "My good young soldiers," he told the band gathered around him, "you must be particularly vigiliant. You must be guided by the stern teachings of Our Lord and the voice of the Holy Spirit. You must not let pity lure you away from your responsibilities, for it is a false pity that encourages men to remain obstinate in the ways of error."
One of the young men grinned unpleasantly. "We understand, good Prior. And we will remember what you tell us."
"Excellent. It is proper that you should be obedient to the instructions of those who are your superiors, and you must always examine your superiors to be certain that they are obedient to the will of God, for as it becomes you to respect and obey your elders as the superior persons they are, so it becomes all men, of every degree, to submit to the will of God, accepting His judgments and welcoming His chastisements, which are meant for His glory and the salvation of our souls."
The oldest of the young men turned his head away, a sly twist to his lips. Unlike a few of the others, he enjoyed his position and the chance to go anywhere in the city unmolested. For him, "superior" meant "stronger," and he knew that his troop of fifteen young men was stronger than almost anyone in Fiorenza. When he turned back again, there was only the greatest modesty and dedication in his reverent expression. "Thank you, holy Prior. We'll do what we can to be worthy of the task you set for us."
"It is not I who gives you this task," Savonarola admonished him, but gently. "It is God Who speaks through me. Accept what He deigns to send you, and do Him worship and honor."
The young men nodded, a few exchanging conspiratorial looks, but one, a newcomer to the group, said, "But what am I to do when my father will not accept the word of God? He's said that you are a proud, vain man strutting in the cloak of false religion. He's forbidden me to hear you preach, and to associate with the Militia Christi. He says you are a hypocrite, and are striving for a worldly power, not the redemption of the world." The young man hesitated. "I have tried to reason with him, but he calls that defiance." His face darkened, "He beat me a few days ago, because I went to hear Mass at San Marco."
The enormity of this outrage stunned Savonarola, who regarded the young man in silence. Then his green eyes grew very bright and he stammered as he spoke, so great was his emotion. "I am no hypocrite! I have said nothing in this world that I do not believe is truly inspired by God. If it is otherwise, I pray that God will strike me down with the full force of His wrath." As he said this he recalled Suor Estasia's vision, and the vindication it promised him was calming. "Your father, my son, is in grave error. If he has not confessed his doubts, then he stands in sin. Should he die today, it would be with that stain upon his soul." He studied the young man. "You're Betro Giusto, aren't you? Your father is a mercer, I believe. He depends on the members of the Arte della Lana to sell him goods, otherwise he will have no cloth to sell to his customers and his business will fail. But the Brothers of the Arte are wise. They would not do business with an irreligious man. Particularly if the man is a known heretic."
Betro Giusto had turned rather pale. "My father is in error, good Prior, but he is not a heretic. He prays to the saints and is devout. He goes to Santa Trinita to worship with the Vallombrosiani Brothers. His quarrel is with conduct, not with faith."
"It is good that you defend him," Savonarola said in his most friendly tone. "But if you would truly help him, you must convince him of the evil of his ways, and urge him to confess and make a perfect act of contrition. It's necessary, believe me. Or you yourself will be contaminated with his heresy, and will yourself need to confess."
The young man looked horrified. "But he will beat me."
"The martyrs accepted their pain with gladness because it brought them nearer the glory of God. So must you, if you are a true Christian, accept the ignominy that is heaped upon you, because for every insult, every blow, every injustice, there are rewards in heaven that far surpass the trials of earth." He looked at the young men. "Pray for guidance and strength and it will be given to you. Don't wait for justice in this world, because there is none. Men are imperfect and their capacity for wrong monumental. Hope for heaven, and the mercy of God."
The young men murmured, then knelt for Savonarola's blessing, their devotion showing in the sincerity of their conduct. As they rose around him, once again dwarfing him, he nodded to them. "Be vigilant. Do not let rank or finery or friendship deter you. Scrutinize everyone in Fiorenza, citizen and stragnero alike. Don't believe appearances, for the fairest face can mask the rottenest sin."
"And my father?" Betro Giusto asked, not willing to depart with the question unanswered.
"He must examine his heart. And you must examine yours. When I was young, like you, living with my father in Ferrara, God had not yet touched me, and I believed my father's words more than those of the Domenicani. He desired that I wed, but I yearned for a woman, the daughter of Fiorenzeni, and told my father that it was this woman I must have. He told me that Fiorenzeni were proud, hide-pendent people, who in their vanity despised other cities. But I pleaded, and at last he offered for the woman. Not only did her family refuse, but the woman thought my suit laughable. So far was I from the Grace of God that I railed against that woman and her Fiorenzan family for many days. And then I sought God, and God spoke to me. I left my father's house one afternoon, and entered the Domenican monastery, and did not see my family for seven years while I trained at San Domenico at Bologna. Thus did God show me that my first duty was to Him, and at the same time He revealed to me the sins of worldly vanity and the snare that is laid for men in the sweet flesh of women." He smiled almost benevolently on the young men. "Fiorenza scorned me, and I have repaid her with salvation."
Only Betro Giusto looked askance at this statement. The other young men nodded sagely and waited until Savonarola was halfway across la Piazza della Signoria before they laughed out loud.
The old, austere beauty of Santa Croce did not impress Savonarola as he entered the lean-windowed Gothic stronghold of the Francescani Brothers.
The first Brother he saw, Savonarola asked to inform the prior that Savonarola wanted a word with him. Then he paced the length of the church, noting the front was almost finished, as it had been for many years.
Orlando Ricci was well over forty. His body, which had once been large and hale, was now limp and formless under his habit. He walked slowly, as if his feet hurt, and when he saw that it was indeed Savonarola who waited for him, an expression of ill-concealed irritation touched his face. He schooled himself to a respectful manner and came toward the Domenican prior. "God give you a good day, Fra Girolamo. What a surprise to find you in church."
The conversational dart found its mark. "My excommunication is not valid. The Pope is an incestuous libertine and therefore has forfeited his right to make judgments on godly men."
The prior of Santa Croce had little admiration for Rodrigo Borgia, who occupied the Chair of San Pietro as Pope Alessandro VI. But he said, "The ways of God are not for men to understand. If He has elevated Borgia to his honor, it may be so that his salvation may be the greater, and by his reformation of error, show the world the extent of His Grace." He motioned to one of the chapels at the side of the church. "Would you prefer to speak privately? There are few people here just now, but it might change..."
"No." Savonarola glared at Orlando Ricci. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Fra Orlando. I have heard that you have written once again to His Holiness, accusing me of impiety. I warn you now that I will not tolerate such lies being spoken about me. You are to write to the Pope and tell him that you have searched your conscience and changed your mind."
Fra Orlando's smile was almost beatific. "I can't do that, Fra Girolamo. I am as opposed to you as ever."
"What would it take to convince you?" He folded his arms and glared up at the white-haired Francescano.
"A visitation from God, Fra Girolamo. Nothing less." There was a strangely implacable note in the old prior's voice and something of the strength he had had as a young man came back into his stance.
Savonarola leaped at that. "Yes. Very well. If God were to elevate me, so that I hung over la Piazza della Signoria, surrounded in radiance, borne aloft on a cloud, would you then be convinced?" The brightness of his eyes stilled the derision in the prior of Santa Croce's throat. "Would that be enough?"
"Yes," Orlando Ricci said slowly. "That would be enough."
"Then on that day you will tell the Pope that you believe with me, and recognize that my inspiration is divine?" Savonarola was very excited now, and he leaned toward the older man.
The Francescano studied the Domenicano. At last he said in a slow, measured voice that echoed through all of Santa Croce, "If the day should come when you are elevated above la Piazza della Signoria and you then perform a miracle before all the citizens of Fiorenza, then, if the work you do is Godly, I will recant all that I have said in opposition to you."
Savonarola's thick lips widened to a smile. "I was at Sacro Infante today. Suor Estasia has had a vision that would fulfill your conditions for me." He knew that Ricci was not one of those who put their faith in Suor Estasia's gifts, but he thought it would be a victory indeed if this obstinate old man could be made to endorse both himself and the Celestian nun.
"Then we should know in time if her vision is true." He shrugged easily. "I am old enough that I may be in my grave when your miracle finally happens." From the tone of his voice, he expected this to be the case. He watched Savonarola. "Was that all, reverend Prior of San Marco, or have you more to say to me?"
"There are two other matters," Savonarola snapped, his temper flaring anew. "You realize that this Bonfire of Vanities must have general civic support if it is to be of any use to the souls of Fiorenza."
Rather apologetically, Prior Ricci interrupted him. "Well, no, I don't realize that. I don't realize the need to burn the things you describe as vanities. Much of what has been destroyed already was to the glory of God and Fiorenza. You are making this city a wasteland, and I refuse to lend my help to such an endeavor."
Savonarola raised his voice. "It is the will of God. Our Lord sought out the solitude of the wilderness for His meditation."
"A city is not a wilderness!" Prior Orlando Ricci was angry now. "Our city has been the greatest adornment in all of Italia, and that includes Roma. Three more years of your programs, and the meanest hamlet in Sicilia will be preferable to Fiorenza. No, I will not assist you. I will not tell my congregations to heed your warnings. I will resist your madness with my last breath, and I pray that God will let me live long enough to see you cast into the burning pits of hell." His face was white and his body shook with rage. He lowered his voice. "I can't ask your forgiveness, good Prior, because I repent nothing I have said. And before I bring more sin upon myself, I will say farewell."
In spite of his outward satisfaction, Savonarola had been disturbed by Ricci's outburst. "I will pray for you," he said stiffly.
"And I will pray for you." The prior of Santa Croce turned away from the prior of San Marco, and in a moment he was gone into the shadows of the venerable Francescan church, leaving Savonarola alone in the echoing nave.
Text of a letter to i Priori di Fiorenza from Lodovico da Roncale:
To the respected leaders of la Repubblica Fiorenzena, I, Lodovico da Roncale, Brother in the Arte of builders, wish to reveal a potential danger in the midst of our beloved country.
In four days all of Fiorenza will atone for our sins, and each will be called upon to confess all our guilty secrets. In accordance with the admonition of the great prior of San Marco, I come forward now with a matter that should have been brought to your attention when I returned to Fiorenza, more than three years ago. At the time it didn't seem important because the culprit had fled before I could accuse him. But now that the nephew has returned, the need is born anew and I take the liberty of addressing you.
As your records will reveal, I was one of the builders first hired to work on il Palazzo San Germano for il stragnero Francesco Ragoczy. There were four of us who were selected from that number to do secret work on the building, and we were sworn to secrecy by a heathenish oath which we were made to sign in blood. This Francesco Ragoczy practiced alchemy, which was no secret. But where he practiced it, and to what end, has never been discovered. That is because his hidden rooms have always remained that, and no one knows what ungodly things were done behind those hidden doors. Even my old Arte Brother Gasparo Tucchio was uneasy in his mind about the building. And we have only Ragoczy's word that Gasparo ever left his palazzo that night he disappeared.
You should make a thorough search of the place, including the secret rooms. The Militia Christi are empowered to enter buildings and search through them, so it is fitting that they go there. Behind the carved wood at the landing of the grand staircase there is a door. It is concealed in the carving. But to gain entrance, there is part of the carving that moves, and it is this that releases the latch of the door. Try there.
The reward that the Arte offered for the discovery of Gasparo Tucchio, dead or alive, will be welcome to me, for I am in great need. And it would help me clear my conscience if the mystery were at last solved.
I have taken the liberty of speaking to the nephew, suggesting that he should assist me, as I was an employee of his uncle, and entitled to a certain sum for all that I did. He is a very haughty man, and accused me of trying to blackmail him. A fine thing when a man can't offer his loyalty to an employer. The nephew says he knows nothing of such matters, and it appears to be true that he and his uncle were not close.
This is being written for me by Fra Giorgio at San Felice, and it is he who will see it is delivered. I swear to him and to you that this is the truth, and that I want my heart free of deception when the day of contrition arrives.
I hope that you will pursue the matter I have disclosed to you. And I thank you for your willingness to hear me.
the mark of Lodovico da Roncale
member of the builders' Arte
by the hand of Fra Giorgio, San Felice
In Fiorenza, February 15, 1498