She picked up the canister now and took it to her car. Her hands hurt, and she would need them for what she planned to do next. They just needed to stop bleeding so she could work with them. But there were a few hours left until it was fully dark. She had time. But not
much.
Florence
1497
“SHE IS YOUR daughter, Girolamo, whether you wish to acknowledge her or not.”
Fra Girolamo Savonarola could not stand the sight of the little guttersnipe, nor her whore of a mother. This foul wench, who stood in his cell in San Marco with a scrawny, underfed little girl, was an instrument of the devil. She had seduced him in a moment of weakness, and this dirty little thing was the spawn of that horrific mistake. Now this child was the one thing that threatened his future as the ruler of Florence’s austere republic. She had to remain a secret at all costs. He had far too much to lose at this point.
In the five years since Lorenzo’s death, Fra Girolamo Savonarola had successfully destroyed the Medici. It wasn’t hard once Lorenzo was gone. His eldest son, Piero, was one step above an idiot. Unprepared to take over the Medici empire, he had systematically run it into the ground without much help, weakening what was left of the family and making it easy for Savonarola to insist on their exile. He had even been allowed to ransack the Palazzo Medici in Via Larga to search out fuel for his bonfires, and fuel he found. Paintings, manuscripts, all aspects of heresy and foul paganism were confiscated from the palazzo and thrown onto one of the roaring bonfires that burned regularly in the Piazza della Signoria.
Savonarola had become famous for the bonfires, called bonfires of the vanities. His followers now numbered in the thousands. The people of Florence called them the Pignoni, which meant “the weepers,” if one was being kind, or “the snivelers,” if one was not. It was the job of the Pignoni to collect vanity items to burn in the bonfires. Anything that pertained to physical vanity—perfumes, creams, clothing of any adornment, jewelry—was meant for the fires. All musical instruments were as well, given that they were used only for secular celebrations and led to the gyrations of dancing followed by rutting. All books that were not Bibles or works of Church fathers were headed to the fires, with a special emphasis on the pagan classics.
But Savonarola held a special place in his heart for the destruction of art. It was art that the Medici had cultivated, art that contained the hidden clues to their heresies and their Order. By destroying as much art as possible, he would eliminate the teaching tools of blas-
phemy.
Within three years of eliminating Lorenzo, Savonarola had the Medici expelled from Florence, although the two he could not control, Giovanni and Giulio, were now cardinals in Rome. The current pope was a Borgia, and a Medici supporter, which was to be expected. The Borgias were the only family in Italy more corrupt than the Medici, from Savonarola’s perspective. So while Savonarola seethed that the Medici brothers thrived under Pope Alexander VI, at least they were far away from his Florence. By 1495 Savonarola was the undisputed ruler of the Florentine Republic. He created a new constitution and implemented new laws of morality and austerity. It was now illegal to walk through the streets wearing any kind of adornment. Vanity was the ultimate crime against God.
No one dared to oppose him, and his power grew. But the existence of this child was a problem, which had to be dealt with immediately.
“I have made arrangements for the . . . child to be adopted into the de Pazzi family,” he said without looking at the whore of a mother overlong. The sight of her sickened him. The de Pazzi had been his allies in eliminating the Medici, and they were easy to manipulate. They owed him a lifetime of favors, and he had convinced them to take on this girl with no questions asked.
“For your troubles, I will give you one hundred florins to go away and never utter a word of this to anyone, nor are you to ever see this girl again once she becomes a Pazzi.”
The woman started to object, but Savonarola produced a sack with gold florins worth a king’s ransom.
“Do you concede to this agreement, woman?”
She nodded mutely, reaching out to grab the sack.
He dropped it to the floor and laughed as the coins scattered. The woman was forced to collect them on her hands and knees.
“Leave the girl in the foyer. I will have the brothers take her to the Pazzi.”
He left the room and never looked at the girl or her mother again. The little girl, her eyes huge with all that she had seen in too hard a life, stared ahead of her. Had Savonarola stayed to look at her, he might have noticed something disturbing about her, something in her eyes that held the earliest glint of madness.
Colombina was sweating with the effort but continued working
with her fellow Pignoni. They were loading the items for the bonfire that had been collected during previous days onto the carts. The
Pignoni had raided all across Tuscany in search of vanity items and heretical fuel for Savonarola’s bonfires. Every manuscript that Colombina prepared for burning made her stomach turn. Every piece of art she loaded onto the carts made her want to weep. But she could not show any emotion other than joy that these terrible offenses to God would see the flames.
It had taken Colombina and Sandro the better part of these last five years to become trusted members of the Pignoni. Savonarola did not trust either of them at first, but as they proved to be some of the most dedicated workers among his faithful, and were particularly involved with the bonfires, he became convinced of the sincerity of their conversion. Sandro Botticelli had even submitted a number of his Madonna-as-whore paintings to the flames to prove his devotion to the cause. Both Sandro and Colombina were considered leaders of the Pignoni now, and as such they saw everything that was being prepared for the bonfires.
They were working together today, preparing for the biggest fire yet in honor of the Lenten season. The hoard was so huge and impressive that Savonarola himself came out to inspect it.
“Ah, will you look at this! It shall give me so much joy to see this go up in the flames. Raise it up that I may see it.”
Two of the Pignoni held aloft what appeared to be a processional banner. A woman, a female saint, sat enthroned, surrounded by worshippers at her feet. Sandro swallowed hard as he recognized the Spinello Aretino masterpiece from Sansepolcro. He and Lorenzo had marched behind this banner when they were boys, in honor of the woman depicted so beautifully upon it, their Queen of Compassion, Maria Magdalena.
“But first, I must make an incision,” Savonarola declared, reaching into his robe to remove the little dagger he used at meals.
The banner depicted Magdalene holding a crucifix. Savonarola took his blade to the banner’s canvas, slashing it. He cut in bold strokes around the painted face of Jesus on the cross, salvaging the image of Christ. “Now, I shall keep this image of Our Lord from burning. But throw the whore into the flames!”
The other Pignoni cheered the piece of theater as Savonarola marched out of the courtyard. Sandro looked at Colombina and then around them. There were three carts, and each had two Pignoni working it. Sandro scurried over to claim the banner for his cart, and no one argued with him. They had perfected this process, but the banner was big and they would have to be careful here. Waiting until the other
Pignoni took a break for lunch, Colombina and Sandro made their move. They removed the banner from the top of the pile and slipped it under the cart. A secret shelf space had been built into the carts for just this purpose. Since the implementation of the bonfires, Sandro and Colombina had been rescuing the finest art and literature of the Renaissance, one item at a time.
Once the banner was secured, they both relaxed a little. It was always stressful but worth every bit of risk. And when they were able to save something particularly sacred to the Order, all the better. Colombina looked to heaven and smiled at Lorenzo. He helped her every day, each step of the way.
Sandro and Colombina met at the Antica Torre that night to finish preparing the
documentation. Rescuing the art wasn’t their primary objective, important though it was. They had been building a case against Savonarola for five years, documenting everything that came out of his mouth in his sermons and in his private dealings with the Pignoni. His pronouncements became more extreme as his power grew. His arrogance made him careless.
Savonarola had been censured by the pope, who was threatening to excommunicate him. The only reason Alexander VI hadn’t taken action yet was that he didn’t have a solid case against the man whom they all now called the Mad Monk. Savonarola, for all his tyrannical madness, was still the power broker in Florence. He controlled much of Tuscany along with it, and Alexander knew that he would require a fair amount of evidence to make the excommunication appear legiti-
mate.
Colombina and Sandro were convinced that the documentation she had been carefully preparing all these years was not only enough to enforce the declaration of anathema but perhaps even enough to have Savonarola brought up on charges of heresy. Achieving his execution, and the absolute abolition of his reign of terror over Florence, was the only acceptable outcome after the republic’s five years of near enslavement to the Pignoni.
Colombina summoned her son. While his name was Niccolò Ardinghelli, anyone with eyes would see that he was a Medici. His features were softer, like his mother’s, but he had Lorenzo’s eyes—and no small degree of Lorenzo’s spirit. It was Niccolò who would take this package to Rome. He would present it first to his brothers in the Order, Giovanni and Giulio, and then the three of them would then take the evidence gathered over five hard years to Pope Alex-
ander VI.
Colombina hugged him and wished him Godspeed, ensuring as she did that he was wearing the amulet that Lorenzo had left to him—the tiny protective locket with the sliver of the True Cross contained within it. It would keep him safe.
Florence
present day
“THE TIME RETURNS, Felicity.”
Felicity froze. She was in the rectory at Santa Felicita, preparing to leave, when her uncle arrived in the doorway. He was walking with a cane, and a younger priest supported him. She was shocked to see him, but more annoyed at the timing. She was in a hurry.
“What are you doing here? And how dare you quote their blasphemy to me!”
“It is not blasphemy, my child. It is truth. Whether you believe it or not, whether anyone believes it or not, it is simply true. And it is happening, Felicity. All around us. The time is returning and it will sweep all of us along with it if we do not learn from the past.”
She spit at him, but he stopped her before she could say anything.
“You must hear me out before it is too late. This is bigger than you are, my child. Did you hear me? My child.”
Felicity sat down now, as a feeling of dread crawled over her. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“I am not your uncle, Felicity. I am your father. Your mother was . . . is . . . Sister Ursula.”
It all became clear to her then—the reason for her exile to the boarding schools in another country. The “mother” who never wanted her was, in actuality, a much-burdened aunt. Sister Ursula, the strict yet sympathetic nun who understood her visions and helped her to cultivate them, was her biological mother.
Like Savonarola, Girolamo de Pazzi had committed a sin and there was a daughter born of that. She was the spawn of that sin.
Oh God. The time returns. It really was true.
Felicity de Pazzi ran from the rectory room and into the garden. She fell to her knees and began to retch, her body shaking with the turmoil it was in.
Father Girolamo did not go after her. He was too tired and about to collapse with illness and exhaustion. He could only pray that his revelation to Felicity would somehow interrupt whatever it was she had planned.
But when he closed his eyes in an effort to sleep that night, all he saw in his dreams was fire.
Montevecchio
present day
THEY SAT IN the cozy living room of Destino’s little wooden house out near Careggi. Destino had invited them all out for the afternoon, indicating that he had some important things to show them, which could not be brought into Florence but which might help to heal them all after the tragic events of the preceding month. It had been two weeks since the explosion that had rocked Florence and injured Vittoria and Alexander.
Destino told them the amazing story of Savonarola, hoping that learning this extraordinary and secret piece of Renaissance history might offer them some distraction. He knew that the greatest balm for the soul was to throw oneself into gratifying work, and so he challenged them to discuss the importance of Savonarola and the perils of fanaticism. It was an important lesson for the future.
“There was a movement to beatify Savonarola in the Catholic Church, around 1999,” Peter told them when Destino had finished this part of the story.
“Someone wanted to make the Mad Monk a saint?” Tammy was incredulous.
Peter nodded. “I remember it clearly because my order, the Jesuits, opposed it vehemently. They knew clearly what Savonarola was. History is fond of remembering him now as the great reformer of the church, but he was far more of a tyrant than the Medici or any other ruler in Florence.”
“He was a villain, and never doubt it,” Destino said. “A dangerous murderer. Not only a fanatic but a narcissist. He was out for his own power and nothing else. And would stop at nothing to achieve it.”
“Here is something I have always wondered, Destino,” Bérenger said. “History books say that Botticelli and Michelangelo became followers of Savonarola and that Sandro even burned some of his own paintings in the bonfires. Given the stories you tell of their involvement within the Medici family, I find that hard to believe.”
“History also says that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute,” Petra quipped, a wry smile crossing her lips. “Just how accurate are you finding history these days?”
“I have read that Michelangelo said, when he was dying, that he could still hear Savonarola’s voice in his ears,” Bérenger added. “Now I am beginning to see that differently.”
Destino nodded. “Michelangelo was present in that chamber, and he heard the terrible things that Savonarola said to Lorenzo. The names he called him, and Savonarola’s vow to destroy Lorenzo’s children. The monk was crafty, as always. He began by pouring wine and offering Lorenzo a drink of friendship and amity. They spoke of things in Florence that both knew and cared about, and Lorenzo relaxed more than he should have. It was after Savonarola was certain that Lorenzo had ingested enough wine—wine he had infused with poison—that he began to reveal his true reason for being there, which was primarily to torment Lorenzo as he lay dying. It was sadistic. Evil.
“And so when Michelangelo said at the time of his own old age that he could ‘still hear Savonarola’s voice ringing in his ears after all these years,’ this is what he meant. Sadly, this is how history fails us. That comment has been interpreted to mean that he was a follower of Savonarola, and that his righteous preaching still inspired him! Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“And Sandro?” Maureen asked.
“Ah, Sandro. There is one more piece of this story yet to be told.”
Piazza della Signoria, Florence
May 23, 1498
“PIGNONI, PIGNONI!” The crowd jeered as the flames climbed higher.
Sandro Botticelli stood as close as he dared. He was known as a sympathizer, so it was in his best interest to stay out of the mob until after the execution. Later, he would redeem his reputation in Florence. But today he wanted only to appreciate the success of the harsh struggle of the last five years by watching the fruits of his labor.
Colombina was not with him, as women were not allowed in the piazza during the execution. They were kept on the perimeters for their own protection. The crowd was violent and dangerous, and there was too much potential for rioting and more bloodshed.
Girolamo Savonarola burned in
the center of Florence, finding death in the same manner and in the same location as the art, literature, and culture he had been destroying for these last five years. There was a delicious irony in it, Sandro thought as he considered the date. May twenty-third. Forever after, he would call it the Day the Art Was Reborn.
Their package to Pope Alexander VI, created with such care by Colombina, had been welcomed with relish. It contained more than enough proof to accuse and convict Savonarola of heresy. And the timing was flawless, as the city of Florence was beginning to erupt with resentment over their oppression. The years of austerity had taken their toll, and a rebellion was brewing against the mad monk who had once been their savior. Mobs were very fickle. Thus when Savonarola was arrested, the divided city erupted into chaos and rioting.
From the look of the mob today, everyone supported the papal decision to declare Savonarola a heretic. Through the jeering shouts of “Pignoni” could also be heard “Florence is free.”
The smell of burning flesh sickened Sandro, who was not a violent man. He struggled mightily with his spirit on this day. He would need to get back to his devotions now that his task had been carried out. He would need to find forgiveness and move on. But not today. He would do that tomorrow.
Today he would celebrate at the tavern of Ognissanti, which had reopened this morning for the first time since Savonarola forced its closure years ago. Today he would sit at the table he had shared so many times with Lorenzo, and he would raise a glass to his friend, his truest brother, for what he had given to him, to Florence, and to the world. Today he would write rather than sketch, write about the brother who had inspired him and the art they had created together. And then, perhaps, he would paint once again. It had been a long time, but today he was born anew.
Colombina made the journey to Montevecchio almost every Sunday morning. She would begin her day in prayer in the secret garden of Careggi, a place that had been her spiritual sanctuary since Lorenzo had first introduced her to it so many years ago. The statue of Mary Magdalene, the Queen of Compassion, shone with a beautiful patina despite the passing decades, as Colombina cleaned and polished it herself during each visit.