The Palace (46 page)

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.