The great nave of Santa Maria del Fiore was almost full, the benches crowded, and many people sitting huddled on the floor. It was a terribly bright, cold day and a shattering wind carried the breath of the snow-clad hills into the city and the cathedral.
Since Savonarola had been granted the right to preach in the cathedral, his followers had grown in number and it seemed that this day they were all determined to hear the ferocious little Domenicano speak. It was a holy time of year, and that promised fervid sermons. The service was unbearably long, the Mass seeming to go on forever. The congregation murmured and joggled and rustled as each person tried to endure the ritual before Girolamo Savonarola could speak to them. Finally there was an impatient hush and an expectant shuffling as people sat straighter, hoping for a better view of the angular little man walking stiffly toward the oratory of the cathedral.
Simone Filipepi glared at his cousin Donna Estasia, sitting woodenly beside him. "Listen to him, cousin," he hissed in her ear. "His words will reward your patience."
Estasia had hated the whole thing. From the moment that morning when Simone had almost dragged her from the house, to the long wait as the cathedral filled, it had all seemed hideous. Her head ached, she was cold, and the three hours they had sat on the hard bench so that they might be near Savonarola when he spoke seemed to her the height of folly and a waste of time. She let her thoughts stray back to the night before. Ettore, her new lover, had been a disappointment. He had been clumsy, too hurried, and when he had taken his pleasure, he had hurried away from her, making some flimsy excuse about needing to be fresh in the morning. Not for the first time she scolded herself mentally for having been such a fool about Ragoczy. She had been capricious and it had cost her the pleasure she took with him.
Around her the people leaned forward as the incongruously big, harsh voice of the prior of San Marco began to fill the cathedral. "With a sorrowing, humble, repentant heart," he announced, "I have prayed. I have prayed that the destruction that is to come will not fall while Fiorenza is yet so ripe with sins."
This awful pronouncement was a most promising beginning. The congregation strained to hear more.
"Oh, Fiorenza, you must repent while there is still time. My visions tell me that the time is short. Fiorenza will be as a desert, laid waste and barren. It is not my voice that tells you this, it is the Voice of God that speaks through me!"
Simone shot a look at Estasia, and seeing the wanton, arrogant smile she wore, whispered, "You are vile!"
Savonarola leaned forward in his oratory, his bright green eyes snapping with purpose. "Dress yourselves in humble white, for purity, O Fiorenzeni. Plagues and war will come to destroy you if you do not repent. I have seen the Sword of the Wrath of God over this city, and it came with the storm and devastation followed."
This is what the people had come to hear. A few of the congregation cried out for mercy and shouted they had repented.
"The early Christians, who gladly wore their martyrs' crowns, lived in simplicity amid the corrupt luxury of Roma. They knew that the truth lies only in the words of Christ, in the Gospels and Testaments. They, who had the power of an empire around them, turned away from the fallacious teachings and accepted the Will of God."
Estasia sighed and looked around the cathedral, a smile in her eyes as she saw handsome men in the crowd. There was one, obviously rich, perhaps from Pisa, by the cut of his clothes. As he glanced her way she signed to him, and hoped he would seek her out after the sermon.
"You have fallen away from this. You read the heresy of Plato and Aristotle, and think that you can entertain their notions as well as the Teachings of Christ. You are deceived. Plato and Aristotle even now rot and burn in hell!" He held up his hand to quiet the muttering in the congregation. "They are in hell! I have seen it through the Grace of God. And you, you read their works and congratulate yourselves when you understand them. What you understand is the way to perdition!" This time he let the groan run its course.
The young Pisan saw Estasia and nodded to her, a soft, sensual anticipation warming his features.
"You read of the forbidden excesses of the friends of Socrates, of congress between men, which the Testaments most strictly forbid. The Word of God commands that sodomites be burned alive. What prideful folly to overlook that command." He saw some of the men wince and others bristle at his words. "Yes, you resist. You are rank with corruption and you revel in your perversity. You are like the Romans of old, who killed good Christians and today shovel coals in hell and bemoan their fate."
Simone saw the exchange between Estasia and the young Pisan nearby. He grabbed her hands roughly. "You're no better than a whore. Learn to live in humility. Learn to despise the flesh."
"Oh, Simone." Estasia sighed petulantly, and pretended to give the preacher from Ferrara her attention.
"How you emulate those Romans, and take pride in it. You have horse races, and gamble on the outcome. If there is to be salvation, the palio must end. Every one. You bet on cards and dice and all manner of disgusting sport. You caper more lasciviously than any pagan at festival time, and give yourselves over to the monstrous sins of the flesh at carnival. You paint your women, and you allow even holy art to show the Mother of God as simpering, jeweled and scented as a harlot in the court of Caesar." He pointed to a new Madonna recently added to the cathedral decorations. "See there? See? Her eyes are not humble and pure. Her countenance is bold, inviting, and the hand at her breast fools no one. It is not to nourish Our Lord, but to pervert the minds of this congregation."
Every eye turned to the Madonna, and there was a murmur of horrified agreement.
"Is it any wonder that the most respected matron in this city still bedecks herself in paint and struts abroad in indecent splendor. And think of those degraded women who truly follow that life, who are terrible in their lusts. Any woman of this city might be a prostitute, wallowing in the rankness of desire. You have seen them. You have touched them. You are contaminated by those bits of rotten meat with eyes!"
This time the wailing was almost overwhelming. Savonarola stood still, his hand upraised. Then slowly, deliberately he brought it down, pointing out various members of the congregation. "You have sought out lewd women for unnatural pleasures!" he declared as he singled out a slender young woman sitting modestly with her family. She shrieked and put a hand to her suddenly pale face, denying it as tears welled in her eyes.
"You..." Savonarola next picked out a woman of more than forty years. "You have decked yourself in man's clothing, and against all the laws of the state and God, you have traveled abroad without shame."
There was spirit in the woman, for she shouted back, "What am I supposed to do? Wear petticoats and be raped by brigands?"
Savonarola ignored this, and his baleful glance settled on Estasia. "You, you wanton, luxurious, depraved! You are a channel of iniquity. What death lurks in that fair body. Vicious carnality fills your thoughts. And for that you will be punished in hell forever. You will be penetrated in every orifice by the minions of the devils and you will bear in every part the seething offspring of Satan. Your flesh will rupture and run, and the decay of your soul will fill all hell with its stench!"
Estasia blinked and shook her head mechanically. "No. No."
But the congregation was howling for more, shouts rising from the general roar as guilt and remorse overwhelmed them.
"Look upon her!" Savonarola shouted. "You and she are alike, Fiorenza! Fair, fair, temptingly fair, you conceal your rottenness beneath a facade of the most voluptuous pleasures. But see her!" He leveled both hands at her, and Estasia tried to twist away. "See how her face contorts. See how she writhes. The Devil has seized her by the hair! She spreads her legs and moans like the whore she is! But who among you could endure her now?"
Estasia had fallen to the floor, where she clutched at the ankles of people near her. She was whimpering, pulling at her bodice so that her breasts were exposed. Methodically she began to scratch the rounded flesh, her nails leaving deep bloody tracks in her skin. "I repent! I repent! Have pity! Have pity!"
Wholly embarrassed by this turn of events, Simone tried to drag Estasia to her feet, but as he touched her, she screamed. "Estasia, control yourself!" he ordered her, pulling his hands away from her. "You're disgracing yourself!"
Savonarola's voice rose above this. "How long, Fiorenza? How long before God sickens entirely of you? How long before your corrupt loveliness offends Him beyond all tolerance and love? You walk on the brink of eternity and you flirt with chaos!"
Estasia fell forward, her face white. Her bodice was almost in shreds and her hands now clawed at her face. She sobbed convulsively through tightly closed teeth. The people she touched shrank away from her and some of them prayed.
"You see that woman touched by the Chastening Hand of God, yet you dare not look too closely. But it is you who might next be touched! Repent, O Fiorenza. Prostrate yourself at the Throne of Mercy before the Wrath of God overwhelms you!"
As Estasia tried to get to her feet, she was twitching and her face wore a distorted expression of hopelessness and dissatisfaction. She clasped her hands and raised them heavenward. "Help me! Help me! Spare me!" She began to draw herself forward, knocking over the bench before her and keening as the rough-hewn wood tore at her arms.
"Repent! Repent! O Fiorenza, look upon this woman! See how she is robbed of everything, how she grovels before the might of God! Come! Come! Come up, woman, and repent!"
Estasia had fallen again and as the tightly packed people around her tried to make way for her, or to escape her terrifying presence, they kicked her, and her shoulder began to bleed. She put her hand into the blood, then reached out.
Even Simone balked at that. He wanted desperately to leave the cathedral, but he had a greater desire to remove Estasia as well. He tried once more, vainly, to reach her, and found his way blocked by kneeling, praying, weeping Fiorenzeni. "Estasia! Cousin!"
She did not hear him. She was crying out now, high, thin sounds like an animal carried off by an eagle. There were bruises on her face and arms, and as Simone watched, shocked, two young men reached out for her and grabbed vindictively at her breasts, taking a strange pleasure from her revulsion and pain.
Apparently Savonarola saw this as well, because his voice rose in fury. "Why do you seek after such filth? If you indulge the joys of the senses, you condemn your souls to everlasting torture."
Estasia had almost reached the altar and the Domenicani serving Mass glanced at one another in distress. None of them wanted to deal with this demented woman, and Savonarola was still in the oratory, addressing the congregation.
Their worry was removed when a small woman in the white habit of the Celestiane Sisters pushed her way through the crowd and took hold of Estasia.
Twisting, wrenching, her face wet with tears and blood, Estasia screamed as the nun held her. Then, in an entirely different voice she began to curse, to call every form of obscenity and blasphemy on the little nun in white.
Nothing that the congregation had hoped for could have exceeded this. It was shocking. It was horrible. They were scandalized and delighted. The Nativity had threatened to be incredibly dull with no festivals and only religious processions to mark the day, but now the artist Botticelli's cousin had given them royal entertainment and they were anticipating a delirious season.
The nun pulled Estasia closer to her, shielding her from the eager, outraged Fiorenzan citizens around her.
"Would every one of you want to emulate that pitiful creature?" Savonarola raised his fists to the vault of the cathedral. "Forbid it, God! Rather strike down this city, this world, than to let us be so degraded!"
Suor Ignata held Estasia closer to her and said, "Pray for tranquillity, my sister. God will answer you if you ask for His Peace."
There was a great deal of excitement in the cathedral now. Some of the women had fallen on the floor and were crying out to be saved. Men were weeping, their hands clasped in prayer. Others had begun to sing hymns as the Domenicani moved among them, blessing those who asked to be blessed, comforting those who wept.
"Think on your sins! This is the last hour God will grant you. After today, there is no chance. Repent! Repent!" Savonarola's eyes were fever-bright and there were some who looked on his affliction as another sign of his blessedness, his uniqueness.
By now the shouting had become so loud that there was almost no way to hear the prior speak, and a great many of the congregation abandoned themselves to the excitement of repentance.
"My dear child," Suor Ignata said in her low, musical voice, "don't be distressed. We will help you. My Sisters and I will take you into our community. Be calm, my child, you will be cared for."
If Estasia understood, or heard, she gave no sign of it. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were glazed, unseeing. She made garbled sounds that might have been words, but no one heard them clearly enough to make them out.
Simone wrung his hands in distress, then fell to his knees and began to pray rapidly, as if the speed of the prayers would hurry an answer. He deliberately ignored his cousin so that her shame would not fall on him.
Suor Ignata pulled Estasia aside, and at last succeeded in leading her from the cathedral. "There, my child," she said in the same voice she used for the imbeciles who were cared for at Sacro Infante, "you need not be frightened. I am Suor Ignata and I am taking you to my Superiora, Suor Merzede. We'll look after you. Never fear. You will be cared for."
The convent's rough cart was drawn by two yoked oxen, and Suor Ignata drove them with the exasperated ease of the farmgirl she had been. Three of the other Celestian nuns were in the back of the cart, their practiced care at last calming Estasia's outbursts.
"What will her family do?" Suor Stella asked in an urgent under-voice as the nuns left the city through la Porta alia Lanza.
"I hope," Suor Ignata said with some asperity, "that since they have so singularly failed her, they will let her stay with us until God heals her mind again. But we must leave that to God and to the persuasive powers of Suor Phidia and Signale. I hope that they find her family reasonable."
Somewhat later Sandro Filipepi was interrupted at his work by two Celestian nuns who knocked timidly at his door. Ordinarily Simone, Estasia or his houseman Valerio would have answered. But Valerio was gone to visit his invalid sister, Simone had locked himself in his room to meditate and pray, and Estasia had not yet returned from the cathedral. Sandro hated to be interrupted when he worked, but there was no help for it. He wiped his brush and gave a last critical scrutiny to the Orpheus, thinking again that he should have finished it for Laurenzo. But it had been a minor commission, and Laurenzo had never rushed him. Now Ragoczy had offered to buy the work and Sandro had accepted, knowing that the foreigner would not mind that Orpheus had Laurenzo's face.
The knocking grew louder and Sandro hurried from his studio to the door. He stared at the two white-habited women who faced him, and swallowed the congenial curse he had been about to utter. "Good Celestiane. What may I do for you?" He stood aside and motioned them into the wide hall.
"I am Suor Phidia, from Sacro Infante," the older of the two, a strong-faced woman of forty, announced.
"Your presence honors my house," Sandro responded automatically, feeling bewildered.
"I gather that you haven't yet spoken with your brother," Suor Phidia said as she looked around.
"My brother returned from the cathedral more than an hour ago. He's still at his devotions. If it is necessary, I will interrupt him, but his is a fervid soul..."
Suor Phidia gave her younger companion a speaking look. "And your cousin, Signore Filipepi?"
"She is still at the cathedral." He thought for a moment that Estasia had done something foolish. If she were with child-for a woman her age might well bear children, and it was true that Estasia had at least three lovers-she might have gone to the Sisters in the hope that they would help her. But none of her lovers would refuse to acknowledge a child of their getting. They were honorable men, and Estasia was of good family, not some trull to be cast off after a night of debauch. He stopped his wandering thoughts, and turned his attention to the nuns again.
This time the younger nun spoke. "I am Suor Signale, Signore Filipepi. I am afraid that your cousin has suffered a... misfortune."
Sandro closed his eyes. He had feared something might happen to Estasia. He had seen that overly bright shine in her eyes and knew that her emotions sank and soared erratically. "What happened?"
Suor Signale smiled compassionately and grasped the wooden rosary that hung from her high, wide belt. "Your cousin, Donna Estasia della Cittadella, while at the cathedral, suffered a kind of seizure. It occurred during the sermon, and she was much moved by the words of Savonarola. Unfortunately, your brother was unable or unwilling to come to her aid, and so our Sister in Christ, Suor Ignata, approached her, and got her safely out of Santa Maria del Fiore."
"I see." They were from Sacro Infante, that hospital convent where the mad, the incompetent and the childish were sent. He thought of Simone, and for the first time in some years he found he was dangerously angry with his brother. Simone annoyed him often, but this went beyond the bounds of religious severity. If Simone had one spark of the faith he professed, he would not have shirked his duty to his cousin.
"Signore Filipepi..." Suor Signale began.
"I am sorry, good Sister. My thoughts were wandering. I ask your forgiveness. Tell me: what has become of Estasia?"
Once again Suor Phidia took over. "With your permission, good Signore, we are taking her to Sacro Infante. We have some skill in nursing those in distress and it would please us to have this opportunity to give charity as Our Lord commanded us."
Sandro was dangerously near smiling. The nun had put it so neatly that any denial would seem not only cruel but also unchristian as well. "She is a widow, and her father is dead. If I have any authority over her, it is slight. But if you think it wise, by all means keep her with you until she is calmer. I haven't the time or the capability to deal with her properly, and I fear my brother would find it difficult to give her the sort of care she must need."
"Where did her husband live?" Suor Phidia asked, concerned now that there might be objections from Estasia's husband's family.
"In Parma. It's unlikely that they would interfere with your care. You must understand, good Sisters, that my cousin was married to a merchant a good deal older than she, and the object was to unite two commercial houses. It was the marriage that mattered, not her widowhood. Her husband's nephew runs that business now, and her half-brother. That was why she asked to come to me in the first place. She has no children and her life was most restricted there. She asked to come here only because there was no other way for her to break free of the limitations which had been imposed on her, all to protect a business partnership."
The nuns once again exchanged glances, and Sandro wondered if it was because of what he had told them, or because it meant that Estasia might be willing to part with some of her widow's settlement in appreciation of the nuns' work on her behalf.
Suor Signale nodded. "I see. It is often so with women who have no children and are possessed of strong appetites. We will do all that we can for her, and with the help of God, she will be whole again."
With a gesture that might mean resignation and might mean encouragement, Sandro inclined his head to the nuns. "I know that if anything can be done for her, you and your Sisters will do it."
"It is a pity that she has no religious vocation," Suor Phidia murmured, and waited for Sandro to respond to this obvious invitation.
"No, I am afraid that the religious life offers too little... stimulation to Estasia. All the religious vocation has been used up by my brother, I fear." He regretted his facetious remark as soon as he said it, and so he added, "Your pardon, Sisters. I am still somewhat dazed by what you've told me. I didn't mean what I said."
Suor Signale had bridled, but Suor Phidia had heard such remarks, and very much worse, many times before. She smiled gently. "If you wish to see her, come at the end of a week. We will be able to tell you more about her, and we can discuss any arrangements that might be necessary then. If there is some man who is devoted to her, pray ask him to come with you. The affection of those we care for is a great solace to those afflicted as she is."
"As you wish, Sister. I will come to you in a week. But if there is any change in her, either to the good or to the bad, I want to know of it. Send a messenger to me and I will come to your convent as fast as my horse will bring me."
At that show of concern, Suor Signale's reserve vanished. "Ah, you are good, Signore Filipepi. I knew that a man who has shown the Virgin in all her purity and love would not turn away from his cousin."
There was a pause, and all three realized that there was nothing more to say. Sandro was the first to recover from the silence.
"Well, good Sisters, I am anxious to hear of my cousin. And I thank you with all my soul for what you have done. Estasia will thank you, too, one day." It was difficult to say the last.
"I will pray God for that," Suor Phidia said, then turned to Suor Signale. "We must not stay. It will be dark in two more hours, and we must be at the convent for our prayers." She looked once more at Sandro. "You may be certain that all of us will care for her with all the skill at our hands, and the love of God to guide us."
Sandro nodded, and said the necessary inane farewells. He was grateful when he had closed the door behind the nuns, grateful to them for what they had done, and grateful that they had kept him occupied until the worst of his anger had passed. He turned away from the door and went down the hall, thinking as he went that Simone had a great deal to explain.
Text of a letter from Lodovico Sforza, called Il Moro, acting Duca di Milano, to Charles VIII, King of France:
To the Most Illustrious and Christian King, Charles VIII of France, the uncle of il Duca di Milano, who has the honor to act for his nephew in all matters of government, sends most respectful, obedient greetings.
It has come to the attention of il Duca that Your Majesty has long had claim to the Kingdom of Napoli, Jerusalem and other parts of the world, which Your Majesty has been reluctant to pursue. Certainly the weight of royalty is formidable, and those who are burdened with it have much to bear. Yet my nephew is uneasy in his mind, for if one ruler is lenient in his reign, all rulers must carry the burden of that leniency.
Let me urge you, on behalf of my nephew, to regain your hold on Napoli and other estates. It would bring order once more to il Re Ferrante's realm, for you must know that Napoli falters under his weak rule. Think what Napoli would be, once again under the stern, loving hand of France.
As one who has seen the chaos that is here in all of Italia, I am convinced that you must act, if only for our benefit. Since such an expedition would impose on you to benefit us, I have made certain inquiries so that the cost would be borne in part by those who would reap the results of your concern. There is a bank in Genova which would be willing to extend to you, through myself, the amount of one hundred thousand francs to offset the cost incurred by Your Majesty should you decide to assert your rightful claims in Italia. The payment of the money to the bank would fall on Milano's shoulders, as would payment of the interest, which has been guaranteed at fourteen percent.
Most sincerely I beseech Your Majesty to mount whatever expedition seems prudent and to come to Milano so that you can more fully assess the situation in Napoli.
I would also like to mention that the political situation in
Tuscana bears watching most closely. If, as it has been said, Fiorenza is the compass of Tuscana, then there is a great deal of misfortune coming. Laurenzo has been dead for almost a year, and despite all his protestations, his son Piero has shown himself to be disinclined to take up the obligations left him by his illustrious father. There is also a wave of religious excitement in that city, and it has had some startling effects on la Repubblica. Your Majesty may be needed there, to guide and supervise the course of that state.
With the profound wish that Your Majesty will consider most carefully all that I have said in this letter, on behalf of my nephew, Gian Galeazzo, il Duca di Milano, I pray heaven will bless Your Majesty and all your endeavors.
Lodovico Mauro Sforza
for Gian Galeazzo Sforza, il Duca di Milano
In Milano, February 18, 1493
