The Palace (Saint-Germain #2)

Near la Loggia della Signoria the fagots were being stacked, ready for the Bonfire of Vanities that would begin soon after Mass was over at Santa Maria del Fiore. Two large troops of Militia Christi supervised the placing of the wood, while others established barriers in la Piazza della Signoria to keep the expected crowd at bay. The afternoon was wonderfully bright, preternaturally clear though the air was cold.

On the north side of la Piazza della Signoria a small group of artists stood with Sandro Filipepi. One of them, an ugly young man whose powerful arms and chest declared him to be a sculptor, kept looking at the paintings that were leaned up against the nearest building. Occasionally he shook his head.

With the artists was the white-haired Marsilio Ficino, his old eyes fading now both in color and sight. "Botticelli," he said in an under-voice as he plucked at the artist's sleeve, "don't do it."

Sandro shrugged Ficino's hand away. "I have sworn I would. I have no choice."

The old philosopher shook his head. "You always have a choice. It's immoral to ask this if you. You aren't bound by your oath, not to an excommunicant monk." He looked once toward the stacked paintings. "At least spare the Solomon and Sheba. It's biblical, Sandro. It's a religious painting."

"Is it?" Sandro asked vacantly. "With Solomon reclining with Sheba, his hand on her hip and her breasts thrust forward? It's lascivious. Think of the lust it incites." He spoke as if by rote, the words curiously flat.

"But Solomon loved Sheba. Aren't the prophets and kings in the Testaments allowed to love anymore?" Ficino saw that Sandro was no longer listening. He turned away, furious at his own helplessness.

In a little while the Vacca began its slow, mooing toll, calling the citizens to la Piazza della Signoria. The youths of the Militia Christi gathered together near their carefully stacked wood and waited for the procession that had just left the cathedral.

The sound of chanting blended with the droning peal of the bell, casting a gloomy pall across the bright day. The chanting grew louder, the monks being now under the spell of the occasion. A few of them danced as the procession neared la Piazza della Signoria, their bodies moving in strange, almost spastic gyrations, as if enthralled.

By this time la piazza was quite full and the Militia Christi were once again enforcing the boundaries they had established earlier. Many people strained to get nearer, to watch more closely the destruction of the precious Vanities that were waiting for the flames.

When at last the procession entered la Piazza della Signoria the gathered crowd was greedily silent. This is what they had come to see. The monks chanted faster, more loudly, and those devout who watched fell to their knees and began to pray aloud. The sound of prayer became an antiphony to the chanting and the sound of the bell. The monks in their black habits over white cassocks moved around the entire piazza, their chanting becoming a shout. In response the crowd began a rhythmic clapping. This, too, became faster until the continuous noise rolled like thunder over the red roofs of the city.

Then, abruptly, all fell silent as Savonarola mounted the steps of la Loggia della Signoria to address them. They waited while the prior of San Marco glared at them, while he motioned significantly to the fagots. At last he spoke. "Today God has given you an opportunity!" He held his hands up to indicate that they were not to interrupt him. "God has granted you a reprieve that you may repent at last your great and terrible sins!"

A sigh like the distant sea rushed through the huge crowd. Almost all of Fiorenza's forty thousand people shared in that sigh, and pressed forward in anticipation.

"Here! Today! At last you will have an opportunity to show your devotion to the will of God. Here you will cast away those worldly baubles that bind you to your sins!" He motioned to the Militia Christi. "These young soldiers of God will prepare. You will see their piety shining in their eyes as they light the fires that burn for your salvation!"

The gentle sound grew louder, and more of the monks began to dance. A few people in the crowd near the front of the barricades began to sway in sympathy with the dancing monks.

Two bonfires were laid as the monks danced. The Militia Christi worked fast, the young men eager for the approval of Savonarola and the praise of the citizens of Fiorenza. The first bonfire was quite large and stood on the south side of la piazza. But the other was somewhat smaller, on the northeast side of la piazza, and it was here, on this smaller bonfire, that attention was focused, for this was where Sandro Filipepi, known as Botticelli, was to burn his works. Ezechiele Aureliano had been given the responsibility of laying the fire, and he worked with zeal. He had five young men to help him and he supervised them with a fine air of authority.

"Sandro, let me take one or two of these away." The voice was soft, gently modulated, with only a trace of a foreign accent.

Botticelli turned swiftly and saw Ragoczy at his side. "Francesco!"

"Germain," he corrected with a smile. "Let me take two of the paintings. Spare those. There will still be more than twenty to burn. Surely no one will miss these."

Sandro's eyes grew hard. "I can't do that."

"Why not? Let me take the Persephone. That legend has always appealed to me. The painting is not offensive. Only the Domenicano's madness would see it so." He had not spoken loudly, but Sandro had the impression that he was shouting.

"I cannot. I took an oath."

"Break it. For your work. For those beautiful, fragile creatures whose flesh is cloth and paint." Suddenly he took Botticelli by the shoulders and looked searchingly into the artist's golden eyes. "Sandro, do you know what you're doing? Truly know?"

Across la Piazza della Signoria Savonarola was shouting to the Militia Christi, praising them more fulsomely than before, reciting the names of the dedicated young men who were soldiers for God, for redemption. The young men, as they heard their names called in turn, glowed with embarrassed pride.

Botticelli tried to break away from Ragoczy's hold, and was somewhat startled to find he could not. The foreigner's hands were much stronger than he had realized, and the compact, muscular body would resist anything but outright assault. "Leave me alone, Francesco."

One last, desperate time Ragoczy pleaded with Botticelli. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the Militia Christi was coming to gather up the paintings, and that their arrogant leader, Ezechiele Aureliano, was smiling in malevolent anticipation. "This is wasted, Sandro. Because next to them"-he nodded toward the paintings- "neither you nor I nor that maniac Domenicano mean anything. There is more humanity, more reality in those figures than in half of the people gathered here to watch. Sandro. Please."

"You'd better leave, Ragoczy." His voice was flat, and without waiting for Ragoczy to respond, he turned to the nearest of the Militia Christi. "I'm ready. Help me carry the paintings."

The smile on Aureliano's face widened in spite of his efforts to appear solemn. "You must do it, Filipepi. Otherwise it isn't real sacrifice."

For just a moment there was a kind of sickness in Sandro's face, a loathing. Then it was gone and he shrugged. "Very well. Show me what I must do." He shouldered his way past Ragoczy, refusing to meet the reproach in his face.

"The small ones first," Aureliano instructed. "Save the large ones for last. The most indecent is the Diana and Actaeon. It's large enough to save for the last. This Jupiter and Io or the Semele will do for Savonarola's lesson."

"Lesson?" Sandro asked, the word almost strangled him as he spoke it.

Aureliano's face was wonderfully bland as he regarded the painter. "Yes, of course. Savonarola will use your work, that you yourself so justly condemn, to inspire others to destroy their Vanities. He will show the error of the work, and tell how it damns us all."

Botticelli put his hands to his mouth as if he feared he might vomit. He forced himself to be calm, and when he could, he lowered his hands and said, "That isn't necessary."

"But it is." Aureliano was grinning unashamedly. "If you are not sincere in your repentance, then how can we expect sincerity of others? The corruption inherent in the art will be revealed, and where lust has been engendered there will now be only disgust." He rocked back on his heels.

Sandro glanced wildly around him, looking for help. There were only the mocking faces of the young men and a few Domenicani Brothers separating the paintings into stacks. He took one step forward, but his way was blocked by the Militia Christi. Beyond, the monks continued their work. Botticelli wondered fleetingly what would happen if he cast himself instead of his work into the flames. He started toward the nearest monk, who bent over the Persephone and Semele, and it was only then that he saw the monk wore heeled boots of blue leather. He almost laughed at that, amazed at Ragoczy's audacity. He felt a moment of elation, which he quickly stifled. He looked at Ezechiele Aureliano and his heart tightened like a fist in his chest.

"We will begin soon," the Militia Christi leader said. "Whenever you're ready."

Sandro gave one last, quick glance at his Semele and Persephone, then said, "Very well. Bring the Jupiter and Io. More people know that story."

"You must carry it." Aureliano stood very straight and the twist of his mouth was faintly contemptuous.

"Why not?" Sandro said to the air, and went to the stack of paintings. He picked up the Jupiter and Io, studying it critically, as if it were someone else's work, someone he did not know. lo reclined, languid, abandoned, surrounded and supported by a cloud that was aglow with all the colors of dawn and sunset, a cloud that was like a man, perhaps, with a handsome face dimly perceptible in the cloud. The line of Io's neck was particularly effective, he thought, and the movement in the cloud that might be hands. He was startled to realize the work was good, better than he had ever thought his painting to be.

"Filipepi." Aureliano spoke sharply, cutting through Sandro's thoughts.

"I'm coming," Sandro said, and reluctantly took the gilded frame in his hands. The Militia Christi made a path for him through the crowd and as Sandro entered the empty center of la Piazza della Signoria he heard the rustle of the people made suddenly silent.

Botticelli followed Aureliano through la piazza toward the Loggia della Signoria, where Savonarola waited for him. He studied the little Domenican prior, aware now of how ugly Girolamo Savonarola was, how angular, how shrunken. He experienced a moment of terrible revulsion, and then it was over.

"Fiorenza," Savanarola cried out as Botticelli brought the painting to him. "Here is one who has grown great in his fame and in his error, for he has been driven to paint such things as Christian men must be shamed to look upon. Here." He reached for the painting and motioned for two of the Militia Christi youths to lift the painting into the air. "See the fruit of his talent, which might have shown the world the glories of God! Here is the aggrandizement of lust, the representation of pagan pleasures. See the wantonness of the woman, how she displays her body without shame, how she is made lewd by the voluptuousness of her thighs which welcome the monstrous intrusion of Jupiter, who is no better than the Devil!"

The crowd was pressing forward, eager to see the painting and be disgusted. Sandro heard the strange sound the people made, and he wanted then to cry out to them that Savonarola was mistaken, that this was painted to show pleasure, and the delight of the body. This was not lust, but beauty. Behind him there was a sound of flint striking steel, and almost immediately the rush of flames as lighted straw was tossed onto the smaller bonfire, kindling the wood laid there.

"But Sandro Filipepi has repented his sin," Savonarola announced to Fiorenza. "See, with his own hands he takes this iniquitous work" -he motioned to Sandro to do so-"and with his own hands, in pious acceptance of the strictures of God, he consigns the perfidious thing to the flames!"

Sandro moved as if asleep. He took the painting and clasped it to his chest as he carried it to the flames. Hotter than the waiting fire, self-hatred raged in him as he lifted the picture and cast it onto the fire.

The crowd and the flames roared together and Sandro looked through the flames to see the exultant figure of his brother, Simone, as he raised his hands to heaven, and beyond him, framed by a black Domenican hood, the stricken face of Francesco Ragoczy.

As the stink of burning paint and cloth filled la Piazza della Signoria, Ragoczy pressed the Semele and the Persephone close against him under the Domenican habit. When he could bear to look no longer, he made his way through the crowd, murmuring that he had to return to San Marco.

He was halfway there when another groan from the crowd told him that a second painting had been consigned to the flames.

Transcription of a vision of Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli:

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. In reverence to the Blessed Virgin and all the company of saints, angels and martyrs who are the Hosts of Heaven, let it be set down here what the Power of God has shown to me.

When I was languishing in the world, a prey to all the follies of the flesh and the cravings of the body, before my soul conquered my sin-ridden thoughts, I shared the abode of my cousin Sandro di Mariano Filipepi, who is known also as Botticelli. It was there that I saw so many of those shameless paintings which yesterday were given to the cleansing flames. Thinking on that glorious moment, I turned my thoughts to God and His Splendor, of His Radiance that shines so brightly that the Archangels are all but blinded by it. Before Him all the kings of the earth fell in awe, and there was nothing so beautiful as His beauty. The most sacred painting was a humble, insulting reflection of His Glorious Beauty. The most sublime hymn was screeching compared to the sweetness of His Voice.

My soul soared aloft, rapt in the sight of Him, and there I saw how the fires of Fiorenza reached to heaven. The stench of burning paintings and finery reached God as the most fragrant incense. The vile ashes of clothes, furniture, wigs, lace, brazen statues that littered la Piazza della Signoria were changed and formed a flowering wreath that crowned His brow and shone with the Light of His Face.

The leap of the flames was a dance to Him, and the prayers that rose to Him sounded with the loveliness of lutes and trumpets. As the tokens of Vanity and Envy were consumed, God was glorified. For there is nothing so beautiful as God. Nothing better merits our souls than the thought of God. Nothing better adorns us than virtue and worship, for piety weaves a robe that not even the master of l'Arte di Calimala can duplicate.

In the vision I saw God embrace Fiorenza in acceptance of this sacrifice, and the fiery sword that burned in His right hand was turned from us and raised toward the hellish sink that is Roma. But He was watchful, for not all shared in our offering. There were some who would not give up their worldly goods for the greater rewards and treasures of heaven. Those unchristian souls who took away two of the paintings that were to be burned will share with the pagan works all the fires of hell. God will not be cheated, and even now He waits to destroy those who mocked the sincerity of our purged sins.

My voice is hoarse from singing His praises. My eyes are heavy from the joy of beholding His Glory. My poor weak body is sunk in fatigue from the vigils of prayer and fasting that have brought me close to the Throne of God.

God has given me to know that His great plan for the Salvation of Fiorenza is soon to be accomplished. Savonarola will be raised up, and unworthy though I am, unbearable, all-consuming glory, bright as flowers in the sun, will be my lot through the goodness and the Mercy of God.

O Fiorenza, be fervent in your prayers. Be rigorous in your faith. Do not now desert the triumph that is so near at hand. As we cast out the unrighteous and the heretical ones who have brought us this terrible depravity, be sure that there will be joy in paradise and that we will be redeemed through the acts we perform in these days. Set an example in holiness that all the world will seek to emulate. Free yourself from the hideous bonds of the flesh and learn to praise the might of God with your chastity and your devotion. Reflect on the Mercy of God, that will receive the greatest sinner in heaven if he repent.

The Love of God pierces all armor and defeats all opposition. The armies of angels and saints and martyrs are in heaven for our salvation and the elevation of our souls. I have seen how much joy is felt in heaven when one sinner casts sin away and embraces virtue. I have seen the compassion of the angels for those who are tempted, and the tears that are shed by those holy beings would rend the heart of the most corrupted and venal of men.

What is love among men when compared to the celestial fraternity? What is success in the world when death strikes down even the mightiest and the greatest treasures turn to dust? Only the Glory of God remains. And if we turn from God, we turn from the Eternal Source of life and the Eternal Goodness that is the light of the world.

By the pen of Fra Milo

from the lips of Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli

At Sacro Infante, near Fiorenza, the 5th day of March, 1498