Finally, on the very top of the pyramid, an effigy had been placed of a shaggy Satan with a goat’s cloven hooves, a satyr’s beard, and a horse’s tail. His twisted face imitated that of the Venetian merchant who had attempted to save the more valuable works of art from the flames.
“What would you save from the pyre if you could?” Lorena asked her friend.
“The engravings of The Divine Comedy by Dante, which Sandro Botticelli drew, along with the painter’s heart. It is scandalous that such a great artist should abhor his own creations, however difficult it might be to carry the weight of guilt for his hidden sins.”
Lorena was perfectly aware of the rumors that circulated regarding Botticelli’s sexual inclinations, as well as the content of those engravings. She had seen them in the house of Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de Medici, Il Magnifico’s cousin, together with the paintings of The Birth of Venus and The Allegory of Spring. The prints of The Divine Comedy had been traced with a metal bodkin on parchment made out of sheepskin, retraced afterwards with a lead pencil, and lastly fixed with ink. She also knew Sandro Botticelli well. Encouraged by Lorenzo de Medici, he was one of the champions of introducing pagan scenes into painting. However, with the new climate of fear propagated by Savonarola, the brilliant painter had forgotten his love of Plato and had become a “weeper,” the derogatory nickname given to the followers of the visionary friar. Pico della Mirandola had also rejected his old ideas some time ago and converted into one more sheep grazing in the flock of the Prior of San Marcos. Lorena conjectured that such sudden conversions could have had their deepest roots in the poisoned feelings of guilt and fear: the fear of death and hell and the vertigo freedom could provoke. Pico, who died prematurely, would have found by now the true answers in the life beyond. The living, on the other hand, had only their conscience as a guide to help them find their way through the murky waters of Florence.
“Sandro Botticelli now thinks he got it wrong when he drew certain scenes from the second circle of Dante’s Inferno, which concerned the lustful. For this reason he preferred that the representation of such serious sins should go up in flames.”
“Lust, like love, can provoke ardent reactions that are sometimes difficult to understand,” said Sofia. “It is for that reason that men who are so different, such as Dante and Savonarola, have more points in common than would seem apparent at first glance. After all, do they not both share a broken heart caused by the love of a woman?”
“The love of Dante Alighieri for Beatrice is the stuff of legend, but I never thought Savonarola’s heart could ever have missed a beat for any woman,” said Lorena.
“Well, the gossips assert that Savonarola in his youth fell for the charms of Laodamia Strozzi. However, Savonarola had no money, he was as ugly as he was shy, intellectually mature but awkward in his manner. In short, someone who was not destined to shine in the higher circles of Florentine society. For that reason, when he clumsily declared his love for the enchanting Laodamia, she burst out laughing as if she had just been told a joke. That piercing laughter must have resounded in Savonarola’s soul and convinced him that he would never be allowed to enter an earthly paradise from which he would always be barred, but he realized that by renouncing the world and all its temptations he would end up by triumphing over it. Or maybe his true desire might have been to get his revenge on that very world that had excluded him?”
The chanting of the Te deum announced that Savonarola was entering the square. The multitude spontaneously grew silent as the friar climbed the steps that led to the ringhiera, the broad balcony that surrounded the principal facade of the Government Palace. Savonarola contemplated his work with satisfaction, raised the crucifix in his right hand toward the heavens, and pronounced the words that had possibly been struggling to burst out ever since the thwarted love affair of his youth: “Put fire to all the vanities and works of the Devil.”
Several children, all dressed in white, crowned with laurel leaves in their hair, advanced with torches dipped in resin to execute the friar’s command. The fire took its time before making an appearance: people who disagreed with the bonfire or jokers who were trying to be provocative had found a way of placing dead cats and dogs into the monumental pyre. However, the objects that had been placed at the base were highly inflammable and dry brush had been spread out to make the fire burn better. The pyramid started giving off grey smoke, which quickly changed to black. The heralds blew their trumpets, the Dominicans intoned a litany, and the bells started pealing from the Palazzo Vecchio tower.
“Dante,” continued Sofia, “was also rejected by Beatrice, but his reaction was completely different. Following the tradition of the troubadours from the South of France, the immortal Florentine poet did not deny his love but sublimated it and constructed a ladder that transported him up to the heavens of The Divine Comedy.”
“In other words, love which can be a fount of inspiration, for the most sublime creations could also be at the root of hate,” Lorena summed up, inwardly reflecting on Luca Albizzi’s motivations.
“Be in no doubt about that, sweet one. Unrequited love can engender the most bitter hatred.”
The flames had grown stronger; glowing red and orange colors were searing everything they touched as they advanced. “Fire, like a flaming passion, consumes what it embraces,” thought Lorena. How she would have loved an enormous downpour of rain to put out that burning pyramid! That night, however, not one single tear dropped from the sky.
109
Flavia Ginori caressed the handsome wedding chest in the solitude of her bedroom and a tear ran down her cheek, reflecting the sadness she felt. That tear, in all its transparency and silence, was the only true expression of pain she could allow herself to show. Was it inevitable that her daughters would have ended up clashing with each other? Perhaps it was. And the fault was entirely hers. The secret that lay buried in the depths of her heart was demanding a high price for its confinement.
Her mind wandered off to happier times when the music of zithers and chanted poetry seemed capable of reaching the most distant heavenly bodies. The stars, however, had remained inaccessible, shining up above while the spring flowers slowly withered down on earth.
Flavia embraced her wedding chest and cried disconsolately until her tears dried. The echo of her past deeds could still be heard now, in the present.
How could the most beautiful dreams bring on such deep sadness? Perhaps because the dream was still alive even though it had been buried? A thrill ran through Flavia and she nearly wished she could forget those thoughts: it had been so long since she had felt that passion …
How strange that tears of joy and sadness were, in essence, the same. Maybe life and death danced to the same music. Having pondered upon this, a great calm descended upon her and soothed her spirit. In some way she knew that all was well, although she failed to understand why there should be so much suffering. At the same time, Flavia knew that she had to reveal the secret to Lorena sooner rather than later.
110
As the cell door opened, Mauricio saw the stout figure of the jailer carrying a tray holding bread and a jug.
“It’s been two days since you had a bite,” the guard told him. “You should try and eat something.”
Mauricio stayed silently slumped on the ground. He had no wish to talk to someone who inspired so little confidence in him.
“If you are scared the food is poisoned, forget it! I bought the bread myself and filled the pitcher with water. But as you have no reason to trust me, I’ll share the food with you just to show you I am not lying.”
Having said this, the warden sat himself down on the ground, broke the loaf in two, offered Mauricio his half, and started to eat the other.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Mauricio.
“A family friend, whom we can never say no to, asked us to do it. Seeing as my only purpose is to safeguard your security while you are awaiting trial, I am not breaking any rules by doing this. I might get rep
rimanded if they found out that I had also brought you something else,” the guard said as he produced a chicken leg from his leather pouch. “However,” he added with a wink, “this will not happen as long as nobody finds out that we have shared such a tasty meal.”
Mauricio no longer thought his guard looked quite so grim, but instead saw him as kindly and even his portly figure seemed more comforting than menacing. He slaked his thirst and relished each delicious mouthful of the bread and chicken.
By the time the guard had left the cell, Mauricio’s hopes had risen. While he remained incarcerated, Lorena and his friends were moving heaven and earth to help him, to such an extent that the results were already starting to show even here, in prison. That jailer, however, was a mere pawn in a much bigger game. Mauricio’s acquittal depended on the members of the government of the Signoria. What evidence had they found to use against him? Were his wife and friends in a position to influence the verdict? He had not the slightest idea.
Taking the quill in his hand, he was moved to write some verses from the second canticle of Purgatory, where Dante meets some fellow spirits.
Then one I saw darting before the rest
With such fond ardor to embrace me, I
To do the like was moved. O shadows vain!
Except in outward semblance: thrice my hands
I clasp’d behind it, they as oft return’d
Empty into my breast again. Surprise
I need must think was painted in my looks,
For that the shadow smiled and backward drew.
To follow it I hasten’d.
In the same way as the poet, he was even willing to chase the shadow of a ghost if it could put an end to his own particular purgatory. And yet, the only shadow in that prison was his own.
111
Luca delighted in contemplating himself in the mirror, all dressed up in his scarlet giornea with its ermine-trimmed collar and, crowning his head, the burgundy biretta reflecting his position as a prior. It also pleased him giving orders to the palace servants, dressed in elegant green livery, who spared no effort in attending to his every wish with the greatest alacrity. The fragrance of power was indeed heady. Only nine priors made decisions regarding the more important affairs of the city, dictating rules that affected families and properties. It was for this reason that every attempt was made to keep them away from all pressure and influence by isolating them for two months in that splendid Government Palace. To a certain extent, this practice did hinder corrupt practices and bribes, but certain dubious arrangements were unavoidable. An example being that the result of the trial against Mauricio had already been decided beforehand.
Six black beans—two thirds of the votes—were sufficient to condemn him. At the time of voting, each prior secretly placed a bean into the velvet pouch. If the bean was black, it counted as a yes, if it was white, as a no. Luca and five other priors had already committed themselves to vote together on a number of matters, one of which was Mauricio’s sentence. Obviously the votes were kept secret, but if at least six beans of the same color were not among the votes that had been prearranged, those who were in league knew that there was a traitor among them. There had been no surprises until then and Luca had no reason to believe that a pact, so advantageous to them all, could be broken, especially in a case like that of Mauricio Coloma.
The only evidence against Mauricio was weak: a forged letter supposedly written to Piero de Medici, the exiled son of Il Magnifico, in which he reported the situation inside Florence and enjoined him to gather reinforcements and be at the doors of the city when the fruit was sufficiently ripe. However the irrefutable proof of his guilt, before any tribunal, would be a full confession. And Mauricio would confess to a crime he had not committed.
Perhaps even without resorting to violence. Simply by leaving pen and parchment in the solitude of his cell, after promising to respect his life in exchange for a false testimony against five friends whose dislike of Savonarola was only too well known. Naturally, this document, far from saving his life, would in fact be the signing of his own death sentence. However, Luca preferred that Mauricio’s will should not be bent that quickly.
He wanted him to suffer a long and painful agony before finally succumbing. As torture was the habitual method for extracting confessions from the culprits, the more Mauricio resisted, the greater would be his suffering. Because there was no doubt as to the final outcome: no one was capable of resisting torment when it was inflicted without mercy.
Luca could feel power surging through his veins. He was above all rules to which the weak were obliged to submit and he was free to indulge in his most shameful desires. That same morning, Lorena would experience this first hand. His proposal would be as blunt as it was dishonest: in exchange for her husband’s freedom, she would have to offer herself naked and submit to his every whim. Lorena would never forget those hours she was going to spend with him. In the end, Mauricio would be executed anyway and she would spend the rest of her life remembering the humiliations he was planning to inflict on her.
112
Lorena simply could not understand why they were allowing her to visit Mauricio when they had so stubbornly refused to grant her permission before, but here she was, only separated from her husband by a door that was going to open in just a few moments. The joy she felt at the thought of embracing Mauricio was mixed with a tremendous amount of fear and uncertainty. What state would she find him in? Would she ever get the opportunity to share life with her husband again, or on the contrary, would he be condemned to die on the scaffold like a criminal? Lucciano, the jailer, put the key in the lock and she went into the cell with her heart beating like a forge.
Mauricio was sitting on the ground. When he saw her he looked as amazed as if he had experienced a hallucination. Deeply moved, he rose immediately and ran to take her in his arms. Lorena pressed herself tightly against him, wanting to transmit through her body the immense love she felt for him.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Mauricio’s beard had begun to grow and he had great rings under his eyes. His only clothing consisted of a humble, thin woolen robe. Lorena could see no blanket or sheet in the small cell. Her husband probably got terribly cold, but he generally looked better than she had ever hoped.
“Not that bad as you can see. Nothing that a few bowls of hot soup, a good shave, and some proper clothes would not solve. The food is quite good in this inn,” he joked.
“We have to thank Sofia for that. The jailer’s wife professes a deep devotion to her.”
“And who should we thank for your presence?” He gently stroked her face. “I am so overjoyed to see you.”
“I tried to get permission to come and visit you the day after you were arrested, but they constantly refused in spite of my protests. This morning, against all expectations, they finally told me I could come. Unfortunately, we only have a few minutes. The palace chamberlain escorted me here and started an hourglass. When the last grain falls I shall have to leave you, so we cannot waste a second. Listen to me: this afternoon, Antonio Rinuccini, the most renowned lawyer in Florence, is going to receive me. I have already had a couple of meetings with him. It might be possible that he will take on your defense, but before that we must know exactly what evidence they could possibly have against you.”
“They have none. I have never conspired against the republic, other than the criticism that so many people make in private about Savonarola’s excesses of zeal. Nothing, in other words, that could possibly be construed as high treason.”
Lorena’s heart was filled with joy but anguish soon followed. Mauricio had confirmed that no incriminating evidence could be produced of any real value. However, it also implied that an extremely powerful person had hatched some sinister plan to destroy her husband.
“We shall get you out of here,” she said firmly. “With the help of Bruno and my family we have mobilized the powerful wool guild, the Arte della Lana, which will insist on transparenc
y in a trial that involves anyone who is one of theirs. You are not alone Mauricio. We are fighting for you out there.”
“I have not the slightest doubt. But as destiny is both fickle and unreliable, and should fortune decide to turn its back on us, there is something you should know: the ring is hidden in the chess-patterned marble floor of our entrance hall at home, under the tile where you would place the white king.”
Mauricio had never told her before where he had hidden the emerald, nor had she ever asked him. This revelation seemed like a will. Lorena felt her stomach turn over.
“I do not want to see you looking sad, Lorena. I too hope to come out acquitted from this farce, but should I be condemned for the crime of high treason, all my earthly goods will be confiscated. At least you will be able to sell the ring. Many collectors would pay a fortune for it. Do you know something? I feel as if I am repeating my father’s words from when he was imprisoned in the castle of Cardona. Unjustly accused of a crime, he too saved the emerald from oblivion by entrusting it to the person he most loved in this world. Do you think that perhaps fate enjoys recreating an identical situation by giving me the same bitter cup of sorrow my father was obliged to endure? Or perhaps the ring is the link to revenge against the family who usurped it from its rightful owners?”
The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring Page 37
