‘Ah! It’s you. I hoped to catch you before we met tomorrow. I should like to change the rules, the basis on which we meet and have our little talks.’
He smiled and tipped his head to one side, to signal receptivity without making any specific commitment either way. ‘As you wish. What is your proposal?’
‘I have two. First I am willing to relax the no questions rule. You have satisfied me that we think along similar lines and now we have made some progress together, I should be willing – indeed I might go so far as to say I would encourage – some questions from you.’
‘Thank you. I shall do my best not to abuse the privilege. And second?’
‘I notice you have been walking. Like you, I like to walk, and after a week here in one place I feel in need of a change of scenery. Perhaps tomorrow, instead of sitting face-to-face, we might take a walk together?’
He waited for the catch. There must be a price for this generosity – surely? But no conditions were forthcoming and after an awkward pause, he nodded his agreement. ‘It’s a good suggestion. We shall walk tomorrow, and I will try to think of some questions. Until then.’
Even as she walked away he expected her to turn and present him with a condition, but none came and he continued down the hill, wondering.
Chapter 8
Patrons of the Arts
‘This was a good suggestion.’ Savonarola paused, allowing her to catch up. They had been walking for nearly half-an-hour, in the main without speaking, but aware of each other’s company and enjoying the sun, the morning breeze and the scent of rosemary and jasmine all around them. In the many years she had been coming to the Bagno, Lucrezia had never climbed this high above the valley before. Now she was finding the fresh air and the exercise exhilarating.
‘I agree. Fresh air is always beneficial. And talking as we walk should be …’ As the word came into her head she paused, uncertain that this was, after all, the direction she wanted their conversation to take. She knew they were not intended that way, but with an earnest young monk like this one there was a risk he would find her comments heretical.
‘Should be?’
He’s a sharp one this. He seems to recognize that I am trying to escape something and the very recognition seems to make him want to pursue the matter more diligently. She decided to take the risk. ‘Less confrontational. Talking as we walk should be less confrontational.’
‘But until today, we have spoken as if we were in the confessional.’ His expression looked bewildered, but the focus in his eyes told her the bewilderment was pretence, and a ploy. ‘Do you really find the confessional confrontational?’
She paused. This is risky. With such a zealot I could be on dangerous ground. But why should I retreat? She decided to press forward and in so doing to explore the depth of his piety. ‘Oh worse than that. On occasions I find it positively inquisitional.’
She saw the word strike home, as it had been intended to.
But he remained firmly in control. He stood and looked at her carefully. ‘Really? Then tell me. Is it the persistence or the intensity of the questions that confronts you?’
She smiled, once again hearing an echo of her own training in rhetoric, now long ago and, she had thought, long forgotten. Interesting that he should have avoided the word inquisitional and returned instead to confrontation. A nice attempt at entrapment too, to presume that the source of her feeling of confrontation must either be persistence or intensity. But to her it was an old lawyer’s trick and easily avoided. She could lead him a merry dance with this if that’s what he wanted.
She tipped her head to one side, giving his question the consideration that it deserved. ‘Either, I believe, could create an uncomfortable sense of invasion, but I think it’s more a question of enclosure.’ There. Let’s see what he makes of that.
He dropped the pretence of bewilderment. Now he appeared fascinated, his face animated, his smile combative, almost flirtatious as he responded. ‘How interesting. But enclosure can, surely, bring a sense of inclusion, of sharing?’
She shook her head. ‘Not face-to-face, through a grille. That, in my mind, suggests conflict.’
‘And the converse? What is that and how is it to be nurtured?’
She smiled, knowing she had won this little psychological battle, but at the same time relieved that they had turned the corner, that he had shied away from the risk of an argument with her and instead was now trying to see her side. To her it was an important step forward, one that vindicated her earlier decision to change their relationship from face-to-face across a silent room and instead to use the excuse of walking, as it were, to stand beside him and to ensure that they faced the same way. ‘It can be nurtured by co-operation, by partnership.’
‘By facing in the same direction?’
‘Exactly so.’ Thank goodness. The exact phrase. She hoped her relief was not too obvious.
There had been more than one occasion during their recent meetings when she had felt a growing chasm between them. Brief moments but nevertheless worrying. If this young man was to act as her confessor, then it was essential that he understood her and the nature of the world she had lived her life within. If he was to stand in judgement over her, the simplistic mind of a radical needed to be tempered by a clear perception of Florentine reality. Now, at last, it seemed, he was willing to listen.
They reached a level area on the path where a break in the undergrowth offered a long view across the valley. A view, it seemed, appreciated by someone before them who had conveniently built a bench to sit on. They took the opportunity to sit – as they said, facing in the same direction, in partnership.
Lucrezia pushed her wind-blown hair back from her face. ‘Do you like the countryside?’ She waved her hand, indicating the scene before them.
He looked, sniffed the clean air, closed his eyes, and then inhaled again, this time more deeply. A smile broke across his face and for the first time, beneath the unattractive exterior, she saw the face of an intense, intelligent and sensitive young man. He nodded, eyes still closed. ‘As an alternative to cities, yes, always. John the Baptist went out into the wilderness and I think I understand why.’
She looked at him and frowned. Is he retreating again? But she said nothing. Perhaps she was being over-sensitive. Give it time. Don’t crowd him.
He shook his head, answering her unasked question. ‘To get away from people. To be clean.’
She frowned again, surprised and not a little confused. ‘You find cities dirty?’
He nodded, then quickly opened his eyes, his face suddenly with an expression of great distaste. ‘I have seen the city. It is full of vile bodies and filth, and corruption.’
His words were so aggressive she crossed herself. ‘Oh dear. What makes you say that? You speak of Florence in this manner?’
‘Specifically of Ferrara. Of the Este Court. My grandfather, Michele, was the court physician there. He told me of things. Disgraceful things. Disgusting things. The place is a whorehouse. A den of iniquity. A sordid pit of filth. A mire of moral degradation.’ He turned to face her and, being so close, leaned back to allow his eyes to focus on her face. ‘But I have no reason to believe that Florence is any better. Bologna wasn’t.’
She looked at the anguish in his face and wished she could help him overcome it. An intelligent young man should not be smothered by such negative thoughts. ‘Do you think it possible that your grandfather exaggerated the situation?’
His face creased with anger. ‘Exaggerated? No. He died when I was fifteen. But to the day he died, he always told me the truth. And I can assure you he did not exaggerate it. I have seen it for myself. It was worse than he ever described. Much worse.’
ESTE COURT
Late January, 1460
‘Is that the pope?’
The eight-year-old holds his grandfather’s hand and stares as the pope alights from his barge on the River Po and glides towards Duke Borso. Behind him, maintaining a respectful distance, are a hand
ful of cardinals and a dozen bishops followed by an assortment of hangers-on and servants.
The party looks like an exhausted expedition, returning from a long and arduous journey, dishevelled, tired and downhearted. But as Pope Pius II approaches the duke, he manages to smile regally and offers the papal hand without trembling.
Two rows back in the small crowd, Michele Savonarola smiles down at his grandson Girolamo. ‘Indeed it is.’
‘How did he become pope? Did God appoint him?’ The boy never stops thinking; never stops questioning.
‘He would say so. But the truth is that when Pope Calixtus III died the cardinals were disagreed about his successor. The front runner, and by far the favourite, was Guillaume d’Estouteville, a wealthy cardinal from Rouen in France. But some of the cardinals hated him and so they sought an alternative. And the cardinal they disliked least was Enea Silvio Piccolomini.’
‘Why did they choose him?’
Michele shrugs and sticks out his lower lip. ‘He was, at least, Italian. From Siena. So apart from the Florentines, most people could tolerate him. He has some good points. A good orator, especially in Latin, and a much-travelled and experienced diplomat. But although he took the name Pius, he has little reputation for piety. He was, really, the least-worst choice in many of the cardinals’ eyes.’
The boy frowns and his grandfather ruffles his hair. ‘That’s often how it happens and why the decision frequently takes so long.’
Girolamo nods and continues watching. ‘He looks thinner.’ The boy is always direct in his comments, but he is right. The pope has lost weight.
‘He’s had a difficult year.’
The pope’s eight-month-long negotiations at the Council of Mantua, upriver from Ferrara, have drained him to the core. And by the end, he has still made no progress in convincing the Italian states that they should unite against their common enemy. Constantinople, it seems, will remain in Turkish hands.
‘Why did they all go to Mantua?’
‘The pope invited them to meet together. To make an agreement to fight the Turks, in a new crusade.’
‘And did they agree?’
‘No.’
‘Then why is Duke Borso making such a fuss?’
‘It’s expected.’
Girolamo sniffs. ‘There are less people with him than there were last year.’
‘You’re right. Last year there were ten cardinals and sixty bishops. And there were lots of princes as well as servants and dignitaries. Most of them seem to have gone now.’
‘Why were so many there in the first place?’
‘It’s all show. To show that the pope is important. To maintain awe at his elevated position.’
‘But why does Borso respond in the same way? Why is he too dressed in cloth of gold? Why are there rose petals spread about everywhere?’ He shakes his head. ‘The poor are starving and yet there is so much waste. It’s disgraceful. Why does the duke allow it?’
‘For the same reason. The Marquisate of Ferrara has never been of particular economic importance. And so, progressively, the marquises and now the duke have made themselves important by becoming power-brokers, negotiating settlements between the more important states. That way they sit at the same table and enhance their position. And, in passing, their wealth. But to continue to be seen as players in the great game, they have to show that they’re important. And they do that by magnificentia – by show of wealth.’ He winks at the boy and leans down to whisper to him. ‘Even if they’ve had to borrow the money to buy all this finery.’
‘So are they not really wealthy? Not truly important?’
Michele signals the boy to speak more quietly. Then he bends down and whispers again. ‘Most of them are frauds. Not really of noble blood at all. Won their titles in battle, or stole them, or bought them.’ He leans close to his grandson and puts his mouth to his ear. ‘Last year, when the pope was greeted by ten great nobles all ten of them were illegitimate, including Duke Borso.’
‘Borso’s illegitimate?’ Now even Girolamo is whispering.
‘Yes. And he’s not really a duke either.’
‘No?’
‘No. Not really. Eight years ago, the Emperor Frederick III made Borso a duke, but the title has to be renewed every year, and it’s conditional.’
‘Upon what?’
‘Upon paying four thousand florins.’
‘Can the emperor do that?’
‘He can and he does. They all do. Last year the pope signed eighty appointments in one day: dukes, bishops, doctors, all sorts. And they were all paid for. That’s how it works.’
‘But that makes a joke of the whole thing.’ Girolamo is looking up at his grandfather now. Michele shrugs. ‘And why all the boys in white? And why are the river banks adorned with pagan statues? For a pope? It’s blasphemous. Surely?’
‘The statues represent pagan divinities.’
‘Why?’
‘To show they all pay homage to the pope.’
‘But they aren’t, are they? And they haven’t?’
‘No. But the duke pretends they have. It flatters the pope.’
Girolamo takes his hand from his grandfather’s and puts both hands to his face. He rubs his face hard, as if to shake off a bad dream. Then looks at his grandfather again. ‘So an illegitimate, rented duke pays dishonest third party homage to a pope nobody really wanted, and the pope pretends to be flattered and pleased. And they both do this, although neither believes in it, in order to impress the masses, who have paid for the whole spectacle with their taxes?’ He frowns. ‘Doesn’t that mean the whole spectacle and the structure of supposed superiority it represents, are both deeply flawed?’
Michele Savonarola smiles and nods to his grandson. ‘Yes. Exactly.’
Lucrezia frowned. During these moments when he fell completely silent, the boy’s expression suggested real and terrible pain. She had painful memories of her own, more than enough of them, but to see such utter anguish.
‘And your father? Did he, too, direct you away from the Este Court, as your grandfather had done?’
Savonarola shook his head, as if her question was ludicrous. ‘You have no conception of what it was like there. Do you? It was impossible. Borso was succeeded by Duke Ercole. After that, the court of Duke Ercole dominated everything and everyone. Even more than Borso’s had done before him. There was no question of fighting it. Not if you wanted to remain in Ferrara and make a living.
‘Besides, my father was a nothing. A failure! There would never have been a question of his pushing me towards some other future. He didn’t have the knowledge or the imagination. He just wanted me to take up a position in the court. It was the only way, he said. “They will welcome you there,” he said.’
Savonarola shook his head in disgrace and resignation. ‘Welcome me! What a joke.
SAVONAROLA FAMILY HOUSE, FERRARA
June 1471
‘Girolamo! What is wrong? For two weeks now you have been neglecting your books. It’s not like you. Are you ill?’
He smiles to himself. Close as he is to his mother, this is one agony he cannot share with her. It’s exactly two weeks since Roberto Strozzi and his family arrived in exile from Florence and moved into the big house next door. Exactly two weeks since the perfect Laodamia first appeared in their garden seeking to make new friends in a strange city.
Since that day he has done nothing but think of her. Every day he has contrived to meet her, to talk, even to walk home from church together. Today he will tell her. Today, knowing with confidence that he will have his parents’ approval, simply on the basis of what he has heard them say about the illustrious Strozzi family next door, he will approach her and ask her, subject of course to the usual formal processes between fathers, to marry him.
Feeling sick with anxiety, he leaves the house, walks next door and knocks. He asks for her and, being recognized, is welcomed into the house. Now he waits, as she is called.
She enters the room, an enquiring look on
her face. Has she guessed the purpose of his visit?
‘Signorina Strozzi.’ He bows, formally, as she surely expects.
She stifles a giggle. ‘Please Girolamo, call me Laodamia. We are neighbours and friends, are we not?’
Encouraged, he bows again. ‘Laodamia, since your arrival in Ferrara, we have spoken daily. And during that time, we have, I believe, developed a friendship.’
She tips her head to one side and smiles, says nothing, but the pink in her cheeks is encouraging.
‘My family, as you know, is well-established in this city and, I would like to think, highly regarded. My education has been amongst the best and I have studied diligently. As a result, my prospects at court are, I am confident, excellent.’ He sees a slight hesitation in her face but puts it down to shyness. ‘You must know that during these weeks, I have come to hold you in the highest possible regard.’ She reddens, but he continues. No time for hesitation now. The words start to pour out in a torrent. ‘That being the case, I am here to ask you, and subject of course to the usual formalities, if you would do me the inestimable honour, of agreeing to be my wife.’
She puts a hand to her face. ‘I? To be your wife? You must surely be jesting with me?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not at all. It’s just that …’
‘I, a Strozzi, from the noblest family in the whole of Florence, should marry a Lombard? Someone from Ferrara? Indeed not a someone from Ferrara, but a nobody from Ferrara. Worse than that even, should marry a Savonarola from Ferrara? And as I can see clearly with my own eyes, a stuttering, impoverished, futureless, ugly, foul-breathed Savonarola at that? I think, sir, your joke is in bad taste. You must be out of your head, even to consider such a suggestion.’
‘But I thought…’
‘You thought wrong, sir!’
She opens the door and calls out. ‘Maria! The visitor is leaving. Kindly show him out.’
To Lucrezia’s amazement, and considerable discomfort, he put his hand to his mouth and bit the knuckle until it bled. ‘She rejected me, didn’t she? Laughed in my face.’
Seeds of Decline Page 8
