Rome, June 1497
Though Father’s grief over Juan’s murder had not abated—and likely never would—there was no lack of pressing matters that needed attending to. Lucrezia’s divorce, for one—she had shut herself away in the convent of San Sisto in mourning for Juan, and Father and I had agreed she might be left alone for the time being. What better place, after all, to help establish her as the most virtuous of women as we negotiated an end to her marriage?
But that was not all. Girolamo Savonarola, the doomsday Dominican of Florence, had been a thorn in Father’s side nearly since he’d been elected pope. Father had excommunicated the little friar some months ago, for speaking against the Church and ignoring repeated summons to Rome to explain and defend his prophetic doctrine. Among one of the many prophecies attributed to him, besides the invasion of King Charles of France, whom he’d called “the scourge of God” sent to punish and reform Italy and the Church, was his prediction of the deaths of Lorenzo de’ Medici, King Ferrante of Naples, and Father’s predecessor Pope Innocent VIII. All had indeed died in not too short a span.
“Ridiculous,” Father had scoffed years before, early in his papacy, when word of this so-called prophecy had reached him. “It needed no divine vision to predict the deaths of those three. Ferrante and Innocent were old men, and Lorenzo was known to be in exceedingly poor health. Prophecy, indeed.”
I had refrained from pointing out Father had been older when he was made pope than Innocent had been when he’d died. Nevertheless, his point was well taken; Innocent had been rather sickly and unwell toward the end, so any such “prophecy” had a decent chance of success, divinely inspired or not.
Yet things with the friar had taken an interesting turn of late. Though he had, as far as anyone in the Holy See knew, obeyed the excommunication and ceased preaching his sermons, he was still a source of mighty power and influence in Florence. He had followers at all levels of society, from the most impoverished to those within the circle of intellectuals and artists who had once congregated around the brilliant Lorenzo de’ Medici. Lorenzo’s eldest son, the ousted, dim-witted Piero, had been hanging about Rome, trying to gather support for an invasion to retake his home city and re-install himself as ruler—when he wasn’t drinking himself into a stupor or carousing with whores. Father had taken to implying such support, depending upon what his policies toward and needs of Florence were at any given moment, but thus far the time had not been right for us to back an actual uprising.
Following the expulsion of the Medici, Savonarola had turned Florence into something of a theocracy. Word had reached us in February of a so-called “Bonfire of the Vanities” the friar had held, in which Florentines were encouraged—or extorted, by some accounts—into bringing out their luxury items such as fine clothing, jewelry, artwork (especially that of a sensual nature), cards and dice, lavish furniture, secular books, and so forth, to cast into a massive bonfire in the city’s main piazza. It was said to have been a spectacle, with a large amount of “vanities” burned. Whether Savonarola’s hold on the population was entirely voluntary on the part of all Florentines was almost beside the point, for it was a strong hold either way.
However, he had broken his silence toward the Vatican and written the Holy Father an admittedly lovely letter of condolence upon the death of the Duke of Gandia. Rodrigo Borgia, man and father, was moved by the gesture. Pope Alexander VI, head of Christ’s Church on earth and consummate politician, was suspicious.
“What can he mean by this, truly?” Father said, having shown me the letter on the day it arrived. “He has spent hours’ worth of sermons preaching against me, against my mistresses and children, and he would console me on the death of my son? What does he hope to gain?”
Not for a second did either of us consider Savonarola was in earnest, that he was a true man of God capable of extending Christian sympathy even to those with whom he vehemently disagreed. No doubt this was how he presented himself to his legions of followers, but the stakes of the game he was playing were too high for that. There was power—a great deal of power—in play, and his every move had at least one layer of meaning beyond the obvious.
“Being in accord with you can only be to his benefit,” I said bluntly. “No doubt he means to start preaching again and reject the excommunication. He cannot maintain his power over the people of Florence otherwise.”
Father snorted. “If he hopes to accomplish all that with one simple letter, he is even more deluded than I thought.”
“Or this is just his opening salvo,” I replied. “With him, it is damnably difficult to say which.”
“It is at that. Damn it, but we need better eyes in Florence. We need better information about what he may be planning.” He looked at me speculatively. “I would send you, if I could spare you, but I need you to assist with arranging Lucrezia’s divorce and remarriage. And you would attract far too much attention once it was known that you were there, of a kind not conducive to gathering information.”
“I had already thought of going myself, albeit in disguise,” I said. “But you are right; that won’t do.”
“What of your man, Michelotto?”
I laughed humorlessly. “I need him here no less than you need me in Rome.”
“One of his men, then. I know he has a vast network of spies. Surely he—and you—can spare one.”
“Perhaps. With Florence in the state it’s in, I worry that there would be too much suspicion of a foreign man. Michelotto is trying to find a Florentine to recruit, but has had no luck so far.” In truth, I had been putting my mind to this puzzle for some time and had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. What type of person could appear in Florence, pose as a member of Savonarola’s faithful flock—the Piagnoni, or “wailers,” as they were called—and then disappear just as easily, all without attracting too much notice?
And then it came to me.