The week following Fra Savonarola’s return to the pulpit saw a hectic energy descend upon the city of Florence. I went to the market every morning and took to visiting local shops in different corners of the city—apothecaries, cloth merchants, butchers, any place I could find an excuse to visit—and spoke to shopkeepers and customers alike. I cultivated a few acquaintances that would always stop to speak to me in the street. One woman, Anna Landucci, wife of an apothecary, invited me to her home for lunch one day, and I gladly accepted.
“What thought you of the friar’s sermon on Sunday?” she asked over the meal, leaning forward as she spoke. There was the fire of a zealot in her eyes. She and her husband were followers of the friar, but I was only beginning to see the true depth of her devotion. “I know you did not have the opportunity to hear him before this.”
I took a bite of my vegetable soup as I considered how best to answer. “I found it … very moving,” I said honestly. “Very inspiring. I can well see how so many regard him with the highest of esteem.”
“Indeed we do,” she said, clearly satisfied with my answer. “We are blessed, truly blessed, that he came to Florence to establish the city of God here.”
My ears pricked up at this. “City of God?” I asked.
Her eyes shone. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He seeks for the lives of all Florence’s citizens to be reformed, so we might live more in line with simple Christian values, as Christ himself taught. None of this pagan learning so popular here in recent years. He has even been advising the Signoria and Gonfaloniere on their laws, so we might become a more Godly city. And, of course, he seeks to discourage us from such luxury and sinful decadence as the pope and cardinals require.” She made a face of derision. “And once Florence is a true and Godly city again, Fra Savonarola shall reform the Church.” She leaned closer once more. “Did you know that Pope Alexander keeps a mistress?” she asked, in a near whisper. “And he is not the first! He not only has illegitimate children, but allows them to live with him in the Vatican! Can you imagine?”
My face grew hot and I hoped it wasn’t visible to Anna. Technically only Cesare lived in the Vatican, but I wasn’t about to betray such knowledge. “I … I had heard rumors of such,” I said. “But I did not know how true they were. I got so little news, you see.”
Anna nodded sagely. “Ah, yes.” She crossed herself quickly. “I must pray for the soul of the wicked pope, for Scripture teaches us that we must love our enemies. Yet I cannot help but hope he gets his just rewards when his time comes. But that is not for me to say; God will deal with him in his own time.”
“Yes,” I managed to say. “No doubt.”
As we continued our meal and our talk turned to other things, I was already composing the letter to Cesare in my mind.
Much of what Anna had told me was further verified by others. That the Signoria was consulting with Fra Savonarola on matters of government was proven to be true. Rodolfo had made friends with a young man whose father was a member of the Signoria, and he confirmed as much. This got out to Cesare as soon as I could write it, along with everything else.
If all this was not plain enough, I soon experienced the little friar’s influence first hand.
One day as I walked home from the market, I was accosted by a group of four boys, the oldest of whom was perhaps fourteen, while the youngest could not have been more than nine. All were dressed in robes of pure white.
I had heard of these bands of boys; they were referred to as Savonarola’s “angels” and roamed the streets of Florence, chanting prayers and singing hymns, often knocking on doors and asking those within to give up their worldly vanities, that they might be sold so the money could be donated to the poor.
Until then, I had only seen them at a harmless distance on occasion. They arrayed themselves in my path, and I stopped, smiling pleasantly. “Buon giorno,” I said in greeting.
“Buon giorno, madam,” the oldest boy, clearly the leader, responded. “What are you doing out on the streets alone?”
Puzzled—for it was morning, not some dangerous hour of night—I responded, “I have just been to market for my household.” I held up my basket as proof.
“Women should not be out on the streets without a male escort,” the boy replied, frowning with displeasure.
I began to feel uncomfortable. “I am a widow,” I said by way of explanation. “And I have no servants to do the marketing for me. I must do it myself.”
The boy’s gaze fixed on the gold cross I wore at my neck. Cesare had given it to me; it was the sort of adornment a woman of my assumed station might wear. In truth, I had grown very attached to it and planned on keeping it when this was all over—my first and only gift from my lover.
“If that is all,” I said stiffly, and made to move past them. But one of the other boys stepped into my path, blocking me.
“That is a fine necklace you wear, madam,” the leader said. “Gold, is it?”
“Yes,” I said shortly.
“Surely you know the holy Fra Savonarola has spoken out against such vain adornments.”
“It is a cross,” I protested. “To show my devotion to our Lord and His Son, Jesus Christ.”
“The Lord Jesus cares only for your soul, not how you adorn yourself,” one of the other boys interjected. He held out a hand. “Give it to us, and free yourself from sin.”
My hand reached up and clasped the cross in my palm. “It was a gift,” I said. “I am loathe to part with it.”
“When you part with such vanities, you part with sin,” the leader said. “But you may yet turn that sin into virtue. Give it to us, and we shall sell it and see that the proceeds go to feed the poor.”
The boys closed ranks around me, so I could not flee. The oldest boy was taller than me, and the next oldest not much shorter. I swallowed hard.
I reluctantly reached up and unclasped the gold cross and set it in the boy’s outstretched hand. Just like that, they melted from my path and continued up the street. I walked the rest of the way home on shaky legs.