“Exactly. Chapter eleven talks about the coming of a great tribulation, and mentions two witnesses—Enoch and Elias, according to St. John—who would prophesy a thousand two hundred and sixty days in the Holy City spouting thunder and fire from their mouths. Both would then be killed, and would ascend to heaven on a cloud.
“Savonarola believed that this text referred to himself and his fellow friar, Fra Domenico da Pescia, and in a curious coincidence, the two men had been prophesying for about three and a half years—approximately 1,260 days—before they were condemned to death, hanged, and burned. And in the same way, they were ‘killed’ and ‘rose to heaven on a cloud’ of smoke.”
“Not to mention breathing fire,” I added, wryly.
“Botticelli used the Apocalypse as a code through which he could talk about his teacher. Chapter twelve goes on to describe another period of three and a half years, after which an angel will descend to earth to vanquish Satan and install a thousand-year reign on earth in which true believers and martyrs will reign over the world with Jesus at their head. At the time that Botticelli painted this, he fervently believed that he was living in the period just before Christ’s new nativity.”
“He really believed that Christ would come back?” I asked, amazed.
“It’s not such a strange idea, you know. Many people in Florence were convinced it would happen around the year 1500, and although Savonarola tried to downplay this date in some of his sermons, that only made it spread more rapidly by word of mouth.
“And you know the strangest thing about this? Savonarola expected this moment of renewal to occur in about 1517 at the latest.7 For his followers, all the waiting and the constant changing of prophesied dates eventually became unbearable. The monk also had to contend with twenty of his former disciples for whom a similar wait was proving too much, and who broke off to found their own small convent, naming a certain Pietro Bernardino as the new Angelic Pope.”8
“Again the mention of an Angelic Pope!” I interjected.
“Yes, this idea of a reforming pope who would appear almost like an angel was never far from people’s minds during this time. In fact, once Savonarola and Botticelli were both dead, guess who was one of the idea’s last defenders?”
I smiled at him. “Go ahead, Doctor—surprise me.”
Fovel raised his great silvery eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as if he were about to deliver the coup de grâce to our entire conversation. “You remember the name of the family that commissioned these three panels from Botticelli?”
“You mean the Pucci?”
“Very good. Well, Francesco Pucci, who was the great-grandson of that wedding couple—Nastagio and his betrothed—wrote a treatise titled De Regno Christi in which he predicted that before the sixteenth century was over, the Roman Curia would be abolished as a consequence of its record of sins, and that the world would see both uno nuovo ordine and uno supremo pastore.”
“The circle is complete!” I exclaimed. “Well, what happened to this young Pucci?”
“He had a very eventful life. He traveled throughout Europe. In Krakow, he met the famous English wizard and astrologer John Dee, from whom, it is said, he learned to communicate with the angels. He and Dee journeyed together as far as Prague in order to pay their respects to Rudolf II, king of Bohemia and Holy Roman emperor—the ‘Alchemist Emperor.’9 With a life like that, it’s hardly a surprise that Pucci ended up thrown into prison. Or that he met Giordano Bruno while there. Sadly, he never saw freedom again. He, too, was condemned as a heretic and burned in 1597, in the same public square in Florence where Bruno would also be burned to death three years later.”
“Wow—what a time!” I was overwhelmed.
“And what characters, too.”
We were both quiet for a few moments. Our eyes traveled back to the rich triptych of Nastagio degli Onesti, as if in that forest by the sea we might find some of the peace that was lost to Botticelli after he altered his faith. I suddenly realized that the lesson was over, and, before the Master could disappear without making plans to meet again, I tried to pin him down.
“So, Doctor, when can we meet again?”
Fovel turned his head from the panels and looked at me as if I wasn’t there.
“Meet?” he mumbled, lost.
“Yes. Should I come back this week, or is it better for you—”
He interrupted sharply. “Have you ever had to make an appointment before to see me? Let your need guide you, Javier. Let your thirst for truth bring you the next time. Do you remember what I told you about art being the doorway to other worlds?”
I nodded, puzzled.
“Learn to open those doors for yourself and you’ll have no trouble finding me. Now that’s enough!”
I wasn’t paying attention to this last piece of wisdom; I had something else I wanted to ask him.
“Can I bring someone?”
But he gave no response. As usual, without a word, he turned and left, disappearing among the museum’s visitors.
I. Literal text extract from Boccaccio’s Decameron, fifth day, eighth narration.
II. In Italian, the Dominicans were called Domine Cane, “hounds of God.”