FEBRUARY 1ST, 1497
“Lorenzo had a giraffe,” Brother Silvestro says.
“Well we don’t, and we really can’t compete with one,” Girolamo says, wearily. They are gathered in Chapter, all the senior brothers of San Marco, in the Chapterhouse. It smells of wax polish and wax candles. The wall furthest from the door is taken up with Brother Angelico’s huge semicircular fresco of the crucifixion, with the good and bad thief, to remind them to make good decisions. Surrounding the cross, in addition to the people historically present, are many saints, including all the monastic founders. Underneath, linked to one another by a winding serpentine tree, whose ends are held by Saint Dominic, are Dominican saints and aspiring saints. Brother Angelico did the haloes of those who were not officially saints as a set of lines, and someone else has filled in the ones who have completed the process of canonization since, to give them solid haloes. Around the curving edge of the wall that makes a frame to the picture are painted prophets, each holding the tags of his prophecy. One is a woman, the Erithrean Sibyl, and another a philosopher who predicted God through nature. The Count used to say there were many who did that. At the top is a Pelican in her Piety. Girolamo has spent a lot of time looking at every aspect of this fresco since he came to San Marco.
The room has built-in wooden benches around all the walls, where the senior brothers sit to debate. The wood creaks under their feet as they shift about. The younger ones stand in the middle of the room. The benches are crowded now, since the number of monks has doubled. They meet in Chapter daily in the early evening, to hear a chapter read from the Rule, and afterwards for discussion. Today, they are talking about Carnival.
“I didn’t mean we should get a giraffe,” Silvestro said. “It was just an example.”
“What is a giraffe?” asks Brother Ambrogio, a young brother from Milan.
Everyone falls over themselves to tell him. “It’s a very tall animal from Africa, with a huuuuuge neck,” Domenico says, holding his hands apart to demonstrate.
“Yellow, with brown spots, and a bit like a horse,” says Brother Pacifico.
“It was very friendly. It would wander around on its own, surprising people by eating herbs from their upper windows,” Brother Tomasso says, laughing to himself. “I remember when it arrived, how surprised we all were! Some people were afraid at first, but we soon came to love it.”
“What happened to it?” Girolamo asks. “It was dead before I came to Florence.”
“Died of the cold one winter, maybe ten years ago now,” Tomasso says.
“Broke its neck in a stable, I heard,” Domenico says at the same time. No one is sure.
“You can see it in lots of paintings, though,” Silvestro goes on. “It’s in Ghirlandaio’s Adoration of the Magi in the Tornabuoni chapel of Santa Maria Novella. And in lots of others. In Noah’s Arks and things. All the artists wanted to sketch it and paint it because it was so funny looking and interesting.”
“Where did Lorenzo get it?” Ambrogio asks.
“Present from the Sultan of Egypt,” Tomasso says. It’s very characteristic of Tomasso that he remembers this kind of thing.
“So we couldn’t get one,” Ambrogio says, sadly.
“They say Cardinal Sforza has a parrot that can recite the creed,” Domenico says. Girolamo frowns at him, and Domenico shrinks down in his seat. “We couldn’t get that either, I don’t suppose.”
“No. But we need to do something, and not the same things as always,” Girolamo says, crisply, taking control of the meeting. “Carnival is getting out of hand. Last year there was stone throwing and dung throwing and boys and young men extorting money from passersby. Too many people think it gives them license to do whatever they want. And last year the Angels got into fights, and some of them were badly hurt.”
“Lorenzo—” Domenico begins, and then when people groan, “No, I wasn’t going to say anything about the giraffe! Lorenzo always wrote plays and songs and sponsored floats and had a fun procession, with free wine and dancing.”
“Which is the spirit of Carnival, coming before the renunciation of Lent,” Silvestro says. “But there was plenty of violence and extortion of money in Lorenzo’s day too.”
“And we don’t want to encourage vanity and worldly pleasure,” Girolamo says.
“In Milan I’ve seen people grease a boar and then have blindfolded men try to catch it. That’s always funny,” Ambrogio says.
Girolamo sighs. “I suppose it might come to that. Anything else?”
“How about a play though?” Brother Pacifico suggests. “A comedy with a good moral, but lots of bad people behaving badly and finding their just reward at the end. We could have the devil show up and shoo them all into Hell.”
There is a positive murmur. Girolamo shakes his head. “Watching plays can be bad for the soul,” he says. “Even if the wicked are punished, it holds them up as models that can corrupt youngsters.” He nods at the philosopher on the fresco, because he knows this from Plato rather than Scripture. It is an example of how useful a knowledge of Plato can be. The brothers sigh, but do not dispute.
“It’s always fun to see lions fight dogs,” Domenico ventures.
“But the dogs always win,” Silvestro says. “And since the lions are supposed to represent Florence that’s bad.”
“If we’re going to have animals, how about that thing they did at Carnival maybe ten years ago, where they put a mare in with stallions?” Pacifico suggests.
“Absolutely not,” Girolamo says firmly. “It’s God’s will for them to do it and produce more horses, but nothing but lasciviousness for us to watch and make it a spectacle. Besides, these things lead to betting. And horses are expensive, and some of them always get hurt fighting each other, so we’d have to ask the rich men to bring them, and then the betting becomes worse than gambling, which is bad enough, it becomes factional. Can’t we think of any Carnival entertainment where neither people nor animals are injured?”
They fall into silence for a moment.
“You know, years ago there was a Franciscan who held a Bonfire of Vanities,” Tomasso says, his thin old voice quavering. “Brother Bernardino, of Siena.”
“Wasn’t he the one who went around saying we all ought to use the coat of arms of Christ instead of our own coats of arms, because it would bring about eternal peace?” Silvestro asks.
“Yes, that’s right,” Tomasso says. “He’d make copies of it and give them to people. We have one here somewhere, and the Franciscans have one up on the front of Santa Croce. But this was before that, must be fifty or sixty years ago, back when I was a novice.”
“What was?” Girolamo asks, as patiently as he can. He prays to Saint Dominic to be forgiven for the sins of pride and impatience and wrath.
“The Bonfire of the Vanities. He was invited to give the Lenten sermons in the cathedral that year, and he was here for it ahead of time, and he gave a Carnival sermon asking everyone to give up their vanities, their wigs and jewels and fancy clothes and profane pictures and all of that. And people did, and he built them up into a structure and set them on fire, and everyone danced around it.”
“In the Piazza in front of the Senatorial Palace?” Girolamo asks, picturing it. “I think that might work. We could get the Angels working on collecting the donations. They’d enjoy that. And it would be more fun than fighting, and more dignified than a greased boar.”
“And we could get Battista to knock together a flimsy wooden structure to display them on, and fill the middle of it with kindling, so it would all go up well,” Domenico says. “You know we said we’d try to find carpentry work for Battista, even though he isn’t very good.”
Girolamo nods. “That’s an excellent idea.” Battista’s brother died of the plague the summer before, so now he has two families to support as well as his elderly parents. All of them were fervent Wailers, and work would be better for him than constantly relying on charity.
“Maybe we could put some gunpowder in there too, so it would really go up with a bang, like fireworks,” Ambrogio says.
Girolamo nods again. “Good, yes. People always enjoy that, and it’s harmless fun.”
“Another thing Bernardino did was have everyone spit every time he said the word sodomy,” Tomasso says, grinning. “That was fun. The tile floor in Santa Croce would be sodden at the end of a sermon. Maybe we should start that up again, eh?”
“Maybe.” He worries that they are not strict enough against sodomy. A rich man was recently condemned for raping a six-year-old boy from a poor family. It was his third conviction, but because of his social status the magistrates wouldn’t vote for death, just exile and a fine.
“Oh, one other piece of news,” Domenico says. “Remember Brother Benedetto? He’s been made bishop of Vasona.”
“Where’s Vasona?” Girolamo asks. He remembers Benedetto only too well, scurrying off to Bologna looking for a promotion, to be out of Florence before the French arrived.
“Somewhere in the Fourth Circle, isn’t it?” Silvestro says.
Everyone laughs. The Fourth Circle of Hell, in Dante, is where the avaricious are sent.
“Well, if that’s everything, shall we go?” he suggests.
“I’ll start exhorting people about the Bonfire of the Vanities in my sermon tomorrow,” Domenico says. Girolamo is still refraining from preaching, under Pope Alexander’s ban, and Domenico is taking his place, and doing surprisingly well. The Senate have sent a petition to the Pope asking for Girolamo to be allowed to preach. He was touched at how many people signed it, even some he thought were supporters of the Ballsy, like young Lorenzo Tornabuoni.
“And if we have a proper structure, then we can get the donations up early, so people can see them before they burn,” Girolamo says. “It might encourage more people to give things. And it ought to look quite pretty.”
He laughs later when he remembers saying this, as the structure for the bonfire becomes more and more elaborate and the Angels get more and more excited about decorating it. Battista outdoes himself, building a great circular pyramid with display niches. The Angels also outdo themselves in the collecting, so that there are great swathes of cloth, wigs and hairpieces, combs, mirrors, and strings of beads, as well as other trumpery jewelry. There are also some musical instruments, a few small lascivious wooden statues, and some books and dirty paintings. He looks over the books anxiously. They are mostly entirely pornographic, in which category he includes the printed copy of Ovid’s Art of Love. He hesitates over Boccaccio’s Decameron, and a volume of Angelo’s sonnets. He leaves them there, but not without a pang. There are plenty of other copies out there, and someone chose to make the sacrifice. He has no hesitation over the works of astrology and demon summoning that he finds. Much better that they burn than do harm to souls. But he asks the Angels to bring any donated books to him before arranging them on the pyre.
Lorenzo di Credi, a painter and sculptor who is a fervent Wailer, has made a wooden Satan, surrounded by figures of devils, which has been put on top of the whole thing, where it leers down dramatically.
“Don’t you mind that being burned?” Girolamo asks him. “We can take it off again before we start the fire.”
“No, no. Anything made for Carnival floats was always temporary, and burning will at least give it a good funeral,” Credi says. “It’s a good advertisement for my work. I’m getting plenty of commissions doing what you said in your sermon, Brother Girolamo, more shepherds and fewer kings!”
Botticelli too has brought some paintings for the pyre. They are small panels of naked women, and very popular with the crowds. He tells Girolamo that he is hard at work now on a crucifixion. Three years ago when the Medici were expelled, Botticelli’s painting of the Pazzi Conspirators was whitewashed over on the walls of the People’s Palace, and he came storming to the Senatorial Palace demanding compensation. Since then he has grown closer to God, and Girolamo counts him as one of the souls he has saved.
The Angels have arranged everything on the structure, so that nothing of the underlying wood can be seen any longer. It looks as flamboyant as any show at a fair, and much better than the Carnival floats he remembers. There are dozens of boxes of cosmetics, jars of perfume, dolls, playing cards, chessboards and other gaming pieces, all surrounded by bright cloth and tresses of artificial hair. He keeps thinking it must be finished, and then the Angels bring more. They are draping it with sparkling chains made of linked earrings when a man interrupts him as he stands watching. He is wearing a doublet and hose, and there is something definitely foreign about him.
“Excuse me,” the man says, in Latin. “They tell me you are in charge of this.”
He nods. “I suppose I am.”
“My name is Antonio. I am a merchant of Venice. How much would you take for it?”
He doesn’t understand for a moment.
“For this structure,” Antonio clarifies. “I understand that you mean to burn it.”
“It’s not for sale. We collected these vanities from men and women who want to be more holy.”
“I understand,” Antonio says. “I wasn’t proposing to give the things back to them, or sell them to them either. I would pay you a good sum, and take them all back home to Venice and sell them there. You could spend the money on feeding the poor and good works.”
He is tempted for a moment, but then he hears the piping voices of his Angels raised with excitement and shakes his head. “Everyone would be very disappointed. They are looking forward to seeing them burn tomorrow.”
“But it’s such a waste!” Antonio says. “The books, the paintings, all this cloth!”
“It’s a sacrifice to God,” he says.
“Five thousand florins,” Antonio says.
“No.”
“I thought Dominicans cared for learning. How do you know there aren’t valuable unique books being destroyed there?”
“Because we do care for learning and I have checked them all,” he says, angry now.
“Ten thousand florins.”
“No. It’s not for sale.”
“What do you care if we look at paintings and statues of naked women far away in Venice?”
“You are all God’s children,” he says.
The merchant sighs. “I’m robbing my own children, but twenty thousand.”
Brother Girolamo hesitates. Twenty thousand florins is enough to make a real difference. A poor working family can live on fifty florins a year. Twenty thousand florins for the Bank of Faith would dower a lot of girls, start a lot of businesses, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, help fulfil God’s direct mission in the world. But this is Carnival, and people have given the goods to see them burn. If he sells their bonfire to this merchant, stones, dung, and dead cats will be flying in the streets, like last year. He looks up at the Senatorial Palace, where even now Valori is probably contending with his enemies, who only become fiercer and angrier as time goes on. The woman poured precious oil on Jesus’s feet, when the disciples thought she should sell it and give the money to the poor. The poor will always be here, and the Bonfire of Vanities is the answer to a spiritual problem. The whole purpose of this is to build the beautiful structure and destroy it, with singing and trumpets, processing and partying, all to the glory of God.
“No,” he says. “Get thee behind me Satan.”
“But—” the merchant whines.
“No. Not everything is for sale.”
“The art—” He gestures to one of Botticelli’s wooden panels, where a naked woman, masked in leaves, is running through autumnal woods.
“Art is not for sale. The artist gave it to us for it to be burned. This is for God, and you can’t buy it.”
Lorenzo di Credi comes up to him a little later with a sketch he has made of the wheedling merchant. Girolamo lets him put it in the devil’s hand on top of the edifice.