APRIL 2ND, 1493
Bologna reeks of failure and disappointment, though to others it might seem no more than the usual miasma of tanners and dyers. He has always come here with such high hopes, and every time they have been crushed. He understands now that this is not where he was meant to be, is not the city God has given to him, which was always waiting just over the mountain passes. Yet it is the mother city of the Dominicans, where St Dominic himself preached and taught, and where his sainted body rests.
Girolamo sighs as he makes his way with his brothers through the narrow Bolognese streets between the Dominican mother house and the cathedral. Most of Bologna is built of brick, and all the buildings are built so that the upper stories hang out over the sides of the streets, supported by mismatched columns, making porticoes to protect the citizens from rain and sun. It’s an excellent design, and he wishes it would spread elsewhere. But today it does little against a clinging pervasive March drizzle. Very little has changed in Bologna since he first saw it eighteen years ago. It is a city of warm terra-cotta, with surprising faces peering out of the brickwork here and there, reminding him of an infestation of demons.
He supposes he must have grown used to the racket of building in Florence, to the fact that there is always something changing in the streets. Bologna seems sleepy in comparison. Bologna, Ferrara, and Milan have princes who rule them. The princes might choose to build, to glorify themselves, their families, their cities, and perhaps first or perhaps as an afterthought, God. But they do not compete to do so, not within their city. In Florence the Medici run things, yes, but the city has the forms of a commonwealth still. Many families have wealth and dignity. The Medici say who gets to have their names in the purses, but nine names still get drawn out every two months, and those nine men drawn rule the city as the Eight First Men and the Standard-Bearer of Justice; the elected lords, they get to dress in crimson and ermine and live on the top floor of the Senatorial Palace. The honour of governance is shared, if not the real power. Lorenzo ruled, as his son Piero does now, but others share the appearance of ruling—and even do some of the work. There are fifty-four First Men of Florence every year, and they can point at things they have achieved in their times of office. They are for the most part Medici supporters, and they won’t do anything the Medici don’t want, but they retain pride and a measure of independence, they are not puppets. They think of themselves as only a little lower than the Medici. They compete with the Medici and with each other, and the city and the poor profit by their competition.
In Bologna, on the other hand, there is a Bentivoglio prince, and the rich families are no more than his courtiers. Courtiers might compete to please their prince, they do not compete with him. In cities with princes, church and civic renewal has became an area reserved for princes. Despite three generations of Medici dominance, Florence is still much closer to a free commonwealth, as Rome had been before Julius Caesar. The Serene Republic of Venice is closer still, with its Great Council and elected Doge. Venice impressed Girolamo when he was there last winter. There is much to learn from it.
Grizzled old Brother Silvestro, who has come to Bologna with him, puts a hand on Girolamo’s sleeve. He stops. While he’d been off in his own thoughts, their third companion, Brother Antonino, one of the Bolognese community, has paused to gossip with a rosy-cheeked woman selling salt fish. Girolamo gives him a reproving glance, which Antonino ignores. That would not have happened in Florence. Two more weeks and it will be Easter. Once Christ is safely risen for another year, he can go home. It is Florence that is his earthly home now, not the motherhouse in Bologna let alone his own mother’s house in Ferrara. Brother Antonino is lazy, and far too easily distracted. If he’d been under Girolamo’s discipline at San Marco he’d soon have learned to conquer his faults. Here in Bologna, under Brother Vincenzo’s slack arrangements, such things are left uncorrected.
Bologna has always disappointed him. The first time he came, Girolamo walked here from his father’s house in Ferrara, leaving before dawn, arriving as the gates were closing at dusk. He felt himself exalted at every step, even as his soft feet blistered. His whole being was filled with longing to be accepted at the monastery St Dominic himself had founded. He had been twenty-two, young enough to imagine taking Dominican vows would be the fulfillment of all his dreams.
It wasn’t so much fear of his father’s wrath as of his mother’s repining and his sisters’ tears that caused him to walk away without warning, leaving them a letter of justification. Even now, in her old age and widowhood, his mother remains utterly set on worldly advantage. His father had wanted him to become a doctor, in the family tradition. While that isn’t his vocation, it isn’t a despicable one. He worked hard at the university of Padua. He learned there that it was souls he wanted to cure, not merely flesh. He tried to explain it in the letter, and perhaps his father understood. His mother never would. She still just wants him to attain rank and riches and everything he most abhors. She doesn’t mind how he does it. She wouldn’t have objected to him taking orders if he’d become a typical cleric, paying and accepting bribes, rising in wealth and status, wallowing in luxury. She’d have been delighted to have him one of the rich cardinals selling indulgences while promoting his bastards left and right. She can’t understand his asceticism, his devotion to God, his loathing of carnality and opulence. If he had become a doctor she’d have wanted him to be one like his grandfather, cynically prescribing warm wine to dyspeptic courtiers for fat fees. He prays to the Virgin for his mother’s soul, and trusts in God’s mercy.
Certainly it would have been braver to face his family before he left, to explain his vocation to their faces, he admits that. He was a coward. He fled from enduring the interminable reproaches. Letters are hard enough to bear. Even now he flinches when a letter arrives from Ferrara in the familiar accusing script. He can obey the commandment to honour his parents more easily at a distance. He made no farewells when he left to walk to Bologna. He remembers trembling as he knocked on the portal of the Dominican monastery, longing to escape to God, to give his life into God’s hands. If only it had been that simple.
He sighs again. His novitiate was a disappointment, lacking in severity, discipline, and the true Christian fellowship he had longed for. Even from the first, he had attempted to reform the Dominicans from within, to bring them back to St Dominic’s original strictures. More fasting, more penance, more prayer, more rigor. Many of his brothers want it, but some do not. He has support, especially now at San Marco, but he has also made enemies. There are always people who like to be lazy and comfortable while still thinking well of themselves. First Brother Vincenzo is one of those. Girolamo has discomforted him on all levels, and he refuses to forgive him. And Vincenzo is not just First Brother of the monastery in Bologna, as Girolamo himself is at San Marco. Vincenzo heads the whole Lombard Dominican Congregation. Only Cardinal Carafa, the head of the whole order, stands above Vincenzo, but Vincenzo stands between him and Girolamo.
Brother Antonino comes back, and they begin walking again. “It’s wrong for a Dominican brother to even give the appearance of flirting,” Girolamo says, reprovingly.
“I wasn’t,” Antonino protests. “She had some important news.”
“Gossip,” Silvestro mutters.
“No! The fishwife says that a Genoese captain went out of Aragon and has discovered a new route to the Indies, westward, across the Atlantic!”
“Nonsense,” Girolamo says, crisply, walking a little faster. “It’s too far. It would take months to sail all that way.”
“Well, it did take months, but he got there and came back, she says,” Antonino retorts.
“Praise be to God,” Brother Silvestro says, and Girolamo echoes him automatically, trying to put such trivialities as new trade routes out of his mind.
Girolamo’s second sojourn in Bologna, three years ago, was even worse than his novitiate. Dominicans are the Order of Preachers. St Dominic founded them to preach, to spread the word of God. The brothers are trained and sent out to preach, and those thought capable of it return to Bologna for a year of additional training. Those deemed worthy in that year stay on and earn their degree as Master of Sacred Theology, then teach and continue to learn and preach and rise in the order. The unworthy get sent out again. It is never openly called failure, but they all know what that winnowing means. Despite his dedication and scholarship, despite the fact that his Latin is good enough that he was asked to help teach his brothers from the very first, Girolamo was dismissed with the second rate. Brother Vincenzo was in charge, and in his additional year they had clashed on everything from Aristotle to the penitential use of scourging. Vincenzo’s decision was final, and Girolamo was sent away ignominiously. He understands now that it was God’s will, part of God’s plan for him. But at the time, when Vincenzo said scornfully that he was not fit to be a Master of Sacred Theology, this was not yet clear. He left Bologna that time filled with chagrin, his eyes burning and his heart swollen so it almost filled his throat, so much so that it was difficult for him to swallow. Even now, remembering, and knowing it was God’s test, he feels a little of that choking feeling return.
This Lenten season he would have preferred to stay in Florence, in his own priory of San Marco. But as always he is obedient to his superiors in the Order. They called him to Bologna to preach the gruelling schedule of Lenten sermons in the cathedral. His preaching is, thanks be to God, the same as ever. But the Bolognese are different, less attentive, than his flock in Florence. Novelty can be a good thing in a preacher, he understands that. A congregation will listen to a new voice when an old one might have gone stale through familiarity and repetition. That is part of the logic of the Dominican rotation, especially when Dominicans preach to souls whose parish priests might be ignorant or uneducated. But there is also an advantage to staying in one place long enough that thoughts could build—not just in his own mind but in the minds of his listeners. In Florence, he does not have to go back to the beginning every time. Many people come to his sermons often enough that they remember what he had said on a subject before. He only has to remind them. When he preaches on a book of the Bible, moving forward through it, they don’t just remember the sermon on yesterday’s text, but that of the month before, the month before that, even last year. His superiors understand this in the case of a community of monks, but he is building that kind of rapport with his general congregation. In Florence.
The wind whips at their robes as they walk towards the vestry door.
“Are you prepared for your sermon?” Brother Silvestro asks, as they scrape their sandals free of muck.
Girolamo nods. He makes sure to be very orthodox in his form, here, under the direct eye of his superiors. He believes his preaching is better in Florence, where he can be a little more free. “I hope I can keep their attention today,” he says quietly, as they go in.
“They are led astray by their lords,” Silvestro says. The vestry smells of incense and wax candles, chasing away the miasma of the streets.
He nods again.
“The Lady Ginevra won’t dare to be late this time,” Silvestro says, soothingly. “Not after you spoke to her last time.”
Antonino curls his lip. “She’ll be late if she wants to be. She’s always late. She’s not afraid of you.”
“I’ve spoken to her twice now,” Girolamo says, shrugging. “I hinted the first time, and then last time I went up to her politely after the service and invited her to come on time, because it causes a disturbance. She took no notice the first time, she probably won’t take any more notice this time.”
“You shouldn’t reprove her,” Antonino says, clearly still smarting at the reproof Girolamo had given him. “She’s the wife of the prince, and the daughter of the Sforza duke of Milan.”
“Does that make her higher than God?” Girolamo mocks. “She thinks so, perhaps, but I do not.”
“Surely she doesn’t think herself high enough to ignore Brother Girolamo’s direct reproach,” Silvestro says. “I’m sure she’ll come early today.”
They walk out of the vestry into the crowded cathedral. The monks are singing a psalm. Everyone is packed in, standing close together. Here the scent of damp wool overwhelms the incense. The lord, Johannes Bentivoglio, is in his place, resplendently dressed, but there is no sign of his wife. “Shouldn’t we wait for Lady Ginevra?” Antonino asks, anxiously.
“God does not wait,” Girolamo whispers in response. “Besides, what if she isn’t coming at all? She might be sick, or going to one of the other churches this morning.” Bologna has many churches. He is ready now; he wants to begin. He makes for the pulpit eagerly, notes for his sermon in hand.
The congregation are attentive. Even Brother Vincenzo seems to be listening without frowning.
Girolamo is in full flow when Ginevra Bentivoglio sweeps in, surrounded by her ladies and guards. The ladies are all dressed sumptuously, in layers of bright colours, with their faces painted. Ginevra is wearing a rope of pearls with a ruby dangling from it, and she has more rubies in combs in her teased-up hair. The gems advertise the Bentivoglio wealth, and their connections with the rich trading nations, especially Venice and Spain. Pearls are very rare and immensely valuable. As she moves towards her seat beside her husband, the whole congregation moves about, making room for her, and bowing. The courtiers are fawning, the common people cringing before her, the destitute trying to abase themselves in the hope of her favour. Gusts of strong perfume drift in the wake of her party, both floral and musky. One of her ladies takes her ruby-red cloak, and she seats herself, smiling. A corner of the smile is cast in Girolamo’s direction, and contains a hint of false penitence, over a great deal of smug satisfaction.
Pride has always been his besetting sin, pride and the hot flash of temper that defends it. It flares up now as the silly woman simpers and everyone in the cathedral loses the thread of what Girolamo was saying. “Is it the devil?” he booms, at the top of his voice, pointing at her. “Did the devil send you? Did you come to mock God, or to distract us all from Him? Well, it won’t work, we can’t be distracted by any tricks of the devil, we’re about God’s work here.”
A child titters, and is abruptly hushed. Ginevra goes white. The paint on her face stands out like a carnival mask. She sinks down, almost falling, on the throne that is the special perquisite of the lord’s wife. Her husband puts out his hand and steadies her. He is frowning. Brother Antonino’s mouth has dropped open. Girolamo goes on with his sermon where he had left off, his words falling into a silence so complete that it feels almost chilling. He can feel Brother Vincenzo’s furious eyes fixed on his as he finishes, genuflects to the altar, and stands with his brothers.
The service continues. The Bentivoglios leave as soon as it is seemly to do so. The rest of the congregation follow them out as fast as they can, not speaking as long as they are within the confines of the church but they can be heard bursting out into conversation like so many jackdaws as soon as they are out in the air. No one stays to conduct business or gossip the way they normally would. Even the other priests and monks hurry away, and soon only the four Dominicans are left in the strangely empty space. “Did you see her face? She’ll have you assassinated,” Silvestro says, and his voice echoes.
“I wouldn’t stop her if she did,” Vincenzo says, sweeping up. The sinews of his broad neck stand out as he throws back his head. “What were you thinking, Brother Girolamo?”
“I lost my temper. I will do penance. Forgive me.” Girolamo knows he is in the wrong. It makes it worse that he has to abase himself before Brother Vincenzo, who hates him and will take delight in seeing him humbled.
“It wasn’t God speaking through you this time?”
“No.” Girolamo bows his head and looks down. He is biting his tongue on the urge to retort.
“You seemed to confuse yourself with God, up there in the pulpit.”
“No, Brother.” He stares down at his sandalled feet on the patterned tiles. There are a few dark hairs on each of his toes.
“She was interrupting you, not God. Is it a sin to interrupt you now, Brother Girolamo?” Vincenzo asks, sarcastically.
“I said ‘God’s work,’” Girolamo says, eyes still on his feet. He isn’t absolutely sure now what he said.
“You called her a devil,” Brother Antonino says, in awed tones.
Had he? He darts a quick glance up at Brother Vincenzo, who seems shocked and triumphant at the same time. His fringe of beard wags as he shakes his head.
“Brother Girolamo said the devil sent her,” Silvestro says. “And so he did send her, painted up and hung about with jewels that could have fed the poor of the city for a year.”
“Thank you, that’s enough, Brother Silvestro,” Vincenzo says. “Do you have any more to say for yourself, Brother Girolamo?”
He has said nothing in his own defence. “I apologize for my sins of pride and wrath, and I ask your pardon and God’s. I will do penance.”
“Of course you will. You delight in penance, we all know that. You take enjoyment in pain and fasting like normal people take in pleasure and eating. It brings you fulfillment.”
It is an accusation he has heard more than once, most frequently from Brother Vincenzo. “No,” he says, as humbly as he can.
“I daresay you’d enjoy it more if I told you to scourge yourself and wear a hair belt than if I sentenced you to go to spend a night with a whore.”
“You can’t order me to break my vows,” Girolamo says, looking up and meeting Vincenzo’s angry eyes despite himself. Humility does not come easily to him. He routinely scourges himself and frequently wears a hair belt under his clothes, letting the goat-hairs rub his skin raw. The pain and mortification of the flesh does not arouse his lust as Vincenzo is implying. He needs the reminder to subdue his bodily desires and keep himself focused on God. The hair belt feels right, the constant irritation of the raw flesh under his robe a reminder of the sham of worldly things. “I was wrong to lose my temper and shout at the tyrant’s wife, and I will do what penance you choose.”
“And if I order you to apologise to Lady Ginevra?”
Brother Silvestro sucks in his breath loudly.
“I will do it,” he says.
“You can’t order him to commit suicide,” Brother Antonino says. “He humiliated her in front of everyone. If he went to apologise, she’d have one of her guards kill him.”
“You’re right. She would. And unfortunately, that would be bad for the prestige of the Dominicani.” Vincenzo sighs. “I’ll go to her myself and explain that you’re simple in the head. You can keep up your Lenten fast until next Easter. You must keep on preaching, but try some texts about humility. I doubt the lord and lady will come back to hear you, but it will do you good. And the sooner you get back to your sodomitical Florence the better.”
“You—” Brother Silvestro begins, and stops. He knows how hard Girolamo has worked over his course of sermons, and how much they make a complete whole.
“And the same goes for you,” Vincenzo says, and sweeps out, taking Antonino with him.
Girolamo lets himself breathe, and looks at Silvestro. “Writing new sermons is a fair penance,” he says.
“Why are we here?” Silvestro bursts out. “Why are you subject to that lascivious man? Why are we of San Marco, who are reformed and pure and holy, under the control of these Lombard Brothers who fatten and enrich themselves instead of caring for the poor?”
“I did lose my temper,” Girolamo points out.
“You were right, the devil sent her to disturb God’s work. A whole year of Lenten fasting because you reproved a painted Jezebel from the pulpit! In all my years as a Dominican, I have never seen anything like this.”
“I never eat much more than that,” Girolamo says.
“We pure houses should separate ourselves from the others,” Silvestro says, ignoring him. “We should be our own order. They’re always trying to stop us from doing things properly. The way Brother Vincenzo spoke to you was far worse than the way you spoke to Ginevra Bentivoglio.”
“We’d have to have an order from His Holiness,” Girolamo says. “It wouldn’t be a simple matter.”
“We should start working towards it,” Silvestro says. He is vibrating with indignation, his grey curls shaking. “To speak to you that way. You, Brother, whom God has chosen.”
Girolamo puts up a hand in aversion. “I’m only a simple brother.”
“But God talks to you. And he has given you the power to banish demons.” Silvestro’s simple faith is sure and steady. Girolamo feels warmed by it.
“Yes, but that doesn’t give me the right to give way to my temper and pride,” he says. “I lost my temper up there. It was the sin of pride. Brother Vincenzo was right.”
“Even so, he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Feebleminded! A night with a whore! Is that the way to bring an erring brother back to the light? We should find out how to separate ourselves so you don’t have to accept.”
“We’ll need the support of the Senate of Florence, and the Eight, and of Piero de’ Medici, and Cardinal de’ Medici, and Cardinal Carafa,” Girolamo says, counting them off on his fingers. He feels tired at the thought of it. “And we’d need to have the support of the Chapter and all our brothers in San Marco.”
“Write to them!” Silvestro urges.
“I’ll write to Cardinal Carafa in Rome. I hear Pope Innocent is sick, but maybe he can feel him out anyway. I’ll wait to speak to our brothers and the Senate when we get home. It’s not long now before Easter.”
“Thanks be to God,” Silvestro says, wholeheartedly.