I expected life without Cristofano’s friendship to be sadly empty, but I had not anticipated just how violently Bia would react. At first, she questioned why he no longer came to see us. Then, she wrote to him. Not finding his reply satisfactory, she went to his house. When she returned, her face streaked with tears, she lashed out at me.
“You’ve destroyed everything,” she said. “I despise you. I wish you’d died instead of my father. I wish I were old enough to be married so I didn’t have to live with you.”
That was a year ago. She was fifteen now—almost old enough to be a bride—and although her anger at me had cooled, we were no longer so happy as we used to be. Fear of reprisal from Savonarola had led the parents of her friends to forbid me to tutor their children. It was too dangerous. The little friar still held Florence in his grip, and his Bands of Hope continued to terrorize our citizens.
Three times they had come to my house, demanding objects to burn in the next bonfire. The first time I slammed the door on them. The second time, they were more threatening. I gave them a handful of jewelry and two mirrors, hoping that would pacify them. The third time, they came inside, knocking me over when I tried to stop them. They took close to a dozen books, six paintings, a bust carved in Greece during the fourth century BC, and two cases full of valuable jewelry, one mine, one Bia’s.
I was furious. Furious and terrified.
Having anticipated that they would want books, I had prepared accordingly. The ones on the shelves in my library were not the originals from my grandfather. Those, I had hidden away. I hadn’t, however, thought they would object so vehemently to our art and jewelry.
I remembered Cristofano’s words, when he’d said that simply saving the books wasn’t enough. If we weren’t free to discuss them, they were as good as lost. Florence was more than books. It was an entire culture, one full of art and beauty. It all had to be preserved. The looting of the Medici palazzo had only been the beginning. What would be left of our world if more was destroyed?
I did not have many friends, but the few I did had spectacular collections of art, far superior to mine. I called on them, one at a time, pleading with them to ensure these great works would be kept from Savonarola’s thugs. Most of them thought I was overreacting, but even those who didn’t hesitated to take action. They were afraid they’d get caught. Afraid of being tortured.
Cristofano had married Maddalena Bandini two months after that awful conversation on my roof. I had not seen him again. Now, though, I needed him. He would understand. He would be able to help me find a way to save the essence of Florence.
Because we had been so close for so long and then our friendship had ended abruptly before his wedding, most people assumed we had been lovers. I heard the gossip, and knew that Maddalena herself believed this. She’d made a show of saying that I would never be welcome in her house, so calling unannounced did not seem a good strategy. Instead, I sent Cristofano a note, asking him to meet me somewhere we could speak privately, wherever he wanted.
He did not reply for four days. I had started to despair. At last, a message came. He would meet me in the Duomo tomorrow at noon, near Michelino’s painting of Dante. His words were impersonal, businesslike. It wounded me, even though I had no right to expect anything else.
Nervous and on edge, I went early, arriving a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. He was already standing in front of the painting when I arrived. I stood back and watched him, remembering the day we had met, how I had observed, when we returned from the disastrous hunt, that he was not handsome. I realized now how wrong I’d been. His beauty came not from his features but from his manner, his intelligence, his confidence, his wit. I remained there, staring at him from a distance, until the church’s bells struck noon. He heard my footsteps as I approached and turned around.
“I did not expect to hear from you again, Signora Portinari,” he said. He was looking at me, but showed no sign of seeing me, not in any way that mattered. “It’s funny, in all the years of our friendship, I never gave your name much consideration, but after that day on your roof, when everything changed, it occurred to me that you share a surname with Dante’s Beatrice. I should have anticipated unrequited love.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling tears welling in my eyes. “I—”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize, signora. None of that matters anymore. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Why did you want to see me?”
I told him about the Bands of Hope, about their seizing things from my house, about the fears I had, and asked for his help.
“I can’t help you,” he said. “First, it’s too dangerous. Second, it’s wholly inappropriate. Renewing our acquaintance would hurt my wife.”
Our acquaintance? How could he be so dismissive of the friendship we had shared? I knew I deserved his scorn, but I had hoped that some ember of kindness remained. I was wrong.
“I should not have written to you,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your domestic tranquility. Forgive me.”
I turned away and walked across the nave, thinking he would follow. He did not. When I looked back, he was gone. I sank to my knees and wept. How different it would be if I had married him. Together, we could have worked against Savonarola and saved countless treasures. Instead, I had ruined my own happiness and left art and books to be wantonly destroyed.
“Signora, don’t cry.”
Someone was standing above me, his voice soft.
“Please leave me alone,” I said.
“I would be remiss to do so.”
He crouched beside me, and I saw he wore the robes of a Dominican, Savonarola’s order. This made me cry harder. Had he heard what I’d told Cristofano? Was I about to be dragged off to a prison?
“I understand why you are upset.”
He had heard. I was doomed.
“I was speaking without thinking,” I said. “I—”
“No more, not here.” He helped me to my feet and led me to a narrow staircase, the one the workers who built the cathedral’s dome had used during its construction, saying nothing further until he’d closed the door behind us. “No one comes here. It is a safe place. I heard your words and share your fears. I know better than most how dangerous Savonarola is. I came to Florence as a young man, drawn to her community of scholars. Not all friars believe God wants us to destroy art.”
I still didn’t trust him. “I’m angry at losing jewelry that had sentimental value. My mother gave it to me and a Band of Hope took it. I overreacted.”
“This isn’t about jewelry,” he said. “We both know that. I believe you know Sandro Botticelli?”
His question caught me off guard. “I do. What has that to do with anything?”
“Savonarola has all but convinced him to destroy his paintings that have pagan themes.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Have you seen him recently? He’s like most of the rest of Florence: scared. He’ll do whatever the friar tells him to.”
“I will never believe that.”
“Will your beliefs on the subject matter in the slightest when he starts burning his paintings?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Friar Baldo Cipriano.”
“I’m scared of what Savonarola is doing to this city,” I said.
“As am I. I belong to a group of like-minded individuals. Together, we are trying to save as much as possible from the friar’s bonfires. We gather what we can and hide it in a place that is safe.”
“Do you have much?”
“Not so much as we would like,” he said. “People are not eager to part with their possessions. Not because they fear they won’t eventually be returned, but because they’re afraid of what they will suffer if they are exposed.”
“So how do you convince them?”
“We don’t.”
“Then how do you…” I stared at him. “You steal?”
“There is no other way. We can discuss the morality of the issue at some other time. A lady like you has better access to the homes of the wealthy than we do. Will you help us?”
“I can’t steal—”
“You won’t need to. We’re quite capable of handling that ourselves. What we can’t do, however, is ascertain where the best pieces—and the most vulnerable—are kept. Who owns what? Where is it displayed? Are there books as well? Ancient sculpture? Cameos? Other objects that should be kept from flames? All we’d want from you is information, information you can gain from a perfectly ordinary routine. Visit your friends. Report what you see.”
For a moment, I worried that I was treading on dangerous ground. He was taking a great risk being so open with me. I could denounce him to Savonarola. Unless his openness was a feint, designed to trick me into condemning myself.
“Our meeting is no coincidence, Signora Portinari,” he said. “I knew your grandfather. He spoke of you often. I met you once, at a hunting party. You were thrown from your horse. I was one of the friends with whom he was sitting in the loggia when you returned. I recognized your face in the fresco Botticelli painted there. He modeled one of the Three Graces on you. I have hesitated to seek you out, but things are so bad now I had no choice. I didn’t come to your palazzo or write to you because I did not want to risk anyone else in your household learning of a connection between us. I’ve watched you for weeks, hoping for an opportunity to talk. That you came here, to the Duomo, today, seemed prescient. Savonarola is not doing God’s work. We are.”
“I want to trust you,” I said.
He pulled something out of his robe and passed it to me. “Your grandfather gave me this before he died.”
I recognized the object. It was the sardonyx cameo showing the goddess Minerva in profile that Lorenzo il Magnifico had given to my grandfather the evening we dined with him in his palazzo. The evening I had first seen Agnolo and thought he despised me. The evening that left me feeling so vulnerable I had welcomed Giacomo’s advances when I should have resisted them.
I’d seen the cameo only once since then, when Nonno showed it to me the night he asked me to keep his books safe. He’d told me he planned to give it to someone more trustworthy than any man he had met, someone who could help me if I ever found myself in trouble. And he’d promised that I would never have to seek him out; he would find me if I was in need.
“I will do anything you want,” I said. “Where do we start?”