The Palace (Saint-Germain #2)

The Palace (Saint-Germain #2) Page 8

Outside the high vaulted windows rain swept over Fiorenza, pouring steadily from low, purplish clouds that jostled through the sky on an east wind. Inside the vast Chiesa di San Marco there was an uneasy silence. Every bench was filled and there were people standing in the aisles along the wall. No one spoke, and the wan light blurred their features so that they all seemed like dolls made by the same carver. Incense flavored the air, and the sound of chanting announced the coming of the Brothers of San Domenico.

The congregation shifted expectantly, and there was a rustling of clothes and whispered words as the somber procession approached. The Brothers wore their black habits with the hoods up, so that their white cassocks showed only at their feet and wrists. One of their number had brought the Fiorenzeni to San Marco, and that was Girolamo Savonarola.

A small, ancient organ played when the monks had finished their chant. The music was sonorous, fatalistic. It joined with the rain in sorrow, reminding the mortals gathered under the great vault that life was short and filled with error and that death was long and the fires of hell burned eternally.

If the congregation could have dictated to the Brothers, they would have skipped over the Mass entirely and listened only to the sermon. But that was not permissible, and so they knelt and made their responses, each hoping that the celebration would be short, unadorned and unaugmented so that they would be able to hear the sermon they hungered for.

Just as the crowd began to grow restless, the celebration reached the sermon, and the people settled in to listen.

The monk who mounted the steps to the oratory was quite surprisingly small, hardly taller than a twelve-year-old child. He was thin from much fasting, which carved out the planes of his face harshly and served to accent further his lamentably large hooked nose and the large fleshy lips beneath. There was nothing attractive about the man until he fixed his congregation with his ferocious green eyes.

"It is said," he began in a deep, hard voice, "that when Job suffered for the sake of his soul, God rewarded him with plenty for his faith. It is said that God showed him His Glory, and Job knew how vile he was, and from that day he was holy." He stared at the upturned faces, challenging any to contradict him.

"To learn this lesson from the Mighty Hand of God, Job had to lose everything: his wife, his children, his land, his money, his home, the health of his body. He was given nothing to succor him but his faith. And that faith was rewarded, for he saw God in all His Power. Job bowed before the Awful Might of God. As must all men, if there is a grain of piety in them. We should all fall to our knees and confess our utter worthlessness, our unspeakable corruption. We should beg God to forgive our sins, and the greatest sin would be daring to address the Mercy Seat at all." He paused, and when he resumed his sermon, his voice had dropped to one deep tolling note. "We have upon us the great sin of Anger, yet we do not repent. There are those of you who long to thrust a dagger into the heart of your neighbor, and you justify it saying that it is for honor that you do this. What is your paltry honor, your name, when compared to the Honor and Glorious Name of God?"

There was an answering sigh from the congregation, and some of the women clenched their hands in their laps.

"Each day, you see tasks of goodness and charity not done, but you do nothing, saying that it will be done later, or that it is better for others to perform those acts, and you excuse it because you have children who need your attention, or your wants are great this year.

But that is the great sin of Sloth, and for it you will toil in hell forever, and fiends shall prod you to do there what you could not learn to do in this life!" He raised his hand, and the moan that had begun in the audience was stilled, so that only the sound of the rain accompanied his words.

"You, you, you all are consumed with the hideous sin of Vanity. You deck yourselves in velvets when wool will do. You buy silks and array your sinful bodies, so that no one will see your utter vileness, your degradation. You let your women paint their faces so that they are a lure to men. In that you get sin and more sin, for women should be quiet and chaste, not flaunting creatures in splendid gowns. If they are beautiful they lure others into sin, and that, too, is on your heads." His voice was growing louder now, and the words came faster. "But you are not content. You steep yourself in greater sin. Vanity will undo you. For which of you has not bought paintings to adorn your walls and scorned humble plaster? Which of you has not desired your fine chests to be carved in pagan symbols, showing fruits and trees and lyres because there are those who follow the damned teachings of the Greek philosophers rather than espouse the Love of Christ and the joys of heaven? Which of you has not brought into your homes objects to incite men's hearts to lust? Statues, paintings, shameful things showing disgraceful nudity disguised as heroes. In that you err, as well, for those are blasphemous things! Diana is the Goddess of the Moon, and she has the same horns as the Devil. Think before you touch her. And Venus, what was she but a harlot who drove men distracted with the splendor of her flesh?"

The people murmured out their shame and an old woman began to sob convulsively.

"You live for the body, not the soul. None of you, not one, has ever resisted the urge to cheat at comestio and serve more pies and tarts than you are allowed. You smile when you think of how clever you are. You are clever in Gluttony, not in virtue. To use your thoughts to cheat not only the law of la Repubblica but also God is not wisdom, but the greatest folly! But why do you do it? What drives you to this evil? You all seek to emulate the great Vanity, the great Gluttony, the great sins of Medici, who is filled with so many abominations that the stink of him fills the earth!"

There was an audible gasp and a susurrus of words filled the church. Never before had Savonarola attacked Laurenzo so directly. Immediately interest increased and everyone on the hard benches leaned forward. There was a kind of fascinated fear in many faces.

"Medici's five red balls cannot protect you from the Wrath of God. His usurer's wealth will never buy salvation for him or for any who seek the path he treads now, for it goes down to the depths of hell!"

Several of the young men who had been standing along the side walls had fallen to their knees and had clasped their hands over their eyes.

"Vanity! Fiorenza is stuffed as full of it as a corpse is with maggots. And where there is Vanity, there Envy is also!" Again he paused, an expression of loathing distorting his face. "Envy and Vanity, both great sins, cardinal sins. And you, you nurture them in your bosoms as if they were beloved children. You make them flourish in your hearts like gardens of pleasure. Every one of you is tainted with these sins, from the youngest child to the oldest and most venerable grandfather. Every one of you must burn for these sins unless you repent."

Many of the women were weeping now, and two of the monks had wiped their eyes. It was raining harder, but no one noticed.

"In the lascivious delights of your bed you wallow in Lust! What you caress, what you embrace, is the most pernicious of poisons, for it feeds on the other sins that have come before. Think of those voluptuous sighs and remember that they are the substance of evil. That sweet glutting of your lustful desires draws you forever to perdition."

Some of the men had gone white, and at least one of them cried out at these ominous words.

Near the back of the church, Simone Filipepi turned to his white-faced companion. "Well, Estasia," he whispered with a faint, righteously vindictive smile. "Are you listening? Do you hear what Fra Savonarola says? Do you realize that it is your soul he speaks of?"

Estasia made a gesture as if to ward off a blow. "Don't."

"You build up wealth in the world," Savonarola shouted out his warning, "you gather treasures around you in the heat of your Avarice. Possessions are as a malignant disease consuming you. But what is the wealth of the world compared to the riches of heaven, the goods of the Celestial Kingdom? How cheaply you sell your souls. How you will lament your bargains in the next life when all the magnificence of Paradise is denied you for this pale, trivial imitation."

The congregation moaned aloud, caught up in Savonarola's terrible vision. They leaned farther forward, their faces wet, their eyes full of hungry suffering, and they yearned for more, for the release of the monk's castigation.

He did not disappoint them. "I am amazed," he said in another tone, humility making him bow his head. "I am amazed that God has resisted for so long delivering His final blow. We know that the Day of Wrath will surely come, for it has been prophesied from the beginning. We know that on that terrible day, no one will be safe and even the virtuous will plead for mercy before the Throne of God. There is a book, and that book will be read on that day, and every sin, every loathsome thing you have ever done or felt or thought will be known. Think of that. Keep this thought in your heart, if only for one day, so that true repentance may come into your heart, so that you, like Job, will know the full extent of your vileness. Then, only then, will you be saved. You must repent!"

The congregation took up the cry. "Repent!"

"Weep! Weep for your sins! Weep for the thousands who will be flung forever into the heinous pits of hell. Weep for those still benighted and filled with the dung of sin!"

Several people cried out, and many sobbed. Simone grabbed Estasia's wrist and said, "Do you see? Do you understand now? You must repent! You must give up your lovers and your luxuries. Otherwise you will burn in hell and demons will consume your entrails."

"Simone! Let go!" Estasia had risen, and with an expression of horrified revulsion she fled the church, not even stopping to pull the hood of her cloak over her head against the pelting rain.

Simone started after her, but could not bring himself to leave San Marco while his hero preached. He stood at the back, a rapt smile lightening the tears that flowed from his eyes. He felt abjectly vile, utterly disgusting, and at the same time a smug contentment colored this. He sank to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer as he listened.

"The Sword of God is raised high and it will smite the wicked and corrupt, and even the chaste, the virtuous and the just will be brought low. For who will save you on that day, if not God? Where can you turn, but to God? Supplicate, beg, plead on your knees for His forgiveness. You must do it now. There is no time left, for that Day of Wrath is near. I have seen it. I have seen the Sword of God descend on mankind and ravage everywhere. I have seen the world fall apart and beasts trample on its dust. Hear me, Fiorenzeni! You must repent. You can save yourselves if you repent. Cast out the evils and sins in your lives, return to the embrace of the Church and goodness! You must do it!"

The shout which greeted this made San Marco ring like a bell.

"Rise up in virtue and strike down the impious heathens! The red balls will fall. No more Palle! Strike at the head of the evil!"

This time the shout was louder and many of the people were on their feet.

"It is your glorious task to make the first blow. Let there be an end to all sin! No more Anger! No more Sloth! No more Lust! No more Gluttony! No more Avarice! No more Envy! No more Vanity! No more Vanity!"

With a roar the people surged to their feet, echoing Savonarola's last cry. There was a general rush filled with strange sound. One old woman had fallen to the floor and lay there drumming her heels. Another woman, this one much younger, clung to her own elbows and gave a series of shrieks from behind clenched teeth. Five young men had pulled off their jeweled collars and were crushing them underfoot.

In the midst of this hysteria, Savonarola cried out, "Repent! The Sword of God is falling! No more Vanity!"

At that the congregation burst out, like the sea breaking through a dike. People ran toward the door and rushed out into la Piazza San Marco.

The rain met them, soaking and chilling them. The mad rush faltered in the puddles and the wet. As if waking from a dream, the people looked at one another and exchanged sheepish smiles and uncertain comments. The momentum of their headlong attack was lost now, and they all began to feel the bite of the cold. Somewhere in the crowd a man sneezed. It was enough. Slowly, and weighted down with rain-soaked clothes as much as the sudden fatigue that came over them, the people left la Piazza San Marco and began their various walks home.

Text of a letter from the Augustinian monk Fra Mariano da Gennazzano to Marsilio Ficino:

To that most eminent scholar and accomplished philosopher and fellow priest, Sr. Ficino, Fra Mariano sends his blessings and greetings:

I have your message of last week by me, and I pray that you will not trouble your mind anymore. I have seen Laurenzo and I am confident that this current distress his gout gives him cannot last. He has promised me that if this attack should continue he will take the waters and allow himself to be bled.

Of course your concern is that of affection, and I, too, share your worry for Medici. Without Laurenzo, there is no Fiorenza. Certainly we should address God on his behalf, and I will have a Mass said for his recovery. But Laurenzo is strong, and you know that he is in the height of his prowess. He is but forty-two years old, which assures him many more years of life yet.

About the other matter, though, there I must agree with you. The increase in Savonarola's following is most alarming. Arrogance from a monk is always a dreadful thing. We should not seek to place ourselves before our Brothers, but should be humble and prayerful in our work. Neither of these qualities has marked Girolamo Savonarola since he returned to Fiorenza last year.

With the Grace of God, we will not suffer too much from the madness of that Domenicano, but I hope that one of us can convince Laurenzo to address the pope on this matter, for Laurenzo has the ear of His Holiness and would get swift redress for his pains.

That disgraceful incident of ten days ago still occupies my thoughts. What a blessing it was that there was rain that day, for otherwise we might have had those misled people running through the city doing all manner of mischief in the name of ending vanity. They cannot see that the greatest vanity is in thinking that they, or anyone else, is wise and holy enough to know God's will.

But I have said more than I ought. I humbly beg that you will not repeat what I have said in these pages. I will pray for an end of my anger, for it is against all my vows. From Sant' Spirito I send you the affection of this world and the hope of salvation and joy in the next.

Fra Mariano da Gennazzano

Order of San Agostino

In Fiorenza on the 8th day of November, 1491