The City of Man
A Trilogy:
Inferno – Purgatorio – Paradiso
Based on a True Story of the Renaissance
by
Michael Harrington
© Michael Harrington
All Rights Reserved. 2009
Published by RSBS Productions at Smashwords – August 2010
With the exception of brief excerpts, no part of this book may be transmitted, reproduced, or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, who may be contacted at the email addresses or Internet links below:
Michael Harrington
Author's Page at Smashwords
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Note: Annotated footnotes have been removed for this edition due to formatting requirements.
***
In the beginning there was only Chaos, an empty void…
- Hesiod, Theogony
Of the two first parents of the human race, Cain was the first born,
And he belonged to the city of men;
after him was born Abel, who belonged to the city of God.
And this founder of an earthly city was a fratricide.
Overcome with envy, he slew his own brother,
A citizen of the eternal city.
- Augustine of Hippo, City of God, XV, 1,5
Appendices
Glossary
Principal Texts and Select Bibliography
In today’s Florence, herds of tourists mill about the famed Piazza della Signoria, strolling under the imposing shadow of the government palace, now called the Palazzo Vecchio. Surrounded by art and medieval grandeur, they gaze up in wonder at the statues adorning the Loggia dei Lanzi and the copy of Michelangelo’s magnificent David standing by the Palazzo’s entrance. Then they stop to sit and rest on the edge of Ammannati’s massive fountain of Neptune, perhaps to enjoy an icy gelato under the hot Tuscan sun. By chance, if they look down, they may notice a large brass plaque, roughly three feet across, embedded in the stone pavement towards the center of the piazza. It’s inscription, in Italian and Roman numerals, eludes all but the most curious.
As the sun sinks and shadows lengthen, the tourists slowly recede, back to their buses or toward the river, taking with them their most enduring memories of Michelangelo’s Giant and the refreshing tang of lemon, mango and coconut gelati. But every spring, on an early morning in late May, wreaths of flowers mysteriously appear around the forgotten plaque—offerings left by some pious modern-day Florentines who still seek to atone for what happened in their city at this exact spot more than half a millennium ago. Translated, the plaque’s inscription reads:
After four centuries
this memoriam was placed here
where Fra Girolamo Savonarola and his brothers
Fra Domenico Buonvicini and Fra Silvestro Maruffi
were hung and burned by an unjust sentence
on the 23rd of May, 1498.
***
May, 1498
Miserere mei Deus, Have mercy on me, O Lord!
The prisoner’s thoughts screamed No! as he saw the floor recede, the rope cutting into his wrists and wrenching his shoulders as the strappado hauled him toward the ceiling. He felt his body convulse with the slow, steady squeal of the pulley. Then time ceased to squeal and his body fell from its height like a stone, rushing at the floor until the rope snapped and his shoulders jerked back with a ripping sound echoing up the back of his neck. A white pain flashed before his eyes as his disembodied cry pierced the night.
His cry woke him with a start and his eyes snapped opened. Everything was black. He was still crouched on the floor of his small holding cell, days later, his body shattered, his will broken.
Outside, the shroud of darkness wound itself around the city as the citizens slept fitfully, confined to their homes under the night curfew. Their commune had suffered a fever of discontent for several years and many feared it was now on the brink of open warfare. Guards of the Eight paced out the long hours, cursing their extra duties as they cast their torch lights down hidden alleys and byways. But their startled shadows only danced the macabre before vanishing again into the night. No living soul dared to be caught out before daybreak.
A ripple of church bells announced the hour of Lauds, their solemn tones splashing like holy water over the watchtowers and spires, waking the citizens and sprinkling benediction over saints and sinners alike. But the bells were an absolution for sins not yet confessed.
Nor forgiven.
Roused by the heavenly sound, the prisoner responded with a cry: Miserere mei Deus…secundum magnam misericordiam tuam Deus qui lucem habitas inaccessibilem…
The Latin verse streamed forth—a psalm memorized and recited every day since taking his vows as a begging friar of the Order of Preachers, the Order of St. Dominico. Only now the words took on their true meaning. God, my God, by Your great mercy, behold the misery before You. Take away my misery and blot out my iniquities… Sweet Lord I have sinned… against You, against heaven, against earth…
His missive caught in the throat of the watchtower jutting out of the Palazzo della Signoria—the government palace—where he was imprisoned. Silhouetted against the night sky, the tower stood like a sentinel over the city center and the friar’s cell was the special one at the top reserved for the Republic’s most serious offenders.
The poor mendicant huddled there with his tortured limbs poking through the threadbare tunic, his left arm hanging limp where the strappado had dislocated shoulder and elbow. The rough floor timbers cut into his knees and blocks of cold, rough-hewn stone rose up, closing him in with the stench of an unemptied chamber pot. But he fought to deny his suffering. Falling in and out of consciousness, he moved his lips in muted despair:
Miserere mei Deus… miserere mei Deus… miserere mei Deus…
But his petition went unanswered…
The bells fell silent as a thin ray of light slipped through a small lunette, painting a circle high up on the facing wall. The circle of light inched down and across, mirroring the arc of its source across the heavens. But the friar forced his eyes shut, exorcising the light in shame. Shaking from a lingering chill, he wrestled with his soul while his mind sought its escape.
In a moment he was safe again behind the sheltering walls of his convent, gazing at the faces of his brethren, his brothers in Christ as they sang in unison: “Alleluia! Alleluia! All praises to Gesú Cristo!”
They were as devoted as sheepdogs to the shepherd, following everywhere he led. He marched them out into the city’s fray where they stood against the chaos, unified in brotherhood, an army of avenging angels. Advancing upon the enemy, a white light bathed them as they fought grandly for Christ the King. And because God loved them, He favored them with His heavenly glory and they vanquished their foes. With His blessing, they defeated Babylon and built the New Jerusalem.
Alleluia!
The prisoner felt a rush of hope, but his thoughts quickly became jumbled as his vision went black. Somehow, he had failed. How? Where had he gone astray? Why have You forsaken me, Lord?
But God was silent. The friar had sinned and now his brothers suffered with him somewhere in this cold fortress at the hands of his enemies. He pleaded in desperation: Who will take pity on me, Lord? Where shall I go? Everyone has deserted me and cast me off; I am stranger in a strange land…
Looking down from the pulpit, he saw his flock pack the Cathedral. God had given him Grace and the Word and made him a great preacher—it was God’s miracle—and they came from all Christendom to hear him speak. All hail the prophet!
Looking out at their faces, his heart rejoiced. Their devotion filled him with purpose and he showed them the way. But they worried him; their faith is like wax, he thought, just a little heat… So he had prayed for their salvation. And prayed until his knees were raw.
But now he saw only their frightened faces amid the commotion—eyes aflame, fists raised, the flash of steel. He felt their fear as the wolves approached. He heard shouts, bleating cries, and the gnashing of teeth. “Save us!” they implored, their faces twisted with love and hate. He was helpless and he covered his face in shame. Lord, they brand me a heretic. I am abandoned to my enemies. I am the lamb…
In the darkness he saw Death enter and steeled his will. My trial has begun, he thought. But some animal spirit within scraped for survival. Tucking his legs into a fetal position, he rocked slowly back and forth as he tried to picture his mother. But it was an elderly man’s voice he heard: “Did I not warn you, my son, of the evils that dwell in the hearts of men?”
He was a child again, scolded but safe, gazing into the sympathetic eyes of his father’s father, renowned court physician to the Duke. He recalled those days when Nonno tutored him in the arcane science of the medico, mixing his lessons with a strong dose of piety. Nonno Michele was the font of all wisdom, God-fearing, not like the others. “Open your eyes to life’s great mysteries,” Nonno said. “Follow me and you will feel how the power of the spirit conquers the flesh. Turn your soul inward and upward to the heavens. Beware the snares laid by Satan.”
Though the prisoner knew it was a dream he pleaded, “Please, Nonno, …help me.”
But the old man shook his head with disapproval. It was too late. The prisoner stumbled, tried to rise, stumbled again. He tasted dust mixed with fear and cried in despair, but no sound came forth. Have I failed you too, Nonno?
As he struggled he felt an excruciating pain shoot through his left arm. He shuddered from the memory, hearing the rip of the delicate cartilage as the strappado tore him. How they tortured me, Lord, for days and weeks, like butchers ripping apart the legs and wings of fowl...
Each morning the macebearers had come to take him to face his examiners. The worst moment came when the hooded ones put their hands on him and applied the ropes, before he could steel himself against the pain to come. In these moments, he raced for any sanctuary and would confess to any sin. Then, when the rope released, the agony was past him as he hurtled toward the floor.
They tormented him mercilessly, sometimes six or seven times in succession, until he was sufficiently plied to speak their ‘truth.’ But after they had wrung all fear from him, he was ready again to defy them with God’s Truth.
Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do.
For days now, maybe a week, maybe two, they had left him in his cell, with a crust of bread and bowl of watery minestra each morning. Some days the Good Men of San Martino—the lay brothers who comforted the condemned and misfortunate—came to visit. But they knew and he knew the macebearers would come again soon. He must prepare himself; he girded his body, but his mind still refused:
No, Lord, no, it was not them, it was not THEM, it was You! O merciful God, from You all things come… these creatures are only the instruments of Your divine will. Why have You forsaken me? Why are You so angry with me?
God’s betrayal was only one of many and he knew the Devil mocked him. Then out of the darkness a girl appeared, one he knew long ago. Her flaxen hair was pulled back, its tiny ringlets falling about her face and caressing her fair complexion. The small mouth flushed like a budding rose as she bit her lower lip and her alabaster gown billowed as she held her head erect.
He spoke, reaching out to her, “Mary, …Virgin Mother, …Magdalena, save me! Take me from this Godless place!”
The young woman smiled seductively and her beauty beckoned. “Take me,” he pleaded as he dared hope she was his salvation. But in an instant her expression changed. Her mouth became hard and cruel as her unfeeling eyes belittled his pride and the vanity. She scorned him: “You are a poor and ugly wretch. Love me if you will, I can’t help that.”
She haunted him still and her words cut deep. But it was the Devil, and the prisoner snarled like a cornered dog: “Harlot! Bastard daughter of Satan! You have been cast out without refuge, not I! You strut as if your beauty knows no end, but it too will wither and turn to dust.”
His voice broke as fury gave way to self-pity. In an instant the vision transformed before his eyes into a hideous fiend, shocking him into humility. He crossed himself to banish it from his eyes and the Tempter released his hold.
Rising to his knees, he forced his eyes open to behold his pathos. He saw the stains and tears in his tunic and was shamed. I am lost. He fought to strengthen his will, then surrendered and plunged headlong into the abyss:
Take me then, Lord! If they shall burn my flesh accept me as You accept Your saints, it is the red hat of blood that I want! Give me strength… Miserere mei Deus… miserere mei Deus… miserere mei Deus…
Delirious, the prisoner collapsed as the circle of light reversed and began its slow trajectory back up the wall.
***
If the friar had remained conscious, he would have heard the sounds of insistent buzzing outside. It was springtime in the great city and the citizens hustled to and fro down the narrow spoked streets connecting the hubs of crowded piazzas. On market days they gathered in shops and stalls, collecting all kinds of honeyed treasures to tempt the senses: sheer silks, damasks, and velvet tapestries; dazzling gold, silver, and precious gemstones; and fragrances of ginger, cloves, nutmeg and pepper. All these goods traveled along the trade routes between the East and the North; passing through the city, they combined with local manufactures to produce a civic wealth the whole world envied. And this was not even the half of it.
From a window high up in the government palace, just below where the begging friar was imprisoned, a young man spied the scurrying citizens below. There was no dallying today; for today they tasted blood and smelled only fear. As assistant to the Secretary of the Ten of War the young man worried that his fellow citizens had gone pazzi, half-mad. The women hid under drab shawls, hairdressers were bankrupt and beauty shops closed, the curfew had silenced the taverns and the gambling dens had gone to ground. Meanwhile, the ruling council of the Signoria dithered. All because of this damned, blessed Dominican.
"How has my glorious city come to this?" he asked himself.
He looked out over the terracotta rooftops and marble spires sprouting toward the heavens. Before him blossomed the fabled city of flowers: Florentia—named for the colorful sprays dressing the surrounding hillsides and meadows. For all his life he had lived here, growing up in the shadow of magnificence. The city’s symbol was the delicate giglio, the lily, and everywhere its simple motif was repeated inside the city’s walls: In the great domed Cathedral they named Santa Maria del Fiore, Our Lady of the Flowers; in the stylized lily that adorned the Palazzo walls with marshal pride and graced its soldiers’ shields and standards they carried into battle; in the carved capitals atop the columns holding up the churches, palaces and arched loggias of stone and marble; in the golden lilies splayed like a million stars on the azure ceiling of the Sala dei Signori; most important, in the lily impressed upon the face of the gold florin—a coin valued and traded the world over.
Everywhere these flowers inspired the city’s artisans: her painters and stone carvers, architects, and poets, her goldsmiths, weavers, and jewelers. And, of course, their well-heeled patrons: bishops and cardinals, merchants, traders, and bankers.
Here, amidst the splendor of God and man, rich patricians strolled by, puffed with pride: “Was our fine city not founded by Julius Caesar, as first daughter to Rome?” they crowed. “Did the legendary Charlemagne not rebuild it centuries later? Is ours not the city of the Divine Poet, who wrote heavenly and timeless verse? And of Leonardo, l’uomo universale? Is it not the birthplace of Donatello, Masaccio, Ghiberti, and Brunelleschi—a pantheon of artisans unsurpassed? Have we not led the philosophers into a new Age of Man, raising him up to the glory of his Creator?
“Tell us,” the Florentines boasted to visitors, “Did Pope Bonifacio not pronounce us as the ‘fifth-essence,’ beyond earth, air, fire and water as a living force? Are we not the most enduring Republic after Rome (the pride of Virgil and Cicero), a place where liberty and justice reign supreme; on which neither tyrant nor king can fix shackles and chains? Do we not rule over all cities in our realm as their benevolent protector? Is this not our Golden Age, pronounced as such by our greatest philosophers, a glory even Pericles could not envision? Are we not destined by divine favor?”
The peacocks puffed and spouted their dead poets as they went about their daily business of living. Every Florentine was a poet; some better than others, but all borrowed and stole with impunity when reciting their birthright:
Since Fortuna smiles at you,
to you, Florence, clear light, I speak;
…that Lord of Heaven who makes all things,
seeing so much virtue reigns in you,
Will want your well-being to increase, to triumph so fully
It makes one rejoice merely to imagine it.
So in springtime the peasant flower girls, the contadine, came into the city carrying boughs of woven cornflowers and lilies to entice buyers on the streets. They sang gaily, indiscreetly promoting the pagan cult of Isis. At such times it was difficult not to breathe in and succumb to the magic in the city’s air.
But, the young official lamented, not this year. His might be the City of Flowers, but it was also the City of Towers. Recalling the prisoner locked above, he remembered it was Mars who had been the city’s patron before the Christians came. And after this Roman god of war was driven out, his curse remained. The Divine Poet foretold all:
I was born in the city where the Baptist
Replaced the former master, who in his scorn
will always torment it with his art.
So, while the flowers seduced the hearts of his fellow Florentines, the militant towers filled their hungry bellies. The towers shot up like menacing spears of war, where their owners could rain down arrows, stones, and scalding oils on the heads of enemies. The towers once numbered more than one hundred and fifty, creating a picket line of defense behind the city walls. But they were not arrayed against enemies beyond the walls—barbarian hordes or covetous kings from France or Spain, avaricious popes, or the fierce dragon Turk. Instead, the sideways glance of the Florentine caught upon his neighbor, his neighbor’s house, his neighbor’s wife, and his neighbor’s livelihood. His spears were aimed at fellow citizens in an endless vendetta of revenge: faction against faction; family against family; Guelph against Ghibelline; Papist against Imperialist; Black against White; Pazzi against Medici.
Family, Honor, Victory: these were the mantles of the immortals.
Though most of these ancient towers had fallen in blazes of civic strife over the years and a sensible law had restricted the heights of newly built structures, their ghosts lingered on in the bellies of these Florentines, who were forever angling to gain an advantage over neighbor and rival. Long dead Cosimo, pater patria, father of his city, revealed the truth when he had said, “There is in the garden a plant which one ought to leave dry, although most people water it. It is the weed called Envy.” In this Eden the weed flourished. And Envy never smiles, except at the sight of someone else’s misfortune.
The official paced his small office as he weighed the situation: The Golden Age of the Medici was dead; the new pope threatens us with an interdict; and, should we obey the Holy Father, the French king threatens worse. Meanwhile our most evil enemies hide among us. All because of this damned Friar—the one the people foolishly proclaim their prophet. It exasperated him: foolish and cowardly citizens made a foolish and cowardly republic, a republic that could not defend itself against more determined enemies.
But amidst chaos lay opportunity and the young official’s ambition burned. His superior, the Secretary of the Ten, had been removed from office only days ago and the vacancy presented a fleeting chance. He must plan his next move wisely.
As the sun dipped behind the red-flamed hills, the busy bees below wound down after another agitated day. They had become a horde, ready to swarm and attack any who threatened the gathering of nectar, and the name of the friar stuck on the tip of each of their tongues like a fly in honey.
“Perhaps we should sacrifice him to the gods,” his enemies spat. “Appeased, they’ll permit us to prosper and grow fat again in peace.”
“Or possibly,” snapped his supporters, “the Almighty will reach down and pluck His humble servant from the jaws of the wolf, raising him up to the heavens in a fiery flame of glory. Then Our Lord shall loose thunderbolts on all you faithless sinners. Yes, perhaps one more miracle will suffice.”
Up in the tower the circle of light completed its arc across the cell as the prisoner, lying prostrate on the hard, cold floor, once more was consumed by darkness.
INFERNO
See this beast driving me backward,
help me resist, famous sage,
For she makes my veins pulse and shudder.
…
Many are the beasts she mates,
there will be more, until the Hound comes
Who will give this creature a painful death.
Not nourished by earthly fare,
But by wisdom, goodness, and love,
born between Feltro and Feltro,
He shall restore Low Italy…
- Dante Alighieri
[Inferno: I:88-90; 100-06]
“O God, the heathens are come into Thy inheritance,
they have defiled Thy holy temple.”
-Psalm 78/79:1
Chapter 1
Carnevale, 1491
Chaos
This day was like no other day of the year. It began a week early, slowly building momentum until it erupted in the middle of gray winter with a volcano of color and laughter, an orgy of pagan delights driven by pungent smells and irrepressible urges. Willing participants cavorted in their elaborate costumes, dancing along the parade route as it snaked through the old center of the city.
A youth in a Fool’s mask slipped evasively through the revelers, his heart beating rapidly. Over his shoulder he had seen the flash of red and yellow scarves—the colors of the Vipers—and knew what would happen if they discovered him. He would seek a safer route to make his rendezvous in the piazza.
Cleaving his way through the painted faces and odd carnival masks he felt exhilarated by the jesters and harlequins, plague doctors and Death masks, radiant Suns and melancholy Moons, cavaliers, courtiers and kings all flowing by. Carnevale was a favorite festival—a perpetual motion of color with echoes of gaiety and laughter as revelers sang and danced and hoisted their jugs of wine—so many pregnant pleasures for a young man with guile and wit. He absorbed all, knowing the masks concealed their wearers’ identities, but also revealed their most secret desires and conceits. Anonymity, he suspected, was perhaps, the best disguise of all.
The Fool fell in behind a trionfo, a parade vehicle drawn by six lumbering oxen flanked by warhorses. Darting past, he saw a hooded figure whirling about like a dervish on its stage. As two drummers set a thundering tempo, the figure reared back and forth, to and fro, in a corybantic dance. He strained to peer up under the dancer’s hood to see if it was man or woman, but found a faceless void. As the spirit twirled, the black cape furled out, blocking the light and chilling the stage. The effect was that of a threatening storm and the audience grasped their cloaks and shrunk back as the fearsome spectacle bore down on them in the narrow street.
The Fool climbed up a torch lamp, anxious to get a better view while keeping a sharp lookout for red and yellow Vipers. The trionfo was a pagan Creation allegory. Seated around the stage were several splendid gods and goddesses reclined in luxury, the center presided over by the Mother goddess—her rich brown robes flowing under a cape of verdant green that set off her pale skin and red-hair. To her left the god of Love and attraction lounged in velvety shades of crimson and rose, beckoning to the crowd with his eyes. On the right sat the vainglorious god of the Heavens, his hood of midnight sprayed with stars and a Milky Way of lace. It was a magical ensemble.
The hooded figure dashed in and around these three, fanning his cape and gyrating about, as small star-like figures danced across the stage. Then the wagon halted and a solemn figure in the back stood up and steadied himself at a lectern. Draped in a white toga and crowned with a garland of vines, his voice boomed out as a fanfare of trumpets hushed the crowd:
And in the beginning there was a Void,
and out of the Void sprang Chaos,
and next broad-bosomed Gaea, earth goddess,
the solid and eternal home of all,
and Eros, most beautiful of the immortal gods,
who in every man and every god softens the sinews
and overpowers the prudent purpose of the mind.
Out of the Void came Darkness and black Night,
and out of Night came Light and Day,
her children conceived after union
in love with Darkness.
Gaea first produced starry Uranus, equal in size
with herself, to cover her on all sides.
Thereafter she lay with Uranus and gave birth
to Ocean with its deep current…
Great Father Sky called his children the Titans,
And because of his feud with them he said
they blindly tightened the noose and
had done a savage thing
for which they would have to pay
in time to come…
A raucous laugh alerted the Fool to a blaze of color to his right—the Vipers were approaching. As he climbed down a voice suddenly cackled above the din, freezing him.
“Stop! Signore, take heed!”
The Fool’s eyes darted to a small figure sitting on the ground dressed in black under the beaked mask of a raven. In front of this creature, splayed on a coarse linen cloth, was a hand of tarocchi face cards arranged in the shape of a Celtic cross.
“Por favore, Signore,” cackled the Raven. “I see an important event in your futuro, let us take the Fool’s journey together and see if the sixth card turns up in your favore.”
A foreign accent with a lisp, maybe Spanish, perhaps a Catalan gypsy. Thinking quickly, the Fool crouched out of the line of sight of those walking by. “Va bene, Messer Raven, what have you got?”
He watched the Raven scrutinize him as a commercial prospect: young, fashionable, dressed in black with tight silk doublet and hose—the telltale signs of a young grandi. But then the seer’s practiced eye dulled as it caught the aged cloak and worn-out soles. As the Raven slowly turned the next card, the Fool held his breath, keeping his ear closely tuned to the sound of the Vipers passing by.
The Raven spoke. “If I may say, Signore, you wear the máscara of the Fool today. Perhaps you are at the start of your journey. The cards will guide you through the labyrinth of—”
The Fool held up his hand to interrupt: “Basta!” His words cut quick as he pointed to each card in turn: “The Hanged Man? And the Fool, the Tower, the Devil, the Moon, the World… Surely an ill-fated hand!”
The Raven offered a rotted-toothed smile under his curved beak as he opened his arms, his palms facing up. “The cards speak, Signore, not I.” Fearing to overplay his hand, he paused. “But, I dealt these tarjetas before you chanced by. Perhaps we should begin again? The reading depende always on your domande...”
Over his shoulder the Fool spied the red and yellow scarves moving off. “I’m too late already, Messer Raven,” he said as he plucked a small coin from his doublet and tossed it on the linen cloth. “Perhaps next time you can tell me how to win at triche-tach. That would better help my fortunes.”
The Raven nodded as he pocketed the coin. “Mille gracias, Signore. Hasta luego.”
Turning around, the Fool looked both ways then doubled back to enter the piazza from the far side. Dodging a horde of children harrying a gaily-dressed juggler, he passed under two giants on stilts high-stepping above the crowd, then ducked down a small side alley hoping to avoid further trouble before meeting up with his companions.
Fortuna
Moments later he reached the Piazza della Signoria where the expansive square undulated with rolling waves of bodies. Buffeted by the swell, he searched the crowd for the blue and white banners of his neighborhood gonfalon. As his eyes surveyed the crowd he noticed the inordinate number of Guards of the Eight lined up outside the Palazzo and dispersed through the Piazza. Finally he located his group over near the Pisan canopy and made his way through the crush of bodies. When he arrived he lifted his mask to reveal himself.
A horned red devil swung a wine flask in his face. “Ciao, Nico. Where’ve you been?”
Recognizing Tommaso’s slurred voice, he shrugged. “Just a diversion or two.”
“Anyone I know?” Tommaso asked, offering his flask.
All around a raucous crowd of masked revelers gathered—friends, neighbors, relations, and servants—all from the gonfalon of the Shell in the Oltrarno quarter across the river. They were dancing and waving their banners, waiting for their trionfo—the one he, Niccolò, had helped design—to arrive. Tommaso was his closest childhood acquaintance and sometimes rival, the eldest son of the distinguished Soderini family. Everyone knew Tommaso hadn’t a care in the world, his future assured: he was betrothed to Fiammetta Strozzi, the first daughter of the richest family in Florence.
Just then a beautiful young sylph caught Niccolò’s eye. She was veiled behind an exquisite Carnival mask—her cat’s eyes framed in dove-white trimmed with glass-beaded jewels and gold lace. Her long blond hair, covered in fine white lace, swept up toward the top of her head in the French style, and then cascaded down her back over a gown of gold and white damask. If she had not been precariously perched on platformed boots her gown would have grazed the ground.
“Is that Chiara?” he whispered in disbelief.
“Forget it, Machia.”
It was. Tommaso’s young cousin, a daughter of the Corbinelli and another neighbor. Niccolò could not remember the last time he had seen her, surely she had been just a child. Now, with her full-length wool surcoat pulled close against the February chill she resembled a pale yellow lily gripped in a gloved fist, poised at that delicate and dangerous age when feminine allure suddenly blossoms with the discovery of its wondrous power. She must be almost sixteen years and Niccolò doubted he would forget her again. He dropped his Fool’s mask down over his face and strode over. Acting the gallant, he bowed low.
“Mademoiselle Corbinelli?” he inquired, mimicking the manners of French courtly fashion. “Enchanté.”
Playing along, she proffered her hand. “Monsieur Machiavelli, I presume.”
Tommaso rolled his eyes and wandered off.
“Did you see the Creation?” she asked.
Immediately he was charmed, but before he could reply a sudden trumpet blast announced the arrival of the next parade float. It was his—their—neighborhood trionfo.
Captivated by the sight, Chiara pulled him toward the center of the Piazza.
“Che fantastico!”
“Il Trionfo del Uomo, The Triumph of Man,” Niccolò said with pride, hoping she would notice where he had slipped in his family standard—the silver field emblazoned with the azure cross and nails in the corners. These nails were the mal clavellus that had given his family its name. He presumed she would be impressed.
The stage, filled with masked allegorical figures, was dominated by a large wooden wheel painted with human figures along its rim. They rose and fell as the wheel was turned by three smaller figures adorned with ribbons to mimic the wind. It was the Wheel of Fortune spun by the Three Fates. Next to the wheel stood a masked woman in white holding a horn of plenty, with a ship’s rudder propped up at her side. Opposite stood a second masked woman, this one in black, holding a pair of dice and juggling balls.
Chiara pointed to the figures. “Look, Caterina is Fortuna and Isabella, Nemesis.”
Niccolò admired his handiwork: Fortuna—the bitch goddess of Chance, who he chased both day and night. Considering his gambling debts, she was fast eluding him. He glanced at Chiara and tried to imagine how easy life must be, born with Fortuna at one’s side. Young, beautiful, rich: she was all three and the treasure of the Corbinelli, a respected old family connected through marriage to the most powerful clans in the city. And he, a Machiavelli, a noble name with threadbare hose and holes in his shoes.
As Chiara’s cloak fell open, Niccolò noticed the budding breasts and curve of her narrow waist and put his envy aside. What did the noisome priests say? Thou shalt not covet… Besides, he thought, the gods always provided mortals with one consolation: One turn of the Wheel and those favored by Fortuna were soon brought down by Nemesis. Perhaps, he thought, it’s better the bitch Fortuna keeps me hungry.
Chiara pointed to the figures at the back of the stage. “Who are they?”
“Justice, Liberty, Truth. And behind them: Necessity, Virtù, and Reason.”
“I like the Roman centurion, is that Marco?” Chiara waved but failed to get the centurion’s attention. Then she pointed to the fantastic creature in the middle with feathered angel wings and a beaked mask with a sprouting crown of feathers. “This looks more like a chicken or cock, no?”
“A chicken?” Niccolò was scandalized. “It’s an eagle.”
“Don’t blame me, Monsieur. I envision Liberty as a lady, not a beaked bird. Just maybe you’re a secret Ghibelline—ah, I see the Machiavelli standard there.”
“Basta, basta! Enough,” he admonished, pleased. She’s clever for her age, he thought, maybe too clever in exercising her newly discovered feminine skills. Perhaps she secretly admired him. A bet he was willing to gamble.
“So tell me their story,” she said.
“Senti. Necessity is the mother of action, creating opportunities for man. Then Virtù, together with Reason, battle Evil’s dark forces to determine man’s actions, for good or for bad—for the ideals of Truth, Justice, and Liberty, or their opposing forces. But man’s efforts always suffer the vagaries of the Fates, who serve the whims of both Fortuna and Nemesis. Capricious Fortuna herself may lift men up but, without Virtù, Nemesis brings down the proud and greedy. At other times even the most virtuous are brought low.”
Chiara feigned confusion. “And so?”
Niccolò summed up his thesis: “We mortals have only one recourse—Virtù.”
Then she challenged him. “If Virtù is all that holds our world together, tell me—how virtuous are you?”
He laughed evasively, knowing she had confounded Christian virtue with Roman Virtù, perhaps deliberately. But as a gambler he knew to hold his cards close, so he hedged: “Only the truly depraved would claim to be wholly virtuous.”
Just then Tommaso meandered back their way, swinging his flask and forcing all to imbibe. “Come on, il Machia, drink up!” Tommaso was drunk, disconcerting his younger cousin.
“Where’s Fiammetta?” she demanded.
“There, with her sisters. I must constantly separate the cow from the herd.” Tommaso laughed, taking no pains to be delicate in front of his cousin. He nudged Niccolò. “Hey Machia, seen any ripe fruit?”
Niccolò winced. Tommaso’s coarseness was deliberate, if not malicious. Friendship aside, Niccolò was not a serious suitor for a Soderini family treasure like Chiara. But the best-laid plans in the business of marriage were subject to the whims of fate and love; hence Tommaso's wariness. His barbs were a reminder that a Machiavelli’s attentions should be focused elsewhere. Niccolò was relieved to see Chiara ignored the remark as well.
Distracted, she exclaimed, “Look, Nemesis dropped one of her balls.”
The painted wooden ball rolled off the stage and dropped to the pavement, where a swift-footed street urchin snatched it. As Niccolò shouted after him, the boy darted away and quickly disappeared into the crowd with his prize.
Niccolò cursed as he picked up his fallen mask.
Tommaso needled him: “You see how Chance plays loose with the designs of men?”
“We could use more Virtù in this city,” Niccolò muttered.
“As the devil, I must disagree. But maybe you should send your Roman with sword in hand after the scamp.” Tommaso quoted the Latin text on the banner draped across the centurion: “Duce virtute comite Fortuna.”
“Sí, but Virtù vince Fortuna,” Niccolò retorted. Yes, Virtù conquers Fortune.
“Basta, listen,” Chiara hushed them, holding her head still.
As the Triumph of Man retreated along the parade route, the drone of hymnal chants wafted toward them through the air. Waves of bodies washed back across the open space, jostling them as they tried to see. Then a crucifix bobbed into view above the crowd, announcing the approach of the religious orders.
“Madonna,” said Tommaso, “it’s the black crows. Andiamo, let’s go.”
But Chiara’s eyes were transfixed on the approaching monks. “I want to hear the hymns,” she said. “Then Bacchus and Ariadne will be coming after.” Tommaso shrugged and disappeared across the Piazza as the crowd pushed to make way.
The Friars
As plainchant filled the Piazza, Niccolò felt a tinge of disdain. God’s holy army, he thought, dressed in hooded frocks with their tonsured heads bared, their eyes and voices uplifted in blissful ignorance.
Marked by their mode of dress, the various orders were a ubiquitous sight within the city walls. First in line came the white-frocked Benedictines, a small order followed by the much larger contingent of gray-frocked Franciscans. The disciples of the pious and gentle Francis, the Frati Minori, made up the most numerous order in Florence and the surrounding region. Like their founder, they wore simple, rough frocks cinched at the waist, sandaled or barefoot. Unlike their founder, many were corpulent. The Gray frocks, as they were commonly called, had many zealous members who closely guarded their holy primacy in the city.
“Che bellissima!” Chiara said, closing her eyes. “Mother drags me to the Duomo regularly; the choir is the only thing that makes it tolerable.”
Well, he thought as he rolled his eyes, hopefully she wasn’t one of those. His mother was—a psalm-singer—but these noisome chants soured his ears. The meddling of monks, priests, and friars was a plague on the Christian world, and particularly virulent here in Florence. He remembered as a boy how a certain Fra Barto, an Augustinian at Santo Spirito, had paid frequent visits to a young widow in his neighborhood. The older boys had joked how Fra Barto was comforting Mona Lucrezia with brief glimpses of heaven. And on Sundays, when his mother dragged him to Church, he heard Fra Barto scold the congregation, demanding the last quattrino from a poor man’s purse. No, most clerics were nothing but charlatans, lechers, and philanderers hiding behind the cloth and making a dirty business of their vocation. Watching them wield the cross like a sword was particularly odious. The ironic truth was that Niccolò’s mother had wanted him to join the priesthood, but luckily his father’s wishes had prevailed. Fortunately for the Church as well.
“Have I told you the tale of Fra Timoteo?” Niccolò needled, referring to the ribald stories of Boccaccio that captured the irreverent attitude of the Machiavelli household. Chiara, her eyes still closed listening to the plainchant, ignored the remark.
The Franciscans were followed by the smaller order of black-clad Augustinians; these were the black crows to which Tommaso had referred. Behind them came the second largest order in the region and principal rival to the Franciscans: the black and white-clad Dominicans, called the Black friars. These were the learned Order of Preachers—that of St. Dominic, St. Augustine of Hippo and St. Thomas of Aquino—all masters of canon law and staunch defenders of Christian doctrine. The Dominicans were the grand Inquisitors of heretics across Christendom, cursed by their detractors as the Domini cani—the baying ‘Hounds of the Lord.’
The Dominicans raised their voices in a clear, measured unison as they entered the Piazza, silencing the crowd with the sweetness and enthusiasm of their song. A high-pitched solo, an octave doubling in pure falsetto, cut like a lark through the crisp air:
Ecce quam bonum…
Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren
to dwell together in unity…
Yes, brotherhood, Niccolò thought—a brotherhood of thieves.
As the procession of chanting monks passed under the shadow of the large government palazzo, their harmony was shattered by a gang of young boys in cheap carnival masks racing in and out of the crowd, snipping at the monks’ heels like rabid dogs. The little devils were yelling out profanities while tossing various projectiles.
“Barking dogs!” “Filthy hounds!”
“Prayer-mumblers! Ha-ha! Save your own souls, you bald-headed crows!” the boys shouted, full of bravado.
One young ruffian let fly with a piece of rotten fruit, “Hey Friar Onion! Can you tell who hit you with that one?”
“Porco Dio! Up yours! Sodomiti!” shrieked another.
These profanities offended the more dignified citizens, who shouted the boys down and briefly gave chase. But the raucous youths were too slick and fast in the crowds, running off down the small alleys to reappear in another part of the vast Piazza.
Niccolò chuckled at the antics of the orphaned street boys, the fanciulli. To him, their harassment was divine justice for the moral lapses of God’s self-righteous little servants. Ten years ago he might have joined in. Chiara shot him a sharp look. “My mother would not be amused. She goes to all the sermons of the new preacher at San Marco.”
Niccolò scoffed, “Priests, preachers and monks…they’re all the same.” But he silently wondered about this new preacher. He always kept a sharp ear cocked to local gossip and lately he heard more and more chattering among the street wags about this Frate from Ferrara. They said he had visions, that he was a prophet. He laughed to himself. Yes, and I’m the king of France.
“So, Signorina, you have an interest in mystics?”
“I was just saying—”
The crowd buzzed and their attention was suddenly drawn to the approaching sound of full-throated singing. Shouts arose from the crowd: “Guarda, look! The chariots of Bacchus and Ariadne are coming! Quickly, get a better view!”
Bacchus and Ariadne
A chorus of male singers marched into view, twelve in all, flanked by flag-bearers on waving their banners in a choreographed routine. With their voices full of merriment and laughter, the singers glanced upwards to the second-story windows and balconies where they caught furtive glances filled with feminine mystique and promise. Inspired, the young men sang out with passion:
How sweet is youth, but oh so fleeting!
Let he who will, be merry, for tomorrow, who knows?
Here is Bacchus and here Ariadne,
Fair and Passionate to each other;
For time flies and is deceptive…
Maids and young men who love,
Long live Bacchus! Long live Love!
Let everyone sport, dance and sing!
Let your hearts be ablaze with joy!
Let there be no pain, no sorrow! What will be, will be:
For tomorrow, who knows?
Their enthusiasm was infectious, causing the audience to join in. Following close behind was a magnificent parade wagon drawn by enormous white oxen. This was the Medici family trionfo. It was richly draped with marine-blue tapestry adorned with white lilies and yellow cornflowers. Seated at a center throne were two figures depicting the lovers Bacchus and Ariadne—he in a Roman toga and she in a flowing white robe gathered at the waist. A four-cornered canopy interlaced with vines sheltered the throne while many fauns, satyrs and nymphs languished or danced around the stage. It was the pagan allegory of love and pleasure. Off the back of the wagon masqueraders and spectators merrily filled their cups with wine from the spigot of a huge wooden cask. Niccolò spied Tommaso gamely refilling his flask.
“Che bellissimo!” exclaimed Chiara. “Look, there’s Lorenzino, …and Beatrice and Francesca… They told me they would be with Piero. Let’s join them.” She waved to get the dancers’ attention.
Niccolò allowed his eyes to wander lustily over the nubile Ariadne, a face he didn’t recognize. These youth were all from the San Giovanni quarter, denoted by the standards of the Golden Lion and St. John’s Dragon—the neighborhoods of Medicean clients and supporters. The city’s social stratum was defined by this patchwork of little fiefdoms accorded by family names and gonfalon loyalties and the Mediceans were currently at the top of Fortune’s wheel. Theirs had been the wealthiest family in the city for the past three generations and though some fortunes, such as the Strozzi, had recently exceeded theirs, they were still the most celebrated and powerful. At the clan’s head was the revered Lorenzo—Il Magnifico, as his partisans had taken to calling him—who controlled the city by a tight network of family and client connections supporting the family trading and banking empire.
“Wait.” Niccolò restrained Chiara as a knight on a large black siege horse suddenly came trotting into the Piazza. It was Piero, son of Lorenzo, grandson of Piero the Gouty, great grandson of Cosimo. His dressage was decorated with gold shields containing the five red balls surrounding a single blue ball with the French fleur-de-lis in the center—the Medici coat-of-arms. His troop of flagbearers waved an identical standard. As Piero spurred his horse roughly, standing tall and waving his jousting lance, one sensed the bravura of a crusader off to save the Holy Land.
The rest of the troupe followed close behind: two small chariots filled with Piero’s younger siblings and his diffident Roman wife, Alfonsina. As the grandiose float came to a halt in the middle of the Piazza, the knight, chariots and flagbearers all gathered round. The entire ensemble was a calculated extravagance to impress and Chiara’s body strained to take in the spectacle.
Suddenly red-deviled Tommaso reappeared, his costume blending well with fresh stains of Chianti. He waved his flask toward Piero, who had leveled his lance in the pose of the conqueror. “Here’s to the birthday boy!” he sneered. “Look at him, thinks he’s one of King Arthur’s knights. Buffone.”
“Tommaso!” Chiara scolded.
“Relax, cugina, he’s our cousin but he’s still an ass. And his Roman wife is insufferable. To think the reins of the Republic may eventually fall into their hands. Anyway, we’ll have our fill of them both tonight.”
Niccolò knew the wine had loosened Tommaso’s tongue, but his antipathy for these younger Mediceans was widely shared. Many aristocratic clans had tried to displace the Medici and failed. Many of these were now banished or dead. Though Lorenzo’s power and benevolence were respected throughout Italia, his first son Piero pressed his birthright. Putting on the airs of a prince, he and his friends looked down upon residents of the other quarters, especially those from across the river. This year Shrove Tuesday fell on Piero’s birthday, so the Medici would host a celebration at their palazzo tonight even bigger and more impressive than usual. A sad irony, thought Niccolò: a city famed for its republican posturing so beset by petty infighting over power and status.