What really bothered him was the unaccountable stubbornness of his victims. Why did they refuse to admit their guilt at once? Why did they wait and make everyone suffer with them? Why did men refuse to listen to reason? Especially in Florence, where beauty and reason flourished more than in any other place, except possibly ancient Athens.
It was a pity, really a pity, that Francis Saluti himself was to be an instrument of their suffering. But wasn’t it true, as Plato had said, that in the life of every single person, no matter how good his intent, there were persons in this mortal world they made suffer?
More to the point: the legal documents were impeccable. Under the great republic of Florence, no citizen could be subjected to torture unless there was proof of his guilt. The documents had been signed by the responsible officials of the Signoria, the ruling council. He had read them carefully, more than once. Pope Alexander had approved, and sent church dignitaries as official observers. There were even rumors that the great Cardinal Cesare Borgia was in Florence secretly to observe. In that case there was no hope for the sainted friar. Silently, the man who must torture prayed for the holy man’s quick release from this earth.
His mind and soul prepared, Francis Saluti waited at the open door of the torture chamber for the defeated Hammer of God, Fra Girolamo Savonarola. At last, the famous orator was dragged into the room. It appeared that he already had been beaten, a fact that disappointed Saluti. This was an insult to his skill.
Like the professionals they were, Saluti and his assistant fastened Savonarola securely to the rack. Unwilling to leave the critical task to a subordinate, Saluti himself turned the iron wheels that moved the gears that, in turn, pulled the subject’s limbs ever so slowly from his body. All through this process, neither Saluti nor Savonarola said a word. This pleased Saluti. He considered this room to be like a church, a place for silence, prayer, and, finally, confession, not idle conversation.
Soon Saluti heard the familiar crunching pop, as the priest’s forearms broke loose at his elbows. The senior cardinal of Florence, who sat nearby, turned pale, shocked by the ghastly sound.
“Do you, Girolamo Savonarola, confess that your spoken message was false and heretical—a defiance of our Lord?” Saluti asked.
Savonarola’s face was pale as death, his eyes rolled toward heaven like the sainted martyrs in religious frescoes. Still, he made no reply.
The cardinal nodded to Saluti, who turned the wheel once again. After a moment there was a fierce ripping sound, accompanied by a high-pitched animal-like scream, as the bones and muscles of Savonarola’s arms were torn from his shoulders.
Again Saluti intoned his question. “Do you, Girolamo Savonarola, confess that your spoken message was false and heretical—a defiance of our Lord?”
The whispered words were barely audible when Savonarola whispered, “I confess.”
It was over.
Savonarola had acknowledged his heresy, and so the end was preordained. There was no protest from the Florentines. They had once adored him, but now were glad to be rid of him. Within the week the Hammer of God was hanged, his broken body twisting on the ropes until he was almost dead. Then he was cut down and burned at the stake in the piazza in front of the Church of San Marco where he had spewed forth his fire and brimstone—where he had almost driven the Pope himself to death and destruction.
Pope Alexander, on this workday morning, considered the ways of the world, the trickeries of nations, the treacheries of families, and the odd, satanic ways hidden in the hearts of every individual on earth. Still, he did not despair. The ways of God he never had to ponder, since he was Christ’s Vicar on Earth and his faith was immeasurable. He knew that above all God was merciful, and would forgive all sinners. That was the bedrock of his faith. He never doubted that the purpose of God was to create happiness and joy in this temporal world.
But a Pope’s duties were different. Above all, he had to make the Holy Church stronger so that it could carry the word of Christ everywhere in the world—and, even more important, over the vastness of time into the future. The greatest calamity for man would be to have the voice of Christ silenced.
In this way his son Cesare could serve. Though he would no longer be a cardinal, he was certain to help unify the Papal States, for he was an excellent military strategist and a patriot as well. The only question was, did he have the character to withstand the temptations of power? Did he know mercy? For if not, he could save the souls of many and yet lose his own. This troubled Alexander.
But now, there were other decisions to be made. Details of his office, boring administrative rulings. Today there were three, only one of which caused him true conflict. He had to decide on the life or death of his chief secretary, Plandini, who had been convicted of selling papal bulls. Then he would have to decide whether one of the members of a great and noble family should be canonized as a saint of the church. And third, together with his son and Duarte, he had to go over the plans and amassed funds that he had allocated to start a new campaign to unite the Papal States.
Alexander was dressed in formal style, but simply—as a Pope who would dispense favors, not demand them. His white robe was plain, lined only in red silk, and on his head he wore the light linen miter. On his hand was only the ring of Saint Peter, the papal ring, to be kissed. Nothing more.
Today, in order to justify the actions that he was about to take, he was to represent the church as merciful. And for this he used the reception room whose walls were adorned with the paintings of the Virgin Mary, the Madonna who intercedes with God for all sinners.
He called for Cesare to sit by his side, for he understood some men must be taught the virtuous application of mercy.
His first client was his most loyal servant of twenty years, Stiri Plandini, who had been discovered forging papal bulls. Cesare knew him well, for he had been at the court from the time Cesare was a child.
The man was wheeled into the chamber in a prisoner’s chair—a stuffed chair in which he was immobilized by chains, covered with robes out of respect for the Pope’s tender eyes.
Alexander ordered the chains on the man’s arms removed at once, and then ordered that he be given a glass of wine. For Plandini had tried to speak, but could only croak hoarsely.
Then the Pope spoke, with compassion. “Plandini, you are convicted and sentenced. You have served me faithfully these many years, yet I cannot help you now. But you begged for an audience and I could not refuse you. So, speak.”
Stiri Plandini was a typical scrivener. His eyes were squinted from reading, and his face had that looseness which bespeaks a man who has never hunted or worn armor. His body was so slim it held only a small space in the chair. And when he spoke, his voice was very weak.
“Holy Father,” he said. “Have mercy on my wife and children. Do not let them suffer for my sins.”
Alexander said, “I will see that they come to no harm. Now, have you given up all your conspirators?” He hoped that Plandini could name one of the cardinals he held in special disfavor.
“Yes, Holy Father,” Plandini said. “I repent for my sin and I beg you, in the name of the Holy Virgin, for my life. Let me live and care for my family.”
Alexander considered this. A pardon for this man would encourage others to violate his trust. But he felt pity. How many mornings had he dictated letters to Plandini and exchanged a jest, or inquired as to the health of his children? The man had been a perfect secretary and a devout Christian.
“You are well paid. Why did you commit such a grievous crime?” the Pope asked.
Plandini was holding his head in his hands, his whole body shaking as he was wracked with sobs. “My sons. My sons,” he said. “They are young and wild and I had to pay their debts. I had to keep them close to me. I had to bring them back to the faith.”
Alexander looked toward Cesare, but his expression remained impassive. True or not, it was a clever response by Plandini. The Pope’s fondness for his own children was well known in Rome.
The man had touched him.
Standing there in the bright sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows, surrounded by portraits of the forgiving Madonna, Alexander felt overwhelmed by his responsibility. This very day, this very man before him would be hanging from a gibbet in the public square, deaf and dumb forever to the pleasures of earth—his five sons and three daughters torn to pieces with grief. And certainly the three conspirators must die, even if he pardoned this man. Would it be just to kill him as well?
Alexander lifted the linen miter from his head; light as it was, he could not bear its weight any longer. He ordered his papal guards to free the prisoner and help him stand up. Then he saw Plandini’s warped torso, his shoulders twisted from the rack during interrogation.
Overcome not so much with sadness for this single sinner, but for all the evil in the world itself, he stood and embraced Plandini. “The Holy Mother of Compassion has spoken to me. You will not die. I pardon you. But you must leave Rome and leave your family. You will live the rest of your life in a monastery far from here, and devote your life to God to earn his mercy.”
Gently, he pushed Plandini back into his chair and motioned for him to be taken away. All would be well; the pardon would be cloaked in secrecy, the other conspirators would hang, and both the church and God would be served.
Suddenly he felt a joy that he had rarely felt—not even with his children, the women he loved, the treasures he counted for the Crusades. He felt a belief in his Christ that was so pure that all the pomp, all the power vanished, and it seemed he was all of light. As that feeling faded, he wondered if his son Cesare could ever feel this ecstasy of mercy.
The next petitioner was an altogether different kettle of fish, Alexander thought. He would have to keep his wits about him and not go soft. A hard bargain had to be made, and he must not weaken. This client would inspire not a drop of mercy. He replaced the miter on his head.
“Shall I wait in the anteroom?” Cesare asked, but the Pope beckoned Cesare to follow him.
“You may find this interesting,” he said.
For this meeting, Alexander selected another reception room that was not so forgiving. Its walls were painted with the portraits of warrior Popes, striking down the enemies of the church with sword and holy water. Depictions of saints being beheaded by the Infidel, Christs on crosses with thorned crowns and halls painted bright red. It was the Salon of Martyrs, more than appropriate to this interview.
The man presented to the Pope was the head of the noble and rich Venetian family of Rosamundi. He owned a hundred ships that traded all over the world. Like a true Venetian, his wealth was a closely guarded secret.
This Baldo Rosamundi, a man over seventy, was dressed respectfully in black and white, but wore precious stones as buttons. And on his face was the look of a man prepared to do serious business, as the two men had done together when Alexander was a cardinal.
“So you think your granddaughter should be canonized,” Alexander said cheerfully.
Baldo Rosamundi spoke respectfully. “Holy Father, that would be presumptuous of me. It is the people of Venice who began the petition to make her a saint. It is the holy officers of your church who investigated the claim and pushed it forward. I understand that it is only you, the Holy Father, who can give the final approval.”
Alexander had been briefed by the bishop designated as Protector of the Faith, whose role it was to investigate claims for canonization. It was quite an ordinary case. Doria Rosamundi would be a white saint, not a red saint. That is, she would be elevated to sainthood on the grounds of an impeccably virtuous life: a life of poverty, chastity, and good works, with an improbable miracle or two thrown in. There were hundreds of such claims each year. Alexander had no affection for white saints; he preferred those who died as martyrs for the Holy Church—the red saints.
The documentation showed that Doria Rosamundi had scorned the good life of her rich family. She had ministered to the poor, and since there were not enough of them in Venice—a city that did not allow even the freedom of poverty—she had traveled throughout the small towns of Sicily gathering orphan children to care for. She had been chaste, she had lived in poverty, and most important she had fearlessly tended victims of the plagues that constantly struck the general population. And then she herself had died at the age of twenty-five of one of these plagues. She had been dead only ten years when her family initiated the process of canonization.
Of course, as proof, there had been miracles. During the last plague, some of the victims had been pronounced dead and put on the stacks of corpses for burning. But when Doria had prayed over them, they had miraculously come back to life.
After her death, prayers at her tomb had produced some cures for deadly illnesses. And on the blue Mediterranean waters, sailors saw her face hovering over their ships in great storms. Document after document attested to these miracles. Everything had been investigated, and none had been disproven. And it helped that the great wealth of the Rosamundi could help to push this petition up through all the levels of the church.
Alexander said, “What you ask is great, my responsibility even greater. Once your granddaughter is made a saint, by definition she resides in heaven seated at the side of God and therefore can intercede for all her loved ones. Her shrines will be in your church; pilgrims will come from all over the world to worship. It is a weighty decision. What can you add to all this evidence?”
Baldo Rosamundi bowed his head in reverence. “My personal experience,” he said. “When she was just a little girl, I was at the height of my good fortune and yet it meant nothing to me. It was all ashes. And yet when Doria was only seven years old, she saw my sadness and implored me to pray to God for happiness. I did, and I became happy. She was never selfish as a child; she was never selfish as a young woman. I delighted in buying her expensive jewels, but she never wore them. She sold them and gave the money to the poor. After her death, I was very ill. The doctors bled me until I was white as a ghost, but still I was failing. Then one night I saw her face, and she spoke to me. She said, ‘You must live to serve God.’ ”
Alexander raised his hands in respectful benediction and then lifted the miter from his head. He placed it on the table between them. “And have you lived to serve God?” he said.
“You must know I have,” Baldo Rosamundi said. “I have built three churches in Venice. I have supported a home for foundlings in memory of my granddaughter. I have renounced worldly pleasures unsuitable to men of my age, and I have found renewed love for Christ and the Blessed Madonna.” He paused for a moment and then faced the Pope with a benign smile that Alexander remembered well. “Holy Father, you have but to command me as to how to serve the church.”
Alexander pretended to ponder this, then spoke. “You must know that since I have been elected to this holy office, my greatest hope has been to lead another Crusade. To lead a Christian army into Jerusalem to recapture the birthplace of Christ.”
“Yes, yes,” Rosamundi said eagerly. “I will use all my influence in Venice so that you will have the finest fleet of ships. You can count on me.”
Alexander shrugged. “Venice is hand in glove with the Turks, as you know. They cannot jeopardize their trade routes and colonies by giving lavish support to a Crusade for the Holy Church. I understand that, as you surely do. What I really need is gold, to pay the soldiers and supply them with provisions. The sacred fund is not plentiful. Even with revenues from the jubilee, the extra tax I have extracted from all the members of the clergy, high and low, and the tax of ten percent for the Crusade from every Christian. From the Jews of Rome I’ve asked twenty percent. But the sacred fund is still a little meager.” He smiled and then added, “And so you can serve.”
Baldo Rosamundi nodded thoughtfully as though this were a surprise to him. He even dared to raise his eyebrows slightly. Then he said, “Holy Father, give some idea what you require and I will obey, even if I have to mortgage my fleet.”
Alexander had alread
y given some thought to what sum he could extract from Rosamundi. To have a saint in the family would make the Rosamundi welcome in every court in the Christian world. It would protect them from powerful enemies to a great degree. It did not matter that there were almost ten thousand saints in the history of the Catholic Church; only a few hundred of them had the certification of the papacy in Rome.
Alexander spoke slowly. “Your granddaughter was certainly blessed by the Holy Spirit. She was beyond reproach as a Christian, she added glory to God’s kingdom on earth. But it is perhaps too soon after her death to canonize her. There are many other candidates waiting, some as long as fifty or one hundred years. I do not want to be hasty. It is an irrevocable act.”
Baldo Rosamundi, who had radiated hope and confidence only moments before, seemed to shrink in his chair. He said, in an almost inaudible whisper, “I want to pray at her shrine before I die, and I have not so long to live. I want her to intercede for me in heaven. I am a true believer in Christ and I truly believe that my Doria is a saint. I wish to worship her while I am here on earth. I beg you, Holy Father, ask me what you wish.”
At that moment Alexander saw that the man was sincere, that he truly did believe. So, with the gaiety of a gambler, Alexander asked for double the amount he had planned. “Our fund for the Crusade needs five hundred thousand ducats,” he said. “Then the Christian world can sail for Jerusalem.”
Baldo Rosamundi’s body seemed to jump into the air, as if struck by lightning. For a moment he pressed his hands over his ears as if not to hear, but he was concentrating his mind and trying to answer. Then he became calm, and a beautiful serenity transformed his face. “Thank you, Holy Father,” he said. “But you must come to Venice personally to dedicate her shrine and perform the necessary ceremonies.”