The Family - Mario Puzo [88]
Moments later, the innkeeper returned with a large carafe of wine and a huge platter of fresh fruit and cheese. And so Cesare rested on the bed, and dreamed . . .
It was a disturbing dream, a nightmare in which crosses and chalices, holy vestments and religious objects swirled around him, just outside his reach. A thunderous voice overhead instructed him to take hold of a golden chalice, but when he grasped for it he found a pistol in his hand. Though he tried to control it, it seemed to fire on its own. Then, as in all dreams, the scenery changed, and he was at a celebration, seated across from his father, his sister, and her newly betrothed, Prince Alfonso. The smile on his face turned to a grimace, and the golden pistol went off and shattered the face of either his sister or Alfonso—he could no longer see well enough to tell.
Cesare awoke, drenched in sweat, to hear the voices and shouts of the citizens in the square beneath his window. He got out of bed, still shaken, and looked outside. There, on a makeshift wooden pulpit, stood the preacher, Savonarola. He began with a fervent prayer to the Lord, his voice trembling with passion, and followed with a hymn of holy praise. In the square, the voices of the citizens were raised in adoration. But within a short time, the preacher began his fiery invective against Rome.
“Pope Alexander is a false Pope,” the friar shouted, and his voice was rich and filled with passion. “The minds of the humanists can twist the truth and make sense out of nonsense. But as there is black and white, there is good and evil, and it stands to reason: that which is not good is evil!”
Cesare studied the man. Thin, ascetic, and clothed in the brown hooded robes of the Dominican Order; his features coarse, yet not unpleasant. His tonsured head moved with conviction, and his hands spoke parables as he waved them to punctuate his words. “This Pope has courtesans,” he shouted. “He kills and poisons. The clergy in Rome keeps boys, and steals from the poor to feather the beds of the rich. They eat from golden plates, and ride on the backs of those who live in poverty.”
The citizens continued to gather, and Cesare found himself strangely fascinated by this man, entranced, as though he didn’t know the people the friar was railing about.
As a large crowd began to form, there were angry shouts, but the moment the friar began to speak again there was such silence that a star could be heard as it fell from the sky. “The God of heaven will cast your souls to hell for eternity, and those who follow these pagan priests will be damned. Give up your worldly goods and follow the path of Saint Dominic.”
Someone shouted from the crowd. “But in the monastery you have food donated by the wealthy! Your plates are not of wood, and your chairs have plush cushions. You dance to the tune of the fiddler who pays!”
Savonarola shuddered, and made a vow. “All money from the rich will be refused from this day forward. The friars in San Marco will only eat what the good citizens of Florence provide. One meal a day is enough. Any more shall be given to the poor who gather in the square each evening. No one will go hungry. But that will care only for your body! To preserve your souls you must renounce the Pope in Rome. He is a fornicator; his daughter is a prostitute who sleeps with both her father and brother—and poets as well.”
Cesare had witnessed enough. Once the Pope heard of this, he would not only excommunicate Savonarola—he would accuse him of heresy.
Cesare found his own reaction to the man confounding. He believed the man had vision, but also that he was crazy. For who would martyr himself in this way, knowing the outcome? Still, he allowed, who can know what images and icons spill within the brains of others? Despite all his logic, he knew the man was dangerous, and something must be done about him. For the new Signoria in Florence could be influenced, and if they forbade Florence from joining the Holy League, his father’s plans to unite the Romagna would be