The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [92]
Of course, as these rituals happened almost always by day, Marius himself had never been present.
Now, as we moved into the great Piazza della Signoria, I could see that he was displeased by the thin ash that still hung in the air, and the vile smells.
I also noticed that we slipped past others easily, two dark-draped swiftly moving figures. Our feet scarce made a sound. It was the vampiric gift that we could move so stealthily, shifting quickly out of sudden and occasional mortal observation with an instinctive grace.
“It’s as though we’re invisible,” I said to Marius, “as if nothing can hurt us, because we don’t really belong here and will soon take our leave.” I looked up at the grim battlements that fronted on the Square.
“Yes, but we are not invisible, remember it,” he whispered.
“But who died here today? People are full of torment and fear. Listen. There is satisfaction, and there is weeping.”
He didn’t answer.
I grew uneasy.
“What is it? It can’t be any common thing,” I said. “The city is too vigilant and unquiet.”
“It’s their great reformer, Savonarola,” Marius said. “He died on this day, hanged, and then burnt here. Thank God, he was already dead before the flames rose.”
“You wish mercy for Savonarola?” I asked. I was puzzled. This man, a great reformer in the eyes of some perhaps, had always been damned by all I knew. He had condemned all pleasures of the senses, denying any validity to the very school in which my Master thought all things were to be learnt.
“I wish mercy for any man,” said Marius. He beckoned for me to follow, and we moved towards the nearby street.
We headed away from the grisly place.
“Even this one, who persuaded Botticelli to heap his own paintings on the Bonfires of the Vanities?” I asked. “How many times have you pointed to the details of your own copies of Botticelli’s work to show me some graceful beauty you wanted me to never forget?”
“Are you going to argue with me until the end of the world!” said Marius. “I’m pleased that my blood has given you new strength in every aspect, but must you question every word that falls from my lips?” He threw me a furious glance, letting the light of nearby torches fully illuminate his half-mocking smile. “There are some students who believe in this method, and that greater truths rise out of the continued strife between teacher and pupil. But not me! I believe you need to let my lessons settle in quiet at least for the space of five minutes in your mind before you begin your counterattack.”
“You try to be angry with me but you can’t.”
“Oh, what a muddle!” he said as if he were cursing. He walked fast ahead of me.
The small Florentine street was dreary, like a passageway in a great house rather than a city street. I longed for the breezes of Venice, or rather, my body did, out of habit. I was quite fascinated to be here.
“Don’t be so provoked,” I said. “Why did they turn on Savonarola?”
“Give men enough time and they’ll turn on anyone. He claimed to have been a prophet, divinely inspired by God, and that these were the Last Days, and this is the oldest most tiresome Christian complaint in the world, believe you me. The Last Days! Christianity is a religion based on the notion that we are living in the Last Days! It’s a religion fueled by the ability of men to forget all the blunders of the past, and get dressed once more for the Last Days.”
I smiled, but bitterly. I wanted to articulate a strong presentiment, that we were always in the Last Days, and it was inscribed in our hearts, because we were mortals, when quite suddenly and totally I realized that I was no longer mortal, except insofar as the world itself was mortal.
And it seemed I understood more viscerally than ever the atmosphere of purposeful gloom which had overhung my childhood in