Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa

‘This is not right,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘This is not right …’

So many in the church were crying and moaning, murmuring to Fra Girolamo and God, that not even my father noticed her now; he and Pico were far too captivated by the preacher.

‘Oh Lord!’ Fra Girolamo cried sharply. The monk pressed his forehead to his folded hands; he released a bitter sob, then raised his tear-streaked face towards Heaven. ‘Lord, I am only a humble monk. I have not asked for your visitation; I do not crave to speak for you, or to receive visions. Yet I humbly submit to your will. In your name, I am willing, as Jeremiah was, to endure the sufferings inflicted by the unholy on your prophets.’

He gazed down at us, his eyes and voice becoming tender. ‘I weep … I weep as you do, for the children. I weep for Florence, and the scourge that awaits her. Yet how long can we continue to sin? How long do we offend God, before He is compelled to unleash His righteous wrath? Like a loving father, He has stayed His hand. But when His children continue to err grievously, when they mock Him, He must, for their good, mete out harsh punishment.

‘Look at you women: you, with sparkling jewels hanging heavy round your necks, from your ears. If one of you – only one of you – repented of the sin of vanity, how many of the poor might be fed? Look at the swaths of silk, of brocade, of velvet, of priceless gold thread that adorn your earthly bodies. If but one of you dressed plainly to please God, how many would be saved from starvation?

‘And you men, with your whoring, your sodomy, your gluttony and drunkenness: Were you to turn instead to the arms of your wife alone, the Kingdom of God would have more children. Were you to give half your plate to the poor, none in Florence would go hungry; were you to forswear wine, there would be no brawling, no bloodshed in the city.

‘You wealthy, you lovers of art, you collectors of vain things: How you offend, with your glorification of man instead of the Divine, with your vile and useless displays of wealth, while others die for want of bread and warmth! Cast off your earthly riches, and look instead for that treasure which is eternal.

‘Almighty God! Turn our hearts from sin towards you. Spare us the torment that is surely coming to those who flout your laws.’

I looked to my mother. She was staring with a gaze fixed and furious, not at Savonarola but at a point far beyond him, beyond the stone walls of San Marco.

‘Mother,’ I said, but she could not hear me. I tried to slip from her embrace, but her grip only tightened until I yelped. She had turned stone rigid, with me caught in her grasp. Zalumma recognized the signs at once and was speaking gently, rapidly to her, urging her to free me, to lie down here, to know that all would be well.

‘This is the judgment from God!’ my mother shouted, with such force that I struggled in vain to lift my hands to my ears.

Fra Girolamo heard. The congregation near us heard. They looked to my mother and me, expectant. My father and Pico regarded us with pure horror.

Zalumma put her arms about my mother’s shoulders and tried to bring her down, but she was firm as rock. Her voice deepened and changed timbre until I no longer knew it.

‘Hear me!’ Her words rang with such authority that it silenced the whimpering. ‘Flames shall consume him until his limbs drop, one by one, into Hell! Five headless men shall cast him down!’

My mother fell heavily against me. I crumpled beneath her, colliding with my father as I did. I snatched a fleeting impression of Pico pulling him back before I reached the cold, unforgiving marble. I landed on my side, simultaneously striking my head, my shoulder and my hip.

Then came flashes of green velvet and white ermine, the hems of women’s skirts and the boots of men. I heard whispers, exclamations and Zalumma’s shouts.

My mother lay atop me, her side pressed to mine. Her limbs thrashed; her elbow spasmed and dug into my ribs. At the same time, my mother’s teeth champed; the air released each time she opened her mouth whistled in my ear. The sound terrified me: I should have been holding her head, making sure she did not bite her tongue or otherwise harm herself.

Zalumma’s loud commands suddenly became intelligible. ‘Grab her arms! Pull her out!’

Strong hands seized my wrists, lifted my arms above my head. I was rolled onto my back. My mother’s head fell onto my breast; her teeth snapped fiercely together. All the while, her arms and legs pummelled me; her hand swiped beneath my chin and drew away a piece of flesh beneath her fingernail.

Near my feet, invisible, Zalumma bellowed: ‘Pull her out!’

My father at once came to himself. With uncanny force, he clasped my upraised arms and dragged me out from under my mother’s writhing body. The movement caused an excruciating surge of pain in my ribs.

But the instant I was free, it was forgotten. I did not acknowledge my father’s aid; instead, I clambered to my knees and turned to my struggling mother. Zalumma had already crawled forward and used her body to weigh down her mistress’ kicking legs.

I found the furred edge of my mother’s cape and jammed it between her gnashing teeth. My intervention came late: She had bitten through her tongue, with frightening result. Blood stained her lips and teeth, cheek and chin; the white ermine round her face was spattered with crimson. Though I held her head fast, it jerked so violently in my hands that her cap fell back beneath her. My fingers soon were interlaced in her soft dark hair; the careful coils arranged earlier that morning by Zalumma frayed into tangles.

‘It is the Devil!’ A man stepped forward – young, red-haired, with pock-marked skin; I recognized him as the priest from Santa Maria del Fiore. ‘I saw her do this before, in the Duomo. She is possessed; the evil inside her cannot bear to stand upright in the house of God.’

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