Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Violetta startled us all; she set down her fan and went over to our stone railing and hissed down at the Franciscans: “Why does he speak to them? Will your brother not enter the fire?”

This drew the disdainful gaze of a young monk, who against the advice of his elders turned around to answer her. “He will enter. He is not afraid. But we have reason to believe that Fra Domenico”-for it was he and not Savonarola who steadfastly maintained he would enter the fire-“wears garments that are bewitched.”

“Lies!” Violetta countered. I and a Buonomo ’s wife pulled her back to her seat.

The Dominicans were late in arriving; the Signoria reluctantly sent a mace-bearer to escort them to the piazza. They arrived most dramatically: Fra Domenico led the way, carrying on his shoulder a martyr’s cross almost as tall as he. Savonarola followed, bearing a small silver receptacle containing the Sacred Host, for he had insisted that Domenico would not be safe unless he carried the Host with him into the flames. Behind them came the men of the congregation of San Marco, bearing torches and more of the little red crosses, and then came the rest of the friars.

The crowd erupted with hisses and catcalls, shouts of joy and sobs. Men screamed curses, blessings, prayers, and insults. Monks, both Franciscan and Dominican, began to sing.

At last San Marco’s entourage took their places at a safe distance from the Franciscans; and then Francesco Valori, the gonfaloniere, beckoned for Domenico and Savonarola to come to the ringhiera .

I watched rather than heard the discussion: Valori spoke to Savonarola, who made an exasperated gesture. Domenico-who by then had abandoned his cross-put a hand upon his master’s shoulder to calm him. And then Valori and my husband led Domenico into the Palazzo della Signoria.

The crowd grumbled. They had waited a long time and did not understand Domenico’s sudden disappearance. But we women did, and I was not surprised to see Domenico emerge shortly afterward in a Franciscan robe. Violetta nudged me, and said, in a voice loud enough for the nearby Franciscans to hear: “You see? If his clothes had been bewitched, he would not have so quickly and graciously removed them. He is not afraid to enter the fire.”

Fra Domenico and Savonarola began to make their way to the entry of the trial platform, where two soldiers and Fra Giuliano, the young Franciscan who had volunteered to enter the fire with Domenico, stood. And then the young Franciscan monk stepped forward and interrupted-which caused Domenico and Savonarola to hurry back to the ringhiera .

The crowd sighed in irritation.

Valori, my husband, and two other piagnoni intercepted Domenico and explained something rapidly to him. Domenico shook his head in disgust, but once again let himself be led into the palazzo.

Beside me, Violetta snapped her fan shut, dropped it into her chair, and went to the railing that overlooked the loggia. “What is it now?” she challenged. “I suppose you are going to tell me that Domenico himself is bewitched, and so cannot enter the fire!”

An older Franciscan turned to her. “Of course not, Madonna. But is it not possible that Fra Domenico’s undergarments might also be as bewitched as his outer ones? Perhaps it is hard for you to understand, but there are those of us who believe sincerely that Fra Girolamo’s power does not spring from God, but from a far more sinister source.”

“This is absurd!” Violetta leaned low over the railing. “You are just stalling because you are afraid!”

“Of course we are afraid,” the monk answered calmly. “We know that Fra Giuliano will die when he enters the fire. We have but one question.”

Violetta waited, frowning, for the answer.

“If Fra Girolamo is not afraid-and he knows that God will spare him and prove him a prophet-why does he not enter the fire at once and settle the matter?”

Violetta drew back; she retook her seat and fanned herself frantically, muttering about the unfairness of the Franciscans. But I saw a glimmer of doubt in her eye. A cool breeze caused my veil to flutter. I looked out and up at the once-clear sky. Sudden winds had gathered swift clouds that smelled of rain.

Once again, Domenico emerged, presumably having surrendered the possibly accursed undergarments. At last he went to gather up the large cross he had carried into the square.

Gonfaloniere Valori tapped him on the shoulder and gestured for the cross to be laid down. Domenico obeyed wearily.

A few men in the crowd booed in disgust.

Another monk had joined the young Fra Giuliano by this time, and the two went together a third time to the government officials in the ringhiera . Savonarola was waiting there, next to the silver receptacle containing the Host, which had been set reverently upon a table. When the two Franciscans starting speaking to the officials, Savonarola began to shout. He pointed vehemently at the silver receptacle, at the other monks, at my husband and Francesco Valori. Savonarola turned then to Domenico, and it became clear, from Domenico’s shaking head, that an impasse had been reached.

“What is it, what is it?” Violetta called.

The monks below us did not answer, but I looked at Savonarola’s emphatic gesture at the silver receptacle and said, “They do not want to let Domenico carry the Host.”

It was a point everyone had agreed on from the beginning. A Dominican friar had dreamed that Domenico successfully traversed the fire because he had been holding a consecrated wafer; Savonarola insisted that Domenico be allowed to do so. Before now, the Franciscans had offered no objection.

Furious, Domenico strode into the piazza and stood stubbornly at the entrance to the trial platform, staring into the flames; his angry demeanor contrasted with the sweet hymns being sung by his brothers. The wind whipped his robe about his legs, his torso. Overhead, the sky was darkening.

The older Franciscan who had spoken to Violetta earlier turned and faced us women. “Why,” he asked kindly, “is Fra Domenico afraid to enter the fire without the Host? Is not his faith enough to preserve him? And why does not Savonarola put an end to the arguments? If he grows impatient with our demands, why does he not simply walk through the flames himself?”

Violetta did not answer. She frowned at the ringhiera , where her husband and the Franciscans stood arguing with Fra Girolamo.

“Coward!” someone shouted.

A few scattered drops of rain began to fall. Safe beneath the shelter of the loggia, I watched them strike the railing.

“Coward!” another voice cried. “Enter the fire!”

“He is afraid!” a man called. “Don’t you see? He is afraid!”

Thunder boomed, frighteningly close; Violetta started and seized my arm. Domenico stood, solid and thick and relentless, in the quickening rain, while Savonarola continued to argue with the Priors.

Thunder, again, then a shriek: “He lied to us! He has always lied to us!”

Torrents of water crashed down in gray sheets, quickly flooding the piazza. Lightning dazzled. We wives left our seats and scurried to the center of the loggia. I peered out at the square: Domenico had not budged. Amazingly, neither had the crowd. They had come to learn the truth about the prophet, and would not leave without satisfaction.

The fire, which had blazed fiercely an instant before, was quenched; the wood and the brush were sodden with water rather than oil.

The people’s enthusiasm was just as quickly extinguished. Men shouted over the roar of the rain.

“God Himself disapproves!”

“Fra Girolamo conjured up the storm, lest it expose his lies!”

My husband and Valori sent a representative dashing into the rain to speak to the commanders of the soldiers. They began to urge the crowd to disperse and go home. But the men in the piazza-most of them men who had cast their little red crosses to the ground-would not leave.