The discussion in the assembly degenerated into a brawl. Vincenzio rallied at the sight of fists thrown in his name. Tommaso stood between two snarling men and held out his arms as though he could control their anger. ‘Either the convicted man dies, or I do!’ he shouted but no one took any notice. Vincenzio saw another Savonarola supporter shove Professor di Novara towards a window and come close to hurling him out but the professor was taller and stronger and pushed his assailant to the ground. It seemed all men were fighters when it came to it. This is where we fail, Vincenzio thought in a moment of clarity as the hall descended into tavern brawling. We are all inclined to behave badly, to take more than our fair share of power or wealth, to profit from other people’s weaknesses, to cheat, to betray promises.

The assembly managed to reclaim enough order for the final vote. It unanimously condemned Vincenzio Fusili to death for heresy and treason. He scanned the room for those he knew best—the professor, Bernardo Rucellai, even Tommaso Palagio—and held each of their gazes with a smile he hoped conveyed his disbelief and strength to demand a challenge. This was some trickery aimed at shaming him. No one spoke, and Vincenzio knew this was the protocol of the Signoria: once a sentence was decreed it was final. Yet still he held that smile rigid on his lips.

He was returned to the prison, only this time the room was bare and the bed a straw pallet on the ground. Vincenzio longed for a cup of wine, a taste of his wife’s sugared citrons. He pictured his family enjoying the evening meal, sitting around the table, talking and laughing about Filippo’s antics or Maria’s sewing; even Lucrezia’s complaints of not enough coin in the household account became suddenly a sound to cherish. Yet he was not there to hear and his mind had never been so quiet as in this cell. That same evening he was given confession. Even as the executioner sharpened his blade, Vincenzio looked hopefully towards the quarter where his family awaited his return. A bright spark of fire shot up towards the heavens and he took this as an omen of great things still to come for the Fusili name.

Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

September 1496