When he was satisfied they were all comfortably positioned and could see the pulpit, he turned his attention back to who was standing nearby. Bernardo had stopped to his right and slightly ahead. Vincenzio felt the tightness in his shoulders ease. No man would be mad enough to attack him so near to where the Gonfalonier of Justice stood. He determined to remind Bernardo that he had a copy of Joannes de Monte Regio’s much lauded Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest and would be pleased to bring it to the lecture in late August. Best to continue confident as his usual self.

His wife was trying to attract his attention, so Vincenzio turned back to his family. She pulled him in even closer so that his head was almost touching her own bowed forehead. Such an immodest display made his skin burn but he knew recoiling would only draw further attention.

‘I saw trouble at the Palazzo Canturi on our way here,’ she said softly.

‘Indeed?’ He raised his eyebrows with consternation.

‘They were being harshly treated and their home disrespected. I saw my dear friend Cosima’s precious things discarded into the street like waste. It worries me, husband. If good families such as they are targeted, then we are none of us safe.’

‘Calm yourself, mistress, there is nothing to fear. Look, the preacher comes.’ He directed her attention to the line of monks processing towards the altar and turned too, any sign of alarm smoothed from his face. There was no need to worry his wife, though Vincenzio’s mind raced. Marco Canturi was a friend of Piero’s, though he, like Vincenzio and all the other Medici supporters, had publicly disavowed that alliance. Was Roberto’s presence in the city the excuse the preacher needed to begin a purge of the last of the Medici supporters?

He saw his client Mistress Letta Sassetti and smiled in greeting as she passed, noticing the tired drop of her cloak; perhaps he could persuade her husband to put in an order. Vincenzio made a note of where she stopped. More than likely Marco Canturi’s house had been chosen for his wine-sodden parties and notorious taste for young boys; Vincenzio had warned him to suspend his revelries until it was acceptable once more. Though it did not make it any better, to be sure. The old families of Florence had endured two years of Savonarola’s supposed peaceful leadership, when in truth what he did most effectively was to burn their books and mistake their knowledge for evil sin. But Vincenzio would steel himself against another bout of panic; the preacher’s methods were unsophisticated and he must surely fall on his sword before long. His day of reckoning would come.