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  “I thought it was very moving,” said Mario.

  Ghirlandaio only grunted. He got a faraway look in his eyes, then said, “I fear for the future of our great city, my boy. Lorenzo was a great supporter of the arts and philosophy. Without him, I am afraid our golden age may be over.”

  “But your frescoes will last forever, sir,” Mario offered.

  “I hope you’re right,” the painter said, then he embraced Mario once more and bid him farewell.

  But Mario wasn’t ready to go home. He decided to speak first to the preacher who had moved him so — Savonarola.

  There was a crowd of men and women also waiting to speak with the man, but Mario was in no hurry. He waited until it was his turn, then he thanked the friar for what he had said. The friar was delighted. He smiled warmly at Mario.

  “If you want to hear me speak again,” Savonarola said, “I’ll be addressing a group of young people at the cathedral tomorrow. Please come.”

  Mario did, and when he stepped into the cathedral the next day, he was amazed at what he saw. The whole congregation was made up of teenagers and children. Hundreds of kids, if not more. And the preacher had a sermon prepared just for them.

  Savonarola spoke about the plight of the poor in Florence. He spoke about the plight of humanity in general. He told the assembly that Florence was a blessed city, but that all of them were in danger.

  “King Charles is coming,” he told them. “I need Florence to be strong, and I need you to help me.” Savonarola was talking like he was the new protector of Florence, though even Mario knew that Lorenzo’s family was still in charge.

  A lot of what Savonarola said that day made sense to Mario, and before he knew it he was cheering with the other youths. Savonarola was begging the congregation, pleading with them. He asked them to be his eyes and ears, to interfere if they saw sin in the streets. At first Mario thought he meant crimes only, stealing and whatnot. Mario could agree to that. And then Savonarola described other sins as well, sins that Mario didn’t fully understand.

  “Vanity is a sin. Pride is a sin. Immodest dress.” Savonarola went on and on. “We need the spirit of Florence to be strong, children. And that means weeding out sin.”

  In conclusion, Savonarola told the young people of Florence that religion itself needed their help, too. He didn’t name anyone specifically, but he spoke of the clergy as if they were selfish. Savonarola argued that religious leaders were expected to practice piety, to give away everything they own. If they insisted on hoarding their wealth, on having lavish offices with gold-framed paintings, then they weren’t truly the instruments of God.

  Mario remembered seeing Vincenzo Bandelli’s office all those years before. He was a religious figure and, indeed, his office was filled with paintings. Mario had thought at the time that it didn’t seem like a priest’s office. It solidified his trust in Savonarola’s vision for Florence. Mario vowed with the rest of the congregation to serve the friar.

  In the months after the sermon, the young people of Florence did as Savonarola said. They patrolled the streets in packs and told him who in Florence was sinning. And as Savonarola’s influence grew, the influence of the Medici family waned. The entire character of the city began to change. Mario could see it in people’s eyes when he begged in the market: Adults were growing afraid of the city’s teenagers and children.

  One day, Mario was given a coin by a woman shopping in the market. When he raised his head to thank her, he was shocked to see that she walked arm in arm with a man he recognized.

  It was his father.

  He had only seen his father a few times, but he couldn’t possibly forget the man’s face. Apparently, the same could not be said for his father. The man’s eyes showed no recognition as they moved briefly to Mario and then back to his wife. He smiled and kissed her cheek.

  Mario was furious. Here was a man who had sinned gravely, abandoning Mario and his mother. And he had never paid the price for that sin.

  But now, finally, Mario could make him pay.

  Mario ran all the way to the cathedral, hoping Savonarola would be there. He walked around until he found a boy wearing a page’s robe and asked to see the friar. The boy escorted Mario back to where Savonarola was praying.

  Mario intended to expose his father’s lies. His sins deserved to be known, didn’t they? No matter what the consequences would be to the man’s other family. His real family.

  But he didn’t have the chance. He was struck dumb by a painting propped up before the preacher.

  It was a portrait of Pico.

  “Is that Pico? I mean, is that Giovanni Pico della Mirandola?”

  Savonarola turned away from the portrait. “It is. I’m afraid Florence must bury another of its great citizens, even as King Charles and his army bear down upon Italy.”

  “But how . . . how did he die?”

  “Murder,” the friar growled. “And though I have no proof, I suspect the Medici family is to blame. They are desperate to reclaim their power over the city.”

  It was almost too much for Mario. Everything was changing so quickly, and not for the better.

  “There’s no need to fear, my boy,” said the friar. “Everything is happening as I had foreseen. And I have a plan to carry us through. A plan to save all of Florence!”

  Savonarola shared his plan with Mario. He was going to make a great bonfire and then call on the citizens of Florence to purge the city of temptation and sin. He wanted musical instruments, cosmetics, mirrors, books, and paintings — he wanted it all to burn.

  “Starting with this idol of our dear friend Pico,” he said, taking the portrait and dropping it to the floor. “The people are ready. They will listen to me now. And at last the Renaissance will come to an end.”

  Mario didn’t know how destroying artwork would save the city from a French invasion, but he was desperate. “How can I help?” he asked.

  “I want you to go to the great betrayer,” Savonarola explained with a wild and crazy gleam in his eye.

  And that’s when Savonarola gave Mario an important mission. The boy was ordered to go back to Vincenzo Bandelli, steal the paintings in his private office, and bring them to the bonfire to be burned.

  The next day, Mario kissed his mother good-bye, not knowing if he would be arrested that evening, or worse.

  He made his way to the convent and found the large front doors unlocked. It was quiet inside, and the candles by the altar were unlit. Mario had a plan, but he would have to be stealthy. He made sure each step he took was as silent as possible as he crept toward Vinenzo’s office door.

  Mario was startled, however, when the doors to the convent opened again, and the bright daylight of the late afternoon flooded in. He pressed against the wall, taking cover in the shadows, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, he saw Federico Sassetti walking somberly down the aisle.

  He had grown tall since Mario had seen him last. But Mario would recognize him anywhere.

  Federico’s steps were loud and echoed throughout the halls of the convent. Mario decided it was best to stay hidden until Federico’s business was done. But then his former friend stepped into the private booth that Vincenzo had been inside when last they were here together.

  Curious to see what Federico was up to, Mario entered the booth as well, and found himself on the other side of a veiled partition. He thought he might have heard Federico crying, but when Mario sat down, the boy went silent.

  “I have a confession,” Federico said mournfully. Mario didn’t know what to say. He was shocked. He swallowed hard, and Federico continued without prompting. “I’ve killed a man, Father,” Federico admitted.

  Mario gasped, not knowing if he could believe his ears. Who had Federico killed, and how? Why?

  Federico burst into tears at the sound of Mario’s gasp. “I’m so sorry, Father. I have n
o one else to confess to. Oh, forgive me.”

  Mario tried his best to make his voice sound deep and calm.

  “Who did you kill, my son?”

  “A friend,” Federico confessed. “Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.”

  Mario screamed out loud. He couldn’t help it. He leapt from the booth and pulled Federico from it as well.

  “Mario?” Federico yelled.

  In answer, Mario punched him.

  The two boys fought there on the stone floor, hitting each other. Federico cried for Mario to stop, but Mario was blind with rage and hurt. Federico had been his best friend, and then managed to take everything away from him. And now this? He was afraid he’d never stop hitting him.

  Just then someone pulled the boys off of each other. It was Vincenzo. He’d heard the commotion and come running from his office.

  “What are you doing, fighting in here?” the priest asked once they’d caught their breath. Federico had a bloody nose, and the blood was running onto his clean, yellow shirt.

  “He murdered Pico!” Mario accused, pointing at Federico.

  Vincenzo asked if it was true, and Federico nodded, crying again.

  The priest took the boys into his office, where Mario was surprised to see that the paintings were already gone. There were blank spaces on the walls where the six paintings had been. Someone had beaten him to his own mission!

  Vincenzo noticed Mario’s reaction to the missing paintings.

  “I see there is much to discuss,” the priest said. “But first, let’s hear about Pico.”

  “I poisoned him. It was an accident!” Federico said. “I didn’t know it was poisoned. The friar told me to bring him the wine, and so I did.”

  Mario looked at Federico now with fresh rage.

  “What friar?” Vincenzo asked the boy.

  “The very friar that spoke at his funeral,” he admitted weakly. “Savonarola.”

  “You’re lying!” Mario screamed, but Vincenzo held him back before he could attack Federico again. “Savonarola and Pico respected each other. It was the Medicis who poisoned him!”

  “These are serious allegations,” the priest insisted. “Do either of you have any proof?”

  Reluctantly, Mario shook his head.

  Federico took a deep breath. “There’s more. The night Lorenzo was ill, I went with my household to visit him. The friar was there, and . . . and I overheard him laughing. Gloating! As if he were happy that Lorenzo was sick.”

  “What are you saying?” Vincenzo asked him.

  “I think he killed Lorenzo, too,” Federico told the priest.

  “But Lorenzo died of gout,” Mario said, and the priest nodded.

  “I’m not a physician,” the priest said, “but I did study medicine. If Lorenzo had been poisoned slowly, his liver might have given out. Causing him to die of gout, which is very painful.”

  “I don’t believe any of this,” Mario said, not wanting to hear another word. “Where are the paintings?” he asked forcefully, standing up. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to take them with him.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Vincenzo commanded, and only once Mario had sat down again did he continue. “I believe you, Federico. In fact, I already suspected.”

  Mario shook his head. He didn’t want any of it to be true. If Savonarola couldn’t be trusted, then who would he turn to now?

  “I remember you both, you know. Pico told me you boys read my letter all those years ago. I suspected you might,” Vincenzo told them. “If I tell you a secret, I need you both to vow not to tell anyone what I’ve shared with you.”

  Mario was exhausted and confused. He nodded weakly, and Federico did the same.

  “I am not just a priest. I am also a Hystorian, a member of an ancient order charged with protecting many secrets. That’s why I’m guarding those paintings you saw before. They’re not for decoration, not a display of wealth. They’re coded with information other Hystorians can read. And it’s beyond important that they stay safe.”

  “I have a confession, too,” Mario said. “Savonarola told me to come for the paintings. That’s why I’m here.”

  “To burn them?” Vincenzo asked Mario, clearly already knowing the answer. Mario nodded once more.

  “Savonarola knows about the Hystorians. He knows what valuable information is locked away in our books and artifacts. And he opposes our mission. He wants every last Hystorian treasure to be destroyed!”

  It was all starting to make sense to Mario. “And Pico? Lorenzo? They were Hystorians, too, weren’t they?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” said Vincenzo. “Pico in particular was inspired by the founder of our order, a Greek philosopher named Aristotle. Pico helped reintroduce the great works of Aristotle to Europe. But it made him many enemies. The shame of it is that he trusted Savonarola.” The priest stood. “Walk with me, my sons.”

  Vincenzo walked out of his office and up a flight of stairs. He continued talking as Mario and Federico followed behind him.

  “Savonarola was my student before he was a priest. And I knew he was dangerous even then. I sent him away, years ago. But Pico and Lorenzo insisted that he return to Florence. They felt his great skill as a speaker would be good for the Renaissance. But now he has turned those skills against us.”

  The priest came to a window, which he threw open. The sun had set, but the moon shone brightly, offering a spectacular view of the city. Mario could see the Sassetti estate in the far distance. He could see the chapel where he had once posed for a great painter.

  And he could see a growing fire in the center of the city. It cast eerie, frightful shadows throughout the market district.

  “I’ve hidden away the paintings that Savonarola sought here. But he has countless other irreplaceable works of art. And I tell you this: While he puts paintings and drawings and books to the flame, it is the very spirit of the great city of Florence that burns tonight.”

  Mario and Federico exchanged a solemn look. “It’s over, then?” Mario asked at last. “Savonarola has won?”

  “It is too late for us here,” Vincenzo answered. “Florence will never recover from this loss. But the Hystorians are taking the Renaissance to Rome. It is our hope that art and learning and freedom may yet flourish there.”

  “If you’re going to Rome, I want to come with you,” Federico said, just as Mario was about to. The two boys looked at each other and smiled, the light of the distant fire dancing in their eyes.

  “We want to come with you,” Mario said.

  “I can’t promise it will be a pleasant journey,” the priest warned them. “And Savonarola won’t rest until the Hystorians are defeated.”

  “Can we stop him?” Mario asked. But oddly, he wasn’t too worried. Federico was by his side again. He felt like he could do anything.

  “We can certainly try,” the priest told the young men. “But first, we go to Rome.”

  Savonarola’s infamous “bonfire of the vanities” cost Florence innumerable works of art, but the Renaissance was far from finished. On the contrary, the movement spread from Florence to Rome and throughout all of Europe, ushering in an era of progress and invention. Many of the world’s most celebrated works of art date back to the Renaissance.

  And wherever the values of the Renaissance were threatened — whenever men like Savonarola threatened to drag Europe back to the Dark Ages — there you would find Mario and Federico, the great Hystorians, forging the destiny that they chose.

  — Arin

  The author gratefully acknowledges Billy Merrell.

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  e-ISBN 978-0-545-52267-0

  First edition, December 2013

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