And back then, before even the circle was standardized, hardly anyone had pliers. Medici and Savonarola were screaming at each other. The servants were cowering. Outside, church bells were ringing. Mack finally got the bottle cap off. He turned to Medici.
The Magnificent had fallen suddenly silent. He lay in bed motionless, jaw agape. Blind eyes, still rheumy, but over which a milky film was beginning to form, stared up at nothing.
Medici dead? "Don't do this to me," Mack muttered, and forcing the vial into Medici's mouth, poured.
The liquid came bubbling out of Medici's mouth, untasted. The great man was finally and definitively dead.
He stood for a moment on the street, wondering if he had forgotten something. Damn it, he had forgotten the gold basin! He turned to go back in. But it was too late now. He was swept up into the crowd and carried along by the laughing, screaming, singing, praying multitude. It was the time of the burning of vanities, and all was madness.
CHAPTER 6
People were running, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. There was an air of holiday glee.
Many drunks had gotten an early start and were sleeping it off in doorways. Children were everywhere, darting here and there in an ecstasy of pleasure. The shops were all closed, with boards nailed up over their doorways. A clatter of hooves was heard as mounted lancers rode by, brilliant in uniforms of scarlet and black, and Mack ducked back into a doorway to avoid getting trampled on. As he did so, he ran into a man's solid body. "Watch where you're going!"
"Sorry!" said Mack. "It was the soldiers."
"What did soldiers have to do with you stepping on my foot?"
The man whose foot Mack had stepped on in the doorway was tall and finely shaped, with a head that could have modeled for a Grecian Apollo. He was fashionably dressed in a cloak of dark fur, and from his hat floated an ostrich feather, proof that he either had contacts abroad or knew someone in the Florence Zoo. He peered intently at Mack with large and brilliant eyes.
"Excuse me, stranger," the man said, "but haven't we met?"
"I doubt it," Mack said. "I'm not from around here."
"That's interesting. I'm looking for a man who doesn't come from around here. My name is Pico della Mirandola. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Indeed Mack had, from Mephistopheles, as one of the great alchemists of the Renaissance. But Mack, foreseeing trouble, was not going to admit having heard of him.
"I don't think so," Mack said. "Anyhow, it's just a coincidence us meeting this way. It's very unlikely that I'd be the man you seek."
"So it might seem in the ordinary course of things," Pico said. "But when you put magic to work, coincidences suddenly become much more probable. I was supposed to meet someone here. Might it not be you?"
"What is the name of this person you're supposed to meet?"
"Johann Faust, the great magician from Wittenberg."
"You're sure you're not Faust?" Pico said.
"Oh, yes, quite sure. I suppose I know my own name, ha, ha! Excuse me, I must be off, I don't want to miss this Bonfire of Vanities." He hurried off. Pico gazed after him, then began to follow.
Mack hurried on and saw a great open plaza. In the middle of it, there was a tall pile of wooden furniture, paintings, cosmetics, and ornaments of various sons.
"What's going on?" Mack asked a man near him in the crowd.
"Savonarola and his monks are burning the vanities," the man told him.
Mack moved closer. He saw that there were many pretty things carelessly thrown on the great pile.
There were babies' embroidered gowns, and crocheted tablecloths, there were well-wrought candlesticks, there were oil paintings by artists of no great reputation, and a lot of other stuff.
As Mack came closer, he saw, on the edge of the fire, a large painting in an ornate frame. Since Mephistopheles had gifted him with a knowledge of art, he saw at once that it was a Botticelli, one of the middle period of the master's paintings. It was worth a lot of money, and was rather pretty, too.
Surely, Mack thought, in all this great mass of paintings, it wouldn't matter if I took one?
He looked around, saw that no one was looking at him, and pulled the painting out before the flames had reached it. It looked as good as new. He put it to one side and looked around for others. There was a Giotto, but the surface had already begun bubbling in the heat. He sought hungrily after others. If saving one Botticelli was good, saving two ought to be excellent. And lucrative as well! And surely it was not wrong to serve Art! Especially when it was just lying around waiting to be burned! Those other choices Mephistopheles had given him had just sounded too weird. He was sure no one could object to a man who rescued great art.
Then there was a hand on his shoulder. A thin, splendidly dressed man with a short beard was staring at him severely.
"Sir, what are you doing?"
"Me?" Mack said. "I'm just watching the fun like everyone else."
"I saw you' take a painting off the bonfire."
"A painting? Oh, you mean this." Mack gestured at the Botticelli and grinned. "The servant put it out by mistake. We had taken it down to have it cleaned. It's a Botticelli. You just don't burn Botticellis in bonfires, not even vanity bonfires."
"And who might you be, sir?" the man demanded.
"I'm just a local nobleman," Mack said.
"Strange I haven't seen you before."
"I've been out of town. Who are you?"
"I," the man said, "am Niccolo Machiavelli. I work for the commune of Florence."
"That's a coincidence," Mack said. "I've been told to tell you not to write that book you're planning, the one you call The Prince."
"I have written no such book," Machiavelli said. "But it is a catchy title. I just might try it out."
"Do what you please," Mack said. "But remember, you've been warned."
"And who is the warning from?" Machiavelli demanded.
"I can't disclose the name," Mack said. "But I can assure you he's a devil of a good fellow."
Machiavelli stared at him, then turned and walked away, shaking his head. Mack picked up the painting, preparing to get out while the getting was good. But just then Pico della Mirandola came back.
"I've been checking with certain infernal powers," he said. "What have you done with the real Faust?"
Pico advanced threateningly. Mack cowered back. Pico raised one of those newfangled firearms that fired a ball large enough to tear a man apart. Mack looked for a place to hide. Nothing was immediately forthcoming. Pico's finger tightened on the trigger.
At that moment, Faust appeared. "Don't do it, Pico!" he cried. "Why not? The man is trying to pass himself as you!"
"But we are not allowed to kill him. He is impersonating me. But it is necessary for him to stay alive as long as he occupies my role." "What role is that, Johann?" "All will be revealed later. For now, old friend, desist." "You are a wise man, Faust!" "I may call upon you later, Pico. I have a plan!" "Count on me!" Faust vanished. Then Mephistopheles appeared. "Ready?" he said to Mack. "Let's go. What's everybody gawking at?"
Mack decided not to tell him about Faust. "You know how people are. They'll stare at anything." He got a tight grip on the painting and Mephistopheles conjured them both away.
CHAPTER 7
Mack and Mephistopheles arrived in Limbo, conjuring themselves into existence at the entrance to a small building on a hill close to where the judgments for the Millennial contest were to be held. "What's this place?" Mack asked.
"This is the Waiting Room of Limbo. I've got a storage facility here where you can store your Botticelli.
Unless you want to sell it to me immediately?" "I think I'd like to hold on to it for a while," Mack said. "So how did I do?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"On the contest, in Florence."