Lorenzo left three sons. The eldest was Pietro, just approaching his majority, who was the recognized successor of his father. The second son was Giuliano, who had already been made a cardinal at thirteen years of age, and who was destined to be the powerful Pope, Leo X.
The death of Lorenzo had been indirectly foretold by Savonarola, and now some of his disciples were not slow in showing an ill-becoming exultation. They said, "I told you so!" The intensity of the revival increased, and there was danger of its taking on the form of revolution.
Savonarola saw this mob spirit at work, and for a time moderated his tone. But there were now occasional outbreaks between his followers and those of the Medici. A guard was necessary to protect Savonarola as he passed from Saint Mark's to the different churches where he preached. The police and soldiers were on the side of the aristocracy who supported them.
The Pope had been importuned to use his influence to avert the threatened harm to "true religion." Savonarola should be silenced, said the aristocrats, and that speedily.
A letter came from Pope Alexander, couched in most gentle and gracious words, requesting Savonarola to come to Rome, and there give exhibition of his wondrous gifts.
Savonarola knew that he was dealing with a Borgia—a man who cajoled, bought and bribed, and when these failed there were noose, knife and poison close at hand. The Prior of Saint Mark's could deal with Lorenzo in Florence, but with Alexander at Rome he would be undone. The iniquities of the Borgia family far exceeded the sins of the Medici, and in his impassioned moments Savonarola had said as much.
At Rome he would have to explain these things—and to explain them would be to repeat them. Alexander stood for nepotism, which is the sugared essence of that time-honored maxim, "To the victor belong the spoils." The world has never seen so little religion and so much pretense as during the reign of the Borgias.
At this time when offenders were called to Rome, it sometimes happened that they were never again heard from. Beneath the Castle Saint Angelo were dungeons—no records were kept—and the stories told of human bones found in walled-up cells are no idle tales. An iron collar circling the neck of a skeleton that was once a man is a sight these eyes have seen.
Prison records open to the public are a comparatively new thing, and the practise of "doctoring" a record has, until recently, been quite in vogue.