The Poet Prince (13 page)

“She is . . . presented here as she asked to be. For this is how she truly is. Not to me or to you. To us she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived; she is our queen. But this is not how the world sees her. It is not how the Church would have the world understand her. They call her terrible names, tell lies about who she was. They take away her life, her love, and her children. They make her a sinner. They take this woman who would save all of us with her courage and wisdom and love, and they turn her into a beggar.

“The Magdalena that Donatello has sculpted here is wretched, because that is what has been made of her by those who do not have eyes to see and ears to hear. It is for us to change that, to restore her to the throne of the Queen of Heaven. And to do that, we must remember how others see her and not how we see her.”

Lorenzo was choking back the beginnings of a sob now, as devotion overcame him. Still all eyes were focused entirely on him as he made his final pronouncement, solidifying what most in attendance already knew: Lorenzo de’ Medici was growing into a more remarkable prince than any of them could have imagined.

“I think . . .” Lorenzo choked back the tears and looked over at Donatello. “I think she is the most beautiful piece of art that I have ever seen.”

And to punctuate that pronouncement, Donatello fell to his knees and sobbed with relief. The infusion had worked. His art had been understood. Most of all,
her
message had been delivered.

Headquarters of the Confraternity of the Magi
Florence
January 6, 1459

“H
OW DO I
look, Mother?”

Lucrezia de’ Medici looked at her son, who had just celebrated his tenth birthday, and fought back the tears. They were tears of joy and pride as she straightened the gold-embroidered coat so that it hung perfectly over the breeches worn by her growing boy. She would always think that her eldest son was absolutely perfect, for all that he had inherited the squashed nose of the Tornabuoni family and the infamous underbite of the Medici. While Lorenzo was not a traditionally beautiful child, there was a radiance about him that was undeniable. Further, he was unerringly polite and almost unfathomably responsible for
his age.

And it was that sense of responsibility that was gnawing at him as he squirmed in the elaborate silk and damask costume, which he would be wearing in today’s parade of the Magi. It was the Feast of the Epiphany, the day when the three kings came to adore the infant Jesus in the manger. Each year in Florence this blessed event was reenacted by the Confraternity of the Magi, with a magnificent procession through the streets of the city, followed by a festival. The celebration would be grander than ever this year, more elaborate and lavish: Cosimo had demanded it and seen to the more extreme details. Because the Medici family were the founders and leaders of this particular confraternity, Lorenzo would today be playing the role of the young king, the golden one known as Gaspar. He took his task very seriously, knowing that there was a weight on his slender shoulders. This was not simply a
part to play in a parade; he knew it, and the people of Florence
knew it. No, this was Lorenzo’s coming-out party, the announcement to the world by the Medici that Lorenzo was preparing to take on the exalted mantle of the Poet Prince. The crown he wore today was very heavy on his head. No doubt it would leave marks on his skin for days to come.

In Tuscany, the confraternities had become an integral part of society, the spiritual heart of their towns. In a number of major
cities—Florence chief among them—the confraternities became distinct forces of political power as well as social welfare. The type of confraternity one belonged to could tell much about a family and where its interests and loyalties were. The first confraternity founded in Florence was devoted to the archangel Raphael, and its members performed acts of charity related to healing. Others confraternities were founded to honor the memory of a specific saint. The more extreme were based on penitence and required acts of mortification of the flesh.

The Medici had co-founded the Confraternity of the Magi to give them a vehicle in which to openly and publicly display their belief in the esoteric without offending the Catholic population. For all their secret heresies, every Medici family leader since the days of Charlemagne had been an expert at appearances. Cosimo belonged to no fewer than ten confraternities and had recently had a cell installed for himself within the Dominican monastery of San Marco. Periodically, he would retreat there for meditation and prayer with the brethren. That he spent a fortune expanding the buildings and hiring the quiet yet brilliant monk Fra Angelico to fresco the place to perfection was not lost on the grateful Catholic population of Florence. For all public purposes, Cosimo de’ Medici was the most devout of Catholics, and he was only too willing to prove that devotion through his extraordinary gener-
osity.

But the Feast of the Epiphany was not a day to be solemn or penitent. It was a day to celebrate the coming of the Prince. Cosimo had made generous donations to guilds and committees throughout the city in honor of the event—and in his grandson’s name. At the age of ten, Lorenzo was now one of the most generous donors in Florence.
His generosity was not lost on the common people, to whom he was rapidly becoming beloved.

Lucrezia de’ Medici straightened Lorenzo’s jewel-encrusted crown one final time and kissed him on the forehead before turning him over to his father, who would escort him to the elaborately caparisoned white stallion that awaited the young King Gaspar. She sighed as she watched him depart, his growing body awkward under the mas-
sive silks that weighed him down. For all that he was the child of a divine prophecy, he was still her little boy.

“Lorenzo, my son,” she called after him. “Don’t forget to have fun!”

Florence, a city known for its elaborate, even decadent festivals, had never seen the equal of the Feast of the Epiphany as it occurred in 1459. The procession of the Magi itself was stunning, with Cosimo leading it on a pristine white mule as the old king Melchior. A train of wagons laden with bejeweled chests and colorful silks followed him, as did a camel brought over from Constantinople on a cargo ship. An entourage of Medici supporters, all of whom were secret members of the Order, followed as Cosimo’s attendants. Cosimo’s most loyal friend, the renowned writer and humanist Poggio Bracciolini, led the entourage. His son, Jacopo Bracciolini, was the same age as Lorenzo and as such had been chosen to walk in the parade alongside the Medici prince. The two boys were friends and had been tutored by the same great men of Florence. Jacopo was a beautiful child, golden-haired and fair, with features so delicate that they were almost pretty, and a lithe agile body. His was a marked physical contrast to the swarthy, sturdy Lorenzo.

Jacopo had been petulant about being cast in the procession as Lorenzo’s servant, so to appease his ego he was given the role of the Keeper of the Cats. As such, he was allowed to walk one of the exotic African servals, an ill-tempered wild cat that looked like a shrunken leopard.

“Hey, Lorenzo, look at what I can make the cat do!” Jacopo yelled up
to where Lorenzo was perched on a huge white stallion. He pulled up sharply on the cat’s velvet lead, which was attached to a bejeweled collar. The cat growled but rose up to walk on his two hind legs. He took a few steps as if walking upright. Jacopo burst into delighted laughter.

Lorenzo laughed to appease his friend but was inwardly concerned that the cat was suffering discomfort as well as indignity. He attempted to distract Jacopo by pointing out some of the other animals in the procession, but to no avail. Jacopo was finding an audience for his antics with the serval and was clearly loving the attention. He began shouting, “Behold! I am the Master of the Cats!” each time he pulled on the poor animal’s lead.

Lorenzo stayed the course, riding as tall and proud as a young king, and left Jacopo behind to play jester. He was the undisputed star in the parade, the figure who drew the cheers of the Florentine people. As Lorenzo passed by, astride the white horse and dressed in his finery as the golden young king, the crowds erupted with adulation. Lorenzo, at first very serious in his role, was swept away in the excitement and pageantry of the moment. He smiled at the people, his people, with the infectious grin for which he would one day become famous as an adult. He waved at the Florentines, and they waved in return, shouting blessings and throwing roses.

“He is magnificent!” a woman in the crowd screamed, and the others began to take up the chant:
“Magnifico! Magnifico!”

By the time the procession had reached its destination at the monastery of San Marco, where a living nativity had been created, Lorenzo’s position in the hearts of the Florentine people was secure.

He would forevermore be known by the name that was as much a prophecy as it was praise, for he was destined to grow into it spectacularly:
Lorenzo il Magnifico.

Lorenzo the Magnificent.

New York City
present day

T
HE BEEPING OF
a text message woke Maureen Paschal early on the morning of the twenty-second day of March. She reached blindly to the bedside table until she felt the source of the offending noise. She wasn’t really annoyed, despite her sleep-deprived state. No doubt it was one of her beloved friends in Europe, anxious to be the first to contact her on her special day and miscalculating the time difference. She hit the button on her phone to read the message. It said:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I HAVE A GIFT FOR YOU.

Maureen sat up in bed now. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wondered who had sent the message; she didn’t recognize the number. The text message had come from Europe; it was attached to an Italian phone number.

Maureen padded out to the little kitchen to make coffee. Caffeine first; all things must happen in order. She searched sleepily through the cupboards. Dark-roast coffee beans, a grinder, and a French press would at least get her started, and she was certain that all those things would be here.

Maureen smiled to herself as she thought about it. There were two things that Maureen would bet her life Bérenger would have on hand at all times, and those things were great coffee and better wine. She was right on both counts. The night before she had taken a quick look at the small but exquisite wine selection that he kept in a custom-built cooler off the dining room. Not surprisingly, there were bottles from several private vineyards in the Languedoc, elegant and limited vintages that were not exported under normal circumstances. But the owner of this wine collection was nobody’s average customer.

Bérenger had purchased the apartment on Fifth Avenue years ago because of its extraordinary location: the front door of the apartment complex faced the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Bérenger was a devoted art connoisseur, and he had made a sport of acquiring properties all over the world within easy reach of magnificent museums. He owned property on the Rue de Rivoli across from the Louvre and had a little place in Madrid, around the corner from the Prado. But Bérenger had a special passion for the Met. His schedule rarely allowed him to get to New York anymore, so he was delighted to turn his keys to the Fifth Avenue pied-à-terre over to his beloved Maureen—who was equally happy to accept them. Her career as an author brought her to New York regularly, and the apartment would provide her with a perfect place to call home.

Maureen opened the bag of imported Italian coffee beans that she had found in the second cupboard and inhaled the rich scent. The smell of coffee alone was enough to awaken her senses and she was already able to think more clearly. Whom did she know in Italy who would know that it was her birthday? Could it be her spiritual mentor, the enigmatic teacher known as Destino? Back in Florence now, he was inclined toward mysterious messages and secretive behavior.

She put water on to boil and grabbed her cell phone. She hit the reply button and sent a text message in reply.

THANK YOU. WHO IS THIS?

Maureen picked up the remote control for the television and turned on a national morning show. There was the usual offering of pop culture and daily news, and she left it on as she made coffee. She was momentarily distracted by a gossip piece that had all the women in the studio buzzing. Supermodel and socialite Vittoria Buondelmonti was going to make an announcement today that the tabloids were drooling over in anticipation. The Italian catwalk queen was the mother of a two-year-old boy who, until now, she had kept sheltered from the press. The paternity of the boy had been the cause of speculation since the earliest days of her pregnancy, and Vittoria had remained adamant that she wasn’t going to reveal who had fathered the child. She had been involved in a string of high-profile relationships before the birth of her
son, and the rag papers had speculated endlessly on the paternity issue as they presented photographs of Vittoria with the many men she had dined out with: an international soccer star, a rock-and-roll icon, a race driver, a Greek billionaire, an oil tycoon, her childhood sweetheart from Florence.