The Poet Prince (18 page)

“It has been a difficult week for the Sinclair Oil family in Scotland,” the announcer said. “Today Alexander Sinclair, the president of Sinclair Oil, was arrested on charges of corruption in the United Kingdom. This is a breaking story and details regarding the alleged criminal activity are scarce. We will fill you in as we follow this one. You may remember that the elder of the Sinclair brothers, Bérenger, found himself in hot water yesterday when Italian supermodel Vittoria Buondelmonti announced that he was the father of her baby boy.”

Peter couldn’t move for a moment; he was stunned. Bérenger worshipped Maureen, would die for her. Or so he had thought. Peter, who had committed to a life of celibacy, didn’t always understand the affairs of men in such matters. He had his cell phone in his hands within seconds, but he could not reach Maureen. He tried Bérenger next, but the call went immediately to voice mail.

He went to pick up Destino’s invitation again, contemplating the question “Are you as wise as Solomon?” His immediate answer was an unqualified no. At times like this, he was at a loss about what to do and how to be of help to the people he loved. The priesthood had not prepared him for many of life’s most complicated problems, including those surrounding relationships and sexuality.

But Peter also knew that where Destino was concerned, every question was a trick question.

The Confraternity of the Holy Apparition
Vatican City
present day

“T
HE HOLY VIRGIN
Mother allowed her only child to die in pain! And he died for all of you, in that pain!”

Felicity screeched at the packed crowd in the confraternity’s meeting hall. There was higher attendance tonight than there had ever been. It was so full that the confraternity had to turn people away for fear that the fire brigade would come and shut down the meeting. She extended an arm and pointed at the assembly. “How many of you would do the same? How many of you would suffer for God?”

There was no time for audience response. As Felicity screamed the last question, her eyes began to roll back in her head. The crowd was silent, waiting to see what would happen next. This was what they had come to see—this great drama of possession by the saints and the Holy Spirit.

Felicity began to babble in a strange, harsh type of gibberish.

“She’s speaking in tongues!” someone shouted in the crowd but was hushed by the rest, who waited for what would come next. In their anticipation of the spectacle, no one noticed that the voice came from Sister Ursula, the elder nun responsible for the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition. She, alongside Felicity, had resurrected the organization after Girolamo de Pazzi proved incapable following his illness. Sister Ursula had been Felicity’s guardian since the day she returned to Italy. She had protected the girl and nourished her visions under careful supervision for a decade now. At the public appearances, she played a key role in ensuring that the crowd was steered in the right emotional direction. Other members of the confraternity were well placed in the room for the same purpose.

A visceral growl rose from Felicity’s throat, followed by a scream so heart-wrenching and full of agony that it rattled the windows of the meeting hall.

“My children!” she wailed again, and the excitement within the hall was growing. Here is what they came for, here was the arrival of the holy Santa Felicita, speaking through the vessel she had chosen for her message.

“My children did not die in vain! I gave my children to God as sacrifices to his holy name. Each one suffered and bled for the honor of being martyred to the name of Jesus Christ!”

She fell to her knees, wailing, ripping her hair out now from the scalp as she continued her tirade.

“Mothers among you, do you weep for me?”

There were murmurs and cries through the crowd of “Yes! Of course!” and “God bless you!”

“Do not!” she roared at them all. “I was joyous on the day that my brave children chose to suffer rather than deny their God. Like the Virgin Mother before me, I was in rapture over the death of my sons. My children will live forever!”

Felicity’s eyes rolled back again and she fell to the ground, thrashing. Her back arched and her hand came down hard on the cement floor, splitting open the wounds of her stigmata. The crowd gasped as droplets of blood splashed those who were nearest to her. When her thrashing died down, she was possessed with a new voice.

“All of you, you must begin your preparation. Think no more about this earthly life, which means nothing! The afterlife is far greater than anything you can imagine on this terrible earth.”

Sister Ursula cried out, “It is the voice of the Holy Spirit. Praise God for this blessing. Praise God for this saint who suffers for us!”

The crowd was with her now, caught up in the frenzied atmosphere that had followed Santa Felicita. They began to shout out, “Praise God! Praise his saints!”

Felicity rolled over on one side, exhausted and bleeding now, but still preaching in her strange growl.

“You may preserve your place in heaven, but you must show God that you are worthy. You must defend him and his holy truth. All of you who fight to defeat evil and destroy blasphemy will be given your reward. But there is a great evil which threatens our holy way, a heresy which must be stopped . . .”

The energy was seeping from her as she prepared to leave consciousness and faint into blackness. She whispered, just before her head rolled back, “Stop the blasphemer. Stop the fornicators who would lie about the chastity of our Lord. You must . . . stop . . .”

Felicity lapsed into unconsciousness before she could finish her
sentence. Members of the confraternity, well rehearsed in this circumstance, brought a stretcher to the front of the room and carried her out amid the frenzy and excitement that remained in the room.

Sister Ursula seized the moment and grabbed the microphone from the podium at the front of the room.

“My brothers and sisters, do not leave without understanding the warning which was given us by the Holy Spirit! There is a great blasphemy which threatens us, an evil, a demon of lies and deceit which must be destroyed.”

On cue, a group of volunteers from the confraternity began to hand out leaflets to everyone in attendance as Sister Ursula continued to shout in the microphone over the din.

“I urge you to take this information, and take action! Your place in heaven depends upon it. Stop Satan from spreading more lies! Help us to stamp out the devil! We will be meeting here every night this week to discuss the action plan laid out here for you.”

The leaflets were snatched up greedily by the members in attendance, more motivated than ever to find their way into heaven.

The leaflets bore the bold command “Stop the Blasphemy!”

Below that was a photograph of Maureen Paschal’s new book,
The Time Returns,
and another one of the demon fornicator herself.

Careggi
spring 1463

T
HE SUN WARMED
the stones of Careggi to a tawny gold as Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici watched her elder son ride away from the villa. She paused at the window until he rode out of sight, his glossy black hair flying behind him. As if sensing his mother’s gaze, Lorenzo turned in his saddle and waved back at the house with a dazzling smile before cantering off into the forest. At fourteen, Lorenzo had grown into a fine young man. He was tall and well built, athletic, and utterly charming.
He was possessed of the rare combination of a brilliant mind and a loving heart, and Lucrezia kept a close watch on his education to ensure that those attributes were both protected and developed.

Lucrezia had grown into a deeply pious woman, although in her own words, “Not a tedious one.” She wrote devotional poetry that sprang from her heart and her spirit, for she was deeply indebted to the Lord for the gifts he had bestowed upon her family. She had embroidered in her own fine hand a quote from Psalm 127, which graced the bedchamber she shared with her husband, Piero.

Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.

They were indeed, and God’s rewards to her had been bountiful. She had five thriving children: three daughters, Maria, Bianca, and Nannina, each more beautiful and intelligent than the next, and two utterly remarkable sons. Lorenzo was the elder of the boys and the more like her in appearance and intellect. Lucrezia Tornabuoni was not herself a beautiful woman, but she had a grace and presence that transcended any shallow ideal of physical perfection. She had passed on her most unfortunate family trait to Lorenzo: the scooped nose with the flattened bridge that deprived both of them of a sense of smell and any hope of a singing voice. But Lorenzo had also gained some of her greatest characteristics, including her physical height and regal posture combined with the extraordinary mental acuity that made her the most accomplished of Florentine matriarchs. Intellectually, Lorenzo was unequaled by any child she had ever seen. His love of learning was unsurpassed, his linguistic skills were nearly supernatural, and his ability to memorize and comprehend the most complex lessons was astonishing. His first teacher, the renowned intellectual Gentile Becchi, once said that “there were not enough superlatives to describe Lorenzo as a scholar.”

Like his mother, Lorenzo was also possessed of an extraordinary charisma that overcame any of his physical deficits. There was an animation to his face, born from his sheer passion for life, that was entirely
enchanting. He was immensely popular among the otherwise cynical people of Florence, who referred to him fondly as “our prince.” Even at this young age, Lorenzo had already carried out important diplomatic missions for both the family and the Florentine state.

“Mama, where is Lorenzo going?”

The voice from the doorway caused Lucrezia to turn with a smile. Her younger son, Giuliano, four years junior to Lorenzo, was petulant. Tears welled in his huge brown eyes.

“The equerry came to the house to tell Lorenzo that his spoiled horse was restless and would not eat from any hand but his master’s. Lorenzo has gone to feed the beast and give him some exercise.”

“He said he would take me riding today.” Giuliano pouted. “He promised! Why didn’t he take me?”

“I’m sure he will come back for you if he promised. Lorenzo never breaks a promise.” This was the truth. Lorenzo was entirely trustworthy and never broke his word, particularly to his baby brother, whom he doted upon unconditionally.

Lucrezia ruffled the younger boy’s dark curls with affection. Giuliano had been given all the physical blessings of which Lorenzo had been deprived. He was a beautiful child and gifted with a sweet, if overly sensitive, nature. Yet Piero was fond of saying to her in the privacy of their chambers, “God knew what he was doing when he gave us Lorenzo as our prince. Lorenzo was made for this purpose. Giuliano, on the other hand, will never have the disposition for leadership of any kind. He is too sweet, too soft.”

They would watch Giuliano closely to see if he had a vocation for the Church, which would suit the Medici purposes well on a multitude of levels. Yet while Lucrezia was a key decision maker in the most powerful family in Florence, she was also a devoted mother who wanted her children to find happiness in what was often a harsh world. She would not force Giuliano into the Church but rather allow him to make that decision on his own if he had such a calling. Again, this was the privilege of being second-born and free of the burden of an enormous, looming prophecy. Giuliano would have far more say over his personal destiny
than his elder brother. Yet Lucrezia saw Lorenzo more clearly than did his father, which frightened her sometimes. She recognized the tender heart beneath the sense of responsibility; she saw and understood that there was truly a delicate poet beneath the powerful prince. While God had a plan for Lorenzo, Lucrezia feared for his happiness. Would he be able to fulfill the role of Medici ruler, of banker, politician, and statesman—and find peace and personal joy in the process?

But above all there was the other responsibility, one that was spoken of only to the most trusted members of their intimate circle: the
awesome and daunting holy prophecy that Lorenzo had been chosen by God to fulfill. That he was the Poet Prince was without question from the day of his perfect conception and January birth, under the sign of the sea goat and with Mars submerged in Pisces, just as the
Magi had specified. Lorenzo was in the process of becoming fully indoctrinated. Cosimo de’ Medici, the family’s legendary patriarch and Lorenzo’s grandfather, was finalizing that plan with the Order imminently.

Even at such a young age, the weight of his destiny was beginning to settle upon Lorenzo’s broadening shoulders. Cosimo was dying and his heir, Piero, was also unwell, indeed had never been particularly healthy, living up to his unfortunate nickname throughout Florence of Piero the Gouty.

Lucrezia sighed as she ushered Giuliano out the door. Giuliano would never know how fortunate he was to be born into all the privilege with little of the responsibility. But the same could not be said for Lorenzo.
Ah, my poor prince.
She looked toward the window where she had last glimpsed him.
Enjoy your freedom now, my son. Before the reality of who you are and what you must accomplish engulfs you completely.

Turning back to Giuliano, she grabbed his hand. “Come, my little one. It is time for you to sit with Sandro so that he may finish our beautiful painting. And no squirming this time!”