The Poet Prince (27 page)

Some would say I am too harsh. Yet as fate would have it, Piero of the Poultry was unable to deliver all seven of the paintings. I was called in—by the grace of God and the Medici—to execute the seventh virtue, the one he was not inspired enough to attempt: Fortitude.

And so it was that Colombina modeled officially and formally, sitting in that position that so inspires me, with her head tilted on her long neck, with her lovely face, so wise beyond its years, in contemplation of the great tasks awaiting her. Having Colombina in front of me, I found it was most important to capture her exquisite eye color, which I was determined to duplicate. The light was reflecting off her gown that day, which was a golden velvet, and her eyes were the color of amber in the sun. And yet, as we always do, we laughed so often and so hard that I could not always hold the brush steady enough to paint her.

In honor of our Order, and in a reference to the great Piero della Francesca, I executed the draping of her red gown in a manner similar to his Arezzo Magdalene. It was subtle enough that only those of us with eyes to see would understand the nod, but I find great amusement in such things—as does Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was so delighted by the likeness of Colombina that he threatened to commit constant acts of offense as a merchant just so he would be brought before the tribunal and have the opportunity to view the painting! I told him it would be far simpler if he would commission me to create a greater work for him.

What began as a joke between me and my brother of the spirit evolved into a serious discussion of what, in fact, the ultimate painting would be—the perfect collaboration between art and wisdom, beauty and energy. We contemplated the possibilities then, excited by the ideas as they began to expand and spiral between us. It was a discussion that led to the greatest painting I have ever laid brush and heart to, the perfect depiction of
le temps revient . . .

But that is another story for another day, as it deserves its very own telling.

I remain,
Alessandro di Filipepi, known as “Botticelli”

FROM THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI

The Uffizi Gallery
Florence
present day

T
HEY ALL MOVED
together through the halls of the Uffizi, Destino leading the way with his funny, ancient gait, Maureen by his side, listening closely, with Peter, Tammy, and Roland never far behind. The museum was overwhelming in terms of the sheer volume of extraordinary Italian masterpieces collected in one place. It was laid out according to epoch, starting with the Middle Ages gallery, where an enormous Madonna by Cimabue greeted the visitors in the primary room. From there, it was a labyrinth of chambers and corridors, each leading to the next era in art.

“I am very sorry to rush you through this, as each piece in this museum deserves careful consideration,” Destino said. “But we have a very specific destination for a reason, and very particular paintings within that destination as well.”

He brought them through the final room representing the Middle Ages until they reached a chamber dominated by seven similar paintings, each of them larger-than-life portraits of an enthroned, majestic woman.

“The virtues.” Maureen recognized them immediately from the iconography of each. Justice carried her sword; Faith held a chalice. But it was clear that six of the paintings were identical in terms of style and execution. The seventh virtue was the standout, utterly different in essence from her six sisters.

Tammy whistled as she looked around the room, then sang a song from her childhood. “Uh, ‘One of these things is not like the other.’ ”

Of the seven paintings in the room, six had been painted by the same artist. And while they were lovely in their own way, they were eclipsed in total by the seventh.

The painting of Fortitude shone like the Hope diamond set among agates in the rough. This artist had used more vibrant color and elaborate detail, and there was a grace in his execution that was absolutely
breathtaking to behold. But what really elevated the painting was the model. The young woman depicted was an extraordinary combination of ethereal beauty and steel-in-the-spine strength. She was stunning.

“Botticelli’s first commission,” Destino explained, pointing at the painting of Fortitude. “He was determined to prove his output was of an infinitely higher quality than that of the artists who were getting all the commissions in Florence. He threw himself into this work. Poor Pollaiuolo. When he saw how the light of Colombina as Fortitude obscured all six of his paintings, he went into a deep depression and didn’t paint for months.”

“That’s Colombina?” Maureen stood before the image, breathless. Destino had prepared her with the stories of Colombina and Lorenzo as children, beginning over dinner last night and lasting well into the early hours of the morning. Maureen was enthralled with their story and that of Sandro interacting with them as one of their siblings. The Renaissance was coming to life in a way she had never imagined—so human, so real. It was easy to think of these astonishing characters from history as iconic, while forgetting that they were flesh-and-blood humans who laughed and loved and lost. Destino was changing history for her in a most delightful and unexpected way.

“That is most definitely Colombina,” Destino said, his eyes tearing up as he looked at the painting. “And Sandro did what he set out to do. He captured her. And while he painted her many times—the most famous version of her awaits you in the next salon—this is the portrait that makes me miss her above all.”

Maureen stood transfixed before Colombina. The woman was already “talking” to her. She could feel herself slipping deeper into that state in which she merged with one of her subjects. She began to experience what Colombina felt during this time in her life when Sandro captured her on canvas. It was a beautiful time but also painful. She felt love but also deep heartache. Maureen’s own recent pain blended with the strains of Colombina’s that reached out to her across time and space, through the magic of Botticelli’s art. Maureen knew that she was only just beginning to understand the complexities of this “little dove” who was the unsung muse of the greatest men of the Renaissance.

Maureen realized further that her destiny was somehow intertwined with the beautiful yet enigmatic woman who called to her from the canvas.

Careggi
summer 1464

“
THE TIME RETURNS
.”

F
RA FRANCESCO
started the lesson with that statement, delivering it today to Lorenzo, Sandro, and Colombina. He was particularly happy to be teaching when the three of them were together. There was a harmony, a sense of family and community that occurred when these three spirits occupied the same space. They had a love for each other that was beautiful to behold. Yet they also challenged each other in a way that only those who completely trust each other are able to do.

Ficino was their primary teacher, drilling them in Greek grammar and quizzing them relentlessly on the allegories and lessons of Plato, but they all thrived under the Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher when he came to present a teaching. It was on these days that Colombina made certain that she was able to find a way out of the house to meet Lorenzo and join the lessons.

As their teacher, Fra Francesco had to be particularly creative and bold when he had all three of them. It was his greatest and most joyous challenge, which was why he chose the core of the Order’s philosophy for their lesson today.

“Now, my children, we start. Give me ‘the time returns’ in the language of the troubadours.”

“Le temps revient,”
Lorenzo repeated in French. While his French wasn’t fluent, he had learned a fair amount while reading troubadour poetry and studying the ideals of courtly love.

The Master nodded, then expounded on the theme. “ ‘The time returns’ is our most precious teaching because it has many layers, and each of those layers applies to the different type of love. For all of us, it
is an understanding that earthly love returns ultimately to divine love, and then divine love recycles again to give us the gift of earthly life. This is the cycle of the soul.”

Whereas Colombina and Lorenzo took notes, Sandro sketched through the lessons. This is how he learned, how he remembered, and ultimately how he would express these teachings through paint. As the Master talked, Sandro was drawing a landscape with characters that moved in a type of circle—cyclical, moving from heaven to earth and then back again.

“Now, shall I teach you something that you do not yet know? ‘The time returns’ pertains to the series of incarnations, from the beginning of time to the end of time, in which souls will incarnate in the quest to be reunited with their ‘family of spirit,’ and specifically with their one true mate, who, as it is said in the Book of Love, is ‘their own soul’s twin.’ ”

Colombina asked, “Master, are we a family of spirit?”

“Do you believe that we are, my dear?”

She nodded. “I love my blood family, of course, but it is different. When I am with Lorenzo and Sandro and Master Ficino and you, I feel something very deep and beautiful. I love you all so much, and I know in my heart that we are a true family.”

“ ‘The only thing sweeter than union is reunion,’ ” Lorenzo quoted from the Book of Love.

“Yes, my son. And it is clear to any with a heart that this is the truth for the two of you. And as one of the great troubadour poets once wrote, such love is created
‘Dès le début du temps, jusqu’à la fin du temps.’
Say that with me now.”

He instructed them again in the French, and they repeated it until they all had the pronunciation down. And from that day forward, the words of an unknown troubadour who had once sung songs of perfect love for his own lady fair became the truth of Lorenzo and Colombina’s bond:

From the beginning of time, until the end of time.

Sandro later showed Colombina and Lorenzo the sketches he had made during their very special lesson. The first was of Colombina: he had captured her head tilted just so on her beautifully long neck as she contemplated the lesson. He had carefully sketched her lovely long fingers as they intertwined around her pen.

“It is a position I have seen you take before, and one that I have attempted to paint from memory,” Sandro said. As a masterful artist with an eye for sheer beauty, he adored Colombina as the muse she had become. Indeed, she was a muse for all of them; in each she inspired a different aspect of love as taught by the Order. For Lorenzo she was both
eros
and
agape,
inspiring love of the heart, soul, and body. For Sandro, she was the muse of beauty in its active principle, a force, like Venus herself, that transforms everything around it. But she was also his sister of spirit, the essence of the love known as
philia
. For the Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, she was becoming a special muse in the model of the bloodline women who had come before—the prophetesses and scribes who would not only preserve the true teachings but contribute to them in a new world. And she was his daughter, who therefore inspired the love in him known as
storge
.

Together, teacher and pupils shared the love that transforms the world through action and compassion, which was called
eunoia
.

“You are the ultimate muse, Colombina. You are all things to all of us. You are our Magdalena.” Sandro kissed her on the cheek. He rarely showed this softer side to anyone, but his artist’s soul had been very moved while watching her in the lesson today.

Lorenzo was teary watching both of them. He took the drawing from Sandro and admired it closely. “May I keep this? It is beautiful.”

“Afraid not, brother.” Sandro snatched the drawing back. “I shall be using this as inspiration for the face of future madonnas and goddesses
of fortitude. But I assure you, I will paint our Colombina many times—in this pose and in others.”

Careggi
1464

“L
ORENZO, WE HAVE AN ENEMY
.”

Colombina had come to meet Lorenzo in the usual place, where they came together to travel to Ficino’s villa for lessons. But he could see that she was not herself today as he rode up on Morello. Lorenzo dismounted and put his arms around her as she buried her face in his shoulder and began to cry.

“My love, what is it? What has happened?”

She was hiccuping a bit with the sobbing. Lorenzo would have found it quite adorable under other circumstances, but at the moment he was completely preoccupied with identifying and weeding out the
enemy.

“Someone—I cannot begin to guess who it may be—has gone to my father and told him about us.”

“Told him what?”

The hiccuping resumed, more intense now. “Oh, Lorenzo, it is horrible. My father asked me today if I had given myself to you completely. Can you imagine hearing such a question from one’s own father? He was told that you would make me your whore just to prove the Medici might, just to show that you could do anything and have anything you desire.”