The Poet Prince (3 page)

According to the sacred family legend, Saint Peter’s only daughter,
the first-century saint known as Petronella, had married the youngest son of the holy family, Yeshua-David. Mary Magdalene had been heavily pregnant at the time of the crucifixion, and was spirited away to safety in Alexandria immediately thereafter. In Egypt she gave birth to the son of Jesus, called Yeshua-David, whose own life was wondrous and powerful. It was said that on the day that Yeshua-David and the original Petronella first met as children, they became inseparable. They married and had many children, thus creating a legacy of pure Christian strength that preached the Way of Love throughout Europe. The women in this lineage subsequently married into powerful Roman families to protect their line. Staying alive to preserve the Way was their sole mission. It was their family legacy, as it had been delivered to their patriarch by Jesus Christ himself.

Jesus had given Peter his name, Petrus, meaning “the rock,” because he believed his friend the fisherman to be solid and unwavering in his commitment. He was the rock upon which Jesus could build a strong foundation for growth, one of the chosen successors to ensure that the teachings of the Way would not die. Jesus had
commanded
that Peter deny him so that he would escape persecution and live to preach another day. Sadly, Peter’s triple denial of Jesus was now infamous and often used to illustrate his weakness of character. It was just one of many injustices manufactured by the scribes who would twist Christian history for their own purposes. But Peter’s descendants knew the truth and remembered it with pride, adopting the rooster proudly as their family emblem. That Peter would deny Jesus three times before the cock crowed was their Lord’s own request. Contrary to the derogatory legend, Peter was showing his strength in following the sacred orders that Jesus had given to him.

The exact words, spoken privately by Jesus to Peter on that blessed night in Gethsemane, had been passed down and memorized by all Petrus children:

Live to preach another day. You must remain. Only then will the Way of Love survive.

The words of Jesus to Saint Peter, spoken in the Garden of Gethsemane, had been distilled into the sacred family motto:

I remain.

Lady Petronella was the remaining “rock” of the Christians, and as such she must now face this predicament that could prove dangerous to their Way of Love.

Indeed, Petronella hoped to represent the legacy of her most steadfast and compassionate ancestors today with this mission to the emperor to save Felicita and her remaining children. What concerned the lady now was how much confidence Pius appeared to have in her ability to reach Felicita and to turn this situation around for Rome. While she was determined to try, Petronella had deep reservations about
the outcome of this venture. Felicita’s fanaticism was legendary among the Compassionate Christians, even before her inconceivable act of offering her children up for sacrifice. Would Felicita listen to her? It was hard to know. Petronella’s pedigree among Christians was pristine to the point that most nearly worshipped her. And beyond all else, she was the current guardian of the Libro Rosso, the sacred book that contained the true teachings and prophecies of the holy family. Her authority could not be argued by any reasonable Christian. But a woman who would cheer on the unspeakably brutal executions of her children as an act of faith was not a reasonable Christian.

Before requesting an audience with the emperor, Petronella had prayed long and hard for guidance. She prayed to her Lord for his strength and for the clarity to understand his will through the teachings of love. She invoked the Queen of Compassion and asked to be guided by her remarkable grace. She rubbed the central ruby of her pendant and said a final prayer.

“I remain,” she whispered aloud, then steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation to come.

“Good evening, sister.”

Petronella had been allowed, through intervention of the emperor, to meet with Felicita in one of the magistrate’s offices. It would have been unseemly for a lady of her status to descend into the depths of the dank, fetid cell where Felicita had been held. While the prisoner had been given a clean shift to wear during the visit, she was filthy and her skin was stained with the blood of her children. Petronella winced inwardly and prayed that her horror was not immediately apparent on the surface.

The two women greeted each other as all Christians did: as siblings of the spirit. After the formalities, Felicita asked with suspicion, “Why have you come?”

Petronella’s gaze was steady, her melodious voice soft. “I have come to offer my condolences for your loss and see if there is any comfort your community can provide for you in your time of grief.”

Felicita appeared not to hear her at first. Then she looked at the elegant woman in surprise. “Grief? What grief?”

Petronella was taken aback. The woman must surely have lost whatever was left of her mind after what she had witnessed.

“Lady Felicita, we are all heartbroken over the loss of your beautiful boys.”

Felicita was looking past Petronella now, as if she were not there—or as if it didn’t matter if she were. She shook her head slowly and replied as if entranced, “Heartbroken? Why, sister? I am joyous on this day as my brave children did not deny their God. Our Lord Jesus Christ will welcome them into heaven and celebrate their strength and faith. Don’t you see? This is a day for rejoicing! I can only hope that tomorrow the magistrates will give orders to take the rest of us, so that we may all be together in heaven by the time the sun goes down.”

Petronella cleared her throat to give herself a moment to think. This was worse than she had anticipated.

“Sister, while I understand your great faith in the power of the afterlife, if I may say so, Jesus taught us that we must celebrate the joy of life that we have here on earth. That it is God’s great gift to us. Your three
youngest sons can and should be spared so that they may grow and live in this world that God has created for them.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” Felicita shrieked with a venom that caused Petronella’s head to snap back as if slapped. “You . . . ,” she spit at the calm woman standing before her as she continued to rage, “you stand here in your Roman finery, married to a foul pagan, and yet you dare to judge me? I will not betray my God for anyone or anything, and neither will any of my children. We are righteous and God will reward us for our courage. Our reward will be togetherness in heaven in the sight of that God.”

Petronella, praying inwardly that the blessed Magdalena would send her both patience and compassion, tried a different tactic. “Felicita, your death and the deaths of your remaining children will remove powerful voices from this earth, voices that can spread the good news of our teachings and serve to educate others. Do you not think that God wants this? These young boys will grow knowing that their brothers died for their beliefs, and it will make them strong in their resolve to continue our teachings. They must remain. They will be heroes for the Way. This is what God wants from them, and from you.”

“How dare you presume to tell me what God wants? I hear him clearly, and he tells me that he wants my children to be martyrs, not heroes. He requires them as a sacrifice to his greater glory. Just as Abraham was told to sacrifice Isaac.”

Petronella took a breath and explained patiently, “Yes, but Abraham was stopped before he could kill his own son. The Lord was testing him to determine his obedience, and yet once he was convinced of it, he sent the angel of mercy, Zadakiel, to stay the hand that was holding the sacrificial knife. For it is never God’s wish to see any of his children suffer. Felicita, the Lord is begging you to be that merciful angel who stays the hand of the executioner. Please, do not kill your remaining children. If you do, you will not be choosing the Way of Love. If Jesus were here with us now, he would not allow you to murder your babies. Of this, more than anything, I am most certain.”

Felicita turned feverish eyes on Petronella. “Jesus is waiting for me at the gates of heaven, waiting to embrace me and to reward my cour
age. It is you he will reject, you who married a pagan and who concedes to your heathen neighbors at every turn.”

“I love and honor my neighbors as his commandment instructs. It is not concession, Felicita. It is the Way of Love. It is tolerance.”

“It is weakness!”

“There will be no Christians left if we do not embrace tolerance. Our Way will not survive if we do not learn how to live it in peace with others. The Way bids us to be patient with those who have not yet seen the light. Jesus tells us we must forgive those who do not see.”

“Then I pray he will forgive you, sister.” Felicita hissed the last word, making it clear that she no longer believed that Petronella was her sister. “I pray that God forgives you for your weakness and for your evil intent in coming here tonight. Only a devil would try to stop me from carrying out this ultimate sacrifice for the extreme glory of our
Lord!”

Petronella had run out of patience, and there was no further need for it. It was clear that Felicita was too immersed in her twisted sacrificial fantasy to hear anything that resembled reason, or even sanity. How could she be anything else but completely invested, after sacrificing four of her children to that idea on this day?

Petronella stood to take her leave, saying quietly as she moved toward the door, “Then I shall pray for all of us, Felicita. And for everyone who dares to believe in the Way of Love.”

The following morning dawned dreary with a haze that covered
the sun. The priests of Saturn were declaring it an evil omen even be-
fore the news came that the plague of influenza had continued to spread through the night, killing five more. Two of the dead were children of the temple priests.

The emperor Antoninus Pius was accosted by a cadre of angry holy men even before breakfast. They were certain that Felicita had caused this increased plague through her refusal to acknowledge the gods. She must be made to change her mind. They demanded that her surviv
ing children be brought into court and threatened with execution one
by one.

The pressure on the emperor grew more extreme as the day wore on, coming now from many regions of the republic as the legend of Felicita and her reign of terror began to spread. He finally succumbed to the weight of it, reconvening that terrible court of execution.

Felicita and her three remaining sons stood before the magistrate. She was a wild-eyed Medea now, completely diseased by the fevered fantasy in her brain, which had been fed by the blood of her eldest. The little boys were terrified, and the youngest cried openly, blond curls sticking to his wet cheeks. Pius had called Publius to his home and instructed him privately that these children must not suffer in death. If it was unavoidable for them to die, then so be it. They would die. But the torture of babies would not be his legacy.

One by one, each of the boys was called before the magistrates. Publius coaxed them, in his most gentle voice, to turn their backs on their mother and follow the priests to the temple. Felicita was chanting now, a terrible, high-pitched wail of a chant, over and over again. “Be not afraid, children. Your father and brothers await you in heaven.” One by one, the children shook their heads at the magistrates, as if under their mother’s hypnotic spell. As each was led forward to the chopping block, Felicita was asked if she would recant and save this child. Her response each time was a hideous laugh, a terrible parody of the sound of joy.

In the space of a single hour, three beautiful children, including one who was little more than a baby, lost their heads to the executioner’s sharpest sword. He was swift with each, ensuring that the boys did not feel any pain. But when it came to the death of their mother, he was not so lenient. He used an axe instead, and it took three blows to separate the lady from her head.

Emperor Antoninus Pius fled the hideous suburb that had been forsaken by the gods that same night, never to return to it. Felicita’s reign of terror was over. But he was certain that he would be forever haunted by the sound of her insane laughter and the images that accompanied it as that last, tiny, golden-haired child died on the chopping block under his command.