The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  As a member of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, René d’Anjou did understand and was fascinated. He had not thus far in his life had the luxury of cultivating such talent and working with artists of this nature, and he wanted to know more.

  “Lippi is one of the foretold angelics?”

  Cosimo nodded. “Of course. And I am hoping to give him some much-needed discipline so that one day he may teach some of the younger artists who show that same promise—without also imbuing them with his bad habits.”

  Cosimo fished the key to the solid iron lock out of his pocket. “His minor incarceration here is for his own good and he knows it. Lippi must be protected from himself.”

  René saw immediately that the apple cellar was no dank dungeon. Light filtered in on all sides through well-placed skylights, and Lippi painted happily, surrounded by everything he could possibly require while performing a day’s work. The artist grinned as the two men entered and he addressed his patron.

  “Ah, perfect that you have come now, Cosimo. See here, what I have done. I have added some touches here to the angels, and see how I have placed the book here carefully? No one will be the wiser.”

  Cosimo introduced René to Lippi, but the artist was far too single-minded, completely absorbed in his current masterpiece, to show much concern for the fact that the king of Jerusalem and Naples was in his presence. He continued his questions to Cosimo.

  “What do you think? Do I dare paint the book’s cover red? Make it a true Libro Rosso?”

  “At this stage, Lippi, I don’t care if you paint it violet with rosy stripes, just as long as you finish it quickly. The archbishop is howling for your head. I will not be able to protect you from his wrath much longer.”

  Cosimo turned to René and explained. “Lippi is notoriously late on all his commissions, distracted as he is by wine and women.”

  “Oh no, no!” Lippi held up a hand. “One woman, Cosimo. Not women, plural. Woman, singular. There is only one perfect woman for me, created by God at the dawn of time from my own being, my own soul’s twin, and yes, she distracts me utterly . . .”

  Cosimo continued with René as Lippi lapsed into more ecstasy over his one true love.

  “Meanwhile, Lippi is no less late with this altarpiece for Santa Annunziata, for a clergyman who is already carrying a grudge about Lippi’s abandoned vows. If he does not deliver it on time, the archbishop will withdraw his commission and lock him up—in a real cell. So you see, what I do here is quite humane.”

  Lippi shrugged and nodded, with an afterthought. “It is. Although you could be more generous with the wine.”

  “That’s enough out of you.” Cosimo’s smile was affectionate for all his harsh words. “You will have nothing but bread and water in a dark cell if you don’t finish this commission, so stop complaining.”

  As Cosimo turned to go, he said over his shoulder, “And of course you should make the book red. That is the point, isn’t it?”

  Lippi winked at him and returned to his masterpiece, bursting into a ribald song about making love on the banks of the Arno in the springtime, as he mixed the russet pigments to create the perfect, heretical red for the unsuspecting archbishop’s book cover.

  Florence

  1448

  IN THE FIRST of many things that Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici would accomplish to absolute perfection, she conceived a son during the sacred ceremony of Immaculate Conception with her husband, Piero, in the spring of 1448.

  The challenge faced by Cosimo de’ Medici, along with the female hierarchy within the Order, had been to find the perfect woman from a Florentine family to bear the child of their prophecy. This was not

  simply an issue of lineage but one of temperament and spiritual potential. The young woman chosen to mother this special child would require rigorous training in the ways of the Order, and it was critical that she not be resistant to the sometimes extreme heresy represented by the teachings found within the Libro Rosso. The suitable girl from an acceptable family would recognize the beauty and the truth of what the Order was teaching and therefore embrace her role as the new Mary for the dawning of the golden age. Just as the golden child would come as predicted, so would the “Mary” who would give birth to him become apparent when the time was right.

  Lucrezia Tornabuoni emerged as the unanimous choice to marry into the Medici dynasty and mother the Poet Prince. The adored and highly educated daughter of an exalted Florentine family, Lucrezia was renowned both for her brilliant intellect and for her extraordinary common sense. She was also recognized in the elite literary circles of Florence as a gifted poet, a valuable characteristic for the mother of this future prince to possess. The ultimate benefit of this arranged marriage was that Piero and Lucrezia managed to fall completely in love with each other while the preparations were under way to unite them.

  Piero and Lucrezia de Medici had been married for almost five years when this ritual to conceive their Poet Prince was invoked. They had married early in 1444, their wedding date and time chosen by the Magi to ensure the greatest fortune. The year itself was considered a great blessing as it contained within it the number 444, called “the manifestation of the angels” in ancient numerology. Indeed, the union had appeared to bring angelic blessings thus far to the growing Medici family. During the course of their peaceful and contented marriage thus far, Piero and Lucrezia had blessedly conceived three beautiful and healthy daughters.

  Lucrezia and Piero de’ Medici followed the rite of Immaculate Conception exactly as they were instructed by the Mistress of the Hieros-Gamos. This approach to coupling within the bedchamber was the ultimate sacrament within the Order, and the two of them had been through intensive instruction in sacred union. They understood that Immaculate Conception was the conscious conception of a much-desired child. The beloved couple entered the bedchamber in an atmosphere of absolute love and trust for each other, and with the understanding that they were about to engage in a holy act that would bring forth a child to them, if God was so willing. During the act of coupling, each was to pray for the admission of the child into the woman’s body.

  It was a beautiful ceremony, one in which the senses were invoked to create an environment of heaven on earth within a bedchamber transformed into a sacred space. White candles reflected soft shadows on the walls, and the bed was draped with the softest and finest white linens and silks. The room was filled with vases of enormous and fragrant white lilies, as it was believed that the scent of lilies stimulated the senses as a reminder of the divine. For centuries, lilies had been the symbol of the Immaculate Conception and were often found in paintings representing the blessed moment of Mary’s conception, but none outside the Order understood that this was a reference to the hieros-gamos ritual of sacred coupling. Lilies represented the scent of heaven.

  Lucrezia Tornabuoni came to her husband that night dressed in a silk gown of white trimmed with threads of gold. Together they invoked a prayer to the angels for the protected guidance of the soul of this child into Lucrezia’s body. The invocation asked that a special gathering of angelic beings come together to watch over this little soul, to guide and protect him so that he might carry out the bidding of God during all his days on earth.

  Outside the bedchamber, a musician strummed a lyre and sang low chants the couple could hear during their union. The songs were meant to invoke angelic presence through sound, stimulating yet another sense in a divine manner. In the corner of the room an altar had been erected, and upon it sat the holy book of true teachings, the Libro Rosso. It had been René d’Anjou’s ultimate gift to the Medici family in anticipation of the prophesied prince who would usher in a rebirth of truth and enlightenment. The return of the Libro Rosso to Tuscany heralded the recognition of the Medici by the French royal family, including René’s cousin King Louis XI, as legitimate heirs to European power. Louis XI also granted Piero and his descendants the right to use the French royal fleur-de-lis emblem within the Medici crest in perpetuity as part of th
is gift from within the spirit family of the Order.

  And so it was to the lovely sound of angelic music, amid the bliss-inducing scent of lilies, and in the presence of this most sacred book that Lucrezia de’ Medici conceived a son at the precise moment determined by the stars and instructed by the Magi.

  In keeping with Lucrezia’s reputation for flawless execution of every task given her, she delivered the little prince, healthy and wailing and with a finely shaped head covered with glossy black hair, precisely as scheduled on January 1, 1449. The parents named the child in honor of the saint who had inspired their family’s basilica and was one of the greatest inspirations in the history of the Order, Saint Laurence. Within the archives of the Order, it was known additionally that Saint Laurence had been conceived immaculately; he was one of the first to bear the title of Poet Prince. His name was an important clue to this legacy: Laurence came from the root Laurentius, in reference to the laurel tree. From ancient times in Greece and later in Rome, the leaves of the laurel tree were used to create crowns in honor of the greatest poets of their times, thus leading to the term poet laureate. Great poets were crowned with laurel leaves. They were, in this way, declared as poet princes.

  Therefore this saint could be the only namesake for such a blessed child. He would bear a name that invoked both poetry and power, courage against the greatest odds, and an unstoppable determination to carry out a mission for the highest good under God. That name was Lorenzo, and this blessed child of Piero and Lucrezia de Medici

  would carry it into the future in a way that even they could not have imagined on the glorious day that he first drew breath.

  Lorenzo de’ Medici, the great Poet Prince, had arrived as scheduled by God to herald the rebirth of a golden age.

  Château des Pommes Bleues

  Arques, France

  present day

  TAMARA WISDOM was in a creative frenzy. As a filmmaker, she had so many possible subjects to choose from that she didn’t know where to start. Her documentary about Maureen’s work was something she had been outlining for months now. But there were so many directions in which to take it that she was having trouble settling on just one. Trying to find just the right way to present this story to the cynical world so that others might understand the beauty and the magic of it was going to be the challenge.

  And while studying the Libro Rosso over these last weeks, Tammy had come up with another idea.

  Destino.

  Surely there had never been a more extraordinary documentary subject in history. But would he allow her to tell his story? And what, exactly, was his story? Could it be possible that the wise and gentle man with the fearsomely scarred face really was what he claimed to be? Or was he just a crazy old Italian with a great sense of drama and history? That was precisely what would make Tammy’s film amazing, if she could get him to concede to going on camera with her. Let him tell the story, and let the viewer decide just how real—or how crazy—this Destino really was.

  Tammy picked up her copy of the Libro Rosso translations and read through the legend one more time, making notes as she went.

  And so it was that on the darkest day of our Lord’s sacrifice upon the cross, he was tormented in his final hour by a Roman centurion known as Longinus Gaius. This man had served Pontius Pilate in the scourging of our Lord Jesus Christ and had taken pleasure in inflicting pain upon the Son of God. As if this were not crime enough for one man, this same centurion pierced the side of our Lord with his deadly spear at his hour of death.

  The sky turned black at his moment of passing from our world into the next, and it is said that within that moment the Father in heaven spoke directly to the centurion thus:

  “Longinus Gaius, you have most offended me and all people of good heart with your vile deeds on this day. Your punishment shall be one of eternal damnation, but it will be an earthly damnation. You shall wander the earth without benefit of death so that each night when you lay down to sleep, your dreams will be haunted by the horrors of your own actions and the pain they have caused. Know that you will experience this torment until the end of time, or until you serve a suitable penance to redeem your tarnished soul in the name of my son Jesus Christ.”

  Longinus was blind to the truth at this time in his life, a man of sadistic cruelty beyond redemption, or so it would seem. But it came to pass that he was driven mad by the pronouncement of his eternal sentence to wander in an earthly hell. Therefore he sought out Our Lady Magdalena in Gaul to beg her forgiveness for his misdeeds. In her unlimited kindness and compassion she forgave him and instructed him in the teachings of the Way, just as she would any new follower, and without judgment.

  What became of Longinus Gaius is uncertain. He disappeared from the writings of Rome and from those of the early followers. It is unknown if he ever truly repented and found release from his sentence by a just God, or if he wanders the earth still, lost in his eternal damnation.

  THE LEGEND OF LONGINUS THE CENTURION, AS PRESERVED IN THE LIBRO ROSSO

  It was a haunting legend, made all the more astonishing by the fact that the old man named Destino claimed to be Longinus, a living witness to the history of the world for the last two thousand years. While he claimed that Mary Magdalene had forgiven him, it was only the forgiveness of God that would release him from his terrible curse.

  He became the Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher on the day he took his vow to Mary Magdalene that he would devote his eternal life to teaching the Way of Love. This was his penance, and he would serve it for two thousand years. Destino spoke of training Matilda of Canossa, who lived a thousand years ago, as if she were his student just last year. And he talked often about their blessed Magdalene in tones of hushed reverence.

  Tammy was constantly asking herself: Was Destino, as he claimed, the eternal soul who pierced the crucified Christ with his spear and was cursed by God to wander the earth? Or was he a madman with an extraordinary sense of storytelling? The beauty of it was that she was perfectly torn. At times she was absolutely convinced that he was one thing, and then he would do or say something that swayed her in the other direction.

  Like the Roman centurion who had scourged Jesus, Destino had a terrible, zigzag scar across his face. As part of her research, Tammy had been tracking this idea of the scar-faced man carefully through history. She had found references to him in art and literature throughout centuries, references that were certainly interesting if not convincing. Of course there were more plausible explanations than immortality: the scars on these men through history were a coincidence, or perhaps there was some kind of cult, or there was a ritualistic reason for men who called themselves Masters of the Order to inflict such a scar upon themselves.

  Tammy felt that it would be her job as a filmmaker to take a neutral position, to simply present what Destino claimed and allow the viewers to make up their minds. The more she thought about the possibilities, the more excited she became. And now Destino was begging them to come to Florence. He promised that he would introduce them to the deepest secrets of the Renaissance and the hidden stories behind the greatest works of art in human history, proving once and for all that

  he was precisely what he claimed.

  She put down her copy of the Libro Rosso and picked up an obscure, nineteenth-century British academic booklet about Botticelli that she had found in a storage box in the château’s expansive library. No artist moved her quite like Sandro Botticelli. An enormous copy of his masterpiece known as Primavera hung in the entry of Bérenger’s château. This Allegory of Spring, with its beautiful spirit of rebirth and celebration of life, never failed to inspire her. The great goddess of love, Venus, garbed in red and blessing the world, stood at the center of a lush garden where the three Graces danced beside the figure of Mercury. Flora, the goddess of spring, dropped flowers all about her, as the nymph Chloris was chased by the wind called Zephyr. Cupid fluttered at the top of the painting, preparing to shoot his arrow at one of the unsuspecting Graces.
r />   She began to read about it:

  Art historians disagree bitterly about the meaning of Botticelli’s ultimate masterpiece, which was not called Primavera during the Renaissance. It was likely not given this title until the eighteenth century when it appears documented as such, although the first use of it is uncertain. There are possibly more theories about its origins and intentions than there are about any single piece of Renaissance art. Primavera is an enigma, challenging every viewer to judge its meaning based on individual conclusions. Because Botticelli did not leave us with any notes as to his inspirations, Primavera shall remain one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the art world for all time.

  Tammy prepared to skim the rest of the chapter until an unexpected sentence returned her focus.

  The renowned Renaissance humanist Giovanni Pico della Mirandola said, “Whoever understands deeply and with intellect the reason for the separation of Venus from the trinity of Graces while studying Botticelli will find the proper way of advancing their understanding through this unequaled painting, known to us as Le Temps Revient.”

  Le Temps Revient. Tammy jumped up with excitement and ran through the château in search of Roland and Bérenger. That Botticelli called his masterpiece The Time Returns, according to a contemporary from the Renaissance, just might be the most important—and most overlooked—detail in the history of Renaissance art.