He stopped the boys, as they were in the center of the nave now. “Look up, toward the altar. Pause here to view something very important that our Piero has created. Before you allow your eye to see the magnificence of the frescoes, look first on either side of the altar.”
On both sides of the huge altar space were long, narrow columns. Painted in a twinned manner and perfectly matched were larger-than-life portraits of Jesus on the left and Mary Magdalene on the right. They had been painted perfectly as equals, but also clearly as a pair.
“The portraits of true beloveds. Equals under God,” came a soft male voice from behind them.
Piero della Francesca, holding a paintbrush and covered in pigments, smiled kindly at the boys as he explained his work. “I did not create the original portraits of Our Lord and Our Lady. They were done by another native of Arezzo, a great painter who preceded
me here, called Luca Spinello. Sadly his work has deteriorated, but I have restored it. I can only hope to have done him justice. He was a genius, who learned from Giotto.” Piero nodded toward Fra Francesco as he continued. “Perhaps I should say that he learned to paint from Giotto. He learned all else from our Master.”
Piero paused to greet Cosimo with the respect due to the Medici patriarch. Though a native of the southernmost regions of Tuscany, Piero della Francesca had trained extensively in Florence under the patronage of Cosimo. While the Medici family wanted to keep Piero in Florence, they understood the Master’s need for him in Arezzo and Sansepolcro. It was fitting that as the official scribe of the Order, he should establish lasting works of art in this holy region to preserve the teachings.
This would be part of Sandro and Lorenzo’s training over the next week. They would gain a greater understanding of what Piero had accomplished with his unequaled storytelling through fresco painting. Arezzo was the testing ground for these types of “hiding in plain sight” teachings for the Order. Now it would be up to the Florentines to expand on this approach, to bring these same types of powerful, symbolic masterpieces to a larger and more difficult audience. The Order was taking bold steps to conquer Florence through the Medici and their angelic army of artists. If they could achieve their goals in Florence, they would then expand throughout Italy—and ultimately look toward Rome.
The powerful brotherhood created by Lorenzo and Sandro would begin the revolution into a golden age of art and education. The mission was the restoration of the true teachings of the early Christians through epic works of art.
Ficino was fond of reminding his students, when they became a little too inflated with the importance of their mission, that they didn’t start it. They were the blessed heirs to a grand fortune, earned by the blood and sacrifice of the astonishing men and women who came before them. He quoted the great scholar and leader of the Order in the twelfth century, Bernard of Chartres:
“Remember, we are but dwarves standing on the shoulders of giants.”
Florence
present day
“REMEMBER, WE ARE BUT dwarves standing on the shoulders of giants.”
Peter Healy often quoted Bernard of Chartres, keen as he was to remember the greatness of those who came before and gave everything, so that we would not be in the darkness. But the quote seemed particularly applicable as he stood before the statues depicting Cosimo Pater Patriae and Lorenzo il Magnifico adjacent to the Uffizi Gallery.
Peter and Maureen had walked along the river before making the turn toward the Uffizi, one of the greatest art museums in the world. The approach to this treasury of Renaissance art was lined with the statues of the artists who shaped Florence: painters, writers, architects. They passed Donatello and Leonardo, and up toward the far end of the entrance toward the piazza was the statue of Cosimo, looking very wise and surprisingly warm, standing alongside his grandson. The statue of Lorenzo was equally well crafted and alive. Il Magnifico was depicted with his hand on a bust of Minerva, the goddess of wisdom.
Maureen stood before the stone image of Lorenzo on the pedestal and studied it for a moment, silently. A chill ran through her body as she looked at his face; it was sculpted with the strange feature he was famous for, the nose flattened at the bridge. Yet despite the fact that he was often referred to as homely or even ugly, Maureen was struck by how absolutely beautiful he was. There was extraordinary nobility about him, palpable even from this piece of stone, which had been fashioned hundreds of years after his death.
He was, without question, magnificent.
She shivered, although the sun was well on its way to creating a scorching May day in Tuscany.
Peter saw the shudder. “What is it?”
Maureen swallowed hard, feeling choked up suddenly. “It . . . it looks like him. I mean, I have seen portraits of him and had no reaction, other than to think he was odd-looking. But this . . . this is Lorenzo. It’s as if he is trapped in that stone. The image of him. Perfect.”
Maureen was transfixed on Lorenzo, trying to get a grasp on how she was feeling. “I can’t explain it, really, but when I look at this man I feel utterly committed to him. Like I would follow him into a battle against the devil himself. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. But that’s not the only meaning of the word committed that I am feeling. He was committed. To his cause, to his mission. And that is what inspired such loyalty from so many. Lorenzo would never ask anyone to do something he wasn’t prepared to do himself. I look at this and I just know that.”
“He is one of the giants upon whose shoulders we stand,” Maureen added, reflecting in that moment about the meaning of Poet Princes, commitment, and duty.
Maureen and Peter entered the Uffizi, walking up the massive flights of stairs, which challenged even the most physically fit tourists, all of whom panted at the top as they reached the ticket takers.
Maureen noticed another bust of Lorenzo de’ Medici to the right, just at the entrance to the painting gallery. This sculpture was also a powerful portrayal of a great man. It was strange that as she stood before all these images of Lorenzo, she felt as if she were looking at someone she knew well. While she had connected to the subjects she had written about before, it was usually in the dream state or when she was deeply immersed in her writing. It had never occurred in such a visceral, fully conscious way.
Looking at images of Lorenzo de’ Medici made Maureen feel as if she were in mourning over her lost love.
She noticed that Destino, who was waiting just ahead of them with Tammy and Roland, was now watching her. He gestured for her to stand with him, gave a little half smile, and said, “Once you come inside, you will understand far more than ever before. This is an art museum, yet it is also a library of most important volumes. The walls of the Uffizi contain some of the greatest secrets in all of human history.”
Borgo Sansepolcro, Tuscany
July 22, 1463
THE OFFICIALLY SANCTIONED legend of the foundation of Sansepolcro states that the town was formed by two saints, one called Santo Egidio, who arrived with Santo Arcano, who returned to Tuscany in 934 from the Holy Land. With them they brought important relics from the Holy Sepulcher and they built the first oratory here to protect the relics. It was a strangely remote place to bring relics of such grand importance and meant to be venerated by the Christian faithful throughout
Italy.
Or was it? The secret legend of Sansepolcro said precisely the opposite—that this tiny town tucked away in the southernmost hills of Tuscany was chosen precisely because it was remote and difficult to find. It would be easy to defend and protect, a place only those who knew it existed—and what it contained—would know how to access. The nature of the holy relics brought from Jerusalem had never been exposed to the public.
It was a fitting place to learn secrets, and Lorenzo and Sandro were both vibrating with the energy of the promise that awaited them. They were in the home of Piero della Francesca, who was examining the processional banner that would be carried at the front of the parade tonight.
“
Isn’t she magnificent?” Piero shook his head as he stood before the life-sized image of Mary Magdalene, majestic, beautiful, and enthroned. Lovingly cradled in her lap was a crucifix, but it was by no means the focal point of the banner. “I think she is one of the most important pieces of art ever created. No one has ever captured Our Lady so perfectly. The great Luca Spinello Aretino created her for the Confraternity of Mary Magdalene, which as you likely know is a public profile of the Order in this part of Tuscany. Sometimes I just sit before her for inspiration. Look at her face, the expression of serenity—and yet power. There is nothing penitent about this Magdalene! No, this is the portrait of a queen. Our queen.”
“Do all in your confraternity wear hoods such as this?” Lorenzo was curious now, as the men worshipping at Mary Magdalene’s feet appeared to be penitents. And yet the Order was very clear that Magdalene was not to be viewed in such a way. It diminished her true status and was an invention of the Catholic Church.
“Allegory, my brothers. And important for you to remember as you paint, Sandro,” Piero explained patiently. His calm, measured manner made him a most natural teacher. “Spinello, and all the great master artists, used layer upon layer of symbolism to keep our message clear. See the jars on their sleeves? A reminder of who Magdalena really is. She is the woman who anoints Jesus because she is bestowing his kingship upon him, and because she is his wife. She is exalted. But they are hooded to remind us that the truth of her is still veiled, and that it is still heresy for us to identify ourselves as her followers in
public.
“Now, see here where the backs of their robes are open, as if they were going to flog themselves in an act of self-mutilation? That is a reference to what our Spinello has created on the reverse of the banner.”
He moved the boys around to see the opposite side of the banner. It was a sequence of the flagellation, with Christ tied to a post and being beaten by two Roman soldiers.
“The flagellation is allegory as well, one which Spinello uses to great effect, and I hope to emulate. The message was created by him while working with the Master. They determined that the flagellation was an appropriate symbolic representation of what happened to Jesus every time we denied the truth of his life and his teachings. He is tortured all over again. The true flagellation of Christ was the disinheritance of his family and all that they had to give to the world.
“The same is echoed on the front of the banner with the ‘penitent’ robes, which provide space for the whip to come down in the act of self-mutilation. The message here is that we are hurting ourselves by not acknowledging this beautiful queen for what she came here to teach us. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Sandro Botticelli stood before the red-robed Magdalene in awe of her beauty and overwhelmed by the rich layers of symbolism that the artists before him had worked so hard to integrate into their work. But Piero wasn’t finished.
“Sandro, I see that you are as transfixed by her as I am from the perspective of a painter. You stare at her in awe and wonder why she evokes such emotion from you, aside from her obvious beauty. Do you
know why?”
Sandro hadn’t been a student of Fra Filippo Lippi and Andrea della Verrocchio for nothing. He nodded with a smile as he gave what he knew was the correct answer. “Because she was created using the process of infusion.”
“Well done, brother. She was indeed. And Spinello’s approach to infusion was very, very special. If you want your madonnas and goddesses to leap from the work and tell their stories as this one does, you shall need to learn this technique. I don’t suppose you have any interest in taking that lesson today?”
They all laughed, knowing the answer. Lorenzo prepared to take his leave and allow the two artists to get on with the more specific nature of the lesson. He was going to meet his grandfather and the Master, to make final preparations for the night’s festivities.
A low drone of chanting swirled in the darkness as the solemn procession wound its way through the narrow, cobbled streets of Borgo Sansepolcro. The men who marched in the procession carried torches. They were covered head to toe in their robes, with separate hoods that covered their heads completely. The robes were pristine in their snowwhite fabric. On the sleeves of each robe was an emblem, embroidered in scarlet thread—the alabaster jar to symbolize their devotion to Maria Magdalena and the Order.
The procession wound through the streets. At the center of the parade, two hooded figures carried the majestic Spinello banner, painted with the life-sized image of the Magdalena enthroned. She was truly depicted with grandeur as a female aspect of God and was cheered as such as she was paraded through these streets.
“Madonna Magdalena! Madonna Magdalena!”
Lorenzo watched the procession with his grandfather. For all his youthful excitement, it was a solemn occasion for him. Cosimo was dying, and Lorenzo knew that this would be the last major event he would ever have the opportunity to attend with the old man. It was why he had elected not to march with Sandro—because he did not want to leave Cosimo during the sacred procession. It was something he wanted to share with his most beloved grandfather, a memory he wanted to keep forever.
Lorenzo was moved by the emotions running through him now: grief for the pending loss, which would shatter the world as he knew it; deep religious devotion for the woman they called their queen. These things combined into the pledge that Lorenzo made to Cosimo that night. Tears streamed down his face now as he watched the procession approach them. There was a light in his eyes as he spoke his promise aloud.
“I will not fail you, Grandfather. Nothing will stop me. I will not fail our Lord or our Lady, and I will not fail the legacy of the Medici.”
Cosimo put an arm around him and pulled him close for a moment, realizing as well that this was an ultimate moment for them. “I know that, Lorenzo. I know that more than I have ever known anything. You will not fail because it is your destiny to succeed. You will be the savior of us all. You will be the greatest Poet Prince that has ever lived. You already are.”
The banner now came to stand before them, and Lorenzo saw that Sandro was marching directly behind it. Their eyes met, and Sandro began to gesture wildly for Lorenzo to join him and march in the rest of the procession. Lorenzo looked up at his grandfather, who was smiling at him.
“Go!” He pushed Lorenzo playfully toward where Sandro was positioned. “Go show your devotion to our Queen of Compassion by marching in her parade!”
Lorenzo smiled back and moved through the crowd to reach Sandro and march beside him. As they began to move forward again, one of the torch bearers came closer, illuminating the rear of the banner. Looking up at the Spinello masterpiece depicting the flagellation of Christ, Lorenzo noticed something he had not seen earlier that day. The light had caught the image of one of the Roman centurions just right. Luca Spinello had painted a jagged scar across the left side of his face.
Colombina.
She was my first muse. The first real woman who inspired me to paint her over and over again. She was beauty in its active principle—a force to be dealt with and never underestimated. From the time she was sixteen to now, I have never known a woman with such fortitude. And yet . . . she is Beauty as Fortitude. It is a strength that is not aggressive, but rather it flows from her goodness. When the history of these golden days is written, I fear that Colombina’s name will not be recorded
in the annals. She will be like so many women before her who have been lost in this cycle of history where, somewhere, somehow, the women were abandoned. In that way, and others, she wears the exalted sandals of the holy bride, our Lady, Magdalena.
Half of our spiritual nature and legacy as human beings has been eradicated by the omissions of history.
But I will not allow Colombina to be lost. I have painted her, using infusion techniques, to preserve her unique strength and dedication to our cause—and to our prince—so that the world may one day know her.
Thus it was a great day filled with a delici
ous sense of synchronicity when I was chosen for the commission to paint the personification of Fortitude.
The judges who make up the great Tribunal of the Merchants have commissioned paintings of the seven virtues to decorate the walls of their courtroom, hoping that such art will inspire them to make wise judgments as they preside over the squabbles of their trade, small and large. The commission for all seven of the paintings went to Piero del Pollaiuolo originally. While he is a competent painter, his name indicates that he is descended from chicken farmers. There are certainly moments when I look upon his work and think that perhaps we would be better served to have more chickens on the table than paintings from Pollaiuolo.
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.
The Poet Prince Page 18