The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  Bérenger Sinclair held the tiny reliquary in his hand, running the chain through his fingers. It had captivated him since the day that Destino had given it to him as a gift. He had been skeptical at first, knowing that there were so many relics purported to be pieces of the True Cross.

  With this little locket Destino had enclosed a card:

  This once belonged to another Poet Prince, the greatest who ever lived. You are charged to wear his mantle. Do so with grace and God will reward you just as the prophecy promises.

  Bérenger was relatively sure that the greatest Poet Prince referred to was Lorenzo de’ Medici, the godfather of the Renaissance. Bérenger was a bit ashamed to say that he didn’t know as much about Lorenzo as he perhaps should, although he was very willing to learn at Destino’s instruction. He had, however, studied the man revered by the French heretics as their great Poet Prince, the Renaissance heir to the dynasty of Anjou known as Good King René. Bérenger, whose birthday fell on the Feast of the Epiphany, had been raised to understand that his bloodline family expected him to inherit the title bestowed by ancient prophecy. Whereas Bérenger’s brother, Alexander Sinclair, remained in Scotland to learn the oil business, he had been sent to France at a young age to live with his grandfather in preparation for a different destiny. Bérenger’s grandfather had founded the Society of Blue Apples here in the Languedoc at the time he purchased the château. The property

  and society were devoted to the heretical teachings and legends that existed in this part of France, specifically the understanding that Mary Magdalene brought the true teachings of Jesus here following the crucifixion.

  Bérenger’s knowledge of French heretical tradition was unparalleled, but he was a novice at Italian history. And while he was aware that there had been Cathars in Italy, it was not until Maureen discovered the astonishing life of Matilda of Tuscany that he came to understand just how much secret teaching had come from—and remained in—that region of Italy.

  And now Destino was insisting that they all come to Florence, as he wanted to instruct them in the history of the Order pertaining to that place and Lorenzo’s time period. And he was emphatic that time was of the essence.

  Bérenger raised the locket to his lips and kissed it, while praying to God to keep his Maureen safe in absentia.

  Florence

  spring 1458

  DONATELLO WAS IN trouble again.

  The brilliant and prolific Florentine sculptor, born Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi and known by the name Donatello, had achieved extraordinary fame in his lifetime. There was no artist to equal his skill or accomplishment anywhere in Florence, or arguably anywhere in Italy. The vast number of commissions he received was a tribute to his genius, but for all his supernatural skill, Donatello was notoriously temperamental and impossible to deal with. Cosimo de’ Medici favored and protected Donatello, and in the general interest of peace for the Republic of Florence, he warned all potential patrons of the artist’s extreme temperament. The Medici patriarch was often called in to mediate between his pet sculptor and the latest patron who had been offended by one of Donatello’s outbursts. Or worse.

  Cosimo was recounting Donatello’s most recent escapade to the young Lorenzo, who had listened wide-eyed and amused at the legends of the artist for as long as he could remember. Lorenzo’s most important lessons of governance were learned in moments such as these, from the wisdom of his grandfather.

  “You see, Lorenzo, the more gifted the artist and the closer to God he is, the more difficult it is for him to function in our earthly environment. But this is why you must protect your artists against the philistines who would exploit them. Wealthy Florentines want Donatello to sculpt for them because it gives them prestige to have one of his originals in their palazzo. It is beneath him to take vanity commissions, and yet it is necessary for him to do so in order to avoid offending the spiteful members of influential families. But such men do not understand what these artists are and why they are. You and I do. These artists are our special army, our angels who are able to convey the purest teachings of the divine through their work. They are the priests and scribes of our Order, providing as they do our newest translations of the oldest and most important gospel. Our gospel. So when they are attacked by those who do not have the ears to hear or eyes to see, it is your mission to defend and protect them.”

  “Is it true that Donatello hurled one of his own busts off the balcony of the Palazzo di Signoria?”

  Cosimo laughed. “Yes, yes. He did that just last week and it is one of the reasons he is in so much trouble. Scared the citizens below in the piazza near to death as the bust shattered into a million pieces. I only wish I had been there to see it!”

  Lorenzo laughed, but his nine-year-old mind was constantly inquiring. It was not enough to understand that Donatello was capable of such high jinks; he also wished to understand what motivated them. From his earliest days, Lorenzo had been supremely fascinated by human behavior and had strived to understand it. Certainly a character study such as Donatello was a great learning tool.

  “Why did he do it, Grandfather?”

  “The patron was a vainglorious fool and a skinflint,” Cosimo explained. “First, he insisted that Donatello bring the bust to the Signoria and cart it up the stairs. Then, after the successful unveiling,

  where everyone agreed that it was yet another masterpiece of sculpture, the idiot of a man took our Doni aside and complained that there were flaws in the work! Now mind you, there were not, and everyone knew that there were not. The idiot believed that if he could convince Donatello that the work was imperfect, he could default on the rest of the commission payment. In short, he wanted to cheat an artist out of the payment he richly deserved.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to do!” Lorenzo was scandalized.

  “Not only is it terrible, it’s theft. No different from highway robbery, stealing what rightfully belongs to a man through force. And this is your next lesson as a defender of the arts, my boy. Artists are forever taken advantage of, cheated by those who do not understand how much of their heart and soul and essence goes into a work of art. All art is priceless, Lorenzo, and we diminish it every time we apply a monetary value to it. But this is the world that we live in, and why we must set an example as patrons. If Dante were here today, I believe he would create a special level of the inferno for men who cheat artists.”

  Cosimo could see that Lorenzo’s fine mind was taking it all in. The child missed nothing.

  “And so Donatello feigned that he wanted to see the sculpture in the light, to inspect the flaws that the man claimed he had discovered.” Cosimo stopped for a moment to laugh at what he knew was coming next. “The bust was brought to the balcony for inspection, and Donatello moved it to the edge, claiming that the best sunlight was right there . . . and then he tossed it over the edge and watched it shatter! He then turned to the wretched man and said, ‘I would rather see my work in a million pieces than in the hands of an undeserving swine such

  as you.’ ”

  Lorenzo joined Cosimo, erupting in laughter at Donatello’s insult to the horrid man who tried to cheat him.

  “Of course, now the man wants his money back, which I, of course, will pay him as a means of protecting Donatello and keeping him out of a cell in the Bargello. But he is making enemies quickly, and after we defend him to the council today, we shall pay him a visit and ask that he try to behave himself for a while—before he breaks the Medici bank with restitution payments!”

  Lorenzo set out on the walk to the Palazzo Vecchio with his grandfather, who continued to fill him in on the adventures of Donatello and the reason this particular mission today was of such great importance. Several of Donatello’s outraged patrons had banded together to file a formal complaint about him, which now required diplomatic intervention.

  “I don’t understand what they are accusing him of, Grandfather.”

  Cosimo considered his explanation carefully. He had insisted that Lorenzo,
as young as he was, accompany him today so that he could see the importance of standing up for the truth, even when it was very unpopular. Perhaps most of all when it was very unpopular. This case was delicate for one so young, and yet as always, Lorenzo was capable of understanding things well beyond the grasp of an average child.

  “Donatello, as you may or may not have noticed, has a grand appreciation of beautiful young men. He is inspired by them. As he was when he created our magnificent David.”

  Lorenzo nodded. Donatello’s bronze sculpture of David was the centerpiece of the Medici courtyard in the Via Larga. All agreed it was a masterpiece, a sculpture of extreme beauty and daring, the first fully sculpted nude figure in the round to be executed since antiquity.

  “Well, there are men in the Signoria, closed-minded and spiteful men, who do not appreciate our David, or the fact that Donatello’s inspiration comes from other men. Remember, my boy, that the reason we chose David as our central theme is that he is the pure shepherd who conquers the corrupt and mighty against all odds. And that is what we must do today. Defend the pure against those who would use their might to defeat him.”

  Cosimo, renowned in Florence for his measured temperament, was much beloved by the common folk and the nobility alike. The majority of sitting members of the Signoria were in awe of his influence and his brilliance. And so while he had to be patient with the order of the proceedings in the council chamber, he was quick to control the room and move them along to the issue he needed to address. Lorenzo watched his grandfather’s every move in awe and committed each moment of that day to memory.

  The men who had complaints against Donatello each said their piece against the sculptor, who was significantly not in attendance. This absence was another stroke of genius by Cosimo, who knew that Donatello’s presence in the council chamber would be disastrous. Cosimo held his tongue in annoyance as he listened to the accusers. Each proposed that Donatello’s “immorality” was a negative influence on the Republic of Florence and that he flaunted his homosexuality in such a way as to encourage others to become sodomites. They knew that accusing the artist on a morality charge would likely create the harshest sentence against him.

  Then Cosimo stood and addressed the Signoria. They awaited a measured and intelligent speech. But Cosimo de’ Medici stunned everyone in the council that day. He had a point to make—for Florence and for his grandson, who would one day rule in his place—and there was nothing measured about Cosimo’s defense of Donatello.

  “How dare you!” roared the Medici patriarch, as he slammed his hand flat against the heavy table before him. “How dare you—any of you—take the position that you are experts on whom a man can and cannot love! How dare you be so presumptuous as to say what may or may not inspire a man to create art!”

  There was shocked silence in the room as Cosimo lowered his voice. He began pointing at individuals in the chamber. “You, Poggio. And you, Francesco. You have both dined in my home and admired the sculpture of David that graces the center of the loggia. Tell me, what was your reaction to that piece of art?”

  The first man, Poggio Bracciolini, was an ally whom Cosimo had planted in the Signoria that day. Poggio was a devoted humanist and patron of the arts, and not incidentally a high-ranking member of the Order. His response was precisely what was expected of him. Later Cosimo would explain this strategy to Lorenzo: never ask a question in public unless you already know for certain that it will be answered in your favor.

  “It is a masterpiece of sculpture. I have never seen anything as flawless as the David that was created for your palazzo,” Bracciolini replied perfectly.

  The second man gave a similar response, with several other members of the council nodding in agreement. Florentines, for all their flaws, were ardent art lovers. Cosimo seized the moment and continued.

  “Yes, Donatello’s David may even be the premiere work of art that we see in our time. Not since Praxiteles has there been such divinity in sculpture. And so I say to you all, who are you, who am I, who are any of us to question this man’s inspiration? If Donatello is able to create the most sublime works of art because he is inspired by love, then this is a gift from God that none of us has the right to question. Whom he chooses as his muse is not my business, nor yours. And how he chooses to love that muse is even less for us to consider or judge. Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge. I stand by that pronouncement, and I stand by the fact that I thank God every day for any man who can love so deeply that he is able to create art that is so very obviously divine!”

  Only silence greeted the end of Cosimo’s speech, for what man could argue with the eloquence of what had just been invoked within that chamber?

  Donatello was pardoned and Lorenzo was left with one of the most powerful lessons of his life, along with a piece of wisdom that rang in his ears for the rest of his days.

  Love is love. It is God-given, and a sacrament. It is not for any man to judge.

  Lorenzo accompanied his grandfather to Donatello’s studio to advise the artist of the positive outcome. The door to his workshop was opened not by the temperamental artist himself but by a calm and friendly face, a man Lorenzo had met on other occasions and liked tremendously. He was Andrea del Verrocchio, a master sculptor and art teacher in his own right, but more important, he was a key member of the Order and one of Cosimo’s most trusted artists. Verrocchio had once been apprenticed to Donatello and was one of the few who ever survived the maelstrom.

  “Andrea, what a wonderful surprise!” Cosimo embraced the tall man with the gentle demeanor. “What kind of torment do you inflict upon yourself that you return to be abused by your former master?”

  “I heard that!” The unmistakable voice of Donatello rang out from the adjacent room.

  “You were meant to,” Cosimo shouted back. “And do let us know if you intend to grace us with your presence, will you? I have a commission for you, but I can give it to Andrea here if you prefer.”

  They could hear the grumbling and scurrying in the other room. For all Donatello’s temperament, he worshipped Cosimo and would never keep him waiting too long.

  Verrocchio turned to call forward a young man, a teenager who was grinding pigments across the room. The youth was beautiful; covered in golden curls and with deep-set amber eyes, he had the appearance of a young lion. The young man stood up and smiled a crooked, endearing smile at the visitors. He came forward, bowed gracefully in obvious recognition of the esteemed company, but then looked down at his hands apologetically. “Vermilion. It is messy, so I dare not touch anything or anyone.”

  Verrocchio made the introductions. “Cosimo and Lorenzo de’ Medici, I present to you Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. We call him Sandro. You shall be hearing more from him and soon, as I can say with absolute certainty that I have not before seen such raw natural talent in an apprentice, perhaps ever.”

  Sandro, well aware of his talent yet determined to appear humble, made a face at Lorenzo and shrugged. It was a self-effacing yet strangely confident gesture for one so young. Lorenzo laughed, liking him immediately, and asked Sandro to show him how the messy vermilion pigment was made. Lorenzo had grown up splattered with paint, watching in awe all the great artists who were integral to the Medici household and protected by Cosimo and Piero alike. He had always been fascinated by the pounding of minerals and the elaborate mixing that went into the creation of the paint and was excited at the prospect of getting his own hands a little dirty.

  Cosimo raised a questioning eyebrow in Sandro’s direction as the boys wandered off. Verrocchio explained in a lowered voice. “He’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not just his talent but his understanding. He is a natural.”

  “An angelic?”

  Verrocchio nodded. “He may be the angelic we have been waiting for. His abilities are unnatural. Supernatural. I will work with him on the preliminaries, but then if all goes as I believe it will, he will need greater training.
He is worthy of the Master, I think.”

  Cosimo watched where the two boys were working in the pigment, Lorenzo happily grinding and crushing with the mortar and pestle, as Sandro guided his technique. There was an aura around the two of them, a sense of fate hanging in the air that was not lost on either Cosimo or Andrea. These boys were destined to be friends. Indeed, it appeared that they already were.

  “If he is what you say he is, then I shall move him into the palazzo and raise him as a Medici.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the loud and dramatic entrance of Donatello.

  “Ah, my patron, my savior. Tell me you have come to bring news of your poor, humble artist’s exoneration from the tyranny of the Florentine philistines.”

  Cosimo replied, “You are neither poor, thanks to me, nor humble, thanks to your talent. But what you are is free. Yes, you have been exonerated and shall live to sculpt another day.”

  Donatello threw his arms around Cosimo. “Thank you, thank you! Never has there been a kinder or more beloved patron than my magnanimous Medici.”

  “You are welcome, Doni. But now I think we must agree that you will take no more vanity commissions, as they are not in anyone’s best interest. Further, I have decided to monopolize your time with a commission of my own. I want you to create a sculpture of Our Lady, the Queen of Compassion.”

  “Maria Magdalena?”

  “Yes. Life-sized. It will be a gift to the Master from all of us.”

  Donatello nodded. “And what are my parameters?”

  “You have none from me, other than to use your heart as you sculpt her and pour your love of Our Lady into the piece. I do not care what medium you use and will leave all artistic decisions up to you. Just make her magnificent and memorable, a true symbol of the Order and what we all stand for. And of course, I will pay you in advance so you are not tempted to take any other commissions, which will distract you and end in certain disaster. Do we have an agreement, Doni?”