The Poet Prince

by Kathleen McGowan

  The artist threw his arms around Cosimo again. “Yes, sweetest patron! I shall sculpt Our Lady as she has never been seen before. Leave everything to me!”

  Donatello spent the better part of a year sculpting Maria Magdalena. He made the decision to create her out of wood, a remarkable challenge for a life-sized creation. He chose white poplar for its pliability, and finding the piece of wood large enough to fulfill his vision was in itself a task that took several months to accomplish.

  He sculpted in absolute solitude and secrecy. No one, not even his closest assistants, were allowed to enter the room where he carefully whittled and carved away at the figure of his Maria Magdalena. When Cosimo inquired as to his progress, Donatello merely smiled, with a faraway gleam in his eye. “You shall see,” he said simply.

  The day came for the unveiling, and Cosimo had the sculpture moved under Donatello’s guidance to the villa at Careggi for a meeting of the Order. The Master would be in attendance tonight, and the creation would be presented to him and the others. Donatello was giddy with excitement, while at the same time slightly apprehensive. Although he was renowned for his enormous faith in his own talents, which was more than justified, this particular commission had arguably been the most challenging of his artistic life. He had poured his heart and his soul into this piece, and like all artists of the Order used the technique called “infusion” to transfer his intention for the piece directly into the materials. If the infusion was done properly, the effect went beyond the visual, and the art transferred the artist’s emotional and spiritual intention to the viewer. It was an artistic alchemy, something which could only be achieved by masters such as Donatello, who had perfected the process.

  And so his Maria Magdalena was infused with all the devotion and understanding that he had of her. He knew, if given the chance, that she would convey her essence to those who viewed her. But first they would have to overcome what they saw with their eyes, because his Magdalena was unlike anything that had been created before.

  He had not set out to depict her this way. But she had insisted. He could feel it every time his hands went to touch the wood; it all but screamed to him what it was, precisely, she wanted to look like. And he had taken a vow, like every artist of the Order before him beginning with Nicodemus himself, to protect the legacy of Madonna Magdalena at all costs. He did just that, creating art that was purely expressive by listening to exactly what she demanded of him as he sculpted her.

  The gathering was brought to order as Fra Francesco, the Master, opened with a blessing, followed by the prayer of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher:

  We honor God while praying for a time

  when these teachings will be welcomed

  in peace by all people

  and there will be no more martyrs.

  Following the prayer, Cosimo made a short speech, dedicating this new work of art to Fra Francesco, while praising Donatello for his commitment and his genius.

  But as Donatello feared, there was absolute silence in the great dining hall of Careggi when the sculpture was unveiled. If the attending members of the Order were expecting to see their Queen of Compassion depicted in all her luminous beauty, they were to be thoroughly disappointed and more than a little shocked.

  In Donatello’s sculpture, Maria Magdalena was utterly wretched.

  Her body was emaciated and naked underneath a mass of hair, which covered most of her, as it flowed nearly to her feet. It was extraordinary that even in the carving of the wood and without paint, the artist had conveyed perfectly that Magdalena was unwashed, her hair matted to her head. Her eyes were haunting in their hollow stare, and she was mostly toothless.

  “She looks like a beggar woman!” a female voice whispered.

  “It is blasphemy to the Order!” came a male whisper, slightly

  louder.

  The Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher rose from his chair and approached the sculpture. He ran his fingers lightly over the intricately carved hair of this terrible, tragic sculpture. After considering it for a long moment, he turned to Donatello.

  “It is perfect. It is art. Thank you, my son, for this unequaled blessing you have given all of us.”

  Donatello began to weep openly under the love of the Master. The pressures of the last year, the need to perfect this sculpture, had weighed heavily on his spirit. He knew that there was a tremendous chance of its being misunderstood, and from the initial whispered comments, he feared that it had been.

  It was the child among them who ultimately came to his rescue. Using his remarkable intelligence and sensitivity of spirit, it was the nine-year-old Lorenzo de’ Medici who interpreted the art for those who did not have eyes to see. He moved toward the sculpture as if mesmerized and stood before it, tilting his head a little as he looked at Maria Magdalena, to whom he was deeply devoted. The assembled Order watched Lorenzo in absolute silence. He was their Poet Prince, and his interpretation would be critical.

  Donatello, standing closest to the sculpture, whispered to Lorenzo. “You hear her, don’t you?”

  Lorenzo nodded, never taking his eyes off the sculpture. He walked around it, looking at every side of her, all the while appearing to listen to some phantom voice that no one else in the room heard. Finally he stopped and turned to face the assembly. A single tear slid down his cheek.

  “Tell us what you see and hear, Lorenzo.” It was the voice of the Master, warm and encouraging.

  Lorenzo cleared his throat, not wanting to cry in front of the assembled Order. He began haltingly at first but then found his voice as he continued.

  “She is . . . presented here as she asked to be. For this is how she truly is. Not to me or to you. To us she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived; she is our queen. But this is not how the world sees her. It is not how the Church would have the world understand her. They call her terrible names, tell lies about who she was. They take away her life, her love, and her children. They make her a sinner. They take this woman who would save all of us with her courage and wisdom and love, and they turn her into a beggar.

  “The Magdalena that Donatello has sculpted here is wretched, because that is what has been made of her by those who do not have eyes to see and ears to hear. It is for us to change that, to restore her to the throne of the Queen of Heaven. And to do that, we must remember how others see her and not how we see her.”

  Lorenzo was choking back the beginnings of a sob now, as devotion overcame him. Still all eyes were focused entirely on him as he made his final pronouncement, solidifying what most in attendance already knew: Lorenzo de’ Medici was growing into a more remarkable prince than any of them could have imagined.

  “I think . . .” Lorenzo choked back the tears and looked over at Donatello. “I think she is the most beautiful piece of art that I have ever seen.”

  And to punctuate that pronouncement, Donatello fell to his knees and sobbed with relief. The infusion had worked. His art had been understood. Most of all, her message had been delivered.

  Headquarters of the Confraternity of the Magi

  Florence

  January 6, 1459

  “HOW DO I look, Mother?”

  Lucrezia de’ Medici looked at her son, who had just celebrated his tenth birthday, and fought back the tears. They were tears of joy and pride as she straightened the gold-embroidered coat so that it hung perfectly over the breeches worn by her growing boy. She would always think that her eldest son was absolutely perfect, for all that he had inherited the squashed nose of the Tornabuoni family and the infamous underbite of the Medici. While Lorenzo was not a traditionally beautiful child, there was a radiance about him that was undeniable. Further, he was unerringly polite and almost unfathomably responsible for

  his age.

  And it was that sense of responsibility that was gnawing at him as he squirmed in the elaborate silk and damask costume, which he would be wearing in today’s parade of the Magi. It was the Feast of the Epiphany, the day when the three kings ca
me to adore the infant Jesus in the manger. Each year in Florence this blessed event was reenacted by the Confraternity of the Magi, with a magnificent procession through the streets of the city, followed by a festival. The celebration would be grander than ever this year, more elaborate and lavish: Cosimo had demanded it and seen to the more extreme details. Because the Medici family were the founders and leaders of this particular confraternity, Lorenzo would today be playing the role of the young king, the golden one known as Gaspar. He took his task very seriously, knowing that there was a weight on his slender shoulders. This was not simply a

  part to play in a parade; he knew it, and the people of Florence

  knew it. No, this was Lorenzo’s coming-out party, the announcement to the world by the Medici that Lorenzo was preparing to take on the exalted mantle of the Poet Prince. The crown he wore today was very heavy on his head. No doubt it would leave marks on his skin for days to come.

  In Tuscany, the confraternities had become an integral part of society, the spiritual heart of their towns. In a number of major

  cities—Florence chief among them—the confraternities became distinct forces of political power as well as social welfare. The type of confraternity one belonged to could tell much about a family and where its interests and loyalties were. The first confraternity founded in Florence was devoted to the archangel Raphael, and its members performed acts of charity related to healing. Others confraternities were founded to honor the memory of a specific saint. The more extreme were based on penitence and required acts of mortification of the flesh.

  The Medici had co-founded the Confraternity of the Magi to give them a vehicle in which to openly and publicly display their belief in the esoteric without offending the Catholic population. For all their secret heresies, every Medici family leader since the days of Charlemagne had been an expert at appearances. Cosimo belonged to no fewer than ten confraternities and had recently had a cell installed for himself within the Dominican monastery of San Marco. Periodically, he would retreat there for meditation and prayer with the brethren. That he spent a fortune expanding the buildings and hiring the quiet yet brilliant monk Fra Angelico to fresco the place to perfection was not lost on the grateful Catholic population of Florence. For all public purposes, Cosimo de’ Medici was the most devout of Catholics, and he was only too willing to prove that devotion through his extraordinary gener-

  osity.

  But the Feast of the Epiphany was not a day to be solemn or penitent. It was a day to celebrate the coming of the Prince. Cosimo had made generous donations to guilds and committees throughout the city in honor of the event—and in his grandson’s name. At the age of ten, Lorenzo was now one of the most generous donors in Florence. His generosity was not lost on the common people, to whom he was rapidly becoming beloved.

  Lucrezia de’ Medici straightened Lorenzo’s jewel-encrusted crown one final time and kissed him on the forehead before turning him over to his father, who would escort him to the elaborately caparisoned white stallion that awaited the young King Gaspar. She sighed as she watched him depart, his growing body awkward under the mas-

  sive silks that weighed him down. For all that he was the child of a divine prophecy, he was still her little boy.

  “Lorenzo, my son,” she called after him. “Don’t forget to have fun!”

  Florence, a city known for its elaborate, even decadent festivals, had never seen the equal of the Feast of the Epiphany as it occurred in 1459. The procession of the Magi itself was stunning, with Cosimo leading it on a pristine white mule as the old king Melchior. A train of wagons laden with bejeweled chests and colorful silks followed him, as did a camel brought over from Constantinople on a cargo ship. An entourage of Medici supporters, all of whom were secret members of the Order, followed as Cosimo’s attendants. Cosimo’s most loyal friend, the renowned writer and humanist Poggio Bracciolini, led the entourage. His son, Jacopo Bracciolini, was the same age as Lorenzo and as such had been chosen to walk in the parade alongside the Medici prince. The two boys were friends and had been tutored by the same great men of Florence. Jacopo was a beautiful child, golden-haired and fair, with features so delicate that they were almost pretty, and a lithe agile body. His was a marked physical contrast to the swarthy, sturdy Lorenzo.

  Jacopo had been petulant about being cast in the procession as Lorenzo’s servant, so to appease his ego he was given the role of the Keeper of the Cats. As such, he was allowed to walk one of the exotic African servals, an ill-tempered wild cat that looked like a shrunken leopard.

  “Hey, Lorenzo, look at what I can make the cat do!” Jacopo yelled up to where Lorenzo was perched on a huge white stallion. He pulled up sharply on the cat’s velvet lead, which was attached to a bejeweled collar. The cat growled but rose up to walk on his two hind legs. He took a few steps as if walking upright. Jacopo burst into delighted laughter.

  Lorenzo laughed to appease his friend but was inwardly concerned that the cat was suffering discomfort as well as indignity. He attempted to distract Jacopo by pointing out some of the other animals in the procession, but to no avail. Jacopo was finding an audience for his antics with the serval and was clearly loving the attention. He began shouting, “Behold! I am the Master of the Cats!” each time he pulled on the poor animal’s lead.

  Lorenzo stayed the course, riding as tall and proud as a young king, and left Jacopo behind to play jester. He was the undisputed star in the parade, the figure who drew the cheers of the Florentine people. As Lorenzo passed by, astride the white horse and dressed in his finery as the golden young king, the crowds erupted with adulation. Lorenzo, at first very serious in his role, was swept away in the excitement and pageantry of the moment. He smiled at the people, his people, with the infectious grin for which he would one day become famous as an adult. He waved at the Florentines, and they waved in return, shouting blessings and throwing roses.

  “He is magnificent!” a woman in the crowd screamed, and the others began to take up the chant: “Magnifico! Magnifico!”

  By the time the procession had reached its destination at the monastery of San Marco, where a living nativity had been created, Lorenzo’s position in the hearts of the Florentine people was secure.

  He would forevermore be known by the name that was as much a prophecy as it was praise, for he was destined to grow into it spectacularly: Lorenzo il Magnifico.

  Lorenzo the Magnificent.

  New York City

  present day

  THE BEEPING OF a text message woke Maureen Paschal early on the morning of the twenty-second day of March. She reached blindly to the bedside table until she felt the source of the offending noise. She wasn’t really annoyed, despite her sleep-deprived state. No doubt it was one of her beloved friends in Europe, anxious to be the first to contact her on her special day and miscalculating the time difference. She hit the button on her phone to read the message. It said:

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I HAVE A GIFT FOR YOU.

  Maureen sat up in bed now. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wondered who had sent the message; she didn’t recognize the number. The text message had come from Europe; it was attached to an Italian phone number.

  Maureen padded out to the little kitchen to make coffee. Caffeine first; all things must happen in order. She searched sleepily through the cupboards. Dark-roast coffee beans, a grinder, and a French press would at least get her started, and she was certain that all those things would be here.

  Maureen smiled to herself as she thought about it. There were two things that Maureen would bet her life Bérenger would have on hand at all times, and those things were great coffee and better wine. She was right on both counts. The night before she had taken a quick look at the small but exquisite wine selection that he kept in a custom-built cooler off the dining room. Not surprisingly, there were bottles from several private vineyards in the Languedoc, elegant and limited vintages that were not exported under normal circumstances. But the owner of this wine collection was nobody
’s average customer.

  Bérenger had purchased the apartment on Fifth Avenue years ago because of its extraordinary location: the front door of the apartment complex faced the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bérenger was a devoted art connoisseur, and he had made a sport of acquiring properties all over the world within easy reach of magnificent museums. He owned property on the Rue de Rivoli across from the Louvre and had a little place in Madrid, around the corner from the Prado. But Bérenger had a special passion for the Met. His schedule rarely allowed him to get to New York anymore, so he was delighted to turn his keys to the Fifth Avenue pied-à-terre over to his beloved Maureen—who was equally happy to accept them. Her career as an author brought her to New York regularly, and the apartment would provide her with a perfect place to call home.

  Maureen opened the bag of imported Italian coffee beans that she had found in the second cupboard and inhaled the rich scent. The smell of coffee alone was enough to awaken her senses and she was already able to think more clearly. Whom did she know in Italy who would know that it was her birthday? Could it be her spiritual mentor, the enigmatic teacher known as Destino? Back in Florence now, he was inclined toward mysterious messages and secretive behavior.

  She put water on to boil and grabbed her cell phone. She hit the reply button and sent a text message in reply.

  THANK YOU. WHO IS THIS?

  Maureen picked up the remote control for the television and turned on a national morning show. There was the usual offering of pop culture and daily news, and she left it on as she made coffee. She was momentarily distracted by a gossip piece that had all the women in the studio buzzing. Supermodel and socialite Vittoria Buondelmonti was going to make an announcement today that the tabloids were drooling over in anticipation. The Italian catwalk queen was the mother of a two-year-old boy who, until now, she had kept sheltered from the press. The paternity of the boy had been the cause of speculation since the earliest days of her pregnancy, and Vittoria had remained adamant that she wasn’t going to reveal who had fathered the child. She had been involved in a string of high-profile relationships before the birth of her son, and the rag papers had speculated endlessly on the paternity issue as they presented photographs of Vittoria with the many men she had dined out with: an international soccer star, a rock-and-roll icon, a race driver, a Greek billionaire, an oil tycoon, her childhood sweetheart from Florence.