Roland had spent the last few days helping Tamara with her work, investigating aspects of the Longinus legend. They were still trying to determine whether they would ask Destino to discuss his claims or wait for him to bring it up.
“What is the etiquette for dealing with a man who claims to be two thousand years old?” Tammy asked.
Roland laughed with her. As the heir to a secret society legacy himself, he knew a few things about decorum. “We wait, and see where he takes us. He will trust us more if we do not push him or appear to be plying him for information. And he brought us here for a reason, so I am happy enough to watch that reason reveal itself.”
“Do you think Bérenger will ask him about the spear?”
Roland considered for a moment before nodding. “I hope he does. He needs to. And I think that will be hard to resist for him, not just for the purposes of esoteric knowledge.”
“But because Bérenger is being confronted with his own personal destiny now,” Tammy completed Roland’s thought, as she often did.
Roland nodded. “He is. I have always believed that the Spear of Destiny was a symbol for whatever struggle a man had within himself. It carries some kind of energy or vibration that amplifies what is in the heart of the man who possesses it. A good man is made great, like Charlemagne, and a man with evil intentions can become a monster, like Hitler.”
“Bérenger is a good man, who could be made great.”
Roland nodded, but his brow was wrinkled with the difficult thoughts that filled his head. “But what is the path to greatness for him, Tamara? What should he do? Should he put his own happiness first, and Maureen’s? Or should he take responsibility for this little boy who appears to have been born under very special stars?”
Tammy’s jaw dropped. She loved Roland, and though she knew and understood him intimately, he still had the power to shock her. He had been raised in the strange and complex world of European secret societies. His own father had been the leader of the clandestine Society of Blue Apples and had been brutally murdered as a result of related intrigues. The world in which Roland lived was one where such intrigues were not games or empty rituals; they were life-and-death secrets that impacted history and humanity. Sometimes it was hard for her as an urban American woman to completely grasp the depth—and dangers—of his world. She had witnessed plenty over the recent years through Maureen’s search for priceless lost gospels, and yet each day seemed to bring still greater mystery. Sometimes this was an exciting element of her new life with Roland; sometimes it was frustrating and even frightening.
Tammy stuttered for a moment before getting the question out. “You . . . you can’t possibly be saying that Bérenger should marry Vittoria?”
Roland’s gentle eyes bored into hers. There was pain in them, but also an understanding of something deep and ancient that she did not yet grasp.
“Tamara, I love you. And Bérenger loves Maureen in the same way, so know that it tears my heart to pieces to say this. But . . . you have not been raised in the ancient ways of our people. You understand them, yes, and you have learned to love them and adopt them as your own. But you did not grow up with the legends of massacred relatives, martyrs who died for our beliefs. In the Languedoc, those are our bedtime stories. We are raised with the legends of our Cathar leaders who were brave enough to walk into flames, to suffer and die for their belief in
the love of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, to risk everything to keep the teachings of the Way of Love alive.”
Tammy protested. “I know all of that. But I don’t see how it matters here.”
Roland continued in his patient way. “Bérenger was raised in the Languedoc, as the heir to this legacy. And what is at the center of our traditions? How did Bérenger and Maureen meet? What is it that they have in common?”
The light of understanding was beginning to dawn on Tammy, and she answered accordingly. “The prophecies.”
“Yes, the prophecies. The prophecies of the Expected One and the Poet Prince have guided our people for two thousand years. We have always lived by them, chosen our leaders by them, and they have never failed us. Every day of Bérenger’s childhood, he was reminded that he was the golden prince of this prophecy by his grandfather. It has haunted him all his life. He lives in fear of not fulfilling his destiny, of letting his people down, of failing. And now, added to all this is the responsibility of a child who is born of the same prophecy. And there is something else that you do not yet know . . .”
Tammy was listening, but the insistent beeping on her cell phone distracted her momentarily. She clicked it to check the text message that had just arrived and read it to Roland.
“Message from Destino via Petra. We are meeting everyone at the Uffizi tomorrow morning at nine a.m. for a lesson in Botticelli. Now, you were saying?”
So immersed were Tammy and Roland in their conversation that they never noticed the young woman who sat not far away from them, writing in what appeared to be her travel journal. They did not see that she wrote down everything they said, nor did they see the palm of her right hand dripping blood onto the page of her notebook.
“Master, are you all right?” Petra spoke softly as she entered Destino’s room, where he sat on his simple bed in deep contemplation, eyes closed. Destino did not use electric lighting, preferring only candles and oil lamps. He insisted on living simply, despite the wealthy followers who were willing to provide him with any material items he would ever require. But he required very little. Part of the penance he had inflicted upon himself all those years ago was to live in an austere manner, and he had always kept this vow.
Because Destino sometimes fell asleep following his prayer, Petra checked on him each night to ensure that the candles were blown out and the lanterns safe.
“Enter, my dear. And stop worrying about me. I knew this was coming, and I welcome it.”
Petra smiled at him in the semidarkness. Of course he knew. “But what do you welcome, Master? The child himself? The Second
Prince?”
Destino opened his eyes slowly. “I welcome the opportunity. I welcome the tests. I welcome the teachings that can and will come from
it all.”
“But Vittoria—”
“Vittoria is playing a role, the role of adversary, the role of challenger.”
Petra understood and replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
Destino nodded. “Satan literally means adversary, as you well know, and in that regard she is now Bérenger’s personal Satan. But do not think of Vittoria as wicked. She is misguided and her intentions are corrupt, but what she is doing has merit to our people. No hero has ever achieved his crown of laurels without facing strong and dangerous opposition. If Bérenger comes through this with an understanding of the true lesson, he will be worthy of that crown. He will deserve to become Lorenzo’s spiritual heir.”
“And if he does not?”
Destino’s eyes, colorless and rheumy with age, clouded over still more as a deep and ragged sigh escaped him. “Then I shall have to stay alive for as many more generations as it takes to find the prince who is worthy of that prophecy.”
Bérenger had phoned Maureen from the airport in Edinburgh to say he was on his way to Florence in the Sinclair Oil private jet. His brother, Alexander, was in a type of legal seclusion as a result of his arrest. Because there were conspiracy charges pending that involved the government, he was being held under special circumstances and without bail. Bérenger was still unclear as to what the charges were but had been told by the judge that he would not be allowed to see Alexander for another three days. There was no use staying in Scotland and sitting on his hands in frustration. Not when he had to repair his relationship with Maureen.
Now he sat on her little terrace at the Antica Torre, the Duomo shining behind him, as he made his confession.
“I lied to you.”
“I know.”
Bérenger nodded, looking deep into her eyes. He knew
that he would never be able to lie to her face-to-face. It was impossible. They were too close, too connected. She would always see straight into his soul with her piercing green eyes, and he would always want her to. This was the realization that had overcome him while he was home in Scotland; he never wanted to hide anything from her again. He wanted them to become so unified as a couple that nothing could come between them. Bérenger had hurried to Florence to be with her, to explain, and to beg her forgiveness.
But she did not make him beg.
Maureen too had come to a realization over the last few days. Sitting on the terrace with Destino today, she had missed Bérenger desperately. He was integral to this wild, unpredictable, blessed journey that they had embarked upon together. Being without him was like missing a limb. She had read and reread the pages in the Libro Rosso that detailed the relationship of twin souls, of beings created from the same essence, one for the other. It was the most beautiful teaching of the Order, and she had discovered the truth of it through the way that Bérenger loved her. She didn’t just believe it, she knew it: knew that Bérenger was her twin soul, knew that their destinies were as intertwined as their minds and spirits. And if she knew that to be true, how could she walk away from it? She could not. It would be an offense to the gift of love that God had given to them both.
“Maureen, you have taught me the meaning of love. You have transformed me, changed me from someone who was existing to someone who is alive. I am sorry, more than I can ever say, for what has happened with Vittoria. And . . . I must tell you that it is possible the child is
my son.”
“I know that too,” Maureen said. She walked from the terrace back into the bedroom to retrieve an envelope from the dressing table. “Vittoria left this for me today.”
Bérenger opened the envelope and removed the three eight-by-ten photographs from within. They were all pictures of a beautiful little boy, a toddler just over two years old. Bérenger caught his breath as he went through the photos one by one. The boy in the photographs, with his long, curly dark hair and his blue-green eyes, looked like a tiny version of Bérenger Sinclair.
“You’ve never seen him.” Maureen realized as she watched his unexpected, emotional response to the photos.
“No.” His voice was choked as he looked at photos of his son for the first time.
“What are you going to do?”
Bérenger was stunned into silence for a moment. The photos of Dante had instantly diminished his previously held determination. Nothing could have prepared him for the impact of seeing this perfect, tiny version of himself. What stirred in him as he gazed at the child in the photograph was something close to grief. In that moment, he realized that his life had changed indelibly. He had lost all control of it. Dante was his, and he would not deny him.
Bérenger’s voice cracked as he ultimately replied. “He’s my son, Maureen—just look at him. I don’t need a DNA test when I have
eyes. And . . .”
“And what?”
“He is a child of the prophecy. I don’t have to tell you what that means, and I cannot turn my back on the importance of that. And there is something more, something you do not know yet.”
Maureen steadied herself in preparation for his explanation. She was shaking. Her entire world was crumbling around her, and she was certain that the final wrecking ball was about to shatter whatever was left of her castles in the air.
“The prophecy. Maureen, there is another piece to it. It is rarely recited because the event of which it speaks has never happened before. It is called the Second Prince.” He paused to breathe for a moment before reciting it for her.
The Son of Man shall himself return
as the Second Prince.
When the time has come and the stars align,
a Poet Prince will be born to a Poet Prince
and become once again the King of Kings.
Maureen, so familiar with the power of prophecy as it had worked within her own life, was terrified. She did not wish to take the risk of misinterpreting what he was trying to say to her. After a terrible silence between them, she asked in a whisper, “What, exactly, are you saying to me, Bérenger?”
He took both her hands in his, grasping them so tightly that she flinched, as the tears welled in his eyes. “No Poet Prince has ever been born to another. It has never happened in the history of our people that a father and son both shared all the qualities of the prophecy. Therefore the Second Prince . . .”
“Is the Second Coming.” Maureen finished the sentence with a dull finality, in a voice she did not recognize as her own.
“Maureen, I know it sounds crazy, but think of what we have all been through together. We have seen so much that is impossible. The prophecies have never failed. If there is even a possibility that Dante is . . .” Bérenger paused. He was not even able to say it out loud yet, so disturbing was the concept.
He continued, “If Dante is truly special, then he needs me. And not just to visit him occasionally or to send him money, but to be his father. He will need constant guidance, and he will also need someone to keep his mother’s ambitions in check. That will require my constant presence.”
Maureen felt the lump burning like a hot coal in the back of her throat as she repeated the question she knew she would never want to hear answered.
“What are you going to do?”
“The right thing. I’m sorry, Maureen. I am so sorry. But I have to prove myself worthy of this position that I hold. I have to pass this test.” He shed the tears he had been fighting, then said in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere else, “Perhaps it is our obligation to be noble before it is our obligation to be happy.”
Maureen rose as if in slow motion, trying to grasp how a moment so blissful had turned into a nightmare in a matter of seconds. In one instant, they were affirming the undying and eternal nature of their love for each other; in the next, Bérenger was dumping her for a life with Vittoria and their child.
She choked back a sob as she turned from him, found her feet, and ran from the terrace.
Arezzo, Tuscany
July 21, 1463
ALESSANDRO DI FILIPEPI was feeling very grateful for his life. At the age of eighteen, he had been apprenticed to the greatest artists in Italy and was proving to be the equal of anyone painting in Florence. Perhaps more important, he had been adopted into the Medici family in everything but name, living and working under the roof of Piero and Lucrezia de’ Medici, and acting as an elder brother to the Poet Prince himself and the younger Giuliano. Lorenzo and Sandro had become inseparable, and it was with great excitement that both of them accompanied Cosimo on this pilgrimage to Sansepolcro, the spiritual home of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher. Cosimo was weak, but he had rallied with the idea—his own—of bringing the boys there. It was likely to be his last excursion, as the gout made it nearly impossible for him to mount a horse. He rode his gentle white mule at a slow pace beside the equally challenged Fra Francesco. They were perfect company for each other on the journey. And while the boys were itching to move faster, both revered Cosimo and the Master far too much to rush
them.
The date was not random, of course; nothing ever was with the Order and those who orchestrated it. Tomorrow, July twenty-second, was the feast day of Mary Magdalene, and it would be celebrated by the official confraternity that carried her name. Lorenzo and Sandro would witness the procession in honor of the woman who both revered as
one of their great spiritual leaders. They would follow the feast with a week of intensive study at the hands of the Master and in the presence of the great relics of the Order upon which Sansepolcro had been founded.
But that was the future. Today, the boys were with Cosimo and Fra Francesco on their way to meet with the official artist in residence of the Order: the great Piero della Francesca. This was the source of Sandro’s awe and gratitude. Piero della Francesca was the greatest living “angelic,” discovered as a boy personally b
y Fra Francesco; he had been predicted by the Magi and born in the strange and holy little town of Sansepolcro. Piero was a fresco artist without equal, and he was finishing a cycle within the ancient church of San Francesco, the home of the Order in Arezzo. The elaborate frescoes, floor to ceiling and covering an enormous chapel behind the altar, depicted the legend of the True Cross and the meeting of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. For members of the Order, this latter was the holiest of stories. It was from the union of Solomon and Sheba that some of the greatest teachings in human history had been handed down, teachings of love and wisdom that were thoroughly transformational. The Order preached that many of the secret teachings that Jesus shared with his followers had been passed through the holy branches of the Davidic lineage, of which Jesus was the heir.
The Order’s sacred practice of hieros-gamos, the understanding that God is found in the bridal chamber when a man and woman are unified in a place of trust and consciousness, was traced to the union of Solomon and Sheba. Indeed the Old Testament Song of Songs, the ultimate poem of life-affirming passion and sacred union, was attributed to Solomon.
The Master spoke to the boys as they entered the Romanesque church, built here in honor of Saint Francis of Assisi in the thirteenth century.
“Although we look at the prophecy of the Poet Prince as a Christian concept now, as the coming of men who will restore and protect the true teachings of Christ, it was not always so. The prophecies are ancient. They are timeless. They are from God, and they relate to men and women across time and distance who will come and do God’s work—whether they be Jew or Christian or Muslim or Hindu or pagan. It matters not. Solomon and David were both Poet Princes. Think on this for a moment: David wrote Psalms, his son Solomon wrote hundreds of poems, including our most exalted Song of Songs, and both changed the world in their own way. Jesus was indeed a Poet Prince, but he was by no means the first. He was just one in a long line of them and the most exceptional of them all, no doubt, but certainly not the first or the only—or the last.” He smiled at Lorenzo.
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