the full version of Fortitude and the central figure from Primavera in the same sight line. It was in doing this that I became certain that the same woman was the model for all. Even the tilt of her head is the same, but in a mirror image from Primavera to Fortitude. And thanks to Botticelli’s mastery of the infusion technique, I discovered that I felt something about this woman, experienced some element of her character, when I stood before the paintings. I began to look at those pieces with new eyes, and am convinced that all three are Lucrezia Donati. I believe that Colombina’s specific and charming tilt of the head is also found in some of Sandro’s early Madonnas.
That said, I am not an art historian and make no claims to be, although I am a most ardent and committed art enthusiast and have been blessed to spend much of the last two decades loitering in the great art museums of the world. And I have eyes. Sometimes it’s just that simple.
I find that much of the evidence art historians draw their conclusions from is necessarily circumstantial, and yet their assumptions often astound me in their simplicity and—dare I say it—irresponsibility. For example, many art experts believe that Primavera was not commissioned by Lorenzo the Magnificent but rather by his cousin Lorenzo (the Much Lesser) Pierofrancesco de’ Medici. The reason for this assumption is that an inventory was done upon il Magnifico’s death in 1492, and Primavera was in the Pierofrancesco household at that time. Now, there are countless reasons why paintings commissioned by Lorenzo the Magnificent during his life may not have been in his personal collection at the time of his death, so to assert definitively that he was not the patron of such a huge, expensive, and personal piece—simply because his cousin had it in 1492—seems irresponsible
to me.
I have made a sport of sitting in front of some of the greatest artworks in the world so that I may listen to the various guides, critics, and experts comment on the masterpiece at hand. I have spent hours in Botticelli’s salon, listening to the varied explanations of Primavera. Invariably, each expert asserts a definitive explanation of the painting’s meaning. And, equally invariably, these assertions differ—often dramatically. There were times when I delighted in the idea that art is so expansive that it provides us with almost infinite opportunity for interpretation; others when I despaired at the idea of ever really grasping what the artist’s true intentions may have been. Once I discovered the concept of “infusion” and learned to feel the art as well as see it, my appreciation of these masterpieces was enhanced beyond measure.
Much of what you read about the Medici in English refers to them in unpleasant terms: tyrants, hedonists, and worse. I mentioned this recently at an event in Italy, and my comments were met with stares of disbelief. Lorenzo de’ Medici was the father of the Renaissance, the champion of the Italian language, and a man known for his generosity and enlightened way of living. Most of the Italians I have discussed this with find it unfathomable that history views Lorenzo in any other light. It was in discovering Lorenzo’s greatness, and Cosimo’s before him, that I became an ardent champion of the Medici. I believe that much of the confusion comes from the generations of Medici who followed Lorenzo and were indeed corrupt. I think Lorenzo himself would have been horrified and sadly disappointed to watch as his descendants lost their way and abandoned the principles of love, beauty, and anthropos that he and his grandfather worked to preserve.
I came across references to how the Medici “locked their artists in basements and forced them to paint,” but then I would discover these fantastic stories about how Donatello and Lippi were utterly devoted to Cosimo. I use the word devotion specifically as it indicates love: these artists loved their patrons, they didn’t just serve them. Donatello really did beg to be buried at Cosimo’s feet and he really is buried alongside him in San Lorenzo. These are not the actions of an artist who was abused. I can see how Cosimo’s often comical relationship with Fra Lippi could be misinterpreted by history, and I was determined to show the beauty of it.
I was stunned to discover in my research that both Botticelli and Michelangelo lived as members of the Medici family in their youth. Lorenzo adopted Michelangelo at the age of thirteen in everything but name, and the boy was utterly committed to his foster father. There is also an argument that Sandro Botticelli was similarly “adopted” by Lucrezia and Piero and raised as Lorenzo’s brother, as I have depicted here. Little is recorded about Botticelli’s personal life, but esteemed British historian Christopher Hibbert makes this assertion in his book The House of Medici, as well as providing the description of Botticelli’s commission to create the Madonna of the Magnificat for Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici.
The understanding that Michelangelo and Botticelli were members of the Medici “spirit family” drove me to grasp the Savonarola period. Art and history assert that both these great, heretical artists became followers of Savonarola. I will never believe that, not even for a moment. They were both utterly devoted to the Medici and the mission, and neither would have embraced a man who sought to destroy Lorenzo. I do believe that in the early days Savonarola was welcomed into Florence as someone who could have been a tool to revolutionize the Church and eradicate corruption in Rome following Pope Sixtus and the chaos created by the entire Riario family. It all went terribly wrong. Michelangelo is widely quoted to have said about Savonarola, “I will hear his voice ringing in my ears until the day I die.” That quote is interpreted by art and history experts to mean that Michelangelo was a follower of Savonarola. I beg to differ. I think Michelangelo said it because he knew that Savonarola ultimately destroyed Lorenzo and everything they hoped to achieve together.
I realize that my assertion that Savonarola hastened Lorenzo’s death is controversial, but I also believe it is possible. Even if he did not physically poison Lorenzo, he certainly did so spiritually. I think the voice of Savonarola haunted Michelangelo because it took away his foster father and his primary inspiration. The influence of the Order and Lorenzo can be seen throughout the Sistine Chapel, where touches of heresy abound. Who is that woman next to Jesus in the Last Judgment? Does that really look like his mother to you? And of course, Michelangelo sculpted Mary Magdalene as the prominent figure in the Florentine Pietà, which he created for his own tomb, and which I think speaks volumes about the artist’s beliefs.
Sandro was even further devoted to Lorenzo as his brother and his patron, so I believe passionately that the time in which he was recorded as being a Pignoni was essentially Sandro working as a double agent, as I have portrayed it here. His art plays out this theme, time and time again.
The story of Saint Felicity began to haunt me after a more recent trip to Florence. Standing before the painting of the saint and her seven dead sons had the same effect on me as it does on Tammy: it sickened me. Personally compounding the experience was the fact that the youngest child painted as dead on his mother’s lap was the image of my own youngest son. Something crystallized for me in that moment, some tragic understanding of how it all went so wrong, how the teachings of love are lost in the fires of fanaticism. I wanted to shriek at that painting, Everything about this is so wrong! This is not what God wants from us!
I wrote the prologue to illustrate the fanatical version of Felicity’s life, rather than celebrate her as a martyr. I wrestled with that prologue for a long time. It is a brutal story, and I considered toning it down—until I went online to investigate Saint Felicity and how she is viewed by followers in the twenty-first century. I was stunned, and further sickened, to discover a suggestion posted by a mother in honor of Saint Felicity’s feast day: she advocated taking seven of your child’s favorite toys and destroying them in front of the child, emphasizing all
the while that this is what Felicity endured, and these are the sacrifices we are required to make for God.
Even writing that last sentence makes me queasy. I cannot believe that any woman of spirit thinks this is a lesson of love that God would want for any of his children. It was the realization that this type of fanaticism is
still influencing our children in modern times that doubled my determination to tell Felicity’s story in all its horror. I wanted to show it for what it was, and I hope it will make people think. It certainly has made me think, and it became critical to the theme of this book, as Felicity and Savonarola both illustrate the dangers of fanaticism over tolerance. Some of Felicity’s words of dialogue were taken verbatim from early Church records.
I became hopelessly devoted to Lorenzo il Magnifico during my research, to the point of what was, at times, a literally feverish obsession. I knew I had to write much of this book in Florence because I needed to have the energy of Lorenzo all around me. Not a day went by in my final stages of writing in Florence when I did not “visit” Lorenzo in some way. My morning walk took me past his statue in front of the Uffizi. Sometimes I went into that museum just to see the Vasari portrait (my favorite representation of him), although it is poorly displayed and behind glass, so I find the glare ultimately frustrating. Still, I love that it is adjacent to a painting of Cosimo. I finally bought a copy of the Vasari, framed it, and kept the Magnificent One on my desk when I wrote (I’m gazing at him right now), even traveling with the more portable postcards of the image.
I visited the Medici Palace on Via Larga (now Via Cavour) every few days so that I could spend time in the last known repository of the Libro Rosso, the gorgeous Gozzoli Chapel, and in Lorenzo’s chambers, which are now the site of a very space-age, multimedia interactive tourist attraction. I took issue with this development at first but came to the conclusion that anything that makes history interesting and interactive is a good thing, and that Lorenzo himself would probably really be into it if he were here today. He was, after all, a pioneer in the arts.
My regular trips to the Uffizi really began to feel like I was going to visit my friends, and I would often start with the Lucrezia Donati spot, then work my way into the main Botticelli room to chat with Sandro. I really came to believe that Lorenzo and his Colombina were urging me to tell their story in a most human way, surrounded by the people who loved them most. Those people just happen to be the greatest artists and minds of the Renaissance. And of course, I stay exclusively in the Antica Torre Tornabuoni when I am in Florence, so that I may live in the footsteps of the beloved couple and the Order that inspired them. I swear, their conjoined spirits roam the roof deck of that turret that overlooks Santa Trinità and has the most inspiring view I quite possibly have ever seen. I don’t get much sleep when I stay there, but I know that I’ll always be in good company.
As for Lucrezia Donati, there is very little known about her life specifically. The lives of women in the Renaissance, unless they were monarchs, were not well recorded. Factor in that Lorenzo himself would have wanted to keep her out of the public eye as much as possible, and I think we have some very deliberate obfuscation. It is the same principle as secret society activity. There is no documentary evidence for most of it because there was never meant to be any! That’s precisely the point of its being secret. I found Colombina through the art and poetry of the time and tried to see her and experience her through the eyes of Lorenzo and Sandro. But, as with Mary Magdalene and Matilda before her, she became very real and alive to me, and my passion to tell her story took over as I wrote about the period.
I speak of history as a mosaic, and it has been a very beautiful one for me. Little pieces fall into place and begin to clarify the picture. Single sentences from research books have often altered the course of my understanding of these characters and their lives. One book on Lorenzo’s art collections speaks of Lucrezia Donati’s son searching desperately for a lost painting of his mother—commissioned by Lorenzo and in his private collection. This led me on the path of investigating the boy’s parentage. I cannot prove that Lucrezia Donati had a son fathered by Lorenzo de’ Medici, but I do believe it to be true.
Another jeweled tile in my mosaic came from an art journal that referred to the original title of Primavera as “likely called Le Temps Revient.” Beautiful! The legend of Lorenzo’s banner, and the reason that the great defender and proponent of the Italian language would carry a mysterious motto in medieval French is something that has baffled historians for five hundred years. That is because historians were missing the secret society element, the heretical understandings of the Order, and the Medici connection to these heresies. The banner led me to uncover the connections between Cosimo and René d’Anjou, as well as Piero’s and Lorenzo’s close relationship with the French king Louis XI, who inexplicably refers to both Medici men as “cousin” in his intimate correspondence to them. Lorenzo’s banner also led me to Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII, very unexpectedly, as will be explored in their astonishing and completely unknown story in Book IV of this series. Connecting these elements, and watching them come together, is pure joy for me.
Space restrictions demanded that I edit elements of the highly
complex Pazzi Conspiracy. I had no choice but to eliminate several
villainous characters who were participants in the assassination of
Giuliano and the attempt on Lorenzo. I apologize to history buffs who might find this element disconcerting. I chose, instead, to focus on those characters who I felt were the true core of the conspiracy, and I held fast to my determination to present the crime in all its horror through their actions. That such an appalling and cowardly attack was carried out during Mass in a cathedral, sanctioned by the pope and planned by an archbishop using priests as henchmen, is one of history’s great atrocities—and yet it is very rarely discussed or written about outside Medici biographies. I was struck by the irony of the professional killer acting as the voice of reason, which comes to us historically through Montesecco’s confession prior to his execution. And, of course, I was deeply moved by the account of the wounded Lorenzo’s courage in speaking to the mob and calling for calm in the hours following the murder of his beloved brother.
Renaissance scholars of both history and art will likely throw tomatoes at me for violating all kinds of academic codes, but let them. They can join the biblical scholars who scoff at my version of New Testament events. My role is to show the secret and human side of history, and it is the greatest possible occupation I can think of.
As Destino said, no man ever achieved greatness using just his mind. He must also use his heart. Thus I have endeavored to show you the heart of the Renaissance, and perhaps a little bit of my own.
And of course I have taken liberties. I did mention this was fiction, didn’t I?
I honor God and pray for a time when these teachings will be welcomed in peace and there will be no more martyrs.
KATHLEEN MCGOWAN
NOVEMBER 22, 2009
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I worked on this book in Florence for several weeks over the last few years, I finished it in a quirky little cabin in the mountains outside Los Angeles. It is a house that my grandfather, BB Rhodes, built for my grandmother, Ethel Rhodes, as his own monument of love to her. It is a place of beauty and serenity, but the energy of familial love is so alive within its walls that writing there is the greatest of joys. I want to honor their memory with this book, as their spirits are an integral part of what I delivered. They were twin souls, as were my other set of grandparents, Katy Paschal and W. Joe Harkey, created for each other by God at the dawn of time. How blessed I was to have such influences in my young life.
The unequaled blessing these beautiful soul mates created was that of my parents, Donna and Joe Harkey, who have given everything they have to me—repeatedly—that I might thrive, grow, love, and experience life at all levels. Writing this book made me think about the importance of parents and grandparents, and all that mine have given me, so I dedicate this work to all of them, with much love and gratitude.
While researching this book, I became the devoted fan of Cosimo de’ Medici, the great patron of the arts and humanity. He was truly a man without equal. But while writing him, I realized that I was drawing from life: much of Cosimo’s chara
cter—his warmth, his humor, his brilliance—was informed by my literary agent and friend, Larry Kirshbaum. Larry is a Cosimo for our time, a supporter and defender of the arts and a champion for new voices in literature. Like Donatello and Lippi, I am utterly devoted to him and eternally grateful for his love and generosity.
My editor, Trish Todd, continues to share her patience, insight, and talent with every book I write, and I have to give her much credit for pushing me as hard as is necessary to ensure that these stories are told to their greatest advantage.
Throughout the incredible journey that was this book, where art and life blurred for me as they do for Maureen, I discovered an unparalleled muse in a Belgian-born author and researcher named Philip Coppens. Philip was intrepid, devoted, and unerringly dependable, sharing my love of the Renaissance and my passion for the mission of the Order. He brought my research, and subsequently this book, to
life in ways I could not have accomplished without him. He has my love and gratitude. Dès le début du temps, jusqu’à la fin du temps.
My own spirit family supported me throughout, and as always I give love and gratitude to them—Stacey, Dawn, Mary, Patricio. And thanks to Larry Weinberg, who is both a great friend and wonderful lawyer, and to Kelly Cole, for her wisdom and support.
Everything I create is for my children, that they may be inspired in their own journey, as they continue to inspire me throughout mine: so to Patrick, Conor, and Shane, know that you are my three most constant muses, who inspire everything I do.
I use Destino’s process of infusion in the writing of this series of books. Although it translates differently in print than it does in paint, I find that it still works. The countless letters I receive from my readers around the world, indicating that my work makes them feel something new or exciting or beautiful, is proof of that. Thus, I want to acknowledge the strength and inspiration I receive from those letters in return, from the handwritten to the emails to the guest book posts on my website and Facebook. I cannot respond to each of them individually, but I read them all and they mean the world to me. So to my readers I give my heartfelt thanks. Please know that you make me feel something magical with every word you send to me. You are my collective muse, the one that keeps me working. Because of you, I have decided to expand what was once a trilogy into a longer series. There are so many more stories to be told, so many more emotions to be shared. Thank you all for continuing to inspire and support my journey.
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