The Poet Prince (33 page)

Felicity de Pazzi’s hands were shaking in her gloves as she ran out of the Uffizi. She had done it, she had forced contact with the wicked usurper, with her nemesis. It had been a strange sensation to be face-to-face with the woman she had conjured in her head as the Whore of Babylon, to see her as a flesh-and-blood person. Felicity was disappointed in retrospect. What had she been expecting? Something more . . . demonic? No, Maureen Paschal was just an average woman, other than the hair color, which marked her as a part of the tainted bloodline.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Satan was crafty. He would not put his spawn in the body of a recognizable demon. He would create her in the image of the everywoman, someone whom people could relate to so that she would be able to lure them in with her facile lies. Felicity must not, even for a moment, allow herself to underestimate the evil inherent in the Paschal bitch. She was a blasphemer, the tool of Satan.

Felicity hurried down the stairs and out the door into the heat of an early Tuscan afternoon, toward the bridge and Santa Trinità. She did not know if Maureen would take the bait, but she hoped she would. Meanwhile, there was a meeting of the Florentine chapter of the confraternity in the rectory there this afternoon. They would vote today to determine whether to pursue reopening the case to beatify the holiest monk of the Renaissance, or any time period as far as she was concerned, Girolamo Savonarola. Felicity intended to control that vote. When she was present, none in the organization would oppose her. And it was time to redeem the sacred name of their ancestor, the greatest reformer ever to live in Italy.

Felicity sighed as she stepped up her pace, correcting her own thoughts. The greatest reformer ever to live in Italy—so far.

Ognissanti District
Florence
1468

T
HE HAND OF
God was often seen to work in the affairs of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Fra Francesco taught that when one was living in harmony with one’s promise to God, opportunity would appear and doors would open most effortlessly. This night was to be no exception in the life of Lorenzo.

The Taverna was an eating house in the Ognissanti district, not far from Sandro Botticelli’s
bottega
. It was a regular meeting place for Lorenzo and Sandro, an escape where the two great friends could relax and talk about art and life in a vibrant, if somewhat tawdry, atmosphere. Lorenzo preferred it to the more elegant Florentine establishments, where he was constantly under the microscope of political and social behavior. Here, he wasn’t Florence’s first son; he was just another patron. And the otherwise refined Lorenzo had an earthy side that gave him a secret taste for the bawdy and the ribald, one that he indulged in places such as this.

His little brother Giuliano, now fifteen, had tagged along with him today. It was his first experience in such a place, and no doubt Lucrezia de’ Medici would be unhappy with Lorenzo for bringing her baby here. But Lorenzo felt that it was his duty to school Giuliano in the ways of the world. Besides, he was entirely safe with Lorenzo and Sandro at his side. Both men were tall, sturdy, and highly respected. Together, they were a formidable combination that no Florentine with any wits would ever cross.

A commotion at the bar drew the attention of all three in the Medici party. A darkly handsome man, preening and strutting from a cocktail of alcohol blended with attention, was being celebrated by his friends. The gaggle at the bar were getting louder as the time went by, the evident effects of too much drink. The peacock at the center of the group was telling a story with great gesticulation, punctuated by throwing money on the table in an ostentatious display of wealth,
good fortune, and utter lack of taste. Lorenzo watched him carefully for a few minutes, eavesdropping on the boisterous conversation while his brother listened to Sandro discuss the details of his latest commis-
sion.

“A very typical Madonna and child. Not particularly interesting, but lucrative enough. I will add a forbidden element here or there to spice it up, a red book perhaps.” He smiled wickedly, winking at Giuliano. “The tediously pious Catholics who commissioned it will never know the difference.”

“You wouldn’t!” Giuliano was in awe of Sandro and worshipped him as a god. He hung on every word, and Sandro embellished his stories to please his young audience.

“I would. I do it all the time. No one is any the wiser and it amuses me. Why do you think I dress them all in red? When I am amused in my work, I paint with more passion and perseverance, so in the end it is all the better for the client. Everybody wins.”

Giuliano nudged Lorenzo, who was paying no attention to a conversation that he normally would have enjoyed immensely—art and heresy, a delicious and favored combination for all in the Medici household. Lorenzo shushed him and nudged Sandro. “Who is the braggadocio at the bar?”

Sandro craned his neck to get a better view, then grimaced with a theatrical shudder and grunted as he recognized the character in question. “The monumentally annoying Niccolò Ardinghelli. He was insufferable even before he went off on a trade adventure with his uncle, but now he has the distinction of being completely unbearable. You would think he was one of the Argonauts and that he found the Golden Fleece, the way he goes on.”

“Well then, let’s call our pretentious Jason over here.”

Sandro pulled a terrible face. “Tell me you’re jesting. Please.”

“No, I’m not. Call him over.”

Seeing that Lorenzo was serious, Sandro conceded, grumbling. For all their fraternal friendship, Lorenzo was his prince and patron. The Medici had given him an order and he would obey it. Sandro bowed
with a great mocking flourish. “As you wish, Magnifico. But you will owe me for this one.”

Sandro approached the crowd and was greeted by some of the men who recognized him, including Ardinghelli, who cried out,“Well, if it isn’t the Little Barrel himself!”

Sandro swallowed his irritation but corrected him quickly. “My brother is called Little Barrel, not me.”

Sandro’s brother, Antonio, was known by this unflattering nickname due to his physical stature, which was short and stocky. The younger of the Filipepi brothers, Sandro was far more gifted in the appearance department—tall, well built, with finer features and fairer hair. He had also grown terribly vain and intolerant of fools on top of it, so it rankled him that the moniker of Little Barrel, or Botticelli, appeared to be sticking firmly to him as well.

“How goes it with you, Little Barrel?” Niccolò extended his hands to grasp Sandro’s in greeting, a little too vigorously. Sandro cringed.

One of the men, worse for drink, shouted, “Hey, watch his hands! They paint the most delectable nymphs! I would that I were a painter and could invite naked women to lounge about in my
bottega
under the guise of labor. What a life you must lead!”

“You have no idea,” Sandro muttered.

Niccolò Ardinghelli, aware only of what concerned him, jumped in with a thought. “Sandro, you must paint my latest encounter with Barbary pirates! It will be a most handsome commission!”

Another compatriot chimed in, slapping Niccolò on the back. “Yes, and he will commission you to do so with the money he stole from their treasure chests once he vanquished the sea serpent, ravaged Aphrodite, and wrestled with Poseidon!”

The men burst into raucous laughter again, but Niccolò was only encouraged by the attention.

“More drink for everyone! And give the Little Barrel here a big barrel! He needs to stop being so serious!”

Sandro turned back to where the snickering Medici brothers watched his misery with no small degree of amusement. He glared at
Lorenzo pointedly and rolled his eyes before returning to his task. “Niccolò, there is a friend of mine who wants to hear about your adventures in more detail.”

“Well, by all means, call him over!”

“I think he would prefer that you came to him.”

Niccolò began to protest, plumping his chest like an overfed pigeon on market day, as he turned to see whom Sandro was seated with. Upon recognition of the company, he deflated, but only
slightly.

“Ah, I see. And are the Medici brothers too good to join me and my friends?”

Sandro turned to walk back to their table, delivering the clipped answer under his breath as he did so.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, they are.”

Niccolò Ardinghelli was a braggart and a show-off, but even with too much wine in his system, he was not a complete fool. He was a Florentine and recognized a summons when he was presented with one. He excused himself from his friends at the bar and approached the table where the Medici held court.

Sandro made the introductions. Lorenzo spoke first, welcoming Niccolò warmly. He clasped the man’s shoulder with his left hand as he shook the right, looking directly in Niccolò’s eyes as he spoke. It was a diplomatic trick Lorenzo had learned from Cosimo. “Connect physically with both hands when you first meet, and stay completely focused on the person you are speaking with,” his grandfather had taught. “Hold his eyes and let him know that you care about every word he says, as if he were the only person in the city that mattered at that moment. And always use his name. It is such a small thing, but this kind of connection is rare and will win the loyalty of a man in a matter of seconds.”

Lorenzo never failed to follow this advice. For Lorenzo the humanist, these actions were sincere. He did turn his full attention to the citi
zens he spoke with, and in those minutes they were the most important person in the city. He had learned that in doing this, he not only earned the loyalty of men but also gained great knowledge of human nature. Like a chameleon on the summer stones in the Tuscan hills, he could change his colors to match his surroundings. With refined company, the scholars and poets, he was both a scholar and a poet. With ambassadors he became a statesman, with artists he was their brother in art, and he could even outdo the worst of scoundrels if necessary by becoming as debauched as they were in the moment. The result was that men of Florence from all walks of life felt completely comfortable with Lorenzo. It was one of the reasons that, at such a young age, he was already called “the Magnificent.”

“Ardinghelli. It is a venerable name, my friend. You are practically royalty.”

“One of the oldest and greatest in Tuscany. You honor me by recognizing it.”

“The honor is mine, Niccolò. Tell me something: do you plan on leading this life of an adventurer forever? It sounds . . . superb. Please, tell us more about it. I cannot wait to hear your remarkable stories.”

Sandro kicked Lorenzo under the table. Hard. Giuliano stifled a laugh by spilling his drink a little. Niccolò, delighted to have an audience, didn’t notice, and Lorenzo stayed focused on his prey, smiling benevolently.

“There is no better life for a real man!”

Niccolò continued to weave his great yarns until Lorenzo, completely in control of the conversation, stopped him with another question. “How is it, friend, that with such a noble lineage, your father does not demand that you marry and carry on the family name?”

“Ach, marriage.” Niccolò made a dismissive gesture to accompany the distaste on his face. “I have no interest in it at all, and yet you are right, of course. It is our noble obligation. I shall be forced to wed eventually, there is no way around it. But I will return to Florence just long enough to get sons on my woman, and then off to the sea I shall go again!”

Lorenzo nodded thoughtfully. “But Niccolò, what if your wife was shockingly beautiful? Could not a marble-skinned goddess of love keep you in Florence if she waited in your bed? Wouldn’t that be enough to keep you from the sea?”

“Never! You read too much poetry and are still young, Medici. You need to remember this: women are sirens, luring men from their adventures. And Florentine women are the worst of all, with their ideas and their prattle. I much prefer the fast and furious tumble with a Circassian slave girl. Have you ever had one of those, Lorenzo? Black hair and blacker eyes and lips like pomegranates. Delicious and wild. And they know their place and don’t annoy me with their chatter afterwards! I shall take you to Pisa when the next slave ship comes in and we can find one for you. You’ll thank me for it, I promise you.”