The Poet Prince (8 page)

“Cousin! It is a joy to reunite with you.” The high-ranking French nobleman, known for his warmth, embraced Cosimo heartily once the door was safely closed behind them.

Cosimo smiled broadly at René’s use of the familial greeting, and returned it. “The joy is all mine, cousin. Thank you for coming.”

Any Florentine observing this meeting would have been deeply perplexed. René d’Anjou carried the highest royal French pedigree; he was the son of the two most pristine royal bloodlines in Europe, the French Angevin dynasty and the Spanish Aragonese, and the holder of multiple hereditary titles. Conversely, Cosimo de’ Medici was a commoner,
one of the most wealthy and influential commoners in all Europe, but from a merchant class all the same. How a prince of these exalted and elitist dynasties came to call the Italian banker his cousin was a secret worth more than gold, a secret of life and death for all involved.

René recounted his recent journey as Cosimo ushered him into the elegant
studiolo
. The doors to his private library were opened only to the most intimate and trusted friends and family members. As was traditional in many wealthy Florentine families, even wives were not allowed within the walls of their husband’s private studios. Cosimo had kept this tradition, even through his long marriage to a woman he loved, and his secrets were well contained within these walls.

“I have just come from Sansepolcro. I am told that you have secured that territory completely?”

Cosimo nodded. He had purchased Borgo Sansepolcro to add it to Florentine territories in Tuscany, yet he had used private Medici money to do so. This was not merely a strategic political purchase for Florence. It was a personal one. The medieval walled city, established in the tenth century, was sacred ground for the Medici as it had been the dwelling place of the Magi for five hundred years.

“How is our beloved Master? Is he on his way?” Cosimo asked.

“Fra Francesco is well and is not so far behind me. It is astonishing to see that he has not changed a bit since I was a boy.”

Cosimo smiled knowingly before replying; the crooked smile transformed his often serious and sardonic face to a landscape where wit and understanding shared space. Memories of their Master and the sacred time spent with him always made him smile. The old man known as Fra Francesco had taught both of these men and instilled in them the understanding that they were cousins of a very ancient blood and spirit. Fra Francesco was entirely unique. He was the gentle yet formidable Master of an ancient society to which both men had pledged fealty until death, the Order of the Holy Sepulcher. The Order and its teachings were firmly ensconced just a day’s ride from Florence in the tiny walled city that shared its name and was now a Medici possession: Sansepolcro.

“I dare say he will never change, as you well know,” Cosimo responded. “But I am grateful that you have agreed to come on this, the specified date. There is much to discuss, and to plan for.”

“How could I refuse? This date is written in the stars, and we must ensure that we honor it appropriately. It is a matter of great excitement for everyone in the Order, and I will do my duty as it has been decided. When is this child destined to arrive?”

“We have assembled all the forecasts from the Magi, with Fra Francesco’s counsel. They all agree that the stars clearly indicate 1449 because of the positioning of Mars in Pisces that occurs that year. If properly timed, he will be born on the first day of January, so he can then be baptized five days later on the Feast of the Epiphany. It will require great planning, but as you know, it has been done before with success. And this time . . . we must succeed exactly. Such a birth will give him the stellar influences that satisfy the prophecy most completely. This is why we must begin preparation now, far in advance, to ensure our success. It may take several years to find the perfect woman to mother this child.”

No one knew the power of this ancient foretelling more personally than René d’Anjou. He was the reigning Poet Prince, the golden child recognized by the Order for his divine birth and destiny. His path had been predetermined by his bloodline and birth date, and he had done his best to fulfill it. Cosimo’s reference to “succeeding exactly this time” caused René to flinch a little. It was a reference to his own birth, which had missed the timing when he arrived two weeks too late. While the position of the stars at René’s birth was still in keeping with the prophecy, he had known from his earliest days that he would always be a bit of a disappointment. Yes, he was a Poet Prince. But he was not
the
Poet Prince. And this unfortunate aspect of his birth haunted him each time he made an error or was seen to fall short in his duties to the Order and their divine mission.

René closed his eyes and recited the prophecy of the Poet Prince, which had colored his life in shades of extreme light and dark since his own birth had been predicted by the Magi:

The Son of Man shall choose
when the time returns for the Poet Prince.
He who is a spirit of earth and water born
within the complex realm of the sea goat
and the bloodline of the blessed.
He who will submerge the influence of Mars
And exalt the influence of Venus
To embody grace over aggression.
He will inspire the hearts and minds of the people
So as to illuminate the path of service
And show them the Way.
This is his legacy,
This, and to know a very great love.

Good King René looked up at his old friend with eyes that blurred with tears. “As you know, I have not been the most perfect prince.
I have indeed been blessed to know a very great love, I have fathered an equinox-born daughter who fulfills a prophecy of her own, and I have tried to complete all the tasks set out for me to benefit the Order and preserve our ways. But I will admit it does not grieve me to relinquish the title. I shall sleep better once this boy is born, and born perfectly to the plan set forth by God through the schedule of the stars. Perhaps I shall sleep once and for all.”

“Do not speak so, René,” the elder Cosimo chided. “You are such a young man. There is much greatness awaiting you in this life.”

King René d’Anjou had come to Florence at the request of Fra Francesco, known by the exalted title of Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, to surrender his title as the reigning Poet Prince in preparation for the baby whose coming was now foretold. The date of this meeting had been carefully calculated by the astrologers within the Order, who were known as the Magi in honor of the three priest-kings who foresaw the birth of Jesus. Indeed, the legacy of the Magi spanned the fifteen hundred years since the appearance of the Star of Bethlehem. These modern Magi were highly educated in the way of the ancients, conver
sant in teachings from Zoroaster and the Kabbalah, and were experts in the study of the Sybilline Oracles. They were masters of Egyptian mysticism, Chaldean numerology, and above all, the workings of the planets on the fortunes of mankind. The Magi understood that astrology was a gift from God, meant to be a scepter of power when enhanced by the intellect, spirit, and free will of those who were enlightened enough to utilize it properly. It was the ultimate tool that could be used to accomplish the will of God.

The current Magi were on constant watch for the special children who had been predicted in this generation. In the Order, “The time returns” was the ancient motto that they lived by, and the stars indicated that the coming decades would bring together the most significantly gifted and divinely blessed men and women. There were specific cycles of greatness in history, eras which were predetermined by God, through the stars, to bring forth angelic and evolved souls to improve the state of mankind. The Magi, along with the elders of the Order, were not content to leave all this to chance—nor had they ever been. Through the careful use of astrology they could ensure that certain children were conceived at the appropriate time and in the immaculate way that would dictate divine blessings in birth and through life. With specific guidance and wisdom, this new generation would create a golden age, a rebirth of mankind that would combine ancient wisdom with progressive thought to catapult humanity into a shining time of peace and prosperity. It was a divine vision of unity, of a time when all men and women would understand what it meant to be
anthropos
—fully realized and fulfilled humans—as defined in the Order’s most sacred text, the Libro Rosso.

The Libro Rosso, the great red book, was a protected text passed down through the Order. It contained within it a perfect copy of the stunning lost gospel written by Jesus, referred to as the Book of Love. Legend within the Order told that Jesus left this priceless document to Mary Magdalene so that she might teach his words from it after he was gone. While the original gospel written in the hand of the Lord himself had disappeared to history, a perfect copy was made by the apos
tle Philip in the presence of the first book. That copy was now bound within the gilded leather cover of the Libro Rosso. Also in the sacred red book was a history of the Order, including lives of the saints, many of whom were not recognized by the traditional Church, and others with very different stories to tell than those which were now “accepted” by Rome. Finally, the book contained a series of prophecies, including that of the Poet Prince. The Libro Rosso had been in the possession of French royalty for centuries and was now kept by Good King René as the reigning heir to the prophecy.

René ran his hands through his hair as he settled back in one of Cosimo’s plush velvet-covered chairs. He sighed heavily before continuing. “Ah, this child, this child . . . you must know that it is a curse as much as it is a blessing, Cosimo. It is . . . not an easy thing to live with this prophecy. And yet for those of us who do, we must remember at all times that we were chosen for it by God. It is a responsibility that we can never, never lose sight of.”

The portents showed that the next child to fulfill the prophecy, the Poet Prince who would usher in this new era of enlightenment, was destined to be the child of Cosimo’s oldest son, Piero. Their focus now would be to choose the appropriate “Mary” to wed to Piero, to carry the child and to raise him properly in preparation for his destiny.

“This grandchild of yours must be taught carefully, by our Master, in the same way that we were—only with even greater focus. We must learn from our mistakes.”

Cosimo nodded. “Any advice you choose to impart to prepare us as we raise this child to fulfill his destiny will be considered the most valuable counsel.”

René had thought about this while traveling north from Sansepolcro the previous day. Once the Master had told him that the new Poet Prince was expected to be born into the Medici family, he knew that it was time to pass on the mantle he had worn for so many years. And he would, in all honesty, be relieved to be rid of it. He was a young man still, and yet at times he felt ancient and exhausted by the responsibilities of his heritage. The burden had grown far too heavy, and he would
enjoy stepping back from it. And while his life had been filled with the blessings of the highly privileged, René d’Anjou had also endured his share of tragedies. One, above all others, haunted him every day of his life and would until he took his last breath and could then beg her forgiveness in heaven.

Jeanne.

She was known by many names now as her legend continued to grow since the terrible day of her execution eleven years earlier. She was the Maid of Orléans, she was Jeanne d’Arc; even the English crossed themselves when speaking of her, calling her Joan of Arc and the Daughter of God, while whispering that the Church had made a dreadful mistake in her execution as a heretic. But for King René, Jeanne had been so much more: she was his spiritual sister, his family’s protégée, the Expected One, the hope of France . . . and his greatest failure. That he could not protect her in the end was unforeseeable; that he did not have the courage to do so was unforgivable. And this was the source of the self-loathing that tortured his sleepless nights since that wretched day in May of 1431 when Jeanne had been burned alive for the crime of hearing the voices of saints and angels too clearly.

If René was truly honest with himself, with his brethren in the Order, and with his God, it was his courage that had ultimately failed him—with a fair amount of help from his ego and his love of worldly comforts. He blamed his youth for this ultimate failing; he had only been twenty-two at the time, just three years older than Jeanne. He
had been young enough to falter under such a weighty burden. He had not been willing to risk everything he had, everything he was, to try to save the girl he loved more than a sister, the prophetess who had been an angelic being in a girl’s body. He knew she had been both conceived and raised to be the Daughter of God, and yet he had allowed her to die through his absolute passivity when she most needed him to save her.

Good King René now lived in a self-imposed hell every day of his life. He would not wish that on the innocent child who would be born into this terrible prophecy.

René cleared his throat. “Tell this future grandchild . . . that he must
have the courage of ten thousand lions, and most of all he must not fear Rome and their threats. The angels and the innocents who live among us must be protected at all costs.” René grew silent for a moment remembering his own failure once again. “As you know, the Magi say that more angelic beings and special ones are coming now as the time returns. They must be cared for. Your young prince will be born to lead them, and he must never waiver in what he knows to be right action, for one misstep can be the ruination of all that is in God’s greatest plans. I have seen that.