The Poet Prince (9 page)

“For while God provides us with the outline of our destiny . . .”

Cosimo finished the sentence, a tenet of the Order’s teachings, “. . . he also gives us the free will to fulfill that destiny—or not.”

As his old friend continued, Cosimo listened carefully, committing it all to his sharp memory. He saw the deep lines etched in René’s face, once a place where only laughter and witticisms reigned. But eleven years of terrible regret had aged him brutally and prematurely.

“I buckled under the pressures of the jackals in Rome, Cosimo, and to their henchmen priests in Paris. I despised their corruption, recognized it for all that it was and always has been, but in the end I feared their power more.” His voice cracked as he spoke, safe in the presence of one of his oldest friends, and a man with whom all shared secrets were sacrosanct. “I . . . I could have saved her. I . . .”

He could not continue. The years of guilt and agony came out in a flood as the king of Naples and Jerusalem buried his head in his hands and wept openly. Cosimo remained silent and waited with respect for his friend, his cousin of blood and spirit, to move through his pain.

René raised his head after another minute, wiping his eyes while he spoke. “I failed her, I failed the Order, and I failed God. Fra Francesco says that I have already been forgiven. But I do not accept that, for I have yet to forgive myself. You can help me to make amends for my failings, old friend, by raising this child to be the true Poet Prince of our prophecy. Let him learn from my mistakes and vow that he will not repeat them. And as my gift to all that he can become, I will leave him with a great legacy of treasure, including our most sacred Libro
Rosso, for it belongs in the hands of the worthy. And I want him to have
this.”

René reached behind his neck to unfasten the clasp of a long silver chain that hung out of sight and beneath his clothes. As he removed the necklace, Cosimo could see that it was a pendant, a small reliquary locket made of silver. René rose from his chair to place it in Cosimo’s hand, then paced the room as he explained.

“It was Jeanne’s,” he said simply, allowing the import of those words to land before continuing with his explanation. “It was her protective amulet, passed down through the Order and given to her at her equinox birth when it was determined that she was . . . who and what she was. Jeanne wore it every day of her life once she was old enough to understand its purpose. On the day that she was taken, it had fallen off and was later found on the floor where she had last been dressed. The chain was broken. She must not have known it fell off, as she would never have left without it. I contend that she would not have been arrested if she had been wearing it; she would be with us today. Its powers of protection are said to be unlimited. God knows that she wore it into heated battles where she could not possibly have survived, and yet she always emerged from those victorious and unscathed.”

René walked over and put his hand over Cosimo’s for emphasis. “There is great power in this amulet, Cosimo. See that the child understands it, and that he wears it always. It is a greater shield than armor. One day it may save his life, as it should have saved Jeanne the Maid.”

Cosimo moved toward the lantern on his desk to look at the amulet more closely.

It was oval and made like a locket, but with a cover that slipped over the top, like the lid on a tiny box. The lid covered the red wax seal that was used to both protect and authenticate religious artifacts. In this case, the seal was so ancient and deteriorated that it was impossible to determine what the original image had looked like in its entirety, but there were tiny stars visible in what appeared to be a circular pattern embedded in the wax.

While smaller than Cosimo’s thumbnail, the casing was, conversely,
highly detailed and well preserved. Embossed into the silver cover was a miniature crucifixion sequence. At the foot of the cross, a long-haired and kneeling Mary Magdalene clung to the feet of her dying beloved. Strangely, the only other element—carefully crafted—was a columned temple perched on a hill behind the crucifixion. The temple looked distinctly Greek in style, resembling the Acropolis in Athens, the shrine built to honor feminine wisdom and strength.

Cosimo turned the case over to see the relic itself. It was minuscule, so tiny as to be nearly invisible, but it was there. A speck of wood was held in place by some type of resin, adhered into the center of a golden flower. Beneath the relic was a sliver of paper, handwritten in painstaking script:

v. croise

It was an abbreviation that the learned Cosimo understood, even written as it was in the antiquated French of the troubadours.
Vraie Croise.
He looked up at his friend. “This is a piece of the True Cross. The most sacred relic of the Order.”

“It is. And it will protect your grandson in a world that is most often hostile to those of us who would strive to change it.”

Cosimo took the amulet with gratitude, aware as he did so that René’s final words on the subject sounded a little too much like a prophecy of their own.

“It will save his life, no matter how determined others will be to
take it.”

It would be several hours before the others arrived and the official meeting of the Order came together. Cosimo, in anticipation of René’s potential melancholy over the day, had planned a diversion for his friend that he knew would be greatly appreciated. He led Rene through the grounds of Careggi in the golden heat of a Tuscan afternoon, to
ward an apple cellar beneath the stables. Rene was perplexed at the destination but followed with interest. No doubt Cosimo de’ Medici had something extraordinary in that apple cellar. And René was relatively certain it was not apples.

“Art will save the world,” Cosimo said with a smile, and Rene returned the sentence. Passed down through the Order, it was believed to have been spoken by the holy Nicodemus, who was the first man to create a piece of Christian art. His breathtakingly beautiful sculpture of the crucified Christ was the stuff of legend in Tuscany and remained on permanent display in the ancient city of Lucca. Both Nicodemus and his patron, Joseph of Arimathea, were present at the crucifixion and aided in the removal of the body of Jesus from the cross. After witnessing the events of Good Friday, Nicodemus carved the first crucifix, in this case a life-sized version of the image he could not erase from his mind. The face of Jesus he carved was considered so sacred that the artwork was referred to only as the
Volto Santo,
the Holy
Face.

On the day of the original Easter, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, along with another revered artist who would be known to history as Saint Luke, founded the Order of the Holy Sepulcher. They pledged through their Order to preserve the teachings of the Way as Jesus instructed through the gospel written in his own hand, the Book of Love. When Jesus announced his resurrection to Mary Magdalene on that sacred Sunday, the three men knew beyond any doubt that she was the chosen successor of their messiah. The teachings of the Book would endure under her guidance, and the newly founded Order would be sworn to protect this woman, her children, and her descendants through time. Most of all, they would be sworn to protect the true teachings, the Way of Love as Jesus had set it out most specifically for his followers. Often the Order would preserve these teachings through secret symbolism and encodings in art and literature.

As a result, like Cosimo and all nobles of the Order, René was a keen patron of the arts. He was looking forward to a time when he could focus more completely on art, music, and architecture and less on poli
tics. Because art was the language members of the Order used to communicate the truth, both Cosimo and René were constantly seeking new ways to see the beauty of the secret teachings expressed in art.

As the men approached the apple cellar, René stopped to listen to the deeply melodic sound emanating from behind the door. He looked at Cosimo, amused. “Singing? Do you have magical apples here in the wilds of Tuscany, Cosimo, which have the power of song?”

Cosimo laughed in return. “No, I have wayward artists who are delinquent in their commissions, who have the power of painting.”

René was taken aback. Cosimo was renowned as the most benevolent of patrons, giving generously to his artists, even supporting them and their families completely, while lecturing other patrons to be more magnanimous. “You, of all patrons?
You
lock up your artists in a cellar?”

“Well, not normally. But Lippi is the exception to all rules.”

René gasped. “Lippi? You have
Fra Filippo Lippi
locked in there?”

Cosimo nodded nonchalantly. “Yes, I do. He doesn’t sound distressed to you, does he?”

René shook his head with no small degree of amazement. The booming voice from the apple cellar sounded positively—and
inexplicably—ebullient. That the sound was coming from Filippo Lippi, who was the most impressive artist working in Florence, was astonishing. Lippi’s frescoes were considered so divinely inspired that even the king of France was interested in sending for him. But Lippi would never leave Cosimo de’ Medici or Florence, not for anything: not for the king of France, the king of the world, or a king’s ransom. For all his eccentricities, Fra Filippo Lippi was unerringly loyal to the patron who protected him against the perils of the world.

Much of what made Lippi’s art transcendent was his extraordinary ability to capture the divine by communicating with it directly. He was a member of what Cosimo referred to as his “army of angels,” an elite group of supremely gifted artists who had the talent to translate divine inspirations and teachings into canvas and marble. Within the Order, they were called “the angelics.” The coming of these scribes of a new era had also been predicted by the Magi. Cosimo had a passion for locating
and cultivating these artists, and he had succeeded most exceptionally with the discovery of Lippi, as well as the remarkable sculptor known in Florence by the name Donatello. They were geniuses possessed by divine inspiration, and consequently, both were rarely impressed by any earthly authority. The angelic qualities they embodied did not always make for the most harmonious lives here on earth. Lippi and Donatello were both notoriously difficult and temperamental. Indeed, no Florentine patron but Cosimo had ever been able to work successfully with either. But then again, no patron but Cosimo truly understood who, and what, they were.

As a member of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, René d’Anjou did understand and was fascinated. He had not thus far in his life had the luxury of cultivating such talent and working with artists of this nature, and he wanted to know more.

“Lippi is one of the foretold angelics?”

Cosimo nodded. “Of course. And I am hoping to give him some much-needed discipline so that one day he may teach some of the younger artists who show that same promise—without also imbuing them with his bad habits.”

Cosimo fished the key to the solid iron lock out of his pocket. “His minor incarceration here is for his own good and he knows it. Lippi must be protected from himself.”

René saw immediately that the apple cellar was no dank dungeon. Light filtered in on all sides through well-placed skylights, and Lippi painted happily, surrounded by everything he could possibly require while performing a day’s work. The artist grinned as the two men entered and he addressed his patron.

“Ah, perfect that you have come now, Cosimo. See here, what I have done. I have added some touches here to the angels, and see how I have placed the book here carefully? No one will be the wiser.”

Cosimo introduced René to Lippi, but the artist was far too single-minded, completely absorbed in his current masterpiece, to show much concern for the fact that the king of Jerusalem and Naples was in his presence. He continued his questions to Cosimo.

“What do you think? Do I dare paint the book’s cover red? Make it a true Libro Rosso?”

“At this stage, Lippi, I don’t care if you paint it violet with rosy stripes, just as long as you finish it quickly. The archbishop is howling for your head. I will not be able to protect you from his wrath much longer.”

Cosimo turned to René and explained. “Lippi is notoriously late on all his commissions, distracted as he is by wine and women.”

“Oh no, no!” Lippi held up a hand. “
One
woman, Cosimo. Not women, plural. Woman, singular. There is only one perfect woman for me, created by God at the dawn of time from my own being, my own soul’s twin, and yes, she distracts me utterly . . .”

Cosimo continued with René as Lippi lapsed into more ecstasy over his one true love.

“Meanwhile, Lippi is no less late with this altarpiece for Santa Annunziata, for a clergyman who is already carrying a grudge about Lippi’s abandoned vows. If he does not deliver it on time, the archbishop will withdraw his commission and lock him up—in a real cell. So you see, what I do here is quite humane.”

Lippi shrugged and nodded, with an afterthought. “It is. Although you could be more generous with the wine.”

“That’s enough out of you.” Cosimo’s smile was affectionate for all his harsh words. “You will have nothing but bread and water in a dark cell if you don’t finish this commission, so stop complaining.”