The Poet Prince (24 page)

Peter put on his shoes and decided to take a stroll along the Arno. Florence at night was stunning, and perhaps it was just what he needed to help him assimilate.

Peter pushed the enormous wooden security door that kept the outside world away from the private residents in the Antica Torre. As he opened the door, he saw a young woman running across the street toward him, waving.

“Hold the door, please!”

She was out of breath but managed to smile at him as she grabbed the door to keep it open. “I forgot my key,” she explained, pointing at the magnetic lock that secured the entrance. “The magnets. They demagnetize my credit cards so I cannot carry the key in my handbag. I have to keep it separate. It’s such a nuisance!”

Peter nodded at her, preoccupied by all that was swirling through his head. “Good night,” he said politely, as the young woman waved at him and entered the building, headed toward the elevator.

Had he not been so distracted, Peter might have noticed that the door where the woman had held it was covered in blood.

It was a magical night in Florence. The air was silky with the essence of late spring, and a slight breeze blew in from the Arno. Tamara and Roland sat on the roof deck of the Antica Torre, breathing in the atmosphere as the iconic rooftops of Florence came to life under the full
moon. If ever a place had been created for two people in love to spend a quiet evening, it was this special terrace.

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.