The Poet Prince (29 page)

“I have included you and your father in the book,” Poggio said. “And I shall dedicate this first edition to you, as you are the living history of Florence. It has been my joy to call myself your friend for all these years.”

Cosimo put a hand on Poggio’s as he replied, “The pleasure is all mine, as you have been a most loyal friend and brilliant companion in humanism and heresy. I pray that you will continue to encourage the friendship that grows between your Jacopo and my Lorenzo. I would have Lorenzo know the blessing and power of a Bracciolini friendship in his own life.”

Poggio Bracciolini promised to watch over the boys and encourage their education together, that they might one day lead Florence under the human principles taught by both the Order and the Neoplatonists. Losing Cosimo would not only be personally painful for the Bracciolinis, it would be hard on everyone in the Florentine community who cared about social and artistic progress. Lorenzo would have to don quickly the mantle of the Medici if he wanted to preserve the legacy of his grandfather. Poggio hoped that his own brilliant son, Jacopo, would be at Lorenzo’s side as the young Medici assumed the leadership role in Florence.

Poggio nodded to Marsilio Ficino, who was waiting at the door for his turn with Cosimo, and took his leave after kissing his dying friend on both cheeks, fighting the tears as he did so.

Ficino visited daily to read from the recently translated
Corpus Hermeticum,
the book of Egyptian wisdom that Cosimo loved so much. His body had failed him but his mind never would; until the last moment that Cosimo drew breath, he was gifted with extraordinary mental acuity. Following the readings with Ficino, they would discuss Lorenzo’s future and the plans for their greater mission to merge the teachings of the ancient world with the lessons of the Order and bring them into the dawning golden age.

Cosimo spent the most time in his final days with Lorenzo. Some
days their discussions were serious lessons on banking, politics, and the Medici agenda for the future. Other days, Cosimo wanted only to hear Lorenzo read from his latest writings. Even at this young age, his poetry was lyrical and substantive. He was growing into the poet aspect of his title. He was certainly the product of a gifted mother who had passed on her own talents and knew further how to nurture them in her child.

“No man has ever been more proud of a child than I am of you, my Lorenzo,” Cosimo whispered on his last day of life. “You have already brought me so much joy. And I see your promise. But I also fear that you will need to become a man very quickly. Your father will need you immediately to become a Medici in full. He will handle the banking, but you . . . it is for you to handle everything else, as he will no longer have the time. Work with Verrocchio, keep the school going, and guide the angelics. You have quite a stable building there now. Art will save the world, my boy. With Medici patronage.”

Verrocchio’s workshop was currently filled with brilliant and promising artists, all of whom had been identified and recruited by Cosimo and Piero. Sandro was, of course, the star of the Medici art roster, but there were some promising new additions. The young Domenico Ghirlandaio was showing great skill in fresco, and a lively rivalry was growing between him and Sandro. Together, with Lippi’s son, Filippino, they were the enfants terribles trio of the art world. A gifted new artist from Umbria had just been brought up, Pietro Vannucci, who was called Perugino after the town of his birth. And there was a boy in the southern town of Vinci who was getting some attention; Leonardo was his name. Lorenzo was going to have much to work with.

Taking his grandfather’s hand and holding it in his, Lorenzo thanked him for all he had been given. He smiled at Cosimo, through dark eyes that filled with tears. “Grandfather,” he began, choking on the sadness he held inside these final days. “Of all the gifts you have given me—the name, the teachings, the great education from the best teachers, all of it—do you know what I cherish above all? The times we have been together, just you and me. Taking walks in Careggi, talking about books,
reading poetry. It is having you as my grandfather that I love above all things. And that I will miss above all else.”

And with that Lorenzo wept uncontrollably as Cosimo pulled his beloved grandson close, stroking his sleek dark hair and weeping with him until he finally lost consciousness and slipped away.

The funeral of Cosimo de’ Medici was an affair of state, with dignitaries arriving from all across Europe to honor the great man. Every citizen in Florence was in the streets that day, following the funeral procession that moved from the Medici palazzo on Via Larga toward San Lorenzo. The people chanted
“Palle, palle, palle”
in reference to the raised circles, or balls, that graced the Medici crest. Liveried servants wearing that same crest heralded the arrival of Cosimo’s casket, which Lorenzo and his father shouldered as pallbearers, along with Medici
cousins.

Andrea Verrocchio, who had been called in to quickly design the funerary monument to Cosimo de’ Medici, presented drawings of a beautiful inlaid marble mosaic in the Order’s official colors of red, white, and green, which would bear the simple yet remarkable epitaph:

PATER PATRIAE. FATHER OF THE COUNTRY
.

For the first time since Cicero, an Italian citizen had been given the formal right to use that title.

Verrocchio would begin construction of the monument immediately following the interment of Cosimo de’ Medici beneath the altar in San Lorenzo. He would work alone, as his old friend and great teacher, Donatello, was so distraught at the loss of his patron that he vowed he would never work again.

“I wish only to be buried at the great Cosimo’s feet,” Donatello wailed that day, falling to his knees. He sobbed in the basilica as the cas
ket holding his patron’s remains passed by him on the way to the final resting place. “I will find a way to serve him in heaven, to serve him for all eternity.”

True to his word, Donatello never sculpted again, and he appeared to lose all interest in his life, so deep was his devotion and mourning for his patron. Within two years of Cosimo’s death, he simply wasted away. In keeping with Donatello’s ultimate wish, he was buried beside his patron and friend, the great Cosimo de’ Medici, in the basilica of San Lorenzo.

Careggi
1464

L
ORENZO HAD FIRST
seen the boy on the road from the Medici villa to Ficino’s retreat in Montevecchio but gave him little thought as he passed with a wave. Lorenzo was kind, of course, as he always was to the servants. And the boy had to be a servant, as no simple peasant would trespass this far into private Medici land. He did notice that this particular boy, close to Lorenzo’s own age if maybe a year or two younger, had a sweet face and a shy smile, but he must not have been hired by the family officially as yet. His clothes were shabby and he had clearly not been outfitted with the livery worn by the others within the Medici household. But a new stable boy was not something with which Lorenzo could occupy his busy mind, at least not today. He had far too many things to discuss with Ficino, not the least of which was the sublime poetry he had just discovered by a new and as yet unknown Tuscan writer.

A messenger had arrived in Florence the day before with a manuscript from the hilltop village called Montepulciano. In it was a letter of praise to Lorenzo and the Medici household from a man called Angelo Ambrogini, who claimed that his father had died in the service of Cosimo some years earlier. The man indicated, with remarkable
elegance in the writing, that he wished to come to Florence to serve the family as his father once did. While Lorenzo processed many such requests claiming undying loyalty to the Medici, this particular one arrested him like nothing had previously. Enclosed with the letter was a collection of poems, the quality of which he had never seen. The poet, this Angelo, was well named; he was clearly one of the angelics, a being with supernatural talent in a human form. He wrote in both Latin and the Tuscan dialect, as did Dante and Boccaccio—and Lorenzo. He made references to Greek, linguistically and allegorically, that were fluent and literate and completely novel in their approach.

Lorenzo had never been so excited by a single letter before. For while his family and the Order searched for angelic contributors who would preserve truth and beauty through art, they had not encountered anyone truly special within the field of literature. There had been no new Dante appearing on the horizon. Until now.

Discovering who this angel from Montepulciano was, where he had obtained such a stellar education, and how to bring him into the fold was Lorenzo’s primary objective today. As he dismounted, carefully extracting his treasured new manuscript from his satchel, he heard the sardonic voice of his childhood friend behind him.

“Did you study?”

Jacopo Bracciolini had continued to share Lorenzo’s lessons with Ficino, whenever their schedules allowed. But since his father, Poggio, had promised Cosimo on his deathbed to encourage the friendship between his son and Lorenzo, they had been together more frequently. A rivalry had grown between the two boys, as both were naturally brilliant, competitive, and raised in the households of men who were renowned for their academic genius.

Lorenzo smacked his own forehead with the heel of his palm. He had forgotten that Ficino was expecting them both to recite the text of
The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus
today. And while Lorenzo loved the Hermetic studies, he hated memorization for its own sake. And he had been so distracted by the elegant poetry that arrived the
night before, he had completely forgotten that they would be examined today.

The Emerald Tablet was a legendary artifact from antiquity, believed to contain the encoded secrets of the universe. These were inscribed on a large slab of green stone by the great god Hermes himself. There was a tale from antiquity that the Great Pyramid of Giza was built to house the teachings of Hermes, known to Egyptians by another name, Thoth. This fabled artifact of untold power was once kept there within the King’s Chamber. The original tablet had been long since lost to humanity, although Cosimo sent messengers around the world, in vain, to see if there was any trace of it. He spent the equivalent of several fortunes in search of the lost treasure of Hermes.

The closest Cosimo ever got to the legendary green tablet was a document from the tenth century discovered near Constantinople, a translation in Latin of the original writings. What language Hermes inscribed into the original Emerald Tablet was also one of history’s mysteries. It was likely a symbolic language, something ancient and lost to mankind. And yet some of the text had been handed down as an oral tradition for untold centuries.

It was this tenth-century Latin translation of the oral tradition that the boys had been charged to memorize in advance of today’s lesson. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the sun shone on the paving stones leading to Ficino’s cottage. They sat on a carved wooden bench beneath an arch of white roses framed by potted orange trees; the symbol of the Medici, these trees appeared in profusion on every property owned by the family. Today they were in bloom, and the sweet smell of orange blossoms gave the air a hint of magic.

Lorenzo laughed. “Uh, no. I didn’t study. But I think I know it well enough to get by without too much of Ficino’s frowning. You?”

Jacopo began the memorization test, to see if Lorenzo could, indeed, keep up with the lesson today.

“ ‘Tabula Smaragdina. Verum, sine mendacio, certum et veris-
simum . . .’ ”

Lorenzo translated instantly. “ ‘The Emerald Tablet. Truly, without
deceit, certainly and absolutely . . .’ ” He threw the next line back at Jacopo.
“ ‘Quod est inferius est sicut quod est superius, et quod est superius est sicut quod est inferius, ad perpetranda miracula rei unius.’ ”

Jacopo smiled smugly as he translated. “ ‘That which is below corresponds to that which is above, and that which is above corresponds to that which is below, in the accomplishment of the miracle of the one thing.’ ”

He began to toss the next lines back to Lorenzo, never hesitating.
“ ‘Pater eius est Sol. Mater eius est Luna. Portavit illud Ventus in ven-
tre suo.’ ”

“ ‘Its Father is the Sun. Its Mother is the Moon. The Wind has carried it in his belly.’ ”

Lorenzo stopped short, suddenly realizing that he couldn’t remember the next line. He paused, reaching hard in his memory to find the missing line and win the game. He was chewing on his lip, deep in thought, when a third voice entered the challenge. It was an unknown voice, of a younger boy, causing them both to jump as he spoke from behind them.

“ ‘
Nutrix eius Terra est.
Its nourishment is the Earth.’ ”

Lorenzo gasped when he saw that the voice—and the flawless Latin—came from the lips of the dusty stable boy he had passed on the road as he traveled here today. The boy lowered his eyes shyly but managed to add, “I love that line. It is so beautiful. Such a reminder of how the Earth nourishes us with her beauty.”