The Poet Prince (30 page)

Lorenzo held out his hand and introduced himself to the boy, who took it and grasped it gently. His huge bright eyes, eyes that had seen so much for one so young, filled with tears as he said, “I know who you are.”

Lorenzo did not release the boy’s hand. Instead, he clasped his shoulder with his other and said, “Then I am at a disadvantage, as I do not know who this brother is facing me, who has such a gift of knowledge and poetry for one so young.”

The boy was in tears now and fell to his knees weeping at Lorenzo’s feet. “I have come to serve you, Lorenzo. And to study with the maestro Ficino if he will have me.”

Jacopo Bracciolini rolled his eyes in exasperation at the sycophant. “Get up, boy. He’s neither king nor pope, but mere Medici.” He took one arm and Lorenzo the other as they raised the young man gently to his feet.

“What is your name, brother? And where do you come from?” Lorenzo asked gently.

Pushing his heavy hair out of his face and wiping his eyes, the young stranger answered softly.

“Angelo. My name is Angelo Ambrogini, and I come from Montepulciano.”

“Ah, I see you boys have met. Wonderful. Now we can get started in earnest. A good thing too, as the great Hermes does not like to be kept waiting.”

Marsilio Ficino, just out of sight, had been watching the exchange between the newcomer Angelo Ambrogini and his elder charges. He was pleased that Lorenzo immediately accepted the boy, and he hoped that Jacopo would do so too, as he needed the stimulation of equally brilliant minds. And there were few minds that could claim equality with this young man. Ficino had been watching Angelo for years now, at the suggestion of Cosimo. His father had been murdered in a blood feud, stabbed brutally in front of Angelo when he was a little boy. The Ambrogini family had been devoted servants to the Medici for two generations. At a time when Cosimo was in exile and the feuds were raging in Florence, the Medici patriarch had stayed with the family in Montepulciano. While there, he had an opportunity to observe the shy yet obviously brilliant little boy who was already showing a prodigal intellect. Cosimo discussed the child’s aptitudes with his father and was stunned to learn that he was already conversant in Latin and a natural with Greek. It was as if Lorenzo had a twin brother, born a few years later across Tuscany.

Following the brutal execution of his father, Angelo received an
education secretly provided by Cosimo—and supervised by Ficino. Before falling ill, Cosimo had intended to bring the young Angelo to Florence and integrate him into the Medici household. Circumstances interfered, and the brilliant young intellect began to languish in the wilds of Tuscany. When Angelo wrote to Ficino in desperation, the tutor had the letters forwarded to Lorenzo. Ficino spoke nothing of it in advance, preferring to watch how Lorenzo filled Cosimo’s shoes as the ultimate patron of the arts. Would he recognize angelic talent from the outset? Was he truly the equal—if not the superior—to his grandfather when it came to discovering and cultivating talent?

Ficino was thrilled to see that, at the tender age of fifteen, Lorenzo was well able to fill the unique role that he alone could aspire to. He
was, indeed, growing to become the Poet Prince in every sense of the title.

Lorenzo and Jacopo were staring at Ficino now, blinking at his revelation that he had been expecting Angelo all along. Ficino smiled and ushered them through the door, as Sandro Botticelli joined them for the lesson, nodding to Jacopo as he entered and introducing himself to Angelo. Sandro knew that every minute he could spend with Ficino made him a better painter, as he acquired more storytelling elements to weave into his artwork. He attended the lessons with Ficino whenever possible. And while Sandro wasn’t especially fond of the arrogant Bracciolini heir, he could feel from the electricity in the room that today was a lesson not to be missed.

“Come on, then, boys. The Tabula Smaragdina awaits us.”

Ficino ushered them all into the larger antechamber that served as his lesson hall. He repeated the memorization test that Jacopo and Lorenzo had been practicing in the garden. While both boys passed the exam, neither was as quick or as fluent as Angelo Ambrogini, either in memorization or in understanding the context.

“ ‘That which is above is also below,’ ” Ficino said. “What is another way in which we can—and often do—say those words?”

Lorenzo answered this, immediately. “On earth as it is in heaven.”

“Precisely,” Ficino replied. “And what does this tell us, about the cor
relation between the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the ancients?”

“That it is all correlation and no separation,” Jacopo replied. This was Ficino’s favorite theory, and all his students knew it well.

“And?” Ficino looked to Angelo. He was curious with anticipation to see where the boy would take these two in discussion. While Jacopo and Lorenzo were both brilliant, they had developed a pattern of interaction between the two of them that was often more about their rivalry than about the lessons. Sandro was a quiet student and rarely spoke during the lessons. An extra intellect added to the mix would be just what Lorenzo needed to push him to the next level of learning.

Angelo looked at his classmates and hesitated. He was the newcomer, and the youngest. He was also heavily outranked socially and was highly unsure of his position. Lorenzo sensed this and encour-
aged him.

“Go on. Tell us what you think, Angelo.”

“I think it doesn’t matter.” He spoke softly but firmly, and the others, teacher and students, were silent with shock at his eloquence as he continued.

“All wisdom comes from God and is the truth. It matters not if it comes from Hermes or from Jesus, or who said it first or in what language it was spoken. This is why the Emerald Tablet opens with the words ‘Truly, without Deceit, certainly and absolutely.’ Because that is the nature of all divine law.”

Ficino questioned him. “And does this mean that Jesus was a student of the Emerald Tablet? That he was aware of Greek teachings? And is such a thing heresy?”

“I am not a priest and I cannot tell you what is or is not heresy,” Angelo replied simply. “But I say again that it does not matter if Jesus obtained his wisdom from a Hellenist philosopher or from God himself. The pure and perfect truth of life is that we are here to create heaven on earth, to bring the perfection of what is above down to us, and in doing so to become transformed as human beings into something great and beautiful.”

Lorenzo was leaning toward Angelo now, completely attuned to what he was saying. He jumped in. “To become fully
anthropos
.” He explained quickly to Angelo, “Fully human, our most perfected state. To become fully realized is to know who you are and what you are here to do, to consciously and actively fulfill your promise to God and yourself, and to find the others in your soul family and help them to do the same.”

“It is a Greek word,
anthropos
. I know it,” Angelo replied. “But I do not know it in the context in which you use it.”

“Then we shall have to teach you,” Lorenzo said. “Just as it appears that you must teach us.”

Sandro had been silent through the lesson, although it was clear to Lorenzo, who knew him better than anyone, that he had been sketching all along. Sandro turned the page to reveal his pencil drawing to Angelo. He had sketched the boy as Hermes himself, looking up to heaven. In one hand he held a staff, and he appeared to be stirring the clouds with it.

Angelo blushed at the beauty of the drawing. “You honor me by comparing me to Hermes.”

“I sketch what I see, brother. And what I see is your brilliance, alerting us below about the truth of the above, but I also see you stirring things up a bit in flaccid Florence! That, incidentally, is a delightful element.”

Jacopo Bracciolini appeared annoyed at all the fawning over the newcomer but held his tongue. The Medici were famous for adopting stray poets and philosophers as pets.

“Welcome to our family of spirit, brother,” Lorenzo said, grasping Angelo’s hands. The younger boy was determined not to weep again, but for the first time since the death of his father, Angelo Ambrogini felt something akin to joy.

As the lesson continued, Marsilio Ficino felt a thrill run up his spine. He was not a prophet, but he had seen enough of the world to know that, in the presence of these three shining lights—the prince, the painter, and the poet—he was truly on the threshold of a new era. Flor
ence was about to be reborn, and all of Italy would follow, and perhaps even the rest of the world.

It was not lost on Ficino that Jacopo Bracciolini, as brilliant as he was, stood apart and separated from this stunning trinity by his own choosing. Jacopo, despite his exceptional father, did not share in the special sense of family that was growing here. He was a young man of great cerebral gifts, but Ficino had watched him carefully over the years. He had noticed that while Jacopo fully engaged his agile brain, he seemed completely unable to connect with his heart.

Florence
1467

C
OLOMBINA RUSHED TO
the entrance hall, her heart in her throat. Her sister, Costanza, had been breathless in her announcement that the mysterious Fra Francesco had come calling to the Donati town house. What was he doing here in her parents’ house? Surely this was not official Order business? Could something be wrong with Lorenzo?

“Maestro! You honor us with your presence here. What brings you?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

His relaxed demeanor relieved her, and she smiled warmly at the old man. “You are far too great a man to be a good liar.”

He returned the smile and shrugged simply. “And you are too young to be so wise. But as you are, I shall tell you the truth. Did you know, that when you stand on the Ponte Santa Trinità at precisely midday, the sun shines perfectly on the center of the Ponte Vecchio? And what a coincidence; it is almost midday now.”

Colombina winked at him. “A good Florentine girl must know such things. I shall get my cape, and you can show me.”

Colombina and Fra Francesco strolled along the Arno, through the Lungarni district that lined the river, toward the bridge at Santa Trinità. Santa Trinità had become a code for the Order, given its associations with the earliest days of the Order in Florence: it was where the current members attended secret services that celebrated their precious traditions. When Santa Trinità was mentioned, there was surely secrecy to be kept.

The Master gently approached the delicate subject. “I have heard that your father wants you betrothed. Soon.”

Colombina nodded simply. “Yes, and not to Lorenzo.”

“You expected as much.”

“Yes, Maestro. I have always known that I would not be allowed to marry Lorenzo. It is not . . . our destiny.”

“Mmm. And what have we taught you about destiny, child?”

“That the stars guide us, but they do not compel us. It is our free will that determines the outcome of all things. God does not impose his will on us, rather he makes it known and allows us to choose if we will follow it.”

“And what is the Latin phrase that represents this idea?”

“
Elige magistrum.
Choose a master.”

“Correct, and well spoken. So who is your master? Your heart? Lorenzo’s destiny? God’s will? The future of Florence? Where are you in this situation?”

Colombina gazed out at the river. The midday sun was indeed sparkling off the river and shining toward the venerable Ponte Vecchio, just as Fra Francesco had said it would. Even in such details, he was never mistaken.

“God has made his destiny for Lorenzo known since the day he was born. Since before he was born. My own parents have been straightforward with their attitudes about my future. They believe that I can only marry into an equally aristocratic family, and the Medici must stay out of the way. Our free will is to determine if we can live with that decision or not. We must choose.”

Fra Francesco nodded sagely. “Yet Lorenzo speaks to me—quite
seriously—of eloping. He would choose love and abandon his destiny. He would throw away everything he has and is to be with you.”

“No, he would not. And I wouldn’t allow him to do so, even if he meant it, which he doesn’t.”