The Poet Prince (35 page)

But what if he was? What then?

Florence
spring 1469

“S
HE IS THE
closest thing to royalty that exists in Rome, this girl from the Orsini family. They have the greatest number of cardinals in their line, and several popes. They are rich and influential, and will bring a prestige and influence to the Medici we have never had before.”

Lucrezia de’ Medici knew that Lorenzo would hate this discussion, as did she, but it had to happen. She had just returned from Rome, where she had gone in search of an appropriate bride for Lorenzo. That the Medici were reaching outside Florence was controversial; that they were going to Rome to find Lorenzo a wife was unheard-of.

Lucrezia, who had become a true Medici in her years of marriage, continued. “She is not beautiful, but she is not ugly either. And she is not Florentine, so she is neither cultured nor terribly merry in her demeanor.”

“Does this get worse, Mother? Because if it does, let me go drinking with Sandro, then come back to hear the rest of it when I am appropriately numb.”

“Stop it. Think of this as Order business. That’s all it is, Lorenzo. Business. A bride from the most noble family near the papacy is the next step for you. For all of us, and for what we wish to create. The girl is a broodmare. Her purpose is to give you children with Roman blood who will help us to secure our place in the papal circle. With the help of the Orsini family, we shall get our Giuliano into the center of that circle and establish a Medici cardinal. If this Orsini girl breeds well, your sons will follow the trail Giuliano will blaze to Rome. Keep your eye on the outcome, my prince.”

Lucrezia grabbed her elder son by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. She did not release him as she made her point. “Understand this, Lorenzo. We are after nothing less than a Medici pope. Your own father is too ill to give you guidance and emphasize our strategy. It falls on my shoulders now as the Medici matriarch to carry
out the grand plan, until you step into your grandfather’s shoes and rule Florence.

“A Medici pope, Lorenzo. Imagine it. It will give the Order access to all that is held in secret in Rome, all that has been kept from us that is rightfully ours. It may even give us the power to change the Catholic Church. And you shall be the patriarch that brings this to pass.”

Lorenzo was listening in a new way. An arranged marriage had been inevitable, so what did it matter whom he married? Anyone who was not Colombina would be abhorrent to him, so it might as well be a woman who could further the ambitions of his family and his
Order.

He responded calmly. “This girl whom you and father have chosen is fine with me, Mother. Do whatever has to be done to make it official. But know this: I will not participate in a formal vow-taking ceremony with her. I will never stand before God and proclaim devotion or loyalty to any woman who is not Colombina. Marry us by proxy. Throw whatever party or spectacle you must in order to appease this Roman family and show them honor, just do not force me to take vows. Tell the Orsini that I am too busy with affairs of state to participate in a vow ceremony, particularly now that Father is so terribly ill. Of course they will understand.”

Madonna Lucrezia knew better than to push Lorenzo too far. He had accepted their choice for his bride, and that had been the objective of this discussion. She had accomplished what she needed for the further glory of the Medici dynasty.

“Of course they will understand, my son. I will make the arrangements immediately.”

Lorenzo went in search of Angelo the next morning after a long and sleepless night. Sandro was with Verrocchio this week, working hard on a number of important commissions, so Angelo was his port for this storm. He and the little poet from Montepulciano had become imme
diate and inseparable friends. Angelo was as sweet as he was smart, as loyal as he was shy. He was utterly devoted to Lorenzo. And in Angelo, Lorenzo had more than just a trusted new confidant; he had a writing partner, a poet of such talent and discernment that he pushed Lorenzo’s own writing to new levels.

It was the second great sadness of Lorenzo’s life that he did not have time to pursue his writing. He was remarkably gifted, and when his poems were entered into the highly competitive Florentine writing competitions, he always won some kind of mention. Lorenzo entered these contests under assumed names so that the organizers would not simply reward him medals because he was a Medici. He wanted to have his poetry judged on its own merits. Each time that it was, the result was the same; he was a poet of exceptional gifts.

But when Angelo Ambrogini came to Florence, there was no one who could best him for the perfect turn of phrase or most lyrical use of language. Lorenzo wasn’t the least bit jealous—far from it. He had been the one to cultivate his friend’s abilities and support him as he continued to write. Angelo’s skills as a poet had become so renowned, so quickly, that he was now known by a new name throughout Florence. It was a tradition to honor the most gifted artists with a professional name, which consisted of their given names followed by a reference to their hometown. Thus was born the poetic name Angelo Poliziano, which meant “Angelo from Montepulciano.”

Lorenzo found Angelo in the
studiolo
he had prepared for him in the palazzo on Via Largo, working on a Greek translation.

“Angelo, I am tormented. I am to be wed to a homely Roman girl who is apparently completely without culture. What am I to do?”

Angelo smiled at him. “Use your misery in your poetry, as all great writers have in the past.”

“I tried. I was awake all night in the effort, but I cannot judge it for myself to know if it is worthy or just self-indulgent.”

“This is the beauty of the gift we have been given, Lorenzo, the purpose of our art—to express emotion through poetry. Even if it isn’t worthy and you have to throw it out, at least it served a purpose in
getting you through the night. And besides, how dull would it be if the only reason we created poetry was to celebrate springtime and flowers and rainbows? All those things are lovely, but they are not art unless they have a contrast. Let this new wife from Rome provide you with some contrast. What is her name?”

Lorenzo stopped for a moment, thinking. He shook his head and replied, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Lorenzo groaned aloud. “I do not care. Angelo, I cannot write poetry about a woman because she does
not
inspire me.”

Angelo was brilliant, but he was young and had never been in love. Clearly. Lorenzo continued, “I can only write about someone who does inspire me. And while thinking of this tormented mess I find myself in, I realize that it will hurt Colombina even more to know that I am getting married. So I chose to write a poem to her and about her, so that she would always know my true feelings no matter what circumstances fate put upon us. I shall read it to her to soften the blow of the terrible news. Will you look at it and tell me what you think?”

“Of course,” Angelo nodded, then read Lorenzo’s latest offering. He was quiet for a moment, causing Lorenzo to panic with insecurity.

“You hate it?”

“No, Lorenzo. It is stunning. Beautiful. I was just thinking that if this is how you write when you are miserable, then apparently God knew exactly what he was doing by delivering an unpleasant wife to you!”

Regarding Lorenzo’s banner.

The Medici chose to produce a spectacle in honor of the marriage of Lorenzo and Clarice Orsini that would be so elaborate, so memorable, that the people of Florence would be talking about it into the next century. Lorenzo wanted nothing to do with it, of course. He was miserable over the entire idea of arranged marriage, and it was my duty as his brother to cheer him from the dark hole he threatened to fall into. We devised secret ways to incorporate our heresies into the tournament as a means of amusing ourselves.

There would be a joust and a series of games in which the young noblemen of the city would square off against each other in combat, just as in the times of chivalry. Each knight would have colors and a banner and carry the favor of one of Florence’s beautiful women. In this case it was determined that there would be an official Queen of Beauty who could sit on a throne in an elaborate gown and preside over the events as the goddess Venus herself. Of course our queen was Colombina. Who else? And no one in Florence could argue against her unparalleled beauty. Only Simonetta could compete with her, and she was still too new a presence in the city, and a foreigner at that. And she did not belong to Lorenzo.

It was given to me and the apprentices in Verrocchio’s studio to create the banner that Lorenzo would carry in the joust. Thus I created the sketch from which we would work, using Colombina as our model for Venus and incorporating the dove symbol into the imagery as a nod to the name by which we all called her. Lorenzo and I both determined that we would use the Order’s motto of
“Le temps revient
” in its French form as our ultimate act of heresy.

And so Colombina would sit on a throne, from where she would crown Lorenzo with flowers, the violets which had been symbolic of her family since ancient times, and tie the ribbons of her chosen colors to Lorenzo’s armor. He would joust behind a banner painted with her image and the ancient motto of the Order, in his own way declaring that what God has put together, no man can separate. It was a daring public statement given that Colombina was now married to Niccolò Ardinghelli, so all of it was done under the auspices of the troubadours, emphasizing the notion of courtly love and the ideal of untouchable beauty.

And thus would Lorenzo de’ Medici usher in his new bride from Rome.

I remain,
Alessandro di Filipepi, known as “Botticelli”

FROM THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI

Florence
June 1469

C
LARICE ORSINI HAD
been married to Lorenzo de’ Medici by proxy in Rome, where a stand-in from the Medici party had spoken Lorenzo’s vows for him, carrying a document emblazoned with the Medici seal giving him permission to do so. The papers were signed and notarized by an envoy of the pope himself, and the wedding was declared legal. It was a very tidy business transaction. Clarice was then escorted from Rome to Florence with the elaborate entourage of a princess. Giuliano de’ Medici was a member of the escort, and he tried very hard to calm the nervous bride and make kind conversation with her on the long ride north.

It was not easy going. Clarice Orsini de’ Medici, his new sister, was not much of a conversationalist at the best of times, and at the moment she was terrified. It didn’t help that some of the Florentines in the wedding party said ribald things in praise of Lorenzo’s legendary prowess, indicating the pleasures that the bride had to look forward to. Clarice was beside herself with fear and embarrassment and refused to speak for most of the journey.

The wedding reception was held in the Medici palazzo on Via Larga, and no expense had been spared. Meat had been roasting for days in preparation. There were sweets from the Orient and a hundred barrels of wine. Orange trees in terra-cotta pots, the symbol of the Medici family, were beribboned and strewn throughout the property.