The Poet Prince (39 page)

“I’m saying that what God has put together, no man should separate.”

The morning was bright and beautiful as Tammy and Maureen turned
left at the Ponte Santa Trinità to walk along the Arno. They would cross the river at the Ponte Vecchio, the picturesque and storied merchants’ bridge, which was one of Florence’s most beloved landmarks.

The women decided to take the walk across the river to visit the Chiesa di Santa Felicita, the church that the art student had told Maureen about yesterday in the Uffizi. Maureen had spent most of the night with Tammy, talking through her session with Destino and trying to make sense of it all. Bérenger had called five times yesterday, but she had not spoken with him yet. Maureen needed to be very clear about the right course of action before she did so. She was still unsure of exactly what that was. A walk along the river seemed like a good way to start the day as she continued the discussion with Tammy.

“Colombina was content to be Lorenzo’s mistress, to be with him in any capacity available to her no matter what. I don’t know that I have the same selflessness.”

Tammy replied, “Colombina didn’t have to cope with the insufferable bitch who is Vittoria.”

Maureen stopped and looked out to where the sun sparkled on the river, gilding the reflection of the Ponte Vecchio in the Arno.

“Nor did Colombina have to compete with the Second Coming.”

“Neither do you.”

“What do you mean? You don’t believe in the prophecies?”

Tammy shrugged. “I do believe in the prophecies. I don’t believe in Vittoria. Something is rotten in Florence, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a hunch.”

They put their conversation on hold as they approached their destination. Santa Felicita was the second-oldest church in the region, originally built in the fourth century and dedicated to a saint from Rome who was martyred in the second century. Maureen was always fascinated by stories of the women in the early Church: there was usually much to learn beneath the surface legend if you were able to dig long enough and deep enough. The case of this Saint Felicity seemed particularly tragic: she was a mother who lost all seven of her sons to Roman persecution before being executed herself. Maureen wanted to
read more about her to find the details; she would put it on her agenda for further research if the church they visited today inspired her.

During the Renaissance, the Church of Santa Felicita was decorated with artworks from greats like Neri di Bicci, and
The Deposition of the Cross
by Pontormo was considered one of the most significant works of the early Mannerist style. It was amazing to Maureen that so many
of the most important artworks in Italy were readily available to view in the churches that dotted the city every few hundred yards. Each church she entered was a like a miniature world-class museum.

Santa Felicita was no exception. The Pontormo artwork covered the chapel designed by the great Brunelleschi, the genius responsible for the majestic and unequaled Duomo. Surrounding the window, a fresco, also by Pontormo, depicted the popular annunciation scene, with a beautiful and welcoming Mary receiving her joyous news from the angel Gabriel. But the standout was the fresco that covered the entire wall, encapsulating the moment when Christ’s body was removed from the cross. Pontormo’s version was indeed unique; the colors were bright and vibrant, women draped in deep blues and vibrant pinks. In the early Mannerist style, they were long-limbed and graceful, and the characters appeared to merge into each other in a strangely lyrical dance of mourning. Mary Magdalene, veiled in pink, held Jesus at his head and shoulders, supported by other characters less easily identified, while his mother swooned with her grief. Saint Veronica was present, back to the viewer, and appeared to be reaching out to the blessed mother with one hand, and holding the veil of her legend in the other.

It was a beautiful and worthy piece of art, and yet after spending a day in the presence of Botticelli, Maureen and Tammy were not as inspired by it as they might have been on another day. They explored the church a bit, walking along the nave and admiring the rest of the art and architecture that graced the building. Tammy, walking ahead of Maureen, now stopped in front of an enormous painting on the right wall. She had a look of utter horror on her face.

“What is it?” Maureen asked, as she approached her friend and the painting.

“Maureen, meet Saint Felicity.”

The painting was majestic, tragic, and horrifying. Felicity rose like a phoenix from the bodies of her dead sons, which lay scattered around her in various poses of death. They were bloody and twisted; some were decapitated. Felicity herself stood in the midst of it all, arms outstretched to heaven. Her pose was one of defiance rather than grief. Over her knee was the body of her youngest son, a beautiful golden-haired boy who was limp and lifeless.

Maureen was nauseated by the painting. Tammy was horrified. But neither of them could turn their eyes away from it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” They both jumped at the English accent, which came from behind them, and turned to see the art student from the Uffizi. Maureen noticed that she was still wearing the leather gloves, despite the hot weather. The girl looked down at her hands self-consciously for a moment and said by way of explanation, simply, “Eczema.” She then continued, explaining her appearance. “I work here as a volunteer, for the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition. The Florentine chapter meets here. Felicity is one of our patronesses. Although she wasn’t a visionary as such, she heard the voice of God clearly enough to sacrifice her children for him. Do you know her story?”

“Other than the fact that her seven sons were slain before her, no. I don’t know the rest.”

Felicity launched into the story of Santa Felicita, providing the details of how the saint encouraged the deaths of her children, even cheered them on. She concluded by reciting the quote from Saint Augustine:

Wonderful is the sight set before the eyes of our faith, a mother choosing for her children to finish their earthly lives before her contrary to all our human instincts.

Tammy could take no more. She wasn’t skilled at holding her tongue at the best of times, but as she stood there with the new life of a beloved child growing within her womb, everything within her spirit rebelled.
Unconsciously, her hand moved to cover her belly, as if to shield it from the horror of Felicity’s story.

“Sorry, but everything about that is wrong in so many ways that I wouldn’t even know where to begin. No sane woman allows suffering or death to come to her child. No mother watches while her son is murdered before her, if she has the power to stop it. Nor do I believe that this is what God would want from any of us.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes as she looked away from the painting and then at Tammy. “You believe you know what God wants?” she asked softly.

“I believe that God does not want us to allow death or injury to come to our children, and he entrusts us to become mothers and protectors of the innocent. I do not believe that God wants a blood sacrifice of innocents. Ever.”

Felicity refused to look at Tammy or Maureen and fixated again on the horrific sight of Felicita draped in the corpses of her babies. When she spoke it was in a strange cadence, a mantra repeated by rote.

She did not send her sons away, she sent them on to God. She understood that they were beginning life, not ending it. It was not enough that she looked on but that she encouraged them. She bore more fruit with her courage than with her womb. Seeing them
be strong, she was strong, and in the victory of each of her children, she was victorious.

Tammy appeared outraged and Maureen was speechless. Was this young, twenty-first-century woman saying that she thought this was not only acceptable but exalted behavior? It was unconscionable.

Before either of them could speak again, Felicity turned to take her leave. She said over her shoulder, “We are having an event here in honor of one of Florence’s greatest heroes later this week, on the twenty-third of May. It is the anniversary of the death of the holy brother Girolamo Savonarola, and it promises to be quite an event. There are fliers at the
front of the church if you are interested in more information. Enjoy your stay.”

Tammy leaned against one of the pews, both hands holding her belly now, as Felicity walked away, disappearing somewhere into a gated area of the church that was not open to the public. She exhaled deeply and said to Maureen, “I think I am going to throw up.”

Maureen nodded. The encounter had been very disturbing for both of them. “This”—she pointed to the painting of Felicita surrounded by the massacred innocents—“is everything that is wrong with religious fanaticism. This is the example of how the teachings of the Way of Love were abused and corrupted. This, my friend, is the enemy.”

They were walking toward the front of the church now, both anxious to get out of there and into the healing rays of the Florentine sun. Tammy stopped at a little table near the holy water font, where church bulletins were scattered alongside a stack of fliers for the event Felicity had mentioned. Tammy picked one up and gasped.

“No, my friend,” she said to Maureen. “I believe
that
was the enemy.” Tammy gestured to where Felicity had disappeared before handing Maureen the offending flier. Beneath the details of the commemoration in honor of the martyrdom of the holy brother Savonarola was a photograph of Maureen’s latest book,
The Time Returns,
along with the bold command to “Stop the Blasphemy!”

Florence
1475

T
HE TAVERN IN
Ognissanti was calmer than usual this night. The weather was glorious, the kind of Florentine evening in which the air caresses the skin like a silk coverlet. For Tuscans, it was criminal to be indoors on such a perfect night. And yet for Lorenzo, these opportunities for unbridled relaxation with Sandro were sacred, stolen moments.
And Sandro was in fine form, having come from an eventful day in the studio with Andrea del Verrocchio and his brother artists.

Sandro Botticelli was caught up in a magnificent creative spiral: the more he painted, the more he wanted to. He was devoted completely to his mission as an artist. For all his cynicism, Sandro was a man of deep and abiding faith. He thanked God every day, and often many times a day, for the talent he had been given and for the means with which to express it. He also thanked God for Lorenzo and the Medici family and prayed for their safety so that the mission of combining art and faith would endure.

Verrocchio’s studio was the training ground for the angelics, and Sandro operated as the eyes and ears of the Medici from within it. He reported to Lorenzo regularly on the progress of the members, some established well within the Order, others still being tested for their mettle.

“Domenico is clearly the most gifted. Aside from me, of course,” Sandro began. He was many things; humble was not one of them. Yet he did not exaggerate his talents. He was unequaled anywhere in Florence now in terms of technique and output. No one could dispute that. But as a result, Lorenzo knew that he could trust every word that Sandro uttered about the other artists they were grooming for the Order.

They were discussing the work of Domenico Ghirlandaio, a darkly handsome, soft-spoken family man from an accomplished Florentine art dynasty.

“His fresco technique is unmatched. The frescoes he is working on for your mother’s family at Santa Maria Maggiore are stunning. You must get over there to see them in these early stages, for to watch him while he is working is very inspiring. And he has the face and bearing of an angel himself, which adds to the pleasure of observing him as he creates. I would use him as a model if he wasn’t already so inclined to paint himself. He is a bit of a peacock. A quiet peacock, but one who struts all the same. That said, he’s not insufferable like that strange bird from Vinci.”

“Leonardo?”

Sandro nodded and signaled the serving girl to bring more ale.
“Mm-hm. Leonardo. I’m not sure about him, Lorenzo, even though his sketches are remarkable and he has a technical precision that is something special to observe. I haven’t quite figured out how to describe him. He’s . . . off. He is not one of us.”

“You don’t think he has angelic talent?”

“I don’t think he has angelic temperament.”

“Neither do you, most of the time.”

“Ha. Very funny. And it’s a good thing you’re buying the ale or I wouldn’t put up with you. Leonardo is different from the others, different from me, to be sure. He is a loner. That in itself isn’t a crime. Donatello was a madman as well as a loner, and yet he was still angelic. The difference becomes apparent when you watch them create. When Donatello stood before a piece of wood or stone, you could see the divinity pouring through him as he made that initial contact with the source of his art. Fra Lippi is the same, as you well know. God works through him when he paints, so tangibly that you can almost see it pouring from his fingers. But most of all, I know how it feels myself. It is something that engages the heart and spirit in combination with the mind, before flowing into the hands.”