The Poet Prince (56 page)

She reached over and took his hand. “There is no need to rush anything, Peter. This is all new for you and I expect you to have doubts.”

“Oh, but I don’t.” He stunned her with certitude. “None whatsoever. The Arques Gospel and the Book of Love have led me to understand that there is another way, and I know that it is the way that Jesus truly taught. And it is the Way of Love. That is the way of God, the reason we are here. And I need to continue to understand it so that I may teach in a new way, to a new world.”

“I am happy to be your teacher. So that we may teach in this new way together, to what is becoming a new world.”

“Then I am happy to be taught. But you will have to be patient with me. Not because I have reservations, but because I am inexperienced. I have no personal frame of reference for a relationship with a woman.”

“Then I shall have to give you one,” she said, moving closer to him now. “After all, I am the Mistress of the Hieros-Gamos.”

But as Petra moved closer to begin Peter’s instruction, the roof deck was illuminated by an explosion and a flash in the near distance.

The explosion at the Palazzo Tornabuoni Apartments rocked the city of Florence. It was a tragic accident, and the cause would be under investigation for some time. It appeared that a gas line had been cut during the construction earlier in the day, causing a leak. That the majority of apartments were not yet occupied was a blessing in this terrible tragedy.

Supermodel Vittoria Buondelmonti and a visiting friend, originally reported in the news to be Bérenger Sinclair, had been injured in the explosion. Later the reports would be amended to reveal that it was Alexander Sinclair, the president of Sinclair Oil, who was in critical condition at the hospital, along with Vittoria.

While Bérenger had been nearly buried by debris, he had been able to take shelter beneath the entry of the neighboring palazzo. He was treated for minor injuries and a concussion and then released into the waiting arms of Maureen.

In a strange little twist, the hospital in Florence where all the victims were treated was in Careggi. It was, in fact, the Medici villa where Cosimo and Lorenzo had lived such full lives, now renovated as one of Florence’s hospitals.

There was one more twist that would reveal itself in the events of that night. The child, Dante Buondelmonti Sinclair, was not in the building at the time of the explosion. The construction noise had made him irritable, and a nanny had taken him to visit his grandparents at their villa in nearby Fiesole several hours before the tragedy.

Careggi
April 1492

T
HE DIMINUTIVE DOMINICAN
friar Girolamo Savonarola was becoming increasingly problematic. He openly cursed Lorenzo from the pulpit now, calling the Medici tyrants and predicting their downfall at the hands of an angry God.

Savonarola had arrived two years earlier, when he had been invited to Florence by Lorenzo and installed most comfortably in the beautiful monastery of San Marco, which had been restored and decorated under the guidance of Cosimo Pater Patriae. When Lorenzo first made the decision to invite Savonarola, he knew it was a gamble. The monk was renowned for his heavy-handed preaching style as he raged against frivolity and corruption. He was troll-like and ugly, and yet charisma radiated from him when he opened his mouth. Even those who despised him and his message were often transfixed when Savonarola spoke, and they had trouble turning away.

Lorenzo had been convinced by his friends in the humanist movement to allow Savonarola to come to Florence for two reasons: the first was that the little monk saved his greatest ire for the corruption of the papacy; they had a common enemy. And while the current pope, since the death of the villain Sixtus, was an ally, there was still much reform
needed in Rome. If Savonarola could be controlled, or at least influenced, he could become an effective tool in creating that reform. The second reason was precisely that Lorenzo was not a tyrant. He did not want it to be said outside Florence that he was excluding Savonarola because he was afraid of his message. By welcoming the controversial Dominican into his fold, he could keep a close eye on the message as well as the messenger, perhaps even exerting control over them
both.

It is likely that Lorenzo de’ Medici would have been successful in his management of the Savonarola problem had his body not been in a state of rapid deterioration. He suffered with the gout that afflicted all Medici men and had killed both his father and grandfather. Lorenzo was only forty-three, and he hoped that if he was careful with his food and his treatments, he might live as long as Cosimo. Besides, he didn’t dare die now. Piero was too much of a fool to run the Medici empire, and Giovanni—who had been made the youngest cardinal in history at the age of fourteen—was still too young to take over.

But Lorenzo had little energy or spirit left to deal with Savonarola, and as a result the friar’s poisonous preaching continued unchecked—and escalated.

An angry and distressed Angelo returned from the Duomo, where Savonarola had had a packed crowd earlier that morning. “He must be stopped, Lorenzo. He is playing prophet now. And while you and I both know that he is inventing prophecies which we know he can fulfill, the average citizen in Florence doesn’t realize that. If Savonarola says tomorrow will come, his idiotic followers will all stand up and cheer the sun tomorrow and say, ‘Fra Girolamo was right! Tomorrow did come!’ ”

Lorenzo was in bed, exhausted. He had been out at Montecatini taking the waters, as they seemed to help his gout in some small way. But the ride back across Tuscany was almost too painful to make it worth it.

“Let him rage, Angelo. I do not care.”

“You need to care. He is predicting your death.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And soon. He is saying that God is striking you down and that suddenly you will take a terrible turn and die immediately.”

“Well, I do not intend to die, Angelo. So we shall prove Savonarola a liar once and for all.”

“I hope so, Magnifico. I hope so.”

Lorenzo’s condition worsened. Like Cosimo, his pain became so acute upon standing that he was confined to his bed. But he was definitely not dying. Of this he and his physicians were certain. Still, they tried every possible cure for gout, including a bizarre mixture of ground-up pearls and pig dung, boiled into spiced wine. It was so vile that Lorenzo insisted he would rather have the gout.

During these bedridden days and nights at Careggi, Lorenzo was entertained by those he loved most. Angelo and Ficino read to him; Giovanni and Giulio practiced their Greek and Latin together. The girls showered him with love. Michelangelo would come and simply sit, content to be with the man who was more like a father to him than anything else. Sometimes he would sketch; at other times he would ask questions about life, art, or the Order. He was easy and welcome company for Lorenzo, who referred to him as “my son.”

Colombina came as often as she was able, visiting both Lorenzo and the Master at the same time. She would kiss Lorenzo on the forehead and sing to him and sometimes merely hold his hand while he slept. All the while she was praying as hard as she knew how for God to heal the prince so that they might continue their mission together, and that she might have the chance to love him for as many years as possible.

Sandro would come with new sketches for paintings, and his visits often cheered Lorenzo most of all. Sandro could still make his friend laugh harder than anyone else, and he did it effortlessly.

Sandro had returned to Florence one evening in early April with Colombina, leaving Lorenzo in the hands of his family and Angelo. For the rest of her life, Colombina would wonder what might have hap
pened if she or Sandro had stayed. She knew one thing: neither of them would have allowed Savonarola into Lorenzo’s room without supervision.

In Angelo’s defense, it was a situation he could not have been prepared for. The little friar had arrived completely unannounced, and to open the door at Careggi and see Girolamo Savonarola was not something that anyone expected. The monk had traveled with three other friars from San Marco, one of whom was known by Angelo. In retrospect, this was likely part of the plan. Because Angelo had some familiarity with one of the brothers, he ushered them in quickly and submitted to their requests more readily than perhaps he should have.

“I wish to see Lorenzo,” Savonarola said simply in his raspy voice. In person and outside the drama of the pulpit, he was far less intimidating. He was small and slightly hunched. Angelo thought if he passed him on the street, he would feel sympathy for him or place money in his cup.

“Why?”

“Because I hear that he is dying.”

“He is not. He is ill, yes, but Cosimo lived many years in this state. Lorenzo will too.”

“You dare to say you know the will of God?”

“You say it every Sunday in the Duomo.”

“I am God’s instrument. It is for me to do so. It is not for you, poet. But I am not here as your enemy, or as Lorenzo’s. I would show my lenience, and God’s, by offering him consolation in this time of darkness.”

Angelo considered this for a moment, as the friars accompanying Savonarola murmured their agreement that they were here only to provide comfort and offer a gesture of peace to the Medici patriarch.

“I believe he will want to see me,” Savonarola said. “Why don’t you ask him and see what he says.”

Angelo nodded. If Lorenzo was indeed awake, this was the best course of action. There was nothing wrong with il Magnifico’s mind, even though his body was failing him. And if he were feeling strong enough, he might find this encounter to be very interesting in-
deed.

Angelo found Lorenzo awake and restless when he entered the room. “What is happening, Angelo? I sense disorder in the house.”

“You could say that. You have a visitor. An unexpected visitor.
Girolamo Savonarola.”

“Really?” Lorenzo began the painful process of sitting up in his bed. “Well, by all means send him in. I am anxious to show him I am not dying.

“Oh, and Angelo, bring us some wine, please. I cannot fail to be hospitable to my guest.”

“I need to be alone with him.” Savonarola was insistent. “What I need to discuss with Lorenzo is a private matter regarding his soul. It is not to be witnessed by anyone but God.”