The Poet Prince (59 page)

Once the banner was secured, they both relaxed a little. It was always stressful but worth every bit of risk. And when they were able to save something particularly sacred to the Order, all the better. Colombina looked to heaven and smiled at Lorenzo. He helped her every day, each step of the way.

Sandro and Colombina met at the Antica Torre that night to finish preparing the documentation. Rescuing the art wasn’t their primary objective, important though it was. They had been building a case against Savonarola for five years, documenting everything that came out of his
mouth in his sermons and in his private dealings with the Pignoni. His pronouncements became more extreme as his power grew. His arrogance made him careless.

Savonarola had been censured by the pope, who was threatening to excommunicate him. The only reason Alexander VI hadn’t taken action yet was that he didn’t have a solid case against the man whom they all now called the Mad Monk. Savonarola, for all his tyrannical madness, was still the power broker in Florence. He controlled much of Tuscany along with it, and Alexander knew that he would require a fair amount of evidence to make the excommunication appear legiti-
mate.

Colombina and Sandro were convinced that the documentation she had been carefully preparing all these years was not only enough to enforce the declaration of anathema but perhaps even enough to have Savonarola brought up on charges of heresy. Achieving his execution, and the absolute abolition of his reign of terror over Florence, was the only acceptable outcome after the republic’s five years of near enslavement to the Pignoni.

Colombina summoned her son. While his name was Niccolò Ardinghelli, anyone with eyes would see that he was a Medici. His features were softer, like his mother’s, but he had Lorenzo’s eyes—and no small degree of Lorenzo’s spirit. It was Niccolò who would take this package to Rome. He would present it first to his brothers in the Order, Giovanni and Giulio, and then the three of them would then take the evidence gathered over five hard years to Pope Alex-
ander VI.

Colombina hugged him and wished him Godspeed, ensuring as she did that he was wearing the amulet that Lorenzo had left to him—the tiny protective locket with the sliver of the True Cross contained within it. It would keep him safe.

Florence
present day

“T
HE TIME RETURNS
, Felicity.”

Felicity froze. She was in the rectory at Santa Felicita, preparing to leave, when her uncle arrived in the doorway. He was walking with a cane, and a younger priest supported him. She was shocked to see him, but more annoyed at the timing. She was in a hurry.

“What are you doing here? And how dare you quote their blasphemy to me!”

“It is not blasphemy, my child. It is truth. Whether you believe it or not, whether anyone believes it or not, it is simply true. And it is happening, Felicity. All around us. The time is returning and it will sweep all of us along with it if we do not learn from the past.”

She spit at him, but he stopped her before she could say anything.

“You must hear me out before it is too late. This is bigger than you are, my child. Did you hear me? My child.”

Felicity sat down now, as a feeling of dread crawled over her. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“I am not your uncle, Felicity. I am your father. Your mother was . . . is . . . Sister Ursula.”

It all became clear to her then—the reason for her exile to the boarding schools in another country. The “mother” who never wanted her was, in actuality, a much-burdened aunt. Sister Ursula, the strict yet sympathetic nun who understood her visions and helped her to cultivate them, was her biological mother.

Like Savonarola, Girolamo de Pazzi had committed a sin and there was a daughter born of that. She was the spawn of that sin.

Oh God.
The time returns.
It really was true.

Felicity de Pazzi ran from the rectory room and into the garden. She fell to her knees and began to retch, her body shaking with the turmoil it was in.

Father Girolamo did not go after her. He was too tired and about to collapse with illness and exhaustion. He could only pray that his rev
elation to Felicity would somehow interrupt whatever it was she had planned.

But when he closed his eyes in an effort to sleep that night, all he saw in his dreams was fire.

Montevecchio
present day

T
HEY SAT IN
the cozy living room of Destino’s little wooden house out near Careggi. Destino had invited them all out for the afternoon, indicating that he had some important things to show them, which could not be brought into Florence but which might help to heal them all after the tragic events of the preceding month. It had been two weeks since the explosion that had rocked Florence and injured Vittoria and Alexander.

Destino told them the amazing story of Savonarola, hoping that learning this extraordinary and secret piece of Renaissance history might offer them some distraction. He knew that the greatest balm for the soul was to throw oneself into gratifying work, and so he challenged them to discuss the importance of Savonarola and the perils of fanaticism. It was an important lesson for the future.

“There was a movement to beatify Savonarola in the Catholic Church, around 1999,” Peter told them when Destino had finished this part of the story.

“Someone wanted to make the Mad Monk a saint?” Tammy was incredulous.

Peter nodded. “I remember it clearly because my order, the Jesuits, opposed it vehemently. They knew clearly what Savonarola was. History is fond of remembering him now as the great reformer of the church, but he was far more of a tyrant than the Medici or any other ruler in Florence.”

“He was a villain, and never doubt it,” Destino said. “A dangerous
murderer. Not only a fanatic but a narcissist. He was out for his own power and nothing else. And would stop at nothing to achieve it.”

“Here is something I have always wondered, Destino,” Bérenger said. “History books say that Botticelli and Michelangelo became followers of Savonarola and that Sandro even burned some of his own paintings in the bonfires. Given the stories you tell of their involvement within the Medici family, I find that hard to believe.”

“History also says that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute,” Petra quipped, a wry smile crossing her lips. “Just how accurate are you finding history these days?”

“I have read that Michelangelo said, when he was dying, that he could still hear Savonarola’s voice in his ears,” Bérenger added. “Now I am beginning to see that differently.”

Destino nodded. “Michelangelo was present in that chamber, and he heard the terrible things that Savonarola said to Lorenzo. The names he called him, and Savonarola’s vow to destroy Lorenzo’s children. The monk was crafty, as always. He began by pouring wine and offering Lorenzo a drink of friendship and amity. They spoke of things in Florence that both knew and cared about, and Lorenzo relaxed more than he should have. It was after Savonarola was certain that Lorenzo had ingested enough wine—wine he had infused with poison—that he began to reveal his true reason for being there, which was primarily to torment Lorenzo as he lay dying. It was sadistic. Evil.

“And so when Michelangelo said at the time of his own old age that he could ‘still hear Savonarola’s voice ringing in his ears after all these years,’ this is what he meant. Sadly, this is how history fails us. That comment has been interpreted to mean that he was a follower of Savonarola, and that his righteous preaching still inspired him! Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“And Sandro?” Maureen asked.

“Ah, Sandro. There is one more piece of this story yet to be told.”

Piazza della Signoria, Florence
May 23, 1498

“P
IGNONI, PIGNONI!
” The crowd jeered as the flames climbed higher.

Sandro Botticelli stood as close as he dared. He was known as a sympathizer, so it was in his best interest to stay out of the mob until after the execution. Later, he would redeem his reputation in Florence. But today he wanted only to appreciate the success of the harsh struggle of the last five years by watching the fruits of his labor.

Colombina was not with him, as women were not allowed in the piazza during the execution. They were kept on the perimeters for their own protection. The crowd was violent and dangerous, and there was too much potential for rioting and more bloodshed.

Girolamo Savonarola burned in the center of Florence, finding death in the same manner and in the same location as the art, literature, and culture he had been destroying for these last five years. There was a delicious irony in it, Sandro thought as he considered the date. May twenty-third. Forever after, he would call it the Day the Art Was Reborn.

Their package to Pope Alexander VI, created with such care by Colombina, had been welcomed with relish. It contained more than enough proof to accuse and convict Savonarola of heresy. And the timing was flawless, as the city of Florence was beginning to erupt with resentment over their oppression. The years of austerity had taken their toll, and a rebellion was brewing against the mad monk who had once been their savior. Mobs were very fickle. Thus when Savonarola was arrested, the divided city erupted into chaos and rioting.

From the look of the mob today, everyone supported the papal decision to declare Savonarola a heretic. Through the jeering shouts of “Pignoni” could also be heard “Florence is free.”

The smell of burning flesh sickened Sandro, who was not a violent man. He struggled mightily with his spirit on this day. He would need to get back to his devotions now that his task had been carried out. He would need to find forgiveness and move on. But not today. He would do that tomorrow.

Today he would celebrate at the tavern of Ognissanti, which had reopened this morning for the first time since Savonarola forced its closure years ago. Today he would sit at the table he had shared so many times with Lorenzo, and he would raise a glass to his friend, his truest brother, for what he had given to him, to Florence, and to the world. Today he would write rather than sketch, write about the brother who had inspired him and the art they had created together. And then, perhaps, he would paint once again. It had been a long time, but today he was born anew.

Colombina made the journey to Montevecchio almost every Sunday morning. She would begin her day in prayer in the secret garden of Careggi, a place that had been her spiritual sanctuary since Lorenzo had first introduced her to it so many years ago. The statue of Mary Magdalene, the Queen of Compassion, shone with a beautiful patina despite the passing decades, as Colombina cleaned and polished it herself during each visit.

Following her weekly devotions, Colombina joined Fra Fran-
cesco, the Master, in his cottage, where she performed her duties as scribe to the order. She wrote as the Master dictated, careful to com-
mit his words perfectly to paper. What they were creating here was
sacred and complex, an encoded masterpiece of the teachings and
history of the Order. It required all her concentration as the Master used a strange polyglot of Latin and Italian words, veering into Greek periodically. In addition to transcribing the allegorical storytelling exactly as he dictated, Colombina used her fine mind to organize the elaborate drawings and architectural data that would become instrumental to the volume’s completion. It was growing to an immense
size.

Fra Francesco had explained to her, “When we are finished, we will take it to Venice, to a leader of the Order there called Aldus, who will print it for us. For the first time in the history of the Order, we will have a record of our teachings that can be shown in public. The church will
assume that it is heresy, but it will be so carefully encoded that they
will never be able to prove it.”

And so the work had continued in this way for the seven years since Lorenzo’s death: Colombina carefully transcribing the text and inserting the drawings and artwork which had been collected by the Master from some of the great minds of the Renaissance. There was much of Lorenzo and Colombina’s own story woven into the allegory: the legend of a man on a journey of discovery through a fantastic dreamscape, who finds the truth of life through love, a love which encounters and overcomes a great many obstacles.