The Poet Prince (4 page)

That evening, an exhausted Lady Petronella called a meeting of her closest brethren, the core group of Compassionates, in order to relate the terrible events of the day. She would need at least one to volunteer as a messenger, to be dispatched to Calabria. The Master of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher was in residence there, and they would need his sage guidance to navigate the storm that was about to descend upon the Christians in Rome.

Petronella explained to those gathered that she feared that Felicita’s reign of terror was just beginning, that it would mark danger to Christians throughout the empire and begin the terrible persecutions of previous generations anew. All the progress her family had made over a hundred years to be accepted as upstanding Roman citizens, to preserve the safety of Christians, may have just been washed away by
the blood of Felicita’s children. The Fanatics would feed on it and become more outspoken, and the Romans would quash their uprising with the savagery that is born of fear.

She could see at the edge of her vision that something had been put into play here through these events, some terrible distortion of the teachings of their Lord that would take on a life of its own and grow into the future. It was a wicked vision, one that terrified her with the force of its darkness. She recounted it to the other Compassionates, all of whom shivered with the ring of truth in her sad prophecy.

“I fear it is the one we have called sister who has proven to be our greatest adversary. She has unleashed an unstoppable force for evil with these actions. The blood of those children will be used to rewrite the true teachings of our Lord. And words written in blood can only come from a place of utter darkness. The teachings of the Way of Love will drown in the blood of those innocents.”

Petronella shuddered as the words poured out, unbidden, from some secret place where the truth of the future is held in keeping. On a terrible night such as this, her family’s legacy of feminine prophecy was a most unwelcome gift.

There exist forms of union higher
than any that can be spoken,
stronger than the greatest forces,
with the power that is their destiny.

Those who live this are no longer separated.
They are one, beyond bodily distinction.

Those who recognize each other
know the unequaled joy
of living together in this fullness.

THE BOOK OF LOVE,
AS PRESERVED IN THE LIBRO ROSSO

I am not a poet.

And yet I have been blessed to live among the best of them. The greatest of the poets, the most gifted of the painters, the loveliest of women . . . and the most magnificent of all men. Each has inspired me and there is a piece of the soul and essence of all of them in every image I paint.

I can only hope that my art will be remembered as a type of poetry, for I have tried to make each piece lyrical and full of texture and meaning. I have long struggled with the thought that perhaps it is against the artist’s laws of conduct to reveal the inspirations, symbols, and layers beneath the works that we create. And yet Maestro Ficino has found evidence as old as ancient Egypt that such artist’s codes were kept in secret diaries, so I will instead say that I am part of this timeless tradition.

As I am a humble member of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, all that I paint is done with the inspiration and glory of those divine teachings. They are intrinsic to every figure I paint; they infuse the colors, the textures, and the shape of my work. Every piece of my art, regardless of its patron or its worldly purpose, serves the teachings of the Way of Love. Every image is produced to communicate the
truth.

In the pages that follow, I will reveal the secrets behind my work that they may one day be used as a teaching tool, for those with eyes to see.

So while I am not a poet, here is what I am: I am a painter. I am a pilgrim. I am a scribe.

Most of all, I am a servant of my Lord and my Lady, and of their Way of Love.

Our Master is fond of repeating the words of the first great Christian artist, the blessed Nicodemus, who said that “art will save the world.” I pray that this is so, and I have endeavored to play some part, no matter how small, in that very worthy venture.

I remain,
Alessandro di Filipepi

FROM THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI

New York City
present day

M
AUREEN PASCHAL
had planned her schedule in New York City carefully. Having worked tirelessly in preparation for the release of her new book, she hoped to reward herself with a few blissful hours of recreation at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Art was her second-greatest passion, trumped only by history, which was why the books she authored were colored so richly by both. To spend even limited time in one of the world’s great museums was a balm to her spirit.

Spring was alive in its most glorious form on this early March morning, rewarding her for making the rigorous walk along Central Park to the Met. Maureen loved New York. She decided to enjoy it to its fullest today, trying not to rush despite her crammed schedule. Walking up Fifth Avenue, she took a detour into Central Park. At the northern edge of the sailboat pond stood the enormous bronze sculpture from Lewis Carroll’s masterpiece
Alice in Wonderland
. There was a whimsical magic and beauty to this piece of art that touched the eternal child in her. A larger-than-life Alice was depicted at her unbirthday party with her friends from Wonderland gathered around her. Quotes from the children’s classic, the most beloved piece of literature from Maureen’s childhood, surrounded the base of the sculpture. Walking the perimeter of Alice’s party, she read the quotes from the book and from
the poem “Jabberwocky.” Her own favorite quote from the book, the one that Maureen displayed on a plaque over her computer at home, was not represented here.

Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”

“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

Like the White Queen, Maureen had learned to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast. And now, with the arrival of Destino in her life, the number was often far more than that. Maureen mused on this, laughing a little at the sculpture as she stood in admiration of it. Her life had become something to rival Alice’s most fantastic adventures. Here she was, a savvy and educated woman of the twenty-first century, about to embark upon a trip to Italy—to take lessons from a teacher who called himself Destino and who claimed to be immortal. And yet like Alice before her, she accepted this extraordinary character as an almost natural part of the strange landscape that her life had become.

Maureen allowed herself a few more precious minutes at the sculpture before heading back toward Fifth Avenue and the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her time was limited at the Met, as she had to prepare for her book launch, so she would focus on one area of the museum and give that her full attention rather than try to see as much as possible.

After purchasing her ticket and attaching the Met button to her collar, she made the determination that today she would focus on the medieval gallery. Her research into the grand contessa, Matilda of Tuscany, had instilled within her a new fascination for the Middle Ages. Further, her prolonged excursions to France had given her a strong appreciation of Gothic art and architecture.

It was a sublime choice. She took her time, really giving each piece its due. She was particularly taken by the extraordinary wooden sculptures from Germany with their unequaled craftsmanship and delicacy. A number of the treasures reminded her of the life-changing experiences that had shaped her destiny while in France. Maureen sighed deeply her contentment, taking in the beauty of it all and enjoying the brief respite that art brought to her life.

As she entered the second large gallery, dominated by an enormous Gothic choir screen, something drew her attention to the far right of the room. While most of the artwork in this gallery was sculpture, one painting was displayed at the far right from the corridor entrance. Moving to get a closer look, Maureen gasped as she found herself standing, transfixed, before the most beautiful life-sized portrait of Mary Magdalene she had ever seen.

Notre Dame.
Our Lady.
My
Lady. For Maureen, there was no escaping her. Not now, not ever.

Her eyes welled with tears, as they often did when confronted with a beautiful image of this extraordinary woman who had become her muse and master. As Maureen stood eye to eye with her, she realized quickly that this was no ordinary religious icon. This Magdalene sat enthroned, majestically beautiful in her crimson robe and flowing red-gold hair. In one hand she held the alabaster jar with which she was said to have anointed Jesus; the other, cradled in her lap, held a crucifix. She was surrounded by angels, trumpeting her glory. Moving closer, Maureen bent her knees to better view the lower portion of the painting. Kneeling at the Magdalene’s feet were four men in pristine white robes. Hoods covered their heads completely, with only the narrowest slits where the eyes should be. There was something cultish and bizarre about their appearance. The kneeling figures were strange characters at best, sinister at worst.

Maureen could feel her heart racing and that strange sensation of heat around her temples that she had come to recognize when something pricked at her subconscious, something that should not and could not be ignored. This painting was important. Terribly important. She scanned her memory for any mention of this work in her research,
but none came. While writing her books she had become familiar with dozens of paintings of Mary Magdalene in the world’s major museums. That such an important work could exist in the Met—and that she had never heard of it—was fascinating.

Maureen bent to read the title card. The picture was identified as “Spinello di Luca Spinelli—Processional Banner from the Confraternity of Saint Mary Magdalen.”

The official Met description, displayed to the side of the work, read

During the Middle Ages laymen often joined religious confraternities in which they met for devotions and performed charitable acts. Their hooded robes rendered such acts anonymous, in conformity with Christ’s injunction that good works should not be done for vain praise. This extremely rare work was commissioned in about 1395 by the Confraternity of Saint Mary Magdalen in Borgo San Sepolcro and would have been carried in religious processions. It shows the members of the confraternity kneeling before their patron saint, who is serenaded by a choir of angels. Mary’s ointment jar decorates the sleeves of their robes. The lightly drawn features of the face of Christ are modern. The original was removed and is now in the Vatican. The banner is otherwise remarkably well preserved.

Something was wrong with that description; Maureen could feel it instinctively. It was very clean, very pat, for a painting that looked and felt so mysterious. The hooded men surrounding their saint’s feet weren’t merely anonymous, they were downright unsettling. The hoods they wore seemed a most emphatic statement, as if it were a life-or-death matter that their identities be concealed. When she looked very closely, she saw that some of the men had openings in the back of their robes. Pentitents. The openings were there so they could flog themselves and draw blood as part of their penance and to wash away their sins.

Maureen had always found the penitential practices of the Middle Ages disturbing. She was relatively sure that God did not want us to flog ourselves for his—or her—greater glory. And given her extensive
study of Mary Magdalene, the Queen of Compassion and great teacher of love and forgiveness, she was certain that she would never have condoned such practices.

The composition of the painting made it all the more provocative, as it appeared to be an imitation of some of the more famous Holy Trinity images from the early Renaissance. These images depicted God the Father enthroned, holding the crucifix in his hands and on his lap to represent the son. The Holy Spirit was usually present as a dove above the other images. This icon of Mary was painted in an identical way, only in this case she was the enthroned figure holding Jesus, denoting a place of extraordinary authority. Thus the hooded figures appeared to be worshipping Mary Magdalene on her throne as the Queen of Heaven, which would be a heretical concept even today. In the Middle Ages, such worship would likely have been punishable by death.