Marsilio Ficino watched Lorenzo carefully, if surreptitiously, as he examined the wounded bird. He had been charged with Lorenzo’s intellectual and philosophical well-being since the boy’s infancy, and he knew and loved the boy like his own child. He had never seen him like this, as giddy and self-conscious as he was in the presence of the Donati heiress. At least she was worthy of him and not some farmer’s daughter from Pistoia. On the other hand, this pairing posed its own complications. How would the Donati patriarch feel about his treasured daughter frolicking in the forest with the Medici heir? While Lorenzo’s family was the wealthiest and subsequently the most influential in Florence, they were not nobility. To the regal elite of Italy, the Medici were merchants who had struck it rich, whereas the Donati were of an ancient and storied lineage. Merchant class versus the aristocracy: it was unlikely that the Donati would ever approve of anything beyond the friendship of these children. Perhaps not even that.
“His wing is broken, but I have seen worse,” Ficino declared in his gentle voice. He watched Lucrezia’s face light up at this pronouncement.
“Can he be saved? Can you heal him?”
The hope that radiated from the girl was infectious. Ficino, in spite of himself, was softened by her warmth. He smiled at her.
“It is up to God’s will if the creature is healed, my dear. But we will do our best to use our human skills and see what comes next. Lorenzo, hold him for a moment while I gather some supplies.”
Ficino handed the bird to Lorenzo, who took him gingerly, cooing to the dove all the while. He looked up and caught Lucrezia’s eyes, seeing them bright again with tears. He rushed to reassure her.
“He will be all right, I know he will. The maestro will help him, and you and I . . . we will pray together for his healing.”
Ficino returned with two small sticks and some linen strips and bound the bird’s wing to his body. Lorenzo held the dove while his teacher ministered to it, Lucrezia watching both with wide-eyed fascination.
“I will keep him here, but he will need to be fed by hand,” Ficino explained, feigning irritation. “I do not have the time to play nursemaid to this bird, so it will be up to the two of you to be sure that he is fed.”
Lorenzo glanced at Lucrezia, who nodded solemnly. “I will come
every day, if I am able.” Her father spent his days in Florence proper, and her mother was lenient with her free-spirited daughter when they were at their country villa. Lucrezia was able to get away on most
days, provided she gave her family no cause to worry by staying away too long.
“I will come too,” Lorenzo promised. “I will meet Lucrezia at the edge of her lands and bring her here on Morello.”
Ficino nodded, emitting a grunt. “Good enough. Now away with the two of you, as this old man has work to do. I am translating something of great importance for your grandfather, and his legendary impatience has not been diminished by his illness. And don’t get into any more trouble for today, at least.”
Lorenzo took Lucrezia lightly by the arm and escorted her out the door. “This way,” he whispered.
“Where are we going?”
“Shh. You’ll see.”
He led her along a winding, overgrown path, pushing aside the low tree branches that threatened to obscure the way. But Lorenzo could find this place with his eyes closed. It was his favorite place in the world and would remain so for the rest of his life. They turned a final corner and he escorted her through the opening in a wall.
“What is this place?”
They were on the edge of a large and enclosed circular garden. In the midst of the tangled flowers was a temple in the Greek fashion: a dome supported by columns. In the center was a statue of Cupid mounted on a pillar. A plaque on the pillar carried the motto Amor vincit omnia.
“Love conquers all,” Lorenzo translated. “Virgil. The inscription, that is. And . . . something else too. But the temple was built by the great Alberti.”
“It’s pagan!” Lucrezia exclaimed, shocked.
“Is it?” Lorenzo laughed. “Come over here.”
Lorenzo took her to one side of the garden, where an altar in stone had been erected. It was the base to a stunning marble crucifixion scene.
“From Master Verrocchio’s hand. Now this is Christian.”
“It’s amazing.” Lucrezia was awestruck. “But . . . I don’t under-
stand it.”
Lorenzo smiled at her. It was absolutely forbidden to bring anyone here who was not indoctrinated into the Order, but Lorenzo wanted to share this magical place with her. He knew instinctively that she would learn to love it as he did—and that somehow she belonged here. She was a part of this place just as he was. It was something that he knew, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. She belonged in every place that he loved, at his side.
“Ficino teaches that the wisdom of the ancients and the teachings of our Lord can and should live together in harmony. That all real divine knowledge comes from the same source and should be celebrated together so that we may become better humans. Anthropos. That’s a Greek word. It means to become the best human you can be. Similar to humanitas in Latin. My grandfather has dedicated his life to that belief, and I hope to do the same thing.”
Lucrezia giggled. “My grandfather would say it is heresy.”
“And my grandfather would say it is harmony. But this is where I come to pray, so it is actually very holy. It is why I brought you here. To pray for our dove. I thought it would be . . . appropriate.”
Lucrezia admired the beautiful sculpture before her. She ran one hand along the cold marble base and up the side of the cross as high as she could reach, then back again. She began to speak but was overcome with shyness suddenly. Lorenzo, who would be acutely attuned to her moods for the rest of his days, noticed. “What is it?”
She looked up at the achingly beautiful face of Our Lord as sculpted by a master artisan. She whispered, “I have dreamed about it.”
“About what?”
“The crucifixion. I see it as if I were there. It is raining, and I watch it all happen through the rain. I have had the dream three times that I can remember.”
Lorenzo looked at her strangely for a moment but didn’t respond immediately. “Come with me,” he said finally. He led her through bushes flooded with fragrant white roses to another small altar, this surmounted by the marble statue of a woman. A dove rested on her outstretched hand.
“She’s beautiful,” Lucrezia gasped. “Who is she?”
“Maria Magdalena. Our Lady, the Queen of Compassion.”
Lucrezia gasped. “Oh! She is in my dream too!”
“You dream of our Lady Magdalena as well?” It was Lorenzo’s turn to gasp.
She nodded solemnly, then asked, “Is that bad?”
“No,” Lorenzo laughed. “It is, I think, very, very good!”
Lorenzo took her hand again and knelt before the statue, indicating that she should do the same. Lucrezia obeyed, without letting go of his hand. She didn’t understand the strange mixture of pagan and Christian symbolism, but she was nonetheless enchanted by this place. There was a sense of magic here, of the harmony of which Lorenzo spoke. And if he came here to pray, surely it couldn’t be a bad place.
“Lorenzo, will you teach me about all of this? About what it all means?”
He smiled at her and nodded. “Pray with me. First we will give thanks that God has spared our dove thus far. And then . . .” He paused for a moment, overcome with shyness. When he continued, the words came out in a rush, so he could not stop them. “We will give thanks that God has brought us together.”
“I will gladly pray for both of those things, and to thank God for loving me so much that he brought you to me on my birthday.”
Lucrezia Donati blushed prettily as she squeezed his hand, and then she lowered her head in prayer. Lorenzo did the same, and at that moment the sun struck the marble, illuminating the statue before them. Somewhere in the distance, they bot
h heard the cooing of a dove.
Lucrezia Donati was true to her word. She found a way out almost daily, running to meet Lorenzo on the edge of her family’s property and to ride with him on Morello to see Ficino. There they would feed the dove gingerly by hand; it appeared to be recovering well under their care. They finished each day with a trip to the secret garden, the Temple of Love as it was known to the Medici.
Each day, Lorenzo shared with her some piece of his classical education. Lucrezia was an apt and eager pupil, memorizing everything Lorenzo taught her and asking many questions.
It was on such a day that Lucrezia surprised him with a request.
“Lorenzo, I want you to teach me Greek.”
“You want to learn Greek? Really? Why?”
“Yes, really. And I have had much education for a girl, and you will find I am a good student,” she said with a haughty little tilt of her head, which Lorenzo thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She continued, “I want to learn because you love it, and I want to know about all the things that you love. I want to experience them and share them with you. Will you teach me Greek, Lorenzo?”
“I will teach you anything your heart desires. We will start tomorrow after visiting our feathered foundling.”
The following day Lorenzo was prepared with a gift of a Greek primer wrapped with a red silk ribbon. He was rewarded with one of Lucrezia’s dazzling, dimpled smiles and her contagious excitement. The lessons began in earnest, and he found that she was, indeed, an astonishing student. At the end of the fourth week, Lorenzo presented Lucrezia with some Greek letters he had written on a parchment.
“What’s this?”
“Today’s lesson. I want you to translate the question for me, and then I want you to answer it. In Greek, of course.”
Lucrezia wrinkled her brow in concentration. She was studying very hard, but it had only been a few weeks. She stumbled over some letters but allowed Lorenzo to correct her gently. Finally, she realized what the parchment said and squealed with delight.
The words spelled out “May I kiss you?”
She replied in Greek, with one of the few words she knew well, “Nai.”
Yes.
At the end of the third week, Ficino advised the two of them that he was certain the dove had healed and could be released into the wild. Lorenzo and Lucrezia were giddy with the excitement of their success. In a duplication of their first meeting, Lucrezia rode ahead of Lorenzo, encircled in his arms, the dove clutched to her breast. Morello took them to the edge of the forest, where they dismounted. Lorenzo unwrapped the linen strips from the bird delicately while Lucrezia held him in place. The sticks fell away, and the dove exercised his wing, cooing up at them as he did so.
“He is expressing his gratitude,” Lorenzo observed with wonder.
Lucrezia stroked the bird on the back of his neck, tears filling her eyes, “Good-bye, my little friend. I shall miss you so.” Her tears fell on his repaired wing. When she looked up, she saw that Lorenzo’s eyes were also bright with tears.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
Lucrezia nodded, and together they lifted the dove into the air. He flapped several times, stretching his healed wing, cooed again, and then flew off in a cloud of white feathers. They watched him fly, a little unsteady at first, but then straighter and stronger. Finally he alighted on a tree branch, cooing back at them.
“Lorenzo, look! He landed on a laurel tree!”
Lorenzo shook his head in amazement, both at the bird’s choice of perch and at Lucrezia’s acute perception of the symbolism. The laurel tree was his personal emblem, as the word laurel and the Latin version of his name, Laurentius, had the same root.
“He is honoring you for saving his life.”
Lorenzo turned from the bird to the beautiful young woman standing before him. “It is you who saved him. There is much of your spirit in that dove.” He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her very gently. He stopped himself after an instant and straightened.
“I have just thought of something.”
“What?” she asked, breathless as she always was when he kissed her.
“I have been thinking of what I shall call you. My mother’s name is Lucrezia, and it does not suit you for me. But the dove has settled it. I shall call you Colombina. My little dove.”
“It is the most beautiful name ever,” she whispered.
This time, it was she who kissed him, standing on her tiptoes to find his lips. In that moment in the forest, with the promise of spring and the renewal of life all around them, they spoke their love for each other aloud for the first time. It was a love that would endure through their turbulent lives and the often difficult path that God would present to them, separately and together.
It was a love that existed for eternity. From the beginning of time, to the end of time.
Regarding The Madonna of Humilitas, also called Madonna of the Magnificat
Madonna Lucrezia commissioned me to create a portrait of her family, as a gift to honor the twenty years since she and Piero entered into their union.
I have painted her as the Madonna. Which Madonna? Does it matter? Are they not all one, in the end? The eternal mother, our lady of compassion and humility. And yet this is a celebration of motherhood in a way that cannot be accomplished with a virgin, and indeed this Madonna is our lady Lucrezia portrayed as Magdalena. She writes the Magnificat, a hymn of praise to God, because Lucrezia is herself a grand poetess, and there is a great legend surrounding Magdalena’s own writings. I have layered the Madonna’s hair in pure gold, that the world may know the brilliance of the women who inspired the work.
It is good to have the Medici as patrons!
Of the angels who surround Our Lady, I have painted Lorenzo as the one who holds the inkwell, as he is the Poet Prince whence the new inspiration will flow. I sketched Lorenzo in profile for this painting during one of our lessons when he didn’t know I was watching. He was gazing up at the Master as he told us the legend of Longinus the Centurion. I wanted to capture Lorenzo in a devotional moment, so that the energy of this emotion was infused into the work. And in profile, Lorenzo is most beautiful.
The angelic Giuliano helps to hold the book and gazes at his elder brother for guidance. This will always be Giuliano’s role: he will help Lorenzo, and he will look up to him. If he is wise, he will learn from him. Giuliano has the face of an angel, and thus I have depicted his full face. To achieve his stillness long enough to capture him from this angle is no easy task, and required some bribery and the help of Madonna Lucrezia. He is at an age when stillness is most unnatural for a boy.
The eldest Medici sister, Maria, has her hands on each of her beloved brothers, protectively, as this is her loving nature. The other two girls, Nannina and Bianca, are the angels who hold the crown over the Madonna’s head. The first grandchild of Piero and Lucrezia represents all the golden children of the flourishing Medici line. The child’s hand rests on the word “Humilitas.” It is one of the great virtues according to the Libro Rosso, the opposite of pride and hubris. It is the message that Madonna Lucrezia has chosen as the most important at this time for her children to embrace. To be a truly great leader is to know humility.
The child holds a pomegranate. As the master has taught us, and Ficino confirms through his deep studies of the Greeks, the pomegranate is the symbol of indissoluble wedlock. It is the emblem of a marriage that cannot be destroyed. For what God has put together, let no man separate.
The marriage of Piero and Lucrezia is the most indissoluble of any I have ever seen. They walk in the footsteps, truly, of our Lord and Lady.
It was a joy for me to paint the features of Madonna Lucrezia as our beloved Magdalena. I have taken liberties with her coloring and softened her a bit, showing Lucrezia de’ Medici as she appears to those of us who revere her: she is radiant, she is golden, she is “perfected.”
In the background I have painted the underground stream as it flows directly to
Careggi, as that place is the home of the greatest learning and a refuge for those who would learn to open their eyes and attune their ears to the great truths. It emanates from the women of the bloodline as an artery of life and beauty to all of us with eyes to see and ears to hear.
I remain,
Alessandro di Filipepi, known as “Botticelli”
FROM THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI
Montevecchio
1463
DURING HIS STAYS in Careggi, Lorenzo brought Lucrezia with him to Ficino’s adjacent retreat in Montevecchio, the small villa that Cosimo had built for him as the headquarters of the Platonic Academy. The academy was flourishing under Ficino’s guidance, becoming a solid educational facility for their Florentine colleagues who cared to study the classics in a relaxed social setting where true dialogue and debate could occur. Poets, philosophers, architects, artists, and scholars flocked to Ficino’s retreat each time he announced that he would hold a meeting of the academy. In between those events, Ficino used Montevecchio as a school for Lorenzo and sometimes Sandro, when the latter wasn’t in Florence apprenticing with Verrocchio. Sandro would be spending more time in Careggi, at Cosimo’s insistence, as the elder Medici wanted to expose Sandro to Fra Filippo’s particular techniques of artistic infusion. And while Sandro was being pushed to new levels of artistic achievement, Cosimo felt the time was right to add to his classical education as well.
Lucrezia Donati, whom they were all now referring to only as
Colombina, had convinced her parents that she was staying behind in Careggi so often to learn embroidery from Madonna Lucrezia along with the Medici daughters. Mona Lucrezia was renowned for her skill, and to have such an illustrious teacher was a feather in the cap of the Donati heiress. Her parents were far more concerned with their social status in town to worry overmuch about their daughter’s whereabouts. As long as they believed she was engaged in a suitable feminine pastime with other influential and respectable women, they would leave her alone.