The House of Medici Read online

  Carlo, proud to be addressed so directly by his father, shakes his head and grins. Maddalena can see a smile appearing on Donatello’s face. It is not the sort of smile she is sure she likes, and she has a horrible idea she knows why. ‘Which of us is to play the part of David?’

  Donatello looks to Cosimo for guidance, and Cosimo indicates with a nod that he should reply. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘You both are.’ Donatello’s face is that of a man with a vision. ‘A composite sculpture, an amalgam of both of you. Mother and son, in one body.’

  ‘Unclothed?’ Maddalena thinks she is beginning to understand, and she is not sure the thought pleases her.

  Donatello nods; almost a bow. ‘Of course. In the classical tradition. It will be the first such sculpture for over a thousand years. A masterpiece. Look.’ Quickly, he takes a piece of paper from his shoulder bag and makes a small sketch. ‘A young boy, standing victorious, his foot resting on the head of his vanquished opponent, a great sword in his hand.’

  Carlo steps forward, fascinated, as the drawing emerges. He points to the severed head, lying beneath the victor’s foot, and laughs, delightedly. ‘I’ve got it now. That’s what the football is for. To stand on.’ He takes one more look at the drawing, then drops the football on the floor and takes up the pose, standing dramatically.

  Donatello applauds. ‘Excellent. Almost perfect. All you need to do now is to take your clothes off and we can start.’

  Carlo looks down at his pose, then at Maddalena, and shakes his head. ‘I’m not standing naked, not in this position, and certainly not with him.’ He points to Donatello. ‘I’ve heard all about him. He’s a dirty old pervert. Nobody is safe.’

  Maddalena moves to intervene, even if inwardly agreeing with her son. If she has understood correctly, she, too, will have to pose naked in that position, and it is not a prospect that she embraces with any enthusiasm either. But her son, and Donatello? Not alone in the same room. Not if she has anything to do with it.

  Her expression must have told them exactly what she was thinking. Nevertheless, Donatello seems quite unconcerned. ‘Donna Maddalena, fear not. In your case, you will not be required to pose naked from the waist down. That part of the finished article will be . . . a boy. Yes, most definitely, a boy.’

  She is taken aback. Accepted as she is amongst the nobles and wealthy merchants of the city, none do her the courtesy of calling her Donna. ‘Madonna. Great Lady.’ She thinks she likes the sound of it. And as for the posing, well, yes, she is relieved. But Carlo?

  Cosimo winks at Donatello and grins. ‘I said we would reach this point quite quickly.’ He turns to Carlo, who is looking uncomfortable. ‘You are, I know, an outstanding footballer. No brawl in the street would be complete without your participation, so I hear. That is why I suggested this pose. It is victorious; triumphant. Three goals to nil and you the single goal-scorer.’

  As he continues, he turns his head toward Donatello. ‘Were you not my son, Carlo, I might feel the need to warn you about this man’s appetites, but in your case, I am sure, you need have no fear.’

  His eyes turn back toward Donatello. ‘You know the rules. One false move and I’ll have your balls chopped off and fed to the pigs.’

  Donatello just grins, looks at Carlo with an exaggerated look of resigned disappointment on his face, and raises his hands. ‘Alas, it is true. But I promise I shall leave my private appetites behind when I enter the doors of this house. In any event, you shall have a chaperone, whenever you pose for me.’

  He slants his eyes across to Maddalena. ‘It is for the best.’

  Carlo looks at her, horrified, and then turns to his father. ‘Not her? I’m not undressing in front of her, and standing like that, naked, with my leg up, and everything showing.’

  Maddalena gives him her most motherly smile. ‘Don’t worry. I am your mother. I have seen it all before.’ Even as she says it, she knows it is the wrong thing to say. Carlo opens his mouth to protest further but Cosimo intervenes before his project can suffer a setback. ‘The sittings, or perhaps I should say standing poses, in this case, will take place here, in the privacy of this room, and I personally shall act as chaperone, for both of you. Is that agreed?’

  Maddalena looks at her son, and to her relief and delight he smiles, broadly. ‘Yes, Father. I shall do as you instruct.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you think I could have a new football? A slightly bigger one?’

  Cosimo smiles, nodding. He turns to Donatello, who seems relieved that they have an agreement. ‘Goliath would have had a large head, would he not? I think a larger football might be appropriate?’

  Donatello bows. ‘Certainly, Magnificence. Certainly. Allow me to see to it.’

  ***

  Suora Maddalena took her hands from her mouth. She had managed to shock herself with her own memories. ‘The things we used to say in those days. And the things we used to do. Without a second thought.’

  She looked across the room to see whether her revelations had shocked the abbess, but Madonna Arcangelica looked better than she had for months. ‘I knew I would feel better once I listened to one of your stories. I said to myself as I climbed those infernal steps. Press on; you will be pleased you came, once the story starts. Tell me, how was it? Posing for such a great, yet as I understand it, deeply flawed man?’

  Maddalena cast her mind back.

  Donatello had been almost as good as his word. She had stood before him; five times, but despite his initial promises, he had insisted it had to be naked. Each time, she had squirmed uncomfortably, sure that her breasts looked like prunes and her bottom like two overripe pears.

  But Cosimo had remained present and his calm look had made her feel better. And each time had been less of an ordeal than the last. Then she had sat a further three times, now clothed, although with a loose gown and wearing a great straw hat that Donatello had brought from the market. He had combed her hair forward, bringing it over her shoulders as she had worn it years before.

  In due course, Carlo had earned his new football. Cosimo told her he had stood for hours, holding a great sword that Cosimo had called forth from the armoury, and with his left foot placed securely on the football. Cosimo said he had been proud of him. Each time, he said, the boy had stood for over an hour, without rest or complaint, while Donatello sketched and measured and sketched again; from all angles.

  She remembered Cosimo had said that the only source of disagreement had been how to place his left hand, in order to balance the great sword in his right. Eventually Donatello had placed him with his hand somewhat provocatively on his left hip, fist clenched, the back of his hand against his hip. She had thought it looked wrong in the sketches, but when the finished article was brought to the house two years later, she had had no reservations about any of it. She had been proud of it then, and she still was.

  ‘It was much less of an ordeal than I had expected. And Carlo later said the same. Although the process was terribly drawn out, with many sittings for each of us. But the end result was, indeed, a true masterpiece.’

  ‘You liked it? Even though it was an amalgamation of you and your son? You did not find that awkward?’

  Maddalena tried to remember. She had always hated that straw hat. And Donatello had made her nose too long. Aristocratic perhaps, but too long. Much too long. But for all that, she had loved the sculpture. She loved the fact that it was Cosimo’s private bow in her direction. His expression of thanks for her years of loyalty, through the good years and the bad. And his recognition, if only to her, that her son, their son, was his favourite.

  In that respect, it had been a poke in the eye for Piero and for Giovanni. And, she liked to think, for both reasons, a poke in the eye for their plump, self-satisfied mother. She had held her tongue for so many years, and victory, when it came, had been all the sweeter for it. What a pity she was not able to tell her.

  ‘Yes I liked it. Very much.’

  A supportive smile from the abbess. ‘And what was the
reaction of the citizens, and of the priors on the Signoria?’

  ‘It was a very public test. Donatello’s David was placed in the position of honour, in the garden of the Palazzo Medici and everyone marvelled at it. I stood at the back of the crowd, quietly, and I listened to their private comments. The younger, unmarried, women were embarrassed yet fascinated, whispering to each other behind their hands, their eyes wide with concentration. The older ones were dismissive. “My husband never looked like that,” I heard a number of them say.’

  ‘And the men? What was their reaction?’ Madonna Arcangelica is looking out of the window, but her mind, Maddalena can see, is looking at the sculpture as she visualises it.

  ‘Most of them went unnaturally quiet. They studied it with dry lips and concentrated expressions. Then, one after another, they regained their public faces, proclaimed the David a masterpiece and agreed that it expressed, as Cosimo had told them it was meant to, the courage of little Florence, standing up to the giants of Milan and Venice. But watching them as they cast final, backward glances as they left, I don’t think many of them were left with thoughts of political strategy.’

  ‘Lust?’ Madonna Arcangelica’s eyes were gimlet-sharp. ‘Is that what drove them?’

  Maddalena looked at her and nodded. ‘Most of the time, although they tried hard not to admit it. Men can’t help it. Their minds may travel the world, but a single well-shaped image will bring them back home in an instant.’

  ‘Even bishops?’ The abbess was again looking out of the window. Her face was devoid of expression, as if the question were purely academic. But her expression was too vacant. She was concentrating hard to make it so. What did she have on her mind?

  Then Maddalena remembered the date. In four weeks it would be the 25th March. The date of the New Year. The date when the convent’s annual inspection by their patriarch and the bishops was due to take place. So that was why the abbess had listened so attentively week after week, before she was ill. And that was why she had been so keen to reconvene their conversations, despite her illness.

  She cast her mind back to the years in Rome, when Cosimo ran the Curia branch of the bank and she had found herself entertaining bishops and cardinals, who, week after week, seemed to arrive with unnatural punctuality. More than one inappropriate offer had been made to her in those innocent little conversations, and more than one pudgy hand had found itself exploring her clothing while the fleshy face above it remained bland and expressionless.

  She nodded, her eyes looking directly into the abbess’s own. ‘Yes, Madonna Arcangelica. Especially bishops.’

  Chapter 15

  Everything is Changing

  13th March 1458

  ‘I suppose it was soon after Donatello’s statue was unveiled that you all moved next door; into the great palace?’ The abbess seemed as sharp as ever she was and her eyes were bright with anticipation. So much so that today she had started asking questions even before she had sat down.

  Caught off-balance, Maddalena paused. ‘Yes it was, but I don’t want you to think that our life at that time was all domesticity. Great changes were happening; many of them, at first, inside Cosimo’s head.

  Madonna Arcangelica gave a decisive nod and settled herself. ‘Of course. I am jumping to conclusions when I should be letting you tell the story in your own way. I shall be quiet and let you inform and entertain me in your usual way.’

  Inform and entertain? Maddalena repeated the words in her head, looking quietly at the abbess as she did so. She was more than pleased that their conversations had kept the abbess entertained. But informed? She had had inklings that there was more to some of Madonna Arcangelica’s questions than she let her expression admit, but this, perhaps, was confirmation that she was using their meetings to prepare herself for something.

  She was sure now that the expected visitation by the patriarch and the Bishops was part of it. She had drawn that conclusion at the end of the previous week’s conversation. But there was more; a desire to understand how the outside world, and more specifically, the men in the outside world, thought. But more even than that. There had been something very telling in that nod. The abbess had hidden it quickly, but not before its meaning had emerged. Then it dawned on Maddalena. It was Cosimo’s mind the abbess really wished to understand.

  She took her mind back, quickly; to the very reason he had brought her here. His project, in recognition of his legitimate sons’ weaknesses, to put funds aside for Lorenzo. Lorenzo the grandson who would inherit it all: the bank, its obligations and its influence; as well as its profits, and the political power that arose from all that money.

  Cosimo had never admitted how many preparatory meetings he had held with the abbess, but to judge by their mutual demeanour; they must have had a number of discussions and reached a considerable rapport with one another. Had she too been tasked with some part of the plan? Was the abbess an undeclared partner in the project that had caused Cosimo to bring her to this convent in the first place?

  It was a conundrum; if you were given a secret to keep, how did you respond when you began to suspect that someone else, someone you had learned to like and to trust, already shared that secret? Perhaps she and Madonna Arcangelica were in the same position? Was the abbess, even at this minute looking at her and asking herself the same question?

  Across the room, the abbess found her mind drifting. She let her eyes roam around the walls and remembered her last visit here, alone, shortly before Maddalena’s arrival. How mistaken she had been then . . .

  ***

  CONVENTO DI SAN DAMIANO, MUGELLO

  Summer 1457

  Madonna Arcangelica takes a deep breath. She has been awake since well before Lauds and unlike the others, has not returned to sleep after dawn but instead, has climbed the new tower once again, to make doubly sure everything is as he had requested. Now she smiles to herself. Requested. When Cosimo de’ Medici requests something, everyone knows it’s an instruction.

  Four times he has visited; first to consider, then to discuss, then to refine, and finally to confirm his ‘requests’. At first with only a clerk present, scratching away, fingers stained with ink, but afterwards, in addition to the clerk, a black-robed lawyer, communicating with Cosimo almost entirely by nods and frowns. Cosimo in red, watching him always as he speaks, modifying his sentences in response to the lawyer’s changing expressions, sometimes part way through. A careful man, then; that is certain. Not a man given to instant whims. A calculator of consequences. A considerer of alternatives. And above all, as she knows now, a clever negotiator of outcomes.

  She knows he had achieved exactly what he wanted. There had never really been any doubt that he would. She had known that from the outset. But he, in his special way, had been scrupulously fair; slowing their discussions for her benefit, not his own, allowing her, indeed encouraging her, to examine her alternatives, to consider her options, to weigh up the likely consequences from her own point of view and from that of the convent she represented.

  That first time, she remembers, he had been tentative, careful, exploratory, ‘merely considering possibilities, you understand, without commitment’ and he had left her with nothing tangible. But even as he had ridden away, already her mind had been full of thoughts, and deep within herself she had felt a powerful tremble of excitement about what she believed were the possibilities for the future.

  What had he said, as he was leaving? ‘We neither of us want surprises, do we, Madonna? Nor disappointments at a later stage? Now that I know your circumstances, I shall consider further. When I return, I will make my objectives clear and offer you some specific suggestions. I want you to be fully satisfied that every aspect of what we do shall be fully in the interests of the convent. When we are both confident of that, then, and only then, shall we sign an agreement. And thereafter,’ he had put his hand on her arm at this point, ‘we shall both be content to perform our obligations under that agreement in confidence and serenity.’

  She h
ad liked the word ‘serenity’. It had given her comfort. Allayed the fears she had been trying to hide, that in making an agreement with the richest and most powerful man in the world, she would be out of her depth and always at risk of disaster.

  Madonna Arcangelica is aware of her limitations; conscious of her unworldliness. She has been here now, in the same convent and without once leaving it, for fifty-one years; since the age of seven, and her knowledge and understanding of the outside world is, she knows, severely limited. He could easily have outmanoeuvred her at any time, but in the event, he had been scrupulous in his fairness, and now, as he approaches once again, she finds herself grateful to him, for she has no qualms about the arrangements they have made together. The convent will benefit.

  ***

  His second visit had been much more specific. He had opened by summarising his objectives and the way he proposed to achieve them, offering alternatives and inviting her to respond. Tentatively, she had made her own comments, suggestions and proposals. And each time, the clerk had made an inky note, the lawyer had considered, scratching in his own little notebook, and Cosimo de’ Medici had absorbed. Always smiling, always nodding, but nodding in a manner, she had quickly come to understand, not signifying acceptance, not quite making a contractual obligation, but nodding simply as evidence of receipt, of willingness to consider, to think further, to explore.

  Later, when she had put her own point of view, and Cosimo and his lawyer had conferred, quietly, in the corner, he had responded, this time making a new and revised proposal, yet still, as each separate point had been made, careful; every sentence, as he had said at the time, ‘without prejudice’ to the other components of the discussion, so that whilst she could comment freely on each of his proposals, she had soon come to understand that they were interlocked; that she could not accept one part whilst at the same time, seeking to reject another.

  But despite his carefulness, there had been progress. That second time, as he had departed, he had left behind what he called ‘heads of terms’; a list of the separate parts of his proposal, that together formed a unified plan, but combined with a clear understanding that she could either accept his plan in its totality, or choose not to participate at all. But redesign? No, by this time, she understood that would not be on offer. Not from now on.