The House of Medici Read online

  And then, this morning, she had woken with a new sensation: an ache born of dreams; of memories of her life with Cosimo that had clung to her when she woke and throughout Prime. She had daydreamed through the Chapter meeting, lost herself during Mass, and as soon as it was over, she had rushed back to her tower thinking she would go mad if her brain filled with more thoughts before she had time to write any of them down.

  On her desk they lay; little scraps of paper, each with another scribbled thought, written hurriedly, lest the effort of writing caused the next thought to be lost before it, in its turn, could be committed to paper. Now she stood at the window, looking across the valley, preparing herself. All day the thoughts had come and gone, fighting each other, calling to her to put quill to paper and clarify them; end their argument, bring their battle to a balanced conclusion.

  She turned away from the window, smiling for the first time that day. Now she knew why her thoughts had been so embattled; why the two sides of her mind had been in such contradiction.

  She nodded to herself, relieved to have come to a conclusion, and pleased with its nature. She understood her error now; she had been using her deep, private knowledge of the inner man to judge the outer man; the public face of Cosimo de’ Medici. No wonder, then, a paradox. Indeed it had always been that very contradiction which had gone to the heart of his character; the tension between those two opposing forces, the very essence of the man’s life and the strength of character which he had brought to bear in reconciling them, the reason she had loved and respected him for the many years they had been together.

  The conclusion was simple: Cosimo had not been born to greatness. Cosimo had had the responsibilities of greatness thrust upon him. And being the eldest son, he had felt himself with no choice but to accept them.

  She remembered his description of ‘The Medici Creed’ given to both him and his brother, Lorenzo, when they had been very young. How many times had she heard him repeat those lessons, with the intention, no doubt, that she, too, would understand the rules under which he laboured?

  She could hear his voice now. ‘As my father, Giovanni di Bicci, used to tell me, “Never hang around the Palazzo della Signoria as if it is the place where you do business. Only go there when you are summoned, and only accept the offices which are bestowed upon you. Never make a show before the people, but if this is unavoidable, let it be the least necessary. Keep out of the public gaze and never go against the will of the people, unless they are advocating some disastrous project.” Those were my father’s words and I strive to obey them.’

  And there was no doubt that Cosimo had heeded his father’s words. Although clearly the most powerful man in Florence, he had always been careful to work through others, giving them the credit for the achievement and at the same time, making friends whilst avoiding the envy of others. A clever man, who allowed it to be recognised that he paid more taxes than any other man in Florence, but who, at the same time, kept two sets of books, so that the taxes he did pay fell far below those he ought to have been liable for.

  Doubly clever, in that much of the money he avoided paying in taxes, as an obligation, he then contributed to the city anyway, but in the form of personal generosity; generosity which, whilst quietly understated, somehow never failed to be recognised. At Orsanmichele he had contributed more than the other bankers on the committee to Ghiberti’s statue to St Matthew and had then followed this with the novices’ dormitory and chapel at Santa Croce, and the choir of Santissima Annunziata.

  Yet at the same time, he had always been careful to appear modest. He had always dressed well, his lucco plain but made of fine cloth; never in the furs and jewellery that smacked of ostentatious wealth. He had not needed to: everyone knew that Cosimo de’ Medici was the richest man in the world. Why flaunt the fact and make enemies?

  As with clothing, so with buildings. He had always been generous in supporting magnificence for the Church, for such was to the glory of God; but when it came to building his own house, replacing that which had been brought to him by his wife, he had rejected Brunelleschi’s original, elaborate design for the Palazzo Medici and instead had asked Michelozzo to shape something that was, at least externally, plainer and much more modest.

  So if the outer man was plain, was the inner man more elaborate? Certainly, it was in his less public contributions that the character of the real man sometimes emerged unhindered by considerations of politics. His endowment of libraries—personal, civic and religious—had, Maddalena knew, been a subject of joy to a man whose private studies of humanism had softened his personality over the years.

  Many were the wet winter days she had spent with him in the library at Palazzo Medici, talking, and reading aloud to each other. ‘Contessina takes no pleasure in books,’ he would sigh, ‘she prefers the company of people.’ He would say it in a way that reminded her how shy and retiring the real man was, and on occasion how hard, he had had to push himself to perform his civic duties.

  Introspective, too. The world might have seen Cosimo as ‘the great man’ who led the world, ‘making incisive decisions without fear’. But they had not sat with him for hours on end in his studiolo, agonising over the consequences of those decisions before the public process even started.

  ‘How will it affect the people?’ he would ask her, and she, knowing that his wife’s answer would only have considered the effect on the great families amongst whom she moved and lived her daily life, would immediately think about the popolo minuto, those who were perpetually ignored by society, those who held no importance—literally, the small people, undernourished since childhood. They were referred to by Contessina’s rich friends as piagnoni—snivellers—not because they were always complaining (although God knows they had plenty to complain about) but because, being hungry and poorly clothed, they inevitably had colds and dripping noses. And over the years, Cosimo had listened to her, and taken her views into account, before making his decisions.

  And when it came to retreating from the responsibilities of civic life, where better than his country estates in the Mugello—at Careggi or Cafaggiolo. There she knew (although she had rarely been allowed to join them, having to remain at the Palazzo Medici instead ‘in charge of the studiolo’) Cosimo would have been up early, and out with the vineyard workers, pruning his own vines, working quietly and happily in the cool of the morning air, doing what he sometimes referred to as ‘real men’s work’.

  Maddalena looked down at the journal and shook her head. She could not possibly write such things. Not because they were untrue, but because Cosimo knew them all, and did not need to hear them retold.

  But then she remembered a phrase; a phrase he had once used with her, after once admitting the extent of his own self-doubt.

  They had been sitting quietly in the studiolo of his house in Pisa.

  ***

  PORTO PISANO, PISA

  Mid-November 1442

  ‘I must do something, Maddalena. We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Cosimo. But it’s up to you to make a decision. Nobody else can make it for you. Your management are there to implement your policies and your choices, but none of them, not even Giovanni, can be expected to make the policy decisions for you. It’s not their job.’

  Cosimo seems in grumbling mood. ‘But what’s the use of a General Manager if he can’t sort out a little local situation like this?’

  ‘Giovanni Benci is, I am sure, perfectly capable of finding a successor to Averardo’s bank if you want to continue that way. But you know yourself that you have talked openly about establishing your own branch and not relying any more on an agency arrangement. Pisa’s an important trade centre now and the Medici Bank needs a presence here. You said it yourself.’

  ‘It’s a big decision, Maddalena. Choosing partners is as important a decision as you can make.’

  ‘So you keep telling me. And you also keep telling me how you have absolute faith in Ugolino Martelli and in Matteo. Wh
at’s the problem?’

  Cosimo nods, still hesitant. ‘Matteo Masi is as good as his father Cristofano. I give you that.’

  ‘And Niccolò Martelli has been equally blessed with his son. I know you always hesitate when giving authority to the next generation, but one day, you’ll have to hand the whole Medici bank to your own sons.’

  He squints across the room at her. ‘That’s what’s worrying me.’

  ‘They’ll grow into it. Give them time.’

  Cosimo nods, but appears uncommitted.

  ‘Now, as far as Pisa is concerned, why don’t you tell the lawyers to draw up an agreement, on the basis you described to me the other day? Tell them the great man has decided and this is what you want.’

  He’s still prevaricating. ‘“Great man”. Pah. I wish I were. Nobody understands the loneliness of “great men”. The future is so uncertain and the risks are so high.’

  ‘Not if you choose proven men as your partners, and you structure the branch as an accomanda. The liabilities will be limited to the invested capital, and if, as you suggested, they contribute 1,000 florins each, then the Florence tavola will only have to contribute 4,000 and you can easily afford that.’

  Cosimo nods. Then nods again. Then he smiles. ‘You’re right, as always, Maddalena. I was avoiding making the decision, but in reality, it’s already made. I’ll speak to the lawyers in the morning.’

  Relieved, she smiles and sits back in her chair. ‘Shall we ask cook for venison tonight?’

  He nods, more confidently this time. ‘Good idea.’

  Cosimo gets up and throws another log on the fire, then turns towards her and tousles the top of her head. ‘Thank you. You’re worth three general managers.’

  Maddalena shakes her head. ‘I just listen to you and remind you what you’ve already decided.’ She smiles. ‘Deep down. It’s just that sometimes you need someone to help you let go of a decision and pass it on for others to implement. I know your responsibilities don’t come easily to you, Cosimo, but your father would be proud of you. You always face your decisions and you always address them with the utmost fairness. You sometimes need time. That’s all.’

  ***

  Maddalena nodded to herself; a decision made. Yes, that’s what she would write. She would tell him she understood. And that, even today, she still understood. And how, in understanding the difficulty whilst being one step removed from him, her respect for him had grown even higher.

  Encouraged by her decision, she sat and began to write, the words flowing more easily as she went, until she had filled a page.

  She put down her quill and reread what she had written. But as she pored over her words, a recurring and troubling thought returned, until she had to put the journal down, walk to the window, and address it.

  I know what I have concluded. I know what I have written. And yet . . .

  She remembered the way he had responded to the threats against him in 1433, threats which, to be fair, had proved justified, and which had led to his exile for a year; but which could, just as easily, have led to his death. Yet faced with such threats, he had not, she had to admit, shown courage, but fear.

  And within that fear, when the deep inner man was finally exposed, he had fallen back on a long-thinking, cold, calculating logic.

  Now, faced with the silence of her situation, she could not help wondering. Had he, after all, done all of those things because he believed they were right, or because he knew that in the long term, they would be profitable and productive? Profitable for the Bank and productive for the growing political power of the Medici name?

  And thereby hung the question she had avoided asking, never mind attempting to answer. When finally, he reached Judgement Day and St Peter, standing on the steps, how would Cosimo be judged? As a man of vision, courage and greatness, or as a selfish calculator, sitting behind his green baize table, maximising his own position: at the same time, playing the actor; carefully conceiving and then portraying the other Cosimo—the Cosimo who had achieved public adoration?

  Was there indeed an imagined Cosimo, an invented persona, a creation formed in part by his father’s inherited instructions and in part by his own creative imagination? And did the private Cosimo—the one she knew better than anyone else—don that mantle as he left his front door or as he entered a roomful of visitors?

  And how far apart were those two Cosimos? And which, if either, was the true one?

  She thought of the plan to protect Lorenzo’s inheritance; a plan in which she had believed she was playing a central part. It was a plan for Cosimo to squirrel away money, as he had done thirty years before; this time, because he did not trust the next generation to safely carry the mantle of his memory, and instead wanted to put his faith in his grandson, Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo’s gold.

  Maddalena and Cosimo had brought the first instalment here to the convent, and here it had been hidden, as he had instructed. But what of the rest? Although the bags of coins she had hidden away ran to 20,000 florins, (it was in her nature to count the bags), the final amounts Cosimo had been talking of were much greater; vast sums, more even than the 100,000 ducats—the equivalent of 120,000 florins in their own coinage—that he had spent on the Palazzo Medici.

  Lorenzo’s secret inheritance should have involved huge sums of money. But where were they now? And more to the point for her in this isolated position, was she still part of the great scheme, or had Cosimo changed his mind? Indeed, as she closed the journal and put it back in the box, the uncomfortable thought came back to her once again.

  Her lack of faith made her gasp and she knelt, painfully, her left knee especially uncomfortable, in front of the little votive table in the corner of her room and prayed for forgiveness.

  But try as she might, the thought, now it had been planted, would not leave her. Was I ever really part of the plan?

  That thought, now released, sickened her. She could not leave it there. She had to write. Something that, should he ever return, would tell him of the agonies that had tormented her.

  But at the same time, she, like him, had to be careful and calculating. For if her uncertainties proved to be misplaced, and he did, indeed, arrive one day, carts laden with gold, and having done so, read her journal, the last thing she wanted to be disclosed was her loss of faith.

  Somehow, like Cosimo, she must find a way to face in both directions at the same time. She must let him know of the agonies she has borne, but at the same time, thank him for the burden of her promised participation, and in so doing, put the responsibility for the outcome back to him.

  Yes. She would write. She will write. She will write it now.

  Dearest Cosimo,

  On such a day as this, the very best sort of April morning, when we are all looking forward to the warmth of summer, I should be looking forward also. But instead, I find myself looking back.

  It is now more than six months since you brought me here, to fulfil my part in your plans for the future, and I remain prepared. Back then, in October, I thought to hear your footsteps within days and I looked forward to that moment. But now, having received neither visit nor word from you in half a year, I find myself no longer looking forward with such eagerness.

  Instead, I am looking back, thankful for the memories, grateful for the many hours we have spent together, but most of all, appreciative of your great generosity towards me.

  And for what? For comforts? Certainly. For gifts? Indeed—frequently and generously given. But above all, for the privilege of access; of admission into the private secrets of the inner man. For you, Cosimo, were courageous as well as generous when you took me, not only into your heart, but also into your soul.

  And in gaining that insight, I saw how heavily you have borne the trials and tribulations of leadership and position, both within the Bank and in the governance of Florence. Yet always, you have acted courageously, and in the common interest.

  Some seek greatness, and in achieving it, merely satisfy the desir
es of their own greedy appetites, but others have greatness thrust upon them. Amongst these, a few—the so very few—rise to the challenge and give generously of the leadership which others crave.

  For doing these things, I salute you. For taking me into your confidence as you did, I shall remain beholden until my dying day.

  Yours, ever

  Maddalena.

  Chapter 18

  An Unstable and Public Life

  3rd April 1458

  It was windy, in that blustery, unpredictable way of March winds, on and off, stop-start, buffeting you when you least expect it, and leaving you irritated and out of sorts. But it wasn’t March any longer; the month end had just turned, and with it the New Year and it was now the 3rd of April and the New Year was named 1458.

  Another Monday and once again, Maddalena was unsure whether she would hear the abbess’ tired feet on the stairs.

  The previous week had been spent on tenterhooks; everything in the convent prepared, everything rehearsed, (but of course, rehearsed to look as natural as possible) and the whole building cleaned until the choir nuns were as exhausted as the converse. The previous week it had become clear that the servants could not do everything themselves and the abbess had given instructions that for the next two weeks, that is, until the visitation, manual labour was to be considered as worthy as prayer, at least during the mornings.

  The patriarch and his three attendant bishops had finally arrived late, complaining about the terrible roads in the Mugello, but had been placated by a meal that just trod the line between adherence to the Rule and entertainment appropriate to the dignitaries concerned. They had visited the chapel, made a short speech in the Chapter House to the assembled choir nuns, walked the cloisters, toured the gardens and peeped quickly into one or two (well-chosen) cells. Then they had retreated to the Badia di Buonsollazzo for the night. And during the whole of that day, Maddalena had sat quietly with her journal, unbidden and feeling distinctly unwanted.