The House of Medici Read online

  At first they had cowered deep in the strongest part of their house as a series of reports of the storm’s progress reached them. It had, they said, swept in from the upper sea, at Ancona, passing over Urbino. By the time it was seen crossing the mountains at Pieve Santo Stefano, everyone feared it was heading for the city.

  But then, to their relief, it seemed to skirt the city, the eye of the storm passing between the southern walls and the mountains at San Casciano, before continuing downstream. Relieved, the whole family, like others amongst the nobles and richer merchants who had the benefit of a rooftop loggia, climbed to the highest point in the Palazzo Medici; and, feeling distinctly braver than they had an hour before, had prepared to watch it retreat.

  ‘What are the reports from the Ponte Vecchio?’ Piero has to cup his hands to the servant’s ear to make himself heard against the howling wind.

  It is, by a long way, the fiercest, most vicious wind Maddalena has ever seen or heard. Even here, away from the whirlwind that forms the centre of the tempest, tiles are still being ripped off roofs and the streets are littered with debris.

  ‘Full flood, but holding. They have evacuated the shops and houses, and posted the night guard at both ends, but so far the bridge itself has not washed away. It’s vibrating with the water pressure, though. I heard it myself; a deep rhythmic rumbling, like a wounded stag; it’s horrible; it turns your stomach.’

  The servant shakes his head. ‘I would not cross that bridge now for a year’s wages.’ He is soaked to the skin and looks petrified.

  Lucrezia looks up, suddenly. ‘Can you take a quick message to the Pitti Palace? It’s urgent!’

  His jaw drops. The Pitti Palace is on the opposite bank of the river, and the Ponte Vecchio the quickest route, the only acceptable one for a servant with an urgent message.

  But Maddalena can see that Lucrezia is only teasing. She tousles the poor man’s head and lets him out of his misery. ‘I’m only joking. Go downstairs and get dry. Then change your clothes and warm yourself in the kitchens. There’s food and wine laid out there, so help yourself. Your work is done for tonight.’

  Relieved, the man bobs a bow. As he makes for the stairs, Lucrezia calls after him. ‘And thank you, Andrea. You have, as always, served us well tonight.’

  Andrea disappears in a flash of grateful teeth as the horizon is lit by yet another enormous flash of lightning. They brace themselves for the rumble of thunder, but what they hear is not a rumble, but a splitting, tearing sound; like a tree being torn asunder.

  Maddalena flinches and sees Giovanni recoil so hard he spills nearly all the wine from the large goblet in his hand. He puts the empty goblet down, grabs a cloth from the table beside them and begins to dab at his gown. Beside him, Michelozzo is unaware of the commotion: he has his hands cupped round his forehead, shielding his eyes and is staring intently at the boiling maelstrom of black clouds ahead of them.

  ‘It’s stopped moving.’

  ‘What?’ Piero has his hand to his ear.

  ‘The storm. It’s no longer moving away, towards Pisa.’

  Piero looks even more nervous. ‘Is it coming back?’

  Michelozzo signals him to wait and stands, leaning forward, his elbows on the edge of the balcony, his fingers cupped as before. Finally he stands and turns. ‘No. It’s just standing there, over Empoli. Like some cornered beast.’

  ‘I don’t like it. I’m going down.’ Piero’s face is pale. Cosimo agrees with him. ‘Come on, all of you. If it comes back this way, the loggia will give us little protection.’

  As they turn, grateful for the instruction, and begin to descend, Michelozzo looks back at the hurricane. ‘If it comes directly over here, there won’t be a loggia to protect us. That wind will tear the roof off the house and take the whole loggia with it.’

  He follows Maddalena to the staircase and gives her a wry smile. ‘I should know. I built it. But not for a storm like this.’

  ***

  ‘In the morning, news came that the storm had flooded Pisa and done great damage to Lucca, to Prato and to Empoli. The roofs of the churches of San Martino a Bagnuolo and Santa Maria della Pace were lifted into the air and thrown down over a mile away. And a carrier and his mules were lifted bodily skyward and found dead a long way from the road they had been on.

  ‘We wondered what it was telling us. Some said it was an omen—the end of something. Now, when I look back, I believe they were right.’

  ‘It was clearly a memorable occasion. One you have never forgotten. There must have been great destruction? But Brunelleschi’s dome was saved?’

  Maddalena nodded. ‘Indeed there was. The Duomo was undamaged. We could see it quite clearly, living almost next door. Nevertheless, it was truly frightening. Terrifying.’

  For a moment she stood staring into space, overcome by the memory.

  ‘We rode out from the city the following day to see what help we could give to the people. You could see the path the hurricane had taken. It was as if a great river had passed though, a mile wide, and carried away everything in its path. Nothing in that great channel remained; no crops, no animals, no trees, no walls, no buildings. Nothing. Just rock and smashed debris.’

  ‘But was it an omen? Or purely a great storm?’

  The abbess waited for an explanation, but receiving no response, continued her train of thought. ‘It seems God’s will that night was to threaten, rather than to chastise Tuscany. Had he intended the latter, he would have sent the storm through Arezzo and right through the City of Florence. The death and destruction would have been truly awful. The most terrible ruin and destruction that the mind of man can conceive.’

  ‘Tell that to the people of San Casciano.’ Maddalena was too tired to debate the issue. She had run out of nervous energy. Besides, she was aware that the bell would ring at any moment.

  She closed the chestnut doors and dropped the hasp back into place. It was no good. The rest would have to wait.

  Chapter 22

  San Damiano

  29th May 1458

  ‘Reverend Mother! Come in. Please sit down.’

  As Maddalena opened the door to the abbess, she was shocked by the expression on her face. She looked exhausted, ravaged, as if by some great storm like that they had talked about the last time they had met together.

  ‘I am sorry I’m late. I expect you had given me up for lost? I was waylaid by the Council of the Discrete. They insisted we hold an emergency meeting of the Chapter.’

  Maddalena frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘They demand that you and I stop meeting like this. They say it is undemocratic and inappropriate. They asked me to tell them what we discuss.’

  ‘And did you?’ Suddenly, Maddalena was concerned. She had always spoken openly to the abbess on the understanding that their conversations were privileged and entirely secret. Surely Cosimo’s inner secrets were not now out in the convent for open discussion?

  ‘I told them nothing. I refused even to speak of the subject matter. This, of course, increased their suspicions even more. Now they are talking of asking the Confessor to take a Letter of Supplication to the patriarch. Under our Rule they have this entitlement so long as three quarters of the Chapter, in open meeting, vote for it. They can ask the patriarch to have me dismissed. Not just removed from office, but rejected from the convent. If that happened, I don’t know what I would do. I have nowhere else to go. This place has been my life.’

  She broke down in tears and fell into her accustomed chair. ‘I had always expected to die here; I hoped in peace and tranquillity.’

  ‘When is this Chapter Meeting to take place?’ Maddalena was trying to think fast, but her mind was in a whirl.

  ‘It is not yet certain. They say if we agree to stop meeting, they will withdraw the demand.’

  ‘Then we should stop. Do you wish to go downstairs now? Immediately?’

  Madonna Arcangelica sat up and straightened her back. ‘No. I told them I would not give in to blackmail. We
shall talk today as we have always done, but after that, I fear our little conversations will have to be less frequent, in my office, and subject to unexpected and malicious interruption.’

  ‘You will let them get away with this?’

  Madonna Arcangelica smiled. Even in the short time since she sat down, she seemed to have recovered much of her equilibrium. But the smile was not one of her usual smiles; not the abbess’s ‘you will learn to accept it’ smile; not the ‘fear not, God will provide’ smile; nor even the ‘I understand but there is little I can do’ smile. This was an Old Testament smile, a smile that spoke of an iron will, an inner confidence, an unrelenting persistence, and a deep understanding of the ways of a Vengeful God. This smile said, ‘give me time, and I will seek them out. And when I have done so, I will wreak retribution upon them, one by one.’

  Maddalena nodded. It was like being back in Cosimo’s studiolo. ‘Good. Then we shall begin.’

  The abbess, already remarkably revived, sat back and prepared herself.

  ‘Perhaps appropriately for what must now be our last such conversation, I wish to speak to you today of the events which led up to my arrival in this place.’ Maddalena nodded to the abbess, acknowledging her part in the story; a part which she recognised took place, but of which she still had no real knowledge. ‘You, I know, have personal knowledge of some of these proceedings and where you deem it appropriate, I should be pleased to receive your contribution to the chain of events.’

  Across the room the abbess leaned forward and turned her head, in agreement. ‘Gladly. I have no secrets to withhold from you.’

  ‘The changes which I have described to you came slowly, so slowly that at the time, few would have been aware of their existence, never mind their significance. But steadily, over the thirty-six years that Cosimo and I were together, both the person and the bank he owned began to change.

  ‘By the early summer of last year, the bank was larger, more profitable and apparently more secure than it had ever been. But inside, within the professional management, but more especially within the owning family, changes had been taking place which only an insider would have recognised. And despite his increasing illness and growing frailty, Cosimo, I knew, could see these things, including his own weaknesses and mistakes, with a greater clarity than anyone else. Possibly with the exception of Lucrezia.

  ‘Cosimo knew that the bank would no longer thrive unless he was followed by a strong hand. And he knew that neither Piero nor Giovanni was going to be that strong hand. The future, he was certain, lay only with one person; and that person was his grandson, Lorenzo.’

  ‘Lorenzo. How old is he now?’ The abbess, concentrating, was sitting hunched up, her own recent difficulties having perhaps sharpened her political instincts.

  ‘He will be ten years old on the first of January next.’

  ‘Still very young, then?’

  ‘Indeed. But not as young as age alone might indicate. Lorenzo is a prodigious talent. By the age of eighteen, he will be the match of most men in Italy. And by twenty-one, he will have surpassed all of them.’

  The abbess smiled, as if wishing that she had him by her side even now, but she said nothing.

  ‘Cosimo is now ageing, and unhappy. He sees the future and he doesn’t like what he sees. He has been unsettled since the Great Storm that I told you about. It has really frightened him. Last summer, he began to lay plans to protect the next generation from his sons’ follies and inadequacies.’

  ‘I know. He first came to see me in early May of last year. And then three more times, during the next few weeks.’ The abbess, as requested, made her contribution.

  ‘Then that was before he had said anything to me. I knew of his worries, of course, but the first I heard of his plan was in June, when he wrote to me from Careggi.’

  Without speaking, Maddalena leaned over to her casket and drawing out a letter, passed it to the abbess. She began to read.

  Dearest Maddalena,

  We have reached a position of great sensitivity in the affairs of the bank; an issue that requires me to ask for your assistance. For reasons that I will explain when I return to the palazzo, I wish to make you a free woman.

  In exchange, and once your freedom makes this possible, I must ask you to take up holy orders and to enter a nunnery.

  I am telling you this in advance, so that you can prepare yourself for this great change to your circumstances. Rest assured, you will be well endowed and your position at the convent will be secure and serene.

  I ask you this in all seriousness and with grateful expectation.

  Yours, humbly,

  Cosimo de’ Medici.

  At Careggi Wednesday, 15th June 1457

  The abbess reached the end, with one eyebrow occasionally raised, and returned the letter. ‘Humbly. Few people have received a “humble request” from the Magnificent Cosimo, I would think?’

  Maddalena nodded, grinning. ‘You are right. It was something of a tease. He had never asked me anything humbly in his life, and I was quite sure he didn’t really intend to do so now. But as always, he was calculating. He had realised that you would not accept me into this place unless I were a free woman, but he also knew that as a free woman, he would have to ask me, not tell me, what he wanted me to do next. It is a typical example of the little coded secrets between us; one that says “yes I know, but please do this for me.” And of course he knew I would.

  ‘We met a week later, in the studiolo and he told me what was going to happen to me and why. He said he didn’t trust his sons to manage the bank properly, and as a result, money had to be stashed away to allow his grandson, Lorenzo, to recover the situation on behalf of the family. He didn’t tell me everything, but I heard enough on that day to know it was a typical Cosimo plan; subtle, carefully conceived and, I was sure had every chance of success.’

  But it was a big decision and I wanted to be sure. I discussed his view of the future, confidentially, with Lucrezia. She said she agreed with Cosimo.

  ***

  PALAZZO MEDICI

  Spring 1457

  ‘Yes, Cosimo’s right. Piero will never be any good at running the bank.’ Lucrezia’s eyes are level and confident. As is her voice. It’s obvious she has thought about the issue many times before.

  ‘But what about Giovanni? Can he not do it? Your husband was never intended to run the bank. Cosimo always saw him as head of the family and in the political role. But Giovanni? Surely he can . . . ?’ Maddalena is choosing her words carefully. She knows how close Lucrezia is to her brother-in-law.

  Recognising the signs, Lucrezia puts a hand on Maddalena’s arm and smiles. ‘Giovanni, lovely as he is, is simply not sufficiently committed to the day-to-day grind’.

  Embarrassed to hear her say the words, Maddalena shakes her head. But Lucrezia will have none of it.

  ‘Accept it. In a family business you must realise when your family do not have the skills necessary to run the company successfully. In their place, you must hire the best people that you can get, give them positions of authority, with clear policies for how you want the business run, and support them until they make disastrous mistakes.’

  She grins. ‘They always make small ones. Everyone does.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Piero always gets it wrong. His stupid pride gets the better of him. I keep telling him, but . . .’

  ‘Cosimo has always been able to get it right.’ It is Maddalena’s turn to feel defensive.

  To her surprise, Lucrezia disagrees with her. ‘Cosimo may have run the bank, but he always had Benci working full-time to support him, and he always had you there, too.’

  ‘But I . . .’ Maddalena shakes her head. She knows the limitations of her role.

  Lucrezia wags a finger at her. ‘Don’t underestimate the significance of what you have done. Running a large and complex business is a lonely process. It niggles away at you. Your self-confidence is always on the edge of destruction and in the main, there is no one you can
really talk to openly; no one you can trust.

  ‘Cosimo had you.’ She grins and once again touches Maddalena’s arm. ‘The humble slave. The person the family always underestimated. The one they all overlooked. All of them. Except Cosimo. Because Cosimo knew that your judgement was independent, and sound, and honest. And he relied on that.’

  ‘But I never disagreed with him.’ Maddalena suddenly feels concerned about all the decisions she may have influenced in the past.

  ‘You didn’t have to. On many occasions, Cosimo has joked with me, privately, about your “little trick”.’

  ‘My little trick? What’s that?’

  ‘Cosimo says you have a hundred ways of saying “Yes Cosimo, I agree with you” and ninety-nine of them mean “no”.’

  Lightly, she touches Maddalena’s arm again. ‘No?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Maddalena finds herself laughing, despite, or perhaps because she feels embarrassed.

  ‘But to be honest, your role has only been secondary to someone else.’ Lucrezia’s eyes are serious now.

  ‘Giovanni Benci and Antonio Salutati? His General Managers?’

  Lucrezia’s head tilts from side to side. ‘Salutati to a small degree, perhaps. During his nine years as General Manager, he was useful, but not, I believe, as influential as you were.’ She snorts. ‘His hundred words for yes all meant yes.’

  Maddalena giggles. She had always believed that too, but had never dared say so to anyone. ‘But Benci?’

  Lucrezia nods, gravely. ‘In my view, Giovanni d’Amerigo Benci was the greatest manager the Medici Bank ever had. And when he died—do you realise, it’s nearly two years ago now?—the Bank lost its strongest single resource.’

  ‘Stronger than Cosimo?’ It’s hard to speak the words, but necessary, if they are really to understand each other.

  ‘Yes, in my opinion. Look at the facts. Since Benci’s gone, Cosimo has lost his touch. You must have noticed it? Ask yourself: how much time do you spend nowadays on bank business?’

  Maddalena frowns. ‘Little.’