The House of Medici Page 29

  It’s a day of great stillness. A day of benign winter; cold but without any air movement, almost comforting. There is just the slightest hint of snow falling; not enough to carpet the ground. Not even enough to cover the track down to Bivigliano and the valley beyond, but enough, already to soften the sounds of the valley as it falls. And if it continues to fall like this, by tomorrow the valley will be silent.

  Even the squirrels in the woods below them seem to be moving quietly. The softness of the day has brought them out of hibernation and they are scurrying at the base of the trees; searching for their caches of acorns and chestnuts, pattering about silently. And above them, on the high wall, where she prefers to stand, wrapped only in a stout cloak, and with her hood down so that her ears are not covered, stands Elena, her head tipped slightly back, watching and listening.

  Fifteen minutes ago, she was sure she heard horses and a cart, and excited, for little has happened in months, she let out a yell. But then, to her disappointment: silence. Perhaps, further down, the snow is lying heavier and has drifted across the road, muffling the sound of the wheels?

  But Elena’s hearing is like a dog’s. She can make out the high-pitched sounds that no one else can hear. The choir mistress finds her talent upsetting, for although she appreciates the need for precision, to have Elena endlessly telling you that as they echo around the chapel roof that Suora Simplicita’s top notes are slightly sharp, when in truth you can no longer hear them at all, is to say the least, frustrating.

  Elena starts to smile. Yes. She can hear it again. It’s the same cart; she’s sure of it. That squeak, intermittent and high—very high, but still, just audible. It’s the small cart that they occasionally send from Il Trebbio. The wheel has been squeaking like that since she was a child; for two years at least. Can no one else hear it? Each time the cart comes, her first reaction is to offer the carter some olive oil, to lubricate it. But then that would take away her advantage; her gift. And nobody in their senses gives gifts away, especially God-given ones.

  The squeak gets louder and she yells again. Two converse appear and then three choir nuns. Word is spreading. Slowly, the courtyard fills with nuns, converse and lay-servants, all walking nonchalantly towards the wall and looking down. Now Suora Maddalena appears. She’s usually one of the first to respond to the promise of a visitor.

  The cart appears and it is indeed the Medici cart with the same old driver. But this time, next to him, is an old ragamuffin. The cart enters the courtyard and everyone moves forward, until the wastrel starts to climb down. Elena steps backwards. He’s ancient; he must be seventy years old, and his clothes! They are little more than rags. And he doesn’t smell too good either.

  All round the cart, the nuns are backing away, until only Suora Maddalena is left, her face radiant and welcoming, as she steps forward.

  ‘Donatello! How wonderful. Have you come to see me?’

  ‘Maddalena. You haven’t changed.’ He reaches back into the cart, opens a leather bag and takes out a palm-sized gold crucifix. ‘I made this for you.’

  ‘Donatello. But it’s . . . wonderful.’ To the nuns’ surprise and Elena’s evident disgust, Maddalena embraces the sculptor. ‘This must have cost a fortune?’

  Donatello shrugs. ‘I’m retired now, to one of the farms on the Cafaggiolo estate, so I have plenty of time.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘Cosimo provided the gold. He asked me to make you something appropriate. Something the Rule of the convent would allow you to keep.’

  Maddalena holds the crucifix up and shows it to the abbess. Madonna Arcangelica nods deeply. ‘Of course. With such provenance, how can I refuse?’ She looks at Donatello. ‘You have come to speak with Suora Maddalena?’

  He nods and she turns to Maddalena. ‘It ought to be the parlatorio,’ she sees Maddalena’s face fall, ‘but in the circumstances, perhaps the tower room? On special dispensation?’

  Relieved, Maddalena thanks her. The Rule states that when visitors are entertained in the parlatorio, the nun should remain on the outside of the metal-grilled windows, while the visitors sit within the room itself, having been accompanied there by two discrete, or in the case of a male visitor, three.

  The problem is that they do not withdraw to allow a private conversation to take place. On the contrary, they do not, as their name suggests, even withdraw to a discreet distance. Instead they hover, close enough to hear the words being spoken; they are not called ascoltatrici or ‘listeners’ for nothing.

  Maddalena turns towards the door to her tower, but Donatello pauses, standing awkwardly. ‘I have brought items from the farms, for the convent; foodstuffs, and some beeswax candles.’

  Madonna Arcangelica steps forward with due authority. ‘We thank you and the Medici family for those. Perhaps we may relieve you of your burden and then, perhaps, provide some hospitality of our own to your driver?’ To Maddalena she adds, ‘I shall have a conversa bring food to you in the tower. That way you will not be disturbed.’

  She turns to the hovering crowd of nuns and addresses herself in particular to the two old discrete who are sucking lemons at the back. ‘Ser Donatello is here on official Medici business. The Magnificent One will expect his envoy to be given the privacy that such business merits. I trust none of you is considering raising an objection? Any such will of course be referred to the bishop. And he, I have no doubt, will make reference to the cardinal.’ At the mention of the cardinal, she gives a knowing nod.

  Maddalena smiles. It is one piece of news that has reached them recently. Carlo, her son, has recently earned his cardinal’s hat and with it, authority over the region. She has never thought fit to say anything to anyone, but somehow, it appears, word has got through.

  ***

  ‘How is Cosimo?’ It is the first question Maddalena asks Donatello. He shakes his head with a dejected expression. ‘Not good. He has more worries than a man in his position should have. By now, Piero should be showing the strong leadership that is expected from the family, but still, matters fall back to Cosimo. And the deaths of Cosimino and Giovanni have taken a terrible toll on him.’

  ‘And yourself?’ He looks at her with the same searching eye that had made her so uncomfortable, years ago.

  ‘I am comfortable here. It is a place of relative serenity.’

  ‘Only relative?’

  ‘I have been awaiting your news for some long time now.’ She tries not to make it sound like a criticism.

  ‘Then let me put you out of your misery. The second stage of the plan was well advanced, but held back by weaknesses within the bank. For many months, the opportunity could not be found to withdraw such large sums.’ He lifts his head in explanation. ‘You and Cosimo originally deposited 20,000 florins in the vault, here, I understand. But Cosimo’s intention is to provide ten times that amount; 200,000 florins, for Lorenzo’s salvation.’

  Maddalena shakes her head in amazement. ‘That’s a huge amount of money. He could build the Palazzo Medici three times over for that amount.’ Donatello nods, smiling. ‘Including the statues.’

  ‘But the position of the bank has now improved?’ Maddalena is keen to lead him on. She knows from the past that it is not easy to get Donatello to the point in a conversation.

  ‘Yes. It is all in place. The money has been withdrawn from the bank and we have buried it.’

  ‘But . . .’ Maddalena is completely thrown off balance. ‘I thought the rest of the money was to come here? Otherwise, why am I in this place?’

  ‘There was a change of plan. An unexpected one. In Cosimo’s mind, a new opportunity that overcame some of the problems he faced. There had always been three huge practical problems with his plan. One, how do you draw out of the Medici Bank enough money to found a new bank without anyone noticing? Two, how do you hide that amount without anyone seeing you do so, and three, how will Lorenzo eventually release such a huge sum from its hiding place without being discovered?’

  Maddalena is nodding now. ‘The first, I think I understand. The
Libro Segreto, which I looked after for many years, maintained the overall summary of assets and liabilities as seen by the holding company, or, when that was disbanded, by the family. So all you had to do was to make a transfer from one of the branches to the centre and then to make an entry in the books saying it has been loaned to someone else. The obvious name is Sforza in Milan. But of course, they never saw the money. It went to . . . where did it go to?’

  Donatello smiles and takes a leather folder from his pocket. From inside, he draws out a slim piece of paper. ‘It’s here. The solution to both the second and the third problem.’

  Maddalena takes the piece of paper and reads. The writing is unmistakeably Cosimo’s.

  Beneath the goldsmith’s secret

  Possession, lover, son

  There lies the stone of destiny

  Whose answer is but one

  Ten quarrels equidistant

  From where that once we lay

  My final diminution

  Holds Lorenzo’s destiny

  ‘What does it mean?’ Maddalena shakes her head.

  Then, line-by-line, Donatello explains, and as he does so, the grin on Maddalena’s face gets broader and broader. Now, finally, she knows where the gold is hidden. Better still, Donatello has suggested a way for Lorenzo to retrieve it without his actions attracting attention.

  ‘That’s clever. That’s very clever. Cosimo always looks ahead; this time, he has recognised that at the very time he is likely to need the money; Lorenzo might be under the most extreme political pressure. The last thing he would thank his grandfather for would be an opportunity that turned itself into a problem. So retrieving the money secretly becomes the key to it all. This way, Lorenzo can draw the money from its hiding place under the maximum public gaze, yet without attracting the attention of even the most suspicious observer. Whose idea was it?’

  Donatello tips his head from side to side, implying that the matter hangs in the balance. But finally, he stops moving and smiles.’ I have to admit, it was Cosimo’s. But I can take the credit for the way we hid the gold. It took some doing, but eventually it worked out extremely well.’

  He takes out another piece of paper, this one folded and creased. ‘I have done a calculation. Two hundred thousand florins, at nine to the troy ounce is nearly three quarters of a ton of solid gold.’

  Maddalena nods, absent-mindedly; her mind already beneath the chapel. Already she sees that her dreams of presiding over all the money in that little vault beneath the Medici Library will never now come to fruition. But the new plan is better. Much better, and with Donatello only a couple of years younger than Cosimo, she knows she remains its guardian. He loves her after all. He trusts her after all. How could she ever have doubted it? There was just a little uncertainty, that’s all. Because of the delays. A problem of communication. Understandable now.

  By the time their food has been brought and eaten, by the time she has told Donatello what she wants him to say to Cosimo on her behalf and by the time Donatello and his driver are ready to take the empty cart back down the valley, the full burden of her responsibility is beginning to make itself felt. Now, at last, she, and she alone, is responsible for the gold; for Lorenzo’s gold.

  She hopes she is up to the responsibility.

  Chapter 28

  The Earthquake

  Convento di San Damiano 1st February 1464

  It is the first of February; barely eight weeks since she was given her great responsibility, and Maddalena has still to decide how much to tell the abbess. Of course she had to confide that Donatello had brought news of the change of plan. And yes, she had admitted that the new plan was already in place; and no longer, except as far as the first deposit was concerned, involved the Convento di San Damiano. But so far, she has not brought herself to show the abbess the poem nor to tell her what secrets it represents.

  Madonna Arcangelica has taken it stoically. ‘The repairs to the roof will have to wait, I suppose. It’s God’s will. We shall struggle on, as we always have.’

  Now it is nearly midday and they are all walking quietly into the chapel for Sext. Stomachs are rumbling, for all they have eaten was the lightest refreshment after Prime and the main meal of the day is still nearly an hour away.

  As Maddalena takes her seat and places her breviary in front of her, there is a thunderous roar, deep underground. Her first thought is for the vault. Did they dig it too deeply? Has the work Cosimo instructed, somehow weakened the foundations of the chapel? As if to share her concern, a small piece of timber comes away from its long-established place somewhere amongst the roof beams and falls, crashing down, a few feet away from her.

  Maddalena flinches as dust and tiny splinters spatter her habit. She looks around her but nobody seems injured. And then she notices Elena, sitting forward in her pew, holding her head. Instinctively, Maddalena leaves her position and walks quietly and with due reverence, but nevertheless quickly, to where the girl is sitting. She leans over her and reaches out to stroke her forehead.

  ‘Elena? Did something fall and hit you?’

  Elena lifts her head and Maddalena sees blood on her forehead, and on closer inspection, a small splinter of wood still sticking out.

  ‘Here. Let me help you.’ She reaches forward and with great care, draws the splinter out, gripping it carefully between her fingernails. Instinctively, Elena pulls back and puts her hand to the blood and at that very moment, there is a second rumble; now many times louder and the whole building begins to shake violently. Elena ducks and as she does so, Maddalena reaches across her, as if to protect her head from any more danger.

  The roof beam is long, and although it is rotten at one end, where rain has been infiltrating the joint for many years now, it is still heavy. The grinding noise as it tears itself away from its neighbours and from the stone buttress that holds it in place is lost in the general cacophony, and now it falls, freely and silently, until it hits Maddalena in the small of her back, crushing the backs of the pews in front of, and behind her.

  All round the chapel, timbers and pieces of masonry are falling. The altar receives a direct hit; the crucifix thrown to one side disrespectfully by the heavy stones before they bounce forward, into the body of the chapel.

  There are screams as nuns run directionless, trying to escape from the maelstrom, yet everywhere they look there is carnage as the chapel tries to shake itself to pieces. And then, with one throaty roar, the vibration ceases; the shaking ends, and the only sounds are the coughing and whimpering of terrified women, the creaking of timbers as they still swing precariously, fifty feet above the ground, and the hiss of sand as it slides from joints in the stonework and falls, in a perfect arc, through the dust below, to make little pyramids in the marble of the chapel floor.

  What is it? Elena’s voice sounds even smaller than usual. There is a tremor in it; although she is trying to be controlled.

  Elena and Maddalena are on their knees, between two crushed pews; the roof beam across at right-angles. Its weight has smashed the backs of the pews down almost to seat level and the pews have been tipped towards each other, making a small dark church of their own.

  ‘I think it’s an earthquake. It seems to have stopped now but there may be more. You can never be certain. We had one in the city, years ago that repeated five times.’ Maddalena’s face is inches away from Elena’s and they are whispering to each other, as if afraid of causing more roof falls.

  ‘Can you move?’

  The girl nods her head. ‘Yes. The pews are jammed together above my head but I can wriggle backwards.’

  ‘Then release yourself and crawl to the area where you see the least debris on the floor. That should be the strongest place and therefore the safest.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t think I can move. I’m trapped. I think I’m caught beneath the broken pews and the beam itself. It’s hard to tell. I can move my arms but my hips appear to be jammed.’

  ‘Can you push with
your toes?’

  ‘I can’t . . . feel my toes. Or my feet. Or my knees. I can’t feel anything below my waist. Don’t worry, Elena. Forget about me. Make yourself safe.’

  Gingerly, Elena wriggles backwards and finds she can stand. Apart from the original cut on her forehead, she is unmarked and uninjured. She looks around. In front of her is a great pile of timbers, including the one that is trapping Suora Maddalena, whilst above, there is a great hole in the roof. On the edges of the hole, timbers are sticking out, torn sheets of lead are twisted grotesquely, and pieces of masonry are balancing, precariously, still ready to fall at any minute.

  ‘Quiet Sisters. Take command of yourselves. We have had an earthquake. There may be further tremors, and as you can see, the building is not safe. Make your way outside and stand across the courtyard by the old well. You will be safe there.’ The abbess’ voice is soft but commanding.

  ‘Elena. What are you doing girl? Don’t just stand there! Make your way outside with the others.’ The abbess is pointing towards the door.

  ‘But Suora Maddalena is still under here. She is stuck fast.’

  ***

  From her position beneath the pews, Maddalena can see two pairs of feet, facing each other. That Elena can be a defiant little soul when she wants to be. One pair of feet turns toward her and she hears a familiar voice.

  ‘Suora Maddalena. Can you hear me? Are you injured?’

  Maddalena tries to ease her back. There is a growing pain now, as of bruising to her upper back. But the overpowering sensation is lower down—an all-encompassing numbness.

  ‘I believe my back is trapped.’ The words come out as a hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘I will send for help to the Badia and down to Bivigliano. We will need men with lifting gear. Builders or farmers.’

  ‘Is anyone else injured?’ Maddalena’s first instinct is to think of others.

  From her entrapped position between the smashed pews, she sees the abbess’ feet turn one way, then the other as she surveys the sorry scene. ‘There does not appear to be anyone else left in here. They must all have made their way outside. I saw few injuries around me, but I cannot be sure. Your predicament appears to be the most serious.’