The House of Medici Read online

  That first encounter. So long ago now; but once resurrected, the memories were still so vivid. This would not do. The Night Mistress would soon be round and by then her candle must be out and the smell of smoke dissipated or she would be in trouble. If she was to write anything, she must begin quickly.

  Kritsch. The pen scratched awkwardly on the pristine paper and left a blot of fresh ink ahead of the writing. Suora Maddalena gasped, and then, recovering, tutted quietly to herself. Her new journal, the very first page, and already a mistake. Pulling the candle closer and tilting her head slightly to the right for a clearer view, she took a piece of soft cloth and with her left hand, ever-so-carefully began to blot the ink away.

  She wiped the end of her quill and tried to look at it. Her aging eyes made it difficult to see in the candlelight, but it was clear that the point was damaged and split; she should have been more careful. She had been in too much of a hurry to start.

  Taking the sharp little penknife that Cosimo had given to her, she re-cut the nib and, holding it up to the candle, nodded. Yes, that’s better. Working slowly and now with infinite care, she tried again.

  I dedicate this, my journal, to Cosimo di Giovanni de’ Medici.

  Suora Maddalena looked at her handwriting and smiled to herself. The very name made her happy, and writing it, here in this convent cell, was, literally, an indulgence.

  Cosimo, son of Giovanni di Bicci, of the great family of Medici; the greatest man in the world, and the man who had changed her life. She smiled to herself. That had been the first time she had met him; there, in the slave market in Venice. It had been the beginning of a new life for her. A long relationship—thirty-six years.

  She looked at the new journal in front of her. Leather-bound, handed to her tearfully by Cosimo himself; one of his last actions before saying his red-eyed farewell. How many of her memories dare she commit to paper? She grinned to herself. Sadly, some of the best would have to be omitted, even though no one but Cosimo would read these pages. But she knew that he, too, would remember.

  She would pause until another day before writing more. The journal was too important to hurry. She must think before she wrote. What to write and what to hold back? It was a difficult question; a question that merited some serious thought.

  Chapter 6

  Be Strong

  24th October 1457

  Suora Maddalena sat in her room, high in the tower, and wondered what she should do. Cosimo had been very clear in his instructions.

  ***

  PALAZZO MEDICI, FLORENCE

  1st October 1457

  ‘I am relying on you, Maddalena. I am sure it is as before. They dare not attack me yet, I am still too strong, but I fear that my enemies are gathering their forces, waiting for me to weaken.’ His eyes widen as he describes his fears.

  ‘In the meantime, they are watching my houses, attempting to bribe my servants, and in all probability, already intercepting my letters. Under these circumstances, it really is safer that you should not write to me.’

  Perhaps he sees her face fall. Perhaps there is something he is not telling her. Whichever it is, he continues immediately.

  ‘I know how difficult that will be for you, when you are feeling isolated; cut off from the family which has been your life for all these years. I don’t know how long it will be before I am able to visit you again, and it is for that reason that I have given you this journal. Write your words to me in here, that they are not forgotten. Then, when I do visit you, I shall be able to sit with you and to read for myself the words you have addressed to me.’

  She looks at him and wonders. Wonders if he really means what he says. Their journey up into the hills from Cafaggiolo has, she knows, been excruciating for him; and although he is talking bravely of visiting again, she wonders how realistic his intentions really are, or whether, whilst caressing her with sweet words, he is already saying ‘goodbye’.

  If so, he maintains the pretence well.

  ‘When I can, I shall try to write to you; letters that I know can be delivered safely, by the hand of a trusted servant. But unless I give you instructions to the contrary, your replies should always be committed to this journal.’

  And with those words, he places the leather-bound volume in her hands and kisses it, before kissing her, for the last time, and departing. Her last view of him is his face, already racked with pain before the soldiers reach the first turn in the road beneath her. He stares fixedly at the tuft of hair between his mule’s ears and although she wills it so, he does not look back.

  Not once.

  ***

  All that had been three weeks before. But still the memory kept coming back to her; again and again, that same image. Why was it so persistent? What message lay hidden within it?

  At first she had been overcome by the disappointment that he had not looked up at her. It felt as if she was of such little importance to him that he had forgotten her within minutes of their parting. But now, as the image returned, it was not for herself that she found she was grieving, but for him.

  That was it. That was the hidden message his departing profile had been telling her. It was that look; not towards her, but towards the scruffy tuft of coarse hair between the mule’s ears. She tried to put herself in his position. To imagine it was she who was riding the mule back down the hill.

  Of course! It was obvious now. He had not been looking at the mule’s head at all, but at . . . nothing. Had she been able to see his eyes at that moment, she would have seen that they were not focused on the present, or on the mule that was carrying him back to Cafaggiolo and eventually to Florence. No. His attention had already been focused on the future—on the fate that awaited him once he returned, as inevitably he must, to the city.

  ‘Be brave, Cosimo. Be strong.’

  She heard herself say the words aloud and realised that they were what she wanted to write. She picked up the quill, checked that the nib was not crossed, and dipped it carefully into the inkpot.

  Oh Cosimo!

  For days now I have sat before this journal, which you, in your thoughtfulness, presented to me, that I might speak to you through its pages . . .

  Maddalena smiled, her decision made. The first of many steps in her long journey now made and her confidence growing already. She had found her voice, the voice with which to address him. Now she would tackle her first subject. Suddenly she realised how frightening she found the task before her. Not the writing; she could write clearly, in a good hand and with few errors when she concentrated. It was the commitment; the finality. The realisation that once she put pen to paper, knowing (or at least hoping) that soon he would visit her, and read what she had written, it would be too late to change anything without spoiling this expensive and beautiful journal.

  She paused, placing the quill in its holder, and walked to the window. She had been about to write ‘be brave’ but even as she dipped her quill in the inkpot, she knew they were not the right words. What was the spectre that was already absorbing his mind, even before he and his retinue had left the convent courtyard? She thought back to what he had referred to as ‘the last time’—it was back in May of 1433, when the people had risen up against the Medici and had tried to arrest him.

  She had seen him then, running away from the city, stumbling in fear, too terrified to think straight. He had seen the others being thrown from the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria and was sure the same fate awaited him. On a number of occasions, he had woken at night, screaming and clutching his neck, terrified, his legs kicking outward, convinced he was falling to his final, agonising end. Those had been bad days, with the people running wild in the streets of Florence and the Albizzi family baying for his blood.

  But eventually he had made himself secure in the fortress of Il Trebbio, not far from Cafaggiolo, and he had begun to recover his nerve. What he had done then had told her a great deal about the inner man, although at the time, she had hardly recognised its significance. He had not returned to Fl
orence and confronted his accusers. No. Instead, quietly, he had looked, first, to the bank and to the family’s financial future, and secretly, he had begun to squirrel the money away: Venetian ducats to the value of 2,400 florins, placed in the hands of the Benedictine hermits at San Miniato al Monte. A further 4,700 florins handed to the Dominicans at San Marco for safe keeping.

  At the same time, the branches of the bank had been working overnight: 15,000 florins had been transferred from the Florence branch to the Venice branch in one hectic day, and all the securities at their disposal had been transferred from Florence to the papal branch of the bank, in Rome. Even then, Cosimo had known that his financial power and the reputation of the Medici Bank were what sustained the family’s political strength, and his first instinct had been to protect them.

  Now, it seems with the same happening again, Cosimo’s response is likely to be similar. But whatever specific action he decides to take, there is one thing she can be sure of. He will not be brave. He will be careful.

  Back then, twenty-four years before, Cosimo had been proved right. He had been recalled to the city, in order, they said, ‘for some important decisions to be made’. But they had lied to him; when he reported to the Palazzo della Signoria for their supposed meeting, the captain of the guard had not taken him into the meeting room, but instead had led him to the alberghetto a tiny upper room in the tower of the Palazzo, where he had pushed him in and locked the door. And that time, he had told her later, he really did believe he would never see the stairs again.

  The fear had haunted him. Already, he had told her, the sweat standing out on his forehead at the very memory, he could feel himself falling, flung from the tower with only one prospect ahead of him; the final, agonising wrench as the rope pulled tight and broke his neck.

  ‘What can it be like?’ He had gripped her hands so tightly as he asked the question that she had winced with pain herself. ‘That last brief moment, as you feel your neck break? How intense can the pain be? Does the agony remain with you after death?’

  She had tried to reassure him, but of course none of them knew. She had calmed him and tried to lead the conversation away to less unpleasant matters.

  And despite his fears, that last time he had won. Almost immediately his preparations had begun to pay off. Although his enemies within the Albizzi had pressed hard for the death penalty, other members of the government, friends of the Medici family, and to a man well-bribed, had refused, and instead he had been exiled to Padua, in the Republic of Venice, whilst his brother Lorenzo had been sent to Venice itself. And Maddalena, eventually, had joined him there.

  The Medici had survived, and so had their money. And so, at least outside the city of Florence, by then controlled by the Albizzi family, had their reputation.

  Maddalena shook her head. Cosimo was not, in reality, a hero, as labelled by the city on his return, but a careful, subtle thinker; a calculator, a balancer of risks, and, above all, a survivor. Now, she was sure, the same mind, albeit older and more tired, would be following the same path again.

  How many times had she sat with him, privately, just the two of them, in his studiolo, in the room where he kept all his books, where he did his business and maintained the private ledgers of the Medici Bank? She was no casual visitor, for just as he had promised at their first meeting, Cosimo had put her in charge of his private office.

  From the first, she had slept there, in a little truckle bed that was pushed beneath the writing table during the day. She and she alone, had kept the room clean and tidy, and slowly, as he grew to trust her, Cosimo had begun to explain the purpose of the books of account, and allowed her to keep them in order. While he worked, she would sit on a small chair in the corner, and listen, and little by little, bit by bit, he had involved her in the workings of his office and given her tasks to perform.

  The studiolo had been linked to Cosimo’s private bedroom by a small corner room, in which he washed, shaved, and performed what he called ‘his personal tasks’. His wife’s bedroom had been on the floor above, and although he would visit her sometimes, most nights, he would appear through the privy room, in his nightgown, and signal Maddalena, with a jerk of his head, to join him.

  In the early years, he had been lusty, drawing her to him in his great bed with a fiery passion, but as the years passed, although the frequency of his summons hardly diminished, its purpose quietly changed. Now, as often as not, they would lie together, he in his long nightshirt, she next to him and always naked, as he preferred, a sheet covering them in summer and a heavy bedcover in winter; and he would talk. He would tell her of his concerns, of his cares and his worries and she would listen and wait. Wait until he proposed a solution, or made a decision. And then she would support him in his judgement, until his confidence was restored and he felt able to sleep.

  And then, her task performed, she would return, to her own bed ‘in the office’.

  That was how she had learned of his latest concerns. He had written to her from Careggi, in the middle of June, telling her to prepare herself for some important news, and she had nervously awaited his return to the Palazzo Medici. On his arrival he had made no mention of the matter, but, as always, had greeted his family, merely nodding to her as to a servant, as he always did in front of his wife.

  But then, on that particular night, he had called her in to his bedroom and told her of his concerns. It was, he said, similar to twenty-four years before, but this time, the forces against them were gathering, not directly against him, but in expectation of the weakness that would follow when he could no longer personally wield power. Already he could be bedridden for weeks at a time when his gout and arthritis were bad. But now, month by month, the good weeks were getting shorter.

  The problem was that Piero, his eldest son, was nearly as ill as Cosimo, whilst Giovanni, his favourite, seemed to be eating and drinking himself into an early grave. The words had come as no surprise to her. She had seen the three of them on more than one occasion; all in the same bed, trying to talk business, but all in such pain from their gout and arthritis that none of them could think straight.

  But even as they tried, the plates of rich food would still be brought to them and the red wine kept flowing—especially to Giovanni. How often had she thought that they were their own worst enemies? As her father had said to her years ago, back in Palermo, he could not prove that rich living, spicy foods or red wine were bad for you in excess, but the fact was, you didn’t see many poor people with gout.

  She could see it and, in his own way, she knew Cosimo could see it too. The future lay not with the next generation; neither Piero nor Giovanni was truly suited and neither was likely to last much longer than Cosimo. And then what? She knew what Cosimo thought. He put his faith in Lorenzo. The boy had it all; the brains, the style, the competitive instinct, and at the same time, the ability to charm the birds out of the trees. Lorenzo would, in time, be the answer. But Lorenzo was only eight years old. So the family needed time—ten years at least; ten years in which to tiptoe carefully towards the future. And ten years in which the assets of the bank had, once again, to be preserved for future generations.

  And so, through July and August, the plans had been laid and the arrangements made. Cosimo had done his part then, and she hers. Now here she was, and all she could do was to wait. But for how long?

  And in the meantime? All she could do was pray, talk to the abbess once every two weeks, think, and write. She returned to the desk and sat, taking up her quill once again and checking the nib before dipping it into the ink.

  Oh Cosimo!

  For days now I have sat before this journal, which you, in your thoughtfulness, presented to me, that I might speak to you through its pages. Yet I could not decide how, or where, to start. Now, as I remember that last, discomforted look as you rode behind the trees below where I now sit, I know what to say.

  I shall, indeed, speak to you through these pages.

  I shall write as I would speak, and when,
with God’s blessing, your pain reduces and circumstances allow you to visit me here again, I shall not allow you to read them, but instead, you shall sit in comfort whilst I read them out to you. And in this way, my journal shall not be made into some poor substitute, some replacement for a conversation between us, but instead, it shall be a temporary repository for my spoken words, a resting place, where they may be saved, until that wonderful day comes when they may be resurrected.

  On that day, knowing more confidently than reliance upon an old woman’s memory would ever allow, what it was I intended to say to you, I shall be able to address you fluently, my words preserved.

  Be strong, Cosimo. Even before you brought me here, when, back in the Palazzo Medici, you first explained your concerns and the reasons you had decided upon the need for my confinement, I could see how great were the burdens you faced.

  Now I am here, supporting you, knowing how deeply you have assessed the situation and how carefully you have put your plans in place. Have faith, Cosimo, as I do also. You have done the right thing and when your plan is complete, you will have secured the future as well as any man could possibly do.

  I await your next visit in confident anticipation, and remain

  Your ever-loving,

  Maddalena.

  Chapter 7

  Being with a Man

  31st October 1457

  ‘Is it really a month since you first arrived here? How time does fly.’

  It was another Monday; already the end of October, and as they were doing with increasing frequency, Maddalena and the abbess had just met once again. This time it was immediately clear that the abbess had a question she wished to ask, and equally clear from her uncomfortable fidgeting that she could not bring herself to ask it.