“Surely the auditors would have detected such a fraud,” protested Mauricio.
“Only if it were clumsily handled,” asserted Bruno with great conviction. “If the partners and administrators of the companies that had bought great quantities of alum had no connection with the Medici, who could they claim from? The trick lay in the fact that the aforesaid partners and administrators were only figureheads, in other words, mere marionettes controlled by the great puppet master himself: Lorenzo Il Magnifico.”
“Do you have any proof for all you are asserting?” enquired Mauricio.
“God help me, no.” Bruno smiled. “I am only telling you some mere hypotheses, although it is true that there are certain coincidences that seem to stand out. Let me explain. I worked for one year for the Medici as an accountant for the company that managed the alum monopoly. I soon became aware that many companies that bought large amounts of alum were administered by people who had been given great amounts of money by the Medici Bank in Florence. Do you understand? I have no proof but I can do the arithmetic.”
“So why are you telling me all this?” asked Mauricio, although he suspected what the answer would be.
“Because you are intelligent, you want to prosper, and you have Lorenzo as your godfather. I have been observing you since you came to work here, and I am convinced you could go far with good professional advice. It is precisely because of this that the general manager is anxious you should not know too much. He is afraid you could be capable of finding out his numerous errors and report them back to Lorenzo in the hope of supplanting his position. I, on the other hand, do not have any chance of rising higher up the ladder, as I do not come from a good family nor do I possess a private income, but I do have a good head on my shoulders. Next year I shall be thirty. I can still dream of becoming rich one day! And you could help me.”
“By taking over Francesco Sassetti’s position?” asked Mauricio, somewhat surprised that Bruno had so openly put his cards on the table.
“Not necessarily … Nowadays, there are a thousand and one ways of becoming rich if one is observant and invests well. I lack money and contacts and you lack experience. We could form a good partnership. With my council, you could soon demonstrate to Lorenzo how much you have learned and all the clever ideas you have. Believe me, you will not lack florins to invest. What I really want is for you count me in as a partner when any opportunities arise in whichever business venture you might think of undertaking. By the way, one more thing: do not ever mention our private conversations to Francesco Sassetti. I would be dismissed immediately.”
Mauricio thought deeply. The sophistication of Florentine life was something that completely escaped him. Lorena’s family, as amply demonstrated at the wedding, were none too fond of him. The coolness with which they treated him would soon turn into admiration and acceptance once he had attained social prestige. If he wished to be considered an honorable man, he would have to become a rich one. Up till now, he had limited himself to covet the post of assistant manager of the tavola. However, to make successful investments in the complex world of business would prove to be far more rewarding. In order to achieve this it was indispensable to combine knowledge, experience, and imagination. Perhaps Bruno could be his man. Mauricio stretched out his hand in a friendly way.
“The agreement is made. As of today, we are partners.”
34
Villa di Ginori
November 2, 1478
“Monte Sansovino fell yesterday,” Francesco announced dramatically.
Lorena, like her father, lamented having lost yet another defensive position, but she was happy to have luncheon with Mauricio. When she was in his company, she felt more secure. Also, she could now feel that they were three: herself, her child to be, and Mauricio.
“Our great captain did not even come to defend the city,” lamented her brother Alessandro. “I sometimes wonder who pays him more: us or our enemies.”
Lorena considered that deception was inherent in human beings. In fact, she had married thanks to a stratagem of her mother, who had risked lying to her husband, assuring him that her daughter had missed her period two months running when barely five weeks had elapsed. In the face of such a scandal, her father had acted quickly to arrange the marriage with Mauricio. The ceremony had been more than intimate; in fact, it had been frugal and more gloomy than solemn. But the marriage had been blessed in the eyes of God. To complete her happiness, her long-wished-for pregnancy had finally been confirmed.
“Why do you trust an army of mercenaries?” asked Mauricio. “Their only loyalty is to money. If it were up to us Florentines to do battle, you can be sure that we would have stood up to the papal and Neapolitan armies.”
“You are no Florentine,” said Alessandro, contemptuously.
“We are merchants, not soldiers,” Lorena’s father pointed out. “We have always paid those who have fought in our name and until now the armies we have engaged have sufficed.”
Lorena suffered from the way her family treated Mauricio. Although he was her husband, they looked down on him. As far as they were concerned, he was just a young foreigner without class or merits. Fortunately her husband was imbued with boundless optimism. He understood that the unfortunate pregnancy had hardly won him much sympathy and that his social position was not the one her father would have wished for. Yet he was convinced that this underlying resentment was just a summer storm that would soon blow over when he showed them his true worth.
“But one has to admit,” said Flavia, lending Mauricio a helping hand, “that in this dispute our defenders are not worthy of our florins.”
“It is all the fault of that traitor, the Duke of Urbino,” deplored Francesco. “Florence had always employed him to command our armies. He is the best condottiero.
Unfortunately the pope’s gold is shinier than our florins, so now he is our enemy instead of being our ally.”
“What would happen if the enemy were to reach the walls of Florence?” asked Mauricio.
“This will never come to pass,” said Alessandro firmly, “but if it were so, we would know how to defend our city well.”
“Unless, of course, we reached some sort of agreement beforehand with the besiegers,” Flavia said, ironically. “It is not for nothing that we Florentines are admired for our negotiating abilities.”
Lorena could feel the tension in her back diminishing as the servants removed the soup of greens, carrots, and turnips. Mauricio had managed to elegantly raise the spoon to his mouth without bending his head too much, and only she knew the effort that lay behind his apparently natural manner.
“For now we can count ourselves lucky,” asserted Alessandro. “It is a miracle that with this captain, who only seems to be worried about keeping two days distance away from the redoubtable Duke of Urbino, that we do not have the enemy troops already in our midst.”
“Perhaps the Florentines are not the only ones who are clever at business,” suggested Mauricio. “After all, the Duke of Urbino is also a mercenary who will sell himself to the highest bidder. The longer the war lasts, the more they will have to pay him.”
“Time will tell, not our speculations,” Alessandro cut in. “Changing the subject, have you thought about where you want to buy yourself a villa yet?”
That was a blow below the belt, thought Lorena. Alessandro knew perfectly well that Mauricio did not have enough money to buy a house in the country.
“We have no need for one yet,” Mauricio answered, as if he could have bought one at any moment. “Lorenzo needs me in Florence. Furthermore, while the plague is still raging, I believe my wife will be better cared for with you all than in a villa where I could not keep her company. Especially now that she is awaiting a happy event.”
Lorena was pleased with the reply. Her husband had shown a degree of self-control by not rising to the bait and thus avoided opening a new front in the family wars. These would end eventually without insults or quarrels as soon as she gave birth to he
r first child, and Mauricio would be forgiven the sin of not being able to rely on a fortune or of having prestige in the only admissible way: climbing up the social ladder of endogamous Florentine society. She would take care of continuing to teach Mauricio the best table manners. He, in turn, could have given classes of gentlemanly behavior to her rude brother.
“Let us hope that the plague and this war finish soon,” intervened her mother, introducing a new subject of conversation aimed at bringing everyone together.
“Indeed,” agreed Francesco, “otherwise I do not know how much longer we will be able to hold out. In order to pay our army, Lorenzo has been obliged to levy more taxes. And in view of the crisis we are undergoing, some families are truly suffering.”
In reality, Lorena thought that Mauricio’s idea of having its own army was excellent, for in that way Florence would not have to devote vast amounts to pay foreign mercenaries whose only known loyalty was to money. Nevertheless, she prudently abstained from making any comment.
“The situation is certainly serious,” Alessandro agreed. “What with the Pontifical and Neapolitan troops surrounding our territories, we merchants cannot transport our goods overland. Chartering boats is getting more and more dangerous every day, as attacking ships flying a Florentine flag is now considered a legitimate act of war. If this goes on any longer many traders will go bankrupt and their employees be left without work.”
“You work in the Medici Bank and have access to Lorenzo,” said Francesco, turning toward Mauricio. “Does Il Magnifico have some trump card up his sleeve?”
Lorena felt immensely satisfied that her father, for the first time, had turned to Mauricio in search of answers that they could not satisfy. This was an implicit recognition of his position.
“As you know only too well, Lorenzo is paying three thousand mercenaries out of his own pocket. However, his attention is centered on convincing Milan and Venice to send more troops to our aid. The time and energy he is devoting to this end is unceasing. For the moment, there is little sign of any results, but if anyone is able to convince anybody of anything, it is certainly Lorenzo.”
Lorena looked at Mauricio and wanted more than ever to feel his arms around her. Mercifully, her wishes would soon come true when the meal had ended. God willing, she would soon be able to have that privilege every day. She commended her soul to the Virgin and promised that she would be her most faithful and humble servant if all those gathered around the table that day could be spared from the plague and the horrors of war.
35
Florence
December 7, 1478
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Mauricio contemplated the beautiful play of lights illuminating the main reception room of Lorenzo Medici’s palace. Scores of scented candles burned slowly in great bronze lamps hanging from the ceiling. On the table, glass cylinders surrounded by spheres filled with water contained beeswax tapers. The design, handiwork of the eternally enigmatic Leonardo da Vinci, managed to spread the light all around.
Mauricio was incapable of calculating the astronomical amount of money needed to light the palace in winter. Daylight was short and the nights were dark and cold. Fortunately, the magnificent fireplace situated next to the oak table was burning with enough strength to warm the four people that were sitting there.
“I have now completed my canon law studies at the University of Bologna and at last have transferred to Ferrara to start studying philosophy. What I find particularly extraordinary is discovering in authors of the past, before the coming of Christ, flashes of light capable of banishing the darkness with truth … that reality we are forever incapable of contemplating in its full grandeur.”
The person talking was Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, younger son of the Count and Countess of Mirandola and Concordia, an extraordinary intellectual, according to what Mauricio had heard. He was only fifteen, but already had a command of Latin, Greek, and other Romance languages. He was graced with a straight, long, and delicately formed nose, sensual lips, a high forehead, and long, curly hair. His entire physical appearance denoted not only beauty but also noble lineage. The bi-colored hose he was wearing, held up by a jewel-encrusted belt, was a clear indication that here was someone who wanted to stand out rather than to pass by unnoticed.
“Ah, so we share common interests,” said Lorenzo. “My grandfather Cosimo had the same opinion. For this reason he spared no expense until he succeeded in bringing to Florence the wonderful, lost writings of Plato and Hermes Trismegistus himself. Marsilio Ficino was commissioned to translate them. What a shame he was indisposed today and unable to be with us. In any case, my library is at your entire disposal for any consultation you care to make during your stay with us.”
Lorenzo was also a star who wished to shine, yet by contrast, his attire was far more discreet than that worn by the young Pico della Mirandola. He was quite content to wear a doublet and hose of the same blue but, it had to be said, of the very best velvet. Faithful to the theoretical ideals of the republic, whereby no citizen was superior to another, Il Magnifico dressed with a certain sobriety, avoiding ostentatiously showing off gold and jewels, or daring color combinations. The fabulous ring he had acquired was the sole exception. Mauricio admired Lorenzo for his versatility. Only a few hours ago, he had been attending to business with Tommaso Soderini, instructing him on his role as ambassador to Venice, a vital mission to obtain the much-desired reinforcements. And now, changing his mood completely, he switched to a relaxed discussion of classical authors, as if Florence were not at war. Fortunately, the icy cold had forced the enemy troops to retire to their winter quarters. It was necessary to make the most of this interlude to reorganize in a better way, otherwise all would be lost.
“I am extremely grateful for your offer and shall make good use of it,” answered Pico. “Ever since I was a child I have thought I should find wisdom in books, even if it were only a footnote at the bottom of the page. Now I am starting to see that bookshelves contain whole worlds of knowledge. But what is more, greater wisdom might well be beyond the reach of the written word.”
“An interesting point of view, which you share with Marsilio Ficino,” said Lorenzo, smiling. “Are you talking about something in particular or were you inspired by the heavens?”
“In truth there is much evidence that leads me into making such a bold statement. Thus, two of our eminent fathers of the church, Origen and Hilary, wrote that Moses received on the mountain not only the law of God but also a true interpretation of its veritable meaning. According to both bishops, the Lord ordered Moses to proclaim the law to the people, but forbade him to write about its secret interpretation which would only be revealed to those who were ready for it.”
“So how would you justify this restriction of information?” asked Lorenzo with great interest.
“Reading the Holy Gospel, I came across a passage in which Jesus Christ himself is the one who offers us an explanation: ‘Do not give what is holy to dogs, and do not throw pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.’ For reasons I cannot fathom, would it not be a blessing from Yahweh himself to hide the arcane meaning of the sublime divinity from the common people and show them only the outward appearance of the words? I cannot help being struck by the fact that neither Pythagoras nor Socrates, Plato’s master, ever left any written work. And even our revered Jesus Christ never wrote, apart from on one occasion on the sand for the wind to erase his words.”
“It would truly be a shame if you were to leave Florence without having met Marsilio Ficino, although your daring might prove somewhat excessive to him,” said Lorenzo, his eyes expressing enormous satisfaction. “Elias, what is your opinion of this talented young man’s comments?”
Mauricio was already acquainted with Elias Levi, an eminent rabbi who visited the palace quite frequently. A good friend of Il Magnifico, he was about forty-five years old and his whole persona radiated intelligence. Bald, wide-browed, his beard carefully tend
ed, and his eyes lively, his words were always forceful but also amiable.
“He has raised a discussion that is as old as humanity itself in a very brilliant way. In any religion, we will find individuals claiming they possess superior knowledge. Indeed, priests, rabbis, and imams are those who are ordained to instruct Christians, Jews, and Muslims in the correct interpretation of their respective faiths. But Pico goes deeper. He suggests that hiding behind the writings of every religion, there might be superior knowledge that can only be understood by the initiated few. This might possibly be so. Let us take as an example the Jewish religion, which I practice. There is a Hebrew book, the Zohar, in which important secrets are revealed, although interpreting them is extremely difficult. Well, I have heard eminent rabbis complaining bitterly that anybody could read it provided of course that they had the means to acquire it. According to them, this would involve two deadly dangers. The first would consist in that the person reading it would not be sufficiently knowledgeable to understand it, in which case they would interpret it wrongly. The second risk, even greater than the first, would be that the person who was able to understand its meaning would not have a sufficiently developed sense of conscience and would use the teachings in a selfish way, to the detriment of others.”
“The eternal arguments between freedom and security!” exclaimed Lorenzo dramatically. “How old should a person be before we allow them to handle a knife? When they are still a baby, still a child, or when they have become an adolescent? Some people should never hold a dagger, even when they are adults, and yet in certain cases it is useful for a child to be able to handle knives and even daggers. As always, the great questions never have simple answers.”
The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring Page 14