She tapped her nose, letting Maddalena into a secret. ‘I think they have agreed a rota, between themselves, to ensure that at least one of them drops in on me every time I have an afternoon of contemplation.’ She paused, catching her breath, and then banged merrily with her stick on the heavy chestnut planking of the floor. ‘But I’m safe here. None of them can make these stairs.’
She sat back and smiled. That little triumph seemed important to her. She pointed to the folding doors with her stick. ‘Do you think we could sit out there, on the balcony, this afternoon? It should be quite warm until the sun goes over the hill, and by then it will be time for Vespers.’
Maddalena jumped at the chance. ‘Oh of course. How silly of me. Let me take your chair.’ Between them they carried the two chairs onto the balcony and sat, facing each other. Now that she was rested, Maddalena could see urgency in the abbess’s face. It seemed she had a question to ask.
‘Having met the great man, and discussed affairs with him, face-to-face, I was intrigued by what you described as your close relationship with the Magnificent Cosimo. You told me you had been with him for thirty-six years. How, then, did you first meet?’
Maddalena had been thinking about these meetings and how to prepare for them. She sensed that the abbess saw her as something exotic, perhaps one of the first black women she had ever seen. So if their discussions were to prosper and continue, and Maddalena fervently hoped that they would, then she must be informative but at the same time, she should also maintain the mystery.
‘He bought me.’
‘He bought you?’ In that one short sentence, Maddalena could see that the abbess was hooked. Her eyes opened wide. ‘Where?’
Maddalena considered for a moment and decided to tell the whole story.
***
RIVA DEGLI SCHIAVONE, VENICE
3rd June 1421
‘Send out the next one.’
She knows it’s her turn and takes a deep breath. They push her out, embarrassed and terrified, in front of a small audience of noblemen and merchants, and immediately a thin-faced man near the front reacts. He signals for her clothing to be removed and to her dismay, as she turns in front of him for his inspection, he nods his approval.
The man makes her flesh crawl. He has a nasty, weasel face; without sign of humanity. He speaks a few words to the slave master, pointing to her, and she sees the trader nod in confirmation, signalling what he thinks is her age with his fingers.
Instinctively, she shrinks back, disgusted by him. Surely she will not be bought by this one? Not him. Please God not him.
She had feared from the time the pirates sold her, in the port of Ulqini on the Dalmatian coast, that this would be her destiny. They had singled her out early; the slave trader examining her carefully before he paid for her, and then warning his men not to touch her. ‘This one’s worth money’ he had said.
On the week-long sea voyage to Venice she had been fed well and not put in chains as most of the others were, and as soon as she was separated from the other slaves on the Riva degli Schiavone and sent to the indoor market, the one for the ‘personal’ slaves, she had guessed what was going to happen. And there was nothing she could do about it. Once separated from your true family, there is no kindness in this world. Just greed and the power of one man over another.
But now, to her surprise, the thin-faced man leaves hurriedly, and she finds she has been withdrawn from the sale. She is fed and bathed once again, but what fate awaits her, she cannot, dare not, imagine.
In the early evening, the man returns; this time with another; a tall, confident-looking man, a noble to whom the thin-faced man defers like a humble servant.
‘A sound virgin, Magnificence. Free from disease and, they say, aged about twenty-one.’
Inwardly, despite her fears, she smiles at that. It is a mistake she is used to. As a child she was always tall for her age, and since she was quite young, the taut lines of her cheeks, the high cheekbones and the thin, aquiline nose—have all given her an air of self-confidence that belies her true age. A virgin she certainly is, and, as far as she knows, as free from disease as anyone, but in truth her age is only just fifteen.
Her parents—both Circassian; her father a doctor, her mother a poet—had treated her like a young adult since she was quite small and the children she had been brought up with in Palermo had all been years older. And then, suddenly, her life had changed. In the middle of a long-planned family voyage from Syracuse to Venice, a pirate ship had struck. Both of her parents had been killed in the vicious attack and she, fearing for her own life, had been taken to be sold into slavery in the Dalmatian port.
And now, within a week, here she is, being sold again, this time in Venice and her body soon to be the property of the highest bidder.
Yet somehow, it is at this, the lowest point of her life, that she finds strength. She remembers her father’s voice, speaking to her, just before her last birthday; quietly, yet firmly, in the slow reassuring manner that she treasured in moments of uncertainty. ‘Remember, Octavia, when faced with adversity, you must address it with confidence. People will accept you as the person you believe yourself to be. The outcome is never entirely of their making, but also of your own.’
She looks across the room, where even at this moment, these two strangers are haggling over her future, and she realises she has to face reality. She knows, with a clarity she has rarely experienced before, that there is no point in collapsing in tears, or complaining that the world is unfair, because there is no one listening.
The world is unfair, as her parents recently discovered; her father hit in the neck by a boarding axe, falling, gurgling in his own blood not twenty paces before her. At least he must have died quickly. Her mother, seeing his fate, had screamed and run at the men, clawing at their faces with her fingernails. And the leader of the pirates, the tall one with the scar on his face, had flung her over the side with one half-interested flick of his wrist and hardly bothered to turn and look as, screaming that she could not swim, she had sunk beneath the waves, as the ship, captured but still out of control, sailed on.
And she? She had cowered against the strakes of the ship, her face pressed hard against the rough wood, too petrified with fear to do anything but wonder how and when she was going to die.
But she hadn’t died. The pirates, their bloodlust sated, had begun to take stock of their prize. Their leader had seen profit in her young body and kept her for the slave market. And as her first mind-numbing fear had begun to subside, she had reached the lonely conclusion that whatever happened to her now, the only person she could rely on was herself.
It is that thought that she clings to again now as she decides, with a steely resolve that surprises her with its forcefulness, that she must face the harsh reality of the world, must make what she can of the situation as it arises; and that the shape of her future, if she has one, depends on the nature of the man who buys her.
With an eye that feels more like a predator’s than a victim’s, she looks hard at the newcomer, and she senses wealth and power. Even though he is simply dressed; his coat and his cap are scarlet like those of the group of cardinals she saw crossing the piazza, and she can see they are made of the very best materials. He looks old—not as old as her father had been, but perhaps twice her age, perhaps in his early thirties. Already his face is creased with worry and she thinks he is remarkably ugly. He has a long nose and big ears—not unlike the elephants she had seen being unloaded when their ship first reached the harbour in Venice.
Yet at the same time, there is a paradox to this man. Although ugly, his manner is calm and kindly; his eyes are not hungry like most of the men in the room had been, and as he turns and looks towards her again, his eyes appear considerate and thoughtful.
‘Will you remove your clothing please? And turn around, quite slowly?’
At least he said please. His manner of speech is soft, and refined, his accent strange to her Sicilian ear—northern, yet not,
she thinks, Venetian. She has met many Venetians in Palermo and she knows their way of speech.
It is clear she has no choice but to stand, naked before this man. But perhaps, as her father suggested, she can influence his response to her. Besides, even in adversity, she has her pride. She will not cower in front of him.
She does as he bids and turns, realising, to her surprise, that she wants to please him. She finds herself standing tall, flexing her back so that her breasts lift. She turns, once, then again and faces him once again. And this time she looks him straight in the eye.
He responds, catching her look, almost falters at the directness of her gaze, then smiles and points to her clothes, lying beside her. She continues to look at him, and again he smiles and nods. And she is aware, somehow, that she has won a small victory.
Gratefully, she regains her clothing, and as she dresses she feels herself smiling back. She does not fear him now, as she had expected she would. Nor, for all his age and ugliness, is she repulsed by him. And he, for his part, keeps looking up at her, and although she cannot read his expression, she is sure he is interested.
The noble turns away from the slave master, leans toward the thin-faced man next to him, and starts to speak. He speaks very quietly, under his breath, and she has to strain to hear what he says.
‘You were right. She is a beauty. Much better than that other one you brought to me last year. The combination of dark skin and blue eyes is, as you said, particularly intriguing. And that slender figure—entrancing.’
He lifts his head, turns to the slave master, and for the first time she hears him raise his voice. ‘How much do you want for her?’
The slave master bows and rubs his hands together, finally sensing an opportunity. ‘Ninety-five ducats, Magnificence?’
She cannot believe her ears. The man’s courage must have failed him at the last minute. He has let his voice lift, making his reply sound more like a question than a confident proposal. That’s not the way to do it. Even she knows that. She wouldn’t have answered that way. Not to such a noble. It’s all going wrong; she knows it is.
She watches the noble, willing him to respond. Somehow she knows she will be safe with him. But not if this man makes such a hash of the negotiation. Too late! To her dismay, the noble wrinkles his nose, as if smelling something unpleasant, and shakes his head. He does not even bother to reply, but instead, turns away and begins walking towards the door. Her heart sinks.
‘I’ll take seventy, Magnificence. That’s my best offer.’ It is clear that after a day of preparation, the slave master can see his opportunity disappearing. It is also clear he has lost his nerve.
The noble and his agent keep walking, and for a moment, she is sure all is lost. Then, as they reach the door, the thin-faced agent turns and lifts a coin bag. ‘Forty. Best offer. Take it or leave it.’
Forty ducats! For the second time in minutes she feels rejected; humiliated. So small a price for a human body. It is a lot of money to her; it would have been a year’s income for her father, but it seems that the noble, with all his apparent wealth, does not value her very highly after all.
The thin man shakes the bag once and she hears coins chink inside. The slave master hesitates and the noble, still with his back turned, leans towards his agent. ‘Too much,’ he says. ‘She’s so skinny she could be a boy. Withdraw the offer before he accepts it.’ He is speaking loudly enough now for all to hear.
‘Done! Sold at forty ducats and here’s my hand on it.’ The slave master is running after them, while she still stands on the platform, her fate seemingly in the balance once again.
The agent looks across to the noble, who shrugs. ‘Too late now. You should have withdrawn faster, Antonio. Now you have offered and in good faith he has accepted. A deal’s a deal, whether on the Rialto or on the Riva. You’ll have to pay the agreed price. The Medici Bank has a reputation to maintain. Our word is our bond, here in Venice as in every one of our branches.’
The noble shakes his head, as if regretting the whole episode, and begins walking through the door, in disgust.
To her surprise, she is disappointed; fearing she must have lost him already. There was something strangely seductive about that man. Is she now to go to the thin-faced man instead?
Pulling a resigned face, the agent turns, slaps the slave master’s hand to seal the bargain, and gives him the jingling bag. The slave master opens the bag and pulls out a handful of freshly minted coins. She recognises the lily symbol—florins. Accepted anywhere and valued as far south as Syracuse and Palermo. So that explains his accent; he must be a Florentine.
She looks round, wondering what she should do now. The slave master beckons her to join the thin man and she follows him through the door into the sunshine, where, to her relief, his master has not left, but is still waiting; apparently not angry at all, but now with a smile on his face.
‘Meet your new master.’ The agent dips his head towards the quiet noble. ‘This is Cosimo di Giovanni de’ Medici, owner of the Medici Bank.’ He leans toward her condescendingly. ‘The richest man in the world’.
The phrase makes her shiver. She feels herself standing tall and arching her back again. Wealth and power, it seems, are like a great fire; you can feel their glow as you stand before them.
The noble brushes his agent aside and takes her hand. ‘And now, I am the owner of you, too, young lady.’ He nods, as if satisfied. ‘I hope you will prove to be one of my better investments.’
She looks up at him, surprised that she is unafraid. ‘But also, one of your smallest, perhaps?’
She sees him frown, and quickly she continues. ‘Although it is a great sum to me, for such a man as you, forty ducats must be a tiny investment to make. It seems the richest man in the world values me low?’
He looks down at her and his face breaks into a grin. ‘So! You have a fiery temperament. I like that. I have no time for meek women. Do you have a name girl?’
‘Octavia Lanza.’
He nods, considering. ‘I shall call you Maddalena, after that most characterful of saints.’
He takes her elbow, leans forward and looks at her closely. ‘You will be my personal slave. You do know what that means, don’t you?’ As he says it, he gives her a knowing nod.
She feels a glow of embarrassment and a tingle of excitement at the same time. ‘I think so, master.’
He smiles, but now his smile is serious, and his eyes are on hers as he speaks. ‘I am sure you do.’
To her surprise, he pulls back and begins looking at her, appraisingly, the frown entering his face one of consternation, not of anger. ‘You are not, I think, a typical slave. You seem educated. Can you read, by any chance?’
‘Yes, master. And I can write. My father was a physician in the Kingdom of Sicily. Whilst at sea, we were captured by pirates. My parents were both killed and I was sold into slavery.’
She sees him raise an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. So your life has recently taken a tumble?’
He looks away from her and then back again, as if finally making a decision. ‘So. I may have an additional task for you. We shall be going to Rome. When we reach there, you will live in my house and be responsible for keeping my studiolo clean and tidy. But you must understand; it is a place of business. A place of documents. A place of secrets. Only you will be allowed in there and you will tell no one of what you see there in the course of your work. Do you understand? No one.’
Her heart is thumping now. She can only nod her understanding.
‘And you must always tell me the truth.’ He leans forward as he says it, and she notices that, despite his age, his breath is fresh and pleasant. ‘Always. Do you hear me?’
His eyes are penetrating. But still, she thinks she has the measure of him now. She inclines her head. ‘As my master pleases.’
His smile softens into a grin. It seems that having made his decision, he is in good spirits. He lets her go and stands back, then points a finger at her. ‘As for value. The man wa
s a poor negotiator. I was ready to pay a hundred; perhaps more. He opened too low, and even then, he hesitated.’
His eyes look deep into hers, and he gives a tiny nod, as if in emphasis of what he is about to say. ‘Always remember this. It was he who undervalued you. Not I.’
Then, to her surprise, he leans forward and strokes her brow. His fingers are soft and gentle, and so now is his voice. ‘Never hesitate. When you are with me, in private, say what you believe, and say it confidently. Do you understand?’
She bows her head, but keeps looking at him. ‘Yes, master. Whatever you wish, I am commanded.’
She sees a little grin reach the corner of his mouth and decides to press further. She lifts her head and gives a little frown in return. ‘And if we are not in private? What then, master?’
For a moment, he considers. ‘That’s a good question. The situation will arise frequently. I occupy a position of responsibility; a position of authority.’ He raises a forefinger, the decision made. ‘In public, and in front of my family, you will always respond to the position, and not to me. We have a reputation to maintain; that of the Medici name. You do understand, don’t you?’
Again, she bows her head. Not too much. Not so much as to be fully subservient, but enough to show the respect he is clearly accustomed to. Just enough. And then, meekly, she says, ‘Yes master.’
The thin-faced agent turns away, hiding his grin, and she knows she has not overplayed her hand. Nearly, but not quite.
‘Come then. To business.’ Cosimo de’ Medici begins to walk away. And she falls into step; two paces behind him, as she has seen the slaves and servants do in Palermo.
***
The candle guttered in the convent cell next to Suora Maria Benigna and Suora Maddalena realised she had been daydreaming. The conversation with Madonna Arcangelica that afternoon had brought back so many memories. Memories she had thought long forgotten. Memories that had made her want to speak to Cosimo, to say something to him. Now, strictly against the Rule of the Order, she lit her candle and began staring at the first page of her new journal.
The House of Medici Page 5