The House of Medici

by Edward Charles

  If the tide rose another two feet she thinks the water would flood in and then those pallets would be needed. Why do these Venetians live so dangerously close to the water?

  A servant helps her out of the gondola and she follows Cosimo across the limestone floor and up the wide stone staircase beyond it. They reach the first floor. ‘This is the piano nobile—where we spend much of the day and where, unlike my friend Ugolino, the wool trader who owns this house and works below, I do much of my business.’

  He points across the room. ‘It’s a convenient arrangement, which suits us both. You don’t need much to be a banker. Just a green-topped table and a reputation.’ He laughs; the first time she has heard him do so. ‘It’s easy really. Two ducats to make the table, and perhaps a hundred thousand ducats to build the reputation.’

  She’s not sure she understands the remark, but it’s clear she’s expected to laugh, so she does. The room is huge; like a ballroom, with paintings on the ceiling and on three walls and between them, mirrors, throwing light everywhere. Bright, yellow light from the enormous windows which run the whole length of the fourth side of the room. She walks to the nearest window, opens it and looks down at the water of the Grand Canal. The sunlight sparkling from little wavelets hurts her eyes and she turns back again, entranced and overcome.

  He takes her hand and leads her through a door, and up a smaller staircase, to the floor above. A small bedroom, cosy but somewhat dark after the room below. ‘You will sleep here.’ He points to the little bed in the corner. My own clean, dry bed. A great wave of relief floods over her.

  But then, almost immediately, she finds herself regretful, as if mourning some loss, and she realises that despite his age and her lack of it, despite his apparent experience and her innocence, despite her fear of the act itself, she is disappointed. Throughout the journey in the gondola, she has been preparing herself; tensing herself in expectation that this noble; a married man by his own admission will take her to his house, carry her to his bed and . . . after that, she has not been clear, but she has been preparing herself for it.

  Now, to her surprise, her initial sense of relief has turned to a feeling of rejection; the fear she had felt already banished, the shame of being turned away, greater by far than the expected shame of being taken by another woman’s husband.

  Cosimo sees the sequence of expressions on her face and seems to understand. ‘Come.’ He takes her hand and leads her through another door, into a room somewhat like the room below, although less than half the size. It’s still bigger than any room she has ever been in until today and as on the piano nobile, the light floods in through a wall of windows overlooking the canal.

  He sees her looking at the great bed at the other end of the room and squeezes her hand. ‘How old are you? Truthfully?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Will this be your first time?’ Imperceptibly, he pulls her towards him as he speaks.

  Instinctively, she knows this is another of those moments her father used to talk about. She tilts her head up to him and leans forward, arching her back. ‘Yes it will. You’ll have to teach me.’

  The expression on his face is tender, understanding. ‘I will. I’ll be gentle.’

  ***

  Staring out from her balcony, over the valley, lost in her memories, Maddalena turned, looked at the abbess, and saw she was staring back at her. For a moment she could not understand why, but then realised that this time, it was she who was covering her mouth, and tapping her fingers absent-mindedly, as if not trusting her lips to describe the vivid images that were streaming through her head.

  Such images. Such memories. Cosimo had been kind to her on that ridiculously sunny afternoon. She remembered how his expression had softened, as he explained exactly how it would be, when they reached his palazzo in Rome. How her room would be close to his, as was the little room here. How he would call for her when he needed her, how she would go to him, in his room, and how he would take her into his great bed, and make love to her, always with kindness and understanding, and not, as he said ‘as a beast’. And afterwards, he told her, she would return to the next room to sleep alone.

  She had murmured her understanding. She had nodded her red-faced acceptance, and then, in the late afternoon, with the sun still streaming in through the window, the curtains still open and moving in the breeze, the sound of the boatmen calling on the canal below, he had taken her.

  And he had been gentle. And he had been understanding. He had, she remembered with an almost uncomfortable clarity, been kindness itself, even removing his own clothing first and allowing her to look at him, to touch him, before encouraging her to remove her own.

  One promise he had not kept. She had not been sent to the adjoining room to sleep alone in that tiny bed. Instead, he had kept her. She had not left his bed until beyond dawn the following morning, when they were driven down by hunger of a different sort. By the time they breakfasted, the shy, virginal child had become a knowledgeable and confident woman, and the master of the slave had become her lover, at least in the privacy of his own, great bed.

  Three times he had taken her: the first carefully, seemingly holding back, as if afraid of hurting her.

  The second had been in the middle of the night. She had lain still, her head full of thoughts, while he had slept, his face soft and guileless, like a baby’s. Some time later, in the dark, when most of the boats had gone and her thoughts were drifting comfortably in the warmth of the cosy bed, lulled by the slap, slap of the waves in the canal below, she had sensed his wakefulness and, reaching out, drawn him to her.

  This time her response had been more confident, arousal replacing fear of the unknown, and recognising this, he had given way more fully to his passions, his urgency greater; less controlled and, to her surprise and amusement, his efforts considerably noisier.

  They had both slept then, until woken by the sounds of the fishermen arriving at first light to sell their wares at the Campo della Pescheria, across the canal. This time he had shown the initiative, teasing her into losing all semblance of modesty, by throwing the bedclothes to the floor, his arousal no secret in the dawn light. They had tumbled together playfully, drowsily, she exploring, he responding, but then, as the power of her position became clear to her, she began to hold back, to tease him, and as she did so, his desire for her—his need for her—increased, and she knew, already, that the rules between them had changed.

  They had not stayed long in that great house by the water. Within days, they were on the road, travelling to Rome, and his responsibilities at that branch of the Medici Bank. The journey had been long and arduous. Discomfort and lack of opportunity had kept them apart until they reached Rome and his home-from-home for the next two years. But that was another part of the story. A part yet to be told.

  But now was not the time. It was still too soon; too soon for Madonna Arcangelica and too soon for her. Instead, for the time being, she would steer her away, onto safer ground.

  ‘You asked what it is like to be with a man. I can tell you that from time to time, it is many things. When they are powerful, and successful, yet understanding and generous, it can be a great comfort. A strong man brings a feeling of protection. But when they are involved in battles, or political intrigues, they can be a source of deep-seated fear, as you face the prospect of losing everything. When they share their hopes and fears, their thoughts with you, the feeling of inclusion can be like the summer sun coming out. But when they ignore you, or hold you distant from their activities, it feels like being pushed out alone from a warm house into a freezing winter’s night. The courage and vision of a good man can be inspiring, yet his endless untidiness can be a source of demoralising frustration.’

  The ploy was successful. The abbess smiled, nodding. These were concepts she could understand and their very contradiction seemed to give them verisimilitude in her eyes. ‘I can see it must be wonderful to have a strong man close to you at all times. It has been my own source of comf
ort for all these years, for I know the Blessed Jesus is always there, beside me. Ever since I was thirteen and had the visions, he has always been there. He has never left me.’

  Maddalena looked at the beatific smile on the old abbess’ face and was pleased for her. Few seemed able to believe so absolutely. Including her. But the lack of faith that she felt creeping up on her was not her faith in God, but that in Cosimo, and his true motivation and intentions.

  Chapter 8

  Keeping a Man

  31st October 1457

  ‘Was The Magnificent One always at your side? He never left you?’ Madonna Arcangelica leaned forward as she asked the question.

  Maddalena smiled to herself. She crossed the room and opened the little chest on the shelf beside her bed. For the first few weeks, she had left it inside her great chest, covered by clothing, because she knew that strict interpretation of the Rule would not allow a nun to keep personal possessions, lest they remind her of her life before, and cause her to question her faith and her enclosure. But as the weeks had passed, and the abbess’ relaxed interpretation of the Rule had become clear, she had gained the confidence to take out the little chest, and even, on occasion, to open it and to read one or two of the letters she kept within. His letters. Cosimo’s letters. Mostly written when he was away, to announce his intended return, and therefore comforting in their memory. But the letter she sought now had been quite different.

  She had received it in Tivoli, right at the end of their stay there. Cosimo had returned to Florence on business and she had been alone amongst his temporary household, on the outskirts of Rome. And then the news had come.

  Maddalena,

  You will remember our discussion. Now it is decided. I shall, after all, be returning here to Florence to manage all the affairs of the bank from this house. I have appointed Bartolomeo de’ Bardi to act as my General Manager, and he will establish himself in his new position in Rome within the next month.

  I shall come back to Rome, to ensure that Bartolomeo is fully established in his new responsibilities, and then, perhaps after a further month, I shall return permanently, here, to Florence. You will accompany me on that journey and continue your duties as before, but this time, here, in the Palazzo Bardi.

  In preparation for the intended changes, please ensure that the books and ledgers of the Rome branch are carefully separated from those of the holding company, and especially the Libro Privato, which, as you know, is for no one’s eyes but my own.

  Cosimo de’ Medici

  Palazzo Bardi,

  Florence

  Dated this 7th September 1423

  Maddalena smiled at the abbess. ‘Please excuse my rudeness. Your question took me back to events many years ago, and I wanted to refresh my memory before replying. After staying in Rome with Cosimo for just over two years, he returned to Florence and soon decided that he would remain there and that I should join him and would live in the family home. This is the letter Cosimo sent me to tell me what was about to happen.

  ‘Reading the lines again, I can remember oh so clearly the chill that his words sent through me, because he was telling me that from that time onward, I should have to share him. Somehow, I had never faced the reality that one day he would return to his wife. Now here it was, in his own hand, and written with such blithe promises. But despite Cosimo’s position of power and his all-encompassing charm, this time, I could not believe his comfortable assurances. And in my heart of hearts I wasn’t sure he did either.

  ‘How could I live in the same house as Cosimo and his wife without losing the special place I had established during our stay in Rome? It is a good house and you will find the arrangements similar to our house in Rome he wrote. You will enjoy life here. My wife, Contessina, and my sons, Piero and Giovanni, will welcome you as one of the family. These were his very words. But try as I might, I could not make myself believe them.

  ‘The difficulty was, as Cosimo had told me, the family lived in the Palazzo Bardi, one of a row of palaces built over the years by the Bardi family. The whole street was, he said, still a Bardi family enclave. He had talked about it on a number of occasions. “Via de’ Bardi, in Oltrarno” may have sounded grand, but Cosimo did not like it. In his mind, it seemed, the house was not truly his, and lying as it did, between other Bardi palazzi, it was dominated by Contessina’s family.

  ‘You may not remember the area, Reverend Mother, but it had once been mean and dirty; years before, the road had gained the name of Borgo Pidiglioso, or Flea Lane, and Cosimo was uncomfortably aware that the enemies of the Medici still referred to it that way. It was hardly an address that enhanced his reputation.

  ‘Now all I could see ahead of me was a life like Tita’s; cleaning the kitchens, scrubbing the floors, remaining downstairs by day and sleeping up under the roof in the hot and clammy servants’ rooms by night, while my beloved Cosimo—oh yes I was deeply in love with him by then—led his separate life with his noble wife and his children, and surrounded by her relations, living on either side.

  ‘It was one of the really low points in my life. I had been torn from a loving family by pirates and sold into slavery. I had fully expected to be violated by rough men, but instead I had become the lover of the richest man in the world. I had progressed in his estimation during that time in Rome, and as I did so, my responsibilities had grown. Soon I was not only cleaning and tidying the studiolo and fetching and putting away the great ledger books, but actually writing the entries into the ledgers myself. Cosimo checked them, of course, but nevertheless, I was trusted, and I was useful.

  ‘Within months, Cosimo began to let me talk to the clients as they visited the house and waited for his attention. Clerics, bishops, cardinals; they all came and soon I came to know them and they came to know me. Yes, it is true I flirted with them, and why not? It does not take long to recognise when a cardinal cannot take his eyes off your bottom and when he does, well, why not pretend that the ledgers you need require you to lean right over the desk, immediately in front of him?

  ‘By the second year, they were coming early for their appointments, just to talk to me. Even Pope Martin V came in person, three or four times. He was the lewdest of them all and I had to work hard to stop him fondling me. But Cosimo turned a blind eye to it all. He said if I didn’t mind, then neither did he, and Bartolomeo de’ Bardi happily followed his example. By the time we had to leave Rome, Bartolomeo had even started to allow me to make the deposit entries into the Deposit Book, not for everybody, but for a number of cardinals who knew me well and trusted me to do it properly. And now, in one short letter, it was all about to disappear. Everything I had worked for seemed to be on the brink of collapse.’

  ‘And did it? When you arrived in Florence, was it really as bad as you had expected? Or was the Magnificent One able to keep his word?’ Madonna Arcangelica was clearly keeping up and had not lost interest.

  Maddalena cast her mind back. Frightening how the memories fade.

  ***

  PALAZZO BARDI, OLTRARNO, FLORENCE

  8th October 1423

  ‘Cosimo?’

  ‘Yes, my little one, of course. What is it?’ Cosimo gives her his most indulgent smile.

  Maddalena judges his mood carefully. It’s the look he reserves for the privacy of the studiolo, when things are going well; which is most of the time. In public and in the body of the house, he treats her coolly, as just another one of the servants. But here, in the privacy of the banking rooms, their relationship is entirely different.

  ***

  ‘It’s for your own protection, Maddalena,’ he had explained yesterday, after a small but uncomfortable disagreement. ‘If I were to act familiarly in front of the family, as I do here in the privacy of the studiolo, it would embarrass them and there is always the risk they might resent you. If they did, your life here could be quite uncomfortable, and we don’t want that, do we?’

  It was a bad time of the month, she had been feeling stubborn, and she had taken a chan
ce. Instead of accepting what he said and leaving it at that, she had answered his question with a question of her own. ‘When you say the family, you mean your wife?’

  ‘Not just my wife. Others too, might consider it inappropriate.’

  Immediately, he could see by her expression that she didn’t believe him. He stopped pretending, and admitted she was right. ‘Very well, yes, Contessina, especially, sees you as a threat.’

  ‘Because I am your mistress as well as your slave? Because you take me to your bed and make love to me? Because I arouse passions in you that she . . .’

  ‘Stop it Maddalena. Don’t ever talk like that.’

  He had raised his finger then, but God be praised he had not admonished her further. Here in the office, he still treated her as a child, with much to learn. Since their arrival, he had been generous and understanding; even allowing her to make mistakes; small social mistakes, from time to time. But never the same mistake twice. ‘Once is learning; twice is stupidity,’ he had said and she had never fallen into that trap again.

  But yesterday she had come close to getting it wrong. He had stopped her in her tracks, with his finger wagging gently. ‘Listen. I shall not repeat this. The position we are in here; you, me and my family, it is a delicate one and we must all be careful to make it work. That involves an unspoken agreement.’

  She had watched the finger wag twice and known it was time to listen. ‘You will never compare yourself to my wife and I shall never openly admit to her that I sleep with you.’

  But surely . . . ? She had thought the words and even opened her mouth, but he had not allowed her to utter them.

  ‘No.’ He had been adamant. ‘Don’t say anything else. Contessina understands. Of course she does. She is very far from stupid. But it is understood between us that whatever I may do with you in the privacy of these banking rooms, I will never rub her face in it, never openly admit that I sleep with you and never show you kindness in public, because that might embarrass her and that I shall never do.’