The House of Medici

by Edward Charles

  ***

  The lesson is still ringing in her ears, and is the reason she approaches her question with some trepidation. Because today, once again, she wants to ask a question about Contessina.

  It’s two weeks now since she responded to Cosimo’s instructions and travelled with him from Rome to this, his family home in Florence. He calls it his home but she knows he does not feel truly at home here. Because it’s not really his house. It’s a Bardi house; brought by his wife to the marriage as part of her dowry, located in Oltrarno, literally across the Arno River, on the south side, and deep in the old Bardi enclave.

  Still, in many respects, Contessina’s house. And Contessina has been twice as bad as she had expected. Maddalena is now seventeen and Contessina almost twice her age—only a couple of years younger than Cosimo, and she’s huge. She’s not just fat—although bearing two sons has obviously plumped her up a bit—but large; broad in shoulders as well as hips. She sails round the palazzo like some great ship, her ornate gowns inflated like sails. Being so large, and wearing stout leather shoes (no doubt, Maddalena thinks, to prevent her ankles from swelling any further) you can always tell when she is coming; her great clumping footsteps on the stone floors precede even her low, booming voice.

  Her true name is Lotta, but everyone calls her Contessina. And that’s one of the questions Maddalena wants to ask.

  ‘I hope you don’t think me impertinent, and I do not intend to be so, but why do you refer to your wife as Contessina when you call her Lotta to her face?’

  To her relief he smiles. ‘My wife’s given name is Lotta, but we all call her Contessina—the little Contessa; as a sign of respect and in recognition of the fact that her father, Alessandro, was Count of Vernio.’

  Maddalena nods, disappointed. I got that wrong. She had convinced herself it was a joke—a double joke, partly to reflect Contessina’s rigid adherence to what she called ‘The Standards of Nobility’ (a phrase she seems to use with monotonous regularity, even though, as Cosimo keeps mentioning, she has married into a family which takes a public pride in being popolari or commoners), and secondly, the diminutive, used simply because she is so huge.

  She knows her other question is a delicate one, but she must ask it, if only to clarify the security of her position in these rooms. She is never sure whether one day, Contessina will come sailing into the studiolo unannounced.

  ‘Why does she never enter these rooms? Does she have no interest in banking?’

  Cosimo looks at her closely and she realises that he has guessed the reason for her question. Perhaps that is why he seems willing to answer it.

  ‘On the contrary, Contessina is from a banking family. The Bardi Bank has been internationally famous, and a hundred years ago, was considered one of the “Three Pillars of Christian Trade”, together with the Peruzzi and the Acciaiuoli banks. But banking, as I have told you before, has always been a risk business, especially if you begin to lend to kings and warriors. All three of the banks I have mentioned made the same mistake and all three failed at about the same time. Her own family bank was brought down by the unwillingness of the King of Naples and Edward III, King of England, to repay their debts. Never trust kings: they think the obligations of honour only flow in one direction.

  ‘Contessina has been brought up in the tradition of masserizia; the “quality of shrewd economic management” which has been the creed of her careful family.’

  He grins proprietorially. ‘She will wring the neck out of every florin in her housekeeping budget. For that reason, we have divided our responsibilities. I look after the bank and have these few rooms as my private empire, where I can remain undisturbed by daily family life and concentrate on business. My wife, meanwhile, runs the household and has the whole of the rest of the house as her domain. And very well she runs it too.’

  Maddalena nods, her question not entirely answered. She considers repeating the question, but dare not.

  As if to come to her rescue, Cosimo continues. ‘I leave her to run the household and look after the family and she and the children give me the privacy I need to manage the affairs of the bank.’

  He nods conspiratorially. ‘The absolute privacy I need.’

  A pause, then he begins to smile. ‘Does that answer your question?’

  As if to prove the point and without waiting for her reply, he takes the top button of her gamurra and undoes it. With his eyes on hers, he runs his finger down to the next button and slowly begins to undo that too.

  ***

  Maddalena smiled at the abbess.

  ‘So yes, in answer to your question, Cosimo did keep his word, although it required the whole household to be turned inside out for it to happen. It didn’t take me long to recognise that Cosimo and Contessina were like chalk and cheese; complete opposites. Whilst she was in the kitchens, ensuring the cooks did not waste anything, in the room above, Cosimo would probably be talking to Donatello about creating a grand new sculpture, in pursuit of his own, completely opposite policy; that of magnificentia.

  ‘But make no mistake, strong a character as Contessina was, and respectful of her position as Cosimo remained, he was careful to arrange his affairs in such a way that he got exactly what he wanted. And that, I am pleased to say, included me.’

  The abbess smiled, benignly. ‘So you survived?’

  Maddalena nodded. ‘It was that difference between them that gave me my opportunity. I soon accepted that while Contessina ruled the house, she played no part whatsoever in the management of the bank or in the affairs of state in which Cosimo was becoming increasingly embroiled. My answer was clear; I would concentrate my attention on Cosimo’s studiolo, on the books of the bank, and, if he would let me, on talking to the bank’s clients. The bank, I knew, was where his heart was, and that was precisely the place where I wanted to be.

  ‘So that was what I set out to do. It was only after about a week, when everything seemed to be falling into place with remarkable lack of difficulty, that I remembered what Cosimo had said in this letter.’ She picked up her copy of the letter and read from it, aloud.

  ‘. . . 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.’

  She looked up. ‘Clever Cosimo. He had, of course, worked it all out, even before writing to me. He had realised that bringing a young black slave into the family home would drive Contessina to despair, and so it did. But by emphasising my position as part of the bank, by setting me up in the studiolo, (which as far as I recall, Contessina never did enter in all the years I was with them) he kept us separate; one in one part of his life and the other in the other part.

  ‘It wasn’t always quite as easy as he had perhaps hoped. I ate with the family and lived amongst them, as did an increasing number of visiting artists, poets, philosophers and men of ideas who happened to be passing through the city. Contessina accepted her burden with resignation, and was always civil, but the atmosphere was at times brittle, especially when the house was full.

  ‘For all her limitations, and I soon learned they were greater than Cosimo had acknowledged, he was careful to respect his wife, at least in public, and he never placed her in a position of embarrassment. His studiolo (where once again he placed my bed) was in a separate wing of the house and his personal bedroom was next to it. His wife had her own, much grander room, in another wing. Between Cosimo’s bedroom and the studiolo, and joined to each by a small door, was his bagno, which was both his “house of easement” and his washroom, and it was through there that he would call for me in the evenings. In that manner, Cosimo could maintain the pretence that I was just a slave, working for the bank and keeping his private papers in order, and Contessina could save her blushes by appearing to ac
cept that fiction as the truth.’

  Maddalena sat back and smiled. It was a weary smile, partly driven by long since happy memories, and partly by memories of unhappiness, whose wounds the intervening years had only partially healed.

  ‘And that was how you continued?’ Madonna Arcangelica had her professional, benign smile on her face, which suggested she was, once again, hiding a response or suppressing a question. Perhaps, this time, she was simply suspending disbelief, for only those who had known Cosimo, experienced the power of his position and his money, and felt the dominance of his personality, would understand how such a transparency could have been made to work.

  Maddalena put her letter back into the casket and as she did so, noticed the next, lying beside it. In an instant, more thoughts flooded back. ‘Yes. That was how we continued. Until my son, Carlo came along.’

  ‘Your son. Of course. A somewhat public refutation of the pretence.’ The abbess appeared about to ask another question, but then she noticed how the light was fading. Soon the Vespers bell would ring and they would have to descend those steps more rapidly than she liked.

  ‘I am sorry, Suora Maddalena, but we have run out of time. Your son, I fear, will have to wait for next time.’ She rose to her feet and winced as a stab of pain ran up her back. She rested, holding the back of the chair for support, as opposite her, Maddalena was also taking her time. Two old ladies, with more behind us now than in front Maddalena thought.

  The thought seemed to strengthen her bond with her guest. Suora Maddalena held open the door and the abbess crossed the room. As she reached the door, she paused.

  ‘Thank you Sister, as always, for the clarity and the candour of your answers to my questions. Sometimes they must seem very naïve to one so experienced in the ways of the world.’

  She turned back towards the door, and then paused again. ‘I have enjoyed this conversation. With your agreement, I should like to continue, over the coming weeks. But I am aware that the world you are describing is so far from my experience that I no longer even know what questions to ask. But you do. You understand the nature of the void within me, I think. You know the questions I would ask, if only I knew them. So perhaps in future, we could dispense with the formality of questions from me, and you, if you would be so kind, can take me straight to the answers.’

  Maddalena bowed her head in liking and respect. Despite the enclosure of so much of her life, Madonna Arcangelica had courage, sincerity, gravitas and a deep human generosity. She put a hand on the abbess’ forearm and squeezed it.

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, Madonna. You will have deduced by now, that in replying to your questions, I am also addressing a question of my own; whether my life has had any real meaning and value and whether, in pursuing it, I have acted honestly, truly and with respect for others.’

  Madonna Arcangelica smiled. In the cross-light, her eyes alternated between hazel and grey, but always calm, dignified and sincere. She nodded, swiftly, dismissively, just once. ‘At our age, that is a natural question to ask ourselves. Let us keep meeting. Somehow I think it does us both good.’

  Maddalena patted her arm and nodded back. ‘I too, would like to continue. From next week, we shall continue as you suggest; without need of questions.’ She closed the door as they passed through and they began the steep climb down the stairs towards the easier stone steps below. Any later and they would have needed a candle.

  Chapter 9

  Carlo

  7th November 1457

  ‘Two weeks ago, on the last occasion we sat here together, and just as the light was fading, I mentioned my son, Carlo. Let me now tell you something about him.’

  Suora Maddalena looked to the abbess for confirmation and Madonna Arcangelica put her hands together in agreement and encouragement; her expression a picture of anticipation.

  ‘I had been living with Cosimo in Florence for about four years, and everything had settled down. Contessina had her empire and I had mine, and apart from mealtimes, our paths rarely crossed. Her two sons were growing; Piero was twelve and little Giovanni—the imp—was seven. Contessina did her best to keep us apart, but boys will be boys and the more she discouraged them from talking to me outside her presence, the more they wanted to do so.

  ‘Piero was awkward in my company; always seemingly conscious that being found talking to me might result in his mother’s disapproval. He had developed all the mannerisms of a nervous boy; one who is uncertain about life and his place in it. He adored his father, but held him in such high regard that he was almost dumb in his presence. Somehow I think their relationship always suffered from Cosimo’s absence in Rome during Piero’s formative years. Piero was not quite four when Cosimo left for Rome and was nearly seven by the time he returned. He always seemed to try too hard to please his father and in so doing, never quite succeeded.

  ‘Giovanni was quite different. He must have been conceived immediately before Cosimo left and was born while he was away in Rome. He was a mother’s boy; spoiled and indulged and he assumed (quite rightly, as it turned out) that everyone would love him whatever he did. He was a natural imp; relaxed where Piero was stiff, funny where Piero was serious, and gregarious where Piero was reclusive.

  ‘Love Piero as Cosimo did, his high expectations for his eldest son brought out the worst in the boy. For a man who was slow and careful in coming to decisions, Cosimo was remarkably intolerant of hesitation in others. He became increasingly exasperated by Piero’s stuttering rigidity and as Giovanni grew in confidence and character, the comparison put Piero in a progressively worse light. Where Piero would wait in the doorway to a crowded room, unsure what to do next, Giovanni would run straight in and jump into his father’s lap with a wild giggle.

  ‘Like many younger sons, Giovanni was afraid of no one, least of all, his mother. Oh of course he loved her, in his own way, but over the years, her attempts to favour Piero, not only as her first born, but also to try to compensate for his awkwardness, fed Giovanni’s independent spirit, and as far as he was concerned, if his mother wanted his affection, it would be on his terms.

  ‘As he grew older, he began to play the same game with his father. Realising Cosimo’s frustration with Piero, and knowing that as second son, he had nothing to lose, he played up to him mercilessly.’

  ***

  CASA VECCHIA, VIA LARGA, FLORENCE

  3rd November 1427

  ‘I’m going to be lonely without him.’

  Cosimo is staring out of the window, but Maddalena knows he is not looking at anything in the street. Not looking at anything outside his head. Instead, he is looking back, to his childhood.

  She’s seen this face before; when he takes on that lost look and becomes maudlin. Now, with Giovanni di Bicci on his deathbed, the moods are becoming more frequent. She hopes, once the old man is dead, that Cosimo will be able to accept the fact and to shake off these bouts of nostalgia. It’s good to remember the past, but after a while, you have to get on and live in the present.

  ‘He could see it all, you know. Giovanni. He told me exactly what I must do.’

  She looks up. That’s interesting. He is already talking about his father in the past tense.

  Despite the unexpected change of tense, she prepares herself for what she is sure is coming next. Soon she will hear (for the thousandth time) the homilies which his father had forced upon his son, about the way he must behave. To be fair, the old man had known that to make real money you needed to be able to predict (and in reality that meant to influence) events. And he had known well that in the Florentine Republic, the nobility were debarred from holding office, lest, like elsewhere, they used their position to grab control. And of course, as she had been reminded so many times, no Medici worth the name would let himself be deterred from rightful action by some minor rule or piece of misguided legislation. So Giovanni di Bicci had taught young Cosimo how to have it both ways. And now Cosimo will spell it all out to her once again.

  Yes, she knows what will come
next; she can hear the words already. She knows them as well as he does.

  Dress like a lord and say as little as possible. How often had she heard that repeated?

  Never appear to be a prince or to want to become a prince. That one always makes her smile. Giovanni had, surely, said that cynically to his son Cosimo; the same son he had married into the noble Bardi family, whilst marrying his younger brother, Lorenzo, to an equally noble Cavalcanti.

  Do not hang around the Signoria as if it is a place where you do business lest they think you are seeking power. At least that was clear in its understanding, especially when followed by only go there when you are summoned and only accept offices when they are bestowed upon you.

  Yes, Giovanni di Bicci had recognised, right from the beginning, that in the interests of the bank, you had to control political events. But at the same time, he had known that in the interests of political survival in a self-conscious republic, you must not be seen to be taking control by the masses. How had he reconciled those two necessities? By using his money to buy alliances, partnerships, and agreements with others in powerful positions and to garner political support whilst pulling the strings from the back of the room. That’s how.

  But the thing that Cosimo never fully faced was that although Giovanni di Bicci had understood the need, he had never really succeeded in making it work. Yes, his generation had built the bank and made a fortune, but they had never really attained political power. During most of Giovanni’s active lifetime, that had remained with the old money; the Bardi, the Peruzzi, the Stozzi and the Acciaiuoli, but especially with the Albizzi. And to a large extent, truth to tell, it still did.

  There was no doubt that Cosimo, having had it drilled into him over his childhood breakfast table, understood. The question now is, will he, once his father is no longer there, manage to pull the trick off?

  She remembers Giovanni di Bicci’s final, damning phrase. To confide in a man is to become his slave. Can Cosimo be that cynical about the people around him? Perhaps he can. Somehow, she feels the next year or two are going to test him.