Seeds of Decline

by Edward Charles

  But Lucrezia’s smile had told him all was well. She had recognized immediately why he had chosen that part of the poem to interject. And although not every citizen of Florence might accept the description of their city as a desert, she knew it described fully the position in which he thought he found himself.

  Little more had been said. She had introduced him to two of the ladies he had not met before and he had been invited to remain, sitting beside the pool, and to share the rest of their entertainment. But he knew that to Lucrezia a greater communication had taken place, that she had recognized he knew her poem off by heart and that it had offered him the opportunity to declare his innermost vision of his own place in the world. And in being able to do so through the words of her poem, he had found a deeper affinity between them than either had previously recognized.

  Now, climbing the stairs, he felt a sense of trepidation. If the previous day’s events had opened the door to an inner sanctum, would that door remain open or would she, with a night to think about it, have decided to close it once again? She was, he was sure, a private person at heart.

  He knew the start to that morning’s conversation was important. And for that reason, he must be careful not to appear too eager, too presumptuous.

  Her expression as he walked in gave him some relief. ‘Good morning, Girolamo. How well you quote my humble poetry. Your point of entry yesterday was, if I may say so, inspired.’

  He grinned, nodding. ‘Thank you. I was grateful for the opportunity, Mona Lucrezia. Given the circumstances it was something of a gift. Even as you were speaking, I remembered the first time I read that stanza. It was in Ferrara and I had just been transferred to the Convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli as Teaching Master of Novices. I thought then it described the way I thought about my situation better than anything else I had ever read, and I still think so to this day.’

  Lucrezia looked at him, he thought gratefully. He had written enough to know that there is no greater reward for a writer than to be told your writing has captured the essence of a moment for somebody else.

  ‘Do you really see yourself out in the wilderness?’

  For a moment he wondered whether, once again, he was being teased, but the question appeared more kindly than probing.

  He paused. It was an important question, especially when asked by someone as perceptive as Mona Lucrezia. ‘As an Observant Dominican you will know I have already put myself outside the world of possessions. In that respect, I have made myself an exile to the society in which you live, with its palazzi, its golden churches, its sculptures and its fine paintings. But in the last two years it seems my own interpretation of the Observant Order has also placed me outside the fold of much of Mother Church, which, as you know well, continues to embrace such possessions itself.’

  Lucrezia nodded, her expression seemingly understanding. ‘You have strong principles, but I fear your rigid adherence will make your life difficult, especially in as unforgiving a city as Florence. Already I can hear you being ridiculed by the masses.’

  He frowned, the insult seeming unnecessary, and with her face softening, she explained. ‘Please hear my words carefully. My comments reflect the prejudices of the city, not your competence, which I am unable to judge. But you are, if I may point it out to you, a Lombard, with the high nasal tones of Ferrara and, as such, I promise you, you will be treated by the people as a foreigner.’

  She saw his expression intensify and shook her head. ‘Understand me. I do not criticize. I merely state the facts as I see them and as, eventually, I know you shall experience them. Such distrust may be a measure of the people’s own insularity, but you have to face the fact that when in Florence, you will be measured by a Florentine measuring stick.’

  ‘By a Florentine ruler?’ He grinned as he said it. The pun was far too good an opportunity to miss.

  ‘By him too, and by his mother, perhaps.’ Her smile remained kindly, but now not without a combative edge, and her forehead had gathered itself into a half-frown. ‘We are all judged, daily. But some are more able to act on the basis of their judgements than others.’

  Girolamo looked into those hooded eyes and could not decide whether she was threatening him. ‘Your son is a very powerful man.’ When confronted by a more powerful dog, lie on your back and show submission.

  ‘My son is a prince. Both by choice and by necessity. And it is I who have made him so.’ She pointed Savonarola to his customary chair and he sat. It seemed the theme for the day’s homily had been selected.

  ‘We spoke yesterday of the Pitti conspiracy. That was a turning point – for me, for the family and for the city. It was that event, more than anything else, which made it clear to me that there was no going back. Cosimo was dead and so was poor Giovanni. Now all that was left was the gout-ridden Piero and the already-magnificent Lorenzo, the end of the old and the beginning of the new. It was one occasion when I did know that we were on the cusp, not only of a new generation, but of a new era.’ She was looking at him hard again. ‘No doubt, like others, you will judge me harshly if I tell you that in my eyes history had already made its decision, that men already saw Lorenzo as the future and that a growing number of them already believed that Piero was finished. He was part of history and in the eyes of the people, and the only useful thing he could do was to die and take his rightful place in life’s story.’

  The eyes were more hooded than usual and fiercely combative. ‘Does that shock you? To have a woman talk thus about her husband?’

  He absorbed what she had said and considered it. With a deep sadness inside himself he remembered the two letters he had written to his father from Bologna, explaining why he had to leave Ferrara and break away from the path the family had planned for him. Those letters had represented the culmination of a similar battle – one between himself and his father.

  BOLOGNA

  25th April 1475

  The desk is small, as is the student hovel it sits in. But he doesn’t care. Not for him possessions, comforts, never mind luxuries. He has measured the world and judged it. Not long ago he decided to step out – onto the new path he has chosen for himself. Yesterday, during his parent’s pre-occupation with the St George’s Day celebrations, he did it. He left home and fled the city. Now, exhausted, he is here, in Bologna. Now the rest is up to him. He will either succeed or fail. But the success and the failure will be his and his alone.

  All that remains is to cut the one remaining knot that ties him to the past – to his family. His beloved mother will know what has happened. Only two days before, as he sat, crying and lamenting the world to the accompaniment of his lute, she had found him and cried out, ‘Oh my son, this is a token of separation.’ He had not denied it. He had been unable to face her.

  Matters cannot be left like that. However much he knows he must face the world alone, he cannot leave his mother grieving in uncertainty. Somehow, he must try to explain. He must write and tell them what he has done and why. But even as he embarks on the most difficult letter of his life, he knows they will never understand.

  Nevertheless …

  Honoured father,

  I have no doubt that my departure is very painful to you, particularly because I stole away so secretly, but by this letter I want you to understand my soul and will, so that you may take comfort from it and realize that I have not made this move in so childish a way as some people think.

  His father had wanted him to seek a secretarial post within the Este court, but he had seen enough of that court through his grandfather, who had been court physician, to reject it, its wealth, its domination and misuse of others, its greed and its insincerity.

  For a while he had studied medicine, influenced by his much-regarded grandfather, but in the end, after graduating in the arts and humanities at the University of Ferrara, he had decided where his moral compass pointed and he had left for Bologna and the church.

  That rejection, of everything his father held dear, had been painful, but since that time, h
e had never once regretted his decision to face cold reality and to accept its consequences. But still he needed to try to explain his actions. He owed them that at least.

  He looked up. ‘Do your words shock me? No. Not at all. You spoke the truth as you saw it. I too have had to face harsh realities and their ineluctable implications. And, like you, I still feel the pain of so doing. But it cannot be avoided. Breaking out of an established convention is difficult, especially when it has been established by your own family. But what must be done must be done. There is no other way.’

  Across the room he saw relief on Lucrezia’s face as she replied. ‘Then we understand each other and I need spend no more time in justification.’

  She paused, seemingly gathering her thoughts.

  ‘Lorenzo had returned from Naples full of confidence and when Pitti and the Party of the Hill rose against us it was Lorenzo who warned his father and he, also, who rode the streets on his great white horse in full armour, rousing the troops and almost single-handedly cowing the people. Once we had the city under control again and the plotters had been dealt with, I sat with Lorenzo, reviewing the past and looking hard at the future.’

  Savonarola could tell from Lucrezia’s expression that whilst she had been content to acknowledge her husband’s limitations, she was uncomfortable talking openly about her son. Yet now she was making herself do it, and in so doing was opening a window on exactly the sort of detail he had hoped and prayed for.

  She paused before continuing. ‘I explained that he had three choices.’

  PALAZZO MEDICI

  6th September 1466

  She stands with her hands on her hips and knows that this time she has her son’s full attention.

  ‘It’s time to choose, Lorenzo. You have three alternatives. First, you can choose to concentrate on the money, to reorganize the bank and start running it properly, staying clear of city politics and concentrating on being a successful man of business.’

  As she finishes the sentence, Lucrezia is already shrugging her shoulder, as if the suggestion is ludicrous. She knows that Lorenzo has given it short shrift in the past, and so is she, now. ‘Do you really want to be a prudent banker? Of course not.’ She flicks her eyes across the room.

  Lorenzo almost sneers his reply. ‘You don’t even need to ask the question, Mother. I have been educated as a prince and that is what I intend to be.’

  Lucrezia can hardly argue. She knows it has been his ambition since he was ten years old and he hasn’t changed. But already he is seeing his ambition in a different light. He no longer wants to be like Sforza, Galeazzo Maria’s reputation has been destroyed by the terrible tales emanating from the Milan court. Now Lorenzo is setting his sights higher. ‘I shall be a greater prince than Galeazzo Maria ever will,’ he had said to her recently, and she knows with certainty that he means it, and with equal certainty that he will succeed.

  But for the sake of history, for the sake of their relationship in the future, and as her lawyers would say, for the avoidance of doubt, she recognizes that she has to present him formally with the alternatives and to hear him choose between them.

  ‘The second choice is to do as your grandfather has done in the past, and as your father is still trying, but with increasingly disastrous results, to do now. And that is – to run the bank and to use its profits to support an active role in Florentine politics, whilst at the same time continuing to maintain the pretence of a true democracy.’

  She shakes her head as she looks up. ‘It is, as you may already have gathered, a tightrope, stretched between expectation and resentment, both on the part of the people. On the one hand they expect the wealthiest citizens to dig deep in their pockets and to provide the joys and benefits of Plato’s Republic out of their own money. But on the other hand, as soon as they are seen to do so, such men are attacked in the belief that they are seeking self-advancement and power over the rest.’

  To Lucrezia’s delight, Lorenzo’s eyes narrow. She knows he loves this kind of debate and always learns from it. ‘What’s wrong with that? Cosimo managed to do it.’ Yes, she has his attention now. He’s thinking, and probing, and will remember the outcome of the conversation. All the more reason, therefore, to convince him.

  The motherly smile appears. Lucrezia of all people knows that if you offer Lorenzo the choice between two things he always wants them both. So carefully, and not for the first time, she warns him about the difficulties of clinging to power in what the city of Florence cynically describes as its democracy.

  ‘Cosimo managed to do it by his bleeding fingertips, although it cost him a fortune and he was exiled for his trouble along the way.’

  ‘How large a fortune?’ Lorenzo is motionless and looking at her like a hawk, really listening now.

  She pauses. She should have known that Lorenzo would not let a loose remark like that pass unmeasured. Not when money is concerned. That is why she used it. And this time she is prepared. She has the answer to hand. ‘Over his adult lifetime; six hundred thousand florins, all given to the city and to its churches, convents, and monasteries. It is the price we pay for our social position.’

  Lorenzo whistles and his eyes grow wide, although he is careful not to say anything because he knows she has another point to make, and he is not going to miss a word.

  ‘Your father is still trying to do it now,’ she says, ‘and is permanently on the brink of failure. It’s an impossible task, and a thankless one.’

  Lorenzo looks at her with one of his looks and she knows he isn’t entirely convinced. Not yet, at least. ‘Why can’t it be made to work?’

  ‘Because the system is flawed. It is inherently weak. When the elders designed the system, they had two things in mind, and both were principles rather than practicalities. The first was a somewhat naïve desire to emulate the benefits of the old Greek democracy – giving power to the people, not recognizing for one moment that most of the people have no idea what to do with power if they have it, or how to exercise it effectively.’

  Lorenzo understands that, and he grins. ‘Or responsibly. And the second?’

  ‘Their second objective was to establish a system that prevented any one individual from becoming Prince of Florence. So they arranged for new elections every two months, not recognizing that it takes longer than that to get to understand the issues to be addressed and the means at the government’s disposal.

  ‘Furthermore, being mean-spirited in their endeavours, and again wishing to prevent any one person from becoming all-powerful, they failed to provide adequate funds for the government process. As a result, two things have happened.’

  Lorenzo tips his head to one side, listening, and raises one finger.

  She nods. ‘Yes. First, there is, even to this day, no permanent bureaucracy, not even an adequate team of book-keepers and clerks, so nothing can be done with any efficiency.’

  Lorenzo nods his acceptance and raises a second finger.

  ‘Second, because of the lack of resources, then and now, the only men who can achieve anything are those who have resources of their own – and thus we come full circle. The leaders, and by that I mean our family, still have to pay for the process of government themselves.’

  Lorenzo is motionless, looking at her, thinking, absorbing.

  She goes for the kill. ‘That situation cannot continue. The world is changing and changing rapidly, and Florence needs to change with it. To hold power and to drive through the processes of change that will be necessary, you will need to be a strong prince.

  Lorenzo looks hard at her. ‘Do you really mean that? What you just said? You know it is completely against grandfather’s policy and my father’s best attempts.’

  She returns the look. ‘I am fully aware of that. But the world is changing. Now it’s time to face the new reality, Lorenzo. You will be a prince. A prince of Florence. The city needs it. And the republic needs it. Fear not. You can do it. You were born to be a great prince.’

  Now, finally, Lorenzo
grins and preens himself. And then he says ‘Yes I was, wasn’t I?’

  For a moment, he pauses, and she wonders if she has convinced him after all. ‘And the bank? What happens to that in your scheme of things?’ He opens his hands. ‘I assume we are now pursuing your third option?’

  Lucrezia raises an eyebrow, almost in surprise. ‘The bank? Why, it is time the city learned to pay its own way.’ She jerks her head to one side, as you would tell a horse to walk on. ‘Be a prince. Lead them to the greater glory they so desperately desire, but this time, you must make sure they pay for it themselves.’

  ‘And the bank? Grandfather’s beloved Medici Bank?’

  ‘Oh make no mistake, Lorenzo. The bank is in terminal decline. But if the profit of the bank only has to finance the Medici family and not the whole Republic of Florence, then it will probably suffice.’

  She sniffs, dismissively, in the manner she so often uses to end an argument, and turns away from him. ‘Let Sassetti and the others run it. They can’t do any more harm than they’ve done already and as a great prince, leading a mighty city and state, which is paying for itself, you won’t need it any more. Turn your back on it. Let the bank go hang.’

  Across the room, Lucrezia stopped pacing up and down the room and for the first time that day, sat down, opposite her confessor. She opened her hands and smiled. ‘And that’s exactly what he has done.’

  It was later that day, in the quiet of a receding afternoon, and Girolamo Savonarola had been walking, high in the hills behind the cliffs of the Bagno, upstream, where the gorge narrows and the eagles fly undisturbed. As he approached the bunkhouse where he had chosen his simple accommodation, he met Piero Malagonelle, looking pensive.

  ‘Ah!’ He paused, waiting.

  ‘Mona Lucrezia was looking for you. She’s in the hotel, talking to the manager. She asked me to tell you, if I saw you.’

  He nodded his thanks and continued down the path. She was where he was told she would be, studying the account books with careful concentration.