Medici ~ Ascendancy Page 2

  Cosimo shook his head. In his heart he knew that Lorenzo spoke in good faith, but if what he said were true, who could have committed such a crime? And, most importantly, how had the poison reached his father’s table in the first place? Cosimo’s deep, dark eyes, full of questions, sought those of his brother and urged him to speak.

  ‘I wondered whether it was right to tell you,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘since I have only one piece of evidence for my claim. But our father’s decline was so sudden that it made me wonder.’

  ‘You’re right – it was suspicious. But how could he have been poisoned?’ asked Cosimo in exasperation. ‘If what you say is true, the poison must have been administered by someone inside the house! Our father hadn’t been out at all over the last few days, and even if he had, he certainly didn’t eat or drink anything.’

  ‘I realize that, and that is why it’s only a suspicion. But Father had no shortage of enemies. And just when I was starting to think that it must be my own mad imaginings, I found these.’

  Lorenzo held out a bunch of dark berries, as enticing as black pearls.

  Cosimo stared at his brother uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Belladonna,’ said Lorenzo. ‘It produces dark flowers and poisonous fruit. You find it in fields, often near ancient ruins. And I found this little bunch here in our house.’

  The revelation filled Cosimo with dismay. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? If it’s true, it means that someone in this house is plotting against our family.’

  ‘Another reason not to let anyone know of our suspicions.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Cosimo. ‘But that mustn’t stop us getting to the bottom of this matter. And should your suspicions prove true, that will make this death even more tragic. I hope that these are just fancies, Lorenzo – because if they aren’t, I swear, I’ll kill the person responsible with my own hands.’

  He sighed. He could hear how empty, how stupid his threats sounded, and was overcome with a feeling of impotence and frustration. How would he be able to bear this?

  ‘It can’t be difficult to get hold of poison like that in a place like Florence, can it?’ he asked. It was unnerving to think how easy it was to end a person’s life in this city. With what he stood to inherit, he would have to be doubly careful from now on.

  ‘Any good apothecary can get his hands on such substances and prepare a concoction with them.’

  Cosimo let his gaze linger upon the garden. It was bare and grey, just like that winter morning, and the climbing plants formed dark, restless webs on the walls.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘this is what we will do. You will investigate. We won’t say anything to the rest of them at home. Follow your suspicions. If somebody really did murder our father then I want to confront him.’

  ‘I will. I’ll have no peace until I’ve uncovered the name of that serpent.’

  ‘So be it. But for now, let’s get back inside.’

  Lorenzo nodded.

  And so saying, they returned indoors, the grim revelation tearing at their hearts.

  4

  Last Wishes

  A funeral vigil had been organized in the days following the death.

  Representatives of all of the city’s most important families, even those who had considered him a bitter enemy while he was alive, had come to pay tribute to Giovanni. Among them were the Albizzi, who had always lorded it over the city; even Rinaldo degli Albizzi, his eyes full of disdain and arrogance, had not been able to avoid coming. For two full days, a parade of notables had trooped through the Palazzo Medici.

  Now that it was all over and the funeral had been celebrated – a refined, splendid affair – Cosimo, Lorenzo and their wives were in one of the palazzo’s great halls waiting to hear Giovanni’s will.

  Ilarione de’ Bardi, their father’s trusted right-hand man, had just torn off the seals and was about to read out Giovanni’s last wishes. Lorenzo’s brow was furrowed and he seemed lost in gloomy reflection. His investigations must be proceeding, thought Cosimo. Soon they would discuss what progress he had made.

  Ilarione began to read.

  ‘“My children and sole heirs: I did not think it necessary to write a will because many years ago I appointed you to direct our bank, keeping you by my side in all matters of administration and business. I know that I have lived out the time that God in his goodness saw fit to grant me on the day of my birth, and I think I can safely say that I die happy, because I know I leave you wealthy, healthy and able to live in Florence with the honour and dignity befitting you, and comforted by the friendship of many. Death does not trouble me because I know that I have never given offence to anyone and indeed have, as far as I was able, done good to those who needed it. For this reason, I urge you to do likewise. If you wish to live safely and with respect, I urge you to observe the law and not to take anything that belongs to another, so you may remain far from envy and danger. Your freedom ends where that of others begins, and what makes men hate is not how much you give to a man but how much you take away from him. Look to your own affairs, then, since in this way you will have much more than all those who covet the assets of others. They only end up losing their own and at the last find themselves living a life of squalor and grief. That is why, in pursuing these few rules, I am certain – despite the enemies, defeats and disappointments which from time to time afflict the lives of each of us – that I have maintained my reputation in this city, and perhaps even enhanced it. I have no doubt that if you follow my advice you will maintain and enhance yours too. But if you wish to behave otherwise, I can predict with equal certainty that a single destiny awaits you – the destiny of all those who have ruined themselves, inflicting upon their families the most unspeakable woes. My children, I bless you.”’

  Ilarione’s voice stopped. Piccarda had begun weeping silently and her cheeks were streaked with tears. She raised a linen handkerchief to her face and wiped her eyes, but she said nothing: she more than any of them wanted the words to hang in the air and mark out a code of conduct for her children.

  ‘And now that I have read what I was told to,’ said Ilarione, moving on to the most obvious but also the most urgent question, ‘I must ask you: what do we do about the bank?’

  It was Cosimo who answered.

  ‘We will summon to Florence the men of all our branches around Italy so they can report on the situation of each. I would ask you to handle this matter, Ilarione.’

  The trusted servant nodded gravely and took his leave.

  Piccarda looked at Cosimo firmly, as she always did when she had something important to tell him; then she went to await him in the palazzo’s library, settling herself in an elegant chair upholstered in velvet. The embers in the hearth sizzled and the occasional spark rose like a firefly towards the coffered ceiling.

  Piccarda kept her long chestnut-brown hair gathered under a cap dotted with pearls and a hood embroidered in gold thread and decorated with precious stones. The contrast with the intense indigo blue of her fur-lined robe highlighted her soft, dark eyes; the robe was held tight above her waist by a magnificent silver belt, and the folds discreetly hinted at the substantial amount of precious fabric which had been used in its making. Its wide sleeves ended with more silver embroidery and were split in order to display the brocaded grey velvet of her equally beautiful gamurra.

  Despite the difficulties of the past few days, Piccarda looked splendid, and was determined to speak to her son to make sure he understood what he must do now. Cosimo was no fool, but to her mind, his love for art did not sit well with the inheritance he was about to receive. And Piccarda could allow for no errors or misunderstandings. She had to be certain that Cosimo knew what was expected of him.

  ‘My son,’ she said, ‘your father could not have been clearer or more affectionate in his words. And yet I know for a fact that on his deathbed he had other advice for you. Florence is like a wild stallion: magnificent, but in need of taming. Every day. In its streets you will encounter people willing to help a
nd support your work but also villains and idlers ready to slit your throat, as well as subtler foes who will try to take advantage of your good heart and your honesty.’

  ‘I’m not completely ingenuous, Mother,’ protested Cosimo.

  ‘Let me finish. I know that you are not, and you have played an important role in the success of this family. But life has grown more complicated, my son. I am sure that you will find your own path, which will develop according to your own beliefs – but I trust you will remain respectful of the wishes of your father? What I want to advise is this: follow the path traced out for you and thus model your behaviour on that of the Stoics. That is: let it be guided by the search for the common good, moderation in all its forms and a rejection of personal ostentation. I also want you to know that from now on I intend to be with you always, and that my first concern will be to ensure that the whole family follows you, whatever your decisions. But remember that even though our financial situation is strong and our prestige clear, our opponents are many and insidious. In particular I’m talking about Rinaldo degli Albizzi. Be wary of him and his political manoeuvring. He is a ruthless man and there is no limit to his ambition. I’m certain he would do anything in his power to harm you.’

  ‘I will be careful, Mother, and I’ll prove my worth.’

  ‘You can rely upon your brother, of course. Your personalities and thought processes complement one another well. He is more impetuous; you are more reflective and analytical: where he acts, you consider and then react, taking into account your broader vision of the world and of what is beautiful and useful in life. You should always remain close to one another and respectful of each other’s ways. But to return to what awaits you: look after your own business and remember to anticipate your opponent’s moves. Giovanni was always reluctant to take part in the political life of the city, and I was never fully in agreement with him on this. I think – while remaining close to the people, who have always been our allies – one should cultivate a political career and take on public roles and duties, making sure to address both the demands of the commoners and the concerns of the aristocracy. That way you can work to ensure support from both sides.’

  Cosimo knew how true and wise Piccarda’s advice was, and he nodded. But his mother had not finished.

  ‘I do not need to tell you that Giovanni di Contugi has been provoking Giusto Landini in Volterra, and the reason lies in the land registry law which your father endorsed. I say this because we have no option but to take a stand, and that means we have to make a choice. I do not wish to criticize you for the attention you are paying to the work on the dome of the cathedral, but not being sufficiently involved in the world of politics could cost us dearly. Bear this in mind, therefore. I am not asking that you attract more attention to yourself than necessary – seeing you take a sudden interest in public affairs might make Rinaldo degli Albizzi suspicious, but we cannot leave the initiative to him and his family. Florence will be going to war with Volterra and our position must be clear.’

  ‘But on the other hand, we cannot betray the people and the peasants,’ said Cosimo. ‘Father advocated the law on the land registry, which has helped the people of Florence see the aristocracy taxed higher.’

  ‘And Rinaldo degli Albizzi never forgave him for it. What I am trying to tell you is that at this particular moment we cannot take them on.’

  ‘No. Rinaldo has mobilized his army along with that of Palla Strozzi against Giusto Landini for that precise reason.’

  ‘Naturally. Your father would have sided with the nobles but would have managed it without taking a clear position. And he would have been right – then. What matters now is to show where we stand. You can no longer refuse to take a clear political position or continue to be ambiguous about your intentions. And therefore, without disavowing your father’s work, you must support Florence. Giovanni’s intention was to allocate resources and sacrifices proportionally. There was nothing wrong with that idea, and there is no contradiction in supporting it to oppose a city that turns against Florence.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Cosimo. ‘I think I will join the other families so as not to give the impression that I wish to remain aloof, while maintaining our position as protectors of the people. If we lose their support, all that my father worked for will be lost.’

  Piccarda nodded with satisfaction. Cosimo had chosen well and judiciously and despite her sorrows, a smile lit her face. But she had no time to speak further because at that moment, Contessina burst into the library as if the Devil were at her heels.

  ‘Giusto Landini!’ she cried. ‘Giusto Landini is dead! Murdered by Arcolano and his henchmen!’

  5

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi

  ‘Well, the old man is finally dead,’ gloated Rinaldo degli Albizzi. ‘That will be a blow for the Medici.’ Clad in a green brocade doublet and pantaloons, he was perched on a bench in the inn.

  Palla Strozzi gave him a look.

  ‘What do you mean? That this would be a good time to strike at those damned usurers?’

  Rinaldo threw his leather gloves on to the wooden table, smoothed down his brown curls, and said nothing as he waited for the serving wench to come over to them. He loved making Palla Strozzi wait – it emphasized the differences between them. The Strozzi family was powerful, but not as powerful as his, and Palla was a humanist: a slim, elegant scribbler who never accomplished anything of value. To change things, one needed steady nerves and a taste for blood, and Rinaldo had both.

  ‘Bring us a quarter of mutton,’ he ordered the innkeeper when she arrived, ‘and bread and red wine. And hurry, because we have fought much today and we are hungry.’

  While the woman returned to the kitchen with a great rustling of skirts, Rinaldo shot her a sideways glance. She was certainly pretty, with an honest face, long dark curls and brown eyes flecked with gold, and her figure warmed his blood.

  ‘So you’re boasting of our soldiering skills when we haven’t so much as lifted a finger... I suppose that’s just your way of trying to impress the common girls,’ said Palla Strozzi, not without a hint of resentment. He hated it when Albizzi didn’t answer him, which he frequently didn’t.

  Rinaldo smiled and turned to look at Palla sitting across from him.

  ‘My good Palla,’ he began, ‘Let’s look at the question another way. Is it not true that the Council of the Ten of Balia instructed us to lead our men against Volterra to punish the city for rising up against us, and that the situation then settled itself without our intervention? You saw it for yourself, no? Giusto Landini’s head set on a pike? And you do remember why Giusto wanted to rise up against Florence, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’ replied Strozzi. ‘Because of the new taxes imposed by the law on the land registry.’

  ‘Which was advocated by...?’ prompted Rinaldo degli Albizzi.

  ‘Giovanni de’ Medici.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But Giusto’s arrogance was punished by his own people. Arcolano gathered his men, and they chopped off his head.’

  ‘And as you yourself observed, by so doing, they saved us the dirty work and we come out of it as clean as a May sky and victorious at having brought Volterra back under Florence’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘All without lifting a finger,’ concluded Palla Strozzi.

  ‘Exactly. Now,’ continued Rinaldo ‘it’s no mystery why Niccolò Fortebraccio is wasting away in Fucecchio. Giovanni de’ Medici was the leading advocate of peace in Florence and also the man who had him dismissed by the Florentines. Can you deny that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Strozzi impatiently, ‘but stop playing games with me, Albizzi.’

  ‘I’m playing no game, as you will soon see. It is a fact that the city of Volterra, which seemed about to rebel, has been returned, obtorto collo, by Arcolano thanks to his dextrous handling of the affair.’

  ‘If you define lopping off someone’s head with a sword as “handling”, yes.’

  Rinaldo
waved away Palla’s words with annoyance. The way the man continually dwelt on silly details was intolerable.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Unless we’re willing to spill blood, we can forget making Florence ours.’

  ‘I have no problem spilling blood, Albizzi, I just like things to be called by their proper names.’

  Palla knew what he said would irritate his companion. He had no wish to make things easy for him. He was not, after all, Rinaldo’s inferior.

  ‘Come, my friend, let’s not get bogged down in the nuances. Leave that for others. Niccolò Fortebraccio ardently desires to get back to burning cities and raping women—’

  ‘How can you blame him?’ interrupted Palla. As he spoke, his eyes fell on the beautiful innkeeper as she placed a loaf of fragrant bread and a jug of wine on the table along with two wooden cups. The low neckline of her dress revealed full white breasts that made Palla lick his lips as though anticipating some irresistible delicacy.

  She didn’t seem to notice, and he kept his eyes upon her while she returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Listen to me and leave her alone, you old satyr,’ reprimanded Albizzi. ‘I realize you share Fortebraccio’s appetites but that’s not the point at issue here.’