Medici ~ Ascendancy Read online

  Piccarda looked at him sweetly.

  ‘Let your tears fall, Giovanni, don’t be ashamed of them. There is nothing wrong with showing your feelings, and I welcome them more than silence. People think that it is a sign of great virility not to weep, but I believe that a man who fears emotion is a man who is to be feared, because if he cannot tell someone that he loves them then he is ignorant of one of the marvels of existence. And a man like that, my beloved grandson, is nothing but a coward.’

  Giovanni seemed reassured by his grandmother’s words and became calmer.

  Piccarda nodded benevolently.

  ‘The family is the thing we hold most dear because each day we put it to the test. Every day we live together under this roof and every day we share each other’s fears, worries and doubts, but also, and above all, each other’s victories, successes, joys and forgiveness. And there is nothing more beautiful than living with those born of you or who have come to you by their own choice, without influence or pressure, and with whom you walk the path of life which, though beautiful, is also fraught with dangers and pitfalls. So try always to love one another. You, Cosimo, remember to use your keen intelligence, your wit and your foresight for the protection of the family. Always look to the future and ensure that the good name of the Medici remains in this city as your father left it to you and your brother. And increase, if you can, its prestige and power, since the latter, if used carefully and wisely, benefits the whole community. You, Lorenzo, who are quicker to act, oversee the business of the bank with your usual passion and diligence, extend our activities where you can and strive always to provide the means for the family to live honest and upright lives. Both of you: love your beautiful wives with all the passion and affection you have in your hearts. And you, Contessina and Ginevra, understand and forgive the weaknesses of your men and be their refuge, without forgetting to demand respect and loyalty. And in your role as confidantes, never fear to express your opinions, because you may be able to lead your men to solutions they have not thought of.’

  At that point, Piccarda stopped. She leaned towards the small table in front of her and reached out to pick up the cup filled with rose tea. It took her an eternity to complete the movement but they all knew not to help her – if she had wanted their assistance, she would have asked for it.

  She raised the cup to her lips and took a few sips, and Cosimo smiled to see that such a simple thing could still give her profound joy. In some ways it was like looking at a contented child. Over the years she had paid increasing attention to the rich harvest of small pleasures that life was still able to bestow.

  When she had drunk enough, Piccarda lowered the cup. Blue steam rose from the infusion and she half closed her eyes as though delighting in the aroma which now filled the air of the room.

  ‘And finally, you,’ she continued, ‘my beloved grandchildren. Be always obedient and respectful to your parents, and don’t forget to express your gratitude and your affection, since the heart of a father and a mother will fill with love at even the smallest gesture from you, and it would be unbearably cruel to deny them the comfort that a kind word or act from you might give them. Learn to know yourselves, and take advantage of that which your family gives you every day. Thanks to the daily efforts of your parents, you live amidst privilege and wealth, so be worthy of them and repay what you receive with application, exercise and study. That way you will become an invaluable resource for the family. And with that, I am done. And now, I think, I will sleep. Thank you for listening to me so carefully.’

  And so saying, Piccarda closed her eyes.

  They sent the boys out and Cosimo, Giovanni, Contessina and Ginevra watched over her. Her sleep was deep and peaceful. Her face was so relaxed and quiet in that golden silence that it seemed no words could have made her happier.

  After a time, Contessina and Ginevra retired to bed.

  Hours passed, but Cosimo and Lorenzo remained with her, each holding one of their mother’s hands.

  Slowly, her skin grew as cold as marble. Her face lost its colour and her breathing stopped.

  Piccarda was dead. Cosimo sent for the priest for the last rites. Still sitting by their mother, the two brothers looked at each other and, for a fleeting moment, each saw her gaze in the eyes of the other.

  22

  Filippo Brunelleschi

  The days had passed and the funeral of Piccarda had been celebrated with a restrained yet splendid service. Cosimo’s mother was now resting near his father in the sacristy at San Lorenzo. It was the most beautiful thing for two people who had loved each other so much in life, he reflected. He hoped that he would be as fortunate. He missed his mother enormously, and felt a dull ache in his heart when he thought of her. Time would cure even that, he thought. But he promised himself that though he was unable at the moment to take time away from his incessant work, he would preserve her memory and keep it tied by a golden thread that would run from his hand up to heaven.

  He sighed.

  He was in Filippo Brunelleschi’s workshop. Of the many astonishing places he had seen over the course of his life, he could not remember ever having ever seen anything comparable. It was not so much the architecture of the place that took your breath away – it was the endless array of models, devices, machines and wonders of every kind that left you speechless.

  His gaze roved between magnificent bronze panels, capitals in pale marble, stone busts, sculptures of classical deities and open books filled with charcoal sketches that covered the floor. And then there were the shards of coloured glass, magnificent figures carved from wood, pieces of frames and preparatory drawings for what might have been a fresco, chisels, brushes, jars overflowing with coloured powders and a scale model of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore. Filippo was devoting himself totally to the work, as though it were his only reason for living – which perhaps it was. It was beyond Cosimo how a man could dedicate his entire existence to art as though it were a religion, a faith, or a love. It was almost frightening.

  As far as Cosimo was concerned, Filippo was a unicum. Perhaps it was that which made artists what they were: they did not obey earthly laws because they had been beguiled by a discipline which had about it a whiff of the infinite. It was like a fever, almost – an illness from which they never recovered.

  Filippo had ignored the risks of the plague and spent months on end living on the dome, descending only occasionally. But though the construction was proceeding smoothly and approaching completion, a problem of no little importance had now presented itself: how to complete the dome without the entire structure collapsing?

  Cosimo had no idea how Brunelleschi would solve that problem. He was more troubled by the fact that he had to inform the maestro that the project for the Palazzo Medici to be built in Via Larga was no longer feasible: the rumours which had been proliferating about the plan were creating bad feeling against his family. For some time, Albizzi and Strozzi had been spreading gossip that the new Medici residence to be built by Brunelleschi would be of such magnificence that it would resemble the palace of a sovereign, in contempt of the good taste and restraint that even the Florentine noble families had to maintain when commissioning private works.

  Cosimo knew that his reasoning would sound like madness to Filippo, and this did not make his task easier. While he was still attempting to find the right words, he spotted the maestro crouched on the ground nearby, manically drawing oblique lines – which were completely unintelligible to Cosimo – by the light of a few stubs of candle. So absorbed was he in what he was drawing, Filippo barely noticed when Cosimo laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and his appearance froze the blood in Cosimo’s veins. Brunelleschi was in a pitiful state. The sunken eyes, intelligent yet evasive, almost like those of a drunk; the emaciated face; the protruding cheekbones. He had lost even more weight. Cosimo wondered if he was eating at all.

  ‘Have you breakfasted this morning?’ he asked him.

  ‘I’ve not had time,’ the artist replied.
His voice was hoarse, a sort of rattle which was probably the result of not having spoken to anyone for so long.

  ‘May I take you somewhere for lunch?’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I was wondering if everything was going well.’

  ‘You came to see me for that? Come, sir, don’t play games with me. I couldn’t stand it, not from you.’

  Yet again, Cosimo found himself at a loss as to what to say. It always happened to him with Brunelleschi. His clumsy attempts to conceal his confusion left him floundering in vague phrases and half-lies that were worse than the truth. He had to stop doing it.

  ‘The palazzo,’ he said.

  ‘Which palazzo?’

  ‘The one you are to build for me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘We cannot proceed.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I will pay you for the project, of course.’

  Filippo nodded. He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘And why can’t we?’ he asked.

  ‘The nobles of Florence consider it too magnificent.’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘You’re right, but unfortunately they control public opinion.’

  ‘Including your own?’

  ‘I have to protect my family.’

  ‘So you’re giving up?’

  ‘It... it’s not about giving up—’

  ‘Yes it is,’ interrupted Filippo, ‘it is precisely that.’

  ‘I have responsibilities.’

  ‘These are nothing but lies to justify compromise.’

  ‘Is this what you really think?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So what should I do, then?’ asked an exasperated Cosimo.

  ‘What you had planned.’

  ‘But by doing that...’

  ‘Then we’ll call everything off – no problem. I’ll only ask you this: why did you come to me if you had already decided?’

  ‘I had not already decided.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

  Cosimo snorted. He had fallen for it once more. ‘Very well,’ he admitted.

  ‘There is no problem.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the building. And I don’t want to be paid for the project.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘I prefer it that way.’

  ‘I will pay you anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Filippo said, his eyes flashing wildly.

  Cosimo raised his hands. ‘Very well, very well... If that is what you want.’

  ‘Messer de’ Medici, you must not feel indebted to me. The choice is yours. You are the client. But I have every right to refuse a payment. I’m no parasite.’

  ‘I have never thought for a moment that you were.’

  ‘Very well, then you will respect my wishes.’

  ‘So be it!’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case I will continue with my work.’

  Cosimo understood that there was nothing else to say. In the most polite way he knew, Brunelleschi was inviting him to leave.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘good day to you.’

  ‘The same to you.’ Filippo turned his back on him and returned to his drawing, almost as if they had not spoken. For him, that conversation was simply a small bump on the infinite road of his art.

  Cosimo was hurt. But what had he expected, after all? It was he who had denied Filippo the job. He had the unpleasant feeling of having somehow betrayed him. Of having put conventions and rules before their friendship.

  ‘Responsibilities,’ he had said. What if Brunelleschi was right? What if all that babbling about a sense of duty and respect for the rules was nothing but weakness? Bending to the will of warmongers and thieves? Should he fight? Again?

  Cosimo shook his head. He had made the right choice, he decided.

  But deep in his heart, something told him it wasn’t true.

  He left Filippo Brunelleschi’s workshop sadder than he had been when he arrived.

  September 1433

  23

  The Accusation

  Cosimo knew they were coming.

  Since Bernardo Guadagni’s name had been drawn as the new Gonfaloniere of Justice, he had known that his fate was sealed. Bernardo was one of Rinaldo degli Albizzi’s men, and Albizzi had done everything in his power to ensure his loyalty. Word in the city was that he had even paid him a thousand florins in taxes to ingratiate himself.

  It was only a matter of time – or of hours, to be more accurate. He had already warned his wife. Contessina had been frightened at first and then had become furious. She had said that they would take him to prison over her dead body, but Cosimo had shaken his head. Precisely because they knew that it was going to happen they must prepare for the worst and attempt to devise a way to get out of it. Provided, of course, that a way out actually existed...

  His reaction was not resignation but simple acceptance of the fact that he was the victim of a grand conspiracy which could only be fought with reason. Rinaldo degli Albizzi was hoping they would be foolish enough to resort to violence and anger: it would be the perfect excuse for him to have them killed.

  Cosimo stood looking at the rising sun and the pale shaft of light it etched on the grey-blue sky. That morning he had decided to wear a particularly elegant padded purple doublet: a special colour for a special day. He kept it buttoned up to his neck. It was embroidered with silver and matched the pair of trunk hose of the same colour he wore. He wore no headgear – where he was going, it would only have been in the way. His black hair fell forward in dark, rebellious curls. He was freshly shaven.

  He was waiting in the salon, and for a moment he looked up at the imposing wooden ceiling, its coffers arranged in three rows of six compartments each, all adorned with carved acanthus leaves. The candles shone in the wrought-iron chandeliers hanging imposingly from the ceiling.

  Cosimo snorted: the waiting was making him impatient. How much longer would it take Rinaldo degli Albizzi to get there?

  He had asked Lorenzo to stay with Contessina, Giovanni and Piero.

  At that moment, he heard the soldiers’ footsteps through the open windows, like a dull bell repeatedly tolling. If that was their way of intimidating him, he would give them no satisfaction.

  He left the salon, went down the wide marble staircase and headed for the entrance.

  It was then that Contessina appeared. Her face was contorted by pain and streaked with tears, and her dress had fallen below her shoulders, almost exposing her breasts.

  ‘C-Cosimo,’ she sobbed, ‘what will they do to you, my love?’

  He ran over to her.

  ‘Please, my love, be strong,’ he told her. ‘Difficult days await us, but we will get through them and we will look to the future. Stay close to Piero and Giovanni.’

  She threw her arms around his neck and wept on his chest. Without him she felt lost, and she feared she would never see him again.

  ‘Cosimo, I couldn’t bear to lose you. I would die if something should happen to you. I cannot bear the thought of living without you.’

  Smiling, he stroked her face, and then spoke to her with all the sweetness he could muster.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, my love,’ he said. ‘Before seven days have passed, I’ll be back home again. We will be reunited and will continue with our plans. Nothing will separate us.’

  ‘Do you promise me?’

  ‘I promise you.’

  While he was saying this, the servants announced the arrival of the guards, who entered with Rinaldo degli Albizzi. His eyes lit upon Cosimo and a cruel smile of feral joy spread across his face.

  ‘Messer Cosimo de’ Medici,’ thundered the captain of the guards, ‘by order of the Gonfaloniere of Justice, I hereby arrest you on charges of treason to the Republic and of tyranny. The accusations will be explained to you by the Gon
faloniere of Justice, Messer Bernardo Guadagni, once you have been taken to the Palazzo della Signoria.

  ‘But,’ cut in Albizzi, ‘I can informally tell you that the city is sick of your arrogance and your false mercies. We know of the palazzo you want to have built. It makes no difference that it won’t be Filippo Brunelleschi carrying out the work – perhaps you will entrust it to Michelozzo or Donatello. You have a long list of artists working for you. We know too of your conspiracies against Florence. And now the time has come for you to pay for your nefarious actions.’

  Albizzi must have been waiting a long time for that moment – he uttered the words with such passion that saliva sprayed from his lips like some rabid dog.

  Cosimo was silent. He gave Contessina a hard look, because in that moment he wanted her to be stronger than ever. He did not want to give this pathetic creature any satisfaction at all.

  His wife understood and, emboldened by what he had said to her, collected herself and went over to kiss him on the lips.

  ‘Do what you must do,’ she said.

  Upon hearing those words, Rinaldo degli Albizzi, seething with rage, nodded to the captain of the guards. The man put Cosimo’s wrists in shackles and he was led out.

  It was strange to be escorted through the city. Cosimo tried not to feel downcast, but there was a gloomy mood in Florence. Part of the city seemed incredulous at the injustice of his treatment, while the other part raged against him with all the fervour of those who feel threatened.

  When they entered Piazza della Signoria, Cosimo saw that it was crowded with people. The pedlars selling food and wine were doing brisk business. It was a hot morning, and the sun shone in the sky. The air was thick and the oppressive heat hindered his breathing and blinded his eyes. Around him was a sea of people who made the square tremble as though it were a living thing – a Leviathan ready to devour its own children. Ahead loomed the palazzo, the Tower of Arnolfo di Cambio soaring into the blue of the sky.