The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  Mauricio sank into a gloomy frame of mind. His current standard of living depended entirely on Lorenzo’s generosity. He had always suspected that all that glittered was not gold in Lorenzo’s offer for his ring, and now he knew it to be true. It was vital for him that Il Magnifico should stay in power, otherwise all he would be able to offer Lorena and his child was poverty. Mauricio took a deep breath and tried to find something to grasp onto. He desperately needed to start up a business or come up with an idea to make money, just in case Lorenzo were to disappear. Starting up a textile plant similar to the one his father had owned in Barcelona was an option, but he lacked the necessary capital, for without a strong initial investment it would be impossible to face up to the competition in Florence, the capital of fashion. At the same time, if Lorenzo were to be overthrown, he would immediately be dismissed from his post in the bank. It was a business that was starting to raise more and more doubts in his mind anyway.

  “I have lived here for several months now,” said Mauricio calmly, “and thanks to you I am now able to make accounting entries, analyze balance sheets, and recent business letters I have drawn up have needed no corrections. However, there are certain matters that worry me.”

  “Make the most of the fact that I am in a good mood and ask me whatever you want instead of complaining so much,” chided Bruno in a friendly way.

  “Moneylending with interest is a sin of usury, punishable by being cast into hell. But surely that is precisely what our bank is doing?”

  “You are not mistaken,” smiled Bruno. “I, too, am a Christian and would not wish to endanger my soul to eternal hellfire, especially during these dangerous days in which we are living. Fortunately we are registered in the most honorable guild, the Arte del Cambio, the moneychangers’ guild. What we do is change money, not lend money. Let us imagine that a merchant needs a certain amount of money in Bruges. This need not be a problem, because the trader will leave the money here in florins and we will issue him with a bill of exchange made out in his name and in Flemish currency. When he arrives in Bruges, he only has to present the bill in our branch there and convert it into cash. Naturally, we charge a commission for our services, usually twenty-five percent, but the merchant obtains an incalculable benefit from this transaction: the money travels without risk because the bill of exchange, having been made out in his name, would be impossible to cash were it to be robbed. If a foreign trader comes to Florence and wishes to change his currency into florins, we also charge a commission. It would be cheaper in this case, between eight and ten percent, because we do not offer the service of the bill of exchange. You will note that there is no lending involved here either so it is impossible to be accused of usury. Rest assured, because these arguments are backed up by the majority of theologians.”

  “What about the pawnbrokers?” asked Mauricio.

  “Ah, that is something completely different,” exclaimed Bruno. “They are not registered in the moneychangers’ guild and their practice does incur the sin of usury. In the same way as brothels, pawnshops are a necessary evil in our society, but moneylenders have an even worse reputation than harlots. They lend money with interest by keeping jewels, clothes, furniture, and even work utensils as security. They cannot belong to any guild and the majority of licenses are granted to Jews, for what Christian would want to work in constant contact with mortal sin? You will not find one single respectable Florentine who does not despise moneylenders. On the other hand, the bankers who practice the art of moneychanging are respected by the whole of society. Even the pope himself and the Curia work with them, and it is not infrequent for relatives of the most prominent bankers to be named cardinals or bishops.”

  Mauricio was shaken by certain thoughts crowding into his mind. He was working in an honorable institution thanks to his Jewish ancestors who had obtained a priceless ring probably thanks to a loan with usury. Was this not the same as being raised to a high branch on a tree only to find that its roots have been rotted by sin? And in this case, what punishment would await him? Ironically, if Lorenzo were to fall and he wanted to start up a small business, he probably would have to resort to going to these reviled pawnshops, as banks only gave loans to people who were solvent.

  “The major banks, like the one belonging to the Medici, lend large sums of money to emperors and even to the pope himself. Is that not, therefore, usury?” asked Mauricio, trying to find the flaw the Florentines hid so well under a flow of beautiful words.

  “Not at all. When the Medici Bank lends thousands of florins to the high and mighty, it is always without interest. Furthermore, they do not even ask for the money back usually. In his day, the great Cosimo de Medici forbade these sums of money to be reclaimed, arguing that if he were to do so, he would run the risk of not only losing the money but also the protection of the friend. He had a point, for perhaps neither the pope nor the Duke of Milan would return the money they received, but there are favors that are worth far more than the amount loaned. Did the Medici not benefit from the pope conceding them the exclusive management of the alum monopoly? And what about the troops of Milan always being at the Medici’s disposal whenever there has been a risk of internal rebellion in Florence? My friend, I sometimes think that loans without interest hide an interest far greater than usury. Nevertheless, an exchange of favors between the powerful is not forbidden. Now, if we are talking about sinfulness I should be more uneasy if I were, for instance, one of those big clients who deposit large sums of money fixed-term in a bank, although perhaps it is best left to the experts … ”

  “What are you referring to?” enquired Mauricio, as all this sophisticated talk of high finance was starting to remind him of Jesus warning that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.

  “In Rome, where money flows like water, many cardinals deposit their capital in a fixed-term deposit, usually for a year, in a bank. In the eyes of the law, this is a loan without interest. The truth is that before the year is out, the bank tends to offer them gifts that are never worth less than 10% of the money in the deposit account. Naturally this is a discretionary gift, but if the clients are not happy, when the agreed term is over, they remove the money and deposit it in another bank. That is to say, very rich people, of whom many are eminent members of the church, lend money to the banks and in exchange receive a remuneration (call it interest if you want) with the left hand, without the right hand ever knowing anything about it. Well now, if the very cardinals themselves all coincide in thinking this is not a sin, because they only receive discretionary presents, who am I to think otherwise?”

  Mauricio concluded that the banks, theology, and the interests of the powerful, constituted a somewhat arbitrary financial system. Perhaps there were no sinners but just people who had been badly advised.

  “I see,” muttered Mauricio, not completely convinced. “So we only change money either from other cities or Florence itself, is that right?”

  “Exactly, for changing gold florins to silver piccioli or vice versa, we also charge a commission without the slightest trace of usury tainting the transaction.”

  Mauricio had grown accustomed to the double monetary system established in Florence: the gold florins used by the upper classes and the silver piccioli by the common people. For operations of certain importance, the gold florin was used, while the majority of salaries and retail buying and selling was paid in silver piccioli.

  “Perhaps there is no usury involved,” Mauricio responded, “but as the exchange rate fluctuates and is decided anyway by the Signoria, whose posts are all occupied by the ruling classes, I have seen in the official registers that the silver piccioli is periodically devaluated to the benefit of the gold florin. Therefore, using that legal loophole, the poor get poorer and the rich, richer.

  “As Jesus once said, ‘For the poor will always be among us. … ’ Of course the system is not just, but never before in history have there been so many opportunities to
rise up the social ladder as there are now. You only have to look around you: independent artists who charge exorbitant prices for their work, families who started up small businesses by joining up their capital or borrowing money from pawnshops and who are now swimming in it, small companies that founded banks with modest amounts and have now become commercial empires … One has to take risks to succeed because salaries only allow one to survive.”

  The problem, Mauricio told himself, was to get a small initial capital together, find a good opportunity, and hope for luck. Bruno’s optimism was contagious and his spirits rose. He had to be positive, learn, and be attentive in order to make the most of any opportunity that could arise. If others had managed to do it, why couldn’t he? Lorena and their future child needed him. He could not disappoint them.

  38

  Villa Ginori

  March 9, 1479

  Lorena smiled as she thought she heard the sound of Mauricio’s footsteps echoing on the drawing room floor. At last her love was returning to her, safe and sound, in order to spend a few days together.

  “Good afternoon, little sister! You had better get up from your siesta if you do not want to wake up at bedtime.”

  Lorena struggled to open her eyes. After lunch she had sunk into a comfortable chair in the drawing room to rest for a while and had fallen into a deep sleep. In the seventh month of her pregnancy, she was eating enough for two but also needed twice the amount of rest. Sleeping did her good and enabled her to briefly forget the worries that assailed her day after day. Unfortunately dreams did not always correspond to reality: it was not Mauricio standing in front of her but her brother Alessandro. How she missed her husband! Only he could make her smile so much that all her anxieties seemed to evaporate like drops of water in the sun. Only he could tell her fantastical stories which made the rest of the world disappear as if by magic, as she listened entranced by the adventures he related with such passion. Only he could embrace her in such a way that all her problems seemed to slip away as their bodies merged together. It was only when he slept by her side that she could feel completely at peace. Yet for now she had to resign herself to enjoy Mauricio’s company only one day a week.

  “What reports do you bring from Florence?” asked Lorena, stretching and hoping to receive heartening news.

  “This morning, I saw how they hanged a man. The filthy scoundrel had robbed a bag of florins that a moneychanger had on his table in the New Market in broad daylight. Nothing for you to worry about. When your little lover boy changes money, at least he does it in the comfort of the Palazzo Calvantini and not in the open air like most.”

  “Have you talked to Mauricio this week?” asked Lorena, ignoring the contemptuous tone her brother had used when talking about her husband.

  Maybe money changing, even though it was in a palace, was not the most prestigious of occupations, but at least Mauricio was no mere bank clerk. If all went well, she was sure Lorenzo would reward him handsomely for his faithfulness. Il Magnifico had also sent his wife and children away from Florence in an attempt to distance them from the plague. The fact that Mauricio stayed in the city loyally supporting him in anything he might need was a gesture that Lorenzo would know how to acknowledge showing his gratitude. God willing, with the change of season and the birth of their child, the Lord might permit them to exchange the bitter pills they were obliged to swallow now for the sweetest of fruits.

  “I did not see Mauricio,” answered Alessandro. “I suppose he will come up here on Sunday as he does every week. Oh sister, dear! I do so hope your husband is a faithful man, not like the others, who see no harm in sampling the tasty tidbits from other people’s tables when their wives are far away.”

  Lorena’s cheeks blazed with indignation and shame at her brother’s malicious commentary: he had still not forgiven her for having married Mauricio. Although it hurt her to admit, she knew full well that adultery was a common practice among the traders who, on account of their travels, spent too long without seeing their wives. She had often heard sermons preached at mass warning against the temptations that could befall the merchants who spent long periods away from home. In spite of this, society did not condemn these practices. Far from it, they considered it as something completely normal. Cosimo de Medici himself, pater patriae of Florence, had produced a son with a beautiful slave girl; in fact, the child had been educated under the same roof as the rest of his children born of his legitimate wife. Lorena trusted Mauricio, but preferred him not to be exposed to unnecessary temptation. As soon as she gave birth, she would go back to Florence to live with her husband.

  “What is the matter,” goaded her brother, “has the cat got your tongue?”

  It hurt her deeply that her brother, who formerly had always been so solicitous, had declared war on her because of her love for Mauricio but she tried not to show it in order to deny him the pleasure of seeing her get angry.

  “I am simply not in the mood to reply to your little jibes about Mauricio. We already have enough real concerns such as the plague, not to have to discuss all those wicked imaginary thoughts going through your head. By the way is the disease still abating in Florence?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” replied Alessandro in a contrite tone. “During the last week over thirty people have died. The Signoria is even considering isolating the poor quarters, where the largest number of people affected by the plague has been detected, in order to avoid the spread of the disease, although nobody knows whether such an extreme measure will have any effect.”

  Harsh reality was acutely more painful than Alessandro’s goading. Lorena slowly picked up from the floor the mantle with which she covered herself on cold winter days. It had slipped off her while she was asleep, but she had not felt the cold. Her linen blouse and woolen gamurra had been enough to keep her warm during her siesta. The cold was starting to ease up. The troops therefore would be in condition to start up hostilities again after the winter truce. Lorena implored the Virgin Mary to protect her whole family, including her idiot brother.

  39

  Florence

  April 18, 1479

  Luca gave an involuntary start as he passed in front of the Signoria Palace. On the wall where the participants of the Pazzi conspiracy had been put to death, the bodies of the main ringleaders had been painted. Sandro Botticelli had depicted them life-size and in their final death throes, with frightening realism. The shriveled testicles of Francesco Pazzi’s naked body contrasted with the ostentatious vestments of Archbishop Salviati and served as an indelible public reminder of the risks of rebelling against the Medici.

  Once he had surmounted the fear that overwhelmed him each time he saw those paintings, Luca regained his calm. If the secret police of the Otto or Lorenzo’s spies ever discovered him he would suffer an atrocious death. Luckily it was fairly improbable that such a thing should happen. For now, his only mission was to keep both his eyes and ears well open in order to inform on anything that might be brewing in Florence.

  The way events were unfolding, a new plot to assassinate Lorenzo would hardly be necessary. The rope that would eventually strangle Il Magnifico was being braided with the same material that day by day was shaping up into a gloomy scene for the Medici.

  Bernardo Rucellai had admitted to him that Lorenzo was receiving anonymous messages daily, recriminating him for the situation in Florence. The price of bread had risen sky high and there was a scarcity of all kinds of produce. One could sense in the atmosphere an imminent rebellion from the popolo minutto, the common people. Many citizens were out of work due to the economic crisis and were suffering serious poverty. In spite of this, the government was still demanding ever increasing taxes to enable them to pay the soldiers.

  If the war continued any longer, Lorenzo de Medici’s days were numbered. As far as Luca knew, while they continued to trust the Duke of Ferrara as captain general of the Florentine army, the war could go on indefinitely. Count Carlo de Montone, sent by the Venetians in aid of Florence, had d
efeated the papal troops a few days before. Had the Duke of Ferrara joined forces with him and swiftly attacked the Neapolitan armies, the enemy would have been completely decimated. Far from it, for the Duke of Ferrara and Count Carlo got entangled in a bitter dispute and had lost time as precious as it was necessary. Now the enemy armies had regrouped at Colle and the opportunity had passed. If everything continued that way, Botticelli’s paintings would soon be wiped off the palace walls.

  40

  Mauricio leapt off his exhausted horse and ran headlong into the villa. A servant from the Ginori household had previously galloped to Florence to announce that Lorena had gone into labor.

  Drenched in sweat and a bundle of nerves, Mauricio ran up the stairs panting, in search of his loved one. In the corridor of the upper floor he found Francesco, Lorena’s father, together with her brother and sister, Alessandro and Maria. The door to Lorena’s room was shut.

  “Calm down,” said Francesco. “Lorena is well accompanied with a midwife, two assistants, and her mother. It would be better for us to wait out here until your child is born.”

  Lorena’s siblings did not seem to share their father’s serenity. Alessandro was marching up and down the hallway, taking great strides and nervously wringing his hands. Maria stood silent, her eyes red and watery.

  A heart-rending shriek pierced the thick wooden door. Lorena was letting out wild screams. Maria burst into tears, crying profusely and unable to contain herself. Mauricio rushed impetuously toward the door, but Francesco barred his way.

  “There are already four people in there helping Lorena. Far better to stay out here and not distract those who are inside assisting her.”