“It might be advisable not to discuss with Lorenzo today the new business you want to start with Bruno,” said Lorena to her husband in a low voice as they went toward the table.
“Why not? Bruno always has excellent ideas. Remember that shipment of almonds he insisted we buy? It turned out to be an excellent investment, even though some of the sacks were ruined when they got soaked with seawater during the crossing.”
“Today is a holiday,” Lorena said. “You know that Lorenzo prefers to talk about art, love, literature, relationships, philosophy, or any ordinary theme treated with a sense of humor … I think it would be far more tasteful to bring the subject up tomorrow. Do you not need him to join in the investment with you both? Well do not bother him with money matters tonight. What is important, Mauricio, is to be close to a person’s heart. Afterward, all the rest, including money matters, will come naturally.”
“Yes, well, maybe you are right,” he conceded.
Lorena was floating on a cloud. She was more in love than ever with her husband, she had been pregnant for three months, and peace had finally been made. Moreover, Mauricio was starting to build up a promising future in the heart of the closed Florentine society. She had met her husband’s partner, Bruno, and found him to be a man with a lively mind and a good nose for business. They seemed to complement one another well. Bruno brought the experience he had accumulated in the financial world and Mauricio participated by having access to the very best contacts. Fortunately, his intellectual and artistic curiosity had allowed him to integrate naturally into the aristocratic Platonic family surrounding Lorenzo de Medici: Giorgio Antonio Vespucio, Luigi Pulzi, Sandro Botticelli, Agnolo Poliziano, Paolo del Pozzo Toscanelli, and Marsilio Ficino were only a few of the illustrious names with whom Mauricio regularly mixed.
Even the final enemy, the plague, had abated noticeably in spite of the heat, which was normal for that time of the year. Although still active in some areas, Lorena trusted that with the coming of winter the disease would be eradicated. It was common knowledge that every few years there were outbreaks of the plague, a chronic illness that came and went periodically. But two consecutive years was too much. It was time now for the sickness to leave Florence and its surroundings once and for all.
The truth is that everything seemed to be going so wonderfully well that Lorena could never imagine anything ever going wrong.
Part Two
1492–1498
Twelve are the signs of the Zodiac.
Twelve, the planets that govern us.
Twelve, the tribes of Israel.
Twelve, the chosen apostles.
Twelve, the tasks of Hercules.
Twelve, the trials of man.
Twelve years are all it takes
for a world to fall apart.
68
Florence
January 5, 1492
“And the seventh angel poured out his vial upon the air. And there came a great voice out of the temple from the throne, saying: It is done. And great Babylon came in remembrance before God, to give her the cup of the wine of the indignation of his wrath. And every island fled away: and the mountains were not found. And great hail, like a talent, came down from heaven upon men … ”
Girolamo Savonarola’s voice thundered around Florence Cathedral, striking awe in the heart of the congregation. The austere priest was reading a passage from the Apocalypse of Saint John with the intention of linking it to the unusual climatic events of the past few weeks. Terrible storms were not only destroying trees and crops, but also lashing the city. Snow had reached the first floor of many houses and the water pouring from the rooftops had frozen and formed immense stalactites hanging in cascades from up on high. Snow on the ground, which had been transformed into black, slippery ice, impeded the usual traffic of carts, horses, and mules. During those days, light lasted less time than saying a Paternoster, and freezing winds threatened to forge a perpetual alliance with darkness. A reverential fear was beating in the heart of the Florentines, and Savonarola wanted to make sure that this fear of God would last as long as possible in every single one of them.
Fear, thought Lorena, was a passion easy to set alight. One only had to imagine what one could lose: respect from others, love, life, one’s patrimony … Lorena had many reasons to be afraid, for the last few years had been generous with their gifts. Wealth had finally graced her house with its presence, she was more in love than ever with Mauricio, and God had blessed them with three wonderful children. However, bad omens frequently troubled her spirit. Perhaps the miscarriage she had suffered a few months before was a sign of the wind starting to blow in another direction. Maybe also the fact that Savonarola’s words echoed in the hearts of the Florentines was an augury of new times to come.
“Perhaps you think that the Holy Scriptures are a piece of literary fiction such as that of Sophocles, which some admire more than the prophets?” questioned Savonarola, perched high in the cathedral pulpit. “No! Absolutely not! When the prophets talk of a plague of hailstones, they are describing a palpable truth. The trees are left without fruit, the fields lose their harvest, people die of hunger … One cannot sin thoughtlessly then expect pagan gods to protect you from your evil deeds. Do not try being clever with the Lord. You are either with God or against him. Jesus Christ once said: ‘A house divided against itself shall not stand.’ Who can serve two masters at the same time? Even if one were the wealthiest citizen in Florence, one cannot worship God during the day and please the devil at night. For death creeps up like a thief when least expected.”
The reference to the richest man in Florence did not escape Lorena, as it was clearly an allusion to Lorenzo de Medici. It would soon be twelve years since his triumphant return from Naples. At that time nobody would have dared insinuate anything similar in public. Yet today a priest allowed himself to berate Lorenzo in Florence Cathedral itself. A smallish man with a nervous constitution, Girolamo Savonarola had thick fish-like lips, a hooked nose, and a narrow forehead. His only redeeming features were perhaps his large eyes and bushy eyebrows. In spite of this, his words scorched like fire. For some inexplicable reason, his presence inflamed the emotions of all who heard him speak. It was not so much what he said but the invisible energy that came with his speech. The unshakeable conviction with which he talked led those who heard him to have the same certainty, whether it was out of sympathy or because it was contagious. It was well-nigh impossible to hear him preach from the pulpit and disagree with his words in one’s innermost heart, even if one did not share his views.
The meteoric rise of this ascetic priest could only be explained by this supernatural quality he possessed. Less than three years ago, having been summoned to Florence, he had started his obscure work as an instructor of novices at San Marcos. There, in the gardens of the convent, he imparted daily lectures on the Apocalypse to the monks with such passion that soon laypeople with no links to clerical orders started attending them. The time came when the public became too numerous to fit into the cloister, however much they tried to brave the crush. Faced with such an unprecedented turnout, his superiors invited him to preach from the pulpit of San Marcos. Within a short space of time, the church also became too small. By then his fame had spread to such an extent that the people implored him to preach in the Duomo of Florence. Savonarola humbly refused such a great honor, but finally submitted to the pleas of the citizens. And now, from the most impressive setting in the city, he tirelessly flagellated the straying Florentines.
“And after these things I saw another angel come down from heaven,” declaimed Savonarola, quoting yet again from the Apocalypse of St John, “having great power; and the earth was lightened with his glory. And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, ‘Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils … For all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth are waxed rich through the
abundance of her delicacies. Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city! For in one hour is thy judgment come. And the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her; for no man buyeth their merchandise anymore.”
Savonarola was quiet and an absolute silence reigned in the church. It seemed a miracle that no child cried and no person moved.
“Do you think maybe Saint John is talking about one of those legends of which some of you are so fond?” he continued. “No! Saint John is describing the final punishment that awaits fornicators, heretics, moneylenders, and corrupt merchants. All of them will be consumed by the flames in Gehenna, enduring the most terrible pain. And I am saying unto you that the punishment that will be inflicted upon this rotting city is drawing nigh. When the flaming sword of the Lord descends upon you, your riches will be of little use, your pagan books will not protect you, your wisdom will be in vain, your best attire ridiculous compared to the glory of God … Change! Repent before it is too late! Return to the paths of righteousness while there is still time!”
Lorena watched the priest and his congregation in fascination. Not too long ago, men and women went to the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore bedecked in their most elegant finery. Today there was not a jewel or article of clothing that could be considered too ornate in sight. The constantly repeated attacks of Savonarola against vanity and empty luxury had struck deep into the parishioners, independently of their convictions. For this reason, although some still continued exhibiting splendid attires in their celebrations, not a single Florentine would dare to be seen at one of Savonarola’s sermons wearing clothes that could be considered ostentatious.
“Even the princes and elders of cities such as this one are incapable of avoiding death when God calls at their door,” asserted the priest. “Lorenzo’s hour will also come and when that moment arrives, do not think you will be protected any better. Make the most of this day to rid yourselves of your vices and sins, tomorrow the weight of your own misdemeanors might plunge you over the edge and precipitate you irredeemably into the abyss.”
Lorena could hardly believe what she had heard. Savonarola had forecast, in a veiled way, the death of Lorenzo in front of half of Florence. If this were ever to occur, God forbid, the prestige of Savonarola as a prophet would soar to unsuspected heights.
Certainly, times were changing. Even with Il Magnifico alive the influence of Savonarola was indisputable. It had been months now since the ascetic priest and Lorenzo had been living in the same city, enduring an uneasy equilibrium. Lorenzo still controlled the reins of power in government institutions, but it was Savonarola who was gaining the good will of the people entirely through his gift with words. Even within Il Magnifico’s most intimate circle, there were many who sympathized with the opinions of Savonarola. It was for this reason that the scrawny priest was untouchable and could allow himself to criticize whomsoever he wished, even Lorenzo.
69
Mauricio had escorted Lorena to the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, but had not gone in with her. Somehow, listening to Savonarola produced an anxiety in him that he found difficult to explain. Instead, he had continued walking until he reached the house of his friend Bruno on Via dei Pandolfini, just behind the Bargello, the Podestà Palace magistrates’ courts.
“I am very happy to find you at home, you old rascal,” Mauricio greeted him. “I was afraid you too would be at the Duomo, listening to Savonarola.”
“You already know what I think of that priest. His influence, which is growing every day, cannot be good for business. Such insistence on preaching against luxury will make us all poorer.”
Mauricio gazed at the long hallway as they approached the main room downstairs: exotic wood flooring, richly colored tapestries, bronze lamps hanging from the walls, paneled ceilings embossed with gold leaf … Things had gone very well for them in the last few years. Bruno had been able to build this splendid mansion and Mauricio had acquired Tommaso Pazzi’s house, which he now lived in, no longer thanks to the good graces of Lorenzo but as its legitimate owner. Mauricio and Bruno had also invested in villas and farms in the country. Outside Florence, property was much cheaper and offered great advantages by allowing working families to use them, who then paid rent by handing over a fifth of the produce cultivated on the land. This great economic leap forward had been possible thanks to commerce. They had started with almonds and continued with every type of commodity: olive oil, pepper, ginger, nutmeg, cardamom, lemons, wool, brocades, lead, pewter, silverware … In short, any merchandise that could be sold at a good price in Florence or in other cities.
“How strange to hear so little noise in your house,” remarked Mauricio.
“It is because my wife has gone to church with the children and a couple of servants.”
“Our wives will meet there then, but not the little ones, who have stayed home safe and warm with Cateruccia.”
“You have done well. Being out of the house in this cold is an act of bravery, although my wife would be capable of crossing mountains of ice not to miss a sermon by Savonarola. She is convinced that he is the new leader of Florence, and even got furious with me for not going to the Duomo with her. We have never argued so much and all because of that false prophet.”
Mauricio looked at his friend. Since he had known him, in those lean days at the tavola, Bruno had been clever enough to build up his fortune: he had married a beautiful Florentine and had enjoyed the kind of existence he had always dreamed of. Yet none of this had stopped him from losing his hair. However many ointments and magic potions he bought, he had ended up completely bald. In spite of this, Bruno was a man satisfied with life, right down to his bon viveur belly. Mauricio had reasons to feel happy as well, for destiny had fulfilled all his dreams, giving him a wonderful family, honor, friends, and wealth. In his mind, he gave grateful thanks to his father, who had guided him toward Florence, blessing him with his last breath. How happy he would have been to share his successes with him. He found consolation by thinking how proud his father would be as he watched from up above.
“By the way, how is Lorenzo?” asked Bruno.
“Not well,” answered Mauricio, sounding concerned.
“I am afraid that when Il Magnifico is no longer with us, everything will be harder, especially for us,” said Bruno, shaking his head.
“True,” agreed Mauricio. “What is certain is that his eldest son, Piero, does not show the same affection toward me as his father.”
“Lorenzo has been extremely generous with us,” acknowledged Bruno, “by allowing us free use of Medici Bank warehouses in any city. Not to mention that his agents have always dealt with all the paperwork in the various ports and customs houses. I doubt that the Medici representatives in the different European cities will be at our disposal when Piero de Medici succeeds his father.”
“You are probably right,” conceded Mauricio. “Although the Medici Bank is not what it used to be. As you predicted, under Francesco Sassetti’s management, things have gone from bad to worse. They have already shut down many branches, including Venice, Avignon, Milan, London, Bruges, and Pisa.”
“The only ones still holding out,” continued Bruno, “are Rome, Naples, Lyon, and, of course, Florence. But it remains to be seen what happens to them.”
“Luckily, we at least can allow ourselves to be optimistic,” Mauricio assured him. “In the same way that we made the right decision by leaving our jobs in the Florence tavola to dedicate ourselves to commerce, the textile business we bought last year could prove to be extremely successful. Had we been allowed to manage the Medici Bank, you can be sure that its prestige would still be intact today!”
“That was a lost cause, Mauricio. In all the key posts there were individuals who conceded loans to promote themselves and their families, to the bank’s detriment. For Lorenzo to do this—who, when all is said and done, is the owner—was understandable. But with the managers of all the branches following his example, it is surprising that the bank has not go
ne into liquidation yet, although it is merely a question of time. At least Lorenzo has the consolation that, thanks to having done so many favors for Pope Innocent, his second son Giovanni has received special privileges since being ordained as a priest. In fact, the substantial revenue generated by the abbeys of Passignano, Monte Cassino, and Morimondo, together with the profits coming from the churches scattered in and around Mugello, Prato, and the valley of the Arno, all add up to a small annual fortune for Giovanni de Medici.”
“Of course,” agreed Mauricio. “The Medici will never go hungry, even if the bank is never successful again. Nevertheless, Lorenzo is a worried man. Pope Innocent VI ordained his son Giovanni as cardinal when he was only thirteen, and this contravenes canon laws. It was for this reason the appointment was kept secret, although Lorenzo had no time to proclaim it to all and sundry. However, until Giovanni is sixteen, he cannot be officially proclaimed cardinal. And should something happen to Pope Innocent, his successor would not be obliged to invest him as such.”
“Especially because the new pope will owe nothing to the Medici,” observed Bruno. “But anyway, in less than two months, Giovanni will receive his galero from Innocent VI.”
“Exactly. Lately, I cannot get out of my head that Lorenzo is fighting a losing battle against his body with the sole intention of seeing Giovanni officially ordained as cardinal. I think that it is his last wish in this life.”
“He might also be right in giving it so much importance,” ventured Bruno. “The naming could confer a great honor, not only to the Medici family, but to the whole of Florence. Furthermore, who knows what could happen if the Medici get a foothold in the church of Rome?”
The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring Page 24
