Seeds of Decline

by Edward Charles

  Lucrezia eased her back in the chair and winced. Across the room Savonarola saw her expression and again wondered what had caused it.

  ‘Protection, stability and motivation. They were all there in those early days.’ She shook her head. ‘But by the time I speak of, it had become very different, and in my opinion the blame can be placed in the lap of one man and one man only. During its period of expansion and profitability, the Medici bank had been run by Cosimo as sole director, employing Giovanni Benci as his general manager. But in 1455 Benci died and Cosimo, sixty-six years old and increasingly infirm, began to make terrible mistakes.

  ‘His first error was when winding up the holding company.’ Again she sat forward, but this time it was to raise a hand in explanation. ‘He had no choice. As a partnership, it had to be terminated as soon as one of the partners died. But he did not replace it with a new holding company. Instead he made the Maggiore, the senior, majority partners within the family, individual partners in each of the branches.’ She lifted her head and looked hard at him. ‘This made them individually liable for any losses those branches incurred.’

  ‘You mean they were personally liable because they were directly involved?’ Savonarola knew little of legal matters and less about banking.

  Lucrezia nodded rapidly, as if the point was obvious. ‘Yes exactly.’

  She paused, appearing to have lost her train of thought and Savonarola made a mental note not to interrupt again unless it was really necessary. It was better if she talked freely and openly.

  ‘The following year, he made matters worse when his younger son, Giovanni, was put in charge.’ Savonarola could see a softer expression cross her face and, seeing his response, she shook her head. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. Giovanni was lovely, a charismatic, fun-loving man who could charm the birds from the trees. I will have much more to tell you about Giovanni. Supportive things. Favourable things. But the one thing he was not cut out to do in life was to run a bank.’ For a moment she paused, the smile still on her face, but then saw him watching her intently and hurried on. ‘Cosimo knew that and should never have appointed him, but we all loved him and since Piero, as the eldest son, was certain to be destined to follow his father’s political ambition, Giovanni was given the bank.’ Again she shook he head and in her expression Girolamo could see regret and, yes, compassion.

  ‘From the beginning it was a disaster and within three years Cosimo was forced to bring in Francesco Sassett, to help Giovanni by running the day-to-day operations. But that relationship only lasted for five years, until Giovanni himself died.’ As she said the words, she gave her head a sharp shake, as if forcing away an unpleasant thought.

  This time Savonarola tried not to respond. She looked at him to see if he had noticed and, seeing no response, took a deep breath and continued. ‘It was a chance for Cosimo to appoint more professional managers to work with Sassetti, but instead he did the worst thing possible, and put my husband, Piero, in charge. If Giovanni was unsuited, Piero was a disaster. But even that was not to last and six years later my husband, in turn, died and Sassetti was left to run the bank alone. He is still there today and the bank, under his management, continues to decline.’

  Perhaps angered by her own story, Lucrezia got up from her chair and began pacing up and down. She walked toward the window, then turned and glared at Savonarola as if, somehow, it was his fault.

  ‘I can tell you this. He would not still be there had the bank belonged to me.’

  She shook her head and tried to calm herself. She walked to the window and looked out, her elbows resting on the windowsill. Then, with a resigned expression on her face, she turned and smiled. ‘But it didn’t. And it doesn’t. And there’s no more I can do about it.’ Between each phrase, she paused, each a long, deliberate pause, and Savonarola felt as if she was hammering the words into his head, one-by-one, establishing a principle that she considered important.

  One thing is certain. She’s not afraid to hold opinions, nor to express them.

  ‘And before you ask the question I can see on your face. No. I do not entirely blame Sassetti. He could not help being a courtesan and an inadequate. I blame the man who appointed him, Cosimo himself.’

  This time, Savonarola could not hide a frown. ‘Courtesan?’ The word seemed to slip out of its own accord.

  Lucrezia shook her head at the interruption to her train of thought. ‘He told people what he thought they wanted to hear.’

  She continued pacing up and down. Her face was quite animated, her voice high and, as she paced, she wagged the first finger of her left hand as if to concentrate and retain what she was saying. Finally, she lifted her head. ‘After that, through a succession of bad decisions, the weaknesses at the centre began to be reflected as weakness in the branches.’

  PALAZZO MEDICI

  12th April 1465

  ‘Piero! It won’t do. It simply won’t do.’ Lucrezia shakes her head at her husband and wonders why he can’t see the point. To her it’s so obvious. With Cosimo recently dead, Vernacci just resigned and her brother running their most profitable branch in Rome, the bank is collapsing before their eyes. And Piero can’t see it. ‘You cannot go on like this. The bank will become a laughing stock and so will you.’

  ‘I thought I already was. At least in your eyes?’ Piero looks downtrodden.

  ‘Oh Piero. Come on! Don’t go all maudlin on me. You know why the Milan branch was established, specifically to support the Sforza family at the Court of Milan. And you know as well as I do that one of the ground rules that Cosimo had been given by his father and which he preached to both of us as children, ad nauseum, was that the bank branches would always tie their business to trade and should never over-extend themselves by making large loans to kings, princes and condottiere. Cosimo knew the risks. The Bardi, Peruzzi and Acciaiuoli banks had all failed for just this reason. Yet here we are, lending money as if it has gone out of fashion, to the Court of Milan and establishing what is, to all intents and purposes, a single-customer branch.’

  Piero lifts his head. Apparently he has not lost all self-respect. ‘I know. But at the time, Cosimo had his reasons. Good reasons. You know as well as I do that he needed the support from Milan to secure his position with the Signoria, and Sforza needed our money to secure his own position as Duke of Milan. And with the government here in Florence having no money, the bank had to pay.’

  She shakes her head because she knows he is right. ‘Yes I understand. But there are ways of doing things. You can’t throw away all good banking practice just because of political expediency…’ She pauses, thinking. ‘Not unless you want to lose the bank? Let it go? But if you do, who will pay for the costs of government? Although…’ For a moment she considers, but rejects the thought, and returns to her original theme. ‘In any event, now it’s got worse. You know what’s happened. Since Accerito Portinari came from Venice he’s effectively become number two to his older brother in the Milan branch. Yet this too is explicitly contrary to the operating rules of the bank. You’ve seen the rules. There’s nothing new about them. They were written thirty years ago.’

  Piero shakes his head. ‘I admit it’s wrong, but it was a technicality. Father couldn’t have predicted what was going to happen next.’

  Lucrezia looks to the sky for inspiration. How can her husband be so obtuse? ‘It was obvious what was going to happen next. Cosimo should have seen it coming a mile away. He knew that under the legal agreement, if Pigello died, the partnership had to continue until the end of the contract, with Pigello’s heirs. That’s what the agreement said. Cosimo knew that. He signed it. It’s not as if he didn’t know who Pigello’s heirs were, is it? His minor children and their guardian, Accerito. Wonderful! So now we’ve finished up with a malformed branch, run by a weak and inadequate manager, and in personal partnership with the Maggiore, leaving them, as individuals, and that includes you, by the way, personally responsible for its losses. Piero, it could hardly be worse.’

&
nbsp; Piero lets out a long sigh. Lucrezia can see he has no answer and she does not expect one. Not in the immediate future anyway, but he has to face up to the seriousness of the situation and start putting some corrective measures in place. Otherwise…

  She can’t let him off the hook. Not until he accepts the seriousness of the problems.

  ‘Rome is just as bad. And yes, I’m talking about my own brother. For years that branch was managed, and managed well, by Roberto Martelli, but in his absence, and yes, I know he had obligations as Podestà of Prato, you gave responsibility to Leonardo d’Angelo Vernacci.’

  Piero nods. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘I know he was a good man. That’s the point I’m trying to make. But then, at the following New Year, Roberto decided to make some changes, didn’t he? Including a promotion of my brother to look after bills of exchange and correspondence.’

  ‘That was six years ago.’

  ‘I’m coming to that. We all know the work given to Giovanni Battista was considered managerial work and, as such, it amounted to a promotion for him. Now I know Vernacci never liked my brother, and you know he had his reasons. He had to complain about his work often enough over the years, didn’t he? So understandably, he didn’t take to changes being imposed from outside while he was nominally in charge, and responsible for the branch. Naturally and quite rightly, he complained to Giovanni in his capacity as director of the bank.’

  ‘I know all this.’ Piero looks irritable, perhaps because he knows what’s coming.

  But Lucrezia is galloping now and does not intend to stop. ‘Yes, I know you know. War broke out, didn’t it? And my brother decided he was being wronged and, without my knowledge, he complained about this apparent mistreatment to you. He wrote to you, didn’t he?’

  ‘And I replied, almost immediately. I took your side and your brother’s. I wrote to Vernacci to argue Giovanni Battista’s case.’ Piero’s voice is plaintive.

  ‘I know you did. That’s the point I am making. You should not have done so. It was completely inappropriate for you to do anything. Giovanni is running the bank, not you.’

  ‘But I’m head of the family.’

  Lucrezia shakes her head in despair. ‘What’s that got to do with it? The Medici Bank is a legal entity, with a partnership agreement, appointed directors and branch managers and a proper reporting structure in place. It’s not part of the family.’

  ‘But we own it.’ Piero looks bewildered.

  Lucrezia shakes her head in despair. ‘Then you speak to the director of the bank and put your point of view, quite rightly, as one of the partners. But you don’t stick your nose in and override the management.’

  ‘But nothing happened.’

  ‘No. Not then it didn’t. But then, six years later, Roberto died and then so did Cosimo. In the spirit of the headless chicken, you still postponed a decision, which left the most profitable branch of the bank without leadership and with festering disagreements within.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but then in March, Giovanni Battista wrote to me and threatened to resign because he said life under Vernacci was impossible.’

  ‘Yes, and what did you do? Against my strong advice, you played the dutiful husband, obeyed the obligations of parentado and put family before professionalism. My brother got the job and Vernacci, an excellent manager, was sacrificed.’

  Piero shakes his head. ‘Isn’t that what I was supposed to do? I’m your husband and he’s your brother.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘It all seems quite straightforward to me.’ Lucrezia opened her hands in supplication and frustration. ‘Do you wonder that the bank is in decline now?’ She stood at the window and pointed down to the efficiently-running business below, stabbing with her forefinger.

  ‘Look at this. I know how to run a profitable business. And, as I am sure you know after talking to my staff, I know how to support a team of managers, how to give them authority, and how to motivate them to run the business profitably on my behalf. If you went to Pisa and spoke to Francesco the Goldsmith, who looks after my affairs there, you would get the same reply. So don’t blame me for Cosimo’s failures in later life.’

  It was not a comfortable ending to their first conversation, but as Girolamo Savonarola walked back down the staircase, he was clear about one thing. He understood now how this lady thought and what made her passions boil. Yet something didn’t ring true. Why did such an apparently confident lady feel the need to force her opinions upon him quite so assertively?

  He was also left with a surprising and, to him, an uncomfortable possibility: that the bubble of reputation around Cosimo de Medici might one day be pricked and the reality found to be very different.

  Chapter 4

  Cosimo is Dying

  He arrived at the agreed time, entered the room slowly and expectantly, and sat in the same chair. Then he waited.

  The woman who joined him ten minutes later, disconcerted, her face drawn, her hands fluttering, was not the same woman who lectured him the previous day. She looked as if she had hardly slept, and kept pushing back her hair, hair that immediately returned to its position across her eyes.

  She crossed the room towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. It was clearly an apology, although whether for her lateness or her unkempt state he could not tell. She gripped his shoulder once, and then went to her chair, turned and sat. She attempted a smile, but after the forcefulness of her manner the previous day he was not inclined to sympathy, and he remained impassive.

  Rapidly, she began talking. ‘Before we go any further, I think I need to redress the balance of our conversation yesterday.’

  Savonarola sat, motionless and expressionless. Take it slowly. Do not interrupt. I may learn something from her distress.

  Already, facing him, she was beginning to calm. ‘I may have left you with the conclusion that Cosimo was not as great a man as he is remembered by most people.’

  Still no response.

  ‘I would not like you to cling to that thought. He was a great man and he did achieve great things in his time. The problem lay not with him, but with his sons: Piero, my husband, and Giovanni, my brother-in-law. It is true that in the period I was describing to you yesterday Cosimo was ill, frail and with far less capability than he had had in previous years. But he recognized that reality and he was more than ready to hand over his responsibilities to other people.’

  Again, she tried to force a smile. ‘His problem was that he could not find anyone suitable that he trusted to hand them to, and in particular his sons let him down. I know this because he admitted it to me.’

  Once again, the lock of hair fell across her face, but now, seemingly back in control, she pinned it back before continuing.

  ‘It was in the July of 1464. There was plague in the city and I was taking the children to Cafaggiolo, and relative safety, when I received a message. Cosimo, it said, wanted me to attend him at his bedside at Careggi, as we were passing. I knew he was dying, they had told me so, and it seemed there were things to be addressed.

  VILLA MEDICI, CAREGGI

  July 1464

  ‘Madonna Lucrezia, you are here.’

  ‘Cosimo sent for me. They say he is dying.’

  ‘In here.’

  She enters the room. Cosimo is propped up, in bed. The room is dark and hot. It stinks, the stench of unwashed old men.

  ‘Good God. What is this? The man will suffocate in this atmosphere. Open the curtains at once. And throw open the windows. He needs air.’

  The servants shuffle ineffectively. ‘The doctors will not let us open the curtains. They say the light will harm him.’ Contessina is hovering; ineffectual as usual.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Lucrezia pushes the servants aside, throws open the curtains, and opens the windows wide. The expression of pleasure on Cosimo’s face as the light and the fresh air reach him makes her whole journey worthwhile.

  He clutches her hand. ‘Lucrezia. Thank God it’s you. Literally a breath of fresh air. You
’re the only man amongst them.’ He beckons her close and, with a tortured smile, points to the Medici arms, with their six palle. ‘The only one with real balls.’ He waves a weary arm. ‘Clear the room.’

  Everyone except Contessina shuffles out, some more reluctantly than others. Cosimo signals with the backs of his fingers to his wife. ‘You too, my dear. Don’t take it personally, but I have business to discuss with the next generation here.’

  With a disdainful sniff, Contessina leaves the room, but forgets to close the door. Cosimo points to it and with a grin, Lucrezia walks across the room and closes it firmly.

  ‘I have an admission to make to you.’ His voice is weary and downhearted.

  ‘I have lost all faith in both of my sons. I was aware of Pietro’s limitations from his very early years.’ Lucrezia gives a little frown. The family had stopped calling him Pietro on his twelfth birthday. For a moment she wonders whether Cosimo is delirious and sees Piero once again as a lost little boy. She looks up and shakes her head.

  ‘I did many things to try to build him up,’ Cosimo says, ‘and others to protect him from the harshest vagaries of this world, but nothing worked. He just did not have it in him. He was a terrible disappointment to me, and he still is, although nowadays I try to hide it.’

  And then he says something she finds deeply upsetting. ‘My greatest sadness is not the inadequacy of my eldest son but the fact that during his childhood I allowed my disappointment to show, to the point where Pietro was fully aware of its extent. That awareness of his failure in my eyes has, more than anything else in his life, been the thing that has held him back. It broke his young heart and now I know he will never regain the self-confidence he so strongly seeks. Even with your help as his wife, I know he will always remain a broken man and that I, in my desire to see him succeed and even surpass me, am as much as anything the reason for that destruction.’