She looked out of the window counting, remembering, and, it appears, calculating. She had been speaking so fast that there was a dribble of spittle down the side of her mouth. Absent-mindedly, she wiped it away with the back of her hand, her mind elsewhere.
Then she turned. ‘You cannot afford to forget too quickly, nor can you allow the people to do so either. Lorenzo talked to the Signoria. “Paint them,” he said. “All eight of them, including the escaped Bandini, who will be hunted down ruthlessly. Paint their images, life-sized. Let the world know that my arm is long. Tell the world that wherever he goes, Bandini will not avoid me. I shall find him and when I do, I shall have him brought back here in chains. And then I shall have him hanged.”’
‘Did they do as he asked them?’ Savonarola was caught up in the urgency of the story himself now.
‘They did as he ordered.’ She turned her head sideways and gave him a twisted grin. ‘It was not a request.’
She looked out of the window again and then turned back. ‘Sandro Botticelli did the fresco on the side wall of the Palazzo della Signoria. Lorenzo paid him the forty florins himself, from his own pocket. It took Sandro twelve weeks, working high on a scaffold. All eight of them, he painted. Life-sized, full-length, their faces recognizable, their clothing as they wore in the street, lest anybody mistake them. Bandini alone was painted upside-down, hanging by his ankle. Underneath his body Botticelli painted an inscription, which had been written by Lorenzo himself.’
A fugitive who has not escaped the fates
For on his return, a far crueller death awaits.
Savonarola felt her looking at him and thought her expression was merciless. For a moment, he felt fear. Many times he had heard stories about the fury of female animals, protecting their young. Now, to his consternation, he was seeing it for himself.
‘Nobody murders my children, especially in church. I won’t have it.’
She lifted her head and seemed surprised that her story had reached its ending. As her breath returned, her mood seemed to subside. ‘The pope wasn’t pleased when they told him his archbishop had been hanged and painted in his robes. A few months later we signed a peace agreement with him and King Ferrante of Naples. He made it a condition of the settlement that Archbishop Salviati’s image must be painted out. Lorenzo agreed.’
Savonarola looked up, surprised.
The smile on her face had become a smirk. ‘Yes. He agreed. But then he took the pope at his word. They over-painted the archbishop’s image in white, so it stood out from the others. But they left his name and the inscription underneath.’
Again she looked out of the window. He could see her mood was becoming brittle and melancholy. But as she turned back he could see it was still fiercely strong and unwavering. ‘It took two years to find Bandini. He had escaped to the coast and travelled as far as Constantinople in a Venetian galley. But Lorenzo’s supporters found him, and the Turkish Sultan honoured his extradition request, sending him back in chains.’ She nodded, vindicated.
‘They hanged him, still in his rusty chains, with his wife beside him, for good measure. A promise is a promise and Lorenzo had promised Giuliano’s body that he would do so. And as for his wife; she should never have aided and abetted his escape. It was a slow hanging. They didn’t drop him onto the end of the rope so his neck broke instantly, as they normally do, and as they did for her. No. They hauled him up from the ground, slowly. Using a thick rope. He was strangled, choked slowly and painfully, his eyes bulging in agony.’
‘You were there? You saw it?’
‘I watched. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I was glad I was there. For Giuliano. For my son.’
‘The memory has stayed with you? An image burned into your mind?’
She nodded, and for the first time he could see tears in her eyes as she remembered. ‘Yes I was there. Young Leonardo da Vinci was there too, not far from me in the crowd. I watched him, looking and sketching, and afterwards, I saw the page in his little book. As usual he was precise, the pen drawing not large but a good image, and beneath it notes in his magic mirror-writing that only he could read. I asked him what the words said and he read them for me. “Small tan-coloured berretta; doublet of black serge; a black jerkin, lined; a blue coat, lined with throats of foxes and the collar of the jerkin covered with stippled velvet, red and black. Black hose, Bernardo di Bandino Baroncelli.”
‘When it was all over, Lorenzo wanted Bandini’s figure re-painted to show that we had found him and done as we promised. Botticelli couldn’t do it, he was in Rome doing some work in the Sistine chapel for the pope. So Lorenzo asked Leonardo to do it. And he did. People said it was the only painting they both worked on. But that wasn’t quite true. They had both worked on The Baptism of Christ, with Verrocchio. But this was the only fresco they ever shared.
Quickly she waved a finger, to correct herself. ‘Except it wasn’t really. Because Leonardo used the same trick as he had done on the Verrocchio. While Botticelli had painted the original fresco in buon fresco, using tempera paints into the still-damp plaster, Leonardo was re-covering an over-painting. He could, of course, have chipped off all the old plaster and started again with fresh intonaco, but instead he left the old paint in place and used oil paints to paint a secco over the top. Of course, with new oil paint applied on a white under-painting background, Bandini’s image shone out against the other figures.’ The smirk again. ‘As it was meant to.’
Slowly her expression softened from smirk to smile, a mother’s smile, reserved for children. ‘Botticelli didn’t mind. He and Lorenzo were …’ her expression tightened as some further thought seemed to enter her mind. ‘But I don’t expect you want to know about that.’
As if waking from a dream, she suddenly turned and walked across to her chair. Her movements had become brisk and business-like, as if her memories were being put away in a cupboard and the door closed and locked.
She sat and composed herself. ‘Well that’s the end of my little story. I hope its intention is clear. The point is, the Lorenzo you see now is the Lorenzo shaped by that experience. It isn’t easy to see your brother die. Not like that. You find yourself somewhat short of … sympathy. It makes you resilient and unforgiving.’
She stood up from the chair again and walked towards him, leaning over for emphasis. ‘But it doesn’t make you a bad person. Not in my book.’
She straightened, turned, walked to the window and stood, looking out, her back to him.
Realizing that he had been dismissed, he got up and without a word left the room. As he descended the stone steps below her house he paused and looked back. There won’t be many more of these conversations now. She’s nearly finished.
Chapter 18
Final Confession
For the next three days she did not speak to him. She couldn’t. But at the same time, she felt trapped. Part of her felt she had said enough – all she had to say – and yet somehow she could not bring herself to walk away either, because she knew that once she did, it would all be over and she would never be able to start again.
It’s like death she thought. It’s so horribly final. However well-prepared you think you are for it, when it comes to the event, it’s still a very big step to take.
She was prepared for death. Well, almost prepared. She had said her goodbyes to most of those that had mattered. To Giovanni, the only one, apart from Lorenzo, who really mattered.
And to Cosimo. At least he apologized in the end. I never forgave him for stealing my life, for that is what he did. He sacrificed me for the sake of the family. She felt her jaw ache and realized she was grinding her teeth together. But in the end, he paid the price – my price. I kept my son but Cosimo lost his bank. It is mortally crippled now. Serves him right.
And then there was Giuliano. She had said her goodbyes to him, although he, poor soul, had not been present at the time. But she had been sure he was watching, perhaps with his one remaining eye. She shuddered at the thought. They said the dagge
r had gone through his eye. Was he still walking round like that? Perhaps all wounds were healed once you got to heaven? Had that been true for Saint Catherine and Saint Sebastian and the other blessed martyrs? She hoped so.
And she had said goodbye to Maddalena. Always she had thought a kindred spirit, although they had been so different in so many respects.
She folded her clothes and absent-mindedly began putting them into one of her travelling chests. They would be leaving soon.
Maddalena’s face came back into her mind. Perhaps, on reflection, not entirely a kindred spirit. There was never any malice in Maddalena. Judging by her journal, she had forgiven Cosimo everything. Perhaps she was right. Each of us to her own. We find our own solace in our own way. In the end, you have to be true to yourself. Make your decisions and stand by them.
She folded another camicia and put it on top of the others. Dear Maddalena. Their final conversation had been a strange one. She had stood alone in the chapel of the Convento di Santo Damiano looking at that crushed pew and the great hole in the roof above it, and Maddalena, she sensed, had been somewhere nearby, invisible, yet watching and listening. And she had spoken to her, silently, and she was sure she had heard her reply.
Now only Lorenzo was left, and saying goodbye to him would have to wait until the very end. Judging by past conversations, it would not be an easy one.
PALAZZO MEDICI
May 1472
So, Lorenzo? The work is done?
Lorenzo is standing at a table, his head down in a book. He nods but does not turn or look up. What she can see of his face seems less exuberant than she might have expected, which lends credence to her worries. She ploughs on. ‘The tomb has been sealed and consecrated?’
He nods again, head still down. ‘As we agreed. It looks good. Andrea del Verrocchio has done well. A fine piece of work.’
Lucrezia swallows hard. He’s not making it easy for her. ‘And little Cosimino has been reburied in San Lorenzo alongside Giovanni and Piero?’
‘Beneath them, to be precise. Apparently there are rules.’ Still no eye-contact.
‘And the gold?’
Lorenzo’s face begins to lighten. ‘Downstairs. In the vaults.’ Then, with a flourish, like a magician completing a trick, he stands, turns toward her, and laughs. ‘It was just as the poem had said. One hundred and eighty thousand shiny new florins, all in leather bags, stacked all round the base of the tomb, in the centre of the courtyard. We had taken a coffin in which to remove the body – luckily a very large one, far too big for a six-year-old boy, so there was plenty of room to stack the bags around it. Then we re-sealed the tomb, closed the coffin and off we set, back here. It was that easy.
‘We unloaded the gold when we got here and the next day had the coffin, with Cosimino’s little coffin inside it, taken over to San Lorenzo, where he was placed reverently into the new tomb.’
‘Who helped you?’
He pulls a face, shrugs. ‘A couple of servants.’
As he replies he looks away again and she knows the morning’s rumours have some foundation. The household is buzzing with a story of two recently-arrived Medici servants who quickly disappeared again and have just been found, garrotted on the banks of the Arno.
She decides to approach him slowly. Her moment will come. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘With what?’ He’s being careful now, and obtuse, his head back in the book. It’s his way when he feels vulnerable.
‘With the gold. The gold you brought from the tomb. What are you going to do with it?’
‘How do you mean?’ He’s being silly now.
‘Well, it seems to me you have two basic choices, and I was wondering which of them you planned to pursue.’
He tips his head on one side and pulls a confused face. He can be infuriating when he’s like this, but she knows how to remain calm and chip away at him.
‘Either you pay it into the bank and make it solvent again. All you have to do is put it through the books as a repayment from the Milan branch of the money owed by the duke.
Still bending over the book, Lorenzo half-turns and sticks his lower lip out. It seems he’s not impressed with that plan.
‘Or you can take the money as your own and spend it on magnificentia; on becoming a great prince.’
‘I already am a great prince.’
‘An even greater one, then. You know what I mean.’
He nods, straightens, turns, but his face has clouded with suspicion. ‘What do you think I should do, Mother?’
She sees no point in prevarication. ‘I don’t think you need the bank. Not in the sense that we relied on it to build our political position in the past. So long as it makes a steady profit and pays reasonable dividends, we don’t need the great surpluses we once did. So if I were you I would let the bank fend for itself and I would invest in my greater reputation.’
Lorenzo nods. ‘My greater reputation. Yes.’
For a moment Lucrezia considers returning to the two dead servants. But she can’t just crash into it, she needs an introduction. She walks to the window, looks out, trying to look relaxed, and tries changing the subject completely.
‘I was thinking about Maddalena earlier today. What did you think of Maddalena?’
She sees Lorenzo’s head go back in surprise, but immediately he recovers and pulls a quizzical face. He’s thinking, calculating, inventing, off on another perhaps false, trail.
‘Olive oil.’
‘What?’ Now she’s the one on the back foot.
‘She was the olive oil of our household. The necessary lubricant. The essential ingredient.’ Lorenzo’s eyes are crafty, but confident. Her confusion must be showing. ‘When you prepare simples, of green leaves, you make a dressing, do you not?’ She nods, confused. ‘So. Contessina was the lemon juice; she always brought a tart sourness to the occasion. Cosimo was the garlic; basic, earthy yet essential. And Maddalena was the olive oil that bound it all together.’
‘Oh.’ She feels an unexpected pang of jealousy.
‘What’s the matter now?’ His eyes have softened slightly, but he’s still standing by the table.
‘Is there no place for your mother in this dressing?’ As soon as she has spoken she regrets her words. Lorenzo hates people fishing for compliments.
This time he smarms over and hugs her. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course! You were always the balsamico, one tiny drop of which transformed the whole flavour, and which eased our troubles and healed our wounds.’
Now she knows he is being unctuous and they both know she deserves it. Never try to cajole a compliment out of Lorenzo. He will either refuse or else smother you in honey-tongued flattery until you are embarrassed by the excess. Apart from Contessina, of course, who has always accepted such exaggerated treatment as her due and basked in it.
She decides to return to Maddalena. ‘So she was perfect, then? Perhaps you are right. She was more than a friend to me, in my childhood and … in my marriage.’ She shakes her head at a memory. ‘She never really forgave Cosimo, you know.’
He shakes his head. She knows he doesn’t need to ask what about. ‘No she didn’t, did she? She was the only one to stand up to him and to tell him what she thought, wasn’t she? In no uncertain terms I believe?’
She smiles at her son’s clear reminiscence of an event that took place long before he was born. ‘The only reservation I might have is that she was simplistic in her faith.’
‘In Cosimo or in God?’
‘In God. She may have come to see Cosimo’s weaknesses in his later years, and in all honesty there were enough of them, but she trusted God explicitly and absolutely.’
‘And you don’t? Don’t tell me your sacred poems are all insincere? Not after all these years?’
Lucrezia shakes her head. ‘Of course not. But there was a huge difference between our respective interpretations of our faith. Maddalena truly believed that God controls every aspect of our lives, that somehow he makes every tin
y decision himself and all we can do to influence things is to offer him our prayers.’
Lorenzo sneers. ‘Or pay some fat priest to do so on our behalf. If you believe what they tell us, their prayers count much more than our own humble mutterings.’
Lucrezia waves his rudeness away. ‘Don’t be blasphemous. It’s inappropriate and it doesn’t help. Holy men have their place, Lorenzo, in your world as well as mine.’
Lorenzo wrinkles his nose dismissively. She understands. His trust in priests has been severely stretched since Giuliano was murdered in the duomo itself. But his original question has hurt her and she wants to answer it. If only for herself.
‘I believe in God. Absolutely and explicitly. But I have spent my life running businesses as well as trying to keep this family together. And what I have learned is that you can’t watch every tiny event unfold and you can’t make every single decision yourself. It’s impossible. After many years of thought, I have come to the conclusion that God places us in this world, each with certain abilities, attributes and, yes, weaknesses. After that, he tries to guide us, but the decisions in life are ours to make and the responsibility for the outcomes of those decisions ours too. Not God’s.’
Lorenzo is watching her thoughtfully. ‘And the priests?’
‘They are here to guide us. And to help us talk to God and interpret his responses.’
‘Like ambassadors?’
‘Perhaps. Something like that.’
‘Some of them with ambitions and purposes of their own?’
She nods, remembering how many ambassadors Lorenzo has dealt with in his life already. ‘Of course. Everyone has. It’s a logical consequence of God giving us options and choices.’
Lorenzo is grinning now and she knows that at least for the moment he’s on her side. Now is as good a time as any to ask him the question. ‘So what happened to the two servants?’
Immediately, Lorenzo’s brow is hooded again, and his expression guarded. ‘What two servants?’
She keeps her voice light, conversational. ‘The two servants who helped you lift the gold out of Cosimino’s tomb. The two who helped you fill the coffin. And empty it again later before Cosimino was re-buried in San Lorenzo.’
Seeds of Decline Page 18
