IN 1418, AFTER three years in his grim Heidelberg prison-quarters, Baldassare Cossa was released and made his way to Florence, where he was immediately offered hospitality by Giovanni di Bicci. At a stroke, the social standing of the Medici family was transformed; even if Baldassare was now merely a deposed former pope, Giovanni was nonetheless welcoming into his house a man who had once been the spiritual ruler of all Christendom, Likewise, the prestige of the Medici Bank rose throughout Europe: this enterprise was evidently as solid as a rock, if its senior partner could afford to indulge 35,000 florins on a mere business friend, with no prospect of recompense.
Yet Giovanni’s shrewdness was also prompted by necessity. In acting as he did, he demonstrated the deep and unfailing loyalty of the Medici; had he not done so, the untrustworthiness of the Medici would have been broadcast throughout Europe by rival bankers, considerably lessening international trust in the Medici Bank. In the uncertain world of late medieval banking, such acts of betrayal were not forgotten for generations. But Giovanni’s decision to stand by Baldassare was more than just a matter of far-sighted calculation, designed to influence future events – it was also very much calculated to influence the present. Once again, Giovanni was scheming for the big prize: he wanted to be banker to the new pope, Martin V, who happened to be living in Florence at the time, as Rome had been seized by Queen Joanna of Naples. Giovanni had quickly seen a way to make good use of this situation. Before paying Baldassare’s ransom, Giovanni had informed him that this service was being rendered on one condition – that the former pope would come to Florence for a public reconciliation with Pope Martin V The reconciliation duly took place, and Martin V was delighted at the prospect of his papacy remaining the first undisputed reign since 1378. He gave expression to his pleasure by appointing the ill and ageing Baldassare as Cardinal-Bishop of Tusculum (Frascati), In appreciation of Giovanni di Bicci’s part in this reconciliation, the pope created him Count of Monteverde, a title that Giovanni politely declined to use, on the grounds that he wished to remain an ordinary citizen. However, no more concrete expression of Martin V’s friendship was forth-coming; he remained wary of Giovanni, and there was also the matter of the priceless jewel-encrusted mitre that John XXIII had given away before fleeing Constance, which the pope was claiming as papal property. For the time being, the pope was unwilling to appoint Giovanni di Bicci as the papal banker, and thus the situation remained for the next two years.
In September 1420 Pope Martin V left Florence to take up residence in Rome, watched by a disappointed Giovanni – the pope had chosen the aristocratic Florentine family, the Spini, as his bankers. Although Giovanni was related to the Spini through his mother, this socially superior family remained old rivals of the Medici.
Baldassare had died the previous year. For once, he had remained as good as his word: the Medici were named executors of his will, and benefited considerably from this document. Though Baldassare had arrived back from his spell in Heidelberg Castle apparently penniless, he evidently still had a few savings salted away. Giovanni di Bicci inherited Baldassare’s favourite holy relic: a finger of John the Baptist, which he had carried with him at all times, in the superstitious hope of warding off bad luck. As executors of Baldassare’s will, the Medici were also responsible for building the ex-pope’s tomb in the Baptistery in Florence, and for this Giovanni hired the sculptor Donatello and the architect Michelozzo, who produced one of the earliest tombs in the new Renaissance style. Inscribed on the tomb, as requested in Baldassare’s will, were the words ‘loannes Quondam Papa XXIII’ (‘John XXIII formerly pope’). When word of this reached Rome, Martin V was furious; he regarded John XXIII as having been only an anti-pope, and Giovanni was held responsible for this slight on the papacy. Not all of Giovanni di Bicci’s decisions were faultless.
By this time the political situation in Florence had changed. The head of the ruling oligarchy, Maso degli Albizzi, had finally succumbed, at eighty-four, to the wave of plague that passed through the city in 1417. The most influential member of the oligarchy now became Niccolò da Uzzano, a reputable and aristocratic Florentine grandee, who had in fact combined with Giovanni di Bicci in persuading the reluctant Baldassare to affect a reconciliation with Pope Martin V. After this, Giovanni had done his best to cultivate his relationship with the powerful Niccolò, but despite responding to these overtures, Niccolò retained a deep suspicion of the Medici. The citizens of Florence were becoming restless under the ruling families, and the Medici family still retained their reputation as covert sympathisers with the popolo minuto, who were now referred to dismissively amongst the oligarchy as the piagnoni – literally ‘whiners’ or ‘snivellers’. This was another term that contained its element of brutal social truth, for the uncouth lower orders were constantly snivelling rather than blowing their noses; in winter, their restricted diet and inadequate clothing meant they were perpetually suffering from colds and lung-racking coughs: the short people also had short lives.
In 1421 there was a move to elect Giovanni di Bicci as gonfaloniere – to which Niccolò da Uzzano immediately objected, citing Salvestro de’ Medici’s treacherous behaviour when he had been gonfaloniere during the ciompi revolt – which had taken place only forty-three years previously. In Niccolò’s view, Giovanni di Bicci posed an even greater threat, for he was much more clever and persistent; he had been biding his time for years, gradually increasing his riches and his power base, quietly cultivating his popularity amongst the popolo minuto with gifts and largesse. Yet at the same time he had done his best to disguise his vast wealth by putting on the appearance of a modest unassuming lifestyle, in the same way as he had disguised his political ambitions by pretending that he was only interested in making money, whilst at the same time using his wealth to build up a network of Medici supporters that might one day be turned to political use. In the view of Niccolò da Uzzano, Giovanni had no intention of honouring the republican traditions of Florence, and if elected would use his power only for his own ends and those of his family. This was ironic, coming from such a source, as many Florentines recognised all too well; but in fact Niccolò was not altogether wrong. Despite these objections, however, Giovanni di Bicci was elected gonfaloniere in 1421. Though he did not gain permanent control of the city, this event can be taken as the first manifestation of the new Medici political influence, which was to end in them gaining complete control of the city for more than three centuries.
Three years later Giovanni di Bicci achieved another one of his goals, when the Spini family went bankrupt, leaving Pope Martin V without a banker. Giovanni quickly stepped in to fill the breach, and once again the Medici Bank had its licence to coin money. The libro segreto for this period contains some fascinating entries: the balance sheet of the Rome branch includes a long list of personal deposits ‘a discrezione’ (that is, secret accounts paying interest, which was contrary to the Church’s ban on usury). Individual deposits here ranged from 2,600 up to 15,000 florins, and depositors included no fewer than two cardinals, several prelates, the pope’s closest confidant and the apostolic treasurer.
The year of 1420 had seen the death of Giovanni di Bicci’s partner Benedetto de’ Bardi, which had provided Giovanni with an opportunity to reorganise the bank’s affairs. One of the woolshop partnerships was discontinued, and the Florence branch gained a new manager: Folco d’Adoardo Portinari (a descendant of Dante’s Beatrice). Giovanni was now sixty, and decided to hand over the business to his sons Cosimo and Lorenzo; the bank’s new capital was declared as 24,000 florins, with 16,000 florins being provided by the two Medici, and a further 8,000 florins by a member of the Bardi family. Giovanni continued his connection with the bank, though only behind the scenes – counselling, suggesting, warning. He now lived in a central but unpretentious house on the piazza in the shadow of the cathedral; this was just a 300-yard walk down what is now the Via Roma, to the Medici Bank’s headquarters on the Via Porta Rossa. Most days he could still be seen taking this walk, usually accompanied only by his personal servant – unlike members of the leading families in the city, who seldom ventured out in public without their retinue, both for protection and as a mark of status. Giovanni di Bicci continued to maintain a modest lifestyle – partly through temperament and partly for political reasons. Only in the hot months of the summer would he spend any length of time at his country house in Cafaggiolo. He was never away from the city for long: besides his increasing behind-the-scenes political power, Giovanni had now begun to devote much of his time and money to patronage. In 1419 he had become involved in his first major project: he had been in charge of the public committee that commissioned the building of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, the city’s foundling home. Two years later, in company with seven other neighbourhood families, Giovanni commissioned the rebuilding of the church of San Lorenzo, which had originally been consecrated by St Anselm in 393 and was already in a bad state of disrepair when it was damaged by fire in 1417. These ventures into patronage were to be part of the Medici bid for a social status to match their growing political influence, and they were selected with typical astuteness. The Ospedale degli Innocenti was particularly favoured by the popolo minuto, many of whom had been brought up here; the church of San Lorenzo was where all the Medici clan traditionally worshipped, its name being given to many of their sons: in building such places, they were also building their reputation.
The man commissioned to build the Ospedale degli Innocenti and redesign San Lorenzo was Brunelleschi, then the most prominent architect in Florence. Brunelleschi was an irritable, abrasive character whose hobby was writing vituperative sonnets to his enemies; but this secretive, ambitious man was also one of the pioneers of the Renaissance. It was he who rediscovered the rules of perspective, which had been lost since classical times, and his design for the portico of the Ospedale degli Innocenti is generally regarded as the first piece of Renaissance architecture. Its line is clean and classical, reflecting the architectural style of Ancient Rome; and its thin graceful columns were not simply decorative, but were used for structural support, a method that had not been tried since Roman times. The building of the Ospedale degli Innocenti and the rebuilding of San Lorenzo were major undertakings, which were to take Brunelleschi more than a decade, during which the canny patron and his difficult architect struck up an unlikely friendship.
But Giovanni soon had more pressing matters on his mind. Italian politics remained as turbulent as ever, with constant friction between Florence and its powerful expansionist neighbour Milan. In 1422, Filippo Maria Visconti, the Duke of Milan, signed a peace treaty with Florence, so that Milan could attack its western neighbour Genoa without interference; yet despite this treaty, Milan occupied Forlí, a small town in the Romagna that was nominally under the protection of Florence. The Florentine noble families – such as the Albizzi and Uzzano – were all for going to war, but the people, supported by the Medici, were in favour of moderation: the ordinary citizens were sick of paying taxes for such military adventures, which usually ended in disaster. Despite this popular feeling, the ruling Signoria was induced to vote for war, whereupon Giovanni di Bicci patriotically accepted the decision and assisted in the military preparations; the Medici may have been popular, but they did not yet control the city and its organs of government.
Just as Giovanni had feared, the war went badly, with Milan making increasing territorial gains during the first three years. However, although the distance between Milan and Florence is only 160 miles, these gains were not sufficient to end the war; such wars were largely fought by mercenaries, who favoured the minimum loss of life in their encounters with their fellow tradesmen, and were inclined to prolong any war for as long as their paymasters could afford it. After three years Venice entered the war on the side of Florence, thus heavily tilting the balance the other way. The mercenary combatants kept up a semblance of conflict for the next two years, until eventually Visconti of Milan was forced to sign a humiliating peace treaty in 1427.
Florence was now faced with the prospect of raising sufficient taxes to pay for this ruinously expensive war. According to Machiavelli: ‘In this war the Florentines expended three millions and a half of ducats’ – the equivalent of a staggering 4,200,000 florins. Previously the city had raised a large portion of its revenue from taxes by the estimo system, which was mainly used by those in power to inflict swingeing financial damage on their adversaries. What was estimated in the estimo was income, which meant that the landowners paid little; those with a large income did their best to conceal its full extent, and those with too small an income to conceal bore a disproportionately large burden. This had long been a cause of grievance among those who did not benefit from it – that is, the majority of the population.
It was soon realised there would be difficulty in collecting sufficient taxes to pay for the war. The only answer was to change the tax system, and a new method of taxation was now instituted: the catasto (or register of property), which was to be based on a citizen’s entire wealth, rather than merely on his income. This wealth would be declared in a public register, which would list all possessions, as well as income from these possessions and from any other source; the register would be drawn up by inspectors, who could make use of suitably rewarded informers to ensure that the register bore some relation to reality. The catasto thus shifted the emphasis to taxing land and ostentatious riches, rather than more easily concealable income.
The catasto was highly popular with the people, though not with all their sympathisers. Unsurprisingly, the ever-cautious sixty-seven-year-old Giovanni di Bicci initially had reservations about the catasto, but when he saw which way the wind was blowing he soon appeared as one of its most enthusiastic backers. Eventually Rinaldo degli Albizzi, the leader of the oligarchy faction, was forced by public pressure to carry the new tax through, though he got little credit for this. By now Giovanni di Bicci had manoeuvred himself into a position where it was he who took much of the public credit for selflessly lending his support to this innovation.
Yet Giovanni’s actions were not all machinations aimed at advancing the Medici cause; he also had a compassionate side. When word reached him, through the ever-extending tentacles of the international bankers’ grapevine, that his disgraced Venetian manager Neri Tornaquinci was now reduced to living in abject poverty in Cracow, Giovanni at once ordered a remittance of thirty-six florins to be despatched to his former employee. Such small acts of kindness were common, and were invariably discreet; as well as aspiring to nobility, the Medici were also taking on some of its qualities and reponsibilities.
In 1428 Giovanni di Bicci fell ill; he was now sixty-eight, and he knew he was dying. He summoned his two sons Cosimo and Lorenzo to his bedside, and he is traditionally said to have given them the following advice: ‘Never hang around the Palazzo della Signoria, as if it is the place where you do business. Only go there when you are summoned, and only accept the offices which are bestowed upon you. Never make a show before the people, but if this is unavoidable, let it be the least necessary. Keep out of the public gaze, and never go against the will of the people – unless they are advocating some disastrous project . . .’ It is unlikely that Giovanni used these exact words at the time, but these were the ones that would pass into Medici legend. For many years the family would adhere to this advice; and if it did not, it would still be how they felt they were living – or at least how they felt they ought to be living. Giovanni had created a strong, formative self-image for the Medici; in keeping with this, his final request to his sons was that he should be buried quietly, with no ostentatious funeral.
Cosimo might even have obeyed this, but popular feeling demanded otherwise. The old man had brought great honour to Florence, and it was felt that he had used his influence for the benefit of the people, so they called for him to be buried with full honour. As astute as his father, Cosimo decided that perhaps after all it was time to make a public display, though its message would be suitably oblique: Giovanni di Bicci’s public funeral would not be a blatant demonstration of Medici power, but a show of affectionate respect for an illustrious citizen who had died. Yet in the event, things soon took on their own momentum, with everyone wishing to be part of this celebration of the greater glory of Florence.
First an ancient tradition had to be observed, one that was said to date back as far as Etruscan times, before even the coming of the Roman Republic nearly 2,000 years previously. When the head of the family died, a hole was knocked through the wall of his home, and his body was then carried through this hole before being placed in its coffin at the head of the funeral procession. Giovanni di Bicci’s body was placed in an open coffin, which was followed through the streets by two dozen members of the Medici family; behind them, in order of precedence, came all the foreign ambassadors residing in the city, followed by the gonfaloniere and the members of his Signoria, followed in turn by representatives of the guilds, and so it went on. Cosimo may have intended the message to be oblique, but to all who watched the long procession winding its way through the streets to the church of San Lorenzo, it was loud and clear: the Medici had arrived.