He was accused of being friendly to Jews. In 1437, the Florentine government conceded explicit moneylending licenses to Jews, not to Christians. But there is no indication that Cosimo opposed the law obliging Jews to wear a yellow circle of cloth. A Jew was not part of Christendom and that was that.
He was accused of usury and tax evasion. You will go to hell for benefiting from his evil earnings, Rinaldo degli Albizzi had told the Medici sympathizers. After his return to Florence, Cosimo lifted restrictions on the so-called dry exchanges. It was one of the few transactions that all the theologians agreed was usury.
He was accused of hijacking church renovation for his own glorification, of kicking out other would-be patrons, of replacing the family chapels of enemies with those of friends, of trying to buy his way into heaven, of using excommunication as a weapon to recover personal debts, of being too friendly with priests who are “the scum of the earth.”
He was accused of spending fabulous sums on a huge new palazzo while others starved, and of appropriating cash from the public purse to do it. “Who would not build magnificently being able to spend money which is not his?” his detractors complained. Blood was smeared on the massive doors of the new house. Designed by Michelozzo and situated on the via Largo, just a few hundred yards north of the duomo, the Palazzo Medici had, and still has, the forbidding look of the fortress about it. There were no windows at ground-floor level, just solid stone.
He was accused of cruelty and tyranny. He exiled so many and never failed to have the standard ten-year sentence extended before expiry. Families were split and letters censored. Up and down the peninsula, paid informers monitored the whereabouts of old enemies. Ingenious codes were developed to bemuse the city officials.
He was accused of using torture. Girolamo Machiavelli, along with two like minds, was “tormented for days before being exiled.” Re-arrested for failing to stay in his assigned place of exile, Girolamo died in prison “from illness or torture.”
Palazzo Medici, the house that Cosimo built. Inside, there are two spacious courtyards; outside, the palazzo could be defended against all comers.
He was accused of directing Florentine foreign policy for his own personal gain. In 1450, he switched the city’s support from the old ally Venice to the old enemy Milan, revolutionizing the system of alliances throughout Italy. Francesco Sforza, erstwhile condottiere, now duke of Milan, was one of the largest clients of the Medici bank.
He was accused of subverting and manipulating the democratic process, of rule by intimidation, of crushing all opposition to his authority, of running a narrow oligarchy, of shamefully elevating “base new men” who would always do his bidding. One Medici wool-factory foreman eventually became gonfaloniere della giustizia, head of the government.
He was accused above all — and this accusation contained and explained all the others — of seeking to become a prince, of attempting to transform Florence from a republic to a hereditary monarchy. Why else would a man build a house “by comparison with which the Roman Coliseum will appear to disadvantage”? Aging now, with the sagging cheeks and baggy eyes we see in all the paintings, Cosimo did not trouble to defend himself. He knew he was widely loved, by many adored. The popular poet Anselmo Calderoni addressed him thus:
Oh light of all earthly folk
Bright mirror of every merchant,
True friend to all good works,
Honour of famous Florentines,
Kind help to all in need,
Succour of orphans and widows,
Strong shield of Tuscan borders!
Marco Parenti, son-in-law of the exiled Palla Strozzi, was implacably opposed to Cosimo and determined to bring his exiled in-laws back. On the banker’s death in 1464, however, he was obliged to remark on Cosimo’s modesty in deciding against a state funeral. He also acknowledged his enemy’s part in bringing peace and some prosperity to the city. People were grateful. “And nevertheless,” writes Parenti, “on his death everyone rejoiced; such is the love of and desire for liberty.”
Some time after the funeral, the government of the town chose to reward the dead Cosimo with the title of Pater Patriae, Father of His Country. Who is simultaneously loved and resented if not a father? However benevolently, the paternal figure holds us in check. Only the security he brings can reconcile us to waiting for his demise. Cosimo’s achievement was to make his Florentine family wait thirty years, and then some.
TO HAVE A proper understanding of Cosimo’s management of the Medici bank, one must study the 600 densely detailed pages of Raymond de Roover’s The Rise and Decline of the Medici Bank. To gain a thorough grasp of the way Cosimo ran Florence while apparently retaining the role of an ordinary citizen, one must settle down for at least a week with the 450 pages and labyrinthine complications of Nicolai Rubinstein’s The Government of Florence Under the Medici. To have just some inkling of the ambiguity of Cosimo’s relationships with the Christian faith and humanism, the contradictory impulses driving his commissions of so many buildings and works of art, one must tackle Dale Kent’s exhaustive and quite exhausting Cosimo de’ Medici and the Florentine Renaissance.
These books rarely communicate with each other. Sometimes you might be reading about three different, equally remarkable careers. Yet whichever side of Cosimo you are looking at, you are always aware of this fatherly man’s special genius for holding things in check. What exactly? The destructive energies generated by the collision of irreconcilable forces: faction and community, Milan and Naples, commercial appetite and Christian morals, the love of liberty and the need for order. To hold the fort — the bank, the family, the state — in the midst of chaos, you must reconcile the irreconcilable. How? The language rebels. In the short term, is the answer, with the aid of considerable sums of money, a genius for ad hoc solutions, and the utmost discretion. Only a banker could have done it. When the money runs out, or is used without tact, your time is up.
In 1442, in his early fifties, Cosimo was the main supporter behind the formation of a new religious confraternity: the Good Men of San Martino. The idea was to help the “shamed” poor, those who had fallen on hard times but were too proud to ask for charity. The Good Men went around the town asking for donations, after which they brought relief and preserved anonymity. Fifty percent of monies collected were registered as coming from the Medici bank. The contribution is entered in the bank’s books under the heading: God’s Account.
The arrangement is emblematic of the way Cosimo works. A largesse with political implications is hidden behind a religious organization and the name of a commercial company. The amount of money felt to be coming from oneself is doubled by also having donations collected from others. The sense of guilt arising from sinful lending operations and constant tax evasion is attenuated. The danger of economic unrest in the town is reduced. By not asking for recognition or imposing yourself as benefactor, you actually attract even greater recognition. Most crucial of all to the scheme’s success, however, was a genuine charitable impulse. “The poor man is never able to do good works,” Cosimo wrote thoughtfully to his cousin Averardo. The poor get to heaven, wrote Archbishop Antonino, by bearing their tribulations with fortitude, the rich by giving generously to the poor. Such is the providence of social inequality. A Christmas or Easter handout of wine and meat distributed by the Good Men of San Martino cost Cosimo 500 florins, three bank managers’ annual salaries.