(Florence, near the Mercato Vecchio, the studiolo of Mariam Bellini, formerly Meryem of the East β
The florins feel different in her hands now. Heavier, perhaps, or perhaps it is only that she counts them for herself now, not for Giuseppe's fumbling fingers and his merchant's dreams that never extended beyond the next shipment of wool. Two years since she buried himβa fever, she told the neighbors, sudden and mercifulβand still she catches herself listening for his wheeze in the morning silence.
She does not miss him, or rather, she misses him but only in part. She arranges the coins in neat stacks across the oak table. What she misses is the simplicity of pretending to be only what she appeared: a merchant's wife from the eastern lands, grateful for Florentine protection, content to mind the household accounts. But contentment, she has learned, is a luxury the immortal cannot afford. Giuseppe's protection died with him, and Florence does not coddle foreign widows, no matter how well they count. And where she rose was the backwoods of the world. She could not stay there.
The banking houses rise around her like cathedrals of gold. The Medici name echoes in every transaction, Lorenzo's influence threading through the city like silk through a loom. She watches the flow of money as other women watch the flow of the Arnoβboth currents that shape the landscape, both dangerous when they change course.
He is made of sweat and ambition. He sits opposite her, the wool of his tunic too heavy for the season, a dark spot of damp spreading between his shoulder blades. His name is Piero Vettori, a man from a good family but not the main branch, a man whose desire has outstripped his means. She knows his type. She collects them. They are the bricks from which she builds her walls. That is why he is here.
She feels the city pressing at the window, a low thrum of life: the rumble of cart wheels on stone, the distant shouts from the Ponte Vecchio, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. All of it is life, teeming and fragile. A world of flesh. In here, it is different.
He has been speaking for some time, the words gusting around the small, still room, full of promises about Flemish wool and the exchange rates in Bruges. She lets them blow past her, listening instead to the frantic, shallow pace of his breathing. A world of ink, she finds, is more durable than the world of flesh. That is why he is here. She is the lender for ventures deemed too bold, or too foolish, by the established houses.
She studies the deed he has placed on her desk, not the man himself. A small vineyard in the hills towards Fiesole. The parchment is good, the ink dark, the seal of his minor house intact. She already knows its worth to the florin, having had it valued last week when she first heard the whispers of his need. The land itself is secondary. The true collateral is his desperation. The true asset is the debt, a hook she can set in the flesh of the Vettori name. It is a small hook, but she has learned that great beasts can be turned by small, well-placed things.
He finally falls silent, his pitch made. The quiet he leaves behind is heavy, expectant. She lets it work on him, an acid that eats at a man's certainty. ) You understand the penalty for default, Signore Vettori? It is not merely the collateral. It is the interest on the interest, compounded weekly.
( He swallows, a dry, clicking sound in his throat. ) Of course, Signora. But there will be no default. This venture isβ
( She raises an eyebrow. She does not need his reassurances; they have no value on a ledger. ) The House of Medici does not like their factors in Bruges to be challenged. They have long arms. They can be⦠disruptive to the business of smaller men. ( It is a test, and he flinches. A flicker of his eyes, a tightening of the jaw. Good. Fear is a reliable motivator. ) The Medici are not the only power in Florence, Signora.
( What they do not expect is how carefully she listens. How she catalogs their fears, their ambitions, their whispered complaints about the Medici grip on trade. Information, she has discovered, compounds like interest. And unlike Giuseppe's wool, it never spoils in storage. No, she thinks, her gaze resting on the contract, a spidery web waiting for its fly. They are not. That is the entire point.) Sign the document, Signore. Your first payment is due in three months' time. To the day.
( His hand trembles as he signs. He pushes the parchment back toward her, the ink glistening, and then he is gone, his footsteps fading down the hall. For a moment, she has her perfect silence again, the quiet of a transaction completed, a new hook set. Then it is broken. The bell above her door chimes again before the merchant can answer. Someone else approachesβtheir footsteps measured, purposeful. Not her maid, Caterina, but a manβs. Not the shuffle of another desperate borrower, but the stride of someone who knows precisely what they seek. Not the sound of a merchant asking for a loan, nor a debtor begging for time. It is the sound of someone who expects to be heard. People do not simply arrive at her door. This is a different kind of business. )
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The florins feel different in her hands now. Heavier, perhaps, or perhaps it is only that she counts them for herself now, not for Giuseppe's fumbling fingers and his merchant's dreams that never extended beyond the next shipment of wool. Two years since she buried himβa fever, she told the neighbors, sudden and mercifulβand still she catches herself listening for his wheeze in the morning silence.
She does not miss him, or rather, she misses him but only in part. She arranges the coins in neat stacks across the oak table. What she misses is the simplicity of pretending to be only what she appeared: a merchant's wife from the eastern lands, grateful for Florentine protection, content to mind the household accounts. But contentment, she has learned, is a luxury the immortal cannot afford. Giuseppe's protection died with him, and Florence does not coddle foreign widows, no matter how well they count. And where she rose was the backwoods of the world. She could not stay there.
The banking houses rise around her like cathedrals of gold. The Medici name echoes in every transaction, Lorenzo's influence threading through the city like silk through a loom. She watches the flow of money as other women watch the flow of the Arnoβboth currents that shape the landscape, both dangerous when they change course.
He is made of sweat and ambition. He sits opposite her, the wool of his tunic too heavy for the season, a dark spot of damp spreading between his shoulder blades. His name is Piero Vettori, a man from a good family but not the main branch, a man whose desire has outstripped his means. She knows his type. She collects them. They are the bricks from which she builds her walls. That is why he is here.
She feels the city pressing at the window, a low thrum of life: the rumble of cart wheels on stone, the distant shouts from the Ponte Vecchio, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. All of it is life, teeming and fragile. A world of flesh. In here, it is different.
He has been speaking for some time, the words gusting around the small, still room, full of promises about Flemish wool and the exchange rates in Bruges. She lets them blow past her, listening instead to the frantic, shallow pace of his breathing. A world of ink, she finds, is more durable than the world of flesh. That is why he is here. She is the lender for ventures deemed too bold, or too foolish, by the established houses.
She studies the deed he has placed on her desk, not the man himself. A small vineyard in the hills towards Fiesole. The parchment is good, the ink dark, the seal of his minor house intact. She already knows its worth to the florin, having had it valued last week when she first heard the whispers of his need. The land itself is secondary. The true collateral is his desperation. The true asset is the debt, a hook she can set in the flesh of the Vettori name. It is a small hook, but she has learned that great beasts can be turned by small, well-placed things.
He finally falls silent, his pitch made. The quiet he leaves behind is heavy, expectant. She lets it work on him, an acid that eats at a man's certainty. ) You understand the penalty for default, Signore Vettori? It is not merely the collateral. It is the interest on the interest, compounded weekly.
( He swallows, a dry, clicking sound in his throat. ) Of course, Signora. But there will be no default. This venture isβ
( She raises an eyebrow. She does not need his reassurances; they have no value on a ledger. ) The House of Medici does not like their factors in Bruges to be challenged. They have long arms. They can be⦠disruptive to the business of smaller men. ( It is a test, and he flinches. A flicker of his eyes, a tightening of the jaw. Good. Fear is a reliable motivator. ) The Medici are not the only power in Florence, Signora.
( What they do not expect is how carefully she listens. How she catalogs their fears, their ambitions, their whispered complaints about the Medici grip on trade. Information, she has discovered, compounds like interest. And unlike Giuseppe's wool, it never spoils in storage. No, she thinks, her gaze resting on the contract, a spidery web waiting for its fly. They are not. That is the entire point.) Sign the document, Signore. Your first payment is due in three months' time. To the day.
( His hand trembles as he signs. He pushes the parchment back toward her, the ink glistening, and then he is gone, his footsteps fading down the hall. For a moment, she has her perfect silence again, the quiet of a transaction completed, a new hook set. Then it is broken. The bell above her door chimes again before the merchant can answer. Someone else approachesβtheir footsteps measured, purposeful. Not her maid, Caterina, but a manβs. Not the shuffle of another desperate borrower, but the stride of someone who knows precisely what they seek. Not the sound of a merchant asking for a loan, nor a debtor begging for time. It is the sound of someone who expects to be heard. People do not simply arrive at her door. This is a different kind of business. )
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