DEATH
IN FLORENCE: THE MEDICI, SAVONAROLA AND THE BATTLE FOR THE SOUL OF THE RENAISSANCE
CITY (VI)
10. A BID FOR INDEPENDENCE
SAVONAROLA’S
WISH TO move his Dominican friars from San Marco into new, more appropriate
premises received an unexpected boost sometime around 1493, when a rich patron
donated to the monastery a plot of woodlands, containing a wild chestnut
forest, on the hillside of Monte Cavo near Careggi. Now it would be possible
for Savonarola and his fellow friars to move out of San Marco and set up from
scratch a monastery of their own. Savonarola had already thought long and hard
about such a project, insisting that he and his fellow friars could live:
a life of sanctity, erecting a poor and simple
monastery, wearing woollen habits that are old and patched, eating and drinking
sparingly in the sober manner of the saints, living in poor cells without
anything but the bare necessities, maintaining silent contemplation and
solitude, cut off from the world.1
According
to contemporary sources he had even worked out a suitable design for his new
priory:
He intended to build his new monastery in a remote
and solitary spot, which would express in every part of its design the spirit
of poverty and simplicity. He wished the structure to remain low, close to the
ground, with small cells separated by partitions of board or screens made out
of plastered wattle, all with their door frames, thresholds and latches made
out of wood. None would have iron bolts or keys. The columns would be
constructed out of brick, not stone, and would be devoid of any decoration.2
Here
at last Savonarola’s group of friars, utterly dedicated to their community,
living out in the countryside in a simple building devoid of locks or
protective iron bars, would be able to devote their lives to the vision of true
Christianity that had become Savonarola’s ideal. As Savonarola explained to his
colleagues:
When we have completed the building of this
monastery and men come to the door and ask to speak to any particular friar or
father, the gate-keeper will answer them: ‘Are you simple people? If you are
indeed simple people you may come in. If you are not simple, you must leave us,
for there are only simple people here.’3
On
the surface, Savonarola’s motives for building his new priory were entirely
pure. This would mark his withdrawal from the world and any attempt at
political influence in Florence. But in reality, it was precisely the opposite.
Only now does the full nature of Savonarola’s agreement with Lorenzo the
Magnificent on his deathbed begin to emerge. In return for Savonarola’s support
for his son Piero, and for refraining from preaching sermons demanding the
freedom of the people of Florence from the ‘tyranny’ of the Medici regime,
Savonarola would be guaranteed the support of Piero in his own political
struggle for freedom.
Although
Savonarola was prior of San Marco, the most prestigious Dominican monastery in
Florence, and indeed the whole of Tuscany, he was not Vicar General of the
Dominican order in the region. By a quirk of historical fate, the Dominicans of
Tuscany belonged to the Congregation of the Lombardy region of northern Italy,
which in turn belonged to the Dukedom of Milan. When the Vicar General of the
Congregation of Lombardy was informed of Savonarola’s plans, which were due to
proceed without his permission, the project for a new monastery was immediately
vetoed. Instead, Savonarola was told to move his friars into the adjoining
building of La Sapienza, an educational establishment attached to San Marco, at
the north-eastern edge of the piazza[1].
According to some sources, Piero de’ Medici supported the Vicar General in this
move. Yet this can only have been part of a subterfuge, for Piero de’ Medici
was in close touch with Savonarola through their mutual close friends Pico and
Poliziano, and remained well aware of his plans. At the same time, there is a
letter from Savonarola to Piero de’ Medici in which he states in the most loyal
and respectful terms, ‘it is my intention and that of the monastery to do all
that Your Lordship [Vostra Magnificentia] wishes’.
In
Piero de’ Medici’s attempt to emerge from the dominating shadow of his father
and establish himself as his own man, he had decided that Florence should become
less dependent upon its powerful northern ally Milan, at the same time
strengthening its ties with its other main axis ally, the Kingdom of Naples.
The veto of Savonarola’s plans by the Vicar General of the Lombardy
Congregation presented Piero de’ Medici with a perfect opportunity to pursue
his new foreign policy. He decided to send a delegation to petition Pope
Alexander VI for the Dominican Congregation of Tuscany to be declared
independent of the Dominican Congregation of Lombardy, as this link was no more
than a historical anomaly, which no longer bore any relevance to contemporary
Church administration.
However,
following the death of his friend Lorenzo the Magnificent, Ludovico ‘il Moro’
Sforza of Milan now considered that he was the main arbiter of power in Italy,
and as such he should be the one to be consulted with regard to any initiatives
affecting the Italian political situation (which at this period very much
included the Church administration). Any lessening of Milan’s power, as
impudently suggested by Piero de’ Medici, was out of the question. As it stood,
the Dominican Congregation of Lombardy provided Milan with both a useful source
of information in Florence and a hold over some of the most influential clerics
in the region. Milan would send a delegation to Rome to contest Piero de’
Medici’s petition to the pope, and this would be backed by the strongest
possible diplomatic representations. Ludovico Sforza knew that in Rome there
were powerful conservative elements within the Church who had no wish to see
any such ‘reforms’ – especially one involving Savonarola, whose antagonism
towards Rome and everything it stood for was all too plain. Amongst Ludovico
Sforza’s allies in Rome were the ambassadors from Venice, Bologna and Naples.
Also, within the Tuscan Congregation there were many priors who fiercely
opposed Savonarola and his new ‘message’, realising that his ‘independence’
would have an immediate and radical effect upon the administration of their own
monasteries. Specifically, these included the Dominicans of Fiesole, Pisa,
Siena and in particular the prior of San Gimignano. As if this body of powerful
opinion were not enough, it was decided that the pro-Lombardy delegation should
be led by none other than Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was not only the brother
of Ludovico Sforza of Milan, but also a close personal ally of Alexander VI.
Indeed, it was Cardinal Ascanio who had given the casting vote (encouraged by a
mule-train of gold and jewellery delivered to his villa) that had ensured Alexander
VI the papacy. Piero’s delegation faced a difficult – if not impossible – task.
Yet
the machinations of politics, and especially the exercise of power, were not
all they seemed in fifteenth-century Rome, especially with a pope of Alexander
VI’s character occupying the throne of St Peter. Florence’s entire case was to
hinge upon this. In line with Piero de’ Medici’s new foreign policy, his choice
to lead his delegation in Rome was Cardinal Oliviero Caraffa of Naples, the
official ‘Cardinal Protector’ of the Dominican order, though he was hardly a
man of influence when compared with his opponents. Piero de’ Medici’s
seventeen-year-old brother Cardinal Giovanni, who had only been a cardinal for
just over a year and was still inexperienced in the ways of papal politics, may
well have had a hand in this seemingly ineffectual choice; but it may also have
been endorsed by Pico and Poliziano, whose wide network of intellectual friends
throughout Italy perhaps afforded them a somewhat better vantage from which to
judge Cardinal Caraffa’s character.
Around
10 May 1493, the Florentine delegation set out from San Marco for Rome to meet
up with Cardinal Caraffa. At the insistent request of Savonarola himself, this
small delegation included two of the prior’s most trusted colleagues: his
confidant and San Marco’s future historian, Fra Roberto Ubaldini, and Fra
Domenico da Pescia, one of Savonarola’s earliest and most fervent followers in
the monastery. Appearing beside the elegant Cardinal Caraffa in his ceremonial silk
scarlet, his two monastic fellow delegates in their threadbare robes would not
have seemed the kind of experienced political advisers likely to impress
Alexander VI, but Savonarola insisted that he be represented at least in part
by men of his own religious conviction.
On
arrival in Rome, the delegation from San Marco met up with Cardinal Caraffa,
and received further support from Filippo Valori, the sophisticated and
knowledgeable Florentine ambassador. Just under a year previously, when the new
Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici had first arrived in Rome, he had been accompanied
by Valori, who had done his best to instruct him in the protocols, as well as
the extracurricular ways, of the papal court. Valori had also attempted to
monitor the young cardinal’s behaviour, ensuring that he conformed to the
advice set down at such length in Lorenzo the Magnificent’s final long letter
of instructions – above all rising early, living an abstemious life and taking
sufficient exercise. This had proved a difficult task, for news of the death of
Lorenzo the Magnificent had soon followed Cardinal Giovanni’s arrival in Rome,
whereupon the likeable and intelligent young Giovanni had quickly found himself
invited to dine by one after another of his fellow cardinals, all eager to
sound out the policies that the Medici and Florence were liable to pursue under
their new ruler, his brother Piero. During the course of these sumptuous
repasts, Cardinal Giovanni had developed a particular delectation for Roman
cuisine, which was much richer than its Florentine counterpart, a taste that
had soon begun to have a deleterious effect on his waistline. However, with
regard to other sensual pleasures Cardinal Giovanni had remained remarkably
abstinent – indeed, Valori and his informants, in common with other observers,
had soon been convinced that he maintained a life of the strictest chastity, an
all-but-unique virtue amongst the Roman cardinals of the period. But the
attentions of Valori and the other Roman observers had been misdirected. Young
Cardinal Giovanni was not in the least interested in women, and may already
have begun indulging discreetly in the homosexual practices that would later
flourish under his façade of jovial clerical chastity.
Cardinal
Giovanni’s careful tutelage by ambassador Valori had been reinforced by Lorenzo
the Magnificent’s advice on how to treat with the pope:
At all times take the advice of His Holiness … yet
ask as few favours of him as you can. The Pope soon tires of those who bend his
ears … so when you see him, talk of amusing subjects, but modestly, in order to
please him.5
All
this had served the new cardinal in good stead, and he had been welcomed by the
ailing Innocent VIII. However, this happy situation had not lasted for long.
With the pope’s death in August 1492 the situation in Rome had changed
drastically, in a way that even a seasoned member of the College of Cardinals
would have found difficult to foresee or even to handle. During the ensuing
papal elections, Cardinal Giovanni had eventually been persuaded to favour the
most popular candidate, Cardinal della Rovere, a man who was known to be well
disposed towards the Medici. Della Rovere also had the backing of the powerful
King of France, who had placed 200,000 ducats at his disposal to facilitate
votes from ‘undecided’ cardinals. Unfortunately, Cardinal della Rovere’s not
altogether scrupulous canvassing for votes amongst his fellow cardinals had
been devastatingly sabotaged by the unprecedented magnitude of Cardinal Rodrigo
Borgia’s bribery. To paraphrase a contemporary annalist of the Church:6
[Cardinal] Rodrigo Borgia was proclaimed as pope
Alexander VI. The result was unexpected; it was obtained by the rankest simony.
Such were the means … by which in accordance with the inscrutable counsels of
Divine Providence, a man attained to the highest dignity, who in the early days
of the Church would not have been admitted even to the lowest rank of the
clergy, on account of his immoral life.
Besides
simony, his immoral life included a succession of mistresses, some of whose
children (including the notorious Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia) would take up
residence with him in the Vatican, an unprecedented violation of contemporary
papal convention. Quite apart from his scorn for public opinion, the new pope already
had a reputation for being ruthless and unforgiving.
When
Cardinal Giovanni heard who had won the election, he exclaimed: ‘Now we are in
the clutches of the wolf, the most rapacious in the world. If we do not flee,
he will devour us all.’7 Cardinal della Rovere had well
understood the truth of these words and had immediately fled Rome in fear of
his life – first barricading himself in the port of Ostia, and then removing
himself into exile to France, where he remained under the protection of the king.
For the time being, Cardinal Giovanni had remained in the Holy City, as his
father would have wished, in order that he should gain experience of the papal
court, but then he too had found it prudent to retire to Florence, where for a
while he took up residence with his brother Piero in the family palazzo.
Giovanni
remained in Florence and did not make the trip to Rome, which meant that the
delegation to put Savonarola’s case for the independence of the Tuscan
Congregation included just one cardinal, when it could have had two. The
presence of two cardinals on the Tuscany delegation, both well connected, could
easily have swayed the issue against the Lombardy delegation, which contained
just the one cardinal. Indeed, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza may have been the
recipient of the vital mule-train of valuables that had confirmed Alexander VI
as pope, but he was not quite the powerful force he appeared. As so often
happens with collaborators in such enterprises, the benefactor was beginning to
have his suspicions about Cardinal Ascanio, who was not only dangerously
wealthy, but had now served his purpose.
Upon
taking up residence in Rome, the Tuscan delegation began doggedly arguing their
case, encouraged by regular supportive letters from Savonarola assuring them that
they were following the will of God. However, it soon became clear that the
Lombardy delegation were winning Alexander VI to their cause. The pope made it
plain that he was finding the entire issue increasingly tiresome, to the point
where it looked as if only a miracle could save the Tuscan case. Savonarola’s
most fervent follower, Fra Domenico da Pescia, certainly seemed to think so.
Overcome with zeal by Savonarola’s inspirational letters from Florence, he
suggested throwing himself at the feet of Alexander VI, and promising to
perform a miracle by reviving a man from the dead, thus demonstrating to one
and all that God was in favour of the independence of the Tuscan Congregation.
Fortunately,
Cardinal Caraffa decided against this radical tactic: raising the dead would
have less effect on the bored Alexander VI than raising his spirits. On 22 May,
when the time set aside for the daily negotiations had finally expired and the
two delegations had duly been escorted from the papal presence, Cardinal Caraffa
remained behind with His Holiness. Alexander VI had been rendered exhausted and
irritable by the day’s proceedings, but Cardinal Caraffa soon managed to raise
his spirits, playing on the close connection between his Neapolitan charm and
Alexander VI’s Spanish ways. They were friends, foreigners amongst these
resentful Romans with their outmoded aristocratic customs and pretentious
disdain for all such ‘foreigners’ as themselves. The two men were soon laughing
together, at which point Cardinal Caraffa drew from his robes the Brief of
Separation, granting independence to the Tuscan Congregation, which he had had
the foresight to prepare beforehand. Alexander VI was highly amused by
Caraffa’s subterfuge, but refused to attach his seal to it, declaring that he
was far too tired to undertake any further business that day. Whereupon, with a
deft move, Caraffa laughingly slipped the pope’s ring from his finger and used
it to seal the Brief, thus imbuing it with the papal authority. Alexander VI
appears to have taken this as something of a jest, and merely laughed at
Caraffa’s impudence. But Cardinal Caraffa had plotted this subterfuge down to
the last detail. After taking his leave of the pope, he at once passed on the
Brief to Fra Domenico da Pescia, who had been ordered to wait outside in the
antechamber. Fra Domenico then hastily left the Vatican and at once despatched
the Brief to Savonarola in Florence[2].
Unaware
of what had taken place, the Lombardy delegation now arrived at the Vatican,
demanding a private audience with the pope, during which they also presented
the pope with a Brief for him to sign, this one withholding independence from
the Tuscan Congregation. During the earlier negotiations it had already been
made clear to Alexander VI that Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza of Milan regarded
this matter with some seriousness. If the Tuscan Congregation was granted
independence, he would regard this as a personal slight upon his honour – one
which would jeopardise relations between Milan and Rome, an alliance upon which
it was known the new pope depended to further his political schemes. But by now
Alexander VI wished to be rid of the whole affair and merely replied to the
Lombardy delegation: ‘If you had arrived less than ten minutes earlier, your
request would have been granted.’9 It was all too late:
what had been done had been done.
Savonarola
was now free to run San Marco as he saw fit, instituting his reforms without
the possibility of their being rescinded by any superior authority in the
Lombardy Congregation. One of his first reforms was perhaps his most radical,
yet it was also most true to the spirit of his order. The dying words of St
Dominic to his disciples, the pioneers of the Dominican order, had been
unequivocal:
Have charity, maintain humility, observe voluntary
poverty: may my malediction and that of God fall upon whosoever shall bring
possessions into this Order.10
Although
these words were indeed inscribed on the walls of the monastery of San Marco in
Florence, their observance had long fallen into abeyance. Around the time when
Cosimo de’ Medici had completely renovated the monastery, which had been
publicly blessed by Pope Eugene IV in 1443, an appendage had been added to its
constitution expressly exempting the community of San Marco from the Dominican
ban on possessions, thus allowing them to own the various gifts that had been
lavished upon them by their grateful benefactor. Besides renovating San Marco
itself, Cosimo had also passed on to the monastery considerable properties from
the Medici estates outside Florence, thus enabling the friars to work these
lands, or live off the agricultural rents accruing to them, rather than remain
completely dependent upon public charity. One of Savonarola’s first reforms was
to divest the monastery of these lands and return them to their previous Medici
ownership.
Piero
de’ Medici was particularly gratified by this move, which he regarded as a
payback for supporting Savonarola’s cause. These properties would certainly
help to augment his ailing income, enabling him the better to weather the
uncertain financial state of affairs that had been left by his father. The
city’s exchequer remained in a parlous state, and Miniati was hard put to
divert sufficient funds to Piero, who continued to maintain the lifestyle at
the Palazzo Medici that he had come to expect under his father. On top of this,
Piero still had the considerable expense of maintaining the Medici political
machine, involving the payment of his loyal lieutenants and their ‘enforcers’.
An
indication of the Florentine administration’s financial difficulties, and the
extent of the population’s poverty, can be seen in the fact that during these
years around 30 per cent of the taxable population (that is, almost 10,000
people) were so impoverished that they paid no tax at all, while 50 per cent of
the working population paid little more than a florin each. The citizens of
Florence were assessed for tax puposes according to the catasto –
initially a land registry, this soon became extended to a register in which
each family in the city was required to list all its properties, income,
investments and valuables. The catasto was originally carried
out every three years, and later at longer intervals, by teams of highly
inquisitive official inspectors; however, tax payment assessed in accordance
with the catasto was enforced annually – though in times of
need this could take place two or even three times a year. Another method of
raising money by the government was the dreaded prestanze – an
enforced loan pressed upon taxpaying citizens in a sliding scale according to
their assets. Much like a modern government bond, it paid interest and waivers
(which could amount to as much as 15 per cent of the full loan), and the
initial sum could be redeemed after a certain number of years. Yet during lean
economic times the government would frequently be forced to suspend these terms
– with interest payments becoming sporadic (at best) and full repayments being
delayed for an indefinite period. An indication of the confidence in these
bonds can be seen in the fact that bond certificates, which were negotiable,
would sometimes be exchanged during these lean times for as little as 30 per
cent of the cash value of the initial loan. Even so, it was always in the
administration’s interest not to act in too high-handed a fashion with regard
to such pressed loans. Genuine efforts would be made to pay back as much as the
city’s coffers could reasonably afford – for the members of the administration
came from amongst the very families which were required to pay the most in
the prestanze.
Savonarola
now began to make plans for his new community on the slopes amidst the wild
chestnut woods near Fiesole, a pious haven for ‘simple people’. Although semplici was
the actual word that Savonarola himself used, a more apt description would be a
monastery for simple living, or living the simple life. In no way were most of
the recruits that Savonarola was now attracting to the Dominicans simple in any
mental sense; indeed, often the deepest enthusiasm for his cause was amongst
highly educated young men – intellectual young idealists who appreciated
Savonarola’s learning and profound understanding of the message actually
imparted by the Bible, which contrasted so acutely with the life lived by corrupt
members at all levels of the Church during this period.
His
dream of establishing this simple community separate from the world was no
passing fad. As late as the following year, on 1 May 1494, Savonarola’s close
colleague Fra Roberto Ubaldini would write to him from Rome, explaining that he
had at last managed to obtain permission from Alexander VI for Savonarola to
build such a monastery ‘vivae vocis oraculo’12 (in
other words, on the pope’s verbal authority).
It
is worth bearing in mind that as long as Piero de’ Medici remained ruler of
Florence, it was this spiritual aim rather than political power that remained
Savonarola’s main concern. His priority at this time was establishing a frugal
way of life for the Dominicans in his new Tuscan Congregation, rather than
inciting unrest amongst the citizens of Florence. The mystical Noah’s Ark that
would save the community, both sacred and secular, from God’s scourge in the
form of the coming Flood, now remained little more than a figure of speech,
which he had used in his sermons. The enigmatic ‘ten planks’ for building this
Ark also remained part of a growing, not yet fully articulated, dream. With
hindsight, it is possible to discern that these two ideas – a salvation
achievable only through a simple remote monastic life, as distinct from
salvation for all those repentant and downtrodden souls throughout Florence who
chose to enter the Ark – were inherently contradictory. A similar and
simultaneous salvation would not be possible for both the elite few living a
simple life consecrated to God and at the same time the many sufferers who had
to continue to labour amidst the secular world. Either the few would have to
expand to become the many, or the many would have to be made to emulate the
few.
For
the time being, Savonarola concentrated on the newly independent Tuscan
Congregation, of which he was now the official Vicar General. At San Marco he
introduced sweeping reforms that emphasised the simple life, made the
Dominicans less reliant upon public charity (especially from the Medici family)
and at the same time encouraged the monks to develop their intellectual skills
and learn new crafts. The emphasis was on austerity: from now on, the friars
would wear plain cloth robes, partake in fasting and prayer vigils, as well as
developing a more egalitarian collective spirit. All meals would be communal,
consisting of plain food and pure water – private dining in cells with
influential secular friends on sumptuous repasts accompanied by fine wines
would no longer be permitted. The cells themselves were to be stripped of all
unnecessary ornamentation and possessions, such as gold and bejewelled
crucifixes, private libraries of valuable or secular books, unnecessary or
opulent furnishings. All friars were expected to work, in order to contribute
to the cost of their bed and board as well as to the maintenance of the
monastery. Each friar was encouraged to develop to the full whatever skills he
possessed, whilst others were taught new crafts. Lay brethren and friars were
instructed in wood-carving, others became copyists, transcribing sacred
manuscripts. Some even became sculptors and architects. More intellectually
gifted members of the community studied theology and philosophy, and there is
evidence that Savonarola consulted with Pico on which of the foreign and
ancient languages these friars should learn. Burlamacchi mentions that these
included ‘Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Chaldean, Moorish and Turkish’,13which
suggests that Pico may well have been employed as a regular teacher at San
Marco, along with Mithridates (who would have taught Hebrew), Poliziano and
Ficino (who could have taught Ancient Greek).
Savonarola’s
purpose in having his friars instructed in such an extensive range of languages
was twofold. The ancient languages would enable them to understand the Bible
with the aid of earlier, more original texts, thus enhancing their theological
insight and enabling them better to understand Savonarola’s essential message.
His second motive was characteristically sensational. In later sermons,
Savonarola revealed that his friars were learning Turkish and Moorish in
anticipation of the day when they would be sent on missions to the Ottoman
Empire and North Africa to preach the gospel and convert the heathens. Such
astonishing optimism can only be regarded as parochial in the extreme –
severely limited in both a literal and a historical sense. Although it was
evident that Savonarola had by this stage developed a supreme intuition with
regard to the political situation in Florence, and even to a certain extent the
whole of Italy, his claim that he wished to convert the Islamic world indicates
an uncharacteristic ignorance of the wider political and religious situation.
It would also seem to run contrary to his prophecy that a new Cyrus would cross
the mountains to act as God’s scourge and destroy everything in his path. Once
again we are faced with a dichotomy that lay buried in Savonarola’s vision: on
the one hand was the impossible dream, and on the other the apocalyptic
revelation that would destroy the world. Was it to be utopian simplicity or
revolution?
Meanwhile,
on a more practical level, Savonarola began despatching friars from San Marco
out into the countryside to preach his new fundamentalist Christianity in the
villages and towns of Tuscany. Each of these friars would be accompanied by a
lay brother or working novice, who would take on labour to provide for their
basic needs. In this way, Savonarola’s friars were not discouraged from
preaching by any fear that their often unpopular message would provoke the
locals into denying them the alms upon which Dominican preachers had previously
depended.
However,
there were still those within the Congregation opposed to Savonarola’s role as
Vicar General. At nearby Fiesole four friars chose to depart from the monastery
rather than submit to Savonarola’s new authority. When the news of the newly
formed Congregation reached San Gimignano, some thirty miles to the south, the
entire monastic community unilaterally declared that it would remain part of
the Lombardy Congregation. Dominican communities even further from Florence
presented similar opposition. Here the friars knew Savonarola only by
reputation, which laid great emphasis on his wild apocalyptic sermons and his
fierce adherence to austerity. Few of these had actually heard him preach, or
had had any opportunity to fall under his mesmerising spell.
In
an attempt to resolve such difficulties, Savonarola decided to set off from
Florence, accompanied by twenty or so of his most loyal friars, for the city of
Siena. Although Siena was in fact independent of Florence, it nonetheless fell
within the boundary of the new Tuscan Congregation, and Savonarola was
determined not to lose control of this important city. His mission was given
the full backing of Piero de’ Medici, who saw this as an opportunity to extend
Florentine influence over Siena, which at the time controlled a territory more
than one-third the size of that controlled by Florence. For many years Florence
had sought to absorb Siena, and Piero de’ Medici realised that this move could
mark the initial stage in such a process. If Piero could gain such a prize for
Florence, this would certainly stand comparison with the achievements of his
father, establishing him as a great ruler in his own right.
By
the time Savonarola and his band of friars set out in June 1493 to cover the
forty miles on foot to Siena, news of his mission had preceded him. According
to an eyewitness report:
A rumour quickly spread throughout the citizenry of
Siena that as the [Dominican] monastery of Santo Spirito was at the city walls,
Savonarola and his monks had in reality been despatched to take the city for
Florence.14
Consequently,
when Savonarola and his men arrived on 21 June, they received a hostile reception:
As Savonarola proceeded on his way to speak to the
Captain of the People, three members of the ruling Signoria of Siena confronted
him, giving voice to the most violent threats. Soon many citizens began joining
in, while even the women attacked him and yelled all kinds of improprieties at
him … Indeed, Savonarola was despised, rejected and threatened by the entire
population of the city, and I am certain that if he had not departed they would
have stoned him.
After
being officially ordered out of Siena by the Signoria, and forced to beat a
hasty retreat by the angry population, Savonarola and his monks hurried to the
safety of the Florentine border. Here, in biblical fashion, Savonarola
ceremoniously shook the dust of Siena from his feet.
Later
that summer Savonarola and another accompanying band of monks set off for Pisa,
another city that fell within the jurisdiction of the newly independent Tuscany
Congregation. Pisa had long maintained its independence of Florence, but had
been conquered by the republic earlier in the century. Here again his arrival
on 20 August was greeted with much suspicion, not least by the Dominican friars
of Santa Caterina. Forty of the forty-four friars simply refused to submit to
his authority and departed from the city; whereupon Savonarola appointed
twenty-two of the friars who were accompanying him to remain behind and take up
residence in the depleted monastery.
That
year Savonarola gave the Advent sermons in Florence Cathedral, probably
preaching on a text from Genesis and Psalm 73. Although his biographer Ridolfi
has his doubts about the transcriptions of these sermons, he remarks:
They contain a few of the usual outbursts against
wicked priests and the Court of Rome, but no reference to visions, and none
(which is stranger) to the affairs of the city, which … is not even mentioned.15
Savonarola
and Piero de’ Medici continued their curious alliance, while Poliziano, Pico
della Mirandola and even Botticelli – to name but a few of the Palazzo Medici
intellectual circle – seemed to find no contradiction in remaining closely
involved on an all-but-daily basis with both Piero and the prior of San Marco.
NOTES
1. ‘a life of sanctity …’:
Savonarola, Le Lettere (ed. Ridolfi), p.33
2. ‘He intended …’: this is taken
from Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, pp.101–2, who cites as his
sources Alessandro Gherardi, Nuovi documenti e studi intorno a Girolamo
Savonarola (Florence, 1887), p.61 et seq., and
Burlamacchi, Savonarola(1937 edn), p.51 et seq.
3. ‘When we have completed …’: ibid.
4. ‘it is my intention …’:
Savonarola, Le Lettere (ed. Ridolfi) p.30
5. ‘At all times …’: letter from
Lorenzo de’ Medici, March 1493, in Laurentii Medicis Magnifici Vita
(Adnotationes et Monumento), 2 vols (Pisa, 1784), Vol. II, p.308 et
seq. A more readily available complete English version can be found in
Ross, Early Medici, pp.332–5.
6. ‘[Cardinal] Rodrigo Borgia …’: see
Pastor, History of the Popes, Vol. V, p.385b, citing as ‘the
annalist’ the contemporary historian Piero Parenti, Storie fiorentine,
a work that was later edited and published. Pastor consulted the original
document, which can be found in the Codex Magliabecchi, XXV, 2, 519, f.133b in
the National Library, Florence.
7. ‘Now we are in …’: this remark is
cited in various forms in numerous sources. See, for instance, Seward, Savonarola,
p.64; James Reston Jr, Dogs of God (New York, 2005), p.287;
and the authoritative and respected late Michael Mallett, The Borgias (London,
1969), p.128 (where an unfortunate editorial error has resulted in a misleading
compression).
8. For confirmation of the unlikely scene between
Cardinal Caraffa and Alexander VI, see, for instance, Ridolfi, Vita …
Savonarola, Vol. I, p.95, who cites several contemporary accounts (see Vol.
II, p.526 n.24), including Cinozzi, Epistola …, p.12;
Burlamacchi, Savonarola (1937 edn), p.56; and Ubaldini, whose
history of San Marco cites Cardinal Caraffa himself.
9. ‘If you had arrived …’: cited in
Burlamacchi, Savonarola (1937 edn), p.56
10. ‘Have charity …’: these
traditional last words are cited in Villari, La Storia … Savonarola,
Vol. I, p.177 n.1, where he gives several biographical and documentary sources
11.
For general financial details of this period, see de Roover, Medici
Bank; Parks, Medici Money; and Niall Ferguson, The
Ascent of Money (London, 2008)
12. ‘vivae vocis …’: cited in
Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.102, giving his sources as
Gheraradi, Nuovi documenti …, p.61 et seq., and
Burlamacchi, Savonarola(1937 edn), p.51 et seq.
13. ‘Hebrew, Greek …’: cited in
Villari, La Storia … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.178 n.2, where he gives
Burlamacchi, Vita del P. F. Girolamo Savonarola (Lucca, 1764),
p.44 et seq., as his source
14. ‘A rumour quickly spread …’ et
seq.: see Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.113, citing as
his source the contemporary eyewitness Alessandro Bracci, in a letter dated 23
June 1493. For further details, see Vol. II, p.232 n.32. I have used Bracci’s
sentences in a different order purely to preserve the time sequence.
15. ‘They contain …’: see the English
edition, Roberto Ridolfi, The Life of Girolamo Savonarola, trans.
C. Grayson (London, 1959), p.70
Savoranola
en juicio
11. ‘ITALY FACED HARD TIMES … BENEATH STARS HOSTILE TO HER GOOD’1
IN
1493 THE POLITICAL situation in Italy took a sudden and dramatic turn for the
worse. The balance of power had still survived, somewhat precariously since the
death of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Yet it was now to be upset by the overweening
and wholly misguided ambitions of Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza of Milan. Ludovico
was not in fact the rightful Duke of Milan, but was only acting as de facto
ruler for his nephew, the young Gian Galeazzo Sforza, who had succeeded his
assassinated father at the age of eight. In 1488, at the age of nineteen, Gian
Galeazzo had married his cousin Isabella of Naples, the granddaughter of King
Ferrante. However, before Gian Galeazzo came of age it became apparent that his
uncle Ludovico had no intention of surrendering his power to his nephew, whom
he regarded as a weak and simple young man. Instead, when Gian Galeazzo became
twenty-one, Ludovico took the novel step of ordering the Milanese mint to begin
issuing double-headed currency – with his head on one side, and Gian Galeazzo’s
on the other. At the same time, he covertly confined Gian Galeazzo and his wife
Isabella to their estates at Pavia, just over twenty miles south of Milan in
the Po valley. Gian Galeazzo was little concerned by this move, being more
interested in hunting and feasting. Isabella, on the other hand, was not
prepared to settle for such belittling treatment and turned to her father, the
heir to the throne of Naples, to persuade King Ferrante to order the
instatement of her husband as the rightful duke. So unconcerned was Gian
Galeazzo with taking over his duties as ruler of Milan that he even informed
his uncle of his wife’s scheming, convincing Ludovico that when Isabella’s
father Alfonso ascended to the throne of Naples on the death of the aged and
ailing King Ferrante, he intended to assert Gian Galeazzo’s claim to power.
Should Alfonso act upon this threat, Ludovico realised that he was in a
vulnerable position. Despite the prevailing uneasy peace amongst the major
regional powers, Venice remained Milan’s traditional enemy, Florence was simply
too weak to come to his assistance and, despite his alliance with Alexander VI,
he rightly felt that he could not trust the pope.
In
order to counter this threat, Ludovico Sforza then made what he considered to
be a diplomatic masterstroke. In 1493, in a wholly unexpected move, he sought
help from outside Italy, appealing for support to Charles VIII, the new young
King of France, at the time the most powerful nation in Europe. In return for
such support, Ludovico Sforza promised that he would support Charles VIII if he
chose to enforce his claim to the kingdom of Naples, to which he had a somewhat
obscure entitlement by way of his paternal grandmother. This certainly had the
effect of cowing Isabella, and Ludovico now saw himself as the heir to Lorenzo
the Magnificent as the arbiter of the Italian political scene. He even ‘boasted
that the Pope was his chaplain, the Signoria of Venice was his chamberlain, and
the King of France his courier’.3
In a
moral parable that Savonarola would recognise, the words of the Old Testament
prophet Hosea rang down through the centuries, once again finding their
fulfilment: ‘For they sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.’4 What
Ludovico Sforza had not realised was that Charles VIII had been waiting for
just such an opportunity. Long before ascending to the throne he had dreamed of
invading Italy and proving his knightly valour in emulation of the legendary
tales to which he had listened so avidly during his childhood.
In
reality, the education of Charles VIII had consisted of little else but
listening to tales of chivalry. He could not have read them himself, for he
could neither read nor write throughout his childhood, and even when he was
twenty-one and assumed full royal powers he remained barely literate. Charles
VIII had been an odd child, and had grown into an even odder man – both
mentally and physically. His body was short and hunched, while he walked with a
limp that was accentuated by his oversized feet, both of which were said to
have six toes, suggesting the possibility that at least his physical defects
were the result of inbreeding amongst the French royal families. Nor did his
behaviour indicate normality: his apparent naivety was accentuated by the fact
that his mouth constantly gaped open between his fleshy lips, and his habit of
muttering to himself made many feel uneasy in his presence. His prodigious
sexual appetite was accompanied by an overweening ambition that bordered on
megalomania. This was indulged by his family who wished, for their own
purposes, to have him out of the way. His dreams of chivalrous adventure were
quickly encouraged, and in no time he envisioned his invasion of Naples as but
the prelude to a glorious crusading campaign which would see the retaking of
Constantinople from the Ottoman Turks, followed by the capture of Jerusalem.
Such was the way the young Charles VIII saw himself going down in history.
Naive he may have been, but the power of his presence, his ambition and the
nation he ruled made all fear him.
However,
Charles VIII was aware that it would have been impolitic, and certainly unwise,
simply to march into Italy and lay claim to the throne of Naples. This would
set a dangerous precedent. There were many outstanding, if more or less
justified, claims to the thrones of Europe (not least his own), and taking
unprovoked action to depose the long-enthroned King Ferrante of Naples would
probably unite most of Italy against him. Such a move was best avoided, as he
would have to cross more than 500 miles of Italian territory just to reach
Naples, and he needed this territory to be neutral, or at least acquiescent, if
he was to maintain his overland supply lines and links with France. Charles
VIII, as well as his advisers and family, knew that he needed some
justification if he was to put the first stage of his glorious plan into
action: for the moment, he would have to bide his time.
Meanwhile,
during January 1494 Italy suffered the coldest winter of the century. The
Florentine diarist Landucci recorded:
20th January … Florence suffered the worst
snowstorm that even the oldest living citizens could remember. And amongst
other extraordinary things, this was accompanied by such a violent tempest that
for the whole day it was not possible to open any shops, or even any doors or
windows. The blizzard lasted from the time of the morning Ave Maria until the
Ave next morning, without ceasing for a moment throughout the entire
twenty-four hours. Neither did the tremendous wind abate, so that there was not
a crack or a hole, however small, which did not let a pile of snow into the
house. Indeed, there was not one house so sufficiently sealed that it did not
become filled with such a quantity of snow that it took days afterwards to
clear it out. Along every street there were such piles of snow that in several
places neither man nor beast was able to get through. There was so much snow
that it took days before it all finally melted away, just like when boys make a
snow-lion. It would be impossible to believe this if I had not seen it with my
own eyes.5
This
may well have been the occasion when Michelangelo carved a large lion (the
emblem of the city) out of packed snow for Piero de’ Medici, just as Leonardo
da Vinci had carved ice-sculptures for his father. Lorenzo the Magnificent had
been particularly impressed by the youthful Michelangelo’s precocious sculptural
talent and had invited him to live at the Palazzo Medici. Piero was just three
years older than Michelangelo and they knew each other well, despite being such
disparate characters. Piero’s preference for dashing physical pursuits such as
hunting and fencing, and his enjoyment of the good life, contrasted with
Michelangelo’s intense personality, his obsessive sculpting and his frugal
habits. Even so, Michelangelo remained attached to the difficult Piero, who
would often treat the young sculptor with some arrogance; despite such
patronising behaviour, Piero for his part retained a regard for his father’s
highly accomplished protégé, and ensured that the ambitious eighteen-year-old
Michelangelo continued to receive commissions from wealthy patrons, especially
the Church.
The
other artist who remained deeply attached to Piero was Botticelli, who had
painted a number of colourful and lively portraits of Piero as a young man. But
Botticelli was also beginning to feel the strain of divided loyalties, becoming
increasingly pained by the contrast between life at the Palazzo Medici and the
simple life he wished to follow in accord with Savonarola’s preaching. This
inner conflict had by now begun to affect his work. Instead of vivid, colourful
celebrations of humanism, such as Primavera and The
Birth of Venus, he had turned to more sorrowful religious subjects.
It was
Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco who suggested that Botticelli should work on a topic
deeply in keeping with his spiritual preoccupations, and commissioned him to
produce a series of drawings illustrating scenes from Dante’s Divine
Comedy. This was a project to which Botticelli would return again and again
over the years, and his vivid renderings of the tortures undergone by those
souls condemned for eternity to inhabit the Inferno give us an insight into his
troubled state of mind. His illustration for the ring of hell inhabited by ‘a
horde of shades’7 who in life had indulged in ‘perverse
vices [that] damage and corrupt the natural powers of the body’8 is
particularly apt. These are the sodomites against whom Savonarola so
continually railed in his sermons, and Botticelli may well have believed that
this was the fate to which he too would one day be damned throughout eternity.
From Dante’s words he conjures up a horrific image of a multitude of naked
bodies writhing and staggering in pitiful agony across the burning sand beneath
the continual rain of falling flakes of fire, an image that consciously echoes
the biblical fate of the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah.
On 29
January 1494, Landucci recorded in his diary: ‘We heard that the King of Naples
was dead.’9 The throne of Naples was immediately claimed
by his son, who installed himself as King Alfonso II. Charles VIII now had his
opportunity to contest this, staking his own claim to the kingdom of Naples.
The French king’s claim was dismissively rejected by Alfonso II, and Charles
VIII began assembling a large French army in preparation for an invasion across
the Alps. In order that the French army could reach Naples it would have to
march through the territories of Milan, Florence and the Papal States. Ludovico
Sforza in Milan was only too happy to welcome Charles VIII; meanwhile Alexander
VI and Piero de’ Medici prevaricated. Piero de’ Medici’s foreign policy had
been aimed at strengthening Florence’s ties with Naples, while at the same time
loosening his close dependence upon Milan. This shift in diplomacy had been put
into practice in the dispute over the Tuscan Congregation’s independence from
the Lombardy Congregation, which had also strengthened Piero’s links with the
pope. Yet Alexander VI remained as untrustworthy as ever. Piero de’ Medici
realised that if he backed Naples, and the pope decided not to support him, he
might well be left on his own, facing the might of the French army. Yet if he
chose not to back Alfonso II, and the pope sided with Naples, with the
Venetians joining this alliance, Florence might once again stand in peril, this
time from its Italian neighbours – especially if, for any reason, Charles VIII
postponed his invasion.
In the
spring of 1494 news reached Florence that this was precisely what he had done.
Even the mighty French exchequer was unable to bear the cost of such an
ambitious campaign as Charles VIII had in mind, whilst on top of this the king
had reason to suspect that his position as monarch lay under threat, both
because of his own scheming family and because of his general unpopularity
amongst the people. On hearing this news, Piero de’ Medici pledged Florence to
support Alfonso II, an alliance that was soon favoured by Alexander VI.
Meanwhile the pope’s sworn enemy Cardinal della Rovere, who remained in exile
at the French court, did his best to encourage Charles VIII in his ambition to
invade Italy – a move that would surely result in the defeat of Alexander VI.
Eventually the French king was persuaded: he had been reassured that his
position was safe enough at home, and he knew that he had sufficient funds at
least to launch the expedition – more funds could be plundered en route,
especially from the pope, and perhaps even from Florence.
Florence
had traditionally been an ally of France, a policy that had been carefully
built up over the previous decades, especially during the reign of Lorenzo the
Magnificent. The Signoria was in the habit of frequently sending envoys to the
French court to maintain friendly relations with the French king, who had
granted many favours to Florence. For example, a good portion of the rich
benefices bought by Lorenzo the Magnificent for Piero’s younger brother, the
future Cardinal Giovanni Medici, had been graciously permitted by the previous
French king, Louis XI, and the ensuing regency. It would seem that before Piero
had taken his decision to switch alliegance, he had not even bothered to consult
his brother, Cardinal Giovanni – who was living with him at the Palazzo Medici,
and still relied upon these French benefices for a sizeable part of his income.
Giovanni
was not the only one to lose from Piero’s decision. During Lorenzo’s reign,
Piero di Gino Capponi had been appointed ambassador to the French court and had
become particularly close to the young Charles VIII, sympathising with the
gauche, gnomic, splay-footed child, who was widely derided during his minority,
when France had been ruled by the regency of his powerful and intelligent older
sister Anne of France[3]. Charles VIII, for
his part, had come to regard ambassador Capponi with deep affection;
consequently, Piero’s breaking of the Florentine alliance with France was
regarded by the touchy French king as an act of deep personal betrayal.
To
compromise his brother and Capponi in this way suggests that Piero had taken
this foreign-policy decision without even a semblance of democratic
consultation. The largely Medici-appointed administration was hardly popular
during this period, yet significantly the people of Florence regarded the gonfaloniere and
the Signoria as blameless for the break with France. As a result, not only were
there grumblings amongst the people, but many amongst the leading families –
the Capponi in particular – now began turning against Piero, who struck them as
arrogant and incompetent. Already he was coming to be regarded by his subjects
as an unworthy successor to ‘il Magnifico’, earning for himself the reputation that
led his enemies to refer to him as ‘Piero il Fatuo’, Piero the Fatuous. Others
would refer to him less harshly as ‘Piero il Sfortunato’, Piero the
Unfortunate, which perhaps does more justice to him in the impossible situation
that he now faced – forced to choose between France and untrustworthy Italian
alliances. The situation in which Florence found itself, combined with the
mortal peril facing Italy, would probably have defeated even the most able of
leaders.
Even
so, many at the time could not help but compare the Florentine leader’s
qualities with those of his seemingly more gifted cousin, Lorenzo di
Pierfrancesco de’ Medici. It was evident that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco was the
one possessed of the older Medici values, the astute commercial and political
wisdom that had been exhibited so admirably by his great-uncle Cosimo de’
Medici. In a recognisably similar fashion, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco had
accumulated a fortune in various commercial ventures, and when he had been
voted onto various government committees he had proved himself an able
administrator. Like Cosimo de’ Medici he conducted himself modestly, making him
popular amongst the leading familes.
As
informed opinion began to turn against Piero de’ Medici, certain obvious ideas
presented themselves. Yet each had their flaws. For instance, any attempt to
overthrow Piero at such a time would have provoked far too great an upheaval,
and would certainly have weakened Florence’s position in Italy. On the other
hand, if Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco were to be elected gonfaloniere,
and thus take over as official head of state, this would prove equally
ineffective, as the gonfaloniere only held office for two
months. Still, there was no denying that many now looked upon Lorenzo di
Pierfrancesco as Piero’s natural successor.
Both
men were aware of this growing groundswell of public opinion. Lorenzo di
Pierfrancesco did his best to play it down: he genuinely had no wish to take
over the reins of power. Piero de’ Medici, on the other hand, felt that he was
being increasingly undermined by his older and more wealthy cousin. This only
fuelled his feelings of uncertainty, which led to an increasing high-handedness
in his behaviour.
Things
came to a head between the two cousins during the season of spring balls that traditionally
followed Easter (which in 1494 fell on 30 March). At one particular ball, Piero
de’ Medici and Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s younger brother Giovanni found
themselves rivals for the attentions of an attractive young woman with whom
they had both fallen in love. When Giovanni di Pierfrancesco wished to dance
with her, Piero became incensed and publicly slapped his cousin in the face.
The traditional response to such an insult would have been a challenge to a
duel, but no such option was open to Giovanni as Piero was ruler of the city.
Giovanni was thus forced to accept this public insult and withdraw in disgrace.
The split in the Medici family was now a matter of gossip throughout the whole
city, and Piero realised that he should, like his father, take immediate and
decisive action. Instead, mindful of public opinion being against him, he
dithered for some days, during which he was informed that Giovanni di
Pierfrancesco, along with his brother Lorenzo, was strongly in favour of
abandoning the alliance with Naples and instead forming an alliance with
Charles VIII. This was certainly true, and Piero de’ Medici was probably well
aware of it already. However, worse was to come. Charles VIII had previously
despatched his close adviser Philippe de Commines as an envoy into Italy to
seek out the lie of the land: who was liable to support his invasion, and who
would oppose it? Piero had informed Commines that Florence would not grant the
French army safe passage across Florentine territory on its way to Naples; but
he now learned that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco had been in contact with Commines.
He had sent word through Commines to Charles VIII, claiming that although Piero
de’ Medici had declared for Naples, promising to defend Florentine territory
against the incursion of any French army, an overwhelming majority of the
citizens of Florence felt otherwise, and the French army would thus be able to
cross Florentine territory with impunity. This assessment of the situation was
undoubtedly accurate; but it was also claimed that Lorenzo and Giovanni di
Pierfrancesco had written to Charles VIII promising that they would give
financial assistance to him and his army in their passage across Tuscany. If
true, this was treason, meriting the harshest punishment. In fact, we learn
from the diarist Landucci that on 26 April:11
Lorenzo and Giovanni, sons of Piero
Francesco de’ Medici, were locked up in the Palagio[4];
and it was said that some wanted them to be executed, but no one could say why.
On the 29th they were let out; and on the 14th May they went away, being
restricted within certain boundaries.
The
time-lapses between the dates, as well as the decision not to go ahead with the
death-penalty, indicate some indecision on Piero’s behalf, as well as divisions
amongst the ruling Signoria. Indeed, on 4 May, in the very midst of these
doubtless acrimonious discussions, a vital event took place. As confirmed by
Guicciardini and Landucci, a delegation of four French ambassadors travelled
through Florence on their way to Rome. Whilst in the city they passed on the
news that their king was in the midst of preparations for an invasion of Italy.
He requested the support of Florence, or at least safe conduct for his army as
it passed across Florentine territory. News soon leaked out that Piero had
refused this request, despite the attempts of wise and important citizens to
dissuade him from this course.12
It was
just days after this that Lorenzo and Giovanni di Pierfrancesco both ‘went
away, being restricted within certain boundaries’. In effect, this was not
quite so lenient as it might sound: both were rearrested, formally banished
from the city (thus being deprived of all their civil rights), and escorted
under armed guard to their separate villas, where they were held under strict
house-arrest – Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco at Cafaggiolo across the mountains in
the Mugello valley, and Giovanni at Castello five miles north of the city.
As the
summer months passed, the whole of Italy waited in trepidation – nowhere more
so than Florence. The demise of King Ferrante had finally confirmed
Savonarola’s prophecy concerning the death of the ‘three tyrants’. And it
looked as if another of his prophecies was on the point of being fulfilled,
though not quite in the way Savonarola had foreseen. The prospect of Italy
being overrun by the vast and ruthless French army confirmed in the minds of
all that this was Savonarola’s prophecy concerning the arrival of a new Cyrus
from across the mountains. It seemed that the King of France, rather than the Ottoman
sultan, was to be the ‘scourge of God’.
At the
end of August 1494, Charles VIII marched south into the French foothills of the
Alps, crossing the ancient Col de Montgenèvre, which rises to 6,000 feet. By
the first days of September he was into Italian territory twenty miles east of
Turin. His army was reported to consist of more than 40,000 men: 24,000 cavalry
and 20,000 infantry, accompanied by a motley host of camp followers consisting
of everything from chefs and astrologers to washerwomen and prostitutes[5]. The soldiers
themselves were for the most part tough regular servicemen schooled in the
northern-European manner of warfare – where, unlike the encounters between
armies in Italy, battles were fought in brutal earnest and people actually got
killed. In Italy, by contrast, battles remained largely tactical exercises
practised by opposing mercenary armies led by hired condottiere,
where the army that had been manoeuvred into a ‘losing’ position was usually
permitted to flee the field with the minimum of casualties (which frequently
resulted from the disorderly haste in which this latter operation was
conducted). Such methods enabled the defeated soldiers to continue practising
their mercenary trade at a later date, when they might well be hired to fight
on the same side as their previous enemies. All this only encouraged wars
between Italian states to become self-perpetuating, and played its part in
contributing to Italy’s constantly divided state during these years.
A
disciplined army equipped with superior weaponry such as that of Charles VIII
had not crossed the Alps into Italy for more than 700 years, when Hannibal had
sought to destroy the mighty Roman Empire. But instead of Hannibal’s terrifying
elephants, Charles VIII’s army was bringing with it the latest artillery, which
was not only mobile but so powerful that it was capable of destroying the walls
of any city or fortress that stood in its path. The age of medieval conflict,
involving lines of archers and long sieges, was now giving way to an entirely
new form of warfare.
At the
same time as Charles VIII’s army was crossing the Alps, Landucci heard in
Florence, ‘the fleet of the King of France arrived at Genoa, and there was much
talk of a battle’.13 Alfonso II had been prepared for
this and had despatched his fleet north from Naples. As the latest despatches
began reaching Florence, Landucci recorded in his diary what news passed from
mouth to mouth amongst the increasingly anxious citizenry:
11 September. The fleet of the King of
Naples was defeated at Rapallo by the combined forces of the King of France and
the Genoese. This was not a naval battle, for the Neapolitan fleet rashly
landed three thousand soldiers with the aim of taking Rapallo. But they were
eventually cut off by the Genoese and French, and were unable to return to
their ships. They fled towards the mountains and were all killed or taken
prisoner; while the fleet of the King of Naples was disarmed and destroyed.
Ten
days later, further news and muddled rumours had covered the 100 or so miles to
Florence, increasing the anxiety of its citizens:
21 September. News reached us that the
King of France had entered Genoa, and that the Genoese were preparing to
receive him with great honour. They have decorated the whole city, and even gone
so far as to take down its gates and lay them on the ground, to show how
welcome the king is, and to ensure his safety. But it turned out not to be true
that the king was going to Genoa, even though its citizens had expected him and
had made so many preparations. He was said to have felt he could not trust the
Genoese.
If
Charles VIII felt distrustful of such allies, how would he feel towards
Florence, which had declared against him? In fact, Charles VIII had made no
attempt to divert to Genoa. Summer was already giving way to autumn, and he had
no time to lose before winter hampered, or perhaps even halted, his march on
Naples. On 9 September he had been welcomed at Asti, the gateway to Milanese
territory, by Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza, the very man who had invited him into
the country, who would be castigated by Machiavelli as ‘the prime mover of
Italy’s distress’.14 Now began the period of which
Machiavelli would later lament:
Italy faced hard times …15
beneath stars hostile to her good.
So many mountain passes,
and so many marshes,
filled with blood and dead men …
[When] Italy in turmoil opened her gates
to the Gauls [the French]
and the barbarians rushed in …
So all Tuscany was in confusion.
NOTES
1. ‘Italy
faced hard …’: Machiavelli, Decennale Primo, lines 1–3
2.
There are many contemporary references to the general situation and historic
developments in Italy, and especially in Florence, during the vital period
1493–4. See, for instance, the works of Guicciardini, Machiavelli, Landucci and
Cerretani. I have made use of these, as well as the many more general
descriptions written since: see, for instance, Paul Strathern, The
Medici.
3. ‘boasted
that the Pope …’: this remark was recorded by the contemporary
Venetian historian Domenico Malipiero, Annali Veneti (Florence,
1843 edn), p.482
4. ‘For
they sow …’: Hosea, Ch. 8, v.7
5. ‘20th
January …’: Landucci, Diario, pp.66–7.
6. The
incident of the snow carvings is mentioned by Vasari and Condivi, both of whom
were contemporaries of Michelangelo and knew him personally. For an easily
accessible English reference, see for instance Michael Holroyd, Michael
Angelo Buonarotti (which contains in translation The Life of
Michelangelo by Ascanio Condivi, London, 1911), pp.12–13 (Ch. 1, Sec.
11)
7. ‘a
horde of …’ et seq.: Dante, Inferno, Canto XV
8. ‘perverse
vices …’: Dante Aligheri, Hell, trans. Dorothy L. Sayers
(Harmondsworth, 2001 edn), Canto XV, commentary p.97
9. ‘We
heard that …’: Landucci, Diario, p.67
10. ‘the
least deranged …’: cited in Jean Cluzel, Anne de France (Paris,
2002), p.31, giving as his source the early French historian Pierre de
Brantôme, who was born some twenty years after the death of Anne of France.
11. ‘Lorenzo
and Giovanni …’: Landucci, Diario, pp.67–8.
12. ‘a
delegation of form …’: this is a paraphrase compiled from both
sources. See eq. Landucci, Diario, p.68–9
13. ‘the
fleet of the King …’ et seq.: Landucci, Diario,
pp.69–70
14. ‘the
prime mover of …’: Machiavelli, Decennale Primo, line 51
15. ‘Italy
faced hard times …’: Machiavelli, Decennale Primo, lines
1–3, 4–6, 16
[1] This site is now part of the University of Florence.
[2] The seemingly unlikely scene between Cardinal Caraffa
and Alexander VI is confirmed by many sources (See the Notes for details). It
has been claimed that the laughter and jocular horseplay involved in the
removal of the papal signet ring indicate that Cardinal Caraffa may have
remained behind with Alexander VI to deliver and share with him a gift from the
pope’s favourite Tuscan vineyard. 8
[3] Louis XI had ensured that his eldest daughter Anne of
France became regent after his death, bestowing upon her what he regarded as
the highest compliment by describing her as ‘the least deranged woman in
France’.10
[4] Almost certainly the Palazzo del Bargello, residence
of the Podestà (Chief Magistrate). This fortified building,
just around the corner from the Palazzo della Signoria, housed the city’s
courts and became notorious as the city’s prison, where torture became a
routine method of punishment; executions took place in the inner yard.
[5] Figures vary concerning the precise number of
soldiers in this army, but there can be little doubt that as a mobile mass of
humanity, including camp followers, it almost certainly exceeded 50,000.
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