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

 

 

 

 

 

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[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.