DEATH IN FLORENCE: THE MEDICI, SAVONAROLA AND THE BATTLE FOR THE SOUL OF THE RENAISSANCE CITY (VII)

 

12. ‘I WILL DESTROY ALL FLESH’¹

 

IN THEIR HOUR of need, the people of Florence turned to Savonarola, who rose to the occasion by delivering a sermon in the cathedral on 21 September 1494, which besides being the feast of St Matthew also happened to be his birthday. He was forty-two years old, and at the height of his powers. His prophecies had come true: now was the time. He was determined to fulfil the role that he was convinced God had entrusted to him.

The people of Florence flocked into the cathedral, the largest congregation ever to have gathered beneath its huge, high dome – cramming the pews, spilling down the aisles and out into the surrounding piazza. Savonarola was now well practised in the art of holding the attention of a large congregation. His tiny cowled figure stood at the raised lectern above the sea of heads gathered before him, gazing over them as if his intense eyes were returning the gaze of his entire hushed audience.

Without reference to notes, Savonarola began preaching, his voice resounding through the high silence of the nave. This was the ‘living voice ringing out in his mind’, which the aged Michelangelo would still be able to hear some sixty years later. Yet on this occasion Savonarola was not attempting to win over his audience; instead he was intent upon instilling in their hearts the fear of God, the wrath of the Almighty as they had never experienced it before. Previously he had preached on the theme of Noah’s Ark, on the building of the craft that would save all true believers. This time he went further, using as his text the ensuing verses of the Book of Genesis, where the angry voice of the Lord thunders down from the heavens, warning the Israelites:

For Behold, I will bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life from under heaven; everything that is on the earth will die.²

 

This was but the beginning, as Savonarola launched into a fiery castigation of the wretched sinners gathered before him. The congregation well knew who these sinners were: previous sermons had railed against gamblers, blasphemers and sodomites – a constant theme. Yet it was noticeable that amidst all his railings and prophecies of doom, no matter how apparently carried away he became, he still kept to his pact with Lorenzo the Magnificent and made no direct attack on Piero de’ Medici. In many ways there was now no longer any need for this. The ‘scourge of God’ had at last arrived, in the form of Charles VIII and his army. Yet even these details were now of little consequence: history was giving way to apocalyptic reality. All that was taking place was unmasked as the will of God:

Lo, the sword has descended. Finally the scourge has fallen upon us and the prophecies have reached their fulfilment. Lo, it is the Lord God himself who leads this army. Such a thing was not prophesied by me, but by God himself. And it is now coming into being. More than that, it is taking place before our very eyes.³

 

Pico della Mirandola, who was amongst the congregation, later confessed to Savonarola that when he heard these words he was barely able to contain himself: he began to quake and his hair stood on end. Others amongst the crammed congregation were even more affected, and soon the majority appeared to be in the grip of mass hysteria. Many openly wept, others cried out in fear at Savonarola’s words, whilst still others called out to the heavens, imploring God to have mercy upon them. After Savonarola had finished and the congregation dispersed, ‘Everyone walked in awe-struck silence about the city, as though only half alive.’⁴

Piero de’ Medici was becoming increasingly uncertain about what action to take, about what action he could take. His advisers, and even members of the Signoria, were also divided. Many now secretly wished for an end to the Medici regime. In an undercover bid to stir up the population against Piero, he was informed that Savonarola was now openly preaching against him, calling for his overthrow, in much the same way as the ‘little friar’ had once called for the overthrow of his father with his sermons denouncing the ‘three tyrants’. These slanders were intended to provoke Piero into having Savonarola banished from the city – a move that in all likelihood would have provoked a popular uprising. Yet others, especially amongst the intellectual circle of the Palazzo Medici, assured Piero that Savonarola was doing no such thing: his preaching merely reflected the dangerous situation facing the city, and indeed the whole of Italy, placing this situation in what he saw as its religious context. He had made no direct reference to Piero, or his rule over the city. Here again, Piero de’ Medici remained uncertain: he had not been present when Savonarola preached, and was thus not able to judge for himself. He knew of Savonarola’s secret agreement with his dying father – a fact known by few others – and still wished to believe his father’s view that Savonarola was a man of his word; but his suspicions continued to grow, encouraged by these disloyal factions.

Those loyal members of the Medici circle who felt drawn to Savonarola now found themselves profoundly conflicted. None more so than Poliziano and Botticelli. It must have been some time during the preceeding months that Poliziano suggested to Botticelli that he should create a painting on the subject of the Calumny of Apelles. Significantly, this was not a religious subject, like the other works Botticelli was producing at this period. Poliziano must have intended this work to reassure Piero that, despite their admiration for Savonarola, neither he nor Botticelli had completely abandoned all that his father had stood for: the cultural transformation that we now know as the Renaissance.

The Calumny of Apelles is the most mysterious of all the many enigmatic paintings that Botticelli created. Yet unlike The Birth of Venus and Primavara, the mystery contains no bright or optimistic philosophical idealism: there is no doubting the darkness that it conveys. The painting is based on a work by Apelles, said to have been the finest painter of the classical world, none of whose works have come down to us. All we have is a verbal description of this work by the second-century-AD Greek writer Lucian. The occasion of the original painting was when jealous rivals had slandered Apelles, telling King Ptolemy that he had taken part in a conspiracy. Apelles’ painting was his answer to this calumny, and in Botticelli’s version it depicts the naked figure of the young Apelles being dragged by the hair to face the king, who sits on his throne with the dark-robed figures of Ignorance and Suspicion whispering into his furry, donkey-like ears, which are intended to emphasise the king’s credulity. The allegorical nature of the painting leaves it open to a wide range of psychological and philosophical interpretations. Apelles can be seen as maligned truth, innocent and vulnerable in his nakedness. Is he intended as the slandered Savonarola? Is the king whose asinine ears cannot escape the whispers of Ignorance and Suspicion meant to represent Piero de’ Medici? This would seem the most obvious answer – yet other interpretations abound, not least Botticelli’s identification with the naked Apelles. And perhaps this ambiguity was what Botticelli intended. He still did not know himself what to do, what was really going on – in himself, in his divided loyalties or in his threatened city.

Other, highly relevant questions remain about The Calumny of Apelles, especially concerning the actual painting itself. Botticelli could certainly not have afforded the time and effort required to produce such a large and complex painting unless it had been commissioned. And here the painting takes on another, even more unexpected aspect. For many years Botticelli’s chief patron had been Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici. From his distant house-arrest beyond the mountains in the Mugello, did he perhaps convey a message commissioning Botticelli to paint a work suggesting that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s alleged antipathy to Piero de’ Medici was a slander put about by those who wished to divide the family? Was the painting intended to bring about a reconciliation between the cousins? Florence itself was divided and in danger: this was no time for such divisions within its leading family.

The dark ambiguities embodied in this painting doubtless reflected the emotional atmosphere prevailing within the Palazzo Medici at this period – suspicion, slander, truth abandoned and much more. Besides Poliziano, Ficino and Pico della Mirandola would also have been caught up in this atmosphere, and they too may have added their suggestions to Botticelli. The fact that the painting was intended for Piero de’ Medici would seem to be confirmed by Vasari in his celebrated Lives of the Artists, where he records that a Latin verse was later inscribed beneath Botticelli’s canvas:

This small picture warns earthly kings⁵

Not to charge people with false things.

When the King of Egypt did Apelles hurt,

Apelles served him like this with just desert.

 

The painting was never given to Piero de’ Medici, perhaps because Poliziano, Pico della Mirandola, Ficino and Botticelli judged the moment not ripe, or were afraid of how Piero might react. Given the tension he was under, might Piero have considered the painting a provocation from the cousin he had grown to hate? Would Poliziano, Botticelli and the others have been willing to risk appearing disloyal to Piero in his hour of need? These are indeed possible explanations. Yet by now, such was the desperate political situation, Piero de’ Medici would probably have had no time for such things. Indeed, he may not even have been in Florence when the painting was finally finished. Events were moving fast.

No sooner had Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza greeted Charles VIII at Asti in September 1494 than he was beset by misgivings. As Guicciardini recorded:

Although he was responsible for inviting the French into Italy, and knew they were his friendly allies, he now began to have his doubts about the whole enterprise. Considering the faithlessness of princes, and in particular the French, who appeared to have little honour or principle when their own interests were concerned, he began to have his suspicions about the French king … and whether Charles VIII might find an excuse to remove him from power.⁶

 

Specifically, he suspected Charles VIII of wishing to install his young and weak nephew Gian Galeazzo Sforza, the rightful ruler of Milan, in his place – a suspicion that was strengthened when Charles VIII expressed his intention to visit Pavia, where, in accordance with protocol, he wished to be received by Gian Galeazzo. Ludovico did his best to delay Charles VIII, and the French king eventually arrived in Pavia to find Gian Galeazzo struck down with a mysterious illness. Then, in mid-September, Charles VIII himself fell ill, succumbing to a bout of chicken pox; the main bulk of the French army halted its advance while Charles VIII recovered.

Tuscany was now the immediate hostile territory that stood between the French army and its march south. But Charles VIII had a good idea of what to expect. Philippe de Commines, his highly experienced envoy who had led the earlier French mission to Florence, had been unimpressed by Piero de’ Medici, finding him to be ‘a young man of little wisdom’.⁷ Piero now appeared to prevaricate, and despatched a Florentine mission to Charles VIII, purposely including amongst its members Piero di Gino Capponi, the king’s former mentor, in the hope of somehow averting conflict between Florence and the French. But when Capponi appeared before Charles VIII he betrayed Piero. According to Commines, who was present, ‘behind his hand Piero Capponi informed us that moves were afoot to turn the city of Florence against Piero’.⁸ Commines was convinced that the days of the Medici were numbered and that Florence would prove no impediment to the French advance.

Yet now Charles VIII had other matters on his mind. No sooner had he recovered from his illness than news came through that on 21 October Gian Galeazzo Sforza had died. Guicciardini reported:

A rumour was circulated that Giovan Galeazzo’s death had in fact been caused by excessive copulation; nonetheless it was believed throughout Italy that he had died not from his excesses but from poison. One of the royal doctors, who had been present when Charles visited him, indicated that he had observed evident signs of this. No one doubted that if he had been poisoned, this was the work of his uncle.⁹

 

Indeed, the very next day Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza had himself proclaimed the rightful Duke of Milan, despite the fact that Gian Galeazzo had already fathered a young son, who was thus the legitimate heir. Charles VIII now had few illusions concerning the character of his main ally in Italy, and several amongst his court (including Commines) began to have their doubts, suspecting Ludovico’s duplicity ‘with regard to the entire enterprise’.¹⁰

This enterprise was already well under way, with the French army approaching the border of Tuscany intent upon securing the strategic port of Pisa. In mid-October Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco and his brother Giovanni managed to elude their house-arrest and made their way to the camp of Charles VIII. Here the French king was again reassured that the people of Florence had no wish to oppose him, and were utterly against Piero de’ Medici. This was certainly true, for the most part; yet it was only two years since the death of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and there were some who still remembered his patronage with deep gratitude. Typical amongst these was Michelangelo, who would remember this time to the end of his days, when he recalled how a friend had come to tell him of a strange dream:

that Lorenzo de’ Medici¹¹ had appeared before him dressed in black garments, all in tatters so that they barely covered his nakedness, and Lorenzo had commanded him to say to his son [Piero] that in a short time he would be driven from his house, and would never return.

 

Within a few days Michelangelo became so perturbed by this dream that ‘he convinced himself that it would come about and departed from Florence for Bologna … fearful that if this dream came true he would no longer be safe in the city’.

On hearing of the French advance, in a desperate last measure Piero de’ Medici began hiring mercenaries to defend the fortresses guarding the northern border of Tuscany; 300 infantrymen and a small detachment of cavalry were despatched under the command of the trusted condottiere Paolo Orsini, Piero’s brother-in-law. But on 29 October the alarming news reached Florence that the French army had overrun the mountain fortress at Fivizzano, slaughtering its entire garrison. The French then began to lay siege to the strategic fortress of Sarzanello, which together with the fortresses on either side of it, at Sarzana and Pietrasanta, commanded the coast road to Pisa and the south of Italy, as well as the main route from Milan to Florence itself. According to Commines, ‘if the place had been well garrisoned, the king’s army would have been defeated, for this was barren territory where nothing lived to provide sustenance for the soldiers and it was also covered in deep snow’.¹² But even manned by a skeleton garrison, the fortress of Sarzanello on its high rock proved impregnable to the French soldiers laying siege down below, and it looked as if the French advance was blocked, putting the entire invasion in jeopardy.

Yet it was now that Piero de’ Medici embarked upon an enterprise that, as much as any during his often inept and frequently ill-fated rule, would result in confirming the nickname by which he has become known in history – namely, Piero the Unfortunate. It was a move that revealed his true character – demonstrating in equal measure that mixture of indecision and impulsiveness he had developed from living in the shadow of his exceptional father, while striving to outshine him. Instead of resisting the French invasion, he would emulate his father’s most famous gesture, when he had travelled alone to Naples to confront King Ferrante and had so impressed him that he had saved Florence. Following precisely his father’s actions, Piero de’ Medici rode out of Florence without consulting the Signoria, only informing them of what he was doing in a letter despatched to them en route, when it was too late for them to thwart his plans. He would present himself before Charles VIII, intercede on the city’s behalf and personally save the day for Florence.

However, Piero’s arrival at the French court, where the king and his army had by now been camped out beneath the besieged rock at Sarzanello for three days, evoked no admiration for his brave gesture. On the contrary, Piero was received with ill-disguised disdain by Charles VIII – an attitude that was quickly mirrored by his counsellors and advisers. According to Commines, ‘those who had dealings with Piero counted this as nothing, mocking him and paying little attention to him’.¹³ This treatment evidently unnerved Piero, precisely as intended: Charles VIII knew that his entire invasion hung in the balance. The French king opened the bargaining by announcing his most extravagant demands:

He told [Piero] that he required the immediate surrender of Sarzanello [as well as its twin fortresses at Sarzana and Pietrasanta]. He also demanded that he be allowed to take possession of Livorno and Pisa.¹⁴

 

This would not only secure his route to the south, and deprive the republic of its two major coastal cities, but would also leave the city of Florence cut off and at his mercy. To the secret astonishment of all, Piero de’ Medici dispensed with any pretence at negotiation and at once agreed to all the French king’s demands, declaring that Charles VIII could occupy these forts and cities for as long as he required. Piero then went even further: when Charles VIII demanded that Florence should loan him money to replenish his dwindling exchequer, Piero agreed to give him a massive 200,000 florins. And when the French King expressed his intention to pass through Florence with his army, Piero went so far as to offer him the use of the Palazzo Medici, which Commines had described as ‘the most beautiful house owned by any citizen or merchant that I have ever seen’.

Meanwhile Piero Capponi, who had now been elected gonfaloniere, had summoned his Signoria and immediately despatched a delegation in pursuit of Piero de’ Medici, with the aim of thwarting his mission to Charles VIII. But this had proved too little too late. Back in Florence, the whole city now waited in trepidation. All shops remained closed, whilst the streets became forlorn, with rubbish uncleared in the gutters. According to the envoy from Mantua: ‘All the girls and many of the wives have taken refuge in the convents so that only men and youths and old women are to be seen in the streets.’¹⁵ But Savonarola was determined that the people should be made aware of the meaning of what was taking place. On 1 November, while Piero de’ Medici was still away at the French court, he began delivering his All Saints’ Day sermon in the cathedral to a packed and fearful congregation:

Before there was even the slightest rumour of these wars which have come to us from across the mountains, I foretold that great tribulations were to come. You also know that less than two years ago I warned you, ‘Ecce gladius Domini super terram, cito et velociter’ [Behold, the sword of the Lord, striking and swift]. This prophecy was given to you not by me, but by the word of God, and now it is being fulfilled.¹⁶

 

This was Savonarola’s moment of truth, the vindication of all that he had predicted, and he was determined to seize his opportunity. Rousing himself, he went on:

O Italy, because of your lust, your avarice, your pride, your envy, your thieving, your extortion, you will suffer all manner of afflictions and many scourges … O Florence, for your sins, your brutality, your avarice, your lust, many trials and tribulations will be heaped upon you … O Clergy, who are the principal cause of so many evils, woe unto you!

 

In the midst of these incantations against Italy, Florence and ‘the clergy’, he exclaimed: ‘O Florence, I have wished this morning to speak to each and every one of you, openly and sincerely, for I can no longer do otherwise.’ At last, now that Piero de’ Medici was out of Florence, Savonarola felt that he could speak more candidly, without breaking the promise he had made to Lorenzo on his deathbed. Yet significantly, he still did not mention the Medici by name. His message was emotional and forceful, yet he expressed himself only in terms of biblical metaphor. God was smiting Italy, and in particular Florence, for its evil. The people of Florence were being invited – nay, implored – to placate God’s wrath by offering up their prayers and repentance. He returned once more to his old theme of the Flood and Noah’s Ark. When God unleashed his Flood over the Earth, only those worthy of salvation would be allowed to enter the Ark. Yet what precisely was this Ark, constructed out of ten planks, which curiously echoed Florence’s ten ancient districts?

Savonarola had so longed to speak to the people of Florence ‘openly and sincerely’, yet still his ultimate aim remained unclear – perhaps even to himself. Unconsciously, it seemed, two ideas struggled in his mind: his promise to Lorenzo to refrain from attacking the Medici status quo, and his wish to convert Florence into a spiritual ‘Ark’. His voice resonated through the cathedral, filled with passion, invigorated by the openly expressed conviction that God spoke through him. First would come ‘God’s scourge’, yet after this it remained unclear precisely what would happen. He had placed himself in God’s hands, and would do his utmost to fulful God’s will – as and when it revealed itself.

Savonarola would deliver a long and impassioned sermon in the cathedral on three consecutive days, working himself up to fever pitch on each occasion. ‘During the course of those three days, as he later recalled, he shouted so vehemently from the pulpit that the vein in his chest almost burst, and he reached such a point of physical exhaustion that he almost fell seriously ill.’¹⁷

Guicciardini and other contemporary sources indicate that this was a pivotal time. Piero Capponi and the Signoria were at a loss. With Piero de’ Medici out of the city, and the Medici supporters in an increasingly conflicted state, the authorities were reduced to paralysis. As details of the deal that Piero de’ Medici had made with Charles VIII began reaching Florence, spreading rapidly through the city, the entire population was soon on the verge of anarchy. Then the news arrived that the French army was on the march, on its way to ‘occupy’ Florence. The structure of civic power was on the point of crumbling, with the people liable to erupt and destroy the city in their state of panic, fear and pent-up rage at what was happening. But, miraculously, Savonarola’s sermons appeared to have averted this disastrous disorder. According to the despatch by the Mantuan envoy, ‘A Dominican friar has so terrified all the Florentines that they are wholly given up to piety.’¹⁸ In the eyes of the people, Savonarola’s preaching – the voice of God – was their only hope.

The Signoria were quick to recognise the effective power that had now passed into Savonarola’s hands. On 4 November, Gonfaloniere Capponi and the Signoria summoned the Council of Seventy, the body that Lorenzo the Magnificent had created to maintain Medici power and influence the Signoria. With Piero de’ Medici out of the city, and circumstances as they were, even the Council of Seventy began voicing anti-Medici sentiments. Piero Capponi expressed the opinion ‘that it is time we stopped being ruled by children’¹⁹ (a reference not only to the twenty-three-year-old Piero de’ Medici, but also to his younger nineteen-year-old brother Cardinal Giovanni, whom he still intermittently turned to as his adviser). Capponi suggested that the only way to save Florence, or at least try to ameliorate the present dire situation, was to send to Charles VIII a delegation of four ambassadors as true representatives of the people of Florence. He himself was willing to serve as one of these ambassadors, but in his opinon the person best suited to lead this delegation was ‘a man of holy life … courageous and intelligent, of high ability and great renown’²⁰ – namely Savonarola. The Signoria and the Council of Seventy quickly backed Capponi in this proposal. Savonarola’s de facto leadership of the city was now evident to all.

Despite his chronic exhaustion after three days of passionate sermonising, during which he had often appeared to be on the point of a physical and mental breakdown, Savonarola could not bring himself to turn down Capponi’s request. His motives, as well as those of Capponi, are open to question here. Was Savonarola simply incapable of suppressing his lust for power? Was Capponi lining up Savonarola as scapegoat, in case things went wrong? The possibility of such mixed motives must inevitably be borne in mind during the ensuing events.

The very next day, Wednesday 5 November, Savonarola and his fellow ambassadors left the city. Despite the urgency of the situation, as well as the need to create an impression at the French court, Savonarola insisted that he would only travel on foot. The others were forced to follow behind on their horses, which were decked out in the city’s livery in the customary fashion. Such protocol was not only intended to convey the importance of the ambassadors and the city they represented, but was also to be seen as a mark of respect for their hosts. Thus the determined friar in his threadbare robes, carrying only his usual breviary, led the somewhat uncertain Florentine delegation north-west of the city into the Tuscan countryside. It was unclear whether Charles VIII and his army were still in the region of Sarzanello, or had already set off south to take Pisa. The Florentine mission continued, enquiring on the latest news concerning the French army at each village through which it passed. It was hardly an auspicious start.

The whereabouts of the French court was not the only thing of which the Florentine mission remained in ignorance. No sooner had it left the city than an advanced French detachment arrived in Florence, proceeding directly to the Palazzo della Signoria, where it demanded permission to start making billeting arrangements for the arrival of the French army. Impotently, the Signoria agreed, and French soldiers began making their way through the streets, marking chalk crosses on the doors of the houses that were to billet the French garrison. The town heralds with their trumpets preceded them through the city, announcing that anyone who rubbed off the chalk crosses on their doors would be liable to a draconian fine of 500 florins (more than twice the annual income of many merchants, let alone householders of lesser fortune).

When Piero de’ Medici received news of the Florentine delegation approaching the French camp, he at once set off back to Florence, meeting up with Paolo Orsini and his 300 mercenaries on the way. On Saturday 8 November – just three days after Savonarola and his delegation had left – Piero arrived outside the city walls of Florence at the northern Porta San Gallo. Unprecedentedly, he found no official party at the gate to welcome him – an ominous portent. Nonethelesss, possibly out of tact for the citizens’ sensibilities, he ordered Orsini and the mercenaries to wait outside the city walls. Piero then rode on through the Porta San Gallo into the city, arriving at the Palazzo Medici to find a crowd of silent, curious onlookers gathered outside. Immediately after dismounting in the protected inner courtyard, Piero ordered that confetti (little sweet cakes and sugar-coated almonds) be scattered from the windows down to the waiting crowd below. In a further traditional homecoming gesture, he also ordered long tables to be set out in the street, where wine and bread could be served to the poor. But the sceptical onlookers seemed determined not to be won over, and there were none of the usual grateful loyal cries of ‘Palle! Palle! Palle!’[1]

Next day being Sunday, Piero de’ Medici attended Mass, where he soon learned of the situation in the city. Accompanied by a group of armed men, he then proceeded to the Palazzo della Signoria, intending to deliver his official report on his mission. By now the members of the Signoria felt they had the backing of the majority of the population, with many convinced that Piero was personally responsible for the peril in which Florence found itself. Even so, the Signoria remained wary: they knew that Orsini and his 300 mercenaries remained camped outside the Porta San Gallo.

By this stage further detachments of French troops had begun arriving in the city by way of the western gate, in order to seek out and chalk the doors of all possible available billets. Although the Signoria were conscious of the deep shame this inflicted upon the city, and aware that many blamed them for allowing it to take place, they soon saw how this French presence could be turned to their advantage. Piero de’ Medici would not dare to order Orsini and his mercenaries into the city to defend him if this was liable to lead to a clash with the armed French detachments. Such a move would have put the entire approaching French army against him. This meant that Piero was essentially on his own, and any move the Signoria made against him would help shift the blame for the presence of the French troops and their humiliating activities. By dissociating themselves from Piero de’ Medici they could redeem their own ineffectiveness and essential impotence, thus isolating him as the sole scapegoat for all that was happening.

When Piero arrived at the Palazzo della Signoria, accompanied by his small band of armed guards, he was astonished to have the main door slammed in his face. A voice informed him that he could only enter the palazzo alone, without his armed men, by way of the sportello, the tiny side gate intended for servants and delivery boys. As Piero stood pondering this direct insult, unsure of what he should do to avoid loss of face, the Signoria took matters into their own hands. From high up in the castellated tower of the palazzo came the deep, resonant toll of the city’s famous bell, theVacca (literally, ‘the cow’, so called because its booming tone resembled the mooing of a cow). The tolling bell resounding over the rooftops of the city was the traditional call to all citizens in time of danger or emergency, summoning them to gather in the wide stone-paved Piazza della Signoria in front of the palazzo. As the people hurried into the square and it began to fill, the mood of the crowd turned. Some began calling out insults at Piero as he stood uncertainly on the raised pavement outside the main door of the palazzo. As such sentiments began gathering momentum, people started throwing objects, refuse and then stones. Piero’s armed guard quickly persuaded him to leave, forcing a way for him through the increasinglyantagonistic crowd, whereupon they set off back for the safety of the Palazzo Medici.

Meanwhile Piero’s younger brother Cardinal Giovanni had begun taking his own measures, riding up and down the Via Larga with an armed entourage, attempting to rally support for the Medici cause with cries of ‘Palle! Palle! Palle!’ This drew a number of armed Medici supporters, who began spilling out of the nearby streets. Cardinal Giovanni then led his band of armed men and chanting Medici supporters towards the Piazza della Signoria. Yet as they approached the square they found themselves faced by a much larger hostile mob, and were forced to beat a hasty retreat through the streets back to the Palazzo Medici, where Piero and his men were confronting another armed gathering of opponents. For a while it looked as if there would be violent conflict between the rival groups, with blood shed; but when a crowd of further armed opponents of the Medici arrived on the scene, Giovanni reportedly declared to Piero, ‘We’re finished!’²¹ Whereupon the Medici brothers and their supporters withdrew through the gateway of the Palazzo Medici and barricaded themselves in behind its high walls.

The point had now been reached where the city was on the brink of civil war, and the Signoria followed up their summoning of the people by taking decisive action, publicly issuing a decree ‘forbidding anyone on pain of death to aid or abet Piero de’ Medici’.²²This may have been opportunistic, but it was also irrevocable: if the Medici succeeded in retaining power, the Signoria’s decree would certainly be regarded as treason, punishable by death or at least permanent exile. But the Signoria’s gamble appeared to pay off. According to Landucci, ‘In consequence of this [decree], many abandoned Piero and laid down their arms. They dropped off on all sides, so that few remained with him.’

Partly as a result of this decree, the crowd outside the Palazzo Medici began to disperse – few of them wishing to be mistakenly seen ‘to aid or abet’ the Medici cause, or to become involved in the bloody conflict that now seemed inevitable. As the crowd dispersed, Piero de’ Medici, along with his wife and children, rode out of the Palazzo Medici protected by an armed escort and swiftly made his way up the deserted Via Larga, arriving at the Porta San Gallo, which was being held by Orsini and his men. Many sources claim that this escape took place under cover of darknesss, but Landucci’s eyewitness report states how later that same day (that is, the late afternoon of Sunday 9 November) he observed Cardinal Giovanni:

The poor young cardinal stayed behind in the house and I saw him through a window, kneeling with his hands joined, praying to Heaven to have mercy. The sight of him moved me greatly, for he was in truth a good and upright character.

 

Had Cardinal Giovanni been left behind by Piero because he hoped that the popular Giovanni might yet rally sufficient support for the Medici cause and reverse the situation? Indeed, the sight of Cardinal Giovanni praying at the window prompts all manner of questions. What precisely would Giovanni have been praying for? And why should he have done this so publicly, at the window of the palazzo for all to see, when surely the private chapel would have been the more appropriate venue for such an act of worship? This appearance at the window is not the act of a man praying for his own safety. Had he been worried on this score, he would surely have made every effort to join his departing brother and his armed party, thus demonstrating his loyalty to Piero. No, in all likelihood, if Giovanni’s prayers had any supplicatory object at all, it must have been a plea to God for the preservation of Medici rule. And the very public nature of this act must have been intended to elicit sympathy, which it certainly did in the case of Landucci, whose position as a mere shopkeeper surely rendered him representative of widespread popular feeling in the city. Giovanni’s public praying was the act of a man hoping to take advantage of his personal popularity and swing the crowd in his favour.

Yet it must soon have become apparent to Cardinal Giovanni and his remaining supporters inside the palazzo that the crowd had irrevocably turned against the Medici. Doubtless the voices of the people outside made this clear. As a result, Cardinal Giovanni and his supporters made no further effort to court popularity, and now began a frantic, but thorough, attempt to rescue their situation in an entirely different manner. Hurriedly they started scouring all the rooms of the palazzo, collecting up as many portable valuables as they could carry. Amongst these were the jewels that Lorenzo the Magnificent had collected so avidly – those precious stones whose very nature was contradictory: easily transportable, in case Cosimo’s prediction that the Medici would be driven from Florence came true, yet bearing the marks of Lorenzo’s ultimate royal ambition for the family. Along with these jewels, Cardinal Giovanni is said to have collected up some 200,000 ducats: amongst the last remaining assets of the Medici bank in Florence. Other items included various statuettes, gold and silver medallions, as well as valuable books and rare ancient manuscripts from the Medici library.

According to Landucci, some time after Piero de’ Medici left, Cardinal Giovanni ‘disguised himself as a monk and took his departure also’. This escape must surely have been made under cover of darkness, and with some stealth, considering the value of the treasure involved. Yet not all of this was taken directly up the Via Larga to the safety of the Porta San Gallo. Extraordinarily, it seems that the young Cardinal Giovanni stopped off en route at the monastery of San Marco, where he delivered the rare books and manuscripts from the Medici library, and perhaps some of the more religious treasures as well, to the safekeeping of the monks.

This raises a number of intriguing questions. We know that, at the time, Savonarola was absent on the mission to Charles VIII – yet San Marco would have remained very much in the hands of his supporters. On the other hand, San Marco had long been considered by the Medici as ‘our’ monastery, and it is possible that some amongst its monks remained ardent, if clandestine, Medici supporters. Yet how could they have received Medici treasures from Cardinal Giovanni, disguised as a Dominican monk though he was, and have managed to conceal them, without other monks loyal to Savonarola being aware of this? A more credible scenario would have involved the disguised Giovanni delivering rare manuscripts and books from the Medici library with the full knowledge of the monks who supported Savonarola. Such a contingency could have been arranged by go-betweens such as Pico or Ficino. This gift could well have been a gesture to Savonarola, who would certainly have welcomed the addition of such items to the monastery collection. Was this by way of being a recompense to Savonarola for keeping his promise to Lorenzo on his deathbed and refraining from attacking Piero, or even directly denouncing Medici rule, in his sermons? Inevitably, such a theory is purely speculative – yet it seems difficult to account for Cardinal Giovanni’s gesture in any other way. Having deposited his gifts at San Marco, he hurried up the Via Larga to the safety of the Porta San Gallo, and Orsini’s waiting armed men.

Landucci recorded how around this time the Signoria at last took even more drastic action, once again too little and too late:

Another proclamation was publicly announced in the Piazza, promising that whoever slew Piero de’ Medici would receive a reward of two thousand ducats, and whoever slew the cardinal would receive a thousand ducats.²³

 

But the Medici were gone, galloping across the Apennine mountain passes towards the safety of the nearby territory of Bologna. Piero the Unfortunate had been forced into exile, and the rule of the Medici family in Florence was over.

 

NOTES

1. ‘I will destroy all flesh’: Genesis, Ch. 6, v.17 (Revised Standard version)

2. ‘For Behold …’: ibid.

3. ‘Lo, the sword …’: see Bartolomeo Cerretani, Storie Fiorentine, p.12, which appears in J. Schnitzer, Zur Geschichte Savonarolas (Munich, 1904), Vol. III

4. ‘Everyone walked …’: Cerretani, Storie Fiorentine (Schnitzer), p.12

5. ‘This small picture …’: see Vasari, Lives of the Artists (trans. Bull), Vol. I, p.231, for a readily available original Latin version. I have not adhered to Bull’s translation.

6. ‘Although he was …’: Guicciardini, Opere (Bari, 1931), Vol. VI, p.63

7. ‘a young man of …’: Mémories de Philippe de Commynes, ed. Mlle Dupont (Paris, 1843), Vol. II, p.336

8. ‘behind his hand …’: ibid. p.340

9. ‘A rumour was …’: Guicciardini, Opere, p.444

10. ‘with regard to …’: see Mémoires de Philippe de Commynes, ed. Dupont, Vol. II, pp.348, 352, and Philippe de Commynes, Mémoires, ed J. Calmette & C. Durville (Paris, 1925), Vol. III, pp.52, 56–7

11. ‘that Lorenzo de’ Medici …’ et seq.: Condivi, Vita di Michelangelo (Milan, 1928), pp.50, 54

12. ‘if the place had …’ Commynes, Mémoires, ed. Calmette, Vol. III, p.53

13. ‘those who …’: ibid. p.56

14. ‘He told [Piero] that …’ et seq.: ibid. pp.55–6

15. ‘All the girls …’: Mantuan envoy to Florence, cited in Hibbert, Medici, p.185

16. ‘Before there was …’ et seq.: Savonarola, Prediche sopra Aggeo, ed. Luigi Firpo (Rome, 1965), p.12

17. ‘During the course …’: see Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, pp.121–2, where he paraphrases Savonarola, Compendio di rivelazioni, c.6

18. ‘A Dominican friar …’: Mantuan envoy to Florence, cited in Hibbert, Medici, p.185

19. ‘that it is time …’: Cerretani, Storie fiorentine, p.11

20. ‘a man of holy …’: ibid.

21. ‘We’re finished!’: cited in Martines Savonarola, p.38

22. ‘forbidding anyone …’ et seq.: Landucci Diario, pp.75–6

23. ‘Another proclamation …’: Landucci, Diario, p.75

Charles VIII of France

 

 

13. HUMILIATION

 

WHEN THE NEWS spread through Florence that the Medici had fled the city, a mob descended on the Palazzo Medici bent on pillaging the legendary treasures that it was rumoured to contain. However, they found the palazzo locked and barred by its new occupant, a French nobleman from the court of Charles VIII called ‘seigneur de Balsac’,¹ who had taken up residence some days beforehand. On orders from Piero de’ Medici, he had been instructed to prepare the palazzo for when Charles VIII came to take up Piero’s offer of residence. Yet no sooner had the Medici fled than Balsac secured all possible modes of entry and ‘began pillaging the contents of the palace, claiming that the Lyons branch of the Medici Bank owed him a great sum of money’.²Cardinal Giovanni had only been able to remove from the palace such valuables as he and his men could carry, leaving behind many treasures and works of art for Balsac. These included all manner of exotic items, and Commines recorded that ‘among other things he seized an entire unicorn’s horn worth six or seven thousand ducats’[2].

It seemed that all Medici properties throughout the city were now considered fair game. According to Commines, in no time:

others were behaving in the same manner as [Balsac]. All that was most valuable had been stored in another house in the city. The people pillaged this too. The signoria managed to sieze some of the finest jewellery, as well as some twenty thousand ducats which remained in the premises of the local Medici bank, and several fine agate vases, a vast amount of beautifully cut cameos, as fine as any I had seen. They also seized three thousand gold and silver medallions weighing forty pounds: one would not have believed that there were so many fine medallions in the whole of Italy.⁴

 

In order to protect the Palazzo Medici from the gathering mob, the Signoria sent a guard of armed men, and these together with Balsac and the French soldiers within the palace seem to have kept the would-be pillagers at bay. However, it appears that at one stage a number of Florentine citizens must have broken into the palazzo, starting a fire amongst the registry files, with the aim of destroying documents related to tax details and debts owed. Indeed, to this day ‘Black scorch marks are still visible on the papers that survived.’⁵ Yet what is so surprising is that so many Medici treasures did in fact survive – other than those deposited at San Marco or removed from Florence altogether by Cardinal Giovanni. Many Medici paintings, both in the palazzo and elsewhere in Florence, including both family portraits and religious scenes (which often incorporated family portraits, such as Botticelli’s Adoration of the Magi) survive to this day. And the latter would not have been spared on account of their religious content. Far from it: in these first heady hours of liberation nothing was sacred where the Medici were concerned. Even the resplendent San Gallo monastery, reckoned to have been one of the finest early Renaissance works of architecture, was not spared. This may have been designed for the revered Augustinians, whose prior had once been Savonarola’s great rival preacher Fra Marianoda Genazzano, and built by none other than Brunelleschi himself, but it had been commissioned by Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that was enough. The building was completely razed to the ground by the mob so that not even a ruin remained – today its former site is a green open space lined by trees just outside the Porta San Gallo, known as the Parterre.

The seizure by the Signoria of the remaining assets hidden in the premises of the local branch of the Medici bank[3] effectively marked the demise of this once-great financial institution. The precise ledger figures and imbalances remain unknown, since a large amount of the bank’s records were destroyed in the fire at the Palazzo Medici. However, de Roover makes it clear that by this stage the ruin of the Medici bank was probably inevitable. Even if there had been no French invasion in 1494 and Piero had not been deposed, ‘the Medici bank might have ended even more disgracefully in a financial crash of the first order’. Its entire organisation was already virtually bankrupt. ‘Most of its branches had been closed, and those still in existence were gasping for breath.’ This was particularly true of its main foreign agency, previously its chief source of income through handling papal dues, accounts with cardinals and the alum monopoly: ‘Even the Rome branch, for so long the pillar of the Medici Bank, was giving way because funds were immobilised in loans.’ And these loans even directly involved the Medici themselves: ‘the debt of the Medici family to the Rome branch exceeded their equity by 11,243 large florins. In addition, Messer Giovanni, the youthful cardinal … owed another 7,500 florins.’⁶

Despite the letter Lorenzo the Magnificent had written just before his death to his son Giovanni, expressly advising him to curb his extravagance, this had evidently produced little effect. On the other hand, Cardinal Giovanni’s initiative in rescuing from the Palazzo Medici as much of value as could be carried would prove vital in preserving the Medici family’s financial status. Lorenzo’s fabulous collection of precious jewels and the like would provide for both Piero de’ Medici and his family in exile, while Cardinal Giovanni would support himself, and provide further funds, from the rich benefices so prudently accumulated for him by Lorenzo. All this would also help to finance the schemes initiated with the aim of restoring Piero to power in Florence, which he embarked upon from the moment he entered exile.

On 9 November 1494, the very day that Piero de’ Medici fled from Florence, Charles VIII entered Pisa. In the hours preceding the French occupation, the citizens of Pisa had risen up in revolt against their governor and his administration, only too pleased to throw off the yoke of their detested Florentine conquerors. The French army was little concerned by these events: Charles VIII was welcomed as the city’s saviour and took up residence in the imposing Citadella Nuova by the River Arno. It was here at Pisa that the Florentine delegation led by Savonarola finally caught up with the French army and were immediately granted an audience with the king.

Charles VIII certainly presented an unprepossessing figure: ‘small in stature, and excessively ugly’,⁷ according to Guicciardini, who went on to describe how ‘his limbs were so proportioned that he seemed more like a monster than a man’. However, seated on his throne, surrounded by his counsellors and the trappings of his court, even when it was on the move, the gnomic king presented a grand and imposing prospect – Europe’s most powerful monarch in all his medieval glory. By contrast, the entry of Savonarola in his sandals and threadbare robes, followed by his three somewhat overawed fellow delegates, hardly created an impressive sight. Yet Savonarola was undaunted, and launched into an oration in which he welcomed Charles VIII: ‘At last you have arrived, O King! Just as I have been predicting through these last years, thou hast come as the Minister of God, as an emblem of Divine Justice. We welcome thy presence with joyous hearts and smiling faces. You have been sent by God to chastise the tyrants of Italy, and nothing will be able to resist you or defend itself against you.’⁸ Having welcomed the all-conquering ‘Scourge of God’, Savonarola then abruptly changed his tone, warning that although Florence might unintentionally have given him offence, Charles VIII should forgive the city and do no harm to its citizens, for ‘although he was sent by God, Heaven was capable of wreaking a terrible revenge even upon its own instrument’, should the French king allow his army to harm Florence.

Charles VIII had already been briefed by his advisers concerning Savonarola and his gift of prophecy – a subject that particularly appealed to the illiterate young king’s superstitious nature (as well as to that of several of his more intellectually endowed advisers). As a result, Charles VIII listened intently to Savonarola’s words, most encouraged by his predictions concerning the French campaign in Italy. Indeed, so impressed was Charles VIII that when Savonarola’s royal audience came to an end, he allowed the other three Florentine ambassadors to withdraw, but insisted that Savonarola remain behind with him for a private audience – during which, according to Commines, they discussed ‘what God had revealed to him’. Commines was also impressed: a sophisticated man much practised in the cynicism of diplomacy and the vicissitudes of court life, he nonetheless confessed that with regard to Savonarola, ‘for my part, I found him to be a good man’.

The following day Charles VIII decamped with his army and set off down the Arno valley towards Florence, halting at Signa, some eight miles before the city walls. At this point Savonarola went on ahead into Florence, possibly at the behest of Charles VIII, in order to inform the city of the imminent arrival of the French army and assess the situation. With civil government on the point of complete breakdown under the leaderless Signoria, it was vital that order should be restored. The French king wished to make a triumphal entry into Florence, along with his army, and he wished for this parade to be welcomed by the people of the city. If anarchy prevailed, he was liable to send in troops to quell any disturbances, with bloody consequences.

Savonarola arrived in Florence early on Tuesday 11 November and immediately made it known that he would deliver a sermon later that day. People from all over the city crammed into the cathedral to hear the words of the one man they now regarded as their only possible saviour. In his sermon, Savonarola returned to his theme of the Ark, ‘the boat of true repentance and salvation, to be launched against the surrounding flood of tribulation’.⁹ Yet he also sought to reassure the citizens of Florence that no harm would come to them, if they inflicted no harm on others. In reference to the new state of affairs following the flight of Piero de’ Medici, he warned against taking revenge upon those who had been Medici supporters. The citizens of Florence should thank God that such a revolution had taken place with no blood being shed. Likewise, he reassured them that he had Charles VIII’s word that if they offered no violence to the French, Charles VIII would see that no harm came to them.

For five days the French army remained encamped beyond the city walls whilst the citizens of Florence waited in trepidation. Then on 16 November, having heard that Charles VIII was planning to enter the city the following day, Savonarola delivered another sermon. He began by ‘urging every man to keep his place’. He insisted that the French army must be allowed to enter the city without opposition: they would not stay for long before they continued on their way to Naples. Savonarola went on to explain that a new government would soon be appointed in place of the Medici administration, and that this too must be accomplished without violence. Such matters were in good hands: ‘Lots of men would like to help administer the state, but cannot do so because they do not have the aptitude.’ Every citizen ‘should be content with his state’.

However, despite Savonarola’s pleas for order and restraint, the people remained fearful and the situation was fraught with the danger of civil breakdown, followed by anarchy and the prospect of a bloodbath. By now, further advance parties of French troops had begun arriving in the city, taking up residence in the billets marked for them. From these they sallied forth, marking further chalk crosses on the doors of literally hundreds of houses in every part of the city, even ‘including all the Camaldoli’, the western slum district occupied by the very poorest wool-combers, dyers and fishermen, which lay across the river from the city centre, in the Oltrarno, crammed between the river bank and the southern city walls.

Piero Capponi had returned to resume his role as gonfaloniere, doing his best to enforce some kind of civil government; but inevitably there were outbreaks of vengeance against those who had supported the Medici, with the ever-present danger of French soldiers becoming involved. A typically muddled and volatile incident was described by Landucci:

Girolamo Tornabuoni had his breastplate torn off by anti-Medici supporters in Orto Sa’ Michele, but when he pleaded for mercy they spared his life. Giovan Francesco Tornabuoni was badly wounded in the cheek, and returned home. When this disturbance began, some of the French who had been billeted in Florence armed themselves and joined the Medici supporters, yelling Francia. I believe they were informed that this was a matter between citizens only, and that if they did anything against the Palagio [the palazzo i.e. the Signoria], they would be doing wrong and find themselves in trouble. So they returned to their lodgings … The number of soldiers and of the people going about robbing innocent citizens was constantly increasing.¹⁰

 

As Savonarola’s biographer, Villari, put it:

There was great cause for alarm; but fortunately several wise and determined citizens pledged their support for the signoria. Chief amongst these was Piero Capponi, who became the right hand of the republic, in much the same way as Savonarola became its heart and soul. As Savonarola preached forgiveness, charity and brotherhood, Capponi sped from place to place, wherever his authority was needed, handing out arms and recruiting men to keep the peace.¹¹

 

Finally, late in the afternoon of Monday 17 November, Charles VIII and his army entered Florence through the south-western San Friano gate. Here the French king, clad in black velvet with a mantle of gold brocade, was greeted with all due ceremony by the assembled Signoria and all the leading citizens on horeseback, dressed in their finest robes, who bowed their heads and formally invited him to enter the city. But from the outset Charles VIII made it perfectly plain that he was here as a conqueror, not as a welcome guest, riding forward into the city with his lance on his hip in the traditional manner of the victor. Despite Savonarola’s reassurances, no one knew what the unpredictable French king had in mind for Florence. Indeed, it is now clear that at this stage Charles VIII had not even decided himself.

Despite the extreme humiliation their city was undergoing, many Florentines lined the streets, cheering and calling out ‘Viva Francia! Viva Francia!’¹² as the king and his army passed through the city, crossing the River Arno by way of the Ponte Vecchio, continuing meaningfully past the Palazzo della Signoria and on to the cathedral. Most eyewitnesses agree that the French army consisted of around 10,000 men. The rest of the French forces were camped near Pisa, with a detachment in the Romagna, ready for the march south. According to a report by the Venetian ambassador, the soldiers were led into the city by ‘a monster of a man [omaccione] with a polished sword like a spit for roast pork, and then four big drums played with both hands and accompanied by two pipes, making an infernal noise, such as one hears at a fair’. Of the 10,000 who entered Florence behind him, 7,000 were Swiss infantrymen, generally regarded as the toughest and most brutal battle-hardened soldiers in Europe at the time. A Florentine eyewitness was rather more impressed, recalling how they marched past ‘with such discipline that only the sound of drums and pipes could be heard’. The Swiss were followed by all manner of mounted archers, infantry with pikes, men-at-arms, ‘men from Dalmatia and other strange places’. Despite their cheers, the Florentines were filled with awe and fear at the sight of such soldiers, the like of which they had never seen before. Bartolomeo Cerretani’s reaction was typical, seeing them as ‘barbarians … from cold regions that produced men like beasts with their ugly manners and speech’. Amongst these he particularly noted ‘Bretons, Scots and all sorts of men who spoke so many tongues they could not even understand one another’. Such was the terrifying babel that now took possession of the city that regarded itself as the most civilised in Europe.

The only exception to this fearsomeness was the king himself. As he reached the cathedral and dismounted, Landucci recorded that ‘when he was seen on foot he seemed to the people to be somewhat less imposing, for he was in fact a very small man’. It had taken the procession more than two hours to cover the mile-or-so route from the city gate to the cathedral, and by now it was dark. Inside, the cathedral was lit with candelabra, and the king prayed at the altar before remounting his horse and riding between flares to take up residence at the Palazzo Medici – which Balsac, aided by the Signoria, had decked out in all its glory (or what remained of it). At any rate, Charles VIII was certainly impressed, for later that night he wrote proudly to his brother, the Duc de Bourbon, back in France:

My brother, today I entered this city of Florence, in which I have been grandly received by the signoria, and have been given such honour as I have never received in a city within my own kingdom … It is a long time since anyone made such a grand entry into a place like this. And the signoria is totally disposed to do for me whatever thing I order them.¹³

 

But what would these orders be? Would he instruct his terrifying soldiers to sack Florence? Or would he heed Savonarola’s words of warning? Charles VIII had certainly decided upon one thing: he wanted to extract as much money as he could from this rich city, so that it could finance his vast and expensive army on the next leg of its march, as far as Rome, where he expected to extract further gold for his coffers from the pope, so that his men would be well fed and well paid for the final leg of their march on Naples.

Whatever Charles VIII decided, he felt confident that his French army now had Florence at his mercy. At the time, the population of Florence is estimated to have been less than 70,000 men, women and children (many having fled into the countryside at the approach of the French army). Billeted in their midst they now had 10,000 of the toughest soldiers in Europe, to say nothing of those who had been sent ahead to organise this billeting, who probably numbered in their hundreds by the time the main body of the French army arrived.

Within a few days Charles VIII and his advisers began setting out their terms to the Signoria, who were horrified to hear that the French king wished them to pay him no less than 150,000 gold florins[4] – even though this represented a considerable climb-down from the 200,000 florins that Piero de’ Medici had been forced to promise. On top of this, Charles VIII expected them to reinstate Piero de’ Medici as their ruler, and furthermore he intended to leave behind two French ‘commissioners’ who would sit in on the meetings of the Signoria. Fearful that Charles VIII might yet decide to sack the city, but determined not to surrender their newly won freedom, the Signoria dug in their heels. There was no question of Piero de’ Medici being reinstated, the Signoria resented the idea of the two French ‘commissioners’ as their virtual rulers, and finally they informed the king that they simply did not have 150,000 florins to give him.

Much hard bargaining ensued over the next few days, but meanwhile the situation in Florence was deteriorating daily. Many citizens had armed themselves, and increasingly violent incidents were taking place throughout the city. These culminated around 21 November, when:

A gang of French soldiers began passing through the streets dragging behind them some Italians tied up with ropes who had been taken prisoner during the fighting near the border, making them beg for money to pay their ransom so they could be freed. The French threatened that they would be killed if not enough money was given. The Florentines were so incensed by this barbarous spectacle that some brave young men cut the ropes, allowing the prisoners to escape. The French were enraged, and tried vainly to recapture them. Then a fight began, with the citizens resisting, and soon others poured in from all sides to assist them. The Swiss soldiers heard rumours of this, and imagined that the king’s life was in danger. They made a dash for the palazzo, but their passage was blocked in the Borgo Ognissanti. When they tried to force their way through they were met with a fusillade of stones from the windows and had to retreat. The fight went on for an hour before some of the king’s officers and many leading citizens managed to quell the disturbance on the orders of the Signoria.¹⁴

 

As the contemporary diarist Piero Parenti observed, ‘only divine providence stopped things getting out of control’.¹⁵ The situation was defused, but the entire city remained tense over the coming days. According to Landucci, ‘and all the while it was being spread about the city that the King had promised his soldiers that they would be allowed to sack the city’.¹⁶

Eventually a compromise was reached between Charles VIII and the Signoria, in accordance with which a treaty was agreed upon. Rather than surrender its freedom, the Signoria of Florence was willing to give Charles VIII 150,000 florins, but nothing else. On 25 November a ceremony was held for the signing of the treaty: this was attended by Charles VIII and his advisers, along with the Signoria and a cross-section of the city’s representatives. The herald began reading out before the assembled delegates the terms of the solemn treaty – but instead of the agreed total of 150,000 florins, the Signoria had deviously inserted the sum of 120,000 florins. On hearing this, Charles VIII leapt to his feet and threatened: ‘We will have to sound our trumpets!’¹⁷

This was the signal that would call his men to arms throughout Florence, to begin the sack of the city. Capponi, who had befriended Charles during his awkward childhood, became incensed at what he saw as the impertinence of the gauche young king’s threat to Florence. Shaking with fury, he leapt forward and snatched the treaty from the herald’s hands. He then began tearing it up, scattering the pieces of paper about him contemptuously, declaring: ‘If you sound your trumpets, we will ring our bells.’ This was Florence’s traditional call to arms, summoning all its citizens to defend their city. Charles VIII was faced with the prospect of a pitched battle amidst streets with which his soldiers were unfamiliar, where every alleyway was known to its inhabitants.

The French king at once tried to calm things down, making a joke, ‘O Capponi, Capponi, what a capon[5] you are!’ Somehow this remark defused the situation, and Charles VIII now relented, accepting the lesser sum of 120,000. Such a spontaneous climb-down has been attributed to various causes. Capponi’s reckless bravery may well have made Charles VIII immediately suspect that this was all part of a plan, that the citizens of Florence were now all armed and set to ambush his troops. Either this, or his genuine feeling for his old friend made him abashed at having so upset the normally equable Capponi.

The 120,000-florin treaty was now signed, but the tension through the city continued to rise, with each day bringing further stabbings and kidnappings. And still Charles VIII showed no sign of wishing to depart from Florence, taking his troops with him. How much longer would he refrain from allowing his troops to sack the city?

As a last resort, the Signoria called upon Savonarola to try and use his personal influence with Charles VIII. According to a contemporary report, Savonarola went to the Palazzo Medici and demanded to see the king. When the guards barred his way, he simply pushed past them. Inside he found Charles VIII dressed in full armour, preparing to lead his men in a sack of the city. Savonarola stood before him and raised a brass crucifix, whereupon Charles VIII’s manner changed and he greeted the priest with full respect. Savonarola addressed him forcefully, insisting:

It is not me to whom you should be paying respect. You should be giving honour to Him who is King of Kings, He who grants victory to the kings of this world only in accordance with His will and His justice, but punishes those who are unjust. You and all your men will be destroyed by Him unless you cease at once your cruel treatment of the citizens of our poor city …¹⁸

 

Savonarola pointed out to the young French king that the longer he stayed in Florence, the more he lessened the impetus of his campaign against Naples. Exasperatedly, he told Charles VIII:

Now listen to the voice of God’s servant! Continue on your journey without any more delay. Don’t try to ruin this city or you’ll bring God’s anger down on your head.

 

Savonarola’s words evidently had their effect, for on 28 November Charles VIII and his army duly left Florence. Contemporary reports make it clear that there was a widespread belief amongst the citizens of Florence that the city had been saved only by Capponi’s bravery and by Savonarola’s calming influence, both on his congregation and on Charles VIII.

Savonarola’s spirited demeanour during this tense and difficult period is rendered all the more admirable by what we now know of his personal situation at the time. On 15 November, the very day before he delivered his vital sermon before the French occupation calling for calm and ‘urging every man to keep his place’, he had learned of the death of his mother in Ferrara. Savonarola’s closeness to his mother can be gauged even from the few letters that he wrote to her, where in the view of Ridolfi: ‘beneath the pious resolution, there is an unmistakable current of great tenderness not to be found elsewhere’.¹⁹ He also refers warmly to his mother in one of his later sermons. Two days after his mother’s death, on the very day the French marched into Florence, Savonarola learned of another death, that of his beloved Pico della Mirandola. This meant that in the course of just a few months he had lost both of his closest secular admirers – for on the night of 28–9 September he had learned of the death of his friend, the poet Poliziano. This had come suddenly and unexpectedly, at the very time when Poliziano was encouraging Botticelli with his painting of The Calumny of Apelles, with the intention of persuading Piero de’ Medici that the whispers concerning Savonarola preaching against him were in fact nothing but slanders. Yet Poliziano would also be the object of slanderous rumours himself, and on his death a scandalous story began to circulate. According to the rumour, Poliziano had succumbed to a fever brought on by his love for a local Greek youth. In the middle of the night he had been possessed by a frenzy, rushed from his house and begun playing a lute beneath the Greek youth’s window; he had then been brought back home, only to expire later that night in a delirium. Savonarola had been deeply upset by Poliziano’s death, and had understood at once that the scandalous rumour concerning its circumstances was only intended to blacken his friend and expose his recent conversion to Savonarola’s teachings as a mere charade.

Now, on the very day the French army was to march into Florence, Pico too lay on his deathbed, having suddenly succumbed to a fatal illness at the age of just thirty-one. For some time Pico had been torn between his natural inclination to the life of a worldly intellectual, sharing a villa outside Florence with his concubine, and his longing to dedicate his life to God by becoming a Dominican monk – a longing heavily encouraged by his friend Savonarola. Yet now that Pico so suddenly and unexpectedly found his life ebbing away, he is said to have bequeathed all his possessions to San Marco and at last begged Savonarola to receive him into his order. According to legend, Savonarola laid out a Dominican habit over the body of the dying Pico, and later he would be placed in his coffin wearing this habit, buried on Savonarola’s instigation in San Marco beside the tomb of his friend Poliziano. After Savonarola had delivered his sermon on the following Sunday, 24 November, he gave a brief oration marking the death of his friend, declaring that ‘if he had lived longer he would have written works which would have outshone those of any other during the previous eight centuries’.²⁰ Savonarola went on to say that he had worried about his friend Pico’s ultimate fate, fearing that on account of his life he would be condemned to the everlasting torments of hell. However, during the night Pico had appeared to him in a dream, saying that he was instead expiating his sins in purgatory. This remission had been granted on account of his alms-giving to San Marco and the fervent prayers of its Dominican monks who had come to regard him as one of their brethren.

Pico’s death would be mourned all over Italy, as had been the earlier death of his friend Poliziano. Curiously, Savonarola had seen to it that Poliziano too had been buried in the robes of a Dominican monk, despite the fact that – according to a contemporary Florentine – he had been ‘the object of as much infamy and public vituperation as it is possible for a man to attract’.²¹ This public disgrace had been caused not only by the slanderous rumours that had been spread about the manner of his death, but also by his closeness to Piero de’ Medici.

However, all this was to have a sensational denouement. In 2008 the cadavers of both Poliziano and Pico della Mirandola were exhumed in order to try and determine the true cause of their deaths. As reported in the Daily Telegraph:

The scientists used biomolecular technology and scanning equipment as well as DNA analysis to find a cause … they concluded that both men had been poisoned with arsenic, after finding a toxic quantity in their bones. High levels of mercury and lead were also found … Silvano Vincenti, head of the national cultural committee that organised the exhumation, said the killers came from Pico’s closest circle … ‘Combining the results of our analysis with historical documents which have recently come to light, it seems Piero [de’ Medici] was the most likely culprit for the assassination order.’²²

 

In the end, Piero de’ Medici had never been given Botticelli’s Calumny of Apelles, and had come to believe the calumnies against Savonarola that were being whispered into his ear. These had finally convinced him that his apparent close friends Poliziano and Pico della Mirandola, who were evidently in such sympathy with the prior of San Marco, were in fact plotting against him and would have to be destroyed.

 

NOTES

1. ‘seigneur de Balsac’: see Commynes, Mémoires (ed. Calmette) Vol. III, p.66

2. ‘began pillaging …’: ibid., p.67

3. ‘it was believed …’: ibid., p.67 n.1

4. ‘others were behaving …’: et seq.: ibid., p.67

5. ‘Black scorch marks …’: Niall Ferguson, The Ascent of Money (London, 2008), p.27

6. ‘the Medici bank brought …’ et seq.: de Roover, Medici Bank, p.370

7. ‘small in stature …’: et seq.: Guicciardini, Opere, Vol. I, p.68

8. ‘At last you have arrived, O King! …’ et seq.: see Commynes, Mémoires (ed. Calmette), Vol. III, p.145; also Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, Ch. 10, opening pages; Guicciardini, History of Florence; Savonarola, Compendium Revelationum et al. The words I have used are a compilation from these sources.

9. ‘the boat of true …’ et seq.: see Martines, Savonarola, pp.55–6, paraphrasing and then citing Savonarola, Prediche sopra Aggeo (ed Firpo), pp.80–2. The reference to ‘Camaldoli’ is on Martines, p.43, from Cerretani.

10. ‘Girolamo Tornabuoni …’: see Landucci, Diario, p.76

11. ‘There was great cause …’: Villari, La Storia … Savonarola, Vol. I, pp.242–3

12. ‘Viva Francia! …’ et seq.: all the main histories of the period describe the French entry into Florence. The best eyewitness reports, which mostly concur, are Cerretani, Landucci and Parenti, who are cited by historians ranging from Villari and Martines to Hibbert and myself (here and in The Medici). For the French point of view, see also John S. C. Bridge, A History of France from the Death of Louis XI, Vol. II, The Reign of Charles VIII, p.149 et seq.

13. ‘My brother …’: Lettres de Charles VIII, ed. P. Pélicier (Paris, 1930), Vol. IV, pp.111–12

14. ‘A gang of …’: see Villari, La Storia … Savonarola, Vol. I, pp.250–1, who has collated various contemporary sources, in particular Parenti and Cerretani

15. ‘only divine providence …’: Piero Parenti, Storie fiorentine, Vol. I, 1476–8, 1492–6 (Florence, 1994), p.142

16. ‘and all the while …’: Landucci, Diario, p.82

17. ‘We will have to sound …’ et seq.: the same applies to this famous incident as to the French entry into Florence. Contemporary sources such as Landucci, Cerretani, Guicciardini et al. allude to the treaty and the circumstances surrounding its signing, differing only in detail. Subsequent histories carry the same story, with much the same words, which have become fixed in legend.

18. ‘It is not me …’: This speech is paraphrased in Landucci, Diario, pp.87–8, and mentioned in several other contemporary accounts, though its original source is Savonarola, Prediche XXVI sopra Ruth e Michea.

19. ‘beneath the pious …’: see Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.42

20. ‘if he had lived …’: cited in Ridolfi, Vita … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.149; see also Pico: His life … (trans. More), p.26

21. ‘the object of as much …’: see Villari, La Storia … Savonarola, Vol. I, p.257, citing Parenti, Storie Fiorentine

22. ‘The scientists used …’ et seq:. Daily Telegraph, 7 February 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] This was the traditional rallying cry of the Medici and their supporters, referring as it did to the palle (red balls) that featured on the Medici shield, the emblem that could be seen on the Palazzo Medici and so many other buildings in the city. According to one tradition, these represented the pills that had appeared on the signboard above the original Medici shop, when, as their name suggested, they had first begun as sellers of medicine in the city some three centuries previously.

 

[2] According to Joseph Calmette, the editor of Commines’ Mémoires, ‘it was believed that the horn of this fabulous beast was capable of detecting the presence of poison’.³ Likewise, its rarity, hardness and phallic symbolism had given rise to the belief that, when ground into a powder, it was a highly efficacious aphrodisiac.

[3] Put at 20,000 ducats by Commines; other sources suggest the sum of 16,000 florins.

[4] At the time, a moderately prosperous merchant in Florence could expect to provide for his entire household, including family, relatives and servants, for the equivalent of around 150 florins a year.

[5] That is, a castrated chicken. Many have characterised this as a feeble joke by the dim-witted Charles VIII, yet under the circumstances it would have appeared to be something of a sharp pun.