Perched on a low hill well out of harm’s way, but close enough to observe what was going on, the two Florentine spies were making themselves comfortable. They were supplied with more than enough food to last the day and copious quantities of wine. Enjoying the panorama that was spread out before them, they discussed, at their leisure, the movement of the troops. The red-and-yellow Swiss and the powder-blue Gascons seemed to be taking up forward positions. The Scotch and English bowmen were also in the vanguard.
Amid much fanfare, a line of small guns was trundled out in front of the troops and began moving into position. So light was the artillery that each cannon had been mounted on a movable carriage that required only one horse to be drawn into position. Niccolo surmised that those carriages, with their spoked, iron-rimmed wheels, were the result of the night’s construction activity.
“Would you look at that,” he said to Callimaco. “Oh, the French are too much, and their king is utterly mad! I’ve seen fireworks displays in Florence that had more firepower than those toy guns. I’ve seen muskets and arquebuses with bigger bores!”
Callimaco agreed, observing that the stone balls fired from these weapons could scarcely be larger than his fist or the French king’s tiny, brainless, pointed head. Like everyone else, however, they had underestimated the son of the Spider. He was mad, certainly, but madmen, in the thoroughness with which they pursue their obsessions, can be very, very dangerous.
When the horses were unhitched, two men sufficed to maneuver the guns into their firing positions. Each cannon, with carriage, was only ten or twelve feet long. The barrel itself was the height of a man. In all, only ten guns were arrayed against the fortress of Mordano that day, each manned by a team of four or five bombardiers. When they stood at the ready, the volume of trumpets and drums increased to a deafening roar, until King Charles appeared on horseback. With a solemn gesture and surprising dignity, he raised his sword high in the air and brought it down smartly to signal the beginning of the assault. The music stopped abruptly.
Niccolo and Callimaco watched as the first fuse was lit. They were far enough away that they saw the puff of smoke a split second before the sound reached them. The sharp crack of the explosion was followed by a dull thud as the shot fell short of the walls, and the ball ploughed harmlessly into the mud.
One of the gunners immediately leapt to the spent gun and busied himself with something Niccolo could not make out. He was using a rule and weighted plumb lines to sight down the muzzle of the gun. A series of pins in the carriage mechanism allowed him to change the angle of fire effortlessly and almost instantaneously. The next shot would not fall short.
As the process of reloading began, a second gun fired with similar results. Another gnomelike bombadier was on it, making his adjustments, correcting the trajectory, bearing down on the target. And so in turn, all ten guns test-fired. Niccolo and Callimaco were amused. They greeted the spectacle with derision—the puffs of smoke, the far-off popping noises, the little tufts of dirt kicked up by the misdirected shots.
Caterina Sforza appeared on the ramparts of the fortress, waving her sword and taunting the enemy as they reloaded. Ignoring her insinuations, the bombardiers conferred briefly among themselves and then returned grimly to work at their individual guns. Caterina called up a squadron of archers and ordered them to commence firing on the gunners. Before they had time to reload, she was confident her men could pick off a good number of them.
But her confidence was misplaced. Even as she was rallying the archers, one of the guns fired. There was the puff of smoke, the explosion, and then the ball hit—not with the soft crack of stone ball disintegrating against stone wall, but with a hard metallic sound, a ping. A large piece of the defending stone wall fell away.
Before anyone had time to understand what had happened, there was another report, then another, and another after that. The cannons’ aim was deadly accurate. Each one drove its ball into the same spot on the wall, and chunk after chunk of stone leapt out with the frightening impact of each new blow.
The walls trembled under the percussive blows, and Caterina was forced to retreat inside and regroup. The unrelenting volley continued as the fiendish bombardiers, jumping like mad devils around their guns, reloading and sighting and firing, hurled their diabolical missiles of destruction against the rapidly disintegrating wall.
The rest of the French army, including the king, looked on with calm detachment, as though they were viewing a spectacle about whose ending there was no doubt whatsoever. They waited. There was only inevitability. For his part, Niccolo understood some but not all of what was going on. He knew that, somehow, the French had accelerated the reloading process. He had heard stories of sieges where the defending forces came out from behind their walls to slaughter undefended gun crews after they had loosed a volley and before they had time to reload. He had even heard of cases in which so much time was necessary to reload that masons and carpenters could actually repair the damage done to the walls between shots.
Now, reloading was being accomplished in minutes. The rapidity with which ball after implacable ball was hurled against the defender’s stronghold was astounding. And even more astounding was the damage done by each and every ball. Again, Niccolo correctly guessed that these were not ordinary gunstones being fired, but iron balls. The ringing sound they made on impact and the appalling rate at which the stone was being blown away was proof enough of that.
What he did not know, but what professionals would be able to tease out of his account later, was that Charles was using a new type of gunpowder, more powerful by a magnitude of ten than what was then common in Italy. And the guns that contained and directed that powerful explosive blast, and yet were so light and manageable, were cast not of iron, but solid bronze.
What could not be deduced from observation, but what would make its way down to Italian ears eventually through the agency of spies and informers, was that Charles had set up a school for gunners, and lavished upon it all the money and attention of a man possessed. In addition to the care and training of his gunners, he had encouraged his engineers and his founders to experiment and innovate. All of these technicians he had taken under his wing, personally monitoring their progress. Now his efforts were being rewarded.
His bombardiers were dancing around their diabolical machines, conjuring up the wind that blows from the devil’s ass, harnessing it and directing it in violent blasts of evil and destruction with each round fired. Their hands were black with powder, their faces streaked with grime and sweat and smoke. Not a few were suffering severe burns, yet they went about their mad task with furious energy, like small, deformed Vulcans, hopping and leaping in exaltation at the forge. The son of the Spider had created a living, breathing, bellowing monster, a many-headed, fire-breathing monster of war.
From Niccolo’s vantage point, the unrestrained exertions of the bombardiers were not apparent. What he saw in his detachment was the methodical, scientific, almost-surgical dissection of the fortress wall. It seemed that warfare had been sanitized and reduced to geometry, that technical innovation had eliminated the blood and sweat and valor of combat.
In a little over an hour and a half, the wall had been breached. What used to take days, even weeks, to accomplish, had become scarcely a morning’s work. The guns were silent. Niccolo expected that, at this point, Charles, having demonstrated his clear superiority, would send emissaries to Caterina to conclude a truce. Instead, harsh martial music blared and troops began to move. The Scottish bowmen advanced on both flanks to provide cover for the infantry. To the thrill of drums and trumpets, walls of pikemen, lances lowered, marched into the opening created by the bombardiers. Solid blue walls of Gascons first, then red-and-gold walls of Swiss. They had no trouble negotiating the moat, since the systematically shattered wall had fallen piece by piece into it, filling it up and creating a bridge. Only a few hundred men were needed to subdue the garrison, although Charles was prepared to send thirty thousand men through that n
arrow breach to make his point.
Again, to Niccolo, the movement of the troops seemed like another exercise in geometry, like boldly colored blocks of men being moved around on a chessboard. From his perch he could not divine the true horror of it all. He could not hear the strangled screams of the dying. He had no idea what a four-pronged war-fork could do with its four sharp tines barbed like giant fishhooks. Plunged into soft flesh, wrenched and twisted and withdrawn, it tore a man to pieces, tore the heart from his chest and the guts from his belly. Over and over, the war forks rose and fell, hundreds of times within those walls, and in their wake, the lifeless, blood-soaked bodies of the vanquished were thrown into piles like refuse and garbage. The French troops had not entered the fortress to demand surrender and secure advantageous terms. They were under orders to kill everyone in the garrison.
Not three hours after it began, the Battle of Mordano was history. The defenders were slaughtered, what little they had of value was removed from their persons, and their houses and the fortress were set afire. The engineers and bombardiers were called in to render one last service. Charges were planted under what remained of the massive stone walls, and they were blown to pieces. Charles VIII could now proceed across the broad plain of Mordano. Nothing stood in his way.
Notwithstanding the distance that separated them from the carnage, Niccolo and Callimaco sensed that the gay carnival afternoon had taken a sinister turn. It was becoming clear that the victory of the French was to be total and without mercy, a ruthless, uncivilized act of barbarism. Wanting to believe otherwise, however, they hurried down from their lofty lookout point to get a better idea of what was happening. They arrived in time to see the blood-spattered victors straggling back into camp. The parti-colored uniforms did not seem so grand then. Thick smoke filled the air, the billowing black smoke that rises from the sacrificial altar, heavy with the smell of burning flesh.
Numbed by the terrible finality of it all, the two young Florentines watched as the screaming wounded were dragged and carried past them. Suddenly Niccolo came to his senses, the strident call of duty welling up inside him. In a panic, he shook his companion, “We have to get back,” he said. “Nobody ever expected anything like this. We have to get back and warn them what they’re up against.”
Callimaco, mesmerized by the grim scene before them, was scarcely aware of his friend’s entreaties. It was Niccolo’s insistent tugging on his sleeve that brought him out of his dazed incomprehension. “You go, Niccolo,” he said in a weak voice. “My place is here—among the dying.” Without even taking his leave, the young physician trudged off to where his duty directed him, to that part of the field where the wounded were being laid out in orderly, geometrical fashion, row upon neat row of groaning men—the cut and the sliced, the hammered and pole-axed, the eviscerated, dismembered, pricked, stabbed, and torn open, heroes and cowards indistinguishable from one another, the victims of one man’s dreams of glory.
Niccolo hastened to put some distance between himself and the gory, hellish unreality of the aftermath of battle. Nauseating sensations clogged his senses as he stumbled and choked his way through the heart-rending sounds, the revolting sights and smells. The last thing he saw was the badly wounded body of Caterina Sforza, defiant Mistress of Forli. She was being carried unconscious into the French camp. There was blood in her long blond hair. Her bare white arm had slipped out of the litter and was dangling loose at her side. Her broken sword trailed along on the ground behind her, lashed to her wrist.
Niccolo rode all night to reach Florence. He rode with demons buzzing at his heels and in his head. It rained steadily along the route, so that he was sopping wet and mud-spattered when he dismounted in the courtyard of Piero Capponi’s house. He gave his name and was shown inside. Although it was just after dawn, the house was full of people, for the most part important people—wealthy merchants and government officials. Capponi was at the center of an attempt to orchestrate the anti-Medicean sentiment that was by now sweeping the city. His problem, however, was not only to oust the Medici, but to do so without a bloody popular uprising. His chances for success were not viewed as good.
Niccolo in his wet riding clothes cut quite a figure among the well-bred, well-dressed, whispering citizens, whose heads turned and whose eyebrows rose as he was whisked past them. He knew they were staring. His heavy boots, his determined stride, and his mud-caked legs marked him as a person on an errand of some importance. Ushered into Capponi’s study, Niccolo found the little man dozing at his writing table, pen still in hand. The normally impeccable Capponi looked disheveled, his thin, grey hair uncombed, his bangs plastered to his ample forehead. It was obvious that he had not slept that night, but when Niccolo made a coughing sound to attract his attention, he was instantly alert, instantly bright-eyed. “Well, young man, you have a report to make?”
Niccolo, who had spent most of the long night’s ride going over what he had seen and practicing how best to communicate it, delivered a succinct account of the battle. It made a visible impression on Capponi. The blood seemed to drain out of his jovial face, leaving only the pale furrows of fatigue and age and worry. So absorbed was he in his spy’s report that he did not even think to invite him to remove his cloak or to take a seat. A puddle of dirty water was forming at Niccolo’s feet.
Capponi considered this new information thoughtfully. His bony hand played nervously over his unshaven jaw and chin. “What you’re telling me, then,” he concluded, “is that Charles is perfectly capable, from a technical point of view at least, is perfectly capable of destroying this city.”
“Or any other city in the world,” observed Niccolo. “Why? Were you planning a defense, a military solution?”
“Yes and no,” said Capponi. “That is, we were planning one, but in a wretched and half-hearted way. You see, I can’t get anyone to agree on anything here or to take any decisive action. The city is in utter chaos. We’ve managed to bring soldiers in, five or six thousand from the surrounding towns and our allies in Tuscany. But it’s not nearly enough if Charles has upwards of thirty thousand.” The old man sighed in frustration, then went on.
“We’ve managed to bring in a good quantity of weapons, with the idea of arming the people, but popular sentiment is so volatile right now that we don’t dare distribute them. The people are on the verge of a bloody revolution—and half of them want to throw open the gates and welcome Charles as a savior! If weapons came into their hands, there’s no telling whom they’d use them on.”
“What about Piero?” asked Niccolo.
“Ah, the latest and least capable of the Medici! Piero is a lost cause. He’s waffling again. First he supported Naples, now he’s declared neutrality.”
“Does he have any support?”
“Only among some of the most highly paid bodyguards in Europe. Everyone else has deserted him. So what we’re left with is a city with no leader, half an army, and a brewing popular revolt. The largest and most lethal army ever assembled is less than two days’ march from here, and now you tell me that even our walls won’t stand up for us,” Capponi sounded a note of hopelessness.
He coughed curtly, “So it would appear that the only prudent course of action lies in concluding some sort of mutually advantageous arrangement, and that for us, among ourselves, it would be necessary to agree on some form or other of accommodation.” Piero Capponi spoke with the tact and circumspection of the lifelong diplomat that he was.
“You mean capitulation—or surrender?” said Niccolo bluntly.
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it,” admitted the wily diplomat, appraising the young man who stood before him. “I don’t suppose you have any better ideas?”
“Maybe,” said Niccolo. The words came in a rush as he described the astrologers and self-proclaimed prophets with whom Charles surrounded himself. “And of all these fortune tellers and holy men,” he said breathlessly, “there’s one whom he honors and reveres above all others. In fact, I think he might even be afr
aid of him.”
“Which one,” asked Capponi, losing interest but feigning it nonetheless, “the one from Naples?”
“No,” said Niccolo, “The one from Florence, Savonarola.”
Capponi jumped in his chair. “What!” He saw what Niccolo was getting at. They had a secret weapon—if they could manage to wield it.
The two—the grizzled ambassador and the bright young man—talked rapidly for over an hour, and from their discussion the outlines of a plan arose. It would be tricky and dangerous. The risks would be substantial and the price of failure unthinkable. To Capponi would fall the greater share of the plan’s execution, but Niccolo would be entrusted with the single most delicate phase of the entire operation—securing the cooperation of the fiery preacher, Girolamo Savonarola.
Capponi sat back with a look of satisfaction on his face. Renewed vigor seemed to flow into his tired body. For the first time, he suddenly noticed that his spy and coconspirator was soaking wet. “Jesus Christ, Machiavelli, go downstairs and dry off by the fire before you catch your death. And get something to eat! And send Valori and the others in on your way out. Now get out of here, there’s work to be done!”
“One more thing,” said Niccolo before leaving. “Charles is grossly lecherous. He demands a different woman every night, an Italian woman. You might think about that. You might be able to use it.”
Then, trailing water on the marble behind him with every step, he made his way to the door and out.
In the days that followed, Niccolo met several times with the friar to sound him out. He realized he could not ask him, as one might ask a politician, to go to Charles and lie outright. Nor could he make “suggestions” that a more ambitious man would eagerly seize upon. Duping him was out of the question. What then? Niccolo felt certain that Savonarola was incapable of treachery and that personal ambition was alien to him. Of all the things the prophet might or might not do for or to Florence, he would never hand her over to her enemies. He would never betray her.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 25
