The sack was unusual in that clergy were not spared. Alaric and Totila had treated them with respect but now if anything they were treated more cruelly than non-churchmen. The cardinal of Como reported that the soldiers killed monks and priests on the altars of churches and took prisoner or raped many young nuns. One priest was killed because he refused to administer the sacraments to a mule that the Landsknechte had dressed in clerical vestments. The 80-year-old cardinal of Gaeta and Ponzetto, who could hardly walk, was forced to parade around the city in a Landsknechte cap and uniform. A group of Landsknechte put the cardinal of Aracoeli – who was still very much alive – in a coffin and carried him around the city singing funeral dirges, before stopping at a church to give him a funeral speech, in which they ascribed every kind of monstrosity to him.
Not everyone was sorry at the churchmen’s fate. Guicciardini, who, as we saw, was no lover of the Romans, recounted with a certain glee how:
many of these men wore torn and disgraceful habits, others were without shoes. Some in ripped and bloody shirts had cuts and bruises all over their bodies from the indiscriminate whippings and beatings they had received. Some had thick and greasy beards. Some had their faces branded, and some were missing teeth; others were without noses or ears. Some were castrated and so depressed and terrified that they failed to show in any way the vain and effeminate delicacy and lasciviousness that they had put on with such excessive energy for so many years in their earlier, happier days.12
German Landsknechte ridiculing the pope, engraving from Gottfried’s Historical Chronicle, 1619.
Church property fared no better than churchmen. The altar of St Peter’s was piled with the corpses of those who had fled there in hope of finding sanctuary. Even the tomb of Julius II, who had been a firm ally of the Empire, was looted. Rome’s churches were robbed of their silverware, their chalices and vestments. Guicciardini reported that
The sumptuous palaces of the cardinals, the proud palaces of the pope, the holy churches of Peter and Paul, the private chapel of His Holiness, the Sancta Sanctorum, and the other holy places, once full of plenary indulgences and venerable relics, now became the brothels of German and Spanish whores.
and that the Landsknechte
committed shameful acts on the altars in the most sanctified places.13
Churches, including St Peter’s, were used as stables for horses of the imperial cavalry. Relics likewise fared poorly. St Peter’s and St Paul’s heads were flung into the street. The head of John the Baptist was stripped of its silver decoration and thrown to the ground, only to be saved by an old nun. The Veronica cloth that for centuries had been a symbol of Rome, copies of which innumerable pilgrims had taken home as souvenirs, was lost. By one account it was burned, by another it was sold in an inn.
After five days of carnage a new force of marauders appeared: on 10 May, just as he had promised, Cardinal Pompeo Colonna arrived with a further 8,000 troops, who quickly joined in the looting. Colonna settled some private scores with Clement VII for destroying his properties outside Rome, by burning down Clement’s vineyard by Ponte Milvio and also the Medici Villa Madama on Monte Mario. Yet compared to the other Imperialists, Colonna and his army were angels of restraint. Pompeo stopped his troops’ rampage after a short time, while he himself was distraught when he saw what was happening to Rome, his city.
After a few days the soldiers’ focus began to alter, from simple violence and destruction to something more profitable. By all accounts the Spanish were the first to look to self-enrichment, though the Landsknechte – who were described as being less worldly but more violent – soon followed suit. Not that the change brought much of an improvement to the Romans. Having been slaughtered, they now found themselves imprisoned and tortured, as their captors forced them to agree to high ransoms, and to reveal where their valuables were hidden. Guicciardini describes their fate with his usual Schadenfreude:
Many were suspended by their arms for hours at a time; others were led around by ropes tied to their testicles. Many were suspended by one foot above the streets or over water, with the threat that the cord suspending them would be cut. Many were beaten and wounded severely. Many were branded with hot irons in various parts of their bodies. Some endured extreme thirst; others were prevented from sleeping. A very cruel and effective torture was to pull out their back teeth. Some were made to eat their own ears, or nose, or testicles roasted; and others were subjected to bizarre and unheard of torments that affect me too strongly even to think of them, let alone to describe them in detail.14
Buonaparte tells of how some Romans had sticks pushed beneath the nails of their fingers and toes, or had melted lead poured into their throats. Castration appears to have been common and one source claims that numerous testicles could be seen lying in the streets.
Artists and humanists were not exempt. The painters Perino del Vaga and Giulio Clivio were tortured and had all their possessions taken. Gianbattista Rosso lost all his property and was forced to act as a kind of porter for his captors, heaving their loot about. Parmigianino was luckier, though not much. When the imperial army broke into the city he was working on a painting of the Madonna and Child, which so impressed the soldiers who captured him that instead of demanding money they ransomed him for watercolour portraits of themselves. Unfortunately, he was then caught by another less art-conscious group of soldiers who took everything he had.
Parmigianino’s experience was common, and many Romans paid out one extortionate ransom only to find they then had to pay again to another set of captors. A Florentine, Bernardo Bracci, was taken by some cavalrymen to the German Bartolomeo bank (the imperial forces took care not to sack the banks, especially the German banks, so hostages could borrow money for their ransoms), but as he was led across the Ponte Sisto, he was stopped by one of the imperial commanders, the marquis of Motte. On learning that Bracci was going to borrow 5,000 ducats for his ransom, Motte declared, ‘This is a very small ransom. If he won’t pay another 5000 ducats to my account, I order you to throw him into the Tiber immediately.’15 So Bracci doubled his debt.
For some the pain of torture proved too strong to bear. One hostage, Girolamo da Camerino, crept slowly towards the window of his house, where he was being held, and leapt out and killed himself. Another hostage, Giovanni Ansaldi, had agreed to a ransom of 1,000 silver ducats, only to be tortured for a second time because his captors had changed their minds and decided they wanted gold ducats instead. When they were not watching, Ansaldi grabbed a dagger from one of them, killed him and then killed himself.
Even those who assumed they would be left in peace were not safe. The home of the Portuguese ambassador, who was also the king of Portugal’s nephew, in the old Theatre of Marcellus, became filled with fleeing Romans and their valuables. Unfortunately, word then reached the imperial forces and two Spanish captains soon appeared, who offered to fly their flag over the residence and protect it in exchange for a large sum. To the dismay of the Romans hiding inside, all of whom wanted to pay off the Spanish, the ambassador haughtily sent the officers away, telling them that to fly any flag would be a dishonour to his king. The two officers left, but returned soon afterwards with a large force of Spanish and Landsknechte armed with artillery. The ambassador then opened the palace gates and within a short time his residence had been wrecked; all those inside were taken prisoner and he found himself being dragged naked through the streets. The vast sum of half a million ducats was eventually extracted from him and his guests.
Not even pro-imperialists were safe. One of the very first palaces to be sacked was that of Pompeo Colonna, which was invaded after his servants forgot to hang out a banner saying to whom it belonged. Four cardinals who were well-known supporters of Charles V, and who had crowds of pro-Imperialists sheltering in their palaces, avoided the mistake made by the Portuguese ambassador and took in Spanish officers as protection, though it did them little good. As days passed their Spanish guests, observing the wealth of valuables all around them
, demanded huge pay-offs, not from the cardinals themselves but from their refugee guests. Having got their money, the Spanish then informed the cardinals that their comrades the Landsknechte were keen to sack their palaces and that they could only be stopped by a further large payment.
At this point the cardinal of Siena, who had close links with the Landsknechte, decided it was time to make a stand and he announced he was not paying another penny. Within hours his palace had been stripped, his guests were either dead or taken prisoner, and he himself had been beaten up and dragged to the Borgo to raise a 50,000-ducat ransom. The other three pro-Imperialist cardinals crept out from their palaces late in the night and hurried to Pompeo Colonna’s palace. Yet, as Cardinal di Como reported, a group of women with Cardinal della Valle did not get into Colonna’s palace quickly enough and were taken, screaming, crying and begging. Even the marquesa of Mantua, whose son Ferrante was a commander in the imperial army, found herself endangered. Together with some 2,000 Romans who were crowded into her palace, she paid out 52,000 ducats to the Spanish, only to be threatened by the Landsknechte. Twice her son Ferrante persuaded them to leave her in peace but she had no confidence in their promises and eventually fled with her guests to Ostia. The moment she left, her palace was sacked.
The most distressing details of what happened in 1527 often do not come from written accounts but, a little surprisingly, from legal documents. Roman notary records show how, as well as enduring attacks, robbery, rape and torture, Romans were also struck by the plague, which, in the chaos of the sack, soon grew into a full epidemic. Even before the sack began, one notary, Pietro Paolo Amodeus, lost eight children to the disease. Another document tells of how a Paduan priest, Paolo de Caligariis, came to take possession of his new church, Santa Cecilia de Turre in Campo, only to find that he could not get upstairs as the upper level was filled with the corpses of plague victims.
Notary documents also show how ordinary Romans tried to preserve some sense of normality in the horror, by having legal contracts carefully drawn up between themselves and their tormentors, as receipts for ransoms paid. Most were with Spanish soldiers, as it seems the Landsknechte were unwilling to be troubled with paperwork. Some Romans also drew up legal protests. One couple made a complaint against the pro-empire cardinal, Enckenvoirt, and also to an Imperialist captain, Aldone. The couple had placed their three children in Enckenvoirt’s palace for safety but they had then been taken prisoner by Captain Aldone, along with all the others sheltering in the palace, despite the fact that under imperial army rules no one under the age of fourteen was to be taken. Though the parents paid ransom money, Enckenvoirt still handed the three children over to Aldone. Whether the parents ever retrieved their children is unknown.
High above the nightmare in the Castel Sant’Angelo, Pope Clement, surveying a disaster that he was largely responsible for, decided to grow a beard as a sign of mourning for Rome. Other churchmen followed his example and, before long, beards would become a new fashion across Italy. As time passed what remained of Clement’s hopes fell away. The League army that he had believed would come to the rescue in three days never appeared. Its commander, the duke of Urbino, who, as has been seen, had little love for the Medici, was enjoying a little revenge. Instead of hurrying to Rome he took a detour to Perugia, where he set about removing the city’s ruler, Gentile Baglione: a papal appointee who Urbino considered an enemy of his own small state. Afterwards, Urbino marched his army towards Rome, only to come up with a series of reasons why he should not attack and snatch Clement to safety, including the claim that he required a whole army of Swiss troops. After 27 May he no longer needed excuses as the Spanish had surrounded the castello with siege works. There was no hope of reaching Clement.
Landsknechte mercenaries besieging Castel Sant’Angelo, sixteenth-century engraving.
Bad news filtered into the castello from the outside world. The papal state was haemorrhaging territory. As well as Perugia, papal authority had been lost in Rimini, the duke of Ferrara had taken Modena and Clement’s supposed ally, Venice, had occupied Ravenna and Cervia. The worst news, though, came not from papal territory but Tuscany. When they heard of Rome’s fall the Florentines had risen up against the Medici, forcing out Clement’s two illegitimate nephews, Alessandro and Ippolito. Clement’s eight-year-old niece, Catherine, was held in the city as a hostage. The Medici had lost their heartland.
Yet despite all the discouraging news life could have been worse for the thousand-odd soldiers, cardinals, prelates, ambassadors, merchants, bankers, wives, children and courtesans who were hiding out in the Castel Sant’Angelo. When imperial troops first burst into the Borgo there had been a rush to seize provisions from nearby shops and, as the archbishop of Zara recounted, the effort had paid off:
We had grain and wine to last a month, as well as some salted meat and cheeses, around 40 bullocks had been brought in, which we got through in less than eight days, and then we had the salted meat and a little ham and cheese and some rice, and we had good bread and excellent wine, all of it Greek.
The archbishop appears to have quite enjoyed himself:
I was always well in myself and I was neither fearful nor exhausted, nor had nightmares. Thanks be to God! Every day we said litanies and day and night we read the psalms, leaving none out. And the pope often celebrated mass and gave a generous indulgence, a copy of which I brought here … And in truth, we were so many in the castle that it truly seemed like there was religion with us, and many cardinals and prelates celebrated.16
The one who was enjoying himself most of all, naturally, was Benvenuto Cellini, who confessed that, ‘My drawing, my wonderful studies and my lovely music were all forgotten in the music of the guns, and if I told all the great things I did in that cruel inferno, I would astonish the world.’17 Cellini described how he took a shot at a Spanish officer who, thanks to the sword he was wearing across his front, was instantly sliced in two. The pope was so impressed that he personally gave Cellini his blessing and forgave him all the killings that he had committed or might commit in the future in the name of the Church. Cellini – in one of the few incidents he describes that actually rings true – was then ordered by the pope to remove precious stones from his golden tiaras and other treasures, so they could be sewn into the linings of his clothes. Cellini built an improvised oven to melt down the remaining gold. He described how, during a break from his work, he took a shot at a man riding on a mule below the castello, and ‘hit him with one of the projectiles I was using, right in the face. The rest of the shot struck his mule and the animal fell down dead … The man I had hit was the Prince of Orange.’18 Cellini, at least by his account, had bagged his second imperial commander of the conflict.
The Prince of Orange really was hit by a shot from the castello, though he suffered only a grazed cheek. It was as well he survived, as he was responsible for saving a large part of the Vatican library, which he did by commandeering it as his wardrobe. Nor was he the only imperial commander who tried to restrain the destructive efforts of his troops. Legal documents also show there were instances of individual kindness by soldiers. Two Spanish officers gave the nuns of Campitelli 30 ducats as a dowry for an eleven-year-old orphan, and after the sack a Spanish officer with a bad conscience returned several valuables he had taken to the canons of St Peter’s, for the salvation of his soul. But such acts seem to have been sadly rare.
Cellini’s enjoyment of the music of the guns could not go on indefinitely. With food running short and plague breaking out in the castello, the holdouts knew they had to strike a deal. So did the imperial commanders, who wanted to end matters before their army dissolved into chaos. Negotiations between the parties stalled. The Spanish captains insisted Clement must leave Rome and become their prisoner in the Spanish-ruled town of Gaeta down the coast. Clement prevaricated with cunning and a great deal of prayer. The deadlock was eventually resolved, rather unexpectedly, by Pompeo Colonna. On 1 June Clement invited him for an audience. The occasion be
came an emotional one for both men, who broke into tears at what had happened to Rome, and within a week an agreement was reached. Clement avoided being taken to Spanish territory but agreed to provide, in stages, 400,000 ducats as ransom for himself and everyone else in the castello. As collateral he handed over seven of his closest associates, none of whom, understandably enough, was very keen to go. On 7 June the Castel Sant’Angelo’s garrison marched out through the gate, flags flying, accompanied by almost all of the churchmen, artists, bankers, wives, children and courtesans who had been sheltering there. Clement remained with a handful of colleagues, guarded by imperial troops.
It seemed that, after a long and terrible month, the dreadful business was finally over. Unfortunately, Clement did not have anything like 400,000 ducats to give, while the imperial soldiers, who by now were regularly mutinying and were all but ungovernable, would not leave until they had been paid. It was a new impasse. The imperial commanders, who were as eager to be gone as Clement was for them to go, appealed to Charles V for money but the emperor felt his army should be able to pay for itself and he sent a mere 100,000 ducats, not in gold but in bills of exchange.
On 10 July, as plague raged through the city and food became scarce, the imperial army, aside from a couple of thousand left to guard the pope, marched off to pillage the nearby countryside, where they caused such devastation that it remained an unproductive wasteland for years to come. In September, the Landsknechte who had been left in Rome built a gibbet and were dissuaded with difficulty from hanging the seven hostages Clement had handed over as collateral. In early October their comrades returned from the countryside to their quarters in Rome, again mutinying and demanding their pay, which their commanders did not have and the pope could not give. The imperial army was slowly wasting away and deaths and desertions had already cut its numbers by almost half. As the weather grew colder its remaining soldiers began to destroy the city in a new way, ripping out doors, door frames, panels and the timbers of houses to burn as firewood.
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