Giovanni was not the only one to lose from Piero’s decision. During Lorenzo’s reign, Piero di Gino Capponi had been appointed ambassador to the French court and had become particularly close to the young Charles VIII, sympathising with the gauche, gnomic, splay-footed child, who was widely derided during his minority, when France had been ruled by the regency of his powerful and intelligent older sister Anne of France.fn1 Charles VIII, for his part, had come to regard ambassador Capponi with deep affection; consequently, Piero’s breaking of the Florentine alliance with France was regarded by the touchy French king as an act of deep personal betrayal.
To compromise his brother and Capponi in this way suggests that Piero had taken this foreign-policy decision without even a semblance of democratic consultation. The largely Medici-appointed administration was hardly popular during this period, yet significantly the people of Florence regarded the gonfaloniere and the Signoria as blameless for the break with France. As a result, not only were there grumblings amongst the people, but many amongst the leading families – the Capponi in particular – now began turning against Piero, who struck them as arrogant and incompetent. Already he was coming to be regarded by his subjects as an unworthy successor to ‘il Magnifico’, earning for himself the reputation that led his enemies to refer to him as ‘Piero il Fatuo’, Piero the Fatuous. Others would refer to him less harshly as ‘Piero il Sfortunato’, Piero the Unfortunate, which perhaps does more justice to him in the impossible situation that he now faced – forced to choose between France and untrustworthy Italian alliances. The situation in which Florence found itself, combined with the mortal peril facing Italy, would probably have defeated even the most able of leaders.
Even so, many at the time could not help but compare the Florentine leader’s qualities with those of his seemingly more gifted cousin, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici. It was evident that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco was the one possessed of the older Medici values, the astute commercial and political wisdom that had been exhibited so admirably by his great-uncle Cosimo de’ Medici. In a recognisably similar fashion, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco had accumulated a fortune in various commercial ventures, and when he had been voted onto various government committees he had proved himself an able administrator. Like Cosimo de’ Medici he conducted himself modestly, making him popular amongst the leading familes.
As informed opinion began to turn against Piero de’ Medici, certain obvious ideas presented themselves. Yet each had their flaws. For instance, any attempt to overthrow Piero at such a time would have provoked far too great an upheaval, and would certainly have weakened Florence’s position in Italy. On the other hand, if Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco were to be elected gonfaloniere, and thus take over as official head of state, this would prove equally ineffective, as the gonfaloniere only held office for two months. Still, there was no denying that many now looked upon Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco as Piero’s natural successor.
Both men were aware of this growing groundswell of public opinion. Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco did his best to play it down: he genuinely had no wish to take over the reins of power. Piero de’ Medici, on the other hand, felt that he was being increasingly undermined by his older and more wealthy cousin. This only fuelled his feelings of uncertainty, which led to an increasing high-handedness in his behaviour.
Things came to a head between the two cousins during the season of spring balls that traditionally followed Easter (which in 1494 fell on 30 March). At one particular ball, Piero de’ Medici and Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s younger brother Giovanni found themselves rivals for the attentions of an attractive young woman with whom they had both fallen in love. When Giovanni di Pierfrancesco wished to dance with her, Piero became incensed and publicly slapped his cousin in the face. The traditional response to such an insult would have been a challenge to a duel, but no such option was open to Giovanni as Piero was ruler of the city. Giovanni was thus forced to accept this public insult and withdraw in disgrace. The split in the Medici family was now a matter of gossip throughout the whole city, and Piero realised that he should, like his father, take immediate and decisive action. Instead, mindful of public opinion being against him, he dithered for some days, during which he was informed that Giovanni di Pierfrancesco, along with his brother Lorenzo, was strongly in favour of abandoning the alliance with Naples and instead forming an alliance with Charles VIII. This was certainly true, and Piero de’ Medici was probably well aware of it already. However, worse was to come. Charles VIII had previously despatched his close adviser Philippe de Commines as an envoy into Italy to seek out the lie of the land: who was liable to support his invasion, and who would oppose it? Piero had informed Commines that Florence would not grant the French army safe passage across Florentine territory on its way to Naples; but he now learned that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco had been in contact with Commines. He had sent word through Commines to Charles VIII, claiming that although Piero de’ Medici had declared for Naples, promising to defend Florentine territory against the incursion of any French army, an overwhelming majority of the citizens of Florence felt otherwise, and the French army would thus be able to cross Florentine territory with impunity. This assessment of the situation was undoubtedly accurate; but it was also claimed that Lorenzo and Giovanni di Pierfrancesco had written to Charles VIII promising that they would give financial assistance to him and his army in their passage across Tuscany. If true, this was treason, meriting the harshest punishment. In fact, we learn from the diarist Landucci that on 26 April:11
Lorenzo and Giovanni, sons of Piero Francesco de’ Medici, were locked up in the Palagiofn2; and it was said that some wanted them to be executed, but no one could say why. On the 29th they were let out; and on the 14th May they went away, being restricted within certain boundaries.
The time-lapses between the dates, as well as the decision not to go ahead with the death-penalty, indicate some indecision on Piero’s behalf, as well as divisions amongst the ruling Signoria. Indeed, on 4 May, in the very midst of these doubtless acrimonious discussions, a vital event took place. As confirmed by Guicciardini and Landucci, a delegation of four French ambassadors travelled through Florence on their way to Rome. Whilst in the city they passed on the news that their king was in the midst of preparations for an invasion of Italy. He requested the support of Florence, or at least safe conduct for his army as it passed across Florentine territory. News soon leaked out that Piero had refused this request, despite the attempts of wise and important citizens to dissuade him from this course.12
It was just days after this that Lorenzo and Giovanni di Pierfrancesco both ‘went away, being restricted within certain boundaries’. In effect, this was not quite so lenient as it might sound: both were rearrested, formally banished from the city (thus being deprived of all their civil rights), and escorted under armed guard to their separate villas, where they were held under strict house-arrest – Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco at Cafaggiolo across the mountains in the Mugello valley, and Giovanni at Castello five miles north of the city.
As the summer months passed, the whole of Italy waited in trepidation – nowhere more so than Florence. The demise of King Ferrante had finally confirmed Savonarola’s prophecy concerning the death of the ‘three tyrants’. And it looked as if another of his prophecies was on the point of being fulfilled, though not quite in the way Savonarola had foreseen. The prospect of Italy being overrun by the vast and ruthless French army confirmed in the minds of all that this was Savonarola’s prophecy concerning the arrival of a new Cyrus from across the mountains. It seemed that the King of France, rather than the Ottoman sultan, was to be the ‘scourge of God’.
At the end of August 1494, Charles VIII marched south into the French foothills of the Alps, crossing the ancient Col de Montgenèvre, which rises to 6,000 feet. By the first days of September he was into Italian territory twenty miles east of Turin. His army was reported to consist of more than 40,000 men: 24,000 cavalry and 20,000 infantry, accompanied by a motley host of camp follo
wers consisting of everything from chefs and astrologers to washerwomen and prostitutes.fn3 The soldiers themselves were for the most part tough regular servicemen schooled in the northern-European manner of warfare – where, unlike the encounters between armies in Italy, battles were fought in brutal earnest and people actually got killed. In Italy, by contrast, battles remained largely tactical exercises practised by opposing mercenary armies led by hired condottiere, where the army that had been manoeuvred into a ‘losing’ position was usually permitted to flee the field with the minimum of casualties (which frequently resulted from the disorderly haste in which this latter operation was conducted). Such methods enabled the defeated soldiers to continue practising their mercenary trade at a later date, when they might well be hired to fight on the same side as their previous enemies. All this only encouraged wars between Italian states to become self-perpetuating, and played its part in contributing to Italy’s constantly divided state during these years.
A disciplined army equipped with superior weaponry such as that of Charles VIII had not crossed the Alps into Italy for more than 700 years, when Hannibal had sought to destroy the mighty Roman Empire. But instead of Hannibal’s terrifying elephants, Charles VIII’s army was bringing with it the latest artillery, which was not only mobile but so powerful that it was capable of destroying the walls of any city or fortress that stood in its path. The age of medieval conflict, involving lines of archers and long sieges, was now giving way to an entirely new form of warfare.
At the same time as Charles VIII’s army was crossing the Alps, Landucci heard in Florence, ‘the fleet of the King of France arrived at Genoa, and there was much talk of a battle’.13 Alfonso II had been prepared for this and had despatched his fleet north from Naples. As the latest despatches began reaching Florence, Landucci recorded in his diary what news passed from mouth to mouth amongst the increasingly anxious citizenry:
11 September. The fleet of the King of Naples was defeated at Rapallo by the combined forces of the King of France and the Genoese. This was not a naval battle, for the Neapolitan fleet rashly landed three thousand soldiers with the aim of taking Rapallo. But they were eventually cut off by the Genoese and French, and were unable to return to their ships. They fled towards the mountains and were all killed or taken prisoner; while the fleet of the King of Naples was disarmed and destroyed.
Ten days later, further news and muddled rumours had covered the 100 or so miles to Florence, increasing the anxiety of its citizens:
21 September. News reached us that the King of France had entered Genoa, and that the Genoese were preparing to receive him with great honour. They have decorated the whole city, and even gone so far as to take down its gates and lay them on the ground, to show how welcome the king is, and to ensure his safety. But it turned out not to be true that the king was going to Genoa, even though its citizens had expected him and had made so many preparations. He was said to have felt he could not trust the Genoese.
If Charles VIII felt distrustful of such allies, how would he feel towards Florence, which had declared against him? In fact, Charles VIII had made no attempt to divert to Genoa. Summer was already giving way to autumn, and he had no time to lose before winter hampered, or perhaps even halted, his march on Naples. On 9 September he had been welcomed at Asti, the gateway to Milanese territory, by Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza, the very man who had invited him into the country, who would be castigated by Machiavelli as ‘the prime mover of Italy’s distress’.14 Now began the period of which Machiavelli would later lament:
Italy faced hard times …15
beneath stars hostile to her good.
So many mountain passes,
and so many marshes,
filled with blood and dead men …
[When] Italy in turmoil opened her gates
to the Gauls [the French]
and the barbarians rushed in …
So all Tuscany was in confusion.
fn1 Louis XI had ensured that his eldest daughter Anne of France became regent after his death, bestowing upon her what he regarded as the highest compliment by describing her as ‘the least deranged woman in France’.10
fn2 Almost certainly the Palazzo del Bargello, residence of the Podestà (Chief Magistrate). This fortified building, just around the corner from the Palazzo della Signoria, housed the city’s courts and became notorious as the city’s prison, where torture became a routine method of punishment; executions took place in the inner yard.
fn3 Figures vary concerning the precise number of soldiers in this army, but there can be little doubt that as a mobile mass of humanity, including camp followers, it almost certainly exceeded 50,000.
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, ‘Every
one 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.
Death in Florence: the Medici, Savonarola and the Battle for the Soul of the Renaissance City Page 22
