11
IN 1493 THE POLITICAL situation in Italy took a sudden and dramatic turn for the worse. The balance of power had still survived, somewhat precariously since the death of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Yet it was now to be upset by the overweening and wholly misguided ambitions of Ludovico ‘il Moro’ Sforza of Milan. Ludovico was not in fact the rightful Duke of Milan, but was only acting as de facto ruler for his nephew, the young Gian Galeazzo Sforza, who had succeeded his assassinated father at the age of eight. In 1488, at the age of nineteen, Gian Galeazzo had married his cousin Isabella of Naples, the granddaughter of King Ferrante. However, before Gian Galeazzo came of age it became apparent that his uncle Ludovico had no intention of surrendering his power to his nephew, whom he regarded as a weak and simple young man. Instead, when Gian Galeazzo became twenty-one, Ludovico took the novel step of ordering the Milanese mint to begin issuing double-headed currency – with his head on one side, and Gian Galeazzo’s on the other. At the same time, he covertly confined Gian Galeazzo and his wife Isabella to their estates at Pavia, just over twenty miles south of Milan in the Po valley. Gian Galeazzo was little concerned by this move, being more interested in hunting and feasting. Isabella, on the other hand, was not prepared to settle for such belittling treatment and turned to her father, the heir to the throne of Naples, to persuade King Ferrante to order the instatement of her husband as the rightful duke. So unconcerned was Gian Galeazzo with taking over his duties as ruler of Milan that he even informed his uncle of his wife’s scheming, convincing Ludovico that when Isabella’s father Alfonso ascended to the throne of Naples on the death of the aged and ailing King Ferrante, he intended to assert Gian Galeazzo’s claim to power. Should Alfonso act upon this threat, Ludovico realised that he was in a vulnerable position. Despite the prevailing uneasy peace amongst the major regional powers, Venice remained Milan’s traditional enemy, Florence was simply too weak to come to his assistance and, despite his alliance with Alexander VI, he rightly felt that he could not trust the pope.
In order to counter this threat, Ludovico Sforza then made what he considered to be a diplomatic masterstroke. In 1493, in a wholly unexpected move, he sought help from outside Italy, appealing for support to Charles VIII, the new young King of France, at the time the most powerful nation in Europe. In return for such support, Ludovico Sforza promised that he would support Charles VIII if he chose to enforce his claim to the kingdom of Naples, to which he had a somewhat obscure entitlement by way of his paternal grandmother. This certainly had the effect of cowing Isabella, and Ludovico now saw himself as the heir to Lorenzo the Magnificent as the arbiter of the Italian political scene. He even ‘boasted that the Pope was his chaplain, the Signoria of Venice was his chamberlain, and the King of France his courier’.3
In a moral parable that Savonarola would recognise, the words of the Old Testament prophet Hosea rang down through the centuries, once again finding their fulfilment: ‘For they sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.’4 What Ludovico Sforza had not realised was that Charles VIII had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Long before ascending to the throne he had dreamed of invading Italy and proving his knightly valour in emulation of the legendary tales to which he had listened so avidly during his childhood.
In reality, the education of Charles VIII had consisted of little else but listening to tales of chivalry. He could not have read them himself, for he could neither read nor write throughout his childhood, and even when he was twenty-one and assumed full royal powers he remained barely literate. Charles VIII had been an odd child, and had grown into an even odder man – both mentally and physically. His body was short and hunched, while he walked with a limp that was accentuated by his oversized feet, both of which were said to have six toes, suggesting the possibility that at least his physical defects were the result of inbreeding amongst the French royal families. Nor did his behaviour indicate normality: his apparent naivety was accentuated by the fact that his mouth constantly gaped open between his fleshy lips, and his habit of muttering to himself made many feel uneasy in his presence. His prodigious sexual appetite was accompanied by an overweening ambition that bordered on megalomania. This was indulged by his family who wished, for their own purposes, to have him out of the way. His dreams of chivalrous adventure were quickly encouraged, and in no time he envisioned his invasion of Naples as but the prelude to a glorious crusading campaign which would see the retaking of Constantinople from the Ottoman Turks, followed by the capture of Jerusalem. Such was the way the young Charles VIII saw himself going down in history. Naive he may have been, but the power of his presence, his ambition and the nation he ruled made all fear him.
However, Charles VIII was aware that it would have been impolitic, and certainly unwise, simply to march into Italy and lay claim to the throne of Naples. This would set a dangerous precedent. There were many outstanding, if more or less justified, claims to the thrones of Europe (not least his own), and taking unprovoked action to depose the long-enthroned King Ferrante of Naples would probably unite most of Italy against him. Such a move was best avoided, as he would have to cross more than 500 miles of Italian territory just to reach Naples, and he needed this territory to be neutral, or at least acquiescent, if he was to maintain his overland supply lines and links with France. Charles VIII, as well as his advisers and family, knew that he needed some justification if he was to put the first stage of his glorious plan into action: for the moment, he would have to bide his time.
Meanwhile, during January 1494 Italy suffered the coldest winter of the century. The Florentine diarist Landucci recorded:
20th January … Florence suffered the worst snowstorm that even the oldest living citizens could remember. And amongst other extraordinary things, this was accompanied by such a violent tempest that for the whole day it was not possible to open any shops, or even any doors or windows. The blizzard lasted from the time of the morning Ave Maria until the Ave next morning, without ceasing for a moment throughout the entire twenty-four hours. Neither did the tremendous wind abate, so that there was not a crack or a hole, however small, which did not let a pile of snow into the house. Indeed, there was not one house so sufficiently sealed that it did not become filled with such a quantity of snow that it took days afterwards to clear it out. Along every street there were such piles of snow that in several places neither man nor beast was able to get through. There was so much snow that it took days before it all finally melted away, just like when boys make a snow-lion. It would be impossible to believe this if I had not seen it with my own eyes.5
This may well have been the occasion when Michelangelo carved a large lion (the emblem of the city) out of packed snow for Piero de’ Medici, just as Leonardo da Vinci had carved ice-sculptures for his father. Lorenzo the Magnificent had been particularly impressed by the youthful Michelangelo’s precocious sculptural talent and had invited him to live at the Palazzo Medici. Piero was just three years older than Michelangelo and they knew each other well, despite being such disparate characters. Piero’s preference for dashing physical pursuits such as hunting and fencing, and his enjoyment of the good life, contrasted with Michelangelo’s intense personality, his obsessive sculpting and his frugal habits. Even so, Michelangelo remained attached to the difficult Piero, who would often treat the young sculptor with some arrogance; despite such patronising behaviour, Piero for his part retained a regard for his father’s highly accomplished protégé, and ensured that the ambitious eighteen-year-old Michelangelo continued to receive commissions from wealthy patrons, especially the Church.
The other artist who remained deeply attached to Piero was Botticelli, who had painted a number of colourful and lively portraits of Piero as a young man. But Botticelli was also beginning to feel the strain of divided loyalties, becoming increasingly pained by the contrast between life at the Palazzo Medici and the simple life he wished to follow in accord with Savonarola’s preaching. This inner conflict had by now begun to affect his work. Instead of vivid, colourful celebrations of humanism, such as Primavera and The Birth of Venus, he had turned to more sorrowful religious subjects.
It was Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco who suggested that Botticelli should work on a topic deeply in keeping with his spiritual preoccupations, and commissioned him to produce a series of drawings illustrating scenes from Dante’s Divine Comedy. This was a project to which Botticelli would return again and again over the years, and his vivid renderings of the tortures undergone by those souls condemned for eternity to inhabit the Inferno give us an insight into his troubled state of mind. His illustration for the ring of hell inhabited by ‘a horde of shades’7 who in life had indulged in ‘perverse vices [that] damage and corrupt the natural powers of the body’8 is particularly apt. These are the sodomites against whom Savonarola so continually railed in his sermons, and Botticelli may well have believed that this was the fate to which he too would one day be damned throughout eternity. From Dante’s words he conjures up a horrific image of a multitude of naked bodies writhing and staggering in pitiful agony across the burning sand beneath the continual rain of falling flakes of fire, an image that consciously echoes the biblical fate of the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah.
On 29 January 1494, Landucci recorded in his diary: ‘We heard that the King of Naples was dead.’9 The throne of Naples was immediately claimed by his son, who installed himself as King Alfonso II. Charles VIII now had his opportunity to contest this, staking his own claim to the kingdom of Naples. The French king’s claim was dismissively rejected by Alfonso II, and Charles VIII began assembling a large French army in preparation for an invasion across the Alps. In order that the French army could reach Naples it would have to march through the territories of Milan, Florence and the Papal States. Ludovico Sforza in Milan was only too happy to welcome Charles VIII; meanwhile Alexander VI and Piero de’ Medici prevaricated. Piero de’ Medici’s foreign policy had been aimed at strengthening Florence’s ties with Naples, while at the same time loosening his close dependence upon Milan. This shift in diplomacy had been put into practice in the dispute over the Tuscan Congregation’s independence from the Lombardy Congregation, which had also strengthened Piero’s links with the pope. Yet Alexander VI remained as untrustworthy as ever. Piero de’ Medici realised that if he backed Naples, and the pope decided not to support him, he might well be left on his own, facing the might of the French army. Yet if he chose not to back Alfonso II, and the pope sided with Naples, with the Venetians joining this alliance, Florence might once again stand in peril, this time from its Italian neighbours – especially if, for any reason, Charles VIII postponed his invasion.
In the spring of 1494 news reached Florence that this was precisely what he had done. Even the mighty French exchequer was unable to bear the cost of such an ambitious campaign as Charles VIII had in mind, whilst on top of this the king had reason to suspect that his position as monarch lay under threat, both because of his own scheming family and because of his general unpopularity amongst the people. On hearing this news, Piero de’ Medici pledged Florence to support Alfonso II, an alliance that was soon favoured by Alexander VI. Meanwhile the pope’s sworn enemy Cardinal della Rovere, who remained in exile at the French court, did his best to encourage Charles VIII in his ambition to invade Italy – a move that would surely result in the defeat of Alexander VI. Eventually the French king was persuaded: he had been reassured that his position was safe enough at home, and he knew that he had sufficient funds at least to launch the expedition – more funds could be plundered en route, especially from the pope, and perhaps even from Florence.
Florence had traditionally been an ally of France, a policy that had been carefully built up over the previous decades, especially during the reign of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The Signoria was in the habit of frequently sending envoys to the French court to maintain friendly relations with the French king, who had granted many favours to Florence. For example, a good portion of the rich benefices bought by Lorenzo the Magnificent for Piero’s younger brother, the future Cardinal Giovanni Medici, had been graciously permitted by the previous French king, Louis XI, and the ensuing regency. It would seem that before Piero had taken his decision to switch alliegance, he had not even bothered to consult his brother, Cardinal Giovanni – who was living with him at the Palazzo Medici, and still relied upon these French benefices for a sizeable part of his income.
Giovanni was not the only one to lose from Piero’s decision. During Lorenzo’s reign, Piero di Gino Capponi had been appointed ambassador to the French court and had become particularly close to the young Charles VIII, sympathising with the gauche, gnomic, splay-footed child, who was widely derided during his minority, when France had been ruled by the regency of his powerful and intelligent older sister Anne of France.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 followers 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.