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’.² Cardinal 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’.^fn1

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^fn2 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^fn3 – 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^fn4 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.

^fn1 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.

^fn2 Put at 20,000 ducats by Commines; other sources suggest the sum of 16,000 florins.

^fn3 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.

^fn4 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.