Callimaco and Niccolo were discussing possible disguises they might use to infiltrate the French camp. Niccolo thought they could pose as peddlers of relics, which could be fabricated cheaply and readily enough, but Callimaco objected, pointing out that soldiers were fiercely impious men, but superstitious. He proposed selling some kind of elixir, a protection against wounds maybe, which could be concocted just as cheaply. It was during this playful and desultory conversation that the word reached them. Caterina Sforza, mistress of Forli, had denied the French army passage through her territory. She was prepared to resist them, to the death if need be.
The announcement sent shock waves through Romagna. Until now, no one had dared engage the French. Wherever they went, they were bought off, and so, as conquerors, they had been relatively well behaved, limiting their pillage to smaller, unprotected villages. They were in no need of taking what they wanted by force since the servile Italians were gladly handing it over to them voluntarily.
It was the spectacle of this servility that had finally driven Caterina to act. Watching the men of her country eagerly prostrate themselves before the foreign invader, her outrage grew. “If this barbarian king wants Italy as his own,” she thought, “then he will have to fight for her.”
Caterina was not a woman to be taken lightly. Fierce, iron-willed, Amazonian, she was the widow of Girolamo Riario, Lord of Forli, assassinated by the pope almost ten years before. After his treachery, the pope hastily sent troops against Forli, hoping thus to easily take the leaderless city. But Caterina personally assumed command of the defense and repelled the attack.
Tested in battle and fearless as she was, Caterina was not a reckless individual. For the past ten years, she had ruled Forli with the strength of a lion and the cunning of a fox. She knew when to bend and when to stand firm. She was respected and feared by every ruler in Italy.
Her decision to stand firm against the French king was not foolish, but calculated. She hoped thereby, not only to enhance her own position in Romagna, but to rally the fainthearted around her to a spirited defense of their land and rights. She further reasoned that the French king would not wish to delay his advance with a long, exhausting siege at Forli, but would prefer to proceed southward in a timely manner, especially with winter coming on. He would, no doubt, leave a small force behind to enforce the siege, but, without artillery, there was little they could do but wait. Not only was she confident of outlasting and eventually defeating any such force, her strategy would also have the effect of splitting the French army up into more manageable units. If other cities would follow her lead, and Charles were forced to throw up siege after siege, the army might soon be too fragmented to present a serious threat.
For his part, Charles was growing weary of the never-ending cycle of hedonistic indulgence into which his campaign had degenerated. He longed for battle, and so he accepted the challenge thrown down by Caterina Sforza. Lines were drawn, and in the early part of October, under heavy rains, the French army arrayed itself against the almost-impregnable walls of the fortress of Mordano.
In order to understand how Charles VIII of France revolutionized the conduct of war, it is necessary to grasp the fundamentals of military engagement as they were then practiced on the Italian peninsula.
When a city went to war, she contracted for the services of a condottiere, a hired captain. If the condottiere supplied his own soldiers as part of the contract, fine. If not, it was necessary to hire them as well. These mercenaries were recruited from the ranks of the dispossessed, the petty criminals, the runaway slaves, and deserters from abroad.
The condottieri were professionals, and as such, war was waged on a strictly business, cash-and-carry basis. Their interest was not so much in victory as in prolonging the war for as long as possible. They were paid for their time, so the longer the war, the more they were paid. Long campaigns also offered more opportunities for plunder.
The rules of engagement governing the actual conduct of battle were equally businesslike. When armies fought, they fought not to kill but to take prisoners who could later be redeemed for ransom. They never fought at night. If the weather were inclement, they remained in camp. When winter set in, they withdrew to the safety and comfort of towns and barracks.
The battles themselves were masterful spectacles, and looked for all the world as if they had been plotted not so much by a strategist as by a choreographer. Opposing armies danced around each other, feinting and then retreating, carefully avoiding confrontation. The Battle of Anghirai was not atypical. A conflict in which thousands of men participated ended without a single casualty.
When armies marched, it was usually because they had exhausted the surrounding countryside and were moving on to plunder further afield. It is said that most soldiers were more adept at using their lances to herd cattle than to impale the enemy.
Conflicts were generally resolved when one side agreed to pay the other side a suitable sum of money, or to cede the disputed properties or territories. Surprisingly, violence and assassination, so much a part of the political process as to be ranked as civic virtues, were entirely absent from the martial sphere. War was simply business, and business was conducted in a civilized way. Indeed, the Italians prided themselves on their attainments in the area of civilization. In this they were faithful to the example of their ancestors, the imperial Romans. What they did not suspect, as the cultivated Romans before them also failed to do, was that their civilization was about to be assaulted by implacable enemies from the north.
The Battle of Mordano would forever change the way war was fought on the continent of Europe. Technological advances in weaponry were about to be demonstrated in all their terrible finality and splendor. In military terms, the modern era was about to dawn.
The Amazons were a nation of women-warriors supposed to have lived in ancient times. In that murky world, before the dawn of recorded history, when giants and gods still walked the earth, they fought on the side of Troy against the Argives in the Trojan War. Their queen, Penthesilea, was slain there by Achilles. Whatever their status in the annals of history—or legend—there can be no doubt that their commitment to war was total and complete. Their name, Amazon, means “breastless,” for it was said that each of these fierce women, upon coming of age, removed her right breast in order to better handle the bow in battle.
Caterina Sforza, Countess of Forli, was in no way their inferior. Like the Amazons, she was bellicose, and like them, she was willing to sacrifice. Surrounded by an army over thirty thousand strong, she stood on the ramparts of the fortress of Mordano and made what is perhaps the single most defiant gesture in Italian history.
The siege was in its second week, and the son of the Spider had not attacked, nor had he begun preparations to move the bulk of his army south and leave a contingent behind for protracted dealings with Caterina. The Italians were puzzled. Why did he seem to be spending so much time on what, after all, was not an important or even very attractive prize from the point of view of plunder? Far richer targets lay to the south, among them Florence.
In spite of this seeming inactivity, Charles had not been idle. Through the use of spies, he had learned that Caterina had two sons whom she had secreted off in a remote villa near the sea. He had quietly dispatched a small force under the French general Louis d’Armagnac to take the boys. No blood was shed in the operation, since d’Armagnac had decided to use “diplomatic” means. He bribed the boys’ guardians. It was very neatly done. It was very Italian.
When the word spread, the entire countryside turned out to witness the confrontation that everyone knew would eventuate in Caterina’s surrender. Beneath the walls at the moat’s edge stood d’Armagnac, clothed in the blue mantle of a French general. In his hand he held a white silk banner unfurled in the stiff October wind. On it were embroidered the arms of France and the words Voluntas Dei—“It is the will of God.” Behind d’Armagnac, frightened and looking very small, were Caterina’s boys. They seemed like delicately fashi
oned toys compared to the rude, gigantic men with spears who flanked them on all sides.
Atop the battlements, Caterina Sforza prowled with all the pent-up rage of a caged lioness. She was furious with herself for not having foreseen this treachery. She had offered to ransom the boys, promising huge sums she knew would be difficult, if not impossible, to raise. But d’Armagnac stood his ground. Now there was only one exchange possible—her surrender for the boys’ lives.
Caterina drew herself up to her full, majestic height, long blond hair swirling around the concentrated ferocity in her face and eyes. Forehead, jaw, chin, and breasts formed an unbroken line of furious defiance. Legs apart, sword in hand, she weighed her response.
“Well, what it is to be?” said the French general in heavily accented Italian. “Your sword or the lives of your sons?”
She looked down at the sword in her hand as though calculating its value against the worth of her sons. Head bowed, she slid the naked blade quietly back into its sheath. Cold hatred seethed in her expression. Leaning into the wind, she gathered up the billowing folds of her long skirts. For a moment she hesitated, as though undecided. Then, slowly and deliberately, like someone revealing a long-kept secret, she drew the garments up around her waist.
You could see the strength in her long, muscular thighs and a dark blaze of pubic hair where they converged. “Look here, Frenchman!” she cried with an insolent thrust of her hips, “You see for yourself I have what I need to produce more sons. They can be replaced, these sons, but my liberty, never.”
From a distance, the city of gaily colored tents and pavilions that had sprung up in a circle around the isolated fortress resembled nothing so much as an enormous, traveling circus. From a distance, there was no hint of the lethal nature of the preparations being made in this seemingly enchanted city.
By the time of Caterina’s dramatic refusal, Niccolo and Callimaco had managed to successfully infiltrate the camp of the invaders. Not that much skill had been required to effect this act of espionage. With thirty thousand men at arms and thousands more in attendance upon them, the French camp could be considered the third or fourth largest city in Italy. Local bakers, brewers, and vintners by the dozens had set up shop within its confines. Business was good. The French had money, and inflation was rampant. Prostitutes were reported charging three and four times their normal rates.
Callimaco, too, was exercising his medical skills to advantage and turning a handsome profit lancing boils, cutting off bunions, and treating the endless varieties of venereal disease that raged in the tights and trousers of the invading army. Niccolo posed as his assistant and, when necessary, did in fact lend a hand. But mostly he observed, his greedy eyes drinking in all the details of an army in camp.
The variety of uniforms astounded him. Each company of German mercenaries sported smart jerkins of different colors and hose with different patterns. The Swiss wore shiny steel helmets with flowing, crimson plumes. Every French count and baron insisted on his own colors and designs. Infantry, pikemen, and archers were all marked with something distinctive. The Gascons, smaller and meaner-looking than the average Frenchman, and with a reputation for tenacity in battle, wore bright-blue one-piece uniforms. Niccolo recalled the days of his youth when he thought that uniforms were the essence of soldiery and the only purpose of an army was to play music and march in parades.
But here, he was seeing the truth. Beneath the gaudy surface, it was a rough, man’s world. Cursing was the lingua franca and oaths filled the air from morning to night in every dialect imaginable of French, German, and even English. All the gaiety of the tents and the banners and the uniforms did little to conceal the look in these men’s eyes. They were men of violent disposition, trained to kill. They had nothing in common with the soldiers he remembered, the gay blades who marched through the streets of Florence with fife and drum, behind Lorenzo de’ Medici in his black velvet, pearl-encrusted mantle. Those beautiful pearls would not even stand up to the savagery that flashed from these men’s eyes, much less their weapons. And everywhere, sparks flew from grinding wheels at which these instruments of death were being honed. The edges of pikes and swords, axes, halberds, and lances were being ground to sharp and fatal perfection.
Everything was being made ready—armor polished, saddles oiled, weapons checked and rechecked. In taking all this in, Niccolo felt a sense of impending doom. But in the back of his mind was the nagging question—What good were short swords and long bows against a six-foot-thickness of solid stone? And against the resolve of a woman like Caterina Sforza?
The most frightening men Niccolo had ever seen were the great, shaggy-bearded, red-haired wild men from Scotland, said to be the best archers on the face of the earth. He was fascinated by them—their height, their coloring, the skins and pelts with which they adorned themselves. Frequently, when Callimaco was otherwise occupied, Niccolo would find himself strolling in the direction of the Scottish camp to marvel at these bizarre and splendid creatures.
It was on one of these strolls that he became aware of an incongruity. The French knights and captains who formed the core of the king’s most trusted advisers were treated, as was the monarch himself, royally. No expense was spared. Rank had its privileges, and Charles had brought down with him from France an extraordinary collection of his own personal and highly skilled serving people—cooks, sommeliers, doctors, musicians, entertainers, and even prostitutes, or rather, ladies of sufficient attainment to be regarded as courtesans. Naturally these people and the amenities they provided were reserved for the exclusive use of Charles and his inner circle. The beady-eyed Gascon infantryman in his little blue uniform was assuredly not the object of their attentions.
Now the gruff Scotsmen who so captivated Niccolo’s imagination were near the edge of the camp, far from the king’s quarters. As such, they were a relatively unimportant part of the army and were left to fend for themselves when it came to bodily comforts and female companionship. Even more removed from the center of command was a compound consisting of about half a dozen unadorned tents, drawn up closely. They were the type of rough tents used to house the grooms, muleteers, carpenters, and wheelwrights who kept the huge army on the move. And indeed, the men inhabiting this particular compound appeared to be of that rude class. They were, for the most part, dirty, unkempt, and ill clad. There were hundreds like them in the camp, and Niccolo scarcely paid them any mind. Until he began to notice little things.
One evening, he saw two women quite openly enter the compound. He could have sworn they were richly dressed and lavishly coiffed and perfumed in the French manner. What were they doing here? He put it out of his mind. The next day while spying on his enigmatic Scotsmen at mealtime—he wanted to see what they ate—he saw a small train of liveried servants carrying heavily laden platters into the remote compound. The plate was silver, and quite remarkably, the livery was that of the royal house of France! Sauntering over and attempting to appear inconspicuous, Niccolo hoped to stroll inside, but he was stopped by a short, greasy fellow at the entrance to the compound. Niccolo knew enough French to know he was being told to leave and not in a very nice way.
Later, he told Callimaco about his discovery. “I tell you, there’s something odd down there. It doesn’t make sense.”
Callimaco concurred. “Look,” he said, “maybe I can get in and have a look around. I’ll say I’m the doctor sent down by Duke Somebody-or-Other with the delousing lotion. My French is perfect, no accent—not like some people,” he chided his companion. “That should work. Allons, donc, mon ami!”
But when they reached the mysterious group of tents, much to their chagrin, they saw they were too late. A thin man in the long black gown of a physician was making his way out of the compound and up the rutted path. The doctor had already made his visit for that evening.
“Caccasangue!” swore Callimaco. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Niccolo shook his head. Music was now coming from the camp of the highlander
s, and to make up for their disappointment, he suggested they have a look in there. But just as they turned in the direction of the odd, reedy strains, a sharp voice stopped them dead in their tracks. “Callimaque!”
Startled, Callimaco whirled around. It was the black-gowned doctor who had spoken. Pushing his pinched face in the direction of the young men, he repeated, “Callimaque? Callimaque Guadagne? C’est vous?”
“Maître Albert? Mon Dieu!” And before Niccolo could understand what was happening, his friend was locked in a hearty embrace with the physician. Floods of French were pouring out of the both of them, too rapid for Niccolo to understand. When the preliminary effusions ended, Callimaco turned to Niccolo and explained, “This is Master Albert! I studied medicine with him in Paris!”
The next few hours were dismal ones for Niccolo, who was invited along with “Callimaque” to sup with the French physician in his tent. The patter was rapid and nonstop as teacher and student sought to catch up with one another. Niccolo was effectively excluded from their society. Callimaco promised to fill him in later and then forgot all about him. The hours dragged on. “Nothing is worse than a conversation in a language you don’t understand,” thought Niccolo. He swore to himself to improve his French.
Finally the incomprehensible evening seemed to be coming to an end. Niccolo whispered to Callimaco, urging him to inquire about the strange, isolated compound from which they had seen the doctor emerge. “Don’t be blatant,” he said. “Use some tact.”
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 23