Cosimo and Lorenzo were on their way to meet Bernardetto de’ Medici, Micheletto Attendolo and Ludovico Mocenigo. They would face the men led by Niccolò Piccinino, who had been quartered at Borgo Sansepolcro. Piccinino had seemed invincible over the last few years, and the fact did nothing to reassure her.
She prayed. It was the only thing there was to do.
*
Reinhardt Schwartz understood perfectly what Niccolò Piccinino’s intentions were. He had been fighting alongside him for long enough to know the way the soldier of fortune thought.
No one was more devious than Piccinino, and that was perhaps the key to his popularity among the mercenaries. He had gone to Perugia with the permission of the papal governor, had entered the city by the Porta di Sant’Angelo at the head of five hundred men on horseback and had dismounted from the saddle in front of the Palazzo della Signoria. There he had arrested the treasurer Michele Benini on charges of embezzlement and had persuaded the governor, the Archbishop of Naples, to leave the city with a message for Eugene IV. He had received – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say had confiscated – eight thousand ducats, and had returned to his troops far richer than when he had left them.
He had then gone on to plunder Mugello in a surprise attack and devastate the surrounding countryside until Filippo Maria Visconti had asked, or rather, ordered him to attack Florence. The Duke of Milan was furious that Piccinino had waited as long as he had and now he demanded an exemplary victory.
A victory of the cruellest and most prestigious, but also the most difficult, kind.
Piccinino had decided to quarter with his men that evening in Sansepolcro, on the slopes of the mountains that divided the upper Tiberina valley from the Chiana valley.
His company of a thousand horsemen had been joined by another two thousand men from the surrounding countryside, all hoping for easy loot, Piccinino’s reputation for ruthlessness and bravery being a guarantee of success. As always, he had relied on hatred and envy, feelings that the people of Sansepolcro nurtured in abundance for their neighbours in Anghiari, a town a little more than two leagues distant.
The plan was to overrun the town and then swoop down like a flock of crows upon the city of the Medici. But they knew for a fact that the men of the league were camped out there waiting patiently for Piccinino to mobilize – the slopes of the hill of Anghiari were dark with their tents. They were all present: the Genoese and Venetians, the papal troops and even the Florentines had arrived. It was a battle whose outcome would determine a new geometry of power between states.
But the real issue was that the Milanese were going into that battle without any real strategy. All that wandering around Tuscany like a swarm of locusts was no way to engage in battle, especially because they had now lost the element of surprise and, despite the two thousand new men gathered together from around Sansepolcro, were clearly outnumbered.
And now the rascal Piccinino was looking at him and seemed ready to come up with some marvellous solution for obtaining a victory.
Only a fool could be optimistic in a situation like this, especially when stirred up by Albizzi, who over the course of the last month had revealed all his limitations. Schwartz had always known Albizzi was a great conspirator, but hadn’t realized quite how depraved he actually was. Over the last few days, however, he’d had the opportunity to discover the worst sides of his former master. Frustrated and disappointed by the many defeats he had suffered over the years and made insecure and angry by a wait that smelt of death, Albizzi had become a shadow of the man he had once been. He would have inspired pity if it hadn’t been for his cowardice and violence.
In any case, they would attack, despite everything promising the worst possible outcome. Schwartz had been riding all day and had hoped to be able to get a few hours’ sleep in. His ears still rang with the desperate screams of the previous nights, when Niccolò Piccinino had massacred the population of Monte Castello di Vibio: the cries of the men killed in the streets, the sobbing of the children, the screams of the women raped on the tables of their looted houses, which were then burned to the ground. And the crazed expression on the face of Albizzi, who had enjoyed the slaughter.
They had even stolen the cattle.
But he had the feeling that Niccolò still nurtured some other impulse he wished to satisfy.
The presence of the league was the perfect excuse – the ideal justification for going on the attack the next day. There was, in Niccolò, a longing for glory that seemed to increase the more difficult the undertaking at hand.
‘My dear Reinhardt,’ he said – and as he spoke, his thick moustaches could not conceal the shining tips of his unusually long, fang-like canines – ‘it is my intention to attack the village of Anghiari tomorrow, where I count upon collecting many spoils. Furthermore, the Duke of Milan believes that Anghiari is the gateway to Florence and I confess that, for once, his theory seems to me both lucid and accurate. That, therefore, is what we will do. I want you to lead the men on the attack. I will trick them into thinking I am returning to Romagna but when you reach the Forche bridge, while the light cavalry is proceeding along the road to Citerna, you, at the head of the heavy cavalry and the foot soldiers, will cross the river and attack Anghiari, catching the troops of the league altogether unprepared.’
What wonderful news, thought Schwartz.
‘I know you would have preferred something simpler but there is a surprise awaiting you in your tent. Partial compensation for what I owe you. And, if I know you well, it is the most agreeable kind of compensation possible.’
‘I imagine that Rinaldo degli Albizzi and the other gentlemen will be holed up well away from the battlefield.’
‘You imagine right.’
‘I also imagine that I cannot question your orders.’
‘Your insight is second only to your courage.’
‘Then, if that is the case, I’ll go get some sleep.’
‘Rest your limbs. The alarm will come well after dawn – we attack during the hottest part of the day, when the sun is at its zenith – right when those scoundrels least expect it. Only a lunatic would think of attacking at that time.’
‘Yes,’ said Schwartz laconically, resigned now to the inevitability of tomorrow.
And, so saying, he headed towards the tents.
He had a good idea of who might be waiting for him, and in his heart he was afraid. Of himself and his own cowardice, of course. Of how he had forever ruined the life of Laura, to whom life had given little enough. Only lies and violence, and he was the principal cause of both.
The weight of the guilt that had been preying upon his mind would finish him off during the battle if the men of the league didn’t do for him first.
After what had happened, he wasn’t ready to see her. Because she was certainly the person waiting for him in the tent: Reinhardt had no doubt of it.
He hated himself, but, drawing on all the determination of which he was capable, he decided not to go to his tent and headed instead for an abandoned barn. He would be able to rest better with his mind free of irksome thoughts. If he survived the battle, Laura could say whatever she wanted to him, even kill him if she thought he deserved it. And he certainly did. But until then he had no intention of allowing any thought to occupy his head other than that of preserving his own skin.
The next day would be a bloodbath, and he would need all his skills to still be standing at the end of it.
49
The Bridge at Forche
From the walls of Anghiari, Cosimo observed the plain below. There was something odd about the torrid calm of that morning: it was too quiet. At the first light of dawn, Sansepolcro had been feverish, the town a wasps’ nest of activity, and now, after all that clanging of metal and weapons, it seemed to doze in the placid calm of the sun that was flooding the sky with golden light.
He had spoken about it with Lorenzo and Ludovico Mocenigo and especially with Micheletto Attendolo and Bernardetto de’ Medici, his
cousin. He couldn’t be sure but he would have wagered that rogue Piccinino was plotting something. His fame for cunning and butchery was legendary, and Cosimo had decided to go out with a few hundred men to the bridge at Forche in order to safeguard their troops and Anghiari itself.
There were several miles of fields between Anghiari and Sansepolcro but Cosimo had the feeling that the enemy commander was planning some trick to shorten the distance his infantrymen and cavalry would have to cover in the open: he would want to guarantee himself the benefit of surprise and catch Cosimo and the troops unprepared.
Thus he had asked the Venetians to come with him through the June heat towards the road that in one direction led to Citerna and in the other led straight to Anghiari.
In all likelihood he was mistaken, but he’d rather return to the camp on the slopes of the hill of Anghiari after some time sweating in the saddle than discover that the Duke of Milan’s men were swooping down upon them in a surprise attack to raze the city to the ground. A defeat caused by negligence would throw open the gates for an attack on Florence.
The sun was high in the sky and its rays beat down upon the fields. The hay had just been harvested and its dense, heady perfume floated through the humid air. They had advanced cautiously and after less than an hour had stopped near the Forche bridge.
Cosimo snorted with discomfort. Sweat poured down his neck, drenching his chest and hips under the jacket and armour. He tried to cool off in the shade of a tree that, standing alone, projected a tiny shadow upon the ground, and his eyes burned in the light of that torrid day as he raised his flask to his dry lips.
The water was warm, but at least it calmed the fiery torment that burned in his throat. He remained on his horse. Hidden behind the treeline, the men were tired and wanted to rest but Cosimo and Lorenzo and even more so the captains urged them to keep their eyes open and stay alert. A flock of ravens swept across the blue sky, croaking a macabre chant.
As time passed, Cosimo and his companions gradually began to realize that they must have been mistaken. And yet there was something about that scorching calm which rang false.
It was when they were about to turn their horses around and return to Anghiari that they discovered they had been right. In front of them they saw a dark cloud of dust, which was drawing closer. Soon, Cosimo was able to distinguish the helmets and cuirasses, the swords and armour, the banners with the black Visconti viper and the coat of arms bearing Niccolò Piccinino’s crouched leopard.
‘They’re heading this way,’ said Cosimo.
‘There is no doubt of it,’ confirmed Mocenigo.
As the column of men approached, the situation became clear. Part of the ranks continued to head off towards Citerna and Romagna, but the bulk of the soldiers, infantrymen and heavy cavalry began to run silently towards the bridge.
Piccinino had enlisted a noticeable number of lancers in his surprise attack. It was an impressive plan: to launch a disruptive initial strike would guarantee control of the battlefield right from the start; and reducing the length of the battle was certain to affect its outcome.
‘It was just as you said, Cosimo,’ whispered Micheletto Attendolo. ‘They trusted in the heat of the day and our laziness to reduce the distance across the open ground – cut across the bridge to surprise us with the sun high in the sky while we were locked up indoors waiting for evening. What a son of a whore Piccinino is!’
‘He always has been.’
‘True. But now we have a problem...’ continued Attendolo.
‘There are too few of us,’ said Lorenzo bitterly.
Mocenigo nodded. ‘Someone has to go back and tell our army to hurry here or we’ll be overrun,’ he said. ‘Cosimo: you and your brother take two of my men with you and bring the reinforcements.’
‘And what will you do in the meantime?’
‘We will do everything possible to defend the bridge. Come, there isn’t a moment to lose. Make your horses fly if you want to get home in one piece.’
Without waiting for him to say anything more, Cosimo and Lorenzo turned their mounts around and, escorted by the two Venetians, galloped off towards Anghiari.
*
As soon as the infantrymen began to run, Reinhardt realized that something was wrong. He thought he’d caught the glimpse of a ray of light glinting off steel on the other side of the bridge – a helmet? It hadn’t stopped the men from running, through, proceeding with long strides even though they were dripping with sweat under the blazing sun. This had not been a good idea. It was clear to him now that sacrificing strength and energy for surprise was a mistake. The men would arrive at the gates of Anghiari exhausted, and the manoeuvre, however well thought-out, felt like a gamble. After all, the entire operation was based on the belief that no one suspected that the larger part of Piccinino’s army was not actually retreating but was pouring out on to the plain.
The captain had wagered on distracting the enemy, but what if he had been mistaken? They would be sending the men off to be slaughtered, which was exactly what Schwartz was afraid might happen.
And that was without even considering the night he had spent, which had tested him more than he thought possible. To hide his black heart from the only woman – worse yet, from the only living creature – for whom he had ever cared had been an experience which had mortified his very soul. He felt a pain within him so deep that he was certain he would die, despite having avoided seeing her the night before for precisely that reason. It was thus with little conviction that he sat astride his horse, sweating like a pig and trying to figure out what the hell awaited him on the other side of that damn bridge.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Even before the first men could cross it, dark clouds of arrows filled the warm air with their flickering, lethal shadows. Their fletchings as colourful as decorations, the arrows embedded themselves in the chests of his men, their iron heads finding lethal passage through the fissures in their hardened steel armour. There were screams of pain and shock. Bodies slumped to the ground and on to the yellow grass of the field, some falling into the waters of the stream with dull splashes.
He saw a pair of infantrymen attempting to pull the arrows from their necks while another threw his arms up, gasping for air: he had tried to escape but an arrow had hit him in the back. He dropped his sword and collapsed to the ground, his face a mixture of anger and amazement at his absurd and unexpected death.
The bowstrings of the enemy archers were again pulled taut and once more launched their awful volley with a deadly hiss, and the entire front line of cavalry and mounted infantry was mown down by another hail of arrows. The bridge was acting like a hellish funnel that made the men huddled helplessly at the entrance the perfect target for the archers on the other side, who had clearly been waiting to ambush them. Worse still, the Milanese were trapped under their dying horses, creating a wall of flesh and cuirasses which made things even easier for the archers of the league.
It was slaughter.
The waters of the small river reddened with blood.
Reinhardt could hide no longer. He decided to lead his vanguard in an attack and see what happened, but to have some small hope of success he ordered the infantry to fan out and wade the stream on foot, so as to circumvent the enemy and attack their flanks.
He didn’t know if he would be able to turn the outcome of the battle around, but at least in that way the Milanese wouldn’t be the easy targets they were now.
He hoped in his heart that he was right.
50
The Duel
The horses were foaming at the mouth, their glistening muscles contracting in the sunlight. Cosimo and Lorenzo galloped like madmen, certain that the result not only of that first skirmish but of the battle as a whole depended upon their speed.
Cosimo knew that the number of troops the league had managed to assemble far exceeded those of Piccinino – but as they were by the walls of Anghiari they were completely useless. Attendolo certainly
wouldn’t abandon his position, but neither could he allow his few men to be massacred with impunity, leaving the road open for Visconti’s forces.
At that moment they were facing the advance guard, but when they had left the Forche bridge the bulk of the Piccinino’s troops had yet to arrive – and as the number of opponents increased, the Venetians would certainly find themselves in trouble.
Cosimo could not allow that.
He spurred his horse on harder still, and the creature responded, increasing its pace. Such was the speed of the noble animal that Cosimo felt as though he were riding some mythological beast.
He dug his heels in again.
Fields flashed past his eyes in an iridescent yellow blur. Lorenzo was at his side and Cosimo thanked God that he had his brother with him. He thought of how much they had been through together. It was only a moment, a fleeting image of what they had done, and yet it put a smile on his face and renewed his confidence and energy.
They soon came in sight of the league’s camp outside the gates of Anghiari. Cosimo signalled to the sentries and the Venetians waved the standards bearing the Lion of San Marco while the Medici’s men did the same with theirs.
‘Quickly, men, hurry!’ cried Cosimo. ‘There’s fighting at the Forche bridge! Follow me!’
While he shouted, his horse had already reached the centre of the camp and spun about in great agitation, its eyes huge and its hooves pawing at the beaten earth, until, suddenly arching its back, it reared up and came crashing furiously back down to earth. Cosimo called to Simonetto from Castel San Pietro and his papal troops.
‘Simonetto!’ he shouted. ‘Take your men to the Forche bridge. And hurry, otherwise there’ll be nothing left of Micheletto and the Venetians!’
*
The situation was rapidly deteriorating. After an encouraging start as the archers had mown down the enemy’s front lines, the Visconti armies now seemed to have regrouped, their ranks filled out by the arrival of Astorre Manfredi’s men, and had begun returning fire and undertaking sorties. The action had soon shifted to the centre of the small stone bridge. Neither side was willing to concede ground and Ludovico Mocenigo, who had no intention of allowing the defensive line to be broken, was at the centre of the battle.
Medici ~ Ascendancy Page 23