The siege of Brescia dragged on through the long hot summer months, and in October Carmagnola once again felt the need to retire to the baths at Abano, even though the Venetian authorities remonstrated that they knew there was nothing wrong with him. In his absence Brescia surrendered to the Venetian forces. The authorities in Venice were overjoyed; while Filippo Maria, sensing his vulnerability, agreed to sign a peace treaty. However, this was only intended to give Filippo Maria time to regroup his forces, and within weeks Milan had launched a spring offensive. Despite orders from Venice, Carmagnola could not be induced to budge from his winter headquarters, citing insufficient forage for his cavalry, then insufficient money to pay his troops, and finally claiming that his army would be heavily outnumbered. The Venetian authorities knew that by now he had 36,000 men under his command, the strongest army yet seen in northern Italy, in every way superior to the Milanese forces, but despite constant urgings he still showed himself reluctant to engage the enemy, even after his army belatedly emerged from their winter quarters in April 1427. This only came about when he appeared to be stung into action by an ambush. Despite being caught off guard by the Milanese forces under the new young condottiere who had succeeded him, Carmagnola demonstrated his tactical genius by turning the tables on them and gaining a comprehensive victory at Casalmaggiore. As he well knew, this victory was doubly to his advantage: not only did it demonstrate to his paymasters in Venice the wisdom of continuing to employ him, but it also demonstrated to Filippo Maria his incontestable superiority in the field, and thus the wisdom of re-employing Carmagnola if he wished to achieve his objectives.
When news of the victory at Casalmaggiore reached Venice, the city was overjoyed. However, this joy was soured by the consequent news that the following day Carmagnola had released all the prisoners he had taken at Casalmaggiore so that they could return to the opposing army, ready to do battle once more. At the time this was in fact common practice in Italy amongst mercenary armies, which knew that it was in their interests to keep wars going for as long as possible and well understood that today’s enemy could easily become tomorrow’s ally. The Venetian authorities, still somewhat inexperienced in the ways of the mainland, realised there was little they could do, short of dismissing Carmagnola. And that was a course of action that by this stage they were reluctant to take. News had now come in that Carmagnola was openly in contact with Filippo Maria, who had regained Carmagnola’s naive trust by persuading Amadeus VIII of Savoy to free the condottiere’s wife and children, so that they could return to him. Filippo Maria judged correctly that Carmagnola had begun to long for a return to the old days when he was the ‘family friend’ in Milan. Carmagnola, for his part, excused his contact with Filippo Maria by explaining to Doge Foscari that he was sure he would be able to succeed, where previously the Venetians had failed, in negotiating a lasting peace with Milan.
The Venetian citizenry, whose increasingly burdensome taxes were paying for Carmagnola and his army, were beginning to express their dissatisfaction with their condottiere, demanding that he should be recalled and put on trial for treason. The Venetian authorities now found themselves in a quandary. Although they faced civil unrest within the city, they knew that if they moved against Carmagnola he would in all likelihood simply offer his services to his old master Filippo Maria, and all the money they had invested in him and his army would come to nothing. The Council of Ten debated long and hard on the matter, before coming up with a feeble compromise. A carefully worded despatch was conveyed to Carmagnola suggesting that he should leave any peace negotiations to his employers.
At this stage, Carmagnola received word of the volatile situation in Venice, which he realised could easily turn against him. Not willing to have his hand forced, for he still did not fully trust Filippo Maria, he knew that his only recourse was to immediate action. Once again demonstrating his supreme tactical ability, he advanced his army to within seven miles of the River Oglio, where he took up a position at the village of Maclodio. Here, on II October 1427, he was confronted by the Milanese army under the command of the distinguished condottiere Francesco Sforza and Carlo Malatesta (who, after serving Venice so well in the war against Hungary, had offered his services elsewhere as soon as peace was declared).
Carmagnola knew that the land in front of Maclodio was treacherous terrain, and when he appeared to withdraw, the hotheaded Malatesta immediately charged forward, leading his troops into a marsh where they quickly became bogged down. This time Carmagnola secured an even greater victory than he had achieved at Casalmaggiore, further consolidating his reputation as the greatest general of his era, though it must be emphasised that this was a typical condottiere battle. Rather than actual fighting, such engagements usually aimed at a tactical victory, consisting largely in manoeuvering the enemy into a position where they had no option but to fight to the last man or surrender (or, if possible, flee the field). Mercenaries on both sides had no appetite for the first option, whereas the other options enabled them to continue practising their profession on another day. Contemporary sources concur that around 30,000 men took part in the Battle of Maclodio, during the course of which most of the village was destroyed and many horses were slaughtered. However, according to the fifteenth-century Venetian historian Marcantonio Sabellico, ‘Those who were there affirm that they heard of no one being killed, extraordinary to relate, though it was a great battle.’
Once again, when news of this great victory reached Venice there was much rejoicing, and once again this was tempered by Carmagnola’s consequent actions. So comprehensive had been his victory that he had succeeded in capturing Malatesta himself, as well as 8,000 of his mercenaries, before the others had managed to make good their escape. The following day Malatesta and the prisoners were allowed to return to the service of Milan. Worse still, Carmagnola refused to act on his victory. All he had to do was march twenty miles south, crossing the River Oglio, and he could have taken the undefended city of Cremona. This would have protected his rear, allowing him to make a rapid advance on Milan itself, which would almost certainly have fallen, thus bringing the war to an end. Instead, he once again did nothing, preferring to withdraw to his quarters, where his army sat out the winter while he retired once more to the baths at Abano. Meanwhile, the frightened Filippo Maria desperately sought to sign a more lasting peace treaty with Venice, which was eventually signed in May 1428.
Desperate to retain Carmagnola’s services, the Venetian authorities invited him to return to Venice to discuss his terms of future employment. Here, despite being given his own palazzo, the rough-and-ready Carmagnola found himself distinctly uncomfortable amidst the comparative sophistication and luxuries of Venetian life. The charm and courtly manners of the Venetians only had the effect of making him retreat even further into his recalcitrant ways as he negotiated with Foscari and the venerable members of his Signoria ranged around the table in all their finery. Carmagnola struck a hard bargain, and in the event the Venetian authorities agreed to continue paying him 1,000 ducats a month, even during peacetime, at the same time binding him even further to their cause by awarding him the fiefdom of Chiari and Roccafranca, which he would be allowed to pass on to his heirs, making them a hereditary dynasty.
Nonetheless, with the advent of peace, Carmagnola reopened contact with Filippo Maria, taking the precaution of passing on to Doge Foscari copies of any letters that he sent and received. As it happened, Foscari was already aware of this development as Filippo Maria had been sending him copies of the letters he had been receiving from Carmagnola. Unfortunately, these were different from the letters that Foscari was receiving from Carmagnola himself – a fact that was duly noted in the archives.
Seen in this light, Carmagnola’s ‘treachery’ becomes more understandable. While seeking to obtain the maximum gain from his employment as a mercenary, he knew that he was essentially on his own. He did not trust Venice any more than he trusted Milan, because he knew that neither of them trusted him. Such was the complex w
eb of mistrust in which the Republic now found itself embroiled. Yet who else could Carmagnola turn to? The plight of a condottiere, especially a powerful one, could be as dangerous as it was lucrative.
Despite Filippo Maria’s friendly gesture to Venice in passing on useful information regarding Carmagnola, intelligence reaching Foscari and the Signoria gave them to understand that Milan was once more preparing for war. Ironically, in the light of its attitude towards powerful individuals, Venice now found itself utterly reliant upon just such a man. The need to retain Carmagnola became tantamount, and in August 1430 Foscari went so far as to promise him the dukedom of Milan if he managed to win the coming war by actually taking the enemy capital.* At the same time a large Venetian fleet of thirty-eight galleys and forty-eight lesser craft, manned by 10,000 fighting men, was assembled ready for a naval campaign in the Po river system. Although nominally under the overall control of Carmagnola, the fleet was placed under the immediate command of admiral Nicolò Trevisano, who had already distinguished himself in action on the Po. It was felt that such a command structure would enable this powerful fleet, manned by Venetians, to be more reliable when it came to following orders from Venice.
In early 1431 Filippo Maria duly reopened hostilities, but this time the Venetians were more fully prepared. Carmagnola and Admiral Trevisano were ordered to strike deep into the heart of enemy territory, launching a daring land and river coordinated attack on the city of Lodi, beside the River Adda just fifteen miles south-east of Milan. Trevisano and the Venetian fleet quickly reached Lodi, but owing to insufficient support from Carmagnola’s slow-moving land troops they were unable to take the city. Forced to retreat downriver, Trevisano decided to mount an attack on Cremona instead. But here he was caught by surprise on 22 May by the Milanese fleet, whose ships were manned by experienced sailors from Genoa. The swift Milanese fleet quickly began outmanoeuvring the more unwieldy seagoing Venetian craft. Trevisano sent messages appealing to Carmagnola for land support, but he replied that he was unable to move from his position, owing to the fact that Sforza’s forces were encamped in a threatening position nearby. Meanwhile on the river the two fleets engaged in earnest, with the fighting continuing through the day and into dusk, with the Venetian fleet hemmed in against the shore. Under cover of darkness, Sforza withdrew his men from the vicinity of Carmagnola’s encampment and marched to Cremona, where they embarked on a flotilla of waiting Milanese craft. As the dawn rose, Trevisano was shocked to see this flotilla making its way downstream towards him, the decks of its ships filled with armed men, their armour glinting in the morning sun, their colourful banners unfurled and signifying their readiness for battle. Once again the two sides engaged, with the Venetians doing their best to mount a rearguard action as heavy fighting continued through the morning. Carmagnola and his men did not arrive until later in the day, when they could only watch powerless from the opposite bank as the Milanese overwhelmed the Venetian ships. This was no mercenary land battle, but was fought by Venetian and Genoese sailors who were used to more bloody seaborne encounters and bore a long-established enmity towards one another. When the battle was over, Venice had lost as many as twenty-eight galleys and more than forty smaller craft, and according to the contemporary Venetian chronicler Bigli, ‘The slaughter was greater than any that was ever known in Italy, more than two thousand men being said to have perished, in witness of which the Po ran red, a great stream of blood, for many miles.’
Of the few who managed to make it ashore, many were slain by local peasants only too keen to avenge themselves on the invaders. However, Trevisano himself managed to escape. When news reached Venice of what had happened, the outrage of Foscari, the Signoria, the Ten and all the citizens was such that Trevisano was immediately tried and sentenced to prison in his absence, then banished and outlawed when he chose not to return to Venice and surrender himself. Someone had to be the scapegoat for such a disastrous loss (which certainly eclipsed the great victory at Maclodio). But why was Carmagnola not blamed for what had taken place? He did in fact put on a big public display of remorse for what had happened, appearing to take the defeat personally. At the same time, however, he wrote to Venice informing Foscari that Trevisano had disobeyed orders in attacking Cremona. There was some truth in this, and for the time being many amongst the Venetian authorities were in favour of overlooking Carmagnola’s late arrival on the scene. Others were less forgiving and insisted on a public debate. According to Sabellico:
There were not a few, who, from the beginning had suspected Carmagnola. These now openly in the Senate declared that this suspicion not only had not ceased but increased, and was increasing every day; and that, except his title of commander, they knew nothing in him that was not hostile to the Venetian name. The others would not believe this, nor consent to hold him in such suspicion until some manifest signs of his treachery were placed before them.
Such open debate in the Senate reflected the essentially democratic style of Venice, even if this remained an effective force only among the city’s noble families.
While the debate raged back in Venice, Carmagnola lay low in his tent in the field. In the autumn of 1431 despatches arrived from Venice ordering him to attack Cremona and establish a bridgehead on the far side of the Adda; but although he was camped only three miles from the city he chose not to move. However, seemingly on their own initiative, several young officers, including Ugolino Cavalcabò, the son of the murdered Lord of Cremona, launched a surprise attack under cover of darkness, seizing the fortress of San Luca, the key to the city’s defences. If this had been followed by swift action from Carmagnola the city would have fallen by dawn; but he remained in his encampment and the attempt failed.
By a quirk of fate which Carmagnola could not have foreseen, this was to be the final act that inadvertently precipitated his downfall. In the expectation that Cremona would fall by morning, a messenger had been despatched that night to Venice announcing a great victory. The news was greeted by public rejoicing, which was transformed into disgust and anger when a further messenger revealed the truth of what had happened.
The Senate expressed its outrage, and demanded an immediate explanation of Carmagnola’s behaviour. But in the end more patient, and more devious, counsel prevailed. Carmagnola was now resting a hundred miles away in his winter quarters at Brescia, and was all but unassailable. He was unlikely to expect, or indeed obey, any orders from his employers: despatches from Venice were only liable to raise his suspicions. It was decided to see the winter out.
Finally, on 27 March 1432, the Council of Ten met to discuss the situation, and summoned a zonta: an extraordinary meeting to be attended by the thirty-seven senior members of the administration. A secret pact was taken, on pain of death for anyone present divulging what had been discussed. Two days later, the secretary of the Council of Ten, Giovanni da Impero, a man ‘with a face as pale as a ghost’, left for Carmagnola’s winter quarters at Brescia. He carried a message saying that the doge wished Carmagnola to return to Venice so that he could seek his advice ‘on the best means for carrying out the summer campaign … for much difference of opinion exists amongst the city councillors’. At the same time, secret messages were despatched to the commandant of the Brescia garrison and captains of the Republic in the field: they were to give their support to da Impero, no matter what order he gave.
In the event, da Impero had no need to order the detention of Carmagnola, for he unwittingly agreed to accompany him at once to Venice. As arranged, when he arrived at Padua that evening having completed the first stage of his journey, Carmagnola was greeted with all the pomp and ceremony due to the commander-in-chief of the Venetian forces. That night, in accordance with the prevailing custom of the time for such celebrated guests, he shared the bed of ‘his good friend’ Federigo Contarini, the Captain of Padua.*
On 7 April, Carmagnola crossed the lagoon to Venice, where he was met at the landing stage by a guard of honour and escorted to the Doge’s Palace. Here, according
to well-documented descriptions of the ensuing events (which disagree only on minor points), his personal bodyguard was dismissed with the words, ‘The master will dine with the Doge, and will come home after dinner.’ He was then led up the grand staircase and shown into the Salle delle Quattro Porte (Hall of the Four Doors), the official chamber where visitors waited before seeing the doge. After kicking his heels impatiently for some time, Carmagnola was informed by a member of the Council of Ten that the doge had suffered a minor accident and would be unable to receive him. Visibly irritated by the delay, Carmagnola declared, ‘The hour is late and it is time for me to go home’ and left the room.
But as he was on the point of leaving the building for his waiting gondola, one of the attendant nobles stepped in front of him, saying, ‘This way, my lord’ and indicated the corridor that led away to the Orba prison.
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