Death in Florence: the Medici, Savonarola and the Battle for the Soul of the Renaissance City

by Paul Strathern

  Meanwhile, on a more practical level, Savonarola began despatching friars from San Marco out into the countryside to preach his new fundamentalist Christianity in the villages and towns of Tuscany. Each of these friars would be accompanied by a lay brother or working novice, who would take on labour to provide for their basic needs. In this way, Savonarola’s friars were not discouraged from preaching by any fear that their often unpopular message would provoke the locals into denying them the alms upon which Dominican preachers had previously depended.

  However, there were still those within the Congregation opposed to Savonarola’s role as Vicar General. At nearby Fiesole four friars chose to depart from the monastery rather than submit to Savonarola’s new authority. When the news of the newly formed Congregation reached San Gimignano, some thirty miles to the south, the entire monastic community unilaterally declared that it would remain part of the Lombardy Congregation. Dominican communities even further from Florence presented similar opposition. Here the friars knew Savonarola only by reputation, which laid great emphasis on his wild apocalyptic sermons and his fierce adherence to austerity. Few of these had actually heard him preach, or had had any opportunity to fall under his mesmerising spell.

  In an attempt to resolve such difficulties, Savonarola decided to set off from Florence, accompanied by twenty or so of his most loyal friars, for the city of Siena. Although Siena was in fact independent of Florence, it nonetheless fell within the boundary of the new Tuscan Congregation, and Savonarola was determined not to lose control of this important city. His mission was given the full backing of Piero de’ Medici, who saw this as an opportunity to extend Florentine influence over Siena, which at the time controlled a territory more than one-third the size of that controlled by Florence. For many years Florence had sought to absorb Siena, and Piero de’ Medici realised that this move could mark the initial stage in such a process. If Piero could gain such a prize for Florence, this would certainly stand comparison with the achievements of his father, establishing him as a great ruler in his own right.

  By the time Savonarola and his band of friars set out in June 1493 to cover the forty miles on foot to Siena, news of his mission had preceded him. According to an eyewitness report :

  A rumour quickly spread throughout the citizenry of Siena that as the [Dominican] monastery of Santo Spirito was at the city walls, Savonarola and his monks had in reality been despatched to take the city for Florence.14

  Consequently, when Savonarola and his men arrived on 21 June, they received a hostile reception:

  As Savonarola proceeded on his way to speak to the Captain of the People, three members of the ruling Signoria of Siena confronted him, giving voice to the most violent threats. Soon many citizens began joining in, while even the women attacked him and yelled all kinds of improprieties at him … Indeed, Savonarola was despised, rejected and threatened by the entire population of the city, and I am certain that if he had not departed they would have stoned him.

  After being officially ordered out of Siena by the Signoria, and forced to beat a hasty retreat by the angry population, Savonarola and his monks hurried to the safety of the Florentine border. Here, in biblical fashion, Savonarola ceremoniously shook the dust of Siena from his feet.

  Later that summer Savonarola and another accompanying band of monks set off for Pisa, another city that fell within the jurisdiction of the newly independent Tuscany Congregation. Pisa had long maintained its independence of Florence, but had been conquered by the republic earlier in the century. Here again his arrival on 20 August was greeted with much suspicion, not least by the Dominican friars of Santa Caterina. Forty of the forty-four friars simply refused to submit to his authority and departed from the city; whereupon Savonarola appointed twenty-two of the friars who were accompanying him to remain behind and take up residence in the depleted monastery.

  That year Savonarola gave the Advent sermons in Florence Cathedral, probably preaching on a text from Genesis and Psalm 73. Although his biographer Ridolfi has his doubts about the transcriptions of these sermons, he remarks:

  They contain a few of the usual outbursts against wicked priests and the Court of Rome, but no reference to visions, and none (which is stranger) to the affairs of the city, which … is not even mentioned.15

  Savonarola and Piero de’ Medici continued their curious alliance, while Poliziano, Pico della Mirandola and even Botticelli – to name but a few of the Palazzo Medici intellectual circle – seemed to find no contradiction in remaining closely involved on an all-but-daily basis with both Piero and the prior of San Marco.

  fn1 This site is now part of the University of Florence.

  fn2 The seemingly unlikely scene between Cardinal Caraffa and Alexander VI is confirmed by many sources (See the Notes for details). It has been claimed that the laughter and jocular horseplay involved in the removal of the papal signet ring indicate that Cardinal Caraffa may have remained behind with Alexander VI to deliver and share with him a gift from the pope’s favourite Tuscan vineyard.8

  11

  ‘Italy faced hard times … beneath stars hostile to her good’1

  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.