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

by Paul Strathern

  However, there is no denying that Savonarola did believe he was a prophet, and did indeed see many of his prophecies fulfilled. Some of them were ambiguous and open to wide interpretation (such as the arrival of the ‘scourge of God’), while others predicted highly probable events (the deaths of the tyrants, for instance); yet his wish-fulfilment-cum-prophecy concerning the death of Charles VIII, which was neither ambiguous nor probable, not only came true, but had no effect on the interrogators who had forced him to confess that he was not a prophet.

  Savonarola’s confession was followed by a justification of his motives, which appears totally antithetical to his personality:

  Regarding my aim, I say, truly, that it lay in the glory of the world, in having credit and reputation; and to attain this end, I sought to keep myself in credit and good standing in the city of Florence, for the said city seemed to me a good instrument for increasing this glory, and also for giving me name and reputation abroad.4

  Even so, such cooked-up motives hardly constituted treason. Under further brutal interrogation, Savonarola went on to admit that he had always agreed with the formation of the new republic, from its very inception after the flight of Piero de’ Medici. However, the reasons he gave for this appear equally implausible, showing no evidence of the belief in social justice that had so inspired his sermons in favour of the new republic and the establishment of the more democratic Great Council. Instead, he had supported such things:

  because it seemed to me to go best with my aims. I sought to shape it accordingly … I intended that those who called themselves my friends should rule more than the others, and this is why I favoured them as best I could.

  Such a forced admission was edging him closer to dangerous ground. Yet once again, seeking political influence could hardly be labelled a capital offence, especially in Florence. Still Ser Ceccone pressed on, accusing Savonarola of fixing elections for the Signoria and the Great Council. But even in his broken state, Savonarola refused to confess to this. And according to the record, when he was asked if he had an alliance with Piero de’ Medici he replied, ‘I strongly opposed him.’5 This also has the ring of truth, further revealing the haphazard nature of Ser Ceccone’s doctored text: such a patriotic claim was unlikely to have been included in any complete fabrication intended to convict Savonarola of treason. When Ser Ceccone demanded to know if Savonarola had written to Charles VIII, he willingly admitted having done so. He had done this for the benefit of Florence, as was evident. Consequently, he also admitted that he had called for a Council of the Church, with the aim of ridding it of corruption – again, hardly a treasonable motive, at least where Florence was concerned. And besides, the attitude towards the behaviour of Alexander VI was all but universal. Yet when Savonarola was asked if he sought to become pope himself, he replied: ‘No, I did not wish to become pope – for if I had succeeded in my purpose I would have deemed myself above any cardinal or pope.’6 In other words, he had in mind higher spiritual aims, rather than Church office, although when pressed (probably after further torture), he allegedly went back on his earlier claim and did admit that if he had been elected, he would not have refused the office of pope.

  It seems probable that Ser Ceccone was adhering to a list of questions that had previously been drawn up by the Signoria and the others in attendance, and that he was simply proceeding in consecutive order, with no real adversarial strategy in mind, other than discovering evidence of Savonarola’s treason. Yet no matter how inept such a method may have been, it was still capable of springing surprises to catch the fatigued and all-but-broken accused off-guard. How did Savonarola receive his excellent intelligence concerning what was going on in the city and beyond? Did he demand that his friars break the secret of the confessional by passing on to him certain vital information thus gleaned? Savonarola denied such charges.

  Occasionally Savonarola was outwitted. When Ser Ceccone asked him whether he had been in favour of the ordeal by fire, Savonarola denied this; but he did consequently admit to allowing it to go ahead ‘for the sake of his reputation’.7 And here, for once, this may have been the truth. Savonarola had been manoeuvred into a situation where he felt bound to accept the challenge of the Franciscans. This may be the single occasion in Ser Ceccone’s report where Savonarola’s claim that he acted on account of his reputation was true. All the other claims – ‘I intended to rule …’,8 ‘my aim was … the glory of the world’, ‘to increase … my name and reputation abroad … my pride … my hypocrisy’, and so forth – which are repeated to the extent that they become a constant refrain, are unmistakably insertions by Ser Ceccone or others. This was not the language used by Savonarola: their very repetition after so many of Savonarola’s answers, as well as their uncharacteristic sentiments, is simply unbelievable.

  Finally, on 18 April, after a week of interrogation (or processi – that is, trials, as they were officially designated), Ser Ceccone retired to ‘formalise and set in order’9 his transcription. When later that day this was read out to Savonarola, he objected to its obvious falsifications, promising Ser Ceccone: ‘If you publish this, you will die within six months’.10 fn5 Early next day, Savonarola was ordered to put his name to this document. Initially he refused, but after the threat of further strappado and other ‘encouragement’ he eventually signed.

  Later that same day, Landucci recorded: ‘The protocol of Fra Girolamo, written in his own hand, was read out to the Council in the Great Hall.’11 Although the deposition was doubtless announced as such, it cannot have been in Savonarola’s own hand. Only his signature would have been authentic. The printed version in Vallori’s biography, Document XXVI, extends over twenty-seven closely printed pages up to this point; the ‘protocol’ would have been a shorter summary. After undergoing the strappado, Savonarola’s ability to write would have been severely impaired, to say the least, to the extent that even if he had only written the protocol, it would still have taken him an unconscionable amount of time and effort to do so. With Alexander VI demanding Savonarola’s presence in Rome, and Florence remaining in a state of disarrary, the Signoria would have been in too much of a hurry to allow for such a time-wasting procedure. It is necessary to emphasise these points owing to the utter lack of material evidence, in order to build up the case for what necessarily remain suppositions concerning the original document. Savonarola was fighting for his life, whilst amongst themselves the authorities of the new republic abandoned all pretence at the justice whose restoration had been the justification for the overthrow of the Medici.

  Landucci went on to record the devastating effect that Savonarola’s protocol had on him:

  This very man whom we had regarded as a true prophet had now confessed that he was not a prophet at all, and that he had not received from God the things which he had preached. He confessed that many of the things which had taken place during the years when he had preached had not happened because he had prophesied them. I was present when this protocol was read out, and I was astonished, being utterly dumfounded with surprise. My heart was grieved to witness such a marvel collapse in ruins because it had been founded upon a lie. Florence had lived in the expectation of a new Jerusalem, where the laws would be just and the city would be such an example of righteous life that it would be a splendour upon this earth, and lead to the renovation of the Church, the conversion of unbelievers and the consolation of the righteous.

  Landucci would not have been alone amongst the Piagnoni supporters who believed Savonarola to be a prophet, and he was certainly not the only one to be similarly devastated by the public reading of the protocol. The Piagnoni dream of a new Jerusalem where social justice prevailed was shattered: Florence was to be no ‘City of God’ after all.

  However, the Signoria quickly came to the conclusion that Savonarola’s confession, even in its present corrupted state, was simply not enough. All this was hardly treason: he had confessed to no capital offence, and Alexander VI would soon be insisting once more that he be conveyed to Rome. C
onsequently, it was decided that Savonarola should undergo a second ‘trial’, which commenced under the same conditions of secrecy just two days after the public reading of the protocol from the first trial. Once again, the leading interrogator and recorder of evidence was Ser Ceccone, but this time – according to his printed report – the trial took place ‘without torture or any harm to the body’.12 This was contradicted by rumours reaching Landucci, who just two days into the second trial recorded, ‘The Frate was tortured.’13 He also noted on the same day that several leading Piagnoni supporters were arrested, including former gonfaloniere Domenico Mazzinghi.

  The following day, 24 April, the trial approached its final stage, and Savonarola was asked to sign his ‘confession’. This time he appears to have written at least part of the document himself; however, there were also lines written and added by Ser Ceccone. This we know because Savonarola wrote, or was forced to write, that ‘in some places there are notes in the margin written by Ser Francesco di Ser Barone [Ser Ceccone]’.14 This gave Ser Ceccone carte blanche to add, at a later time, whatever he (or the Signoria and the others attending the trial) so wished. Evidence of such post-facto insertions can be seen in the astonishing admisssion allegedly made by Savonarola that, although as prior of San Marco he ‘consecrated the bread and wine every day for mass, and gave holy communion’,15 he ‘never went to confession’. He revealed:

  my reason for not going to confesssion was that I did not wish to disclose my secret intentions to anyone, and because I could not have been absolved from these sins as I did not intend to give up my intentions. Yet I did not care about this, on account of the great end I had in mind. When a man has lost his faith and his soul, he can do whatever he wants and pursue every great thing. I hereby indeed confess to being a great sinner, and I want very much to do this correctly and for this I am willing to do a great penance.

  It is extremely difficult to believe that Savonarola lost his faith in God whilst in pursuance of ‘the great end’ he had in mind – especially when this end was to establish Florence as the ‘City of God’. A master of logic like Savonarola, who had debated with a philosopher such as Pico della Mirandola, was hardly likely to contradict himself in such a manner. Indeed, despite Ser Ceccone’s ham-fisted methods, it is surprising that the Signoria or the dignitaries present, amongst whom were men of some intelligence, permitted such a blunder to pass. Presumably by this stage they were beyond caring, having the speedy despatch of their own ‘great end’ in mind.

  Some parts of the printed document of Savonarola’s second trial do have a certain ring of truth. As we have seen, Savonarola had over the years developed considerable political acumen, and the printed version of his second trial would seem to confirm this. In it, he indicated that he well understood the only way for democracy to work in the Florentine republic:

  My intention, as I have said in reply to other questions, was that the citizens who I had decided were good, should hold all positions of power, or at least govern with a majority of four to three, and that the others, who are known as the Arrabbiati – although in order to preserve my honour I did not call them by this name – should be kept out of government as much as possible.16

  So far so good: but he knew that any workable democracy – especially under the conditions prevailing in Florence at the time – required an opposition of some sort, for even his supporters were not above political suspicion:

  It was not my intention totally to exclude and drive out [all opposition], for I was very much in favour of having an obstacle against the leaders of our faction, having suspected that these same leading citizens would in the end become so predominant and hold such power that they would fashion a narrower form of government of their own and wreck the Great Council.17

  Savonarola’s belief in the workings of the Great Council took into account the frailties of human nature. If such passages were not authentic, then it remains difficult to see any reason for Ser Ceccone or the Signoria to have made them up. And once again, such ideas were hardly a capital offence.

  At the same time, Savonarola’s closest allies were also being subjected to interrogation. The fervently loyal Fra Domenico da Pescia, whose belief in his master had even extended to his willingness to undergo ordeal by fire, was to suffer horribly at the hands of the authorities. His inquisitors tried to persuade him that Savonarola had in fact confessed to all manner of sins, from being a false prophet to heresy, but Fra Domenico continued to insist, ‘In the certainty of my mind, I have always believed, and in the absence of any proof to the contrary, still firmly believe in the prophecies of Savonarola’.18 As well as being subjected to the strappado, Fra Domenico was also forced to endure the stanghetta.fn6

  After further agonies, Fra Domenica informed his inquisitors:

  I have tried to be as precise to you as I would be at the hour of my death, and indeed I may well die if you torture me any further, for I am utterly broken, my arms have been destroyed, especially my left one, which your tortures have now dislocated for a second time.

  Yet still they continued, and still he could not bring himself to lie, declaring, ‘I have always thought him an altogether upright and extraordinary man.’19 As with Savonarola’s trials, there is a question here over documentary sources. At the back of Villari’s biography, as Document XXVII, he includes the two different ‘original’ versions of the transcript that have come down to us. These are printed side by side for comparison. According to Villari, the version in the left column is ‘the true document written in his own hand’,20 whilst the other is ‘the false document’. In the light of Fra Domenico’s claim that ‘my arms have been destroyed’ (ho guaste le braccia), it is difficult to see how he could actually have written this ‘true’ document. More likely, he dictated it, read it through and appended some sort of signature. Villari himself gives an eloquent defence of his conclusions:

  When they read Fra Domenico’s confession, the authorities felt obliged to insert various alterations [in order to] efface the tone of heroism which was notable in every word … When I put together the two copies of these depositions, which I myself discovered, I found that the one which was altered by the Signoria was better assembled, more grammatical and had a better style than the true and genuine confession. This real version contains evidence of a sincere and natural eloquence that does not come from art, but is the spontaneous expression of an open soul. It is not possible to read this examination without being profoundly moved, it is as if we are transported into the very torture chamber itself, witnessing the pitiless wrenching of the limbs, hearing the grating of the bones, aware of the frail exhausted voice, so sublime and pure, of this heroic monk who welcomes death with the angelic smile of a martyr.21

  Such sentiments may appear rather overblown in our secular age, yet something similar must certainly have taken place. Fra Domenico’s belief was indestructible; and, miraculously, he survived his tortures.

  By contrast, the third member of the trio of monks arrested at San Marco, the sickly otherworldly Fra Silvestro Maruffi, whose visions had so inspired Savonarola, proved all too human. Having unsuccessfully tried to hide in San Marco, he now faced his inquisitors filled with terror. Once again Ser Ceccone conducted the proceedings. Fra Silvestro soon denounced Savonarola, as well as all the claims he had made, before giving a complete list of all the citizens who regularly visited Savonarola at San Marco. Even so, when questioned about Savonarola’s interference in affairs of state, he could offer no evidence. He also unwittingly contradicted the ‘admission’ that Savonarola had made in his signed legal document that he ‘never went to confession’. Fra Silvestro explained how:

  on twenty or twenty-five occasions, when he was about to deliver a sermon, he would come to my cell and tell me, ‘I do not know what to preach. Pray to God for me, because I fear that he has abandoned me because of my sins.’ And he would then say that he wished to unburden himself of his sins, and would make confession to me. Afterwards he would go away and preach a b
eautiful sermon. The last time that he did this was when he preached in San Marco on the Saturday before the last Sunday of Lent. Finally I say that he has deceived us.22

  Again, the abrupt break in style and tone suggests that this last sentence was inserted by Ser Ceccone. Yet even Fra Silvestro’s abject confession was not sufficient to condemn Savonarola to death.

  The friars of San Marco proved to be of similar frailty to Fra Silvestro. As a result of their violent resistance during the siege of San Marco they had been excommunicated by Alexander VI. In an attempt to redeem themselves and have this sentence annulled, on 21 April they composed a collective letter to the pope, which was signed by almost all the friars in the community. This letter has been vilified as an abject surrender to the pope, as well as a grovelling betrayal of their beloved prior, and indeed it is both of these. However, it is possible to read this document as a letter addressed to the pope, in his office as ruler of the Church and as the occupant of St Peter’s throne, rather than to Alexander VI himself, whom Savonarola had so passionately castigated. The distinction is subtle, but real in this case: they were not prostrating themselves before the degenerate monster who sat on St Peter’s throne, but before God’s representative on Earth. This distinction becomes clear and significant when the letter describes how the friars themselves felt with regard to Savonarola: