As Savonarola and the brethren of San Marco withdrew toward the monastery, they were forced to run a gauntlet not of fire, as had been intended, but of enraged humanity at least as dangerous to life and limb. Over the course of a single afternoon Florence had been transformed. Before the events of Saturday, Savonarola, for all the doubts that were beginning to bubble up, remained the most popular and influential man in Florence. Some in power had grown disillusioned with the Dominican friar but they were still afraid to move against him lest this provoke an uprising among his legions of devotees. Following the fiasco in the Piazza della Signoria he was almost universally reviled, and his opponents in the government were emboldened. In fact events had already raced past them. On Sunday morning, Savonarola’s colleague Mariano Ughi, substituting for his master on the pulpit of the Cathedral, was pelted with stones and driven from the altar. Other known adherents of the monk were attacked in the streets, and soon the cry “To San Marco!” could be heard ringing across the city. By midday the monastery of San Marco was besieged by an angry crowd. Some had come spontaneously, responding to the sudden change in mood, but many belonged to organized squads of vigilantes organized by groups like the compagnacci, almost certainly with the connivance of the government itself. Shouting “Kill the traitor!” and “Dead or alive!” they began to launch stones at the buildings behind the monastery’s high walls. The monks, not entirely unprepared, now rushed to gather arms—including battle axes, crossbows, and small artillery—that had been stockpiled in recent days.
Meanwhile, summary justice was being dispensed in the streets as the friar’s most prominent supporters were set upon by angry mobs. Among those murdered was Francesco Valori, who had slipped out of the monastery through a secret tunnel only to have his skull split open by a man who struck him from behind. As for Savonarola himself, the moment he had heard the angry crowd assembling in the square below he retreated to the high altar of the church and prostrated himself in prayer. It was not physical cowardice that caused him to flee the battle, but mental anguish as he saw all that he had built over the years come tumbling down. The people he had hoped to lead into the Promised Land had turned against him; the New Jerusalem he hoped to found proved no more than a mirage.
His followers had demonstrated that they were prepared to fight to the death, but Savonarola knew the cause was lost. Wishing to avoid a bloodbath, he sent an emissary to the Signoria requesting a delegation tasked with negotiating his surrender. At 3 A.M., with the crowd having imparted a sense of urgency to the proceedings by setting fire to cloister doors, Savonarola, along with his trusted lieutenants, Fra Domenico and Fra Silvestro, was led from San Marco in irons. The man who only a few days earlier had been regarded as a prophet was now almost universally despised. He was kicked and spat upon as he stumbled along the streets leading from the monastery to the cell awaiting him in the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria; only the escort of heavily armed guards saved him from being torn apart by the enraged mob.
Over the course of the next month and a half Savonarola and his fellow prisoners were subjected to repeated rounds of torture meant to extract confessions that would justify retrospectively the harsh treatment they were receiving at the hands of the government. The procedure was complicated by interference from Pope Alexander, who claimed jurisdiction over members of the cloth and who hoped to have the miscreants shipped off to Rome, where he could render justice himself. But despite the tempting prospect of having the whole mess taken off their hands, the Signoria were reluctant to submit to a precedent that might in future lead to greater papal interference in their affairs. In the end, emissaries from the Pope—led by a Spanish expert in church law, Francisco Remolins—were allowed to conduct a separate interrogation where the unfortunate prisoners were once again subjected to the strappado in an attempt to add to the already voluminous confessions.
During these weeks of physical and emotional torment, Savonarola revealed something of his own conflicted soul. The official records of his confession were certainly manipulated to place him in the worst light, but they still manage to convey flashes of genuine human feeling. At first Savonarola told his interrogators exactly what they wished to hear: that he had been animated by a lust for worldly power and that his claims of prophecy had been a sham to persuade the gullible to follow him. “Regarding my own aim or ultimate purpose, 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.”
Read to the public in the Hall of the Great Council, this admission of worldly ambition, written in the friar’s own hand, served its purpose, disillusioning those who still believed in Savonarola. “[H]e whom we had held to be a prophet,” wrote Landucci mournfully,
confessed that he was no prophet, and had not received from God the things which he preached; and he confessed many things which had occurred during the course of his preaching were contrary to what he had given us to understand. I was present when this protocol was read, and I marveled feeling utterly dumbfounded with surprise. My heart was grieved to see such an edifice fall to the ground on account of having been founded on a lie. Florence had been expecting a new Jerusalem, from which would issue just laws and splendor and an example of righteous life, and to see the renovation of the Church, the conversion of unbelievers, and the consolation of the righteous; and I felt that everything was exactly contrary, and had to resign myself with the thought.
But in subsequent appointments with the torturer Savonarola regained his true voice, recanting his previous confession: “Now listen to me. God, you have caught me. I confess that I have denied God. I have told lies. Florentine lords, be my witnesses. I have denied him from fear of torture. If I have to suffer, I want to suffer for the truth. I did get from God what I have said. God, you are giving me penance for having denied you from fear of torture. I deserve it.” Like Saint Peter before him, Savonarola now embraced his punishment, not for the crimes cited by his tormentors but for having, in a moment of weakness, denied his lord.
Now there was little to be gained by prolonging the agony. Both the civil government and the Pope’s ambassadors were determined to close out this sorry chapter as quickly as possible. On May 22, Savonarola and his two lieutenants were led to the scaffold erected in the Piazza della Signoria. First they were stripped of their sacred vestments (so they would not go to their deaths still bearing the symbols of the Church) and their guilt as heretics and schismatics proclaimed to the assembled crowd. Fra Silvestro was hanged first, followed by Fra Domenico. Savonarola came last, his eyes downcast, murmuring a silent prayer. According to Landucci, who witnessed the execution, a few of the remaining true believers lost their faith then and there, since they had expected at this final moment some sign from God that the dying men were blessed martyrs.
But even in death Savonarola had a subtle power over the minds of men. To prevent his body from becoming the focus of a clandestine cult, those who had hanged him now kindled a huge bonfire, turning the dangling bodies into crumbling ash, which they then hauled away in carts and dumped into the Arno.
As the crowd began to disperse, the citizens of Florence were gripped by anxiety about the future. Some were relieved that the man who had kept the city seething for years was now gone, anticipating, perhaps, a return to the days of Lorenzo de’ Medici when it seemed as if there was more joy to be had, when full purses and peace abroad had made the city sparkle and hum. Others mourned the dream that died along with the three monks on the scaffold, of a world spiritually reborn with Florence as its capital. Whatever their political convictions, few Florentines took any pride in the grim spectacle they had just witnessed. It had been a dirty business and most were ready to forget and move on.
On Saturday, June 15, 1498, three weeks after Savonarola’s death, Niccolò Machiavelli made his w
ay to the Palazzo della Signoria, where he was nominated to serve as Second Chancellor of the Republic, an important post in the civil service of a government now seeking to regain its balance after the recent convulsions.
* * *
i According to his own account, Machiavelli attended Savonarola’s sermons at San Marco on two consecutive days, March 2 and 3.
ii The government’s response to this demand was to prohibit Savonarola from speaking in the Cathedral, but they did not prevent him from delivering sermons at his own church of San Marco. This doomed attempt at a compromise solution revealed deep divides within the ruling elite.
iii For this period in history Guicciardini is a better guide than Machiavelli. Though at twenty-five Machiavelli was a grown man when Charles invaded while his friend Guicciardini was only eleven, Machiavelli’s Florentine Histories ends with Lorenzo’s death in 1492, while Guicciardini’s The History of Florence and The History of Italy both cover the entire Savonarolan period. Machiavelli probably ended his Florentine Histories in 1492 so he would not have to deal with the unfortunate Piero in a book commissioned by his cousin, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici.
iv This is literally true since the French army carried not only the usual arsenal of war but also the as yet unknown disease of syphilis, a contagion probably brought back from the New World by the Spanish ships of exploration.
v These condottieri, literally “contractors,” named for the condotta, or contract, they signed with the state that employed them, were mercenary captains employed by the various governments of Italy to fight their battles. Leading small bands of professional soldiers, these captains were specialists in avoiding bloody combat since death and destruction, at least for their own men, was bad for business. They had no compunction, however, in meting out the same to civilians who happened to get in their way.
vi At the time, Ludovico was not officially the Duke of Milan, the title held by his young nephew for whom he was serving as regent. It was his desire to secure the title for himself that largely explains his machinations with the French.
vii In return for Florentine promises of financial and logistical support, Charles agreed that as soon as he conquered Naples he would restore the fortresses of Sarzana and Pietrasanta, as well as the rebellious city of Pisa. Ultimately, he would deliver on none of his promises.
viii To some extent the Great Council was not so much an innovation as a return to the pre-Medici forms when two large assemblies, the Popolo and the Commune, were said to embody the will of the people. But these two ancient councils had been marginalized by smaller and more tightly controlled steering committees.
ix Machiavelli’s “A Discourse on Remodeling the Government of Florence” was written in 1520 at the request of Pope Leo X (Giovanni de’ Medici). It is important to keep in mind the intended audience when analyzing Machiavelli’s prescriptions. The main thrust of his argument is that Florence, as well as the Medici family, would be best served if the government were placed once more on sound republican foundations. Despite the need to tailor his arguments to suit his audience, there is no reason to doubt the sincerity of his conclusions, which correspond with those expressed elsewhere in his writings.
x Emperor of the Romans was the title given to the man selected by the German Electors as Holy Roman Emperor but who had yet to receive his title from the Pope. This figure was the successor of Charlemagne, who was crowned Emperor by Pope Leo III on Christmas Day in the year 800, reestablishing, at least in theory, the Western Roman Empire that had collapsed after the barbarian invasions. Throughout the Middle Ages the Emperor was a powerful secular lord who at times claimed absolute rule over the Germanic regions of central Europe as well as large portions of Italy. By the Renaissance, his power was often more symbolic than real, though in the person of Maximillian’s successor, Charles V, the prestige of the title was combined with enormous political and military resources.
xi He left a portion of his army behind to protect his conquest, but they ultimately proved insufficient to prevent the kingdom’s recapture by Fernandino.
xii Michelangelo had been discovered by Lorenzo de’ Medici and for two years the first citizen of Florence had raised the young boy almost as a son in his palace on the Via Larga. Michelangelo’s relations with Piero were more difficult, but after Piero’s expulsion the artist feared he would be identified with the disgraced regime. The fact that he did not return to his native city for many years reflects in part the poor climate for art and artists there.
xiii It is hard to imagine that the artist who painted the terrifying Saint Mary Magdalene at the Foot of the Cross, with its backdrop showing a Florence aflame, is the same man who painted the pagan Birth of Venus some two decades earlier.
xiv Fra Giuliano, having made no claim of divine protection, did not expect miraculous intervention on his behalf. It was, in effect, a suicide mission—which is perhaps why Fra Francesco had found an excuse to back out. (He claimed he would enter the fiery tunnel only if Savonarola himself agreed to go with him.)
III
THE CIVIL SERVANT
“When you see a minister who thinks more about his own interests than about yours, who seeks his own advantage in everything he does, then you may be sure that such a man will never be a good minister, and you will never be able to trust him.”
—MACHIAVELLI, THE PRINCE
JUNE 15, 1498, MARKS A TURNING POINT NOT ONLY IN Machiavelli’s life but in the history of Western thought, for this was the beginning of his career as a civil servant and, as he made clear on more than one occasion, it was his years of service in the Florentine government that formed the basis of his political philosophy. “I have set down all that I know and have learnt,” he wrote in the dedication to his Discourses, “from a long experience of, and from constantly reading about, political affairs.” He opens the Prince in much the same way, pointing to “my knowledge of the actions of great men, learned by me from long experience in modern affairs and from continual study of the ancients.” Citing his experience is not merely an attempt to establish his bona fides, though he was certainly conscious of the need to stress his professional credentials since he lacked the scholarly or aristocratic pedigree usually associated with intellectual ambition. Instead, he is offering a completely novel perspective: a view of human government seen from the trenches, by one who has been there and understands how things actually work. At another point he declares, “it seems best to me to go straight to the actual truth of things rather than to dwell in dreams.” It is this approach that accounts for much of his originality, and also for much of the outrage his writings have provoked over the centuries, for in casting his unsentimental eye on “the actual truth of things,” he discovers a world far different, and far more savage, than anything imagined by the philosophers who preceded him.
Given the undistinguished record he had compiled so far, his appointment to a responsible position in the bureaucracy comes as something of a surprise. At the age of twenty-nine, the minimum required for voting rights in the Great Council, this obscure young man with no experience, and from a family of little standing within the ruling elite, was about to be entrusted with one of the most important unelected offices in the Florentine government. There is nothing in his past to suggest such a career was in the offing. Like his father before him, he had spent his time cultivating his mind, familiarizing himself with the essentials of classical literature without which no Florentine could consider himself an educated man, but in no other way preparing himself for a serious career.
Instead, Niccolò seemed destined for the life of the country squire, managing the various Machiavelli properties in the city and the countryside, stretching their meager income to sustain a frugal lifestyle. Lately these responsibilities were consuming more of his time. As Bernardo grew more infirm, Niccolò took over more of the family business. His position as the effective head of the household was confirmed the year before when he was assigned the daunting task of writing to Cardinal Lopez when t
he family’s privileges were being threatened by the covetous Pazzi family. But he remained to all intents and purposes a dilettante, a gentleman—though one of modest means—with plenty of time on his hands to prospect in the realm of ideas rather than profits.
One shouldn’t overstate the honor Machiavelli was being accorded when he was nominated to head the Second Chancery. This was a bureaucratic office, one of the many paid positions offered by the government of Florence. But rather than signaling the dignity of the office, the salary—which started at 192 florins a year—was actually a mark of low status.i Florentines distinguished between offices deemed onori (honorable)—which included the top elected and appointed positions of the state where no recompense was expected—and those deemed utili (useful or practical), positions of lesser importance that came with a salary. Onori were for gentlemen who could afford to work for free; utili were reserved for those who had to earn a living. No Medici, Pazzi, or Soderini would stoop to taking money for participating in government, but a Machiavelli couldn’t afford to be so proud. At its highest levels Florence was ruled by amateurs, men who graciously volunteered to take time away from their normal pursuits to serve the greater good. This was the theory at least. In fact, by the fifteenth century those who circulated among the highest offices in the land were mostly practiced politicians who spent far more time running the state than they did managing their private affairs. For these influential men—amounting to a couple of hundred at most—political power was a prerequisite for economic success, since, as Lorenzo de’ Medici once remarked, “it is ill living in Florence for the rich unless they rule the state.” High political office, in addition to allowing the holder to tinker with the tax rolls in such a way as to reward friends and harass enemies, opened up the spigots of patronage. One of the main ways these gentlemen-politicians built up a power base was by providing utili to a long list of clients, who were then beholden to their patrons.
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