Seeds of Decline

by Edward Charles

  ‘You and he were childhood friends, were you not? Close friends?’ He sat back in his chair, trying to look relaxed, hoping, despite her ground rules, that she would ease her rules and allow further questions.

  Lucrezia smiled, a weary smile of resignation, as if someone had tried to creep up on her by tip-toeing past an open window. It was almost a smirk. She shook her head in amusement. ‘Our rule is becoming damaged isn’t it? I thought I said no questions?’

  He heard the words, but he also read the smile and he took a chance. ‘On a point of information only, Madonna. Hardly a question. But clarifications? They, surely, may be permitted?’

  Still smiling, she tipped her head from side-to-side, as if considering his proposal. ‘For a monk you are a good swordsman.’ Lucrezia’s mouth was open and she had her tongue in one cheek, perhaps to suppress an open laugh. Her eyes were merry and bright and it was clear she was enjoying their duel of words. Finally she nodded, a decision made. ‘Agreed, then. Points of information and clarification are permitted.’ She raised an admonishing finger. ‘But you are not to lead the conversation by active questioning.’

  She tilted her head to one side, as if to emphasize that the diversion was at an end and that she was intent on returning to her original theme. ‘As I said, we were brought up the same way and we believed in the same things. Shared beliefs can create strong bonds.’

  Savonarola watched her carefully. There was tenderness in her eyes. What was it that made her face soften in that manner? He would have liked to ask more, but he knew he was at risk of spoiling a developing trust and that at this early stage, he should not push her further. If there was something hidden in her mind that she felt the need to confess, he was sure it would emerge. Eventually. Given time.

  Patience – that’s what was needed now.

  Lucrezia paused, clearing her throat, trying to regain her direction. ‘And that brings me back to where I started, with the great hollow after Cosimo died.’

  Across the room, he was sure he could sense relief, now that she had pulled the conversation back to her original theme. So what had been the diversion that, finally, she had managed to avoid? He would think about it when he made his notes that evening,

  ‘The problem was, while we were looking at ourselves and trying to decide who and what we were, others were laying more active plans and seeking change. Piero thought he had inherited a calm situation, one which Cosimo had had under control. But the loss of Giovanni, who was universally popular, followed by the death of Cosimo, who was at least universally respected, had started to trigger uncertainty and after that, almost everything Piero did seemed to increase that uncertainty, rather than damp it down.’

  Her eyes drifted across the room ‘Mind you, being carried around the city in a litter because his gout was so bad was hardly likely to drum up confidence, or additional support, was it? And when word leaked out that the London and Bruges branches of the Medici Bank were both on the edge of bankruptcy, well, as you might expect, matters got distinctly worse.’

  On the other side of the room Savonarola nodded his understanding, as he was sure she expected him to. But the thought in his mind was not of appreciation for her clear analysis, but rather surprise at the extent to which she despised her late husband. But it was a sensitive subject and he made an effort not to let it show on his face as he lifted his head again to listen.

  She continued, appearing not to have noticed. ‘They called the Medici reggimento “The Party of the Plain”, because we were based in the gonfalon of Leon d’Oro, along the Via Larga. Now it became clear that we were weakened and all eyes began to shift to the other reggimento, the so-called “Party of the Hill”.’

  She tipped her head on one side in explanation. ‘The hill refers, of course, to the Monte alle Croce, although Pitti’s palazzo, where they were based, was right at the bottom of it, in Oltrarno – in fact, almost on the edge of the old Bardi streets.

  ‘The actions Cosimo had put in place meant that the Medici could not be voted out of power and we had for years relied on Francesco Sforza and his armies in Milan to protect us from a violent attack.’ She lifted her eyes again ‘You will remember I told you about the Milan branch being established for the sole purpose of lending money to the Sforza Court? Well now you can see what was happening, how the financial interests of the bank were becoming compromized by the need to maintain political stability in the city.’

  Again he nodded, although he was not sure he shared her interpretation entirely. ‘Are you telling me that Cosimo was using the bank’s money and risking the bank’s future, to buy peace in the city and, would it be true to say, to provide his own protection?’

  Her thin smile failed to hide the glare in her eyes and he knew his arrow had found its target. But she seemed unwilling to concede the point further and instead continued bravely on. ‘In any event, eighteen months after Cosimo’s death, Sforza died and we suddenly found ourselves vulnerable.

  ‘Unusually for him, Piero reacted quickly this time, and sent Lorenzo to Naples to argue our case for protection with King Ferrante. To our delight he came back smiling, saying everything had gone well and that King Ferrante had pledged support. But Naples was a long way away.

  ‘Then, in August, Piero was struck down by a particularly bad case of gout, and taking what turned out to be poor advice from his friend Diotisalvi Neroni, he decided to retire to Careggi.

  ‘It was then that they struck.’

  CAREGGI

  August 1466

  ‘Father! A messenger. He looks concerned. Better come quickly.’ Lorenzo, as always, is the first to notice the new arrival.

  The messenger looks exhausted, his horse lathered and his clothing covered in dust. ‘I have come from Giovanni Bentivoglio, Lord of Bologna. I am to tell you that you are about to be attacked. Two armies are on their way, one from Venice and the other from Ferrara.’

  ‘How close are they?’ Lorenzo has taken charge, as usual.

  The man gulps his reply. ‘Close, my lord. Eight hundred men under the banner of Borso D’Este, Marquis of Ferrara, have already been seen, passing through Fiumalbo.’

  ‘Headed this way?’

  ‘Yes. They say they have instructions to capture Piero and to kill him.’

  ‘Diotisalvi Neroni. The bastard. He’s misled me. He advised me to come here. He must have known this was going to happen.’ It’s Piero, dressing as he attempts to run.

  ‘We must return to Florence. They’ve played the same trick they played on Cosimo, thirty years ago.’

  By this time the whole household is up and dressed. Lucrezia calls for food for a journey. ‘Quickly.’ Lorenzo sees to the horses. Piero limps inside and gathers up his papers.

  Within the hour, pausing only to scribble a note to Galeazzo Maria Sforza, who has become Duke of Milan on his father’s death, and another to the citizens of Arezzo, asking them also for their support, they set off by the direct road.

  Lorenzo, now seventeen and brimming with self-confidence after his recent success negotiating in Naples, decides to ride ahead. He comes toward the village of Sant’ Ambrogio del Vescovo. As the name suggests, the village belongs to the Bishop of Florence. At this time the vescovo of Florence is Giovanni Neroni, Diotisalvi’s brother. So as Lorenzo approaches the village he is particularly on his guard.

  He turns to one of his small band of companions. ‘The village is too quiet. I smell a trap. Hold back behind this wall and observe. If you don’t get the all-clear from us within five minutes, ride back and tell my father to go round the other way.’

  Sure enough, as they enter the narrow streets they are pounced upon by armed guards bearing crossbows. Lorenzo and his men un-sheath their swords and begin to fight them off. And as they do so, their lone companion quietly turns his horse and rides back to warn Piero to take another route.

  When he needs to, Lorenzo can talk his way out of a locked chest. More than that, he can do so in Latin, in the silky Italian of diplomats, or in
the rough Tuscan of the streets. It’s the street Tuscan he uses now. He recognizes the men. In the past he and Carlo have often played street football against them. And being Lorenzo, he is confident he knows how to handle them.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, lads? Put those fucking bows away. You’ll hit my horse. And it’s worth a dozen of you useless fuckers.’

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘The old man? Oh he’s miles behind. Pissing about trying to fix the wheel on a cart. Silly old sod. If you want to talk to him, he’ll be along in about an hour. Loads of time. You’ve got time for a second breakfast. In fact, if there’s any girls around, you’ve got time for a quick screw. Talking of which, I’m on a promise myself, back in the city. Got to go. See you!’

  In the confusion they let him go and he rides with all haste to the Porta Faenza and into the city. Once there, and confident that his father has been warned, he finds himself amongst Medici supporters and begins to rally them.

  Savonarola realized he was sitting on the edge of his chair. But Lucrezia, who was walking up and down and waving her hands, was in full flow and he had no intention of interrupting her.

  ‘As soon as Piero arrived, matters began to turn. We did not know it at the time, but it appears that at the moment they heard that Piero had avoided capture, Agnolo Acciaiuoli, Niccolò Soderini and Diotisalvi Neroni rode off from the Palazzo Pitti with the excuse of gathering up their men. Apparently, they were in such a hurry that they left Luca Pitti alone – an old man, wondering quite what had happened.

  ‘It is clear now that his nerve broke, because a short time later, he arrived at the Palazzo Medici, hot and terrified, pleading for an urgent audience with Piero, who had barricaded himself in, surrounded by armed men.’

  PALAZZO MEDICI

  August 1466

  They bring Luca Pitti to Piero as soon as he arrives. Three of the soldiers throw him to the floor and stand over him with open swords. He looks terrified. At seventy-four years of age, he is unused to such treatment.

  As soon as they meet, he crawls pathetically to his knees and swears that he has been misunderstood. ‘I’ve always done my best to prevent violence,’ he pleads. ‘Piero, you must believe me, I’ve come here to warn you of the situation.’

  Lorenzo has his blood up and no time for weakness. ‘He’s lying. He’s in the thick of it. Chuck him in the street and let the masses cut his throat.’

  But Piero, bless his heart, has known Luca Pitti all his life. He likes the old man. Always has. So he forgives him, and pardons him for his sins.

  Luca, exhausted, sits there weeping, as Lorenzo, disgusted, puts on his armour and heads for the stables and his charger.

  Savonarola watched her expression as she turned and walked back toward him. Once again he could see she did not agree with her husband’s decision. Somehow he could never see her and Lorenzo giving Pitti such an easy escape. But no doubt they had had their reasons, probably to do with parentado once again.

  Almost immediately, she confirmed what he had been thinking. ‘Just to be sure he didn’t change his mind again, Francesco Sassetti, our general manager at the bank, pledged that Luca would marry his daughter Francesca to someone close to Piero.’ She snorted. ‘Of course, Luca thought he was referring to Lorenzo himself.’ Then she began to smile, shaking her head gently. ‘He was pretty upset when, a year later, we married his daughter to my brother Giovanni Battista and packed her off to Rome.’

  She paused in her pacing, and lifted her eyes once again. ‘Always read the small print. That’s what it’s there for. Even in an oral contract.’ And just in case he had missed the joke, she winked.

  Again, he nodded, ostensibly in acknowledgement. But he knew it was another lesson to be learned and remembered. These Medici must be like live eels to deal with.

  ‘From Pitti we learned that his co-conspirator, Niccolò Soderini, had sent word to the Ferrarese army to ride straight into the city. He told us Soderini was planning to go to the Palazzo Vecchio to bully the Signoria into arresting Piero. So just to be safe, we sent word to Galeazzo Maria Sforza to ride towards us as quickly as possible, and broke out the arms from the armoury under the roof in the Palazzo Medici to protect ourselves.’

  Finally, Lucrezia slowed her frenetic pacing, and returned to her chair. She sat down and helped herself to a glass of water. Then, looking tired, she smiled.

  ‘But nobody came from the Signoria. We learned later that, in the confusion, nobody had actually been given the responsibility to do so. Either that or whoever had been told to do it decided to forget his instructions and to lose himself in the streets.

  ‘Then word spread from reliable sources that the army from Ferrara had turned back, and that the Venetian army, it seemed, had never even left home. Now, by this time, we had three thousand troops of our own surrounding the Piazza della Signoria and matters started to swing back our way.

  ‘The following morning, we rang the Vacca, the great cowbell in the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and summoned all mature men into the Piazza. Then, with Lorenzo riding up and down in full armour and our troops with drawn swords, we sorted out the true men from the others and let them into the square. The rest we sent home.

  ‘The parlamento began in what we insisted was the proper legal manner, and we asked for a balia. Needless to say, with only our own men in the square, the shout of approval went up immediately and the balia was formed. It wasn’t hard. We already had a hundred names ready and confirmed in advance. The emergency committee sat and immediately agreed the death penalty for Acciaiuoli, Neroni and Soderini. As is the custom, the aggrieved person was then allowed to speak and Piero, showing both humility and mercy, requested that their sentences be commuted to ten years in exile, which was universally approved.

  ‘And in that manner, peace, once again, was restored.’

  Lucrezia paused, easing her back, and took another drink of water. ‘Democracy in Florence has its own ways of working, but we manage it, somehow.’

  She smiled and the young monk bowed his head low. This was not a time to make comments or to ask questions. He had learned a great deal and now his priority was to get to his room and to start writing his notes, before he forgot everything.

  Chapter 7

  Lorenzo’s Choice

  As he climbed the stairs to their meeting room the following morning, Girolamo Savonarola found himself pausing, looking out of each window as he passed it, and thinking.

  He was conscious of preparing himself, somehow sensing that the ground rules had changed and that, from that moment onward, their conversation had the capacity to lift itself onto a higher plane – onto a new level of mutual respect and understanding – and in so doing might begin to open the doors to those secret places that so far, he believed, had remained hidden and withheld from him.

  The previous afternoon, some hours after their daily conversation had come to an end, he had found himself sitting on a high wall, overlooking one of the larger pools, watching Lucrezia and her guests taking the second of their three daily treatments.

  The process had seemed comfortable enough, almost, to his eye, self-indulgent. But then everyone’s life seemed self-indulgent to him. Most days they would assemble by one of the pools. Then, dressed lightly but still modestly in long cotton robes, they would immerse themselves in the warm sulphurous water of the pool. That apparently being the sum total of their physical activity, they would then set themselves the task of relieving the boredom of the next two hours, and for this either music or conversation seemed to be the starting point.

  But the previous afternoon, the conversation had flowed almost entirely in one direction, as Lucrezia had been talked into reading from her long poem The Life of Saint John the Baptist. Of course she was not the first person to have taken the single verse in St Mark’s Gospel and turned it into an extended story, either in the form of rhyming stanze or of the religious plays, most commonly put on in the streets on feast days and called sacra rappresentazione
. But she was, almost certainly, the first woman to have done so.

  She had read about fifteen stanze when he realized that he knew the poem verbatim. Thinking forward he had suddenly recognized that an opportunity was about to come to him. Carefully and unobtrusively, but moving as fast as he could, he climbed down from the wall and made his way round to the side of the pool. They had not seemed to mind his presence and he had taken a seat in the shade of the same wall, leaned back, and listened, waiting for his moment.

  She had been one third of the way though the poem when he prepared himself for his opportunity:

  O son what words are those that you say?

  Why do you wish to abandon us so quickly?

  Will this celebration endure for such little time;

  This feasting we make for your return?

  The request you make of us is hard, O son;

  Why do you wish to leave us?

  O son do not put us through these trials;

  Please stay with us and may God bless you

  Surrounded by high walls on three sides, the pool acted like an amphitheatre and Lucrezia’s voice was loud and clear. As she reached the last line, he knew his moment had come and, speaking from memory, he stood and walked forward, toward the edge of the pool:

  I have told you and I tell you again

  Why I was sent into the world;

  So that I may go, a mendicant, into the desert,

  And live cheerfully in a state of penance.

  Let me tell you yet again;

  I must go alone into the most obscure

  Place that there is. Please rejoice with me

  That I go to fulfil God’s commands.

  As he reached the end of the stanza he hesitated. Perhaps they would think him presumptuous to have interrupted in so direct a manner and especially in presuming to speak the words of The Baptist himself, and in front of the author.