Sixtus was neither the first nor the last pope to engage in nepotism. Relatives of a reigning pontiff were automatically vaulted into the first rank of European nobility, feudal titles and lucrative benefices dropping into their laps like manna from heaven, but the obscurity of the della Rovere family, coupled with the burning ambition of the man at its head, combined in a particularly virulent strain of what was a chronic papal disease. The fisherman’s son, having reached the pinnacle of power, was determined to use his high office to compensate for an oversight of history that had left his family impoverished while less deserving clans lorded over vast feudal estates and surrounded themselves in unimaginable luxury. Membership in the College of Cardinals would be reserved for blood relations or, failing this, for those from whom immediate material benefits could be expected. Clearly there was no room in such company for the name of Medici.
In pursuing such blatantly selfish aims Sixtus disappointed those idealists who saw his election as an opportunity to reform a corrupt institution. But even hardheaded diplomats worried about the deleterious effects of the pope’s fondness for his relatives, fearing that efforts on their behalf would upset the delicate balance of power in Italy. Nowhere was that nervousness more apparent than among the occupants of the Palace of Priors, who knew that the realization of papal ambition could only come at Florence’s expense.
The first and most favored recipient of Sixtus’s largesse was his nephew Pietro Riario, whose deftness at filling the pockets of the cardinals with gold had been instrumental in his uncle’s success. Sixtus was determined to refashion his nephew into a prince of the Church by showering him with lucrative appointments. In the space of a few short months the young Franciscan monk had emerged from obscurity to become one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Europe.
Pietro Riario’s meteoric career is emblematic of the corruption of the Renaissance Church. Among its greatest abuses—and one that was to be a particular target of reformers like Martin Luther—was the practice of allowing a single prelate to acquire multiple titles, each of which paid a hefty salary while demanding nothing of its holder. One man might serve simultaneously as an archbishop in Scotland and an abbot in Bavaria, drawing income from each while setting foot in neither. The accumulation of these so-called benefices allowed a well-connected Church officer to live like a prince in Rome while his nominal parishioners were left to fend for themselves. In addition to receiving a cardinal’s hat, Pietro received bishoprics in Split, Seville, and Valencia, benefices that netted an income of 1,000 ducats a year. After his uncle conferred upon him the patriarchate of Constantinople and the abbey of Sant’Ambrogio, Pietro’s income swelled to 60,000 ducats. With the death in 1473 of Giovanni Neroni—brother of Dietisalvi, who had been living in exile since the failed conspiracy of 1466—Sixtus added to Pietro’s already impressive portfolio by bestowing on him the crucial archbishopric of Florence.
Cardinal Riario was an energetic and capable advocate for papal interests, at least as Sixtus defined them. Even more intelligent and capable was Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, the future Pope Julius II, under whose aggressive rule the Renaissance Church would reach the pinnacle of its military, if not spiritual, power. A man of aggressive and martial temperament, Giuliano would work for most of his adult life to extend the authority and reach of the Church, donning armor and leading his troops into battle for the sake of God’s glory. Whatever one thought of the militant Giuliano, no one could describe him as a nonentity.
The same could not be said for Girolamo Riario, Pietro’s younger brother. Before his uncle’s elevation, Girolamo had served as a part-time customs clerk in a small Ligurian town, a station in life that suited the abilities if not the aspirations of this temperamental and somewhat dim young man. Brought to Rome by the newly anointed Sixtus, the twenty-eight-year-old Girolamo shared the family ambition but possessed little of the ability that marked most of the Riario–della Rovere clan.
So far Sixtus had used his position to advance his relatives within the ecclesiastical hierarchy of which he was the titular head, but a career in the Church had its drawbacks for anyone with long-term ambitions. Most inconvenient was the fact that celibate priests could not pass on their titles and lands to legitimate children. Thus if the Riario and della Rovere were to insinuate themselves into the landed aristocracy, at least one of their members would have to remain a layman, to marry and to father children upon whom he could bestow the honors and estates he had acquired in his lifetime. This was the role that fell to Girolamo. Sixtus, showing an equal zeal in pursuing secular titles as he had in securing ecclesiastical preferments for his other nephews, strained body and soul to provide the lands and titles that would transform him into a great feudal lord.
Sixtus’s ambition for his family did not make a clash with Lorenzo inevitable. In fact his policy was in many ways the mirror image of Lorenzo’s own. For Lorenzo, whose family leveraged business success into political power, the prestige of high Church office would offer a legitimacy not available within the republican framework of their native city. For Sixtus, by contrast, the trick was to turn his meteoric rise in the Church hierarchy into something permanent by trading spiritual capital for the more tangible asset of feudal titles and the real estate that went along with them. In some ways their aims were complementary and, had Lorenzo been willing to play the game, they might well have come to an arrangement whereby both families prospered by allowing the other to pursue their ambitions unhindered. In this scenario Lorenzo would have given Sixtus a free hand to pursue a fiefdom for his nephew in central Italy, and in return the pope would settle Giuliano handsomely in the Church. That their relations instead deteriorated into murder and mayhem reveals the complexity of Lorenzo’s position as both a private citizen and effective head of state, and offers a rare insight into the character of the two men soon to be locked in a life and death struggle.
The Riario–della Rovere clan is immortalized in one of the most remarkable group portraits of the Renaissance, a fresco painted by Melozzo da Forli to commemorate Sixtus’s reopening of the Vatican Library and his appointment of the humanist Bartolomeo Platina as its chief librarian.* The fresco is less remarkable for its artistic merit than for the psychological insight it offers into these men of disparate talents and temperaments, united only by a common desire to grasp all they can while there’s still time. In a magnificent architectural setting whose coffered ceiling and gilded columns recall the grandeur of imperial Rome, the family gathers, looking strangely ill at ease and out of place. The pope himself, gripping the arms of his throne like a bird of prey, scowls unpleasantly, not so much looking at the kneeling Platina as through him.† At his side stands young Cardinal Riario, his beak-nosed profile deliberately echoing Sixtus’s own—perhaps a covert recognition of a closer relationship between the two than could be admitted officially. Before him stands the formidable Giuliano, the monk’s tonsure revealing his membership in the peace-loving Franciscan order but his massive frame and authoritative posture suggesting more the fighting spirit of a warrior-king.
And then there’s Girolamo. Facing away from his uncle, he seems no part of the gathering at all. His artfully tousled hair and heavy gold chain of office over a blue satin robe suggest a fragile vanity.* His pose mirrors that of his cousin Giuliano, but this only serves to contrast their characters—the cardinal’s strength and Girolamo’s weakness; the gravity of the former, his jaw thrust forward determinedly, the petulant sulk of the latter whose expression resembles that of a child who has just been punished for misbehaving.
The first step in Sixtus’s ambitious plan to elevate the Riario–della Rovere clan into the ranks of the landed aristocracy was to acquire a title for Girolamo, purchasing in his name the hamlet of Bosco d’Alessandria for the price of 14,000 gold florins. This rustic village in northern Romagna was hardly worth the price but for the fact that the former grocer’s clerk could now style himself Count Girolamo. Having thus bought his way (on credit) into the feuda
l nobility, Count Girolamo now set about finding a bride to match his newly won eminence. His agent in this delicate matter of the heart was his brother, the wily Cardinal Pietro, who, with an instinct for the main chance, set his sights on one of the most powerful families in Italy—the Sforza of Milan. Though not the most ancient lineage of Europe—their association with Milan dated only to the time of the current duke’s father—the Sforza ranked above all but a few of the greatest monarchs in Europe. Critically, as the ruling dynasty of the greatest city-state in Italy, the Sforza could offer powerful protection for the fledgling entity that Sixtus and Pietro were stitching together for Girolamo from the independent communes of the Romagna.
At first the plan was to wed Girolamo to the duke’s twelve-year-old niece, Costanza, but the deal fell through when, after months of delay, the impatient count insisted that he be allowed to consummate the marriage then and there, mortally offending the girl’s mother, Gabriella Gonzaga.† Anxious to avoid giving offense to the pope, Duke Galeazzo offered in her place his illegitimate daughter, the ten-year-old Caterina. The ceremony took place January 17, 1473, in the Pavia Castle with the duke himself presiding. The modesty of the affair, which was attended only by the duke, a few officials, and the two principals, can be explained only by the fact that Caterina was illegitimate. Even so, Pietro and his uncle were well pleased with the fruit of their efforts: the daughter of a duke, even an illegitimate one, opened up breathtaking vistas. Galeazzo’s own father, the condottiere Francesco, had parlayed a similar match with Duke Filippo Maria Visconti’s illegitimate daughter into a dukedom for himself. Perhaps equally glorious opportunities awaited young Girolamo.*
Though both sides hoped to profit from the connection, Sixtus was quicker to exploit the situation. Having used the little town of Bosco d’Alessandria to bait the Sforza, he now used the Sforza connection to land a bigger fish. Casting about in the grab bag of jumbled principalities of the Romagna for a feudal property that would add luster to the Riario name, his greedy eyes lighted upon a likely piece of real estate.
Imola was a mid-sized city of some seven thousand souls strategically located on the ancient Roman Via Emilia, which led through the rugged Apennines before descending into the vineyard-and olive-carpeted Tuscan valley below. Though nominally part of the Papal States, this town, some fifty miles due north of Florence, had for generations been under the effective control of the Manfredi family. The Signoria of Florence had long kept a watchful eye on Imola, hoping someday to add it to their Tuscan empire or at the very least to ensure that it remained out of unfriendly hands.* This second goal was jeopardized by the current lord of Imola, Taddeo Manfredi, a feckless ruler who had forfeited the people’s trust by embroiling himself in family squabbles and generally mismanaging his affairs. Faced with open insurrection, in May of 1473 he secretly ceded his patrimony to the duke of Milan, exchanging the troublesome possession for the smaller but more secure Castelnuovo di Tortona.
The transfer caused much consternation among the leaders of Florence. Possession of Imola would place Milan directly astride Florence’s major trade routes to northern Europe and enable the duke to dominate his southern ally. Now, if ever, was the time for Lorenzo to put his friendship with Galeazzo Maria Sforza to the test. Appealing to both personal sentiment and to greed, Lorenzo soon managed to work out a suitable arrangement. Under its terms, kept secret until Florence could secure its new territory, the duke would part with his new acquisition in return for a hefty monetary consideration, ultimately fixed at 100,000 ducats.† It was an arrangement that suited both parties. Sforza, always hard up for cash, was happy to oblige his old friend as long as he was adequately compensated for his troubles, while the government of Florence was pleased to add another jewel to the imperial crown with so little effort.
But Lorenzo had little time to celebrate his diplomatic triumph. The moment Sixtus got wind of the proposed sale he flew into a rage, for this was exactly the town that he hoped to offer his nephew as a wedding present. “O my son!” wrote the aggrieved pontiff to the duke, “listen to your father’s counsel; depart not from the Church, for it is written: ‘Whoever separates himself from thee, must perish.’” This was no idle threat. Wielding the power of excommunication, the pope could place in jeopardy not only the duke’s immortal soul but those of his subjects, who would be denied the holy sacraments unless and until their leader saw the light. Salaries as well as souls were threatened: excommunication, by rendering invalid all contracts and treaties signed by citizens of the wayward state, could quickly lead to economic collapse. Faced with such dire consequences, the duke beat a prudent retreat, tearing up the agreement. Then, much to the consternation of Lorenzo and his fellow countrymen, he offered the contested city to Pietro Riario for the discounted price of 40,000 ducats.*
Up to this point, relations between Florence and Sixtus had been friendly. Lorenzo in particular, despite continued frustration over his inability to obtain a cardinal’s hat for his brother, strived to remain in the pope’s good graces. But Sixtus’s interference in the sale of Imola strained the relationship to the breaking point. Most troubling, it threatened to drive a wedge between Lorenzo and the people of Florence, since it was clear that on this critical issue the interests of family and state clashed. As if to make the choice even more painful, the pope now turned to the Medici bank to advance him the funds he lacked to make the purchase. Whether or not Sixtus intended in this way to test Lorenzo’s loyalty, it was soon apparent that Sixtus regarded Lorrenzo’s willingness to assist him in this matter as a crucial measure of their future relations.
But on this vital matter Lorenzo would also be judged by the people of Florence. There was no doubt where his own self-interest lay: both for the sake of the family business and for his brother’s future, the wisest course would be to accede to the pope’s demand. Good relations with the Vatican were critical to the Medici bank, since the bulk of their funds were tied up in one way or another in business with the papal curia. But he could not please Sixtus without provoking the wrath of his fellow citizens, whose suspicion of the papacy had ancient roots. Not surprising, Lorenzo agonized over the decision. Though he would have preferred to remain on friendly terms with Sixtus, his patriotism recoiled at the prospect of a powerful papal enclave on Florence’s northern border. Reluctantly, he concluded he had no choice but to refuse the pope’s request, for he could not claim to speak for his people while at the same time putting self-interest above country.
Having made the painful decision, however, Lorenzo thought he could evade its consequences, enlisting Sforza to plead his case. Curiously, the duke seemed more than happy to oblige. He told Lorenzo he would write to Cardinal Riario explaining Lorenzo’s actions in the matter, blithely assuring him that a good word from the duke of Milan was sufficient to restore the Medici’s reputation in Rome. In fact, Sforza had been secretly encouraging Lorenzo to refuse the pope’s request for a loan, despite the fact that the 40,000 ducats would presumably find their way into his pocket. This bizarre scenario illustrates a streak of deviousness in the duke’s character. The truth is that while Sforza could not afford to alienate the pope, he still hoped the deal would fall through, thereby opening the way for the more lucrative and geopolitically advantageous transfer of Imola to Florentine rule.
It was a strategy too subtle and convoluted to succeed. In the end Cardinal Riario found another party willing to lend him the 40,000 ducats and the sale of Imola went through in the winter of 1473 without help from the Medici. This was the worst possible outcome for Lorenzo. Not only had he failed to block Girolamo’s acquisition of the strategic town, but he now had to face the wrath of a pope who viewed the young Florentine as the chief obstacle to his family’s advancement. Vanished was the paternal benevolence Sixtus expressed at their meeting two short years ago, replaced instead by feelings whose bitterness can only be explained by a sense of betrayal. In years to come, when relations between Lorenzo and the pope had descended to murderous depths, the
sin Sixtus would most often attribute to him was that of ingratitude, an indication that his fury had less to do with politics—though the issues at stake were very real—than with his outrage over an affection he believed had been treacherously abused.
Imola marks the point on the geopolitical map where the interests of Lorenzo’s family and his country most sharply diverged. Lorenzo’s critics have never given him any credit for apparently putting country above family, arguing that he had no real choice in the matter. To have agreed to the pope’s request would have meant forfeiting the confidence of the people without which he would have lost all status in the republic. But far from proving that Lorenzo cynically manipulated the government of Florence for his own ends, the episode reveals the extent to which his primacy was dependent on the goodwill of the people. This point is succinctly made in Guicciardini’s Dialogue on the Government of Florence in which Bernardo del Nero, one of Lorenzo’s staunchest supporters, explains the relationship between the Medici family and the state they ruled: “For the Medici did not enjoy a lordship or a separate state to give them greatness; everything they had depended on the power of the Florentine state. Their prosperity and growth lay in its prosperity and growth, for the greater and more powerful the city became, the more powerful they became too.”
While Guicciardini may have overstated the extent to which the fortunes of the Medici bank depended on the fortunes of the state as a whole—sometimes, as in the crisis over Imola, they were in fact diametrically opposed—the general premise is accurate: over three generations the Medici became so closely identified with Florence that they were compelled to pursue policies that benefited the state, even to the detriment of short-term profits. Though nominally a private family, they could not afford to pursue interests that ran counter to those of the republic they served.
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