[I]t would please me much for the State and on account of your personal position if your Magnificence would resolve to come to Rome and present yourself to the Pope for the removal of all misunderstanding and doubts. I do not in the least doubt that the Holy Father would receive you with joy; while I, with the affection which I owe you from our mutual friendly relations, would behave so as fully to satisfy your Magnificence, and all considerations of grievance which may have arisen from the afore-named events would vanish.
Lorenzo was wary enough to refuse Riario’s hospitality, but despite his suspicions of the pope and his kin he assumed he was safe as long as he remained in Florence. In fact the whole series of events leading up to the tragic day in April 1478 shows a decided lack of symmetry. On one side there is much purposeful activity—ciphered messages hurrying back and forth across the length and breadth of the peninsula, supplies being stockpiled, and armies assembling in secret locations—while on the other, life proceeds much as it always has, untroubled by any presentiment of what’s to come.
The one offensive action Lorenzo did take demonstrated his misunderstanding of the nature of the threat he was facing. In this incident, which provided the people of Florence with gossip enough to last them a year or more, there is no question that Lorenzo was the instigator, but the matter was so trivial that it served only to increase the irritability of his rivals without doing them any real harm. While Lorenzo continued to think of his battle with the Pazzi in terms of ducats and florins, his enemies were playing for higher stakes.
In 1477, the wealthy Giovanni Borromeo died without male heirs, and Florentine law dictated that in such circumstances the surviving daughter would inherit her father’s estate. Borromeo’s daughter, Beatrice, was married to Francesco de’ Pazzi’s brother Giovanni, who thus stood to profit handsomely at his father-in-law’s passing. But Beatrice’s cousins, who were well connected within the reggimento, petitioned Lorenzo to change the law in their favor. After a few behind-the-scenes meetings with members of the Eight, Florence’s chief judicial body, a new statute was passed giving priority to surviving male relatives, thus depriving Giovanni Borromeo’s daughter and her Pazzi in-laws a large windfall. Even Giuliano balked at this underhanded maneuver, “saying that he feared that by wanting too many things, all of them might be lost.”
Not surprising, Francesco de’ Pazzi was beside himself with rage, but since he was already contemplating murder it is hard to make the case, as some have tried to do, that the Borromeo affair had a decisive impact on the evolving plot. Generations of historians have expressed outrage at Lorenzo’s bald-faced abuse of power, but Lorenzo was acting in the best tradition of Florentine government, where the opportunity to help friends and discomfit rivals was one of the few inducements to holding high office. When Lorenzo declared that he had agreed to succeed his father “solely for the safety of our friends and of our possessions,” this was exactly this kind of situation that he had in mind. Is there any doubt that had the Pazzi been in power they would have done exactly the same thing?
In any case, the tussle over the Borromeo inheritance did nothing to slow down preparations for the coup. With Lorenzo Giustini, Niccolò Vitelozzo’s rival for power in Città di Castello, acting as go-between, Riario drew Federico da Montefeltro into the heart of the plot. Despite later denials, it is certain that the duke of Urbino was intimately acquainted with the details of the coup for which he agreed to furnish men and logistical support. By the beginning of 1478 the duke had contracted to lend six hundred troops to assist the conspirators in toppling Lorenzo’s government.
Relations between Lorenzo and Ferrante were equally poisonous. Montefeltro, not without some relish, revealed the king’s private thoughts in a letter in which he declared “his majesty would never consent to meet with a lowly merchant and citizen like Lorenzo, who is the greatest and most determined enemy he has, but he would, as has many times been noted, expel him from Florence or tear him to pieces, which he says would be easy to do since Lorenzo is hated in Florence as a tyrant by the majority of citizens.”
With most of the military pieces now in place, the conspirators turned their attention to Lorenzo and Giuliano. After Lorenzo rebuffed Riario’s invitation that he come to Rome, the conspirators concluded that the assassinations would have to be carried out in Florence. Making their task more difficult was the fact that the brothers rarely appeared in public together, one of the few concessions Lorenzo made to his friends’ pleas that he protect himself. Hoping to add muscle and military know-how to this most difficult aspect of the plot the conspirators approached a battle-tested soldier in Riario’s employ, Giovanni Battista, Count of Montesecco, captain of the Apostolic Palace Guard, and commandant of the Castel St. Angelo. A career military man from Abruzzo, this no-nonsense soldier could be expected to bring professionalism to an undertaking that was led by men with little or no military experience.*
Montesecco’s eyewitness account of the meetings leading up to the attempted coup reveals the feverish excitement that now gripped the conspirators. Over the past months they had worked themselves into such a state that the old soldier’s practical objections could do little to stop or even slow the momentum. Luxuriating in the comfort and splendor of their Roman apartments, fortified by wine and good food, it seemed such a simple thing to move men and armies about like so many pieces on a board until, at last, victory seemed not only likely but inevitable.
The first meeting between Montesecco and the leaders of the plot took place in the archbishop’s residence in Rome. It began badly. From the beginning, Montesecco was skeptical, demonstrating a better understanding of the realities on the ground than those who had planned the coup. Hoping to overcome the condotteiere’s objections, a second meeting was held the following day in Riario’s apartments in the papal palace. After enduring a harangue in which Riario recounted the many injuries he had suffered at Lorenzo’s hands and those he would be forced to endure in future, Montesecco asked him to spell out precisely what it was that they were asking of him.
Salviati, apparently irritated by the general’s lack of enthusiasm, cut in: “Haven’t I told you that we wish to change the government of Florence?”*
Montesecco: “Yes, you have told me, but you have not told me the means, and not knowing the means I can give you no answer.”
Montesecco continued to press until, at last, the conspirators put their cards on the table, declaring “there was no other way but to tear to pieces both Lorenzo and Giuliano, and to have armed men ready to go to Florence, and to gather those soldiers beforehand in such a way that no one would suspect anything.” But far from being impressed by their strategic brilliance, Montesecco scolded them: “Lord, watch what it is you do…. I do not know how it can succeed because Florence is a great undertaking, and the Magnificent Lorenzo is well loved, according to all I know.”
Count Girolamo disagreed. “They tell me the opposite: that he has little favor, and is greatly loathed, and that upon his death everyone will raise his hands to the sky.”
Salviati was equally dismissive: “Giovanbatista [Montesecco], you have never been to Florence: how things really are there and how Lorenzo is regarded we know better than you.”
“Our Lord [the pope] how will this please him?” Montesecco asked, hoping that once the Holy Father was apprised of what was going on he would put a stop to the madness. Their response was discouraging: “Our Lord will do always as we wish, since His Holiness is ill disposed towards Lorenzo.”
Still unconvinced, Montesecco insisted on speaking with the pope in person. This third meeting, held a few days later in the pope’s private apartments, is the most controversial and difficult moment in the entire Pazzi conspiracy. Here amid the pomp and splendor of the papal residence, surrounded by the antiquities and treasures accumulated by generations of learned and worldly men, the gruff general met with the pope to hear from his mouth whether he would sanction the murderous plot against the Medici brothers. For all he knew, Girolamo
Riario had been acting without his uncle’s knowledge or approval, but Montesecco’s account of this meeting in the Vatican leaves no doubt that Sixtus was at the very least an accessory, and most likely an active participant, in the plot to assassinate the Medici brothers.
The meeting began with a diatribe by the pope enumerating Lorenzo’s many offenses agains his person and expressing his fervent desire that he be removed from power. Montesecco, as impatient with evasions and half answers as he had been in the earlier meetings, probed deeper. “Holy Father,” he said, “it is difficult to execute such an intention without the death of Lorenzo and Giuliano, and several others perhaps.” To which Sixtus responded, “In no case will I have the death of anyone; it is not my office to cause the death of a man. Lorenzo has behaved unworthily and badly towards us, but I will not hear of his death, though I wish for a revolution in the State.”
“We will do our best that no one fall a victim,” Riario said: “should it, however, be unavoidable, your Holiness will pardon him through whom it happens.”
At this, Sixtus turned angrily to his nephew: “You are a villain; I tell you I will have no one die, but only the government overthrown. And to you, Giovan Batista, I say that I wish the revolution to proceed in Florence and the government to be taken out of the hand of Lorenzo, for he is a violent and bad man, who pays no regard to us. If he were expelled, we could do with the Republic as it seemed best, and that would be very pleasing to us.”
“Your Holiness speaks the truth,” Riario replied. “Be then satisfied that we shall do all in our power to attain this end.”
As the audience drew to a close, Sixtus repeated his earlier objection: “I say again, I will not. Go and do what you will, but no lives shall be lost.”
Salviati responded, “Holy Father, be satisfied that we guide the bark; we will steer safely.”
“I am content,” Sixtus answered, “but give heed to the honor of the Holy See and the Count.” With this final word of warning Montesecco and his companions took their leave.
What is one to make of this conversation in which the pope gives his blessing to the plot while insisting that no one be hurt?—a paradox on the order of Portia’s injunction to Shylock that he take his pound of flesh but without spilling even one drop of blood. The impracticality of this scheme was immediately apparent to everyone, if not to the pope himself. “[We] retired to the apartment of the Count,” Montesecco continued, “and it was soon concluded that the thing could not be achieved with out the death of both, that is the Magnificent Lorenzo and his brother.”
What had occurred during his meeting with the pope that caused Montesecco to change his mind, agreeing to throw in his lot with those whom he had recently dismissed as madmen? According to Montesecco’s testimony, the pontiff had explicitly forbidden the spilling of blood in his name—which was exactly what he and his colleagues were now proposing to do. It is possible that Sixtus was hopelessly naive, a man whose trust was abused by corrupt and violent men, but it seems far more likely that Montesecco understood that the pope’s vehement denials were accompanied by a wink and a nod; no pope could admit that he was sanctioning murder, but everyone in the room knew what he meant.* Indeed, subsequent events hardly show Sixtus to be a man with a deep aversion to the shedding of blood.
By the first months of 1478 the plot had built up such momentum that it threatened to slip from the control of those who had set it in motion. As more and more people were drawn in, and as troops were assembled at various strategic points,† it became urgent to strike before word of the conspiracy leaked out. The most difficult aspect of the planning was to insert enough people into Florence to carry out the coup. One of those whom the conspirators managed to slip beneath the watchful eyes of the Eight was Jacopo di Poggio Bracciolini. It must have amused Riario to use Lorenzo himself for the purpose, writing to request that this “man of letters, virtuous and of substance,” be allowed to return to Florentine territory as the secretary of the young Cardinal Raffaele Sansoni Riario.* Lorenzo’s personal intervention may have been required since Jacopo, son of the famous humanist Poggio Bracciolini, had been implicated in the 1466 plot to overthrow Piero.
Montesecco himself made two trips to Florence. On both he met with Lorenzo, using the pretext that he had been sent by Riario to explore the possibility of a reconciliation with the pope. The first meeting took place in Lorenzo’s palace in the city. On this occasion, and against his better judgment, Montesecco was favorably impressed with the First Citizen of Florence, dazzled by his wealth and cultivation and captivated by his charming manner. Much to his surprise he found Lorenzo “so well disposed towards the Count, that verily he could not have spoken of a brother more affectionately, telling me: ‘Go to Imola, and you will see how things stand…that all will proceed so that nothing shall be lacking to satisfy his Lordship the Count.’”
On his second visit, this time to Cafaggiolo, Montesecco was even more impressed by the man he had been hired to kill. Lorenzo was a most attentive host, showing him about the estate like any country squire proud of the improvements he had made to his land. A highlight of the tour was the stables, among the finest in all of Europe, where Lorenzo discoursed at length about the animals he loved and about his preference for life in the country. Among the qualities Montesecco found most attractive was Lorenzo’s unassuming manner with the grooms and servants, with whom he joked and carried on as if he was among friends. As a further gesture of goodwill, Lorenzo insisted on accompanying Montesecco back to Florence. If Lorenzo had charmed the old general, Montesecco had made a favorable impression as well. After his two official visits he could come and go across Florentine territory without arousing suspicion.
The real goal of Montesecco’s visits to Florence was to try to persuade the Pazzi patriarch, old Jacopo, to join the conspiracy. Their first meeting, held secretly at an inn on the outskirts of Florence, proved difficult. Francesco de’ Pazzi had already reported that his uncle was “cold as ice” and Montesecco found that the intervening months had not thawed him.
Messer Jacomo [sic] came to the Inn of the Campana, where he and I secretly retired to a room, and on behalf of Our Lord I offered his blessing, and greeted him in the name of his Lord Count Jerolamo [sic] and the Archbishop of Pisa from whom I had a letter of reference which I presented; he read it and having read it said: “What do we have to say to each other, Giovanbattista? Are we speaking of changing the State?” I told him yes. He responded that he wished in no way to be involved because those two, who wished to make themselves lords of Florence, would end up breaking their skulls, which I understand better than they.
Apprised of the old man’s continued resistance, the conspirators determined to make a second attempt to win over the Pazzi patriarch. When, some weeks later, Montesecco returned to Florence, he was accompanied by Francesco dé Pazzi. The three men met in the Pazzi palace, where they talked long into the night. The passionate pleading of Francesco finally wore down his uncle. Perhaps the decisive factor in Jacopo’s change of heart was his realization that he was now so deeply implicated that whether or not he actually participated the authorities would hold him responsible. In the event the coup failed, what chance would there be that his life and fortune would be spared?
Though Jacopo was the most reluctant participant in the plot, once he made up his mind he strained every nerve to bring about a successful outcome. As the only conspirator intimately acquainted with local conditions he immediately saw the glaring weakness of the plan—the dearth of prominent Florentines willing to risk their necks to overthrow the Medici. After eight years as the unofficial head of state Lorenzo had achieved unprecedented control over the levers of power; the opposition that had been so prominent in the time of his father was all but invisible, having either been bought off through patronage or bullied into submission. Knowing his fellow citizens’ disdain for foreigners, Jacopo insisted that Salviati (who would have preferred to watch events unfold from the safety of his Roman apartments) be on
the scene to present a Florentine face to the public. This was the one major contribution that Jacopo made to the planning of the coup, but it was to have profound consequences not only for Salviati himself but for the course of the conflict that followed.
The cathedral of Florence rises from the crowded alleyways of the quarter of San Giovanni in muscular ripples like a great and gentle beast.* Crowned by Brunelleschi’s soaring dome, the Duomo was the most potent symbol of the independent republic, a testament to the pride, wealth, and piety of her people. On the morning of April 26, 1478, the crowd streaming toward the cathedral for the celebration of High Mass—urged on by the happy chiming from Giotto’s bell tower—was larger than usual. It was the tail end of the holy Easter season, the week before the Feast of the Ascension, and many had been drawn to the city by the festivities and the fine April weather. In addition to the usual crowd of pious Florentines there were others who had come to catch a glimpse of the newest cardinal, the pope’s nephew, Raffaele Sansoni Riario, who was attending by special invitation of Lorenzo.
It was also the kind of vast, milling throng perfect for anyone who wished to conceal himself in plain sight. In fact for the past few weeks and days men had been trickling into Florence who had good reason for wishing to remain inconspicuous. Taken one at a time their presence in the city was not alarming, but had anyone in authority possessed the imagination to sift out patterns from the ambient noise he might have discerned suggestions of trouble. There were, for instance, more than the usual number of rough-looking men about, burly types bearing weapons that seemed more functional than decorative. Some were Perugians, some from Imola, and others from scattered mountain hamlets in Tuscany and the Papal States, where the vendetta and blood feud were the local sports. All had legitimate reasons for being here and, presumably, their presence had been noted and approved of by the Eight: the Perugians had come in the train of the Francesco Salviati, while a nattily attired contingent consisting of thirty mounted crossbowmen and fifty on foot had accompanied the count of Montesecco, who had been hired to escort Cardinal Raffaele back to Rome.
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