The presence of both Salviati and Cardinal Riario was a welcome sign of the recent thaw in relations between Lorenzo and the Holy See. Montesecco had played a role in the easing of tensions, delivering the message to Lorenzo that Count Girolamo was anxious to put past differences behind them. Reciprocating the gesture, Lorenzo had invited to Florence both Francesco Salviati and the young cardinal, who for the past few months had been studying canon law at the University of Pisa. By extending the hand of friendship Lorenzo hoped to win his way back into the good graces of the pope at little cost to himself.
Given the general direction of Lorenzo’s policy at this time it was no surprise that another of his old enemies was also present in the city that day. Francesco de’ Pazzi, long estranged from his native land, was staying at the family villa in Montughi and was giving every indication that he, too, wished to put aside old grudges. With him were numerous friends and Pazzi clients, like the scholar Jacopo Bracciolini and the ne’er-do-well gambler Bernardo Bandini. The climax of these diplomatic efforts had come the day before (April 25) as Lorenzo hosted a magnificent luncheon in his villa in Fiesole. Held in honor of seventeen-year-old Cardinal Raffaele, the feast was attended by both Francesco Salviati and Francesco de’ Pazzi. The ambassadors from Milan, Ferrara, and Naples were also present, happy to put their seal of approval on this feast of reconciliation.
It was, as usual when Lorenzo wanted to charm his guests, a delightful affair. While the guests wandered about the terraced gardens sampling the various delicacies set out on silver plate, musicians sent their lilting strains floating in the limpid springtime air. Adding to the enjoyment of the plentiful food and drink were the magnificent views of Florence below, framed by cypress trees and laurel hedges. The villa had been built by Lorenzo’s pleasure-loving uncle Giovanni and it continued to be a favored haunt of many of his friends, including Marsilio Ficino, Pico della Mirandola, and Angelo Poliziano, all of whom found the shaded groves and magnificent views a stimulant to poetic and philosophical musings.
But the pleasant surroundings and rich food were wasted on the archbishop and Francesco de’ Pazzi, who passed the afternoon in a state of almost unbearable anxiety. When Lorenzo had first announced his intention to invite the cardinal to his villa, the conspirators realized that the luncheon would provide them with the perfect opportunity to do away with both of the Medici brothers. In his eagerness to please the pope’s friends and relations Lorenzo neglected even the most basic precautions. He was so indiffernt to his own security that Montesecco had managed to insinuate a number of armed men into the crowd (members of the cardinal’s personal retinue), more than sufficient to do the job. But with all the pieces in place, the plan had to be called off when the one guest whose presence was vital to its success failed to make an appearance: at the last minute Giuliano sent his regrets, declaring that an infection of his eye prevented him from attending.*
Giuliano’s sudden change of plans might have proved fatal to the conspirators. With so many now in on the plot and with armies poised to march, how much longer would they be able to conceal their preparations from Lorenzo and his spies? As soon as the luncheon ended the conspirators reassembled at the Pazzi villa of La Loggia in nearby Montughi, where they scrambled to come up with an alternate plan. It was clear to them that they would have to act the next day if the whole elaborate scheme were not to unravel, particularly since the signal had already been given for their armies to begin their descent on Florence and could not now easily be called back.
With time running out, Archbishop Salviati devised a stratagem to get the two brothers together in the presence of enough armed men to finish them off. In his chronicle of the conspiracy, Poliziano recalled how Lorenzo and Giuliano proceeded like two sleepwalkers, blissfully unaware of the precipice opening up under their feet: “Again, [the conspirators] sent a servant to say that the cardinal would also like to be invited for dinner to the house in Florence—he wished to see the way the house was decorated, the draperies, the tapestries, the jewels and silver and elegant furniture.” It was a favor that Lorenzo, justly proud of his possessions and eager to show his friendliness toward any relative of the pope’s, would be sure to grant. “The fine young men did not suspect a trap,” Poliziano wrote: “they got their home ready, exhibited their beautiful things, laid out the linens, set out the metal and leather work and jewels in cases, and had a magnificent banquet ready.”
While preparations were under way for the next day’s feast, Lorenzo proposed that his guests join him Sunday morning for High Mass in the cathedral.* This new invitation caused the conspirators to revise their plans once more. “They did not think there would be time to do it [that is, kill the brothers] at Lorenzo’s house,” Guicciardini explains, “and besides, they doubted that Giuliano would be eating there. So they decided to do it that morning in Santa Reparata, where a solemn high Mass was to be sung. Lorenzo and Giuliano would surely be present.”
But this adjustment touched off another crisis. Upon hearing of the change, Count Montesecco seems to have been overcome by a pang of conscience, refusing to commit murder “where,” as he put it, “God would see him.” Salviati and Francesco de’ Pazzi insisted that the anonymity of the crowd would provide them with the perfect cover, but Montesecco would not budge. Not averse to murder under the proper circumstances, he refused to add sacrilege to the crime. From the beginning he had doubted the wisdom of the course his superiors were taking and, in addition, his two meetings with Lorenzo had given him a favorable impression of his intended victim. The demand that he now commit murder in a church provided him with an excuse to avoid something for which he never really had the taste.
The last-minute defection of the one professional military man was a costly setback. Montesecco was to have initiated the attack on Lorenzo, and a single blow from his muscular arm almost certainly would have proved fatal. A substitute had to be found without delay. Fortunately replacements were near at hand. Stepping in to take Montesecco’s place were two priests, Antonio Maffei, a Volterran who dreamed of avenging the sack of his native city, and Stefano da Bagnone, a chaplain in the employ of Jacopo de’ Pazzi. Though men of the cloth, neither of them seemed to share the soldier’s scruples about committing murder in a church.
Early the next morning Cardinal Raffaele and his retinue set out for the city, arriving less than an hour later at Lorenzo’s palace, where the cardinal changed from his riding clothes into his scarlet robes. Lorenzo was apparently surprised by this unannounced visit: he was already at the cathedral and had to hurry back to the palace to greet his guest. Then, arm in arm, the two headed back toward the Duomo. Upon arriving, Lorenzo and the cardinal parted company, the latter making his way to the altar, where a seat of honor had been prepared for him, while Lorenzo was quickly surrounded by citizens eager to catch his attention. Among those clustering about Lorenzo were many of his closest friends and associates, including the two Cavalcanti brothers, Francesco Nori, manager of the Medici bank, his neighbor and childhood friend Sigismondo della Stufa, Antonio Ridolfi, and Angelo Poliziano. Swept up in the talkative crowd, more interested in gossip and socializing than in the liturgy, Lorenzo made his way to a point just to the right of the High Altar. Easily lost in the crowd were the would-be assassins, including the two armed priests, who had maneuvered themselves into position a few feet from where Lorenzo stood.
The already intricate choreography of the assassination was made infinitely more difficult by the need to improvise. While armies marched on a prearranged schedule toward the walls of Florence, those inside the city scrambled to adapt to changing circumstances. Salviati, accompanied by Jacopo Bracciolini and his escort of Perugian soldiers, had barely entered the cathedral when he excused himself, ostensibly to pay a visit his mother, who had taken ill. Just as the choir, housed in twin lofts carved in the workshops of Donatello and Luca della Robbia, began to sing, Francesco de’Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini also left the church in a great hurry, realizing that, once again, Giul
iano had failed to make his expected appearance. Rushing back up the Via Larga they coaxed the malingerer out of bed. Whatever had been ailing Giuliano, he had recovered sufficiently so that his visitors had little trouble convincing him to leave his chambers and accompany them back to the cathedral. All three appeared in high spirits as they made their way toward the church, even the usually morose Francesco de’ Pazzi joining in the levity. At one point he wrapped his arm around Giuliano, remarking, “Your illness seems to have made you fat.” This uncharacteristic bit of playfulness was apparently Francesco’s attempt to feel whether Guiliano was wearing any armor beneath his doublet. Much to his relief he discovered that Giuliano had come unprotected.
With Giuliano now accounted for, everything was in place. As the priests chanted and the choir filled the air with angelic strains,* Giuliano found a spot before the altar some twenty to thirty yards away from Lorenzo. The crowd was so thick that neither was able to see the other. Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini stood behind Giuliano, while Bagnone and Maffei stood similarly arrayed behind Lorenzo, their hands gripping the hilts of the daggers they had hidden beneath their robes.
It was now 11:00 in the morning. The assassins waited tensely for the agreed-upon signal—the chiming of the bell that preceded the Elevation of the Host.† In anticipation of this most solemn moment the crowd had grown still and silent. The little bell rang clear beneath the wide stone arches and the priest began to intone the formula accepit panem in sanctas ac venerabiles manus suas (“he took bread into his holy hands”). An instant later four steel blades flashed in the dim light.
Sandro Botticelli, Giuliano de’ Medici, after 1478 (Art Resource)
XVI. THE BLOODSTAINED PAVEMENT
“[A]nd so for the most part ended the great attempt to transform the state, begun by the family of the Pazzi; whom, to tell the truth, showed themselves to have a spirit both manly and generous, and not being able to tolerate the many injuries and indignities at the hands of Lorenzo de’ Medici; but although the undertaking to liberate their fatherland was just and honest, nonetheless it amounted to little, but for the ruination in the space of a few days of one of the most noble, richest, and most powerful families.”
—ALAMANNO RINUCCINI,
RICORDI STORICI,CXXVIII
BERNARDO BANDINI WAS THE FIRST TO HIT THE MARK, plunging his sword into Giuliano’s chest, shouting, “Here traitor!” Staggering backward, Giuliano was struck again, now by Francesco de’ Pazzi who continued to slash at him with his dagger even as he fell to the ground. So furious was Francesco’s attack that he wounded himself in the thigh with his own blade. Giuliano received nineteen wounds, the majority of them delivered by Francesco.
At the same moment the two priests came up behind Lorenzo. One of them—it is not recorded if it was Maffei or Bagnone—grabbed him by the shoulders as if to steady himself before delivering the blow. This was the kind of amateurish blunder Montesecco would never have made. Lorenzo broke free from his assailant. Wrapping his cloak about his left arm he parried the next blow and, drawing his own sword, quickly beat back the two attackers. Within seconds Lorenzo’s friends had closed ranks around him and hurried him in the direction of the New Sacristy, whose heavy bronze doors would provide a means of defense.*
By now all was chaos. The large crowd pushed, shoved, stumbled, and trampled as men and women tried to make their way toward the exits. Few had seen what actually happened but ignorance merely increased the panic. The crowd grew even more frantic when someone began to shout that the dome was collapsing, a rumor easily accepted since to Florentines it seemed that Brunelleschi’s structure had been supported more by black magic than sound engineering. Of the assassins, only Bandini kept his wits about him. Seeing that the two priests had bungled their assignment he sprinted across the apse to catch the fleeing Lorenzo. It was Francesco Nori who turned to face the assailant, but he proved to be no match for Bandini, who ran him through the stomach with his sword. In sacrificing himself, Nori delayed Bandini just long enough for Lorenzo and his friends to reach safety. As Nori, mortally wounded, was dragged bleeding into the sacristy, Lorenzo and his friends squeezed inside. Poliziano managed to bolt the bronze doors just ahead of the onrushing Bandini.
Within the space of a few minutes the cathedral was nearly deserted. Cardinal Raffaele had collapsed in a heap by the High Altar, where he remained until he was escorted to the Old Sacristy by two of the cathedral canons who had bravely kept to their posts while everyone else bolted for the doors. There he remained, pale and trembling, until taken into custody by officers of the Eight.
The four assassins had fled with the crowd. Bandini was quickly through the city gates and galloping along the dusty roads as fast as his horse would carry him. Francesco de’ Pazzi, bleeding profusely from his thigh, hobbled the few blocks to the Pazzi palace, where he threw himself into bed, paralyzed as much by his despair over the disastrous turn of events as by his injuries. Quickly disappearing into narrow alleys surrounding the cathedral were the two priests, Bagnone and Maffei, whose ineptitude had spared Lorenzo’s life.
Inside the sacristy, Lorenzo’s friends anxiously tried to determine the extent of his injuries. He had only one visible wound, a wide gash on his throat received when Lorenzo had deflected the initial blow with his arm. Though the cut was only superficial, Antonio Ridolfi, fearing that the priest’s blade had been poisoned, sucked out the wound and spat the blood on the pavement. Alternating between fear for the safety of his family and rage at the unprovoked attack, Lorenzo called out repeatedly for any news of Giuliano. Only when the limber Sigismondo della Stufa climbed up to the choir loft was the sad truth discovered. Finding a perch on della Robbia’s frieze of dancing cherubs he found the nave deserted but for the crumpled body of Giuliano dead beside the altar.
It was not long before a loud banging on the door and the sound of familiar voices signaled the arrival of friends. The door was unbolted and, surrounded by a protective cordon of armed men who shielded him from the sight of Giuliano’s disfigured corpse, Lorenzo made his way from the empty church and out into the equally deserted streets of the city. Poliziano was not spared the gruesome sight of his dead friend: “Going out through the church towards home myself,” he recalled, “I did come upon Giuliano lying in wretched state, covered with wounds and hideous with blood. I was so weakened by the sight that I could hardly walk or control myself in my overwhelming grief, but some friends helped me to get home.”
Meanwhile, a second drama was playing itself out only a few blocks away. Francesco Salviati, along with Poggio Bracciolini and his escort of about twenty Perugian soldiers, had exited the cathedral only minutes before the attacks, intending, he claimed, to visit his ailing mother. But instead of heading toward the Salviati palace he and his men made straight for the Palace of the Priors, less than a quarter mile from the cathedral along one of the city’s main thoroughfares. It was Salviati’s job to seize this vital seat of government while his colleagues went about their bloody business in the Duomo.
Upon arriving at the palace, Archbishop Salviati confronted one of the guards and demanded an immediate audience with the Gonfaloniere di Giustizia, announcing he was on “very secret business” from the pope. Salviati was told that the head of state was currently dining with the other members of the Signoria and would attend him shortly. As Salviati and Bracciolini were led into a second-floor room to await the head of state, their armed escort seemed to melt away into the mazelike warren of rooms behind them. It was during these minutes of agonized waiting that Salviati’s nerve failed him completely. Everything about the situation spelled disaster. The building itself, for all its opulence, must have felt like a prison, its thick walls and massive doors meant to foil any attempt at insurrection. The Perugian soldiers who had accompanied him were in fact already trapped inside the chancellery, a room equipped with a lock that could only be opened from the outside—just one of many precautions taken by the building’s architects, whose ideas of inter
ior design had been shaped by centuries of civil unrest.
Luck this day seemed to be with Lorenzo rather than the unfortunate archbishop. Lorenzo was singularly fortunate in the man currently serving as the head of state: Cesare Petrucci was not only entirely devoted to the Medici family but had already faced a similar crisis a few years back as the Florentine Podestà during the revolt of Prato. (See Chapter IX.) At a critical juncture in that earlier revolt he had faced down the rebels and helped turn the tide in favor of Florence; he was unlikely to lose his cool in the current situation.
When Petrucci entered the room, Salviati’s extreme agitation immediately aroused the Gonfaloniere’s suspicions. Salviati stammered out something about the pope and his son, but his speech was so garbled that Petrucci could barely make out what he was saying. When Salviati shouted for his men to come and seize the Gonfaloniere, Petrucci rushed from the room, running straight into Jacopo Bracciolini, who was waiting in the hallway. Before Bracciolini could unsheathe his sword, Petrucci grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground. By now the commotion had alerted the palace guards, who came running to help. They quickly seized both Bracciolini and the archbishop, who was slightly injured in the scuffle. Meanwhile the Perugians had broken through the chancellery doors. Soon the clash of swords could be heard ringing through the hallways as the palace guard did battle with the intruders. Even the servants rushed to help, grabbing spits from the kitchen and any other makeshift weapon they could lay their hands on.
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