Taking stock of the situation, Lorenzo and the rest of the Ten could congratulate themselves on having narrowly averted disaster, but myriad and apparently insurmountable problems remained. Not the least of their worries was the prospect of famine, since much of the city’s food production had been put out of commission by the fighting. Adding to the threat of hunger was the related threat of the plague, a disease that thrived in circumstances of misery and deprivation. For Lorenzo this was a period of darkest gloom. The attempt to overthrow his government that had apparently miscarried so badly in April of 1478 might now well succeed unless through some bold stroke he could reverse course and instill new hope in his long-suffering people.
On December 7, 1479, a courier arrived at the Palazzo della Signoria bearing an urgent message for the Priors.* It came from Lorenzo and contained news that both startled and dismayed the leaders of the city. He had written the letter in the town of San Miniato, halfway along the road to Pisa, where he had gone in secret the day before. Addressing the leading members of the government, Lorenzo revealed his thoughts on the current crisis and laid out the bold steps he now proposed to bring the war to a speedy conclusion. “Most Illustrious My Lords,” he began,
If I have not already informed Your Illustrious Excellencies of the reason for my departure it is not out of presumption but because it seems to me that the troubled state of our city demands deeds, not words. Since it appears to me that the city longs for and demands peace, and seeing no one else willing to undertake it, it seemed better to place myself in some peril than to further endanger the city. And so I have decided that with the blessing of Your Illustrious Lordships I will travel openly to Naples. Because I am the one most persecuted by our enemies, I believe that by placing myself in their hands I can be the means necessary to restore peace to our city…. If His Majesty the King intends to take from us our liberties, it seems to me better to know it as soon as possible, and that only one should suffer and not the rest. And I am most glad to take that role myself for two reasons: first because since I am the chief target of our enemies’ hatred I can more easily discover the King’s intention, since it may well be that they seek nothing but to harm me; the other is that having received more honors and benefits from our city—not only more than I deserve but, perhaps, more than any other citizen in our day—I owe a greater debt than any other man to my country, even if I should have to sacrifice my life. It is thus with a good heart that I depart, knowing that perhaps it is God’s will that this war that began with the blood of my brother and myself should be brought to an end by my own hand. My greatest wish is that by my life or by my death, by my misfortune or my prosperity, I should make a contribution to the good of the city. I shall therefore follow the course I have set out, and if it succeeds as I wish and hope it shall, I shall have served my country and saved myself. Should, on the other hand, evil befall me, I will not mourn if it benefits our city, as it certainly must; for if our adversaries wish nothing but to seize me I shall already be in their hands, and if they want something else we shall soon know it. It is certain that our citizens will unite to protect their liberty, so that by the grace of God they will come to its defense as our fathers always did. I go full of hope, and with no other goal in mind than the good of the city, and I pray God to give me grace to perform what is the duty of every man towards his country. I commend myself humbly to Your Most Excellent Lordships.
—From San Miniato on the 7th day of December 1479.
Your Excellencies’ Servant,
Laurentius de Medicis.
From the moment Lorenzo set out, accompanied only by his secretary, Niccolò Michelozzi, and a couple of servants, his journey to Naples entered the realm of mythology. There is no doubt that Lorenzo carefully calibrated his words and choreographed events to create a sense of drama he knew would appeal to his compatriots. By stressing humility, self-sacrifice, and patriotism, he reversed the downward spiral of public opinion in which he was increasingly viewed as the cause of his people’s suffering, recasting himself through this single bold stroke as a martyr for Florence.
But in recognizing the calculating and theatrical element in the enterprise one should not lose sight of the courage it took to hazard all on a virtually solitary voyage into enemy territory. Guicciardini conveyed the judgment of many of his contemporaries when he said it was “regarded as too bold and rash a decision, for he put himself in the hands of a king by nature treacherous, unstable and bitterly opposed to him,” though, he concludes, “it was justified by his and the city’s need for peace.” As Lorenzo made his way to the port of Pisa, where he awaited the arrival of a galley from the king of Naples, all eyes were on him alone. His journey seems to belong in one of those mythical tales where two contending armies stand aside to let their champions determine the outcome in single combat. The armies, hunkered down in their winter camps, suddenly became irrelevant; whether the people of Italy would enjoy the fruits of peace or be forced to endure seasons of war without end would be decided in a meeting of two men, each with reason to distrust and resent the other.
What lay behind Lorenzo’s bold stroke? Above all it was a daring gambit whose success depended on Lorenzo’s understanding of the geopolitical situation and, perhaps more important, on his ability to size up the character of the men involved. By the second winter of the war it was clear to Lorenzo that something had to be done to change the direction of a conflict that was strangling the republic by slow degrees. Peace, he knew, could never come from the hands of Sixtus, whose hatred for him bordered on irrational obsession. And Federico da Montefeltro was merely a servant of the pope and would do his master’s bidding. That left Ferrante as the weak link in the alliance.
Perhaps most significantly for Lorenzo it shifted the contest away from areas where he had little experience or aptitude—such as in financial administration or military strategy—and onto ground where he felt more comfortable. Face-to-face with his rival he had every confidence he could persuade the king to see things his way. But Lorenzo was not relying solely on his charm to win the king over. As he contemplated a strategy that would draw the two principal allies apart, two factors were working in his favor. The first was that Naples and the Papal States were natural rivals; the more likely it seemed that Sixtus would prevail in central Italy, the more Ferrante had to fear from papal domination of the peninsula. If Florence became a puppet of Rome, Sixtus would bestride Italy like a colossus, reducing Ferrante to the status of a puny vassal. A second factor was the continuing advance of the Ottomans, who, having overrun the eastern shore of the Adriatic, were now but a few miles from the Italian mainland. Only by bringing the war to a swift conclusion and turning the united forces of the Italian powers against the Turks could the king hope to repel invasion.
Lorenzo had in fact been laying the groundwork for months. Late in November he had sent Filippo Strozzi on a secret mission to Naples.* Filippo recalled the journey in his memoirs:
The situation of affairs appeared serious to all, especially to Lorenzo de’ Medici, on whose account, as they said, war was made. The aforesaid Lorenzo sent me to Naples. On November 24 I set out, to say to the king’s majesty, he threw himself entirely into his arms, and would willingly agree to that which his majesty wished, whether the king should decide on high or low, within or without, provided he restored peace to the city and gave up the places he had taken. I found the king hunting at Arnone [at the mouth of the Volturno]. After I had delivered my message, he answered me that he had later news: Lorenzo would come in person, and so we must wait to see what will result from his visit.
Lorenzo was also being pressured by his allies to seek an end to hostilities. “I have received many friendly words from [Alfonso] the Duke of Calabria for many months,” Lorenzo revealed to Girolamo Morelli in September, “and much encouragement to throw myself into the king’s arms, he attempting to show me that only in this manner can I save myself and the state…. It is good that Lord Lodovico should know these things, and that i
f he wishes to save us, he must take up the matter with more energy and act with more decision.”
On December 11, two Neapolitan galleys arrived at the little port of Vada, just south of Pisa. Awaiting Lorenzo on board were two of the king’s chief councilors, Gian Tommaso Caraffa and Prinzivalle di Gennaro, both learned men and old friends. Their company no doubt enlivened the three-hundred-mile journey down the coast, but despite their assurances that he would be welcomed with open arms, Lorenzo had reason to be apprehensive. Ferrante was a mercurial and violent man, his ever-shifting policies marked by grandiose ambitions, treachery, and paranoia. Though lurid tales that he had the bodies of his dead enemies stuffed so that he might contemplate their comeuppance at his leisure were probably exaggerations, his reputation for cruelty was not unwarranted. Lorenzo might well have considered the fate of the condottiere Piccinino, who had been lured to the king’s castle only to be thrown into prison where he was strangled by one of Ferrante’s slaves. Despite the kindness of Caraffa and Gennaro, Lorenzo knew that the king would have no qualms about offering his head on a platter should he deem it in his best interests.
Early in the evening of December 18, Lorenzo’s galley sailed into the magnificent, mountain-girdled harbor of Naples. The Milanese ambassadors who were present noted that he was “received and honored with as much dignity as possible.” Among the crowd that greeted him as he made his way down the gangplank was his old friend don Federigo, the king’s younger son, whom he had wined and dined on his first trip to Milan. Also greeting him were various ambassadors, members of the court, and trumpeters, who sounded a fanfare as he approached.
The king himself, who had gone hunting the day before, was not present, and for the next day or two Lorenzo was kept in suspense. As soon as word arrived that the king and his party were approaching, Lorenzo rode out to greet him a mile outside the city walls. Their reunion, as Lorenzo reported back to the Ten, was a great success: “He greeted me most graciously and with many kind words, showing in many different ways the affection he had for our city and his desire to enter into a true union.”
Indeed, Ferrante went out of his way to make his Florentine guest feel welcome. But if he seemed well disposed to Lorenzo, he was also in no particular hurry to give him the honorable peace he so desperately needed. Lorenzo soon grew frustrated by the slow pace of negotiations. His servant recorded his master’s moodiness as his hopes were alternately raised and dashed. “He seemed to be two men, not one. During the day he appeared perfectly easy, restful, cheerful, and confident. But at night he grieved bitterly about his own ill fortune and that of Florence.” The twists and turns of the negotiations are suggested in a letter from Bartolomeo Scala, the chancellor of Florence: “Your letter of the 18th rejoiced us all, and peace seemed imminent. That of the 22nd altered the outlook and gave rise to grave thought in those who heard it. The reply was debated for several days. You will see what was decided. Only to you would such large powers be given in so important a matter. It is the first time a white sheet has been given, for it amounts to that. But as it is to you that such a commission is sent no one doubts that good will come of it.”
Ferrante, it soon became clear, was playing for time, hoping to figure out a way to end hostilities with Florence while not jeopardizing his relations with the pope. By now Sixtus had caught wind of what was up and was voicing his opposition in the most violent terms. Later he grumbled, “We made a virtue of necessity, but to our serious displeasure for we saw how we missed the victory while we were deprived of the satisfaction of liberating Florence from these tyrants, and restoring freedom and quiet to her and peace to all Italy.”
While Lorenzo was kept in suspense he made good use of his time, building up goodwill in the city that might tip public opinion in his favor. Upholding his reputation for generosity, he feted the local nobility and spent freely to help out those in need, including digging into his own pocket to purchase the freedom of one hundred Christians enslaved by pirates and dowering the daughters of the poor—perhaps with the very same money he had recently embezzled from the brides of Florence. Throughout these nervous weeks and months, Lorenzo found comfort and stimulation in the company of Ippolita Sforza, with whom he had been on intimate terms since the two had met at her wedding to Alfonso. Over the years in which they maintained a regular correspondence, Lorenzo had helped her out of many a financial embarrassment, in one case providing her an interest-free loan of 2,000 ducats. Now in his time of need, Ippolita returned the favor, using her considerable influence at court on his behalf. So assiduous was she in pursuing his cause that henceforth the king referred to his daughter-in-law as “Lorenzo’s confederate.”
In addition to the practical benefits of her friendship, they clearly enjoyed each other’s company. Though Lorenzo was not free of the sexism typical of the age, some of the most rewarding friendships he maintained were with accomplished and cultivated women. He had before him always the example of his mother, his closest confidant and a woman who was not only an exemplary wife and mother but also a woman of rare literary and intellectual gifts. With Clarice, Lorenzo could never share his interests, but with the cultivated Ippolita—a woman not only conversant with the great Italian poets, but one who could quote Cicero at length and had some knowledge of Greek, having studied with the famous scholar Constantinos Lascaris—he could indulge in his passion for literature and philosophy. They spent many an afternoon deep in conversation at her castle at Capuano, or wandering along the Bay of Naples at the Riviera di Chiaja. Ippolita later recalled the pleasant times they spent together: “The present letter will not be one of those which refer to alliance and State affairs, but will merely bring to your remembrance that we always think of you, although we are by no means certain that you often think of our garden, which is now most beautiful and in full bloom.”
But despite the pleasant surroundings and the equally pleasant company, Lorenzo chafed at the long delay. Worried about his family, he demanded almost daily reports from Antonio Pucci, in whose care he had left them. “[Y]our family are all well,” begins one letter. “Never a day passes without my seeing Piero and Giovanni…. I am enclosing a letter from Piero; he makes good use of his time. Giovanni goes to bed at an early hour, and he says he never moves all night. He is fat and looks well.” In addition to anxiety about the safety of his wife and children, Lorenzo worried about the state he had left in the care of others. On this front he had reason to fret, particularly as the negotiations dragged out with few signs of progress. Though some in the regime contended that all went smoothly in Lorenzo’s absence, more honest correspondents revealed that the stirrings of rebellion were in the air. In January 1480, Agnolo della Stufa admitted, “the length of these negotiations means that I am constantly worried. I long for your return. I do not know what to do.” Much of the dissension was fomented by the Venetian ambassador, who feared that Lorenzo would cut a separate deal with the king that would leave Venice in the lurch. A note of nervousness crept into even the usually optimistic correspondence of the chancellor, Bartolomeo Scala: “We are all hoping against hope for the conclusion of this affair which has delayed so long…. For the love of God get us out of this by the good graces of him [the king] on whom we are to depend in future; for his power and authority are such that finally every one will have to do as he pleases. The Ten desire your return either with peace or without, but more with peace. This long delay is grievous to them and to all, especially your friends…. If there is peace you will see how the city will flourish.”
By the beginning of February, Lorenzo was determined to push the issue, certain that the king had gone too far down the path of peace to turn back now but equally certain that he would not act unless compelled to do so. On the night of February 27, with a deal still not finalized, he slipped away to the port of Gaeta, where a ship was waiting to take him home. After a journey of more than two weeks, in which the galley was so buffeted by storms that many times it threatened to break up on the rocks, Lorenzo arrived in
Pisa. Shortly thereafter word came that the king had finally signed the treaty bringing hostilities to an end. Arriving in Florence a few days later Lorenzo was greeted as a conquering hero. More than 150 men, including ambassadors of Venice, Milan, Bologna, and Ferrara, came out to greet him. It was a spectacle, according to Agnolo della Stufa, “so that you never saw in Florence a finer squadron nor a greater honor than this of his Magnificence,” while Valori remembered it as a rare moment of unity in the city where “young and old, noble and commoner came together to celebrate his safe return.”
As usual, our best source for understanding the mood of the average Florentine citizen is the diary of Luca Landucci. His entry from March 13, 1480, reads: “Lorenzo arrived from Livorno, on his return from Naples. It was considered a marvel that he should have returned, as everyone had doubted the king allowing him to resume his post, and a still greater marvel that he should have been able to arrange everything so diplomatically. God help him!”
The treaty, ratified three days later, ended the war on terms not wholly favorable to the republic. Some Florentines complained that Milan, while doing little, had received more than her share, while those who had suffered the most from the war profited the least from its conclusion. Most humiliating was the loss of the strategic fortress of Sarzana, seized by Genoa while Florence’s armies were occupied elsewhere. But for all its shortcomings, Lorenzo had returned bearing the blessings of peace so that despite some grumbling the overall mood was one of relief, even exaltation. “The ratification of the peace arrived in the night, about 7,” recorded Luca Landucci. “There were great rejoicings, with bonfires and ringing of bells.”
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