Chapter 6

The Party of the Hill

‘When you look back at it from the perspective of old age, life no longer seems like a steady continuum of day-following-day but more like a series of memorable phases, some long and some short, but each with a character and perhaps some lessons of its own. But the strange thing is, most of these phases, and certainly their significance, are only visible with hindsight. At the time, most of us had little sense of the new eras beginning, although as I look backward now, most of the endings did leave us with a recognizable sense of finality.

‘I think that is why, with hindsight, we often appeared so unprepared, because at the time we were already deeply immersed in a new era before we had even sensed its existence. How advantaged must be the man who, early on, recognizes the opening of a new era and who has in his mind some measure of its likely direction and implications.’

Across the room Girolamo Savonarola nodded his head and willed himself to remember what Mona Lucrezia had just said. If only she would allow him to write it all down as she spoke. His memory, he knew, was prodigious by the standards of most men, and secretly he made his notes in the evening. But with someone like Lucrezia it was important to capture the specific words chosen and not just the general spirit of what she was telling him. Sometimes there was so much clarity in her head, and she did so often seem to be able to convert it into the right words.

Yet at the same time there was also something else, something that, although he only saw infrequent glimpses of it, appeared to contradict that clarity, as if she had some great uncertainty – some unresolved issue deep in her mind. The apparent self-confidence that he had seen at the beginning of their conversations was now starting to appear more fragile, as if she had, hidden away, some question of her own, a question that she was afraid to ask, perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.

In the quiet of the evening he had also found himself asking a recurring question. Why did she agree to participate in this series of confessional meetings with me? If that was, indeed, what they were in her mind. What had she said? What’s in it for me? She must have asked herself that question. So what answer had she found?

He had replied and, he thought, confidently enough with his usual offering. But was that what had motivated her to continue? Something, he felt instinctively, was missing.

He was brought back from his questions by her voice. ‘The period after Cosimo’s death was a case in point. We knew what had ended, and when, and how, but we had little conception of what lay ahead, and even less how we should prepare for it.

‘Piero was the least able to prepare for the future. He was the last of the old school – those who tried, at least in part, to follow the creed laid down by Cosimo’s father, Giovanni di Bicci. But Lorenzo, or Lauro as we called him at that time, had made the break; at least in his head. Even at the age of ten Lauro knew that being a banker would stifle him. He was born to be a prince and that is what he was always going to become.’

There was something about the decisive set of her jaw and the (had he imagined it?) triumphant tone of her voice as she said the words that made Savonarola wonder how strongly the young Lorenzo had been influenced by his mother. And why.

‘I would talk to you of January 1459.’ Suddenly her voice seemed distant.

‘In the spring of that year Pope Pius II visited the Palazzo Medici, and although Benozzo Gozzoli had yet to begin work on the fresci in the Chapel of the Magi, he started in the dry summer months and finished it that same year, the pope pronounced the building a palace fit for a king. I thought it was an interesting phrase, when used to describe a building created by someone with Cosimo’s creed. But as I have said before, judge us by our actions, and not by our words. It was another, and final, example of Cosimo saying one thing and doing quite the opposite, and the pope had recognized it for what it was.

PALAZZO MEDICI
18th January 1459

‘Lauro!’

Lucrezia stands at the foot of the stairs and calls her son. He appears and begins to descend. He is in his best clothes, including the scarlet silk farsetto and tight black hose his grandfather has just given him for his tenth birthday. He looks older – perhaps fourteen, and dresses, stands and walks like a grown nobleman. Half-grinning, he raises an eyebrow. ‘You called, mother?’

‘Galeazzo Maria is here.’ She points to the open door through which the sound of arriving horses can clearly be heard.

‘I know. I was watching from the window upstairs.’ He reaches her and puts a friendly but firm hand on her arm. ‘And it’s Lorenzo from now on. Remember?’

She nods and goes to apologize, but he’s already crossing the hall, hand outstretched, to welcome the Duke of Milan’s fifteen-year-old son. They embrace laughing, and sweep back into the hall and up the stairs, immersed in conversation and without even acknowledging her presence as they pass.

Lucrezia smiles. Proud young nobles. They are already impressive. Soon they will be formidable. And then, in all probability, they will start to compete with one another. Galeazzo Maria is the sort of boy married women love: tall, slender, with shoulder-length curly red-gold hair, a strong aquiline nose and huge adorable eyes. Already he’s beginning to build a reputation as a ladies man.

She checks with the housekeeper that appropriate refreshments are on their way then follows the boys upstairs to the new chapel. What a pity the fresci have not yet been started. Another couple of months Gozzoli says, once the walls have dried out from the winter weather. You can’t fresco onto damp walls. The new plaster won’t stick properly. She accepts that.

Four hours later, and the visitors are preparing to go. Lucrezia stands in the doorway and waves while Galeazzo Maria mounts his huge white charger. She has to admit he’s every inch a condottiere’s son and will look like a duke even before he becomes one. Beside her, Bianca, Maria and Nannina are all pulling faces at each other. It seems the duke’s son has made a good impression.

The visitors leave and Lorenzo, thoughtful, calls to a servant. ‘Where’s Apollonio Baldovini?’ He turns towards her, shaking his head. ‘Did you see that horse?’

‘Within a week Lorenzo had sent his head groom to buy a stallion just like it. He said to me, “Mother, the future is clear. I am going to be a great prince. Greater even that Galeazzo Maria and my horses will beat his at the palio. You watch me.” And everything he said that day became a reality, so some of us, at least, could see forward into the future.’

‘And Giovanni? Your husband’s younger brother?’ For the first time, Savonarola took a chance and asked a question. He waited, hoping that Lucrezia would not end their conversation. But it was a genuine question. More than once she had hinted that Lorenzo took after his uncle rather than his father. If there had been a fundamental break in the family’s purpose, from bankers to princes, where had that break occurred?

Lucrezia hesitated. It seemed the question had been unexpected and had stopped her flow of thought. But although she seemed to understand the reason for asking it, her delay in replying suggested she was undecided how much she could tell him.

And as a result, he listened twice as carefully.

‘You are right to interrupt, and I forgive you for it. Your question is a good one. As I was saying before, we are often clearer about the end of one era than the beginning of the next. My husband, as we both know, represented the last dying embers of Giovanni di Bicci’s influence. Lorenzo was of the new school, the school of princes, and yes, it was from Giovanni that he inherited that new attitude.’

‘Giovanni was a strong influence then?’

She smiled, nodding. ‘A very strong influence. He and I had been brought up the same way. We believed in the same things. Change was in the air. Unlike my husband, neither of us had a strong reverence for the past. We were far too busy trying to build a future.’ She looked at him carefully, clearly choosing her words. ‘Besides, when your father is not only cold but remote, and distant, and inattentive, your uncle, if he is close, may become the main male influence on your life.’ She grinned. ‘Especially when he represents fun, and opportunity, and enthusiasm for life. And Giovanni was all those things.’

‘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.