Chapter 17

The Pazzi Conspiracy

Savonarola took another drink of tepid water and shook his head. He felt muzzy. He had had a bad night. A restless night. A night full of dreams, in each of which he began as the accuser but by the end found himself the accused. He had woken, sweating, knowing he could not leave the issue unresolved, that he must raise the matter with her again. But how?

They disagreed, he and she. That would not have been an insurmountable obstacle if all they had disagreed about was the interpretation of the facts, as she seemed to imply. But increasingly he felt he was being manipulated, until by now they found themselves disagreeing about the facts themselves.

In some respects it was understandable. Lorenzo was her son, and not only the fruit of her loins but as Lorenzo Il Magnifico, the greatest prince of Florence, the product of her belief, her imagination, her conviction and her persistent influence over many years. Indeed you might have concluded that he was the man she had made him, for his father’s influence had, it seems, been wholly negative, almost limited to showing him what not to do. Or to be.

But in her pains to exonerate her son, and to the extent that she could see his imperfections at all, it seemed she had convinced herself that he had been forced into what he was by circumstances, by wars, by politics and by the wants of the people. And that conclusion he simply could not accept. Lorenzo the cork, bobbing helplessly on a wild ocean? Hardly.

For hours he had churned the matter over in his mind, unable to decide how to approach her, but now it was the allotted time. Now he could prevaricate no longer. Now he had to go to her.

Feeling only half-prepared, he climbed the stone steps to her guesthouse and knocked. She appeared immediately, as if she too had been preparing for their meeting. ‘Come in. We’ll talk upstairs.’

They climbed to the familiarity of the room where their first conversations had taken place. Somehow, the very act of returning made him feel that they had gone full-circle; talked themselves all the way round and back to the place where they started.

While he waited to see if she was going to begin their conversation, as she usually did, his mind returned to the previous day, to the court case and to the indelible perception that the Medici family had used the law and their influence, to create – whether by discovery or fabrication he could not tell – a world in which the apparent misdemeanours were all excusable or, indeed, could simply be denied, because the motive of the apparent accuser was suspect.

But what she did not know was that even before he had left Florence he had had his suspicions. On the night before his departure he had spoken to the Officers of the Night and Monasteries and he had already known the full picture as they saw it, the extent of the accusations and the frequency with which they pointed to the same small group of targets.

‘Be honest with me.’ The words jumped out of his mouth of their own accord. He had intended only to think them. Her sudden and intense gaze meant he had to continue now. ‘It’s all pretence, isn’t it? The whole image of Lorenzo, Friend of the People?’

To his surprise she nodded, smiling, and then sat demurely. Had she too been thinking overnight?

‘Yes. Of course it is. It is now. I told you, early in our conversations, that democracy in its purest sense is unworkable.’ Rather than being defensive, as he had expected, her voice had become quiet and reasoning.

‘You told your son the same thing.’

‘Indeed I did.’ Her voice lifted and strengthened. ‘But it wasn’t me that finally convinced Lorenzo. As I have explained before, as a young man he wanted it both ways. He wanted to be a great prince and he wanted the people to love him for it.’

Wanted it both ways. He heard that phrase and immediately heard its echo from a conversation in the past. Lorenzo, it seemed, had an innate greed. He wanted the sun and the moon, the winter and the summer, to seduce men as well as women and now, in addition, he wants to govern and still to be loved by the people.

Wants? Wanted was the word she had used. Did that mean he no longer did?

‘You said wanted. Does your son not want to be a great prince any longer?’

Slowly, she smiled at his simplicity. ‘Oh yes. Make no mistake, Lorenzo is and always will be a great prince. He was born to it.’ She shook her head, as if in resignation. ‘But he no longer expects or even wants to be loved for it. That’s what I meant.’

She lifted her head then rose to her feet and began to pace up and down. Her look now seemed to have changed. Gone was the compliant smile with which she had greeted him. Now her look was hard and defiant.

‘Once you have seen your brother slaughtered on the altar steps, it changes everything.’ She stopped walking, pointed her finger at him, and glared. ‘You don’t debate after that. You no longer spend your time consulting, searching for understanding, agreement; a settlement. You don’t negotiate.’ She shook her head in emphasis. ‘Not after that.’

She walked towards him, standing over him as he drew back into the recesses of his chair, her finger now making aggressive stabbing movements towards him. She brought her face within a hand’s-width of his own, so close that her eyes were out of focus and he was aware of her breath, as hot and angry as her expression.

‘Just remember this. You don’t take prisoners when your brother’s blood is mingling with your own.’

To his relief she pulled back, walked to the window and stood looking out. When she turned she seemed calmer again, but her eyes were still cold and calculating.

‘The year 1478 began with a misconception. We knew we had difficulties outside the borders of the republic. In Imola, as I have told you, we had Riario and Sixtus to thank for that. But at home, as winter turned to spring, we thought everything was going to be all right.

‘Life went on. The little ones, Luigia and Contessina, were both born to Clarice and Lorenzo during that year. It seemed that Medici family life could continue as if all was well. Lorenzo sat calmly at home, reading letters and reports, hoping his recently-completed Castello at Volterra would keep the Volterrani and the Sienese quiet and that Milan would be able to keep Riario and Sixtus in their places.

‘He was half-aware that there were issues in the Milan and Avignon branches of the bank, but nothing that couldn’t wait.’ She smiled, still leaning against the window, but it was a cold and cynical smile. ‘Life seemed almost idyllic.’ She walked across the room and resumed her seat, then looked up at him. ‘How wrong we were.’ Her smile had become hardened now. ‘Just because your eyes are shut and you can’t see something, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s not as if we hadn’t had any warning.’

He felt himself frown, more as a message to himself than as a communication to her. A warning? Had he missed something? He saw her note his uncertainty with an almost imperceptible nod and realized that it was intended.

She sat back, knowing she has secured his attention.

‘Early in April 1476, the city faced a terrible shock. Simonetta Vespucci, by everyone’s agreement the most beautiful girl in the whole of Florence, was taken ill. Lorenzo was living in Pisa at the time, supporting the new University of Pisa which he had re-opened only three years earlier. So concerned was he at the news that he had messengers take him daily reports of her progress.

‘Giuliano, still in Florence, was unable to eat or sleep for worry. He was so concerned that he asked Lorenzo to send his personal physician to her aid, which he did. But despite his best endeavours, and to the distress of the whole city, she declined rapidly and on Friday 26 April she died. It was a sign. But to our error, we didn’t read it as such. Not, that is, until exactly two years later.’

VIA LARGA, FLORENCE
26th April 1478

It is a Sunday and across the city, the church bells are ringing. Lorenzo, now aged twenty-nine, leaves the Palazzo Medici and begins to make his way down the Via Larga towards the Baptistery and the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, surrounded, as always, by a group of admiring friends.

As Lorenzo reaches the baptistery, his younger brother Giuliano, who has overslept, after a bad night with his sciatica, hurries into his clothes and begins limping after his brother, accompanied by Francesco de Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini. Although bright, it’s a cold day and Giuliano is well-wrapped up. Francesco puts a friendly arm round his shoulder and then lets it slide down his back. Giuliano doesn’t realize it but Pazzi is checking that he’s not wearing chain mail under his tunic.

Lorenzo has already gone on ahead, accompanied by the seventeen-year-old Cardinal Sansoni and Archbishop Salviati and has taken his expected place, up by the high altar, still surrounded by friends. A couple of priests are beside him, preparing for the service. He looks round for Giuliano and sees him enter the cathedral by the Baptistery door. There’s a space next to Lorenzo but Giuliano has left it too late and it will be impossible for him to make his way through the crowd without un-gentlemanly pushing and shoving. It’s hardly the Medici way – not in public and certainly not in church – and Lorenzo signals to Giuliano to stay where he is.

The service begins. The voices of the choir lift and fall again to the sung responses. The priests prepare for High Mass and the sacristy bell is rung. The voices in the congregation fall silent and all attention is on the Host as it is elevated before the high altar.

Immediately there’s a scuffle near the big door facing the Baptistery. Lorenzo looks up and sees what looks like a fight, close to where Giuliano was standing. What he cannot see and only discovers from witnesses later is that Bernardo Bandini has drawn a sword and thrust it into Giuliano’s head. There’s blood everywhere as Francesco de Pazzi joins in, stabbing at Giuliano as he falls, stabbing in such a mad frenzy that finally he stabs his own thigh.

Now his blood is mixing with Giuliano’s. The marble floor is slippery with blood and men are falling over, some trying to go to Giuliano’s aid and the rest – the majority – trying to escape the slashing blades.

As Lorenzo frowns and stretches to see what is happening, both priests beside him draw their own daggers. Lorenzo feels a hand on his shoulder. Half-prepared and by now expecting an attack, he whirls round, hitting the priest in the face with his elbow, but as he does so, the point of the dagger slashes his neck, drawing blood.

But Lorenzo is an accomplished swordsman and already he has his sword in his right hand while his cloak is twisted twice round his left forearm as a shield. The priests drop back as he stabs and cuts then slashes, trying to give himself space. He vaults the altar rail and moves purposefully towards the sacristy door, already with the sound of screams behind him, though whether from Giuliano or someone else he has no idea.

To his left he sees Bernardo Bandini, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, smothered in blood, running diagonally to try to cut him off.

Francesco Nori comes into view, blocking Bandini with his shoulder, but Bandini runs him through with his sword, wrenches it free without stopping, and comes on again. Another arm reaches out to stop him and as Lorenzo reaches the safety of the sacristy doors. His last image is of a dagger slashing – a sleeve, a shirt and an arm torn open.

Then silence.

Heavy breathing. The crash of fists against the heavy doors. But they are closed now and for a moment at least they are safe. Lorenzo, on tip-toe with nervous excitement, scans the faces, ready to kill anyone who so much as looks at him, but they are all friendly faces in the sacristy and slowly they put their weapons down and get their breath back.

‘Who was attacked? What has happened to Giuliano?’

It’s the first thing Lorenzo thinks of as he puts a hand to his neck and feels blood. Antonio Ridolfi sees his reaction and, thinking the dagger may have been poisoned, grabs Lorenzo’s shoulders and begins sucking at his wound and spitting blood all over everybody else in his panic.

‘Is Giuliano safe?’ It’s Lorenzo’s only concern, more so when nobody will make eye-contact with him or answer his questions.

Things are beginning to look bad. One of his friends, Sigmondo della Stufa, clambers up to the choir loft and looks over the frieze into the body of the cathedral below. The tidal wave of panicking people seems to have turned into a mob, but it’s a mob departing. Everyone, Sigmondo says, is streaming out of the doors at the far end and shouting like baying hounds for the killers. ‘This is no time to be a running priest with a dagger in your hand,’ he says.

They unlock the side door and look out. All is quiet. Everyone is at the other end of the cathedral. They bundle Lorenzo out and the group slips quietly up the lane, behind San Michele, between the Pucci houses and back round through the narrow alleyways beyond to the Palazzo Medici. They reach home and close the doors. Time to get their breath back. Time to think.

Across the city, at the Palazzo della Signoria, archbishop Salviati enters, accompanied by Jacopo Bracciolini and a group of other men. They announce that they have an important message for Gonfaloniere Cesare Petrucci, from Pope Sixtus IV. The messenger interrupts the Gonfaloniere and the priors of the Signoria at their midday meal.

‘Take the archbishop to the reception hall,’ Petrucci responds. ‘The rest can wait down below. Put them in the chancellery if the numbers get too large.’

He finishes his meal and joins Archbishop Salviati who, to his surprise and growing suspicion, is shaking like a leaf. The archbishop begins to deliver his message, but keeps looking at the door and forgetting his lines. As Petrucci’s suspicions increase, he calls for the guards, at which point the archbishop breaks for the door, yelling to his companions to ‘call the Perugian mercenaries’.

But they haven’t done their homework. The chancellery has special doors, locked only from the outside and the mercenaries are trapped within. Petrucci goes into the corridor, pursuing the archbishop and is leapt upon by Bracciolini who, hesitantly, draws his weapon. But the Gonfaloniere is too much for him. He grabs Bracciolini’s hair and throws him to the ground. Then, his anger up, he grabs a metal cooking spit and attacks the archbishop and his men, scattering them.

By the sound of splintering wood, the Perugians seem to be escaping from the chancellery, so the Gonfaloniere and the priors run to the tower, lock the doors and climb to the top, where they start ringing the Vacca. As the great bell tolls, crowds form in the Piazza della Signoria.

From one corner of the Piazza Jacopo de Pazzi appears, leading a group of armed men on horseback and shouting Popolo e Libertà. They ride round, trying to egg on the crowd, but when the priors appear at the top of the tower, hurling rocks onto Pazzi and his men, the crowd turn against them.

From the north side of the Piazza, another group emerges, armed and mounted Medici supporters. They ride up to the Palazzo della Signoria, sheath their weapons and enter. In no time they find the Perugians and with pikes and swords they slaughter the lot. They reappear, with the Perugians’ heads on their pikes and seeing this, Pazzi and his men gallop away to the east.

Somehow word spreads that the Pazzi family are leading a revolt and the mood of the crowd grows angry. They begin roaming the streets, attacking Pazzi people and properties. Others race to the Palazzo Medici to give support. They call for Lorenzo, who appears, bloodstained and with a bandaged neck on the balcony. He addresses the crowd. ‘The Pazzi have led a conspiracy,’ he tells them. ‘My brother Giuliano has been brutally murdered, but as you see, I am only lightly wounded. Keep calm. All is now under control.’

But ‘keep calm’ is the last thing the crowd want to do. They want blood. They rush to the Palazzo Pitti and find Francesco de Pazzi lying in bed with his stabbed thigh still bleeding. They haul him from his bed, drag him to the Palazzo della Signoria and up to the Gonfaloniere’s quarters. Petrucci wastes no time. He finds Pazzi guilty, has him stripped naked and with blood still pouring from his thigh, ties a rope round his neck and flings him out of the window. As the rope jerks tight, the crowd cheers and jeers and yells for more.

Now they find Archbishop Salviati and drag him in. They strap his arms behind his back, tie a rope round his neck and, still in his archbishop’s robes, hang him from the window bars. Kicking and screaming, desperately trying to save himself, he bites Pazzi’s body, and hangs on to it with his teeth, as again, the crowd howl with delight.

‘What a situation!’ Savonarola felt the need to show his appreciation, although quite where she thought all this was leading was not clear. Her story had been unfolding so fast he could hardly keep up.

‘That wasn’t the end of it.’ Lucrezia’s voice sounded triumphant. ‘The people searched everywhere. They found the two priests three days later, hiding amongst the Benedictine monks in the Badia Fiorentino. No trial was required and none held. The crowd tore off their robes, castrated them and hanged them on the spot.’

‘Justice or revenge?’ Suddenly Savonarola found himself revolted, not so much by the story itself as by the pleasure she seemed to be taking from its telling.

With a wistful expression on her face, she shook her head. ‘When the blood-lust of the crowd shows itself, the one becomes the other.’

‘Didn’t any escape?’

Again she shook her head, this time more emphatically. ‘Only Bandini. The rest were accounted – for. Years before, with Pitti and the Party of the Hill, Piero had been lenient. But almost to a man, they had come back to haunt him. Lorenzo had learned from that. This time, apart from Bandini, he made sure there were no survivors to keep him awake at night.’

She looked out of the window counting, remembering, and, it appears, calculating. She had been speaking so fast that there was a dribble of spittle down the side of her mouth. Absent-mindedly, she wiped it away with the back of her hand, her mind elsewhere.

Then she turned. ‘You cannot afford to forget too quickly, nor can you allow the people to do so either. Lorenzo talked to the Signoria. “Paint them,” he said. “All eight of them, including the escaped Bandini, who will be hunted down ruthlessly. Paint their images, life-sized. Let the world know that my arm is long. Tell the world that wherever he goes, Bandini will not avoid me. I shall find him and when I do, I shall have him brought back here in chains. And then I shall have him hanged.”’

‘Did they do as he asked them?’ Savonarola was caught up in the urgency of the story himself now.

‘They did as he ordered.’ She turned her head sideways and gave him a twisted grin. ‘It was not a request.’

She looked out of the window again and then turned back. ‘Sandro Botticelli did the fresco on the side wall of the Palazzo della Signoria. Lorenzo paid him the forty florins himself, from his own pocket. It took Sandro twelve weeks, working high on a scaffold. All eight of them, he painted. Life-sized, full-length, their faces recognizable, their clothing as they wore in the street, lest anybody mistake them. Bandini alone was painted upside-down, hanging by his ankle. Underneath his body Botticelli painted an inscription, which had been written by Lorenzo himself.’

A fugitive who has not escaped the fates

For on his return, a far crueller death awaits.

Savonarola felt her looking at him and thought her expression was merciless. For a moment, he felt fear. Many times he had heard stories about the fury of female animals, protecting their young. Now, to his consternation, he was seeing it for himself.

‘Nobody murders my children, especially in church. I won’t have it.’

She lifted her head and seemed surprised that her story had reached its ending. As her breath returned, her mood seemed to subside. ‘The pope wasn’t pleased when they told him his archbishop had been hanged and painted in his robes. A few months later we signed a peace agreement with him and King Ferrante of Naples. He made it a condition of the settlement that Archbishop Salviati’s image must be painted out. Lorenzo agreed.’

Savonarola looked up, surprised.

The smile on her face had become a smirk. ‘Yes. He agreed. But then he took the pope at his word. They over-painted the archbishop’s image in white, so it stood out from the others. But they left his name and the inscription underneath.’

Again she looked out of the window. He could see her mood was becoming brittle and melancholy. But as she turned back he could see it was still fiercely strong and unwavering. ‘It took two years to find Bandini. He had escaped to the coast and travelled as far as Constantinople in a Venetian galley. But Lorenzo’s supporters found him, and the Turkish Sultan honoured his extradition request, sending him back in chains.’ She nodded, vindicated.

‘They hanged him, still in his rusty chains, with his wife beside him, for good measure. A promise is a promise and Lorenzo had promised Giuliano’s body that he would do so. And as for his wife; she should never have aided and abetted his escape. It was a slow hanging. They didn’t drop him onto the end of the rope so his neck broke instantly, as they normally do, and as they did for her. No. They hauled him up from the ground, slowly. Using a thick rope. He was strangled, choked slowly and painfully, his eyes bulging in agony.’

‘You were there? You saw it?’

‘I watched. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I was glad I was there. For Giuliano. For my son.’

‘The memory has stayed with you? An image burned into your mind?’

She nodded, and for the first time he could see tears in her eyes as she remembered. ‘Yes I was there. Young Leonardo da Vinci was there too, not far from me in the crowd. I watched him, looking and sketching, and afterwards, I saw the page in his little book. As usual he was precise, the pen drawing not large but a good image, and beneath it notes in his magic mirror-writing that only he could read. I asked him what the words said and he read them for me. “Small tan-coloured berretta; doublet of black serge; a black jerkin, lined; a blue coat, lined with throats of foxes and the collar of the jerkin covered with stippled velvet, red and black. Black hose, Bernardo di Bandino Baroncelli.”

‘When it was all over, Lorenzo wanted Bandini’s figure re-painted to show that we had found him and done as we promised. Botticelli couldn’t do it, he was in Rome doing some work in the Sistine chapel for the pope. So Lorenzo asked Leonardo to do it. And he did. People said it was the only painting they both worked on. But that wasn’t quite true. They had both worked on The Baptism of Christ, with Verrocchio. But this was the only fresco they ever shared.

Quickly she waved a finger, to correct herself. ‘Except it wasn’t really. Because Leonardo used the same trick as he had done on the Verrocchio. While Botticelli had painted the original fresco in buon fresco, using tempera paints into the still-damp plaster, Leonardo was re-covering an over-painting. He could, of course, have chipped off all the old plaster and started again with fresh intonaco, but instead he left the old paint in place and used oil paints to paint a secco over the top. Of course, with new oil paint applied on a white under-painting background, Bandini’s image shone out against the other figures.’ The smirk again. ‘As it was meant to.’

Slowly her expression softened from smirk to smile, a mother’s smile, reserved for children. ‘Botticelli didn’t mind. He and Lorenzo were …’ her expression tightened as some further thought seemed to enter her mind. ‘But I don’t expect you want to know about that.’

As if waking from a dream, she suddenly turned and walked across to her chair. Her movements had become brisk and business-like, as if her memories were being put away in a cupboard and the door closed and locked.

She sat and composed herself. ‘Well that’s the end of my little story. I hope its intention is clear. The point is, the Lorenzo you see now is the Lorenzo shaped by that experience. It isn’t easy to see your brother die. Not like that. You find yourself somewhat short of … sympathy. It makes you resilient and unforgiving.’

She stood up from the chair again and walked towards him, leaning over for emphasis. ‘But it doesn’t make you a bad person. Not in my book.’

She straightened, turned, walked to the window and stood, looking out, her back to him.

Realizing that he had been dismissed, he got up and without a word left the room. As he descended the stone steps below her house he paused and looked back. There won’t be many more of these conversations now. She’s nearly finished.