Magnifico (21 page)

The piazza itself was admirably suited to the clash of arms. Covered inches deep in fine white sand and divided lengthwise with wooden rails, it provided ample space for the galloping horsemen to throw themselves at each other with furious abandon. When Clarice prayed for Lorenzo’s safekeeping, and later wrote to him to tell of her relief that he had made it through the day in one piece, she was expressing more than a conventional wifely sentiment. Though lances were blunted and armor thick, serious injuries—and rarely, death—were a real possibility. Lorenzo was unhorsed more than once, and after one particularly brutal clash his horse was unable to lift itself from the turf.
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Lorenzo’s joust is one of the best-documented events in his life. Numerous contemporary poets provided a blow-by-blow account and some—including Luigi Pulci—include a detailed portrait of Lorenzo at a particularly happy point in his life, when he was at the height of his physical powers and when the future seemed filled with endless possibilities. But despite copious firsthand testimony, Lorenzo’s joust presents many a puzzle to the modern mind, unaccustomed as we are to the conventions of chivalry and to the complex motives that lay behind both the spectacle and the many narratives it inspired.

Above all it is difficult for us to comprehend how the recently betrothed Lorenzo could enter the lists as the champion of another lady. Here is how Luigi Pulci describes the scene as Lorenzo, a lighthearted Achilles, prepares for battle:

What is one to make of this charming vignette, played out before the multitudes, involving a married woman and a man just recently engaged to someone else? If Lucrezia was really Lorenzo’s mistress, as many later historians have supposed, this public declaration of affection would have been entirely inappropriate. But to take Pulci’s verses at face value and use them to pry open Lorenzo’s elusive private life is to misunderstand both the poetry and the event. Lorenzo’s tournament was, in fact, little more than a clever charade in which both the battles and the passions that sent men careening toward each other at breakneck speed were equally artificial. By the 1460s chivalry was primarily a nostalgic literary genre, particularly in Florence, which, much to the chagrin of its social-climbing rulers, had no real tradition of a warrior caste and where notions of knightly courtesy were formed by reading books and listening to the songs that accompanied drowsy feasts.

It is not surprising, then, that Pulci adopts a gently ironic tone. On one level his verses celebrate Lorenzo and his valiant companions as heroes worthy of being seen in the company of Hector and Agamemnon, but at the same time they acknowledge with every allegorical allusion a certain distance between the poetic fiction and the prosaic reality. This deliberate artfulness characterizes not only Pulci’s description of the clash of arms but also his account of Lorenzo and Lucrezia’s passion. In truth there was much in Lorenzo’s private life, especially those hours spent in the seedier parts of town, of such a nature that not even the finest poet could make them fit for public consumption. Cosimo’s protégé Antonio Beccadelli might celebrate the charms of “the blond Elena and the sweet Matilda, both adept at wiggling their behinds,” but it would have tested even his courage to place Lorenzo in their company. Lorenzo’s upcoming nuptials were equally unfit for poetic apotheosis; marriage was a sacred but rather prosaic affair, meant for the production of children and hopefully free of dramatic incident. In his epic poem, Luigi Pulci dismissed Clarice in a couple of lines, while dedicating whole paragraphs to the beautiful Lucrezia.
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Less easily dismissed is the testimony of Lorenzo’s friends, who seem only too happy to dwell on the more salacious details of his supposed affair with the beautiful daughter of the distinguished Donati family. Shortly after Lucrezia’s marriage, Braccio Martelli, with his usual coarseness, taunted Lorenzo: “and as you know, Niccolò [Ardinghelli] has a cock like the horn of a bull.” If this was not sufficient to goad Lorenzo to action, another friend, Giovanfrancesco Ventura, gave him a further nudge. “I do not believe that your relations with the noble L[ucrezia] are at the same point as when I left,” he wrote in mock scorn to Lorenzo in the spring of 1468. “Each seeks the health of his soul; it is time now to see to the pleasure of the body…you are too reserved and too contained…the time has come to seek the sweet goal and not to lose time…. I have learned that her N[iccolò] will be absent for some time: it would be a pity to leave unplowed such sweet terrain.”

But even these apparently spontaneous utterances play off the conceit already established in Pulci’s literary production. The vulgar humor of Lorenzo’s friends, far from providing confirmation of an illicit love, pokes fun at a chivalric convention that by now had worn a bit thin. Beccadelli strikes a similarly cynical pose in his
Hermaphroditus
: “The Graces and Venus chose Alda’s beautiful eyes as a dwelling place and Cupid in person smiles on her lips. She does not piss, or, if she does piss, she pisses fragrant balsam; she does not shit, or, if she does shit, she shits violets.” You could dress a Florentine banker in a knight’s armor, but the pungent vocabulary and hardheaded realism of the marketplace, where men were accustomed to sifting truth from fiction, would quickly pierce the disguise. If Lorenzo was ever tempted to fly too high, to see his own life in terms of heroic feats performed at the behest of lovely damsels, he was sure to be brought down to earth by friends like Martelli and Ventura who mocked all that courtly nonsense.

While the presence of the beautiful Lucrezia gave Lorenzo’s tournament a fairy-tale quality, far more prosaic things were actually at stake. For those crowded into the Piazza Santa Croce that day the twin pillars of Florentine life, money and politics, were clearly visible behind the artful spectacle and classical references. The real competition began long before the first blows were struck as each champion tried to outdo his rivals in the extravagance of his furnishings and size of his retinue. More fashion-conscious than divas on a red carpet, the young men from the best families of the land—Medici, Salutati, Pazzi, Pitti, Pucci, and Vespucci, among others—cantered into the square with their armor all but invisible beneath yards of silk, velvet, and ermine, their family crests or personal devices picked out in silver and gold thread. Even the horses, covered head to hoof in silk and jewels, carried a king’s ransom on their backs. Few could forget Benedetto Salutati’s entrance, his horse so splendidly attired that, according to one breathless eyewitness, the bridle alone required 168 pounds of silver. Others were decked out with equal sumptuousness, the point being to project a splendid image that the citizens were quick to tabulate in terms of florins or ducats.
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The joust, while borrowing its form from medieval traditions, reflected the worldly ethos of the Renaissance. Gone were the frugal habits of former generations, replaced by a culture in which attention-grabbing splendor was a requirement for anyone wishing to make his way in the city. The modest man was no longer praised for his Christian virtue but condemned as stingy and small. He who cut the most splendid figure was greeted with the loudest applause. But before one condemns too harshly this conspicuous consumption, it should be noted that events like these contributed to the most sublime achievements in the arts by offering steady employment to Florence’s greatest painters and sculptors. The account books of artists like the Pollaiuolo brothers, Verrocchio, and Botticelli record the income derived from the floats, banners, and armor they designed for the jousts and festivals that filled the yearly calendar. Little of this ephemeral matter has survived, but as much skill and artistry were lavished on the cuirass of a jouster as on the most ornate altarpiece.

Lorenzo’s own feelings about his joust convey a mixture of pride and cynicism. In his memoirs, he evinces little real taste for such occasions, writing, “To do as others do I held a joust in the Piazza S. Croce at great expense and with great pomp. I find we spent about 10,000 ducats.” But his anxiety to acquire the best horses from around Italy betrays a passion for such spectacles not admitted in these laconic remarks. No doubt he enjoyed the trappings and vigorous physical activity of the tournament, but he also understood that it was a necessary exercise in public relations. He was on the verge of assuming the leadership of the republic, and his tournament was calculated to win over hearts and minds. Who, after all, would not prefer to be led by a young lord resplendent in ermine and gleaming helm rather than a college of nattering old men in somber robes?

Lorenzo did not fail to remind the people on this martial occasion of his contributions to the gentler arts of peace. His banner, designed by Andrea del Verrocchio (with possible contributions by Leonardo da Vinci, who had recently entered his studio), depicted a sun and a rainbow in which were inscribed in golden letters the words
“Le tems revient”
(The time returns). Lorenzo’s famous motto—rendered, significantly, in the archaic French of chivalric tradition—is a play on his father’s
“Semper”
(Always), and reflects the perennial Medici obsession with time.
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Perhaps the message was a bit obscure, since Pulci felt the need to explain the words to posterity, writing that “one can interpret them as meaning, the time returns and the century renews itself.” For spectators not conversant in French, the theme of rebirth was elaborated in the vests of Lorenzo’s twelve-member honor guard, showing roses both withered and in full bloom, as if the Medici heir had breathed new life into a dying world. The phrase, ultimately derived from the
Fourth Ecologue
in which Virgil prophesied the return of a golden age under Augustus, demonstrates how assiduously Lorenzo cultivated his image as a patron of the city’s vital culture. Indeed, as his banner makes clear, the myth of a golden age under Lorenzo was not the invention of later generations but part of a deliberate strategy to identify the reigning family with the city’s splendid achievements in the realms of art and literature.

For the vulgar masses, on whom much of the symbolism was lost, the sheer extravagance of Lorenzo’s costume conveyed a similar message. From his velvet beret encrusted with pearls, diamonds, and rubies, to the silver harness sculpted by Antonio del Pollaiuolo, to his shield, sporting at its center the famous Medici diamond known as
il Libro
(said to be worth at least 8,000 ducats),
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Lorenzo was a walking—or riding—advertisement for his family’s magnificence.

Political messages were conveyed as well by the roster of those who rode with him into the piazza. He was accompanied by two illustrious men-at-arms, Giovani Ubaldini, lieutenant of Federico da Montefeltro, and Carlo da Forme, representing the
condottiere
Roberto di Sanseverino—an impressive display of military muscle. The fact that he rode five different horses for the tournament had less to do with the fury of the combat than the opportunity thus afforded to pay and receive homage: three came from King Ferrante, one from Cesare Sforza, and one from Borso d’Este, who hoped through his generosity to redeem his reputation after his indiscreet attempts on Piero’s life.

While Pulci tries to turn the joust into a ferocious battle of Iliadic proportions, most of the participants managed to escape with little more than bumps, bruises. As the sun began to set, individual battles gave way to a confused melee in which Lorenzo was thrown from his horse:

Artfully, Pulci turns what could have been an embarrassing moment into an occasion for Lorenzo to display his gallantry. He describes how Lorenzo quickly remounted and charged back into the fray until “the sun bathed his golden rays in the ocean.” With most of the field lost in shadow so that only the tops of the helmets caught the last glint of sunlight, the heralds finally signaled the end of the contest.

It was a glorious end to a glorious day. To no one’s surprise, and despite the fact that he had been twice unhorsed, “to the youth [Lorenzo] with great celebration/ was given Mars’ highest honor.”
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As the crowd dispersed, how many grumbled at the outcome and how many argued that it had been fairly won? Wine flowed freely in the taverns and bonfires lit up the streets and squares as the day’s festivities continued long into the moonlit hours and knightly etiquette gave way to drunken revelry. In the days and weeks that followed congratulations flowed in from across Europe filled with flattering allusions to Lorenzo’s martial prowess. All sang the praises of the youth who “carried on his helm both honor and victory, and raised to new heights the emblem of the illustrious Medici.” From Rome came letters from his soon-to-be kinsman: “A few days ago I heard, but not by any letter of yours, of the tournament and the honor done to you,” wrote Clarice’s brother, Rinaldo Orsini. “God be praised for all, and especially that you emerged safe and unhurt; in which I think you were aided by the prayers of your Clarice.” Clarice wrote in a typically self-effacing vein: “Most magnificent consort, greetings. I have received a letter from you which was most pleasing to me, telling me of the tournament wherein you gained much honor. I am most glad that you have been satisfied in a thing which gives you pleasure; and if my prayers have been granted in this, I, as a person who desires to do something to give you pleasure, am well satisfied.”