Magnifico (27 page)

FROM THE BEGINNING, LORENZO’S RULE WAS ALMOST
as vulnerable to foreign threats as to domestic cabals. One of the lessons of 1466 was that events unfolding within the walls of Florence were exquisitely attuned, as if in sympathetic vibration, to those playing out often miles distant from the protective girdle of brick and stone. The most sensitive area, as far as the government was concerned, lay within Florence’s Tuscan empire, where among the vineyards and the olive trees rose dozens of walled cities that had fallen under the rule of the City of the Baptist. It was possession of these once proudly independent communes that made this mid-sized, landlocked city a player on the world stage, and the Florentine people were sure to punish severely a politician who allowed any of them to slip from his grasp. The fierce local patriotism that burned in these subject cities—the same parochialism that turned the Italian peninsula into a patchwork of competing political entities—was a constant threat to Florentine prosperity and peace of mind.
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Most worrisome was the possibility that local separatists would ally themselves with malcontents within Florence proper to make common cause against the regime. The normal fractiousness of the ruling elites created myriad opportunities for mischief. In the Middle Ages divisions between Guelfs and Ghibellines, and later among the victorious Guelfs, who quickly split into warring Black and White factions, leapt like a contagion from town to town.
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Though the fifteenth century witnessed a significant diminution in factional violence, age-old rivalries continued to fester beneath the surface, awaiting a propitious moment to flare up with renewed virulence. A combination of rebellion abroad and discontent at home was a toxic brew potent enough to bring even the healthiest body politic to its knees.

Lorenzo had been in power for barely four months when the first such crisis erupted, so close to the city gates that it seemed as if the cries of “Popolo!” and “Liberta!” could be heard echoing in
Piazza del Duomo
. The difficulties arose in the city of Prato, a bustling commercial town north of Florence that had long since fallen under the thumb of her larger neighbor.
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It was here that the Nardi family had landed after being exiled for their role in the uprising of 1466. At that time it was Salvestro who had been the chief troublemaker. Now it was his younger brother Bernardo, a “ready and a spirited young man…[u]nable to bear exile because of his poverty and seeing no mode for his return because of the peace that had been made,” who led the charge against the regime that had ruined him. With a handful of supporters, largely recruited from Pistoia, another Florentine dependency that dreamed of reclaiming past glories, he and his companions stormed the communal palace, capturing the Florentine representative, Cesare Petrucci. Meanwhile the rest of the rebels were hurrying through the city shouting “long live the people of Florence and liberty!” in an effort to provoke a general uprising.

It did not take long for word of the rebellion to reach Florence and send the
principali
scurrying to the
palazzo
in a panic. The rebels assumed that the government of Florence was too divided following the disintegration of the triple alliance to put up effective resistance. Unfortunately for them, few things were better calculated to bury, if only temporarily, the hard feelings among members of the ruling party than the threat of insurrection in one of Florence’s dependencies. Men who could normally agree on nothing were unanimous that any move toward independence on the part of one of her subject cities should be mercilessly crushed.

It was an irony often pointed out by those who resented being lectured on the virtues of their republican system of government that Florentines could be so ruthless in imposing their will on others. Cherishing liberty themselves, Florentines assumed that others would be as quick as they in seizing an opportunity to throw off the shackles of slavery. This empathy for the rebels’ cause, unaccompanied by any sympathy for their plight, probably made Florentines overestimate the danger. Even as the rebellion was beginning to lose steam in Prato itself, the leading men of Florence worked themselves into a frenzy by imagining mobs of angry peasants and tradesmen descending upon the city walls. To head off such a calamity they instructed the
condottiere
Roberto di Sanseverino to gather an army and lead it against the rebellious city. It was only after Sanseverino had assembled and equipped his small force that it became clear their fears had been exaggerated. The mercenary captain had barely set his troops in motion when a messenger arrived from Prato bearing good tidings: the people of Prato had turned against their would-be liberators; Cesare Petrucci had been freed; Bernardo and his companions were now the prisoners of the restored government.

In the end, Bernardo Nardi’s ill-fated rebellion did little more than provide a few sleepless nights for the leaders of the regime, an inconvenience more than compensated for by the satisfying spectacle of mass executions in the squares of Florence and Prato. Lorenzo’s role in the affair is unclear, though he must have been deeply involved in the frantic discussions in the
palazzo,
particularly after it was learned that among those egging on Bernardo were his old enemies Dietisalvi Neroni and Bartolomeo Colleoni. Lorenzo’s low profile suggests that he was still finding his way and willing to be guided by more experienced hands.

The most important legacy of the ill-fated rebellion was that it increased Lorenzo’s sense of insecurity. The return of the rebels of 1466 was a reminder of how deep the enmity toward the Medici family ran. The Prato incident reinforced Lorenzo’s belief that any move toward independence on the part of one of Florence’s subject cities was merely a pretext for a coup against him, and it bolstered his belief that only by showing firmness could he avert disaster.

Perhaps Lorenzo should have learned a different lesson from the episode. Florence was spared not by a show of force but by the people of Prato themselves, who apparently preferred security under the Florentine umbrella to the desperate chance of freedom under a bunch of adventurers. Fear alone could not keep in subjection cities with their own proud history of independence. Instead, fostering a sense of common purpose and interest might win friends where harsh methods would only cause the republic’s enemies to multiply.

When a far more serious rebellion began to bubble up in Volterra the following year, Lorenzo and other leaders of the regime were tempted to repeat the strategy they believed had been so successful against Prato—a prompt show of force that would cause the revolt to collapse without the unpleasant and dangerous necessity of actual fighting. But Volterra was not Prato. Volterra, some twenty-five miles to the southwest, was an ancient town, more ancient, in fact, than Florence, and her antiquity and impressive history as an independent commune fostered in her people a stubborn pride. While Florence boasted of its founding by Roman legions—either in the late republic or early imperial period; Florentines could not decide which legacy provided the nobler pedigree—Volterra had been one of the twelve cities of the powerful Etruscan League that rose to heights of wealth and power while Rome was still an obscure village hugging the hills above the Tiber River. From the brow of a steep hill, Etruscan Volterra, then called Felathri, was a formidable citadel commanding a valley known for its rich mineral deposits of copper and silver. Lorenzo himself was well acquainted with the region’s geologic treasures because it was to the nearby mineral baths at Bagno a Morba he and his family so often retired to restore their health.

Like Florence, Volterra had emerged as an independent commune during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, taking advantage of the vacuum created by rivalry between the Holy Roman Emperor and the pope to establish a government outside the prevailing feudal structure.
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Unfortunately, Volterra resembled Florence in her vices as well as her virtues. By the fourteenth century she had been rendered so weak through civil strife that she fell easy prey to Florentine imperialism. Volterra was now fully under the thumb of her bigger, more prosperous cousin to the north, forced to pay taxes into Florentine coffers and suffer the intimidating presence of Florentine representatives in her midst.

Volterra’s story was typical of the mid-sized Tuscan communes that had grown up in the High Middle Ages. Wracked by internal dissensions, these fiercely independent city-states had been gobbled up one by one and added to the growing Florentine empire.
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Once a city was subjected to Florentine rule, however, these divisions did not cease but rather mutated into a new, pernicious form. Now instability was positively encouraged by rival factions within Florence who took advantage of these ancient enmities for their own purposes. When the Medici began to dominate Florentine politics they sought allies within each subject city; their rivals naturally did the same, creating in each dependency two hostile camps, one loyal to Florence’s leading family, the other violently opposed. Thus outbreaks of separatist violence were often spurred as much by a desire to see the
palle
trampled in the dirt as they were by local patriotism. It is safe to assume that behind many of the rebellions that threatened Florence’s Tuscan empire was a cabal of treasonous Florentines who hoped to use the crisis to seize power in the capital.

It is only in this wider context that one can understand how an apparently trifling incident could have precipitated a war that inflicted terrible suffering on the citizens of Volterra and blackened the reputation of Lorenzo for centuries to come. That Lorenzo felt personally threatened by the rebellion of Volterra is beyond question. What is more difficult to assess is whether his feelings of insecurity were justified by either the domestic or international situation and, more important, whether the harsh measures he advocated were the best means of achieving his ends. For a man who came to be regarded as the greatest statesman of the age, one who achieved his goals primarily by persuasion and the delicate balancing of opposing interests, the manner in which he dealt with the current crisis seems at the very least clumsy, and at worst almost criminal. Late in his life Lorenzo confessed that the war with Volterra was his greatest blunder, a judgment that posterity has largely confirmed.

The precipitating event was a dispute over a contract to exploit an alum mine in Castelnuovo, a territory under the control of the still nominally independent Volterran commune.
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The mineral was indispensable as a fixative in Florence’s vital textile industry and so valuable that six years earlier Lorenzo himself had gone to Rome to obtain the pope’s signature on a contract awarding the Medici bank a monopoly on the sale of alum from the mines at Tolfa. The Castelnuovo contract was initially awarded to a consortium of investors from Florence, Siena, and Volterra, led by one Paolo Inghirami. Inghirami and his colleagues were Medici clients, and had they been successful in making good on their claim they would certainly have managed their affairs to the benefit of their Florentine patron. It was also true that in the normal course of things money found its way from clients’ hands to patrons’ pockets. Lorenzo thus stood to gain, directly or indirectly, from the success of his friends.

If greed played some small role in Lorenzo’s thinking, it played an equal part in the behavior of the communal government of Volterra. On June 8, 1471, the priors of Volterra voided the contract, asserting it had been improperly awarded to Inghirami and his fellow investors. There was much more at stake, however, than financial considerations. Inghirami was not only Lorenzo’s friend but his chief supporter in Volterra. In voiding the contract the leaders of the commune were striking a blow for Volterran independence by embarrassing Lorenzo’s agents and, thus, undermining the prestige of Lorenzo himself.

Both sides saw the dispute over the mine as a test of strength between the pro-and anti-Medici factions within the city. Even more important, Lorenzo regarded it as a test of his strength within Florence. Inghirami and his fellow investors formed part of Lorenzo’s personal empire, that vast system of clients dependent on the Medici patronage, and in attacking his servants, the priors of Volterra were effectively attacking the basis of his power. By neglecting this crucial aspect of the contest, historians have misinterpreted the calamitous course of events as the product of an immature politician who misunderstood what was at stake and who believed that an easy military victory would enhance his popularity at home. It is clear, however, that Lorenzo knew exactly how much was at stake and that the hard line he took, while not perhaps the most effective course, was justified by the gravity of the situation.

Indeed there is little doubt that the priors of Volterra were working in concert with Lorenzo’s domestic rivals. They voided the alum concession in June 1471, at the very moment when Lorenzo’s power seemed to have reached a low point. (The
Signoria
seated in May had just demonstrated its independence by openly opposing Lorenzo’s wishes in the matter of a loan to the king of Naples.) But if the priors of Volterra hoped that Lorenzo had been permanently marginalized they were quickly disappointed. Even as they paraded their defiance before an appreciative populace, Lorenzo was routing his domestic opposition. The
Signoria
that followed the unreliable government of May–June 1471 was more favorable to Medici interests, and Lorenzo was able to ram through new legislation that greatly enhanced his control over the machinery of government.