The Ugly Renaissance (39 page)

The most immediately striking feature of the work is that Sigismondo is doing homage not to the Virgin Mary or to Christ himself (as his rival was to be shown doing in the
Montefeltro Altarpiece
) but to a saint. That he should have venerated saints was, in itself, not so very remarkable—the Medici, for example, were fostering the cult of their own “family” saints at precisely the same time—but both the saint in question and the manner in which he is depicted are unusual. Here, Sigismondo is praying to Saint Sigismund, a figure with more than a few interesting characteristics. A comparatively uncommon object of veneration in northern Italy, Sigismund was the patron saint of soldiers, renowned for showing courage and fortitude in the face of overwhelming odds in the early sixth century. What was more, Sigismund had a rather peculiar history for a saint. Although he later abandoned the throne of Burgundy for a monastic life and was eventually martyred for his faith, he had had his own son strangled for insulting his wife and opposing his rule. No less intriguing is his appearance. The thin, flat halo above his hat notwithstanding, Sigismund doesn’t look much like a saint. Seated on a throne and carrying an orb and scepter, he has the bearing of a king but none of the typical attributes of a holy man. In fact, the figure of Saint Sigismund is modeled directly on extant portraits of the contemporary
Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund, whom Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta had served and by whom he had been knighted. The iconographical effect is significant. On the one hand, Sigismondo is unapologetically venerating warlike rulership as a
good in itself. On the other hand, Sigismondo wished to be seen doing homage to the Holy Roman Emperor. This was a pointed political dig. Although Sigismondo’s title to Rimini officially derived from the pope, he is here showing his absolute allegiance to an entirely different source of higher authority. The fact that Sigismondo,
Saint Sigismund, and the emperor Sigismond all shared the same name serves to heighten the sense of identification among the three figures: Sigismondo wanted to be seen not merely as a devotee of a saint and an emperor but also as the equivalent of both. He was the warlike prince, the paradigm of courage, unjustly persecuted for his campaigns, the perfect ruler, the summit of earthly authority. A pious Christian he was not; indeed, there’s no sense in which the fresco sought to overcome—or even acknowledge—the immorality of Sigismondo’s actions.

Strange though it may seem, Sigismondo’s portrait in Gozzoli’s
Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
was conceived in the same vein. Few were more conscious of Sigismondo’s treacherous, callous, and dangerous character than
Cosimo de’ Medici, but all of these things help to explain why the wily old banker wanted his portrait included in the fresco. Cosimo’s motivations were very similar to those felt by the Florentine
Signoria when deciding to commission an equestrian monument to Sir John Hawkwood, although once again the reasons were subtly different as a consequence of Sigismondo’s distinctive character. It wasn’t just that Cosimo wanted to signal his friendship with the Wolf of Rimini to his enemies. He wanted to do a lot more. Back in 1444, Sigismondo had been employed by
Alfonso V of Aragon to lead his campaign against Florence and had been paid a hefty sum of money for his services. The city had had good reason to be afraid. But for reasons best known to himself, Sigismondo had suddenly switched sides. As Pius II later recorded, “
There is no doubt that Sigismondo’s perfidy was the salvation of the Florentine cause.” Cosimo, who never forgot a favor, was thankful that the Wolf of Rimini was such a fantastically talented backstabber and wanted him commemorated. But Cosimo was also deeply afraid of Sigismondo. Although he had been beaten back by his rivals after the
Peace of Lodi, he was still a dangerous and unpredictable figure capable of wreaking havoc in Tuscany should the whim so take him. What was more, Sigismondo’s ongoing feud with Federico da Montefeltro (who had served both Florence and Milan in the 1440s and had entered the service of the Church in 1458) risked spilling over into
Florentine territory, with potentially devastating consequences. Given Sigismondo’s volatile and vicious temper, it was essential that Cosimo maintain good relations, and by including his portrait in Gozzoli’s fresco, the old banker was able to give a clear signal that he wanted to be shoulder to shoulder with the Wolf of Rimini for the foreseeable future. Just as Sigismondo celebrated his own excesses as a condottiere, so Gozzoli’s fresco was a vivid testimony to the awe and dread he inspired.

9

T
HE
U
NHOLY
C
ITY

I
T WOULD HAVE
been easy for Galeazzo Maria Sforza to miss the last, and most important, of the figures in Gozzoli’s
Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
. Hidden deep in the crowd of faces behind Cosimo de’ Medici, he was almost lost in the hubbub of the procession. But there, way back in the third row, was a dour-faced cardinal in an embroidered red coif peeking out from behind the portraits of Plethon and Gozzoli. His head slightly bowed and his features scrunched up into a look of discomfort, he seems to be doing his best to escape the viewer’s gaze. Yet it would have been impossible to mistake the inimitable, pudgy features of Aeneas
Silvius Piccolomini.

When Cosimo de’ Medici had commissioned Gozzoli to paint the frescoes in his family chapel, there had been good cause for him to have insisted on the inclusion of Aeneas’s portrait. An affable and generous-minded cardinal, he richly deserved a place among the galaxy of influential scholars and artists depicted in the Magi’s procession. He was one of the Church’s rising stars. A trained humanist, he was a master of Latin composition and, having been crowned poet laureate in 1442, was already the author of a raft of works that covered every genre, from geography and pedagogy to history and drama. A connoisseur and patron of the arts, he was dazzlingly clever, fashionably well-read, and up to date with all the latest trends in visual and literary culture. In terms of sheer ability, he towered over his colleagues in the
Curia. He was just the sort of intellectual superstar that Cosimo wanted to be seen to know, and although not exactly flattering, the portrait was still a delicate, well-intentioned compliment.

Recent events had, however, transformed the fresco into something more. On August 19, 1458, the portly, middle-aged Aeneas had been elected pope and had taken the name Pius II to signal his sense of Christian devotion. Gozzoli’s portrait had unexpectedly become not only an
affirmation of the new pope’s enlightened sophistication but also a subtle acknowledgment of the cultural might of the Renaissance papacy.

Just eight days after Galeazzo Maria Sforza would have been welcomed into the Palazzo Medici Riccardi, on April 25, 1459, Pius II arrived in Florence for a short stopover on his way to Mantua. When he saw the pontiff in the flesh, however, the young Milanese count would have encountered a very different personality from that suggested by Gozzoli’s portrait.

Far from being an upright, saintly figure, Pius was an arrogant mountain of human flesh. Massively overweight and crippled by gout, he was borne aloft on an enormous golden throne, surrounded by the very worst kinds of mercenaries Italy had to offer. His behavior was far from godly. Stopping briefly at the San Gallo gate, Pius forced the “noble lords and princes of the Romagna”—including Galeazzo Maria (who had to stand on tiptoes even to reach the papal chair)—to carry him into the city on their shoulders. Struggling under the weight, they grumbled resentfully the whole way.
Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, in particular, was furious. “
See how we lords of cities have sunk!” he muttered under his breath.

Things were no better after Pius had been hoisted into the city. Although
Cosimo de’ Medici would have been hoping to solidify his bank’s well-established relationship with the papacy, the main purpose of the pontiff’s visit was to heal a long-standing rift between Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, King Ferrante of Sicily, and Federico da Montefeltro. But while it would have been the perfect opportunity for the new pope to show off his credentials as a Christian peacemaker, he displayed none of the meekness or mildness that might have been expected of a servant of God. Instead, even Pius’s own memoirs reveal him to have acted as a hotheaded, self-obsessed power broker.
At the key meeting, he shouted everyone down, insulted Sigismondo, and washed his hands of the whole affair, before announcing he alone was capable of serving God’s will and the people’s best interests.

Pius was no better behaved at the cultural events that had been laid on for his entertainment. Although he appreciated the artistic spectacles for which Florence was famous and enjoyed conversing with some of its most learned citizens, he was more interested in the city’s more earthly pleasures. Leering lecherously at the dances and banquets held in his honor, he passed numerous lascivious remarks about the beauty
of Florence’s womenfolk and gave himself wholeheartedly to the festivities.
He delighted in a joust held in the Piazza Santa Croce at which “much more wine was drunk than blood spilled,” and was impressed that Florence’s lions had been brought out to tear some other animals to pieces for his amusement. But he showed not a trace of gratitude.
Even though some 14,000 florins had been lavished on entertaining the pontiff, he complained bitterly that not enough had been spent and criticized the Florentines for their “tightfistedness.” It was no surprise that Cosimo de’ Medici decided to stay at home rather than risk the pope’s dissatisfaction.

Paradoxical though it may seem, both Gozzoli’s portrait and the overbearing personality of Pope Pius II are a potent reflection of the hidden character of the papacy’s involvement with the arts. In the personality and career of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini was captured the essence not only of the Renaissance papacy but also of the papal court’s role as one of the powerhouses of Renaissance patronage. As the details of Aeneas’s life are unpacked, what initially seems to be a tension between faith, cultural sophistication, and worldly excess resolves itself into a clear and coherent whole. But as this most remarkable of churchmen shows, the twisted and unexpected story of the papal court’s contribution to the painting, sculpture, and architecture of the period was underpinned less by a disinterested and holy interest in learning than by a world of towering personal ambition, lusty passions, and aggressive power politics.

A
BSENT
P
ATRONS

Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini was born on October 18, 1405, into an impoverished but respectable family of exiled Sienese nobles. Growing up in the little village of Corsignano in the Val d’Orcia, he lived in a world bounded by religion. Every Sunday, the family would attend Mass in the little church of San Francesco and listen attentively to the priest explaining the rudiments of the faith from the pulpit, and they dutifully offered up prayers for the pope’s well-being. It was also a world in which religion, learning, and culture went hand in hand. Like his father and grandfather before him, Aeneas learned the rudiments of Latin grammar alongside his prayers, and while he was still playing in the hay, he was made aware that the classics were to be read as a vital aid to the pursuit of Christian morality. Later, while studying law at the University of
Siena and perfecting his humanistic learning in Florence, he found the teachings of Christ glorified in the writings of men like
Coluccio Salutati and celebrated in the artistic achievements of the age. Offering his devotions in the churches of these two great cities, he looked up to see the faith he cherished immortalized by artists such as Giotto and Duccio, Ghiberti and
Masaccio, and nurtured by patrons such as the Medici, the Brancacci, and the Strozzi.

But while the young Aeneas would have appreciated the close bond between religion, art, and humanistic learning, he would have been aware that something was missing. New churches were, of course, springing up all over Italy; donations and bequests to ecclesiastical foundations ensured that worshippers were surrounded by frescoes and altarpieces of unparalleled beauty; and the tombs of bishops, cardinals, and pontiffs gave material form to the institution of the Church itself. But curiously enough, there was very little to suggest that the popes and cardinals engaged actively in artistic patronage. In Rome, this was even more pronounced. There was almost nothing that would have revealed the papal court’s connection with painting, sculpture, and architecture. Indeed, a visitor to the Eternal City during this period of Aeneas’s life would scarcely have realized that the papacy had any involvement in the arts at all.

There was a void at the heart of artistic patronage in early Renaissance Italy. Whereas everyone else was eagerly seizing the opportunity to buy into the culture business, the papal court seemed to be allowing the juggernaut of Renaissance culture to pass it by. In a sense, this was not altogether surprising. The papacy’s apparent disinterest in Italian art stemmed from the fact that for much of the early Renaissance it was either absent or consumed by chaos.

Since 1309, the popes had resided not at Rome but in
Avignon, in southern France. It was only meant to be a temporary move, but having established itself in the city, the papacy found it couldn’t leave. Quite apart from the French crown’s increasing influence over the papal court and the violent conflict between the popes and the
Holy Roman Empire, Rome itself had become too hot to handle. Dominated by belligerent aristocratic families like the Orsini and the Colonna, the city was given over to street battles and Mafia-like intimidation. It was a frightful state of affairs. As an anonymous Roman chronicler observed in the middle of the century,

The city of Rome was in agony … men fought every day; robbers were everywhere; nuns were insulted; there was no refuge; little girls were assaulted and led away to dishonour; wives were taken from their husbands in their very beds; farmhands going out to work were robbed; … pilgrims who had come to the holy churches for the good of their souls were not protected, but were murdered and robbed … No justice, no law; there was no longer any escape; everyone was dying; the man who was strongest with the sword was most in the right.