Leo Africanus (53 page)

In the first days of May a strange atmosphere came over this makeshift encampment, fertile ground for the most bizarre excitements. I shall always remember the moment when a fife player in the papal orchestra arrived quite out of breath, shouting at the top of his voice:

‘I've killed the Bourbon! I've killed the Bourbon!'

It was a certain Benvenuto Cellini from Florence. One of his brothers had fought in the ranks of the Black Bands, but he himself, a medal-maker by trade, had never belonged to any army. He had gone off to fight, he said, with two of his friends near the Porta Trittone.

‘There was a thick fog,' he declared, ‘but I could make out the silhouette of the constable on horseback. I fired my arquebus. A few minutes later the mist cleared, and I saw the Bourbon lying on the ground, evidently dead.'

Hearing this, I simply shrugged my shoulders. Others snapped at him harshly; the battle was raging on the city walls, especially near the Borgo, and the shooting had never been so heavy; a tumult of war, suffering and fear rose from the city; this was not the time for vain boasting.

However, I must say that to my greatest surprise before the end of the day the news was confirmed. The Bourbon had indeed been killed in the vicinity of the Porta Trittone. When a cardinal announced it to us, a broad smile lighting up his haggard face, there were several shouts of victory. At my side there was a man who did not express the slightest joy. He was a veteran of the Black Bands, and he was boiling with rage.

‘Is this the way wars are fought these days? With these accursed arquebuses, the most valiant of cavalrymen can be picked off from afar by a fife player! This is the end of chivalry! The end of wars of honour!'

However, the Florentine fife player became a hero in the eyes of the multitude. He was given drinks, he was begged to tell the story of his exploit again, he was carried about in triumph. The celebration was uncalled for, because the death of the Bourbon did not delay the assault of the imperial armies for a second. Quite the contrary: it could be said that the disappearance of the commander of the army had served only to arouse his troops even further. Taking advantage of the fog, which meant that the artillery installed at Castel San Angelo could not function, the lansquenets scaled the walls in several places and poured into the streets. Some survivors were still able to get to the castle, their eyes full of the tales of the first horrors. Other accounts were to follow.

By the God who caused me to traverse the wide world, by the God who has made me live through the torments of Cairo and those of Granada, I have never encountered such bestiality, such hatred, such bloody destruction, such pleasure in massacre, destruction and sacrilege!

Would anyone believe me if I were to say that nuns were raped on the altars of the churches before being strangled by laughing lansquenets? Would anyone believe me if I were to say that the monasteries were sacked, that the monks were relieved of their habits and forced under the threat of the whip to trample on the crucifix and proclaim that they worshipped the cursed Satan, that the old manuscripts from the libraries fed huge bonfires, around which drunken soldiers danced, that no sanctuary, no palace, no house, escaped being looted, that eight thousand citizens perished, mostly from among the poor, while the rich were held hostage until their ransom was paid?

Contemplating the thick columns of smoke rising up over the city
in ever growing number from the wall of the castle, I could not erase the vision of Pope Leo from my memory, who had predicted this disaster at our first meeting: Rome has just been reborn, but death already stalks her! Death was there, in front of me, spreading through the body of the Eternal City.

Sometimes, a few militiamen, a few survivors from the Black Bands, tried to block access to a crossroads, but they were quickly submerged under the flood of attackers. In the Borgo quarter, and especially in the immediate neighbourhood of the Vatican palace, the Swiss guards resisted with commendable valour, sacrificing themselves in tens, in hundreds, for each street, each building, and delaying the advance of the imperial armies for several hours. But eventually they yielded through sheer force of numbers, and the lansquenets invaded St Peter's Square, shouting:

‘Luther Pope! Luther Pope!'

Clement VII was still in his oratory, unaware of the danger. A bishop came to pull him unceremoniously by the sleeve:

‘Holiness! Holiness! They are here! They will kill you!'

The Pope was on his knees. He got up and ran towards the corridor leading to the Castel San Angelo, with the bishop holding up the bottom of his gown to prevent him tripping over. On his way, he passed in front of an open window, and an imperial soldier fired a salvo in his direction, without hitting him.

‘Your white robe is too conspicuous, Holiness!' said his companion, hastening to cover him with his own cloak, which was mauve, and less visible.

The Holy Father arrived at the castle safe and sound, but worn out, covered with dust, haggard, his face drawn. He ordered the portcullises to be lowered to prevent access to the fortress, and then shut himself up in his apartments to pray, perhaps also to weep.

In the city, given over to the lansquenets, the sack continued for several long days more. But Castel San Angelo was little affected. The imperial troops surrounded it on all sides, but never risked an attack. Its defensive wall was solid; it had numerous different artillery pieces, sakers, falconets and culverines; its defenders were determined to die to the last man rather than succumb to the fate of the wretched citizenry.

During the first days, reinforcements were still expected. It was known that the Italian members of the Holy League commanded by Francesco della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, were not far from Rome. A French bishop came to whisper in my ear that the Grand Turk had crossed the Alps with sixty thousand men and that he was going to attack the imperial troops from the rear. The news was not confirmed, and the army of the league did not dare to intervene, although it could have retaken Rome without any difficulty and decimated the lansquenets, who were totally absorbed in their pillaging, orgies and drunkenness. Demoralized by the indecision and cowardice of his allies, the Pope resigned himself to negotiations. As early as 21 May he received an envoy from the imperial camp.

Another emissary followed him two days later, for a brief visit. While he was coming up the ramp of the castle, I heard his name mentioned, embellished with various offensive epithets. It is true that he was one of the heads of the Colonna family, a cousin of Cardinal Pompeo. A Florentine priest began to hurl abuse at him, but all those present bade him be silent. Many knew, in fact, like me, that this man, a person of great uprightness, could not rejoice at the disaster which had afflicted his city, that he most certainly regretted the perfidy for which his family was responsible, and that he would do everything to rectify this wrong, by trying to save what could still be saved of the soul of Rome and of the dignity of the papacy.

Hence the arrival of this Colonna did not surprise me. On the other hand, I did not have the slightest idea that the emissary was going to speak about me in the course of his meeting with the Pope. I had never met him before, and when a militiaman came to summon me immediately to the papal apartments, I had not the slightest idea of what might be demanded of me.

The two men were sitting in the library, in two armchairs close to one another. Pope Clement had not shaved for two weeks, a sign of mourning and of protest at the fate which had been inflicted upon him. He asked me to sit down and introduced me to his visitor as ‘a very dear son, a precious and devoted friend'. Colonna had a message for me, which he delivered with some condescension:

‘The chaplain of the Saxon lansquenets has asked me to assure you of his friendship and his grateful remembrance.'

Only one Saxon could know Leo the African. His name was on my
lips like a cry of victory, perhaps somewhat indelicate in the circumstances:

‘Hans!'

‘One of your former pupils, I believe. He wants to thank you for all that you have taught him with so much patience, and to show you his gratitude by helping you leave the city with your wife and child.'

Before I could react, the Pope intervened:

‘Of course, I will not oppose the decision which you will take in any way, whatever it may be. But I should warn you that your departure will not be without grave risks for you and yours.'

Colonna explained to me:

‘Among the troops surrounding the castle are a great number of madmen who want to pursue their humiliation of the Apostolic See to the bitter end. Particularly the Germans whom Luther has made fanatical, may God pursue him with his anger until the end of time! Others, in contrast, would like to put an end to the siege and find a solution which would put a stop to the humiliation of Christendom. If His Holiness were to attempt to leave today, I know whole regiments which would not hesitate to seize his person and submit him to the vilest of tortures.'

Clement blenched, while his visitor continued:

‘Neither I nor even the Emperor Charles could prevent that. We must still negotiate much longer, have recourse to persuasion and guile, using all possible means. Today we have the unhoped-for chance to enable one of the besieged to leave, at the express request of a Lutheran preacher. He is waiting for you, with a detachment of Saxons, all heretics like himself, and he says he is ready to escort you himself far away from here. If all goes well, if the whole army hears tomorrow that the chaplain of the Saxon lansquenets has freed one of those besieged in San Angelo, it will be easier for us to suggest, in a few days or a few weeks, the liberation of other people, perhaps even His Holiness himself, in conditions of dignity and security.'

Clement VII intervened again:

‘I repeat, you must not be unaware of the risks. His Eminence tells me that certain fanatical soldiers could cut you into pieces, you, your family and your escort, without even sparing this chaplain. The decision which you are asked to take is not easy. In addition, you do not have the time to think it over. The cardinal is already getting ready to leave and you must go with him.'

By temperament I preferred to run a risk that was immediate but of short duration than stay for ever in this besieged prison, which could be overrun at any moment and put to fire and the sword. My sole hesitation was for Maddalena and Giuseppe. It was not easy for me to lead them, of my own free will, through hordes of murderers and looters. That said, if I were to leave them in San Angelo with or without me there, I could in no way ensure their security.

Colonna pressed me:

‘What have you chosen?'

‘I put myself in God's hands. I shall tell my wife to pack the few things we have here.'

‘You will take nothing with you. The smallest bundle, the tiniest bag might arouse the lansquenets like the smell of blood excites wild beasts. You will leave just as you are, lightly dressed with arms swinging.'

I did not bother to argue. It was written that I should pass from one country to another as one passes from life to death, without gold, without ornament, with no other fortune than my resignation to the will of the Most High.

When I explained to her what was happening in a few brief words, Maddalena got up. Slowly, as she always did, but without the slightest hesitation, as if she had always known that I would one day come to call her into exile. She took Giuseppe's hand and walked behind me to go to the Pope, who blessed us, praised our courage and commended us to the protection of God. I kissed his hand and handed him all my writings, with the exception of this chronicle, still unfinished, which I had rolled up and slid under my belt.

Hans awaited us with open arms at the entrance to the Regola quarter, where we had often wandered in the past, and which was now no more than a heap of burnt-out ruins. He wore a short gown and discoloured sandals, and had a helmet on his head, which he promptly removed to give me an embrace. The war had made him prematurely grey, and his face was more angular than ever. Around him stood a dozen lansquenets, in baggy clothes and ragged plumes, to whom he introduced me as his brothers.

We had barely taken a few steps when a Castilian officer came to station his men across our way. Signalling that I should not move, Hans spoke to the soldier in a tone that was firm but which would brook no provocation. Then he took a letter out of his pocket, the
sight of which cleared the way immediately. How many times were we stopped in this way before reaching our destination? Probably twenty times, perhaps even thirty. But at no point was Hans caught unprepared. He had organized the expedition admirably, obtaining a whole wad of safe-conducts signed by the Viceroy of Naples, Cardinal Colonna and various military leaders. In addition, he was surrounded by his ‘brothers', solidly-built Saxons, who were quick to point their arms at the numerous drunken soldiers who were roaming the streets on the lookout for spoils.

When he felt reassured of the efficacy of his arrangements, Hans began to talk to me about the war. Strangely, the thoughts he put forward in no way corresponded to the image I had kept of him. He bemoaned the turn which events had taken, recalling the years he had spent in Rome with emotion, and condemned the sack of the city. At first he spoke in veiled terms. But on the third day, when we were nearing Naples, he rode along at my side, so close that our feet touched.