Why else, Lodovico asked, was the body of the codicil not written in the duke’s hand, as his entire will was, but written by Tiberio Valento, who had disappeared? Why had Vittoria not shown it to him earlier, when she had handed him a copy of the will? Why had she handed over Saint Bridget’s ring for Virginio when the document stated she could keep it? The document must be a very recent forgery.
Lodovico didn’t consider that Paolo Giordano, having composed the will, had probably been too tired and sick to write another lengthy document later that day and had asked Valento to do so. Valento then departed Venice on a trip he had planned for some time, without leaving a forwarding address. It is possible that Vittoria, when she first met with Lodovico to discuss the furniture, hadn’t shown him the codicil because she wasn’t ready to reveal her full hand until she had consulted with lawyers. And lastly, she didn’t really want Saint Bridget’s ring and thought it should go immediately to her stepson.
All Filelfo could do was to obtain from Falagnosta “a letter from him directed to the mayor of Padua, requesting that [the
mobili
] be deposited in escrow.”
27
But the mayor denied this request. On Friday, December 20, Filelfo returned to Padua from Venice after having spoken to a lawyer there. On the road, he ran into several of Lodovico’s bandits who had been banished from Venice for breaking into shops earlier that day. They asked if they could stay in Padua with Lodovico, and Filelfo agreed. Such bravados would come in handy fighting the Turks in Corfu, and Lodovico was preparing to leave as soon as he had the furniture situation sorted out.
On Saturday morning, Filelfo and the group of thugs who had tagged along with him arrived at Lodovico’s Contarini Palace in Padua. Beside himself about the furniture, Lodovico instructed his secretary to speak personally to Mayor Bernardo. But the mayor was unavailable. Filelfo went again on the morning of December 22, and was told to return later that afternoon.
Meanwhile, Lodovico, hand on his sword hilt, swashbuckled his way into Vittoria’s palace for a showdown. According to one contemporary, “This signor, a youth of about twenty-five, was said to hate in secret the Signora Vittoria Corambona, and wanted to steal from her, as many said, the horses and the jewels left her by the most illustrious signor Orsini her husband. He went on Sunday, December 22, 1585, to find her where she lived. And she informed him with sweet words that she intended to keep for herself the furnishings that her lord husband had liberally given her in his will, and that she would sell some of them, and give a portion of the money to Signor Lodovico in lieu of what her husband would have given him.”
Paolo Giordano had arranged to give Lodovico a quarterly stipend, and his widow was now offering to pay him part or all of it for the following year. But Lodovico was not pleased at being patronized by Vittoria. He didn’t want the stipend; he wanted the furniture, which was far more valuable. Moreover, his honor was bound up in the tables and chairs, the horses, and jewelry, as he had promised the de Medicis that he would obtain them.
The chronicler continued, “Their conversation being cut off by certain gentlemen coming to visit, she retired to her chamber, but Signor Lodovico remained in the room, where it was heard that he angrily said many strange and injurious words about her, with many threats, and left her, and considered and discussed with his men what they could do.”
28
Filelfo bounced back to the mayor, who saw him only briefly. “Having explained my desires,” he wrote, “he replied that justice would not be lacking for anyone, and I should return the following morning at the usual hour for audiences. I told this to Signor Lodovico, who replied, ‘Now is a good hour,’ and nothing more.”
29
Lodovico had lost patience.
Chapter 24
The Death of Beauty
They will draw their swords against your beauty and
wisdom and pierce your shining splendor.
– Ezekiel 28:7
W
omen were usually immune from the violence of men. While men happily bludgeoned one another’s brains out in the name of honor, their women remained unscathed, beating their breasts on the sidelines. They were seen as beings of little intelligence and no ability to defend themselves – hardly a worthy opponent to a courageous fighting man. Hurting them brought the victimizer dishonor instead of honor, rather like kicking a helpless cripple or beating an elderly toothless dog.
After his brief and fruitless meeting with the mayor of Padua on the afternoon of December 22, Filelfo returned to Lodovico’s palace and dilly-dallied the evening away with some of the other men. At least, that is what he wrote some time later while sitting in a jail cell. “I stayed with one or the other gentlemen in the various rooms until we ate supper as usual. The tables being removed, everyone retired to the rooms, some to the fire, and some to watch the gambling.”
1
Somehow Filelfo failed to notice that around seven p.m. almost forty of the men, according to a
relatione,
disguised themselves “with fake beards and armed themselves with guns, pistols, and other weapons, and went to the palazzo of Signora Vittoria Corramboni, where she lived with her brother, without anyone suspecting anything.”
2
Two of Paolo Giordano’s servants who hated Vittoria, Furio Savorgnano of Udine and Domenico di Citta di Castello, had agreed to open a back door to let the assassins in. Only eight of the men entered; the others kept watch in the surrounding streets, ready to prevent any visitors from entering the palace.
Upstairs, Vittoria was draped in widow’s weeds from head to toe, preparing for the feast of Saint Vittoria, her patron saint, which started at sunset. Saint Vittoria had been a Christian martyr and virgin who refused to marry a pagan during the persecutions of Emperor Decian in 250 A.D. Her frustrated would-be husband turned her into authorities as a Christian, and an executioner stabbed her through the heart. Six days later, it was said, the executioner suddenly died, God’s punishment for murdering the beautiful girl. In past years, Vittoria had celebrated the day as a birthday with parties and gifts. But this year, there would be no celebrations. In front of her private altar, in a small chamber off her bedroom, she walked in circles carrying a crown for the saint, reciting prayers. Then she placed the crown on the altar, knelt, and prayed before a tall ivory crucifix.
The sun set early on that, the longest, darkest night of the year. Vittoria’s altar was lit by candelabra, which flickered in the draft, casting strange shadows on the walls.
Flaminio was sitting on her bed, picking out a sad religious tune on his lute. The bedroom, too, was partially lit by the warm soft glow of candles, as well as the crackling fire in the hearth. But those areas furthest from the candles and the fire were sunk in utter darkness.
Near the door to the ballroom sat a servant named Brancaccio. One of the masked men silently slipped into the bedroom and held a dagger to Brancaccio’s throat to keep him quiet. From the shadows, a ruffian named Splandiano Adami aimed a pistol at Flaminio and shot but missed. The youth, hearing the noise, looked up, threw down his lute and began to run toward his sister in the chapel.
As he approached the door, another shot was fired, and this time the bullet ripped through his shoulder. He dropped to his knees, howling in pain, and dragged himself towards Vittoria, who looked over and saw three men stalking her wounded brother. Splandiano Adami and Paganello Ubaldi seized her. Tolomeo Visconti of Recanati held a knife above her and hissed, “Now you need to die. Behold the reward of your iniquity.”
3
Knowing she could not escape, Vittoria begged for time to confess her sins; in such moments, even confessing to one’s murderer was considered good enough to lift the stain of sin from the departing soul. But in reply one man sliced her bodice down the middle. Vittoria cried that she pardoned them for the great sin they were about to commit. “I want to die dressed,” she declared, wriggling her arms free from the assassins’ grip and throwing them across her breasts.
4
But the two men grabbed her arms and pinned them down again, while Tolomeo Visconti gazed for a moment at the breasts that had bewitched a duke. Then he positioned his dagger above what he judged to be her heart and stabbed her. “Jesus,” she cried as the assassin plunged it in and withdrew it repeatedly. “Jesus.”
It had all been for this.
“Does it stick you in the heart?” he asked, gloating. “Answer me, does it stick you in the heart?”
5
He stopped stabbing her when she didn’t move anymore, and his companions let the body fall to the ground in front of the altar.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?
The three assassins ran to the wretched sobs of Flaminio. While his sister was being murdered, the wounded youth had dragged himself under her bed. The murderers pricked him with their daggers as sport, laughing at his shrieks of pain. Not as courageous as his sister, the boy cried and begged for mercy. They shot him through the mattress, then dragged him out and stabbed him repeatedly. Authorities would later count seventy-four separate wounds.
The murderers then sought for Marcello, looking under beds and in cabinets, calling for him threateningly, but without success. He was still hiding with his men in the convent, knowing the authorities wanted to arrest him for the murder of his servant earlier in the month. If he and his gang of bravados, always armed to the teeth, had been living with Vittoria, they might very well have saved her and Flaminio.
The murderers began rifling through drawers and cabinets, pocketing small valuables. A cry came from the courtyard outside.
Pignatella!
Little pot. It was the code word for departure and meant that somebody was coming down the street. Before leaving the palace, the murderers commanded Baldassare Muti, Vittoria’s chief butler, to take care of the duke’s furniture for which they were accountable to the grand duke. And then they slipped out the way they had come in.
A servant of Paolo Giordano’s still serving Vittoria, Scipione Longo, had been in the palace when the murders took place. He hadn’t recognized any of the masked men. When they left, he ran breathlessly to Lodovico’s palace two blocks away with news of the crime. Lodovico showed no surprise and instructed Scipione to take the news to the rectors, the city councilmen.
Lodovico summoned Filelfo. “I was called,” the secretary wrote, “into the room of the signor, where there were many gentlemen of the house, and the signor said to me, ‘Did you hear the news?’ and I replied, ‘What news?’ And he said, ’Scipione Longo has just been here and says that some masked men entered the house of Signora Vittoria and killed her and Flaminio and searched for Marcello but didn’t find him.’ I was shocked and said that it would be good to go to the police. Lodovico replied that Scipione had already gone. The conversation was about this event until it was time to sleep, and I went to my lodging.”
6
The rectors, many of whom had been roused as they were preparing for bed, were horrified to hear the tale. “At four hours past sunset the most illustrious signor rectors heard of this atrocious crime,” wrote one contemporary. “The signor mayor went at four hours past sunset to the most illustrious signor captain [Padua’s top military official], and they sent immediately letters post haste to the most serene prince of Venice [the doge], explaining the crime.”
7
They knew who was behind the murders. Lodovico and his army of hardened ruffians would not peacefully turn themselves in. The rectors gave orders to the canoneers and soldiers to present themselves at city hall early the next morning and to keep the city gates closed so Lodovico could not escape.
Then the mayor and the rectors went to the Foscari Palace, pushing their way through the throngs in the street who had heard of the carnage. On the ground floor they called together the servants and interrogated them. Some were hauled off for further questioning as it became clear that somebody had opened a door for the assassins.
Holding their lanterns aloft, the officers tiptoed up the enormous staircase. Shining their lamps this way and that, they saw that the rooms had been rifled, the desks and wardrobes opened and emptied, with clothing and papers scattered all over the floor.
The group quietly crossed the ballroom, then turned to enter Vittoria’s bedroom. They saw a dark heap of something on the floor. It was Flaminio, riddled with gunshot and stab wounds, the laughing youth who had been reduced in minutes to butcher’s offal. Groaning and crossing themselves, the men went into the little chamber at the back of the bedroom. There was the altar, the crown of Saint Vittoria on a red velvet pillow in front of the crucifix. Beside it were candlesticks coated with hard white droplets from the candles, which were guttering low in pools of wax.
Vittoria, face down, was stretched out like a sacrificial offering at the base of the altar. They rolled her over. She was stiff as a board and white as a sheet, her bodice ripped asunder, the shreds of velvet and her breasts caked with dried blood. Beneath her a pond of blackened blood spread out across the floor.
They waited for sunrise to attend to the bodies. There was no money to pay for a funeral, indeed, no family member around whom they could even ask for money. As the cold, distant sun rose over a misty Padua, the officers obtained two wide planks to use as stretchers to carry the bodies. They hoisted Vittoria, her body sticking to the rubbery puddle of blood on the floor, onto one, and Flaminio, his guts and brains falling out of his monstrous wounds, onto the other, and carried them to the Church of the Ermetani across the street. Given the sensational manner of the deaths, and the fact that one victim was a duchess, crowds pushed to see the bloody bodies, particularly Vittoria’s mangled breasts. The curious wept and groaned for compassion for the brother and sister cut down at such a young age.
Trying to save the city of Padua money, the officers bought the cheapest coffin possible from the monks and jammed both bodies into it. Then, as the distant midwinter sun started to slide towards the horizon on that cold afternoon, and the gravedigger dug a hole just outside the church, the monks lit tapers at all four ends of the coffin and chanted psalms. “At sunset they put the coffin in the church in an earthly sepulcher, without any other funeral pomp,” wrote a
relatione
author, “because those of their household having run off in great terror, they could find no one who dared to attend the service.”
8
Cardinal de Medici was the first person in Rome to hear news of Vittoria’s murder. He raced breathlessly into the papal audience chamber and told Sixtus. The pope, who always firmly believed God would punish the guilty, seemed stunned.
If she had not been involved, God would not have punished her. She must have known. She, the wife Francesco loved.
The news gave him no joy but seemed like another stone around his neck.
“On December 26, 1585,” a
relatione
author wrote, “the pope heard with great compassion of the unhappy death of Vittoria Accoramboni, wife of Signor Don Paolo Giordano Orsini, duke of Bracciano, by the hand of assassins in her own house.”
9
While this writer thought the pope was saddened to hear of Vittoria’s death, other Romans weren’t so sure. On December 28, Sixtus made a procession to the seven churches of Rome, a pilgrimage of prayer and repentance. Some believed he did this to pray for Vittoria’s soul, but others thought he was praying for his own because he had been mixed up in the deaths of her and her husband. Yet, others speculated that perhaps he hadn’t been involved at all, but was rendering thanks to God for this unexpected boon. If the pope’s true feelings were unclear, Camilla’s weren’t. She was absolutely delighted.
The bloody murders of Vittoria and Flaminio were routinely called Lodovico’s “excess,” as if he had imbibed a bit too much wine or eaten a second piece of cake. The crime was also called an
accidente,
a word which can mean incident but also has nuances of the English
accident,
implying that he had slipped on a banana peel, or farted at a noble dinner party, or accidentally called together forty assassins, inadvertently handed them swords and pistols, and unthinkingly ordered them to murder an unarmed brother and sister. Some descriptions used both words. “This accident happened by the disposition of Divine Justice because of the excess committed against the house of the pope,” according to a
relatione.
10
They were polite words for bloody deeds, the usual Renaissance gilding over bones and guts.
“Such was the end of Vittoria Accoramboni,” wrote another
relatione
author, “a woman who would have been lacking no happiness if she had been able to wait for things to come in their time. But wanting to run ahead, she tasted great bitterness in the end, so that few women have left behind such a bitter memory.”
11
Another writer attributed her bloody end not merely to ambition but to complicity to commit murder, stating that Vittoria “paid with such a death for the sin committed in the consent she gave to kill Francesco Peretti, her first husband.”
12
One contemporary writer saw irony in the events. The duke, he wrote, had seen to it that she was well provided for after his death, “but such is the uncertainty of human plans that what he thought would secure her future was that which flung the poor girl off the precipice.”
13
A poet lamented the death of such loveliness. “Of all women, she was the most beautiful of the beautiful.”
14
Another
relatione
writer, thinking back to her suicide attempt on the day of Paolo Giordano’s death, comforted himself somewhat with the thought that her brutal murder “was worse for the body, but better for the soul.”
15