The Count of Carmagnola

Introduction

Contrary to what was going on in Europe, where small states were gradually coming together under a sovereign, the city states in Italy during the first part of the XV century were unable to unite as a nation and continued to fight against their rivals, near or far, so that war seemed to be a permanent condition of life.

The Italian peninsula was split into five large states (Milan, Venice, Florence, Papal States and Naples) and countless small states, in ceaseless conflict one with another, for reasons ranging from adjusting a border to the conquest of a whole region.

Mercenary militia, which sprung up after 1000 A.D. from the disintegration of feudalism in Spain, Flanders and Germany, were the fortune of some captains when they came to Italy in the XIV century; the communes and lords needed armed troops but, for economic and political reasons, it was not opportune for them to recruit and train men from the urban population.

This situation induced some nobles, who bore arms and who had suddenly lost their estates, to offer their services to various local potentates and to fight as mercenaries.

The first Mercenary Troops, which were already operating in Europe, appeared in Italy around 1340, led by foreign captains such as Jean Montréal du Bar, called Fra’ Moriale, Werner von Urslingen, called Guarnieri, Konrad von Landau and the Englishman, John Hawkwood, called Giovanni Acuto.

These were actually gangs uniting armed men ready to offer their services to the highest bidder, made up of all those individuals, whatever their origin be, that had become outlaws because they could not find a stable role in society.

They were knights without land, exiles, vagabonds, peasants, runaway servants and slaves, ready to kill to survive.

When they were not paid by the king or by nobles, they resorted to banditry, levying tributes from prosperous villages and burning poor ones. They robbed abbeys and monasteries, plundered peasants’ granaries, killed and tortured those who tried to hide their possessions, and did not spare the religious or the elderly.

One of the most famous captains, called Fra’ Moriale because he was the ex-prior of the Knights of St. John, took the liberty of asking the considerable sum of 150,000 gold florins from Venice to attack Milan.

Mercenary Companies were spread everywhere, becoming an important characteristic in the history of Europe in that period. Even rulers used them for their political aims, but then tried to get rid of them, with considerable difficulty.

The profession of arms proved quickly to be a considerable source of income that satisfied man’s spirit of adventure, permitting the creation of Mercenary Companies that had a strong influence on politics and society during the XV century.

Companies of foreigners were, however, short-lived in Italy, and the reason is perhaps to be found in the upheavals that disrupted Europe during that period, because of a very tense political and social situation, such as the resumption of the Hundred Years War, political and social conflicts in Switzerland against the Hapsburg dominion and the continual conflict between German States. It would therefore seem that because of the grave conflicts of those years, foreign condottieri and mercenaries returned to their countries of origin to fight alongside, or against, their sovereigns.

Mercenary captains took the name of condottieri, because they offered their services for pay (from the Italian word condotta - contract).

Thus, in the XV century, Italian mercenary companies, such as those led by Fortebraccio da Montone, Muzio Attendolo Sforza, Jacopo dal Verme, Niccolò Piccinino, Facino Cane, Francesco Bussone (Count of Carmagnola), Bartolomeo Colleoni and Erasmo Gattamelata were formed.

The first Italian condottiere was Alberico da Barbiano, who distinguished himself by the help given by his St. George Company to Pope Urban VI in defeating the Company of Bretons, who supported Clement VII.

A new era of soldiers of fortune began: from that moment onwards, the new companies did not spring up by chance, as motley crews of foreigners, but only through the shrewd choices of their captains. Recruitment was focused and selective; training was handled directly by the captain who supplied arms and pay to his men.

The duration of the contract was called ferma (term), usually followed by a period of leave during which the mercenary was bound to the captain who had the right of pre-emption for another enlistment. At the end of the contract, the mercenary was considered free from obligation, although there was a clause to the effect that if he passed to an enemy, he could not fight against his previous lord for a period of two years.

Florence was one of the first cities to organise in this way by appointing special magistrates called Ufficiali della Condotta (contract officials), who oversaw the discipline and armament of the men.

If we were to pay attention only to the professional aspect, the captains of fortune might appear to be cold and calculating, careful, wise and avid businessmen, highly professional although not always transparently honest. If on the other hand we let ourselves be won over by the vocational aspect, we will discover that they managed to preserve vestiges of chivalric ethics, often showing an uneconomical veneration for glory.

This historical period was shaken by a grave event, which had repercussions in Italy: the fall of Constantinople to the Turks. This fact echoed throughout Europe, with important and decisive effects on the economy of the Maritime Republics. Following the fall of Constantinople, Genoa began a slow, inexorable decline, while Venice, on the other hand, tried to heal the wounds of the loss of the markets in the Orient with a concrete action of growth on the mainland, thanks to the far-sightedness of Doge Francesco Foscari and the decisive impulse he gave to Venetian politics.

Venice was not just a maritime republic, but became a continental State, conquering Venetia and Friuli, reaching Brescia, Bergamo and, after the Treaty of Lodi, the territories along the river Adda as far as Crema. Furthermore, Venice governed the coasts of Dalmatia and Morea, conquering the islands, including Candia and Crete, and, following a truce with the Sultan, created land colonies as far as the Black Sea.

Under the lordship of the Visconti family, Milan also gained control of a vast territory, as far as Tuscany, occupying the cities of Lucca, Pisa and Siena. Only the fierce resistance of Florence prevented them from creating a State uniting all of Northern Italy.

The Visconti soon had to reckon with Venice which, after having gained the upper hand over the dominion of the Della Scala of Verona and the Carraresi of Padua, aimed for the Milanese territories.

The figures of the various Captains of Fortune that would be decisive in the solution of the conflicts between these cities emerge from the inevitable war that was brewing. Carmagnola was one of these. He was to influence the policy of the two great States of Northern Italy, tipping the scales of the outcome of the war one way or the other in turn.

Chapter I

It was a cold morning at the end of March. Light powder snow had fallen during the night and the whirling wind continually changed the form of the white mantle on the ground. The branches of the trees bent under the heavy load, and by mid-afternoon even the sky seemed to bend under the burden of heavy, dark clouds. An elderly man plodded slowly, bending his shoulders as the gusts of wind arrived, while the snowflakes, fine as dust, whirled around him and in front of his horse. He was accustomed to the area and did not feel the cold, because the cape and heavy woollen mantle wrapped round him protected him.

The snow thickened, fluttering like the hem of a scarf, and fell behind his back. He had exchanged greetings not more than three or four times with other human beings travelling in the opposite direction. It was dark, even though the hour was not late when he reached the monastery door. His horse was worn out, snorting frozen vapour from its nostrils, and he could feel its muscles tensing spasmodically under him.

Angelo (this was the old man’s name) was very happy to dismount from his mare and to be welcomed by the warmth of the stable, lit by torches on the door.

He groaned as he dismounted because his joints were stiff after the long ride and the freezing snowstorm.

He handed the bridle to a groom who had come towards him.

Come in! Come in. How could you have travelled in weather like this? He was welcomed by the voice of the doorkeeper whose heavy cloak was wrapped round him up to his mouth.

I need to speak urgently to your prior, Father Lorenzo, Angelo replied, dusting off the snow that had piled up on his shoulders. I must give him an urgent message from my lady, Countess Antonia Visconti.

You’ll find the prior in church with the other brothers at the service. Go! You can speak to him shortly. And without adding anything more, the old monk went back into the gatehouse to enjoy the heat of a warmer that he held tightly to himself under his cloak.

The church behind the other part of the wall around the monastery was not majestic; it looked like many small sacred buildings all over Italy that had been built thanks to the generosity of lords and the piety of citizens as an act of goodwill to glorify the presence of God in their territory.

As he crossed the cloister, the damp penetrated right into his bones. Although the church was cold, he sighed with relief when he came to a standstill under the vaulted roof, sheltered from the elements and comforted by the heat of the candles.

He sat in a quiet corner, huddling himself to counter the cold of the day. Wrapped in his woollen cloak, with the hood over his brow and his eyes closed, he could scarcely move his lips in unison with the prayers of those present.

A monk was lighting the candles in the chancel where the whole community was gathered.

He followed the singing almost without realising what his lips were saying, his head nodding with stupor from the monotonous tone of the voices of the choir.

Several times, his eyes met the severe, impassive gaze of Christ seated on a throne; at his feet were figures with their heads bowed and arms raised, waiting and hoping to receive divine mercy.

He was intimidated by that vision, and by the sudden inquiring tone of the monk who towered over the others from the pulpit with a gloomy face. Not knowing whether he was in a friendly place or in the valley of judgement, he almost broke into tears. At that moment he thought he could still hear the same voice and sights that he remembered from his boyhood, when, during a sermon, the monk had thundered from the height of the pulpit: … and God turned to the angel and said, Go down to earth with the sickle and reap, because the harvest of men is ready.

There was a long pause. The bystanders seemed lifeless. The only thing that moved was the flame burning and crackling on a large candle in front of the image of the Virgin.

The only sound he could hear was his own gasping breath. It has been said that when the time is near, the Antichrist will come from the east, and then there will not be any more time for the salvation of all those who have not believed; they will only face God’s wrath. Everything will be swept away; the whole universe will sink into oblivion. Then the Omnipotent will give everyone what they deserve. He will say, I would show you mercy, but I cannot find anything good in your souls. Depart from me … And all of us, perhaps, will be thrown into everlasting fire.

Angelo gave a start when he heard another voice, this time from behind him. He turned round and recognised Father Lorenzo in the half-light.

Happy to see a friendly face, he said to him: Father, Countess Antonia asked me to tell you to come to see her as soon as possible, because she wants to say something to you about her late husband, Count Carmagnola. I don’t know what this could be, but before I left she told me that you are already informed about this.

For a moment, the monk was silent. Then he said, You can assure your lady that I will come to see her as soon as possible.

Despite the invitation to spend the night in the monastery, Angelo preferred to start on his homeward journey, hoping to reach his destination before nightfall. Wrapped in his cloak, he let the preacher’s words keep him company for the entire duration of his journey home.

In the warm stable he was in no hurry; it was pleasant to be there with quiet animals treated with loving care. He took the time to rub down his mare, and almost fell asleep, tired after his journey. But it was not time to sleep, not yet. He left the stable and went towards the room where Countess Antonia awaited him.

Chapter II

The following day, the monk set out briskly on foot, blinking and puffing for the wind that whipped his face. When the door was opened, he gasped for breath and bent over, holding his side. The Countess’s old servant welcomed him with a smile, and, dragging a leg, led him along the corridor. Every now and then, he turned round, making comments on the weather and on the pains that tormented him without respite. They reached the spacious reception room, whose splendid furnishings were a distant memory now dulled by the passing of time.

What can I do for you, Father? The old man’s voice trembled, just like his hands. Tell the Countess that Father Lorenzo has arrived. The servant scratched his head in hesitation: My lady does not want to be disturbed at this hour.

The monk seemed not to have understood, because he began to walk into the room. The wind blew through every crack and moaned against the window. Smoke from the fireplace stung his eyes.

For a moment, his thoughts strayed. He raised his hooded head and looked through the window. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away, he murmured. He crossed himself; the hard wood of the crucifix hanging from the rosary held tightly in his fist hit the tip of his nose.

He sat down on a bench beside the fireplace and reached out his hands towards dry twigs that were struggling to set fire to damp oak logs. He got up to stoke it with a poker, stirring up the embers, then sat down again.

In the meantime, a maid had gone to the countess’s room, and her shrill voice rang in the old lady’s ears: My lady, the monk has arrived.

Antonia’s heart leapt and she looked crossly at the maid. She grasped her chair, trying to get up. Two strong arms helped her. She tripped, blinded by the light that poured into the room when the maid pulled the curtain to one side.

When he heard the voices of the two women, the monk went towards the countess as soon as she came through the door, offering his arm to support her.

My lady Countess! Come and sit down. The heat of the fire will make you feel better, he said when he saw her drag her feet.

The monk settled back in his chair to observe the old woman’s face more closely. He held her gaze for a moment, then bent his head forward, looking at the crackling flames that painted moving shadows on the blackened wall of the fireplace.

A woman brought some candles that she placed in silence in the candlesticks on the wall before withdrawing.

I am old, dearest Father, old as the world that continues to worsen. Old people remember and tell their memories to themselves and to others, because death, that point on the horizon, attracts too many thoughts. Memories are the only way of hanging on to one’s life to ward off and escape from that oppressive thought, giving the impression that the horizon no longer exists.

After a short pause, she went on: The world, things, and people are by now irrelevant to me; even these rooms that I hold so dear. Now everything seems distant, even when I endeavour to understand the events that remain in my head. They are not pleasant memories; they are distressing recollections, but I cannot do without them, as if I would feel even more alone should they disappear, without anything to which I can cling not to go even faster towards that point on the horizon.

She remained silent for a few moments, as if to try to stop the images that had appeared in her head. They were shadows continually blending and fading. But the feelings, no, those she could still feel while she continued with her memories. She realised that she had begun to run her hand over her face, as if to seek the image of when she was younger. Her fingers caressed her cheekbones and then went down to her mouth. As if taken by surprise in front of a mirror, with a rapid movement she clasped her hands under her chin. Despite her years, Countess Antonia was good-looking; those dark eyes showed steadiness of character.

You see how memories can renew heartaches. The joys of my married life soon ended. Treacherous people united to strike down my husband’s greatness, a greatness which so troubled their smallness.

Noting the turmoil that pervaded her and trying to avert it, the monk pointed out to her the beautiful countryside outside the window.

I don’t understand why fate has let the world turn upside down. The lowly have risen to high ranks and men have perverted their nature. Nature has not changed; it continues in its order since the beginning of time, but men have changed. And is this, she sighed, the sign of the end so often announced?

Her face darkened, then, murmuring, she arose, leaning on her stick and, without bothering to turn around, made her way towards an old chest.

She gestured with her head to the monk: Come! she said. Look closely! These are the documents regarding the events of the battle of Maclodio.

After a brief pause, she continued: It is all we were able to retrieve.

It’s all over! Have you heard the news? The last Visconti too has presented himself before the Eternal Judge to give account of his wicked deeds.

Shaking her head, she hissed: Men drunk on ambition and thirst for power.

Father Lorenzo nodded as he coughed. He knew why he had been summoned. He had been forced to vow to keep the secret.

Treason! My God. It would seem that from the mouths of Venetians could come nothing but that word, treason. The count had been accused of being a traitor, of having been secretly in agreement with the Duke of Milan. Him! How could he betray his word; he had sworn it on the gospels in St. Mark’s basilica, she continued, staring at the monk with her grey eyes.

Antonia limped away from him. Who is to bear the blame for what happened, if not those lords of Venice? As she spoke, contempt gripped her throat: They, they are the ones who prevented peace! With intrigues, with false accusations. My husband, the Count, was more concerned with the wellbeing of States rather than a few miles more or less for the territory of the Most Serene Republic. God knows why he spared the defeated soldiers; because he wanted to gain the trust of the enemy since he has convinced that this was the only way to gain peace. You have always been close to our family; you should write the chronicle of those events.

You should try to forgive, the monk whispered to her, but the only reply from the Countess was a hard stare.

A good Christian …

Father Lorenzo! she interrupted, I will never forgive. I will never forget what those people did to my family.

Then she turned round, went towards the fireplace and continued: Just as if you had been there.

Closing his eyes, the monk nodded his consent. When he reopened them, he did not look at Antonia, but fixed his gaze on the fire.

Explain exactly what I have to do.

The old countess wrung her hands and told him the story, almost all of it.

A servant entered with a jug of wine. Antonia cleared her throat. Turning towards Father Lorenzo, she offered him a cup. He raised it in her direction and drank.

Excellent. Drink up! You need to fortify yourself. She drank eagerly, then smiled: You should go to visit Count Gonzaga. I have learned that he has been in this area lately. He should have trusted me, you know!

With a flick of her hand, she removed an invisible grain of dust from her dress, gathered her hands in her lap, raised her eyes to the ceiling to collect her thoughts, and then looked again at the monk.

In any case you will find someone who can answer your questions. Do not be afraid to speak; their family has also known sad moments, because they were united in our cause.

It was late afternoon by now, and the shadows had begun to lengthen when the old woman went outside to walk in the garden since the temperature was still mild.

Eleonora returned home and did