The Venetians: A New History: from Marco Polo to Casanova (15 page)

Nonetheless, with the advent of peace, Carmagnola reopened contact with Filippo Maria, taking the precaution of passing on to Doge Foscari copies of any letters that he sent and received. As it happened, Foscari was already aware of this development as Filippo Maria had been sending him copies of the letters he had been receiving from Carmagnola. Unfortunately, these were different from the letters that Foscari was receiving from Carmagnola himself – a fact that was duly noted in the archives.

Seen in this light, Carmagnola’s ‘treachery’ becomes more understandable. While seeking to obtain the maximum gain from his employment as a mercenary, he knew that he was essentially on his own. He did not trust Venice any more than he trusted Milan, because he knew that neither of them trusted him. Such was the complex web of mistrust in which the Republic now found itself embroiled. Yet who else could Carmagnola turn to? The plight of a
condottiere
, especially a powerful one, could be as dangerous as it was lucrative.

Despite Filippo Maria’s friendly gesture to Venice in passing on useful information regarding Carmagnola, intelligence reaching Foscari and the
Signoria gave them to understand that Milan was once more preparing for war. Ironically, in the light of its attitude towards powerful individuals, Venice now found itself utterly reliant upon just such a man. The need to retain Carmagnola became tantamount, and in August 1430 Foscari went so far as to promise him the dukedom of Milan if he managed to win the coming war by actually taking the enemy capital.
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At the same time a large Venetian fleet of thirty-eight galleys and forty-eight lesser craft, manned by 10,000 fighting men, was assembled ready for a naval campaign in the Po river system. Although nominally under the overall control of Carmagnola, the fleet was placed under the immediate command of admiral Nicolò Trevisano, who had already distinguished himself in action on the Po. It was felt that such a command structure would enable this powerful fleet, manned by Venetians, to be more reliable when it came to following orders from Venice.

In early 1431 Filippo Maria duly reopened hostilities, but this time the Venetians were more fully prepared. Carmagnola and Admiral Trevisano were ordered to strike deep into the heart of enemy territory, launching a daring land and river coordinated attack on the city of Lodi, beside the River Adda just fifteen miles south-east of Milan. Trevisano and the Venetian fleet quickly reached Lodi, but owing to insufficient support from Carmagnola’s slow-moving land troops they were unable to take the city. Forced to retreat downriver, Trevisano decided to mount an attack on Cremona instead. But here he was caught by surprise on 22 May by the Milanese fleet, whose ships were manned by experienced sailors from Genoa. The swift Milanese fleet quickly began outmanoeuvring the more unwieldy seagoing Venetian craft. Trevisano sent messages appealing to Carmagnola for land support, but he replied that he was unable to move from his position, owing to the fact that Sforza’s forces were encamped in a threatening position nearby. Meanwhile on the river the two fleets engaged in earnest, with the fighting continuing through the day and into dusk, with the Venetian fleet hemmed in against the shore. Under cover of darkness,
Sforza withdrew his men from the vicinity of Carmagnola’s encampment and marched to Cremona, where they embarked on a flotilla of waiting Milanese craft. As the dawn rose, Trevisano was shocked to see this flotilla making its way downstream towards him, the decks of its ships filled with armed men, their armour glinting in the morning sun, their colourful banners unfurled and signifying their readiness for battle. Once again the two sides engaged, with the Venetians doing their best to mount a rearguard action as heavy fighting continued through the morning. Carmagnola and his men did not arrive until later in the day, when they could only watch powerless from the opposite bank as the Milanese overwhelmed the Venetian ships. This was no mercenary land battle, but was fought by Venetian and Genoese sailors who were used to more bloody seaborne encounters and bore a long-established enmity towards one another. When the battle was over, Venice had lost as many as twenty-eight galleys and more than forty smaller craft, and according to the contemporary Venetian chronicler Bigli, ‘The slaughter was greater than any that was ever known in Italy, more than two thousand men being said to have perished, in witness of which the Po ran red, a great stream of blood, for many miles.’

Of the few who managed to make it ashore, many were slain by local peasants only too keen to avenge themselves on the invaders. However, Trevisano himself managed to escape. When news reached Venice of what had happened, the outrage of Foscari, the Signoria, the Ten and all the citizens was such that Trevisano was immediately tried and sentenced to prison in his absence, then banished and outlawed when he chose not to return to Venice and surrender himself. Someone had to be the scapegoat for such a disastrous loss (which certainly eclipsed the great victory at Maclodio). But why was Carmagnola not blamed for what had taken place? He did in fact put on a big public display of remorse for what had happened, appearing to take the defeat personally. At the same time, however, he wrote to Venice informing Foscari that Trevisano had disobeyed orders in attacking Cremona. There was some truth in this, and for the time being many amongst the Venetian authorities were in favour of overlooking Carmagnola’s late arrival on the scene. Others were less forgiving and insisted on a public debate. According to Sabellico:

There were not a few, who, from the beginning had suspected Carmagnola. These now openly in the Senate declared that this suspicion not only had not ceased but increased, and was increasing every day; and that, except his title of commander, they knew nothing in him that was not hostile to the Venetian name. The others would not believe this, nor consent to hold him in such suspicion until some manifest signs of his treachery were placed before them.

Such open debate in the Senate reflected the essentially democratic style of Venice, even if this remained an effective force only among the city’s noble families.

While the debate raged back in Venice, Carmagnola lay low in his tent in the field. In the autumn of 1431 despatches arrived from Venice ordering him to attack Cremona and establish a bridgehead on the far side of the Adda; but although he was camped only three miles from the city he chose not to move. However, seemingly on their own initiative, several young officers, including Ugolino Cavalcabò, the son of the murdered Lord of Cremona, launched a surprise attack under cover of darkness, seizing the fortress of San Luca, the key to the city’s defences. If this had been followed by swift action from Carmagnola the city would have fallen by dawn; but he remained in his encampment and the attempt failed.

By a quirk of fate which Carmagnola could not have foreseen, this was to be the final act that inadvertently precipitated his downfall. In the expectation that Cremona would fall by morning, a messenger had been despatched that night to Venice announcing a great victory. The news was greeted by public rejoicing, which was transformed into disgust and anger when a further messenger revealed the truth of what had happened.

The Senate expressed its outrage, and demanded an immediate explanation of Carmagnola’s behaviour. But in the end more patient, and more devious, counsel prevailed. Carmagnola was now resting a hundred miles away in his winter quarters at Brescia, and was all but unassailable. He was unlikely to expect, or indeed obey, any orders from his employers: despatches from Venice were only liable to raise his suspicions. It was decided to see the winter out.

Finally, on 27 March 1432, the Council of Ten met to discuss the
situation, and summoned a
zonta:
an extraordinary meeting to be attended by the thirty-seven senior members of the administration. A secret pact was taken, on pain of death for anyone present divulging what had been discussed. Two days later, the secretary of the Council of Ten, Giovanni da Impero, a man ‘with a face as pale as a ghost’, left for Carmagnola’s winter quarters at Brescia. He carried a message saying that the doge wished Carmagnola to return to Venice so that he could seek his advice ‘on the best means for carrying out the summer campaign … for much difference of opinion exists amongst the city councillors’. At the same time, secret messages were despatched to the commandant of the Brescia garrison and captains of the Republic in the field: they were to give their support to da Impero, no matter what order he gave.

In the event, da Impero had no need to order the detention of Carmagnola, for he unwittingly agreed to accompany him at once to Venice. As arranged, when he arrived at Padua that evening having completed the first stage of his journey, Carmagnola was greeted with all the pomp and ceremony due to the commander-in-chief of the Venetian forces. That night, in accordance with the prevailing custom of the time for such celebrated guests, he shared the bed of ‘his good friend’ Federigo Contarini, the Captain of Padua.
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On 7 April, Carmagnola crossed the lagoon to Venice, where he was met at the landing stage by a guard of honour and escorted to the Doge’s Palace. Here, according to well-documented descriptions of the ensuing events (which disagree only on minor points), his personal bodyguard was dismissed with the words, ‘The master will dine with the Doge, and will come home after dinner.’ He was then led up the grand staircase and shown into the Salle delle Quattro Porte (Hall of the Four Doors), the official chamber where visitors waited before seeing the doge. After kicking his heels impatiently for some time, Carmagnola was informed by a member of the Council of Ten that the doge had suffered a minor accident and would be unable to receive him. Visibly irritated by the delay, Carmagnola
declared, ‘The hour is late and it is time for me to go home’ and left the room.

But as he was on the point of leaving the building for his waiting gondola, one of the attendant nobles stepped in front of him, saying, ‘This way, my lord’ and indicated the corridor that led away to the Orba prison.

‘But that is not the right way,’ he replied.

‘Indeed it is,’ replied the noble, and Carmagnola was hustled down the corridor towards the cells.

Only then did it dawn on him what was happening. He is said to have exclaimed,
‘Son perduto’
(I am lost) as they locked him in his cell.

For the next two days he refused all food in protest, but to no avail. His trial for treason began on 9 April. As was the Venetian custom of the period in such cases, he was ‘examined by torture before the secret council’ (that is, the
giunta
, who were to act as his judges). The actual physical process was carried out by ‘a master torturer from Padua’. One source has it that Carmagnola was ‘put to the brazier and confessed’. According to Sabellico, the main evidence produced against him was ‘in letters which he could not deny were in his own hand’. All his private documents in Brescia had been commandeered by da Impero, so that copies of all the letters he had sent to Filippo Maria of Milan could now be compared with the doctored versions he had sent to the Venetian authorities, as well as the versions passed on by Filippo Maria himself.

The trial continued, with a ten-day break for Holy Week and the Easter celebrations, until 5 May, when Carmagnola was pronounced guilty by a twenty-six to one majority (with the rest of the judges abstaining). Doge Foscari then recommended a sentence of life imprisonment, but this was overturned by the
giunta
and Carmagnola was sentenced to death. At the same time, his fortune was ordered to be confiscated by the state, apart from a moderate pension to provide for his wife and sons. Late in the afternoon of the same day he was dressed for his execution: clad in ceremonial scarlet, his hands tied behind his back, a gag stuffed in his mouth – the traditional method to prevent the victim when in front of the crowd from insulting the Republic, spreading seditious ideas or revealing state secrets. Carmagnola was then led out of the Doge’s Palace onto the Piazzetta between the two columns, where it took three strokes of the axe to sever his head from his body.

With this, Venice sent out a message that reverberated through Italy: any
condottiere
who volunteered his service to the Republic would be well rewarded, but would also be expected to commit entirely to his masters.
Condottieri
were not used to accepting such terms of employment, but the message was duly noted. As for Carmagnola, on balance he appears to have sinned only slightly more than he was sinned against. His position became untenable the more his hopes relied upon returning to the man he naively believed to be his only friend, Filippo Maria. In the end, he was on his own and had nowhere to go.

Venice was learning important lessons on how politics was conducted in Italy. Yet it would continue to interpret these lessons in its own distinctive fashion. In order to maintain its imperial power, it would need to be as ruthless with its apparent friends as it had always been with its own individual citizens.

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The original Fondaco del Tedeschi burned down in 1550, and its successor, on the same site, is now the city’s main post office.