The growth of the papacy steadily progressed as the empire declined and a long hierarchy of elected priests, beginning with St. Peter, occupied the episcopal chair from generation to generation. The first popes were the chiefs of a secret society of believers in a new cult which was to transform the world, and by their undying courage, willing martyrs to their faith, fought on till the Christian Church won an independent position as the spiritual leader of many peoples. Their pious converts continually endowed the Church with estates and treasures until the bishop of Rome became the largest landowner in the empire, and as early as the fifth century began to exercise material influence in the city. While the city of Rome was impoverished, the Church grew more and more wealthy and the pope-bishop was far richer than the patriarch of Constantinople or Alexandria. The head of the Church in the West was a personage of much authority. His power was also extended to the East; he was backed by the Gothic kings of Italy and was by degrees recognised as the head of all Catholic Christendom. When the right of arbitration between clergy and laity was conceded to the pope, the political power of the papacy was finally established.

The election of Gregory, called the Great, at the end of the sixth century, came at a time when Rome was at her lowest ebb and opened the way to the consolidation of the temporal power of the popes. Gregory was a faithful steward of the revenues of the Church and his charities were unceasing to all classes, noble and pauper. The city was ravaged by famine and pestilence, but the latter was averted, says tradition, by the pious intercession of Gregory. The answer came to him from heaven as he headed a vast penitential procession. The whole populace joined, divided into seven groups according to age and class, each starting from their own quarter, abbots and monks and presbyters, nuns and widows, all bound for the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. As they marched through the ruins of the deserted city, they filled every echo with their solemn chants, while the pestilence still raged and deaths occurred on the road. When passing the mausoleum of Hadrian, so the legend runs, the Pope looked up and saw the figure of the Archangel Michael, surrounded by the holy choir, with a flaming sword which he sheathed significantly as he alighted upon the pinnacle of the monument. Gregory interpreted the heavenly vision as a promise that the plague would cease, and indeed it presently began to abate. The incident was of special interest to the monument, for in gratitude, another pope, Boniface, probably the fourth, founded a chapel on the highest part of the mausoleum, which he dedicated to St. Michael, and it was afterward known as the chapel of St. Angelo, inter nubes, or inter caelos. Of course the whole story is purely apocryphal and it is not mentioned by either of the pope’s biographers. A bronze statue of St. Michael, erected by Pope Benedict XIV, about 1740, to this day hovers over the castle with outstretched wings.

The energy and pertinacity with which the early popes asserted their dignity and authority won the respect and devotion of the inhabitants of Rome, who relied upon them as their best protectors and defenders against the incursive barbarians. To this the papacy owed its strong position as the years went on, and its power to hold its own was more fully recognised by the nominal rulers of the people. Kings and emperors further endowed it with cities; Pepin gave it Rimini, Ravenna, and Urbino; Charlemagne, his son, was no less liberal; the Normans enlarged the papal dominions, and before the end of the thirteenth century many free states acknowledged the papal authority.

As the centuries passed Rome was still a constant centre of conflict. Other invaders, both Franks and Vandals, had succeeded to the Goths. The Lombards, in the eighth century, besieged the castle of St. Angelo, but the city was preserved by the defences of Gregory the Great. Next, the Saracens attacked it but recoiled before the fortifications of Pope Leo IV, who created the Leonine city by enclosing the Vatican with a long wall, which began at St. Angelo and ran round St. Peter’s, turned then to the left and completed the circuit by regaining the river below the gate of S. Spirito. The wall was forty feet high and nineteen feet thick, built with forty-one towers. It was pierced by three gates, a small one near St. Angelo, a larger one, the St. Peregrini, afterwards the Porta Vindaria, and a third at S. Spirito. The castle itself was reconstructed and strengthened and became the key to the whole line. It was closed at one end by an iron chain across the Tiber. When finished, the work was solemnly dedicated to heaven and the blessings of all the angels and apostles were invoked upon the new Rome, with a fervent prayer that it might be preserved ever pure and impregnable.

This Leonine city was to become the stronghold of the popes, a constant bone of contention, fought for by many masters and passing through many hands. Its history has been stirring and eventful, and it would be interesting, were it possible, to record the many strange vicissitudes through which it passed, and to describe at length the notable persons, famous and infamous, who ruled it from time to time. A very cursory glance will suffice to indicate their leading characteristics, their rare virtues and vices; the good they did, and also the evil; their great ambition for the Church and themselves, which frequently led them to take desperate measures to gain their ends. Factions and dissensions were ever rife; rivals forever struggled for the supreme power,—such as the renegade pope, Stephen VI, who dared to produce the corpse of his deceased predecessor, Formosus, for trial on a trumped-up charge. The body was disinterred eight months after burial, dressed in pontifical robes and publicly arraigned for usurping the See of Rome. As there could be no defence, sentence was passed in default, the corpse was decapitated, the three fingers of the right hand used in consecration were cut off and the remains cast into the Tiber. Stephen himself was soon called to account after a brief reign of three months, was dethroned and cast into prison.

At this period the papal city fell under female rule, that of the mysterious, but undoubtedly notorious Theodora, who wielded the power gained by her beauty, wealth and cleverness, of absolute queen of Rome. Her husband was a certain Theophylactus, a consul, senator and patrician of Rome, and she had two daughters, Marozia and Theodora, both of whom emulated their mother in wickedness. The chief interest attaching to these infamous women is that they made St. Angelo their chief residence and the principal theatre of their misdeeds. The elder daughter, Theodora, after the death of her husband, favoured a young ecclesiastic whom she brought to Rome; and eventually she procured his election as pope, bequeathing him the castle of St. Angelo at her death. Marozia hated him, drove him forth, became chatelaine and in her turn ruler of Rome. When Marozia lost her first husband she married a second, Guido, duke of Tuscany, associated with whom she was guilty of many crimes. She had two sons; one she made pope as John XI, and the other, Alberic, conspired against her. Being by this time a widow, she married a third husband, Hugo of Provence, king of Italy, and the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp in St. Angelo, in the vault where the porphyry sarcophagus of the Emperor Hadrian still stood. Alberic soon quarrelled with his stepfather and summoning the Roman people to his aid he upbraided them for submitting to the tyranny of a woman and stranger; he incited them to storm the castle, whence Hugo escaped by letting himself down by a rope from the walls and Marozia fled to a convent where she died.

The original purport of the castle was all but forgotten, and it was to serve for centuries as a fortress, the very strongest part of Rome. It is described at this period by a contemporary writer as “of marvellous workmanship and strength, standing at the very entrance to Rome, commanding the splendid bridge over the Tiber, over which all must pass with the goodwill of the garrison if they desire to enter or leave the city.” It was still an imposing edifice and retained most of its first marble panelling; the inscriptions to the buried emperors were still legible, although few of the fine statues and stately colonnades remained. Pope John XI, Marozia’s son, administered the affairs of the Church with wisdom and justice, and he was succeeded by John XII, Alberic’s son, who assumed the tiara at eighteen years of age and lived to earn the reputation of being one of the most infamous popes who had ever reigned. John entered into an alliance with Otho, Emperor of Germany, broke all his pledges and was attacked by Otho in the castle, which fell into the enemy’s hands, while he himself escaped. Although absent he was put upon his trial before the council of cardinals and charged with a long list of terrible crimes. “You have been accused,” said the indictment, “of homicide, perjury, sacrilege, incest: you have drunk to the health of the devil; when playing at dice you have implored the help of Jupiter, Venus and various demons.” John refused to answer to these charges and threatened to excommunicate any one who should attempt to nominate a new pontiff. He was, however, deposed, but waiting his opportunity, surprised the castle when it was weakly garrisoned, took possession of it and revenged himself. He cut off the right hand of one cardinal deacon; he mutilated several other great ecclesiastics by slicing their noses, cutting out their tongues and depriving them of their forefingers. A violent death, however, soon overtook him: he was stabbed just outside the gates when concerned in some intrigue.

When Roffredo, prefect of Rome, seized and imprisoned Pope John XIII and the scale presently turned, the emperor, at the pope’s request, took summary vengeance on Roffredo and after his death, disinterred the body and flung the corpse into the drains. The reigning prefect was handed over to the pope, who ordered that his beard should be cut off, that he should be hung by his hair to the statue of Marcus Aurelius, and that he should then be stripped, mounted backwards on an ass and driven ignominiously through the streets. The two successive popes, Boniface VII and John XIV, alternately disputed the throne; Boniface cast John into the dungeons of St. Angelo, where he was either strangled or starved to death, while Boniface himself, after a short reign, was overthrown and his dead body subjected to nameless indignities.

At last the Romans, maddened by misgovernment, chose a noble citizen of high character, by name Crescentius, to act as consul and for some few years the city enjoyed peace and tranquillity. Again the wheel turned, and when Crescentius nominated another pope, John XVI, the emperor seized the wretched pontiff and barbarously misused him by tearing out his eyes and tongue and cutting off his nose. Crescentius himself was besieged in St. Angelo but made so stout a resistance that the place could only be gained by treachery. He had little prospect of beating off Otho but was sturdily defiant when summoned to surrender. The castle with its many towers and innumerable battlements was deemed impregnable, but siege was laid in due form and the attack assisted by the huge military engines or wooden towers in use at the time. Eventually it was taken by assault, Crescentius was beheaded on the battlements, and his remains, after horrible mutilation, were thrown down and hung on a gallows below Monte Mario. He left a widow Stephania who vowed to avenge her husband even at the cost of becoming Otho’s mistress, whom she presently put to death by administering poison to him.

This was the saddest period of ecclesiastical history; pope followed pope, all ineffectively striving to maintain order and St. Angelo was sometimes their sanctuary, sometimes their prison house. One or two of the popes who were most unworthy to wear the sacred insignia may be mentioned, such as Benedict IX, who was elected at the callow age of ten. Another pope writing of him fifty years later said, “I have horror to describe the life of Benedict, how shameful, corrupt and execrable it was.” After he had long tormented the Romans by his injustice and cruelty, they would no longer tolerate him, but rose and expelled him from the pontifical seat. He soon returned, and deposing his successor, sold the throne to an archpriest, who took the name of Gregory VI. Benedict thereupon retired into St. Angelo. There were then three popes in Rome, and the emperor appearing on the scene, nominated a fourth. A conflict at once arose with the emperor, Henry IV, and his nominee was attacked, but saved by Cencius, the son of the prefect, who now held St. Angelo and who kept him there safely for two years.

Cencius built a high tower on the bridge opposite St. Angelo and made all who would pass it pay toll to him; but the pope, the famous Hildebrand who was Gregory VII, excommunicated him. He was forcibly seized at the altar and imprisoned until the people came to his rescue. Gregory next fell foul of the emperor and there was a fresh struggle in which the Countess Matilda of Tuscany, a powerful princess, sided with and supported the pope. In the end Henry triumphed, Gregory withdrew into St. Angelo, and from its battlements saw the city sacked and set on fire. Several popes and antipopes then held the castle in turn; it was a constant bone of contention between the powerful factions, and its fortifications were continually strengthened so that whoever was in possession generally dominated the city.

Toward the end of the twelfth century a pure spirit, that of Arnold of Brescia, arose to denounce the outrageous misconduct of many of the clerical hierarchy, from the supreme head down to the lesser members of the priesthood; and he exposed in vigorous language their profligacy, reckless ambition and tyranny. The high character and unimpeachable virtue of Arnold gave him much influence and the Church rallied all its weight to crush him, but for some time in vain. He fought strenuously for the revival of the old liberties and to exclude the popes from civil government, but the Emperor Frederick with his army made Arnold prisoner, and he was cast into the dungeon of St. Angelo to leave it only to be hanged in the square before the castle. A fierce struggle now ensued between the emperor and the praetors of the Roman senate recently reconstituted. The battle ground was the Leonine city, in front of and around St. Angelo. Victory inclined in turn to each side.

At this epoch Rome was terrorised by the nobles. Issuing from their strongholds—the palaces which they had converted into fortresses—they robbed and pillaged on all sides and forcibly seized citizens whom they held for ransom. The city was depopulated; whole districts lay in ruins, vineyards and vegetable gardens were planted round the Pantheon and the Porta del Popolo. Every one fought for his own. The senate barricaded itself in the Capitol; the pope was not safe outside his castle of St. Angelo; the great nobles, representing powerful families, claimed their independence and relied upon their strength. The Frangipani were established upon the island in the Tiber and held the Colosseum, the arches of Titus, Constantine and Janus, and the Circus Maximus; the Orsini were masters of the quarter surrounding the Vatican; the Savelli held the district where the Cancelleria now stands; the Pierleoni occupied the theatre of Marcellus and the quarter of the Gheto; the Colonna were supreme in the district between the Piazza del Popolo and the Quirinal and were also fortified in the mausoleum of Augustus; on the slopes of the Quirinal were the Pandolfi, the Capocci and the Conti.

The cruel oppression and lawlessness of the nobles at last moved the Romans to entrust absolute power to one strong hand acting in their defence. A certain Brancaleone was appointed senator and dictator, with absolute power to insure the peace and quiet of the city by the stern repression of all law-breakers. He governed justly but with a strong, firm hand. He attacked the turbulent nobles in their fortresses and brought them into submission, visiting them with prompt penalties when they dared to set his authority at defiance. Many he hung from their windows or threw over their battlements. He brought the pope himself into subjection, and when he fled from the city, summoned him peremptorily to return to the Holy See of which he was the pastor and “wander no more like a vagabond and proscribed person”; and the pope humbly obeyed the order.

It is worthy of note that throughout this long period of dissension and unrest the papal power steadily increased and wielded an authority which was widely respected and obeyed abroad however much it might be resisted at home. The pope never abated his pretensions, and claimed a sovereignty on equal terms with that of the emperor. It often cost him serious reprisals. The pope for the time being might find himself deposed and imprisoned, his life might be endangered and no safety appear but in flight and voluntary exile, but he steadfastly maintained his claims and, in the end, made emperors and kings bow before him, helpless and submissive in face of the formidable weapons of excommunication and interdiction. The pope was “God’s vicegerent upon earth to whom was entrusted the government not only of the whole church but of the whole world;” whose power was based upon divine right and by whose delegation and permission alone all other rulers held their authority. The pope settled disputed titles, decided between the rival pretensions of claimants to thrones; his fiat was accepted, his opinion deemed final.

The culminating period of this extensive and unquestioned sovereignty was in the thirteenth century during the first half of which the pope’s supremacy was universally acknowledged in Europe. But evil days were at hand. The bitter struggle began between the pope and the emperor, Frederick II, who was the first to shake the foundations of the papal throne. The downward movement began with Boniface VIII in 1294, who was cruel and tyrannical and one of the chief causes contributory to the Reformation, through his misuse of the indulgences. After him the power of the popes declined. Benedict IX, his successor, was unable to vindicate the independence of the Holy See against France. The papal court was removed to Avignon, where a succession of popes reigned, while a second set of popes were still elected in Rome, exercising only nominal rule and constantly the prey of contending factions.

The Roman pontiff at this time was without authority, and nothing existed in the city that could fairly be called a government. Warring families still distracted Italy with their dissensions; the Orsini and Colonne continually fought with each other inside Rome and the Guelfs and the Ghibellines beyond it. A brief truce was patched up between parties from time to time, but hostilities were always renewed at every fresh papal election. Anarchy prevailed in Rome and the surrounding country. Robbers and freebooters infested the Campagna, industry and commerce were at a standstill. Week after week St. Angelo was attacked by one party or another. This was the moment when the celebrated tribune, Rienzi, began his remarkable career, ruling at first with moderation and justice but soon aiming at supreme power and usurping all the attributes of a king. He conducted himself with so little decency, and wasted so much time in idle shows and ceremonies, that he disgusted his followers and his influence crumbled away. With a small but devoted band of men he took refuge in St. Angelo, where he entrenched himself and held the fortress for six months. Then he fled to Civita Vecchia, to return for a brief space and conceal himself in the castle, whence he again fled to Naples. Once more he returned to Rome and was at first received with enthusiasm, but sedition soon broke out, and he was attacked on all sides. A crowd surrounded him and some one plunged a pike into his breast so that he fell fatally wounded. The wild mob rushed upon his corpse and barbarously mutilated it; his head was cut from his body, which was dragged through the streets. At last his lifeless remains, having suffered every indignity, were carried to the mausoleum of Augustus and there burned to ashes.

When the papal court finally left Avignon and was reëstablished in Rome in 1377, the keys of St. Angelo were formally handed to the pope, then Gregory XI. He died within the year and the conclave for the next election met at the castle. The choice fell upon Cardinal Prignani, a Neapolitan, who became Urban VI. The people wanted a Roman and at first opposed him. The conclave, however, persisted in naming Urban VI, whom the people finally accepted, and who was formally installed at the Vatican. Whereupon the French cardinals in opposition elected an anti-pope and put a Frenchman with a French garrison in charge of St. Angelo. There was now a fierce conflict between the papal and anti-papal party. The French at St. Angelo were reinforced and withstood a sharp siege, holding out for a whole year against an attack, supported by artillery,—the first time that guns were used against the fortress. But it fell at last under the pressure of famine. It was in a sorry plight; immense damage had been done during the siege; some parts had been utterly demolished and all its marbles destroyed. The Roman people, furious at the long resistance it had offered, now wished to raze it to the ground, determined that it should be no longer a refuge for their enemies. Already its earlier decorations had disappeared and the outer casing of marble was torn off, but the solid interior of massive peperino resisted all attempts at destruction. A contemporary writer describes it as impossible to demolish. Ten years later another pope, Boniface IX, more a soldier than a priest, fully convinced of its value, set himself to repair and fortify it anew. An edict was issued forbidding the removal of stone and building material from “Hadrian’s Mole,” and Boniface, backed up by the fortress, secured order and obedience in the city for some years.

In the first half of the fifteenth century St. Angelo constantly changed hands—now it was retained, now lost, by succeeding popes. The turbulence of the people was uncontrollable and fresh fighting broke out every few weeks. The clash of arms was outdone by the fury of the elements: the tremors of earthquakes shook the city; fierce tempests ravaged it; and great rains fell, followed by disastrous inundations; the peoples’ hearts failed them for fear; eclipses, comets, and other sky portents were frequently to be seen, and close in the wake of these terrors came the dreadful scourges of famine and pestilence. The first ray of hope dawned upon the once splendid city, now little more than an insignificant village, when Pope Nicholaus V was elected in 1447. The annals of the time bear witness to his energy in restoring and embellishing the ruined city of Rome. He cleared out many of the shattered houses, erected churches and palaces, founded the Vatican library, and more particularly devoted himself to the strengthening of St. Angelo. The round towers added to the three angles of the ancient square foundation were his work. He began the brickwork curtain of the circular part of the castle; he gave flanking defence to the entrance of the castle from the bridge of St. Angelo, and he made good the damage done to that bridge by the pressure of the crowd on the occasion of the jubilee commemoration in 1450. Other popes carried on the work; among them Calixtus III, the first of the Borgias, who came to the papal chair in 1455, and Sixtus IV, who employed the celebrated architect and military engineer Antonio da Sangallo to convert the castle into an important and almost impregnable stronghold. Plans and drawings are still extant showing it as it was then, encircled by bastions and massive towers with a line of works joining the defences of the bridge. A fine picture by Carpaccio in the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice has preserved, no doubt faithfully, the aspect of the castle at this time. “Above the circle of the ancient tomb rises a high machicolated square tower occupying almost its entire diameter, and again above this is a second and smaller tower, also machicolated, on the top of which is the figure of the winged angel, the whole surrounded by massive walls, with round towers at each corner. Along the bastions soldiers are blowing trumpets, and flags are flying from the towers. Behind the castle is seen a tall spiral column, on the summit of which stands a naked figure, with a spear and shield, and near it is an octagonal church, surmounted by a narrow dome, both of which, if they ever had an existence out of the mind of the artist, have since utterly disappeared. Ships are also seen lying beyond in the Tiber, from which, apparently, the train of St. Orsola and her bridegroom have just landed. It is marching from them in procession to the broad terrace in front, where the noble couple are kneeling to receive the benediction of the pope who stands in the foreground under his baldacchino, his robes held up behind by his acolytes, and his train of cardinals and bishops, in white mitres, stretching behind him, the last of them just issuing from a tall turreted gateway in the walls.”

Some of the popes of this early period were men of violent and vindictive temper, such as Urban VI, who kept the dungeons full, and when he suspected his cardinals of treachery, put them on the rack to extort confession; or, like Sixtus II, whose chief pleasure was to see his soldiers fight out a challenge to the death; or like Innocent VIII, who was manifestly ill-named. The condition of Rome continued to be dreadful. There were daily turmoils; the soldiers entered the city by night and carried off with violence the most respectable maidens and young married women—taking the latter from their husbands; they poured in and attacked the castle of St. Angelo, plundered it, killed the garrison and abducted labourers employed upon it; again they went forth in battle array and returned with their prisoners taken in fight or seized on suspicion, and all alike were put to the torture. There is no crime with which the annals of the time do not abound. The record is one of perpetual violence, murder, rape and battle. “The whole city,” says Infessura, “is filled with villains ... and the homicides of which they are guilty are considered as nothing. On the Tor di Nona, close by the castle, bodies of persons are constantly found suspended, of whom nobody knows the names, or cares to know. Executions within the castle are of constant occurrence and they occasion neither surprise nor remark.... Every now and then an arm, a hand, a foot, a head, a leg, or some part of a corpse, is nailed up on the wall of the castle to mark the fact of an execution performed; but this is so common that nobody pays any attention to it, unless, indeed, it relate to a person of importance, or to some one engaged in a popular crime,—as was the case of Macrino di Castagno, who agreed with Bajazet to poison his brother Zemi in Rome, and, having been discovered, was executed, quartered and nailed outside the wall.” Any one who committed such an ordinary crime as murder, rape or parricide had only to pay and go free. One instance is related by Infessura, which he witnessed, of a man brought before the vice-chamberlain accused of having killed his two daughters and a servant, who was immediately set free by the vice-chamberlain on condition that he should pay a ransom.

It is recorded that 220 people were assassinated between the date of the death of Innocent VIII in 1492 and the accession of his successor Rodrigo Borgia, who took the name of Alexander VI. The clergy under Innocent were wicked beyond measure, as may be gathered from the edict issued against them, prohibiting them from keeping shambles, inns, gaming houses and low resorts of the worst kind. Innocent himself was responsible for a triple murder. The treatment last prescribed for him by his Jewish physician was the transfusion of the blood of three young boys of ten years of age into his unwholesome veins, a cruel operation which did not save him and killed the poor children.

Alexander VI gained his election by bribery. Being possessed of immense wealth from the offices he held under his uncle Calixtus III he bought up nearly the whole college of cardinals and overcame all opposition in the conclave. He was weak, irresolute, and cowardly in character; and the condition of Rome, far from improving under his guidance, sank if possible into more complete degradation. There was no safety anywhere from assassination and debauchery, and the state was tormented by constant war. It was a reign of terror. The castle of St. Angelo was crammed with unhappy prisoners, arbitrarily seized, and its walls echoed constantly with their shrieks while undergoing torture, or when put to death by strangulation, poisoning, decapitation and quartering.

“There is nothing so wicked or so criminal,” says a contemporary writer in 1502, “as not to be done publicly at Rome.” Alexander had no policy but that dictated by vacillation; he first sought the aid of the French King, Charles VIII, then formed a league against him; and when the king appeared in person, bent upon taking Rome, the pope tried conciliation again. Once more, however, he changed front, and treacherously seized the king’s envoys, whom he threw into the prison of the castle. Charles steadily continued to advance upon Rome and entered it in triumph at the head of a grand army, horse, foot and many guns. The pope fled for his life and took refuge in the castle of St. Angelo. King Charles summoned him to surrender and brought his artillery to bear upon the castle. At last the city rose in tumult, the pope yielded, conditions of peace were arranged and the French king kissed the pope’s hands at the Vatican, after which he withdrew with his army to Naples. Alexander VI was outdone in wickedness by his son Cæsar Borgia, the notorious duke of Valentino, handsome and capable, of determined character and many resources, but withal cruel, treacherous, vicious, hypocritical and totally unprincipled. Between father and son there was little safety in Rome. Unjustifiable arrest was followed by secret poison or the rope. Cardinals and great nobles were done to death, and in the midst of this St. Angelo was almost destroyed as though by the act of God. One day a flash of lightning struck one of the powder magazines which instantly exploded, shattering the upper part of the fortress, blowing the great marble angel from the top and flinging great pieces of the ruin to a considerable distance. It was once more necessary to repair the castle and Alexander undertook it, recalling the same famous architect Sangallo to execute the work.

Alexander completely restored, if he did not entirely rebuild, the rotunda of the keep upon its ancient masonry; and on the summit he erected a square tower, which still remains, though much hidden. Besides these restorations, he completed the passage, about three thousand feet in length, leading to the Vatican, which had been begun many years before by John XXIII and left unfinished. He also strengthened the fortifications of the castle in other ways, adding bulwarks of travertine between it and the bridge, cutting ditches and making it stronger than before the explosion. Sangallo also opened the inclined passage within the round central chamber, which led to the upper story opening into the so-called Oil Court. Close to this Alexander VI had constructed five formidable prison cells, using them at times as repositories for grain and oil, and a cistern, all of which are still in existence. He likewise began the erection of the papal apartment, completing some of the rooms with the assistance of Pinturicchio. A deep fosse was cut around the castle, which so increased its strength that Cæsar Borgia and his adherents were enabled to withstand an attack of the Roman barons and people who sought to slay him during the vacancy of the pontifical see.

Pope Alexander and his son Cæsar fell victims to a snare they had laid for another. They invited a cardinal to supper at a garden near the Vatican, meaning to poison him while entertaining him hospitably. Cæsar entrusted the poisoned wine to an attendant with orders to take it to the garden but to allow no one to touch it until he came. The pope arrived before the appointed time, and being overcome with heat and thirst, asked for wine. The attendant gave him that supplied by Cæsar Borgia, conceiving that as it was especially fine, it was intended for the pope’s drinking. The duke on arrival also consumed a quantity of it, without suspicion. He escaped the fatal effects of the poison, but the pope succumbed in great agony.

It was the age of poisoning. Pius III, a Piccolomini, Alexander’s successor, was poisoned within twenty-five days of his election. Leo X, the next pope, nearly fell a victim to a supposed conspiracy by which his surgeon was induced to poison an ulcer while dressing it. Leo escaped then but died five years later of poison, as it was strongly believed. This dastardly crime was greatly practised in Italy and was always much facilitated and encouraged. To a somewhat later date belongs the deadly acquatofana so much used in Naples, and later throughout Europe to terrorise and ravage society. This fatal poison was invented by an old beldame in Naples, who was at last discovered and put to death. Akin to the infamous “succession powder,” the noxious drug was especially dear to great ladies tired of their husbands, and lay on their

dressing tables beside their perfumes and cosmetics, ready for instant administration. During the pontificate of Alexander VII there existed an association among ladies of quality in Rome, pledged to make away with their husbands by poison. Although proofs existed in plenty, the law did not dare to touch such high and mighty dames as the Princess Vitelleschi, the Duchess of Ceri and many others. By and by this system of poisoning extended even to the lower orders, and five women were hanged for having prepared bottles of distilled water containing arsenic by means of which many persons had poisoned their husbands and parents. Several of these were punished by being walled up alive in the dungeons of the Inquisition, and others were publicly beheaded. On the day of the execution a vast crowd gathered in the Campo di Fiori to see the horrible sight. One of the women, a certain Cecilla Bossi Verzellini, who had incited her daughter to poison her husband, was accompanied to the scaffold by a prince Barberini as a member of the confraternity of St. Giovanni Decollato, which confraternity had the sad privilege of attending the condemned in their last moments and of carrying out their last wishes. The prince, pitying the woman, urged the executioner to make haste, whereupon the man replied insolently that perhaps the prince could discharge the task better than he. The execution was left to an assistant, and the hangman was arrested immediately by order of the governor of Rome, whipped round the city and sent to the galleys. The severe measures used finally effected the suppression of this atrocious crime, if not its abolishment.

CHAPTER III

THE GREAT SIEGE OF ST. ANGELO

The pontificate of Leo X was the golden age of the arts, though crimes of every character were still unchecked in Rome. The pope, one of the Medici of Florence, who had reason to suspect Cardinal Alfonso Petrucci of being privy to a plot to murder him, dissimulated his anger and affectionately invited the cardinal to visit Rome. Petrucci was promised a safe conduct and the pope gave his word to the Spanish ambassador that the cardinal should come to no harm. He arrived accompanied by a friend, also a cardinal, and both were immediately arrested and imprisoned in St. Angelo. An extensive conspiracy was supposed to be on foot, and many other victims found their way to the dungeons of the castle. The exact fate that overtook them was never made known, but it is certain that Petrucci and his friend were put to the torture, and after trial and conviction the first-named was strangled in his cell, and the second was only released after the payment of an exorbitant fine; even then he had purchased freedom with death hanging over him from slow poison which had been administered to him before his release. Leo X also made away with Gian Paolo Baglioni, ruler of Perugia, whom he suspected of a secret understanding with his enemies. Baglioni was distrustful and hesitated to answer a summons to Rome, but went at last, relying upon the fair promises that he should come to no harm. Leo received him at St. Angelo, which he was visiting temporarily, and there was no hope for Baglioni, who was seized and subjected at once to torture, under which he confessed to many crimes. He was then cast into a dungeon, where he lingered for a couple of months, and was eventually decapitated.

Leo X had a strong liking for the castle and constantly resided there in the apartments, most of which are still on view, and which he greatly beautified. By his order Michael Angelo designed the marble front for the chapel of the Angel already erected in the topmost part. This upper story was the scene of a theatrical representation when Ariosto’s comedy “I Suppositi” was performed under the direction of Cardinal Bibbiena, the stage decorations being the work of Raphael. To facilitate the pope’s ascent to the upper story, the governor of the castle constructed a lift or elevator communicating from the ground floor to the top of the castle, one of the earliest instances of the domestic use of hydraulics. The remains of this elevator may still be seen in the guiding beams inserted in the well or shaft for the movement of the cage or platform.

Another Medicis, Giulio, who became pope in 1553, with the title of Clement VII, was strenuous in his efforts to embellish the castle, being more eager to decorate and improve it than to strengthen it, although it was destined to receive some severe shocks during his reign. One of his works was to replace the angel destroyed by the gunpowder explosion, and a marble statue was provided by Raphael, son of Baccio da Monte-Lupo, who also added some fine decoration in stone work and scagliola in many of the principal rooms. Clement VII was often at issue with other European potentates and especially with the emperor Charles V, who declared war against him and invaded his dominions. Clement at first hoped that the people of Rome would support him in his resistance to the enemy, but was disappointed, and lingering too long in the Vatican, only escaped capture at the last moment by a hurried flight along the covered passage into his stronghold of St. Angelo. The Leonine city forthwith became the prey of the German troops, who overran the whole Borgo, sacking the houses of the cardinals and courtiers, pillaging the Vatican and robbing St. Peter’s of everything of value. They were checked only by the guns of St. Angelo, and withdrew at nightfall carrying off their booty. The next day the emperor made overtures and terms were arranged at a conference between them. It was only a truce of brief duration, for Clement soon became embroiled with the emperor Charles V and sided with the French against him. This brought on him a fresh and more serious attack from Duke Charles of Bourbon, who, although a cousin of the French king and constable of France, had transferred his services to Charles V.

The following episode in the chequered fortunes of St. Angelo is especially interesting, for it brings upon the scene that strange but remarkable character, Benvenuto Cellini, who was to a great extent the hero of the siege. We have fortunately an ample and graphic record of his adventurous life, by his own hand, in the autobiographical memoirs which Horace Walpole thought “more amusing than any novel” and which are indeed, as they have been styled, “the most entertaining and delightful work in the whole compass of Italian literature.” The learned historian Roscoe, who edited these memoirs, ably summarises the advantages enjoyed by the author. Benvenuto Cellini belonged to a golden age of the arts, essentially that of the Old Masters; he was intimately associated with Michael Angelo, Titian and the most eminent sculptors and painters of the time; he was on friendly terms with popes and monarchs, great princes, powerful statesmen, distinguished commanders, lordly ecclesiastics, and braving displeasure, held his head high, speaking his mind freely to all. We are admitted behind the scenes and see these historic personages in their private and domestic life, betraying themselves unconsciously at their worst, exposing their small vices, their meanness, pettiness, ingratitude, and yielding to their greater passions which often impelled them to cruelty, injustice, rank oppression and violent crime. Cellini’s presentment of people and things in his epoch is extraordinarily vivid and forcible; he was a prominent actor in many of the eventful episodes of that stormy period; he had the gift of language and the power to describe with vigour and precision the moving scenes of which he was an eye-witness and frequently participated in. He is conceited, self-sufficient, bombastic; he blows his own trumpet continually and is always full of vain-glorious satisfaction at the supreme excellence of his work and his triumph over all competitors. Of mercurial disposition he is quick to quarrel with any one, to resent offence, not always intended, but ever ready to justify his ebullitions of ill temper, sword in hand to face his enemies and fight all comers. Withal he was a genius of the first water; his productions, as fully proved by the work that survives, were fine specimens of his versatile artistic power, and we need only refer to his principal achievement, the great bronze statue of Perseus, which all the world admires to-day in the Galeria dei Lanzi of Florence. Cellini was a Florentine, a subject of the Medicis, born in the days of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and his father, an admirable artist in ivory, an engineer and a notable musician, was much favoured by that liberal patron of the arts. In his youth Benvenuto bound himself to a goldsmith, and according to Vasari, had “no equal in that branch for many years, nor in making fine figures of alto and basso relievo.... He set jewels and adorned them with admirable collets and diminutive figures so exquisitely formed and some of them so curious and fanciful that nothing finer can be conceived.” His father would have preferred that he should apply himself to music, but Benvenuto stuck to his trade and, as he tells us, “so great was my inclination to improve that in a few months I rivalled the most skilful journeyman in the business.... I continued however to play sometimes through complacence, either upon the flute or the horn, and I constantly drew tears and deep sighs from him when he heard me. From a feeling of filial piety I often gave him that satisfaction, endeavouring to persuade him that it also gave me particular pleasure.” Benvenuto being concerned with his brother in a serious affray, was banished from Florence and wandered through some of the northern cities following his trade, but returned and was invited to England in the employment of King Henry VII. He would not leave his native city, however, where he became the victim of envious rivals “who robbed and calumniated him, doing him the greatest injustice.” He says: “They declared loudly they would make me repent, but I, being a stranger to fear, little regarded their menaces.” A fierce quarrel soon followed, Benvenuto was injured and retaliated by striking one of his assailants to the ground where he lay motionless and insensible. Drawing a knife he cried: “Some one run for a confessor as there will be no necessity for a surgeon.” Benvenuto was arrested and carried before the council of eight, who would have sent him to prison, but through the good offices of friends only a penalty of a fine was imposed. His passionate temper would not suffer him to sink his differences, and running to his workshop, he took up a dagger, meaning to make short work of his adversaries. Single handed he attacked the whole family of the man who had been the originator of the quarrel. They were a dozen in number, all armed with cudgels, hammers and scraps of iron. “Rushing amongst them like a mad bull,” he says, “I threw down four or five and fell to the ground along with them, now aiming my dagger at one, now at another.” No fatal consequences ensued, however, for Benvenuto adds, “Upon looking about for the wounded and slain, it appeared that none of them had sustained any injury.” After this disturbance, Benvenuto knew that he must fly, for the authorities vowed vengeance. The magistrates assembled, decreed his immediate arrest, and threatened the severest penalties against any one who dared to grant him an asylum or be privy to his concealment. Cellini’s father pleaded for mercy and begged hard that his youthful but hot-headed son might be spared, but was peremptorily bidden to take himself off. There could be no safety for Benvenuto, who forthwith left the city, disguised as a friar accompanied by a lay brother. Outside the walls horses were provided, and the fugitive galloped away to Sienna on the road to Rome. At Sienna he encountered a messenger bringing the news that Cardinal Giulio Medicis had been elected pope and had taken the title of Clement VII.

Fortune smiled on Benvenuto Cellini when he reached the Holy City. He found plenty of work and many kindly patrons; he was permitted to sit at the feet of Michael Angelo, who was then engaged in the adornment of the Sistine Chapel, and was welcomed at the house of Agostino Chigi, who possessed many fine paintings of Raphael, which he was allowed to copy for use in his own designs. Work was plentiful. He received a commission to set some fine diamonds for a beautiful Roman lady and produced a perfect piece, which won him great fame and a substantial reward. Another order came from the bishop of Salamanca for a large silver vase to contain water. But in the midst of this congenial and profitable employment the claims of music once more interposed. By way of pleasing his aged father, he agreed to join the pope’s private band for a special chamber concert, and acquitted himself so well that Clement asked his name. Finding Benvenuto was the son of Giovanni Cellini of Florence, the pope proposed to take him into his service as a musician, but learning that he was an expert goldsmith and jeweller, promised him constant employment in that direction also. Meanwhile the commission for the bishop of Salamanca was being executed, but that proud and overbearing prelate offended Cellini by constantly demanding that the vase should be sent to him, that he might judge for himself what progress was being made. Cellini, quick-tempered as usual, refused to part with it without some payment on account, and the bishop essayed to take the vase by force. A crowd of Spaniards came down upon Cellini’s shop, but were faced by Benvenuto with a loaded fowling piece. “Miscreants! traitors! cut-throats!” he cried, “are the houses and shops of citizens to be assaulted in this manner? If any thief amongst you offers to approach this door, I will shoot him dead.” The disturbance brought out the neighbours to support Cellini, and he was assured that if he killed the Spanish dogs they would stand by him. Whereupon the Spaniards ran off in a terrible panic and reported the matter to their bishop. The prelate severely reprimanded them for attempting such an act of violence, but he was furiously angry with Benvenuto, and sent a message to him that if he did not bring the piece of plate directly, he would leave no part of his body entire but his ears. “The proud prelate’s menaces did not in the least terrify me,” writes Cellini, “and I sent him back word that I should immediately lay the whole affair before the pope.”

Having reached this climax, the matter settled down; the bishop’s anger subsided, and Benvenuto was assured that he would come to no harm if he acceded to the bishop’s request, but would be paid his price on delivery of the piece of plate. Accordingly he clothed himself in a coat of mail, armed himself with a dagger and, followed by a servant carrying the silver vase, proceeded to the bishop’s house where he was received in state; the servants were all drawn up around the bishop, who was himself seated in grim displeasure. Benvenuto was not in the least overawed and we may quote his words as he describes the end of the incident: “All this time I never once looked at him, or so much as answered a single word; at which his lordship seemed to discover more resentment than ever and having ordered pen, ink and paper, desired me to write him a receipt. I then looked him full in the face and told him that I would readily do so after I had received my money. The haughty bishop was then more exasperated than ever; but in tine, after a great deal of scolding and hectoring, I was paid and afterwards, having written an acquittance, left the place in high spirits.” The pope was highly delighted with this story when it reached him, and entirely approved of Cellini’s conduct, so that the bishop of Salamanca regretted and heartily repented what he had done. To make amends he sent word to Cellini, promising him more work, but the irrepressible goldsmith replied that he would undertake no further commissions unless he was paid in advance; an answer at which the pope laughed heartily when it was reported to him. Other patrons came forward; two cardinals, Cibo and Cornaro, ordered plate, and he designed a gold medal for a hat ornament which was esteemed a masterpiece of art. Under the advice of his friends he opened a shop and did an extensive business on his own account, adding to the other occupation that of seal engraver, a branch of art much in demand; for every cardinal had his own seal as large as the palm of a child ten years old, a costly affair and difficult in execution. Cellini applied himself with great assiduity to the work and mastered it. He also acquired the art of enamelling, a very delicate operation on account of the final use of fire which sometimes ruins and destroys the whole production. “I attached myself to it with the greatest ardour, and such was the pleasure I took in learning it that its greatest difficulties appeared delightful to me,” he says naïvely, and goes on to give us an amusing insight into his transparently conceited character. “This was through the peculiar indulgence of the Author of nature, who had gifted me with a genius so happy that I could with the utmost ease learn anything I gave my mind to. These several branches are very different from each other; insomuch that the man who excels in one seldom or never attains to an equal degree of perfection in any of the rest; whereas I, having exerted myself with the utmost assiduity to be eminent in all these different arts, at last compassed my end.” To learn the art of “damascening” or inlaying the blades of daggers with steel or silver was yet another occupation of Cellini’s busy hours, which were indeed always full. Yet he still found time to quarrel with a comrade who insulted the Florentines, to slap his face and draw his sword and fight him. He took the plague and recovered from it. He pursued game upon the Campagna and opened up relations with the peasantry, who while working in the vineyards constantly dug up valuable curiosities, ancient medals, cameos and precious stones, which Cellini bought for a few baiocchi and sold to art loving cardinals. Some of these gems were remarkable; such as the emerald as large as a bean, cut into a dolphin’s head, and the topaz of the size of a large nut carved into the head of Minerva, and a cameo engraved with a figure of Hercules binding a triple headed Cerberus, of such admirable workmanship that Michael Angelo counted it the most beautiful specimen he had ever seen.

More serious business was at hand for Cellini. He was to be actively and usefully engaged in the defence of the castle of St. Angelo against the attack of Charles of Bourbon. The constable on behalf of Charles V, learned that Rome was without adequate garrison and suddenly advanced upon it in 1527. Cellini had already given proof of his military qualities and in the time of the rising of the Colonnas had been employed to protect a house in the city with a company he had himself raised. He was again entrusted with a detachment and posted on the city walls. It was his fortune to assist in repelling the assault made by the constable’s troops and to perform a remarkable service. Seeing a great gathering of the enemy at one point he discharged his arquebus at the crowd. “I discharged it,” he says, “with a deliberate aim at a person who seemed to be lifted above the rest, but the mist prevented me from distinguishing whether he was on horseback or on foot.” This chance shot of Cellini’s caused extraordinary confusion in the ranks of the assailants as it was proved to have slain the Duke of Bourbon, a fact borne out by other historians, who state that he was killed by a musket shot quite early in the siege.

The attack prospered notwithstanding, for the death of their leader, instead of disheartening his soldiers, roused them to increased effort. A thick fog prevailed and under cover of this the constable’s troops crossed the entrenchments and swarmed the ramparts with so much determination that the Romans threw down their arms, and, panic stricken, sought safety in headlong flight. Meanwhile Pope Clement, who had been at his prayers in the chapel of the Vatican, was roused from his knees by the terrible news that the city was practically captured. Without a moment’s pause he ran to the covered passage or corridor communicating with St. Angelo to take refuge in his castle. As he hurried along in frantic haste, he feared that his white robes might betray him to some marksman, so he drew his skirts over his head and in this garb safely reached the wicket gate. A number of cardinals and bishops went with him, eager to seek safety in this welcome retreat. They were safe enough inside, but without the city was given over to pillage and devastation by the savage and bloodthirsty troops. Men were massacred wholesale, women violated, and the air was rent with their shrieks mingled with the groans of the dying. The soldiers, Spaniards and Germans, maddened and infuriated, overran the streets, destroying the palaces, robbing the churches of their furniture and the altars of their relics and sacred ornaments. The horrors of that night of storm and sack are indescribable; the castle alone held out and afforded shelter to the pope and his cardinals, but it was ill-provisioned and could hardly hope to beat off the attack when the brutal soldiery, sated with spoil and slowly recovering from their wild orgies, began a regular siege.

Now Cellini came to the front and distinguished himself greatly. He had entered the castle with the other fugitives, and eager for active employment, joined a battery of guns under a Florentine named Giuliano. This man was in despair. From the battlements he could see his own house being pillaged, his wife and children in danger, and he did not dare to open fire but, “throwing his match upon the ground made piteous lamentations, tearing his hair and uttering the most doleful cries.” The energetic goldsmith promptly interposed, and calling upon others to assist, directed the guns where their fire would be the most effective and killed a considerable number of the enemy. After this Cellini continued to fire, which, he says, “made some cardinals and gentlemen bless me and extol my activity to the skies. Emboldened by this I used my utmost exertions; let it suffice that it was I that preserved the castle that morning.”

The pope, appreciating Cellini’s value, now permanently appointed him to an important post,—the command of “five great guns in the highest part of the castle, called ‘Dall Angiolo,’ which goes quite round the fortress and looks both towards the meadows and towards Rome.” He was in great heart and says: “I who was at times more inclined to arms than to my own profession, obeyed my orders with such alacrity that I had better success than if I had been following my own business.” Placed on this point of vantage, he could watch all that went on and constantly harass the enemy now in full possession of the city. His life was one of constant excitement and danger. He was knocked over by a ricocheting shot and as he lay prostrate but conscious, he heard the grieved bystanders cry aloud, “Alas! we have lost our best support.” Prompt help was given him. A friend who was near at hand, a musician, “having a better turn to physic than music,” made a slate red hot, sprinkled it with Greek wine and a handful of wormwood and applied it to Cellini’s heart. “Such was the efficacy of the wormwood that it immediately restored my vigour,” he writes, and continues: “I made an attempt to speak but found myself unable to articulate because some foolish soldiers had filled my mouth with earth thinking they had thereby given me the last sacrament ... but the earth did me a great deal more harm than the contusion.”

The Holy Father had already shown him especial favour on the occasion above mentioned, when he had done so much execution with his guns. Cellini, who always made the most of his opportunities, had taken advantage of Clement’s kindliness to ask a great favour. He says: “Falling upon my knees I intreated his Holiness to absolve me from the guilt of homicide, as likewise from other crimes which I had committed in that castle in the service of the Church. The pope, lifting up his hands, and making the sign of the cross over me, said that he blessed me and gave me his absolution for all the homicides that I had ever committed, or ever should commit, in the service of the Apostolic Church.” Cellini was much trusted by the pope, who conceived a great liking for him seeing that he always acquitted himself with prudence and sagacity. He was much pestered by officious people, especially the cardinals who hung about the battery in robes and scarlet hats and drew on them the enemy’s fire, and he states: “I often warned them not to come to me, but persuasion having no effect, I at last got them confined, by which I incurred their enmity and ill will.” Altercations nearly brought on a collision, and finally Cardinal Farnese sent his servants to seize Cellini, who turned his guns upon them and promised to open fire on any who dared to ascend the steps leading up to the battery. “Villains,” he cried, “if you do not instantly quit the place, or if any of you attempt to mount these stairs, I have two falconets ready charged with which I will blow you to dust!” Having vindicated his authority, Cellini resumed his proper business. He relates: “I now gave my whole attention to firing my guns, by which means I did signal execution, so that I had in a high degree acquired the favour and good graces of His Holiness. There passed not a day that I did not kill some of the army without the castle.” One day under the pope’s own eye he cut a swaggering Spanish colonel in half by a cleverly aimed long range shot. Again, after much thought, he devised a plan for annoying the enemy when they relieved the evening guard and passed in great strength through the gate of S. Spirito. The passage having become dangerous, cover had been devised by a traverse of a hundred barrels raised on the side of the castle, whereupon Cellini brought his whole battery to bear upon the barrels and threw them down, inflicting great loss of life. He repeated this several times and so disheartened the besiegers that they were disposed to mutiny and march off. Great execution was also done by making use of certain antique missiles he found in the armoury.

A lucky shot aimed at some unknown person in authority gained Cellini great credit. It proved to be the Prince of Orange, who had sacrificed his fortune and princely position to throw in his lot with the Emperor Charles V, and was now assisting the siege. As numbers of officers of high rank called at the inn to which the wounded prince had been conveyed, the pope “being a person of great sagacity” ordered his chief engineer to concentrate the whole artillery fire upon this inn, thinking that if he could sweep away all these leaders, the army on finding itself without guidance would probably disperse. But Cardinal Orsini, who had been a soldier in his early youth, violently objected to this scheme and came to high words with the pope about it, declaring that if the chiefs were killed, the soldiers being without leadership or control would surely storm the castle, carry it and put every one to the sword. Clement VII yielded helplessly to the peremptory advice of the masterful cardinal. But the impetuous Cellini by no means agreed; he did not await the order to spare the inn, but of his own motion opened fire with one gun which hit the house and caused great havoc amongst the crowd collected there, so that they were on the point of leaving the place. Cardinal Orsini was greatly incensed at Cellini’s insubordinate action, and clamoured to have him hanged or in some way put to death upon the spot. The pope, however, sided with the valiant goldsmith and defended him with great spirit and resolution.

Cellini was useful to the pope in another way and in his own particular line. Feeling himself in the toils and threatened with the loss of his most valuable possessions if not of his life, he sought Cellini’s aid in saving his jewels, both his own property and those of the papal regalia. Cellini was called into a very private apartment where the pope sat with his master of the horse and displayed before him the entire collection of these jewels,—a vast quantity of inestimable value. The pope desired him to remove all the stones from their settings, to put all the gold together and secrete the jewels by sewing them into the skirts of the pope’s robes. The gold, a hundred pounds’ weight, Cellini was to carry to his own chamber in a retired part of the topmost story, close by the battery he commanded, and there melt it down unseen. This feat he accomplished by constructing a small brick furnace, under which he fixed a little pot or dish to receive the gold as it was melted and run through after being thrown upon the live coals above. This was the origin of the grave accusation made against Cellini at a later date of having misappropriated a quantity of the state jewels, a false and mendacious charge, as he easily showed when arrested, but which was used unfairly to subject him to lengthened imprisonment in St. Angelo. This episode occurred during the reign of another pope, Paul III, who was no friend to Benvenuto Cellini.

The siege of St. Angelo by the Imperialists lasted for just one month and was combined with the most brutal ravages in Rome. The invaders were guilty of the most terrible excesses; rapine and slaughter constantly vexed the city, which soon sank into a state of deplorable ruin. For a time the pope entertained strong hopes of relief from the army of the league commanded by the Duke of Urbino, and beacon fires were constantly kept burning on the castle to indicate that it still held out. At one time succour seemed near at hand and the banners of Guido Rangoni were seen in the distance on Monte Mario, but they soon fell back and with them disappeared all hope of rescue. Clement now became the victim of abject and consuming fear; he was ready to accept any terms, however humiliating, provided his life was spared. With abundant tears he cried out that since fortune had brought him to such a pass he would make no further resistance, but would surrender himself and all his cardinals into the emperor’s hands. When such was the state of affairs, defence was vain, and on the 5th of June a capitulation was concluded on the hardest of terms. The pope agreed, first, to pay 100,000 ducats down, 50,000 more in twenty days, and a final 250,000 in two months; second, to give up the castle of St. Angelo with those of Civita Castellana and Civita Vecchia to the emperor; third, to remain a prisoner until the entire sum was liquidated; and fourth, to hand over the cities of Parma and Modena. Clement was, however, penniless and unable to meet a tithe of these onerous conditions. The cities and fortresses rejected the terms of capitulation and refused to open their gates. Vainly the church plate was melted and cardinals’ hats were sold to raise money. The sum required still fell short of the agreed ransom, and he was forced to remain in the castle as prisoner, guarded by Don Fernando de Alarcon with three Spanish and three German companies.

At length, in the beginning of October, the terms were modified and an arrangement finally concluded for the liberation of the pope. Clement was to deliver up all the fortresses in his possession, to raise what he could by the sale of twenty-seven cardinals’ hats and in other ways, and pay over this sum. On the evening of the 8th October, weary of the whole proceeding and even then doubting the good faith of his enemies, he disguised himself as a pedlar, threw a sack over his back, shrouded himself in a great cloak, pulled down his hat upon his brows and slipped out of the castle. Those who met him feigned not to recognise him. He went on foot through the city gates, and at a garden gate beyond he found a Spanish mule which had been sent by the Cardinal Colonna; on this he mounted and rode alone to Orvieto.

Benvenuto Cellini left the castle of St. Angelo at the end of the siege, and paid a visit to his native city, Florence, in which the plague had made terrible ravages and which had also passed through a revolution. The pope’s power and that of the Medicis family had been set aside for a republic. But Clement VII had no sooner made peace with the emperor and felt himself secure, than he vindicated his authority over Florence, which again became a hereditary principality. Benvenuto at first sided with his own people, but presently yielded to the overtures made him by the pope through a certain Jacobo della Barca, who was in high favour with Clement and who strongly advised him not to join a pack of senseless rebels who were acting against His Holiness.