Cher in Florence

The other night I peered through the gates of the Pazzi Chapel, attached to Santa Croce. Such a peaceful scene. But after reading Lauro Martines’ April Blood, I now see rain, a screaming, mad crowd, and the corpse of Jacopo de’ Pazzi.

In 1478, members of the Pazzi (which means “crazy”) family and others conspired to kill two Medici brothers, Lorenzo and Guiliano, to wrest control of power in Florence. On Sunday, April 26, during High Mass in the Duomo, four assassins stabbed the two brothers, killing only Guiliano. Lorenzo escaped with only a wound in his neck.

Unaware of the failure, the unfortunate Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi rode his horse toward Piazza della Signoria, shouting “People and Liberty!” to deaf and confused ears. He and his small army tried charging into the Palazzo Vecchio, but they had to fend off guardsmens’ attacks from on high. Jacopo must have soon realized that his friends inside had failed to take the palace and that the plot didn’t work. Jacopo sped away once he got wise.

Messer Jacopo was supposedly the last to agree to take part in the conspiracy. He wanted to be sure it was a sound plan. It’s just like when you know you probably shouldn’t do something, then when you decide to do it, you shelve all your doubts and go all out. (Colin Powell comes to mind.) In Jacopo’s case, he suffered the worst of consequences for ignoring his good reason. Of course, he was hanged by the windows of the Palazzo Vecchio, but that was just the beginning.

Jacopo was to be buried in the Pazzi Chapel. It seems the ruling council of Florence agreed to bury him in the church because he had confessed his sins. However, the people weren’t having it. It rained long and hard for four days after his burial, and people whose farms were being damaged streamed in from the hills in protest–God was angry that a sinful man is buried in a sacred place. A clamoring mob outside the chapel left the council and the friars no choice but to rebury the body. They chose a plot near the city gate.

And what happened afterward is where legend may come into play. Poliziano, a scholar who worked for Lorenzo, wrote a gruesome tale about a roving gang of boys who dug up Jacopo’s body, dragged it through the streets of Florence, and banged the corpse’s skull on the door of the Pazzi Palace, screaming “Is there no one here to receive the Master and his entourage?” People must have been afraid of these Clockwork Orange-like teenagers roaming the streets, threatening anyone who tried to stop them. The boys eventually dumped the body into the Arno from nearby Ponte alle Grazie. But Jacopo wasn’t at peace yet. Boys downriver allegedly hauled the body out, hung it up on a tree, and beat it ferociously before tossing it back in the Arno.

It’s an ugly story, but crazy mobs are eternal. In the United States today, mobs may not always be physically violent, but their words can cut like scythes–all while looking like perfectly normal people. I was horrified last week to see this and this–two recent videos of McCain supporters waiting in line to get into a rally. Times of upset in power or economy are a breeding ground for fanaticism of this sort. Or if it is not fanatacism, then just a lack of reflection? It must feel like such an exciting relief to let your mind go anywhere your delusion wants to–fully–as Jacopo, the farmers, the gang of boys, and the McCain supporters must have. Like riding a hundred foot wave on its crest, while you scream and flirt with danger and death, and you see the shore in the distance and crave it but before you know it the wind’s knocked out of you and you’re sucked under fast.