I would probably not have been so concerned if I had not planned to leave. However, for the first part of the time my captivity was less rigorous than I had feared. In February I was even able to receive a present from ‘Abbad which seemed sumptuous in the circumstances: a woollen cloak and a date cake, accompanied by a letter in which he told me in barely veiled words of the conquest of Rhodes by Sulaiman: The sea has brought our people to the summit of the rock, the earth has shaken with our cries of triumph.
Seen from my cell, this seemed to me to be a personal revenge against Adrian and his dreams of crusade. And when, in the course of the following months, my detention became more and more harsh, when I had nothing more to read, nothing to write with, neither pen nor ink nor even the merest lamp to dispel the darkness which pervaded from the afternoon, when I had no contact any more with the outside, when my warder pretended to understand no language beyond some vague German dialect, I began to regard ‘Abbad’s letter as a precious relic, and to repeat the words about the capture of Rhodes like an incantation.
One night I had a dream. I saw Sulaiman with a child’s face under his turban, the face of Bayazid. He tore down a mountainside to come and rescue me, but, before he could reach me I woke up, still in my cell, unable to go back to sleep to catch hold of the end of the dream.
Darkness, cold, insomnia, despair, silence… In order not to succumb to madness I resumed the habit of praying, five times a day, to the God of my childhood.
I awaited from Constantinople the hand that was going to set me free. But my deliverer was much nearer at hand, may the Most High lend him His aid in the torment which is his fate today!
The Year of Clemency
930 A.H.
10 November 1523 — 28 October 1524
A rushing of feet, a tumult of voices, then the hundred dry cold noises of a key turning in the door which shook slowly on its rusty hinges. Standing near my bed I rubbed my eyes, intently watching the silhouettes which were about to be outlined against the light from outside.
A man came in. When I recognized Guicciardini I took a step towards him, preparing to throw myself round his neck, but I stopped short — I even stepped back, as if driven away by an invisible force. Perhaps it was his marble countenance, or else his silence a few seconds too long or the rigidity of his bearing. In the half light, I thought I saw a sort of smile on his lips, but when he spoke he did so in a voice which was distant, and, it seemed to me, exaggeratedly contrite.
‘His Holiness wishes to see you.’
Ought I to lament or rejoice? Why did Adrian want to see me? Why had he sent Guicciardini in person? The Florentine’s inscrutable face forbade me to question him. I looked towards the sky. It must have been six or seven in the morning. But of what day? And of what month? I asked a guard while we were passing through the corridor in the direction of the Vatican. It was Guicciardini who replied, as curtly as possible:
‘It is Friday 20 November 1523.’
He had just reached a little door. He knocked and went in, making a sign that I should follow him. The entire furniture consisted of three empty red armchairs. He sat down, without inviting me to do likewise.
I could not explain his attitude. He who had been such a close friend, a confidant, he who, as I knew, so much enjoyed my company, with whom I had exchanged spirited words and friendly blows.
He got up abruptly.
‘Holy Father, here is the prisoner!’
The Pope had come in noiselessly through the little door behind me. I turned round to look at him.
‘Heavens above! Heavens above! Heavens above!’
I could not pronounce any other words. I fell to my knees and instead of kissing the hand of the sovereign pontiff I held it against me, pressed it to my forehead, to my face which was bathed in tears, to my trembling lips.
He freed himself gently.
‘I must go and say mass. I will come back here in a hour.’
Leaving me on the ground, he went out. Guicciardini burst out laughing. I got up and went over to him with a threatening look.
‘Should I embrace you or rain down blows upon you?’
His laughter redoubled. I collapsed into an armchair without being invited to do so.
‘Tell me, Francesco, was I dreaming? Was that really Cardinal Julius who has just been in this room, dressed all in white? Was it really his hand that I have just kissed?’
‘Cardinal Julius de Medici is no more. Yesterday he was elected to the throne of Peter, and he has chosen to call himself Clement, the seventh of that name.’
‘Heavens above! Heavens above!’
My tears fell without restraint. However, I was able to stammer, through my sobs:
‘And Adrian?’
‘I would not have thought that his disappearance would have affected you to such an extent!’
I dealt him a blow on the shoulder with my fist which he did not even seek to dodge, so much did he know that he deserved it.
‘It has already been two months since Pope Adrian has left us. It is said that he was poisoned. When the news of his death became known, anonymous individuals hung garlands over his doctor’s door to thank him for having saved Rome.’
He murmured some conventional formula of disapproval before continuing:
‘A battle then took place in the conclave between Cardinal Farnese and Cardinal Julius. The first one seemed to have the most votes, but after the trials which they had just experienced the princes of the Church wanted to encounter the generosity of a Medici again at the head of this city. After numerous ballots our friend was elected. Immediately there were celebrations in the streets. One of the first thoughts of the sovereign pontiff was for you, I can bear witness. He wanted to set you free at once, but I asked him permission to put on this charade. Will you forgive me?’
‘With difficulty!’
I held him against me for a warm embrace.
‘Maddalena and Giuseppe have wanted for nothing. I would have told you to go and see them, but we must wait for the Pope.’
By the time that the Florentine had informed me of everything which had taken place since my internment, Clement VII had returned. He asked not to be disturbed and came and sat down in the most simple way in the armchair which we had left for him.
‘I thought that the best pranks in Rome were those of the late lamented Cardinal Bibbiena. But Master Guicciardini’s inventions deserve to be remembered.’
He sat up slightly in his chair and his face became suddenly serious. He gazed at me intently.
‘Last night we talked for a long time, Francesco and I. He cannot give me much advice in matters of religion, but Providence has burdened me with the additional task of running a state and of preserving the throne of Peter from the encroachments of temporal powers. In that area Francesco’s counsels are precious to me, as are yours, Leo.’
With a look, he handed over to the diplomat.
‘You have often asked, Leo, the real reason why you were carried off to Rome, why we decided one day to have an educated Moor kidnapped by Pietro Bovadiglia on the Barbary coasts. There was a scheme of things behind it which the late Pope Leo never had the opportunity to reveal to you. The moment has come today.’
Guicciardini was silent and Clement continued, as though they were both reciting the same text:
‘Let us look at the world in which we live. In the East, there is a formidable empire, inspired by a faith which is not our own, built upon order and blind obedience, able to cast cannons and arm fleets. Its troops are advancing towards the centre of Europe. Buda and Pest are threatened, and Vienna will also be threatened before long. In the West there is another empire, Christian but no less formidable, since it already extends from the New World to Naples and dreams of universal domination. Above all, it dreams of submitting Rome to its will. The Inquisition flourishes on its Spanish lands, while the heresy of Luther flourishes on its German territories.’