Piero made no sign, but went on playing pallone in the Piazza Santa Croce. The enemy seized the Florentine fortresses of Sargana, Sarzanello and Pietra Santa. The news sobered the headstrong, self-indulgent prince for the moment, and then craven fear seized his undisciplined mind. In a panic he mounted his horse and, attended only by two officers of the city guard, he galloped off to King Charles’ camp.
In the royal tent Piero fell upon his knees, craved forgiveness for Florence’s opposition, and pleaded for generous terms for himself and his fellow-countrymen. Charles demanded the cession absolutely of the three fortresses, with the cities of Pisa and Livorno, and with them the “loan” of 200,000 gold florins! Piero’s report was listened to in solemn silence by the Signoria, but when its tenor was conveyed to the concourse of citizens, outside the Palazzo Vecchio, cries of “Liberta!” “Liberta!” rent the air.
When Piero rode out of the Piazza, accompanied by an armed escort, he was met by an exasperated mob who assailed him with missiles and stones. The big bell, up in the Campanile, began to speak its ominous summons, and, in reply to faint cries of “Palle!” “Palle!” renewed shouts of “Liberta!” “Liberta!” proclaimed the abdication of the Medici.
A Parliament was convened and five ambassadors were appointed to treat with Charles and revoke Piero’s surrender. One of them, speaking for the rest, denounced him as “No longer fit to rule the State”—it was Piero de’ Capponi. The Signoria passed a sentence of expulsion upon Piero and his brothers, and placed a reward of two thousand gold florins upon his head, and five thousand more, if he and Giovanni, his Cardinal brother, were captured together.
Needless to say, before the decree was promulgated Piero and Giovanni flew precipitately through the Porta San Gallo, upon their way to Bologna, at the head of a few mercenaries, and with them went Piero’s chancellor.
An enraged mob of citizens rushed pell-mell into the Via Larga, sacked the Palazzo Medici, and scattered the treasures which Piero and Lorenzo had gathered together. The streets were strewn with costly furniture, carpets and tapestry, and priceless works of art were either burnt or broken in pieces. It was not a question of looting but of destruction, and for eighteen years the building was a mark for obscenities and imprecations.
The French army marched through the humiliated city, and terror filled the hearts of the people. Charles occupied a portion of the palace, which the Signoria hastily put into some sort of order, borrowing or buying furniture and other articles for his use.
On their knees, an entirely new experience for the proud Florentines, the Signoria besought the Emperor’s clemency. He took a high hand with them, demanding a huge indemnity and threatening to command his trumpets to sound for pillage. One man alone asserted his liberty, a man who throughout Piero’s short government had voiced the public discontent—Piero de’ Capponi—the most capable soldier Florence possessed. Boldly and alone he faced the Conqueror and denounced his demands. He tore in pieces the fatal document of Piero’s capitulation, flung the pieces in Charles’ face, and defied him, saying, “If you sound your trumpets we shall ring our bells!”
Charles was cowed, he signed a treaty of peace with honourable terms for Florence, and left the city, after a stormy scene with Savonarola. “Take heed,” the latter said, “not to bring ruin on this city and upon thyself the curse of God!”
Piero outlived his cowardly surrender and shameful flight three years—an outcast from his country and a disgrace to his family. He found an asylum in the house of his wife Alfonsina’s father, Roberto d’Orsini, Count of Tagliacozzo and Alba. In 1502 he entered the service of the King of France, the enemy of his country, against the Spanish conquerors of the kingdom of Naples. The French were worsted and took to their ships at Gaeta. Piero escaped, but his death followed shortly, for the boat in which he was crossing the River Garigliano, or Liri, near the famous stronghold of that name, was swamped by the fire of the Spanish artillery and he was drowned. Cambi, who relates the history, sententiously winds up his narrative with the apposite words, “Thanks be to God!”