“Of the expedition of Charles VIII.,” says a French historian, “no more trace remained than of the exploits of Amadis de Gaula.”
Judging by merely tangible results, or rather by the lack of them, it may appear at first sight that in a biography of Isabel of Castile, this campaign has received unmerited attention. The French meteor had come and gone; and the balance of power in Italy, although badly shaken, was restored to its equilibrium. Individual rulers had passed from the board; but Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, and Naples once more checked and counter-checked each other’s moves. How could this temporary disarrangement be said to have concerned Spain, save to afford a passing triumph for Ferdinand’s diplomacy?
Yet in truth this same expedition was pregnant with results not only for Spain but the whole of Western Christendom, results so far-reaching that the history of modern Europe is often said to have begun at this date. Mediæval Italy had rallied for a moment, but she had none the less received her death-blow, the very incompetence and folly of her conqueror revealing her mortal weakness. Never again, till centuries had passed would her sunny fields and pleasant cities be free from foreign menace; never again would her native rulers be left to plot and plan her future undisturbed. Her beauty, her culture, her luxury had aroused the lust of younger and hardier nations; and against their strength she could offer no adequate defence.
Ludovico Sforza had boasted too soon, when he depicted a map of Italy, with himself broom in hand sweeping the other Powers before him where he would. In April, 1498, Charles VIII. of France died and was succeeded by his cousin, Louis, Duke of Orleans, who at once styled himself King of Naples and Duke of Milan. The assumption of these titles foretold his invasion of Italy, whenever a favourable opportunity should occur, a hint of which other Powers were not slow to take advantage. Venice, at the price of a small stretch of Lombard territory for her mainland empire, agreed to Ludovico’s ruin, with a shortsightedness that aroused Peter Martyr’s shrewd comment to a Venetian friend: “The King of France, after he has dined with the Duke of Milan, will sup with you.”
The Pope, anxious to found a kingdom in Romagna for his family, also put away former anti-French prejudices, and granted a divorce, much desired by Louis XII., in return for a bride and the title “Duke of Valentinois” for his son, Cæsar Borgia.
The way for French ambition was thus paved; and Ludovico “Il Moro,” with a retributive justice not often so clearly shown, fell a victim to the storm he had originally evoked; and, captured by his rival in April, 1500, was sent to end his days in the dungeons of Loches. Less deserved but equally irrevocable was the disappearance of the bastard line of Aragon in Naples. Ferrante II. had died in September, 1496; and his uncle and successor, Federigo, menaced by Louis XII., sought assistance from his relations in Spain without avail. Ferdinand was playing a deeper game than to preserve the throne of those whom he secretly regarded as having cheated him out of a rightful inheritance. Only political and financial embarrassments had caused his father, John II., to acquiesce in Alfonso V.’s will, leaving Naples to an illegitimate son; and Ferdinand, with a united Spain behind him, and an army trained for ten long years in the wars of Granada, saw no reason to continue this policy. His support of Ferrante II. had been a temporary expedient to rid Southern Italy of Charles VIII.; but now he boldly approached the French King with a wholly selfish scheme of spoliation that finally took shape in the Partition Treaty of Granada of November, 1500. Federigo had foolishly given an opening to his enemies, when in despair at his isolation he appealed to the Turks to come to his aid; and the Pope was thus enabled to denounce him as a traitor to the Christian Faith and to demand his instant abdication.
A KING-AT-ARMS
FROM “SPANISH ARMS AND ARMOUR”
REPRODUCED BY COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR, MR. A. F. CALVERT
His kingdom, divided into two by a somewhat vague boundary line, was partitioned by France and Spain, Louis receiving the northern portion with the town of Naples, Ferdinand the provinces of Calabria and Apulia. The unfortunate Federigo after a feeble effort to oppose this settlement, yielded to superior force, and retired to honourable captivity in France with the title “Duke of Anjou.”
Machiavelli’s contempt for Louis XII.’s share in the treaty was unbounded. “The French do not understand statecraft,” was his answer to Cardinal d’Amboise, who on one occasion had suggested sneeringly that the Italians did not understand war; and there is little doubt that the Florentine considered his own race the more blest. That a King who might have controlled the peninsula should deliberately choose to share his supremacy with a powerful rival was of all acts the most stupid; and stupid indeed it was to prove; though it may be questioned if, in the face of Ferdinand’s opposition, Louis could have conquered Naples at all.