The southern kingdoms and the Papal States

Not all regions were to undergo favourable economic or constitutional development or to receive anything but reflected rays from the sun of the Renaissance. In the south the Sicilian Vespers of 1282 separated the island of Sicily for more than 150 years from the rest of the kingdom of Sicily, which until then had consisted of both the island and the southern mainland. On the mainland thenceforth, the successors of King Charles of Anjou ruled as vassals of the papacy. Normally described by contemporaries as “kings of Naples” (though resolutely continuing to call themselves “kings of Sicily”), they pursued a 90-year war against the Aragonese kings of (island) Sicily. They financed that war, which was ultimately unsuccessful, through harsh taxation of the only productive element in the kingdom—namely, its impoverished peasantry. This increase in the royal tax burden, already oppressive at the time of the Norman kings, fixed the region in wretched poverty and destroyed all possibility of native capitalist growth. As a result, during the 14th century almost all trade and banking came into the hands of northern Italians, particularly Florentines. At the same time, outside a few restricted areas (Sulmona, coastal Puglia, Campania) that produced considerable surpluses of grain, an arid climate and inferior soil made for poor agricultural development in the Kingdom of Naples.

Against this background, political unrest flourished. Under King Robert (reigned 1309–43; known to his literary flatterers as “Robert the Wise”), who made no less than five attempts to conquer the island of Sicily, the monarchy was able to resist the more extravagant demands of the nobility for rewards for their military and political support. But, with the accession of Robert’s granddaughter Joan I (1343–82), royal authority withered away, court factions dominated, and civil war (1347–52) ensued. Quelled for a time, baronial strife revived at the end of Joan’s reign in a conflict between two branches of the Angevin family (those of Durazzo versus those of Provence) that claimed recognition as heirs of the queen. The eventual victor, King Ladislas (1386–1414), benefiting from the turbulence provoked by the Great Schism (see below), was able to boast of considerable military success in central Italy and even gained—according to some observers—a brief predominance in the peninsula. But the accession of his sister, Joan II (1414–35), inexperienced and childless (that is to say, without obvious heirs), brought a renewal of anarchy to the Neapolitan kingdom, in which true power rested not with the monarchy but with a few powerful owners of vast estates (latifundia) who were allied to the monarchy through blood or service. Below these barons existed a large number of petty nobles with minuscule fiefs; still lower was the mass of peasants, who eked a bare subsistence from the soil.

Meanwhile, the island kingdom of Sicily—or Trinacria, as it was often called—was ruled from 1296 to 1409 by a cadet branch of the royal house of Aragon. This house, in rebellion against papal claims of suzerainty and engaged in constant war with the Kingdom of Naples, went through a pattern of monarchical weakness and economic decline similar to that shown by the Angevins of Naples. In Hohenstaufen and early Aragonese Sicily, extensive royal landholdings had given the monarchy effective power throughout the kingdom. With the death of King Frederick III (1337), however, substantial concessions of royal lands to a grasping baronial class increasingly divided the island. Of particular importance in this group were the three great families of the Ventimiglia, the Chiaramonte, and the Passaneto—men so powerful that contemporaries described them as “semi-kings,” having below them some 200 lesser, poor, and violent vassals. In these years, with an economy dominated largely by Catalan merchants, Sicily looked to Aragon (which in 1326 had also gained control of the island of Sardinia) and its great port of Barcelona rather than to the peninsula to the north.

If the southern kingdoms limped through the 14th century in internal strife and economic backwardness, so too did the Papal States lying to the north of the Kingdom of Naples. In March 1303 Pope Boniface VIII, in conflict with King Philip IV of France over papal jurisdiction, had been seized at the papal residence of Anagni by a small band of French and Roman adventurers. Though released almost immediately, he died a month later of, it was said, deep humiliation. The Papal States had been founded to preserve the independence and spiritual authority of the papacy, yet here, clearly, it seemed to have failed. Partly because of the menacing Roman baronage and partly again through the pressure of the French king, Pope Clement V decided to abandon the peninsula and seek refuge at Avignon. Here between 1307 and 1377 the papacy was to reside in greater safety. Italy was now “bereft”—as Dante, who witnessed these developments, testified—“of its two suns,” both the papacy and the empire.

The effects of that withdrawal were twofold. First, the “lands of the Crucified One,” as the church dramatically described its territorial state, were reinforced in their secular anarchy, and everywhere local “tyrants” seized power from papal officials. Yet, at the same time, the traditions of the church inevitably required that the papacy should return to the Rome where St. Peter had, it was said, preached and suffered. Hence, over the years, with fluctuating enthusiasm, the French popes struggled sporadically to establish obedience, peace, and control over their Italian lands. These efforts indeed played an important role in the foreign affairs of the Italian states in the period. Notable were the attempts at reconquest of the Papal States by Cardinal Bertrand du Poujet (1319–34) and Cardinal Gil Albornoz (1353–63). Yet the results were slight. After a heroic expenditure of money and blood, Albornoz attained some measure of order, largely by appointing the more amenable tyrants as “papal vicars” and by securing from them promises of payment of taxes and services in return for acknowledgment of overlordship. But even these muted successes proved unstable. With the outbreak of war between the Avignon papacy and Florence in 1375, most of the vicars cast off their allegiance. Three years later the Papal States fell into even greater disarray with the outbreak of the Great Schism (1378–1417). For almost four decades, until the Council of Constance, unity was shattered by rivalries between popes and antipopes—one French, one Italian, and later a third one, also Italian.

Amid the confused struggles that engulfed the Papal States in this period, one incident in particular stood out for men of the day and excited the imagination of posterity. The city of Rome, deserted by the papacy, presented a sombre picture of shepherds, herdsmen, labourers, and artisans dwelling by ruins that testified to past glory and were now taken over as the residences of powerful aristocratic families. The Colonna, Orsini, and Annibaldi established their fortifications amid the remains of the Mausoleum of Augustus, the Forum, and the Colosseum, and from there they fought out their ancient rivalries. Here in the 1340s rose the remarkable figure of Cola di Rienzo. A notary and the son of an innkeeper, possessing an imagination that easily accepted the most flattering fantasies, he gained esteem from the rumours he circulated that he was the son of Emperor Henry VII. An avid reader of Classical history and an interpreter of ancient inscriptions, intoxicated by the past splendours of Rome, he preached to his fellow citizens the recovery of its former greatness. Inspired by the Lex Regia, the supposed right of the Roman people to confer authority on the emperor, he announced that the citizens of his own day, under his leadership, could assume that right and resolve all disputes between rival claimants to the office. Achieving prominence as the most eloquent member of an embassy dispatched to Avignon to complain of the absence of the papacy, he excited the admiration of many (including the poet Petrarch) at the papal court. On his return in May 1347, with the help of some mercenary soldiers, he seized power in the city, and a parliament summoned at his command awarded him the title of “Nicolai, the Severe and Clement, the Tribune of Freedom, Peace and Justice, and Liberator of the Holy Roman Republic.”

The following month Cola invited all the Italian states to appear before him to discuss “the security and peace of Italy.” It is a remarkable testimony not so much to his eloquence as to their desperate wish for peace that no less than 25 communes answered his call. During a remarkable round of ceremonies, in the presence of the communes’ representatives, Cola announced that the Romans held jurisdiction over the whole world and conferred Roman citizenship upon all citizens of other Italian states. These chimerical pretensions (described by a contemporary as “fantastic stuff which won’t last long”) very soon came to be unveiled as such. In the following December, faced with an increasingly suspicious pope and a Roman citizenry satiated by novelties, Cola was driven from the city. He returned to Rome and was appointed senator in 1354 (essentially a puppet of Albornoz’s attempt to dominate the Papal States), but within less than three months he faced a popular revolt that ended with his death. Cola’s importance lay not so much in anything he had achieved as in the demonstration of how powerful an influence the thought of Classical Rome could exercise on men of the time. He survives in cultural history (as hero, for example, of the German composer Richard Wagner’s opera Rienzi) and in the myths (certainly no more than myths) that he had planned the unification of Italy and was a prophet of the 19th-century Risorgimento.