1Though little esteemed by contemporaries, Flavio Biondo’s Historiarum ab inclinatione Romanorum imperii decades (c. 1435-1453) marked a milestone in the writing of imperial history.1 Since the early fourteenth century, Italian humanists had recognised that, at some ill-defined point in the past, the once glorious Roman Empire had started to decline, and a “dark age” – extending down to their own times – had begun.2 In this, however, they had showed little interest; and, with only rare exceptions, they had concentrated their historiographical efforts either on the “Golden Age” which had preceded it, or on the period of “rebirth” which had followed. Biondo, by contrast, adopted precisely the opposite attitude. Covering more than a thousand years of history – from shortly after the Sack of Rome in 410 to the marriage of Francesco Sforza and Bianca Maria Visconti in 1441 – the Decades set out neither to glorify the ancient past, nor to recraft the present, but to uncover the stages by which imperial authority in the West had collapsed during the “Middle Ages”, and to explore how that decline had shaped the fortunes of modern peoples – both in Italy, and beyond.3

2In this narrative, a prominent part was played by Ludwig IV of Bavaria (1282-1347). Dominating the latter parts of the second decade, Biondo’s account of his reign could hardly have been more damning. Though Ludwig could not be accused of causing the factional struggles by which the regnum Italicum was rent, or of instigating the conflict between Church and empire, Biondo had no doubt that his Italian expedition had exacerbated both. Almost as soon as he had crossed the Alps, Biondo explained, he had shown himself to be utterly unscrupulous. In Milan, “led on as much by avarice as by anger”, he had imprisoned his closest allies and importuned the citizens with harsh exactions.4 In Rome, his behaviour had been even worse. Though his (admittedly irregular) coronation could perhaps be excused, his attacks on the Church were nothing short of scandalous. In the belief that, “by weakening the authority of John [XXII], the Roman pontiff, he could more easily throw Italian affairs into confusion”, he had set up “a peasant” by the name of Pietro da Corvaro as antipope, and had packed the College of Cardinals with profligates, apostates, and non-believers.5 There was, indeed, almost no outrage he had not committed; and by the time he had eventually limped back to Germany, Biondo believed, he had done incalculable damage – not only to Italy, but also to the empire.

3Yet while Biondo’s account was informed by a close reading of contemporary sources – including Giovanni Villani’s Nuova cronica, Andrea Dandolo’s Chronica brevis, and the Chronicon Estense6 – his criticisms of Ludwig were shaped less by his appreciation of the imperial past than by his understanding of how the Holy Roman Empire should function in the present. This was not unconnected to the cultural ideals to which he would give voice in Roma instaurata and Roma triumphans; but it was, above all, a product of his encounters with the turbulent politics of fifteenth-century Italy. Having seen his native Romagna fall victim to factional unrest and archityrannuli in the years after Giangaleazzo Visconti’s death, he – like many of his contemporaries – had come to believe that the restoration of imperial authority in the regnum Italicum offered the best hope of returning peace and liberty to its cities.7 As a proud Forlivense (and later, a Venetian), he did not, of course, want kings and emperors to intervene directly in the affairs of the communes. Nor – having helped draft Eugenius IV’s condemnation of the Council of Basel – did he wish them to interfere with ecclesiastical affairs. But he was convinced that, despite these limitations, the exercise of their rightful authority should be sufficient to ease Italy’s suffering. By arbitrating impartially in disputes and defending the Christian faith against its enemies, Biondo implied, they would be able to stay the hand of conflict and restore the peninsula to its rightful glory – just as Frederick III had done. And it was because Ludwig had so singly failed to live up to these expectations that Biondo believed he deserved the harshest criticism.

4Biondo’s portrait of Ludwig was, in many ways, typical of the manner in which Italian humanists had approached his reign since his election in 1314.8 Though they were all familiar with the turbulent course of events which had marked his time on the throne – having either witnessed it for themselves, or familiarised themselves with contemporary chronicles – they tended to judge his actions against a conception of empire that had been forged in the fires of Italian politics, and tailored their selection of material accordingly. The results were rich, varied, and often surprising. To date, however, these accounts have been poorly served by scholarship. In contrast to the thoroughness with which Ludwig’s fortunes north of the Alps have been treated by scholars such as Jean-Marie Moeglin, his depiction in humanistic literature has received precious little attention.9 There are, of course, a few, rare exceptions – the most notable of which are a brief article by Giuseppe Billanovich, and the recent studies of Albertino Mussato’s Ludovicus Bavarus by Rino Modonutti and Wolfgang Giese.10 But even these are limited by a narrowness of focus, and a reluctance to place humanistic portrayals in the context of the conceptions of empire from which they sprang.

5It is to this omission that this paper will turn. Charting humanistic attitudes from Ludwig’s election to the completion of Biondo’s Decades, it will demonstrate that the Bavarian’s image was rarely stable – and almost never consistent. As the humanists’ political circumstances – and role – changed, so did their expectations of the Holy Roman Empire, its relationship with the papacy, and even its constitution. Often refracted through the lens of civic or “Italian” concerns, these hopes and fears were, in turn, projected onto Ludwig; with the result that, over the course of the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, humanistic portrayals underwent a dramatic – if hitherto overlooked – transformation. By reconstructing the stages of this metamorphosis, this paper will therefore illustrate not only the diversity of readings his reign could support, but also the extent to which humanistic attitudes to this most reviled of emperors can serve as a barometer of their wider attitudes towards the empire.

The “king whom all the world wishes for itself” (c. 1314-c. 1326)

6At the time of Ludwig’s election, humanism in Padua was already reaching maturity. Having first put down roots in the writings of Lovato de’ Lovati (1241-1309), the new learning – characterised by the recovery and emulation of the Latin classics – was brought to fruition by the loose group of individuals whom he had inspired.11 Of these, a leading light was Albertino Mussato (1269-1327). A notary by training, he – like Lovato’s nephew, Rolando da Piazzola (d.1325) – devoted the greater part of his adult life to the service of the Paduan commune, becoming a member of the Consiglio Maggiore in 1296, and undertaking a number of diplomatic missions on the city’s behalf.12 To a large degree, this shaped his literary endeavours. Though his works covered a wide range of genres, from Senecan tragedy and urban history to epistolary verse and priapic poetry, his most significant contributions betray a preoccupation with Paduan liberty, which he believed to be threatened by the twin menace of “foreign” aggression and factional strife. Influenced by his reading of the Roman moralists and historians, he attributed the latter to the corruption of the citizenry’s virtue by prosperity; and, harking back to the tyranny of Ezzelino da Romano, warned that if it were not checked, Padua would soon be unable to defend itself against the external dangers by which it was harassed. Yet at the same time, his awareness of the city’s vulnerability also led him to see the Holy Roman Empire as a possible source of salvation – and, for a time, to view Ludwig IV of Bavaria in a markedly positive light, as well.13

7The immediate context was provided by Padua’s war with Cangrande della Scala. This had begun as a relatively minor dispute over property rights in Vicenza, long before Ludwig had even been considered as a candidate for the imperial throne.14 Since falling under Paduan rule in 1266, Vicenza had been one of the city’s most prized possessions – due largely to the lands which its citizens had subsequently acquired in the contado. Its rebellion on 15 April 1311 had hence come as a shock. Alarmed by the threat to their prosperity, the Paduans had immediately despatched an embassy – of which Mussato was a member – to ask Henry VII of Luxembourg for help.15 Much to their relief, Henry had responded favourably, reconfirming the privileges he had granted them at his Milanese coronation some months before.16 This had stipulated that, in return for a one-off payment of 60,000 gold florins and an annual tribute of 15,000 florins, Padua would have the right to choose four citizens from whom an imperial vicar would be selected, to live according to its own laws, and to enjoy dominion over Vicenza in perpetuity.17 But only a few days later, Henry had performed an abrupt volte-face. For reasons best known to himself, he appointed Cangrande della Scala – already the imperial vicar of neighbouring Verona – as his vicar in Vicenza. Almost immediately, Cangrande began seizing Paduan lands in the Vicentino; and it was feared that, in time, he might even attack Padua itself.18

8The Paduans now had to choose between remaining faithful to Henry VII, in the hope that, despite everything, he might still be persuaded to help them, and coming out in open rebellion against imperial authority. After much debate, the Consiglio Maggiore chose the latter course of action. According to Mussato’s account of proceedings, it was pointed out that there was little to choose between the “freedom” he had offered them and the tyranny they would suffer under Cangrande. Not only were his financial demands exorbitant, but the acceptance of a vicar – of any kind – would also inevitably compromise the independence of their government. If Padua wanted to maintain its liberty, it had no choice but to revolt.

9Mussato took the opposite point of view. Though Modonutti has rightly pointed out the danger inherent in attempting to reconstruct the evolution of Mussato’s thought from his account of his own actions, there can be no doubt that he was an implacable opponent of rebellion from an early stage. He did not, of course, deny that Henry had behaved atrociously.19 But he had nevertheless come to believe that Padua’s only hope was to remain loyal to the imperial cause. His argument was based on feudal law and custom. Whatever one made of Henry’s actions, he noted, Henry was still the rightful king of the Romans, and his rescripts remained valid.20 This meant that, as long as Padua remained loyal, no-one – including Cangrande – could legally infringe its rights, and it could call upon Henry – as its feudal superior – to defend its interests.21 If, however, Padua rebelled, it would be guilty of lèse-majesté, and would automatically forfeit all of its privileges. Anyone would then have carte blanche to attack it, without fear of reprisals.

10The Consiglio Maggiore soon realised the error of its ways. No sooner had Padua come out in rebellion than Cangrande – freed from the restraints of law and feudal custom – seized its remaining possessions in the Vicentino and began striking deeper into its own territory.22 There was little it could do to defend itself. Its only allies – Florence and Bologna – were too busy with their own affairs to offer any assistance; its forces were poorly organised and badly led; and, as panic mounted, factional unrest once again reared its ugly head.23 By the time of Henry VII’s death in 1313, the commune’s prospects looked bleak.

11With Cangrande hammering at Padua’s gates,24 Mussato renewed his defence of the imperial cause, apparently untroubled by the implications of the double election which had since taken place. His emphasis had, however, begun to shift. Whereas he had previously portrayed imperial authority merely as a source of legal protection, he now came to lay greater stress on the fact that, if the city was to profess its loyalty, a king of the Romans – as its feudal superior – would be obliged to defend its rights with force, if called upon to do so.

12At last accepting the logic of Mussato’s argument, the consiglio maggiore sought to be reconciled to the empire. It turned first to Frederick “the Fair” of Habsburg; and after making obeisance, was gratified not only to receive confirmation of its rights, but also to be sent a garrison under Ulrich von Walsee to defend Padua should Cangrande refuse to withdraw.25 That the commune turned to Frederick, rather than to Ludwig, was – in all probability – no statement on the disputed election. Rather, the decision was driven by simple pragmatism. Since the Habsburg’s ancestral lands were closer to Padua than those of the Wittelsbachs, it was only reasonable to suppose that Frederick would be in a better position than Ludwig to send military aid.

13When Ludwig defeated Frederick at the battle of Mühldorf (1322), Padua had no hesitation in transferring its loyalties to him. After despatching ambassadors – of whom Mussato was one – to Innsbruck to make obeisance, the commune duly received the same privileges it had enjoyed under Frederick (and Henry), and confirmation that Ulrich von Walsee would continue to defend its interests.26 And for a time, everything seemed to go well. Not only was Cangrande driven back, but several of his own towns were even besieged.

14Padua’s successes were, however, cut short by the awakening of Carrara ambition and the resurgence of factional strife. While many of the commune’s leading citizens – including Mussato – were away on a diplomatic mission to Ludwig’s court in Innsbruck in June 1325, Ubertino da Carrara launched an attack on the rival Dente family. Unable – or unwilling – to quell the unrest which followed, the imperial garrison stood by as the city plunged into disorder.27 As it did so, Niccolò da Carrara – who had long nurtured ambitions of his own – seized the opportunity to rebel; and, after throwing in his lot with the Veronese, was soon laying siege to Padua at Cangrande’s side.28 In a bid to stave off disaster, the Consiglio Maggiore hastily elected Marsilio da Carrara – seemingly the most reasonable member of his family – as the commune’s capitaneus and dominus generalis. But it proved a costly mistake. Having previously struck a deal with Cangrande, Marsilio immediately dismissed the imperial garrison, and convinced the city to abandon its faith in Ludwig.29 On 10 September 1328, Cangrande entered the city in triumph.30 The commune was at an end.

15Though Mussato had been forced into exile, he clung to his faith in the Holy Roman Empire – and, for a time, he remained convinced that, if Padua remained true to Ludwig, the commune might still be saved. This is first apparent in a metrical epistle which Mussato wrote to his friend Marsilius of Padua. Composed in Chioggia in late 1325 or early 1326, this urged Marsilius – who had fled to the imperial court in Munich after completing the Defensor pacis – to use his influence to persuade Ludwig to come to Padua’s aid:

Where, my dear friend, have your feet led you, or what road has led you to Caesar’s court? If rumour brings true tidings, have you perhaps come to bring succour to your fatherland, after various misfortunes and so many disasters? Would to heaven that this development might turn out well for us; (I myself, too, am removed from the fatherland, since Fate changes everything)! You are said to exhort your elders and settle weighty matters with your counsel, and to present yourself to the king [of the Romans]. Now may whoever lives within the borders of the Paduan land rejoice at these things, that a fellow citizen has been raised to such magnificent heights. This patron will surely be most faithful; this is the one who by delaying will restore our state. So farewell, prosperously and with good omen; may God guide you and that king whom all the world wishes for itself.31

16The earliest unambiguously humanistic representation of Ludwig, this poem rested on many of the same ideas as Mussato had articulated in his earlier writings. At its heart was a clear sense that imperial authority offered a feudal remedy for the ill-effects of factionalism and the looming threat of tyranny. But a closer reading reveals that Mussato’s expectations of imperial authority had hardened considerably – and that he had come to see Ludwig as an altogether more exalted, even providential, figure than either Frederick or Henry VII.

17In the first place, the manner in which Mussato addressed Marsilius seems deliberately to cast Ludwig as a latter-day Julius Caesar – a figure whose authority exceeded all others, and whose obligation it was to settle all disputes laid before him by modern equivalents of the Senate. Of particular interest in this regard is Mussato’s observation that Marsilius was said to “settle weighty matters with [his] counsel” (pondere rerum | consiliis stabilire suis; ll.7-8). This appears to have been modelled after Cicero, Marc. 29. In that passage, Cicero had interrupted his (uncharacteristic) praise of Caesar to observe that, unless Rome were not “settled by [the dictator’s] counsels” (nisi haec urbs stabilita tuis consiliis […] erit), Caesar’s glory would have “no secure seat, no certain home” (tuum nomen […] sedem stabilem et domicilium certum non habebit). Mussato’s implication was, of course, that if Marsilius wanted to be held in high esteem by his countrymen, he should use his vaunted counsel to settle Padua’s affairs; but his allusion to Cicero’s original was so pointed – and so pregnant with meaning – that a certain parallel is also drawn between Caesar’s settlement of the Senate’s petition, and Ludwig’s hoped-for response to Padua’s plight. This impression is reinforced by the following clause (et sistere regi). Although sistere was a fairly common verb in both classical and post-classical Latin, the meaning which Mussato attached to it – as well as the syntax he employed – followed its usage in the Corpus iuris civilis, where it referred to the presentation of an appellant before a judicial authority with a right of summons.32

18In the second place, Mussato depicted Ludwig not merely as the prospective restorer of Paduan liberty, but also as the fulfilment of Virgilian prophesy. His claim that the Bavarian was unus qui nobis cunctando restituet rem (l.12) was a close paraphrase of Ennius’s description of Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator, as reported at Virgil, Aen. 6.846. But whereas Virgil’s original had stressed the use of delaying tactics – which would have been fatal had they been brought to bear on Padua’s situation – Mussato instead sought to associate Ludwig’s restoration of the Paduan commune with peaceful, rather than martial, means. As he was doubtless aware from his reading of Pliny the Elder (Hist. nat. 22.5.5), cunctor could sometimes be used – even of Fabius – to refer to the avoidance of fighting, rather than to delaying alone; and could, in certain contexts (e.g. Virgil, Aen. 6.211), carry the sense of tenaciousness, as opposed to violence. This being so, Mussato gives the impression that Ludwig would be the fulfilment of the prophesy spoken by Anchises in the following lines of the Aeneid (6.847-53). Were the Bavarian to come to Padua’s aid and drive Cangrande away without fighting, Mussato implies, he would show that his arts were indeed “to crown peace with law, to spare the humbled, and to vanquish the proud” – and, by extension, that he was a new Augustus.

Heretical and unchristian (c. 1327-1328)

19That imperial authority should act as a feudal remedy for communal ills was, however, not the only pillar on which Mussato’s conception of the Holy Roman Empire was built.

20Since the death of Frederick II, more than seventy-five years before, Padua – like many other cities in the March of Treviso – had come to believe that a separation should be maintained between spiritual and temporal powers. Though its warring factions continued to be known as the pars Ecclesiae et Marchionis and the pars imperii, they had emerged “quite independently” of the struggle between empire and papacy, and – having attached themselves to the rival combatants out of convenience rather than conviction – recognised that no good could come of rekindling the dying embers of an increasingly outmoded conflict.33 Leaving the already half-forgotten disputes of the past far behind them, they instead embraced a loose and pragmatic form of Gelasian dualism. As Rolandino da Padova (1200-1276) intimated, the authority of future popes and emperors should, as far as possible, not intersect.34 While there would always be some crossover – especially as the papacy could not be expected to sacrifice either its temporal possessions, or the power of excommunication – each should have his own distinct sphere of activity, and respect the other’s sovereign autonomy.

21Henry VII’s reign had strengthened Mussato’s belief in this ideal. Though open conflict had been averted only by the emperor’s death, the tenor of the Luxembourger’s dispute with Clement V had convinced Mussato that neither empire nor papacy could function properly unless kept apart. Like Rolandino, he recognised that such a separation could never be absolute. But he nevertheless believed that even an imperfect form of dualism was essential. In the Historia Augusta, Mussato tailored his account of Henry’s reign to illustrate how this might function.35 That emperors were under some obligations to the Church was not in any doubt. Mussato acknowledged that it was the emperor’s responsibility to defend the Christian faith against the menace of heresy and schism, and – where possible – to extend the frontiers of Christendom. This did not, however, entitle him to meddle in ecclesiastical affairs. In spiritual matters, the pope retained an absolute authority, and retained the right to censure any Christian – including the emperor – if he erred in matters of faith. Yet – as Henry VII had asserted in the Constitutio contra haereticos et sacrilegos – he had no authority in the temporal sphere.36 Implicitly rejecting the Donation of Constantine, Mussato maintained that, while it had become customary for an emperor to have his election confirmed by and to receive his diadem from the pope, the former’s authority in no way derived from the latter. Though Mussato was hazy over the details, he appears to have believed that the emperor instead owed his power and dignity to his election by the German princes,37 and – in some ill-defined way – to the Roman people.38

22Ludwig’s descent into Italy thus came as something of a shock. Though Mussato had long dreamed of such an expedition, any hopes he may have nurtured for Padua’s salvation were far outweighed by his alarm at Ludwig’s assault on the dualistic principles he held so dear. In the Ludovicus Bavarus ad filium – written in haste shortly before his death – he recanted his former admiration and launched a scathing attack on the Wittelsbacher’s apparent determination to destroy the fragile balance between imperium and sacerdotium.

23Mussato’s account of Ludwig’s reign was far from one-sided. He had no doubt that John XXII had to share at least some of the blame for what had happened. Though he appears to have been willing to accept that John had been justified in excommunicating “tyrants” – like Cangrande della Scala and the Visconti – who had oppressed the whole of Italy and caused the Church such grievous harm,39 he could hardly condone the pontiff’s attempt to usurp imperial authority in the regnum Italicum. As many contemporary Ghibellines had noted, John had gone far beyond the limits of his spiritual authority, and, in doing so, had treated the empire with open contempt. Under such a pope, Mussato claimed, the Church would never know peace.40

24Nor did Mussato wish to suggest that Ludwig’s rule had been anything but legitimate. In a few brief paragraphs, he made it quite clear that the Wittelsbacher had been duly elected as king of the Romans. Although he was aware that at least some of the electors had supported Frederick of Habsburg,41 he nevertheless maintained that Ludwig had been elected by a majority of the “true electors” and that his subsequent victory over Frederick at the battle of Mühldorf was a clear sign of God’s approval.42 This was more than sufficient. Deftly avoiding any reference to Ludwig’s repeated attempts to secure John XXII’s approval, Mussato gave the impression that the Bavarian had needed no further confirmation to rule as the rex Romanorum – least of all from the pope.

25So too, Mussato did not dispute that Ludwig had been the rightful emperor. Rather than allow himself to be dragged into the thorny problem of whether a Roman coronation could legitimately be performed without papal permission, he simply wrote the ceremony out of his narrative altogether, and instead suggested (rather fancifully) that Ludwig had received his authority not from the pope, but from the Roman people. As Mussato was careful to emphasise in his imaginative – but largely fictive – account, the Romans had asked Ludwig to come and “freely take possession of Rome and his empire”.43 Accepting their invitation as his right, Ludwig was then called upon by the people to “live and reign”.44

26But there Mussato’s attempts at even-handedness ended. From the moment Ludwig had ascended the Capitol, Mussato argued, he had been seized by an unpardonable wickedness. He had disrespected the papacy; he had offered succour to excommunicants, heretics, and rebels; he had scorned all warnings; and he had shown himself to be, not an impartial protector of the Christian faith, but a partisan figure, intent on oppressing all those who were friendly towards the Church.45 What was worse, he had denounced, anathematized, and deposed the pope, and installed an antipope in defiance of all law.46 There were, of course, those who attributed these heretical and unchristian actions to the baleful influence of the emperor’s depraved counsellors, especially Ubertino da Casale and Mussato’s erstwhile friend, Marsilius of Padua.47 But this was not enough to vindicate Ludwig or free him from responsibility. Nor did it shield him from its consequences. However badly John XXII had conducted himself in certain respects, Ludwig had not only exceeded his authority, but also fomented schism and imperilled the spiritual well-being of all Christians. As such, Mussato had no choice but to agree with those who believed Ludwig to have forfeited the imperial title.48

“Of Caesar I do not speak” (c. 1330-1342)

27After Ludwig’s departure from Italy and the death of John XXII, it seemed – for a time – as if the empire’s tattered relations with the papacy might be set on a more pacific footing. Far milder than his predecessor, the new pope, Benedict XII, was anxious to make peace; and Ludwig, exhausted by years of conflict, made it clear that, with only minor exceptions, he was ready to accept the pope’s conditions.49 But when Robert of Naples and Philip VI of France came out in opposition to any reconciliation, negotiations foundered.50 The German princes were outraged. At Rhens, on 16 July 1338, all but John of Bohemia denounced John XXII’s decrees against Ludwig and signed a new declaration of imperial rights, affirming that, once a king of the Romans had been duly elected, he could administer all the rights and goods of the empire without needing papal confirmation.51 Two weeks later, on 6 August, Ludwig gave his assent to this declaration in the bull Licet iuris, adding that, from the moment of his election, a candidate was to be regarded not just as the rex Romanorum, but as “true king and emperor”.52

28Yet despite the ferocity of his tone, Ludwig remained open to discussions. Following the English invasion of France the following year, he quietly abandoned his alliance with Edward III, and seized the opportunity to repair his relations with Philip VI. This paved the way for a reconciliation with the papacy.53 Only the untimely death of Benedict XII in April 1342 stopped matters proceeding further.

29This poured oil on the troubled waters of the regnum Italicum. The Ghibelline “tyrants” – the Visconti, the della Scala, the Gonzaga, and the Estensi – were reconciled with the Church; and, in time, almost all the communes which had defied Benedict’s predecessor followed suit. Though a number of small-scale conflicts – such as that between Mastino della Scala and the republics of Florence and Venice – continued to rage, the hostilities engendered by the rivalry between empire and papacy seemed briefly to have been halted.

30These developments were followed with interest by a new generation of humanists. Often exiled from their native cities, and closely associated with the papal court, either as bureaucrats in Rome, or as benefice holders in Provence, they had only limited sympathy with the political concerns of their predecessors. Though they were not indifferent to the safety of individual cities, they were preoccupied above all with the peace of the “Italic world”. Eschewing urban histories for epistles, moral treatises, and poetry in Latin and the vernacular, those such as Convenevole da Prato (1270/1275-1338) and Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374) voiced repeated calls for peace not only within cities, but also between the communes and signori who were thought to share a common “Italian” identity.

31As such, they could not help welcoming the cooling of tensions between empire and papacy. In an early poem, written at the beginning of Benedict XII’s reign, Petrarch expressed his hopes that the newfound piety of the German peoples would lead them to join the crusade which the pope was then planning with Philip VI.54 And some years later, when the outbreak of the Hundred Years War had made such a scheme unworkable, Petrarch still felt confident enough to pen a metrical epistle to Mastino della Scala, expressing his confidence that, while Fortune tormented the rest of the world, Italy would now grow quiet.55

32But the humanists were under no illusions. Petrarch, in particular, knew full well that the uneasy peace would not last – and that any amelioration in Italy’s situation would be temporary at best. If the regnum Italicum was ever to be freed from its suffering, they believed, Rome would first have to be restored.56 Seduced by the allure of the classical past, they reasoned that, since Italy had last known peace when the Roman Empire had been at its height, peace in their own day could only be achieved when the Eternal City had been returned to its former glory. This was, in part, a moral enterprise, dependent on a reawakening of those harsh virtues upon which Rome’s greatness had been founded. But it was above all an imperial venture. Aware that, when Rome’s virtue had been at its greatest, the city had entrusted its government to a single monarch – under whose reign Christ had been born – Petrarch came to believe that the renovatio morum would inevitably go hand-in-hand with a renovatio imperii. All that was needed was for a suitably virtuous monarch to take up his proper seat, restore the papacy to its home, and make Rome once again the true caput mundi.57

33Yet this was a role Ludwig could never fulfil. It was not so much his offenses against the Church which troubled Petrarch. Though Ludwig’s attacks on John XXII clearly made him unsuited to restoring the papacy to Rome, the lessening of tensions between empire and papacy had robbed Petrarch of any cause either to dwell on those unhappy memories, or to defend dualism with quite the same fervour. As such, he felt no particular need to mention Ludwig’s sojourn in Rome – let alone to harp on about his creation of an antipope, or the “impious” men who had been elevated to the cardinalate.

34Rather, it was the violence of Ludwig’s Romzug which caused Petrarch alarm. Recalling his bloody months in Tuscany with particular vividness, Petrarch regarded him not merely as a “bad” emperor, but as an enemy of the Roman name, and a living antithesis of the “Italic peace” for which they yearned. To be sure, this was seldom expressed directly. For those – like Petrarch – who frequented the papal court, unvarnished criticism, even of so questionable a character as Ludwig, would have been impolitic at best. Instead, use was made of more indirect means.

35Inspired by Ovid and Claudian (amongst others), Petrarch sometimes invited a personified Rome to launch subtle barbs on his behalf. In a metrical epistle addressed to Benedict XII in either 1335 or late 1336, for example, the city interrupted her appeal for the papacy’s return to launch a discreet invective against the Bavarian’s crimes.58 Vividly contrasting her glorious past with her pitiable present, she dolefully reminded the pope that she had once been the mistress of the world, appointed by God to rule over the earth. That she was now no longer the beauty she had once been was due to the neglect of her “bridegrooms”.59 But whereas Benedict had merely abandoned her, Ludwig – whom she tactfully avoided mentioning by name – had actively done her harm. Though she had always been afflicted by the wickedness of her citizens, she had been torn to pieces by one who should have been her right hand, and become plunder for the greed of tyrants.60 Driven by anger, Ludwig had seized her by force, and held her in his grasp. Not until he strapped to his side the Teutonic sword, dripping with much blood had he released her.61 And though he had returned to Germany at last, the livid scars remained.62

36On other occasions, Petrarch followed Dante in calling upon Italy to point the finger. In the Italia mia – composed, in all probability, in around 1341 – he depicted Italy as a suffering matron, whose “beautiful body” was covered with “mortal wounds”.63 Most had, of course, been inflicted in cruel wars between rival communes and signori. But her pitiable state was not all due to “trivial causes”. Petrarch did not want to point the finger too directly, but, in an elegant piece of praeteritio, left no doubt that Ludwig shared the bulk of the blame. “Of Caesar I do not speak,” he wrote, “who in every meadow / made the grass bloody / from their veins, where he put our steel”.64 Such studied silence was telling. Though Petrarch does not appear to have questioned the legitimacy of Ludwig’s rule, he – and his contemporaries – would have rather he not been on the throne. Indeed, after returning to his native Tuscany in the late 1330s, Convenevole da Prato preferred to think of the imperial throne as being unfilled and, like Petrarch, looked for another who might be better suited to satisfy their hopes of empire.65

37Their gaze fell on Robert of Naples. Though this is not the place to dwell on the lavish praise which the humanists lavished on the “new Solomon”, it is worth noting that, in their eyes, he was everything Ludwig was not.66 Whereas the Bavarian was quick to anger and slow to forgive, the Angevin was calm and merciful; whereas Ludwig had harmed Rome and Italy, it was to Robert that personifications of both appealed for aid; and whereas the humanists would have rather said nothing about the former, they could not say enough to extol the latter’s merits. Robert was, in short, the emperor the humanists wished they had; and every word they wrote in praise of him was, in a very real sense, a tacit criticism of Ludwig.

“Duke of Bavaria” (1342-1347)

38The death of Robert of Naples on 20 January 1343 dealt a heavy blow to this approach. For Petrarch, it seemed as if the sun had fallen from the sky.67 Any hope of restoring Rome to its ancient glory under Angevin leadership had been definitively destroyed. It did not help that relations between empire and papacy were already deteriorating. Following Ludwig’s ill-judged attempts to acquire the Tyrol by annulling Margaret Maultasch’s marriage to John Henry of Luxembourg, and marrying her to his son, Ludwig of Brandenburg, Clement VI – who had been elected to succeed Benedict XII on 7 May 1342 – accused him of usurping papal privileges, and ordered him to set aside the imperial crown.68 When Ludwig refused, Clement railed against his recalcitrance, and – while holding back from deposing him – began casting about for a rival candidate to take his place.69

39Forced onto the back foot, Ludwig hastily made a play of meekness. Confessing to his crimes, he begged the pope’s forgiveness and renounced the imperial title.70 It was, however, nothing more than a gambit. While Ludwig had obeyed Clement’s orders and abdicated as emperor, he could still claim to be the legitimate king of the Romans. As such, Clement could neither find fault with him, nor lobby for a new election without inciting division. But the princes were growing tired. Though they reproved the pope for attempting to destabilise the empire, they had begun to tire of Ludwig’s antics; and when Clement appointed one of his allies as the new archbishop of Mainz, a majority was at last in favour of electing a new king. In April 1346, Clement denounced Ludwig as a schismatic and a heretic, and stripped him of his throne;71 and three months later, the electors obediently chose Charles of Moravia as the new king of the Romans.

40Ludwig, however, was unwilling to take this lying down. Buoyed by the support of several northern German cities and by the death of Charles’s father, John of Bohemia, at the battle of Crécy, he resolved to fight on. A long and bloody struggle loomed ahead.

41Such a grave turn of events naturally had an impact on humanistic attitudes towards Ludwig. But it was much less pronounced than might have been expected. Following the death of Robert of Naples, the humanists had begun to rethink the manner in which a renovatio Romae might be accomplished. Rather than wait for a suitable monarch to renew the empire – and thus revive the morals on which Rome’s greatness had been based – they had come to believe that the Roman people could take matters into their own hands.72 If the Romans were to effect a renovatio morum on their own initiative, the logic went, they could then renew the empire themselves – and, in doing so, make Rome the caput mundi once again. Of those who were seized by this idea, none was more willing to put it into practice than Cola di Rienzo (1313-1354). On 20 May 1347, Cola took advantage of the absence of the Roman barons to lead a host of armed supporters to the Campidoglio, and before a crowd of cheering popolani announced the foundation of a new popular regime. From the beginning, Cola made it clear that this buon stato was merely a prelude to the restoration of Rome’s ancient glory, the pacification of Italy, and the renovatio imperii. On 1 August, Cola formally revoked the Lex regia, reclaimed the Romans’ ancient rights, and summoned both Ludwig and Charles to submit themselves to the judgement of the Roman people, and to witness the renewal of the city – and of Italy as a whole.73

42Perhaps understandably, Cola’s letter to the rival kings was deliberately even-handed. It passed no comment on their claims and said nothing about either their virtues or their vices. Ludwig’s violence against Rome and Italy – which had so horrified Petrarch only a few years earlier – was quietly brushed under the carpet, as were his offenses against the Church. Treating the two men as equals, Cola addressed them simply as dominum Ludovicum ducem Bavarie, dominum Carolum regem Bohemie, qui se asserunt Romanorum imperatores, vel ad imperium iam electos. But this in itself was a powerful enough judgement against Ludwig – and suggested that, at last, the humanists had found the intellectual strength decisively to turn on him. Though it blurred the distinction between the imperial and royal titles in a rather curious manner, it accepted the possibility that Charles might have a claim; and that, implicitly, Ludwig might indeed be a schismatic heretic, whom the pope had had every right to depose. That this was what lurked in Cola’s mind is given further credence by a peculiarity of phrasing in a slightly later letter to the republic of Florence, in which the synod is again discussed. Here, Cola explained that he had summoned not two equal claimants, but “the duke of Bavaria, and the illustrious lord Charles, king of Bohemia, calling himself, so it is said, king of the Romans”.74 Though the wording is unusual – not to say ugly – there is nevertheless a clear sense that Cola believed Charles – rather than Ludwig – to have had the better claim to the throne; and that, by extension, Ludwig was guilty of all the crimes of which he had been accused. But that it was a matter for the Roman people to decide was in no doubt at all.

Irrelevance (1347-1369)

43Ludwig’s unexpected death while hunting on 11 October 1347 robbed the Romans – and the humanists – of the opportunity to sit in judgement on him, once and for all. Since they could not praise him, they therefore contented themselves merely with burying him. And with good reason. The humanists’ attention was elsewhere. Following the collapse of Cola di Rienzo’s “revolution”, the humanists were – at least at first – captivated by the potential of Charles IV’s reign; and, returning to their earlier understanding of the renovatio Romae, looked to the Luxembourger to accomplish their desires. There was also much less to get angry about. For though the controversies of his reign had once stirred such violent passions, they quickly became an anachronism. With the promulgation of the Golden Bull in 1356, the pope’s role in imperial elections was reduced to a mere formality, putting the legitimacy of future kings beyond any doubt, and making it all but impossible for them to be denied a coronation in Rome. Thus robbed of much of his significance, Ludwig virtually disappeared from sight. For more than twenty years, he is hardly seen in humanistic literature.

44On those rare occasions when he did appear, however, the cooling of tempers seems to have had, if not a positive, then at least a moderating influence on portrayals of his reign. Among the only works to mention him at all is Giovanni Boccaccio’s Trattatello in laude di Dante (1351).75 Written shortly after Boccaccio had returned from an embassy to the court of Ludwig’s son, this notoriously unreliable biography touches upon the former emperor’s reign only briefly, during a discussion of the De monarchia. It was, however, noticeably different from earlier accounts in a number of respects. Based on a mistaken assessment of the De monarchia’s genesis, it concentrated exclusively on Ludwig’s Roman sojourn; and, due to the nature of Dante’s text, it framed those tumultuous months in terms of a wider conflict between imperial and papal prerogatives. Perhaps most importantly, however, its reading of Ludwig’s actions was also rather cagy. While it did not come anywhere close to a rehabilitation, it was still nothing like as scathing as previous depictions.

45As contemporary readers no doubt knew, the De monarchia had been condemned by Cardinal Bertrand Pouget, John XXII’s legate in Lombardy, almost as soon as it had appeared. The reason, Boccaccio maintained, was that it had been written in defence of Ludwig, who “having been chosen as king of the Romans by the German electors,” came “for his coronation in Rome, against the wishes of the said Pope John” and, “being in Rome, made, contrary to ecclesiastical law, a Franciscan friar, called Fr. Pietro della Corvara [sic.], pope, and many cardinals and bishops; and had himself crowned there by this pope”.76 Setting aside Boccaccio’s preposterous insinuation about the De monarchia’s purpose (which overlooked the fact that Dante had been dead for almost seven years by the time Ludwig entered Rome), this account was, of course, correct in many essential points – and is undeniably, if discreetly, negative. Yet, even accounting for its brevity, it is striking how much effort has been put into smoothing over details previously regarded as either objectionable or awkward. Though there is never any doubt that he was a “bad” emperor, whose attacks on the papacy merited condemnation, his legitimacy, both as king and emperor, are beyond doubt. Even his actions are cast in a more balanced light. No mention is made of the double election, or of Frederick of Habsburg – let alone his later, bloody journey through Tuscany. Perhaps more importantly, nothing whatsoever is said either about Sciarra Colonna or the Roman people. Other than the involvement of Pietro da Corvaro, his coronation is portrayed as perfectly conventional; and Boccaccio even gives the impression that Ludwig may have been correct in expecting to receive the diadem as his right, despite the pope’s disapproval.

“As much against the Bavarian as against all the impious” (1368-1369)

46Not until shortly after Charles IV’s second Romzug did Ludwig next appear in humanistic literature – albeit in a rather different guise. For most, this was a time of exultation. Though Petrarch – having long since wearied of the Luxembourger – seems scarcely to have noticed his coming, the young Coluccio Salutati (1331-1406) rejoiced that, at last, the dream of a renovatio Romae seemed to have been fulfilled. Describing Charles’s entry into Rome in a letter to Boccaccio on 8 April 1369, Salutati was breathless with excitement.77 He marvelled at Charles’s humility in dismounting to approach the Eternal City on foot, out of respect for the soil, stained with the blood of martyrs.78 But most of all, he revelled in the sight of Charles leading Pope Urban V’s horse into the city by the bridle. Even six months later, he was still scarcely able to believe that the two totius orbis maximi principes should have come together with tanta pace, tanta concordia [...] tanta benivolentia.79 It heralded the dawning of a new golden age. As Virgil had foreseen, the Romans had once again become rerum dominos, gentemque togatam; and peace, at last, seemed to be at hand. Now that pope and emperor had returned to their proper seat, the glory of the empire would be restored, the foreign “barbarians” would be crushed, harmony reign throughout Italy, and Christ’s name would resound throughout the world.80

47In that moment of triumph, it was only natural for the humanists to contrast Charles IV’s pious majesty with the disappointments of Ludwig IV’s reign. There was, to be sure, no need to dwell on every last detail. After all, an effective comparison could be made without revisiting the double election of 1314, the Roman coronation, and the sojourn in Tuscany – let alone his support for the Spiritual Franciscans and his rivalry with the house of Luxembourg. In fact, only one thing really mattered. Given that Charles had not merely made the journey to Rome, but also restored the papacy to its proper seat, the difference between him and Ludwig could be expressed simply in terms of the contrast between piety and impiety. It was thus that Salutati referred to him in an epitaph for Cardinal Niccolò Capocci (d. 1368) on 9 June 1369. A moving celebration of the deceased’s devotion, it highlights his opposition to Ludwig during his youth as proof of his faith. “Here lies the body of Niccolò Capocci,” the poem began,

who, spurning vice, dwelt in the risen Christ;
and thus he continued until his death,
defending the Holy Church justly in all ways
as much against the Bavarian as against all the impious.81

48Though mild compared to what would follow, this rather one-dimensional portrait was to set the tone for humanistic depictions of Ludwig for the remainder of the fourteenth century.

“Ludwig and all the other persecutors of the Church” (1369-1378)

49The hopes engendered by Charles IV’s second Romzug were, however, swiftly dashed. Within months of his return to Prague, all that he had achieved had been undone. Unable to sustain himself in Rome without imperial aid, Urban V had returned to Avignon; and, in the emperor’s absence, Northern Italy had once again been consumed by internecine conflict. There was little that Charles could do. Preoccupied with bringing the Wittelsbachs to heel and defending his realm against Louis the Great of Hungary, he could not muster the strength to intervene decisively in Italian politics.82

50Crestfallen, the humanists had no choice but to abandon their dreams of a renovatio Romae. Yet as the sound of war once again rang out across the regnum Italicum, a new conception of imperial authority emerged to take its place.83 Rather than viewing the Emperor as an agent of Roman renewal and “Italic peace”, humanists in Florence, once again came to see imperial authority through the lens of urban politics. Generally employed in the chancellery or as public rhetoricians, they looked to Charles to protect their liberty against the “tyranny” by which they were threatened. This did not, of course, mean that they expected him to ride to their aid at the head of an army. That was clearly out of the question. Nor, indeed, did they look on him as a feudal superior, as Mussato had done. Instead, they conceived of him in more overtly Dantean terms. Taking inspiration from De monarchia and the Commedia, they saw Charles as the supreme authority in temporal affairs, whose office had been established by God to resolve the disputes by which postlapsarian society was inevitably marred.

51This attachment to Dante also had important implications for the humanists’ attitude towards the relationship between empire and papacy. Thanks in no small part to Charles’s second Romzug, they remained convinced that the emperor owed a certain obligation towards the Church. Though they no longer believed that he should return the papacy to Rome, they clung to the belief that he was duty-bound to protect and defend the Christian faith when called upon to do so. Despite the promulgation of the Golden Bull, they were also more willing than before to acknowledge that, while the emperor did not own his authority to the pontiff, it was nevertheless only with the pope’s consent that he enjoyed the fullness of his authority. Yet at the same time, the humanists’ reading of Dante inclined them to embrace dualism more forcefully than before. They were, to be sure, never quite as stringent as the poet; but they were nevertheless in no doubt that their spheres should not overlap. Just as the pope was supreme in spiritual affairs, so in temporal affairs, the emperor brooked no equal – especially when it came to questions of law.

52This new vision of imperial authority found its fullest expression during the War of the Eight Saints (1375-1378). Shortly after his election, on 13 December 1370, Pope Gregory IX had resolved to check the ambitions of Bernarbò Visconti and reassert control over the Papal States.84 His success was swift. By the summer of 1373, Perugia was reoccupied, Vercelli was captured, and several other towns surrendered. But his triumph was short-lived. Disturbed by the pope’s resolve, the Florentines feared that his next step might be to challenge their hold over Tuscany. Following the discovery of a plot to hand over Prato to the Church, any remaining doubts were dispelled; and, after allying with their traditional enemy, Milan, declared war on the pope.

53Having recently been appointed chancellor of Florence, Coluccio Salutati was tasked with defending the Florentine cause against its opponents and encouraging the communes and signori of the Papal States to rebel.85 But at the same time, he was also swept up in the Republic’s efforts to appeal to Charles IV.86 The city did not, of course, expect him to join an anti-papal alliance, or even offer aid. Nor, indeed, did the Florentines want him to confirm their rights and privileges. Rather, they had come to realise that, by recognising his authority – and subtly insisting on a dualistic separation of spiritual and temporal affairs – they could cleverly undercut the legal basis of Gregory XI’s attack on their liberty. The logic can be glimpsed in a letter which Salutati wrote to Charles IV on 6 May 1376.87 After rehearsing Gregory’s various offenses, Salutati pointed out that the pope was attacking Florence with precisely the same mercenaries Charles had attempted to suppress and thus called upon the emperor to condemn the implied challenge to his authority. It is, however, most clearly visible, in a speech delivered by Florence’s ambassadors, Donado Barbadori and Alessandro dell’Antella in Avignon a few weeks earlier.88 Responding to the pope’s accusation that Florence had incited rebellion amongst his subjects, passed anti-clerical legislation, and committed a number of other offences against the Church, Barbadori and dell’Antella pointed out that Florence had always been a subject of the Empire. This not only allowed them to rebut the charge that Florence had violated its loyalty to the Church, but also to argue that Gregory lacked the legal competence to sit in judgement upon them, since, in temporal matters, the emperor was supreme.

54This was, of course a reasonable response to the jurisdictional claims which underpinned Gregory XI’s campaign. But, from Gregory XI’s perspective, it looked dangerously like Salutati and the Florentines were trying to pit the emperor’s authority against that of the pope – and to use imperial authority to harm the Church.

55Yet by invoking Ludwig’s memory, Salutati was able to defuse any suspicions that this might be Florence’s intention. Writing to the College of Cardinals on 8 March 1376, Salutati pointed out that

We [sc. Florentines] rose up against the Henrys, Frederick, Manfred, Conradin, and Ludwig and all the other persecutors of the Church, despite the great danger this posed to us and the vast quantities of blood we shed, for the salvation of the Church.89

56Three months later, he made the same claim in a letter to the King Henry II of Castile, albeit with greater rhetorical flourish:

We waged war tenaciously against Frederick II, the persecutor of the Church, and we prevailed in the great battle at Piacenza. We deserved to launch the first attack, alongside Charles I [of Anjou], of glorious memory, fighting in defence of the Church, against his progeny, by nature adulterine, that is to say, Manfred, who unjustly trampled upon the rights of the Church and usurped both the kingdom [of Naples] and the empire. How did we repay Conrad, Conradin, [and] Ludwig, duke of Bavaria, when they took up arms against the Church?90

57Salutati’s point in these two passages was relatively simple. Though Florence was then fighting against the pope, it bore no ill-will towards the Church as a whole. Nor had it appealed to Charles IV in the hope of provoking him into a confrontation with the pope. Indeed, quite the reverse. As even the most cursory survey of its history revealed, Florence had always fought for the Church against those who had wished it harm – and was in no doubt that, while the emperor was supreme in temporal matters, his authority in no way extended to the spiritual realm. This was illustrated no more clearly than by Ludwig IV of Bavaria. He was an example not only of those against whom Florence had struggled, but also of an emperor who had transgressed the limits of his office. As in the epitaph for Niccolò Capocci, seven years earlier, Salutati painted him as an enemy of the Church; but his palette was much darker than before. Now, the Bavarian was not merely one of the impious, but the very acme of anti-ecclesiastical hatred, worthy of comparison with Frederick II, Henry IV, and Henry V – all of whom had either challenged the pope’s authority, or even held pontifs hostage. No details of Ludwig’s specific offenses against the Church were given, and no mention was made of his other misdeeds; but in the context, none were needed. He was less an historical figure – in the true sense of the term – than a pantomime villain, whose sole function was to testify eloquently to Florence’s fidelity to the Church, without compromising either its right to oppose the pontiff in temporal matters, or its view of the emperor as the ultimate source of secular authority.

“The schismatic” (1378-1402)

58From 1378 onwards, humanists in Florence – and, to a lesser extent, Padua – felt their broadly Dantean vision of empire put under growing pressure. Though they remained convinced that an emperor (or a king of the Romans) should act as the supreme authority in temporal affairs, and – when necessary – as the defender of the faith, they found themselves both more dependent on imperial aid, and more threatened by imperial realities. On the one hand, the election of Robert of Geneva (who took the name Clement VII), in opposition to Gregory XI’s successor, Urban VI, on 20 September 1378 caused a schism in the Church which alarmed all Europe – especially the Florentine humanists.91 While the balance of power in northern Italy inclined them to support the claims of Urban VI, they were nevertheless desperate for the Schism to be healed; and looked to Charles IV’s successor, Wenceslaus, to repair the rent in Christ’s seamless garment – either by forcing one (or both) of the rival pontiffs to withdraw, or by facilitating the convocation of a Church council.92 Yet on the other hand, they could not help feeling deeply wary of Wenceslaus’s involvement in Italian affairs. Following the conclusion of the War of the Eight Saints – just weeks before Clement VII’s election – tensions between Florence and Milan had once again begun to rise. Without a common enemy to unite them, they had each resumed their campaigns of territorial aggrandizement – thus provoking not only the fears of their neighbours, but also the enmity of their rival. Eyeing each other nervously, they began marshalling their allies. While Florence allied with Pope Boniface IX – who succeeded Urban VI in 1389 –, Bologna, and the lords of the Romagna, Giangaleazzo Visconti – who had deposed his uncle Bernarbò in 1385 – secured the support of Tuscan cities fearful for their freedom.93 When hostilities broke out, the new king of the Romans, Wenceslaus, stood above the fray, offering vainly to arbitrate. But by the end of the “First Visconti War”, in early 1392, his impartiality had begun to waver. He was anxious to receive an imperial coronation in Rome, and knew that, if he was ever to venture into Italy, he would need some support. Despite some initial reservations, he eventually agreed a compact with Giangaleazzo. In return for 100,000 florins and a promise to aid any expedition he might mount in future, Giangaleazzo was created duke of Milan on 11 May 1395, and subsequently received a second duchy, investing him with his other territories.94 This not only helped consolidate Giangaleazzo’s hold over the Lombard plain, but also greatly strengthened his hand against his enemies. Predictably, humanists in Florence (and Padua) were horrified. Though they continued to believe that the emperor should be regarded as the supreme authority in temporal matters, they could not help feeling that Wenceslaus had now fatally compromised his divinely-ordained obligation to arbitrate impartially in disputes. This is not, of course, to say that they ever openly expressed opposition to Wenceslaus – let alone questioned the rightfulness of his rule. They were, as yet, still too committed to the imperial ideal, and still too hopeful that he might be persuaded to change his policy to challenge his authority. But their growing scepticism of him – as a person – was reflected in a palpable shift in their rhetoric. In Padua, Pier Paolo Vergerio the Elder railed against the misuse of imperial authority in his criticisms of Julius Caesar;95 while in Florence, Salutati’s public letters resurrected the old language of party, linking Guelfism with liberty, and Ghibellinism with tyranny.96

59There were, perhaps, parallels which could have been drawn with Ludwig – and no doubt the Florentine (and Paduan) humanists were tempted to invoke his memory on occasions. But it was not until 1397 that Salutati at last found a suitable opportunity to do so. By then, the situation had changed for the worse. Alarmed by Giangaleazzo’s accord with Wenceslaus, Florence had attempted to strengthen its hand by concluding an alliance with France. This, however, unsettled Boniface IX. Though the republic had consistently supported his cause in the dispute over the schism, the pope feared that Charles VI of France would now compel it to abandon him for his rival, Benedict XIII. As such, Boniface began to wonder whether it might not be better to throw in his lot with Giangaleazzo (and Wenceslaus), after all.97 At first, the danger to Florence was slight. But after the outbreak of the Mantuan War in March 1397, the risk of an imperial-papal rapprochement became acute. Hastening to reassure Boniface IX, Salutati dashed off an impassioned letter, stressing Florence’s undying fidelity to the Church – and discreetly warning the pope of the risks he would be taking in allying with Milan and the empire.98

60In this, Ludwig played a central role.99 In outline, his image remained much as before. Salutati continued to portray him as a persecutor of the Church, and stressed Florence’s opposition to his rule as a means of illustrating its fidelity in the present. But vague generalities were no longer sufficient to meet the chancellor’s rhetorical needs. If Boniface was to understand that only Florence would uphold his claim to be the true pope, Salutati needed to make it clear that the city had stood up to Ludwig not because he was simply an impious fiend, but because he was also a schismatic – a label which had appeared only fleetingly in humanistic literature before then. “Who harried the schismatic Ludwig, with his pseudo-pope, pseudo-curia, and pseudo-cardinals?” he asked. “The Florentine people, of course. [And] who had never had the slightest hesitation about the truth of your cause? The Florentine people”. This, however, was not all. Just in case Boniface had any lingering doubts either about how dangerous Giangaleazzo and Wenceslaus would be, or how effectively Florence could defend his interests, Salutati also reminded the pope that Giangaleazzo’s ancestor, Giovanni Visconti – the archbishop of Milan and “former anticardinal in the service of Ludwig the Bavarian” – had invaded the papal city of Bologna, with imperial approval, and that Florence had subsequently “defeated him in battle”.

“Ludwig of accursed memory” (1403)

61Yet while the dream of a Dantean empire had been severely damaged, it had not been forgotten altogether. By the end of the Mantuan War in May 1398, Florence was all but isolated. Most of her former allies – Venice, Ferrara, Padua, and Mantua – had either come to terms with Giangaleazzo, or chosen the certainties of neutrality over the vagaries of continued fidelity. His hand thus having been strengthened, Giangaleazzo consolidated his position in Tuscany and Umbria, first purchasing Pisa, then bullying Siena and Perugia into submission.100 In Florence, these developments provoked alarm. War was clearly imminent; but without any friends other than Bologna upon whom the city could rely, there was little it could do.101 Boniface IX was equally concerned. Having now decided against an alliance with Giangaleazzo, he was troubled by Milanese expansion, which might easily have been a prelude to an attack on the Papal States.102 Just as the future seemed bleakest, however, a glimmer of hope came from the empire. Having long annoyed the princes with his domestic policies, and his inability to resolve the Schism, Wenceslaus was deposed on 20 August 1400; and the next day, Rupert of the Palatinate was chosen as his successor. Nothing could have delighted Boniface and the Florentines more. In his election capitulation, Rupert had sworn to reclaim the imperial prerogatives Wenceslaus had alienated in endowing Giangaleazzo with his duchies; and, when he announced his intention of travelling to Rome to receive an imperial coronation from Boniface IX, salvation seemed at last to be at hand.

62When Rupert arrived in Italy in October 1401, the Florentines confidently expected that Giangaleazzo would soon be put to flight. But no sooner had his campaign got underway than it foundered.103 An attack on Brescia was quickly repulsed; and while Rupert was retreating to Trent, he was abandoned by his leading supporters. At the insistence of his Italian allies, he blundered on for a few more months; but, by the following spring, even they had lost faith.104 Lacking both funds and soldiers, Rupert had no choice but to return to Germany. This did nothing to help the Florentines. A few weeks earlier, Sigismund of Luxembourg had informed Giangaleazzo Visconti that Wenceslaus was planning on travelling to Italy to be crowned in defiance of Rupert’s election;105 and, by the summer, an emboldened Giangaleazzo had launched a fresh campaign against the Florentines. In Florence, panic set in – and, in the face of impending disaster, the humanists’ long-standing faith in the empire finally collapsed. While Salutati tried to rally the citizenry, a young Leonardo Bruni penned an impassioned poem calling upon the people of Rome to join the Florentines in resisting Wenceslaus’s anticipated advance.106

63In the event, Giangaleazzo Visconti’s unexpected death on 5 September 1402 saved Florence from disaster. But the damage to humanist imperialism was done. Though there was still some residual affection for the empire as an institution, the automatic belief that it was a force for good in the regnum Italicum had gone. In Florence – which now wore its ancestral Guelfism with renewed pride – there was even a sense that the empire’s relationship with the Church had been tilted too far in its favour.107 While imperial authority might still be needed to heal the Schism, there was a feeling that a king of the Romans could not receive an imperial coronation without the true pope’s permission and should under no circumstances challenge – or question – the pontiff’s authority.

64This caused a marked hardening in attitudes towards Ludwig. Responding to Antonio Loschi’s Invectiva in Florentinos in 1403 – now from a position of strength – Salutati used a broader, and arguably harsher, reading of Ludwig’s reign not only to condemn Milan’s actions in the remote past, but also to draw a parallel with its misdeeds (and those of Wenceslaus) in the present day.108 Deliberately overlooking their later quarrel, Salutati began by pointing out that it had been with Matteo Visconti’s support that Ludwig had first come into Italy – just as it had been with Giangaleazzo Visconti’s encouragement that Wenceslaus had considered doing the same. He then moved on to Ludwig’s assaults on the Church. As in previous decades, Salutati again condemned him for his “schismatic” actions; but, for the first time in more than half a century, he also attacked the illegality of the Wittelsbacher’s coronation. No doubt recalling Wenceslaus’s threat to venture into Italy in defiance of the pope’s wishes, he condemned Milan for helping “Ludwig of accursed memory, commonly called ‘the Bavarian’” in his attempt “to possess the imperial crown against all right and the express will of the Church”.109 This was scathing enough; but Salutati went even further. When he thought of Ludwig’s offenses against the Church, he could not help decrying him – and, by implication, Wenceslaus – as a “criminal and monstrous creature”, as well.110

“Unholy wickedness” (c.1428-1433)

65Salutati’s depiction of Ludwig in Contra maledicum et obiurgatorem marked a watershed. For more than fifty years, Ludwig’s image had been defined by his opposition to the Church. Whether used to justify Florence’s fidelity to the Church in times of war with the papacy, or to denigrate the republic’s enemies when threatened by Milan, Ludwig’s portrayal had concentrated principally on his assault on John XXII. Yet following Giangaleazzo Visconti’s death, a new period in his reception began. When he next appeared in humanistic literature – in the fifth and sixth books of Leonardo Bruni’s Historiarum florentini populi libri XII – almost thirty years later, a broader and more searching approach to his reign was at last attempted.111 It was, to be sure, no more positive than before. But the Wittelsbacher’s conflict with John XXII was now just one facet of a narrative which embraced the totality of his Italian expedition, and which foregrounded details which had been all but forgotten by humanists for more than a century. The reasons for this were various. An important role was no doubt played by the nature of Bruni’s work. Though Bruni was, like Salutati, a career bureaucrat, who also served as chancellor of Florence, his history was necessarily more given to extended meditation than public letters or invectives.112 Longer and more detailed than anything since Mussato’s Ludovicus Bavarus, it could thus explore aspects which occasional, laconic observations simply could not accommodate. But most critical of all was its relationship with the present day. While much of the fifth and sixth books was based on a close reading of Giovanni Villani’s Cronica, it was set against a quite different experience of imperial authority; and, now that the memory of Wenceslaus’s threatened invasion had receded into memory, rested on a more modest – and sceptical – understanding of his successors’ authority.

66Though Giangaleazzo Visconti’s death had led to a brief lull in hostilities, tensions between Florence and his son, Filippo Maria, soon revived as a result of the Milanese occupation of Genoa and its expansionist policies in the Romagna.113 After some initial hesitation, the Signoria sent mercenary captains northwards to push Visconti’s men back from subject towns; and, in 1424, the threat of a Milanese attack on Pisa sparked a conflict which lasted until 1428. The following year, Florence unwisely declared war on Lucca – a struggle in which Milan was again implicated, and which continued, with little abatement, until 1433. This was to have dire consequences for Florentine political life, putting huge strain on public finances, and creating enmity between its ruling elites.

67In this, the Holy Roman Empire played a peripheral, but not insignificant role. Though sometimes faulted for his supposed “light-heartedness”,114 Sigismund of Luxembourg – who had been elected king of the Romans in 1411 – possessed none of his predecessors’ irresolution. Taking advantage of the antipope John XXIII’s difficulties, he had convened the Council of Constance on his own authority and overseen the healing of the Schism. After overseeing the convocation of a further council in Basel, against the wishes of Pope Eugenius IV, in early 1431, he then descended into Italy – encouraged by Filippo Maria Visconti – in the hope of receiving an imperial coronation, and of replenishing his empty pockets. As was traditional, he went first to Milan, where he was received with unusual coolness by Visconti; and – after a brief sojourn in Piacenza – headed south towards Lucca. Though his involvement in the dispute was ineffectual, the Florentines were alarmed. In vain they tried to stop him from crossing the Arno; and watching in silent horror as, a few months later, he entered Siena in magnificent style, and began lobbying the sceptical Eugenius IV for his crown. After much dispute, and many concessions, he was eventually crowned in Rome, and returned northwards – having done little to stem the tide of war, but much to heighten already grave tensions.115

68Out of those turbulent years emerged Bruni’s portrait of Ludwig in the Historiarum Florentini populi libri XII.116 Though it follows the course of his expedition with some care, the details on which it focusses are nevertheless carefully chosen to reflect Florence’s preoccupation with the Lucchese War, and its growing concern with Sigismund’s presence in Tuscany. The comparisons are often hard to miss. Without ever being made explicit, a close parallel is drawn between Ludwig and Sigismund, between Matteo and Filippo Maria Visconti, and, finally, between the Lucchese signori Castruccio Castracani and Paolo Guinigi – and no doubt is left as to Bruni’s assessment of them all.

69In contrast to many earlier accounts, Bruni stresses that Ludwig came to Italy at the express invitation of the “tyrants” who felt threatened by the power of John XXII and Robert of Naples.117 Among these, Galeazzo Visconti naturally plays a decisive role – just as his descendent Filippo Maria was later to do in respect of Sigismund’s expedition. But his involvement – like that of Filippo Maria – was nevertheless brief. Taking great liberties with both chronology and fact, Bruni contended that, as soon as Ludwig’s Milanese coronation was over, the Bavarian had turned abruptly on his former ally.118 In an obvious nod to Sigismund’s eagerness to fill his coffers, he suggested that Ludwig – being not only covetous and needy, but also extremely wicked – had stripped Galeazzo of his lordship and thrown him into prison. He then compelled Galeazzo’s sons Azzo and Luchino, to pay a large ransom, and imposed his own governor on Milan.

70From that point on, Castruccio Castracani moves to centre stage. This was unusual to say the least. Though Castruccio had indeed played a prominent role in Ludwig’s expedition, especially from September 1327 onwards, he had scarcely featured in humanistic treatments of the Wittelsbacher before then. Apart from a brief allusion at the beginning of Mussato’s Ludovicus Bavarus, in fact, he is almost completely neglected – partly because there was little, if any rhetorical or political need to mention him. From Bruni’s point of view, however, Castruccio – as the immediate antecedent of Florence’s enemy, Paolo Guinigi – was of paramount importance; and it is predominantly through the lens of his interests that Ludwig’s path to Rome is viewed. Indeed, at times, Ludwig is portrayed almost as a pawn, ready to do Castruccio’s bidding. When Castruccio quarrels with the Pisans, Ludwig decides in his favour; and, at the signore’s request, meekly follows him “to Lucca, then Pistoia, to observe Florence close up”.119

71When Ludwig reaches Rome, Castruccio even seems to rival the Bavarian in dignity. To him, Bruni wrote,

the greatest honours were paid […] not only by Ludwig, who granted him every distinction, but also by the Roman people. After the emperor, he enjoyed unique respect, and all decisions were referred to him alone; on him alone, it seemed, the whole business depended.120

72This was, of course, not entirely accurate. While Castruccio had been made a Roman senator, count palatine of the Lateran, and gonfaloniere of the Church, it was perhaps something of an exaggeration to suggest that he was second in importance to the emperor – or that the expedition as a whole depended upon him. But it nevertheless allowed Bruni to mock Ludwig’s weakness (and that of Sigismund), while also satirising the wildly grandiose ambitions of Lucchese signori.

73Ludwig’s coronation was treated with no less contempt than in Salutati’s Contra maledicum et obiurgatorem. After carefully – but inaccurately – suggesting that the Romans did not invite the Bavarian to receive the crown, Bruni noted that the “usual coronation ceremony was not observed, and no legate or papal authority was present”, but that Sciarra Colonna crowned Ludwig “in the name of the people”.121 That this was an act of supreme “wickedness”, Bruni was in no doubt. Implicitly rejecting the notion of Roman popular sovereignty, and evidently believing that no coronation could be valid which was not performed or sanctioned by the true pope, he dismissed the whole affair as illegitimate, and derided Ludwig as a “false emperor”,122 perhaps in the hope of indicating that, unless Sigismund secured the approval of Eugenius IV, anything he attempted in Rome would be invalid.

74Bruni’s description of Ludwig’s attacks on John XXII was, if anything, harsher than Salutati’s – or that of any humanist since Mussato. Though he dedicated no more than a short paragraph to Ludwig’s creation of an antipope, it positively dripped with bile.123 To his mind, it was an “act of unholy wickedness”, a piece of “mockery on the part of a barbarous madman”. Perhaps thinking of the challenge posed to Eugenius IV’s authority by Sigismund’s support for the Council of Basel, he ridiculed the attempt to use imperial authority to depose “the true priestly occupant of [the Roman] see” and poured scorn on the “apostates and rebels […] the dregs of a debased clergy”, who had supported Ludwig. Having already doubted the legitimacy of the Bavarian’s coronation, however, he saw little need to suggest that Ludwig had sacrificed his throne through his actions.

75The remainder of Bruni’s account is dedicated largely to Ludwig’s campaigning alongside Castruccio in Tuscany. Bending the past to mirror the present more closely, he deliberately overlooked the cooling of their relations, and stressed that their primary objective was to lay siege to Florence. For rhetorical effect, he also emphasised the horror by which the citizenry was gripped.124 Since he could not ignore Castruccio’s untimely death on 3 September 1328, however, he used it as the occasion to further mock Ludwig’s weakness. No sooner had Castruccio been buried, Bruni contended, than Ludwig’s whole expedition began to fall apart.125 Though he did not act unjustly – and actually put down “tyranny” in Lucca –126 he could not hold his forces together any longer. Unlike Petrarch, who had blamed Ludwig for the devastation which occurred in Tuscany thereafter, Bruni portrays him watching powerlessly as men defected from his army and laid waste to the countryside around.127 Desperate to placate his troops, Bruni noted, he made sweeping, but ill-judged changes to the politics of the region, restoring those whom he had deposed only months before, before returning, shamefaced, to Germany.128

Conclusion

76Glimpsing out from between the lines of Bruni’s account is a new – and more “realistic” – conception of imperial authority. Neither legalistic nor Dantean in character, this implicitly recognised that kings and emperors should, ideally, act as a source of peace in the fractured regnum Italicum, either by reconciling allies, or by acting as impartial arbitrators in disputes. While it did not expect or even want them to take up permanent residence in the peninsula, it took for granted that they should live off their own resources, rather than tax already hard-pressed cities with heavy demands. That they owed some ill-defined obligation to the Church appears to have been accepted; but under no circumstances should they ever challenge the pope’s authority in spiritual matters – either by provoking “schism”, or by convening councils in opposition to the current pontiff’s wishes. Their authority, perhaps, did not derive from the papacy; but they nevertheless exercised it only with the pope’s consent. However legitimate their election by the princes, they could never be crowned in Rome except with papal approval – and they could not expect that permission to be granted automatically as their right. As for Roman popular sovereignty, that was little more than an absurd fantasy.

77Though Bruni’s willingness to tailor his portrayal of Ludwig to Florence’s war with Lucca, and Sigismund’s descent into Italy was to prove evanescent, this underlying conception of imperial authority was to have a lasting impact on humanistic perceptions of the Bavarian. In the decades which followed, there were, of course, some variations in matters of detail. Depending on the humanists’ immediate preoccupations, particular episodes in Ludwig’s reign could be given more or less emphasis, while the genre in which they were writing could affect both the severity of their criticism, and the exhaustiveness of their description. But until the Sack of Rome, almost a century later, the essential outlines of this conception of imperial authority – and Ludwig’s image – remained broadly stable. We have already had cause to note Flavio Biondo’s Decades; but it is also worth pointing out that a similar depiction of the Bavarian is found in Giannozzo Manetti’s Historia Pistoriensis and, perhaps most notably, in Niccolò Machiavelli’s Istorie fiorentine (1.26, 28, 30, 31; 2.30, 31).129

78As this paper has attempted to demonstrate, Ludwig had taken on many roles before reaching that point. He had been a feudal guarantor of communal liberties, a purveyor of heresies, a bloody enemy of Roman glory, a mere duke, a flawed, but legitimate emperor, an impious enemy of the Church, a persecutor of the papacy, a schismatic, a criminal and monstrous creature, and a weak-willed pawn of tyrants. More so than almost any other king or emperor, he had been condemned to be a plaything of memory. But perhaps, from beyond the grave, he could still take some comfort in having become that which he had never been in life: the measure of empire.