Mistress of the Vatican (37 page)

Having placated France by giving Michel Mazarin the red hat, the pope still had the prickly problem of Portugal to resolve. France, now the pope’s best friend, pushed him to recognize Portugal as a sovereign nation. Spain, on the other hand, insisted that he proclaim Portugal a rebel state, excommunicate the whole country, and have nothing to do with its government until it rejoined Spain. And Portugal, which had been hovering uneasily since 1640 as a kind of disembodied ghost nation, threatened to keep for itself the significant sum in church taxes sent annually to Rome if the pope did not recognize its sovereignty.

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King John IV found himself in a bit of a bind. Technically, he could not send an ambassador to Rome to negotiate the pope’s recognition of Portugal until the pope had recognized Portugal. But if he sent a bishop with the ostensible purpose of discussing church business, the pope had to receive him. Unfortunately, when the Portuguese bishop arrived in Rome in 1647 for his official audience, he kissed the pope’s foot and blurted out that he was actually there on behalf of “the king, my se-ñor.”
¹⁴
The Spanish ambassador howled in protest and threatened to gallop back to Madrid in a fury. The pope had to cut short the discussions since it was clear the bishop had been sent not as a bishop but as an ambassador.

The Portuguese, having seen the French success in winning over Olimpia, had not come to Rome empty-handed. Portuguese agents called on Olimpia and presented her with a portrait of the pope in all his pontifical majesty, with King John IV at his feet in abject veneration. More important, the portrait was set in a massive frame studded with huge pearls and sparkling diamonds. And suddenly Olimpia, who hadn’t received a dime from the Spanish, was convinced of Portugal’s right to self-determination.

But for once Innocent refused to take her advice. He stubbornly protested that recognizing Portugal would create uproar in Spain. Shaking his head, he waved his sister-in-law away. Such strange behavior put Olimpia in an uncomfortable situation. The Portuguese ambassador was furious and told everyone that he had bribed Olimpia without getting a thing in return. Even worse, Olimpia must have been mystified about why the pope had refused to take her advice.

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For years Spain had been squeezing the kingdom of Naples dry through increasing taxation. There were taxes on meat, bread, salt, wine, candles, and firewood—the very necessities of life for rich and poor alike. The tax on flour cost nearly as much as the flour itself. On July 7, 1647, the Spanish viceroy, the duke of Arcos, imposed high fees on the sale of fruit and vegetables—the only untaxed foodstuffs and the staples of the poor.

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Tommaso Aniello—called Masaniello—was an illiterate Neapolitan fish seller who had had enough. He called out to the poor of Naples to rebel against the heavy-handed overlords. Suddenly the city was alive with revolution. Rebels set fire to the customs office, plundered the royal palace, and broke into the jails, freeing the prisoners. Soon Masaniello himself became a victim of the mob. On July 16 some of them grabbed him and cut off his head.

The mob proclaimed a republic. Never again, they vowed, would they be ruled by Spain. Some of them wanted the pope, as feudal lord of the realm, to march south with his armies and claim the territory that was his by right. But Innocent knew that if he merged the kingdom of Naples into the Papal States, he would be at war with Spain, which owned most of northern Italy, was closely allied to Tuscany in central Italy, and still had plenty of forts in the south bristling with soldiers. The pope had a few ships but hardly a fleet. Though the Papal States had Swiss Guards to protect the pope, and Corsican Guards to keep order in Rome, it had only a token standing army of about three thousand men in garrisons outside Rome, always relying on the firepower of Spain to protect it.

When the people of Naples did not get an immediate response from the pope, they offered the kingdom to France. Mazarin didn’t hesitate for an instant. He established relations with the rebels and sent them money, weapons, and food. He equipped a fleet to bombard the Span-ish coastal fortresses. But in October 1647 a Spanish fleet appeared before the coast of Naples, commanded by the courageous Don John of Austria, bastard son of King Philip IV. Don John’s ships bombarded the city with cannon fire, bombing rebels and loyal citizens alike, and several times hit the papal nuncio’s palace.

Watching the ancient enemies have at it, the pope heaved a sigh and decided to remain neutral, calling himself “the common father of the sons of discord.”
¹⁵
Without saying so, he hoped that Spain, that loyal mainstay of papal power, would win the war. He hated the idea of the narcissistic French—ruled by none other than the detestably oily Mazarin—taking such a huge chunk of Italy bordering on the Papal States.

Throughout the rebellion Olimpia, as usual, didn’t support one

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power against the other. Though doing so would have won her some friends, it also would have created inveterate enemies, and Olimpia was always thinking ahead to her life post-Innocent. Ever the efficient businesswoman, she realized that there was a killing to be made in cornering the Roman grain market. The winter floods of 1646 had resulted in less grain than usual, but she bought up what she could and sold it at high prices to Spanish garrisons.

Many Romans, either to profit financially as Olimpia did, or to support their French or Spanish friends fighting in the south, sent grain from their estates outside Rome down to Naples. Suddenly, there was very little grain left in Rome. The weight of the
pagnotta
, the little loaf of bread the poor bought for one
bajocco
, decreased from its usual eight ounces to six, and then to four. With little or no grain to be had, bakers made foul-smelling bread of beans, peas, stalks, and wood chips.

Hopes for a good harvest were dashed in December when a flood of biblical proportions rolled into Rome. Giacinto Gigli observed, “It began to rain copiously without stopping so that on the 6th the Tiber left its bed and flooded all the low parts of Rome. . . . In the Tor di Nona Prison four prisoners were drowned, and many people drowned in their own houses for not being able to flee in time, while others drowned while trying to save their possessions, and many canoed up and down the streets distributing bread to those who couldn’t get out. . . . There drowned carriages full of people, pulled by six horses, and men on horseback, and others escaped as if by a miracle, like a woman who was pulled from the water alive, being grabbed by her dress with a hook while the torrent was carrying her off. . . . Masses were held continuously to restore tranquility to the weather.”
¹⁶

Eager for a scapegoat, the Romans blamed Olimpia for their hunger. Knowing of her grain speculation with the Spanish, they ignored war, revolution, floods, and the hundreds of other nobles who had shipped grain south, and blamed her and her alone. Whenever the huge double doors of her palazzo swung open, mobs descended on her carriage crying, “Bread! Bread!” To disperse them, Olimpia was forced to throw coins to the crowd, who scrambled for them, thereby allowing her carriage to pass.

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Even more troubling to Olimpia was the sudden illness of the pope. He suffered intense pain from a kidney stone—the same ailment that had killed his brother—and for twenty-four hours was unable to urinate. Olimpia was worried that if he died, the mob would break into her palazzo and tear her limb from limb. Teodoro Amayden wrote, “These past few days due to the indisposition of the pope and the lack of bread, the house of Signora Donna Olimpia has been guarded by sentinels and a company of Corsicans.”
¹⁷
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Teodoro Amayden’s November 30, 1647,
avvisi
reported that the princess of Rossano wrote to Sister Agatha that she was pregnant, and her mountain palace of Caprarola was extremely cold. She complained that she was being punished for having committed no crime. Sister Agatha went immediately to see the pope about the matter, but the exile was not lifted.

In December Camillo came secretly to Rome and met with his uncle while his wife stayed quietly with Sister Agatha in the convent. Camillo complained that he had left in the Piazza Navona house numerous valuable pieces of furniture—items he had either received as gifts or bought himself during his tenure as cardinal nephew. Yet when he had asked his mother to send them to him, she had refused and was keeping them for herself. Camillo’s complaint was an interesting echo of the pope’s own protest thirty-five years earlier when Olimpia first moved into the Pamphili house and claimed
his
expensive furniture.

Innocent summoned Olimpia to the Vatican and ordered her to give Camillo the items he wanted so that the Vicar of Christ didn’t have to be bothered with such nonsense. According to Giacinto Gigli, “Donna Olimpia replied that she did not want to, and the pope said to her that she should not appear before him anymore, and she returned home sick and it was said she was very bad off.”
¹⁸
Having taken possession of his furniture, Camillo trundled back to exile with his wife. Olimpia must have been doubly dissatisfied. She had lost the furniture, and once again the pope had refused to do as she said.

On December 14 a courier raced into Rome with news from Paris.

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That night Gigli noted in his diary, “Don Taddeo Barberini has died, 44 years old, his death no doubt due to the sufferings he felt in the persecution of his house.”
¹⁹
Two days later an
avvisi
recounted that Olimpia received the not-so-grieving widow, Anna Colonna, “with particular demonstrations of affection.” At this meeting Olimpia expressed her great displeasure that her son had not married Anna’s daughter Lucre-zia and had unwisely chosen that other one. “To which Anna Colonna replied in general terms,” the report continued.
²⁰

Certainly it could not have been pleasing to the princess to think of her daughter’s alliance with an upstart family such as the Pamphilis. She was most likely delighted that the match had fallen through. Her blue blood must have pulsed with irritation at the necessity of getting into her carriage and visiting the vulgar Olimpia that day. But if she were to bring back her family from Paris, obtain the restitution of their property, and take her silver forks out of hiding, visit the vulgar Olim-pia she must.

Anna Colonna’s titanic sacrifice was successful. Olimpia negotiated the return of the Barberini family to Rome. All charges against them were dropped, and much of their property would be restored, along with honors, incomes, and titles. On February 27, 1648, Cardinal Fran-cesco returned to Rome after two years of exile in France. His brother Antonio had not accepted the pope’s offer of clemency and restitution. Mistrustful of Innocent and Olimpia, Antonio remained in Paris along with the children of Taddeo and Anna Colonna.

Despite Antonio’s recalcitrance, Olimpia was pleased. Now if the pope were to die from a stubborn kidney stone, she would be protected by the grateful Barberinis.

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15

Birth, Famine, and Bitter Peace

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Like all the best families, we have our share of eccentricities, of impetuous and wayward youngsters and of family disagreements.

—Queen Elizabeth II n March 1648 the six-months pregnant princess of Rossano, ignoring the decree of exile, once more clattered into Rome with her husband. This time she was here to stay, and a convent wouldn’t do.

She moved into the magnificent Palazzo Farnese. Built in the mid– sixteenth century by the family of Pope Paul III, with some decorations designed by none other than Michelangelo, the imposing palace belonged to her cousin the duke of Parma. It was a wise choice of residence; should the pope’s guards try to throw her out, she could claim diplomatic immunity.

The princess had a very specific reason for flouting Innocent’s mandate to remain in the countryside. Teodoro Amayden wrote, “The princess is said to have come to Rome so that there is no opposition made to the truth of the birth.”
¹
Giving birth in exile was dangerous. The princess knew that her mother-in-law could cast doubt upon the child’s

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parentage. Olimpia might say that it was the illegitimate child of a farm laborer and maidservant that the disgraced couple was trying to pawn off on the Pamphili family to elicit sympathy.

The princess of Rossano also knew that even giving birth in Rome in the presence of a midwife or doctor was not enough. Olimpia could still claim the baby was not hers but had been smuggled into the room in a warming pan or laundry basket, and the doctor and midwife had been bribed to lie. To prevent a rumor that would haunt her child forever, the princess arranged a public birth as if she were a queen. Putting aside any shred of modesty—and we can assume she didn’t have many such shreds—she invited numerous noble ladies of Rome and several ambassadors to witness it when the time came. No one could accuse this throng of accepting bribes.