The March Massacre at Heavens Gate
It is the morning of Sunday, May 5, 1527, and the streets of Rome are buzzing with excitement. The churches, usually packed to the rafters, are empty. All the worshippers are pressed up against the city walls, jostling for a better view. On the horizon, a curious source of light reflects the sun’s rays back into their eyes. As they chat and speculate about what it could be, the mass slowly moves towards them. Like a huge snake, the light weaves through the valleys and streams before the object finally comes into view. The onlookers’ excitement turns to alarm. The light is the reflection of steel breastplates, tens of thousands of them. An army is marching towards Rome.
The sight of a foreign army marching towards the Eternal City is worrying. But within a few minutes, many of the townsfolk have drifted back from the walls to continue on with their business. The church bells ring and street performers return. The spectacle is over.
To these citizens, the idea that a foreign army would actually attack their city, Rome, is unthinkable, almost laughable. When someone marches on Rome, they do it to prove a point, to demonstrate their power, or to show a dislike of a pope. After a show of power, the army would camp outside the city walls, the commander would enter the city and negotiate. When all was said and done, there would be a little parade and the army would head home. And apart from a few broken vineyards, the city would be no worse for wear. That’s how it always went.
But if those craning their heads over the city walls looked a little closer, they would have seen the gaunt cheeks, the sunken eyes, and the pocked faces of the men approaching the city. The shambling, stinking mass of men trudging towards them hadn’t had a morsel of food in days. They hadn’t been paid in months, and the hatred of the Catholic Church went back years. Inspired by the writings of a renegade priest called Martin Luther, they saw the city and especially the pope as everything wrong with the world, a corrupt perversion of their faith.
The man tasked with leading this mob had long ago lost control. The Duke of Bourbon, faced with a full-blown mutiny, had been forced to lead them to Rome. He was as much a prisoner as he was a general. Once as powerful as the King of France, he was now just another desperate, starving mercenary.
And as the familiar din of street hawkers filled the streets of Rome once more, few knew the other-worldly horrors that were about to befall the ancient city.
The following day, the army of the Holy Roman Emperor, led by the Duke of Bourbon, stormed the city walls of Rome. The defenders were outnumbered and outgunned, and the city fell within hours. The soldiers of the Holy Roman Emperor, many of them unpaid and hungry, unleashed a wave of violence and destruction on the city. They looted churches and palaces, murdered civilians, and raped women. The sack of Rome lasted for several weeks, and by the time it was over, the city was in ruins.
The sack of Rome was a turning point in the history of the Catholic Church. It showed that the Church was not invincible, and it led to a decline in its authority. The sack also had a profound impact on the city of Rome. It took centuries for the city to recover from the damage that was done, and the memory of the sack still haunts the city today.
This will probably be a two part series. The first blog will follow the life of Charles the third the Duke of bourbon. Charles is perhaps the most mournful and morose character we’ve ever covered, he is a bit like a Disney prince, who was dashing, brave, very handsome and suave. But instead of making the princesses squander, instead of bowing before the king, he spat in his face, and instead of saving the kingdom, he burnt it to the ground. A man whose overwhelming insecurities would force him down a path he had never intended to go. A guy who at one point in his life would rival the King of France in power, money and grander he would not recognize himself starving alongside an army of German mercenaries on a death march to sack the holiest city in Europe. So thats part one. Part Two will cover the life of Pope Clement the seventh, the man in charge of defending the city that the Duke was barreling toward. Since I began UnRepentant History , I have never come across a man as indecisive and unsure of himself as Clement the seventh, hour by hour, minute by minute, this man, the Vicar of Christ would flip flop between allegiances, trying desperately to pick the winning side. And as things devolved, Clement, who prided himself on living by his high minded principles, would find himself shedding morals one after the other after the other. These men have not heroic characters. No one aspires to imitate them, or has studied what made them so special. But both of them are very human. Both of them were people who found themselves at Crossroads forced to pick between two equally bad options, people who you can very much see elements of yourself in. And a few times I found myself thinking, bro, what would I have done here? That’s why I enjoyed the story, and that’s why I hope you will too. So let’s start the march massacre at Heaven’s Gate, part one, the Duke of bourbon.
If he were my man, I would have his head from his shoulders,” King Henry VIII of England laughed to King Francis I of France. Francis forced a smile through pursed lips as he took another sip of wine.
The two kings had gathered in northern France to throw one of the fanciest parties Europe had ever seen to celebrate their eternal friendship. As they feasted on the finest food, barges danced between them, singing dirty limericks as they plucked lutes. Doves flew from pies, and maidens flooded the eyes of handsome young bachelors. But Francis’s eyes didn’t move from the man Henry had pointed to: Charles III, Duke of Bourbon.
Francis was rarely outdone, whether in extravagance, sophistication, or wealth. He was the God-appointed ruler of France, and he was used to having things his own way. But as a handsome young knight vaulted his stallion over another obstacle, and the crowd cheered, Francis must have wished things were as simple as the English king suggested.
In the 16th century, France was in the final stages of its consolidation into a single nation. Two centuries earlier, it had been a collection of squabbling states, united only by language. The king had nominal power, but in reality he was little more than a figurehead. However, over the centuries, through a series of wars and marriages, the small duchies and kingdoms of France had been gradually woven together into a single, unified state.
The only real obstacle to the king’s plans was the ancient House of Bourbon. The Bourbons were old, wealthy, and powerful, and their patriarch, Charles III, was a formidable opponent. As he dismounted his horse and bowed before the king, Charles knew as well as François did that this false loyalty could not last.
Charles III was born in 1490 in Milan, central France. He was an introspective and insensitive child. When his older brother died, he became the heir to the Bourbon household. By his late teens, he had developed into a handsome young man with a long Roman nose, jet black hair, and high cheekbones. He was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors.
A diplomatic marriage was soon arranged, and Charles married his second cousin, Suzanne. Charles definitely lucked out with this marriage. Suzanne was from a more powerful branch of the Bourbon family. In addition to being much richer, Charles was now next in line for the throne of France.
None of this, of course, escaped the notice of King François. From birth, François had been given absolute power. Even as a child, his mother had fawned over him excessively, cooing, “My king, my lord, my Caesar, my son.” The child internalized this. Roughly the same age as Charles, François was almost a caricature of a French king. In most of his portraits, he is literally pouting, with tiny almond-shaped eyes, a high hairline, and a wispy beard.
François was a well-educated man who loved the arts. However, his true passion was chivalry, falconry, hunting, jousting, and horseback riding. He dreamed of charging into battle on a snow-white stallion, surrounded by his loyal soldiers who would die for him.
The idealistic King François had seen little real combat. Instead, it was the Duke of Bourbon who led his armies. The Duke performed well in any leadership position, which only made François more jealous. He wanted his armies to win, but he was also jealous of the Duke’s fame. He was sick of hearing his court swoon over the Duke and his silver robe.
François started to scheme against the Duke. He did small things to irritate him, knowing that it would make the Duke look bad. It was childish and dangerous, but François couldn’t help himself. He wanted to remind the Duke who was king and who was subject.
When the Duke of Bourbon returned home from another successful campaign in Italy, he was snubbed by King François. The Duke was insulted to learn that the land he had just conquered had already been given away to François’s mistress, his brother. He had assumed that the land would be granted to him to govern in the name of the king.
The Duke had also spent a lot of his own money on the campaign, feeding, paying, and supplying an army with expensive provisions. The king had reassured him that he would be reimbursed, but as the months dragged on, it became clear that François wanted the Duke to come to him cap in hand, begging for money. But the Duke was too proud to do that.
François continued to taunt the Duke. He invited the Duke to take a personal tour of the castle he had built for a friend using the money he owed the Duke. As the two men walked the sprawling halls of the palace, the French king poured salt in the wound again, asking the Duke mockingly, “So, what do you think of my new castle?” The Duke refused to rise to the bait. He simply replied, “The cage is too spacious and too beautiful for the bird.” This was a reference to the low status of the man François had given the castle to.François shot back, “You’re jealous.” The Duke responded, “Jealous? How can you imagine that I would be jealous of a gentleman whose ancestors were only too happy to be squatters on my land?” The two men continued to trade barbs, each one trying to get the other to lose his temper. François was playing a dangerous game. He was pushing the Duke to the edge of a cliff, and it was he himself who would suffer the most if the Duke chose to jump…
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