Chapter 66: Un Futuro di Libertà, 1696-1700
At the close of the seventeenth century, Italy found herself standing at a historic crossroads. The 1600s had begun with Florence as the capital of a grand duchy, a power on the Italian peninsula yet modest on the world stage. By the end of the century, however, that same city presided over a vast empire, her influence stretching across continents and oceans, her ambitions realized on the grandest scale. The coming of the 1700s brought with it both promise and uncertainty: would Italy become a beacon leading the world into a new age of enlightenment, or remain a bastion of tradition? Would she cling to the lash or embrace freedom?
On 8 April 1696, in the shimmering waters of the Arabian Sea, the perils of Italy’s foray into global affairs once again came to life. A flotilla of pirates attacked a squadron of Italian ships returning to India after having put down revolts around the rim of the Red Sea. The attackers were there for plunder, but they had a vindictive edge, and they knew well who they were attacking men with the blood of Muslims on their hands. The Italian general Agostino Orsini, who had waged numerous successful campaigns in South Asia and East Africa, was leading them back east after completing their pacification campaigns. Orsini had recently put down the Zeila revolt, which broke out in the summer of 1695. Led by a merchant named Husayn Abdelrashid, the movement for independence had the support of numerous of the region’s richest and most powerful families. By September, however, Orsini had won decisive victories against the main rebel force and then offered pardons in exchange for pledges of fealty, gold, and hostages from the main clans who had supported the rising.
The pirates’ initial thrust, with three galleys against the rearmost ships, was only a feint, designed to space out the defenders. Gloria, Orsini’s flagship, moved in to engage the foes. The Roman, undaunted, fought to the last; by all reports slaying his enemies left and right upon the deck of his ship, until a fire set off the powder magazine, blowing everyone aboard, defender and attacker alike, high into the sky. The Italian flotilla eventually beat back the enemy, but not before sustaining heavy losses.
By his supporters back in Italy, the swashbuckling Roman commander had already won his honorific: il Conquistatore dell'Oriente (the Conqueror of the Orient). For them, Orsini represented a bygone age of daring adventurers conquering new lands for the crown; a mix of territorial and economic empire-making. However, there were just as many, particularly among the senior ranks at the Società who viewed him as a troublesome anachronism. The pirate attack, which made spectacular headlines in Italy, laid bare the pitfalls that awaited even one as illustrious as Agostino Orsini. His death also exposed the murkiness of the law when it was stretched over such distance. Upon his death, Orsini’s self-declared personal fiefdom, which he called the Principato di Ceilao (Principality of Ceilao), was immediately taken over by the Società and renamed il Governatorato di Kandy. Vilfredo Arrigo, a steady-handed career company man, was appointed as the new governor. However, back in Italy, Orsini’s family claimed that the principality, and its associated title of Prince of Ceilao, should pass to them, going so far as to beseech the Pope for intervention. The two sides would remain locked in legal battles for decades thereafter.
The Società delle Indie wasted no time in trying to establish a firm grip over the island and the southern tip of India. Kandy was reorganized into several provinces, each managed by a governor appointed by the Società. These provinces were strategically important and included key coastal areas to facilitate trade and military defense. The central administration, headquartered in the capital of Colombo, was designed to streamline decision-making and ensure efficient management of resources and territories. The establishment of the Governatorato di Kandy marked a significant expansion of the corporation’s colonial ambitions. It represented a new take on conquistador-style empire building. Instead of dashing, brutal adventurers, the new rulers would be efficient, ruthless company men.
Indian lands ruled by the Società delle Indie, 1696
Arrigo, known for his steady hand and administrative acumen, took charge of the transition. He implemented a centralized system modeled after the Compagnia della Guinea’s governance structure in the Niger Delta. This system included a Council of Administration, comprising senior company officials and local Italian elites, who oversaw laws, trade, and taxes. The Council’s primary goal was to maximize profitability while maintaining order and stability in the newly acquired territories. For the native population, on the other hand, the treatment and control were oppressive and harsh, with forced labor and the privileging of a small coterie of local elites at the expense of the wider populace.
To secure their rule, the Società deployed an increasingly muscular military presence. Fortifications were constructed in key coastal towns, and a network of smaller outposts were established inland. These military installations were crucial in maintaining order, protecting against local insurrections, and defending against rival European powers. The Società also established a private navy to patrol the waters around Kandy and the Malabar Coast, ensuring the safety of their trade routes from pirate attacks. Economic exploitation was at the heart of the Società’s activities. Kandy’s famed cinnamon plantations were expanded, and new agricultural ventures, including coffee and tea, were introduced. The Società established trade monopolies, exerting strict control over the export of spices, gems, and other valuable commodities. This ensured that the profits flowed back to Italy, enriching the Società and its shareholders. Legal and social reforms were implemented to solidify the Società’s rule. Company-approved laws replaced local legal systems, and courts were established to enforce these new regulations. Orsini had paid little attention to anything resembling administrative rule, and major efforts were needed to integrate the local population into the colonial economy. The Compagnia also attempted, with mixed results, to co-opt indigenous elites into the administration through a combination of incentives and coercion. These reforms aimed to create a stable and compliant local populace that would support the Società’s economic ambitions.
The European Quarter of Kochin
As Italy’s reach extended globally, and she wielded her influence wherever she could, her actions would generate a growing number of vexing questions. Nowhere were the paradoxes of Italy’s self-styled enlightened empire as stark as on the issue of slavery. For a number of reasons, the contradictions inherent in such a system began to rise to the forefront. Italy’s progressive strides at home clashed with burgeoning imperial power as well as the ongoing practice of slavery within her colonies, a contradiction that became increasingly difficult to justify. The Kingdom of Italy boasted a constitution and a parliament, with emerging democratic institutions that offered the Italian people a greater voice. This government structure, though still heavily monarchical, lent legitimacy to her claims of bringing order and civilization to her overseas territories. The crown’s commitment to domestic welfare, particularly in providing relief for the poor, demonstrated a substantive effort to ease the burdens on Italy’s lower classes. While the crown’s motivations may have been pragmatic, as a way to quell social unrest, their beneficial effects were undeniable, offering a model of justice and care that contrasted with the harsh, exploitative systems Italy upheld elsewhere in her empire. It begged the question of which subjects were deserving of the crown’s protection, and which were not? Who was granted the full rights of citizenship and who was to be left out?
Adding to this tension was the influence of the Catholic Church, which held considerable sway over Italy’s social and moral life. The Church maintained a nominal opposition to slavery, aligning itself with ideals of mercy and equality. Yet, in practice, it largely turned a blind eye to the injustices unfolding in the Italian Caribbean and African colonies, allowing planters and merchants to operate with impunity. Indeed, it was lost on nobody that Portugal and Italy, the two most prolific traffickers of people to enslavement in the Americas, were both Catholic. This disconnect between the Church’s stated values and its tolerance of colonial slavery raised difficult questions, especially as abolitionist sentiments began to grow at home, fueled by tales of liberation abroad.
Italy’s alliance with the newly independent Kingdom of Colombia, the cornerstone of Medicean strategy in the New World, further complicated matters. In its struggle for freedom, Colombia had not only dismantled its colonial status but had also abolished slavery and the entrenched racial caste system that had defined its society. This sweeping socio-economic revolution ushered in a new era of freedom, led by Carlos I, the son-in-law of Italy’s own King Francesco II through his marriage to Princess Maria Angelica de’ Medici. Italy had fully supported Colombia’s independence struggle, intervening decisively against Spain and cementing a bond between the two nations that many Italians took pride in. Yet, Italy’s support for Colombian emancipation cast an increasingly stark light on the contradictions within her own empire, where similar freedoms remained out of reach.
The Italian officers who had helped train and advise the patriot armies in Colombia carried home inspiring stories of the bravery of black and mixed-race soldiers and of the joyous celebrations of the freedmen after Carlos I announced the abolition of slavery. Many such stories (often with healthy doses of hyperbole) were turned into swashbuckling novellas that were widely read such as The Ballad of Manuelote, a stirring tale about the eponymous former slave who becomes a key figure in Colombia’s fight for independence. The story follows his journey from his escape through daring raids against royalist forces and concludes with his heroic sacrifice at the Battle of Boyacá. Stories like this highlighted themes of freedom and justice, profoundly influencing Italian readers and bolstering the abolitionist cause. In the face of such stories, the continued existence of slavery under the authority of the Italian crown suddenly began to appear obscene in the popular imagination. The planters had shown themselves to be traitors with their 1691 revolt on Santa Lucia, while freed slaves were helping demolish the empire of one of Italy’s fiercest rivals. Stories such as these made it impossible for the king to ignore the brutality his empire had unleashed across the world.
The peaceful and largely orderly transition away from slavery in post-independence Colombia, showed a successful path toward emancipation
Italy’s annexation of the Kingdom of Ibani in 1645 established a permanent presence on the African continent. The Portuguese had initiated European involvement in West Africa’s slave trade in 1540, bringing profound economic and political upheaval. Traditional trade networks, based on currencies such as cowries in the Sahel, iron and cloth in Senegambia, copper on the Gold Coast, and nzimbu shells in Kongo, were upended. Though trade had always introduced external influences, the trans-Atlantic slave trade proved the most catastrophic disruption yet.
Initially, Europeans exchanged in these traditional currencies. However, as the supply of money increased without a corresponding rise in goods, inflation set in. The price of locally produced goods soared, making them uncompetitive against cheap European imports. This economic squeeze forced local powerbrokers to capture and sell increasing numbers of captives to sustain their own survival. The Europeans demanded only human cargo, suffocating other sectors of the economy and forcing local leaders into repressive measures—not only against enslaved people but also those responsible for food production and trade.
Compounding this turmoil, the latter half of the seventeenth century brought successive crises across the Sahel and West Africa. Cycles of drought, war, and displacement destabilized entire regions, from Egypt to the Sultanate of Air. Nomadic warlords and raiders exploited these conditions, while European slavers lay in wait on the coast. Many found themselves caught between these forces—some reduced to vassalage, paying heavy tributes, while thousands more were captured, force-marched to coastal ports, and shipped to the Americas in chains.
West Africa in 1696
While slavery had long existed in West Africa, European intervention twisted and expanded it into a monstrous industry, entrenching it at the core of political and economic structures. The European model—industrialized, dehumanizing, and focused solely on profit—fueled unprecedented devastation. Italian, French, and Portuguese traders controlling the so-called “Slave Coast” grew fabulously wealthy, while those caught in the trade suffered lives of torment. The influx of European firearms into the region further fueled war, as Sahel warlords returned north from the coast better armed than before, intensifying conflicts and capturing even more prisoners for sale.
However, the economic tide against slavery was turning just as the plight of those held captive began to make its way into the popular imagination back in Italy. As the kingdom integrated the economies of its diverse colonies, the influx of goods from newly acquired territories in India, such as spices (like pepper and cardamom), fine textiles (silk and cotton fabrics), and precious stones, began to reshape the colonial economic landscape. These goods, highly prized in European markets, could command premium prices, unlike the traditional cash crops (sugar, tobacco, cotton) from the Americas, which face stiff competition and price volatility. The New World, once viewed with such promise, suddenly began to look like a drag on the state and the economy. Italy’s strategic position in the Mediterranean, particularly the conquest of Egypt and Sinai, had enhanced her role as a key trade nexus between East and West, reducing the relative economic importance of transatlantic slave-dependent plantations. Italian merchants were beginning to prioritize trade routes that connected directly to the lucrative markets of Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa, where Eastern goods fetched higher profits. Thus, the trade with the east was not only generating profits for Società delle Indie and its shareholders. The wealth trickled down to an army of middlemen, resellers, retailers, smugglers, etc, etc. who took the goods brought into Italy and the flipped them to other countries. This economic recalibration was making slavery less central to Italy's colonial economic strategy, making its potential abolition a financially less painful decision. Numerous European powers had American colonies producing similar goods, but only the Società and the Dutch VOC had successfully penetrated Asia.
These internal conflicts coincided with increasing pirate activity in the Caribbean and the Atlantic, which put immense pressure on the Compagnia della Guinea to protect its shipping from west Africa to the islands. The independence of the Kingdom of Colombia, with a large population of recently emancipated citizens, only added to the troublesome situation for those trafficking people across the ocean. The company's inability to effectively manage these crises exacerbated its financial and operational woes. The weakening of the Compagnia reduced the influence of the pro-slavery advocates within the Kingdom of Italy’s government. Combined with the emerging economic benefits of alternative labor models in the East and technological advancements in agriculture, the case for abolition gained substantial traction. A series of diplomatic incidents would soon further push the corporation toward ruin.
However, as Italy was preparing to refocus on her own internal issues, a new international crisis grabbed her attention. On Saturday 8 August 1696, word reached Florence that the Archduchy of Austria had declared war upon the Ottoman Empire as well as “her myriad Islamic allies.” For years, Archduke Franz I, brother to Queen Maria Maddalena, had heeded his sister’s calls to maintain a cordial posture toward the Sultan, following Florence’s policy of détente toward Istanbul. However, when Franz died suddenly and unexpectedly (and childless) from a fever at the age of 31, his brother and successor assumed a more bellicose posture. Archduke Georg I wanted to expand into the Balkans, envisioning a larger cushion protecting his capital from Ottoman armies. Unlike his brother, the new ruler was more aggressive, had little patience for diplomacy, and saw his ascension as an opportunity to assert Austrian dominance in the Balkans. Increasing tension along the military frontier between the Habsburg and Ottoman lands pushed both sides toward war. For years, the uneasy peace brokered after the Great Crusade (1671-75) had been marred by sporadic skirmishes and confrontations. The military frontier, a volatile boundary marked by fortresses, garrisons, and small but persistent raids, became a breeding ground for conflict.
The Ottomans, under Sultan Mustafa II, were also eager to reaffirm their control over the Balkans. The Sultan viewed the Austrian military build-up and fortifications as a direct threat to Ottoman sovereignty. Additionally, Ottoman provincial governors along the frontier were pushing for a more aggressive stance against the encroaching Habsburg forces. These local leaders often acted independently, raiding Austrian territories and fueling the cycle of retaliation. Diplomatic efforts to avert war did not have time to develop. The Austrian court, influenced by military advisors and expansionist nobles, was gearing up for conflict. The Ottomans, correctly interpreting Austrian actions as provocations, began mobilizing their own forces. Reports of increased troop movements and fortification repairs on both sides were common. The final spark came in the form of a border incident: a significant raid by Austrian forces into Ottoman-held territory, resulting in substantial casualties and destruction. This raid was perceived as an intolerable affront by the sultan, who demanded a swift and decisive response.
On 8 August 1696, the declaration of war was announced. Archduke Georg I, in a speech to the Austrian nobility and military commanders, framed the war as a necessary step to protect Christendom and expand Austrian influence. He called upon his allies to support the cause, invoking memories of the Great Crusade and the shared struggle against the Ottoman Empire. Italy, with its historical and dynastic ties to Austria and a vested interest in curbing Ottoman power, faced a crucial decision. The memory of the Great Crusade and the recent conflicts in the eastern Mediterranean were fresh in the minds of Italian leaders. The stage was set for another significant chapter in the ongoing struggle between Christian Europe and the Ottoman Empire, drawing Italy once more into the fray. In the quarter century since the start of the Crusade, Italy’s armies had remained consistently engaged in the Middle East, and now faced the prospect of another massive struggle.
The first contacts between Italy and the Ottomans occurred at sea. The Italians immediately began seizing Turkish ships in the central Mediterranean. Unlike in the Great Crusade, when Ottoman naval forces rarely ventured out to take on their Christian adversaries, this time around, Istanbul meant to contest the seas. They began well. Following the initial seizures by the Italians, the Turks retaliated with a pair of highly effective actions. The first, occurring in September, took place in the Gulf of Satalia, where Ottoman ships intercepted a convoy of vessels returning to Italy from Cyprus, sending the entire flotilla of nine ships to the bottom without a single loss. A month later, about 3,000 kilometers to the southeast, a second fleet in the Gulf of Aden encountered similar success, sinking three enemy vessels and capturing a fourth.
The first land battle of the war to involve Italy likewise took place far from the main theater. In East Africa, the Italians already had a muscular military presence having recently put down a revolt there. The Duke of Mantua, recently arrived to assess the military situation in Italy’s East African possessions, quickly took the initiative upon learning of the declaration of war. The Sultanate of Kaffa, a growing regional power, had joined the war on the Ottoman side. With his forces already assembled, Gonzaga moved to strike before Khalifa Hamalmal I was able to muster his troops. Kaffa’s armed forces had recently gone through a modernization process and presented a potentially tricky adversary, particularly given the remoteness and ruggedness of the terrain in which the two sides would be fighting. Rather than wait for them to gather strength, Gonzaga set out to immediately deal with his foe marching overland from Zeila at the head of an army 20,000 strong. Yôhannes Wami was the commander of Kaffa’s armed forces and was not expecting the Italians to be capable of bringing such a powerful force to bear so quickly. Assembling and drilling his men in the shadows of the walls of Debre Berhan, one of the sultanate’s most formidable fortresses, he felt at ease. Deploying his forces at night, the Duke of Mantua presaged his assault with an artillery barrage just before dawn, so that Wami and his men awoke to incoming shells soon thereafter followed by a whirlwind cavalry charge so that by the time the infantry swept in, those who remained alive simply threw down their weapons. Wami himself, was captured as he emerged from his tent.
Though some of Kaffa’s fortresses would resist for several more months, the Battle of Shewa, if it could truly be called that, represented the start and end of major operations in East Africa. As soon as he heard of the disaster, the Khalifa immediately dispatched emissaries to the Duke of Mantua and to the Archduke of Austria, seeking a ceasefire and peace deal. The man who would eventually earn the title Hamalmal the Great, was primarily concerned with modernizing his state and his army. As the latter had just been destroyed, he sought to at least preserve the former, and therefore had little interest in watching Gonzaga and his men maraud across his lands. By August of 1697, Kaffa was out of the war, having bought peace by means of hefty gold shipments to Vienna and Florence.
In what would turn out to be the largest and most dramatic naval engagement of the war, the Italians stuck back against the Ottomans in the Gulf of Aden. On 20 December 1696, Italian galleons and frigates fell upon the Ottoman fleet, their superior gunnery and heavy guns making quick work of the disoriented galleys, smashing them to splinters. By the time the few surviving Turkish ships slipped away in the oncoming darkness at dusk, only a smattering of vessels remained. In all, the Ottomans lost four heavy warships, a frigate, and eleven galleys, along with an additional two transport ships sank and a further three captured. The Italians, adding to the drama, lost only one vessel, but that one being their flagship, the legendary Venere Armata, along with her commander, Admiral Lodovico Castagna. The battle simultaneously reaffirmed Italian naval supremacy east of Sinai while also forcing her to promote a new admiral and build a new flagship.
At sea, the Italians struck back in the Gulf of Aden
The situation in Egypt, on the other hand, looked much bleaker for the allies. The Italian forces, comprising 27,000 soldiers, including 20 regiments of infantry, 3 regiments of cavalry, and 4 regiments of artillery, faced a coalition of considerable size. The Ottoman army in the Levant, over 50,000 strong, advanced from Syria with the intent to push through Italian-controlled Palestine and on to Egypt. From the west, the Sultanate of Tunis deployed nearly 30,000 troops marching east to complete the Ottoman-Tunisian encirclement of Cairo. The Ottoman forces, having organized their supply lines and bolstered their forces in Syria, began their southward march in August 1696. Aware of the Italians’ fortified positions in Jerusalem and the fortress at Kerak, the Ottomans decided to bypass these strongholds in favor of rapid movement toward Egypt, hoping to trap the Italian army in Cairo before it could fully mobilize. This decision, intended to secure an early advantage, would later prove costly, as it allowed the Italians to preserve their strongholds and maneuver with greater flexibility.
The Italians, fully aware of Ottoman movements and anticipating the strategies of the overcautious Ottoman Grand Vizier, Salim Esfahani Khan, devised a bold strategy to delay and confuse their approach. On the orders of Prince Francesco, Italian forces advanced rapidly into Palestine, positioning themselves provocatively close to the Ottoman vanguard and forcing Khan to assume a defensive stance. Known for his meticulous nature, the Grand Vizier preferred caution over speed, reluctant to push his forces into potentially vulnerable positions without thorough assessment. When the Italians abruptly withdrew, Khan’s ingrained wariness led him to suspect an ambush, prompting him to call a halt to his advance while ordering an extensive reconnaissance of the surrounding areas. The disruption stalled the Ottomans' progress significantly, creating a break in their momentum and allowing the Italians precious time to fortify their defenses and strengthen local alliances. This calculated feint not only exposed the Ottomans' vulnerability to swift tactical changes but also gave the Italians an opportunity to turn the terrain to their advantage, converting the struggle for Egypt into a war of attrition rather than a rapid Ottoman conquest.
Meanwhile, the Tunisian army continued its march from the west, having crossed Libya and entered Egyptian territory. The Ottoman-Tunisian plan called for a coordinated siege of Cairo, but the Italians’ deft maneuvering prevented this. Instead, the Italians succeeded in drawing out and isolating the Tunisian forces, whose own plans would ultimately collapse without Ottoman support. Central to the Italians’ strategy was Sa'id al-Filastini, an Arab Muslim officer born and raised in Gaza. Filastini was an enigmatic figure with a reputation for his intelligence, tactical acumen, and extensive local knowledge. His background had given him unparalleled access to the complex network of Palestinian clans and Egyptian tribal leaders. As a native of Gaza with deep connections to local powerbrokers and respected figures across Palestine and Egypt, Filastini was uniquely suited to leverage local support for the Italian cause. Filastini’s father had been a prominent merchant, and Sa'id grew up learning the art of negotiation, clan diplomacy, and the nuances of regional alliances. His loyalty to Italy, though pragmatic, was steadfast, as he saw in the Italian cause a chance to resist Ottoman domination, which many locals viewed as overbearing and exploitative. By the late summer of 1696, he had successfully recruited a considerable number of local fighters, many of whom harbored grievances against the former administration. His appeal to these communities was both strategic and personal, emphasizing shared values and a common desire for autonomy. Filastini’s recruits included men from various walks of life, such as fishermen, merchants, landowners, and even disillusioned Ottoman veterans, who had long resented the Porte’s interference.
Once these recruits were assembled, they were trained by Filastini and Artemio Nuvolari, an Italian officer tasked with training and organizing irregular forces. Nuvolari, known for his innovative approach to warfare, recognized that traditional European tactics would be insufficient against the combined Ottoman-Tunisian forces. Drawing from his experience in the Americas, where he had commanded the volunteer troops of the foreign legion and also helped train local recruits, he formalized the process. The two officers’ understanding of guerrilla warfare would help them develop Italy’s first comprehensive manual on training foreign fighters. This doctrine, later formalized as the Manuale Sull'Addestramento delle Truppe Straniere, emphasized agility, deception, and the importance of small-unit tactics over the rigid formations of traditional European doctrine. Nuvolari tailored his training to the specific needs of Filastini’s recruits, teaching them to execute ambushes, raid enemy supply lines, and disappear into the landscape before larger Ottoman and Tunisian forces could retaliate. This adaptation represented a significant evolution in Italian military thought, as the manual became Italy’s first codified effort to train foreign auxiliaries explicitly for imperial campaigns, establishing a model for integrating local expertise into broader military objectives. Some, like those from the nomadic clans, were of course already masters of irregular warfare, and thus barely needed any training at all.
Throughout September and October of 1696, Italian engineers, led by Tommaso Morelli, completed a series of fortifications along the Nile and near crucial roads leading to Cairo. These strongpoints, constructed with a combination of earthworks and strategically positioned artillery, were designed to control key crossings and defend critical supply routes. Morelli’s engineers reinforced the defensive lines around the Delta, enabling Italian forces to engage and then retreat to fortified positions, repeatedly frustrating the enemy advance. However, physical defenses were only one facet of the Italian strategy. Filastini’s irregular forces employed extensive psychological warfare, utilizing campfires, banners, and decoy formations to create the illusion of a larger, more cohesive force.
Just after the New Year in 1697, Prince Francesco suddenly took his army and departed the well-defended colonial capital of Cairo, leaving behind a skeleton force to hold the city. This bold move caught both allies and enemies by surprise, as it seemed to abandon the critical defensive posture that had thus far preserved Egypt from conquest. With a force of approximately 15,000 men, comprising Italian regulars, colonial auxiliaries, and local militia, Francesco advanced rapidly along the old caravan routes toward Jerusalem. The march was grueling, but meticulous coordination with the navy maintained a steady stream of supplies, that improved cohesion and morale while reducing attrition. This would remain a regular feature of Italy’s numerous campaigns throughout the war. The prince’s objective was to force the Ottomans advancing southward from Syria under Grand Vizier Salim Esfahani Khan to halt their progress and divert their attention from Egypt.
Arriving near Jerusalem by mid-January, Francesco’s forces set up defensive positions on high ground outside the city, making a strong display of fortification. Though he had no intention of committing to a major battle, the prince’s maneuver disrupted the Ottoman plans. Salim Esfahani Khan, ever cautious, interpreted the Italian movement as a possible bid to sever his lines of communication back to Damascus. Having achieved his objective, Francesco began a disciplined withdrawal back toward Egypt in early February. The Italians conducted their movement with precision, employing scorched-earth tactics to deny the Ottomans resources along the route. By early March, the Italian army returned to the Nile Valley, weary but intact, their feint having bought weeks of critical time.
The Italian feint toward Jerusalem pinned the Ottoman army in place and bought the Italians time to return south and defeat the Tunisians.
The culmination of the campaign came on 1 March 1697, when Prince Francesco led his forces in a sudden and devastating assault on the Tunisian army, which had arrived at Cairo and established siege lines. Confident that their Ottoman allies would soon arrive to assist them, the Tunisians had constructed extensive siege works and were preparing for a drawn-out operation. However, as Filastini’s deception continued to delay the Ottomans, Prince Francesco seized the opportunity to strike the isolated Tunisian forces. The Italians, bolstered by the defensive positions they had prepared and supported by local militias, fell upon the Tunisian lines with overwhelming force. Italian artillery bombarded the enemy flanks, while infantry regiments, executing coordinated maneuvers, surrounded and penetrated the siege works. The Tunisians, trapped and taken by surprise, struggled to regroup, and without the support of their Ottoman allies, they were soon overpowered. After hours of brutal combat, the Tunisian army began to collapse. By the end of the day, the Italian forces had decimated the Tunisian contingent: of the 21,000 Tunisian soldiers, nearly all were either killed or captured. Italian casualties were remarkably low by comparison, totaling just over 1,800. The victory at Cairo secured Egypt under Italian control, effectively neutralizing the Ottoman-Tunisian threat and marking an early turning point in Italy’s imperial campaign.
The main effort of the allied offensive, which began in earnest in the spring of 1697, focused on Austria’s campaign through the Balkans. Archduke Georg I sought to push the enemy back from the frontier, dismantling their military infrastructure along the way. With Matteo Giustiniani and the Italians following behind, the Austrians advanced rapidly along the Danube, meeting little resistance as they swept aside hastily assembled levies. However, the ease of the early campaign proved deceptive.
As Georg I pressed southward without adequate reconnaissance, Ottoman scouts monitored every move, counting numbers and assessing formations. Unbeknownst to the advancing allies, more than sixty thousand Ottoman soldiers lay concealed in the wooded lands of the Nišava valley, preparing a devastating ambush. Sultan Selim I personally commanded the Ottoman army, assisted by General Murad Pasha al-Khwarazmi, a brilliant strategist with a history of decisive victories in Yemen, Tabarestan, and Baluchistan. Renowned for his adaptability and precision, Murad Pasha’s counsel was invaluable in setting the trap at Niš. The first clashes were minor skirmishes, testing the enemy’s resolve. Seeing only a thin defensive line of Turkish and Tartar horsemen before the fortifications of Niš, Georg I rashly ordered a full assault. As soon as the Austrian cavalry charged, the Ottoman commander sprang the trap. Fast-moving sipahis swarmed from the flanks, cutting off retreat and threatening encirclement.
Giustiniani’s liaison officer, realizing the danger, sent an urgent messenger back to his commander. Recognizing the unfolding disaster, Giustiniani led his cuirassiers and dragoons forward at a fast trot, reaching the battle’s edge. He swiftly dismounted the dragoons, forming them into musket lines shielded by the heavy cavalry. As the Austrians rallied, reinforcements bolstered the line, their combined firepower repelling the Turkish cavalry. The intervention allowed Georg I to cut his way free and regroup his forces. Though bloodied, he resumed the attack with greater caution, ultimately using superior firepower to hold the field against repeated Ottoman assaults.
At dusk, the battered Ottoman sipahis withdrew behind the walls of Niš, while Georg I and Giustiniani pulled back to await their infantry and artillery. By dawn, the allies had formed a vast battle line of seventy thousand troops. At nine o’clock, both armies advanced, the Turks unleashing a sudden mass cavalry assault on the Austrian right wing. Within moments, Ottoman forces converged on Georg I’s banners, locking in brutal hand-to-hand combat with the hussars and Austrian infantry. Amid the chaos, Baron Karl von Windisch, a dashing young Austrian cavalry commander, led his cuirassiers in a thunderous countercharge into the sipahis’ exposed flank. The Ottoman horsemen, confident a moment before, found themselves trapped—outflanked, crushed between the heavier Western cavalry, and unable to maneuver. As their ranks disintegrated, they attempted to cut a path back toward the fortifications, but disciplined Habsburg infantry, under the grizzled Styrian officer Lorenz Auer von Trieben, met them with a withering musket volley. In minutes, the Ottoman charge dissolved into a panicked rout. With no desire to repeat the disastrous engagement, Selim I withdrew his forces eastward along the Nišava, seeking a more defensible position.
The battle at Niš set the pattern for the Balkan campaign. The Ottomans’ speed and aggression were formidable, their sipahis and Tartar allies striking with terrifying swiftness. If Western lines wavered, crushed under the momentum of the janissaries’ charges, the battle would be lost. But if discipline held—if their steady musket fire and superior formations blunted the Ottoman assaults—then it was the Turks who would break and flee in chaos. Georg I and his generals would exploit this advantage in battles to come at Skopje, Edessa, Salonica, and beyond.
Despite Georg I’s successes, King Francesco II of Italy was determined to steal the show by staging one of the most audacious military operations of the 17th century: an amphibious assault against the heart of the Ottoman Empire. This expedition required a meticulous blend of strategic foresight, naval logistics, and military coordination. Amphibious operations in the 17th century were fraught with challenges: unpredictable winds, slow communication, and the constant threat of disease. The decision to mount an amphibious assault came after months of careful deliberation. Francesco II and his advisors were aware of the difficulties in attacking a city as well fortified as Istanbul. At the outset, they recognized that a successful campaign hinged on achieving naval superiority in the Aegean Sea and securing a reliable supply chain that could sustain an army far from home. The first priority was control of the sea. In late 1696, the Italian fleet was reinforced with additional vessels, drawing from the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian squadrons. Ships of the line were joined by frigates, galleys, and support vessels tasked with ferrying soldiers, artillery, and supplies. Ports in southern Italy like Bari, Taranto, Brindisi, and Crotone became staging grounds for the maritime forces, which would need to resupply and refit en route to Ottoman shores.
Commanded by Admiral Carlo Emmanuele Gaetani dell’Aquila, the Italian fleet assembled at Taranto before sailing into the eastern Mediterranean. But their advance was met with fierce resistance at the Dardanelles, where Ottoman coastal artillery forced them to reconsider a direct approach to Constantinople. After several failed attempts to breach the narrow straits, Francesco II made the pivotal decision to land the expeditionary force further west, near Alexandroupolis.
Despite resistance, Venetian marines quickly established a beachhead, securing the landing zone for the disembarkation of the larger force. Supplies were ferried ashore in small boats, and wood and earth fortifications were hastily constructed to protect against Ottoman counterattacks. Once the beachhead was secured, the army began its march toward Istanbul. The rugged terrain of Thrace slowed the advance, and mounted Ottoman forces harried the Italians with hit-and-run tactics, yet they lacked the numbers to openly challenge the invaders. The sultan’s armies were spread far and wide, as nobody had predicted such a daring move against the capital.
By early May 1697, the Italian forces had reached the outskirts of Constantinople. They encamped on the European side of the Bosphorus, positioning their artillery on the heights that overlooked the city. But the siege, far from being a swift assault, would become a protracted affair. For many residents of the great imperial capital, this was an experience they had known before. It had been less than a quarter century since the last time Christian armies had been before the city, and everyone knew well the potential devastation should the attackers breach the walls.
Francesco’s engineers began the slow and laborious process of undermining the walls and constructing siege batteries to bombard the city's defenses. The Italian artillery, though formidable, faced a daunting task: Constantinople’s walls, though not invulnerable, had withstood sieges for centuries. Nevertheless, the Italian commanders were determined to press their advantage. By late May, a series of bombardments had begun, targeting key points along the city’s western defenses. Despite the early successes in securing positions close to the city, the Ottomans were not yet beaten, and their garrison mounted a stubborn defense. Sporadic sorties from the city clashed with Italian forward positions, while Ottoman engineers worked tirelessly to reinforce the walls and thwart undermining efforts. Francesco’s army, though buoyed by their proximity to their objective, knew that the siege would be a test of endurance as much as of arms. As June arrived, the Italians tightened their grip around the city, extending siege lines and securing their positions to prevent any relief forces from reaching Constantinople. Supply lines from Alexandroupolis remained critical to the success of the operation, with regular convoys of food, powder, and medical supplies arriving from the coast. Engineers constructed fortified camps on the outskirts of the city, while scouts scoured the countryside for Ottoman patrols.
However, the challenges remained immense. Disease began to spread through the camp, the result of poor sanitation and close quarters. Dysentery and malaria took a grim toll on the troops, and Francesco’s commanders were forced to dedicate significant resources to maintaining the health of the army. For Francesco II, the stakes remained high. The longer the siege dragged on, the more precarious his position became. The logistical challenges of maintaining a large army in enemy territory weighed heavily on his mind, as did the possibility of Ottoman reinforcements arriving from elsewhere in the empire. And yet, with the Italians firmly ensconced outside the gates of Constantinople, the possibility of capturing the Ottoman capital was tantalizingly close.
The Ottoman capital in 1696
On the other side of the world, on 2 March 1697, one of the Compagnia della Guinea’s slave ships, the Camelia Cavalcanti, entered the port of Maracaibo. Her holds carried only textiles and tobacco, elsewise any enslaved people on board would have been free under Colombian law the moment the vessel dropped anchor. However, while in the port for a three day stopover, the Camelia Cavalcanti’s officers and crew located, captured, and smuggled on board a number of individuals who had escaped from bondage in the Italian Indies. When the ship left port, those unfortunate souls seemed poised for a return to a life of misery and suffering.
However, rumors of the abductions soon spread among the populace, and reached the ears of a naval officer named Hector Miralles. He set off in pursuit with three ships and soon caught up to the slaver off the coast of the island of San Vincenzo, an Italian colony. Miralles, on board the frigate Santa Susana, personally led the boarding party and its subsequent search. Nineteen abductees were found in the holds, who were all instantly returned to their free state. The two sides’ accounts of what sparked the next event differ, but in either version, Román Mastache, Santa Susana’s first mate and himself a freedman of African descent, cut off the ear of Eliseo Pontarelli, Camelia Cavalcanti’s Italian captain, and threw it into the sea. From there, the slave ship was cut loose with a warning never to enter Colombian waters again, while the freed captives returned to a hero’s welcome in Maracaibo. Thus began la Crisi della Camelia, or the Camelia Crisis.
The Camelia Cavalcanti immediately made for Forte d’Italia on the island of Martinique, where they began telling everyone the harrowing tale of how they were accosted by Colombian pirates. The planters of the island were outraged when they heard the story. They already felt threatened by Colombia offering safe haven to runaways that reached her territory; but now her ships were pursuing Italian vessels right up to the shores of Florence’s own colonies. The planters immediately dispatched the fastest ship in the port to go back to Europe bearing the news. On board was Eliseo Pontarelli, ready to show his missing ear to anyone who needed proof of Cartagena’s treachery.
In Colombia, the populace responded to the news of the Camelia Incident with fervent enthusiasm, turning city squares into sites of spontaneous celebration. From Cartagena to Bogotá, people thronged the streets, reveling in the bold action taken by their navy. For the formerly enslaved individuals and their communities, this was more than a naval victory; it was a resounding affirmation of their newly acquired freedoms. The government's decisive action against the Italian slave ship was seen as a tangible commitment to emancipation, a clear message that Colombia was prepared to defend its ideals of liberty, even if it meant facing off against one of the world's foremost maritime powers. The hero's welcome that greeted the freed captives and their rescuers upon their return to Maracaibo encapsulated the national pride and the collective relief that justice had been served.
For several months, things remained quiet on the seas in the Caribbean as word of the incident made its way around the world. Back in Italy, the reaction was starkly different from that in Colombia. News of the incident spread quickly, igniting a firestorm of controversy across the nation. Among the populace, a small but vocal minority, who opposed slavery, sided with Colombia, arguing that the intervention was morally justified and an act of liberation. However, this view was not widely shared. The majority of Italians saw the incident as a humiliating blow to national prestige, particularly criticizing King Francesco II's extensive military campaigns, which they believed had left the nation stretched too thin to protect its interests abroad. The perception that even a recent ally like Colombia could challenge Italian authority without consequence fueled a growing discontent, with many questioning the effectiveness of the king's leadership. The incident laid bare the vulnerabilities of Italian colonial policy and sparked a heated debate about the future direction of Italy's foreign engagements.
The story did not reach the ears of King Francesco II until early June of 1697, as he was leading the Siege of Istanbul. According to some sources, the king flew into a rage upon hearing of the seizure of the slave ship and cursed his ungrateful son-in-law. He even questioned some of his officers as to the feasibility of war against Colombia. Artemio Nuvolari, who had led the foreign legion during Colombia’s war of independence against Spain, convinced the king that even if Italy managed to dispatch a large expeditionary force to the New World (unlikely given its current commitments in the war against the Ottomans), the king’s troops would succumb to tropical disease and shipborne illness and fail by sheer force of attrition, if not from the enemy’s fighting skill. After sleeping on it for a night, the king cooled down and sent a more measured response to Carlos I. He said he respected the young king’s commitment to protecting his subjects and promised that there would be no further violations of Cartagena’s sovereignty. However, he ended with a stern warning against “molesting any vessels flying under the protection of the Italian flag, under any circumstance.” The closing threat and the paternalistic tone of the letter would garner a strong response from the other side.
However, for the moment, the king had more immediate challenges to attend to. After months of bombardment, starvation, and grinding siege warfare, Istanbul finally surrendered on 7 July 1697. The siege, which had begun with a daring amphibious assault and overland march in early 1697, culminated in an anti-climactic and non-apocalyptic manner. By late June, the Italian forces had tightened their grip on the city and the bombardment, which had steadily worn down the city’s fortifications, became relentless. Undermining paid off as well, and huge breaches were opened in the Theodosian Walls. The Ottomans, despite their valiant efforts, could no longer fully repair them. Disease, hunger, and the constant fear of the next assault had taken a heavy toll on the city's defenders. Within the walls, the mood was desperate—food supplies had dwindled, morale was at its lowest, and any hope of relief from other Ottoman forces had long faded.
Eager to end the siege before the Austrian and Papal forces arrived and took a share of the credit, Francesco II made overtures to Suleiman al-Karadaj, the Bosnian commander of the capital’s defenses. The Ottoman officer was a veteran of numerous campaigns, highly respected by his men, and the king showed respect and spoke to him like a soldier. After several hours of haggling, the two struck a deal. The defenders would lay down their arms while retaining their personal effects and unit colors. They would then be allowed to evacuate across the Bosporus. In return, the Italians would enter the city with only five regiments, and these to be selected from among the most disciplined in the army. There would be no looting, no massacres. The agreement likely saved thousands of lives, and spared Istanbul a repeat of the brutal sacking it received at the hands of the Catholic League in 1672. Likewise, there would be no scenes of trapped Ottoman soldiers being put to the sword on the shores of the Black Sea.
With the sultan off commanding armies in the field, the remainder of the court and the imperial harem managed slip out of the city before it fell. By relocating into Anatolia, the Ottomans intended to repeat the strategy they had employed during the Great Crusade: use the massive strategic depth of their empire to wear out the invaders by sheer vastness. The allies had doubtlessly scored a great victory, but the war was far from over.
Despite all of the battlefield successes, the war would turn out to be immensely unpopular in Italy, and would prove disastrous to the Guelph party’s electoral prospects in the 1697 elections. The conflict, which had been initiated by Italy's ally Austria, was increasingly seen as a cynical land grab by Vienna at the cost of Italian lives and treasure. Maintaining three major field armies: one in Constantinople, a second in the Balkans, and a third defending Egypt, strained Italy’s resources to the breaking point. Supplying these armies across such a vast expanse created widespread shortages, driving up grain prices and causing disruption to Mediterranean trade. Ottoman naval raids, though limited, further exacerbated the crisis, threatening Italian shipping lanes and adding to the economic burden. Further, the psychological impact was even more significant, and led to accusations the crown was losing control of its own homeland.
Many Italians began to question why their soldiers were dying to advance Austrian territorial ambitions rather than defending the homeland or securing Italian interests. The promise of glory and influence in the Mediterranean was overshadowed by the harsh realities of rising taxes and dwindling resources. Merchants, artisans, and even some prominent Guelph supporters voiced their growing discontent. By mid-1697, as prices and inflation soared to cover the immense costs of war, public frustration mounted, leading to a widespread sense that Italy was sacrificing too much for too little in return. In a bid to solidify their legacy and retain control over the state, the embattled Guelph party, supported by the king, passed a landmark bill in 1697 to dramatically expand the realm’s bureaucracy. This bill aimed at centralizing authority in the hands of the royal government, strengthening administrative oversight, and providing more services to the populace. Such an expansion reflected the growing desire for the state to exert greater control over its far-flung territories and address the rising complexities of a modernizing society.
The expanded bureaucracy would manifest itself in several key areas. First and foremost, there would be a significant increase in the number of civil servants employed by the crown, ranging from tax collectors and customs officials to judges, notaries, and provincial administrators. Regional uffici pubblici would be expanded and smaller, local branches would be established to better manage the dispensing of justice, taxation, commerce, and poor relief. The state would also assume a greater role in public works, overseeing the construction of roads, bridges, and ports, which would facilitate commerce and communication across the kingdom. Additionally, this centralized bureaucracy would begin to take on responsibilities such as the regulation of guilds, the management of poor relief programs, and even the administration of certain religious institutions, strengthening the crown’s hand in both secular and ecclesiastical matters. The theoretical benefits of this centralized bureaucracy were significant. It promised greater efficiency in governance, reduced corruption through stricter oversight, and a more unified system of law and administration. Citizens in far-flung provinces could expect a more consistent application of justice, access to state-provided services such as poor relief or military protection, and better infrastructure that facilitated trade and travel. The centralized system also empowered the crown to exert greater control over provincial elites, preventing regional governors and lords from acting with too much autonomy.
However, in practice, the expansion of the bureaucracy was not without its challenges. The sudden, and largest-ever, growth of the state apparatus required significant financial resources to fund the salaries of new officials and maintain offices across the realm. Taxpayers, already burdened by the costs of war, resented the additional levies needed to support this burgeoning system. Furthermore, the centralization of power alienated many local elites, who saw their traditional privileges eroded by the crown's encroachment on their authority. In the commercial hubs of northern Italy, the Ghibellines decried the bureaucracy as a stifling force on trade and entrepreneurship, imposing new regulations and taxes that made it harder for businesses to operate freely.
As the bureaucracy expanded, it also became a potential source of inefficiency and corruption, the very things it ostensibly meant to fight. The sheer size of the administrative apparatus made oversight difficult, and opportunities for bribery and nepotism arose, particularly in remote provinces. Moreover, the centralization of power often led to a disconnect between the distant royal government and the needs of local populations, leading to growing frustrations in regions that felt overlooked or overregulated by the crown.
Italy's political system, as codified in Article IV of the Constitution, divided the legislature into two chambers: an upper house, the Senate (Senato); and a lower house, the Chamber of Deputies (Camera dei Deputati). The Senate, composed of members appointed by the king for life, represented the interests of the crown and the Church. It included members of the royal family, dukes, archbishops, high-ranking officials, and distinguished citizens, all chosen to safeguard the monarchy and maintain a check on popular power. The Senate could, by royal decree, act as a High Court of Justice, underscoring its role as the guardian of the state’s most vital interests. A few senators, such as the Duchess of Milan and the Duke of Ferrara, formed a sort of de facto opposition, but by and large the body existed to approve the king’s policies.
In contrast, the Chamber of Deputies was a body elected by the propertied citizens of Italy, representing the diverse and often conflicting interests of the nation’s landowners, merchants, and urban elites. Deputies were required to be at least 24 years old, Italian subjects, and free of capital crime convictions. The Camera, with its President and Vice-President elected by its members, was the more volatile of the two chambers, often reflecting the changing moods and fortunes of the Italian electorate. Though it could not exercise real power, since it was kept in check by the senate and the crown, the lower house possessed means with which to pressure the state through budgetary and economic disruption.
As with all previous Italian elections, the two dominant parties, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, would be the primary contestants in 1697. The former held the majority in the Camera, and had done so for fifteen of the sixteen years of the chamber’s existence. Even after suffering one electoral defeat in 1691, they had toppled the Ghibellines’ brief majority in the ensuing special election of 1692. They held sway ever since. However, the party was already declining in popularity, and even Italy’s victory in the war with Spain did little to assuage growing public doubt. The continuing turmoil overseas, with rebellions and unrest troubling colonies both east and west, caused prices on imported consumer goods to fluctuate and, on the whole, steadily rise. Thus, the cities and even many among the rural aristocracy turned their support toward the Ghibellines. They were the party of business and trade, and they promised lower prices and greater access to foreign goods. By the end of the century, they dominated in all but a few urban centers, and steadily pushed up their support in the countryside as well. Those who voted were, by law, all property owners, and thus they had become accustomed to stylish china on their table, spices in their food, sugar in their sweets, coffee in their cups, and tobacco in their pipes (or, for the more adventurous, opium). The rising prices were straining their finances and reducing the available goods from foreign markets. By the time those eligible to vote went to the polls, all that was known for certain was that Italy was at war with the Ottomans on behalf of Austria and import prices were showing no signs of abating. On the contrary, the war only served to drive prices even higher. In a move that must have infuriated the queen, given her staunch support for détente with the Ottomans, Ghibelline supporters began spreading rumors that she was “controlling the king” and “eager to make a gift to her brother, the Archduke.” It was widely known that the queen was a strong supporter of the Guelphs, though she was officially neutral, and in this case, the connection proved damaging to the party’s prospects. To make matters worse, the Partito San Gennaro, who had previously supported the Guelph government, switched to a pro-Ghibelline position, meaning both of the southern parties now backed the challengers.
A polling location during the election of 1697
The Ghibelline Party, in contrast, positioned itself as the champion of business interests and individual liberties—at least for those who owned property. They promised lower taxes, better access to foreign goods, and a shift in Italy’s colonial focus toward more profitable ventures in Asia. Led by Flavia Speranza, Duchess of Milan, the Ghibellines were a formidable force. Although Speranza rarely appeared as the public face of the party, preferring to work behind the scenes, she was undeniably its most powerful figure. As a financier and politician, she orchestrated the Ghibelline campaign with a deft hand, leveraging her vast resources and connections to secure the party’s success. Alongside her was Nestore De Cristoforo, a leading advocate of the “Orientalist current” within the party, who argued that Italy’s future lay in Asia, not in the troubled colonies of Africa and the Americas.
Merchants Suffering
Other key figures in the Ghibelline camp included Giovanni Abbiati, an elitist parliamentarian from Milan, and Callisto Amidei, a vocal pro-slavery advocate representing the interests of plantation owners and the “American current” within the party. These men, along with Speranza and De Cristoforo, formed the core of the Ghibelline leadership, driving the party’s message of economic reform and colonial expansion. As the election campaign stretched over the month of April, the Ghibellines capitalized on the growing discontent among Italy’s merchants and property owners. The party’s promise of economic relief resonated with voters who were struggling under the weight of Guelph-imposed taxes and the high cost of imported goods. The defection of the Partito San Gennaro to the Ghibelline coalition was a significant blow to the Guelphs, as it signaled a broader shift in support among the southern regions of Italy.
On the Guelph side, the campaign was lackluster. Alessio Roberti, though a seasoned politician, lacked the energy and vision to counter the Ghibelline onslaught. His leadership was increasingly seen as ineffective, and his failure to address the economic concerns of the electorate only deepened the Guelphs’ woes. Emeka Izuchukwu, a passionate anti-slavery advocate from Benin and a member of parliament, sought to galvanize support among the more progressive elements of the Guelph Party, but his efforts failed to turn the tide. In some cases, the cause of emancipation may have driven some city dwellers to support the Ghibellines out of fear of further price increases if slavery were to end.
The results of the 1697 elections were nothing short of a historic landslide. The final tally was as follows:
Partito Ghibellino: 151 seats
Partito Guelfo: 123 seats
Partito Delle Due Sicilie: 44 seats
Partito San Gennaro: 35 seats
Partito della Terra Verde: 9 seats
Partito della Libertà: 2 seats
Independent: 4 seats
The Ghibellines’ victory secured them control of nearly two-thirds of the seats in the Chamber of Deputies, marking the most decisive victory in the party’s history. The Guelphs, weakened and demoralized, were left with a fraction of their former power. Alessio Roberti, the once-amiable leader of the Guelphs, was soon ousted from his position, to be replaced by a new figure who would attempt to rebuild the party from the ruins of its defeat.
The Ghibelline victory ushered in a new era of tension between the parliament and the crown. While the Ghibellines now controlled the Camera dei Deputati, the Senate remained loyal to the Medici, as it was designed to be. This division set the stage for a prolonged period of political gridlock, as the Ghibellines pushed for reforms that the Senate, under royal influence, was loath to approve. The result was a delicate balance of power, with neither side able to fully dominate the other.
On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, on 8 September 1697, a ship carrying King Francesco II’s warning in response to the Camelia Incident arrived in Cartagena. It generated quite a stir in the royal palace, and was considered an affront to the honor of the king and the country. However, it was Maria Angelica, the Italian king’s own daughter, who proved most willing to escalate in the interest of preserving her subjects’ freedoms. Taking a page from her mother’s book, the young queen made public appearances regularly in Cartagena, often traveling to other cities to rally support. Just as Maria Maddalena had inspired soldiers and citizens by personally engaging with them, Maria Angelica sought to galvanize the Colombian populace with speeches, public prayers, and ceremonial acts of solidarity. She gave speeches pledging the full might of the crown would defend the freedom of every citizen. She said the king considered it a matter of personal honor. In the process, Maria Angelica would win huge numbers of supporters among the Afro-Colombian population, all of whom were potential targets of European raiding expeditions. As Colombia’s queen openly rallied support for emancipation, Italy was forced to confront the moral and diplomatic repercussions of maintaining the institution of slavery within its empire.
In response, Florence was to become the scene of the Izuchukwu Debates, a series of heated public exchanges between Emeka Izuchukwu, the Guelph parliamentarian from Benin, and Lorenzo Marcello, a Ghibelline from Venice. These debates drew massive crowds to the square outside the Palazzo Vecchio, transforming each session into spectacle. Marcello, representing the entrenched pro-slavery faction, argued that the institution was an essential pillar of the Italian Empire’s wealth. He warned that abolition would destabilize colonial economies, disrupt trade networks, and diminish Italy’s standing among European powers. Giulia Contarini, another Ghibelline representative from Genoa, bolstered this argument by asserting that slavery had historical precedent and remained a necessary institution to sustain Italy’s maritime and colonial enterprises.
Izuchukwu, however, presented a compelling vision of a post-slavery economy. Drawing on his deep knowledge of both African and European cultures, he argued that free labor and education could unlock the economic potential of the colonies in ways that slavery never could. He cited examples of free communities within the Italian Empire that had thrived through innovation and trade. Izuchukwu’s most powerful argument appealed to Florentine civic pride, likening the plight of enslaved Africans to the city’s own struggles for liberty during the Renaissance. He evoked Florence’s resistance to tyranny and its famed ideals of individual freedom and human dignity, drawing parallels between the oppression of enslaved Africans and the subjugation of the Florentine republic under foreign powers. Just as Florence had risen to reclaim its autonomy, Izuchukwu argued, so too must Italy reject the institution of slavery to honor its legacy as a bastion of liberty and enlightenment. He challenged the audience to consider their moral legacy and the kind of empire they wished to leave for future generations.
Amid these ideological battles, the Compagnia della Guinea faced its own internal crisis. The death of its ninety year old founder, Andrea Cavalcanti, Duke of Ancona, who had outlived all his sons and all but one of his daughters, triggered a chaotic succession struggle. During his tenure, Cavalcanti had transformed the Compagnia della Guinea into the crown's most lucrative and politically influential enterprise, dominating the slave trade between West Africa and Italy’s New World colonies. His leadership, marked by shrewd alliances and ruthless efficiency, ensured the company’s supremacy in the transatlantic economy. However, his passing exposed deep fractures within the family, as rival heirs scrambled to claim his legacy and the immense power that came with it. The founder’s youngest daughter, now in her fifties, found herself pitted against her husband and a host of ambitious male grandchildren and great grandchildren, each vying for control of the company. This infighting weakened the Compagnia’s leadership and distracted it from maintaining its dominance in the slave trade. This was particularly true when the man considered the most competent and capable of all Cavalcanti’s grandsons, Sebastiano Cavalcanti, was assassinated in his villa in the dead of night. Nobody was apprehended for the deed, but it is nearly certain that it was carried out by one of his kinsmen.
Rival enterprises, such as the Società delle Indie Orientali, began to outmaneuver the Compagnia, particularly as the Ghibelline leadership shifted its focus from the New World to the East. The crumbling of the Compagnia only enhanced the power of the Società delle Indie, whose focus on the Indian Ocean’s markets and resources aligned with the Ghibellines’ new vision. As their rival faltered, the Società delle Indie gained prominence, positioning itself as the leading force in Italy’s colonial ambitions. This strategic shift not only weakened the foundations of the slave trade but also underscored the diminishing importance of the New World in Italy’s imperial calculus. While the Ghibellines may have had grand designs on Asia, events on the ground would make things significantly more challenging. The colonies in Italian-controlled India, the new jewels of the empire, were already beginning to show cracks under the pressure of economic exploitation and cultural imposition. As the Ghibellines shifted focus eastward, they underestimated the volatility brewing in those territories. By 1698, discontent had reached a boiling point, setting the stage for a series of uprisings that would challenge Italian rule and test the empire's resolve.
The revolts that would break out in Kandy and Coromandel in 1698-99 were rooted in a blend of economic exploitation, cultural imposition, and oppressive administrative policies by the Società Italiana delle Indie Orientali. Governor Vilfredo Arrigo's centralized administrative system, though efficient, disregarded local customs and governance structures. Italian laws and a Council of Administration dominated by company officials and new Italian elites further alienated the indigenous population while economic policies added fuel to the fire. The expansion of cinnamon plantations in Kandy alongside the introduction of coffee and tea disrupted traditional farming practices. The Società's trade monopolies stifled local merchants, who struggled to compete with the monopolistic control exerted by the company. Heavy taxation and forced integration into the colonial economy led to widespread discontent. Additionally, missionary activities aimed at spreading Christianity and promoting Italian culture created cultural tensions. Establishing churches and schools to educate the native population in Italian ways met resistance, as many locals clung to their traditional beliefs and practices.
The revolts were disparate and spearheaded by a diverse group of leaders, ultimately united in their goal of overthrowing Italian rule. Vimaladharmasuriya, a Kandyan noble, resented the Società's disruption of traditional power structures and cultural impositions. Raja Haran Iyer, a respected leader from Kochin, galvanized local merchants and farmers against economic exploitation and brutality by the Italian monopolies. Velu Thampi, a former officer in the Società's military, defected and used his military expertise to organize the rebel forces. Despite their different backgrounds, these leaders found common ground in their opposition to the SIIO.
Raja Haran Iyer, one of rebellion’s most successful and respected military leaders
The rebellion drew support from various social classes and castes, each with distinct grievances. Nobles and elites, dispossessed by the centralization of power and replacement of local governance structures, sought to reclaim their traditional authority and privileges. Merchants and traders, strangled by the Società’s trade monopolies, fought for economic freedom and the restoration of fair trade practices. Farmers and laborers, oppressed by heavy taxation and forced integration into new agricultural systems, yearned for the return of their traditional livelihoods and autonomy. Cultural and religious leaders, alarmed by aggressive missionary activities and cultural impositions, fought to preserve their heritage and religious practices.
Several rebellious groups emerged, each with distinct interests that ultimately aligned against a common enemy. The Kandyan Resistance, comprising nobles and local chieftains, aimed to restore the traditional Kandyan monarchy and expel Italian influence. The Coromandel Merchants’ League, a coalition of traders and merchants from the Malabar coast, sought to dismantle trade monopolies and regain control over their economic activities. The Farmers’ Front, an alliance of peasants and laborers, focused on ending economic exploitation and reclaiming traditional agricultural practices. The Cultural Preservationists, led by religious and cultural leaders, resisted cultural and religious impositions. Despite varied interests, these groups coordinated efforts, sharing resources and strategies to mount a formidable resistance.
The initial phase of the revolt was marked by swift, coordinated attacks on key Italian installations. Coastal town fortifications were besieged, and smaller inland outposts were overrun by insurgents. The Società's private navy, patrolling the waters around Kandy and Coromandel, struggled to protect trade routes from rebels and opportunistic pirate attacks. As news of the uprising spread, more local leaders joined the cause, swelling the ranks of the rebels. The Società, caught off guard by the scale and intensity of the revolt, scrambled to respond. Governor Vilfredo Arrigo, known for his steady hand, now faced the greatest challenge of his tenure. The stage was set for a prolonged and bloody conflict that would test the resolve of both the Italian colonizers and the determined rebels of Kandy, Coromandel, and Kochin.
The situation in the Balkans and Anatolia, January 1698
1698 in the Mediterranean, saw Italy and her allies take to the battlefield with renewed vigor. Another amphibious attack, this one led by Matteo Giustiniani of Italy and Cirillo Latisana of the Papal State, struck at the heart of the Ottoman Empire’s stalwart dynastic ally. For weeks, the arid fields surrounding Tunis bore witness to savage engagements, culminating on 22 December 1697 when the allied banners were hoisted above the walls of the Tunisian capital.
The Italian Crown Prince Francesco de' Medici led the Armata d’Egitto into Palestine. He defeated a Circassian-Kazar army in Gaza on 31 January 1698, once again thwarting a threat against Italian possessions in the Near East. At the start of the war, most in Florence, including the king himself, had given up Egypt and Palestine as lost, at least temporarily, given their precarious position sandwiched between the two main enemy powers. They were territories that would need to be won back in the peace treaty and certainly were at risk of being lost definitively. Yet the Armata d’Egitto’s refusal to back down, even in the face of major manpower disadvantages, had helped sap the Ottoman war effort, and kept up a steady pressure on their rear.
Meanwhile, by the spring of 1698, allied forces had surged deep into Anatolia. This forced the fateful Battle of Aydin on 27 July 1698. A coalition of Austrian and Papal forces, led by Archduke faced the Ottoman Emperor Selim I himself, defeating the Ottoman army and wresting control of key territories. The victory was a masterpiece by the Austrian commander Leopold Meinl. His mastery of effective firepower deployment coupled with deft maneuvers, repeatedly blunted janissary and cavalry charges and kept the Turks from being able to close effectively. The defeat at Aydin rattled the Sublime Porte, and on 13 August 1698, Circassia sued for peace.
The Battle of Aydin
As Prince Francesco pressed forward from Palestine, the Ottomans were caught in the gears of the allied war machine. Where once it had been the Ottomans with the insurmountable and decisive advantage in logistics and materiel, it was now the armies of Christendom that wielded that strength. Every port the allies captured invited a steady stream of vessels carrying food, muskets, ammunition, fodder, boots, lead, gunpowder, bandages, etc, etc, keeping the armies of Austria, Italy, and the Papal State well fed and supplied even far from home. As autumn deepened, the war approached its culminating point. By 1 November 1698, Sultan Selim I had reconstituted his battered army, amassing 43,800 troops for a counter-offensive into Palestine. The Italians, then occupying Sham and Sayda, had been advancing into Hama when scouts brought word of the Ottoman advance. Prince Francesco, his army down to a mere 18,400 men, made the calculated decision to withdraw south. This apparent retreat sowed hesitation within the Ottoman camp, with Sultan Selim displaying an overabundance of caution. Sensing this, the Prince of Naples seized the moment, wheeled his forces around, and struck with devastating force along the Orontes River outside Hama. By early December 1698, the Italians had marched deep into Ottoman-held territory, aiming to disrupt the Sultan’s control over northern Syria. Selim I, eager to halt the Italian advance, had assembled a massive force of nearly 45,000 men, supported by a formidable artillery corps of over 650 guns. The Italian army, though significantly outnumbered, fielded a disciplined force of about 18,000 men, complemented by an artillery train of about 250 guns.
The battle took place on the flat plains near the Orontes River, where the Ottoman artillery could dominate with devastating firepower. Despite Francesco’s attempts to minimize exposure through maneuver, his outnumbered infantry suffered grievously, with 8,000 men lost to relentless bombardment and ensuing close-quarter assaults. Among the fallen were two of the prince’s trusted aides-de-camp, one of whom had been his childhood friend, a loss that deeply shook him. Despite this, the sultan was unable to exploit the situation, with his cavalry and infantry moving sluggishly and leaving themselves vulnerable to counterattacks. By mid-afternoon, the Italian artillery, though vastly outnumbered, succeeded in silencing key Ottoman batteries through precision fire. Among the gunners was Lieutenant Enzo Vitali, a Florentine artilleryman who became famous for his uncanny ability to calculate range under pressure. His battery, firing from a concealed position, disabled three Ottoman field guns and opened a crucial gap in the enemy’s line. This allowed the Italian infantry to regroup and launch a final, desperate assault on the Ottoman center. Sultan Selim, caught off guard, lost control of his forces as confusion spread. The Ottoman army collapsed into a rout, leaving behind over 15,000 casualties.
The Ottoman cavalry engages the Italian musketeers at Hama
The Battle of Hama
Though victorious, Prince Francesco’s army was battered and in need of time to recuperate their strength. There was not even a question of pursuit. Of the 2,400 Italian cavalrymen who began the battle, only 600 remained fit for duty by the end. Lacking sufficient strength to go after the fleeing Ottomans, Francesco ordered his forces to consolidate and secure their position. The Italian prince, bearing the scars of shrapnel and grief for his lost companions, vowed never again to march with insufficient artillery, and this harrowing lesson would shape his future campaigns. For Sultan Selim I, the defeat at Hama was another severe blow. His inability to maintain control of his forces in the face of disciplined opposition highlighted the limitations of his battle leadership, particularly in maneuver. While the Ottoman Empire retained significant reserves, the loss undermined their control over northern Syria and emboldened Italian ambitions in the region.
When news of the victory reached Italy, it caused an immediate sensation. Couriers urgently delivered the triumphant message to Florence, where it was proclaimed to the public amidst great fanfare. Church bells rang out for days, and public prayers of thanksgiving were held in cathedrals across the Kingdom of Italy. Artists immortalized the event in grand paintings, some depicting the young Crown Prince Francesco leading the charge while others showed angelic figures guiding Italian cannons to victory. Extravagant celebrations erupted in major cities. In Naples, Prince Francesco’s seat, the populace lit thousands of lanterns that illuminated the city for three nights. Fireworks displays dazzled spectators, and poets composed verses extolling the prince’s heroism. A grand parade in Rome featured a gilded effigy of Prince Francesco, crowned with laurels and drawn through the streets by white horses, symbolizing his triumph over the Ottoman Sultan.
However, not all was to go the allies’ way. By mid-November 1698, Tunis was liberated by Muslim forces in a brilliantly coordinated assault led by General Murad Saber. Exploiting the overextended supply lines and the reduced Italian and Papal garrisons, Saber rallied a coalition of local militia, regular reinforcements, and desert tribes. Under the cover of night, the Tunisian forces launched a daring attack, first striking isolated allied outposts and severing communication between the defenders. The decisive blow came at dawn, as waves of Tunisian troops stormed the city walls in a ferocious melee. Overwhelmed, the allied forces fought valiantly but were eventually driven back into the city's inner quarters. The liberation culminated in a pitched battle in the Kasbah, where Murad Saber personally led his troops to seize control.
As 1698 drew to a close, the Kingdom of Italy stood ascendant but embattled, its forces stretched across continents. With steady news of unrest and rebellion across his empire, King Francesco II was eager to be done with the war against the Turks. Despite all the battlefield successes, Italy’s foe remained in the field and obstinate, refusing to come to negotiate. The king wanted to engineer a crushing blow that would finally force his counterpart to the table. The strategic situation presented him with just such an opportunity.
As the spring of 1699 began, Ottoman forces found themselves increasingly pressured. Sultan Selim I, though determined to maintain his realm’s sovereignty, faced multiple converging threats in the form of the various allied armies, and a Grand Vizier whose lack of military acumen compounded the challenges of Ottoman leadership. Diyarbakır, with its commanding position near the Tigris River and proximity to Roman ruins that symbolized ancient dominion, offered the Ottomans one last defensible position in the Levant. If it fell, the Turks would be forced from the Mediterranean and into Mesopotamia.
The armies that clashed at Diyarbakır represented a stark contrast in composition, leadership, and readiness. On the Ottoman side, Sultan Selim I commanded a numerically formidable force of 23,000 infantry, 5,000 cavalry, and an artillery corps of 17,000 men operating an estimated 283 guns. Yet this army, a patchwork of regular Ottoman units, allied Turkmen tribesmen, and Tartar cavalry, was poorly coordinated and plagued by chronic supply shortages. Morale was fragile after successive defeats, and neither Selim’s personal leadership nor that of the Grand Vizier could counterbalance the army’s deficiencies. Both men lacked the military expertise to effectively harness their troops, leaving the Ottoman forces vulnerable despite their size.
Facing them was an Austro-Italian coalition, led by King Francesco II de’ Medici and a separate army led by his son, the Prince of Naples. The coalition fielded a slightly smaller force of 21,000 infantry, 12,000 cavalry, and an artillery contingent of 4,000 men manning 67 guns. While numerically inferior, this army’s strength lay in its cohesion, superior training, and innovative tactics. Francesco II’s command emphasized devastating musket volleys and precise artillery fire, disciplines in which his forces excelled. The coalition’s logistical preparation and high morale, bolstered by a string of victories, gave it a decisive edge. The king’s strategic vision, supported by the grit of Austrian allies, underscored the effectiveness of the coalition army.
On the morning of 30 May 1699, the Ottoman army deployed on the western bank of the Tigris River, with the Roman ruins of Diyarbakır visible in the distance. Sultan Selim positioned his infantry in a central line, supported by artillery batteries. Turkmen and Tartar cavalry guarded the flanks, poised for rapid counterattacks. Facing them, the allies’ deployment leveraged the terrain, placing artillery on slight elevations to dominate the battlefield. Infantry formed disciplined lines, with cavalry massed on the flanks to exploit openings.
As dawn broke, the coalition artillery unleashed a thunderous barrage. King Francesco II’s superior fire-focused strategy exploited the Ottomans’ exposed positioning, devastating their forward lines and silencing several Ottoman guns. The Italians’ precision fire, a hallmark of their discipline, began to erode the cohesion of Selim’s forces. The Ottoman cavalry, under orders from Selim, attempted to outflank the coalition’s right wing. Yet the maneuver—executed sluggishly due to Selim’s limited command abilities—was countered decisively by Crown Prince Francesco, who led a contingent of Italian heavy cavalry in a sweeping countercharge. The Cavalieri di San Donato, a cavalry regiment hailing from the Tuscan town of Pistoia and led by the audacious Captain Bartolomeo Gherardi, performed a daring countercharge against the retreating Tartar cavalry, capturing an Ottoman standard and several supply wagons in the process. The regiment’s success further demoralized the Ottoman flanks.
The ensuing melee broke the morale of the Ottoman horsemen, forcing a chaotic retreat. With the Ottoman flanks crumbling, Francesco II ordered his infantry forward. Coordinated volleys, drilled to perfection, shattered the Ottoman central line. The Austrians, fighting with their customary grit, pressed the advantage, driving into the heart of Selim’s position. On the Austrian side, the St. Rupert’s Grenadiers from Salzburg fought valiantly in the infantry advance. Under the leadership of Colonel Otto von Gallenstein, the regiment broke through Ottoman lines with bayonets, a maneuver later celebrated in Austrian military songs. Gallenstein’s steadfast leadership and the discipline of his men exemplified the Austrians’ gritty determination. Ottoman resistance faltered as unit cohesion collapsed.
Sensing imminent defeat, Sultan Selim attempted to rally his forces, but his efforts proved futile. The presence of Grand Vizier Salim Esfahani Khan, whose lack of military expertise mirrored Selim’s own shortcomings, further exacerbated the chaos and disarray among the Ottoman ranks. Italian artillery, unscathed and still active, pounded retreating Ottoman formations. The remnants of Selim’s army fled across the Tigris, leaving behind their guns and supplies. By mid-afternoon, the coalition’s victory was complete.
The Battle of Diyarbakır marked the final, bloody climax of the war
Following the battle, in a moment that illustrated the Medici dynasty's mastery of the military field, father met son beneath the ruins of the fortifications of Diyarbakır, first erected by the Romans in 297 on the banks of the Tigris River. Upon dismounting his horse, the prince dropped to one knee and declared, “My Lord, I present Your Majesty with the banners of the Turkish Sultan, captured by your armies by battle and by siege.” Then the two men embraced. Even if by his own admission the king had not wanted a military life for his eldest son, he must have been proud. Against all odds, the Prince of Naples and his men had held out against the might of Tunis and Istanbul. His father had the well-earned notoriety for having captured Istanbul, but Prince Francesco's own campaign in the Middle East had been no less spectacular.
Sultan Selim, finally recognizing the futility of further resistance, sent emissaries to the coalition camp within days to negotiate peace terms. On 30 June 1699, Austria and the Ottoman Empire concluded their peace deal. Despite the allies’ overwhelming military superiority in the conflict, the war had sunk Austria deep into debt and the economy, along with Archduke George’s subjects, was suffering severely. Though the Italians could continue carrying on the war if forced, domestic political troubles and disruption of markets caused by the conflict put pressure on the crown to back any Austrian peace offer. On the other hand, the Ottomans maintained a large reserve of gold to fund their war machine. Istanbul’s conquest of the Iranian Plateau, which itself had been a long, bitter, and bloody affair, was once again proving its value. It gave the Porte strategic depth, and the Iranian economy, untouched by the war, was humming along, providing steady revenue to the state coffers. Despite even the loss of capital, and a steady flow of defeats since, the sultan’s armies remained in the field, and they even received their pay more regularly than their foes. The Tunisians, having liberated their capital from the Italians, were likewise well positioned to keep fighting, though their navies remained confined to the ports. The Habsburgs were the most desperate to see peace concluded and thus lost a great deal of leverage despite the allies’ extreme preponderance of battlefield successes. In the end, everything in the war, from the brilliant maneuvers of the Prince of Naples in Egypt to the bloody battles in Anatolia, would amount to the transfer of three provinces (Semendire, Trebine, and Visoki) from the control of Istanbul to the control of Vienna. Despite their combined military success on the battlefield, the war further soured relations between Italy and Austria.
The Treaty of Diyarbakır
A day later, Salim Esfahani Khan was killed in his tent, strangled with a silk cord, as was tradition. Along with his uncle and predecessor, Esfahani had been instrumental in the policy of rapprochement with Italy. Now the empire was once again in ruins because that policy had failed. However, there was no purge of Iranian-born civil servants after his death. More Albanians and Bosnians, who had traditionally staffed the upper echelons of the administration, did return to their posts. But there was only a balancing out of power, not a full change. Henceforth, the two sides would harden into eastern and western facing factions. The “Khans” wanted to focus on expanding into central Asia, fully integrating Iran into the empire, and growing the economy. The “Pashas” were instead the guardians of tradition and the continued fight against the Western Christians.
Archduke Georg Austria barely had the chance to enjoy the fruits of his victory. Only a few months later, on 30 September 1699, he died, likely of a heart attack, in his office in the Hofburg. Like his predecessor Franz, Georg died without a legitimate heir, thus leaving their youngest brother, Ferdinand III, to rule Austria.
The Mediterranean following the Treaty of Diyarbakır
Following the conclusion of the peace treaty at Diyarbakir on 30 June 1699, Matteo Giustiniani departed with ten regiments, all seasoned and fresh off a decisive and impressive destruction of the Ottoman armies. They sailed off to relieve the embattled army of the Società delle Indie, which was itself half made up of regular Italian regiments and privately recruited local troops commanded by Italian (or other European) mercenary officers. They had thus far failed to stop the rebellions from spreading or the rebel armies from moving with impunity and occupying major settlements. The new generals the Società had chosen to lead their forces were failing to rise to the occasion. Those company men who had quietly celebrated the death of Agostino Orsini due to his unpredictable and imperious personality, were perhaps wishing they now had the brilliant Roman commander’s skills at their disposal. Instead, they cowered in a handful of coastal forts, as all the semblance of company rule collapsed around them. Now, reinforcements were on the way, and soon the stalwart Giustiniani would fix all the problems, or so it was hoped.
King Francesco II departed with urgency in the other direction. Leading two regiments of cavalry, the King journeyed westward along the ancient trade routes to the port city of Alexandretta, a trek of nearly 500 kilometers across rugged terrain. The convoy maintained a grueling pace, arriving at the Mediterranean coast by 12 July. There, a pre-arranged Italian naval convoy awaited. The royal party embarked aboard the flagship Stella d'Italia, joined by its accompanying vessels. Navigating through the eastern Mediterranean's calm summer waters, they passed the islands of Cyprus and Crete before rounding Calabria and reaching the Italian port of Livorno on 3 August 1699. From there, King Francesco II traveled overland to Florence, arriving on 7 August 1699 to the jubilant acclamation of his subjects. After a few brief public appearances, the monarch retired to the Palazzo Pitti with Queen Maria Maddalena and a small cadre of trusted advisors. He intended to solve one of his realm’s greatest issues with one stroke.
The discussion over slavery in the Kingdom of Italy had always been shaped by moral debates, economic imperatives, and the kingdom's colonial ambitions. As early as the 1610s, the morality of slavery provoked fierce debates among nobles and merchants. Advocates like Folco de Roberti emphasized its profitability for the sugar and cotton industries, while opponents, including figures such as Pantaleone Gattilusio, condemned it as barbaric and un-Christian, equating it to piracy. Although King Alberto I had also condemned slavery, his actions never aligned with his words. The practice to persisted and proliferated in the colonies unabated, allowing powerful planter interests to enhance and consolidate their power. Italian colonies like Santa Lucia initially relied on indentured servitude, but over time, the burgeoning sugar economy led to increased demand for enslaved labor. By the second half of the 1600s, Italian merchants actively participated in the trans-Atlantic slave trade and colonies like Citta Giardino in Africa were key points for capturing and transporting enslaved people. When Pope Paul III issued a papal bull, Sublimis Deus (1631), condemning the enslavement of indigenous peoples in the Americas, it inadvertently also fueled the trans-Atlantic trade by shifting focus to African captives as a primary means of labor. Further, Italian merchants and apologists argued that African slavery was morally permissible under interpretations of African customs, and that they were simply buyers at an already existing market for captives.
On the other side, resistance to slavery emerged among clergy, poets, and nobles, who decried its immorality. Despite their efforts, the mercantile class's dominance often stifled progress and abolitionist influence in Italy itself was always minimal. More significant were the numerous uprisings that occurred both in Africa and in the Caribbean, such as Matuli’s rebellion in Cameroon, which put both military and economic pressure on the crown's colonial administration. Across the Atlantic, a series of small but fierce uprisings among the enslaved population of the Santee colony through the spring and summer of 1698 further added to the tension and challenges. By the end of the century, as economic realities shifted, the profitability of slavery was increasingly questioned. Further, as the incident with Colombia illustrated, it could even interfere with grand strategy.
King Francesco II had expressed opposition to slavery from early in his reign but was reluctant to act due to the entrenched power of the merchant class. Up to that point, the bold commander who led his armies on daring offensives against the Turks and Russians became suddenly hesitant and indecisive in the face of domestic opponents. It was instead Queen Maria Maddalena and her supporters who pushed the issue and demanded action. She helped matters by bringing two Ghibellines into the small council: Giovanni Abbiati and the Duchess of Milan. The queen consort’s show of unity despite her known antipathy toward the Duchess, convinced her husband to make deal that included political concessions to the Ghibellines in exchange for their party’s pledge not to publicly oppose the crown. Though they would not enforce any ban on individuals expressing opposition, the Ghibellines would not, as an organization, take a side. The rest of the details are not known, but it is likely that Francesco II made promises of further colonial expansion in Asia and reduction of tariffs and duties on imports. With the Ghibellines in the fold and the Guelphs always reliably loyal, the political stage was set for a grand spectacle.
Everything about the announcement was choreographed ahead of time. While her husband was off on military campaigns in foreign lands, Queen Maria Maddalena had remained behind in Italy, honing her political skills. Every detail was accounted for, starting with the date: 1 January 1700. That symbolism was obvious. More subtle was the location of the proclamation: before the Palazzo Vecchio, amidst the citizenry, not from the royal Palazzo Pitti. Maria Maddalena echoed the view of Emeka Izuchukwu; that abolition was the fulfillment of Florence’s republican destiny, and thus the king should proclaim the new order from the seat of the republic, in his capacity not as king, but as gonfaloniere.
Thus, on the first day of the new century, 1 January 1700, King Francesco II emerged upon the arengario, a specially built stage outside the Palazzo Vecchio. Standing before a throng of dignitaries, nobles, merchants, and commoners gathered in the piazza, the banners of Italy and the House of Medici streaming behind him, he issued a historic proclamation:
“I, Francesco II de' Medici, by the Grace of God and the Will of the People, King of Italy, etcetera, do order and declare that:
All persons, as well as their kin and descendants, held as slaves within the realms of the Kingdom of Italy, and any colonies or subsidiary parts and vassals, are, and henceforward shall be free. Furthermore, I proclaim that the rights and privileges of citizenship shall extend to all freed persons, ensuring their protection under the laws of this realm. Henceforth, no law shall be enacted permitting or endorsing slavery, and the institution of bondage shall be forever prohibited in all lands under Italian dominion. This marks the dawn of a century of freedom, a new chapter in the history of our great nation, where no man or woman shall live in bondage beneath our banners.”
The proclamation was met with resounding cheers, even from those who may not have been fervent opponents of slavery before. It was clear to all present that they were witnessing a momentous, historic moment. For the Guelphs, the royalist party, the proclamation was a moment of profound pride. “This is the moral destiny of the Medici dynasty,” declared Senator Giovanni Accorsi in Florence. “Through this act, we align the kingdom with divine justice and the enlightened ideals of our age.” Abolitionists, though few in number, were ecstatic. Father Matteo Lombardi, a prominent cleric who had long preached against slavery, called it “the triumph of righteousness over the chains of avarice.” Many of the abolitionist societies, largely made up of and led by women, celebrated the proclamation as a watershed moment. Queen Maria Maddalena, herself a longtime supporter of abolition, admired these societies and valued their input, often incorporating their views into her counsel to the king. “This victory belongs not just to the throne but to the countless women who fought tirelessly for the freedom of others,” she is quoted as saying during a gathering at court. The Catholic Church, for its part, lent full support to the measure, framing emancipation as a fulfillment of Christian doctrine. In Rome, Cardinal Benedetto Foscari proclaimed, “The dignity of every soul, regardless of origin, is sacred in the eyes of God. Through the king's decree, the kingdom mirrors the teachings of Christ.”
However, not everyone was happy. Though the Ghibelline party itself withheld any official opposition, much of the business community reacted with outrage and dismay. Accustomed to profiting from the colonies, many merchants and well-to-do citizens viewed abolition as reckless. “This rash decision will bankrupt our sugar planters and jeopardize our position in the Caribbean,” argued Callisto Amidei, “the king's lofty ideals have blinded him to the harsh realities of trade and prosperity.” His words, uttered during a meeting of the Livorno Merchants’ Guild, were met with thundering applause. Amidei, who held shares in several plantations in Santo Domingo, had no intention of watching his profits evaporate quietly. “The king has been led astray by soft, vacuous women, and betrayed the trust and friendship of all true men of business everywhere in this world,” complained Leandro Cavalcanti, the new head of the now-doomed Compagnia della Guinea.
The opposition to abolition was fierce, diverse, and rooted in fear of change, of lost wealth, and of an uncertain future. While the king’s decree was law, it would be years before the ripples of this transformative moment fully subsided. Across the kingdom, anger simmered not only among merchants but among landowning nobles who feared the implications of a broader shift in labor systems. The Marchese di Montalto, whose vineyards and olive estates near Siena were among the wealthiest in Tuscany, penned a venomous letter to his cousin, a parliamentarian in Florence: “if the king wishes to throw away fortunes, let him begin by dismantling the Medici family’s estates and see how much of his virtuous rhetoric survives when he lives as a pauper.” Though the Marchese’s holdings did not rely directly on enslaved labor, he resented the precedent this decision set, viewing it as an erosion of the established order that could one day threaten the dominance of landowners like him. In Venice, opposition took a subtler but no less venomous tone. Giacomo Morosini, a shipbuilder and prominent merchant, warned that abolition would lead to an inevitable decline in maritime dominance. “Who will buy our ships, our ropes, and our sails when the colonies fall into ruin? Every nail driven into a hull in the Arsenal of Venice relies on the colonies’ prosperity. The Guelph dreamers forget that empires are built not on sentiment, but on sweat and commerce.”
At court, where opposition often took the form of whispered dissent rather than open defiance, Lady Lavinia Orsini expressed her dismay in private correspondence to the Duchess of Milan. “You must see how this folly will undo the careful architecture we have built. The world is shifting under our feet, and if you do not press for a delay, or at least reparations, we will be handing the British and the Dutch a gift wrapped in ribbons of our own making.” While the Duchess herself remained publicly neutral, letters such as Lady Orsini’s fueled the growing network of opposition determined to safeguard their fortunes. “We have traded the stability of coin for the fragility of moral crusades,” Lorenzo della Gherardesca, a Ghibelline politician declared on the floor of the camera, “and when the king tires of emancipation and grand proclamations, it will be too late to salvage what we have lost.” For the average Italian, the news of emancipation had little immediate impact. The rural population, largely illiterate and consumed with day-to-day survival, regarded it as a distant political maneuver. “Freedom for some far-off slaves? What does that matter to a man with crops to tend?” a farmer in the hills near Lucca was recorded as saying at a public meeting at the local ufficio pubblico. To many, the struggles of their own lives overshadowed the significance of the decree, and the broader implications would take years to resonate fully across the kingdom.
The effects of Italy's Emancipation proclamation were felt far beyond the kingdom's borders. The traffic in captives was a huge part of the global economy, and the removal of such a major player from the market had widespread impacts. Two immediate beneficiaries of Italy's act of abolition were Portugal and Great Britain. The former, whose earliest African colony had been established in the 1400s, and who still controlled more territory in Africa than any other European power, only further entrenched themselves as the world's foremost human traffickers. However, it was the British who truly gained the most. They were less than a decade removed from toppling and conquering the Kingdom of Kongo, and now the removal of the Compagnia della Guinea suddenly opened the way for the Royal African Company to take over the non-Portuguese share of the market. The French, who only had a few tiny, isolated coastal fortresses on the continent and a huge demand for enslaved labor in French Brazil and Louisiana, bought from both. The Spanish and Norwegians did the same. The longer-term effects on the economy and the markets, both intended and unintended, would ripple for decades to come.
In the weeks following the proclamation, the Liberty Fleets set sail. Comprising Italian naval vessels, they carried government officials, clerics, and marines. Their mission was twofold: to deliver the news of emancipation to the colonies and to ensure order during the transition. Each ship bore proclamations and letters patent, signed and sealed by the king himself, affirming the decree's legitimacy.
The crews of the Liberty Fleets were prepared for potential unrest, their officers briefed on the volatile mix of jubilation and defiance awaiting them. Aboard the ships, royal commissioners clutched their copies of the king’s proclamation like holy writ, ready to deliver Italy’s thunderous decree of emancipation. Marines drilled daily, preparing for anything from peaceful celebrations to violent resistance. The fleets’ presence was not merely symbolic—it was a reminder of the crown’s resolve and the promise of protection for the newly freed.
By late April of 1700, the Liberty Fleets arrived in the Italian Indies, their sails cutting bright shadows against the turquoise waters. Cannons fired ceremonial salutes as their flagship, the newly christened and launched Santa Maria della Libertà, with an overall length of 56 meters and boasting 98 guns, entered the port of Forte della Palma. On the docks, a bewildered crowd awaited them. At each port, royal commissioners disembarked, accompanied by priests and marines in crisp uniforms. In the main squares of ports and settlements, they delivered their proclamations as large crowds gathered. As the messages were delivered there were mixed reactions. The planters and their managers and overseers were left in shocked silence as the newly freed citizens erupted in jubilation. Churches were soon overflowing with people singing te deums and hymns of liberation, their voices echoing off the stone walls. Meanwhile, plantation overseers whispered warnings of sabotage. That first night, in Santa Lucia, a fire broke out in one of the largest sugarcane fields—though the flames were doused quickly, the message was clear. Royal commissioners responded swiftly, ordering the arrest of suspected arsonists and deploying patrols of marines to protect freedmen from retaliation. Nothing, however, could stop the parties that went on throughout the night across the island. In the main square of Fortezza d’Italia, Commissioner Alessandro Bellotti read the king’s decree aloud to a restless crowd. Freedmen fell to their knees in prayer, while others embraced and danced in the streets. Bellotti later wrote to his superiors that he had never seen “so much joy tempered with so much fear.”
At the nearby plantation of Signor Gaspare Cataldo, the workers had already heard whispers of the king’s proclamation, but the owner refused to acknowledge it. When marines arrived to enforce the decree, they found Cataldo armed and barricaded in his manor with several overseers. A tense standoff followed, ending only when the marines stormed the estate and freed the people held there. Cataldo was arrested and sent back to Italy in chains to face trial, a cautionary tale to others who considered defying the crown.
In Guadeloupe, planters met secretly to plot their next moves. Among them was Vittorio Cavalcanti, a distant cousin of the Florence-based dynasty, who had smuggled weapons to the island in preparation for potential unrest. His plan to organize a counter-rebellion was foiled, however, when his letters were intercepted by a sympathetic freedman who passed them to the local magistrate. Cavalcanti fled into the jungle but was captured a week later. His failed conspiracy marked a turning point in Guadeloupe, where resistance to emancipation crumbled soon after.
In Dominica, where mountainous terrain separated plantations and towns, news of the Liberty Fleets spread faster than the ships themselves. By the time the Italian marines arrived in the capital, San Bartolomeo, freedmen had already taken matters into their own hands. The night before the proclamation was officially read, hundreds of former slaves marched from the inland plantations to the coast, carrying torches and chanting hymns of freedom. As they reached the town square, they were met by Father Giuliano Rispoli, who stood barefoot in the mud, blessing them one by one. Tensions flared as several plantation owners, armed and panicked, confronted the crowd. But the timely arrival of Italian marines prevented violence. Captain Fabrizio Manfredi, leading the local garrison, ordered the disarmament of the planters and warned them of the consequences of further unrest. By dawn, the proclamation had been read, and the freedmen began organizing communal celebrations. The following day, several newly freed families were offered contracts to work the land for wages, a sign that, despite the upheaval, life was beginning to reshape itself.
In Santee, the news arrived by May. Here, the atmosphere was more volatile. Freed slaves rejoiced openly, while landowners convened secret meetings to protest what they called an overreach by Florence. The Liberty Fleet's commanders acted swiftly, deploying marines to prevent uprisings and ensuring the establishment of tribunals to mediate disputes. For those who remained in bondage to the north, in the British colonies of the Carolinas, Virginia, and Chesapeake, a new southward road to liberty had opened. The Italian colony of Santee, once considered the most brutal of all the colonies on the European-controlled Atlantic Seaboard, was to become a destination that promised freedom. The proclamation had rendered slavery illegal, thus no human could be recognized as legal property in a court. This meant that it applied to non-Italians just as much as it did to the subjects of the King of Italy. Thus anyone enslaved in a British colony would, by law, be free the moment they crossed onto the Italian side of the border.
Across the Americas, maroon colonies—hidden enclaves of escaped slaves who had lived for years in defiance of their oppressors—emerged from their forested strongholds, no longer needing to hide. In the Blue Mountains of Santee, a group of maroons, their hair braided in warrior knots and muskets slung over their backs, marched into the nearest town with measured pride, their leader presenting himself before the Italian magistrate and demanding recognition as free citizens. In the deep jungles of Santa Lucia, entire families stepped from the shadows of the sugarcane fields where they had once launched daring raids against the plantations that had enslaved them, now walking openly in the streets for the first time without fear. On the island of San Vincenzo, a settlement of maroons, long thought lost to the world, sent emissaries into the capital, their elders draped in ceremonial cloth, to affirm their place in the new order. Some still approached cautiously, uncertain whether the king’s word would truly hold, but for the first time in living memory, they did so in daylight, no longer fearing the lash or the hound. Freedom had come, and with it, the end of a life spent in the shadows.
Though the arrival of the Liberty Fleets was met with varied reactions—jubilation, defiance, and sometimes violence—their presence marked a decisive moment in Italy’s colonial history. By the time the ships departed, the old order had been irrevocably broken. Some planters fled to French or British islands, seeking refuge in territories where slavery remained entrenched. Others reluctantly transitioned to wage labor, grumbling all the while about their dwindling profits. For the freedmen, the arrival of the fleets was not just the end of bondage but the beginning of a new struggle—for land, dignity, and the promise of prosperity. Through the rest of 1700 and the years to come, the effects of emancipation rippled across the empire. In some American colonies, the transition proceeded with remarkable grace, bolstered by the crown's support. Elsewhere, resistance brewed, setting the stage for future conflicts. All the while, the flame of rebellion blazed brightly in Kandy, Malabar, and Coromandel, while discontent smoldered in Yemen and the Horn of Africa. The century of freedom, so boldly proclaimed, would face its first trials in the years to come.
Europe at the start of the Eighteenth Century
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