A naval expedition was unsuccessful, but a land attack on southern Italy prevailed: Otranto was captured. In 1521, Suleiman marched into Hungary; five years later, at the battle of Mohács, the Hungarians were severely defeated and Budapest was seized. Encouraged by Francis I of France against the Emperor Charles V, Suleiman laid siege to Vienna, and part of the Turkish army marched into Germany as far as Regensburg. In 1532 Suleiman again bore down upon Vienna.2 In addition to these menaces by land, Moorish pirates, operating from the coast of north Africa, harassed European shipping in the Mediterranean. Khair-ed-Din (better known as Barbarossa) built up Algiers as a stronghold of piracy. So intolerable was this molestation that Charles V enlisted the Genoese admiral Andrea Doria to clear the Mediterranean of Corsair vessels, an achievement for which Ariosto sings his praises.3

The Orlando Furioso is as deeply concerned with the events and personages of its author’s lifetime as it is with the conflict between the Carolingians and the infidels. During the twenty-seven years of its composition the poem underwent a continuous process of development. Its dynamic response to contemporary affairs, what has been well termed its ‘mobility’, 1 has resulted in a stereoscopic effect, showing the reader eighth-century and sixteenth-century Europe in perspectives which relate to each other. An important instance is the relationship of Charlemagne as unifying head of the Christian world to the figure of the Emperor Charles V who, in much the same way as the Emperor Henry VII may be said to have entered the Divina Commedia, entered the Furioso on succeeding to his vast inheritance in 1519. No Emperor since Charlemagne had mattered so much to Christendom. Of simple and unshakeable faith, he was the last of the Holy Roman Emperors to pursue the medieval ideal of universal empire. He saw clearly the need for Europe to present a united front against the Turkish menace; and as heir to the Spanish throne he had inherited the traditional struggle of the Spanish kings against Islam. That he failed to unite Europe and that he was defeated in his aims as a Catholic monarch by the reforming movement in Germany is not relevant to the poem. What is significant is the light in which Ariosto presents him.

In Canto XV, while Astolfo, the English duke, is sailing westwards across the Indian Ocean, his guide, Andronica, prophesies the voyages of explorers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, reserved by Providence until the coming of Charles V:

‘God’s will it was that in the ancient days

This path across the globe should be unknown;

And seven centuries must run their phase

Before the mystery to man is shown,

For, in the wisdom of the Almighty’s ways,

He waits until the world shall be made one

Beneath an Emperor more just and wise

Than any who since Augustus shall arise.

‘A prince of Austrian and Spanish blood

Born on the Rhine’s left bank, behold, I see:

With valour such as his no valour could

Compare, in legend or in history.

I see Astraea with new power endued,

From death restored to life and victory.

I see the virtues, by the world exiled,

Return in triumph, and all vice reviled.

‘For valour, whence all other virtues stem,

God wills not only that this Emperor

Shall wear upon his brow the diadem

Which Roman Emperors have worn before,

But, glittering with many a new gem,

His sceptre shall encompass many a shore

Which knows no season but the winter’s cold;

And there shall be one shepherd and one fold.’1

In the light of this ideal and of the need for unity, it is not surprising to find Ariosto rebuking other Christian monarchs for their mutual hostility:

No longer now defenders of the faith,

With one another Christian knights contend,

Destroying in their enmity and wrath

Those few who still believe; make now an end,

You Spaniards; Frenchmen, choose another path;

Switzers and Germans, no more armies send.

For here the territory you would gain

Belongs to Christ; His kingdom you profane.

If ‘the most Christian’ rulers you would be,

And ‘Catholic’ desire to be reputed,

Why do you slay Christ’s men? Their property

Why have you sacked, and their belongings looted?

Why do you leave in dire captivity

Jerusalem, by infidels polluted?

Why do you let the unclean Turk command

Constantinople and the Holy Land?2

With the election of Pope Leo X, there was perhaps hope of a change of policy:

And you, great Leo, bearing on your back

St Peter’s burden, do not still allow

Fair Italy to sleep in sloth for lack

Of your strong arm to pull her from the slough.

You are the Shepherd: from the wolves’ attack

Defend your flock; stretch forth your right arm now.

Like your proud name, chosen for you by God,

Be leonine and worthy of your rod.1

The link between the eighth and sixteenth centuries could hardly be more clearly pointed than in these stanzas in which Ariosto interrupts his narrative to rebuke and exhort his contemporaries. Explicit, too, is the relevance of the poem to Ariosto’s patrons, the Duke of Ferrara, Alfonso I, and his brother, Cardinal Ippolito, whose origins he traces back to the House of Troy.2 Addressed directly to Ippolito, the poem is offered as a second Aeneid, though with becoming modesty Ariosto laments the inadequacy of his powers in comparison with Virgil’s:

In truth, to sing of all its glorious deeds,

This new Augustan age a Virgil needs.3

Ariosto’s fulsome praise of the House of Este, on whom he depended for a livelihood, has been judged distasteful by his more fastidious readers. In fairness to Ariosto, it must be conceded that there was much which he could genuinely praise. This Guelf family, who took their name and titles from the township and castle of Este, were of Lombard descent and had connections, dating from the eleventh century, with the princely houses of Brunswick and Hanover.4 They first acquired political importance in Ferrara in the twelfth century through marriage with the Marcheselli family, who were the leaders of one of the two main factions in the city. The other faction was led by the Torelli, who remained rivals of the Estensi until 1240 when Azzo Novello (1205–64), having been expelled from Ferrara by Salinguerra Torelli, returned to power with the support of the Guelf League formed by Pope Gregory IX. The rule of the Estensi over Ferrara was formalized after the accession to the head of the family of Obizzo II (1240–93), who was created perpetual lord by the Ferrarese and also chosen as lord of Modena and Reggio Emilia. Family disputes arose in which both Venice and the Papacy became involved. Eventually Pope Clement V, who was overlord of Ferrara, prevailed with the help of the Angevins of Naples. In 1317 the Ferrarese rebelled against King Robert of Anjou and called back their former rulers. From then on the Estensi governed Ferrara without interruption for nearly three centuries. Pope John XXII created them papal vicars and Pope Paul II conferred a dukedom on Borso d’Este in 1471.

Ariosto, surveying the creation of this dynasty from its turbulent beginnings to its sixteenth-century glories, must have felt his pulses leap in recognition of an epic theme. The court, one of the most brilliant in Europe, attracted a concourse of poets, scholars and artists. Niccolò II, who ruled from 1361 to 1388, had given hospitality to Petrarch; Alberto (1388–93) founded the University; Niccolò III (1393–1441) was the patron of Guarino da Verona and of Pisanello; Leonello (1441–50) and his brother Borso (1450–71), both patrons of art and learning, made Ferrara illustrious as a centre of culture. The Schifanoia palace, with its frescoes by Francesco Cossa representing the seasons and the months, was one of the glories of Italy. Ercole I (1471–1505), who with the help of the architect, Biagio Rossetti, planned the new district, known after him as the Addizione Ercolea, made Ferrara the first modern city in Europe. The stately symmetry of her streets and squares, laid out in accordance with the principles of Alberti, her monumental palaces in their superb gardens were the admiration of all visitors. The palace of Belriguardo with its frescoed halls, its gardens adorned with fountains and statues, its skilfully designed perspectives, seemed to Ludovico Sforza when he saw it in 1493 to be the most beautiful place in the world.