Introduction: A Fateful Misjudgment

On June 1, 1528, Odet de Foix, Lord of Lautrec, stood confidently outside the walls of Naples, convinced that his French forces were on the verge of a decisive victory. In a moment of hubris, he declared to an Italian ally that the imperial armies of Charles V had triumphed in the past not through courage, but through sheer luck. He boldly proclaimed that fortune had now turned against them and that divine punishment awaited his enemies. History would prove him catastrophically wrong. Within weeks, Lautrec’s campaign would collapse, his army would disintegrate, and he himself would perish—all due to a single dramatic reversal that underscored the power of what contemporaries called “the fortune of Caesar.” This episode not only altered the course of the Italian Wars but also cemented the legend of Charles V’s seemingly supernatural luck, a theme that would define perceptions of his reign for generations.

The Siege of Naples: Strategic Stalemate and Naval Betrayal

By the spring of 1528, the French military campaign in Italy had reached a critical juncture. Lautrec’s forces had laid siege to Naples, aiming to break Habsburg dominance in the region. The city was isolated, its defenders running low on supplies, and French victory appeared imminent. However, the siege’s success hinged on maintaining a tight naval blockade, a task entrusted to the Genoese admiral Andrea Doria and his fleet of galleys. Doria, a seasoned commander and political magnate, had initially aligned with France, but his loyalty was tenuous, driven more by pragmatism than conviction.

Unbeknownst to Lautrec, Emperor Charles V had caught wind of Doria’s potential discontent. The emperor, renowned for his strategic patience, moved swiftly to exploit this opportunity. He dispatched envoys to negotiate with Doria, offering terms that were nothing short of extraordinary. In a treaty finalized in late June, Charles promised Doria command of the imperial navy, full pardon for past actions, ample funds and manpower to maintain twelve galleys, and—most significantly—the title of perpetual governor of Genoa once it was reclaimed from French influence. This offer appealed not only to Doria’s ambition but also to his patriotic desire to restore Genoese independence.

Doria’s defection was immediate and devastating for the French. He withdrew his fleet from the Bay of Naples, allowing imperial ships to resupply the starving city. Meanwhile, the French camp, already weakened by outbreaks of disease, began to crumble. Lautrec himself succumbed to illness, leaving his army leaderless and demoralized. By August, the remnants of the French force retreated to Aversa, only to surrender unconditionally days later, agreeing to restore all occupied territories to their pre-invasion status. The collapse was total.

The Ripple Effects: Geopolitical Shifts in Italy

Doria’s betrayal did not end with the relief of Naples. He sailed north to his native Genoa, entering the city in triumph on September 12, 1528. There, he expelled the French garrison and their local allies, particularly the rival Fregoso family, reestablishing Genoese autonomy under imperial protection. As historian Maurizio Arfaioli later noted, this double defeat—first at Naples, then at Genoa—proved more consequential than the Battle of Pavia three years earlier. France had lost not just a battle but its foothold in Italy altogether. Genoa, hailed as “the gate and key to Italy,” now lay firmly within the Habsburg sphere, giving Charles V control over vital Mediterranean trade routes and military corridors.

The shift in the balance of power was permanent. France’s ambitions in Italy were effectively crushed for decades, while Charles V’s influence reached its zenith. The episode also highlighted the fragility of alliances in Renaissance diplomacy, where personal loyalties and material incentives often trumped ideological commitments. Doria’s actions demonstrated how individual actors could alter the fate of nations—a theme that resonated deeply in an era obsessed with fortune and agency.

Why Did Doria Switch Sides? Motives and Myths

The question of why Andrea Doria abandoned France has intrigued historians for centuries. Contemporary accounts offer multiple explanations, ranging from the pragmatic to the prophetic. Emperor Charles V attributed the defection to the “shameful treatment” Doria and Genoa had received from the French crown. Indeed, Francis I of France had been slow to compensate Doria for his services and had often sidelined Genoese interests in favor of broader strategic goals. By contrast, Charles’s offer was not only generous but also recognized Genoa’s autonomy, a crucial point for a proud city-state accustomed to self-rule.

Economic factors also played a role. The treaty granted Genoese merchants equal trading rights with Charles’s subjects, including access to the burgeoning markets of the Americas. This opened lucrative opportunities for a maritime republic whose wealth depended on commerce. Yet Doria himself offered a more enigmatic explanation. When questioned by a courtier about his sudden change of allegiance, he claimed that over three consecutive nights, as dawn approached, a mysterious voice in his dreams urged him to “serve the emperor.” This anecdote, recorded by an eyewitness, may have been a metaphorical flourish, but it aligned perfectly with the Renaissance belief in supernatural guidance and the role of fortune in human affairs.

The Cult of Fortuna Caesaris: Luck as Political Power

The concept of “Caesar’s fortune” had deep roots in classical antiquity, where rulers like Julius Caesar were often depicted as favorites of the goddess Fortuna. This idea experienced a revival during the Renaissance, particularly in the volatile political climate of sixteenth-century Europe. For Charles V, whose empire spanned continents and whose challenges were immense, the narrative of divine favor became a powerful tool of legitimacy.

Charles himself frequently acknowledged his debt to fortune. His reign was marked by a series of improbable successes: his election as Holy Roman Emperor despite being a young and relatively untested ruler, his victory at Pavia against overwhelming odds, and now the sudden reversal at Naples. The birth of his son and heir, Philip, in 1527, further bolstered this image. Venetian ambassador Andrea Navagero observed that Charles’s luck had peaked with Philip’s arrival, providing stability and securing the dynasty’s future.

Other diplomats echoed this sentiment. A later Venetian ambassador reflected that Charles’s “ship of state” had always been “steered by favorable fortune.” Even pragmatic statesmen like Antonio de Leyva, who rarely indulged in mysticism, assured the emperor that God had created him for universal monarchy. This belief was not mere flattery; it reflected a widespread cultural acceptance that some individuals were destined for greatness, their paths smoothed by forces beyond human control.

Cultural Context: Renaissance Views on Fortune and Fate

The sixteenth century was an age deeply fascinated by the caprices of fortune. Humanist scholars revisited classical texts like Boethius’s “Consolation of Philosophy” and Machiavelli’s “The Prince,” which grappled with the interplay between virtue . Artists depicted the Wheel of Fortune in tapestries and paintings, reminding viewers that prosperity was fleeting and that even the mighty could fall. For rulers, cultivating an image of divine favor was essential to maintaining authority and inspiring loyalty.

Charles V’s reputation for luck also served diplomatic purposes. Allies were more likely to support a leader seen as blessed by providence, while adversaries might think twice before challenging him. This psychological advantage was particularly valuable in an era of constant warfare and shifting alliances. Moreover, the emphasis on fortune allowed Charles to frame setbacks as temporary anomalies rather than systemic failures, preserving his aura of invincibility even in defeat.

Legacy: The Long Shadow of 1528

The events of 1528 had enduring consequences for Europe’s political landscape. Genoa’s alignment with the Habsburgs transformed it into a financial and naval hub for the empire, bankrolling Charles’s campaigns and supplying ships for decades. France, meanwhile, turned its attention northward, focusing on conflicts with the Habsburgs in the Low Countries and Germany rather than Mediterranean adventures. The Italian Wars, which had dragged on for over thirty years, gradually wound down, paving the way for the Peace of Cambrai in 1529.

For Charles V, the victory at Naples and Genoa marked the high point of his reign. It validated his strategy of combining military pressure with diplomatic persuasion, and it reinforced the legend of his inexorable luck. Yet this very belief may have sown the seeds of later difficulties. Overconfidence led to overextension, as Charles pursued ambitious projects like the invasion of Algiers and the suppression of the Schmalkaldic League, often with mixed results. By the time he abdicated in 1556, his empire was straining under the weight of its own vastness, and fortune seemed to have finally turned elsewhere.

Conclusion: Fortune as History’s Wild Card

The story of Andrea Doria’s defection and the collapse of the French siege of Naples is more than a mere military episode; it is a window into the Renaissance mind. In an age where the lines between destiny and agency were blurred, the idea of “Caesar’s fortune” offered a compelling explanation for the unpredictable twists of history. Charles V’s ability to harness this narrative—whether through shrewd diplomacy, timely concessions, or sheer serendipity—proved as crucial as any army or treasury.

Today, we might attribute such turns of events to structural factors or individual rationality, but for sixteenth-century observers, the hand of fortune was ever-present. The tale reminds us that history is often shaped by moments of unexpected change, where a single decision—or a single dream—can alter the course of nations. In the end, Lautrec’s fatal miscalculation was not just about misreading his enemy’s luck; it was about underestimating the power of belief itself.