JOHANNA HUBER / 4CORNERS IMAGES-SIMEPHOTO

FLAUNTED HOUSE Looming over Urbino, the Palazzo Ducale is a symbol of power and creativity

TIL LEESER / BILDERBERG

OUR TOWN Clockwise from left: Locals relax in town near the palace

The Thinking Man’s Disneyland

Duke Federico da Montefeltro was the top military mind of the Renaissance, but his greatest achievement is a palatial tribute to art and artists

By JOSH TYRANGIEL

Palazzo Ducale, Italy

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Before we praise one of the great Italian man-made wonders, let us wonder over the greatness of Italian Man, specifically the Italian man behind the car-hire desk at Bologna airport. While it's true he lost my reservation, had no cars left to rent and appeared close to violence when I hinted that this was something of an inconvenience, eventually, after some sparkling conversation with my beautiful, Italian-speaking wife, he remembered, yes, he did have one last vehicle, a 12-seat Mercedes van. This he handed over with a smile so magnanimous that I took the phrase he uttered through it to mean, "Return it if you want, but don't worry if you can't." Then he insisted we visit his favorite wine bar, not 10 minutes from the airport. Only in Italy will someone suggest you get drunk before handing you the keys to their car.

Our man in Bologna may be a broad type, but it is a type that has had a generous influence on Western civilization. One of his cultural ancestors, Duke Federico da Montefeltro (1422-1482), was also quick to anger, but once you got to know him, and particularly if you had something he admired, he would do more than just lend you a van — he'd build you a palace. Like all great Renaissance men, Federico was a liberal humanist with diverse interests. He also happened to be the most accomplished military strategist in 15th century Europe, and he used his immense profits as a freelance killing machine to turn Urbino, his hometown in the Marche region on Italy's east coast, into the Greenwich Village of the Quattrocento, a place where architects, soldiers, intellectuals and painters could commune under the umbrella of his largesse. The Renaissance might have happened without the duke, but it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun.

Federico's greatest achievement was the construction of the Palazzo Ducale. Five hundred and fifty years ago, there was no conspicuous consumption, just conspicuousness; if you had ducats, you built something to prove it. Today, the palace looms over Urbino much as it did then, like a giant yellow brick wedding cake. You can see its two trademark towers from a considerable distance, but up close what's notable is what's missing. Every contemporaneous castle in Italy had a moat to ward off invaders, but Federico decided he didn't need one. He was that kind of powerful. He also wanted artists to understand that they were welcome to use his place as their own.

JOE CORNISH

ON THE UP The spiral staircase in one of the palace's towers

Urbino is now a university town with a permanent population of just 15,000, and maneuvering through its narrow, walled streets takes about five minutes, even in a van the size of Pavarotti. Once you park, there are two choices: start drinking in the sun-drenched Piazza della Repubblica, or go to Federico's. Putting duty first, we entered the palace and immediately realized that this was not just another of the extravagantly fussed-over behemoths that dot Italy like diners on Route 66. Standing in the Cortile d'Onore, with its perimeter framing a perfect square of sky, you feel the exuberance of Renaissance design, the mix of simple geometric forms with impossible parabolic flourishes, like the vaulted ceiling. You also feel the duke. A lengthy inscription runs across the double cornice that trumpets Federico's unrivaled beneficence and undefeated record in battle. To paraphrase, it says, "I'm a special guy."

We made our way up the grand staircase under gold-filigreed FE-DVX engraved lintels (the duke, it seems, had a little P. Diddy in him) and began exploring from the top down. The palace doubles as the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, and the paintings within are a reminder that Renaissance life was still fairly religious — there's lots of Jesus on the cross and Madonna con Bambino. The art at the Uffizi in Florence is better, but with the crowds and the constant clicks of digital cameras, a visit to the Uffizi (or any other major museum for that matter) has become an artless experience. At the Palazzo Ducale, none of the paintings are behind glass or roped off. You move around at your own pace or relax on one of the centuries-old marble window seats and actually get to know the images. It's amazing how good art can become great when you have a moment to appreciate it.

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The paintings on the first floor lean more toward the secular, and one in particular, Ideal City, belongs near the top of any list of great Renaissance works. The painting, by an unknown artist, is a dream of a city so pure and precise that the creator actually left people out of it. Still, it's a reminder of a moment when Europeans thought of cities as the basis of civilization and vehicles for progress, when close proximity to your neighbor wasn't a sentence but a requirement of an enlightened life.

Like all meaningful brushes with history, the Palazzo Ducale constantly plays with your sense of time. Look at Ideal City or peer down the seemingly endless spiral staircase in one of the towers and you feel the chasm between past and present. Then you turn a corner into the duke's study and the centuries disappear. From eye level to the floor, the room is a series of wood panels with exquisite inlaid images of Federico's favorite things — musical instruments, suits of armor and loads of books. Above, there are 28 portraits arranged in two rows. The lower row is devoted to great religious figures, while the upper pays tribute to thinkers and writers. A few of the portraits were removed in 1632 and now hang in the Louvre, but otherwise the room is so lovingly and casually preserved that you never doubt that a great man once passed happy hours here, or that he might stroll back in at any moment.

The wonders of the palace are fairly ceaseless. There's a massive subterranean layer where wines were stored and baths taken, and almost everything is an example of civilization at its then peak. But the greatest wonder is that on a good day you might have the place to yourself. Urbino is far enough from the tour-bus routes of Tuscany that you hardly ever run into sun-scorched holiday makers, and it's close enough to the Adriatic that most Italians speed right by on their way to the beach. In an entire afternoon, we crossed paths with just a handful of fellow wanderers.

Just off the duke's study are two tiny alcoves: the Temple of the Muses and the Chapel of Forgiveness. (Between his battlefield deeds and the fact, generally agreed upon by historians, that he assisted in the killing of his half brother, Federico had a lot to absolve.) I sat on the floor in both rooms and absorbed the feel of history, whistling to hear the little echoes and gently rubbing my hands over the stone floors. Maybe I was being a tad presumptuous, but I don't think the duke would have minded.

Five hundred and fifty years ago, there was no conspicuous consumption, just conspicuousness; if you had ducats, you built something to prove it

When the sun began to set we strolled down to the Piazza della Repubblica for an aperitivo and watched students flirt with each other while old people clucked their tongues in affectionate rebuke. It was almost too much. The next morning we returned to the square for coffee and behind us a table full of Italian men burst into perfect 12-part harmony. That was too much, so we returned to the palace for a quick tour of things we missed. (Like the two busts of Federico by different artists who more or less agree: he looked like British actor Michael Gambon with a profoundly busted nose.) Then we hit Urbino's other main cultural attraction, the childhood home of the painter Raphael. Like the Palazzo Ducale, it's a place where history is presented with breathtaking ease, and you can pass undisturbed stretches sitting by the well in the little courtyard where Raphael once played.

At the bookstore next door we learned that Federico's grave was in a small church on the way out of town, and after lapping up the duke's hospitality we figured the least we could do was pay him a quick visit. The church has a nice view of Urbino and the Palazzo Ducale, but it seemed like a humble resting place for a man who enjoyed seeing his name in gold and provided a place for the people he didn't kill to create great things. For a moment I contemplated sliding his stone casket into the van (plenty of room, after all) and taking it somewhere grander, but the bust of Federico's magnificently crooked face seemed to suggest there were other ways to pay tribute. So we hit the autostrada to return our great van to a great man, and to find that wine bar.

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FROM THE JULY 4/11, 2005 DOUBLE ISSUE OF TIME EUROPE MAGAZINE; POSTED SUNDAY, JUNE 26, 2005.