Machiavelli: The Novel

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Machiavelli: The Novel Page 9

by Joseph Markulin


  Michele turned to Niccolo with a shrewd smile. “And does one eat better at the Machiavelli’s?”

  “Yes, we eat better. Because my father worries a lot about eating.”

  Michele was a little puzzled. “Why does he worry about it? If you’ve got enough to eat, what’s there to worry about?”

  “Well,” Niccolo explained, “he worries about what he eats and when he eats it. He says that eating has to be done in an orderly fashion. Regular meals, regular times of day. We would never have eaten anything this late in the day. It puts a big strain on the digestion, and it gives you nightmares.”

  “At what time of day are you supposed to eat, then, so you don’t overburden the digestion?” asked the bandit.

  “We have two meals a day,” said Niccolo. “The first is always between nine and ten in the morning and the second is just before dark.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Michele, “I’ve always heard that the rich man eats when he’s hungry, and the poor man whenever he can.” But the bandit was amused at the rigor of the Machiavelli household. “Do you eat the same thing every day? Like Pagolo here with his beans? Is that part of the regularity?”

  Niccolo answered as if he were giving a prepared speech or reciting exercises memorized from his Latin grammar. It was clearly a lesson in which he had been rehearsed many times: “First we have the antipasto, which can be salad, fruit, little tarts, salame. Next is the boiled course, which can be pasta, soup, or poached meat or fish. After that comes the fried or roasted course, and after that, fruit, which is good for the digestion. It’s also important never to mix meat and fish in the same meal, so if the boiled course is fish, then the fried course has to be fish too.

  “But can I say something?” Niccolo blushed a little. “Despite the fact that you didn’t follow the correct order for the meal, and that we ate too late and I’ll probably be up all night with indigestion, everything was good, really, really good. My father would kill me, but I loved it.”

  Michele was pleased with the compliment. He liked this boy, so oddly dogmatic when it came to food, and he liked the boy’s chubby companion, who had some time ago fallen asleep in his chair. A little later, feeling comfortable by the fireside, Niccolo confessed to his host his earlier fears—that he had expected outlaws to lead a life of wild and filthy inhibition. “And I can’t believe that you live here the way you do. Everything’s just so, so . . . normal.”

  “Except we don’t eat our meals in the prescribed order of courses, or at the right time of day,” Michele observed.

  Niccolo continued, “I’m starting to think you’re not really an outlaw at all! You’re one of our contadini grassi, the fat, happy peasants.”

  “I may tend vines, keep goats, and trap thrushes, but don’t forget that when we met this afternoon, I was at the head of a band of armed men, Machiavelli. When the times call for it, I’m an outlaw.”

  “Then everything they say about the Archbishop and his bloody deeds is true?’

  “There have been—exaggerations,” Michele said. “Some of it’s true, some not. The part about me holding up the Archbishop of Burgundy is true enough, and that is how I got my name. But since then, a lot of men in these hills and on the roads have done a lot of things, some of them praiseworthy, some very vile indeed, and a lot of these things are attributed to me. So my reputation grows. The people want a legend.”

  “But you’ve killed men?” asked Niccolo.

  “A few,” replied the bandit, “but I’d say they were more animals than men.”

  “And you rob people?”

  “I take things. Let’s say that, from time to time, I redistribute things.”

  “Then you rob from rich and give to the poor!” concluded Niccolo triumphantly.

  “Only a stupid man would rob the poor, Machiavelli. They haven’t got anything to steal. Now the rich, they’re a different story, an altogether more inviting target.

  “So, occasionally when I hear of, ‘opportunities,’ or maybe a problem that needs solving, I put the word out, a few men come together, we do what we have to do, and then we go our separate ways. We vanish. And living a perfectly normal life, like a contadino grasso, as you put it, there’s very little chance of me being caught. Who would come and arrest a fat, happy peasant? Who would ever suspect?”

  “So you can go anywhere you want, and nobody would really recognize you. You could even go into Florence.”

  “If I wanted to, I suppose I could,” said Michele. “But why should I? From what I hear, there are plenty of thieves and cutthroats in the city already. No, there would be too much competition. My reputation would suffer. Besides, there’s the small matter of my family being banished from the city for seven generations.”

  “So your family is from Florence?” Niccolo was surprised, since he assumed Michele was from these craggy hills where he lived and plied his trade.

  “Aha! Spoken like a true Florentine!” trumpeted Michele. “Sooner or later they all start asking questions about your family. No other city in Italy is as obsessed with ancestry as Florence. And the big question is always, ‘Is your family Florentine?’” Being a Florentine! The ultimate pedigree! Yes, Machiavelli,” he conceded, “my family is from Florence.”

  “You were born in Florence, and now you’re banished for being a notorious outlaw?” asked Niccolo. “Officially?” He had never before met anyone who was officially banished. “By decree?”

  “I am officially banished. By decree. But I wasn’t born in Florence. I never had the privilege. It’s not that I’m banished for being a bandit. It’s the other way around. The reason I’m a bandit is because I was banished in the first place. Because of my grandfather.”

  Michele stopped for a moment, pensive. Niccolo had been watching his hands. They were big, sinewy hands, far bigger than the hands of most men his size. When Michele spoke, the hands were in constant motion, delivering a running commentary on his account, adding emphasis, expressing anger and then satisfaction.

  As he paused for a moment, Michele thoughtfully raised a finger from one of those gnarled hands and stroked at the long scar that trailed across his forehead, down through his dead eye and then down his cheek. It resembled nothing so much as the numeral 7 written boldly on his face in blood.

  Niccolo thought the scar the most magnificent thing he had ever seen. Stark, powerful, and evocative. Romantic too. Without being aware of it, the boy had begun to run a thoughtful finger down his own cheek in imitation of the bandit. In the place where the scar should be.

  “What did he do? Your grandfather?”

  “He led a revolt, a revolution. Did you ever hear of the revolt of the Ciompi?”

  “No. Who were the Ciompi?”

  “You don’t know your history, Machiavelli.” chided the outlaw.

  “I certainly do,” said Niccolo indignantly. “I’ve studied Livy, and I know all about Romulus and Remus, and the rape of the Sabines, and Marius and Sulla and, and Caesar and the Rubicon, and Brutus and Cassius and Mark Anthony—”

  Michele cut him off. “You know all about these things that happened a thousand years ago, God knows where, in some Rome before the priests invaded, but you don’t know what happened in your own city a hundred years ago. Some Florentine!”

  Niccolo looked embarrassed.

  Michele continued, “The Ciompi were the clothworkers, the miserable, despised clothworkers, the salt of the earth. They called them the Ciompi because of the clogs they wore in the washing sheds, those heavy, clomping, clunking wooden clogs. Would you like to hear the story of the day they rose up against their masters? Would you like to hear about their revolution? About the time those clogs marched through the streets of Florence, about how an army in clogs took over the whole city?”

  Niccolo nodded his head eagerly, indicating that he would indeed like to hear such a story.

  Michele began with a long, thoughtful preamble, “They say that most cities are torn with one great division, but Florence is different, isn’t
she? She distinguishes herself above all others in being torn constantly with a thousand divisions, great and small. Not content with two warring factions, she’s produced hundreds. If any one faction gets the upper hand, why hardly is its triumph complete and its power consolidated, than it splits into two and the fighting begins all over again . . .” The bandit stopped. He laughed to himself. “I should have been less longwinded,” he thought, for his guest was already fast asleep.

  There was a window overhead, and Niccolo raised himself to look out. There were no curtains. Of course not, he was in the country. But his view was blocked by a heavy, oiled piece of cotton stretched over a wooden frame that served to let in the light but keep out the deadly drafts that blew in at night and killed people in their sleep. He pulled it aside and noticed that the sun was already high in the sky. Almost noon. A guilty, involuntary reflex reminded him that lying in bed had caused him to miss the nine o’clock meal. Was that his father’s voice?

  He sank back down and noticed the deep depression in the mattress where Pagolo had been. It was the kind of day that was bound to present too many problems, too many choices. It was the kind of day you wanted to skip. Drift back to sleep. Yesterday he had been eager for adventure. Today the thought terrified him. Absolutely no more adventures.

  Ultimately, it was the burning sensation in his bladder that forced Niccolo from his makeshift bed in the storeroom.

  Bootless in his urgency, and already fumbling with the laces of his hose as he ran, he tore around the back of the house, certain that he would never get the knots undone in time. In a final effort of supreme self-control, he succeeded in freeing himself. Then the dam burst. Niccolo propped himself against the side of the house for what he knew would be a protracted watering and watched the puddle form at his feet. It grew in volume and began to trickle downhill. Sighing in blessed relief, his eyes followed the meandering little stream. How far would it go? Niccolo directed his eyes a little ahead to get the lay of the land and to see what obstacles his rivulet might encounter. Nothing in the way for a while, dirt packed by the passage of men and animals, a good hard surface, a shallow rut made by a cartwheel could be a problem, probably slow things up, some grass, a pair of small black boots and the hem of a black dress . . . Niccolo choked.

  The Saint! The Angel! The girl was standing there, staring at him, not fifteen feet away!

  He gulped. He stuttered. He stammered. He attempted an explanation, but eloquence had deserted him. Finally, giving up on the possibility of oral communication, he shrugged his shoulders, resignedly, and held out both hands, palms up—what can I say?

  “Well, go ahead, aren’t you at least going to finish what you started?” The curiosity on her face was giving way to amusement at the hapless boy’s dilemma. “I suppose I could turn around and let you finish in peace. Shall I?” Niccolo mumbled something as she pivoted and swung gracefully around.

  “Jesus Christ,” he thought. “Now she’s just going to stand there. And wait. I can’t do it. Not now. She’ll hear it!” He gave up and pulled his laces tight, tighter than usual, as an extra precaution. His ears were burning. “It’s alright. I’m done. You can turn around.”

  The girl’s attempts to stifle her amusement were proving unsuccessful. What began as a titter was turning into the kind of lusty laughter that would soon leave her short of breath. The sight of the solemn, frowning Niccolo only served to redouble her mirth. The polite smile that he forced across his face did little to conceal his acute uneasiness.

  By degrees, her laughter subsided and she managed to get a hold of herself. She dried her eyes and regained the use of her voice. “I’m sorry. You just seemed so, so—pitiful, so guilty, as though you’d been caught in the act of doing something really dreadful. Come on now; you can relax. I won’t tell anybody. Your terrible secret is safe with me.” She was giggling again.

  Stunned. Devastated. Beyond humiliation. Niccolo was on the point of trudging off in silence to nurse his wounded pride. But his tormentor rescued him by tacitly agreeing to abandon the delicate and painful subject. “Come on, let’s go for a walk. My name is Giuditta, and yours?”

  “Niccolo,” he grunted.

  As the two walked, she kept up a steady barrage of questions, inquiring into the minutest details of Niccolo’s circumstances—his household, family, likes and dislikes, what he ate and what he didn’t. Barely was Niccolo able to satisfy her on one account before she would redirect her probes in another direction. He was getting uncomfortable. This wasn’t a conversation, it was an inquisition.

  When the assured young woman had gathered enough information to fill an encyclopedia on Niccolo, the Machiavelli, Florence, and the organization of the Christian world in general, she paused for a moment, then, “You’re such a quiet boy,” she chided. “Are all Christians as stingy with their conversation as you?”

  Niccolo was mortified. He had been accused of many things—laziness, arrogance, disrespect—but never of being quiet! Among his companions he enjoyed a reputation for a sharp and relentless tongue. He took great pride in his verbal abilities and had come to regard conversation not so much as an exchange but as a duel. With Pagolo, he was truly merciless, but then Pagolo was so easy to tease, and he took it so well. But this girl had caught him completely off-balance. Like an adroit swordsman, aggressively pursuing some initial advantage, she had charged into this dialogue and would not let up. Groping for an explanation, all the while continuing to fend off the ongoing cross-examination, Niccolo concluded it was the fact that she was a Jewish girl that had thrown him off and tied his tongue in hopeless knots. He had never spoken to a Jewish girl before, never spoken to any Jew before. The explanation satisfied him. But Niccolo was a boy of twelve, and it did not occur to him that his discomfort stemmed not from the fact that she was a Jewish girl, but that she was, quite simply, a girl.

  “You know,” she was saying, “this is the first time I’ve ever spoken to a Christian boy. I’m sorry if I’ve hounded you, but there are so many things I wanted to know.” More wounded pride.

  By this time the two jousters, one badly beaten down, had circled Michele’s properties and come to rest at the goat pen, face-to-face. During the lengthy questioning, Niccolo had not dared to look directly at his assailant. Although painfully aware of the animated presence alongside him, he had chosen instead to concentrate his attention on his own feet and the small stones that he kicked down the dirt path ahead of them.

  He was mildly surprised when he saw her face for the first time, close up. She was much darker than he had imagined the night before. The moonlight had played a trick on him, bathing her in its unnatural, white light, hence his first impression that there was something otherworldly about her, something angelic, something saintly. She was no saint today.

  She had a wide, full mouth that curled and uncurled into a hundred different smiles. Thick hair, thick eyebrows. Dark, but comely. Niccolo took heart from her appearance. The verbal tidal wave that had overwhelmed him had subsided, at least momentarily, as the Christian boy and the Jewish girl appraised each other in silence.

  Niccolo saw an opening. “Can I ask a question, or would that be speaking out of turn?”

  “Of course you can ask a question,” she feigned surprise. “If you want. You know, I thought you were terribly timid, and so I kept talking to keep you from being embarrassed. But if you want to say something, go right ahead. I don’t mind a bit.” The girl had been speaking rapidly throughout their colloquy, so fast in fact, that at times Niccolo had trouble keeping up with her. And now, if such a thing were possible, she seemed to be picking up the pace.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? I thought you had a question. Aren’t you going to ask it?” Her voice was rising in pitch, uneven, swerving from one register to the next, careening a little out of control. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  Niccolo thought he understood what might be going on in the girl’s mind behind the verbal bravado and the gales of laughter. She was making
a desperate attempt to stave off the memories and the horrors of the day before by talking, by laughing, by listening, by losing herself in something, anything, by feigning gaiety, by teasing him, by grilling him on countless, meaningless details. But the horror was breaking through the fragile defenses she was constructing and forcing itself upon her again. As Niccolo watched, fascinated but helpless, the bravado dissolved, the mask fell, and her words turned to sobs.

  When she had regained some of her composure, the girl wiped her swollen eyes and made a show of courage. “I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  “I know,” was all that Niccolo could say. But he said it with genuine emotion and with an uncommon depth of understanding and sympathy. He had been there too. And out of that dreadful event, a bond was forged. They stood there staring at each other, and there was silence between them and in heaven for the space of about half an hour.

  “What’s that?” said Niccolo, breaking the trance and indicating a large, mawkish yellow emblem emblazoned on the sleeve of the girl’s dress.

  It’s a badge, a sign,” she said noncommittally. The badge in question was about the size of a man’s hand. It looked like a wheel with spokes, or a cosmological representation of the sun or a star.

  “What does it mean?” asked Niccolo.

  “That I’m a Jew,” was the response.

  “Do all Jews wear them?”

  “We’re supposed to,” she was volunteering nothing.

  Niccolo dug deeper, “Is it a religious sign?”

  “I imagine it is, although it has no meaning in my religion. I assume it must have some meaning in yours.”

  The response was less than satisfactory. Niccolo was getting frustrated, and puzzled. “If you don’t even know what it means, why do you wear it?”

  The girl sighed, and proceeded patiently, as though explaining something simple for the tenth time to an obtuse child, “I wear it because I’m required by law to wear it. Not by my law but by your law, the pope’s law. All Jews are required to wear them.”

 

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