Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  In another part of town, across the river and nestled among the shabbier dwellings, was a house or an establishment whose inhabitants were not praying in silence and who did not appear to be asleep. Light leaked out from around the shutters, as did noise—drunken singing and shouting and cursing and boasting, the unmistakable sounds of a tavern.

  The nightly curfew was in effect, and as was often the case, the patrons of this tavern, rather than risk arrest on charges of disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace, and rather than pay the fines associated with these charges, had elected to stay the night in the tavern. The inclement weather further swelled the numbers of the late-night crowd.

  The tavern itself was unremarkable and no different from countless similar establishments throughout Florence, Italy, and the world. It was furnished with stout tables, stout benches, and stout barmaids. Drink and talk flowed freely. The sights and sounds, as familiar then as they are now, were universal in their appeal.

  Tobacco smoke was, of course, absent, since the rolling, burning and inhalation of that broad-leaf plant would not achieve any significant popularity for at least another hundred years. While the tavern air was free of the acrid smell of burning tobacco, it was no clearer or less suffocating because of it. Smoke there was in abundance from the greasy, yellow tallow burning in the lamps, and it had imparted its greasy, yellow luster to the walls and fixtures of the place. But since the eyes of the patrons were generally glazed and unfocused and the lamps were dim, and since the harsh light of day rarely entered here, no one ever noticed.

  Among the customers oblivious to the sticky, unsanitary surroundings on this particular night, was a boisterous, inebriated Niccolo Machiavelli. In a month, he would attain the age of twenty-three. Eleven years had passed since the traumatic events of his childhood already recorded. In that time he assiduously cultivated his education by day and, as soon as he was old enough, his restless, bawdy pleasures by night. Although interested in women, he had not yet, at this point in his life, seriously entertained thoughts of marriage, preferring instead to pass his time in the company of women to be found in places like this tavern, where embraces were firm and commitments fleeting.

  At present he was seated on a low bench and slouched back against the wall for support, but when he stood up, he was tall enough. He was thin, but not gangly or awkward. His nose was long and straight, his brown eyes, alive. While his head was rather on the small side, he carried it well on his shoulders and wore his dark hair long. Had it been shorter, as it was to be in later life, it would have been obvious that there was a certain asymmetry in the size and placement of his ears.

  His most salient feature, however, the one that most struck people upon meeting him for the first time, and the one that stayed in their minds afterward as characteristic of him, the one that a skilled caricaturist would have chosen to exaggerate, was the expression on his face. He could not easily rid himself of a sarcastic twist that played continually about his mouth, curling and uncurling his lips. The same sardonic signals flashed from his eyes, and it gave him the air of an extremely astute observer—and a very skeptical one as well. Even drunk, his powers of observation were constantly engaged, and little escaped his detection, just as now he was aware of the fumbling hand of his companion, Biagio Buonacorsi, reaching out under the table to explore the plump and waiting thighs of this Beatrice. Biagio called them all Beatrice, out of profound respect for the chastity of the poet Dante’s exalted lover.

  When he talked, Niccolo Machiavelli talked too fast—not a nervous or unsure kind of fast, but a breathless, excited fast. It was as if the rushing words were trying in vain to keep pace with the thoughts that were flying, one after another, through his head at tremendous speed. He was rarely at a loss for words, and even when he had been drinking, his eloquence did not desert him.

  Niccolo’s companions for the evening included a relatively recent acquaintance, Biagio Buonacorsi, and a very old friend, Pagolo Pulci, as well as “Beatrice” and her sisters, daughters of unemployed wool workers and girls from the country whose time and favors the gallant young gentlemen were able to acquire on a cash-and-carry basis.

  The ostensible cause for this evening’s merrymaking was the imminent departure of Pagolo for Rome, a city whose population of fifty thousand contained at least ten thousand who made their living, with varying degrees of success, by some form of prostitution or other. It was this remarkable fact (established by a recent census) and its implications for Pagolo that were under discussion in the tavern at the table that night.

  “They have names like Stella and Fiammetta—Star and Little Flame! And Flora!” Biagio was saying. “My uncle was attached to our embassy in Rome for years, and he says they can sing and dance and even compose Latin poetry if you want. Cultured women! Sonorous names!” Here Biagio pounded his fist on the table and proposed a toast to Fiammetta and Stella and Flora and, of course, to “Beatrice.” Dented tin cups were raised, and the sour red wine drawn off.

  Niccolo picked up where Biagio had left off, “Indeed, Pagolo, women of high spirits, witty, educated, classically trained! What more could you want? Some of them are more famous than the saints! Did you know that? The stuff of legends, Pagolo, the courtesans of Rome! Take “La Grechetta”—the Little Greek. She conceived and bore a child. Now who was the father? Much speculation on that score. Some said the cardinal of Lyon, others the Spanish ambassador. Fingers were even pointed in the direction of the vicar of Christ himself!

  “She wouldn’t tell. They pressed her. Finally La Grechetta gave her answer. The wily Greek traced the name of the child’s father in the sand, four letters traced in the sand—SPQR, The Senate and People of Rome!”

  “Hear! Hear! To all things Greek!” Biagio clamored for another toast. “To wit and classical learning!”

  “The problem, Pagolo, dear Pagolo,” Biagio continued, “and it is a terrible shame, is that you won’t be able to afford them! However, don’t despair. There’s something for everybody in Rome. My uncle says that there are plenty of girls who operate out of the back of candle makers’ shops, hence the charming, delicate, evocative name—di candela! A rougher class of girl, Pagolo, to be sure, like Beatrice here, but a simple diet is nothing to be ashamed of. It’ll make a man live longer. To longevity!” Once again he lifted his cup.

  “Don’t you think we’re missing the point here, Biagio?” said Niccolo. “All this talk of whores, when, after all, our Pagolo is going to Rome as a man of the cloth! As a freshly minted Franciscan, to pursue a career in the service of Holy Mother Church.”

  In fact, Pagolo’s impecunious father had delivered his only son over to the Franciscan order, and, after several years of apprenticeship in Florence, the order was sending Pagolo to Rome to take his final vows. Pagolo’s mere presence in the tavern spoke volumes as to the sincerity of his vocation. He beamed like a cherub. From a plump boy, he had developed into a plump young man. His round face was ringed with brown, curly hair. Soon, that luscious mop would be lying on the floor in some Roman monastery, the victim of some Roman abbot’s scissors, and a newly tonsured Pagolo would be committing himself to a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He took another drink to put the thought out of his head.

  “When you get to Rome, Pagolo, you must give our regards to the pope,” Biagio was saying.

  “I understand the pope is not well,” said Niccolo with mock gravity. “Perhaps Pagolo, with his newfound sanctity, can intercede on his behalf, or maybe effect a miracle?”

  “Caccasangue!” boomed Biagio. “Did you hear? Do you know what they’re doing now to poor Pope Innocent, Innocent VIII? Did you hear of the remedies they’re inflicting on the poor, poor man—and this I submit as solid evidence of the absolute fraudulence and chicanery of the medical profession. The pope for some time now has been taking only milk from nursing mothers! And that he is not permitted to drink at the source, I’m sure.” Biagio was more informed than most of matters in Rome, due to his family’s close connec
tions with that city. His information was accurate.

  “At any rate,” he continued, “the pope’s condition is cause for alarm, so what do they do—aside from the milk? They bring in a Jewish physician. He says that the old, broken-down pope can be reinvigorated by pouring young blood into his ancient body! Three ten-year-old boys are purchased for the medical miracle and bled to death! What a charlatan! What a scoundrel! Down with physicians! To the pope’s health!” And he banged and banged on the table.

  But Niccolo wasn’t listening. At the mention of the Jewish physician, his mind went back, as it always did at the mention of a Jew, went back eleven years, to his mad encounter with a strange girl. From that encounter, mysteries had arisen and desires had been awakened, and for eleven long years, Niccolo had pondered those mysteries and very slowly become aware of those desires. He had also become aware of his own helplessness in the face of them both.

  “To the pope’s health! To the pope’s health!” Biagio had succeeded in arousing the entire clientele of the tavern, and even though Florence had little sympathy for the pope and papal politics, the walls were ringing with drunken good wishes for the health of the supreme pontiff. Eventually Niccolo could no longer ignore the urgent clamor and joined in. When the riotous toasting had died down, he wryly observed, “Good show, Biagio, you’ve put a brave face on it. But your toast is wasted. Savonarola says the pope will die in July.”

  “Savonarola says so many things,” countered Biagio. “Savonarola says that gambling and card games should be abolished and lewd entertainments outlawed. He says that carnivals and even the palio should be discontinued. And that women should cover up their tits and stop wearing fine clothes and give up scent and powder and paint. I’m sick of all the things Savonarola says. I wish to God he would go somewhere else and say them and leave us alone.”

  “Then you and our great leader, Lorenzo, are of the same opinion,” offered Niccolo. “Savonarola really has it in for him, calling him a Nebuchadnezzar who would send the sons of Israel—by which I assume he means the fair youth of our city—into the flaming furnace. And he’s denounced him as Nero, a debauched glutton who eats and drinks and sings while the city burns.”

  “He has been rather adamant on the subject of poor Lorenzo, hasn’t he? But look, for two years now he’s been predicting Lorenzo’s death, actually saying it was going to happen the first week in April—this week! And what do we have? Is he dead? He’s as healthy as a horse. He’s appeared in public. Now, he’s resting at Careggi, and all the reports are that he’s stronger every day and very much in charge. They’ve even announced that, in a few weeks, he’s going to Pisa to personally review the troops. There’s no sign that the Medici grip . . .”

  “Stranglehold,” corrected Niccolo.

  “There’s no sign that the Medici stranglehold is in danger of weakening. Lorenzo will outlive the friar and probably have his head if he doesn’t start keeping a civil tongue in it.”

  Niccolo smirked, “Savonarola is a great and holy man, Biagio. Don’t you have any respect?”

  “He’s not much of a seer though, Niccolo. Besides, he wants to abolish prostitution and take Beatrice here away from me! That’s going too far!”

  “Ahime, Beatrice,” mused Niccolo, turning to the girl. “It’s a sad thing that Savonarola has no respect for you or your chosen profession, a sad thing indeed. Do you know what he calls you? Pieces of meat with eyes! With eyes, indeed! He does you no justice! With eyes and lips and tongues! And enchanted fingers! With silky, scented hair and soft skin!”

  Biagio picked up Niccolo’s train of thought: “Sweetmeats with inviting smiles and long legs, with soft, perfumed breasts and dark, swollen nipples! Down with Savonarola, I say!” And once again he beat on the table, demanding a toast. This time his proposal was greeted with silence and suspicious stares and little enthusiasm from the crowd. Even Beatrice demurred, reproaching him gently, “You shouldn’t joke about such a holy man, Biagio.”

  “Hmmmph,” Biagio sulked. “Well, let’s get something to eat.” Pagolo enthusiastically seconded the motion. Niccolo declined. The thought of the tavern’s rough, greasy fare made him shudder. He always ate at home.

  While they waited for the joint they had ordered, Niccolo had an idea, “Have you ever seen the friar preach, Biagio?”

  “What for? You know I’m opposed to priestcraft in all its manifestations.”

  “Pagolo?”

  “Never.”

  “I have,” volunteered Beatrice. They all stared at her. “He’s . . . he’s . . . It’s hard to describe. When you look at him, you can’t look away. Everything else fades away when he speaks. There’s only you and him in the whole world. You hear him, but not with your ears. You hear him in your heart. It’s wonderful, and it’s scary.”

  Weighing Beatrice’s evaluation, Niccolo spoke thoughtfully, “What I would like to propose is this: Let’s go see him. Let’s judge for ourselves. What do you say, Pagolo?”

  “If Biagio goes along, I will.”

  “I don’t see any point in it,” said Biagio, “but alright. It might be amusing to see the great preacher who communicates directly with God.”

  “Decided, then,” said Niccolo. “And why lose any time? We can go tomorrow morning—today, rather, since it’s almost light. Agreed?”

  “Drink up,” said Biagio. “I haven’t darkened the door of a church since my confirmation. I need courage to face it. I’ve got to fortify my weak and fallen soul. To Savonarola!” Once again, the mention of the friar’s name brought glares of reproach from the other patrons, but Biagio was too drunk to notice.

  The little party’s conversation had degenerated into a series of slurred assertions, followed by long-delayed grunts of assent. This communal stupor was suddenly shattered, however, by a formidable pounding on the door. “The Guards!” was everyone’s first thought.

  The alarmed tavern keeper hurried to the door. “Who’s there?” he bellowed.

  “It’s me,” came the reply. “Open up.”

  The tavern keeper obviously recognized the voice, for he immediately began fumbling with the heavy bolts that closed the door on the outside world. The messenger burst into the room—“He’s dead,” he gasped, “Lorenzo de’ Medici is dead.”

  Shortly after dawn, the smoky tavern disgorged its contents into the streets of Florence. It was a raw, rainy spring day, and the only people Niccolo’s party encountered were other denizens of the taverns and gaming houses like themselves.

  Bells were ringing, as they did every morning and in particular on Sunday mornings, when they called the faithful to worship. Although Niccolo was not a pious youth and was infected with a rather virulent strain of anticlericism, common in Italy then as now, he had recently taken to attending mass on Sunday mornings—much to the puzzlement of his mother. For years she had coaxed him to accompany her to church, but he had refused. Now suddenly, he was acquiescing graciously. Bartolommea Machiavelli attributed his change of heart to the direct intervention of the Holy Spirit. But the source of Niccolo’s “conversion” was infinitely more mundane. Surprisingly, his father, the irreverent Bernardo, who himself never attended mass except on Easter Sunday, was the cause of his son’s sudden embrace of the church.

  After overhearing another one of the arguments between his wife and son, in which the latter had invoked in his defense, by way of example, the father’s failure to attend weekly mass, Bernardo took Niccolo aside. “When I was your age, I never missed a Sunday mass, never,” he said.

  Niccolo regarded his father with suspicion. “Men don’t go to mass,” he grunted diffidently.

  “That’s precisely my point, Niccolo. And if men don’t go to mass, who does? Women, of course! And what women? Why, the finest women in the city, Niccolo! Young women! The closely guarded treasures of the best families! Kept under lock and key all week long; it’s practically the only place their jealous, tyrannical fathers will let them go. In church, Niccolo, you will find tender, blushing virgins,
ripe young widows, and in their most exquisite clothing!” From that day on, Niccolo made it a practice to attend mass.

  Since his mother chose to worship at the recently completed Santo Spirito, which was not far from the Machiavelli home, that was where he went for his impious surveillances, and he was not disappointed. He had found an abundance of haughty merchants’ daughters whose vulgarity appealed to him more than the aristocratic disdain of the offspring of the “better families.” But since Niccolo had limited his church attendance to Santo Spirito, he had never heard the friar speak.

  When the three young Florentines reached the church of San Marco, there were already knots of the whispering faithful gathered outside. Our three cavaliers lolled around the piazza, not conspicuously drunk, but still far from sober. The fruits of their drinking, the inevitable headaches and the nausea, were still hours away when a monk issued from the church, made a brief announcement, and went back inside. Almost immediately, the crowds began to disperse.

  “Oh no,” whined Biagio, “after I’ve come this far and sacrificed the warm bed of Beatrice, they’re going to say that God gave the friar a sore throat and today’s performance is cancelled.” Niccolo stopped an older couple, busily scuffling past them. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, managing not to slur his words.

  “New revelations!” said the old man, shaking a finger. “The friar has important things to say today, startling things! For everyone to hear and take heed! This church is too small, he says. Today he’ll preach in the Duomo! He wants the whole city to come and hear his message!”

  Biagio regarded Niccolo imperiously. “It seems we could not have chosen a better day to hear the friar, had we consulted an astrologer.”

  Santa Maria del Fiore, the Cathedral of Florence, was the most imposing man-made structure in the world. So ambitious was her design, that for a hundred years she stood open, without a roof, since no architect or engineer was able to construct a dome large enough to cover her and not collapse under its own enormous weight. It was in this church, the largest in Christendom, that the words of the prophet were to be delivered unto the people.