Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  The Florentine economy was based on trade, and her business interests spanned the globe, but Florence herself was an inland city on a river. Where that river, the Arno, flowed into the sea, there was a deep-water port, suitable for large-scale commercial shipping. Unfortunately for Florence, that was the precise site on which the city of Pisa stood. The Pisans, for their part, were as stubborn as the Florentines in their own defense. They tore up treaties, abrogated rites of passage, nullified agreements, demanded ever-escalating sums of money, and in countless ways contrived to control, limit, and frustrate Florentine access to the shipping lanes.

  At the time Niccolo began his work at the chancery, the war against Pisa was once again in full swing, and the bulk of the correspondence that passed through his hands had to do with the “Cose di Pisa”—Pisan affairs. Arrayed against Pisa, on behalf of the Florentine republic, was a mercenary army composed of the military flotsam and jetsam that drifted ceaselessly across the Italian peninsula—deserters from other armies, Spanish, French, German, and Swiss, dispossessed and exiled Italian nobles with no place to go and no other skill but war, Albanian Stradiots, known for their ferocity in battle and their addiction to looting, the occasional Moor, and, of course, common criminals, who represented the bulk of the foot soldiery. In such an army, the maintenance of discipline was a gargantuan undertaking, made all the more difficult by the intense competition and jealousy that was rife among the commanders and captains of the various units. Given the order of the army, or rather the disorder, it should come as no surprise that concrete military gains were few and far between in the present campaign against Pisa. To Niccolo Machiavelli, secretary in the Second Chancery, fell the unenviable task of sorting through the mounting chaos of the Pisan campaign and doing what he could to keep supply lines open, keep troops in the field, keep tempers in check, and keep the officers from slitting one another’s throats. In Pisan affairs, Niccolo was rapidly becoming an expert.

  It was Biagio Buonacorsi who brought Niccolo the news of his first important commission. Biagio worked alongside Niccolo in the chancery, and although he had been there a full two years longer than his friend, he had not succeeded in impressing his superiors. Biagio freely admitted that he did mediocre work, not because he lacked talent or ability, but because he lacked motivation.

  “Niccolo! You’re getting out of this abominable letter factory,” boomed Biagio, rushing into the chancery. Niccolo scarcely looked up from the tangled mess of Pisan affairs over which he was pouring. Biagio clapped him on the back, “Did you hear me?”

  “I can’t go anywhere with you right now, Biagio,” sighed Niccolo wearily. “Don’t even ask. Maybe later, when I finish all this about Vitelli taking over the command.”

  “Niccolo, you’re not listening! They’re sending you out. The Ten! You’ve got a diplomatic assignment!”

  Niccolo looked up in disbelief. He had been at his job now for a year and had incurred the displeasure of his immediate superior, Marcello Virgilio, more often than his favor.

  Biagio continued, “Marcello Virgilio is stewing. It’s beautiful! He had no say in the decision. It came down from the Ten! From the Ten! They’ve been reading your dispatches and they were impressed! They’re sending you to Forli!”

  In celebration of the good news, Biagio finally prevailed upon the tireless Niccolo, the indefatigable letter writer, to take the rest of the day off. Observing that Niccolo could stand some scrubbing up, shaving, and trimming before reporting to the Ten for assignment, Biagio dragged his friend to the public baths. The baths of Florence were spartan affairs, not like the lavish pleasure palaces rumored to be the rage in Rome. In Florence, men and women were admitted to the baths on alternate days of the week.

  Relaxing in a shallow pool of warm water, Niccolo was using a rough pumice stone in an effort to remove the ink stains from his writing hand. “You work too hard, Niccolo! Look at these hands—unsullied, unblemished!” Biagio held his two lily-white hands in the air. “You work all day in that chancery, splashing ink all over yourself, and what do you do at night? I never see you. You don’t go out. You don’t enjoy yourself.”

  “I do enjoy myself, Biagio, in the quiet pursuits of the mind.”

  Biagio burst into laughter. “In the quiet pursuits of the mind! You? Whatever happened to the noisy pursuits of the flesh?”

  “In due time,” said Niccolo with exaggerated detachment. “I’m working on something at home, and I have to finish it.”

  “Working at home! You don’t get enough work at the letter factory during the day?”

  “I’ve got a copy of Livy. A printed edition, the first ever printed in Florence.”

  “Surely you’re not going to read it?”

  “I’m making an index of all the place names in it.”

  “Fascinating!” said Biagio, barely concealing his mirth. “Latium, Tusculum, Lavinium, Ostia . . . Fascinating! You have to be sure to give me a copy when you’re done. I can hardly wait.”

  Niccolo threw the pumice at his friend’s head, but missed. He explained, “My father got it from the printer for me. In return for making the index, I get to keep the book.”

  “And then what?”

  “By studying Livy’s history of Rome, I’ll be able to learn how a real republic was built and what can be done to save the shabby, tattered republic we serve.”

  “You and Livy and the ancient Romans, Niccolo. It’s a sad thing when a young man prefers the company of dead men to the living.”

  Niccolo Machiavelli disagreed, “You have to admit that a dialogue with the dead men of the past is much easier than a conversation with many of our living contemporaries.”

  After the baths, after a sumptuous meal at which Niccolo proved himself no enemy of good living, the two young men retreated to the chancery. From the windows there, they had an ideal vantage point from which to view the ceremonies that were taking place in the piazza below. In an attempt to bring some order to the chaotic Pisan campaign, the Signoria had contracted for the services of the renowned condottiere, Paolo Vitelli. Vitelli, along with his brother Vitellozzo, was to be given overall command of the Florentine troops at Pisa. The negotiations were protracted, and Niccolo had handled the burden of the correspondence. Today, in a public ceremony, the formidable Vitelli and his brother were to be sworn in as captains in the employ of the Florentine republic.

  Niccolo had never seen the condottiere, although he had addressed scores of letters to him over the past several months. Nevertheless, looking down on the platform, it was easy enough to pick out the famous military commander. He stood out in his armor and in his martial bearing among the crowd of mild-mannered government officials with whom he shared the stage.

  “What the hell is that pompous ass, Marcello Virgilio, doing down there?” asked Biagio.

  “Don’t you know?” replied Niccolo. “Our eminent chancellor has been chosen to give the oration in honor of Vitelli’s arrival. He has oratorical gifts.” Despite the contempt he had for the man, Niccolo had to admit he cut a splendid figure on the speaker’s platform, with his flinty, sculpted features. Standing next to Vitelli, the picture of military glory, Marcello Virgilio could easily have been taken for a stern senator of the Roman republic. The two formed a living allegory, a diptych of ideal military and civil virtue. At least in appearance.

  Marcello Virgilio’s voice boomed across the piazza. It was striking in its strength and resonance. Niccolo and Biagio had no trouble hearing him through the unshuttered windows, high up in the Signoria. And since they had both received a solid classical education, they had no trouble understanding him. Not so the unwashed populace crowded into the square below. They didn’t get a word. Marcello Virgilio was delivering his oration in Latin!

  Biagio guffawed. “Only the noble Marcello would address that crowd in Latin. What a fool.”

  Niccolo listened as the great orator lauded the prowess and excellence of Vitelli. After about twenty minutes, he launched into an exhaustive catalo
gue of the great generals of antiquity, comparing their strength and accomplishments to those of Vitelli, whom he labeled the modern Horatius, the modern Scipio, the modern Camillus, and on and on . . .

  “Niccolo, come over here, there’s something interesting going on,” said Biagio. Bored with the oratory, Biagio had idly drifted across the long room to the opposite wall, where a row of windows gave on the inner courtyard of the Signoria. In the closed courtyard, several members of the ruling council, dignified and grave in their bearing, were conversing with an eccentric-looking man in rich but outlandish clothing. The man was fluttering solicitously around a table, constantly making minute adjustments to a number of instruments that were set up there. He appeared to be taking sightings on the position of the sun and measuring the angles of the shadows it cast.

  “What do you make of that witchcraft?” asked Biagio.

  Niccolo was quick to grasp the import of the bizarre scene. “That must be him, he’s always mentioned in the letters. That must be Vitelli’s astrologer!” As the two watched with amusement, “Vitelli’s astrologer” became more and more excited, his sightings and adjustments more frequent and frantic. Suddenly, he threw both arms in the air, “Now! Now! Now!” he screeched, bolting for the courtyard door. The grave parliamentarians filed quickly out after him.

  Niccolo and Biagio were obliged to recross the room to the windows with a view of the piazza, and they arrived in time to see the lunatic astrologer burst into the square, waving his arms wildly in the air. He immediately caught Vitelli’s attention, and the general raised his arm, giving the agreed upon signal. Trumpets blared. The propitious moment had arrived—the exact moment. Not a second could be lost. The gonfaloniere, the council’s representative, hastened to thrust the baton of command into Vitelli’s hands. And the ceremony was abruptly over.

  Unfortunately, the propitious moment had arrived right in the middle of Marcello Virgilio’s exquisitely crafted oration. He was furious.

  “It was tragic,” he later sobbed to himself, “tragic.” He had been preempted, cut off, and there was so much more, the best parts were yet to come, he had still to expound upon the glories of Curtius, of Marcus Attilius Regulus, of Torquatus . . .

  The next day, Niccolo was on the road to Forli, only slightly disappointed that the prestige of being a Florentine diplomat did not seem to carry any concomitant monetary rewards. He was told to use his own horse and to cover his expenses with money from his own pocket, from his yearly salary of a scant 192 florins. He would later be reimbursed from the treasury.

  He had received his credentials directly from the Ten and was entrusted with a letter written by their chancellor, Marcello Virgilio, he of the wounded pride. Niccolo had not been able to suppress a smirk of satisfaction in the presence of the great orator.

  At any rate, his instructions were to deliver the letter and clarify any remaining problems verbally. He was to write back daily to the Signoria, keeping them advised of his progress.

  Niccolo’s mission entailed a delicate balancing act. He had been authorized to purchase from Forli all the powder, saltpeter, and ammunition she could spare, but he had been told that, in all likelihood, she would be able to spare none whatsoever. He was authorized to arrange a condotta, a commission, for Count Ottaviano of Forli to fight with the Florentine troops at Pisa with as many men as he could muster. But he was not to offer the command for a ducat over 10,000, a price so low that the count’s refusal was a foregone conclusion. He was permitted to discuss the idea of Florentine support for Forli in the event of an attack upon that city by the Papal States, but the Ten had expressly told Niccolo that such support was definitely out of the question. Mulling it over, he realized that he was embarked on an exercise in pure diplomacy. As Niccolo understood it, the real object of his mission was to win the friendship and goodwill of strategically located Forli without making any concessions, without making any firm commitments, and, above all, without spending any money. The task, in itself, was a difficult one, made all the more so by Niccolo’s lack of experience in face-to-face negotiations. What made it truly formidable, however, was that Niccolo’s adversary in this, his first diplomatic encounter, was none other than Caterina Sforza, the Amazon of Forli, she who had made a bold stand atop the ramparts of Mordano.

  Caterina Sforza had been the wife of a pope’s son, and while seven months pregnant, had ridden into battle on his behalf. She had survived his assassination, as well as that of her second husband. She had been defeated by the French, taken prisoner, and held for ransom. She had married a third time, only to lose that husband, too, a year later. Caterina was, at the age of thirty-six, a widow for the third time, the mother of innumerable children, and the absolute ruler of her small state.

  It was to this intrepid woman that Niccolo presented his credentials directly upon reaching Forli. He was received in a tent, set up on a hill to catch the few merciful breezes that occasionally stirred in the cruel July heat. He was inordinately pleased to hear himself announced as the emissary from the republic of Florence.

  Caterina Sforza greeted the emissary with an easy smile and a graceful inclination of the head. “And what news have we from sister Florence?” she asked in a slightly hoarse but not unpleasant voice.

  Niccolo bowed curtly, nervously, reeled off his formulaic introductory remarks, and presented her with the letter from the Great Council written by Marcello Virgilio. He watched as her swift, sure fingers undid the seals and ribbons. There were scars on the backs of her hands.

  “Please, be seated,” she said. “Ottaviano, bring the Florentine ambassador some refreshment, quick, can’t you see the poor man is wilting in this heat?” Niccolo was indeed suffering from the heat, not from nervousness or apprehension, he told himself. All the same, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back, tickling him.

  Seated in a comfortable chair with a high back and luxurious cushions, he strove to maintain a nonchalant, dignified posture. He tried not to fidget, not to move his nervous hands in his lap. Within a few seconds, a flagon of white wine and an exquisite silver cup were placed on a small side table at his disposal. Cup and flask gave him something to occupy the uneasy hands while the Amazon perused the letter. The first taste of the wine startled him. It was a delicious, extraordinarily dry white wine, and it was freezing cold on his pallet. He wondered how she kept it so cold in this thick, stifling heat.

  Niccolo studied the redoubtable virago as she scrutinized the letter from the Florentine chancery. Her blond hair was tied up loosely on her head, a few fugitive locks dangling down. Artfully applied cosmetics added a discreet blush to her white cheeks and softened the impact of her hard, implacable eyes. But where the layer of powder trailed off, down her neck, Niccolo could see the small imperfections, the thin, snaky red scars.

  She was poised without being haughty or threatening. Seated in repose, she was not the terror of the battlements who had thrust her pudenda in the face of Charles VIII of France only five years ago. Like any good general, she was able to put aside the rough ways of the camp and battlefield in favor of a charming, courtly civility. And today, her skirts were down around her ankles.

  Niccolo was beginning to relax in her presence, when she suddenly turned a merciless stare upon him. “Did you write this?” she demanded in a decidedly unfeminine voice.

  “No,” he gulped.

  “Thank God,” she said smiling, “I’m relieved. I would hate to have to deal with the man who wrote this stilted, stupid letter. Only a man suffering from chronic constipation could have contrived to write such a thing.” After a moment’s reflection, she added, “Only a man could have written such a letter.” Disdainfully, she let it fall to her feet. They both laughed, and Niccolo, eager to pursue the advantage, began to entertain her with tales of the loathsome Marcello Virgilio.

  When they had both enjoyed several rather unkind jokes at the expense of the poor chancellor, Caterina sat back in her chair, crossed her arms on her breast, and signaled an end to the
merriment. With a shrewd narrowing of the eyes, she brought the conversation down to the business at hand: “Now, tell me briefly, Florence, what do you want?”

  Niccolo, having rehearsed most of this material all the way from Florence, made a credible presentation, outlining the Florentine proposals to buy munitions, engage soldiers, and remain on friendly terms with Forli. Caterina listened attentively. When he had finished, she praised the laudable intentions of the Florentines. “The words of the Florentines have always satisfied me,” she said, nodding agreeably. “But,” she added caustically, “their deeds have almost always displeased me.”

  “I’ll need some time for reflection,” she said. “Tomorrow, then?” Niccolo was dismissed.

  For several days thereafter, they dickered. She had no ammunition for sale, but she had soldiers. She might be willing to send them to Florence, but 10,000 ducats was entirely too low. Could he go to 12,000? Niccolo consulted with his superiors and was authorized to up the offer. She could have them ready to go under the command of her eldest son by the beginning of September. Florence needed them now, by the end of July at the latest. Mid-August? When they were about to conclude an agreement, Caterina informed Niccolo that Milan had just offered her 15,000 ducats, and a whole new round of negotiations began. Would Florence pledge to help Forli if she were attacked by the pope? Would Forli pledge to assist Florence if the pope sends troops to Pisa? And so it went. After almost two weeks, little had been accomplished other than the sharpening of Niccolo’s diplomatic skills and the forging of a tenuous friendship between himself and the iron mistress of Forli.

  When he finally received the order from the Signoria to return to Florence, Caterina was disappointed. She was beginning to enjoy his company. On the night before Niccolo’s departure, she invited him to join her in an intimate dinner. The two dined out of doors in the dying light and the evening breezes. Caterina Sforza wore a strange gown of oriental inspiration. It consisted of a layer of thin, transparent black gauze, under which was another sheer, provocative layer of the same material, and under that, nothing at all. Her body was discernible through the flimsy, clinging cloth, but just barely, revealed and tantalizingly concealed at the same time. The hem and sleeves were embroidered with fantastic designs in gaudy colors. Niccolo could not help staring, and she was aware of his attentions.