The meal was exquisite—chilled shrimp in a piquant sauce, followed by succulent trout and tiny crisp-fried squid. When the latter were served, Caterina informed her guest that it was a local specialty, known thereabouts as scherzo alla pescatore, “the fisherman’s joke.”
“I personally see nothing funny about them,” said Niccolo, crunching a mouthful of the dainty, crispy sea creatures. “Who knows where these names come from? How a legend gets started?” He stopped to squeeze more lemon on the squid, then resumed eating. He was about to comment on the extraordinary tenderness of the small, delicate tentacles when something exploded in his mouth. A blast of fire seared his tongue and throat before he succeeded in quenching it, at least partially, with a deep draught of the cool white wine. His face was flushed, his ears burned and his hair stood on end. His eyes were watering. His nose was running. His scalp was tingling.
“That’s the joke,” said Caterina laughing heartily at his distress. “One of them has a hot pepper hidden inside.”
When they were finished eating, the table was cleared and lanterns were brought out. A sweet, nutty liquor was served to stimulate the conversation and, of course, the digestion. Easy talk flowed between the Florentine ambassador and the Lady of Forli. Niccolo confessed his boundless admiration for the latter in the wake of her remarkable, stunning gesture on the ramparts before the assembled French army.
“You saw that?” He thought she blushed. “It was reckless of me, wasn’t it? But it worked. And I told the truth. I have had more children since then, four more in all.” Here, a shadow of concern crossed Caterina’s face. “They’re all very young yet and . . .” She hesitated. “I’m not sure they’re safe in Forli.”
Niccolo balked, “Why all of a sudden are you afraid for your children? You didn’t seem too concerned when Charles had them.”
“Charles was a weakling,” she said dismissively. “I bluffed him, and he never called me on it. Besides, I knew he’d never kill them. He was perfectly willing to slaughter common soldiers in the field by the thousands, but he never killed anyone who could be held for ransom. In fact, he went out of his way to save their lives and barter for them afterward.” Here, she turned somber. “But now we have a different enemy, don’t we? And Valentino doesn’t take any prisoners, does he?”
At the mention of the name of Valentino, they both fell silent. Caterina finally spoke again. “So, I was thinking of sending them away for a while, the children. To . . . Florence?” Her voice trailed off. She left it hanging in the air, a question.
Niccolo immediately grasped the significance of her remark. With Caterina’s children in Florence, an unofficial pact of friendship with Forli was virtually sealed and his mission would be a resounding success. “I’ll need some time for reflection,” he said wryly. “Tomorrow, then?”
He was not sure at what point their after-dinner conversation had passed from political trysting into romantic dalliance. In the last two weeks, he had seen Caterina Sforza as an absolute sovereign, and although his republican sensibilities bridled a bit at the thought, he had to give her credit for astuteness, for fairness, and for making her way so intrepidly in a man’s world. He had seen her as many things—an adversary, a canny negotiator, a potential ally. He thought of her as the mocking Amazon on the walls of Mordano, as a fearless fiend in battle, and even as someone with a place in history, but in all that time, he had never thought of her simply as a woman. Certainly he had never allowed himself to think, even for a minute, of seducing this larger-than-life warrior-queen.
Yet now, by mutual consent, an easy rapprochement was growing between the two of them. Lubricated by the thick, nutty liquor, their talk took a salacious turn. They exchanged stories of licit and illicit love. They exchanged knowing smiles. She liked the way his smile seemed always on the verge of curling into a sneer. He liked the way her body shifted languorously under the sheer, mysterious, exotic dress. Their verbal exchanges gave way to touching, and then their hands began to linger, slowly being drawn into caresses. Holding Niccolo’s ink-stained hand up to the light, and gently tracing the outlines of his long fingers with her own, she cooed at him, “Don’t the Florentine boys wash their hands before they eat?”
“Ink,” he said. “It never comes out.”
“Doesn’t it? Come with me,” she whispered, rising, not relinquishing his hand. She took a lamp and led him through the quiet corridors of the Palace of Forli.
From an alcove off her bedroom, Caterina retrieved a small jar. It contained a colorless unguent that she applied with great solicitude to Niccolo’s blackened fingertips. She rubbed the gel thoroughly into his warm hand, perhaps longer than was necessary. They were both trembling only slightly when their lips met in the first tentative kiss. A second followed, more sensuous, more assured, more hungry. The countess pushed the willing secretary back into the profusion of pillows and cushions that littered her ample bed. She lowered herself onto him, drawing him up into her heavy, perfumed breasts and a night of languid delirium.
When Niccolo awoke, he was alone. The sun was up but not yet high in the sky. He lay back, reliving the night’s sweet, urgent pleasures. He rubbed his eyes and was somewhat startled to see the ink stains on his right hand had entirely disappeared. He was staring at the immaculate hand and putting off the decision to rise and dress when Caterina strode into the room. She was dressed in light armor and flushed from some form or other of physical exertion.
“What have you been up to so early?” he said yawning.
“Riding. A turn on horseback, a vigorous turn, the morning after will keep a woman from getting pregnant.”
Niccolo was dubious. This information was coming from a mother of six. “Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “You’ve worked a miracle with my hand. Look.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said taking the hand in question and planting a small kiss on it. “I got that cream from a friend of mine, an associate really. It’s extraordinary stuff. She says it will even remove freckles.”
As Niccolo dressed, Caterina talked aimlessly about her creams, preparations, and elaborately compounded mixtures, and some of the remarkable things they were capable of doing. “I’ve always been interested in those things and do you know why? To be frank, it began with poisons. I have quite a collection of them,” she said grinning. “Politics being what it is, you never know when you’ll need them.
“And then, there’s the more mysterious side—the enchantments. I have my philters and elixirs too.” Teasing him, she said, “For all you know, I may have put something in your drink last night.”
“That would have hardly been necessary,” said Niccolo, “between the wine and that dress you were wearing, I was quite sufficiently bewitched as it was, and quite prepared to surrender my virtue without a struggle.”
“Ah, you prefer the dress to my martial garb,” she said, sweeping the lifeless garment up from the floor where it lay discarded and holding it provocatively in front of her. “How do you know the dress wasn’t enchanted too? In fact, the dress was given to me by the same friend who concocted the cream I put on your fingers. And she was no stranger to sorcery.”
Niccolo had finished dressing, and they left the bedroom together. As they walked downstairs, Caterina continued, “My family, my first husband’s family, owns part-interest in a bathing establishment in Rome. You know what that means. A laboratory is a necessity in that sort of place. There are diseases to be treated, wounds to be staunched, pregnancies to be avoided or terminated. The men want potions to excite them; the women demand compounds for the preservation of their beauty and even their virginity.
“I had working for me several years ago, a quite extraordinary young woman who was versed in the Moorish arts. I used to spend hours in the laboratory with her. She taught me quite a few things. And she gave me that dress—that Moorish dress—which you yourself suspect of being enchanted.
“A proposito,” said Caterina suddenly. “She used to tell a most remarkable story ab
out your wonderful republic of Florence, but I wouldn’t want to offend you by repeating it here. I’m afraid it doesn’t redound to the glory of the republic where there are no tyrants and where everyone lives in absolute peace and freedom.” Caterina’s dig was more than justified, for many times during their negotiations Niccolo’s republican sympathies had gotten the better of him and issued forth in caustic observations about the way Forli was governed. His sarcastic comments had not gone unobserved by the astute countess.
“It seems that as a young girl she was in Florence, this friend of mine, and got into some sort of trouble with the authorities. They wanted to hang her and would have done so if she hadn’t managed to escape, which she did in extraordinary fashion by floating down the river one night, her head stuck under a barrel . . .”
When Niccolo left Forli, he took with him more than just the goodwill of the Countess Caterina Sforza. He took with him her four youngest children, a confidential agent sent to continue negotiations with Florence, and the name and address of a certain “bathing establishment” in Rome.
He had managed to cement relations with Caterina without making a single, real promise or spending a single ducat. Biagio, with whom he corresponded daily during the time he was in Forli, assured him that his letters were highly praised by all and that his reputation in the chancery was secure. In fact, his prospects there were very, very good. But Niccolo was not thinking of his career the first night he returned to Florence. Since the news he carried from Forli was not particularly urgent, he did not even bother to report to the Signoria until the next morning. Instead, he ate an early supper that night and went to bed, where he began to rehearse to himself, the first lines of an important letter he was composing to send to Rome . . .
While Niccolo was away, pleasantly occupied with the affairs of Forli, Pisan affairs had gotten completely out of control. The war was going badly. The new commander, Paolo Vitelli, while unable to show any concrete military gains, continued to ask for astounding sums of money. The treasury was exhausted, and the people groaned under the burden of new and ever more innovative taxes.
In the stormy months that followed, Bartolommeo Scala, the First Chancellor to the Signoria died. He was replaced by the venerable ass, Marcello Virgilio Adriani, whose promotion left vacant the post at the head of the Second Chancery. On the basis of his recently demonstrated diplomatic abilities, Niccolo Machiavelli was named to the position. His salary of 192 florins a year was raised to 200. Because the government was in financial trouble, however, he never received reimbursement for the money he spent during his mission to Forli.
As head of the chancery, Niccolo was inundated with work. He often spent fifteen to sixteen hours a day on chancery business, which meant he often spent fifteen to sixteen hours a day on the disastrous war with Pisa. The Florentines were exasperated, and their patience all but exhausted when Paolo Vitelli captured the defensive emplacement of Stampace and managed to make a wide breach in the walls of Pisa. The fall of Pisa was imminent as several detachments of youthful Florentine volunteers surged onto the field, carrying all before them and making ready to enter the city. At the decisive moment, however, Vitelli inexplicably ordered them to retreat.
Only confused reports from the camp filtered back to Florence. It was impossible to get accurate information. Nobody could be trusted. Niccolo sent Biagio to Pisa in order to discover what exactly was happening there. Biagio had no trouble ascertaining that Vitelli had indeed stalled the attack to prolong the war and thus stretch out his commission as commander of the Florentine troops. Moreover, it was discovered he was taking money from Pisa to do nothing! As Vitelli’s treachery became more and more apparent, and Niccolo began to assemble a case against him for presentation to the Signoria, a dispatch was thrust into his hands, marked,
It was written in code, using a simple cipher that Niccolo and Biagio had devised. There was only one sentence in Biagio’s hand. In a matter of seconds, Niccolo was able to read that Piero de’ Medici and his cousin Giuliano had been seen in the Florentine camp, talking with Vitelli!
It was all done very neatly, very quickly so as not to arouse suspicions. New commissioners were sent to Pisa to look into the state of the army. Vitelli was invited to dine with them, and after dinner, he was shown into a closed room and held fast until he could be transported under heavy and secure guard to Florence. He was examined by the magistrates. The indictment, on behalf of the Signoria, was prepared and written by Niccolo Machiavelli. On the basis of the evidence presented, Vitelli was found guilty and convicted of treason. Within twenty-four hours, he had been beheaded.
Vitelli’s disgrace was not the end of Niccolo’s problems, but only the beginning. Florence then struck a contract with France to send troops on her behalf and bring the lamentable Pisan affair to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. With the entry of the French, the sad cycle of lethargy and extortion that is mercenary warfare began anew.
The troops mutinied, demanded more money, and even held their own officers hostage until they got it. Niccolo made several trips to the camp at Pisa. France was disgruntled and expressed disappointment with the way her “Florentine allies” were mismanaging things. The Florentines, in their turn, blamed the French, and so a delegation was sent to France to straighten things out.
While Niccolo was dispatched to Paris, he was not the head of the delegation, of course. It would have been a breach of protocol, an insult even, to send a thirty-year-old secretary, no matter how talented, to treat with a crowned head of state. What was needed was a man of experience, a full-blown ambassador, a gentleman with rank and the authority to conclude treaties and undertake serious obligations. The republic of Florence found such a representative in the weighty person of Francesco della Casa. For his expenses, della Casa was allotted the princely sum of eight lire per day. His humble secretary, on the other hand, received only half that—a measure of his relative importance.
News from the delegation trickled back into Florence, most of it taken from the official, secret dispatches received by the Signoria, for in the chanceries, leaks abounded. No one was more avid for this news than Bernardo Machiavelli. After all, these were events in which a member of his family had direct personal involvement. One November morning, as Bernardo rushed into the Mercato Vecchio, he was just in time to hear the tail end of a report on the progress of the embassy to France. The crier was laughing so hard that there were tears in his eyes as he spoke, and he had to stop to catch his breath. Finally, with the encouragement of his audience, he was able to pick up where he had left off: “And the king of France says, ‘Why, it’s obvious to Us, from the mess you’ve made of this whole thing, that the Italians know nothing about war.’”
“And he says, right in his majesty’s face, ‘And the French know nothing about politics!’” The small crowd of Florentines around the crier cheered to see the French crown so royally and soundly rebuffed, and no one cheered more lustily than Bernardo, with his shouts of, “Viva Italia! Viva della Casa!”
The crier fixed him with a puzzled look. “You didn’t hear me right then, old man? Della Casa, that honorable, fat fart, between his dropsy and his gout and his dyspepsia, he’s been in bed for the last two weeks. It was his secretary trimmed the beard of the king of France! It was young Machiavelli!”
As only a father can, Bernardo wept. In the next few weeks, he would continue to receive reports from France, glowing reports of his son’s astuteness. Playing off the French king’s fear of the German emperor on one hand and his suspicions regarding the pope’s intentions on the other, Niccolo, his Niccolo, had managed to preserve intact, the Florentine alliance with France. In the confrontations that were shaping up and threatening to rock the fragile stability of the Italian peninsula once more, the isolated republic of Florence could not afford to lose the support of a powerful ally like France. Bernardo could not even describe the feelings that stirred in him when he heard his son’s name proclaimed in the market place or when his sage colleagues at
the courts nodded gravely and pronounced Niccolo to be a “true Florentine”—the ultimate accolade of approval. But Niccolo would never know the pride that swelled in his father’s chest. By the time he returned from France, Bernardo Machiavelli would be dead.
Exhausted by his travels and exertions on behalf of the republic and stunned by his father’s premature death, Niccolo finally agreed to take some time off from his duties at the chancery. Notwithstanding his intentions to get away from it all and simply relax, he packed two heavy crates full of books, letters, and correspondence and had them transported to his family’s villa in San Casciano. Among the miscellaneous papers he threw into the boxes was a letter he wrote over two years ago with great expectations and sent to Rome, to a certain bathing establishment there. It had been returned unopened and unread. The envoy who carried it said that the baths no longer existed. They had been burned to the ground.
For several days, Niccolo did little more than go over the family accounts. So zealous had he been in the service of the republic that he was entirely ignorant of the finances of the Machiavelli family of whom he suddenly found himself head. For the first time, he came to realize just how slender the Machiavelli patrimony actually was. When he factored in allowances for two dowries for his sisters and regular disbursements for the good-natured but impossible Totto, who had thus far proven utterly incapable of earning a living, there was barely enough left over to maintain the house in Florence and the tiny villa in the country.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 33