Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  There were groans of disapproval from the onlookers now. Things were getting out of hand. The man was going too far. Even in these rough contests among the lowest classes of men, there were limits. Ugly viciousness was not part of the bargain. But who was going to stop such a man? Slowly the disgusted crowd began to disperse. It was Bishop Soderini who finally intervened on the beaten smith’s behalf. “You, fellow there,” he called. “Don’t you think you’ve had the better of him? Don’t you think you can let him go now?”

  The victorious strongman turned on the two travelers with a whirl and fixed them with his narrow, intense eyes. Then, his face breaking into a broad, mocking grin, he said, “Of course, Excellency. Anything the gentleman says.” There was menace and derision in his voice.

  Riding off, the bishop shook his head. “Where do you think they breed devils like that, Machiavelli? If we had a hundred who fought like that, we could take Pisa in a week. We could throw Borgia out of Italy in two!”

  Niccolo did not agree. “If we had a hundred like that, we would do better to fear for our own lives.”

  It was about six in the evening when the two Florentine envoys finally reached the castle. They told the guards at the gate that they had been sent from the Florentine republic on an embassy to Caesar Borgia. They were shown inside, where they dismounted and turned their horses over to the offices of a groom. They were told that the duc de Valentinois would receive them presently. In the meantime, a light repast was laid out for them on a terrace overlooking the courtyard. They were to feel free to refresh themselves after their journey.

  After a long, hot, day’s ride, both enjoyed the light supper of cold, thinly sliced meats and fruit and the generous quantities of wine. Duly refreshed, they sat sipping the cool wine and awaiting the pleasure of the pope’s son. They waited for quite some time. Nobody paid the Florentines the least bit of attention.

  Niccolo had always been a minor diplomat, an ambassador without portfolio, and was accustomed to these sorts of delays when seeking audience with self-declared “important men.” Bishop Soderini, however, was unused to being kept waiting and was losing his patience. He finally accosted the only person who seemed even remotely aware of their presence, the ancient waiter who periodically brought them a new jar of wine.

  “We’ve been waiting for quite some time now. Would you please go and see what the matter is?”

  “I’ve been instructed that the gentlemen will be received presently. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can bring you . . .”

  Bishop Soderini cut him off. “You can bring me an explanation for this unconscionable delay, that’s what you can bring me,” he huffed. “And you can tell me why, if the august Caesar, who is, like us, only a guest in this castle, isn’t ready to receive us, the duke, your master, has not seen fit to pay his respects. Surely he’s been informed that we’re here. He’s not so old and decrepit that he can’t come down and greet an old friend.”

  The waiter gave him a wary look. “Caesar Borgia is my master, Excellency,” he said with overdue caution.

  “Oh, so you’re one of his men? Well surely you know where Duke Guidobaldo is. This is his castle and his city, after all. Could you inform him that Bishop Soderini is here and would like to speak to him? And you might remind him that, even if he is an ally of your master Borgia these days, he is and always has been a friend of mine and my family.”

  The waiter hesitated, then drew closer to the bishop. “You say you’re a friend of Duke Guidobaldo?”

  “Of course!” mumbled the Bishop, irritably.

  “Then you should know that Duke Guidobaldo is no longer lord of Urbino. He has . . . abdicated.”

  “What!” sputtered the Bishop, releasing a mouthful of wine in the process and losing a little of his unflappable clerical dignity.

  “What do you mean, he’s abdicated?”

  “He’s been accused of ingratitude and treachery toward the supreme pontiff. It was only by luck that he managed to flee before being murdered. Now, there’s a price on his head and Caesar Borgia is lord of Urbino.”

  The bishop muttered an imprecation. “Fled? Price on his head? What are you talking about? When did this happen?”

  “It would be imprudent of me to talk about it, Excellency. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “I’ll not excuse you,” said the bishop, “Tell me what happened, man, or I’ll see to it that your master learns of this insubordinate behavior.”

  Drawing even closer so that his voice was almost a whisper in the bishop’s ear, the waiter sketched the situation in short, nervous phrases. “Duke Guidobaldo made a treaty of friendship with the Borgia. He sent Caesar artillery. For the siege of Camerino. But Caesar turned and marched on Urbino instead. Marched on the duke with his own guns. The duke was dining outside the city, at the monastery of Zoccolante, when he heard the news about the approaching army. He barely escaped with his life. Where he is, I don’t know, but I do know that here, now, we’re all servants of Caesar Borgia, Lord of Urbino.”

  The bishop was dumbfounded and suddenly more than a little apprehensive about the impending meeting with Caesar Borgia. Niccolo, who had been listening intently the whole time, summed up the situation, “If that’s how he treats his allies, what can we, his enemies, expect from him?”

  They did not have long to ponder the question, for they were soon called to their audience with Caesar Borgia. It was well after midnight when they were led through a series of arched doorways, each guarded by heavily armed men. When Borgia was formally announced, the recitation of the titles that had accrued to his name took almost two minutes. The Spanish stood very much on ceremony.

  As he swept into the room, it was not his ornate, foreign-looking clothing that startled and unsettled the two Florentine ambassadors. The lush, black-velvet doublet decorated with pearls the size of walnuts and the shimmering satin and the starched Spanish ruffles were remarkable in their own right, but the bishop and even Niccolo were experienced enough in diplomacy and the extravagances of royal courts so that they no longer balked at mere exotic dress and behavior. But balk they did, for neither was able to conceal his shock and consternation upon discovering that Caesar Borgia, the pope’s son, was the ruthless village strongman.

  Borgia said nothing, but it was apparent from his sly smile that he was enjoying the surprise he had sprung on the two Florentine envoys. They were taken off guard. He had put them at an initial disadvantage. He had gained the upper hand. All this, he gave them to understand without saying a word. He was the sort of man who communicated with a nod, a look, a frown, or the pointing of a finger. He was a man to whom actions came more readily than words.

  He sat and indicated that they should do likewise. With his hands folded in his lap, Borgia sat absolutely still. There was something uncanny in that stillness that announced the total self-control of the man, the utter calm and assurance. He did not address them. Only the attentive expression on his face told the emissaries that he was listening, that he was ready to do business and was waiting for them to speak.

  Still flustered, Bishop Soderini began his formal protestations of friendship and goodwill on the part of the republic of Florence. Niccolo, ever the astute observer, scrutinized their opponent.

  The Spanish cut of his clothes, with their suggestions of decadence and foppery would have been ludicrous, even effeminate on most men, but not so on Caesar Borgia. The easy grace with which he moved and the extraordinary muscular control he exerted to maintain himself erect and motionless made the clothing seem superfluous and unimportant. Niccolo also knew that under the capricious clothing were hard muscles capable of bending an iron horseshoe as easily as he himself might bend a soft wax candle on a hot summer day.

  When they first encountered him that afternoon, as the village Atlas, Borgia was wearing a cheap workman’s cloth cap. Hatless now, his shiny black hair fell in ringlets down around his shoulders. His impeccably trimmed and tightly curled black beard came to a point on his chin. In
an Italy where beards had long been out of fashion for men, this beard gave him an exotic, almost-Moorish air. His swarthy complexion and his deep, dark almond eyes, drooping slightly at the corners with a hint of Spanish sadness added to the impression of vague, oriental menace. In fact, once, in his native Spain, someone had called Caesar a marrano, a white Moor. The insult, considered one of the most grave that could be hurled in the face of a proper Spaniard, was avenged with typical Caesarian swiftness. He cut the offender’s tongue out with his own hands and had it nailed to a pillory to serve as an example.

  Caesar Borgia allowed Soderini to talk on, to ramble. When the bishop would finish a sentence and receive no reply, he would hastily add a qualification, an amendment, some further explanation. He would make point after point, anticipating Borgia’s objections and then answering them. He was engaged in a conversation with himself.

  His nervousness at eliciting no response whatsoever from Borgia was becoming apparent. The latter betrayed no emotion as the bishop, with less and less confidence, expounded and proposed. Finally, Soderini concluded, his voice trailing off weakly at the end. It was as if Caesar Borgia had just won an argument without even saying a single word.

  He studied the Florentine bishop in silence. He brought his folded hands up to his chin, hands that looked oddly refined for bludgeons that had recently beaten a bull of a man senseless. When Caesar spoke, he came directly to the point. He eschewed the long-winded, verbal fencing that was the professional diplomat’s stock in trade. His voice was deep, rich, mellifluous.

  “I wish to be on a clear footing with the Florentines. If you accept my friendship, we shall be allies in a united Italy. If you decline it, then I have every right before God and man to defend my own interests. If you don’t want me as a friend, then you will have me as an implacable enemy. What will it be?”

  Soderini faltered. He was unprepared to address such a simple, blunt proposal. His was the art of temporizing, of insinuations and vague promises. “Well, I would need some time, I would have to consult my government . . .”

  Borgia interrupted, almost gently. “This government of yours, this republican government, I don’t like it. You should change it. If you don’t, perhaps I will.” His voice was as soft and dark as the velvet cloak he wore.

  Bishop Soderini was speechless at the audacity of Borgia’s ultimatum. He sputtered, but no reply was forthcoming. Instead, it was Niccolo who answered the Spaniard. “We Florentines have the government we desire. It may, as you put it, displease you, but that scarcely concerns us. We’re prepared to deal with you either as a friend or as an enemy. The choice is as much yours as ours.”

  Borgia regarded the secretary who had spoken, not rashly or impetuously, but firmly and defiantly. There was a hint of admiration in his silent appraisal. “My sources tell me you’re the young Florentine who spoke so boldly before the king of France?”

  “I felt I was only doing my duty in correcting his majesty on certain points of fact that he had somehow failed to grasp.”

  “And are there certain points of fact that I’ve failed to grasp?”

  “Most assuredly,” said Niccolo without hesitation. “You confess yourself a friend of Florence, yet you send your dog, Vitellozzo, to yap at our heels, to harass Tuscany, and attack us at Arezzo. We don’t consider that an act of friendship.”

  Borgia smiled and answered the accusation, all the while speaking smoothly, melodiously. “Vitellozzo acts on his own. I have no part in his adventures. You know he hates your city. You cheated him out of his command and his money at Pisa. You killed his brother Paolo. Is it any wonder he wages war on you?”

  “Vitellozzo is incapable of initiative, incapable of doing anything on his own, without direction, without permission.”

  “I agree with you,” said Borgia. “Vitellozzo is a cur, good for nothing but ravishing the countryside, pillaging, stealing, and burning. He’s a howling animal. They say he’s mad, you know, and he excuses his hasty and brutal actions by claiming he suffers from the French disease.”

  “We call it the Spanish disease,” observed Niccolo.

  “Touché,” acknowledged the Spaniard, amused now by the impertinence of the young secretary. “But I swear I know nothing of Vitellozzo and this unfortunate business at Arezzo. Whatever he’s doing there, he’s doing on his own.”

  “Perhaps,” said Niccolo, knowing that Vitellozzo was in the employ of Borgia and didn’t make a move without his knowledge. “And perhaps if you had a word with him, he might desist.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then it would be extremely difficult for the republic of Florence to offer you its friendship.”

  “I may speak to Vitellozzo. He may choose to withdraw. Whatever the outcome, though, you must decide quickly. I’ll give you until tomorrow. And I warn you, there can be no half measures between us, between Florence and me. If you are not with me, then you are against me.”

  “Perhaps,” said Niccolo wryly. Who’d said that before?

  On that ambiguous note, much to the relief of Bishop Soderini, the colloquium ended. That night, both Niccolo and the bishop were up late writing urgent dispatches to their government. They related the reason why Caesar had sent for them and passed on his ultimatum. Without the support of France, Florence had nothing with which to bargain. She had no troops for her own defense, and Borgia was just over a day’s march from her walls and gates. He was already within striking distance, with an army that grew in strength every day, and he was famous for acting with blinding speed, without revealing his plans to anybody in advance. His sudden, bold stroke at Urbino was proof enough of that.

  Niccolo had profoundly mixed feelings about the man. He was straightforward and blunt in a milieu where no one ever said what he was thinking. He showed resolve and determination where indecision and cowardice were the rule. And his talk of a united Italy intrigued the young secretary.

  But this man was the enemy of Florence, and there was treachery in his heart. Despite his admiration for Borgia’s single-mindedness, Niccolo concluded his dispatch that night by pleading with the Signoria to come to a swift decision. “The duke professes good faith,” he wrote, “and yet his mode of action is to sneak into other people’s houses before they are aware of it. Here in Urbino he came like a swift, subtle, fatal disease that caused death before the illness was even discovered.” As Niccolo drifted into an uneasy sleep that night, he was haunted by that charming voice, those subdued tones—I don’t like your government. You should change it . . . Change it . . . Change it . . .

  The next day, the time for the meeting was fixed at two hours after sunset, about ten o’clock in the evening. After discussions that Caesar said would be most brief, the Florentine envoys were invited to dine with him and a few friends. Niccolo had misgivings about the lateness of the hour. He hoped the food would not be unnecessarily spicy, since the violence wrought in his bowels at that late hour would be enough to keep him up all night with nightmares. Perhaps that’s why the Spanish appear to be such an exotic race, he thought, they eat too late and spend their nights tormented by fantastic visions.

  In the course of the day, the two Florentines kept mostly to themselves, worried, and wrote more dispatches. When they left the rooms assigned to them, they noticed that everywhere there were armed guards. Every door in the palace was guarded—and locked. Caesar Borgia was a cautious man.

  Midmorning they received a document from Borgia. It was a contract he had drawn up in which he stipulated his intentions to conclude a perpetual alliance with the republic of Florence who, in turn, agreed to engage him as condottiere, or military commander, for the sum of 36,000 florins a year for a period of three years. According to the terms of the contract, Borgia was under no obligation to provide active service, but was simply required to maintain in a state of readiness three-hundred men at arms to be put at the disposition of the republic in case of an emergency. It was a simple, outright bribe. Caesar was obviously aware that the Florenti
nes, in times of trouble, were willing to pay for the public safety.

  Niccolo was not surprised at the terms, and indeed he and Soderini were prepared for just such an offer. But 36,000 florins a year! To do absolutely nothing! His own annual salary, as a result of his recent diplomatic triumphs in France, had risen to the princely sum of 210 florins. And he had to work seven days a week to draw it!

  Late in the afternoon, the envoy from Florence arrived with the good news. Already a column of French horse, foot, and artillery was making its way toward Florence from Milan. Piero Soderini’s mission to Louis XII had been a success. Furthermore, the French king had also seen the wisdom of curtailing Borgia’s empire-building activities in central Italy and had dispatched a special envoy to confer with his “friend and trusted ally, the duc de Valentinois.” The substance of the message he sent Caesar was that it was not his majesty’s will that his ally, the Valentinois, should proceed against his other staunch ally, the republic of Florence. For the time being, Florence was safe, and Borgia’s ambitions in her direction would be checked. For the time being. The dispatch also authorized Bishop Soderini to accept any terms Borgia might offer, knowing all the while that they would never be honored by either side.

  The diplomatic colloquy that evening was concluded without any delays or arguments. Caesar was delighted with his new commission from Florence and was assured that his 36,000 florins were already on their way. For the time being, an uneasy truce had been arranged. Both parties were appeased—Caesar with a worthless contract, the Florentines with worthless assurances. All were united, allies, under the wise and happy stewardship of the king of France. The first round ended in a draw.

  Dinner was better than Niccolo had expected, and Caesar Borgia proved to be a gracious and charming host. Although he himself took Spanish wine, he realized that it was not to the liking of most Italians, and he thoughtfully supplied the best of what the vineyards in his new lands in Urbino were capable of producing. The food too was excellent and of local provenance. While Niccolo had half expected such barbaric fare as concoctions of oysters and pork, or even worse, eggs and dried codfish, he was treated to thick slabs of duck liver pâté, followed by roasted pigeons and doves. Vegetables were plentiful, including crisp fennel and tiny, tasty cabbages, fried whole. The only curious thing about the food, which was otherwise delicious and perfectly cooked, was the total lack of seasoning. The uniform blandness, even to the absence of salt, puzzled Niccolo, who also noticed that Borgia had at his elbow, a small pot of sauce with which he occasionally seasoned his own food, but nobody else’s.