“Not those men, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“The older men, the more experienced men, they’re gone.”
“Gone? Where to?”
“They’ve gone off to join the mercenary companies.”
“What! They’ve deserted!”
“Not exactly. I know it’s not my place, sir, . . .”
“Speak up boy!” said Niccolo, visibly agitated.
“Don Micheletto has been selling them off.”
“Selling them!” said Niccolo, astounded.
“Yes, sir. He’s been meeting with agents of the free companies. They’ve offered to hire all the men he can provide. He trains them and then sells them off for a bounty to the mercenary captains who are always looking for armed men.”
“And the men go along with this?”
“Not all of them, but some do. They’re poor men, sir, and the free companies pay an awful lot of money. It’s a temptation.”
“Why didn’t anyone come to me?”
“Don Micheletto said it was your idea, sir. He said you were in on it, and it was best we all just kept our mouths shut. It wasn’t any of our business.”
Niccolo was incensed. “He said I was in on it! When did all this start?”
“About six months ago, sir, right after I joined.”
“And right after I was sent to Germany,” thought Niccolo. To the boy he said, “You’ve done the republic of Florence a great favor today, Salvestro, a very great favor indeed.”
“Thank you, sir. My father told me to come to you. He said he knew you couldn’t be involved. He said you’d know what to do.”
“Oh, I know what to do about traitors,” said Niccolo. “You can depend on it.”
Riding back to Florence, Niccolo reviewed the situation. “So Don Micheletto is in business for himself. Florence pays for the training and equipment, and Don Micheletto sells the finished product to the highest bidder at a handsome profit. Very pretty. A very nice scheme.”
And then he thought of Paolo Vitelli. Only five years ago, Paolo Vitelli had double-crossed the republic. He was in command of the Florentine troops at Pisa and was taking money from the Pisans at the same time. The war dragged on and Vitelli got rich. But then he got caught. And once Niccolo had prepared the indictment, without delay, with little ceremony, Vitelli was relieved of the burden of his traitorous head. Such was the fate of traitors, and such would be the fate of Don Micheletto.
And Niccolo knew that that decapitation would also resolve the biggest contradiction in his life. Giuditta would finally have her revenge. He smiled to himself as he rode on toward Florence. Revenge is a plate best eaten cold.
“The last thing I want to do is see a horserace,” said Giuditta firmly.
“It’s not just a horserace,” objected Niccolo.
“Grown men flailing at the flanks of excited animals and at each other—you call that entertainment?”
“Yes, besides they’re not grown men,” countered Niccolo. “They’re little stunted men or slim boys who weigh less, so the horses have less weight to carry.”
“Dwarves on horseback. That makes it all the more appealing.”
“Giuditta, the palio is a tradition. The whole city turns out for it. And the militia will pass in review before the race.”
“Oh, the militia! Why didn’t you say something before? I didn’t realize the militia was going to pass in review. Now that’s real entertainment.”
“Come on,” pleaded an exasperated Niccolo. “I have to go. I have to be there, because our horse is set to win the race this year.”
“What do you mean ‘set to win the race’? Are you telling me it’s not just a stupid horserace, but a stupid, fixed horserace?”
“It’s not exactly fixed. It’s negotiated.”
“Bella differenza!”
“I told you it’s not just a horserace, and it isn’t. The race is just the last step. We’ve been working on this thing for months, working out the details.”
“What details? Who’s been working on what?”
Niccolo explained, “The palio is like a war. Each neighborhood is represented by one horse. Before the race is run, pacts and alliances are concluded. We work out deals. We make agreements among ourselves not to obstruct this horse, to promote that one. We exchange information. We pass on rumors. Sometimes we start them. Sometimes misleading information gets out—like the rumor that our horse came up lame last week.”
“Your horse isn’t lame?”
“How could we win if the horse were lame? I told you, it’s all worked out.”
Giuditta eyed her lover curiously. “Does everything you do have to be like that? Deals and negotiations? Secrets and promises? Can’t you ever get away from it?”
“I get away from it with you,” he said even though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He did have a secret; he was keeping something from her. But all that would be over in a few days. The wheels were turning, and the end was in sight for the perfidious Don Micheletto. When he was brought to justice and sentenced, Niccolo would tell Giuditta everything. Her revenge and that of the republic would be consummated together.
Reluctantly, Giuditta finally agreed to accompany him to what she considered an idiotic horserace, the results of which, apparently, everyone knew in advance. When they arrived in the piazza where the race was held, they saw the shoulder-high wooden barriers that had been erected to keep the crowds from spilling onto the racecourse and to keep the horses and riders from careening into the pressing crowds. In the center of the course, a group of children was dancing in a ring and singing. Niccolo bought watermelon and wine at a booth and presented the offerings to his beloved. They climbed up into the makeshift scaffolding and made themselves comfortable.
A blaring of trumpets put an end to the children’s ring-dance and cleared the center of the piazza. Another blast, accompanied by the roll of drums, signaled the arrival of the militia. They marched in lockstep. The sun glanced off their polished breastplates. Most of the militiamen carried long lances, although companies of archers marched that day as well.
They were all dressed in white waistcoats emblazoned with the crimson cross of the republic and smart, white caps. Their stockings were half-red, half-white, so that when a company was viewed from the left side their legs appeared uniformly white, from the right, uniformly red. When they turned sharply as a group, the sea of legs abruptly seemed to change color. This effect along with the crisp manner in which the men went through their paces drew murmurs of respect and admiration form the crowd.
“Amappolo!” Giuditta blurted out.
“What!” said Niccolo. Several other people turned and directed disapproving stares at Giuditta. “Amappolo” was not an acceptable Florentine expression. It was Roman, and it sounded vulgar.
“It’s him!” said Giuditta.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Don Micheletto!”
“You know him?” It was Niccolo’s turn to be surprised.
“Of course I know him. I’ve known him for years. He was one of my customers. He used to come to the convent all the time with his master, Caesar, before the Bull was put out to pasture.”
“He used to come to your place with Caesar Borgia? For years?”
“That’s not all. When Caesar disappeared, Don Micheletto continued to come around. He came courting then. He came for Pasiphae or Imperia—whatever you want to call her. She seemed very fond of him.”
“So the second-in-command inherited the master’s concubine?”
“Apparently. She disappeared too, shortly after Don Micheletto stopped coming. I always thought she might have run off with him. And now he’s here in Florence. How odd.”
“Odder than you think,” said Niccolo, aware of the heavy irony. Giuditta had been acquainted with her father’s murderer for years! He wanted to shout it at her. That’s the man who killed your father! But he had to bide his time. He had to wait, and when he finally told her, he
would also be able to offer her the assassin’s head on a silver platter—in a manner of speaking.
“What’s he doing with your militia?” Her question cut in on Niccolo’s thoughts.
“Training them.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Whatever his faults, he’s a good soldier and a good disciplinarian.”
“No, not that. I mean, didn’t you always tell me that the Medici were the sworn enemies of your republic, and that they’d do anything to get back into power in Florence?”
“That’s true, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“You remember the time at the brothel I showed you the fat cardinal, Giovanni de’ Medici?”
“The one who just likes to watch?”
“Well, the cardinal was also one of my regular customers, and that man down there commanding your militia was one of his most constant companions.”
“Don Micheletto and the Cardinal de’ Medici!” said Niccolo in alarm.
“After Caesar’s disgrace, they were inseparable.”
Niccolo was too numbed by this latest revelation to realize that his horse, although comfortably in the lead, slipped going into the final turn and went crashing into the wooden barricades, badly injuring his rider. When the horse managed to right itself, it was whinnying in pain. The animal was dragging its left rear leg pathetically, limply, behind it. A grotesque splinter of bare white bone was sticking out mawkishly from the broken leg, and blood was gushing from the wound. The horse would have to be destroyed.
The race, a three-hundred-year-old tradition of local rivalry and political wrangling, did not turn out as expected. The deals had been made, the bargains struck, sides had been chosen, but in the end, fortune intervened. With the implications of Don Micheletto’s treachery whirling in his head, however, Niccolo was oblivious to the outcome. He did not even notice the triumphant winner, strutting alone around the track, bearing high the blue-cloth standard of the Virgin, which was the day’s prize. After the festivities, the rider would carry the banner back to his neighborhood, where it would remain until next year’s race. In this case, the unexpected beneficiary of the favorite’s fatal stumble was the representative of San Lorenzo, the quarter where the Medici Palace now stood empty and boarded up, abandoned by its inhabitants.
“I have to go. I have to see Soderini.”
“Niccolo!”
“Can you make it home by yourself?”
“Niccolo! Please! It’s a holiday.” protested Giuditta.
“This won’t wait,” he said, giving her an absentminded kiss on the cheek. He disappeared into the crowd.
Everything seemed to fall into place. Don Micheletto was once an agent of the Medici. What could be more natural than that he return to his former employers? And there was no doubt in Niccolo’s mind that Don Micheletto’s coming to Florence was no accident. His insinuation into the militia was likewise carefully planned. And not only was he enriching himself, and probably his employers, by selling off the best soldiers to the free companies—at the same time he was deliberately weakening the militia and undermining the defenses of the republic. Don Micheletto and the Medici! Who knows what “lessssonssss” they had in store for Florence?
Niccolo, sweaty, out of breath, and looking a little mad, took the stairs leading into the Soderini Palace two at a time. The place was bustling with servants. He collared a liveried footman and demanded to see the gonfaloniere.
“The gonfaloniere has not yet returned from the festivities,” the footman informed him. “Would the gentleman care to wait?”
“I’ll be in his study,” said Niccolo, rudely pushing past the startled servant. “Send him in to me as soon as he gets back.”
The gonfaloniere arrived, accompanied by his familiars, several other dignitaries, and visiting members of a trade delegation from France. Upon being informed that an “excited gentleman” was awaiting him in his study, Piero Soderini excused himself and proceeded there with his usual unruffled aplomb.
“Niccolo, this is unexpected,” said the gonfaloniere.
“I’ve come on business.”
“Business on a holiday? You never let up, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t urgent.”
“Well, what is it, Chancellor?” said Soderini, resigning himself to the conference and sinking into a soft leather chair.
Niccolo continued to pace back and forth, too agitated to sit still. “It’s Don Micheletto.”
“I thought we had that all under control. Would you like a drink to calm you down?”
“No, I don’t need anything. Thank you. Listen, Piero, there’s more to Don Micheletto’s treason than just his making a handsome profit on the men he trains and sells. He’s working for the Medici.”
At the mention of the Medici, Soderini came to attention. “What are you saying?”
“He’s been seen in Rome with Cardinal Giovanni.”
Soderini was a little skeptical: “Being seen with the cardinal hardly constitutes working for the Medici.”
“He was with him all the time. Constantly. And that was right before he turned up here. You draw your own conclusions. He used to work for them before, you know.”
“You think he came here at the behest of the Cardinal de’ Medici, and that he’s working for him.” Soderini looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, Niccolo. You may be jumping to conclusions. But the charge is serious. I’ll have to look into it.”
“Look into what! I’m telling you he’s up to his neck in some kind of conspiracy with the Medici. And the first step is to undermine the effectiveness of the militia!”
“Niccolo, I’m not questioning the credibility of your information, but really, if Don Micheletto had been conspiring with the Cardinal de’ Medici, don’t you think our people in Rome would have been aware of it? Why do you think we pay all that money to spies? They keep an eye on the cardinal. Don’t you think they would have let me know?”
“Maybe we should start asking some questions about our people in Rome, then!” Niccolo was angry.
“I resent that!” The gonfaloniere stood up. “My own brother is in charge of our embassy in Rome!”
“Then maybe you better ask your brother what’s been going on down there!”
“Niccolo, Niccolo, you don’t mean that. You know Francesco is above suspicion. You’ve worked with him so many times.” The gonfaloniere attempted to sooth his overwrought secretary. “I promise you I’ll look into things. If there’s anything to your story, I’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime . . .”
“In the meantime, have him arrested! Have Don Micheletto arrested!” Niccolo was adamant.
“On what charge?”
“Treason!”
“I just said, I’ll have to look into things first.”
“You already have enough evidence on his tampering with the militia to put him in prison, to take his head off if you want. Go ahead and arrest him. You saw the indictment I prepared.”
“Yes, it was very impressive. The allegations were certainly serious.”
“Allegations!” Niccolo exploded. “You call those charges allegations! I’ve gotten the names of over a hundred men whom he sold, outright sold, to the free companies. I’ve gotten the names of the mercenary commanders he dealt with. I’ve got witnesses in the ranks who are willing to give evidence against him. And you call those allegations! I say arrest him and hang him! Now!”
Again the gonfaloniere assumed a paternal tone and posture: “Niccolo, Niccolo, you’re letting yourself get carried away. If it were only that simple.”
“It is that simple!” said the younger man. “We had less on Vitelli when he betrayed us, and we sent him to the gallows!”
“Yes, but things were different then. The Council of Eighty appointed Vitelli. Who do you think appointed Don Micheletto?”
“Ultimately, you were responsible.”
“That’s correct. As the gonfaloniere for life, I am ultimately responsible.
And if the extent of Don Micheletto’s perfidy is exposed, who do you think will have to take the blame?”
“They can’t blame you. It wasn’t your idea to engage him.”
“It wasn’t my idea, but I’ll be held responsible. I’ll be made to look ridiculous or incompetent, at best, culpable at worst. The whole government will suffer. The republic will suffer.”
“Not if we move quickly.”
“Niccolo, you know we have enemies. You know there are men on the council who resent me, who resent the type of government we’ve built and nurtured. You know that there are men who would rather see a return to the old ways of autocracy and even a restoration of the Medici. If I falter, what do you think will happen? If the people lose confidence in me, how long can this government last?”
“The people won’t lose confidence in you if you deliver Don Micheletto over to his punishment. And his fate will serve as an example to the other traitors.”
“You think our enemies won’t raise a hue and cry and say that I’m just getting rid of my accomplice because he became too greedy? You know sometimes I think the whole thing with Don Micheletto may have been a plot to embarrass me from the very beginning.”
“I still say, arrest him.”
“I have a better idea,” said the gonfaloniere. “We’ll have a talk with Don Micheletto. We can confront him with the information we have. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll agree to give up the game. In a month or two, he’ll decide to resign his commission and leave the city to seek honest employment elsewhere. The cloud will pass without incident. We’ll appoint a new captain of the guard.”
“A month or two! Do you know what sort of damage he can do in a month or two? He could have the Cardinal de’ Medici sitting in your office in a month or two!”
“Niccolo, you’re exaggerating.”
“Exaggerating! Don Micheletto is destroying the militia, he’s conspiring with the Medici, and you want to wait a month or two to do anything about it! He even tried to poison me!”
“He what?”
“He tried to poison me when I was in Germany!”
“Niccolo, you’ve been working too hard lately. Why don’t you let me handle Don Micheletto. Why don’t you take a few days off and go to the country to relax.”
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 56