Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  Niccolo was saying, “The legend has it that he was found in a cabbage patch and that, from such villainous beginnings, he trained himself in the exercise of arms and eventually went on to throw the tyrants out of Lucca.”

  These subjects—arms and tyrants and oppression and revolt—now formed the mainstay of the discussions between Niccolo and his little circle of adherents. Zanobi and Luigi, eager to hear of the exploits of another paradigm, another secular saint in the irregular pantheon of political activists whom master Niccolo had unearthed, clamored for more and pressed him for details.

  Niccolo begged off, “Please, I want to eat. I want to eat. I’ve been riding all day. I’m starved.” So saying, he shoveled another generous portion of zucchini and lamb’s brains onto the plate in front of him and set upon it. His appetite had returned. Through mouthfuls, though he made them a promise, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll write the whole story down and I’ll even dedicate it to you two. How’s that?”

  “Salute!” Luigi lifted his glass. Zanobi joined in, and Niccolo followed. “Hear! Hear!”

  When Niccolo had finished eating, he made a hasty swipe at his mouth with his napkin and rose to leave.

  “Magister, you’re not going already?” Both were disappointed. “You’ve only just arrived and we have a lot to catch up on.”

  “This evening at the Orti,” said Niccolo. “Now I have business to attend to. I have to file my report, but more important—and this is something you pampered young gentlemen will probably never understand the urgency of—I have to collect my salary!”

  “Oh, his salary!” howled Zanobi. “Then Magister Niccolo will be buying the drinks tonight! For everybody!”

  “I don’t make enough in a month to keep you thirsty pups in wine for one night,” objected Niccolo. “A stasera!”

  “Fatti con Dio.”

  Niccolo hurried out of the osteria and into the Piazza Maggiore. He had just returned from a month-long legation to Lucca on behalf of the Signoria. It was a minor legation, as legations go, more in the line of a civil suit than a real affair of state, but it was a beginning. And it paid.

  The irony of it all was that he would have to report to Michelozzi—in his own old office! But he had long since ceased to feel any animosity toward the new secretary, and the rise in his own fortunes had gone a long way to dampen the fires of jealousy that once tormented him. In fact, on more than one occasion, Michelozzi had come to consult him on matters of procedure and on matters of judgment as well.

  “Niccolo, you’re back!” Michelozzi rose and they embraced. “Everything in order? Everything concluded?”

  “Concluded to the satisfaction of all parties involved. The Lucchese are happy, the offended Florentine merchants are happy, and I’ll be happy when you pay me.”

  “In a minute. In a minute. But I’ve got something else for you. It could be something big.”

  “What?” said Niccolo, feigning indignation. “The Luccan affair wasn’t something big? Collecting gambling debts and settling commercial obligations for our guildsmen wasn’t something big?”

  “I mean it. Something big. The Cardinal wants to see you.”

  “The Cardinal!”

  “The Cardinal. I’m not kidding. He said to send you to him as soon as you arrive.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  “Well,” said Niccolo impatiently, “Shall we go find out or just sit here? Where does the Cardinal hold court these days? The Medici Palace?”

  “Oh no,” said Michelozzi. “Right here in the Signoria. The Cardinal’s very wary about stirring up public opinion against himself. He does everything by the rules. No secret councils late at night in the Medici Palace.”

  “I guess that makes him a regular partisan of republican government,” said Niccolo. They both laughed.

  Michelozzi accompanied Niccolo as far as the apartments that used to belong to the Gonfaloniere Soderini and left him there. The Cardinal was sitting behind a huge desk with his hands folded precisely in front of him. He was clad in purple as befit his office, but there was nothing ostentatious about his appearance—no ermine, no velvet, no gold.

  Niccolo had gotten used to the idea that the Medici came in all shapes and sizes, but this one was so utterly different from his ebullient first cousin the pope that it was difficult to believe the same blood flowed in his veins. In fact, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici was so stiff and cold and rigid, it was difficult to believe that any blood flowed in his veins at all. Leo was over three hundred pounds of perpetual motion, all belly and bluster and blubber and head wagging, while Giulio was devoid of anything that looked like human or animal spirits. Leo was pink and Giulio was grey. Leo was round and Giulio was razor-sharp edges and angles. Leo was all jowls and chins; Giulio had only one, very prominent, very pointed chin, with a very deep cleft, very high cheekbones, and a very long nose. A thick black fringe of hair was chopped straight across his forehead. His eyes betrayed neither kindness nor amusement, nor was his gaze penetrating or cruel or pitiless or even inquisitive. If, as the poets tell us, the eyes are windows to the soul, Giulio had long ago drawn the curtains and closed the shutters. There was no trace of a soul peeking or peeping or leaking out.

  Niccolo bowed. “Your Excellency.”

  “Machiavelli. Thank you for coming.” The voice was toneless.

  “How may I be of service, Excellency?” Niccolo was always polite with tyrants these days.

  “I’ve finally had the opportunity to pursue your little discourse on what sort of governmental arrangements are best suited to Florence. There was much in it that I found interesting.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Of course, there was also much that was, shall we say, impracticable, at least for the present, but overall it was an astute analysis. And a discreet one. You have learned something about discretion in the past few years, haven’t you, Machiavelli?” He remained utterly motionless. He didn’t blink, his lips didn’t move when he spoke.

  “I believe so, Excellency.”

  “I’ve been privileged to read a number of things from your pen lately. You think clearly, Machiavelli, and you write well. Therefore, I’d like to make you a proposition. I’m prepared to offer you a salary of 100 florins a year for two years.”

  “For what, Excellency?”

  “For you to employ yourself in writing a history of Florence. Do you accept?”

  Niccolo did not want to appear too eager. “A history of Florence,” he said, “beginning?”

  “Anywhere you want.”

  “And ending?”

  “Wherever you see fit.”

  “In Latin?”

  “Or in Florentine, the choice is yours.”

  “100 florins a year for two years?”

  “Longer, if the project demands it. Are you satisfied?”

  “Why, yes, I . . .”

  “Good. I’ll have the necessary papers drawn up. Good day, Machiavelli.” The Cardinal did not waste words or time.

  And the interview was over. Niccolo was astounded at his good fortune. It wasn’t until later that evening that he cursed himself for forgetting. In his excitement about the new appointment, he had neglected to collect the salary due to him from his mission to Lucca.

  The Cardinal rested his unblinking, expressionless eyes on him until Niccolo turned and walked off across the big, still room. When the newly commissioned communal historian was gone, a side door opened noiselessly and someone else slipped into the chambers.

  “Well? You heard?” said the cold Cardinal.

  “I told you he’d accept,” said the other man.

  “And so he has.”

  “It will keep him busy for years, digging around in the dusty archives, reading old moldy books. And he’s utterly content to do it for 100 florins a year. And you wanted to offer him 200.”

  “What about the young pups?”

  “You don’t have anything to fear
from them. He keeps their heads full of all that Roman nonsense and his high-minded ideas about the militia and his grand old republic.” There was a snort of derisive laughter. “They used to write poems about herding sheep and making cheese. Now they’re busy scribbling about Numa Pompilius and Sulla and whether the infantry is more effective than the cavalry.”

  “You’re sure they’re harmless?”

  “Utterly so.”

  “Just the same, I want you to keep an eye on them. His ideas are dangerous and they could be inflammatory.”

  “Don’t worry, the history will keep him busy.”

  “It’s amazing how throwing a sop to a barking dog will quiet him down,” observed the Cardinal without emotion.

  “But what if the dog starts up barking again, Your Excellency?”

  “I suppose we’d have to take the stick to him in that event. What other choice would we have?”

  “I understand castrating a dog takes the spirit out of him?”

  “I suppose you’re right. At any rate, keep me informed, and I’ll decide if and when we have to take further action on his account.”

  “Excellency.”

  “Good day, Michelozzi.”

  Concerning the discovery of conspiracies, it is impossible to protect oneself from malice, imprudence, or carelessness so that the plot will not be revealed whenever the participants in it exceed the number of three or four . . . and everyone should guard himself from ever writing anything down, for there is nothing that can convict you more easily than your own handwriting.

  —MACHIAVELLI, THE DISCOURSES

  Since his history required frequent access to records and books kept in the Signoria, Niccolo began spending a great deal more time in the city. One night, when he was working later than usual, he thought he heard something at the door. Putting down his pen, he listened. Nothing. It was his imagination. He was jumpy. It was late, and, bleary-eyed, he decided to retire for the evening, although he thought to check the front door before going off to bed. The bar was in place. He tugged to make sure the latch was engaged. All secure. But, pivoting to go, something scraped under his foot on the floor. Looking down in the dim light, he saw a letter.

  He brought it over to his writing table, where a small but bright candle still burned, the only circle of light in the otherwise dark and empty house. In the yellow light, he could see that there was no name on the it. No address. A letter slipped under the door at night. He was intrigued. Niccolo unfolded the single sheet. He spread it out atop the mountains of papers and documents with which he was working. A cursory glance at the missive was enough. He was astonished to see that it was written in some kind of code!

  It had been years—almost ten years—since Niccolo had received or sent a coded message. He stared uncomprehendingly as the odd symbols danced in the flickering candlelight. He didn’t know where to begin. He couldn’t read it. His eyes darted back and forth over the mysterious symbols, looking for something familiar, something to latch onto. Then he spotted it. A single character. He recognized the S-shaped figure that had always reminded him of a snake. It was part of an old chancery code. It was the unique symbol they had used, quite appropriately, he always thought, for the pope, and by extension, for Rome. As he examined the document, letter by letter, other symbols emerged from the general clutter. He remembered the A, the R, and the N, then the S, but try as he may, he could not summon up any more of the old cipher.

  Working with the few letters he had, Niccolo scribbled out a hasty transcription, leaving blank spaces where his memory failed him and hoped to be able to fill in some of the vowels and other consonants with guesswork. It wasn’t enough. He had too little to go on. Most of the words were nothing but four or five blanks. But as he concentrated on the fragmented signature at the very end of the document, something clicked. Suddenly he saw it:

  - - - r - s- - - r - n -

  The letter was from Piero Soderini.

  Hastily, Niccolo went back and filled in the new letters—the I, E, O, and D—but it was still not enough to make much sense emerge from the maddening and intractable letter. He would have to wait until the next day. He would have to go to the chancery and hope that the old code books were still around somewhere.

  As he tried to sleep that night, he could make no sense of it. Why would Soderini be writing to him? Why now, after nine years? And why in an outmoded code? What was afoot? Since the fall of the republic and the gonfaloniere’s abdication, he and Niccolo had, not just carefully, but scrupulously avoided contact with one another. They had employed enormous precautions on both sides in order to avert dangerous suspicions. Even the hint of a conspiracy, the whiff of a plot to return the gonfaloniere to Florence would be taken deadly seriously and acted upon without hesitation. They both knew that Soderini’s every move was under close scrutiny and that the assassin’s dagger was never far from his breast.

  The next day, Niccolo browsed seemingly casually through stacks of forgotten books and documents that were even dustier and moldier than his usual obscure reading material. He felt fortunate to be working on the history, since his research provided him with the perfect excuse to rummage around old chancery files without arousing suspicion. Finally, he found the old collection of ciphers that he was looking for, the ones they had used in 1502, when he was on legation to Caesar Borgia and the pope was a snake. He didn’t dare take the papers home. He waited until he was alone and copied the code out quickly on a scrap of paper, which he thrust deep in his pocket. He replaced the cipher where he had found it.

  Luigi and Zanobi were waiting for him when he came out of the chancery and compelled him to accompany them to the Orti, as usual, to read. The evening dragged on. It seemed endless, and all the while, Niccolo was itching to get away, to go home and transliterate Soderini’s mysterious, unexpected letter. It was dark before he was finally able to beg off.

  He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him like a man who has something to hide. He stumbled around in the dark until he found a candle, lit it, and sat down. Shoveling the mounds of historical documents aside, he cleared his table and took out Soderini’s letter. Alongside it, he spread the scrap that contained the key to the code, and alongside that, his sheet of paper with the blanks and the seven letters he had already deciphered. He worked quickly, coaxing and wheedling the document’s secrets out of her gradually, one letter at a time.

  Finally, he sat back and read:

  Niccolo,

  I have sent you several letters, which may or may not have reached you. I have no way of knowing. While I can’t go into any great detail, I’ve found employment for you here in Rome, and I want you to come. I want you to set out at once and not say a word to anyone. The work that I have in mind here will most assuredly be of interest to you. At any rate, it seems to me decidedly preferable to writing miserable histories at 100 florins a year, which is how I understand you now occupy your time. Valete!

  Piero Soderini

  The letter left Niccolo profoundly perplexed. The obscure, but tantalizing, reference to “work” in Rome could mean only one thing—that Soderini was plotting something against the Medici, plotting to return to Florence. Could it work? Who else was with him? Who was behind him? The French? A million questions sprang instantly to mind. And a million nagging doubts.

  Why now? Why after all these years, when he had finally managed to haul himself out of despair and dejection? When things were going his way for a change? Five years ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity. A conspiracy! In his desperation, he would have taken any chance, tried anything. But now, things were different. Now he was getting on. Now he had a new role to play.

  Soderini’s contemptuous reference to his “miserable histories” bothered him. Was he miserable? Was he a groveler? Or was it true that he was working quietly, in his own way for the Florence he loved? Preparing for her future, educating her youth, and writing to inflame the Florentine hearts of tomorrow? Should he throw it away and rush off to join Soderini in
a conspiracy that had one chance in a million of succeeding?

  Niccolo knew that if he left for Rome, he could never come back unless a successful coup were mounted and carried out. And a successful coup meant, just for starters, disposing of the pope! As long as Leo controlled the papacy, the Medici would rule Florence. How were they going to get rid of him? And then there was the Cardinal. The list of obstacles was too long even to go over, too insane even to contemplate. Soderini was mad. The times were all wrong for this sort of thing. The gonfaloniere had been timid when he should have shown some resolve, and now when he should be proceeding with caution, he was about to strike out on some mad, adventurous enterprise.

  But then there was the dream, through the haze of difficulties, the dream of a resurgent republic! And the obstacles melted away, as if by magic. For many hours, Niccolo vacillated between the objections, which were countless, and the pull of the dream, which was irresistible. One minute, he was ready to ball up Soderini’s letter and hurl it into the fire; the next, he was on the verge of dashing out the front door, saddling a horse, and galloping wildly off to Rome.

  He cursed the despicable letter that had brought such an impossible choice into his life. He slammed it with his fist, hard, repeatedly. He picked it up and shook it the way one would shake some naughty child or some offensive wag by the shirtfront. He held it up and stared grimly at its fanciful, seemingly innocent, characters. They were like the squiggles a child might make before learning to write. He focused his eyes on them so intently that he thought he might almost burn a hole in the paper. Then his focus faded and the characters began to blur. They swam far away and became meaningless and . . . then . . . No! Then he saw something that gave him pause.

  Niccolo sat bolt upright, at first incredulous. A bigger character had suddenly and miraculously superimposed itself over the smaller squiggles. Holding the letter up in front of the candle had brought it out. For a moment, Niccolo could not believe his eyes. It was as if the finger of God had traced an answer for him in the paper.