But in Valentino’s case, female victims were also noted. He was widely believed to have kidnapped and raped two women of high social standing, crimes of which he was almost certainly guilty. The story that forty young women captured at Capua (where six thousand men, women, and children were massacred by Valentino’s troops) were sent to Rome for his “pleasure” circulated throughout Europe; most subsequent historians have accepted these reports as at least plausible. The murders of the streghe in the Romagna are hardly the type of offense history would remember, but they are composited from characteristics of Cesare Borgia’s documented crimes: a predilection for voyeurism, torture, dismemberment, sexual sadism, riddles, and geographic game-playing.
So, was the model for Machiavelli’s The Prince a real-life, Renaissance-era Hannibal Lecter—an unusually high-functioning psychopathic serial killer? We will never have a definitive diagnosis of a man who died centuries before such terms entered clinical practice, forensic science, and the culture at large. But the traits that were most noticeable to Valentino’s contemporaries are remarkably consistent with psychopathy as it is broadly understood today: an exceptionally persuasive and manipulative personality that masked an extreme emotional coldness; an absence of empathy and remorse; narcissism; inexplicable risk-taking; grandiose self-importance; a gift for mimicry; a sense of having been slighted in childhood; and in the end, a propensity to blame everyone else.
As today’s mental health professionals continue to debate the symptoms, causes, and even nomenclature of psychopathy (the prosaic “antisocial personality disorder” is often favored by clinicians), the case of the recidivist criminal Jacopo—taken word for word from the renowned Florentine physician Antonio Benivieni’s The Hidden Causes of Disease—offers an interesting historical footnote. Benivieni’s belief that Jacopo’s incorrigibility could be explained by a defective region of the brain he called “the seat of memory” is eerily echoed by recent research: psychopathy has been linked to deficiencies in an almond-size neural bundle known as the amygdala, which plays a key role in both fear responses and our memory of emotional events.
Regardless of Valentino’s clinical condition, the most trenchant insight into his character is provided by the two men with whom he is inextricably linked in history: his father and patron, Pope Alexander VI, and the author of his immortality, Niccolò Machiavelli—both of whom regarded him with extraordinary wariness. Few decisions in history are more baffling than Pope Alexander’s choice of Valentino’s younger brother, the hapless Juan of Gandia, as the instrument of his prodigious worldly ambitions, while keeping one of history’s most gifted and capable natural leaders sidelined as an inconsequential cardinal. Pope Alexander was far too shrewd a judge of men to have overlooked Valentino’s exceptional abilities, without some profound fear—as was rumored among his contemporaries—of his eldest son’s true nature.
Equally unaccountable, for generations of scholars, has been Machiavelli’s marked ambivalence regarding Valentino, extolling him in The Prince but in other works excoriating him in the most damning terms. However, Valentino did not begin his transformation from Italy’s savior into a proverbial villain until Machiavelli’s close friend and correspondent, Francesco Guicciardini, began writing his classic History of Italy in 1537, ten years after Machiavelli’s death. Guicciardini’s denunciation of Duke Valentino is scathing, and he breaks with earlier chroniclers when he insists that Valentino murdered his brother. Subsequent historians followed Guicciardini’s lead, and Valentino’s deadly flaws have long colored interpretations of Machiavelli’s intent in making him the exemplar of The Prince. “Machiavellian” came to describe and justify values and behavior that Niccolò spent his life fighting against—and today is arguably the most misunderstood and dangerously misused adjective in the popular lexicon.
If Machiavelli had not made Valentino the model for The Prince, however, it is unlikely he would have achieved his own immortality. Machiavelli’s magnum opus, Discourses on the First Decade of Titus Livy, represented his true political philosophy: An ardent champion of the Florentine republic, Machiavelli preferred the imperfect wisdom of the people to the will of princes and passionately advocated representative government—a radical egalitarianism that would not become a potent political force until the American and French revolutions more than 250 years later. The Prince was, in effect, merely Machiavelli’s plan B: what to do when political prudence has long been disregarded, chaos reigns, and the only choice is between effective or ineffective despotism.
But Machiavelli’s Duke Valentino, with his deft propaganda, narcissistic personal cult, blitzkrieg-like military tactics, and administrative efficiency, wasn’t simply the ideal prince for a sixteenth-century Italy that had spiraled into catastrophe. Valentino was the first modern leader, his conscience-free, lethal expedience providing a remarkably effective and enduring template for sociopaths seeking power in any time, place, or organization; the same amoral realpolitik that has guided mass-murdering dictators is now studied by corporate CEOs and marketed as career advice for middle-management schemers.
Fortune’s final irony is that the uncertain world she still rules continues to struggle between Machiavelli’s two competing visions. The democratic idealism of the Discourses, however, is remembered only by scholars, while The Prince, its harsh remedies penned on the eve of destruction—and a terrifying secret buried between its lines—has become both a literary icon and a perennial fixture of popular culture.
CITATIONS FOR CHAPTER EPIGRAPHS,
PARTS TWO, THREE, AND FOUR
Chapters 1, 4, 9: Niccolò Machiavelli, The Art of War; chapter 2: Niccolò Machiavelli, Tercets on Ingratitude; chapters 3, 29: Niccolò Machiavelli, History of Florence; chapters 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 16, 18, 26: Niccolò Machiavelli, Discourses on the First Decade of Titus Livy; chapters 6, 12: Niccolò Machiavelli, The Mandrake; chapter 15: Niccolò Machiavelli, Carnival song “By the Hermits”; chapters 17, 21, 23: Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince; chapters 19, 27: Niccolò Machiavelli, Tercets on Fortune; chapters 20, 22, 30: Niccolò Machiavelli, The (Golden) Ass; chapter 24: Romagnole folk saying; chapter 25: Matthew 4:8; chapter 28: Niccolò Machiavelli, personal correspondence.
The following texts were consulted for the English translation of Machiavelli’s writings and letters, for which the author alone assumes responsibility: Machiavelli: The Chief Works and Others, translated by Allan Gilbert, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 1989; Machiavelli and His Friends: Their Personal Correspondence, translated and edited by James B. Atkinson and David Sices, De Kalb, Northern Illinois University Press, 1996.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many historical novelists rely on the guidance of experts in various fields, but as an academically trained historian and professional journalist, I prefer to wander through the detritus of history on my own. You never know what remarkable little curiosities you are going to stumble over.
However, actually writing The Malice of Fortune was an entirely different story, one that might well have been never-ending (or simply have trailed off) if I had not brought the bulging manuscript to Daniel Lazar, my talented and unbelievably tenacious agent, who spent two years trying to tame a monstrously complex narrative. Dan’s persistence led us to an equally gifted and dedicated editor, Lara Hinchberger at McClelland & Stewart in Toronto, who with consummate storytelling skill pared away superfluous plot points even as she bored more deeply into the already complex psyches of the characters. At that stage we were ready for our deus ex machina: Carole Baron at Knopf Doubleday rethought the broad architectural lines of the story as well as sharpening its most minute details, then brought her peerless judgment and galvanic enthusiasm to every aspect of design, marketing, and promotion. At a time when authors are supposed to be celebrating their freedom from intermediaries and “gatekeepers,” this author is indebted to the publishing professionals whose extraordinary passion and expertise elevated The Malice of Fortune far above anything I could have achieved on my own.
Others who added ideas and assistance along the way include: Stephen Barr, Mary Jane Colpi, Genevieve Gagne-Hawes, Andrew Leinoff, Rhoda and Bernie Leinoff, and Carter Ennis.
Last but foremost, no one suffered throughout the arduous making of The Malice of Fortune more than my wife, Ellen, and our daughter, Arielle. This book is really about the infrangible strength of family bonds, and without the abiding strength of my family this book would not exist.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Ennis studied history at the University of California, Berkeley, taught art history at the University of Texas, Austin, and developed museum programs as a Rockefeller Foundation Fellow. He is the author of two historical novels, Duchess of Milan and Byzantium.
He has written for Esquire and Architectural Digest and is a regular contributor to Texas Monthly. He lives in Dallas with his television producer wife, Ellen, and their daughter, Arielle.
Also by Michael Ennis
DUCHESS OF MILAN
BYZANTIUM
The Malice of Fortune Page 41