“Nico,” he whined, “please, let’s go.” The young Machiavelli was of the opinion that they should approach the Jews, but in light of his companion’s increasing anxiety, he decided, for the time being, to watch. He wanted to see more. His curiosity had been piqued. Niccolo Machiavelli and Pagolo Pulci would not have long to wait. In the next few minutes, they would witness things that would push them forever beyond the bounds of childhood innocence.
The three Jews were finishing their repast, and Pagolo was fidgeting when Niccolo thought he heard something in the distance. From the direction of Florence a group of horsemen was approaching—fast. A minute later, they materialized in a cloud of dust. Upon spotting the three travelers in the roadside clearing, the lead horseman pulled up and came to an abrupt halt. The others did likewise. There were eight in all, dressed like woodsmen. They were heavily armed. The horses had been ridden hard and were lathered.
At the back of the group was a lone monk wearing the black, hooded robe of the Dominican order. The robe’s ample cowl completely concealed his face. The monk now nudged his high-spirited mount forward and stopped in front of the three Jews. By this time they had risen to their feet, but showed no signs of alarm.
“Buona sera, frate. How may we be of service to you?” said one of the older Jews with a slight bow.
“Service to usssss?” a voice hissed from beneath the cowl. “How may you be of servicccce to usssss? Let’s sssssee? I’m sure I can think of something. Why don’t you start by handing over your money?” The startling demand was spoken like a casual suggestion. Despite the hiss, the voice was quite pleasant, almost comforting. It spit and sputtered like a kettle on a friendly fire on an old stove.
But at the mention of money, Pagolo froze. “Bandits,” he said to Niccolo, squirming, “I’m going to piss myself if we don’t get out of here, now!
“Shhhhhshhhh,” his companion clapped a hand over Pagolo’s mouth.
The Jew, in measured tones and betraying no fear, said, “I’m very sorry, Signore, but we carry nothing. Only our personal belongings and a few religious articles. My brother and I have been in Rome to celebrate the new year with members of our family there.”
“Did you hear that? New yearssss in September! How novel! What a rare sense of humor. And thesssse ‘few religious articlesssss’ that you’re carrying, my good man? Gold and sssssilver, neh?”
“Nothing that could be of any value to you, Signore. Prayer scrolls that have been in my family for generations.”
“Lies. Jews have always got bags of money with them, great bags of money.” This bit of information was offered by one of the monk’s company, a small, evil-looking ferret of a man.
“I think you’re right Antoniaccio. Let’sssss take a look. Let’ssss see if the gentleman’sssss telling the truth. Have one of the men inspect the bundles on those lovely pack animalsssss.”
The oldest of the two Jews, the one who had not yet spoken, protested, offering to open the bundles himself to show there was nothing in them worth stealing. He was standing between the advancing bandit and the animal. The bandit, a dirty, surly, hulking man, with huge red hands like raw beef, grabbed the frail Jew by the beard and, jerking hard, threw him to the ground. His action elicited a storm of laughter from his fellows in arms.
The large bandit then ripped open each of the four bundles, recklessly spilling their contents out onto the grass. As the Jew had said, they contained clothing, food, the scrolls, and a few books. Nothing more. No gold or silver. Incensed at finding nothing, he went back over to the old man whom he had thrown down. The elderly Jew was attempting to regain his feet and had pushed himself up into a kneeling position. The bandit kicked him, hard, in the stomach. Another kick took him under the chin and threw back his head with a sickening snap. The old man sagged a moment, then slumped to the ground, a lifeless heap of black clothing.
It happened so quickly and so casually that the shock of the murder did not sink in immediately. It was not possible. One minute they were eating and talking, the next, a man was dead. Like that. At first it was incomprehensible. Then slowly, disbelief gave way to horror, and horror to panic. The young Jewish boy was the first to make the connection. He screamed and ran.
The monk whipped around. Something flashed in the dying rays of the sun. A whisper, a dull thud. The boy let out a piercing scream and tumbled head over heels. The dagger had entered squarely between his shoulders. Its point had lodged in his spine. His delicate hands clawed wildly at the protruding haft but couldn’t reach it. His screams filled the air. Death did not come quickly. His arms had become entangled in his clothing, but still he kicked madly and writhed in the dust. After an interval of infinite horror, the kicking began to subside. One last futile lunge, and he lay still; his small body had come to rest in one of the deep ruts that ran the length of the road.
One of the bandits had seized the boy’s father to prevent him from going to the aid of his dying son. As he watched the life drain slowly out of the boy, the Jew ceased to struggle with his captor. His brother and his son were dead, and with that realization, his fear gave way to sadness and resignation. He had only one thing left to lose, and with all his remaining strength, he prayed to his God they would not find it before they killed him.
“Well, sssssir,” he seemed to be shaking his head in resignation beneath his hood. “Your people here seem to have met with an unfortunate acccccccident. Thessse banditssss are a wild bunch, energetic boysssss. Sometimes, I have trouble controlling them. Sometimes, they just get out of hand.” Then he turned to his henchman, and sighed, “Antoniaccio, finish this distasteful businessssss.”
To the remaining Jew, he confided, in almost fatherly tones, “Antoniaccio is going to teach you a lesssssson.”
The one called Antoniaccio grinned ghoulishly as he unslung and strung his bow. His lipless mouth was like a wound in the tightly drawn skin that stretched across his skull. His tiny head was bald and pointed. His small, sharp teeth were widely spaced and, like rats’ teeth, worn down by incessant gnawing. Whatever eyes he had were lost in the recesses of the two black hollows of flesh that surrounded them.
He led the Jew to a spot between two trees, and with grunts and gestures, indicated that he was to hold up his arms. Higher, higher, he motioned with his bow. For a moment, the ghoul contemplated the tableau he had created—a bearded patriarch, with arms outstretched, holding them up to heaven, pleading.
Then an arrow sang through the air, pinning the man’s right hand to the tree. Before he even had time to react, another shot through the left. The Jew winced, and blood squirted from his wounds. Tears streamed down his face into his beard, not just from the pain, but from the enormity of what was happening. Such senselessness, cruelty, madness. “Why,” he gasped. “Why?”
“Antoniaccio,” opined the leader, “finish him, will you. Put him out of hisssss misssssery.” Another arrow found its mark in the Jew’s chest. It struck him with such force that his right hand tore free, but he was already dead. Two more arrows in quick succession ensured the fact.
The men began to remount, all but Antoniaccio, who, like a pack rat, was going from body to body, searching furtively under the clothes of the dead men. He grinned up at his master with a look of evil pleasure on his face, “Money belts, Excellency. Money belts!”
Niccolo was transfixed, as if the arrows had pierced his body and rooted him to the spot. He had seen dead men before. They were routinely hung from windows and dangled down from walls in the city to demonstrate the fate that awaited the intransigent. But he had never seen anyone die before. He had never imagined that it could be so commonplace and yet, at the same time, so hideous. He had never imagined that killing could be so offhand, so unmotivated—and so irrevocable.
Pagolo had long since begun burrowing in the dead leaves and soft earth so that, by this time, he was almost completely covered. He had curled into a tight ball and was awaiting his destiny. When Niccolo put his hand on his friend’s shoulder to rouse h
im, he screamed.
“Calm down, Pagolo, it’s over. It’s over. They’re gone.”
“Are you sure? What if they come back? Maybe they forgot something.”
“They’ve been gone for at least a half hour. I think it’s safe now. Let’s go down and have a look.”
Pagolo and Niccolo, badly shaken, emerged from behind the mossy log that had given them cover. They crept hesitantly toward the clearing, fearful that the evil lurking over the place could still reach out and destroy them.
Nothing moved as they approached the scene, except one of the great boxlike hats, which rolled back and forth without direction, pushed along by the rising evening breezes. Niccolo had no idea what to do next. Should they bury them? Run to the authorities with their story? Or flee, keep quiet about it, and try to drive the memory from their minds forever? He wanted to make a decision, take some action, any action, but the only thing he felt capable of doing at that moment was to sit down on the ground and weep.
Pagolo broke the silence. “Why did they kill them like that?”
“Because they’re bloodthirsty bandits. They didn’t get what they wanted.”
Pagolo had a sudden inspiration, “The Archbishop! That’s who it was. It had to be. He’s the most vicious outlaw in all of Tuscany.”
“Of course,” Niccolo agreed, “Michele, the Archbishop of outlaws! That must have been him, the monk!”
Michele was indeed a notorious bandit who operated in the area, terrorizing travelers on the Roman road. He had come to be called the Archbishop because of an incident involving a French cardinal on his way to Rome. The cardinal, the Archbishop of Burgundy, was traveling with all the pomp and lavish spectacle that generally attend the movements of a very wealthy churchman. Michele and his men surrounded the Frenchmen just south of Florence, took everything they had, stripped them of their clothes, beat them, and sent them off to Rome on foot.
Then Michele donned the Archbishop’s exquisite robes and rode into Arezzo, where two of his men were about to be hanged. He rode up to the gallows in the main piazza and humbly inquired as to the crimes of the two wretches awaiting execution. He was told that they were highwaymen guilty of robbery and murder. He asked if he could bless the condemned men and absolve them of their sins to ensure the salvation of their immortal souls. When his men recognized the Archbishop as Michele, they fell to their knees, imploring forgiveness and kissing his feet and the hem of his rich, satin cassock.
Michele said, “You see how contrite these men are. How can you hang them? I beg you, give them to me. I will take responsibility for them and see that they amend their ways and that, from this day forward, they walk with the Lord.” The people of Arezzo were moved to compassion by the archbishop’s plea and agreed to release the two prisoners into his custody. The counterfeit archbishop, laughing to himself, rode serenely and piously out of Arezzo with his men. The fraud was discovered toward nightfall, when the real French cardinal and his entourage arrived, naked, black and blue, and cursing, and told their story.
From that time on, Michele was called the Archbishop. Terrible and bloody crimes were attributed to him. He was said to have the cunning of a fox and the temperament of a rabid dog.
“If we knew who it was at the time, we would have been even more scared, eh, Pagolo?”
Niccolo walked slowly toward the Jew who had been the victim of the bandit’s grisly crucifixion. He was hanging grotesquely by his one hand still pinned to the tree. In the boy’s mind, time slowed to a crawl, and it seemed as if it took him forever to reach the twisted body. Niccolo was wondering whether he would have the stomach to pull out the arrow when he got there. He swallowed hard, put both hands on the shaft and pulled. It was slippery with blood, and the arrow was lodged too deeply in the wood to come out. He twisted, trying to loosen the point and work it free, but to no avail. He was careful to avoid looking down at the dead man’s face, into his bulging, dead eyes. Finally, he snapped the shaft in half, and the torn hand slipped free. “This little bit of peace is all I can offer you,” he thought. “At least you can lie and rest now.”
Meanwhile, Pagolo bent to examine the dusty, blood-streaked pile in the middle of the road and realized, for the first time, that it contained the crumpled body of the Jewish boy. He vomited. When he stopped retching, Niccolo was at his side with the flask of wine. “Here Pagolo, take a few sips. Slow now. It’ll wash that taste out of your mouth.” Pagolo raised the flask to his lips and took several long gulps before lowering it again.
Niccolo turned his attention to the pathetic body of the small boy. He wanted to at least move him out of the roadway, so that he would not be further broken and twisted under the wheels of the passing carts and the pounding feet of horses. As he was wrestling with the already-stiffening body, trying to get a grip under the arms, Niccolo saw the dagger. Sticking out of the rumpled, blood-soaked clothing between the boy’s shoulders was the instrument of his undoing. The bandit had not retrieved his weapon. Niccolo could see only the handle, since the entire blade had sunk into the boy’s back. He reached out and touched the deadly thing. It was sticky. He gripped it, closed his eyes, and pulled.
The knife was a small one, with a sharp, thin point, made for sticking and stabbing—not cutting. The blade was only about four inches long, and the handle was the same length. Niccolo noted that it was well-balanced, good for throwing. He wiped the blood from the stiletto with the tail of his shirt. It was a plain, serious weapon, for killing, not for display. The black, glossy handle was well worn and unadorned except for a simple design cut into its smooth surface:
Niccolo continued studying the weapon, turning it over in his hands. This small object—almost a toy—had just inflicted an excruciating death. For no reason. It seemed so easy. Why? Where was its owner now? What was he doing? And—Niccolo tensed—would he be coming back for his weapon? His ruminations were abruptly cut off by a wail of despair from Pagolo’s direction. Niccolo jumped. The first thing he saw, not more than ten feet away, was a dozen taut bowstrings and a dozen deadly arrows pointed directly at him. Pagolo wailed again. He was in a similar predicament.
A man stepped out from behind the wall of archers. “Look here. A battle has been fought. Two beasts, really only boys, and three dead men. You, standing over the body with your bloody knife in your hand, are you getting ready to stick him again? He looks dead enough to me. If you’re still angry, why don’t you kick him a few times? That should teach him.”
The man strolled over to Pagolo. He had an arrogant way of walking. “And you, fat boy, you seem to be enjoying yourself, pouring wine all down the front of your shirt. Celebrating the glorious victory, neh? I suppose the one over there with the arrows in him, Saint Sebastian, was your man. My compliments on your marksmanship. But tell me, how did you kill the third one, the ancient Goliath over there? Slingshots and stones, my little would-be Davids?”
“We . . . we didn’t do anything. We were hunting,” stammered Pagolo.
“Hunting he calls it! Some game you’ve brought down. You must tell me then, are old Jews and little boys difficult targets to hit?”
Niccolo spoke, “We didn’t kill them. We were hiding over there, behind a log. We saw the whole thing. A band of outlaws did it, bandits.”
“Bandits?” the man was suddenly attentive.
“That’s right,” rejoined Pagolo. “Bandits. It was the Archbishop.”
“Ahhhhh, the Archbishop. What did this Archbishop look like?”
“We didn’t see. He had on a monk’s habit, with the hood pulled up over his head. We couldn’t see his face,” said Pagolo.
“You couldn’t see his face, neh? How do you know who it was then? How do you know it was the Archbishop?”
“Well who else could it be? Who else would do something like this?” pleaded Pagolo.
“I suppose that’s what you want people to think, isn’t it? A pretty obvious explanation. But you’re liars. Liars and murderers! ‘We didn’t do anything. It was that band
it, the Archbishop. We saw him do it.’ But you don’t know what he looks like, do you? Let me tell you what he looks like. He’s kind of small, about my size. He’s got long curly black hair, something like mine. Is that the man you say you saw?” Menace was creeping into his voice now.
“We told you we couldn’t see his face. It was hidden in the cowl,” protested Pagolo, beginning to whine.
“You couldn’t see his face? Then you don’t know if he had a long scar down the left side that cut through his eye and a piece of his nostril, just like this scar I’ve got here. He let that sink in before stating the obvious. Stupid little bunglers, I’m the Archbishop!”
This time, Pagolo’s long wail took on a note of desperation. Niccolo gulped. Out of the frying pan . . .
“So you want to cover up this thing by blaming it on me?” He shook his head. “Two old men and a boy—unarmed. Little cowards. Did you show yourselves, or did you hide in the bushes and pick them off? Was it a great battle or an ambush? And what did you find when you tore open their baggage? Jewels?”
“Don’t kill us, please,” whimpered Pagolo.
“Is that what these poor Jews said before you slaughtered them?” The man paced angrily over to one of his lieutenants and conferred briefly with him.
He announced the results of the conference. “You’ve just been found guilty. The vengeance of the Lord is swift, and it would appear that, for the time being at least, I am his chosen instrument. When it’s over, I’ll bury you two and your victims in the same grave. At least they’ll have their revenge.”
“It’s really quite simple out here—an eye for an eye. No time for niceties.” Abruptly, he concluded, “Take a minute. Say your prayers.” He crossed his arms in a gesture of finality.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 7
