Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  “Nothing. I’ve shown forbearance. I’ve kept my faith with you. Can the Florentines say as much?” He paused. Niccolo, taking a lesson from the master, kept his silence and made no reply.

  “When you asked me to speak to Vitellozzo about his misbehavior at Arezzo, I called him off. I’ve honored my promises. Have the Florentines honored theirs?” Niccolo was about to repeat his bland assurances that all was in order and that Florence was on the verge of fulfilling her part of the bargain, but Borgia had something more in mind.

  “Now the situation is changing—rapidly. Vitellozzo is angry with me for interfering with his fun at Arezzo. He conspires against me, him and the others. They play at rebellion, and they think I don’t know.” The news of this dissent in the ranks of Borgia’s army brought Niccolo to attention.

  The duke continued, “Right now they’re meeting at La Magione, holding their diet of bankrupts, this league of petty princes and would-be tyrants. You see, I’m completely informed of their every move.

  “Now, if I patch things up with these unruly confederates of mine, the old difficulties and recriminations will all come back. They’ll be howling for Florentine blood again, wanting to reinstate the Medici again, and I may not be as successful at reigning them in. I may have to make concessions to keep them in line. I may have to let them attack Florence.” Borgia’s threat was not lost on Niccolo.

  “Now is the time for you to conclude this alliance with me, a real alliance. Now is the time to join me. Together, Italy is ours. This is the moment for Florence to act.”

  But instead of actions, Niccolo offered only words. “I will have to advise my superiors first of these developments, which they will assuredly take into consideration. After deliberations, they will forward their decision—” Borgia cut him off.

  “Consideration, deliberations! Is it ever possible to settle anything with these Florentines! With this government of old women and merchants!” Abruptly, he left the room.

  Either Borgia’s anger was short-lived, or he simply concealed it, for the next day he summoned Niccolo again, and the verbal fencing began anew. In the days and weeks that followed, the two men met almost daily, and a guarded but mutual admiration grew up between them. When pressed, Niccolo would beg off and protest that he was not empowered to make any commitments, but that he would write at once to the Signoria. Borgia, for his part, was likewise suitably vague. When the Florentines demanded to know more about his plans in order to conclude an alliance with him, he would steer the conversation in another direction. Niccolo could not even guess what his real objective was. Was he preparing to strike? And if so, where?

  Meanwhile, Niccolo’s efforts to gather useful intelligence were meeting with little success. Troops came and went, but there was an air of mystery about their movements. An atmosphere of secrecy prevailed. Niccolo could obtain no estimate of how many troops Borgia had in the field, of where they were, or of what he intended to do with them. Perhaps the only area in which real progress was made was in negotiating the agreement to let Florentine merchants trade in Borgia’s territory. Naturally, a tariff was imposed on these transactions, and a decent percentage of the profits went to the duke.

  For weeks, Niccolo had been writing to the Signoria, begging to be recalled. He saw his mission as an endless and essentially useless one and implored them to send another ambassador, someone with more authority who could negotiate a deal with Borgia. The Signoria, however, refused. He was doing exactly what they wanted him to do—nothing. In a dangerous and potentially explosive situation where any firm policy was likely to backfire, Niccolo was doing all that could be done. He was buying time.

  To sooth their disgruntled envoy, the Signoria kept up a steady stream of letters, lavishly praising his efforts. Even the gonfaloniere, Soderini himself, wrote regularly. And when the letters of praise were no longer enough to revive Niccolo’s flagging spirits, they took an unprecedented step. They sent him money.

  Niccolo had been with Borgia’s retinue for months now, and little had happened. In particular, the issue of the rebellious generals seemed to have almost entirely disappeared. There were scattered reports of skirmishes, but that was all. If most of Borgia’s moves were shrouded in secrecy, his plans for dealing with the rebels were the most secret of all. And even though the Signoria pressed him for information on the subject, Niccolo could find out nothing, try as he might. Then, one morning in late November, he saw something that gave him cause for speculation and concern. A liveried messenger hurried past him on his way out of the duke’s apartments, which in itself was nothing unusual. The duke was in constant communication with Rome, with France, with his troops, and with the small army of mistresses who followed him from town to town. But this was no ordinary messenger. Although his cap was pulled down over his eyes, and his collar up around his chin, there was no mistaking the poxy features of Vitellozzo Vitelli.

  Niccolo quickly penned an urgent dispatch to Florence. The presence of Vitellozzo, disguised as a messenger could mean only one thing—the duke was on the verge of a secret reconciliation with his wayward captains. And reunited, their armies represented a serious threat to the Romagna, to all of central Italy, and of course, most especially, to Florence.

  Niccolo was sick at the thought. It was possible that Borgia had been planning this all along. It was possible that he meant to strike against Florence from the beginning. All along, it was he, Borgia, not Florence, who had been buying time.

  It was a game of cat and mouse. The rebellion among Caesar’s officers had temporarily paralyzed his armies. Florence felt secure. Borgia needed Florentine assistance to overcome the rebels, or to pursue his conquests in spite of their defection. Florence played, for time, a cat and mouse game. But who was the cat?

  Niccolo had little time to dwell on the consternation produced in him by the sight of Vitellozzo in Borgia’s camp. The implications were all too clear, and the Signoria was screaming for answers. But in dealing with Borgia, there were no answers, only more questions.

  The game was wearing Niccolo down. He longed for Florence and an end to this nervous, unsettled life, tramping from city to city in the rain and snow, awaiting the pleasure of an unpredictable, inscrutable despot. But no matter how much he bridled, no matter how much he wanted to be quit of the whole business, when Caesar sent for him, he went.

  “And what does Florence offer me today? Or should I ask, what does she deny me?” The duke was making a joke. He seemed to be in high spirits.

  “Your Excellency should know,” said Niccolo. “You read my letters and dispatches before I do.”

  Borgia laughed. He had indeed taken the precaution of monitoring the Florentine envoy’s correspondence. “And from those letters, I learn nothing or next to nothing, about the intentions of your republic. From your letters, on the other hand, I learn a great deal—especially about how you’ve been spending your nights in drunkenness and debauchery. And the company you’ve been keeping!”

  A guilty smile stole across Niccolo’s face. In addition to his official dispatches, he had kept up a lively and regular correspondence with Biagio in the chancery. The substance of that correspondence was, as often as not, the two young men’s lewd nocturnal conduct described in great and graphic detail. The letters were downright filthy. And every word was a lie. What Borgia did not suspect was that these salacious epistles were actually ciphers, written using an elaborate system of code names and double meanings worked out in advance, that effectively allowed Niccolo to pass certain vital information on to his superiors without Borgia’s knowledge or interference.

  Niccolo allowed the duke to enjoy himself for a few minutes more before returning to the same, inevitable questions. “As for Vitellozzo and the others, Florence is concerned. We think they may be preparing some action against us.”

  “You need not trouble yourselves about them,” said Borgia with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Where there are men, there are ways of managing them.”

  “Yes,” though
t Niccolo, “but who will do the managing, and when?” Borgia continued, “Men like Vitellozzo are easily managed. Most men are. They’re compounded of equal parts lust and greed. They’re short-sighted and their own narrow interests are their only guide.”

  “Unlike your Excellency,” hazarded Niccolo.

  “Unlike myself,” confirmed Borgia. “And unlike the Florentine secretary, unless I miss my guess.” He eyed Niccolo shrewdly. “If I offered you money to pass certain misleading information on to your government, would you do it?”

  The disdainful expression on Niccolo’s face was his silent response.

  “If I offered you money, a great deal of money, to join me, would you do it? Think of your future and that of Italy. What would you rather be—secretary to a floundering republic or chancellor to a triumphant emperor?”

  Again Niccolo was silent. Cat and mouse.

  Borgia went on, “I used to think that you and I were alike. We sparred. We feinted. We kept our cards hidden. You played well. But we’re not playing the same game, are we?

  “I play to conquer, I play for power and for glory. My objective is nothing less than smashing the system of trivial dukedoms and principalities that you have here in Italy. I want to take these squabbling city-states and weld them into a mighty empire.”

  “One body and of course, one head—yourself.” observed Niccolo without emotion.

  “Precisely! A glorious new order! A new empire! My fame will be celebrated in poems and song. My name will live forever. All of this is inevitable, Secretary. It’s inevitable. I can make it happen, and I shall! A Holy Roman Empire with the new Caesar as emperor! Don’t you want to be part of that?

  “No, you don’t, do you?” the willful man answered his own question. “I know you, Secretary. I know what drives you, what motivates your odd allegiance to that womanish republic. I’m sure you love your country as all small men love the places of their birth. But with you it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s not Florence you love, is it? It’s the republic!

  “You don’t think it creeps into your conversation when you’re not even aware of it? Your admiration for your republic. The way you despise us ‘tyrants.’ Even the way the word rolls off your lips like dirty spittle—‘tyrant.’ As though you were any better. As though what you’re fighting for is something far superior. It’s not the people or the land you’re fighting for. It’s not your city or your family. It’s an idea!”

  Borgia was shaking slightly, but only slightly, when he stopped. For the first time, almost imperceptibly, the iron grip of self-control loosened for a second. But then it was back, as firm as ever. He spoke in his usual low, level tones: “The man who fights for an idea, for an abstraction, may be the most truly dangerous one of all,” He was staring intently at Niccolo now. “Or the most foolish.”

  It was Borgia who finally broke the spell. “Anyway, for the time being, you’ve been assigned to me as ambassador. Where I go, you go, so prepare to leave.”

  Niccolo groaned inwardly. He was sick to death of travelling, of following the peripatetic duke back and forth across Italy. “Where are we going this time?” he sighed.

  “To Ferrara. And for a while you can forget about politics. We’re going to a wedding. My sister Lucrezia is getting married!”

  The air was full of rumors, hostile armies were encamped at every crossroads, alliances were being made and broken overnight, Florence was desperate, Niccolo Machiavelli was on the verge of nervous exhaustion, everything was up in the air, and Caesar Borgia was taking time out to attend a wedding, the wedding of his sister, Lucrezia, styled by one and all, the biggest whore in Rome.

  The wedding was no ordinary wedding. Nor did it offer, as Caesar had suggested to Niccolo, an occasion to forget about politics for a while. When the pope’s daughter marries into one of the oldest and most influential dynasties in northern Italy, it is difficult to forget about politics.

  The bridegroom was Alphonso d’Este, son of the formidable Duke Ercole d’Este. The Este of Ferrara, we will remember as the family served by generations of cheerful physicians named Savonarola. For Lucrezia Borgia, it was her third marriage. Her two previous attempts had ended in annulment and death, in that order.

  The wedding proper had already been celebrated by proxy, but it remained for the bride and groom to actually meet one another and, God willing, consummate the marriage. The haggling leading up to this momentous union took over a year. The pope wanted it badly, but old Duke Ercole—Hercules—was stubborn. Ercole, the man who still pronounced his own name with bated breath, was reluctant to stain the honor of his glorious ancestry and pollute his fine, rich blood with a tainted Spanish strain. The unsavory activities of the Borgia and the crimes against God and nature attributed to them also played a part in Ercole’s deliberations. What finally convinced him was money. The tainted bride’s dowry in gold and jewels was worth the equivalent of over four million dollars. And although it was never really brought up in the negotiations, never really put on the table in so many words, if the monetary inducements were not enough, there was always the threat of Caesar and his armies.

  Ercole eventually succumbed and agreed to welcome the girl into his family. Being a clever man and well aware of what the Borgias’s promises were worth, however, he wisely refused to take delivery of his daughter-in-law until he received an advance on the dowry, 100,000 ducats, cash down.

  With this final hurdle cleared, the way was open for the strategic matrimonial alliance between the state of Ferrara and the Borgia papacy. Notwithstanding the rumors of jealousy and the possessiveness with which Caesar was said to customarily treat his sister, he too wanted the wedding badly. Ercole d’Este was famous for his ironworks, which produced some of the most coveted artillery in Europe.

  The possibility of Caesar suddenly having access to more cannon weighed heavily on Niccolo as he urged his weary mount through the mud to Ferrara. In places, the mud was so deep that the poor horse sank in over his fetlocks, up to the bottom of his belly. The animal’s legs made sucking sounds as he pulled them out of the muck and freed them, only to set them down a few feet forward and sink in again. Niccolo had to admit to himself that his negotiations with Borgia were moving forward about as successfully as his horse was advancing, plunging and plodding, on Ferrara.

  Eventually, though, he did reach the city. Ferrara had the reputation of a sober, industrious, orderly kind of place, due in large part to the exertions of her chief of police, Giorgio Zampante. But the Ferrara that greeted Niccolo that day was anything but orderly and well-policed. The first thing that caught his eye was a man suspended in midair. Then another. Ropes had been stretched across a piazza, between two tall towers, and rope-walkers were entertaining the populace. They stood on their heads; they juggled; they threw confetti and coins into the outstretched hands of the cheering mob below. Clowns were everywhere. Men dressed as satyrs were chasing half-clothed shepherd girls through the streets, both groups escapees from some staged pastoral spectacle or other.

  It took him a long time to break free from the pandemonium, and it was midafternoon before Niccolo secured a room for himself and stabling for his horse. As he had expected, due to the nuptials and the great influx of foreigners expected in the city, prices were wildly inflated. Utterly drained, he finally sank into a soft, if less than immaculate, bed and slept soundly, in spite of the bedbugs and other vermin with which the place was infested.

  He was awakened by a booming of cannons that wouldn’t stop. Then the trumpets and the shouting started, and sleep was impossible. Judging from the intensity of the din, the biggest whore in Christendom would soon be making her triumphant entry into the city. Curiosity got the better of Niccolo, and he dressed quickly to go have a look.

  This time there was no need to ask directions. Niccolo jumped into the surging crowd, and let its current carry him to the appointed place. Someone clapped a pint of dark, bitter beer into his hand on the way. The exuberant revelers streamed out of the city proper
toward a place on the banks of the Po where many dignitaries were gathered. At least Niccolo assumed they were dignitaries. His diplomatic experience taught him that extravagantly dressed men and women on horseback surrounded by archers and trumpeters were generally dignitaries. It varied little. Today the archers were red and white.

  Niccolo could not get close enough to see all the details or, thank God, to hear the speeches. The ornate bulk swathed in silver armor and brilliant green and discernible even at a distance, must be Duke Ercole, who rode at the head of the welcoming party. The bride arrived by barge. Craning his neck, Niccolo saw the craft land amid cheers and drum rolls and trumpet flourishes, and a magnificent coach drawn by four white horses rolled off it. Stretched out along the river were twenty more barges with similar coaches.

  The coach drew up in front of the duke, the door opened, and Lucrezia Borgia stepped down. Niccolo could only see the top of her blond head. The duke plopped from his horse, heavily, and, approaching her, offered his hand. She kissed it, and Ercole embraced his daughter-in-law, kissing her on the cheek. A roar went up from the crowd. Another figure dropped from his horse, approached the lady, and fervently embraced her. Even at this distance, Niccolo could tell by his quick, graceful movements, by his arrogant stride, that it was not her husband. It was her brother, Caesar.

  Lucrezia was boosted up onto a huge, white charger, and for the first time Niccolo could see that the pope’s only daughter was dressed in scarlet and that her golden hair flowed down in great waves past her waist, out across her horse’s back. Standing, it would have come down at least to her knees. A cleft opened in the crowd to allow the procession to pass, and Lucrezia Borgia entered Ferrara to the thunderous applause of the people. But the pounding of hands and feet, the redoubled cries of joy that greeted her were not all provoked by love and admiration. Many of the Ferrarrese were celebrating more than a wedding that day. They were celebrating their own salvation. Through this marriage, their city was saved from destruction and saved from the advances of this woman’s marauding brother and his armies.