Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  “Relax! Piero, they’re undermining the republic, and you want me to relax!”

  “Take a few days. When you get back, the republic and the militia will still be here. Then we’ll take care of Don Micheletto.”

  “Piero, now is the time for action! I’m convinced of it!”

  “Of course you are, Niccolo. Of course you are. But now my guests are waiting. I really should attend to them. Would you care to stay for supper?”

  “He thinks I’m mad,” thought Niccolo, stalking out of the Soderini Palace. “He thinks I’m overworked!” But Niccolo was convinced that Don Micheletto was a Medici agent. And he was convinced that Don Micheletto and whoever was supporting him were responsible for his being sent on the long and tiresome legation to Germany—to get him out of the way. The timing was just too pat. As soon as Niccolo was out of the way, Don Micheletto had begun his selling off of militiamen. And when his return from the worthless legation was imminent, Niccolo was convinced they tried to poison him.

  Although much of Niccolo’s reasoning was based on conjecture and instinct, and although his head was swimming with the details of it, he was convinced that he had put the pieces together correctly and that he had uncovered a dangerous plot.

  Yet Soderini had no immediate plans to do anything about it. Soderini was cautious. It was his strong point—and his weakness. Yet they were living in impetuous times and fortune favored the bold. He had only to think of Caesar Borgia’s early success. And the new pope, Julius, was taking cities and provinces because he had the resolve to act. If Soderini delayed, his enemies would gain in strength. Something had to be done. Don Micheletto had to be stopped. And then there was the matter of justice. Niccolo felt strongly about justice.

  It was already dark when Niccolo returned home, and he could tell from the lights in the windows that Giuditta was waiting for him. The realization cheered him. It cheered him immensely. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing the joys of a woman’s constant companionship, a lover’s companionship. At the end of the day—and the days were always long and difficult—he knew she would be waiting for him. He knew there was comfort and sympathy waiting for him. He knew there was love and warmth in that old, cold Florentine stone house for the first time in so many years.

  “Piccioncina,” he called out. No answer.

  “Tesoro?” Hmmph, where could she be? Mounting the stairs, he passed through the empty kitchen and found her on the lettuccio, the little day bed in the alcove where he took his afternoon naps. She was asleep, but the noise he made—quite deliberately—soon woke her. When she sat up on the edge of the bed, Niccolo was at her side. After a few attempted kisses, which Giuditta, still in the thrall of sleep, shook off irritably, Niccolo began to talk. Slowly regaining consciousness, Giuditta watched him as the steady stream of words poured out—another episode in the never-ending adventures of Soderini and the council and the militia. Don Micheletto seemed to figure prominently in this one as well.

  “Niccolo, I’m leaving.”

  “Wait a minute, let me finish, because this time . . .”

  “I said I’m leaving. I’m leaving Florence,” she said with finality.

  “What?” He was stunned into silence.

  Giuditta looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “I’m going back to Rome. For a while at least.”

  “You can’t leave now. I need you! I need all the support I can get.”

  “Oh, you need me!” she said defiantly. “What about what I need, what I want?”

  “Giuditta, please, this isn’t the time. Bear with me for just a little longer.”

  “Bear with you? And then what? When this crisis is past, another one will come up and you’ll be off and running again.”

  “I thought you were happy here,” said Niccolo sheepishly.

  “I am happy, but . . . but . . . what kind of a life am I leading here? What do I have here? When you’re done playing with the militia, you come back here exhausted, you prattle on about some problem at the chancery for an hour, you take a little something for your digestion, and you fall asleep on the balcony. Niccolo, you don’t have time for me!”

  “I’ll make time.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I get this thing with Don Micheletto straightened . . .”

  “See what I mean? There’s always something, isn’t there?”

  “But women are supposed to . . .” He thought the better of what he was going to say and held his tongue.

  “Women are supposed to what?” said Giuditta sharply.

  “Never mind,” said Niccolo. He realized that many an honest Florentine citizen in his position would simply beat his woman into submission. He also realized that wouldn’t work with Giuditta.

  “Niccolo, don’t you see? I’m not a woman like other Florentine women. I’m an outsider. I don’t go to church and gossip. I don’t have any friends but you and the people you bring to the house. We have to be careful about being seen too much in public, because it might cause a scandal. What kind of a life is that?”

  For the first time, it occurred to Niccolo that Giuditta did not consider being cooped up in his house all day, waiting for him, the equivalent of paradisiacal bliss. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t realize . . .” He didn’t know what to say. Suddenly the possibility that she might actually leave became very real to him, and a sense of empty hopelessness began to steal into his thoughts.

  “Giuditta, don’t go. I love you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, I love you.”

  “Niccolo, how long have I been here with you?”

  “Six months, seven months?”

  “In all that time, you never said that before. You never said you loved me.”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Niccolo, Niccolo, sometimes you’re so stupid,” she said, shaking her head. “I love you too, but, but . . .” Sobbing, they rushed into each other’s arms and whispered more things they never said to one another before.

  “It’s no good, Niccolo, I can’t,” she said, suddenly breaking the embrace and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I have to get away. It’s not just you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This afternoon, when you abandoned me at that imbecilic horserace, I did something I’ve been afraid to do ever since I got here. I went down to the ghetto to see the house where I used to live with my father.”

  “And?”

  “It was empty. The whole street was empty, except for some squatters. I walked through the rooms that I grew up in. I sat in the little courtyard. Niccolo I sat there all day, and, at first, I wept and was sad. But then, I started to get angry.” She stopped for a moment, steeling herself.

  “That house was the only place I ever felt secure in my life. I know I was just too young to know any better, but I had my father, and my father would protect me. Then they killed him, and they took all that away from me. They took my father and my childhood and my happiness. They took my innocence, and they chased me into exile. Florence did that to me, Niccolo! Florence murdered my family! Florence ruined my life!” She was sobbing when she finished.

  Getting control of her emotion-choked voice, Giuditta continued, “I know you’ve told me that that was all in the past, that it was a different Florence then, that the men who did it are all dead and gone, but it doesn’t matter, Niccolo. It’s the horror of it all that’s still alive. I can almost feel it here. And as long as I stay in Florence, I know I’m going to keep feeling it. It’s going to haunt me. It’s going to drive me insane.”

  “Giuditta, I can help you.”

  “What can you do, Niccolo? Can you bring my father back? My little brother? Can you clear the Florentine air of the memories that it holds for me, of the evil that I feel in this place?”

  “I can try.”

  “Oh, Niccolo, I don’t doubt your good intentions, but I’ve made up my mind. I want to go back to Rome.”

  “Giuditta, listen. W
hat if I tell you that I can clear the Florentine air of the memories it holds for you?”

  “Niccolo, this isn’t a matter of diplomacy. This isn’t one of your negotiating sessions where you can buy time with extravagant promises. This is real life, real pain. This is me.”

  “I’m not buying time. I’m perfectly serious,” he said flatly. And he was. Niccolo had figured out a way to solve both of his problems: what to do with Don Micheletto and how to keep Giuditta in Florence.

  “Giuditta, I want you to help me poison someone.”

  “Niccolo, I watched that man kill my father, my brother, and my uncle. I stood there and watched.”

  “So did I.”

  “How long have you known,” she said icily.

  “About a year.”

  “And you never said anything? You never told me?”

  Niccolo was contrite. “I wanted to take care of it myself—when the time was right.”

  “And why, now, all of a sudden, is the time right?”

  “Because Don Micheletto represents a danger to the republic. He has to be stopped and Soderini refuses to act.”

  “And you decided to take matters into your own hands?”

  “What other choice do I have? I’m not doing this for personal glory or because I’m reckless or bloodthirsty or ambitious. It’s to preserve the republic. What other choice did Brutus have with Caesar?”

  “Who were they?”

  “Let me put it this way—what other choice did Judith have with Holofernes?”

  “And you want my help?”

  “You have your reasons for wanting Don Micheletto dead. I have mine. Will you do it?”

  “What other choice did Judith have with Holofernes?”

  The days following Niccolo’s decision were difficult ones, and more than once he wanted to back out of the task he had set for himself. But the continued irresolution on the part of the Gonfaloniere Soderini, coupled with Giuditta’s firm resolve, stiffened his will. He had to remind himself that there was no other way. He had to keep thinking of Brutus.

  Paolo Vitelli had been dealt with swiftly by the republic for his crimes, and he had been dealt with justly. He had been beheaded on the basis of Niccolo’s indictment and vigorous prosecution. Don Micheletto’s crimes were infinitely worse. Because the mechanisms of justice had stalled for one reason or another, was that any reason for him to be let off? Niccolo kept telling himself, no. “The charges were the same as those against Vitelli. Vitelli was guilty. Vitelli was dead. The republic was served. Don Micheletto was guilty. Don Micheletto would be dead. The republic would be served again,” Niccolo kept telling himself.

  Giuditta had no such compunction about the man who had killed her father and brother, and she busied herself with the details. All the ingredients and equipment were already at hand. She had brought them with her to mix the antidote for Niccolo when he had been poisoned. The same chemicals and procedures could be used for salvation or destruction, for life or death.

  For this occasion, she decided to use the deadly cantarella, an arsenic compound with a slightly bitter taste. The snow-white powder could be dissolved and mixed with either food or drink. It was generally better to use it in something strong tasting and sweet in order to disguise the faint, but to the educated pallet, perceptible, trace of bitterness.

  Rossoli, the rose-petal liqueur that Giuditta had once prepared for Niccolo was the perfect vehicle. Aside from its heavy, cloying taste, the Rossoli was perfectly suited to the undoing of Don Micheletto. Giuditta knew from experience that it was one of his favorite concoctions. He could not resist it.

  When she was finished, she poured the deadly substance into an exquisite decanter. The deep ruby redness of the Rossoli showed through the smooth glass. Glass was rare, and the small decanter had been expensive, but it allowed the rich liquor to be displayed to advantage—at its most tempting.

  Giuditta laid the table, although she would not be at the meal itself. Don Micheletto would recognize her, and needless questions would arise. It was better this way. On a sideboard, she arranged the wines, a white, a red—a Spanish red, the kind Don Micheletto liked. And she placed the polished, deadly bottle of Rossoli among them in a conspicuous position, where it would catch Don Micheletto’s eye. Even if he brought his own wine, which was a possibility, he would not be able to resist the lure of the Rossoli.

  Niccolo was nervous. This was no ordinary dinner party. The thought of dining with Don Micheletto, even under normal circumstances, was enough to make him uncomfortable and vaguely ill. The thought of having to poison him, to sit and watch while he drank the poison . . . He shivered. When his guest finally rang at the door, Niccolo’s stomach was a churning, acidic, knotted mess. Giuditta squeezed his hand one last time—for courage—and disappeared upstairs. He was on his own.

  It had not been difficult to lure Don Micheletto into the trap. He and Niccolo were, after all, colleagues, and colleagues were required to observe certain norms of polite social behavior between themselves. Dining together was a perfectly normal activity, and though Niccolo had always kept his distance when it came to Don Micheletto, the latter seemed to find nothing amiss in a dinner invitation. In fact, he received it rather enthusiastically.

  “Buona Sssssera,” hissed the little man, when his host threw open the door. Niccolo froze. Trouble!

  Don Micheletto was smiling as usual. A few strands of stiff grey hair peeked out from under his ordinary black beretto. In his unremarkable, almost-clerical cloak, he looked for all the world like a kindly old country priest or a groundskeeper or a man who loved animals. All these usual, incongruous details, so at odds with the nefarious nature of the man, Niccolo took in at a glance. But it was not Don Micheletto’s appearance that sent a shock through him. It was an entirely unanticipated complication. Don Micheletto was not alone.

  “I took the liberty of bringing a companion,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. She will make the evening all the more fessssstive, don’t you agree?”

  And what a companion! There was no mistaking the black eyes, the bladelike nose, the preposterously high shaven forehead, and the mouth like a blood-red smear. The enterprising young prostitute who went by the name of Faustina—the devil’s plaything—and who later turned up at the side of Caesar Borgia in Rome, had now come home to Florence on the arm of Don Micheletto. She seemed to make it a point of attaching herself to the ambitious and the ruthless. “Like a crow,” thought Niccolo, “she hurls herself more willingly and voraciously on rotten carrion than on fresh, wholesome meat.”

  As Don Micheletto shrugged out of his worn cloak and removed his hat, he introduced his consort, “Maria Madalena, Niccolo Machiavelli, Ssssecretary in the Ssssecond Chanccccery.”

  “I believe the secretary and I have met before.” She graced Niccolo with an indulgent smile.

  “Now she’s styling herself Maria Madalena,” thought Niccolo. “Mary Magdalena, the repentant whore!” Despite the name, Madalena showed no outward signs of repentance. She was dressed in something bright blue and shimmering and provocative. When she walked, it rustled, and she gave off a heavy, musky, perfumed smell. Niccolo noticed that her long fingernails were painted black. But he was letting all these details distract him. Already in his mind he was backing away from the deed, looking for a way out.

  Now he had an added problem—what to do about the girl. Was she to be sacrificed in the destruction of Don Micheletto? Was that fair? Could it be avoided? In his head, Niccolo began to evolve schemes for getting Don Micheletto to drink the poisoned draft while keeping his concubine from doing so. Although he was sure that she was far from innocent, her name—whatever it was—was not on the indictment against Don Micheletto.

  As they sat down to dinner, Niccolo thought he had found a way. He could pour most of the liquid into his own cup, he could give Don Micheletto his dose, and then accidentally drop and break the delicate glass vessel. He might even be able to spill his own portion in the process, if he acted clumsy eno
ugh. But what if she . . .

  “Exccccellent,” said Don Micheletto after chewing on a mouthful of the Spanish red wine and swallowing it. He regarded Niccolo, then the cup of wine. “You see I didn’t bring my own wine along, as some people are in the habit of doing.” He let the barb sink in, and Niccolo suddenly remembered the afternoon in Pisa when he had refused Don Micheletto’s wine in favor of his own. “God, he’s on to me,” he thought. “He suspects something.”

  But Don Micheletto kept on smiling. “After all, if I can’t trust my new partner, whom can I trust?”

  “New partner?” Niccolo started.

  “Come, come, Machiavelli. Let’s get right to the point. Don’t play the fox with me. My subordinates tell me you’ve been looking into my affairsssss. Then I receive a dinner invitation. I’m not stupid. How big of a cut do you want? How mucccccch? How many broad gold florinssssss?”

  Niccolo was taken aback. Don Micheletto thought he wanted in on the militia scheme! He was offering him a bribe! Niccolo thought hard for a minute. He had to play the game, but he wasn’t sure how much to ask for, how big a bribe was appropriate. Finally he spoke. “Shall we say ten percent?”

  “Such modest ambitionssss.”

  “Make it retroactive.” Niccolo did not want to seem faint of heart in the bribery scheme with his new partner.

  “Done!” declared Don Micheletto. “Now let’s drink to our new partnership.” The three raised and clinked cups, and then something happened to further disconcert Niccolo and throw his plans into disarray: Don Micheletto and his concubine intertwined arms and drank from each other’s cups!

  This unforeseen action set off another feverish round of plotting and counterplotting in the thoughts of the amateur poisoner. Now Niccolo would have to figure out a way to induce Madalena to leave the table for at least a few minutes. That was the only way. Of course, he breathed easier. Eventually, she would get up to attend to her needs or her toilette. Then he could get the Rossoli into Don Micheletto’s cup and spill the rest before she came back. Although he was almost afraid to look, he shot an occasional glance at the sideboard where the fatal vial seemed to glow bright red and burn with a frightening, evil intensity. In Niccolo’s imagination, it seemed much more conspicuous than it actually was.