Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  His work suffered. He ate less and his stomach bothered him. He slept poorly, and every noise in the street below—every horse that stopped, every rider that dismounted, every carriage door that banged open—sent him scurrying to the windows. She promised she would come back. Two weeks passed.

  Niccolo had written several times to Michelozzi, but he had gotten no reply. That morning, as he walked up the steps to the Signoria, he was grimly determined to write again and dispatch a special messenger within the hour. He passed two of the young men who worked under him in the chancery without acknowledging their cordial greetings. “What are they so happy about,” he thought. “What do they have to laugh about?”

  “Messer Niccolo,” someone called out to him. It was one of the bidelli who did odd jobs around the Signoria. Niccolo answered him with a grunt.

  “Messer Niccolo, I just showed someone down to your study. Come all the way from Rome to see you.” Niccolo bolted and ran. She was back!

  “Giudi . . .” He stopped short. It was Michelozzi.

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Stand there and gape? Come, Niccolo!” Michelozzi moved to embrace his companion, and the crestfallen Niccolo submitted. But in a moment he was all over him with questions: “What happened? Who killed Don Micheletto? Where? When? How?” But most persistently: “Where’s Giuditta?”

  “Slow down,” said Michelozzi. “Slow down. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Tell me!”

  “When Giuditta came to me with your letter, I set up a meeting with the Orsini. They weren’t just happy to have a shot at Don Micheletto, they were ecstatic. They’re really rather horrible people to deal with. They’re all crazy. And bloodthirsty. Anyway, they agreed to do it, and we worked out the details.

  “Since Don Micheletto had taken to frequenting the Convent of the Fallen Angels again, they were going to wait for him outside one night. Giuditta was going to see to it that he was extremely well entertained that evening, so that he wouldn’t be on his guard. Not that it really mattered that much, since the Orsini were going to bring at least fifty men on the ambush. The whole family wanted a piece of Don Micheletto!”

  “They brought it off then?” said Niccolo.

  “Not exactly,” said Michelozzi uneasily.

  “Don Micheletto’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “But the Orsini didn’t do it.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’m coming to that.”

  “Then come to it,” urged the impatient Niccolo.

  “There was a problem.”

  “What!”

  “The night before the ambush, Don Micheletto took the brothel.”

  “What do you mean, ‘took it’?”

  “Like it was a military objective. He surrounded it with armed men and stormed it.”

  “And?”

  “He ordered all the men—the customers—out.”

  “And?”

  “He killed the girls. Every last one of them.”

  “But Giuditta got away?” Niccolo was almost pleading for it to be true.

  “Nobody got away, Niccolo. I’m sorry.”

  “But she had to get away! She killed Don Micheletto! He’s dead, isn’t he? She got to him, didn’t she? She got her revenge, didn’t she? Well, didn’t she!” He was shaking Michelozzi, screaming his questions in his face. “Where is she! Michelozzi! Where is she!”

  “I’m sorry, Niccolo.”

  Niccolo sank back into his chair, numb and inert. Blind grief crowded out the hundreds of questions he would have asked. Michelozzi left quietly. There would be time later for details.

  Niccolo was not aware of how long he sat there frozen, that one horrible thought vibrating and ringing in his mind. The gonfaloniere actually had to slap him to draw him out of his stupor and get his attention.

  “I thought you had an attack of apoplexy. Are you alright?” Soderini wore a look of paternal concern on his face.

  “No, I’m fine,” said Niccolo.

  “I came to apologize—and congratulate you.”

  “For what?” said Niccolo.

  “I came to apologize for not believing you and to congratulate you on your intelligence and astute analysis.”

  “I’m sorry, Piero. I’m not myself today. What are you talking about?”

  “You told me Don Micheletto was working with the Medici, and I didn’t believe you. I thought you were being an alarmist. But you were right.”

  “What difference does it make now? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right. Dead at the hands of his Medici masters. Apparently, they were unhappy with the job he did here in Florence and with his untimely departure. They killed him.”

  “Oh, really?” Niccolo was not even interested. “Why is he telling me these things?” he thought to himself. He was wondering if there was a way to raise Don Micheletto from the dead, so he could cut his throat with his own hands.

  “After you came to me with your accusations, which I thought were quite fantastical at the time, I told my brother, the cardinal, in Rome to look into Don Micheletto’s doings. It seems he had been in contact with the Cardinal de’ Medici. But when he fled Florence and returned to Rome, things must have soured between them, because my brother learned that Don Micheletto was meeting secretly with the French Cardinal Chaumont. Apparently he was contemplating going over to the French. But the Medici got him first. They waited for him outside the Frenchman’s house with their daggers, and that was the end of Don Micheletto.”

  “How does your brother know it was the Medici?”

  “The pope. The pope seems to be taking more of an interest in our affairs lately. When Don Micheletto’s body was found, the pope called my brother, Francesco, in to discuss it. The pope wanted him to know that the Medici were busy, that something was going on with them. Naturally, he said, a good Florentine like the Cardinal Soderini would be interested to know that the Medici were up to something and that they might bear watching.”

  “That’s good, Piero,” said Niccolo impatiently. “I guess everything’s settled?”

  “Things couldn’t be better,” said the optimistic gonfaloniere. “Now I want you to get that militia in shape. As soon as you can, Niccolo. I want Pisa before the year is out!”

  “Of course, Pisa,” said Niccolo from a distance. Again, the normally astute Niccolo would have peppered the gonfaloniere with a thousand questions on these revelations, but he was already sinking back into his lethargic, desperate, panicky world of private pain and grief.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Piero Soderini. “I’ve got a memento for you. Since you’re the one who first exposed Don Micheletto, I thought you should have it. It seems the Medici left their calling card when they came for him.” Something clattered on the hardwood table in front of Niccolo, and from a dim place very, very far within himself, Niccolo thanked the gonfaloniere. Soderini left shaking his head.

  “Messer Niccolo, Messer Niccolo! Wake up!” It was the bidello shaking him. “Why don’t you go home now, Messer Niccolo? Everyone else is already gone. It’s late.”

  “Yes, thank you, I will. Thank you.” Slowly Niccolo collected himself and stood up.

  “Here, take this lamp, Messer Niccolo. It’s getting dark. You’ll have trouble finding your way out.” The ever-helpful bidello placed the oil lamp on Niccolo’s desk.

  “Thanks again,” said the catatonic secretary. Bending down to retrieve the lamp, Niccolo caught a glimpse of something lying on the desk. “What the . . .” He grabbed it, but before he could hold it up to the light for closer inspection, it fell from his shaking hand onto the floor. Going down on his knees, he clutched in the dark and dust under the desk until he found it again.

  “Where did this thing come from?” he thought. Searching his memory, he realized it must have been the thing Soderini left behind. “The memento. Something to do with Don Micheletto? What was it Soderini had said? The Medici calling card?”

  Hold
ing it in the circle of light given off by the lamp, Niccolo gasped. It was a small dagger with a little design carved in its smooth black handle. That little design, as Niccolo had learned many years ago, was the Medici calling card.

  “Call him away from his dinner!” The Soderini servants were beginning to take a dim view of Messer Niccolo Machiavelli, who seemed to be in the habit of barging into their domains and making strident, extraordinary demands on the gonfaloniere’s time. Finally, to keep him from crashing into the dining room itself, they were obliged to disturb the gonfaloniere.

  “Niccolo,” he said magnanimously. “I should have guessed it was you. You’re looking more alive than you were this afternoon.”

  “Where did you get this?” said Niccolo, breathing heavily.

  “That? From my brother.”

  “And where did he get it?”

  “The pope’s men found it when they found Don Micheletto, if you must know. That’s how they concluded that the Medici were behind the murder. You see that little design there . . .”

  “I know what the design is. But are you saying that this is what killed Don Micheletto?”

  “Well, not exactly. Apparently the don was torn open with about twenty-five wounds all over the place and most of them were much larger than this little dagger could have inflicted.”

  “Then they found this on the body?”

  “In it, I should say. It’s funny. The blow from that dagger was perfectly gratuitous. It couldn’t have done him much harm and was probably even administered after he was already dead. That’s why the pope thought somebody was trying to send a message, that the Medici were marking their victim—as a warning.”

  “Where was the dagger? Where was it found?”

  “In his back, between the shoulder blades.”

  Involuntarily, Niccolo clutched the knife so tightly in his hand that he cut himself.

  “Be careful, Niccolo. Here! Look, you’re bleeding? Are you sure you’re alright?” The gonfaloniere was a little alarmed. “Let me have someone dress that cut for you.”

  But Niccolo was already gone. He could scarcely believe it. This was the knife that he had pulled out of a little boy’s body twenty-five years ago. Out of his back, from between the shoulder blades. Don Micheletto’s dagger had come home to rest. And only one person would have put it there in that exact spot between the shoulder blades. Not the Medici! Only one other person knew.

  He had to talk to Michelozzi again. He dashed out of the Soderini house and into the street. It was late, but no matter. This couldn’t wait. But by the time he had gotten to the Piazza della Signoria, however, Niccolo realized, to his chagrin, that he did not know where Michelozzi was staying in Florence. It would have to wait until morning.

  On the way home, the questions began to coalesce: Why did Don Micheletto “take” the brothel? Was he after Giuditta? If he was, then that meant he had to know! Nothing made any sense, unless Don Micheletto knew about the plot against him. None of his actions from leaving Florence to the murders in the brothel made any sense unless he knew. But if he knew, how did he know? Who was telling him? If he had obtained information about moves against him both while in Florence and while in Rome, he had to have sources at both ends. Going over it all, the conclusion was inescapable. There was only one way he could have found out everything he had found out, one conduit with two outlets, one in Rome, one in Florence. Two men, brothers, with identical interests, with the same name—Soderini.

  But it didn’t make any sense! Why would the Soderini be protecting Don Micheletto when Don Micheletto was working for the Medici? Piero Soderini was gonfaloniere for life, the most prestigious position in the republic. His brother Francesco was a cardinal who represented Florentine interests in Rome. The Medici were in exile. They were the sworn enemies of the republic, of everything it stood for, and of its standard-bearer, Soderini. It was inconceivable that the Soderini could be involved with them. The Soderini were above reproach. They were selfless in the pursuit of the interests of the republic. Unless, Niccolo began to speculate, unless they knew something, something . . .

  But all these questions and considerations were only incidental or preliminary to the great question—was Giuditta alive? Of course, she was, he told himself. The fact that the dagger was found in Don Micheletto’s body was proof of it! But his confidence in his own wild, unsubstantiated conclusions was eroding, and the more he thought about it, the more cause for fear he saw he had. Niccolo knew that there were probably hundreds of daggers like that. Lots of Medici retainers and employees and henchmen had daggers marked with that sign. Maybe it was just what Soderini said it was—a Medici act of vindication against Don Micheletto. Maybe Giuditta hadn’t been involved. Maybe she really was dead, as Michelozzi said. Michelozzi! He had to talk to Michelozzi! He was the key. Did he just assume she was dead? Or did he know? Could he be sure? Had he seen the body?

  The prostitutes calling to him did not draw Niccolo out of his self-absorption. Recently they had moved into several streets near his house to ply their trade. Ordinarily, he found their presence, while not alluring, at least interesting. Their taunting and laughter made the walk home at night more lively. But this evening he was oblivious to their solicitations. He plowed through their ranks, running the gauntlet of lewd invitations and impossible promises without even acknowledging their presence.

  At the door, he fumbled with his heavy keys before finally getting it open and stepping wearily inside. Exhausted from the emotional ups and downs of the day, Niccolo skipped his supper, took several large swallows of a rough, searing brandy, and threw himself into bed. Thanks to the brandy, which now stood on his bedside table, he knew he would be able to induce sleep for a few hours at least, before waking again in the dark and wondering and worrying. But he craved those few hours of oblivion.

  His dreams that night were not particularly pleasant ones, and the slumber induced by the brandy was not particularly profound. He heaved and tossed and squirmed, so that he might as well have been stretched on the torturer’s rack until a heaven-sent vision of Giuditta came to soothe him. She took him in her arms. She pushed the sweaty hair back from his forehead and kissed his burning brow and at her insistence, safe in her care, he allowed himself finally to be lulled into a deep and restful sleep.

  The next morning, Niccolo awoke in a panic. The hateful dreams had come back to torture him. Sitting up abruptly made him aware of the intense throbbing in his head, and he sank down into the pillows again with a groan. The questions raced back into his mind, all the more confusing, all the more unanswerable. They rushed into his consciousness, competing with each other, vying for his attention, overwhelming him. It was all he could do to summon up the blissful dream of Giuditta to drive them off for a minute’s peace.

  Lying perfectly still, he assessed the degree of pain in his head. It was not incapacitating, but, coupled with the knot in his stomach and the dryness in his mouth and throat, it was not encouraging. It was not the best way to start a day. For a moment, he considered taking another dose of brandy and trying to buy a few more hours’ sleep, but he decided against it. He had to see Michelozzi, but he dreaded the interview. He was afraid his friend might tell him something he didn’t want to hear, something he couldn’t bear to hear.

  With a supreme effort of the will, Niccolo hoisted himself up and swung his feet out. He closed his eyes to deaden the pain in his head. From his sitting position on the side of the bed, he slowly stood up. The headache was worse than he thought. He looked at the flask of brandy on the table. It was on its side—empty. “Che miseria,” he muttered.

  Holding his head and directing himself toward the enclosure where the chamber pot awaited him, Niccolo tripped and went sprawling onto the floor. The thick carpet prevented the fall from doing him any serious injury, but he swore mightily nonetheless. In frustration, he kicked and flailed at the cursed tangle of clothing beside the bed that had gotten wrapped around his feet and caused him to stumble. In the ensuing fraca
s, he managed to scatter the offending garments all over the room in his anger until there was nothing left within reach but a single woman’s shoe.

  “Amappolo!” He clutched the thing, almost unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyes. “It wasn’t a dream!”

  All thoughts of headaches and stomachs that required nursing suddenly vanished as Niccolo threw open the door and bolted for the stairs. He used his hands on the walls and rails to catapult himself down six and seven steps at a time. His feet barely touched the ground. There were sounds coming from the kitchen and as he rushed in, he saw the long, dark hair swirl as she spun around to face him.

  “Cara!Tesoro!” he shouted throwing himself at her. Then he saw the beard.

  “Well, I’m pleased to see you too, tesoro,” said Callimaco, by now in Niccolo’s arms.

  “Where’s . . .”

  “Over here, Niccolo,” said Giuditta. “I’m over here.”

  He must have held her and squeezed her to himself for some time before Callimaco interrupted the happy reunion. “Why don’t you go back up and put some clothes on, tesoro. Then we can all have something to eat.”

  When Niccolo’s initial astonishment and subsequent euphoria had given way to a feeling of peace and infinite serenity, they talked. Giuditta explained that everything had been going fine, and she had made plans with the Orsini for the mutually beneficial dispatch of Don Micheletto.

  “I was at the convent late in the evening the day before the ambush was supposed to take place. Callimaco here was with me. In fact, he’d been staying there for several days.”

  “What were you doing there for several days?” asked Niccolo.

  “Hiding.”

  “Hiding from what?”

  “The wrath of a jealous husband, what else?”

  Giuditta continued, “All of a sudden, there was noise and screaming. I looked out and saw Don Micheletto waving a sword and shouting. The house was in chaos, with people running all over the place. He was ordering all the men out. ‘I just want the girlssss,’ he kept saying, ‘Just the girlsssss.’”