The scowl on his face told her that things had not gone smoothly that day. “Che cazzo vogliono! What the hell do they want from me!” It was not a good sign when he came in cursing.
“Something came today while you were gone,” said Giuditta. “Maybe it’s good news.”
“Maybe its money. Or maybe they’re finally going to send someone up here to replace me in this thankless job and this God-forsaken country.”
Niccolo recognized his friend Biagio’s hand on the letter. It wasn’t money. And it wasn’t good news. Giuditta watched his face cloud over as he read.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Trouble.”
Giuditta was also accustomed to this kind of trouble by now. Nearly every letter from Florence brought more news of trouble—trouble for Soderini, trouble for the militia, trouble for the blessed republican way of life. Always trouble. Without too much genuine interest, and with a faint trace of amusement, she asked the obligatory question, “Who’s in trouble this time?”
“I am,” said Niccolo. There was no amusement in the way he said it. “Listen to this: A week ago today, a certain unidentified person introduced himself, masked, to the notary of the courts and presented a deposition declaring that you, Niccolo Machiavelli, son of Bernardo, are not qualified to hold the post of secretary to the Ten of War and chancellor in the Second Chancery.”
Putting down the letter, Niccolo looked hard at Giuditta. “Somebody is trying to have me removed from office.”
“Who? Why?”
“Biagio doesn’t know. The denunciation was anonymous. But he says a complete investigation of my financial affairs is underway. Can you imagine that! My financial affairs! What financial affairs? I don’t even have any financial affairs!”
“Are you going to go back to Florence?”
“Biagio thinks it would be better for me to stay away for the time being. He says there’s a lot of talk going around, a lot of things being said about me, and I should stay away until some of the furor dies down.”
“Is it serious?”
“Biagio says no. He says he can handle it for me. He knows which strings to pull. So I guess we wait.”
Niccolo did not have long to wait. Quite unexpectedly, quite unannounced, Roberto Acciaiuoli, one of his colleagues in the chancery, turned up in France to relieve him of his duties as ambassador. Acciaiuoli also carried a message from Soderini. The message was written in code and marked urgent. Niccolo Machiavelli was ordered to return at once to Florence and report without delay to the gonfaloniere. There was trouble.
Before presenting himself to the gonfaloniere, Niccolo thought it prudent to call on Biagio in order to find out what exactly the case against him entailed. His friend was surprised to see him.
“Returned from France so soon?”
“Soderini sent for me. He says there’s trouble. Tell me what’s going on, Biagio. What have they got against me?”
“You’re in debt.”
“I’ve always been in debt. What’s new about that?”
“It’s worse than you probably think. Your brother, Totto, signed over all your father’s inheritance to you, isn’t that right?”
“All my father’s inheritance. Don’t make me laugh.”
“But your father left considerable obligations, and in the ten years since his death, your brother Totto did nothing to clear them up. In fact, Messer Totto added considerably to the amount of the debt. When he had made such a tangled mess of the affairs that not even an army of notaries and lawyers could straighten things out, he signed everything over to you.”
“That was two years ago. He said he was weary of the whole business and wanted me to take care of things for him.”
“Have you looked into those affairs carefully, Niccolo?”
“I keep meaning to, but something always comes up. You know how busy I’ve been.”
“Niccolo, no taxes were paid for ten years and interest was allowed to accumulate on a number of outstanding obligations, some of them involving fairly substantial amounts. You’re up to your eyeballs in debt.”
“Is that all?” Niccolo was relieved. What was a little debt?
“No, that’s not all. Whoever denounced you claims that you should be forced to resign your position. You know there’s a prohibition on holding or exercising public office for anyone who’s in debt.”
“That’s absurd! That goes for elected officials! I’m a functionary! I don’t have any real power, especially budgetary power. And anyone can see I’m so broke all the time that I couldn’t possibly have my fingers in the till.” Niccolo was indignant.
“It may be absurd, but it caused quite a stir in the Signoria.”
“Where do I stand now?”
“Everything is in the gonfaloniere’s hands. He’s supposed to make a decision.”
“And what do you think he’ll decide?”
“Niccolo, there is talk of dismissal in the council.”
Niccolo lost no time in going to see the gonfaloniere. Debt! Debt indeed! If he had neglected his personal business and slipped into debt, it was because he was minding the republic’s business instead. And they never even paid him half the time! Now they had the nerve to reproach him for being a little in debt! His level of righteous indignation was high when he entered the gonfaloniere’s chambers, but he stopped short when Soderini rose to greet him. The gonfaloniere had aged visibly in the last three months. His face was drawn and haggard. There were cracks in the statue. His resplendent blond locks, always meticulously combed and curled, were plastered to the sides of his head like stiff, dirty straw.
“Niccolo,” he said wearily. “Welcome back.”
Notwithstanding the twinge of sympathy the man’s appearance evoked in him, Niccolo came right to the point. “I understand you’re considering dismissing me from my post?” He said it bluntly.
“Where did you ever get that idea?”
“Biagio said there’ve been calls for my head!”
“There have indeed.”
“And?”
“I’ve quieted them down as best I could. I think I’ve settled matters satisfactorily for all parties concerned.”
“Then if everything is settled, why did you call me back so quickly from France?”
“There are other problems, Niccolo. Bigger problems. I need you here now.”
“Has something happened I don’t know about?”
“Yes,” said the gonfaloniere gravely. “Something has happened. There’s been an assassination attempt on me.”
Niccolo’s eyes narrowed. All thought of his personal debt crisis vanished as duty called him once again to attend to matters concerning the survival of the republic.
“Prinzivalle della Stufa,” said Soderini. “You know him?”
“Not really.”
“He’s a minor character in the plot. Somebody else put him up to it.”
“Do you know who?”
“The usual enemies—the powerful and the resentful—the Albizzi, the Ridolfi, the Salviati, the Gianfigliazzi.” Soderini reeled off a list of several of Florence’s most prestigious families, ones who, ever since his administration had taken power, had been grumbling. They grumbled about the loss of the privileges they had become accustomed to, about the unfair share of taxes they said they had to pay, about the “new men” who had insinuated themselves into the government and were usurping all manner of power at their expense. They had always, by the sheer weight of their money, been assured positions of preeminence in Florentine life. They had always run the city as they saw fit, but now this upstart republic had taken it away from them—this republic that seemed to actually be taking the idea of equality seriously!—and so they grumbled. Lately, though, their grumblings had been gathering force and had already reached the pitch of a dull, but insistent, roar.
“How did you find out?” said Niccolo.
“Filippo Strozzi came to me when Prinzivalle asked him to join the plot.”
“Then Strozzi
is on our side?”
“Not exactly. He told Prinzivalle first that he was coming to me. Prinzivalle escaped. Strozzi claims he wants to remain aloof from politics.”
“In other words, he doesn’t want to choose sides until after the battle’s over?” observed Niccolo.
“He’s not the only one.”
“What else has been going on here?”
“A lot of things aimed at discrediting me. These are complaints.” He held up a thick sheaf of papers of various sizes. “Complaints that there are too many prostitutes in the streets at night, complaints about security, about sanitation, about the water level in the river! Complaints about everything, and they all imply that everything is somehow my fault! And this whole business about your indebtedness. That was part of the plot to discredit me! Albizzi had the nerve to offer me some advice about exalting men of low degree. He said that, while I no doubt found you useful as an instrument for the execution of my personal agenda, it was certainly not in the interests of the republic that she be served by such debt-ridden scoundrels.”
Niccolo Machiavelli, the debt-ridden secretary of low—at least relatively low—degree brooded in silence.
“It’s not just what’s going on here that worries me, Niccolo. It’s what’s going on in Rome.”
Niccolo snapped to attention: “The Medici?”
“Cardinal Giovanni’s influence is growing daily. Suddenly the pope is very much his friend. The pope showers him with favors.”
Niccolo was aware, through reports from Michelozzi, that the Cardinal de’ Medici was up to something. He had begun to court Florentine merchants and bankers in Rome and other exiles like himself. He was generous to all and, having the pope’s ear, was able to get things done for Florentines who needed to have things done. His influence was growing at an alarming rate, and it was growing at the expense of the Cardinal Soderini, Florence’s official ambassador in Rome. For several months now, it was apparent that Florentines in need of a favor applied more readily, and often with better results, to the Cardinal de’ Medici.
Knowing all this, and very much dubious of the cardinal’s honorable intentions, Niccolo asked Soderini whether the cardinal had made a move.
“Not overtly. But Prinzivalle told Strozzi that the pope had approved of his plot. He says the Pope is interested in reinstating the Medici as the rightful rulers of Florence.”
“‘Rightful’ my ass! We have to do something, Piero!”
“I know, but what?” said the gonfaloniere.
“Arrest them. Arrest every one of the bastards, Albizzi and all the rest.”
“On what charge? That I don’t like them?”
“Arrest them on charges of treason.”
“We can’t prove anything, and besides, there’d be an outcry. The point they keep trying to make against me is that I’ve become too powerful and that I want to set myself up as a tyrant. The arrests will seem arbitrary, and their charges against me will be vindicated. In the long run, it will do more harm than good.”
“Then what do you suggest?” asked Niccolo.
“I’ll go before the council and explain things. I’ll appeal to them, Niccolo. I’ll appeal to the people.”
Niccolo threw his hands up in the air, “Oooofa, Piero,” he said in frustration. Then he acquiesced, “Fine, go to the council, and explain. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.” And he knew it wouldn’t work. This was what maddened him about Soderini—his timidity! His enemies were closing in around him, and it was time to act. So what does he propose? To make a speech and explain everything! As he was getting up to leave, Niccolo found himself thinking, “Caesar Borgia would not have made a speech.”
The gonfaloniere called out to him as he was leaving the room, “Niccolo, about your debts. I’ve arranged to have your salary garnished until the taxes and the larger creditors are paid off.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Before the assembled Great Council of over one thousand members, in the great, ornate Council Chamber enlarged by Savonarola, Soderini gave a minute accounting of his administration. He held up the heavy account books and declared them open for all to inspect, challenging any man to find fault with them. When he had exhibited the ledgers, he put them in an iron box and slammed its heavy lid shut. The ringing sound had a finality about it that greatly enhanced the image of authority the gonfaloniere was trying to project.
When he finished, unanimous roars of approval rose from the crowded council room, and before the day was ended, several measures were passed strengthening the gonfaloniere’s position and giving his administration the full backing of the council and the law.
As Niccolo watched the performance, he was moved, and he was happy for Soderini. The gonfaloniere had been right. The majority was still with him. He still had the support of the people. But would that be enough? Niccolo noticed that there were those in the Council Chamber who did not participate in the rousing chorus of acclamations. He watched the fat, sleek faces of some of the better citizens. They remained unruffled, impassive, and unmoved by the gonfaloniere’s words. They looked peeved or bored or slightly embarrassed. They busied themselves with papers in their laps or fell to adjusting sashes and doublets. They were in the minority, to be sure, but they were a powerful minority not without resources and full of ruthless ambitions. They were not particularly impressed by anything as flimsy and ephemeral as the will of the people. They had their own plans, and they were not giving up. Mindful of this, Niccolo returned to his study and began drawing up plans of his own—plans for the defense of Florence, plans to augment and strengthen the militia. He did not want Soderini to meet the fate of Savonarola, the fate of the unarmed prophet.
Niccolo worked on the hasty formation of a new mounted militia, armed with lances, crossbows, and matchlocks. He increased the size of the infantry, once again taking upon himself the task of recruiting men and light horse throughout the region. He worked tirelessly, inspecting the outer perimeters of the Florentine defenses.
While Florence watched and prepared herself, Julius II, the warrior pope, was not idle. With an army composed mostly of Spanish mercenaries, he took Bologna, to the north of Florence. So hot for war and conquest was the old pope that he insisted on entering the city as soon as the walls were breached. Unable to climb because of his age and unsteady legs, he was hoisted up through the breach in a wooden box. One of his first actions on taking possession of the city was to commission a bronze statue of himself to be placed in the main square. “And put a sword in my hand, not a book or a cross,” were his instructions to the sculptor.
These papal incursions set off new rounds of frantic diplomacy and Niccolo, on behalf of Soderini and the republic, flew back and forth across northern Italy. Like Caesar Borgia before him, the pope now occupied Bologna and the rest of the Romagna, as well as the lands of the Papal States in the south. Once again, Florence was, for all practical intents and purposes, surrounded by forces hostile to her continued independence. The number of malcontents in the city increased, or at least the voices of the existing malcontents were raised to new and more strident levels, giving the impression of an increase in the forces and will of the opposition. It was at this critical juncture that France finally decided to intervene militarily.
Bologna rebelled against the papal occupation forces and drove them from the city, preferring to join with the French. The statue of Julius II was pulled down, smashed to pieces, and the pieces of bronze were melted down and recast as a canon. While the Bolognese were thus occupied beating their ploughshares into swords, the French army began to pour into the Romagna, and the stage was set for the decisive Battle of Ravenna, which took place on Easter Sunday in April 1512.
By the time the battle was decided, over twenty thousand men had lost their lives. By anyone’s reckoning, the French were the victors. The rout of the pope’s armies was received with wild enthusiasm in Florence. Bonfires burned in the streets.
Florence celebrated her deliver
ance, and for a few days the French too enjoyed the fruits of victory, pillaging Ravenna. But the victory was short-lived. On another front, France found herself being harassed by her eternal enemy, England. Overextended, exhausted, and increasingly unable to defend her conquests, France was forced to begin pulling back, inexorably ceding her Italian possessions as she went.
In all this Florence played little part. When it was over, the pope found himself once again lord of Romagna. When he sat down with the French to work out terms, they had difficulty agreeing to much of anything, but on one point they were perfectly in accord: Both felt betrayed by the Florentines. Surrounded on all sides and abandoned by her purported protector, France, Florence was now at the mercy of the rapacious Pope Julius II.
When Niccolo stepped out into the open air, it had a cooling, almost-bracing effect on him, despite the fact that the afternoon temperature was over ninety degrees. He had just emerged from one of many establishments in the Via dei Castellani, where the heat was all but unbearable, one of the infernal workshops where vats and pots of molten metal were poured to make cannons and guns for the militia. The gunnery smiths were working around the clock now. All night, their workshops lining the banks of the Arno glowed blood-red, and the flames reflected off the dark, shining surface of the water.
Niccolo was glad to be out of there. It was so hot that the men worked almost naked, wrapped only in grimy loincloths that looked like a baby’s diaper. Most were stretched to the limits of their endurance, and yet they continued to pull on their bellows and pound on their anvils with what little strength remained. The city was preparing for war.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 62
