Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  When Niccolo was brought into the room, the prim one looked up and said, “This is him?” He had a reedy voice and an annoying, overly precise, way of articulating each individual syllable.

  “Leave us,” he said with a wave of the hand. It was a dismissive, but not assertive, gesture. “I’ll question him.” The Spaniards, unconcerned, went about their business of stoking fires and hammering and banging pieces of iron in preparation for the day’s work.

  “You’re Niccolo Machiavelli?” The slightly weary, disdainful note that crept into his voice piqued Niccolo and stirred old resentments. This was exactly the kind of exalted courtier and dandified ass that he had had to deal with on so many occasions in the past. Against his better judgment, but unable to resist, he said in a firm but defiant tone, “Whom might I have the honor of addressing?” It was clear that he did not consider it an altogether tremendous honor.

  “Lorenzo di Piero de’ Medici.”

  “Christ,” thought Niccolo. “Another one.” They were coming out of the walls, these Medici. They were descending on the carcass of the republic like a pack of vultures. And this one was still talking, dragging out his lineage and his titles: “. . . grandson of Lorenzo, called the Magnificent and by declaration of the Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, captain general of the Florentine republic.” He stopped to let it all sink in. Niccolo waited and said nothing.

  “You have had an opportunity to witness the sad conditions of the unfortunate Messers Boscoli and Capponi, have you not?”

  No answer was required. Little Lorenzo continued: “Messers Boscoli and Capponi were involved in some nasty business. We have reason to believe that you were also involved, and we would like to ascertain the extent of your involvement. Now, what was your relationship with Boscoli and Capponi?”

  Niccolo answered truthfully. “They worked in the chancery, but I barely knew them. There are over a hundred clerks in the Second Chancery.”

  “I see,” said the young inquisitor, pausing for effect. “Then you have no idea how your name got on a piece of paper that was in Messer Boscoli’s possession?”

  Niccolo was a little relieved. He had no idea, and he said so, but his response did not seem to satisfy the inquiring mind of the young Medici lion.

  “Let me speak plainly, Machiavelli. A certain Bernardino Coccio of Siena was at the house of a certain Jacopo Lenzi, who is a kinsman of the ex-gonfaloniere Soderini, and found a certain piece of paper that had fallen from the pocket of your Messer Boscoli. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear,” thought Niccolo. He had heard diplomats and politicians express themselves more clearly than that! Tactfully, he said, “I’m not sure what Your Excellency is getting at.”

  “Your name was on that slip of paper!”

  “Ah, well there. You should have said so earlier!” Niccolo had no idea what this was all about, but he was beginning to see that the charges against him, whatever they were, were absolutely groundless. He was beginning to take heart.

  “You should not make light of this, Machiavelli,” cautioned the young Medici, with his precise, severe articulation. “That list contained the names of eighteen men. Eighteen conspirators! We want to know what your role was in the conspiracy.”

  Niccolo protested, half-laughing, “A conspiracy? With poor Boscoli and Capponi? A list of names on a slip of paper that fell out of someone’s pocket! That’s preposterous! You must be joking. You can ask your uncle Giuliano about me. You can even ask the cardinal. We’re on good terms. A slip of paper!”

  Young Lorenzo was not amused, however. Sensing an affront to his authority, he said “Uncle Giovanni has put me in charge of this affair, and I’ll handle it as I see fit. Now tell me what you know about the conspiracy.”

  “I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything. Ask Boscoli. Ask Capponi.”

  “Messers Boscoli and Capponi have confessed to being traitors and they’ve been dealt with. They were decapitated this morning.” He said it dryly. “I suggest you reconsider your position.” With that, Lorenzo pivoted in his delicate slippers, gave a signal to the Spaniards, and strode out of the chamber. The Spaniards were grinning.

  Niccolo could not believe this was happening to him. He was being tied down on the rack. The rack! He was going to be questioned on something he knew nothing about. What was he going to say? He didn’t have any secrets to guard, anyone to protect. And he had no information to give up, nothing to offer when the pain became unbearable, nothing to say to make it stop. He thought of poor Boscoli and Capponi. What lies had they admitted to? What crimes had they confessed?

  The Spaniard was almost apologetic as he fastened the straps around Niccolo’s ankles and wrists. Almost. He was saying, “It’s nothing against you personally. But I’ve got a job to do like anyone else.”

  This detachment, this professionalism, made it all the more maddening. He went on, “Like I said, it’s nothing personal. If I saw you on the street tomorrow, I’d probably buy you a drink.” Then the man smiled a cold, evil smile, “But I probably won’t see you on the street tomorrow, will I?” Niccolo saw the tinge of madness in his eyes. There was no detachment in his eyes, only a fierce anticipation of pleasure.

  The ropes extended from Niccolo’s outstretched limbs and wound around two drums, one at his head and one at his feet. The drums had a system of levers and ratchets that allowed the ropes to be pulled an inch or so at a time without sliding back. By the second turn, Niccolo’s body was stretched taunt.

  He had decided to make a manly show of fortitude and not cry out. He repeated that he knew nothing about the conspiracy. He summoned up thoughts of the ancient Romans to give him courage. He bit his lip so hard that the skin broke. Tears streamed down his face. He would not cry out. On the third turn, he shrieked.

  The questions were repeated, and he could barely enunciate his denials. His body was being torn—literally torn—apart. It was the worst in his hips and shoulders. He wondered how long it would take for his joints to be ripped apart, for the bones to pop out of their sockets and the tendons and sinews to snap. He wondered how far they would go. At the fourth turn, he felt something snap, and the pain shot to new and excruciating levels. Again, the Spaniard with the gleam in his eye repeated the same questions. Niccolo’s denials now were almost inaudible, squeezed out through clenched teeth. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the single broken tooth of the Spaniard set in the middle of that grin, that sublimely evil, but somehow tender, even erotic grin.

  When Niccolo came to, he was in his cell again. His body was a sheet of fire. He became dimly aware of something crawling up his leg, but when he tried to move his arm to brush it off, a blinding burst of pain sent him down into the blackness again. It was a full twelve hours before he regained consciousness. Someone had entered his cell with a lamp. “Here. Here’s a lamp and writing materials,” said the voice with the thick Spanish accent. “Messer Lorenzo wants you to write out your confession. If you can’t think of everything, we’ll go six turns tomorrow to jog your memory.” With that injunction cheerfully delivered, he retreated, whistling.

  Niccolo lolled on his bench. The light in the cell added a new dimension to his horror. Before he had only heard them scurrying around underneath him. Now he could see their little rat’s eyes, huddled in the corner and shining. He could move his neck, but little else without invoking the pain. Six turns! He had not been able to bear four! Then he wondered if one got used to it, inured to it. He wondered if, after a while, one just lost all sensation and the pain didn’t matter anymore. He thought of the pathetic Boscoli and Capponi. He still had a long way to go.

  He was trapped. The only way out was to confess to something he didn’t do. And if he confessed, he would, in all likelihood, be put to death, just like Boscoli and Capponi. For Niccolo, tyranny had ceased to be an abstract enemy, an unacceptable concept of government. He was afraid, but he was also full of bitterness and resentment. He thought of the arrogant young Medici playing
at ruler of the city. For a long time he sat, composing the words in his head. He fed on his defiance, and it gave him courage. It was a courage born of recklessness, and there was a certain desperation about it, but what choice did he have? He was doomed if he cooperated or if he didn’t. Eventually, he was sure they’d break him. He winced at the thought of six turns. But he wasn’t broken yet. With a supreme effort, he wedged himself up into a sitting position, took the paper and pen, and began to write. It took him over an hour, and when he was done, he reread his work. If nothing else, it had lifted his spirits. He had written an obscene sonnet and addressed it to Lorenzo di Piero de’ Medici, grandson of Lorenzo, called the Magnificent and nephew to the farting cardinal . . . etc., etc. The next day, Niccolo was not subjected to another session on the rack. Rather, all the bones in his right hand—the hand with which he wrote—were broken.

  When they came to get him the next time, Niccolo still could not walk unassisted. He was helped, rudely enough, by his captors and tormentors, and, to his amazement, they led him limping through the torture chamber without stopping. He was thrust into a small room and told to wait. There was a window in the room. For the first time since he had been arrested, he saw the natural light of day and it heartened him a little. How long had he been here? Niccolo rubbed his chin. To judge from the growth of beard on his face—ten days? Two weeks? And now what? The fact that he had not been put back on the rack was a good sign. The fact that he was in this anteroom instead of the torture chamber was a good sign. Something might happen. There was hope. The Spaniard stuck his head in the door. “A lady to see you.” Niccolo’s heart leaped. It pounded in his chest. Giuditta! But how! Why! He was dizzy. And it was not Giuditta.

  She stared hard at him. He was dirty and unshaven. His clothes were in tatters. His face and arms were covered with rat bites, some of which were infected and beginning to fester. “Are they treating you well?” she asked nonchalantly, amused.

  “What are you doing here?” stammered Niccolo, the hope draining out of him.

  “You mean, what am I doing alive when I’m supposed to be dead? Poisoned!” She drew a black fingernail over the red smear of her mouth.

  “What do you want with me?” Niccolo was utterly confounded.

  “Revenge. You and the Jewess plotted to kill Don Micheletto. You intended to poison him at that cozy supper you arranged, but I foiled the plan, didn’t I?”

  “That’s absurd.” It was a weak bluff.

  “You think I didn’t detect the poison then? In the Rossoli? You think I didn’t warn Don Micheletto not to touch it.”

  “If the Rossoli were poisoned, you would be dead,” countered Niccolo, not knowing what else to say.

  “You don’t know what went wrong, do you?”

  Niccolo was silent. She regarded him with the same sort of detachment as his torturers. But the same evil glint was in her eyes. “Do you know who Mithradates was?” she asked casually.

  Niccolo racked his memory. The name was familiar. He remembered reading something about Mithradates in Livy. He was a king who had stood in the way of the Romans in the early days. Somewhere in the Mediterranean. In the east. His interrogator waited patiently, enjoying his perplexity.

  Finally, she explained herself: “Mithradates was defeated and sentenced to death by the Romans. The usual way to carry out the sentence against an enemy honorably defeated in battle was to allow him to poison himself. It was considered a concession. But when the poison was administered to Mithradates, nothing happened. And do you know why?”

  She drew her sharp face closer to Niccolo, so close he could feel her damp, sweet breath on his cheek. “Nothing happened because Mithradates had fortified himself ahead of time. He poisoned himself, a little at a time over a period of years. At first it makes you ill, but then you become accustomed to the small doses. And you increase them. After a while, there’s no limit to the amount you can ingest because the poison is a part of you. It’s in your blood and every fiber of your body.”

  Realizing what she was saying, Niccolo jerked back, away from her face, away from her poison breath. She looked down her long, thin nose at him. Her nostrils flared a little. “You and the Jewess wanted to dabble in poison, but you didn’t know who you were up against, did you? It’s too bad, really. You missed your chance, and now I have you both.” She said it casually.

  Niccolo jumped up, but the pain in his joints forced him back onto his bench. Wild-eyed, he asked, “What do you mean you have us both?”

  “The Jewess is in the Immurate. And they have a special treatment for Jews there. You can depend on that. It will be far worse than what you’re being served up here.”

  “You’re lying!” Niccolo was blind with anger.

  “I hear they tie the Jews up by their feet so that they’re hanging a few feet from the floor. Then they bring in the dogs. The dogs are hungry when they bring them in, but not starving yet . . .”

  “Stop it! You’re lying! This is part of somebody’s plan to break me. Giuditta has nothing to do with this. I’m in here for political reasons.”

  “Are you? Boscoli and Capponi confessed, but they cleared you and the others. They were conspirators, but inept ones. They wrote things down. The names on their list were of people they thought of contacting but never did. All your fellow conspirators who were arrested have already been set free. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

  “You’re lying! How could you know all that?”

  “I’m under the protection of the Medici,” she said with finality. “And they owe me a favor. That’s why you’re still here and the Jewess is in the Immurate. Because I wanted you. I wanted my revenge.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” pleaded Niccolo. “How could you . . . why would you . . .” He was desperate.

  “You don’t understand my desire for revenge? I didn’t think you would. That’s why I’ve come to see you before the end. So you would know who did this to you. I wanted you to know what will happen to the Jewess, as well. And now you do. Now you know everything.”

  “But why?”

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” she said, glaring down at him like some savage Medusa bent on hideous revenge. “It’s not for me. It’s for him. Because you killed him. Don Micheletto was my father.”

  If Niccolo had one source of solace during his captivity, it was the thought of Giuditta. She was safe. She had nothing to do with his present difficulties. This was chancery business, and she was not involved. This was politics. And now the awful truth was that she was in the Immurate, the women’s prison, and they were both at the mercy of a woman who knew no mercy, who knew no forgiveness, and who thirsted only for revenge, a woman with an inheritance of terror, a pedigree.

  If he could only get out, do something! But he could barely walk, let alone escape. He had no way of communicating with anyone on the outside, and besides, she said it was all going to be over the next day. She said there was going to be a trial—for him, not the Jewess. Jews don’t need trials, but somebody might ask questions about him, so they would go through the motions of a trial. The trial would be short, however, and the result would be well known even before the proceedings began, just as they were for Boscoli and Capponi. In fact, the sentence of death had already been drawn up.

  Still—a trial. A chance to get out of this stinking, filthy place, if only for a few hours. A chance to get a message to someone, anyone. A chance to reach a friend—he still had friends, didn’t he? A chance to get someone to do something, to intervene on Giuditta’s behalf, if nothing more. A tiny ray of hope began to shine in Niccolo’s dark and fetid cell. He still had paper and a pen. A slip of paper dropped on the floor? Who could say who might find it? Into what hands it might fall? A slip of paper had gotten him into this mess. Perhaps it could redeem him as well? And Niccolo began to write.

  The next morning, Niccolo’s hopes were dashed. He was not led out of the prison as he had anticipated, but conducted directly to the tortur
e chamber. His “trial” was to be a trial by ordeal. Lorenzo, grandson of Lorenzo, was there to supervise the proceedings. With him were several of the young rogues who now formed his entourage. They basked in the glow of Medici favor. They were the new lords of Florence, in their short capes laden with brocade and covered with fanciful designs of flowers and butterflies and parrots and dragons.

  The young Medici addressed Niccolo in the most supercilious voice imaginable. He was putting on a show for his retainers. “I have here two documents, two pieces of paper. They were given to me by the cardinal, who incidentally cannot be with us today. He apologizes for his absence, but he was called to Rome on urgent business. The pope, it appears, is gravely ill.” He paused dramatically.

  “Two pieces of paper. Two flimsy pieces of paper.” He held them up. “One is an order to release you from prison. The other is your death warrant.”

  Niccolo was defiant. It was the defiance of a man in extremis, a man with absolutely nothing to lose. “And you’ve been constituted judge and jury to decide which one is to be implemented.”

  “Oh, glory be, no,” said Lorenzo, feigning surprise and indignation. “This matter is far too grave to leave the decision in the hands of one such as myself. No, this is a matter of life and death. We feel that an appeal to a higher authority is the only way to dispose of things in accordance with our concerns that justice be done.”

  Justice. He had the effrontery to use that word. Niccolo wanted to spit, but his mouth was too dry.

  “Gentlemen, shall we begin?”

  “Take off your shirt.” It was one of the Spaniards. Niccolo was led across the room to an open hearth, where a grimy man was working an enormous pair of bellows. Above the superheated fire that he was feeding there was a crucible. And in the crucible, bubbling as merrily as any stew or soup ever had, was molten lead. Niccolo was placed in front of that fire.