“I thought you were dead, I mean, I hadn’t heard anything about you for such a long time.”
“He hasn’t been dead, Luigi,” interjected Cosimino, “only sleeping. And I think I’ve managed to convince him to read something to us in the near future.”
But Luigi had already taken Niccolo by the arm and was leading him away. “Come with me. I want the others to meet you, Messer Machiavelli.”
“Of course,” said Niccolo, still a little shaken by Cosimino’s rebukes.
“You don’t remember me, but we’ve met before,” said Luigi, talking excitedly. “It was in the days of the war with Pisa, and I wasn’t more than ten years old, but, oh, how I wanted to run away and join the militia. I even had a little uniform and a toy sword and we used to go on expeditions around the city. One day I saw you and I recognized you, because my father had pointed you out to me in a parade. I went right up to you, bold as brass, and demanded to join the militia. You were amused and told us we’d have to wait until we were old enough. Then you formed us up in a column and marched us across the piazza. And for weeks we talked about nothing else—Machiavelli of the militia had taught us how to march!”
“That was a long time ago,” said Niccolo.
“I’ll never forget that day,” said Luigi. “Machiavelli of the militia taught us how to march! It was in front of the church where they keep the old nun with the hair and nails that keep on growing, even though she’d been dead a hundred years. We spotted you coming out of the church. You were with a beautiful lady.”
And then the memory turned bitter and stung. “With a beautiful lady.” At the mention of it, Niccolo reeled back into the black pit of emptiness and loss. There was no militia anymore. And there was no beautiful lady.
“Is something the matter, sir?”
“No, I was just thinking about something you reminded me of,” said Niccolo, coming to himself.
“Good. Now here are my friends. They had approached a little knot of young men, all Luigi’s age, about twenty years old. “Compagnacci, here, here’s somebody you have to meet,” announced Luigi.
They all turned and looked at their friend, the excited young poet who had an older and decidedly unfashionable man in tow. Their appraisals were quickly made; their expressions were dubious. They were waiting.
Luigi made his introduction: “Friends, may I present to you Messer Niccolo Machiavelli!”
Jaws dropped. There were incredulous whispers. Machiavelli of the militia! And then, one by one, they stepped forward and introduced themselves.
“Zanobi Buondelmonte.”
“Giovan Batista della Palla.”
“Jacopo da Diacceto.”
“Francesco da Diacceto.”
“Francesco da Diacceto.”
Luigi interrupted: “They’re cousins, and they both have the same name. We call him Nero because he’s always dressed in black and the other we call Pagonazzo because he’s always dressed like a peacock!”
Niccolo listened to the explanation and verified the truth of it, but his attention was almost wholly fixed on something else. It was something he had read in the faces of these solemn young men who had stepped forward and gravely presented themselves to him. It was the first time in a while that anyone had looked at him like that. If he was not mistaken, they were regarding him with a mixture of awe and reverence in their eyes. To them, he was Machiavelli of the militia once more.
“Cosimino says Messer Machiavelli’s agreed to share some of his work with us!” announced the delighted Luigi. And almost immediately the whole eager crowd closed in on him. Niccolo was overwhelmed at his sudden notoriety. “One at a time,” he protested. “And please, let me sit down.”
He took a seat on a bench and they gathered around, some standing, some at his feet. In response to their clamoring inquiries, Niccolo explained, “I suppose, in the broadest sense possible, what I’m working on is what we Florentines can learn from our ancient, ancestors, the Romans.” Suddenly he was Plato, and they were the Academy. He was Jesus, and they were the Disciples.
“Now, suppose we begin where the history of Rome and the history of Florence intersect. Who founded Florence?”
“It was a Roman colony,” volunteered one of the Francescos.
“Ah, but what sort of a Roman colony?” said Niccolo, raising a finger of warning. “Or rather a colony of which Rome?” He let the question sink in, then continued. “There are two stories about the founding of Florence. Sometimes one of them holds currency, sometimes the other. In one version of the story, Florence was founded by Julius Caesar, and so she was a product of the empire and the emperor. In the other version, she was older than that, founded by soldiers of the old Roman republic—free citizen soldiers.
“Now I don’t have to tell you which version is being bruited about today, do I, when the glory of empires and the glory of royal houses and dynasties is held in such high esteem?”
“But which is the true story?” said Luigi.
Niccolo smiled. “It’s not all that important which is the true story, and I doubt if we could ever really find out. What is important is that we have a choice to make about our past, about which version of the past we want to accept. Were we born as subjects of a decadent and corrupt empire, or were the first Florentines virtuous citizens of a free republic? It’s not a matter of what happened, it’s a matter of what you believe.”
“And what do you believe, Messer Machiavelli?” Several of them asked at once.
Niccolo sat back, and a broad grin stole over his face. In a moment, there were broad grins all around. There was no need for words. They had found common ground. And after years of neglect, Niccolo had found someone who was willing to listen—and learn. They put questions to him, a thousand questions that night, and he answered. And his words fell on their young minds like sparks on gunpowder.
In a very short time, Niccolo became not only a regular and an intimate of the little circle that met in the Orti Orcellari, but its leading luminary. Readings from his “Discourses on Livy” never failed to excite the imaginations of his youthful companions. His ideas were eagerly embraced, and the questions they raised, hotly debated. Talk of shepherds and wood sprites soon gave way to ardent discussions of republics and tyrants, of militias and mercenaries, of Florence and Rome, and of freedom and slavery.
And as Niccolo’s esteem grew in the eyes of his zealous young compatriots, his self-esteem also began to revive. Bitterness and reticence yielded to an easy acceptance of, and even enthusiasm for, his new life and friends. He began dressing better. He began visiting a barber again on a regular basis. He had his long, scraggly hair trimmed close, the way he used to wear it, and although his hairline had receded a little, the thick hair still covered his skull like a cap of black-and-silver velvet.
He began staying in town again and getting accustomed to the rhythms of urban life. He would make it a practice to spend a week, sometimes two, in Florence, during which time he would join Cosimino and his circle in the Orti, those luxurious gardens, almost every night. Then, with their questions and objections and suggestions in mind, he would return to the little villa near San Casciano to rework, expand, and clarify his ideas.
All of this had little effect on Niccolo’s purse, which was as empty as ever, but his poverty was more bearable now. He had found a new role for himself. Excluded from the councils of those who ruled, he had set his sights on preparing a new generation to someday take their place. When the time was right, these young men, imbued with republican ideals, would step forward and assume their rightful places in a free Florence. Niccolo’s teaching and his writings would provide them with the background they needed. He was passing something on, something important. In a sense, he was doing what Savonarola had done—passing on the torch. Niccolo seemed to realize and accept the fact that his time was over, just as Savonarola’s time had come to an end. But his stubborn commitment to the same ideals that had animated the fiery preacher refused to die, and so, in his way, true
to his promise, he was keeping the flame alive. One important lesson he had learned from Savonarola was that the times change and that men must adapt their actions to those changes. For Savonarola, the times had changed, but he had not changed with them—or not rapidly enough. And he had paid the price. Niccolo, perhaps by mere chance, had managed to survive and, after a period of adjustment, was looking again toward the future and preparing, if not himself, then his young charges, who would one day, when the time was right, carry on his work.
But if Niccolo’s spirits were on the rise, all was not well with Cosimino. The weakness of his shrunken body, which seemed to diminish in size a little every day, was becoming more and more apparent, and when the discussions went late into the night, Cosimino often drifted off into sleep and dozed in his box. He was usually carried up to bed without reawakening. But, after one particularly boisterous and longwinded evening, and after having slept through the more detailed discussions of power and corruption, he was lively and awake. As the little company was breaking up and preparing to go, he signaled to Niccolo.
“Niccolo, I may have something for you if you’re interested, something in the way of a commission.”
“I’m interested,” replied Niccolo flatly and quickly.
“And it will even entail an honorarium, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m very interested.”
“The Cardinal is soliciting ideas.”
“Ideas about what?” Niccolo cocked his head. “The Cardinal,” for so he was known to all, was the de facto ruler of Florence. When the former Florentine cardinal, the corpulent Giovanni de’ Medici, was elevated to the papacy, one of his illegitimate cousins, Giulio, quickly materialized to take his place and assume the cardinalate. Of course, he had to be hastily legitimized in order to aspire legally to the purple, but then Caesar Borgia, too, had gone through the same process before his father had made him a cardinal. There were many precedents, and the procedures were well established. Although a bastard, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici had acquired a reputation for caution and prudence in managing the affairs of the city. After the disastrous reign of his haughty cousin, Lorenzo, anyone would appear cautious and prudent.
Cosimino said, “The Cardinal is soliciting ideas on how best to govern Florence, now and in the future. He’s applied to several men who have had experience in these matters in order to get the widest range of opinions possible, in order to be able to consider all the options. Anyway, your name came up.”
“Just came up?”
Cosimino eyes twinkled, “Let’s say it was put forward by a friend with your interests at heart. It was mentioned in the right circles and passed along through the right people . . . You know we’re all cousins here in Florence, Niccolo, all of us members of the old families.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Just get together a little tract on the details, all those things you know about—the constitution of councils and committees, the appointment of magistrates, all that. Do you want the commission?”
Niccolo could barely conceal his emotion, “Cosimino, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve done so much for me.” He kissed the sick little man on both cheeks to show his profound gratitude. As he turned to go, Cosimino shouted to him, “And Niccolo, Remember whom you’re writing it for! No fiery talk about tyrannicide and radical republics, you understand?”
“I understand, Cosimino, I understand.” It was the opening he’d been waiting for.
“You understand what?” said Luigi, coming up alongside Niccolo.
“That there are times that favor impetuous men, and that the present time is not one of them,” replied Niccolo.
“Eh?” said Luigi, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. I’ve just been given a commission to contribute to the reordering of the Florentine government.”
“Bravo, magister! Then we have to celebrate! Zanobi has invited everyone over to his house. Will you come?”
“Volentiere!” declared the ebullient Niccolo, and then, arm in arm with young Luigi Alamanni, he strode out of the isolated Garden of Eden and back into the crowded streets of Florence.
When they arrived, the others were already there: Zanobi, the Francescos—Nero and Pagonazzo—their cousin Jacopo, and Giovan Battista della Palla, recently returned from Rome. Giovan Battista was regaling them all with tales of papal misdoings at the ever-incredible court of Pope Leo X:
“Chigi, the banker, has this competition going with the pope. They try to outdo each other in extravagance. First the pope hosted a dinner and invited the entire College of Cardinals. When the food was served, every cardinal was given dishes and specialties from his native region or country. And wine too!
“But Chigi, not to be outdone, invited the pope to his palace and gave him an excellent meal in a brand-new and lavishly appointed dining hall. When they were done eating, Chigi invites the pope to inspect the hall. And Leo pulls out his spyglass and starts looking around and nodding his big head, ‘very nice . . . hmmmm . . . exquisite indeed.’ The room is all hung with tapestries and curtains an inch thick. When the pope’s done, Chigi asks him what he thinks. Of course, the pope tells him how beautiful everything is, how impeccable his taste is. Chigi is already beginning to laugh. Then he springs his joke. The tapestries are rolled up, and behind them are stalls full of animals! Chigi is whopping, tears running down his cheeks, and he says, ‘But Your Holiness, this isn’t my dining room, these are only my stables!’”
Gales of laughter erupted as Niccolo and Luigi made their way to the places set for them at table. “Salve, magister!” They all greeted Niccolo as he passed. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said to the spirited company. “Go on, Giovan, finish your story.”
“Well, the pope invited Chigi to dinner, this time out in the country at one of his villas up in the hills. They set the tables up on platforms on the banks of the Tiber to catch the cool evening breezes. The first course was served, something really prodigal, like a perfumed soup with rose petals floating in it. Now all the table service is silver—the plates too. When they finished the soup, everyone was waiting for the pope to give the signal for the servants to clear and serve the second course. Instead, Leo took his soup bowl, said ‘I like it but it’s only silver,’ and flung it into the river! Chigi howled and followed suit, and then after every course, all the silver was thrown into the river.”
“But that’s not all,” said Giovan. “When Chigi left, the pope sent his servants scuttling down to the river. They started heaving, and pretty soon all the silver was back up on the banks. There were nets in the water to catch it!”
Again the company dissolved in laughter, and Zanobi called for food and wine. He apologized that his fare was not as exquisite as that offered by the pope, but said he trusted it would be sufficient for sterner republican spirits like themselves. They all drank to his health. And to that of their magister! And to each other!
As the evening wore on, they coaxed old war stories out of Niccolo, who was not entirely reluctant to tell them of his encounters with Charles VIII and his six toes and the mad syphilitic Caesar Borgia. He told about the time the Medici were driven from Florence in ’94 and how he personally knocked Piero in the head with a stone. He told them about his five—or was it six?—turns on the rack. And they listened, spellbound.
Niccolo sat back and watched them for a minute. He looked around the table from face to face. They were like sons to him. And what more could he want? A circle of bright young men who hung on his every word, like-minded spirits, earnest partisans who shared his views on the future of Florence. When he explained to them about the commission from the Cardinal, they were elated, and one and all declared him, una persona da sorgere! A person on his way up!
“Again.” He thought to himself, irresistibly. “Again.” And he thought of Fortune’s wheel. He had spent his time at the bottom and survived. If the wheel kept spinning, as it must, there was no place for him to g
o but up.
“So Guinigi said, ‘I’ll give you anything I have if you let me deal you a good, sound whack on the head. Just name it. What do you want?’”
“Castruccio thought about it for a minute and said, ‘A helmet.’”
Luigi and Zanobi burst out laughing. “What else did this wise man have to say?” asked Zanobi.
Niccolo pursed his lips and said judiciously: “He used to say, that is, he is credited by everyone in Lucca, with having said, ‘I’ve never understood why, when a man is about to buy an earthenware vase or a jug, he thumps it on the bottom to see if it is sound, yet in choosing a wife, why, he’s content with just a look.’”
“What’s his name again, Niccolo?” asked Luigi.
“Castruccio Castracani.”
“Superb name! Castruccio the Dog Castrator! How did you find out about him?”
“He’s a legend in Lucca. There are all sorts of stories circulating about him. They say once, he went to the house of a Messer Taddo Bernardi for dinner. Taddo showed him into a room full of tapestries and exquisite furniture. The floor was marble and inlaid with gold and precious stones of a dozen different colors arranged in the shape of flowers and plants and trees. After dinner, Castruccio started to feel a good deal of saliva building up in his mouth and looked around for a spittoon. Nothing of the kind in the room. He looks around—everywhere there is nothing but all sorts of rich embroidery, beautiful designs, everything perfect. So he spits right in Messer Taddo’s face! The man was outraged and demanded an explanation. Castruccio shrugged and said, ‘I was only looking to spit in the place where it would offend you least.’”
“Che palle!Che coglioni!” Both Luigi and Zanobi expressed their admiration for the cheek of the irrepressible folk hero, Castruccio Castracani of Lucca. Niccolo had just returned to Florence and was full of tales and stories about this man who had risen from obscurity to prominence in Lucca over two hundred years ago. Through a combination of valor and political acumen, he had made himself ruler of that city and even waged a war—a successful war—on powerful neighboring Florence.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 71
