Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  “Call it what you want. It works for me.”

  Giuditta shook her head like a mother with a naughty, headstrong child. “Go ahead, Niccolo. You and your friend Guicciardini take your big, blue pills. I hope they keep you both alive long enough to save the world.” Laughing, she trailed out of the room.

  Niccolo went back to his letter and copied out the recipe for the questionable pills. He also added an explanation of several words and phrases in his most recent comedy that Guicciardini professed not to understand. It was uncanny that a man so highly educated, so intelligent, and a Florentine from a family as old as the city itself should be mystified by words and phrases that were so common and so vulgar and so ubiquitous in the streets and alleys that an urchin of ten could tell you what they meant, or any prostitute or cutpurse . . . But Francesco Guicciardini was not one to associate with those kinds of people, was he? Not Guicciardini! When he was done, he signed the letter “Niccolo Machiavelli” and added after his name, “Historic and comic author.”

  His correspondence with Guicciardini would continue throughout the summer, but shortly, it would take on an altogether different character. Shortly, frivolous talk of comedies and digestive remedies would give way to more serious concerns. For even as Niccolo transcribed the prescription for the blue pills, a strange silence suddenly descended on the hills and valleys of Germany. In the Tirol, the Lutheran grinding wheels, their work done at last, finally came to a halt. And the righteous, wrathful, dissenting, Protestant von Fundesberg took his place at the head of the mighty army he had assembled. After vowing to hang the pope and pawn his estates to pay his men, after listening to the cheers of his rabid legions and their undying hatred for the better part of an hour, von Fundesberg gave the order to march.

  It is coming.

  —SAVONAROLA

  When everything was ready, Giuditta withdrew. The table had been laid and the bottle of Rossoli was placed on the sideboard, much as it had been for Don Micheletto, many years ago, only this time the guest of honor was Michelozzi.

  Niccolo waited calmly, almost blithely for his guest to arrive. He showed him in graciously, seated him at the table, and served a light, bittersweet concoction to stimulate his appetite.

  “Michelozzi you don’t look well. You look a little frazzled.”

  “It’s the work.”

  “They keep you running over there at the chancery, do they?”

  “The chancery? I hardly ever see the place anymore. I’m running back and forth to the Medici Palace most of the day.”

  “At Passerini’s behest?”

  “Passerini doesn’t do a thing all day. Oh, occasionally he has an idea for some new tax or some novel way to squeeze a little more money out of people. But that’s all. I rarely see him anymore.”

  “Then what keeps you so busy?”

  “Our Medici lords. God, Niccolo, they’ve reduced me to a virtual babysitter for those two little bastards.”

  “You shouldn’t speak of your young charges that way, even if they were born under dubious circumstances. After all, they represent the future of Florence, don’t they?”

  “Some future,” said Michelozzi glumly.

  “I should think it a great honor to be in service to so distinguished a family—and Alessandro the pope’s son on top of everything else!”

  “He’s worse than the other one, Ippolito. Because he’s the pope’s son, he thinks he can do whatever he pleases. Lately he’s taken to going out at night and lopping the heads off statues. The next day I have to trail around the city, soothing outraged citizens, paying damages, and setting things right.”

  “It could be worse.”

  “It is worse. In the last couple of weeks, the two of them have discovered a mutual interest in dressing up as women and then tearing through the streets on one horse, throwing things at passers-by and shouting insults at them. And do you know what else? I even found out that they’re sleeping together now!”

  “No?”

  “Every night. And I doubt very much if it’s innocent, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah, the Medici,” sighed Niccolo. “Would that God had saddled Florence with a better set of rulers.”

  “Would to God they could be more discreet in their depravity. They’re making my life hell. And if they keep going the way they are, they’re going to bring everything down around themselves. There’s a lot of grumbling out there, Niccolo.”

  “They don’t have anything to worry about as long as Clement’s pope. With daddy on Saint Peter’s throne, little Alessandro will have all the backing he needs to stay just where he is. And Clement is a young man, Michelozzi. You’ve got your work cut out for you for years to come.”

  “Some work,” Michelozzi shrugged. “And I don’t even get paid half the time.”

  “Ha,” declared Niccolo, laughing. “Now you’re finding out what it really means to be secretary in the Second Chancery.”

  Niccolo kept up the banter through the soup, through the lamb, through the salad, and through the dessert. “Look at us now,” he was saying. “Both old men, and here we are, virtually useless. Who would have ever thought it would turn out this way? Oh well, at least you have a position.”

  “That brings me nothing but consternation. I’d gladly change places with you, Niccolo.”

  “You already have,” said Niccolo. “You remember I used to be secretary.”

  “Those were better days,” sighed Michelozzi.

  Taking his cue, Niccolo steered the conversation around. “You remember when we were all in Rome together?”

  “You and me and Callimaco and . . .” He trailed off.

  “Yes, and her,” said Niccolo sadly.

  “Do you still think about her?” said Michelozzi.

  “What’s done is done,” said Niccolo. “I’ve always tried to be a practical man, take care of the present, look to the future—and learn from the past.”

  “Still, it’s hard not to look back.”

  Niccolo seemed to be reminiscing: “Do you remember when we were going to save the republic together—just the two of us? You in Rome and me up here?”

  Michelozzi shook his head, then changed the subject: “Speaking of Rome, I haven’t had a rack of spring lamb like that since I left the Eternal City. How did you ever get it to taste so good?”

  “Oh, I brought back a girl from Rome to cook for me.”

  “That’s ironic, isn’t it? A quintessential Florentine like you with a Roman cook. I remember when you used to turn up your nose at Roman fare.”

  Niccolo chuckled to himself. “Would you like to meet her? You might find her, well, interesting, my cook. I certainly do. You know what I mean?” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  Michelozzi caught his innuendo and sly smile. “Well I’ve never turned down the company of a young lady before. Perhaps I just might find her, interesting, as you say.”

  Niccolo rang a little bell, and Michelozzi sat back in his chair, grinning in anticipation. What are friends for? An interesting little Roman cook. What better way to cap off a superb meal? What hospitality! What an excellent host this Niccolo was! You had to give him that. Sure, he had been something of a dupe in the past, but when it came to entertaining, he knew how to treat a . . .

  Giuditta was not smiling when she appeared. And Michelozzi? He was not stupid and in an instant, he realized that he had stepped into a trap. He bolted for the door.

  “It’s locked, Michelozzi,” said Niccolo casually. “And there are two armed men waiting outside, courtesy of Messer Francesco Guicciardini. They’re there to see that everything goes, ah, according to plan.”

  Michelozzi, stricken with panic, had flattened himself against the unyielding door and seemed unable to move. “Come, come, Michelozzi, come sit down. I promised you an interesting evening, didn’t I?”

  Michelozzi edged back toward the table, sweeping in a wide arc around Giuditta, keeping his distance as if she were some sort of harpy or fury. When he was seated again,
Niccolo said with satisfaction, “Now we can talk, Michelozzi. Now we can be frank with each other.”

  “Niccolo, I . . .”

  “Would you like something to drink? You seem a little out of sorts. Something to calm your nerves?”

  Michelozzi babbled in the affirmative. Giuditta reached for the bottle of Rossoli and a single glass, which she placed in front of him and filled with the sticky red liquid.

  “Please, help yourself,” said Niccolo, ever the ingratiating host.

  “You’re not going to . . . join me?”

  “Me? No. It doesn’t agree with me. My stomach, you know.”

  Michelozzi stared at the glass, his stomach turning, fearing the worst.

  Giuditta spoke for the first time: “It doesn’t agree with me, either,” she said icily. “But you should enjoy it, Michelozzi. Drink up.”

  Like a rat in a corner, his small eyes darted back and forth between his two tormentors. They couldn’t make him drink it, could they? Yes they could. Niccolo went to the door, knocked, giving a prearranged signal, and it opened. A surly, oafish, uniformed man stepped inside. “We need your assistance,” said Niccolo. The man already knew what to do. He lowered his lance and placed its gleaming tip so that it was just touching the soft flesh on the back of Michelozzi’s neck.

  “Bottom’s up, Michelozzi?” Michelozzi was trembling so badly that he had to use two hands just to get the glass to his mouth. A good deal of the red liqueur dribbled down his chin.

  “Look what you’ve done, you’re spilling it all over yourself,” said Niccolo. “Giuditta, pour him another glass. I don’t think he’s had enough yet.”

  As she poured with a deadly, steady hand, she said, “Do you like this decanter, Michelozzi? I bought it years ago, for the night Don Micheletto came to dinner.” If there was any doubt in Michelozzi’s mind, the reference to Don Micheletto erased it and sealed his fate. When he had finally been forced to gulp down the second glass, Niccolo smiled.

  “Now, Michelozzi, I believe you have over an hour, maybe even two. Shall we talk? Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Michelozzi slumped in his chair. Like a man condemned to death, he had nothing left to do but confess.

  Niccolo began the questioning. “When we tried to poison Don Micheletto and failed . . .” He paused, “We were so naive about it then, so unpracticed, weren’t we? But you see we’ve come a long way, haven’t we, Michelozzi? Well, the good don fled to Rome, and Giuditta followed him, you remember, Michelozzi? And I sent her to the Florentine embassy to get help, didn’t I, Michelozzi? I sent her to you.”

  “It wasn’t like you think.”

  “What was it like, then?” said Giuditta. “Don Micheletto was warned of the plot in advance and would have killed me but for dumb luck. Who warned him, Michelozzi?”

  Niccolo proceeded with all the calm and systematic methodology of the dispassionate historian trying to uncover the facts: “First you told me it was Cardinal Soderini, didn’t you, Michelozzi? Then you amended your story and said the whole embassy was riddled with spies and the cardinal could have told anybody, but he didn’t, did he? You told Don Micheletto. You were the spy, weren’t you?”

  “I told the Cardinal de’ Medici to get Don Micheletto out of town for his own good, that there was a plot against him. That’s all.”

  “And when the cardinal told Don Micheletto, he took matters into his own bloody hands, didn’t he? A whole houseful of innocent girls, Michelozzi. Don Micheletto killed them, and the blood is on your hands.”

  “I didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt,” said Michelozzi feebly.

  “Such nobility of spirit!” commented Niccolo offhandedly. Then abruptly, “How long were you a spy for the Medici?”

  “Almost since I was posted to Rome. Cardinal Soderini thought it would be a good idea if I penetrated Medici circles to keep an eye on their activities.”

  “And so Cardinal Soderini created a monster?”

  “At first, I reported back to him faithfully, but when I saw the way things were going, and when the Medici made their overtures . . .”

  “Such touching loyalty! You remember how we used to stay up nights back then, arguing, worrying about the survival of the republic? You remember, Michelozzi? You remember how passionate you were? And it was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

  Michelozzi sneered, “Look where your loyalty to the republic’s gotten you, Niccolo. Look at the last ten years of your life!”

  “And look at yours, Messer Michelozzi! Look where your loyal service to the Medici has landed you! A lickspittle for two little bastards!”

  “I don’t work for them, I work only for myself.”

  “Then I’d say you’re soon to be without an employer,” taunted Niccolo. “But why all the intrigue, all the betrayal?”

  “I told you, I worked only for myself. I didn’t have a big protector like you did, Niccolo,” said Michelozzi bitterly. “I didn’t have the gonfaloniere advancing my interests at every turn for me. I had to do that myself. No one was looking out for me. Your republic, bah! Your Medici, ha! To hell with them all!”

  “What about your friends, Michelozzi? What about us?” said Giuditta. “We trusted you and you betrayed us.”

  “Betrayed you!” he said, turning on her. “You betrayed yourselves! You were both just two fools with your dreams! And you, Giuditta! I tried to save you from him. I could have made it easy for you. You should have stayed with me when you had the chance!”

  “What, so that today I could be the mistress of a lickspittle?”

  The term infuriated Michelozzi. “I lasted longer than he ever did! I stayed on top for fifteen years longer than he did!”

  “Yes, indeed, you did, Michelozzi. You stayed on top for fifteen years longer than I, thanks to your cunning. But what do you have to show for it now? Look where it’s gotten you.”

  Already Michelozzi was beginning to feel the effects of the draught he had been forced to take. His stomach was churning, and his bowels were on fire. Niccolo regarded him with a patient sort of curiosity. “Time is running short, Michelozzi. There’s only one more thing I want to know from you. Tell me about the gardens.”

  “The Cardinal told me to take you there so we could keep an eye on you—you and the other potential troublemakers.”

  “Some of those troublemakers are dead now, Michelozzi.”

  “They were plotting to kill the Cardinal. They brought it on themselves.”

  “And how did the Cardinal find out?”

  “You know that very well. They discovered documents on a messenger.”

  “But how did they know to search that particular messenger? How did they know that on that particular night, he would be carrying the documents? Who tipped them off, Michelozzi?”

  Michelozzi hung his head and said nothing. For the first time that evening, a trace of emotion crept into Niccolo’s voice: “Luigi Alamanni is dead, Michelozzi. Jacopo da Diacceto is dead, Michelozzi. And the rest are lucky to be in exile! They’re lucky they weren’t caught in the bloodbath that you arranged.”

  Niccolo sat back, out of breath. Giuditta nodded to him. “Alright, Michelozzi, get out of here,” he said wearily.

  Michelozzi looked up. He couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

  “I said, leave us. There’s no reason you should stay in here and foul up my dining room with your presence. Go out in the streets and die like a dog.”

  “Good-bye, Michelozzi,” said Giuditta in a chilly, unforgiving voice.

  The explosion in Michelozzi’s bowels hit him almost at the same instant he was thrown out into the street by the two burly guards borrowed from Messer Francesco Guicciardini. The force of it caused him to crumple up right there on the paving stones. He curled himself up into a ball as the liquid shit boiled out of his screaming entrails. The pain stabbed at him from the inside like an erratic madwoman wielding a dagger in his stomach. He pulled up tighter and clenched his teeth to await death, pressing his burning forehead on the
cold, wet stones right there in front of the house of his assassins. But death never came that night for Michelozzi. The Rossoli had contained nothing more than a fierce purgative.

  “I still think we should have poisoned him, Niccolo.”

  “He’s too pathetic to poison,” said Niccolo, crunching down on a large slab of crusty, fried bread.

  “So you think we did the right thing?”

  “Indubitably. We found out what we wanted to know from him. And we did get our revenge, even if it was in a sort of burlesque fashion.”

  “You don’t think he’ll strike back?”

  “What can he do? Michelozzi is impotent, castrated, no balls. Besides, you heard him, he never does anything except for personal gain—and what would he have to gain by coming after us?”

  “Revenge. What else? He could have you thrown in prison.”

  “I don’t think so. The days of Michelozzi wielding power and influence have pretty much come to an end. He said himself he’s been reduced to an office boy and a babysitter.”

  “He still has Cardinal Passerini’s ear, doesn’t he?”

  “And Passerini hasn’t shown his face in public for a couple of weeks now. He’s hiding in the Medici Palace and won’t come out.”

  “What do you think will happen to him?”

  “Michelozzi or the cardinal?”

  “Michelozzi.”

  “Well, if the present regime, for some reason, were to falter, I think it would go very badly for Michelozzi. I think if I were him, I would get out of town very fast—if something were to happen.”

  “Niccolo, do you know something? Have you heard something?”

  “You don’t have to hear anything; you can see it on people’s faces. They hate Passerini because he’s a foreigner—from Cortona of all places, and they hate him because he’s the pope’s hand-picked man. They also hate him because he doesn’t have any balls. They’ve taken to calling him ‘the Eunuch.’”

  “So what’s in the cards for the Eunuch?”

  “As long as the pope holds on to power, the Eunuch stays.”

  “And what’s in the cards for the pope?”