Machiavelli: The Novel

by Joseph Markulin

  “And by general consent, a new government was proclaimed—a republic!”

  It took Guicciardini only a minute to fathom the implications of this proclamation. He turned to Niccolo. “Well, what are you standing there staring for? Let’s go!”

  Niccolo howled a howl of long-suppressed triumph and delight. “Popolo e libertá!” he shouted. It felt good to be able to say it again. “Popolo e libertá! Saddle the horses!”

  Guicciardini only gave him a queer look. They were on the road in less than an hour. Niccolo was jubilant and made no attempt to conceal his joy. He shouted the good news to anyone who passed by and would listen. He sang old republican songs. He forgot about his aching bones and stiff joints and failing digestion. Messer Francesco Guicciardini, although more subdued, seemed equally eager to get on to Florence.

  “I’m surprised at you, Francesco. Really, I am. I’m surprised that you’re so eager to get back. You of all people—eager to go to work for this new republic.”

  Guicciardini eyed his companion with his infinite, jaded weariness. “You must be joking, Machiavelli. Work for the new republic? I’m only hoping to get back in time to prevent something disastrous.”

  “Like a bloodbath?”

  “Like the confiscation of my property by a band of unruly plebeians.”

  They were still dancing in the streets when Niccolo and Messer Francesco Guicciardini reached Florence. Put off by the spectacle, the sententious Guicciardini was mumbling something about mob rule as he hurried off to look into his own affairs. Niccolo let his horse wander aimlessly through the familiar streets and across the piazze, drinking in the sounds and sights of the renascent republic. Bells pealed, banners waved in the warm May breeze, and everywhere the joyous work of revision was already underway. Scaffolds were going up, workmen with hammers were crawling up the sides of buildings, attacking the crests of the Medici family that adorned so many walls and towers. As their masons’ hammers smashed through the stone Medici balls and these crumbled and fell away, the red-and-white shield of the republic that had lain hidden beneath them for fifteen years was finally visible again. Each blow was greeted by a roar from the crowds below. Each crimson cross that emerged from hiding was hailed as a sign of triumph and redemption.

  Despite his exhilaration, Niccolo was aware of a dull pain in his side and deemed it the better part of wisdom to return home and rest. He would need his strength in the days and weeks ahead. There was much work to be done.

  Head bowed, he rode through the doors of his house and into his own courtyard like a weary conquering hero, a little the worse for wear. The past several months had taken their toll on him, emotionally but also physically—the bitter winter, the cold, wet spring, camp life, and bad food. And the last two weeks at Civitavecchia were the worst of all. You could almost smell the malaria on the wind that crept out of the surrounding marshes. Then the long ride home—they had pushed it and covered the distance in two days. All the while, Niccolo had marveled that a man of Guicciardini’s girth could sit a horse with such apparent ease and ride at a good clip without sagging and tiring. “There must be at least a few steel rods somewhere in that fat, soft body,” he thought.

  Giuditta watched from a window as he dismounted, slowly and stiffly, like an old man. She watched him trudge across the courtyard and up the outside stairs. He hadn’t even bothered to unsaddle his horse. But when he walked in, covered with dust, she saw that a young man’s fire burned in his eyes and lit up his face.

  “I’m home,” he said. “For the first time in fifteen years, I’m really home. Florence is Florence again.”

  Giuditta hugged him and could feel his bones through the heavy riding clothes. He seemed smaller to her, weakened and diminished. She made him sit down, pulled off his boots, and brought him a flask of wine. Although she was concerned, the wine seemed to revive his spirits, and in a few minutes, he was hunching over the table and talking excitedly about all the things that could be accomplished now . . . now that the republic was restored.

  “The last thing you have to worry about now is the republic,” she said. “You look frightful. Have you been taking care of yourself, Niccolo?”

  “I take my pills every day.”

  “You and those pills,” she huffed. “Let me get you something to eat.”

  “Not now, I’m exhausted. Let me sleep for a little while, first. Then we’ll eat.”

  When Giuditta went up to the bedroom several hours later to see if he was up and hungry, she found him on the bed, still clothed and sound asleep. He seemed to be smiling in his sleep. As gently as possible, she undressed him and pulled the linen sheet up over him. He slept right through the night, and it was almost noon the next day before he finally stirred.

  She heard him stirring and went up to see how he felt. “Much better,” he said from behind the closed door of the gabinetto, the little closet where the chamber pot was kept.

  “Then get washed and dressed and come on downstairs. The day’s almost over already.”

  It was nearly half an hour, and he still wasn’t down when Giuditta went back up to see if everything was alright. She saw Niccolo still in his nightshirt, near the window, bending over, of all things, the chamber pot! And examining its contents! He had always been obsessive about his digestion, but this was carrying it to extremes. Like a little boy!

  “Oooo fa! Niccolo,” she said in frustration. “What do you think you’re doing?

  He looked up, surprised to see her. Caught in the act.

  “Are you looking for a sign in there? Trying to divine the future in your stools, the way your ancient Romans did? Have you taken up augury now?”

  “Something like that,” he replied.

  “Oh, and what do you see? What do the signs say?”

  “The signs aren’t good, Giuditta,” he said seriously. “There’s a lot of black blood in here.”

  Terrified by the oracle of the blood, Niccolo submitted willingly to the strict regime of diet and rest that Giuditta imposed upon him over the next week. Gradually, he felt his strength returning, and after a few days, even his careful scrutiny and constant vigilance were unable to turn up any more frightening surprises in the chamber pot.

  Unable to endure the enforced idleness, especially with the energetic spirit of the new republic bursting forth all around him, Niccolo took it upon himself to return to public life. Strolling through the Piazza della Signoria, he stopped to watch a cheering crowd of revelers burn the pope in effigy. Although the likeness was not particularly exact or flattering, the papier-mâché tiara was unmistakable.

  “Such a lack of respect for authority, don’t you agree?” said a familiar, bored voice behind him.

  “Messer Guicciardini!”

  “Messer Machiavelli. I suppose you’ll be throwing in your lot with this rabble?”

  “How could I do otherwise? And what about you?”

  “I’ll be going into exile until things cool down. Apparently there’s no great affection in the city for those of us who served the Medici.”

  “And your property?”

  “A little damage to the facade of the palazzo, but nothing serious. If I leave town, they’ll let me hold onto it.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Niccolo good-naturedly. “Where will you go, Francesco?”

  “South, to wait until they release the pope.”

  “And if they hang him?”

  “I doubt they will. He’s worth more to them alive than dead. But if they do . . .” Guicciardini shrugged, “There will be another pope.”

  “There will always be another pope. Eh, Francesco?” said Niccolo, laughing.

  “I should think so,” said Guicciardini matter-of-factly. “At any rate, I’m going now to eat, as they say, the bitter bread of exile.”

  “Why do I get the impression that it won’t be all that bitter to you?”

  “I hope not! The least a poor man can do in exile is eat well. Well, good-bye, Niccolo. Until we meet agai
n.”

  “Arrivederci.”

  “And Niccolo, if you get something from this rabble, depending on how things turn out, you know, you might put in a good word for me, neh?”

  “Of course, Francesco. Of course, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  Niccolo stood and watched the stately aristocrat walk across the piazza still shunning contact with the crowds, still looking down his nose at them, still acting as though he were the rightful lord and master of the city. Guicciardini had disappeared down a side street when Niccolo caught a glimpse of a small, angry man with a bundle darting in and out of the crowd. Michelangelo!

  He had to hurry to catch up with him, and when he did, he saw the little artist was red-faced and fuming as usual. “Salve, Michelangelo!”

  “Eh, Machiavelli. You’re here,” he said flatly.

  “As are you.”

  “You ran out on me in Rome? What happened?”

  “I found something I thought I had lost forever. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later. But what brings you back to Florence?”

  “Work. What else?”

  “Still carving the Medici statues?” said Niccolo maliciously.

  “Not much of a market for Medici statues anymore, is there?” said Michelangelo slyly.

  “No there isn’t,” said Niccolo. “So what are you doing now?”

  “First, this,” he said indicating the bundle he was carrying. It was long and cylindrical and wrapped in heavy canvas.

  “What’s that?”

  “An arm!”

  “That’s revolting.”

  “Haven’t you heard the stories about how all artists are grave robbers?” he said, with his eyes twinkling now. “Let me show you.” He started to unwind the cloth in which the arm was wrapped.

  Niccolo turned pale and told him it wouldn’t be necessary, but it was too late. “See,” he said, exhibiting the severed limb.

  To Niccolo’s great relief, the arm was made of stone, and Michelangelo cackled with delight at his own joke. “The revolution has not been kind to my statue of David. When they started throwing furniture out of the Signoria, a bench or something struck his arm and knocked half of it off. Now I have to repair it.”

  “Of course, you’ll be paid for your efforts,” said Niccolo facetiously.

  “Of course,” said Michelangelo. “Aren’t we always?”

  “Are you going to stay in Florence now?”

  “I have a commission from the new government—and a very important one at that.”

  Niccolo guessed, “What? A winged victory? Blind justice?”

  “Better than that,” said Michelangelo. “It’s a little out of my line, but I’m going to fortify and rebuild the city walls.”

  “So you do have a soft spot for the republic under that crusty exterior, don’t you?”

  “I’m a Florentine, like you.”

  “So you are, Michelangelo,” said Niccolo. “So you are.”

  When Niccolo finally reached the Signoria, he was set upon almost immediately by a mob of eager and determined young men: “Zanobi! Francesco! Giovan Battista! You’re all back!”

  “We couldn’t ride fast enough, when we heard the news,” said Zanobi. “It’s good to be back, Magister.” And they hugged, the old master and the students. “It’s good to be back.”

  On the way to the tavern, Zanobi and the others talked excitedly, incessantly. They were bursting with news, full of reports—and each piece of information brought another surge of enthusiasm and contentment to the old master: “The government had been reconstituted along the same lines as in Soderini’s days. . . . The empty Council Chamber was soon to be full of elected representatives. . . . And for the defense of the infant republic, the militia was to be reestablished!”

  Everything that Niccolo had ever wanted. Everything he had hoped for and worked toward all his life. Everything. A free and independent Florence. There was much to celebrate that day when the old circle of the Orti Orcellari was reunited. And it was only toward the end of their long afternoon of reveling and carousing that Zanobi introduced a somber note into the conversation. “You heard about Michelozzi, didn’t you?”

  Niccolo stopped what he was saying. He had forgotten all about Michelozzi. “What happened? I assumed he must have flown away long ago with the Little Sparrow and the Medici bastards.”

  “No, they weren’t taking anybody with them. They left in the dead of night without telling a soul. Afraid of being discovered and brought to trial.”

  “And Michelozzi didn’t follow?”

  “They found him in the Medici Palace. He was dressed in Medici finery—the most exquisite there was—satin, gold, and jewels. He was dressed like a Medici lord. He hanged himself that way.”

  That night, Niccolo slept the sleep of the just. After so many years of confusion, dislocation, and disappointment, everything seemed finally to have fallen into place. Even the sad end of Michelozzi was, in the end, an act of justice. He had bargained for his thirty pieces of silver. He had taken them and enjoyed them. Finally, he must have realized at what price.

  Niccolo moved closer to the sleeping Giuditta and nestled his nose in the nape of her neck, in her lightly perfumed hair. He kissed the back of her head. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Everything.

  The next morning found him in excellent spirits and hungry enough to consume several fat slabs of cured ham to break his diurnal fast. And cheese. And butter. And some sweet cakes. And pears. And a little white wine mixed with water. And a little more. He was about to start in on a black pudding when Giuditta stopped him: “Hey, greedy guts, what are you trying to do? Eat yourself into a stupor?”

  Niccolo issued a few words of protest, muffled by food and incomprehensible.

  “Will we be going to the country soon, Niccolo?” asked Giuditta. “I’d like to. It’s starting to get sticky and uncomfortable here.”

  “Not just yet,” he said wiping his chin with a voluminous cloth napkin. “There’s too much going on. There’s too much work to be done in the city. Besides . . .”

  “Besides, what?”

  “Besides, the Ten of War have been reconstituted and the militia. The Ten are going to need a secretary. The militia is going to need someone to superintend the reorganization, someone with experience,” he said slyly. “You see what I mean?”

  “Hmmm, someone with experience.”

  “And the chancellorship of the Second Chancery is open now that Michelozzi . . .”

  “Maybe we can get away in July, then?”

  “Maybe,” said Niccolo noncommittally.

  Giuditta sighed a sigh of resignation, “Didn’t I tell you years ago that you loved your republic more than you loved me?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  They were still at the table arguing the point when Zanobi Buondelmonte came in with the news. He talked excitedly, nervously. His hands were never still. “And the new gonfaloniere is Niccolo Capponi.”

  “I knew his father.” Niccolo smiled to himself. He found it amusing that a man half his age was now gonfaloniere. Ah, youth!

  “Everything’s going to be the same, Magister. I even saw the documents for the militia ordinance being drawn up, and they’re using the ones you drew up twenty years ago as a model. Using—nothing—they’re copying them verbatim. I saw the old files. I recognized your handwriting.”

  Niccolo could scarcely conceal his satisfaction. He was Machiavelli of the militia again! His ideas were going to be given another chance, only this time they wouldn’t make the same mistakes. This time they would do things right. No Don Michelettos, no corruption in the officers’ ranks, more rigorous training . . . his mind was running on ahead with plans and projects and schemes.

  Zanobi was watching his old master. He could almost hear the wheels of thought turning and whirring behind that blissful countenance. “Niccolo, there’s something else.” He was looking down at his own hands now, folding and unfolding.

  “It wo
uldn’t be the matter of a secretary for the Ten, would it?”

  “They’ve already nominated a secretary, Niccolo.” Zanobi bit his lip. “They’re going to give the post to Francesco Tarugi.”

  Silence. “Francesco Tarugi?” Niccolo formed the syllables incredulously with his mouth. “Who is Francesco Tarugi?”

  “He’s a good man. He’s young but he’s capable—and . . . and committed. You’d like him.”

  “And I’m too old, is that it?”

  Zanobi winced, and the hands worked faster and more furiously. “Magister, your name came up but . . . “

  “But what?”

  “But several of the new council members pointed out that you were . . . for the last several years . . .” He hesitated, then gulped and went on: “. . . that you were a servant of the . . . of the tyrants they had just expelled.”

  Niccolo’s eyes widened. “Me? A servant of tyrants! I . . .”

  Zanobi was quick to intervene with further explanations and rationalizations: “They said that you were tainted by association with the Medici, that you couldn’t be trusted. They said you were a potential enemy of freedom and the republic.”

  Niccolo’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. The idea was too absurd, too fantastic! Enemy of freedom! Enemy of the republic! When he spent his whole life! His whole life!

  “They said that your relationship with Michelozzi was suspect, too, and that you may have even joined the Orti circle as his spy, to spy on us and report back to the Cardinal. . . .” Zanobi looked helpless and infinitely uncomfortable.

  A Medici spy! Of all things, a Medici spy! As Niccolo listened to the charges that had been leveled against him, as he slowly came to realize how utterly ridiculous they were, how preposterous, how ludicrous, how farcical, how inane and misplaced and inaccurate . . . those long, thin lips started to curl up into their caustic, slippery, ironic smile. And he began to laugh. Even Niccolo Machiavelli, comic author, could never have contrived a situation so fraught with bitter, delicious irony. And so he laughed—from his belly, from the bottom of his heart.