Zanobi hazarded a grin when he saw the master laughing. At first he thought he might be coming unglued. But no, he recognized that devilish merriment in his eyes. And soon the two of them were laughing together, laughing at the absurdity of it all, tears rolling down their cheeks, choking with hysterical laughter, doubled over with laughter, laughing until it hurt. And then Niccolo suddenly stiffened and collapsed. Before Zanobi could reach him, he tumbled over onto the floor.
Before he even regained full consciousness, he was aware of the shooting pains in his bowels. His teeth were already clenched when his eyes finally opened. He was in bed and Giuditta was there. “What happened?”
“You had an attack. Don’t worry. Rest. Here drink this, it will help you sleep.”
“My . . . pills.”
“You don’t need the pills,” she said petulantly, but indulgently. “Drink this, and sleep. You’ll be alright.”
But Niccolo was not alright. The next day he was unable to get out of bed. The day after, he could barely sit up and hold his head erect long enough to drink the draughts and broth Giuditta brought him. He became drowsy and lethargic. The only thing capable of penetrating that lethargy and arousing him was the stabbing in his stomach, the excruciating lightning bolts of pain that even Giuditta’s elixirs could not entirely deaden and suppress.
When the pain subsided, he knew it had not gone away. He knew that his senses were being extinguished, that his body was failing. He knew that the pain was still there; he just couldn’t feel it anymore. He asked Giuditta to send for a priest.
Niccolo opened his eyes, and a weak smile crossed his face. “I said to send for a priest and you brought Pagolo.”
“Enough of your anticlericism,” said Pagolo. “I’m as good a priest as any.”
“Or as bad as any.”
When Giuditta had withdrawn, Niccolo said, “Pagolo, you see that cabinet over there. In the top drawer. Get me my pills.”
Pagolo complied.
“Water.”
“Do those things do any good?”
“They can’t hurt.”
“What now, Niccolo?”
“Can’t you see, I’m a dying man. I want to make my confession.”
“Niccolo, I’m genuinely surprised. You of all people. Why this sudden interest in the sacraments and the consolations of Holy Mother Church?”
“It can’t hurt?”
Pagolo raised his right arm. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctus . . .”
For several hours, he slipped in and out of consciousness. Zanobi and the others came to visit, and when he sent them on their way, he was laughing softly to himself as Savonarola had been laughing when Niccolo left him on the night before his execution. The work would go on now. The torch had been passed to the next generation. He had done what he’d promised. It was up to them now.
“Giuditta . . .”
“I’m here, Niccolo.
“I . . . with you . . . I never . . .”
“It’s alright.”
“I thought I would have more time . . . for you. I’m sorry . . . things . . .”
“I know, Niccolo. Things have a way of sweeping us up, carrying us away.”
“I wanted to . . . I really wanted to . . . as soon as things were settled . . . I’ve been so unfair . . .”
“It’s alright, Niccolo. It’s alright.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, Niccolo. Everything’s alright. Everything.”
Later that day, Niccolo Machiavelli, who had lived through so many storms and cataclysms, died at peace with himself, with Giuditta, with the world, and with his God. Everything he had worked for had come to pass. Finally. Everything.
Pagolo and Giuditta were sitting in the kitchen, talking fitfully and quietly.
“He never stopped, did he?” said Pagolo.
“Right up to the end, he was still mumbling about his republic and the barbarians and some promise he made.”
“Was he happy?”
“I think so. He said that everything he ever wanted had come to pass. ‘Everything.’ That was his last word.”
“The same obsession all the time with Niccolo. He could never get away from it. You’d think he would have taken the time for some tender word for you.”
“He did. In his way. He said he was sorry for neglecting me, but things had just spun out of control, and there was never enough time, and there were so many important things to do.”
“Did he go so far as to say he would have done it all differently if he had another chance?”
“Who would have believed him?” Giuditta sighed. “Well, he’s at peace now. He can take a rest from his obsession.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
Pagolo eyed her warily. “Well, I suppose I can tell you. It wasn’t really part of his confession.”
“What wasn’t?”
“Niccolo told me about a dream he had last night. He said he died, and an angel came for his soul. The angel took him and showed him a crowd of poor people, all shabbily dressed, in rags, hungry-looking, but seemingly very happy and contented. ‘Who are these?’ Niccolo asked the angel. And the angel replied, ‘These are the blessed souls in paradise.’ And he showed Niccolo an inscription that said, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
“Then these people faded away and another group appeared, a much larger group. And they were arguing and fighting with one another, shouting and yelling. ‘And these?’ Niccolo asked. The angel said, ‘Don’t you recognize them? Look. There you can see Plato and Seneca and Plutarch. Tacitus. Livy. All the Greeks and Romans. All the pagan philosophers. These are the souls who are condemned to eternal damnation.’
“‘And what are they doing?’ Niccolo said in the dream.
“‘They’re arguing with one another.’
“‘What about?’
“‘About the things that the pagans were so adept at arguing: philosophy and politics and history.’
“Then both groups appeared at the same time, the sheep and the goats, the blessed on the right hand side, the damned on the left. And the angel said, ‘Well, your decision?’” Pagolo stopped.
“And what did he decide?” said Giuditta. “In his dream.”
“What do you think? He said he looked one last time at the blessed before he turned to go off to that other place, and he said he saw Fra Girolamo there, among the souls in paradise, waving good-bye to him and smiling like he knew and understood and had already forgiven him. And then Niccolo went down to join his Romans and enter into their infernal debates for all eternity.”
Giuditta just smiled and shook her head. It was getting dark outside. After a while, she said, “Pagolo, who was Fra Girolamo?”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. You wouldn’t know about that. Niccolo used to be friends with him. He was a heretic. And a madman.”
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 82
