The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  Machiavelli remained silent. It was not a subject he liked to discuss, and certainly not with strangers.

  “Forgive me for touching on what must be painful to you,” De Lorca continued. He sounded sincere. “I mention these things because my family too has fallen from a higher state. You are a man who has risen by his own abilities, Signor Machiavelli. So have I.”

  “I take your point,” Machiavelli said.

  “Then you will understand the driving ambition to restore a family’s fortunes.” De Lorca leaned forward in his seat. His voice became more urgent. “I will be honest with you. This is my one and only chance to make myself a prince. Here I am, at the behest of Cesare Borgia, Lord of Cesena. I find that I enjoy the power.”

  “Your words are of the greatest interest,” Machiavelli said. “But I must ask—forgive me for such bluntness—what is to stop me from warning Borgia?”

  “That would certainly be unfortunate,” De Lorca said. “Two things prevent it. Firstly, it is not in Florence’s interest. Secondly, if you warn Borgia, and my plot succeeds anyway, then your life will of course be the price you pay for your misjudgement.”

  It was the answer Machiavelli had expected. He would have said the same thing in De Lorca’s position.

  “Of course you may choose not to participate in the conspiracy, but in that case a studied silence would be your best stratagem,” De Lorca said. “If you follow that path, then Florence will receive from me what it has failed to get from Borgia.”

  “And that is?” Machiavelli asked.

  “A complete lack of interest in your city.”

  Machiavelli could not prevent a smile. He asked, “When do you plan to enact this plot?”

  “Before the next dawn. I generally find the darker hours best for these things, don’t you?”

  “That quickly!”

  “It is why I called you now. I am well aware of the fate of anyone who lets a conspiracy linger too long.”

  Machiavelli acknowledged the truth of that. “And the method?”

  “I thought perhaps a gift,” De Lorca said. “A bottle of wine. Poisoned, of course. White arsenic is the usual choice.”

  Machiavelli was shocked. “That’s the oldest, most unimaginative trick there is,” he scoffed. “Borgia would have to be a complete fool to be deceived by anything so transparent. Why, his own sister Lucrezia has used white arsenic in food to eliminate enemies.”

  “That’s why the gift will be sent to you, my dear Ambassador,” De Lorca said smoothly. “This is why I need your assistance. Borgia won’t suspect a gift sent to you, Signor Machiavelli. Everyone likes you.”

  “Then the assistance you require from me—”

  “Is to not drink the wine which will be sent to you when next you are in Borgia’s presence. It’s simple, is it not?” De Lorca chuckled. “Your abstemious habits are well known. No one will question your survival. Nor will anyone suspect your complicity, since the gift was to you. I will arrive—too late, alas—with news of a recently discovered plot against the Florentine Ambassador. Thus suspicion will attach to neither of us. Some suitable culprits will be found and executed before questions can be asked.”

  Machiavelli had to admire the simplicity of De Lorca’s plan. He put his hands together, as if in prayer, and he thought hard. He had always prided himself on his ability to see through the machinations of men—of being a quick thinker—but this decision was more dangerous than most. He genuinely saw good reasons to support De Lorca, but also to support Borgia, and to stay right out of the coming crisis. Which of the three was best?

  “You require my answer at once?” Machiavelli asked.

  “It would be convenient for both of us,” De Lorca said. “But I understand your difficulty. A few hours of grace is possible. Shall we say, until dusk? During that time, I would advise you not to have any private conversations with our mutual friend, nor send any messages. That would cause me to make an unfortunate assumption.”

  “Then you shall have my answer before the day is out,” Machiavelli said.

  ***

  De Lorca had not bothered to say that Machiavelli would be watched closely. Both men took that for granted.

  Machiavelli stepped out of De Lorca’s offices. He wondered for a moment where he might go to think quietly. If he returned to the Rocca Malatestiana, where Borgia resided, then De Lorca might get the wrong idea. But the name suggested another solution. Machiavelli ambled, with what air of calmness he could muster, to the one place where he could be sure neither Borgia nor De Lorca would ever visit: the Biblioteca Malatestiana, the city library.

  The Biblioteca was Cesena’s greatest innovation. The former Lord Malatesta had created a library not for his court, not for the abbey that lay atop a distant hill, but a library owned directly by the people. It was a public library. Machiavelli thought this idea very interesting, but wondered what might happen if anyone could simply walk in and read the wisdom of the ancients.

  It seemed that half the city had done precisely that. The library was crowded. There was row after row of long lecterns. Men stood at nearly all of them, the books they read chained to the posts so that no one could run off with the precious words. Despite which, half the readers were ignoring the books and talking together in loud voices. The librarian—a frazzled looking man—spent more time shushing the readers than he did supplying them with books.

  The cacophony was awful. Machiavelli thought to himself that if this was the result of allowing the general public into a library, then rulers had nothing to fear from an educated populace.

  Machiavelli abandoned his plan to think in a quiet library and instead went to the cathedral. Not that he was a man for prayer—he had seen too much of the world, and been in the company of too many powerful men, to think that prayer would do anyone any good—but within the dark building he could stop to sit and think, and no one would interrupt him.

  Somewhere, a choir was singing. It was the middle of the day, so no torches had been lit, which paradoxically made the large space darker than it would have been at night. Machiavelli sat in an empty pew toward the middle, where it was darkest.

  Machiavelli found himself in a most unusual position. He was aware of two conspiracies, hatched by two men, apparently friendly, but each plotting the other’s downfall. The only man who knew both sides was Machiavelli.

  De Lorca’s schedule would see him strike first. If Machiavelli did nothing—and to do nothing was so very easy—then Cesare would be felled, and Florence’s aim to avoid a Borgia alliance would be instantly achieved. Best of all, Florence would be held blameless. This would leave Cesena in the hands of De Lorca, whom Machiavelli judged to be not the stuff of princes. De Lorca would likely continue an unwisely cruel and sadistic reign in Cesena, which would eventually win him enough enemies to bring him down.

  This all seemed very satisfactory, but so too was the other course of action.

  Machiavelli could alert Cesare to his danger. Borgia would be grateful, and this would be leverage over the son of the Pope.

  Florence could not lose. But Machiavelli could. If either conspiracy discovered that he had spoken with the other, his life would be measured in brief minutes. The thought chilled him. Such was the danger of any ambassador in any court, but those who dealt with the Borgias were in greater danger than most.

  “May I offer you a gift?”

  Machiavelli looked up, startled. A monk in a brown habit stood there, neither young, nor old, by his looks.

  “I would not have interrupted, except that you appeared more contemplative than prayerful,” the monk explained.

  “That is the case,” Machiavelli said politely, and wished the monk would go away.

  “Then may I ask, upon what is it you contemplate?” the monk asked.

  Machiavelli wondered what would happen if he told the monk that he was pondering which of two
men to kill. Somehow it didn’t seem quite the right answer for Christmas time.

  “I was wondering,” said Machiavelli, from where he sat, “how one chooses between evils.”

  The monk raised an eyebrow. “That is not the usual sort of thought for a church. But perhaps you are not the usual sort of man.”

  “Possibly not.”

  “There are some men whose brains are larger than their hearts,” the monk said.

  “Yes, I have often observed this among princes, and those who work for them,” Machiavelli said. He knew himself to be such a man. “Especially when their wishes conflict.”

  “This is the subject of your contemplation?” the monk asked.

  “Yes,” Machiavelli said.

  “Is there not another prince whose wishes must be considered?” asked the monk.

  The question startled Machiavelli. He thought hard, but could not think of another prince who was a player in the coming crisis.

  “I cannot think who you mean,” he said.

  “The Prince of Peace,” said the monk.

  That took Machiavelli aback.

  “I’m afraid that when the affairs of princes are considered, that particular prince’s concerns are not much valued,” Machiavelli said drily.

  “Perhaps an exception could be made in this case?” the monk suggested. “It is his birthday, after all.”

  “You make a fair point, sir,” Machiavelli said politely, and he bowed from where he sat.

  The monk turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Machiavelli. “Are you not going to deliver a homily on good versus evil?”

  The monk turned back to him.

  “No, Signor Machiavelli,” he said. “A man of intellect such as yourself already knows all about that. I’m sure you could quote a hundred sermons from memory. The question is what you choose to do with the knowledge, don’t you think?”

  Machiavelli wondered how the monk knew his name, but perhaps he was more recognizable than he thought.

  “Are you a member of this church?” Machiavelli asked. “I have not noticed you before.”

  “I belong to a somewhat larger diocese,” the monk said blandly.

  The monk pulled something from his pocket that was wrapped in greasy paper. He offered it to Machiavelli. “I forgot about my gift. Would you like a festive pie?”

  “No, thank you,” Machiavelli said.

  “Between you and me, I don’t like them either,” the monk said in a conspiratorial tone. “But the old lady selling them at the door offered it to me, and it would not have done to refuse. I’m sure I’ll find someone who would like it.”

  “There is a fatherless family in the hospital next door,” Machiavelli suggested.

  The monk raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for letting me know. You are not quite the selfish, compassionless man you think you are, Signor Machiavelli.”

  “If you could see what is inside my mind, brother, I doubt you would maintain that opinion,” Machiavelli said.

  The monk handed the pie to Machiavelli. “Perhaps you could take this to the poor family?”

  Now the monk did leave, walking into the unlit corner of the nave, where he seemed to disappear into the darkness.

  ***

  Machiavelli paused at the exit to buy two more pies. Then he went next door.

  “These are for you,” he said, slightly embarrassed, and laid the pies on the floor beside the widow. She sat on the ground, where she appeared to be tearing her dress to shreds while working with a needle and thread. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “I cannot thank you enough, signore,” the lady said. “You have been very good to us.”

  “What do you do there?” Machiavelli asked.

  “I make gifts, signore, for my children.”

  The lady continued to sew the strips torn from the hem of her dress. Into these she stuffed her shorn hair.

  “But you have so little with which to make them, and what funds you have surely must go to food and shelter.”

  “This is true, signore,” the woman agreed. “It is why I make my gifts with what I have to hand.” She held up her work. Two dolls. “They are not very good, are they? But of course, that’s not the point.”

  “It isn’t?” Machiavelli was perplexed. “Why did you not ask me for assistance, madam? Was I not clear that you were to call upon me for any sundry expenses?”

  “But signore, the point is for me to do something nice for the ones I love.” She smiled at him. “I have always thought gift-giving to be such a selfish exercise.”

  “Gifts are selfish?” Machiavelli said, surprised.

  “Do you not find it so? After all, it’s all about the pleasure one has in the giving.”

  “What one gets from the giving,” Machiavelli half-repeated her words. It was the one possibility he had never considered. Here was something he could understand.

  “Thank you, madam,” Machiavelli said. “You have assisted me with two very difficult questions.”

  Machiavelli returned to De Lorca. He looked up, surprised to see Machiavelli return so soon.

  “I agree to your proposal,” Machiavelli said.

  De Lorca smiled. “Enjoy your dinner,” he replied.

  ***

  Borgia and Machiavelli dined together that night, as had become their custom. It was Christmas Eve.

  At the end of the dinner, two of the more prominent merchants of Cesena arrived at Borgia’s palace with a gift for Machiavelli: a bottle of the fine local wine. “In hopes of future profitable trade with the wealthy city of Florence, home of the excellent Ambassador Machiavelli.”

  Machiavelli wondered how much these two had been paid to risk their lives so. He thanked them courteously, and the men departed.

  Machiavelli held the bottle in his hands, looked up, and said, “Do you trust me, Cesare?”

  “No,” said Borgia at once. “I trust no one outside my family.”

  “Very wise,” said Machiavelli.

  “But if you are about to offer me some of that wine, I will gladly drink with you,” Borgia said. “As long, of course, that you drink some first.”

  Machiavelli held out the bottle. A servant opened it, and poured two cups.

  Machiavelli took a deep breath, and drained his wine to the bottom. He suddenly coughed and choked. But a hard knock on the back from a strong servant assisted, and Machiavelli, slightly red-faced—he wasn’t used to drinking so quickly—placed his cup upside down upon an expensive table.

  Borgia smiled, and drank.

  De Lorca’s spy in Borgia’s court must have been a good one, for De Lorca marched in exactly on cue.

  “Gentlemen! We have just received word of a terrible plot against the Ambassador . . .”

  De Lorca trailed off, obviously expecting the thud of at least one body before he completed his sentence. But when Borgia failed to die, De Lorca could only say, “What happened?”

  ***

  It had been the simplest matter for Machiavelli to switch the bottle with one he had brought himself. By the time De Lorca had marched in, the poisoned bottle remained as evidence, and De Lorca’s prescient arrival had betrayed his guilt.

  It was early on Christmas Day. At any moment the bells would ring to call the faithful to celebrate. Machiavelli stood in the center of the piazza and was a happy man, if only because he was still alive.

  The same could not be said of Ramiro De Lorca. The ex-Governor of Cesena was raised high upon a pole in the piazza so that his headless body was at the same height as his hanged victims. His head, which had so recently been separated from the rest of him, had on the orders of Cesare Borgia been left by the headsman upright upon the chopping block, set to stare at those who came to see.

  Passers-by on their way to church marveled at this sight and exclaimed to themselves
that their fears were over, for that excellent noble man Borgia had saved them from the tyranny of De Lorca. Machiavelli smiled and was content for Borgia to receive the credit. It was all the better for his own plans.

  A party of pilgrims emerged from the Hospital of St. Thomas. Among them was the lady he had assisted and her two sons. The brothers of the hospital had found them a safe escort to Ravenna. They were heading north this Christmas Day.

  The widow as she passed looked at the headless body of De Lorca, and she didn’t flinch. She said, “It is justice.” She offered her hand. “Thank you for this gift, Signor Machiavelli.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” he replied truthfully. He had always lived for the deadly cut-and thrust of politics. This past day had been more deadly than most.

  Machiavelli had extracted from Borgia the promise that Cesena would be ruled with leniency and justice. Indeed, Machiavelli had represented to Borgia the advantages of doing so. After the excessive savagery of De Lorca, all the true criminals were gone. At no cost to himself, Borgia could portray himself as a lenient prince. Borgia had readily agreed, thanked Machiavelli for saving his life, and asked what he might do in return. Machiavelli had had his answer ready. There would be no more demands from Borgia to command Florence. It was mission accomplished.

  Cesare Borgia trudged over the snow toward him, on his way to pay observance at the cathedral, as behoved the son of a Pope.

  “Good morning, Niccolo,” he said, and covered a yawn. “My apologies, it’s been a rather long night.”

  “The joy of Christmas will surely refresh us both,” said Machiavelli diplomatically.

  “Indeed,” said Borgia. It was impossible to tell if he was being ironic. “I would offer you a gift, but . . .” Borgia shrugged.

  “No,” Machiavelli said. “Men like us don’t indulge in such things.”

  “It’s safer that way,” Borgia agreed. After a pause he added, “I have a question.”

  “Please,” said Machiavelli.

  “You chose me over De Lorca, when from Florence’s point of view, De Lorca would have been the more malleable prince of this province. Why?” Borgia seemed genuinely puzzled.