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Title: Then and Now
Author: Maugham, W. Somerset [William Somerset] (1874-1965)
Date of first publication: 1946
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1946
Date first posted: 29 December 2017
Date last updated: 29 December 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1493

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THEN AND NOW

by W. Somerset Maugham





    _No one could write a book of this kind out of his head, and I
    have taken what I wanted where I could find it. My chief source
    of information has naturally been the works of Machiavelli. I
    have found much that was to my purpose in Tommasini's biography
    and something in Lilian's, and I have made some use of
    Woodward's solid_ Cesar Borgia. _I wish to acknowledge the great
    debt I owe to Count Carlo Beuf for his lively and accurate life
    of Caesar, for his kindness in lending me books which otherwise
    I should never have known about and for his patience in
    answering the many questions I put to him._




THEN AND NOW




[i]

_Plus a change, plus c'est la mme chose._


[ii]

Biagio Buonaccorsi had had a busy day. He was tired, but being a man of
methodical habit before going to bed made a note in his diary. It was
brief: "The City sent a man to Imola to the Duke." Perhaps because he
thought it of no importance he did not mention the man's name: it was
Machiavelli. The Duke was Caesar Borgia.

It had been not only a busy day, but a long one, for Biagio had set
forth from his house at dawn. With him on a stout pony went his nephew,
Piero Giacomini, whom Machiavelli had consented to take with him. It
happened to be Piero's eighteenth birthday, October 6th, 1502, and so
was a fitting day for him to go out into the world for the first time.
He was a well-set-up youth, tall for his age and of an agreeable aspect.
Under his uncle's guidance, for his mother was a widow, he had received
a good education; he could write a good hand and turn a comely phrase
not only in Italian, but in Latin. On the advice of Machiavelli, who
passionately admired the ancient Romans, he had acquired more than a
cursory knowledge of their history. Machiavelli cherished the conviction
that men are always the same and have the same passions, so that when
circumstances are similar the same causes must lead to the same effects;
and thus, by bearing in mind how the Romans coped with a given situation
men of a later day might conduct themselves with prudence and
efficiency. It was the wish both of Biagio and his sister that Piero
should enter the government service in which Biagio held a modest post
under his friend Machiavelli. The mission on which Machiavelli was now
going seemed a good opportunity for the boy to learn something of
affairs, and Biagio knew that he could not have a better mentor. The
matter had been settled on the spur of the moment, for it was only the
day before that Machiavelli had been given his letter of credence to the
Duke and his safe-conduct. Machiavelli was of an amiable disposition, a
friend of his friends, and when Biagio asked him to take Piero with him
immediately agreed. But the lad's mother, though she saw that it was a
chance that could not be missed, was uneasy. He had never been parted
from her before and he was young to go out into a hostile world; he was
besides a good boy and she was afraid that Machiavelli would corrupt
him, for it was notorious that Machiavelli was a gay fellow and a
dissolute. He was, moreover, not in the least ashamed of it and would
tell improper stories about his adventures with women of the town and
with maidservants at wayside inns which must bring a blush to a virtuous
woman's cheek. And what made it worse was that he told them so amusingly
that though outraged you could not keep a straight face. Biagio reasoned
with her.

"Dear Francesca, now that Niccol is married he will abandon his loose
habits. Marietta, his wife, is a good woman and she loves him. Why
should you think him so foolish as to spend money outside for what he
can get at home for nothing?"

"A man who likes women as much as Niccol will never be content with
one," said she, "and if she is his wife less than ever."

Biagio thought there was something in what she said, but he was not
prepared to admit it. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Piero is eighteen. If he has not lost his innocence already it is quite
time he did. Are you a virgin, nephew?"

"Yes," answered Piero with so much candor that anyone might have been
forgiven for believing him.

"There is nothing that I do not know about my son. He is incapable of
doing anything of which I should disapprove."

"In that case," said Biagio, "there is no reason why you should hesitate
to entrust him to a man who can be useful in his career and from whom,
if he has sense, he can learn much that will be valuable to him all his
life."

Monna Francesca gave her brother a sour look.

"You are infatuated with the man. You're like putty in his hands. And
how does he treat you? He makes use of you; he makes fun of you. Why
should he be your superior in the Chancery? Why are you satisfied to be
his subordinate?"

Biagio was of about the same age as Machiavelli, who was thirty-three,
but because he had married the daughter of Marsilio Ficino, a celebrated
scholar patronized by the Medici who then ruled the city, he had entered
the government before him. For in those days influence got a man a job
as often as merit. Biagio was of the middle size, plump, with a round
face, a high colour and an expression of great good nature. He was
honest and hard-working, a man without envy who knew his own limitations
and was satisfied with his modest position. He liked good living and
good company and since he asked for no more than he could have, might be
counted a happy man. He was not brilliant, but neither was he stupid.
Had he been so, Machiavelli would not have endured his companionship.

"Niccol has the most brilliant mind of anyone at present in the service
of the Signory," he said now.

"Nonsense," snapped Monna Francesca.

(The Signory was the City Council of Florence and, since the expulsion
of the Medici eight years before, the chief executive body of the
state.)

"He has a knowledge of men and of affairs that men twice his age might
envy. Take my word for it, sister, he will go far, and take my word for
this too: he is not one to abandon his friends."

"I wouldn't trust him an inch. He'll cast you aside like an old shoe
when he has no further use for you."

Biagio laughed.

"Are you so bitter because he never made advances to you, sister? Even
with a son of eighteen you must be still attractive to men."

"He knows better than to try his tricks with a decent woman. I know his
habits. It's a disgrace that the Signory allows harlots to flaunt
themselves in the city to the scandal of respectable people. You like
him because he makes you laugh and tells you dirty stories. You're as
bad as he is."

"You must remember that no one tells a dirty story better."

"And is that why you think him so wonderfully intelligent?"

Biagio laughed again.

"No, not only. He made a great success of his mission to France and his
despatches were masterly; even the members of the Signory who don't like
him personally were obliged to admit it."

Madonna Francesca shrugged her shoulders crossly. Meanwhile Piero, like
the prudent young man he was, held his peace. He looked forward without
enthusiasm to the job in the Chancery, to which his uncle and his mother
had destined him, and the idea of going on a journey was very much to
his liking. As he had foreseen, his uncle's worldly wisdom triumphed
over his mother's anxious scruples, and so it came to pass that on the
following morning Biagio called for him and, Biagio on foot, Piero on
his pony, they went the short distance to Machiavelli's house.


[iii]

The horses were already at the door, one for Machiavelli and two for the
servants he was taking with him. Piero, giving his pony to one of the
servants to hold, followed his uncle into the house. Machiavelli was
waiting for them with impatience. He greeted them curtly.

"Now let us start," he said.

Marietta was in tears. She was a young woman of no great beauty, but it
was not for her beauty that Machiavelli had married her; he had married
her, that very year, because it was proper that he should marry, and she
was of a reputable family and brought him as good a dowry as a man of
his means and position could expect.

"Don't weep, dearest," he said, "you know I shall be gone only a little
while."

"But you ought not to go," she sobbed and then, turning to Biagio: "He's
not fit to ride so far. He's not well."

"What is the matter with you, Niccol?" asked Biagio.

"The old trouble. My stomach is out of order once more. It can't be
helped."

He took Marietta in his arms.

"Good-bye, my sweet."

"You will write to me often?"

"Often," he smiled.

When he smiled his face lost the sardonic look it generally wore and
there was something engaging in him so that you could understand that
Marietta loved him. He kissed her and patted her cheek.

"Don't fret, my dear. Biagio will look after you."

Piero, on entering the room, had stood just within the door. No one paid
him attention. Though Machiavelli was his uncle's most intimate friend
he had seen little of him and had not exchanged more than a few words
with him in all his life. Piero took the opportunity to have a good look
at the man who would be thenceforth his master. He was of the middle
height, but because he was so thin looked somewhat taller than he was.
He had a small head, with very black hair cut short; his dark eyes were
small and restless, his nose long; and his lips were thin and, when he
was not speaking, so tightly closed that his mouth was little more than
a sarcastic line. In repose his sallow face wore an expression that was
wary, thoughtful, severe and cold. This was evidently not a man you
could play pranks with.

Perhaps Machiavelli felt Piero's uneasy stare, for he gave him a quick,
questioning glance.

"This is Piero?" he asked Biagio.

"His mother hopes you will look after him and see that he doesn't get
into mischief."

Machiavelli gave a thin smile.

"By observing the unfortunate consequences of my errors he will
doubtless learn that virtue and industry are the highways to success in
this world and happiness in the next."

They set forth. They walked the horses over the cobblestones till they
came to the city gate and when they got onto the open road broke into a
jog trot. They had a long way to go and it was prudent to spare the
horses. Machiavelli and Piero rode together and the two servants behind.
All four were armed, for though Florence was at peace with her
neighbours, the country was unsettled and you could never be sure that
you might not run across marauding soldiers. The safe-conduct the
travellers carried would have been of small help to them then.
Machiavelli did not speak and Piero, though not by nature shy, was
somewhat intimidated by that sharp, set face, a slight frown between the
brows, and thought it wise to wait till he was spoken to. The morning,
notwithstanding an autumnal chill, was fine, and Piero's spirits were
high. It was grand to be setting out on such an adventure and it was
hard to keep silent when he was bubbling over with excitement. There
were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. But they rode on and on. Soon
the sun was bright in the heavens and the warmth of it was pleasant.
Machiavelli never said a word. Now and then he raised one hand to
indicate that they should walk the horses.


[iv]

Machiavelli was busy with his thoughts. It was much against his will
that he went on this mission and he had done his best to get someone
else sent in his place. For one thing he was far from well and even now
as he rode he had an ache in his stomach, and then, having recently
married, he did not wish to pain his wife by leaving her. He had
promised her that his absence would be short, but in his heart he knew
that the days might last into weeks and the weeks into months before he
got permission to return. His mission to France had taught him how
protracted diplomatic negotiations might be.

But these were the least of his troubles. The state of Italy was
desperate. Louis XII, King of France, was the paramount power. He held a
large part of the Kingdom of Naples, though insecurely, since the
Spaniards who held Sicily and Calabria continually harassed him, but he
was in firm possession of Milan and its territories; he was on good
terms with Venice and for a consideration had taken the city-states of
Florence, Siena and Bologna under his protection. He had an alliance
with the Pope, who had granted him a dispensation to put away his barren
and scrofulous wife so that he might marry Anne of Brittany, the widow
of Charles VIII; and in return the King had created the Pope's son,
Caesar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, given him Charlotte d'Albret, sister
to the King of Navarre, in marriage and promised to supply troops to
enable him to recover possession of the lands, lordships and dominions
of the Church which she had lost.

Caesar Borgia, known throughout Italy as Il Valentino from the duchy
that Louis XII had bestowed upon him, was still well under thirty. His
mercenary captains, of whom the most important were Pagolo Orsini, head
of the great Roman house, Gian Paolo Baglioni, Lord of Perugia, and
Vitellozzo Vitelli, Lord of Citta di Castello, were the best in Italy.
He had proved himself a bold and astute commander. By force of arms,
treachery and the terror he inspired, he had made himself prince of a
considerable state, and Italy rang with his exploits. Taking advantage
of a favourable opportunity, he had blackmailed the Florentines into
hiring him and his men-at-arms at a large salary for a period of three
years; but then, having assured themselves of the protection of King
Louis by a further payment in hard cash, they had revoked Caesar's
commission and stopped his salary. This enraged him and presently he
took his revenge.

In June of the year with which this narrative is concerned, Arezzo, a
city subject to Florence, revolted and declared itself independent.
Vitellozzo Vitelli, the ablest of Il Valentino's commanders and bitter
enemy of the Florentines because they had executed his brother Paolo,
and Baglioni, Lord of Perugia, went to the support of the rebellious
citizens and defeated the forces of the Republic. Only the citadel held
out. The Signory in a panic sent Piero Soderini to Milan to hasten the
expedition of the four hundred lancers King Louis had promised them.
Piero Soderini was an influential citizen and as Gonfalonier occupied
the position of president of the Republic. They ordered their own troops
encamped before Pisa, which they had long been trying to subdue, to
advance to the rescue, but before they arrived the citadel fell. At this
juncture Il Valentino, who was at Urbino, which he had recently
conquered, sent the Signory a peremptory demand for the despatch of an
ambassador to confer with him. They sent the Bishop of Volterra, Piero
Soderini's brother, and Machiavelli accompanied him as his secretary.
The crisis was resolved, for the French king sent a strong force to
fulfill his obligation towards Florence, and Caesar Borgia, yielding to
the threat, recalled his captains.

But his captains were themselves lords of petty states and they could
not but fear that when they had served his purpose he would crush them
as ruthlessly as he had crushed other lords of other states. They
received information that he had made a secret arrangement with Louis
XII by the terms of which the King was to provide a contingent to assist
him first in the capture of Bologna and then in the destruction of the
captains whose territories it would be convenient for him to incorporate
in his own dominions. After some preliminary discussion they met at a
place called La Magione, near Perugia, to consider how best to protect
themselves. Vitellozzo, who was ill, was carried to the meeting on a
litter. Pagolo Orsini came accompanied by his brother the Cardinal and
his nephew the Duke of Gravina. Among others who attended were Ermete
Bentivoglio, the son of the Lord of Bologna, two Baglioni from Perugia,
the young Oliverotto da Fermo and Antonio da Venafro, the right-hand man
of Pandolfo Petrucci, Lord of Siena. Their danger was great and they
agreed that for their own safety they must act, but the Duke was a
dangerous man and they knew that they must act with prudence. They
decided for the present not to break with him openly, but to make
preparations in secret and attack only when they were ready. They had in
their pay a considerable body of troops, horse and foot, and
Vitellozzo's artillery was powerful; they sent emissaries to hire
several thousand of the mercenaries that then swarmed in Italy, and at
the same time agents to Florence to ask for aid, for the Borgia's
ambition was as great a threat to the Republic as to them.

It was not long before Caesar heard of the conspiracy, and on his side
he summoned the Signory to provide him with the troops which he declared
they had engaged to let him have in case of need and requested them to
send him an envoy empowered to treat with him. This was how it came
about that Machiavelli was on his way to Imola. He went with misgiving.
The Signory had despatched him because he was a man of no official
consequence, with no authority to make an agreement, who could only
refer back to Florence and at every step must await his government's
instructions. It was invidious to send such an emissary to one who,
though a bastard of the Pope, on official documents styled himself Duke
of Romagna, Valencia and Urbino, Prince of Andria, Lord of Piombino,
Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church. Machiavelli's
instructions were to inform him that the Signory had refused the
conspirators' request for help, but if he made a demand either for men
or money to apprise the Signory and await their reply. His business was
to temporize, for such was the consistent policy of the Republic. The
Signory could always find excellent reasons for doing nothing. If they
got into too tight a corner they would untie the strings of their money
bags and disburse as small a sum as was acceptable. His business was to
allay the impatience of a man unused to procrastination, to make no
promises that had substance, to cajole a suspicious man with specious
words, to use craft against craft, to counter deceit with deceit and to
discover the secrets of a man notorious for his dissimulation.

Although he had but briefly seen him at Urbino, Machiavelli had been
deeply impressed by him. He had heard there how the Duke Guidobaldo da
Montefeltro, confiding in Caesar Borgia's friendship, had lost his state
and barely escaped with his life; and though he recognized that Il
Valentino had acted with shocking perfidy he could not but admire the
energy and adroit planning with which he had conducted the enterprise.
This was a man of parts, fearless, unscrupulous, ruthless and
intelligent, not only a brilliant general but a capable organizer and an
astute politician. A sarcastic smile played upon Machiavelli's thin lips
and his eyes gleamed, for the prospect of matching his wits with such an
antagonist excited him. He began in consequence to feel much better and
was no longer conscious of his queasy stomach; he was able indeed to
look forward without displeasure to eating a snack at Scarperia, which
was about halfway between Florence and Imola, and where he had decided
to hire post horses. They had ridden as fast as was reasonable, for he
wanted to get to Imola that day, and the horses, carrying not only their
riders, but a good deal of baggage as well, could hardly be expected
without hurt to themselves to go so far without more rest than he could
afford to give them. He proposed to go on with Piero, leaving the two
servants to follow next day with his own horse and Piero's pony.

They stopped at the Albergo della Posta, and Machiavelli, dismounting,
was glad to stretch his legs. He enquired what food could be prepared
without delay and was not dissatisfied when he learned that he could
have macaroni, a dish of small birds, sausage from Bologna and a pork
chop. He was a good trencherman and he devoured with enjoyment the meal
that was set before him. He drank the strong red wine of the country and
felt all the better for it. Piero ate as copiously as his master and
when they got into the saddle again and set out, he felt good and happy,
so happy indeed that he began to hum one of the popular songs that ran
about the streets of Florence. Machiavelli pricked up his ears.

"Why, Piero, your uncle never told me you had a voice."

Piero let it out with complacency and sang an ascending scale.

"A pretty tenor," Machiavelli said with a warm and friendly smile.

He reined in his horse to a walk, and Piero, accepting this as an
invitation, broke into a well-known air, but the words were some that
Machiavelli had written himself. He was pleased, but did not fail to
reflect that the boy sang them to ingratiate himself with him. It was a
neat device and he did not disapprove of it.

"How did you learn those words?"

"Uncle Biagio wrote them out for me and they fitted the tune."

Machiavelli made no reply and broke again into a canter. It occurred to
him that it would be worth while to find out what he could about this
boy whom he had taken, certainly to oblige his friend Biagio, but whom
also he had the intention of making good use of; so during the rest of
the journey, when hilly country obliged them to walk the horses, he set
out to do this. No one could be more affable, interesting and amusing
than he when he chose, or so subtle, and Piero would have had to be more
worldly-wise than at his age he could be to discover that the friendly,
careless questions put to him were designed to make him discover himself
naked as when he was born. Piero was neither shy nor self-conscious, he
had indeed the assurance of youth, and he answered frankly. To talk
about himself seemed a very pleasant way of passing time that was
beginning to grow tedious. Marsilio Ficino, the famous old scholar, had
died only three years before; he was Biagio's father-in-law and had
directed the young boy's studies. It was on his advice that Piero had
acquired a sound knowledge of Latin and though against his will a
smattering of Greek.

"It is one of the misfortunes of my life that I never learnt it," said
Machiavelli. "I envy you for having read the Greek authors in the
original."

"What use will that be to me?"

"It will teach you that happiness is the good at which all men aim and
in order to attain it you need nothing but good birth, good friends,
good luck, health, wealth, beauty, strength, fame, honour and virtue."

Piero burst out laughing.

"It will also teach you that life is uncertain and full of tribulation,
from which you may conclude that it is only reasonable to snatch what
pleasure you can while you are of an age to enjoy it."

"I didn't need to learn the tenses of Greek verbs to know that," said
Piero.

"Perhaps not, but it is reassuring to have good authority for following
one's natural inclinations."

By well-directed questions Machiavelli learnt who the boy's friends were
in Florence and what life he had led there, and by flattering attention
to the opinions on one subject and another that he inveigled him into
pronouncing he gained presently a fair impression of Piero's capacity
and character. He was inexperienced, of course, but quick-witted, more
so than his uncle Biagio, who, though good and honest, was of mediocre
intelligence; he had the high spirits of his youth, a natural wish to
enjoy himself, and an adventurous temper; though ingenuous and in a way
simple, he was not overscrupulous, a trait to Machiavelli's mind of no
disadvantage, for it meant that he would not be hindered by a too
delicate conscience if he were wanted to do something that was a trifle
less than honourable; he was strong and active and there was no reason
to suppose that he lacked courage; his open face, his air of frankness,
his engaging manner might all turn out to be valuable assets; it
remained to discover whether he knew how to keep his own counsel and
whether he could be trusted. It required only a little time to find out
the first, and as to the second Machiavelli had no intention of trusting
him or anyone else more than need be. In any case the boy was clever
enough to know that it could only be to his benefit to gain the good
opinion of his master. A good word from Machiavelli could assure his
future; a bad report would entail his dismissal from the service of the
Republic.


[v]

They were nearing Imola. It was situated on a river in a fertile plain
and the surrounding country showed none of the ravages of war, since it
had capitulated on the approach of Caesar's forces. When they were about
two miles away they met seven or eight horsemen and Machiavelli
recognized among them Agapito da Amalia, the Duke's first secretary,
whose acquaintance he had made at Urbino. He greeted Machiavelli warmly,
who told him on what errand he was bound, whereupon he turned back and
accompanied him to the city. The Signory had sent a courier a day before
to inform their agent at the Duke's court of their envoy's arrival and
the courier was waiting for him at the city gate. It had been a long
ride and Agapito asked Machiavelli whether he would not like to refresh
himself and rest before presenting his credentials to the Duke. Though
the army was encamped outside the walls, the small city, now Il
Valentino's capital, was crowded with his personal staff, the members of
his court, agents of other Italian states, merchants with necessities or
luxuries to sell, solicitors of favours, sycophants, spies, actors,
poets, loose women and all the rag, tag and bobtail that followed a
victorious _condottiere_ in the hope of making money by fair means or
foul. The result was that lodging was hard to come by. The city's two or
three inns were chockablock and men were sleeping three, four and five
in a bed. But the Florentine agent had made arrangements for Machiavelli
and his servants to be put up in the Dominican monastery and it was
thither that the courier now suggested conducting him. Machiavelli
turned to Agapito.

"If His Excellency can receive me I should prefer to see him at once,"
he said.

"I will ride on and see if he is at liberty. This officer will lead you
to the Palace."

Leaving the man he had indicated behind, Agapito trotted off with the
rest of his party. The others walked their horses through the narrow
streets till they came to the main square. On the way Machiavelli asked
the officer which was the city's best inn.

"I don't fancy the fare those good monks of the monastery will provide
and I have no wish to go supperless to bed."

"The Golden Lion."

Machiavelli addressed himself to the courier.

"When you have deposited me at the Palace go to the Golden Lion and see
that an ample meal is prepared for me." Then to Piero: "Attend to the
stabling of the horses. The courier will show you the way to the
monastery and see that the saddlebags are put in a safe place. Then come
to the Palace and wait for me."

The Palace, a large but unpretentious building, for Caterina Sforza, who
had built it, was a thrifty woman, took up one end of the square and
here Machiavelli and the officer, dismounting, were admitted by the
guard. The officer sent a soldier to tell the First Secretary they were
there. In a few minutes he came into the room in which Machiavelli was
waiting. Agapito da Amalia was a swarthy man, with long black hair and a
small black beard, with a pale skin and sombre, clever eyes. He was a
gentleman, with good manners, suave of speech and with a candid air that
deceived many into thinking less of his abilities than was wise. He was
devoted both to the person and the interests of the Duke, for Il
Valentino had the gift of attaching to himself those whose loyalty was
necessary to him. He told Machiavelli that the Duke would receive him at
once. They ascended a fine flight of stairs and Machiavelli was ushered
into a handsome apartment, the walls painted in fresco, with a large
stone fireplace on the hood of which were carved the arms of the
intrepid but unfortunate Caterina Sforza, whom Caesar Borgia now held
prisoner in Rome. A bright fire of logs blazed on the hearth, and the
Duke stood with his back to it. The only other person in the room was
Juan Borgia, Cardinal of Monreale, the portly, shrewd nephew of Pope
Alexander. He was seated in a carved, high-backed chair toasting his
toes at the fire.

Machiavelli bowed to the Duke and the Cardinal, and the Duke, coming
towards him graciously, took his hand and led him to a chair.

"You must be cold and tired after your long journey, Secretary," he
said. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, Your Excellency, I ate on the way. I offer you my apologies for
presenting myself as I am, in my riding clothes, but I did not wish to
delay to tell you what I have to say on behalf of the Republic."

He then presented his letter of credence. Caesar Borgia was a man of
striking beauty, of more than common height, with broad shoulders, a
powerful chest and a slim waist. He was dressed in black, which
emphasized his vivid colouring, and besides a ring on the index finger
of his right hand, his only ornament was the collar of St. Michael, the
order which King Louis had conferred upon him. His hair, of a rich
auburn and carefully dressed, was worn long and reached his shoulders;
he had a moustache and a short beard trimmed to a point. His nose was
straight and delicate and his eyes, under well-marked brows, were fine
and bold; his well-shaped mouth was sensual; his skin clear and glowing.
His gait was stately, yet graceful, and in his bearing was something of
majesty. Machiavelli asked himself how it came about that this young
man, the offspring of a Roman woman of the people and a fat, hook-nosed
Spanish priest who had bought the papacy by shameless simony, had
acquired the demeanour of a great prince.

"I requested your government to send me an envoy because I wish to know
exactly how I stand with the Republic," he said with deliberation.

Machiavelli delivered the discourse he had prepared, but though the Duke
listened Machiavelli could not but see that he looked upon the
assurances of good will to which on the Signory's instructions he gave
utterance as no more than fine phrases. There was a moment's silence.
The Duke leaned back in his chair and with his left hand fingered the
order on his breast. When he spoke it was with a certain coolness.

"My dominions border upon yours along an extended frontier. I am bound
to take every means in my power to safeguard them. I know only too well
that your city is ill-disposed to me. You have tried to embroil me with
the Pope and the King of France. You couldn't have treated me worse if I
were a murderer. Now you must choose whether you will have me as a
friend or as an enemy."

His voice was musical, light rather than deep, and it had a quality not
acid, but cutting, which gave his words an insolence that was not easy
to bear. He might have been speaking to a scullion. But Machiavelli was
a practised diplomatist and knew how to keep his temper.

"I can assure Your Excellency that there is nothing my government wants
more than your friendship," he answered blandly, "but they have not
forgotten that you allowed Vitellozzo to invade our territories and they
are doubtful of its value."

"I had nothing to do with that. Vitellozzo acted on his own account."

"He was in your pay and under your command."

"The expedition was begun without my knowledge and continued without my
aid. I will not pretend I regretted it. I didn't. The Florentines had
broken faith with me and it was right that they should suffer for it.
But when I thought they had been sufficiently punished I ordered my
captains to withdraw. It has won me their enmity and they are now
conspiring my overthrow."

Machiavelli did not think it the moment to remind the Duke that he had
recalled his captains only on the peremptory command of the King of
France.

"You are to blame for that, just as you are to blame for Vitellozzo's
invasion of your territory."

"We?" cried Machiavelli in frank astonishment.

"Nothing of this would have happened if you hadn't been such fools as to
torture and execute Paolo Vitelli. You can hardly be surprised that his
brother Vitellozzo should seek to be revenged upon you and it is only
because I prevented him from going too far that he has turned against
me."

It is necessary to explain what the Duke meant by this.

The Florentines had long been engaged on the siege of Pisa, but things
had gone badly and the army of the Republic suffered a severe defeat
which the Signory ascribed to the incompetence of their Captain-General;
so they engaged two _condottieri_ then in the service of King Louis,
Paolo and Vitellozzo Vitelli, captains of renown, giving the chief
command to Paolo. A battle was fought, a breach was effected in the
walls and the army was on the point of storming the city when suddenly
Paolo Vitelli gave the order to retreat. Though he said he had done this
to save further loss of life, since he was sure of the city's surrender
on conditions, the Signory, convinced that he was playing them false,
sent two commissioners ostensibly to furnish funds but in fact to seize
the persons of the two captains. Paolo Vitelli was quartered about a
mile beyond Cascina and the commissioners requested him to meet them
there so that they might discuss with him the conduct of the war. They
gave him dinner and then, leading him into a secret chamber, arrested
him. He was taken to Florence and, though under torture he would not
admit his guilt, was beheaded.

"Paolo Vitelli was a traitor," said Machiavelli. "He had a fair trial
and was found guilty. He suffered the just punishment of his crime."

"Whether he was innocent or guilty is no matter. To execute him was a
blunder."

"It was necessary for our honour to act with energy against enemies of
the Republic. It was necessary to show that Florence has the courage to
provide for her safety."

"Why then did you leave his brother alive?"

Machiavelli irritably shrugged his shoulders. It was a sore point.

"Men were sent to fetch Vitellozzo and bring him to Cascina. He
suspected a trap. He was ill in bed. He asked for time to dress and
somehow managed to escape. The affair was bungled. How can you provide
always against the stupidity of the people you have to deal with?"

The Duke's laugh was light and gay. His eyes sparkled with good humour.

"It is an error to keep to a plan when circumstances have arisen that
make its execution inadvisable. When Vitellozzo slipped through your
fingers you should have taken Paolo to Florence and instead of throwing
him into a dungeon housed him in the best apartment of the Palazzo
Vecchio. You should have tried him and, whatever the evidence, declared
him innocent. Then you should have restored his command to him,
increased his pay and bestowed on him the highest honours at the
disposal of the Republic. You should have convinced him that you had
entire confidence in him."

"With the result that he would have betrayed us to our enemies."

"That might have been his intention, but for a while he would have had
so to act as to prove that the trust you placed in him was justified.
These mercenary captains are avaricious and will do anything for money.
You might have made offers to Vitellozzo so handsome that he could not
have brought himself to refuse; he would have rejoined his brother, and
when you had lulled them into security, with a little ingenuity you
could have found a suitable occasion to kill them both swiftly and
without trial."

Machiavelli went red in the face.

"Such treachery would leave an eternal blot on the fair name of
Florence," he cried.

"Traitors must be dealt with treacherously. A state is not governed by
the exercise of Christian virtues, it is governed by prudence, boldness,
determination and ruthlessness."

At this moment an officer came into the room and in a whisper spoke to
Agapito da Amalia. Il Valentino, frowning at the interruption, with
impatient fingers drummed on the table at which he sat.

"His Excellency is occupied," said Agapito. "They must wait."

"What is it?" asked the Duke sharply.

"Two Gascon soldiers have been caught looting, Excellency. They have
been brought here under guard with the objects they seized."

"It would be a pity to make the subjects of the King of France wait,"
said the Duke, smiling faintly. "Let them be brought in."

The officer went out and the Duke amiably addressed himself to
Machiavelli.

"You will excuse me if I attend to a little matter of business?"

"My time is at Your Excellency's disposal."

"I trust you had no adventures on the road, Secretary."

Machiavelli took his cue from the Duke's tone.

"None. I was fortunate to find an inn at Scarperia where I was given a
tolerable meal."

"It is my desire that men should travel in my dominions as safely as it
is said they could do in the Roman Empire of the Antonines. While you
are here you will have opportunity to see for yourself that now that I
have dispossessed those petty tyrants who were the curse of Italy I have
by wise administration done much to render the lives of my people secure
and prosperous."

There was a noise without of shuffling feet, voices were raised, and
then, the great doors of the spacious chamber being flung open, a crowd
surged in. First came the officer who had come in before and he was
followed by two men who from their respectable dress Machiavelli
supposed must be dignitaries of the city. On their heels came two women,
one old, the other middle-aged, and with them an elderly man of decent
appearance. Then came a soldier carrying a pair of silver candlesticks
and another with an ornamental goblet of silver gilt and two silver
platters. They wore the red-and-yellow uniform of the Duke's own troops.
Then, half pushed, half dragged by soldiers, entered two men with their
hands tied behind their backs. They were shabby in nondescript garments
and, standing among the Duke's uniformed men, looked a ruffianly pair.
One was a scowling fellow of forty, of powerful physique, with a thick
black beard and a livid scar on his forehead, and the other a
smooth-faced boy with a sallow skin and shifty, frightened eyes.

"Stand forward," said the Duke.

The two men were given a shove.

"What is the charge?"

It appeared that the house of the two women had been broken into when
they were at Mass and the silverware stolen.

"How can you prove these articles were your property?"

"Monna Brigida is my cousin, Excellency," said one of the two
respectable men. "I know the articles well. They were part of her
dowry."

The other confirmed this. The Duke turned to the elderly man who seemed
to be with the two women.

"Who are you?"

"Giacomo Fabronio, Excellency, silversmith. These two men sold me the
pieces. They said they had got them at the sack of Forli."

"You have no doubt that these are the men?"

"None, Excellency."

"We took Giacomo to the Gascon camp," said the officer, "and he picked
them out without hesitation."

The Duke fixed the silversmith with harsh eyes.

"Well?"

"When I heard that Monna Brigida's house had been broken into and her
candlesticks and platters stolen, I became suspicious," the fellow
answered, his face pale and his voice tremulous. "I went at once to
Messer Bernardo and told him that two Gascon soldiers had sold me some
silverware."

"Was it from fear or prudence?"

The silversmith for a moment could not find his voice. He was shaking
with terror.

"Messer Bernardo is a magistrate, I have done much work for him. If the
goods were stolen I didn't want them to be in my possession."

"What he says is true, Your Excellency," said the magistrate. "I went to
see the articles and immediately recognized them."

"They are mine, Excellency," vehemently cried the younger of the two
women. "Everyone will tell you they are mine."

"Be quiet." The Duke turned his gaze on the two Gascons. "Do you confess
that you stole these things?"

"No, no, no," screamed the boy. "It is a mistake. I swear on the soul of
my mother that I didn't. The silversmith is mistaken. I have never seen
him before."

"Take him away. A few turns on the rack will bring out the truth."

The boy gave a piercing shriek.

"No, not that. I couldn't bear that."

"Take him."

"I confess," gasped the boy.

The Duke gave a short laugh and turned to the other.

"And you?"

The older man threw back his head defiantly.

"I didn't steal them. I took them. It was our right; we had captured the
city."

"A lie. You did not capture the city. It capitulated."

By the rules of Italian warfare at the time if a city was taken by storm
the soldiers were allowed to loot and keep everything they could lay
hands on; but if a city capitulated, though the citizens were called
upon to pay a large sum to defray the expense to which the _condottiere_
had been put to gain possession of their city, they saved their lives
and their property. The rule was useful, for it made the citizens
willing enough to surrender; it was not often that devotion to their
prince induced them to fight to the death.

The Duke pronounced sentence.

"My orders were that the troops were to remain without the walls and
that any harm done to the persons or property of the citizens should be
punished by death." He turned to the officer. "Hang them in the square
at dawn. Let it be published in the camp what their crime was and its
punishment. Have two soldiers stand guard over the bodies till noon and
let the town crier inform the population at proper intervals that they
can rely on the justice of their prince."

"What does he say?" asked the terrified boy of his companion, for the
Duke had spoken to the two Gascons in French and to the officer in
Italian.

The man did not answer, but looked at the Duke with sullen hatred. The
Duke, having heard, repeated the sentence in French.

"You will be hanged at dawn as a warning to others."

The boy gave a great cry of anguish and fell to his knees.

"Mercy, mercy," he screamed. "I'm too young to die. I don't want to die.
I'm afraid."

"Take them away," said the Duke.

The boy was dragged to his feet, screaming incoherently, tears running
from his eyes, but the other, his face distorted with rage, gathered the
spittle in his mouth and spat in his face. The pair were hustled from
the room. The Duke turned to Agapito da Amalia.

"See that they are provided with the consolations of religion. It would
weigh on my conscience if they faced their Maker without having had the
opportunity to repent of their sins."

A faint smile on his lips, the secretary slid out of the room. The Duke,
apparently in high good humour, addressed himself together to the
Cardinal his cousin and to Machiavelli.

"They were fools as well as knaves. It was an unpardonable stupidity to
sell the articles they had stolen in the very town they had been stolen
in. They should have hidden them till they came to a much larger city,
Bologna or Florence, for instance, where they could have disposed of
them in safety."

But he noticed that the silversmith was lingering by the door and seemed
to wish to say something.

"What are you doing there?"

"Who is going to give me back my money, Excellency? I am a poor man."

"Did you pay a fair price for the articles?" Il Valentino asked suavely.

"I paid what they were worth. The sum the scoundrels asked was
ridiculous. I had to make my profit."

"Let it be a lesson to you. Another time don't buy anything unless you
are sure it has been honestly come by."

"I can't afford to lose so much money, Excellency."

"Go," cried the Duke in a tone so savage that the man, with a cry,
scuttled out of the room like a frightened rabbit.

Il Valentino threw himself back in his chair and roared with laughter.
Then he turned courteously to Machiavelli.

"I must ask you to pardon the interruption; I think it important that
justice should be administered promptly and I wish the people of the
territories under my rule to know that they can come to me if they have
been ill-used and be sure to find in me an impartial judge."

"It is the wisest policy for a prince who wishes to assure his hold on
dominions that he has recently acquired," said the Cardinal.

"Men will always forgive the loss of their political liberty if their
private liberty is left undisturbed," said the Duke casually. "So long
as their women are not molested and their property is safe, they will be
reasonably contented with their lot."

Machiavelli had watched the incident with calm, even with amusement,
which he took care not to show, for he was convinced that the whole
affair was a piece of play-acting. He knew very well that Il Valentino
would never dare to hang two subjects of the King of France. In all
probability they had already been released, with a gift of money for the
trouble they had been put to, and on the following day would be found
again in the ranks of the Gascon contingent. Machiavelli guessed that
the scene had been arranged so that he could tell the Signory how
efficiently the Duke was ruling his new conquests, but more particularly
for his reference at the end to Florence and Bologna. The suggestion
that the troops might find themselves there was a threat too plain to be
missed by anyone with so shrewd a brain as Machiavelli.

Silence fell. The Duke, gently stroking his neat beard, stared at
Machiavelli reflectively. Machiavelli had the feeling that he was making
up his mind what sort of a man this was that the Signory had sent to
negotiate with him and, not wishing to meet the searching eyes fixed on
him, he looked down at his hands, as though wondering if the nails
wanted cutting. He was perplexed and, being perplexed, was uneasy. For
it was he that had conducted the business that led to the execution of
Paolo Vitelli. Assured of his guilt, he had exercised all his powers of
persuasion to convince his nervous and temporizing superiors that action
must be taken without delay. It was he that had given the commissioners
orders to proceed with energy. It was he that had urged the death
sentence notwithstanding the fact that Vitellozzo had escaped. But his
activities had been behind the scenes and he could not imagine how Il
Valentino was aware of them. The thought crossed his mind that the Duke
had dwelt upon the unsatisfactory outcome of the affair only to show
that he knew what part Machiavelli had played in it and was maliciously
pleased to be able to point out to him that he had handled it
incompetently. But that man did nothing without a reason. It was
unlikely that he wished to let the Florentine envoy know that he was
well informed of what happened in the Chancery of the Republic, it was
more probable that his object was to shake Machiavelli's confidence in
himself and so render him more amenable. The idea caused the suspicion
of a smile to appear on his lips and he glanced at the Duke. It looked
as though the Duke had been waiting to meet his eyes to speak.

"Secretary, I desire to confide to you a secret I have told to no living
man."

"Do you wish me to leave you, Cousin?" asked the Cardinal.

"No, I trust in your discretion as much as I trust in the Secretary's."

Machiavelli, his jaw set, his gaze fixed on the handsome duke, waited.

"The Orsini have begged me almost on their bended knees to attack
Florence. I bear your city no ill will and I have refused. But if the
gentlemen of your government want to come to terms with me they must do
it before I patch up things with the Orsini. We're both friends of the
King of France; surely it's advisable that we should be friends of one
another. With our territories adjoining, each of us can make things easy
for the other; each of us can make things difficult. You depend upon
mercenary troops under unreliable captains; I have my own army, well
trained, well armed, and my captains are the best in Europe."

"But no more reliable than ours, Your Excellency," said Machiavelli
dryly.

"I have others who are reliable. Who are they, the fools who are
conspiring against me? Pagolo Orsini, a fool, Bentivoglio who thinks I
have designs on Bologna, the Baglioni who fear for Perugia, Oliverotto
da Fermo and Vitellozzo who is crippled with the French sickness."

"They are powerful and in revolt."

"All their movements are known to me and when things are ripe I shall
act. Believe me, the ground is burning under their feet and it needs
more water to put out the fire than such men as that can throw. Be
sensible, Secretary. With Urbino in my hands I command central Italy.
Guidobaldo da Montefeltro was my good friend, and the Pope intended to
give his niece Angela Borgia in marriage to Guidobaldo's nephew and
heir. I would never have attacked him unless I had seen the strategic
importance of his state. I had to have it in order to carry out my plans
and I could not allow sentiment to interfere with policy. I can offer
you security from your enemies. If we were to act together, I with my
armies, you with your rich lands and your wealth, and with the spiritual
authority of the Pope to support us, we should be the strongest power in
Italy. Instead of having to pay hard cash for the favours of the French,
they would have to treat with us as equals. The moment has come for you
to conclude an alliance with me."

Machiavelli was startled, but he answered with easy amiability.

"I see the force of Your Excellency's arguments. No one could have put
them more clearly and more convincingly. It is rare to find a man of
action and a great general such as Your Excellency has shown himself,
who possesses besides so logical a mind and such a gift of expression."

The Duke with a slight smile made a modest gesture of protest.
Machiavelli, his heart in his mouth, for he knew that what he had to say
was not what the Duke wanted, went on blandly.

"I will write to the Signory and tell the gentlemen what you have said."

"What do you mean?" cried Il Valentino. "The matter is urgent and must
be settled at once."

"I have no power to make an agreement."

The Duke sprang to his feet.

"Then what have you come here for?"

At that instant the door was opened; it was only Agapito da Amalia
coming in after attending to the Duke's order, but it had a startling
effect. Machiavelli was not a nervous man, but it strangely shook him.

"I have come because Your Excellency requested my government to send an
envoy to treat with him."

"But an envoy with full powers to treat."

Until now the Duke had treated Machiavelli with tolerable courtesy, but
now, his eyes blazing, he strode up to him. Machiavelli rose and the two
men faced one another.

"The Signory is fooling me. They sent you precisely because you have no
power to decide anything. Their eternal shilly-shallying exasperates me
beyond endurance. How long do they think they can continue to try my
patience?"

The Cardinal, who had sat in silence, put in a word to calm the storm,
but the Duke harshly told him to hold his tongue. He began to pace up
and down the room, storming; he was bitter, brutal and sarcastic; he
seemed to have lost all control over himself. Machiavelli, unmoved and
far from frightened, watched him with curiosity. At last the Duke flung
himself back into his chair.

"Tell your government that I am deeply affronted."

"The last thing my government would wish is to affront Your Excellency.
They instructed me to inform you that the rebels had requested their aid
and they had refused."

"Waiting as usual, I suppose, to see which way the cat would jump."

There was more truth in this than was pleasant for Machiavelli to hear.
His face remained impassive.

"They have no love for the Orsini or for Vitellozzo. They are anxious to
be on friendly terms with Your Excellency, and I must press you to be
more definite. It is at least necessary that I should be able to tell
the Signory precisely what sort of an agreement it is that you desire."

"The discussion is ended. You force me to come to terms with the rebels.
I can reduce them to submission tomorrow by agreeing to the proposal of
the Orsini to attack Florence."

"Florence is under the protection of the King of France," answered
Machiavelli sharply. "He has promised us four hundred lancers and an
ample force of infantry whenever we need them."

"The French promise much in return for the money they continually
demand, but when they have got it seldom keep their promises."

Machiavelli knew that was true. The Florentines had suffered much from
the rapacity and double-dealing of King Louis. He had more than once
undertaken at a price to send troops to assist them in their
difficulties and then, having received the money, had delayed and
delayed, and in the end sent only half the number paid for. The Duke
could not have made himself more plain. The Florentines must either
accept the alliance he offered them--and everyone in Italy knew what a
faithless friend he was--or else he would compose his differences with
his discontented captains and together with them attack the Republic.
Blackmail! The situation was alarming and Machiavelli in distress sought
for something to say that would at least leave the way open for further
negotiations; but the Duke prevented him from speaking.

"What are you waiting for, Secretary? You may withdraw."

He did not trouble to acknowledge Machiavelli's low bow. Agapito da
Amalia accompanied the envoy down the stairs.

"His Excellency is a quick-tempered man and is unused to being crossed,"
he said.

"That is a fact that has not escaped my observation," replied
Machiavelli acidly.


[vi]

Piero and the courier were waiting in the guardroom and when the doors
were duly unbarred and unlocked conducted Machiavelli to the Golden
Lion. They had made much of the fact that the repast they had ordered
was for the Florentine envoy, and he ate well and amply. The wine of the
country, though not to be compared with the Tuscan wine, was strong, and
he drank freely. On reflection he came to the conclusion that his
conversation with the Duke was after all not unsatisfactory. Il
Valentino's anger seemed to indicate that he was nervous and his
insistence on an immediate alliance with the Republic that he knew his
position was perilous. Machiavelli was indifferent to the scant courtesy
with which he had been treated. He knew when he started on his mission
that he need not expect to be used with consideration. Having done
eating and belched his full, he bade the courier show the way to the
monastery where he was to lodge. In view of his importance a cell had
been vacated for him, but Piero and the courier were to share a straw
mattress in a corridor along with a number of transients only too glad
to have a roof over their heads. But before going to bed Machiavelli
wrote a letter to the Signory in which he described the events of the
evening. The courier was to take it back to Florence at the crack of
dawn.

"You had better write to Biagio so that he can tell your mother you have
arrived here without mishap," he said to Piero. "And ask him to send me
a Plutarch."

Machiavelli had brought his Dante with him and besides that only Livy's
_Annals_. Plutarch offered entertainment as well as instruction. When
Piero had finished, Machiavelli without ceremony took the letter and
read it. He smiled faintly when he read: "_Messer Niccol was silent
throughout the morning and thinking he was occupied with weighty matters
I did not disturb him, but after he had dined he talked with so much
wit, clearness and good sense that it seemed to me we had hardly left
Scarperia when we were arrived at Imola. He thinks I have a good voice.
I wish it had been possible for me to bring my lute._"

"A very good letter," said Machiavelli. "The message you have asked
Biagio to deliver to your mother is very fit and proper. And now after
this long day let us take a well-earned rest."


[vii]

Machiavelli needed little sleep and awoke soon after sunrise. He called
Piero to help him dress. His riding clothes were packed in the
saddlebags and he put on the sober black raiment which was his usual
wear. He had no intention of remaining at the monastery, for he needed
quarters where he could if necessary receive persons in secret, and he
knew very well that at the monastery his visitors and his movements
would be conspicuous. The courier was already on his way to Florence.
With Piero accompanying him, Machiavelli set out for the Golden Lion.
Imola was a bright little town and there was no sign that it had, not
long since, changed masters. As they walked through the narrow, tortuous
streets they passed a good many people going about their various
business, and they looked contented. You received the impression that
the tenor of their lives remained unaltered. Now and then pedestrians
had to make way for a man on horseback or for a string of donkeys with a
load of firewood. A man sauntered by with she-asses, whose milk was good
for pregnant women, and announced his presence with a melodious call; an
old crone popped her head out of a window and shouted; he stopped and in
a minute she appeared at her door with a beaker. A peddler of pins and
needles, thread and ribbands passed along raucously crying his wares.
There were shops in the street in which was the Golden Lion; there was a
customer in the saddler's, a man was having his hair cut at the barber's
and a woman was trying on a pair of shoes at the shoemaker's. There was
about all an air, not of opulence, but of a comfortable prosperity. No
beggars pestered.

They entered the Golden Lion and Machiavelli ordered for himself and
Piero bread and wine. Dipping the bread in the wine, they made it
palatable and then drank what remained of the wine. Thus fortified they
went to the barber's and Machiavelli had himself shaved; the barber
sprinkled strongly scented water on his short black thick hair and
combed it. Meanwhile Piero had been meditatively stroking his smooth
chin.

"I think I need a shave, Messer Niccol," he said.

"It can wait a few weeks yet," said Machiavelli, smiling thinly; then to
the barber: "Put some of your scent on his head and run a comb through
his hair."

They were both ready. Machiavelli enquired of the barber where was the
house of a certain Messer Bartolomeo Martelli whom he desired to visit.
The barber gave them directions, but they were so complicated that
Machiavelli asked if he could not get someone to show him the way. The
barber went to the door of his shop, and calling an urchin who was
playing in the street, told him to conduct the strangers. Their way led
through the principal square, the square in which was the Palace
occupied by the Duke, and since it was market day it was crowded with
the stalls of the farmers who had brought in to the city for sale fruits
and vegetables, chickens, meat and cheese, and with the stalls of
chapmen with brass, ironmongery, cloth goods, old clothes and what not.
A great throng of people were bargaining, buying or merely looking, and
there was a din of voices. It was a gay and busy scene under the bright
October sun. As Machiavelli and Piero entered the square they heard the
wail of a brass horn and some of the noise was stilled.

"It's the crier," yelled the little boy excitedly, and seizing
Machiavelli's hand he began to run. "I have not heard him yet."

A number of people surged forward and, looking in the direction they
took, Machiavelli saw that there was a gallows at the other end of the
square and two men were hanging there. It was not a sight he wished to
see and he snatched his hand away. Forgetting his errand, the boy raced
towards the centre of interest. The crier in a loud voice began to
speak, but he was too far away for Machiavelli to hear what he said. He
turned impatiently to a stout woman who was standing guard over her
stall.

"What has happened?" he asked her. "What is the crier saying?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It's only two thieves who've been hanged. By the Duke's orders the
crier comes every half hour till noon and says they've been hanged
because they stole the property of citizens. They're French soldiers,
they say."

Machiavelli repressed a start. It could not be what he suspected, but he
had to see for himself. He strode forward, squeezing his way through the
crowd, jostling and jostled, his eyes fixed on the two hanging bodies.
The crier had said his say and, stepping down from the platform on which
the gallows had been erected, sauntered nonchalantly away. The crowd
thinned and Machiavelli was able to get close; there was no doubt about
it; though their faces were horribly distorted by the strangling rope,
they were the two Gascon soldiers, the man with the scowl and the scar,
the boy with the shifty eyes, who had been brought in the night before
to be judged and sentenced by the Duke. It hadn't been a comedy then.
Machiavelli stood stock-still and stared with dismay. His small guide
touched his arm.

"I wish I'd been here when they hanged them," he said regretfully. "No
one knew anything about it till it was all over."

"It's nothing for little boys to see," said Machiavelli, hardly knowing
that he spoke, for his thoughts were busy.

"It wouldn't be the first time," the child grinned. "It's fun to see
them dancing in the air."

"Piero."

"I'm here, Messere."

"Come, boy, take us to Messer Bartolomeo."

For the rest of the way Machiavelli, frowning, his lips closed so
tightly that his mouth was no more than a bitter line, walked in
silence. He tried to think what had been in Il Valentino's mind. Why
should he have hanged two useful soldiers because they had stolen a few
bits and pieces of silverware when a flogging would have adequately
punished the crime? It was true that human life meant nothing to him,
but it was unbelievable that he should be so eager to win the confidence
of the people of Imola as to risk the anger not only of the commander of
the Gascon troops, but of the troops themselves. Machiavelli was
puzzled. He was convinced that his presence at that moment was in some
way necessary to the Duke's purpose; otherwise, even if he had troubled
to deal with the affair in person, he would have waited till he had
finished his important conversation with the Florentine envoy. Did he
want to show the Signory that he was independent of the French and,
notwithstanding the revolt of his captains, strong enough to risk their
displeasure; or was the only point of the scene the scarcely veiled
threat he had made when he told Machiavelli that the soldiers could have
safely sold their loot when they were in Florence? But who could tell
the workings of that ruthless, crafty brain?

"This is the house, Messere," said the little boy suddenly.

Machiavelli gave him a coin and the urchin with a hop, skip and a jump
ran off. Piero raised the bronze knocker and let it fall. There was a
delay and Piero knocked again. Machiavelli noticed that the house was of
handsome proportions, evidently the house of a man of substance; and the
windows on the second floor, the _piano principale_, were not, as might
have been expected, of oiled-paper, but of glass, which showed that he
had ample means.


[viii]

Machiavelli did not know Bartolomeo Martelli, but he had been instructed
to get in touch with him. He was a person of consequence in the small
city, an alderman and a man of property. He owned land in the immediate
neighbourhood of Imola and several houses in the town itself; his father
had made money by trade in the Levant and he had himself spent some
years of his youth in Smyrna. It was on this account that he had
connections with Florence, since the Florentines had always traded with
the Near East and many of the citizens were settled in its various
cities. Bartolomeo's father had been in partnership with a Florentine
merchant of good family and had eventually married his daughter. He was
distantly related to Biagio Buonaccorsi, for their maternal
grandmothers, long since dead, were sisters; this indeed was one of the
inducements Biagio had held out to Machiavelli to persuade him to take
young Piero with him. The connection would make it easier for
Machiavelli to get on intimate terms with the useful man.

And Bartolomeo might be very useful. He was not only a considerable man
in Imola, but it was he who had led the party that brought about the
capitulation of the city without a struggle. The Duke, who was always
generous with other people's property, had rewarded him with the gift of
an estate which carried with it the title of count, a fact Machiavelli
had learnt from the loquacious barber, and he had learnt also that
Bartolomeo, though he pretended otherwise, was inordinately pleased with
his rank. The Duke trusted him, knowing it was to his advantage to be
trustworthy, and had employed him on various commercial missions in
which he had conducted himself with credit. The Duke was secret, but it
was likely that Bartolomeo knew as much about his plans as anybody, and
Machiavelli was confident that he would in due course succeed in
extracting from him anything he knew. The Signory had a hold on him. He
had inherited from his mother two houses in Florence and if he did not
behave an accidental fire might easily destroy one of them; and if this
were not a sufficient warning, means might possibly be found to damage
the business in the Levant in which he still had a large interest.

"It is good to have friends," Machiavelli reflected, "but it is as well
that they should know you can retaliate if they should be led to act
other than as friends should."

The door was opened by a servingman. When Machiavelli, first giving his
name, asked for his master, he said:

"The Count is expecting you."

He led them into a courtyard, up an outside staircase and into a room of
moderate size which a glance showed was used by the master of the house
as his office. They waited a minute or two and Bartolomeo blustered in.
He greeted his visitors with noisy heartiness.

"I heard of your arrival, Messer Niccol, and I have been awaiting you
with eagerness."

He was a big corpulent man of about forty with long hair, receding from
his forehead, and a full black beard; he had a red face, shining with
sweat, a double chin and a somewhat imposing paunch. Machiavelli,
himself as lean as a rail, did not like fat men; he was used to saying
that no man could grow fat in Italy without robbing the widow and the
orphan and grinding the faces of the poor.

"Biagio Buonaccorsi wrote and told me you were coming. A courier brought
the letter yesterday."

"Yes, a courier was coming and Biagio made use of him. This is Piero
Giacomini, son of our good Biagio's sister."

Bartolomeo gave a ringing laugh and, taking the boy in his arms, pressed
him to his paunch and kissed him on both cheeks.

"Then we are cousins," he cried in a loud, booming voice.

"Cousins?" murmured Machiavelli.

"Did you not know? Biagio's grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.
They were both daughters of Carlo Peruzzi."

"Strange Biagio should never have told me. Did you know this, Piero?"

"No, Messere."

Machiavelli only disclaimed knowledge of this fact, with which of course
he was perfectly acquainted, because it was one of his principles never
to let anyone know how much he knew without good reason. He was pleased
to see that Piero had taken the cue without a moment's hesitation. A
good boy.

Bartolomeo asked them to sit down. There was no fireplace in the room,
but a brazier of live charcoal took the chill off the air. He asked
after his friends in Florence, which he frequently visited on business,
and Machiavelli gave him news of them. They chatted about one thing and
another, and presently the conversation turned upon Piero Soderini who
had just been elected Gonfalonier for life.

"He is a good friend of mine, a very worthy and honest man," said
Machiavelli. "It is at his express desire that I have come to Imola
now."

He thought it well to let Bartolomeo know that he had the confidence of
the head of the Republic.

"I am very glad to see you and you may be assured that you can count on
my services. I asked Biagio to send me a bolt of fine linen, but in the
circumstances I suppose you had no opportunity to bring it."

Biagio, since he was ever ready to do a service, was constantly asked to
do commissions for all and sundry and no one used him more
unconscionably than Machiavelli.

"On the contrary," he answered, "Biagio made a point of my bringing it,
but my servants have it and they will not get to Imola till later in the
day."

"My wife is making me shirts. She was taught embroidery by the nuns and
I have no hesitation in saying that there isn't a woman in Imola to
equal her. She is an artist."

Machiavelli's mind was busy. He was trying to size the man up. Bluff and
hearty, plethoric, which suggested that he liked to eat well and drink
deep, with a fat laugh and a booming loquacity. It remained to be seen
whether the jovial manner and frank cordiality masked an astute and
scheming brain. He had the reputation of being a good businessman who
drove a hard bargain. Machiavelli turned the conversation to Imola and
its condition. Bartolomeo was eloquent in praise of the Duke. He had
adhered scrupulously to the terms of the capitulation; the sum he had
exacted on occupying the city was not unreasonable and he was proposing
to spend much on making it a finer and grander place. For Imola was the
capital of his newly acquired state. He was having plans drawn out for
building a new palace for himself, a new house for the merchants to meet
at, a hospital for the poor; order reigned in the city, crime had
diminished and justice was prompt and cheap. Poor and rich were equal
before the law. Commerce was flourishing; bribery and corruption had
ceased. The Duke interested himself in the agricultural resources of the
country and had given instructions that everything possible should be
done to foster it. The troops were stationed outside the city and it was
spared the cost of their maintenance. In short the city was entering
upon an era of prosperity and everyone was well satisfied.

"Long may it last," said Machiavelli pleasantly. "And what will happen
to you if the Duke's captains overthrow him and march into your city
with their troops?"

Bartolomeo burst into a bellow of laughter and slapped his thigh.

"They amount to nothing. They know they're powerless without the Duke
and they'll come to terms with him. Believe me, it will all blow over."

Machiavelli could not make up his mind whether Bartolomeo believed what
he said, wanted to believe what he said, or was just saying what he
wanted Machiavelli to believe. He had still not made up his mind whether
the man was stupid or clever. That frankness, that enthusiasm, that
guileless air and those smiling, friendly eyes might conceal anything.
He changed the conversation.

"You were good enough to say that you would be pleased to be of service
to me. Can you tell me where I can find a place to live with Piero and
my servants?"

"I wish you had asked me anything but that," Bartolomeo laughed
boisterously. "What with the Duke's courts and all the hangers-on,
poets, painters, architects, engineers, to say nothing of the people
from his other possessions who are here on business and the merchants,
the vendors of this and that, who've been attracted by the opportunities
to make money, there isn't a hole or corner in the city that isn't
occupied."

"I wish to stay here no longer than I need, but I am at the orders of
the Signory. I cannot conduct my business in a monastery cell. I must
find accommodation for Piero and my servants."

"I will ask my mother-in-law. She knows more about a matter like this
than I do. I will call her."

He left the room and on his return after an interval invited his guests
to follow him. He led them into a much larger apartment, with handsomely
painted walls and a fireplace. Two ladies were seated at work by the
fire. They rose when the strangers entered and curtsied in response to
their low bows. One of them was a middle-aged woman of a comely
presence.

"This is my mother-in-law, Monna Caterina Cappello," said Bartolomeo.
"And this is my wife."

She was young enough to be his daughter. Following the fashion of the
day her hair, naturally dark, was dyed very fair; and since the swarthy
skin of Italian women did not go with this, her face, neck and bosom
were heavily coated with a white cosmetic. The contrast of the golden
hair with her handsome black eyes was very effective. Her eyebrows were
plucked to a thin line. She had a small straight nose and a lovely
mouth. She was dressed in pale gray, with a full skirt, billowing
sleeves and a bodice fitting her slim figure tightly and cut low in a
square to show her snowy bosom and the outline of her young full
breasts. There was a virginal quality in her beauty and at the same time
a ripeness that made a highly attractive combination. Machiavelli,
though his face gave no indication of it, felt a queer sensation in what
he was pleased to call his heart.

"A very pretty young woman," he said to himself. "I would like to go to
bed with her."

While the two ladies brought up chairs for the visitors to sit on,
Bartolomeo explained to Monna Caterina Machiavelli's difficulty and
then, as an afterthought, added that in Piero he had found a cousin whom
he had never seen. Both women gave the boy a smile when the relationship
was explained to them, and Machiavelli noticed with pleasure that
Bartolomeo's wife had good teeth, small, even and white.

"Would these gentlemen not like some refreshment?" asked Monna Caterina.

She was dressed very like her daughter, but in a darker colour, and
since it was not thought proper for a respectable woman either to dye
her hair or to paint her cheeks she was as nature made her, but she had
her daughter's fine black eyes and in youth must have been as beautiful.
Machiavelli said they had already breakfasted, but his host insisted
that they should at least drink a glass of wine.

"Aurelia, go and tell Nina," he said to his wife.

The young woman went out. He repeated to his mother-in-law what
Machiavelli had told him about his requirements.

"It's impossible. There's not a room to be let in the whole city. But
wait. Since Messere is a person of consequence and this young man your
cousin, it may be that Serafina would take them. She has always refused
to take lodgers; only the other day I told her it was a shame to keep
that room empty when people were willing to pay anything to have a roof
over their heads."

Bartolomeo explained that Monna Serafina was the widow of one of his
factors in the Levant and the house she lived in belonged to him. Her
eldest son was in his office at Smyrna, and she had two children living
with her, a boy who was to be a priest and a girl of fourteen. It was on
their account, so that they might not be exposed to the danger of bad
company, that she had refused to have strangers in her house.

"She could hardly refuse you, my son, if you made a point of it."

It was odd to hear Monna Caterina address the fat man as her son, for
she could not have been more than two or three years older than he.

"I will take you round myself," said Bartolomeo. "I'm sure it can be
arranged."

Aurelia came back and was immediately followed by a maid who brought in
a salver on which were goblets of Venetian glass, a bottle of wine and a
dish of sweetmeats. Aurelia sat down and resumed her work.

"Messer Niccol has brought you the linen, dear," Bartolomeo said, "so
you can get to work on my shirts."

"God knows, you needed some new ones," said Monna Caterina.

Aurelia smiled, but did not speak.

"Let me show you how beautifully my wife embroiders."

Bartolomeo went over to Aurelia and took the material on which she was
busy.

"No, Bartolomeo, these are women's things."

"If Messer Niccol has never seen a woman's shift it is high time he
did."

"I am a married man, Monna Aurelia," said Machiavelli with a smile that
made his thin face not unattractive.

"Look at the beauty of her needlework and the elegance of her design."

"Is it possible that she draws it herself?"

"Of course. She is an artist."

Machiavelli made a suitable compliment and the garment was returned to
her. She thanked him with a smile of her bright eyes. When they had
eaten of the sweetmeats and drunk a glass of wine Bartolomeo proposed
that he should take them round to the widow Serafina.

"Her house is just behind this one," he said.

Machiavelli and Piero accompanied him downstairs, and through a small
yard in which was a well with a carved wellhead and a chestnut tree, now
after the first frost of autumn its leaves scattered, to a small door
that led into a narrow alley.

"Here we are," said Bartolomeo.

The deserted alley suggested to Machiavelli that visitors in all
likelihood could come to see him without being observed. Bartolomeo
knocked and in a minute the door was opened by a thin, tallish woman
with a lined, worn face, sullen eyes and gray hair. The look of
suspicion she wore changed into one of effusive welcome when she saw who
it was that had knocked. She begged them to enter.

"This is Messer Niccol Machiavelli, First Secretary of the Second
Chancery, and envoy to the Duke from the Florentine Republic, and this
youth is my cousin Piero, nephew of my good friend and relative, Biagio
Buonaccorsi."

Monna Serafina led them into a parlour and Bartolomeo set forth the
purpose of their visit. Monna Serafina's face went glum.

"Oh, Messer Bartolomeo, you know I've refused everybody. You see, with
two young children in the house. And people one knows nothing about."

"I know, I know, Serafina, but here are people I vouch for. Piero is my
cousin; he will be a good friend to your Luigi."

The discussion proceeded. Bartolomeo, in his bluff, hearty way managed
to convey to the unwilling woman that the house was his and if he wanted
to he could turn her out, and that her elder son was in his employment
and depended on his good will for advancement; but it was done in such a
friendly, bantering manner as to excite Machiavelli's admiration. The
man, simple though he looked, was no fool. Serafina was poor and she
could not afford to offend Bartolomeo. With a grim smile she said that
she would be happy to do him and his friends a service. It was arranged
that Machiavelli should have a room and the use of the parlour, Piero
would double up with her son Luigi and she would put down mattresses for
the two servants in the attic. The sum she asked for rent was high, and
Bartolomeo remarked on it, but Machiavelli thought it beneath his
official dignity to haggle and said that he would be glad to pay it. He
knew that nothing more predisposes someone in your favour than to let
him rob you a little. There was of course no glass in the windows, but
there were shutters to them and oiled-paper screens which could be
opened entirely or in part to let in air and light. There was a
fireplace in the kitchen, and the parlour could be warmed by a brazier.
Serafina consented to give her own room to Machiavelli and move in with
her daughter to a smaller room on the ground floor.


[ix]

This having been settled, Bartolomeo left them and Machiavelli and Piero
went back to the Golden Lion to have dinner. They were just finishing
when the two servants arrived from Scarperia with the horses and the
baggage. Machiavelli told Piero to show them the way to the monastery
and fetch the saddlebags which had been left there.

"Take the bolt of linen to Messer Bartolomeo's and have the maid take it
up to the ladies. She wasn't a bad-looking wench; it might be worth your
while to get into conversation with her. Then go back to Serafina's and
wait till I come."

He paused for a moment.

"She's a talkative woman and certainly a gossip. Go and sit with her in
the kitchen. She'll be glad of company. Let her talk to you about her
children and talk to her about your mother. Then find out all you can
about Bartolomeo, his wife and his mother-in-law. Serafina's under too
great an obligation to him not to bear him a grudge; you have a frank,
honest face, you're only a boy, if you can gain her confidence she'll
pour out her soul to you. It will be good practice for you to learn how
with kind words and pretty speeches you can get someone to betray the
hatred that is in his heart."

"But, Messer Niccol, why are you so certain that she hates him?"

"I'm not certain at all. It may be that she's only a foolish, garrulous
woman. The fact remains that she is poor and he is rich, and that she
depends on his bounty; the burden of gratitude is very hard to bear.
Believe me, it is easier to forgive the offences your enemy does you
than the benefits your friend confers upon you."

He smiled acidly and went his way. He had an appointment with the
Florentine agent to meet a fellow citizen, Giacomo Farinelli by name,
who had been exiled with the Medici, and who, being a clever accountant,
had been engaged by the Duke. But he was anxious to get back to Florence
and have his confiscated property restored to him and so could be
counted on to make himself useful. He confirmed what Bartolomeo had told
Machiavelli in the morning. The Duke's new subjects were contented with
his rule. The administration was severe but competent. The people who
had groaned under the tyranny of their petty princes enjoyed a freedom
from oppression they had not known for a century. By conscription,
taking one man from every house in his dominions, the Duke had created
an army which was much more reliable than the hirelings of which in
general armies consisted. The French men-at-arms and the Gascons might
at any time be recalled by their king, the Swiss were always prepared to
desert if another power made it worth their while, and the Germans
ravaged every district they went through and were a terror to the
population. The Duke's soldiers were proud of the red-and-yellow uniform
into which he had put them; they were well paid, well drilled and well
armed; and he had succeeded in inspiring them with loyalty.

"And what of the captains, Vitellozzo and the Orsini?" asked
Machiavelli.

There was no news of them. No one knew what they were doing.

"What is the feeling at the Palace?"

"You would say that nothing was the matter," said Farinelli. "The Duke
is secret and keeps to his apartments. The secretaries give no sign that
there is cause for anxiety. I have never seen Messer Agapito in a better
humour."

Machiavelli frowned. He was puzzled. It was evident enough that
something was brewing, but though the accountant was very willing to
tell all he knew, at the end Machiavelli was obliged to admit that he
was no wiser than before. He left and returned to his lodging. Piero was
waiting for him.

"Did you deliver the linen?" he asked.

"Yes. Messer Bartolomeo was at the Palace. The maid told me to wait
while she took it up to the ladies and when she came down said they
wanted to thank me in person for bringing it. So I went up."

"Then you didn't make friends with the maid as I told you to."

"There was no opportunity."

"You might have pinched her or at least told her she was pretty. There
was opportunity for that."

"The ladies were very nice to me. They gave me fruit and cake and wine.
They asked me a lot of questions about you."

"What did they ask?"

"They wanted to know how long you'd been married and whom you'd married
and what Monna Marietta was like."

"And have you talked to Serafina?"

"You were right about her, Messere. If you hadn't come in she'd be
talking still. I thought she'd never stop."

"Tell me."

When Piero had finished, Machiavelli gave him a genial smile.

"You have done very well. I knew I was right, I knew that your youth
would appeal to the aging woman and your simple and innocent look make
it easy for her to confide in you."

Piero had found out a great deal. Bartolomeo was in high favour with the
Duke. He was one of the first men in the city. He was honest, kindly,
generous and devout. This was his third marriage. His first had been
arranged by his parents, and his wife after eight years died of cholera.
After a decent interval he married again, but eleven years later his
second wife also died. Both had brought him handsome dowries, but both
were childless. He had remained a widower for three years and then
suddenly married Aurelia. She was a native of Sinigaglia, a port on the
Adriatic, and her father was owner and master of a coasting vessel that
carried merchandise to the Dalmatian cities. He was lost with his ship
in a storm, and his widow was reduced to poverty so that she had to earn
her living as a sempstress. She had three daughters, a son having been
drowned with his father, but two of them were married. Aurelia was
sixteen when accident brought her to the notice of Bartolomeo. He was
struck by her virginal beauty, but neither by birth nor fortune was she
a proper match for a man of his consequence; yet, young though she was,
there was in her a ripeness that gave promise of fecundity, and that was
a matter of moment to Bartolomeo, for there was nothing in the world he
wanted more than a son. During the lifetime of his two wives he had kept
likely young women of humble station, but none of these irregular amours
had resulted in issue. The fact that Monna Caterina had had six children
(two had died in infancy) showed that the stock was fruitful, and by
discreet enquiries he discovered that Aurelia's older sisters had
already had three or four babies each. They had in fact given birth once
a year with the regularity which was proper to a healthy young person of
the female sex. But Bartolomeo was cautious. He had married two barren
women and did not want to marry a third. Through an intermediary he
proposed to Monna Caterina that he should install her and her daughter
on a handsome allowance in one of his villas outside Imola, with a
promise that he would recognize any child that might be born. He went so
far as to permit the intermediary to hint at the possibility of marriage
if the child were male. But Monna Caterina, whether owing to religious
scruples or worldly wisdom, refused the offer with indignation. Her dead
husband, though no more than the master of a small coasting vessel, had
been an honourable man and her two daughters were respectably, if not
richly, married. Sooner than see her beloved child the kept woman of a
merchant she would put her in a nunnery. Bartolomeo reviewed the
marriageable young women in Imola and could think of none who attracted
him so much as Aurelia or who seemed more likely to give him the son he
yearned for. He was a businessman. He knew that if you wanted something
enough and could not get it at your own price there was only one thing
to do and that was to give the price asked for it. With a good grace he
made an offer of marriage. It was promptly accepted.

Bartolomeo was not only a businessman, but a shrewd one. Aurelia was
more than twenty years younger than he, and he thought it advisable that
she should have someone to keep an eye on her. He invited Monna Caterina
to live with him and his bride.

Serafina sniggered.

"The old fool trusts her. But look at her; that isn't a woman who was
faithful to her husband. You can tell at once. When her husband was at
sea she wasn't so virtuous as all that."

"She evidently doesn't like Monna Caterina," said Machiavelli. "I wonder
why. Perhaps she wanted to marry Bartolomeo herself and have him adopt
her children. Perhaps merely envy. It may be of no importance, but it is
just as well to know."

The marriage had been happy and Bartolomeo was delighted with his young
wife. He gave her fine clothes and fine jewels. She was dutiful,
respectful, submissive, in fact all that a wife should be, but though
they had been married three years she had not had a baby and showed no
sign of having one. It was the great cross of Bartolomeo's life and now
that he had a title to transmit he wanted a son more than ever.

"Did Monna Serafina hint that the beautiful Aurelia might be unfaithful
to her old husband?" Machiavelli asked with a smile.

"No. She seldom goes out except to go to Mass and then only with her
mother or the maid to accompany her. According to Monna Serafina she is
very pious. She would look upon it as a mortal sin to deceive her
husband."

Machiavelli pondered.

"When you were talking with the ladies about me did you happen to
mention that Monna Marietta was pregnant?"

The boy flushed.

"I thought there was no harm."

"None at all. I'm not sorry they know."

Machiavelli smiled significantly, but the significance of his smile
escaped Piero. It has been said that Machiavelli had not married
Marietta for love. He respected her, he appreciated her good qualities,
and he approved of her devotion for him. She was a thrifty housekeeper,
an important matter to one of his small means, and she never wasted a
penny; she would be the mother of his children, and a good mother; there
was every reason why he should regard her with indulgence and affection,
but it had never entered his mind that he should be faithful to her.
Aurelia's beauty had taken his breath away, but it was not only her
beauty that had moved him, he could not remember any woman who had so
violently and so immediately excited his senses. His very stomach ached
with the vehemence of his desire.

"I'm going to have that woman if I die for it," he said to himself.

He knew a great deal about women and it was not often that he had failed
to satisfy his lust. He had no illusions about his appearance; he knew
that other men were handsomer than he and that many had the advantage of
him in wealth and station. But he was confident in his powers of
attraction. He could amuse them, he knew just how to flatter them, he
had a way with him that put them at their ease with him, but above all
he desired them; they were very conscious of that and it excited them.

"When a woman feels with every nerve in her body that you want her she
can resist only if she's passionately in love with another," he had once
told Biagio.

It was impossible to suppose that Aurelia loved her fat husband, a man
so many years older than herself, to whom she had been married by her
mother because it was a good business proposition. But Bartolomeo must
know that there were young men in the city, dissolute fellows attached
to the Duke's court, who had noticed that she was beautiful, and he must
be on his guard. The servingman had suspicious eyes. He was
beetle-browed, a sullen fellow with a great bony nose and a cruel mouth;
he might well have been put there to spy on his young mistress. And then
there was the mother. Serafina said she had been gay in her youth and it
might be true; she had the bold, roving eye of the woman who has had
adventures, and though it might be that it would be no outrage to her
virtue if her daughter took a lover, it was a risk to run. Machiavelli
had come to the conclusion that Bartolomeo was a vain man, and he knew
that no one can be so vindictive as the vain man who discovers that he
has been fooled. It was no easy matter that Machiavelli was undertaking,
but that did not disturb him, he had confidence in himself, and the
difficulty made the affair more interesting. It was evident that he must
cultivate Bartolomeo and lull him into security and it would be well to
get on good terms with Monna Caterina. It had been a sound idea to get
Piero to question Serafina and it had given him some notion of the
situation. But he had to know more and then some plan might suggest
itself to his fertile mind. He knew it was no use to rack his brain. He
must wait for an inspiration.

"Let us go and have supper," he said to Piero.

They walked to the Golden Lion and, having eaten, returned to their
lodging. Serafina had put her children to bed and was in the kitchen
darning a pair of stockings. Machiavelli sent Piero up to the room he
shared with her son and, politely asking if he might warm himself for a
little by her fire, sat down. He had an inkling that Monna Caterina
would be over very soon to ask Serafina about him and he wanted her to
give a good report of him. He could be very charming when he chose and
now he did. He told her of his mission to the court of France, partly
because he knew it would interest her, but more to impress upon her his
own importance; he talked of the King and of his minister the Cardinal
as though he were hail-fellow-well-met with them, and told her
scandalous and amusing stories of the gallantries of great ladies. Then
he took another line; he told her of Marietta, and how hard it was to
leave her when she was pregnant, and how much he wanted to go back to
Florence and his happy home. Serafina would have had to be a very clever
woman to doubt that he was the good and devoted husband, the plain,
honest man he made himself out to be. He listened with sympathetic
interest while she told him of her husband's illness and death, the
better days she had seen, and the responsibility it was to have two
young children to launch into the world. Of course she thought him a
delightful, distinguished and kindly man. When he told her that he was
delicate, with a digestion that was the torment of his life, and that
the food at the Golden Lion didn't agree with him, for he was used to
Monna Marietta's simple fare, it was natural enough for Serafina to say
that if he wasn't too proud to eat with her and her children she would
gladly provide meals for him and Piero. This suited him very well, for
it would save money and in other ways be more convenient. He left her
with just the impression of himself that he wanted, went up to his room
and by the light of a candle read his Livy till he felt inclined to
sleep.


[x]

Machiavelli lay in bed late next morning. He read one of the cantos of
the _Inferno_. Though he knew the noble poem almost by heart it filled
him as usual with exaltation; he could never read it without being
ravished by the beauty of its language; but at the back of his mind
hovered the picture of Aurelia primly at work on her embroidery, and now
and then he was obliged to put the book down and indulge in thoughts of
some indecency. He wondered how on earth he could arrange to see her
again. Of course it might be that on a second meeting she would seem
less desirable, and in a way it would be a blessing, for he had enough
to do without engaging in a love affair. On the other hand it would be a
pleasant distraction from his political labours. His reflections were
interrupted by his servant Antonio who told him that Messer Bartolomeo
was below and desired to see him. Sending down a message that he would
join him immediately, Machiavelli threw on his clothes and went
downstairs.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Count, but I was just finishing a
letter to the Signory," he lied easily.

Bartolomeo, with a slight gesture of deprecation at Machiavelli's use of
his title, as though to say that it was a trifle of no account, was
obviously flattered. He brought news. The strongest fortress in Urbino
was San Leo; it was perched on a steep, isolated rock and was reputed to
be impregnable. It happened that it was undergoing repair and, taking
advantage of this, a number of armed peasants rushed the gate and
massacred Il Valentino's garrison. The news spread quickly and other
villages at once rose in revolt. Il Valentino had flown into a temper
when intelligence of this was brought him; it was evident that the
rising had been instigated by the conspirators at La Magione and that
could only mean that they had decided to attack him. The Palace was in a
turmoil of activity.

"What are the troops the Duke can at present dispose of?" Machiavelli
interrupted.

"You'd better come and see for yourself."

"I doubt whether His Excellency would give me permission."

"Come with me. I'm going to the camp now. I'll take you."

It flashed across Machiavelli's mind that Bartolomeo had not come in a
friendly way to give him information which in any case could not have
been for long kept secret, but had been sent by the Duke expressly to
tender this invitation. Like a hunter in the forest who hears a rustling
in the undergrowth, Machiavelli was on a sudden alert, but he smiled
amiably.

"You must be a powerful man, friend, if you can come and go about the
camp at your own free will."

"No, it isn't that," Bartolomeo replied, with a semblance of modesty.
"The Duke has put me at the head of the citizens commissioned to see to
the provisioning of the troops."

"You must be making a pretty penny out of it," said Machiavelli slyly.

Bartolomeo burst into a fat laugh.

"A bare profit, if that. The Duke isn't a man to trifle with. At Urbino
the men almost mutinied over the quality of their food and when the
matter was brought to his attention and he discovered that their
complaints were justified, he hanged the three commissioners."

"I can well understand that it makes you careful."

They rode out to the camp. It was three miles from the city. There were
three companies of fifty lancers under Spanish captains and a hundred
Roman lancers, gentlemen who had joined the Duke's army for adventure
and to win renown. Each lancer was mounted and he had a page on a pony
and an infantryman as attendants. There were twenty-five hundred
mercenaries; and the Duke's conscripted soldiers, six thousand of them,
were expected to arrive in two days. He had sent an agent to Milan to
collect five hundred of the Gascon adventurers who were scattered in
Lombardy and another to hire fifteen hundred Swiss. His artillery was
formidable and in good condition. Machiavelli was interested in military
affairs, of which he had gained some experience in the unsuccessful
siege of Pisa, and he flattered himself on his knowledge. He kept his
eyes open. He asked a lot of questions, both of officers and men, and
sorting the answers, accepting what looked like truth and rejecting what
was improbable, formed the opinion that the Duke's force was far from
negligible.

On getting back to the city he found a message from Agapito da Amalia to
say that the Duke desired to see him at eight o'clock that evening.
After dinner he sent Piero over to Bartolomeo's house to tell him that
he was to have an audience with the Duke that night and if Bartolomeo
would meet him later at the Golden Lion they might drink a cup of wine
together; it was possible that he could only get into communication with
Aurelia through her husband and therefore must make friends with him.
Bartolomeo was a trusting soul, who liked good cheer and good company,
and such a proof of confidence as the envoy of the Republic was now
offering could not fail to flatter his conceit.

Machiavelli went to his room and had a siesta, then decided that it
would be worth his while to have another talk with Serafina. He had a
notion that he could get more out of her than Piero had. She had spoken
well of Bartolomeo to him, but that might have been from discretion; if
he knew anything about human nature she must be less grateful for the
benefits the fat man had conferred on her than resentful on account of
those he had omitted. Machiavelli thought himself clever enough to
induce her to divulge her real feelings.

When he awoke he strolled downstairs as though to go to the parlour and
on his way sang, a little more loudly than was necessary, the catch of a
Florentine song.

"Are you there, Monna Serafina?" he said as he passed the kitchen door.
"I thought you were out."

"You have a fine voice, Messere," she said.

"A thousand thanks. May I come in for a minute?"

"My eldest son has a beautiful voice; Messer Bartolomeo used often to
have him over and they would sing together. Messer Bartolomeo is a bass.
It is strange that a man so big and strong should have a voice of so
little power."

Machiavelli pricked up his ears.

"My friend Biagio Buonaccorsi, Messer Bartolomeo's cousin, and I are
fond of singing together. What a pity I couldn't bring my lute with me!
It would have been a pleasure to me to sing some of my songs to you."

"But my son left his lute here. He wanted to take it with him, but it's
a valuable instrument which was given to his father, my poor husband, by
a gentleman to whom he had done a service and I wouldn't let him take
it."

"Will you let me see it?"

"It hasn't been touched for three years now. I daresay some of the
strings are broken."

But she fetched it and put it in Machiavelli's hands. It was a lovely
thing of cedar with ivory inlay. He tuned it and proceeded in a low
voice to sing. He was not only very fond of music, but had a technical
knowledge of it, and he had written the words and himself composed the
melody of several songs. As he finished he noticed that tears were in
Serafina's eyes. He put down the instrument and looked at her kindly.

"I didn't wish to make you cry."

"It reminds me of my boy, so far away and exposed to so many dangers
among those heathen people."

"It'll be good experience for him and under the protection of Messer
Bartolomeo his future is assured."

She gave him a pinched glance.

"Lazarus must be thankful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man's
table."

Her acid remark assured him that he had not been far wrong in his
conjecture.

"The Holy Scriptures assure us that in heaven the position will be
reversed," he answered.

She gave a laugh that was more like a snort.

"He would give half his wealth to have my children."

"It is strange that none of his three wives should have produced a
child."

"You men, you always think it's the woman's fault. Monna Caterina has
her head screwed on her shoulders all right; she knows that if Aurelia
doesn't have a baby soon it'll go badly with both of them. No more fine
dresses then. No more rings and bracelets. I've known Bartolomeo all his
life. He doesn't give much away for nothing. Monna Caterina is wise to
worry. She's giving Fra Timoteo money to pray that Aurelia should
conceive."

"Who, pray, is Fra Timoteo?" asked Machiavelli.

"Their confessor. Bartolomeo has promised to give a Virgin and Child
when Aurelia has a son. Fra Timoteo is making a pretty penny out of
them. He twists them round his little finger, and he knows as well as I
do that poor Bartolomeo is sterile."

Machiavelli had learnt more than he had hoped; a scheme beautiful and
simple flashed through his mind and he thought it wise to drop the
conversation. He idly plucked the strings of the lute.

"You're right, it's a beautiful instrument. It's a pleasure to play on
it. I don't wonder that you were unwilling to let your son take it
overseas."

"You are very sympathetic, Messere," she said. "If it gives you pleasure
to play, I will lend it you while you're here. I know you'll be careful
with it."

Machiavelli had been wondering how he could induce her to make such an
offer: she saved him all further trouble. There was no doubt about it,
he had a way with women: it was a pity she was old, haggard and sallow;
otherwise he might have permitted himself a little nonsense with her. He
thanked her warmly.

"It will be a comfort to me to sing the little songs my wife is fond of.
I haven't been married to her long and she is pregnant; it was hard to
leave her. But how could I help it? I am a servant of the Republic and I
must put my duty before my inclination."

When, a little later, Machiavelli left her he had persuaded Serafina
that he was not only a person of distinction, but a good husband, a
sincere friend, and an honest, charming and reliable man.


[xi]

At the appointed time one of the Duke's secretaries, accompanied by men
with torches, came to fetch him, and Machiavelli, calling one of his
servants to follow, started out for the Palace. The Duke received him
with a show of affection that was the more surprising since two nights
before he had dismissed him in a passion. He appeared to be in high
spirits. He mentioned the fall of the fortress of San Leo in an offhand
way and seemed to have no doubt that he would easily settle the trouble
in Urbino. Then in an intimately confidential manner that would have
flattered Machiavelli had he been sensible to flattery, he told him that
he had sent for him to impart some news that would interest the
gentlemen of the Signory. He produced a letter he had just received from
the Bishop of Arles, the Pope's legate in France, in which the Bishop
told him that the King and the Cardinal, his minister, were anxious to
please him and knowing that he needed men for his attack on Bologna had
given orders to Monsieur de Chaumont at Milan to send him three hundred
lancers under Monsieur de Lancres and on the Duke's demand to march in
person on Parma with another three hundred lancers. The Duke showed the
letter to Machiavelli so that he could vouch for its authenticity.

The cause of the Duke's good humour was obvious. If he had not marched
on Florence after his capture of Urbino it was only because the French
had sent a force to protect it and the only conclusion to be drawn from
this was that he could no longer count on their aid. It was the
assurance of this that had encouraged the captains to revolt. But if the
French, for reasons which could only be surmised, were once more
prepared to support him, his situation was much improved.

"Now listen to me, Secretary," he said. "This letter was written in
answer to the request I made to attack Bologna. You can see for yourself
that I shan't lack strength to defend myself against these rascals. They
couldn't have discovered themselves at a more convenient time. I know
now against whom I have to protect myself and who are my friends. I'm
telling you this so that you may write to your masters and tell them
that I'm not bowing before the storm. I have good friends and among them
I would like to count your masters--if they're disposed to come to terms
quickly; but if they're not I'm finished with them for good and all, and
even if I were up to my neck in water I wouldn't talk of friendship
again."

Though his words were menacing, he spoke in such a gay and debonair
fashion that they hardly seemed offensive. Machiavelli said he would
write at once to the Signory to inform them of what the Duke had
apprised him. The Duke bade him good night with cordiality.

When Machiavelli arrived at the inn he found Bartolomeo waiting for him.
They ordered mulled wine. Machiavelli, pledging him to secrecy to make
what he had to say appear more important, though he guessed that if
Bartolomeo did not know it already, he soon would, told him what he had
learnt from the Duke. It suited him then to invent a little; he told
Bartolomeo that the Duke had spoken most obligingly of him, and when the
fat man wanted to know in exactly what terms, Machiavelli had no
difficulty in specifying them. Bartolomeo beamed.

"You are already the first man in Imola, Messer Bartolomeo; if the Pope
lives and things prosper with the Duke you may well be one of the first
men in Italy."

"I am nothing but a merchant. I do not aim so high."

"Cosimo de' Medici was nothing but a merchant, and yet he became the
master of Florence, and his son, Lorenzo the Magnificent, treated on
equal terms with kings and princes."

The expression on Bartolomeo's face showed him that the dart had hit its
mark.

"Is it true that your wife is pregnant, Messere?"

"It is a great joy to me. She expects her confinement some time next
year."

"You are more fortunate than I," sighed Bartolomeo. "I have had three
wives and not one of them has borne me a child."

"Monna Aurelia is a strong and healthy young woman. It is impossible to
believe that she is barren."

"What other explanation can there be? We have been married three years."

"Perhaps if you took her to the baths..."

"I took her to the baths, and when that failed we went on a pilgrimage
to Santa Maria de la Misericordia at Alvanio, where there is a
miraculous image of the Madonna which causes barren women to conceive.
It had no effect. You can imagine what a mortification it is to me. My
enemies say that I am impotent. That is absurd. Few men are more virile
than I am. Why, I have bastards in every village within ten miles of
Imola."

Machiavelli knew that was a lie.

"Would you imagine that anyone could have such bad luck as to marry
three barren women?"

"You mustn't despair, my friend. A miracle is always possible and you
have surely deserved well of our Holy Church."

"That is what Fra Timoteo says. He prays for me daily."

"Fra Timoteo?" asked Machiavelli as though the name meant nothing to
him.

"Our confessor. He tells me to have faith."

Machiavelli called for more wine. By the exercise of judicious flattery,
namely by asking Bartolomeo's advice on how he should conduct himself in
his difficult negotiations with the Duke, he soon brought him to a more
cheerful state of mind. Then he told him a number of highly indecent
stories of which he had a great store and which he told with effect.
Bartolomeo laughed with great guffaws and by the time they parted he had
decided that he had never known a more entertaining fellow. On his side
Machiavelli thought that he had spent his evening to advantage. He was a
temperate man, but he had a strong head and the wine that had made
Bartolomeo a trifle tipsy had not affected him at all. When he got back
to his room he proceeded to write a long letter to the Signory telling
them of his interview with the Duke and what forces he had at his
disposition or within call. He wrote fluently and without erasures. Then
he read what he had written. It was a good letter.


[xii]

Il Valentino was in the habit of working far into the night and so did
not get up early in the morning. His secretaries, kept busy till all
hours, took advantage of this to sleep late and so next morning
Machiavelli, with nothing much to do till after dinner, his letter to
the Signory despatched, thought he would take things easily. He read his
Livy and made a few notes of the reflections his reading had occasioned
and then, to pass the time, took his borrowed lute. It had a good tone,
resonant but sweet, and he had noticed when first he tried it that it
suited his light baritone. It was a sunny day and he sat by the open
window enjoying the grateful warmth. Somewhere in the not far distance
they were burning wood and the smell of it was pleasant in his nostrils.
The lane that separated Serafina's house from Messer Bartolomeo's was so
narrow that a donkey with panniers could hardly have scraped its way
through and from his window Machiavelli looked down into the tiny
courtyard with its wellhead and its chestnut tree. He began to sing. He
was in good voice that morning and, liking the sound of it, went on.
Then he noticed that the window in a room opposite was being opened, he
could not see by whom, he did not even see the hand that fixed the paper
panel, but he had a sudden thrill of exultation, for he was convinced
that the unseen person could be none other than Aurelia. He sang two of
his favourite songs, love songs, both of them, and was in the middle of
a third when the window was suddenly closed as though someone had come
into the room. This somewhat disconcerted him and a suspicion passed
through his mind that it might have been the maid interrupted by her
mistress who did not want to be found neglecting her work to listen to a
stranger singing in the next house. But at dinnertime his well-directed
conversation discovered to him that the window that had been opened was
that of the nuptial chamber of Bartolomeo and his young wife.

Later on in the day he went to the Palace, but succeeded in seeing
neither the Duke nor any of the secretaries. He entered into
conversation with various persons who were lounging about apparently
with nothing to do and asked them what the news was. They knew nothing,
but he received the impression that they knew at least that something
had happened. Whatever it was, a secret was being made of it. Presently
he ran across Bartolomeo, who told him he had an appointment with the
Duke, but he was too busy to see him.

"We're both wasting our time here," said Machiavelli with his pleasant
friendliness. "Let us go to the inn and drink a bottle of wine. We might
have a game of cards, or if you can play chess, a game of chess."

"I'm fond of chess."

On their way to the Golden Lion, Machiavelli asked him what everyone at
the Palace was so busy about that day.

"I haven't a notion. I can't get anyone to tell me anything."

By the slight peevishness of Bartolomeo's tone Machiavelli guessed that
he was telling the truth. He had a great idea of his own importance and
it humiliated him to find that he was not in the Duke's entire
confidence.

"I have heard that when the Duke wishes to keep something secret not
even those closest to him know about it," said Machiavelli.

"He's been occupied with his secretaries all day. Messengers have been
despatched one after the other."

"It's evident that something has happened."

"I know that a courier arrived from Perugia this morning."

"A courier or someone disguised as a courier?"

Bartolomeo looked at him quickly.

"I don't know. What do you suspect?"

"Nothing. I was only asking."

It was but a short walk to the inn. They ordered wine and asked for
chessmen. Machiavelli was a good player and it did not take him long to
discover that Bartolomeo was no match for him, but he amused himself by
giving him a hard game and letting himself be beaten in the end.
Bartolomeo was puffed up with pride and while they drank their wine
pointed out to Machiavelli exactly what mistakes he had made and what
his moves should have been to counter his opponent's strategy.
Machiavelli blamed himself for his want of foresight. On their way back
to their respective domiciles Bartolomeo remarked:

"My mother-in-law says she heard someone singing in your house this
morning. A very pretty voice. Was that you or my young cousin Piero?"

"Piero's voice is better than mine, but it was I who was singing. I'm
flattered that Monna Caterina should not have thought too badly of my
efforts. Biagio and I and one or two more used often to while away the
time by singing."

"I sing a very good bass myself."

"Piero sings tenor. It would be an excellent combination. If you don't
object to my humble quarters it would be a great pleasure to me if you
would come in when you have nothing better to do and we'll give our good
Serafina a little concert."

Would the fish swallow the fly that was so skilfully cast? There was no
sign of it.

"We will certainly do that. It will bring me back my youth. When I was a
young fellow in Smyrna we Italians would sing all the time."

"Patience," Machiavelli muttered to himself. "Patience."

When he got in, taking a greasy pack of cards, he began to play
solitaire, but as he played he turned over in his mind what Bartolomeo
had told him and what he had learnt from Serafina. He had a plan and it
was a good one, but to carry it out called for ingenuity. The more he
thought of Aurelia the more she enflamed his fancy, and it tickled him
to death to think that he could provide Bartolomeo with the child,
preferably male, that he so much wanted.

"It is not often," he reflected, "that you can do a good action with so
much pleasure to yourself."

It was evident that he must ingratiate himself with Monna Caterina, for
without her he could do nothing, but the difficulty was to get on terms
with her sufficiently intimate to enable him to enlist her help. She was
a woman of voluptuous appearance and it occurred to him that he might
persuade Piero to go to bed with her. Piero was young. At her age she
could not fail to be grateful. But he dismissed the notion; it would
serve his purpose better if Piero became the maid's lover. But they said
that in her time Monna Caterina had been gay. If there was one thing of
which Machiavelli was convinced it was that when a woman ceases to be
desirable a procuress is born. He thought there was a natural instinct
in the sex that led them to enjoy vicariously pleasures that were no
longer befitting their age. And what should she care about Bartolomeo's
honour? It was to her interest that Aurelia should have offspring.

And what about this Fra Timoteo? He was their confessor; he was a friend
of the house. It might be worth while to see him and find out what sort
of a man he was. It might be that he could be put to good use.
Machiavelli's meditation was on a sudden disturbed by a tap on the
shutter. He looked up but did not move; the tap, low and discreet, was
repeated. He went to the window and slightly opened the shutter. A name
was muttered.

"Farinelli."

"Wait."

"Are you alone?"

"I am alone."

He went into the passage and opened the door. In the darkness he could
see nothing but that someone was standing there. Farinelli, it may be
remembered, was the Florentine accountant with whom Machiavelli had made
contact the day after his arrival. Huddled in a cape, with a scarf to
conceal his face, he slipped in and followed Machiavelli into the
parlour. It was lit by a single candle. He sat at the table close to
Machiavelli so that he need hardly raise his voice above a whisper.

"I have something important to tell you."

"Speak."

"Can I count on the generosity of the Signory if what I say is useful to
them?"

"Without doubt."

"A messenger, riding post, arrived at the Palace today. The rebels have
at last signed articles of agreement. They are pledged to stand by
Bentivoglio in defence of Bologna, to reinstate the dispossessed lords
in their dominions and not to undertake any separate negotiations with
the Duke. They have decided to collect seven hundred men-at-arms, a
hundred light horse and nine thousand foot. Bentivoglio is to attack
Imola, and Vitellozzo and the Orsini are to march on Urbino."

"That is news indeed," said Machiavelli.

He was pleasantly excited. Stirring events exhilarated him and he looked
forward with the anticipation of a spectator at a play to seeing how the
Duke would cope with the danger that confronted him.

"There is one more thing. Vitellozzo has given the Duke to know that if
he can be given reliable assurances that no attempt will be made to
deprive him of his own state of Castello he will rejoin him."

"How do you know this?"

"It is enough that I know it."

Machiavelli was perplexed. He knew Vitellozzo, a sullen, suspicious,
moody man, subject to wild rages and to attacks of profound depression.
The syphilis from which he suffered had so affected him that sometimes
he was hardly sane. Who could tell what wicked plans that tortured brain
was contriving? Machiavelli dismissed the accountant.

"I can count on your discretion, Messer Niccol? My life would be short
if it were discovered that I have told you what I have."

"I know. But I am not one to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs."


[xiii]

From then on things moved quickly. On hearing of the uprising in Urbino
the Duke had sent two of his captains, Spaniards both, Don Ugo da
Moncada and Don Michele da Corella, to put it down. Making Pergola and
Fossombrone their headquarters, they ravaged the surrounding
territories, sacked the towns and killed most of the inhabitants. At
Fossombrone women threw themselves and their children into the river to
escape the savagery of the soldiery. The Duke, sending for Machiavelli,
told him of these exploits with a great deal of good humour.

"It looks as though the season were not too healthy for rebels," he said
with a grim smile.

He had just received news from an envoy of the Pope at Perugia that on
his arrival the Orsini had come to assure him of their loyalty to the
Holy Father and to excuse their acts. Machiavelli remembered what
Farinelli had told him about Vitellozzo.

"It is difficult to understand why they have done that," he said.

"Use your brain, Secretary. It can only mean that they're not yet ready
and want to gain time by behaving as though an accommodation were still
possible."

A few days later Vitellozzo carried the city of Urbino by assault and
the Duke again sent for Machiavelli. Machiavelli expected to find him
disconcerted by the bad news, but he did not even mention it.

"I want to confer with you as usual on the matters that concern your
government and our common interests," he said. "I have received this
letter from someone I sent to Siena."

He read it aloud. It was from the Chevalier Orsini, a bastard of that
noble and powerful house, who was in the Duke's service. He had spoken
with the leaders of the conspiracy and they had declared their desire to
be on good terms with the Duke and professed their willingness to
re-enter his service if he would abandon his attack on Bologna and
instead combine with them to invade the Florentine territories.

"You see what confidence I place in you," he added, when he had
finished, "and what trust I have in the good faith of your government.
In return they should place more reliance on me than they have in the
past and they can be sure that I shall not fail them."

Machiavelli did not know how much of this to believe. The Orsini were
the bitter enemies of Florence and would welcome the opportunity to
restore the exiled Medici to power. It was not unlikely that they had
made some such offer. He could only suppose that the Duke had not
accepted it for fear of angering the French and was divulging it in
order to put the Republic under such an obligation that the Signory
would be willing to give him again the profitable _condotta_ he had not
long before forced upon them at the sword's point, but which, the danger
passed, they had to his vexation withdrawn from him. A _condotta_ was
the term used for the engagement of a mercenary captain, hence called a
_condottiere_, for a period of time. On his salary, settled after a lot
of haggling on both sides, he paid his men and made a pretty penny for
himself.

Two days later the rebel forces attacked the Duke's army under the joint
command of the two Spaniards and defeated it. Don Ugo da Moncada was
taken prisoner and Don Michele da Corella, wounded, fled to the
stronghold of Fossombrone. It was more than a setback, it was a
disaster. The news was kept secret in Imola, for, as Machiavelli wrote
to the Signory, in the Duke's court things which were not to be bruited
about were not spoken of; but he had his ways of finding out what was
important for him to know and as soon as the event reached his ears he
went to the Palace and requested an audience.

Machiavelli entered the presence with a lively sense of curiosity. He
was desirous to see in what state he would find the Duke, hitherto
self-confident and imperturbable, now that ruin stared him in the face.
He could not but know that he could expect no mercy from his enemies. He
was calm and even gay. He spoke of the rebels with disdain.

"I don't wish to boast," he said, "but I expect the outcome, whatever it
is, will show of what stuff they're made and what stuff I'm made of. I
know them well, the whole gang of them, and I think nothing of them.
Vitellozzo has a great reputation, but all I can tell you is that I've
never seen him do a thing that needed courage. His excuse is the French
sickness. The fact is, he's good for nothing but to ravage undefended
territories and rob those who haven't the guts to stand up to him. A
false friend and a treacherous enemy."

Machiavelli could not withhold his admiration for this man who faced
destruction with such an indomitable spirit. His situation was
desperate. The Bentivogli, Lords of Bologna, were on his northern
frontiers; Vitellozzo and the Orsini, flushed with victory, must be
advancing from the south. Attacked simultaneously on two fronts by
superior forces, he could not escape annihilation. Il Valentino was no
friend of Florence and his downfall and death would be a relief to the
Republic, but Machiavelli, against his will, had an inclination--it was
no more than that--to wish that he would succeed in extricating himself
from the strait he was in.

"I have received letters from France," said the Duke after a pause,
"from which I learn that the King has instructed your government to give
me every possible assistance."

"I have heard nothing of it," said Machiavelli.

"Well, it is true. You will write to your masters and tell them to send
me ten squadrons of cavalry, and you may add that I am ready to make a
firm and indissoluble alliance with them from which they will gain all
the advantages that may be expected from my help and my good fortune."

"I will naturally carry out Your Excellency's instructions."

The Duke was not alone. With him were Agapito da Amalia, the Bishop of
Elna, his cousin, and another secretary. There was an ominous silence.
The Duke stared at the Florentine envoy reflectively. The silence and
those piercing eyes would have incommoded a more nervous man than
Machiavelli, and even he had to exercise some self-control to maintain
an air of composure.

"I've heard from various sources," said the Duke at last, "that your
government is urging the Lords of Bologna to declare war on me and that
they're doing this either because they wish to ruin me or to make a pact
with me on more favourable terms."

Machiavelli contrived to smile with as much geniality as his cold and
somewhat austere cast of countenance allowed.

"I don't believe it for a moment, Excellency," he replied. "The letters
I receive from the Signory never fail to contain protestations of
friendship for the Holy Father and yourself."

"I don't believe it either, but protestations of friendship are more
convincing when acts conform with them."

"I am sure my government will do everything in its power to show the
sincerity of its intentions."

"If it is as wise as it is dilatory I am sure it will."

Within himself Machiavelli shivered. He had never in his life heard such
cold ferocity in a man's voice.


[xiv]

For some days after this Machiavelli busied himself in gathering
information from his agent, from Bartolomeo, from Farinelli and from
those about the Duke. He could trust no one completely and he knew that
Il Valentino's intimates told him only what they wanted him to know. But
the most puzzling fact of all was the inactivity of the revolting
captains. The Duke's troops, which he had been enlisting wherever men
were for sale, had not yet arrived, and though he still held some
fortresses in the states that had rebelled, it was impossible to believe
that he could withstand a determined assault. Now was the time to
attack. Now. Yet they did nothing. Machiavelli was at his wit's end; he
could not for the life of him understand what caused them to delay. Then
an event occurred that increased his bewilderment: the Orsini sent an
emissary to the Duke's court, who arrived one evening and left next day;
Machiavelli for all his efforts could not find out the purpose of his
visit.

He had by now received the Signory's reply to the Duke's demand for
armed help and in the hope of getting some inkling of what was
happening, applied for an audience. It was not without trepidation that
he went to the Palace, for what he had to tell the Duke was that the
Florentines had no troops to send and all they were prepared to offer
was an assurance of their benevolence. Machiavelli had seen Il Valentino
in a rage and he knew that it was terrible; he braced himself to bear
the storm with fortitude. No one could have been more astonished than he
when the Duke received the intelligence he brought with indifference.

"I've told you several times and tonight I tell you again that I'm not
devoid of resources. The French lancers will be here soon and so will
the Swiss infantry. You can see for yourself that I'm engaging troops
every day. The Pope has no lack of money, nor the King of men. It may
well be that my enemies will regret their treachery."

He smiled and his smile was cruel and cunning.

"Would it surprise you to know that they've already made offers of
peace?"

Machiavelli repressed a start.

"Messer Antonio da Venafro came on their behalf."

This was evidently the mysterious visitor of whom Machiavelli had heard.
He was the confidant and trusted adviser of Pandolfo Petrucci, Lord of
Siena, who by common report was the brains of the conspiracy.

"He made the proposal that we should overthrow the government of
Florence, but I answered that your state had never offended me and that
I was on the point of signing a treaty with you. 'Don't sign on any
account,' he said. 'Let me go back and return and we'll do something
worth while.' To which I answered: 'We've gone so far it's impossible to
withdraw.' And I tell you once more that though I'm prepared to listen
to these people and throw dust in their eyes I'll do nothing against
your state unless it forces me to."

As Machiavelli was taking his leave the Duke in a very casual fashion
dropped a remark which astounded the envoy of the Republic as in all
probability he expected it to do.

"I'm expecting Pagolo Orsini at any moment."

Piero had accompanied Machiavelli to the Palace and was waiting for him
in the guardroom with a lantern to light him back to their lodging.
Piero had learnt to read his master's face and he saw at a glance that
he was in no mood for conversation. They walked in silence. When
Machiavelli had taken off his cloak and his headgear he told Piero to
bring him ink, quills and paper, and sat down to write to the Signory.

"I shall go to bed," said Piero.

"No, wait," said Machiavelli, throwing himself back in his chair. "I
want to talk to you."

He did not know how much to believe of what the Duke had told him and he
thought it might help him with his letter if before writing he put into
words what he had in mind.

"I'm confused by this guile, these lies and the deceit of everyone I
have to deal with."

In as few words as were necessary he repeated to Piero what the Duke had
said to him.

"How is it possible for Il Valentino, with his spirit, his good fortune
and his great ambition, to condone the acts of men who've not only
prevented him from acquiring a state he has cast his eyes on, but have
caused him to lose a state he has already acquired? The captains
revolted because they wanted to destroy him before he could destroy
them. Why have they delayed to attack when they had him at their mercy?"

Machiavelli looked at Piero with frowning eyes, but Piero, very sensibly
surmising that the question was rhetorical, made no attempt to answer.

"Now he's strengthened his fortresses and garrisoned important places.
Every day more troops are arriving. He's getting money from the Pope and
men from the French. And he has the great advantage that he need consult
no one but himself. The captains are united only by their hatred and
fear of the Duke. Alliances are fragile because the respective parties
are more concerned with their particular interests than with their
common advantage. Allies cannot act swiftly because every step must be
discussed, and the folly, unpreparedness or incompetence of one may
cause the disaster of all. They're necessarily jealous of one another,
for no one of them wishes any one of the rest to gain so much power that
he will later be a danger. The captains must know that emissaries are
passing to and fro--you can be sure that Il Valentino has seen to
that--and each at the back of his mind must be haunted by the suspicion
that he is to be thrown to the wolves."

Machiavelli nervously gnawed his thumbnail.

"The more I think of it the more I believe that the rebels can no longer
do much harm to the Duke, they've missed their opportunity, and in that
case they may think it better worth their while to seek a
reconciliation."

Machiavelli gave the boy an angry look for which there was no
justification, since he had not opened his mouth.

"D'you know what that means?"

"No."

"It means that with their forces joined to his the Duke will have under
his orders a formidable army and it's inevitable that it will be put to
use. No one can afford to pay troops to sit about in idleness. How will
it be used? Against whom? That will be decided, I suspect, when Il
Valentino and Pagolo Orsini come face to face."


[xv]

Since no one in Italy was such a fool as to trust anyone else further
than he could see and a safe-conduct was worth no more than the paper it
was written on, Cardinal Borgia, the Pope's nephew, put himself in the
hands of the Orsini as a hostage, and two days later Pagolo, the head of
the house, disguised as a courier, arrived at Imola. He was a vain,
loquacious, effeminate and silly man, middle-aged, plump and baldish,
with a round, smooth face and a fussy, familiar manner. Il Valentino
treated him with great distinction and in his honour gave a great
banquet followed by a performance of the Menaechmi of Plautus. The two
leaders held long conferences, but what they discussed Machiavelli could
discover neither for love nor money. Such of the Duke's secretaries as
had seemed friendly disposed deliberately avoided him. He had nothing to
go on but a smiling remark of Agapito da Amalia's that the negotiations
were devised only to keep the enemy from taking action. Neither army in
fact moved and indeed the Bolognese troops withdrew from the places in
the Duke's dominions that they had occupied. The suspense soon grew too
great for Machiavelli to bear and, taking advantage of a letter he had
just received from Florence, he asked the Duke to see him. Il Valentino
received him in bed. He listened with his usual good humour to the
Signory's protestations of friendship and then entered upon the topic
which so much concerned Machiavelli.

"I think we shall come to an agreement," he said. "They want no more
from me than that the possession of their states shall be secured to
them and now we've only got to decide how that can be arranged. Cardinal
Orsini is drawing up articles and we must wait and see what they are. So
far as you're concerned you can rest assured that nothing will be done
contrary to the interests of your masters. I would never allow the
slightest harm to be done them."

He paused and when he spoke again it was with the smiling indulgence
with which you might speak of the whims of a spoilt woman.

"Poor Pagolo is very much incensed with Ramiro de Lorqua. He accuses him
of oppressing the people, of peculation and of maltreating various
persons who are under the protection of the Orsini."

Ramiro de Lorqua was the most trusted of the Duke's commanders. It was
he who had conducted the retreat of the routed forces after the battle
of Fossombrone and so saved them to fight another day. Il Valentino
chuckled.

"It appears that on one occasion a page was bringing him some wine and
spilt it, and Ramiro flew into a temper and had him thrown into the fire
and burnt alive. For some reason Pagolo took an interest in the boy.
I've promised to look into the charges and, if they're proved, give him
satisfaction."

But then a piece of news arrived which suggested that the revolting
captains were far from agreement among themselves: though the more
prudent were ready to make peace, the more adventurous were still
determined to wage war. Vitellozzo seized the Duke's fortress of
Fossombrone and two days later Oliverotto da Fermo took Camerino by
storm. This completed the loss of all the territories Il Valentino had
won during his last campaign. It looked as though the ruffians were
deliberately set upon frustrating the negotiations, and Pagolo Orsini
was enraged. But the Duke maintained his equanimity. Bentivoglio and the
Orsini were the most powerful of his enemies and he knew that if he came
to terms with them the others would have to toe the line. Pagolo went to
Bologna. On his return Agapito da Amalia told Machiavelli that an
agreement had been reached and only awaited the consent of Pagolo's
brother the Cardinal.

Machiavelli was filled with apprehension. If this was a fact, if Il
Valentino was prepared to forgive the injury the rebels had done him, if
they were prepared to forget the fear that had driven them to take up
arms, it could only be for one reason, which was that they had agreed to
make a joint attack on a third party; and this third party could only be
Florence or Venice. Venice was strong and Florence was weak. Her only
safeguard was the power of France, but she had bought the protection of
France with gold and the coffers of the Republic were empty. What would
France do if she were confronted with the brute fact that Caesar Borgia
with his reconciled commanders had invaded the territories of Florence
and captured her defenceless cities?

Machiavelli had a poor opinion of the French. Experience had taught him
that they were more concerned with present loss and present gain than
with future good and future ill. When asked to render a service their
first thought was how it could be useful to them and they kept faith
only so long as it served their purpose. The Pope's jubilee had brought
enormous amounts of money into the Vatican's treasury and his somewhat
high-handed procedure of seizing a cardinal's property on his decease
was continually adding to the sums at his disposal; for the mortality of
these princes of the Church was high; and the malicious indeed whispered
that His Holiness found it convenient on occasion discreetly to come to
the aid of a dilatory Providence. Thus he had ample funds to appease the
anger of King Louis should he take it amiss that his orders had been
disobeyed. Il Valentino had a well-equipped and well-trained army; the
King might hesitate to pit his strength against one who after all was a
vassal and a friend. The more Machiavelli considered, the more likely it
seemed to him that the crafty Louis would accept a situation in which
the profit was immediate and the danger, that Caesar Borgia would grow
too powerful, remote. There was every reason for Machiavelli to fear
that the Florence he loved with all his heart was doomed.


[xvi]

But Machiavelli was not only the diligent and conscientious servant of
the Republic, he was also a man consumed with the lusts of the flesh;
and while he studied with attention the letters he received from the
Signory and wrote almost every day careful and exact reports; while he
received in Serafina's house, sometimes openly, sometimes in secret,
messengers, spies, agents; while he betook himself here and there, to
the Palace, to the market place, to houses where he had acquaintance;
while he gathered every scrap of news, every rumour, every piece of
gossip so that he could come to conclusions that were at least
plausible; he found time to pursue the plan he had devised to seduce
Aurelia. But his plan involved spending money and money was just what he
hadn't got. The Florentine government was stingy, his salary was
miserable and he had already spent much of the sum he had been given on
leaving Florence. He was extravagant and liked to live well. He had
often to pay in advance the messengers who took his despatches and he
had besides to satisfy the various persons about the Duke's court who
were prepared for a consideration to give him useful information. There
were fortunately Florentine merchants in the city who would advance him
money and he wrote to Biagio urging him to send whatever he could raise
by hook or by crook. Then a strange thing happened. Giacomo Farinelli,
the accountant, who before had only come to see him at night, muffled up
so that no one should recognize him, appeared at the door in broad
daylight and asked to see him. His manner, which hitherto had been
furtive and frightened, was now open and cordial. He did not delay to
come to the object of his visit.

"I am commissioned by someone who is your friend and who highly esteems
your abilities to ask you to accept this small token of his
appreciation."

From the folds of his dress he drew a bag and placed it on the table.
Machiavelli heard the clink of coin.

"What is that?" he asked, his lips tightening and his eyes cold.

"Fifty ducats," smiled Farinelli.

It was a handsome amount. At the moment nothing could have been more
useful to Machiavelli.

"Why should the Duke wish to give me fifty ducats?"

"I have no reason to suppose that the Duke is concerned. I was ordered
to bring the money to you on behalf of a well-wisher who desired to
remain unknown, and you may rest assured that no one but your
well-wisher and I will ever know anything of the gift."

"It appears that both my well-wisher and you take me for a fool as well
as a knave. Take your money, return it to him who gave it to you and
tell him that the envoy of the Republic does not accept bribes."

"But it is not a bribe. It is a spontaneous gift offered by a friend in
appreciation of your high talents and literary attainments."

"I do not know how this generous friend can have formed an appreciation
of my literary attainments," said Machiavelli acidly.

"He had an opportunity to read the letters you wrote to the Signory
during your legation to France and greatly admired your acuteness of
observation, your good sense, your tact and above all the excellence of
your style."

"It is impossible that the person of whom you speak could have had
access to the files of the Chancery."

"I wonder. It is certainly not impossible that someone in the Chancery
found your letters interesting enough to copy, and that by some hazard
the person of whom I speak gained possession of them. No one knows
better than you with what parsimony the Republic pays its officials."

Machiavelli frowned. He was silent while he asked himself which of the
clerks it could be that had sold the letters to the Duke. It was true
that they were all ill-paid and some were doubtless secret adherents of
the Medici. But perhaps there was no truth in what Farinelli said. It
was easy enough to invent such a story. Farinelli went on.

"The Duke would be the last man to wish you to do anything against your
conscience or to the injury of Florence. What he wants is to your mutual
benefit, the Republic's and his. The Signory has confidence in your
judgment and all he would have you do is to put his case in such a way
as to appeal to the common sense of intelligent men."

"You need say no more," said Machiavelli, his thin lips curling into a
sarcastic smile. "I have no use for the Duke's money. I shall continue
to advise the Signory according to the best interests of the Republic."

Farinelli stood up and replaced the bag of gold from where he had taken
it.

"The Duke of Ferrara's agent was not too proud to accept a present from
His Excellency when it was a question of deciding his master to send a
detachment to His Excellency's help. If Monsieur de Chaumont hastened
the departure of the French troops from Milan it was because the King's
orders were supplemented by a handsome present from the Duke."

"I am well aware of it."

When Machiavelli was once more alone he laughed out loud. Of course the
possibility of accepting the money had never for an instant occurred to
him, but he could not help being amused when he thought how devilish
useful it would have been to him. But as he laughed an idea on a sudden
occurred to him and he laughed again. He was sure he could borrow the
money he needed from Bartolomeo, who would be only too glad to oblige
him; and it would be a priceless jest to seduce his wife by means of
money he had himself provided. Nothing could be prettier. And what a
good story it would make to tell when he got back to Florence! He could
hear his friends chuckle as he gathered them round him one evening in a
tavern and narrated it with all the effect he could contrive.

"Ah, Niccol, Niccol, what a good companion! No one can tell a story as
he can. What humour, what wit! It's as good as a play to listen to him."

He had not seen Bartolomeo for two days when he ran across him just
before dinner at the Palace to which he had gone for news. After
exchanging a few friendly words he said:

"Why don't you come this evening and we'll have a little music?"

Bartolomeo was pleased to say he could think of nothing he would enjoy
more. Machiavelli proceeded.

"It's true the room is small and the vaulted ceiling echoes, but we'll
have a brazier against the chill and with wine to keep the cold out we
shall do very well."

He had not long finished eating when Bartolomeo's servant brought a
letter. He wrote that the ladies of his house didn't see why they should
be deprived of a treat, the big room in his house was much better suited
for music than Serafina's cold small parlour, it had a fireplace so that
they could warm themselves at its cheerful blaze, and if he and cousin
Piero would do him the honour to come to supper his happiness would be
complete. Machiavelli accepted with alacrity.

"It's as easy as falling off a log," he said to himself.

Machiavelli had himself shaved and his hair trimmed and he put on his
best clothes, a long black damask sleeveless tunic and a tight-fitting
jacket with billowing velvet sleeves. Piero had dressed himself up also
for the occasion, but his pale blue tunic reached only halfway down his
thighs and he wore a purple belt round his waist; his handsome legs were
encased in dark blue hose, and his jacket, with sleeves less ample than
Machiavelli's, was dark blue also; a purple cap was perched jauntily on
his curly locks. Machiavelli looked at him with approval.

"You should make quite an impression on the little maid, Piero," he
smiled. "What did you say her name was? Nina?"

"Why do you wish me to go to bed with her?" asked Piero, smiling.

"I like to think that you will not have entirely wasted your time on
this trip. And besides, it may be useful to me."

"How?"

"Because I wish to go to bed with her mistress."

"You?"

There was so much surprise in Piero's tone that Machiavelli flushed
angrily.

"And why not, if you please?"

Piero saw that his master was put out and hesitated.

"You're married and--well, as old as my uncle."

"You speak like a fool. A woman of sense will always prefer a man in the
flower of his age to an inexperienced boy."

"It never entered my head that she meant anything to you. Do you love
her?"

"Love? I loved my mother, I esteem my wife and I shall love my children;
but I want to go to bed with Aurelia. There is much you still have to
learn, my poor boy. Take the lute and let us go."

But though Machiavelli was quick-tempered he could not be angry long. He
patted Piero's smooth cheek.

"It is very hard to keep secrets from a maid," he smiled. "You would be
doing me a service if you shut her mouth with kisses."

They had only to step across the narrow lane and on knocking were let in
by the servingman. Monna Caterina was handsomely gowned in black, but
Aurelia wore a rich dress of Venetian brocade; its opulent colours
enhanced the whiteness of her breast and the brilliant fairness of her
hair. It was with a little sigh of relief that Machiavelli decided she
was more beautiful even than he had imagined. She was very, very
desirable and it was absurd that she should have for a husband that
gross, self-satisfied man who would certainly never see forty again.

After the usual compliments they sat down to wait for supper. The ladies
had been working when Machiavelli and Piero came in.

"You see, they've already got busy on the linen you brought me from
Florence," said Bartolomeo.

"You are pleased with it, Monna Aurelia?" asked Machiavelli.

"It's impossible to get material of this quality in Imola," she said.

She looked at him as she spoke and her great dark eyes, resting on him
for a moment, made his heart beat.

"I'm going to have that woman if I die for it," he said to himself; but
of course he didn't quite mean that; what he meant was that he had never
met a harlot with whom he more urgently wanted to go to bed.

"We do the rough work, Nina and I," said Monna Caterina. "We measure and
cut and sew and my daughter does the embroidery. When it comes to that
my fingers are all thumbs and poor Nina's no better than I am."

"Monna Aurelia never makes two alike," said Bartolomeo proudly. "Show
Messer Niccol the design for the shirt you're working on now."

"Oh, I should be ashamed," she said prettily.

"Nonsense. I'll show him myself."

He brought over a sheet of paper.

"Do you see how cleverly she's introduced my initials?"

"It is a masterpiece of elegance and ingenuity," said Machiavelli with a
very good imitation of enthusiasm, for he was in truth entirely
indifferent to such things. "I wish my Marietta had such a charming gift
and the industry to make such good use of it."

"This woman of mine is as industrious as she is good," Bartolomeo said
fondly.

Machiavelli could not but reflect that he was interested neither in her
goodness nor her industry. He reflected further that husbands are often
mistaken in the virtues they ascribe to their wives.

Supper was served and he exerted himself to be at his best. He knew that
he told a story well and his sojourn in France had provided him with a
number of spicy tales about the ladies and gentlemen at the King's
court. Aurelia assumed a modest confusion when his indecencies grew too
obvious, but Bartolomeo guffawed and Monna Caterina, enjoying herself
hugely, egged him on. He could not but think that he was proving himself
a most agreeable guest. They did full justice to a copious repast and
after a decent interval during which he drew Bartolomeo out to talk
about himself, his affairs and his properties, which he did with
complacency, Machiavelli suggested that they should try their voices. He
tuned his lute and by way of prelude played a gay little tune. Then they
settled on a song they all knew. Part singing was a common
accomplishment of the day and with Bartolomeo's bass, Machiavelli's
light baritone and Piero's agreeable tenor they acquitted themselves to
their mutual satisfaction. Then Machiavelli sang one of Lorenzo de'
Medici's songs and the other two joined in the chorus. As he sang he
looked at Aurelia in the hope that she would guess he was singing only
to her and when their eyes met, and she looked down, he flattered
himself that she was at least aware of his feelings. That was the first
step. So the evening passed. It was a dull life the two ladies led and
such a diversion was a rare treat to them. Aurelia's delight was plain
in the shining of her splendid eyes. The more Machiavelli looked at them
the more sure he was that here was a woman, unawakened still, who was
capable of passion. He was prepared to awaken her. But before they
separated he had something to say that he had been holding back for the
proper moment. He did not think he was a vain man; but he could not help
finding the idea ingenious. So when the occasion arose he said:

"You were good enough to say that you would be willing to do me a
service, Messer Bartolomeo, and now I am going to take you at your
word."

"I would do a great deal for the envoy of the Republic," answered
Bartolomeo, who had drunk a great deal of wine and was, if not drunk, at
least mellow. "But for my good friend Niccol I would do anything."

"Well, the matter is this: the Signory are looking for a preacher to
deliver the Lenten sermons in the Cathedral next year and they asked me
to enquire whether there was anyone in Imola who could be entrusted with
this important duty."

"Fra Timoteo," cried Monna Caterina.

"Be quiet, mother-in-law," said Bartolomeo. "This is a matter of
consequence for men to settle after due deliberation. It may bring glory
or discredit to our city and we must be sure to recommend only one who
is worthy of the honour."

But Monna Caterina would not be so easily silenced.

"He delivered the Lenten sermons in our own church this very year and
the whole city thronged to hear him. When he described the tortures of
the damned, strong men burst into tears, women swooned and one poor
creature who was near her time suddenly felt the pangs of childbirth and
was carried shrieking from the church."

"I do not deny it. I am a hardheaded man of business and I sobbed like a
child. It is true, Fra Timoteo has eloquence and a fine choice of
words."

"Who is this Fra Timoteo?" asked Machiavelli. "What you tell me is
interesting. The Florentines dearly love to be called to repentance at
the proper season; it enables them to cheat their neighbour for the rest
of the year with a good conscience."

"Fra Timoteo is our confessor," said Bartolomeo, a fact of which
Machiavelli was well aware. "And for my own part I never do a thing
without his advice. He is not only a worthy man, but a wise one. Why,
only a few months ago I was about to buy a cargo of spices in the Levant
and he told me that he had seen St. Paul in a vision, who told him that
the ship would be wrecked on the coast of Crete, so I did not buy."

"And was the ship wrecked?" asked Machiavelli.

"No, but three caravels arrived in Lisbon laden with spices with the
result that the bottom fell out of the market and I should have lost
money on the transaction, so it came to the same thing."

"The more you tell me of this friar the more curious I am to see him."

"You are very likely to find him in the church in the morning, and if
not you can ask the brother sacristan to fetch him."

"May I tell him that I come to him with your recommendation?"
Machiavelli asked politely.

"The envoy of the Republic needs no recommendation from a poor merchant
in a town which is of small account compared with the magnificent city
of Florence."

"And what do you think of this Fra Timoteo?" Machiavelli went on,
addressing himself to Aurelia. "It is important that I should have the
opinion not only of a man of position and discernment like Messer
Bartolomeo and of a woman of discretion and experience like Monna
Caterina, but also of one who has the enthusiasm, the innocence and the
sensitiveness of youth, one to whom the world and its perils are still
unknown, for the preacher I would recommend to the Signory must not only
call sinners to repentance, but confirm the virtuous in their
integrity."

It was a pretty speech.

"Fra Timoteo can do no wrong in my eyes. I am prepared to be guided by
him in everything."

"And I," added Bartolomeo, "am prepared that you should be guided by
him. He will never advise anything that is not to your best advantage."

It had all gone very well and exactly as Machiavelli wished. He went to
bed satisfied with himself.


[xvii]

Early next morning, being market day, Machiavelli took Piero with him to
the market place and bought two brace of plump partridges. At another
stall he bought a basket of the luscious figs which were the speciality
of Rimini and were so much prized that they were sent all over Italy.
These comestibles he told Piero to take to Messer Bartolomeo and deliver
with his compliments. With Imola crowded with strangers, food was scarce
and high in price, so that he knew his present would be welcome. Then he
made his way to the Franciscan church attached to the monastery in which
Fra Timoteo was a monk. It was not far from Bartolomeo's house. It was a
building of some size, but of no architectural merit. It was empty but
for two or three women praying, a lay brother, obviously the sacristan,
who was sweeping the floor, and a friar who was pottering about the
altar of a chapel. Machiavelli with a passing glance saw that he was
only pretending to be busy and guessed that this must be Fra Timoteo who
had been warned by Monna Caterina to expect him.

"Pardon me, Father," said he, with a polite inclination of his backbone,
"I have been told that you are so fortunate as to have a miraculous
Virgin in this church and I have a great desire to light a candle before
her altar so that she may assist my dear wife, now pregnant, in the
pains of childbirth."

"This is she, Messere," said the monk. "I was about to change her veil.
I can't get the brothers to keep her clean and tidy and then they're
surprised because the pious neglect to pay their devotions to her. I
remember when there were dozens of votive offerings in this chapel for
graces received, and now there aren't twenty. And it's our own fault;
they have no sense, my brothers."

Machiavelli chose a candle of imposing dimensions, paid for it
extravagantly with a florin, and watched the monk while he fixed it on
an iron candlestick and lit it. When this was done Machiavelli said:

"I have a favour to ask you, Father. I have reason to speak privately to
Fra Timoteo and I should be grateful if you would tell me how I can find
him."

"I am Fra Timoteo," said the monk.

"Impossible. It looks as though Providence had a hand in this. It is a
miracle that I should come here and in the first person I see find the
very person I am looking for."

"The designs of Providence are inscrutable," said Fra Timoteo.

The monk was a man of medium stature, of a comfortable but not
disgusting corpulence, which suggested to Machiavelli's cool mind that
he was given to fasting no more than the rules of his order demanded but
not to the gross vice of gluttony. He had a fine head. It reminded one
of a Roman emperor's whose fine features, not yet debased by luxury and
unlimited power, bore notwithstanding a suggestion of the cruel
sensuality that would lead to his assassination. It was a type not
unfamiliar to Machiavelli. In those full red lips, in that bold hook
nose, in those fine black eyes he read ambition, cunning and
covetousness, but these qualities were masked by a semblance of good
nature and simple piety. Machiavelli could well understand how he had
gained so great an influence over Bartolomeo and the women of his
family. He felt instinctively that this was a man he could deal with; he
hated monks; to him they were either fools or knaves, and this one was
probably a knave, but he must step warily.

"I should tell you, Father, that I have heard a great deal to your
credit from my friend Messer Bartolomeo Martelli. He has the highest
opinion both of your virtue and your ability."

"Messer Bartolomeo is a faithful son of the Church. Our monastery is
very poor and we owe much to his generosity. But may I know whom I have
the honour of addressing, Messere?"

Machiavelli knew that the friar was well aware of this, but answered
gravely.

"I should have introduced myself. Niccol Machiavelli, citizen of
Florence and Secretary to the Second Chancery."

The monk bowed low.

"It is a great privilege to speak with the envoy of that illustrious
state."

"You fill me with confusion, Father. I am but a man with all the
failings of humanity. But where can we speak in private and at length?"

"Why not here, Messere? The brother sacristan is as deaf as a post and
as stupid as a mule and the three or four old women you see are too busy
with their prayers to listen to what we are saying and too ignorant to
understand it if they did."

They sat down on two of the praying stools which were in the chapel and
Machiavelli told Fra Timoteo how he had been commissioned by the Signory
to find a preacher to deliver the Lenten sermons in the Cathedral. The
friar's Roman face remained impassive, but Machiavelli felt in him an
alertness of attention which confirmed his assurance that he had been
informed of the previous night's conversation. Machiavelli apprised him
of the Signory's requirements.

"They are naturally nervous," he said. "They don't want to make again
the mistake they made with Fra Girolamo Savonarola. It is very well that
the people should be persuaded to repentance, but the prosperity of
Florence depends on its commerce and the Signory cannot allow repentance
to disturb the peace or interfere with trade. Excess of virtue can be as
harmful to the state as excess of vice."

"Such, I seem to remember, was the opinion of Aristotle."

"Ah, I see that you, unlike friars in general, are a man of education.
That is all to the good. The people of Florence have agile and critical
minds and have no patience with a preacher, however eloquent, who is
without learning."

"It is true that many of my brethren are of a shocking ignorance," Fra
Timoteo replied discreetly. "If I understand you aright you want to know
if there is anyone in Imola who is in my opinion worthy of the honour
you speak of. It is a matter that needs consideration. I shall have to
think. I must make discreet enquiries."

"You will be doing me a great favour. I know from Messer Bartolomeo and
his ladies that you are a man of singular perspicacity and of the
highest rectitude. I am confident that you will give me a disinterested
opinion."

"Messer Bartolomeo's ladies are saints. That is the only reason why they
think so favourably of me."

"I live in the house of Monna Serafina, just behind Messer Bartolomeo's.
If I could persuade you to join us in our modest meal tomorrow evening
we could discuss the matter further, and it would give my good Serafina
infinite pleasure to have you at her table."

Fra Timoteo accepted the invitation. Machiavelli went home, but on the
way called on Bartolomeo and asked him for a loan. He explained that he
was put to great expense at Imola in connection with his mission and the
funds he was expecting from the Signory had not yet arrived. He pulled a
long story about the parsimoniousness of the Florentine government and
complained that in order to maintain the dignity of his position and to
meet the cost of information he had to pay money out of his own pocket.
But Bartolomeo cut him short.

"Dear Niccol," he said in his jovial way, "you do not have to tell me
that in this court one can get nothing without paying for it. For your
own sake as well as for that of the Signory I shall be happy to lend you
whatever you require. How much do you want?"

Machiavelli was surprised and pleased.

"Twenty-five ducats."

"Is that all? Wait and I will give it you at once."

He left the room and in a minute or two came back with the money.
Machiavelli regretted that he had asked for so little.

"And when you want more don't hesitate to ask me," said Bartolomeo,
beaming. "You must look upon me as your banker."

"A fool and his money are soon parted," Machiavelli said to himself as
he returned to his lodging.


[xviii]

Brother Timoteo came to supper. Machiavelli had bidden Serafina to buy
the best the city could provide and the friar needed little pressing to
eat heartily. Machiavelli saw that his cup was well filled and when,
supper finished, he led him into the parlour so that they might talk
undisturbed, he told one of his servants to bring a jug of wine.

"Now let us get down to business," he said.

Fra Timoteo told him that he had been giving the subject of their
conversation careful thought and mentioned three monks who had some
reputation in the city as preachers. He described their respective
merits with candour, but with an ingenuity that Machiavelli could not
but admire introduced into his eulogy of each a note of disparagement
that effectively overrode his recommendation. Machiavelli smiled
blandly.

"You have spoken of these excellent monks with a sincerity and a
disinterestedness which are what I should have expected of you, Father,
but you have left out the name of one whose talents and piety according
to all accounts are infinitely superior to theirs."

"And who may that be, Messere?"

"Fra Timoteo."

The monk gave a start of well-simulated surprise.

"A good actor," Machiavelli said to himself. "A preacher must have
histrionic gifts and if the Signory had really given me the commission
to find one I should be half inclined to propose this rascally friar."

"You are joking, Messere."

"What makes you think that I should joke on a subject of such
importance, Father? I have not been idle on my side. I have learnt that
in the whole history of Imola no preacher has made such a profound
impression as you did in the sermons you delivered this Lent. I am told
that you have a remarkable eloquence and I can tell for myself that you
have a melodious and a beautiful voice. Your presence is imposing and
even in the short while that we have talked together I have discovered
that you are intelligent, tactful and cultivated. I am assured that your
knowledge of the fathers is only equalled by your classical erudition."

"You cover me with confusion, Messere. The Signory want a monk of
reputation and I am but a poor friar in a poverty-stricken monastery of
a provincial city. I have neither great birth to recommend me nor
powerful friends. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the good
opinion you so generously have of me, but I am unworthy of the honour
you propose."

"That is something that those can better judge who know you better than
you know yourself."

Machiavelli was enjoying himself hugely. He appreciated the monk's
affectation of modesty and, with his sharp eyes delving into his
innermost heart, discerned the greediness of his ambition. With such a
bait to dangle he was certain he could get him to do anything he wanted.

"I think I should be less than honest if I did not tell you that I am a
person of no great consequence in the state of Florence. I can only
advise; the last word is with the gentlemen of the Signory."

"I cannot think that they would lightly disregard the advice of their
envoy to His Excellency the Duke of Romagna and Valentinois," said Fra
Timoteo with an ingratiating smile.

"It is true that our new Gonfalonier for life, Piero Soderini, is my
friend, and I think I may say without vanity that his brother the
Cardinal of Volterra has some faith in my honesty and good sense."

This remark led Machiavelli very naturally to tell the monk of the
mission to Caesar Borgia when he had accompanied the Cardinal, then a
bishop, to Urbino to protest against the attack Vitellozzo had made on
Arezzo; and this as naturally led him to describe his own activities in
the war with Pisa and his legation to France. He was careful to minimize
his role in these proceedings and yet managed to suggest to the friar
that it was he who had pulled the strings. He talked lightly, amusingly,
in a familiar way, of kings and cardinals, princes and generals, and
thus delicately led his listener to believe that he had the ear of the
great both in Italy and France. Secrets of state were no secrets to him.
Only a fool could doubt that he knew much more than he told. Fra Timoteo
was dazzled.

"Ah, Messere, you cannot know what it means to me to talk with a man of
your intelligence and experience. It is like a glimpse of the promised
land. We live in this dull little town and know nothing of the world.
There is not a man in Imola of culture or distinction. Our wits, if we
have any, grow rusty because there is no occasion to use them. One needs
the patience of Job to support the stupidity of the people among whom
one is compelled to pass one's life."

"Father, I will admit that from what I know of you and from what I have
heard I think it a thousand pities that a man of your capacity should be
wasted on this place. It is not for me to remind one of your calling of
the parable of the talents."

"I have often thought of it. I have buried my talent in the ground and
when the Master asks me to what use I have put it I shall have no
answer."

"Father, no one can do more for another than to give him an opportunity;
he must know for himself how to make use of it."

"Who is going to give an unknown monk an opportunity?"

"I am your friend, Father, and such little influence as I have is at
your service. And you will not be entirely unknown when I have mentioned
your name to the Cardinal of Volterra. It would be unbecoming for a man
of your habit to put himself forward; but there is no reason why I
should not speak of the matter with our good friend Bartolomeo and I
have little doubt that I can persuade him that it is an idea of his own
to write to certain powerful connections of his in Florence."

Fra Timoteo smiled.

"Our dear Bartolomeo. He is goodness itself, but it cannot be denied
that he is a little simple. He does not combine the innocence of the
dove with the craftiness of the serpent."

Thus Machiavelli conducted their colloquy to the point at which he had
been aiming. He refilled the empty cups. The brazier gave out a pleasant
warmth.

"Bartolomeo is a very worthy creature. It has often struck me as
remarkable that businessmen should be able to conduct commercial
transactions with success and yet remain so unversed in the affairs of
the world. But I do not esteem him less on that account and I would do a
great deal to promote his welfare. You have a great influence over him,
Father."

"He is good enough to attach some small value to my counsels."

"There at all events he shows a natural good sense. How sad it is that
such an excellent and deserving creature should not have been granted
the dearest wish of his heart."

Fra Timoteo looked at him enquiringly.

"You must know as well as I do that he would give half his possessions
to have a son."

"It is an obsession with him; he can talk of nothing else. We have
interceded for him with our miraculous Virgin, but to no purpose, and he
is angry with us because our prayers have not achieved the desired
result; but he is unreasonable. The poor man is sterile."

"Father, I have a small property not far from Florence called San
Casciano, and to augment the poor salary I receive from the Signory I
make what money I can by selling timber from my woods and farming my
land. I have cows and it sometimes happens that you get a bull, to all
appearance strong and healthy, who for some reason suffers from the same
unfortunate disability as our good friend Bartolomeo. Then you kill the
bull for butcher's meat and on the proceeds buy another."

Fra Timoteo smiled.

"It is not practicable to go to such lengths with human beings."

"Nor necessary. But the theory is sound."

It took the friar a moment to grasp exactly what Machiavelli meant, and
when he did he smiled again.

"Monna Aurelia is a virtuous wife, and she is well guarded, though for
different reasons, by her mother and her husband. Bartolomeo is at least
clever enough to know that a young and beautiful wife must be a
temptation to the dissolute youth of the city, and Monna Caterina lived
in poverty long enough to make her take good care that she shall not
lose a comfortable home through the indiscretion of her daughter."

"And yet it might well be that an indiscretion would turn out to be the
height of discretion. Monna Caterina's position would be more secure if
she had a little grandson to dandle on her knee."

"I don't deny it. Now that the Duke has bestowed this property on him,
with the title that accompanies it, Bartolomeo is more than ever anxious
to have an heir. The ladies of his family have discovered that he is
thinking of adopting his two nephews. He has a widowed sister in Forli
and she is willing enough that he should thus provide for her boys, but
she will not be separated from them and makes it a condition that he
should take her into his house along with them."

"It is natural that a mother should not wish to be parted from her
children."

"Very. But the prospect distresses both Monna Caterina and Monna
Aurelia. They see that their position would be difficult. Monna Aurelia
had no dowry. Bartolomeo is a weak and foolish man; Monna Costanza, the
mother of his adopted sons, would undermine the influence of a wife whom
his vanity insists on thinking a barren woman, and his sister would in
no long time be mistress of the house. Monna Caterina has besought me to
dissuade him from a course in which there is so much danger to her
daughter and herself."

"He has consulted you?"

"Naturally."

"And what advice have you given him?"

"I have temporized. His sister's confessor at Forli is a Dominican and
if she came here it is likely that she would take a confessor from the
same order. The Dominicans are no friends of ours. We owe much to the
generosity of Bartolomeo and it would be unfortunate if Monna Costanza
took advantage of his disappointment with our efforts to get him to
bestow his favours in another quarter."

"No one could see more clearly than I how difficult your situation is,
dear Father. The only possible solution is the one I suggest."

"Has it escaped you that it smacks somewhat of sin, Messere?" said the
friar with an indulgent smile.

"A small sin, Father, from which a great good may come. You can bring
happiness to a worthy man, security to two women whose piety merits your
help, and last but not least you preserve for the brethren of your habit
the munificence of a generous donor. It would be presumption on my part
to recall the Holy Scripture to your memory, but I will venture to
suggest to you that if the woman of Samaria had not committed adultery
the Founder of our religion would never have had occasion to utter those
precepts of tolerance and forgiveness which have been of inestimable
value to the miserable sinners that we are."

"It is a pretty point, Messere."

"I am human, Father. I will not try to conceal from you that the beauty
of Monna Aurelia has excited so violent a passion in me that I must
satisfy it or die."

"I did not imagine that your desire for Bartolomeo's welfare and the
peace of mind of his two ladies was prompted only by the goodness of
your heart," said Fra Timoteo dryly.

"Your monastery is poor and you doubtless have many calls upon your
charity. I would give twenty-five ducats to be assured of your good
will, Father."

Machiavelli saw the glint of greed in the monk's dark eyes.

"When?"

"Now."

He took the bag of money out of an inner pocket and flung it carelessly
on the table. The coins made a pleasant clink against the wooden
surface.

"You have acquired my good will by the charm of your conversation and
the graciousness of your manner, Messere," said the monk. "But I do not
see how I can be of service to you."

"I will ask you to do nothing that can weigh on your conscience. I
should like you to arrange it so that I may have a conversation with
Monna Caterina in private."

"I can see no harm in that. But it will get you no further. Bartolomeo
is a fool, but he is too good a businessman to take unnecessary risks.
When his affairs force him to absent himself for any length of time, his
servant is there to protect Monna Aurelia from the importunities of
unscrupulous and lascivious men."

"I am well aware of it. Our good Bartolomeo, however, has a confidence
in you which is as implicit as it is well deserved. He has taken Monna
Aurelia to the baths and he has taken her on pilgrimages to the shrines
of saints who are accredited with the blessed gift of ridding women of
the curse of barrenness. I suggest to you that if our good Bartolomeo,
accompanied by his servant, went to Ravenna and spent a night in prayer
and meditation before the sarcophagus which contains the mortal remains
of San Vitale, you could guarantee that Monna Aurelia would conceive."

"San Vitale was evidently a great saint or a church would not have been
built in his honour, but what makes you suppose that his bones have the
power to cure men of sterility?"

"The name is eminently suggestive and Bartolomeo knows no more of the
miraculous powers of the saint than you or I. A drowning man will catch
at a straw and Ravenna is but twenty miles from Imola. Can you believe
that our friend would hesitate to make so short a journey to achieve a
result he so much desires?"

"Let me ask you a question in return, Messere. Have you any reason to
suppose that Monna Aurelia, a virtuous and timid wife, would respond to
your advances? Have you made your desires known to her?"

"I have not exchanged more than a few words with her, but unless she is
different from the rest of her sex she is well aware of them. Women are
subject to two defects, curiosity and vanity."

"Venial sins," said the monk.

"And yet they lead these fair creatures to abandon the narrow path of
virtue more often than passion."

"There is much of which my habit has kept me in happy ignorance."

"When your eminent merit has raised you to the position it deserves you
will learn that you can gain influence over men less by fostering their
virtues or encouraging their vices than by humouring their foibles."

"Your scheme is ingenious. I have little doubt that you could persuade
Monna Caterina to help you; she will stop at nothing to prevent
Bartolomeo from adopting his nephews; but I know Monna Aurelia too well
to believe that she would let herself be persuaded to commit a mortal
sin either by her mother or by you."

"That is possible. There are many things which from a distance seem
strange and terrifying, but when you come closer to them appear natural,
easy and reasonable. I have no reason to suppose that Monna Aurelia is
more intelligent than the majority of her sex. It would be well if you
explained to her that when there is in prospect a good that is certain
and an evil that is uncertain, it is wrong not to do the good for fear
of the evil. The certain good is that she will conceive and so create an
immortal soul; the evil is that she may be found out, but with proper
precautions the possibility of that is eliminated. And so far as sin is
concerned--well, there is nothing to that, since it is the will that
sins and not the body. It would be a sin to displease her husband, but
in this she can only please him. In all things the end must be
considered and the end here is to fill a seat in paradise and give a
husband his heart's desire."

Fra Timoteo looked at Machiavelli without replying. It seemed to the
Florentine that he was preventing himself from laughing only by an
effort of will. The monk looked away and his eyes fell on the bag of
gold that was lying on the table.

"I am sure that the Signory was well advised when they sent you on a
mission to the Duke, Messere," he said at last. "I may condemn your
intentions, but I can only admire your subtlety."

"I am very sensible to flattery," Machiavelli answered.

"You must give me time to think the matter over."

"It is always best to trust the impulse of the moment, Father. But if
you will excuse me I will go into the yard, for I wish to relieve
nature. Your local wine is something of a diuretic, I fancy."

When Machiavelli returned the monk was sitting as he had left him, but
the bag of gold was no longer on the table.

"Monna Caterina will bring her daughter on Friday for confession," he
said, looking at his well-kept hands. "You will have an opportunity of
talking to her while Monna Aurelia is in the confessional."


[xix]

A happy chance gave Machiavelli an opportunity to pursue his suit which
he was quick to seize. Unless obliged to, he did not get up early and
the sun had risen some time when, on the morning after his conversation
with Fra Timoteo, he rolled out of bed and got into his clothes. He went
into the kitchen, where Serafina gave him his frugal breakfast, and then
out into the yard, where he drew water from the well and shudderingly
washed his hands and face. Then he went up to his room to fetch such of
his papers as he wanted. He raised the window to look at the weather and
suddenly saw Nina, the maid, bring a chair and a footstool out onto the
roof of Bartolomeo's house. The weather had been cloudy for some time,
with occasional showers of rain, but that morning the sun shone brightly
from an unclouded sky. He guessed what Nina's actions betokened.
Presently Aurelia came onto the roof, swathed in a quilted wrapper,
carrying a great straw hat in her hand. He was right. Aurelia had taken
advantage of the fine day to dye her hair. She sat in the chair and the
maid took the long fair hair in her hands and passed it through the hat,
which had no crown but only an immense brim, then, placing the hat on
Aurelia's head, she spread the hair all around the brim, so that the sun
should shine on it and the dye colour it more brightly.

Machiavelli changed his plans. He left his letters to a more suitable
season and, taking his lute, ascended the stairs to a loggia on the
upper story of Serafina's house. By the time he got there the maid had
gone about her business and Aurelia was alone. The wide brim of her hat
prevented her from seeing him, and indeed she was certainly too much
intent on the process of getting her hair a perfect shade to have
thoughts for anything else; but when he began to sing, startled, she
raised the brim and looked across the narrow space that divided the two
houses. Before Machiavelli could catch her eye she lowered it. As though
to himself he sang a little love song. Following the fashion of the
time, his theme was Cupid and his darts, the cruel wounds his loved
one's eyes inflicted, and the happiness that would be his if he could
pass one moment without thinking of her. He had Aurelia at his mercy;
from coyness she might have wished to withdraw, but the sun was
essential to make the dye hold, and he felt it was not in a woman's
nature to sacrifice her appearance to her modesty. If there had been any
doubt in her mind of his feelings towards her there could surely be none
now, but such an occasion might not soon recur, so he thought it just as
well to make them unmistakable. He had composed a serenade to a woman
called Fenice, which began, _Hail, Lady, from all women set apart_, and
which went on to address her as a rare example of earthly beauty, a
perfect soul imbued with every loveliness; and it was easy, without
interfering with the scansion, to change _O only Fenice_ into _O only
Aurelia_. Plucking the strings of the lute, he spoke the words in a
recitative which was not wanting in a certain melodiousness. Aurelia sat
still, her face hidden by the wide brim of her hat and the overhanging
hair; but Machiavelli had a notion that she was listening intently. That
was all he wanted. But he had sung no more than two stanzas when she
rang a little bell she had evidently brought to call her maid.
Machiavelli paused. Nina appeared and Aurelia said something to her,
rose from her chair and the maid took it to another part of the roof;
Aurelia moved over and the maid sat down on the footstool. The two women
began to talk and Machiavelli guessed she was going to keep her there
till he withdrew. He was not dissatisfied. He went down to his room, got
his papers out of the box in which he kept them locked, and was soon
immersed in a letter he was writing to the Signory.

So far so good.


[xx]

He was not in the habit of attending the services of the Church, and on
Friday waited till vespers were over and the small congregation coming
out before entering the sacred edifice. He was just in time to see Fra
Timoteo go into the confessional. In a moment Aurelia followed him.
Monna Caterina was sitting by herself in one of the chapels. Machiavelli
joined her. She did not seem surprised to see him, and he thought it not
unlikely that the monk had spoken to her and she was expecting him.
Anyhow he could see no object in beating about the bush. He told her
that he had fallen passionately in love with her daughter and asked her
to plead his cause with her. Monna Caterina seemed amused rather than
indignant. She informed him that he was not the first who had attempted
her daughter's virtue, but none had succeeded.

"I brought her up very strictly, Messer Niccol, and since the night I
put her to bed, an innocent virgin, with Messer Bartolomeo she has been
a faithful and dutiful wife to him."

"If I am rightly informed she has never had the opportunity to be
anything else."

Monna Caterina gave a low, somewhat bawdy laugh.

"Messer Niccol, you have lived long enough to know that when a wife
wishes to deceive her husband no precautions he may take can stop her."

"All history bears you out, Monna Caterina, and I perceive from what you
say that you are a woman with whom one can speak frankly."

She turned her head a little and looked at him earnestly.

"Messer Niccol, I have had great misfortunes in my life. I have been
tossed on stormy seas and now that I am safe in harbour I have no wish
to expose myself again to the fury of the elements."

"I can well understand it, but are you so sure that your anchor is firm
and your mooring taut?"

Monna Caterina did not answer and Machiavelli was conscious of the
uneasiness of her silence. He went on.

"Am I not right in thinking that if Monna Aurelia does not soon produce
the heir Bartolomeo craves, he has it in mind to adopt the two sons of
Monna Costanza?"

Once again Monna Caterina made no reply.

"You have too great an experience of the world, Madonna, to make it
necessary for me to tell you what your position and that of your
daughter would be in such a case."

Two tears trickled down Monna Caterina's cheeks. Machiavelli patted her
hand in kindness.

"Desperate situations demand desperate remedies."

She shrugged her shoulders despondently.

"Even though I should be able to overcome Aurelia's fears, the
opportunity would be lacking."

"Am I displeasing to your daughter?"

"You make her laugh," smiled Monna Caterina, "and a jest will as often
gain a woman's favours as a handsome face."

"You are a woman after my own heart, Madonna. Should the opportunity
present itself so that what we both wish could be effected without
danger, may I count on your help?"

"It is not only my daughter's fears that must be overcome, but also her
scruples."

"Such of them as you will not have been able to dispel by the exercise
of your common sense we can safely leave to be dealt with by the
excellent Fra Timoteo. He does not like the Dominicans."

Monna Caterina gave a low laugh.

"You are a charming man, Messer Niccol. If I were still desirable and
you desired me, I would refuse you nothing."

"The old cow," Machiavelli said to himself, but he pressed her hand and
aloud answered: "If I were not so passionately in love with your
daughter I should not hesitate to take you at your word."

"There is Aurelia."

"I will leave you."

Slipping out of the church, he went to a silversmith's and there bought
a chain, only of silver gilt, certainly, for he had not the money for a
gold one, but of very pretty workmanship. Next morning he sent Piero to
buy a basket of the luscious figs which Monna Caterina had told him she
liked so much, and putting the chain at the bottom of the basket told
Piero to take it to her. He was to say that the figs were a gift from
Machiavelli and to add that underneath them she would find something
that he begged her to accept as a mark of his esteem. He felt that he
and Monna Caterina understood one another perfectly, but he knew that
nothing confirms an understanding like a little present.


[xxi]

Some days later Bartolomeo suggested that they should repeat the evening
of good cheer and singing which had been so enjoyable. They did so.
Things went off as before, with pleasant conversation and some good
music; Aurelia, never very chatty, was more silent than usual, but
Machiavelli was conscious that when he was talking in his sprightly way
to the others she looked at him appraisingly. He was pretty sure that
she and her mother had discussed him and his desires, and these
enquiring glances of hers meant that she was wondering what he would be
like in the capacity of a lover. He knew that it was not his good looks
that made his success with women, but his agreeable discourse, his wit
and his easy manner. He put his best foot forward. He knew that women
appreciated neither irony nor sarcasm, but simple jokes and funny
stories. He was amply provided with both. The laughter with which his
sallies were greeted excited him and he flattered himself that he had
never been more amusing. He took care, however, to show that he was not
only a jester, but a good-natured man, kindly and easy to get on with,
one in whom you could have confidence and whom it would not be hard to
love. Was it only his fancy that when from time to time he caught
Aurelia's eyes he saw in them a smiling tenderness that suggested she
was not indifferent to him? He had seen that look before in women's
eyes. They were strange creatures: they had to bring sentiment in and
thus tiresomely complicate a pleasure which a merciful Providence had
provided to human beings in compensation for the expulsion of their
first parents from the Garden of Eden. But sometimes it was convenient
that they should have this foible. He gave a passing thought to Marietta
who had married him by arrangement with her parents and now so doted on
him that she could hardly bear him out of her sight. She was a good
woman and he had a real affection for her, but she really couldn't
expect him to be tied to her apron strings.

The affairs of his mission kept Machiavelli so busy that for several
days after this he was obliged to devote his whole time to them; but
through Piero he sent Aurelia a flask of attar of roses which he had
bought at a cost he could ill afford from a merchant who had recently
come from the Levant. It was a good sign that she did not refuse it. He
congratulated Piero on the tact and skill with which he had managed to
convey it to her without anyone's knowing and gave him a scudo so that
he could prosecute his suit with Nina.

"How are you getting on, my boy?" he asked.

"I don't think she dislikes me," said Piero. "She's frightened of that
servant of theirs. He's her lover."

"I suspected that, but don't be discouraged; if she wants you she'll
find ways and means to arrange things."

Then came a rainy afternoon. Bartolomeo sent round to ask Machiavelli if
he could spare the time to come to his house to play chess. Machiavelli
decided that what work he had to do could be done later and went.
Bartolomeo received him in his study. Though there was no fireplace a
brazier warmed it not inadequately.

"I thought we could play more conveniently here than in company with a
pair of chattering women," said Bartolomeo.

Machiavelli had gone in the hope of seeing Aurelia and was somewhat put
out, but he answered civilly enough.

"Women will talk and chess is a game that demands concentration."

They played and perhaps because Machiavelli's attention was divided,
Bartolomeo to his delight beat him without difficulty. He called for
wine, and when the wine had been brought and Machiavelli was setting up
the pieces for another game, he leaned back in his chair and said:

"It was not only for the pleasure of playing chess with you that I asked
you to be good enough to come here, dear Niccol. I want to ask your
advice."

"It is at your service."

"Have you ever heard of San Vitale?"

A faint sigh of satisfaction escaped Machiavelli's lips. Fra Timoteo had
not failed him.

"Strange that you should ask that! You're speaking of the church at
Ravenna? The saint's bones are buried there. Everyone in Florence was
talking about him not so very long ago."

"In what connection?"

"There is no limit to the folly of mankind, and our good Florentines,
who pride themselves on their lively intelligence, are of a credulity
beyond belief."

He saw that Bartolomeo was all agog and he thought it well to keep him
on tenterhooks.

"What is it that you refer to?"

"The story is so nonsensical that I am really ashamed to tell it. Within
the limits set by our Holy Church my fellow citizens have a healthy
scepticism and are disinclined to believe in anything that they cannot
see, smell or touch for themselves."

"That is what makes them the good businessmen they are."

"Maybe. But how surprising that now and then they should fall prey to
the most absurd superstition! To tell you the truth I can't bring myself
to tell you a story that shows them in such a ridiculous light."

"I am almost a Florentine myself and now I shall never rest till I hear
it. It is always a pleasure to listen to you and on such a cheerless day
it is well to laugh."

"Well, the facts are these: Giuliano degli Albertelli, a citizen of
Florence, is a man of property, a man in the flower of his age, with a
fine house in the city and a beautiful wife to whom he is greatly
attached. He should have been a happy man, but he had no child, and this
was a bitter grief to him because he had quarrelled desperately with his
brother and could not endure to think that this man and his brood of
squalling brats should one day inherit all he possessed. He took his
wife to the baths, he took her on pilgrimages to various holy places, he
consulted doctors and the old women who pretend to have secret herbs to
make women conceive, but nothing served."

Bartolomeo, breathing heavily, listened as though his life depended on
it.

"Then it happened that a monk who had been on a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land told him that on his way home he had stopped at Ravenna, where
there was the church of San Vitale, and the saint had the miraculous
power of making sterile men fertile. Though his friends sought to
dissuade him, Giuliano insisted on visiting the shrine, and you can
imagine how everyone laughed when he set out on the journey. Lampoons
were written and passed from hand to hand. When he came back men had to
turn away to prevent themselves from bursting into laughter before his
face. Nine months to a day from the date of his return his wife was
delivered of a nine-pound son. It was Giuliano who laughed then. All
Florence was confounded and the pious cried out that it was a miracle."

The sweat glistened on Bartolomeo's brow.

"If it wasn't a miracle what was it?"

"Within these four walls, dear friend, I will tell you that I think the
time of miracles has passed, doubtless because owing to our sins we are
no longer worthy of them, but I must confess that this occurrence has
greatly shaken me. I can only repeat after you, if it wasn't a miracle,
what was it? I have given you the facts and it is for you to make what
you can of them."

Bartolomeo took a long draught of wine. Machiavelli decided to offer
another candle at the shrine of Fra Timoteo's wonder-working Madonna:
his invention had served him well.

"I know I can trust you, dear Niccol," said Bartolomeo after a pause.
"I am a judge of human nature and I am sure that you are a man of
discretion. It was not for nothing that I asked you if you had ever
heard of San Vitale, but I never expected you to confirm so promptly the
information I have received."

"You talk in riddles, friend."

"You are well aware that I too have a great desire for a son to whom I
can leave my fortune, my lands and houses, and who will inherit the
property and the title which the Duke has granted me. I have a widowed
sister who has two sons, and having no child of my own I have had it in
mind to adopt them. Though it is to their advantage she will not consent
to be parted from them; she insists on our all living together here. But
she shares with me the masterful character which has made me the man I
am, and I can see little peace for me in a house inhabited by three
jarring women. It would be the scene of incessant quarrels."

"That I can well believe."

"I shouldn't have a moment's peace."

"Your life would be a torment. They would tear you limb from limb."

Bartolomeo gave a deep sigh.

"And it is on this question that you want my advice?" asked Machiavelli.

"No. I was discussing my difficulties with Fra Timoteo only yesterday
and strangely enough he spoke to me of San Vitale. I do not for a moment
believe that I am at fault in this matter, but if the saint's relics
have the miraculous property reported, it might be worth while to go to
Ravenna. I have some business to transact there, so that even if my main
object were not achieved my journey would not be wasted."

"In that case I don't see why you hesitate. You have everything to gain
and nothing to lose."

"Fra Timoteo is a good and saintly man, but he knows nothing of the
world. It seems strange to me that if the saint has the power he is
reputed to have, his celebrity should not have been bruited abroad."

For a moment Machiavelli was floored, but only for a moment.

"You forget that men are unwilling to admit that they suffer from a
deficiency which they prefer to ascribe to their wives. You may be sure
that the men who have availed themselves of the saint's intercession go
in secret and take care never to divulge by what means their wives have
been able to conceive."

"I hadn't thought of that. But don't forget this, if it were ever known
that I had gone and my pilgrimage were not blessed with a happy event, I
should be a laughingstock in this city. It would be an admission of
impotence."

"But how could it be known? Has Fra Timoteo not told you what you must
do? According to Giuliano you must spend the night in prayer and
meditation before the relics of the saint."

"But how is that possible?"

"For a gratuity the sacristan will let you remain when he locks up the
church for the night. You will attend the first Mass in the morning and
then break your fast. Having done that, in your case, you will attend to
your business and after that ride home to your expectant wife."

Bartolomeo gave his friend a smile.

"Then you would not think me too great a fool if I made the experiment?"

"My dear, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. I can only tell you
what happened to Giuliano degli Albertelli. Whether it was a miracle or
not, who am I to say?"

"It is my last hope," said Bartolomeo. "I will try it. It succeeded with
Messer Giuliano; there is no reason why it should not succeed with me."

"None," said Machiavelli.


[xxii]

During the following week Machiavelli's emotions were as various as the
colours of a crazy quilt. At one moment he was hopeful, at another
despondent; he passed from happy anticipation to angry disappointment;
now he was in a fever of excitement, then in the depths of despair. For
Bartolomeo could not make up his mind. He was at once eager and loath to
go. He was like a man who is tempted to risk his money on an off chance
and is torn between his fear of losing it and his greed for gain. One
day he would decide to make the journey and the next decide not to.
Machiavelli's digestion was always delicate and this uncertainty gravely
affected it. It would be too cruel if, everything being arranged, he
were so indisposed that he could not take advantage of the opportunity
he had taken such pains and spent so much money to create. He had
himself bled, he took a purge, he ate nothing but slops. And to make
things worse he had more work to do than ever; negotiations between the
Duke and his rebellious commanders were coming to a head, and
Machiavelli had to write constant letters to the Signory, see agents,
spend hours at the Palace to pick up news and visit influential persons
who were come to Imola on behalf of their respective states. But at the
last moment fortune smiled upon him. A letter reached Bartolomeo from
his factor in Ravenna to say that if he did not immediately clinch the
deal which he had been for some time negotiating, another offer would be
accepted. This decided him.

Machiavelli's pains vanished. On the day after his conversation with
Bartolomeo he had seen Fra Timoteo and the monk had agreed to give
Bartolomeo the instructions which Machiavelli proposed. To ingratiate
himself with Aurelia he went to one of the merchants whom the chance of
easy money had attracted to Imola and bought a pair of scented gloves
stitched with gold thread. They cost a great deal of money, but this was
not an occasion on which he could stint. He sent them by Piero, telling
the boy to ask for Monna Caterina so that the servants might think no
more than that he had a message to give her from his master; and at the
same time he bade him tell her that he wished to talk with her and would
meet her in the church at whatever hour suited her. He was elated when
Piero came back and told him that Monna Caterina had called her daughter
in and she had been delighted with the costly present. Gloves of that
kind were greatly prized and the Marchioness of Mantua had thought such
a gift not unworthy of the acceptance of the Queen of France.

"How did she look?" asked Machiavelli.

"Monna Aurelia? She looked pleased."

"Don't be stupid, boy. Did she look beautiful?"

"She looked as she always looks."

"Fool. When will Monna Caterina be at the church?"

"She is going to vespers this afternoon."

Machiavelli was well pleased when he returned from his interview with
her.

"What a noble animal is man," he reflected, as he walked home. "With
audacity, cunning and money there is practically nothing he cannot do."

At first Aurelia had been frightened and firmly refused to listen to the
proposal, but little by little she had allowed herself to be convinced
by Monna Caterina's arguments. They were indeed unanswerable,
Machiavelli thought, and that was natural, since he had himself
suggested them. They were strengthened by the gentle, yet firm
admonitions of Fra Timoteo. Aurelia was a sensible girl and she could
not but admit that it was unreasonable to jib at a small evil when a
great good might come of it. The long and short of it was that if
Bartolomeo were safely out of the way she was prepared to accede to
Machiavelli's wishes.

Having made up his mind, Bartolomeo saw no reason to delay and so,
accompanied by his servant and a groom, he set out for Ravenna at noon
on the following day. Machiavelli with his usual politeness went to bid
him good-bye and wish him success on the expedition. Nina, the maid, was
sent home to spend the night with her parents, and when she had gone
Machiavelli despatched Piero to Bartolomeo's house with a basket in
which were fish fresh from the river, a pair of fat capons, sweetmeats
from the confectioner's, fruit and a demijohn of the best wine the city
could produce. The plan was that Machiavelli should wait till three
hours after sunset, nine o'clock, by which time Serafina would be in bed
and asleep, and then present himself at the little door of the yard.
Monna Caterina would let him in and they would have supper. At a
convenient moment she would retire to her own bedchamber and Machiavelli
would be left with the object of his affections; but she made him
promise that he would leave the house well before dawn. When Piero
returned, having delivered the basket, he brought a last message from
Monna Caterina. She would be waiting at the door as the church clock
struck the hour. To make sure it was he, he was to knock twice quickly,
wait a moment, knock once, and then after another brief pause again
knock twice. The door would be opened and he was to step in without a
word.

"What an advantage it is to have to do with a woman of experience," said
Machiavelli. "She leaves nothing to chance."

He told one of his servants to bring a pail of hot water to his bedroom
and he washed himself all over. It was a thing he hadn't done since the
night before his marriage to Marietta. He remembered that he had caught
cold as the result and as was only natural had given his cold to
Marietta. Then he scented himself with perfume he had bought at the same
time as he bought the attar of roses for Aurelia. He put on his best
clothes. Because he did not want to spoil his appetite for the excellent
supper he looked forward to, he refused to partake of the modest meal
Serafina had prepared on the excuse that he was going to sup at the inn
with the agent of the Duke of Ferrara. He tried to read, but was too
excited to read with attention. He strummed a little on the lute, but
his fingers served him ill. He thought for a while of that dialogue of
Plato's in which he proves to his own satisfaction that pleasure, being
mingled with pain, is an imperfect good. There was something in it, but
there were moments when meditation on eternal things was but an insipid
resource. He laughed in his heart when he passed in review the
difficulties of his undertaking and the ingenuity of his devices to
overcome them. It would have been a false modesty unworthy of him not to
acknowledge that he had been wonderfully clever. He didn't know anyone
who could so skilfully have worked on the passions, foibles and interest
of the parties concerned as to bend them to his will. The church clock
struck eight. He called Piero, thinking to pass the long hour ahead of
him by playing draughts; ordinarily he could beat him easily, but
tonight he was careless and Piero won game after game. It seemed as
though the hour would never end and then on a sudden the clock began to
strike. Machiavelli sprang to his feet, flung his cloak round him and
opened the house door into the darkness of the night. He was about to
step out into the alley when he heard the tread of feet on the cobbles.
He closed the door partly and stood just within to wait till the men,
whoever they were, had passed. But they didn't pass, they stopped at his
door and one of them knocked; since it was not latched the knock pushed
it back and the flare of the torches two of the men carried discovered
Machiavelli in the passage.

"Ah, Messer Niccol," said a man whom Machiavelli immediately recognized
as one of the Duke's secretaries. "We were coming to fetch you. And you,
you were just coming to the Palace? His Excellency desires to see you.
He has important news for you."

For once Machiavelli lost his presence of mind. He could not think of
any excuse to make. Had he not been caught thus, ready to go out, he
could have sent a message to say that he was sick in bed and could not
come, but how could he say that now? The Duke was not a man to whom you
could say that you had other things to do, and besides, if he had
important news to tell, it was essential that he should hear it. It
might very well be that it concerned the safety of Florence. His heart
sank.

"Wait a moment and I will tell my boy that he need not accompany me."

"It is quite unnecessary. Men will be sent to bring you safely back."

Machiavelli went into the parlour and closed the door behind him.

"Listen, Piero. The Duke has sent for me. I will make the interview
short by telling him I have the colic. Monna Caterina must be waiting.
Go to the door and knock in the way she told you. Tell her what has
happened and say I will come as soon as possible. Ask her to let you
wait in the yard so that you can open for me when I knock."

"Very well."

"And say that I am distressed, mortified, miserable, woebegone and
exasperated. I shall be back in half an hour."

With that he joined the men who had come for him and went to the Palace.
He was taken into an anteroom and the secretary left him, saying he
would inform the Duke of his arrival. Machiavelli waited. Minutes went
by. Five, ten, fifteen. Then the secretary returned to say that the Duke
sent his excuses, but a courier had just arrived from the Pope with
letters and he was closeted with the Bishop of Elna and Agapito da
Amalia to consider them. He would send for Machiavelli as soon as he was
ready. Once more Machiavelli was left alone. His patience was sorely
tried. He fidgeted, he tossed from side to side in his chair, he bit his
fingers, he walked up and down. He fretted, he chafed, he fumed, he
raged. At last, in desperation, he flung out of the room and sought out
the secretary who had come for him and in icy tones asked if the Duke
had forgotten that he was there.

"I have the colic," he said. "If the Duke cannot see me I will go home
and return tomorrow."

"It is an unfortunate accident. Surely His Excellency wouldn't keep you
waiting except for matters of the greatest urgency. I believe he has
something to say to you that is of vital interest to the Signory. Please
have patience."

Mastering his vexation as best he could, Machiavelli threw himself into
a handy chair. The secretary engaged him in conversation, and though
Machiavelli answered in monosyllables and was evidently not paying
attention to what he said, would not be discouraged. It was only by a
great effort that Machiavelli prevented himself from telling the
chatterbox to hold his silly tongue. He kept on saying to himself: "If
they'd only come one minute later they wouldn't have found me." At last
Agapito da Amalia himself came and said the Duke was ready to receive
him. Machiavelli had been kept waiting an hour. He gave a sardonic smile
as he thought of Piero standing inside the door shivering in the yard.
It was some small consolation that he was not the only one to suffer.

The Duke was with his cousin the Bishop of Elna. He was gracious, but
wasted no time on compliments.

"I have always been frank with you, Secretary, and I wish now to put my
position quite plainly. I am not satisfied with the declarations of good
will which at the Signory's direction you convey to me. The Pope may die
any day and if I want to keep my states I must take measures to secure
myself. The King of France is my ally and I have an armed force; but
that may not be enough and so I wish to make friends of my neighbours.
These are Bologna, Mantua, Ferrara and Florence."

Machiavelli thought this was no time to repeat his assurances of the
Republic's good will and so wisely held his tongue.

"So far as Ferrara is concerned I have acquired the Duke's friendship by
his alliance with Monna Lucrezia, my beloved sister, the enormous dowry
the Pope gave her, and the benefits we have conferred on his brother the
Cardinal. So far as Mantua is concerned, we are arranging two things;
one is to give the cardinal's hat to the Marquis's brother, for which
the Marquis and his brother will deposit forty thousand ducats; and the
other is to give my daughter in marriage to the Marquis's son, whereupon
the forty thousand ducats will be returned as her dowry. I need not
point out to you, Secretary, that mutual advantage is the most solid
basis of enduring friendship."

"I would not dispute it, Excellency," smiled Machiavelli. "And Bologna?"

The Lord of Bologna, Giovanni Bentivoglio, had joined the rebellious
captains and though his army had withdrawn from the Duke's frontiers it
remained on a war footing. Il Valentino stroked his well-kept, pointed
beard and smiled maliciously.

"I have no wish to seize Bologna, but only to assure myself of that
state's co-operation. I would sooner have Messer Giovanni my friend than
drive him out of a state which I might not be able to hold and which
might prove my ruin. Besides which, the Duke of Ferrara refuses to give
me his aid unless I come to an agreement with Bologna."

"Messer Giovanni has signed the articles of association with the
rebels."

"For once your information is at fault, Secretary," the Duke answered
good-naturedly. "Messer Giovanni is of opinion that the articles do not
safeguard his interests and has refused to agree to them. I am in
communication with his brother the Protonotary and things are proceeding
to our mutual satisfaction. When we come to an agreement the Protonotary
will receive a cardinal's hat or if he prefers to relinquish Holy Orders
the hand of my cousin, the sister of the Cardinal Borgia. The forces of
our four states, supported further by the King of France, will be
formidable and then your masters will have more need of me than I of
them. I don't say that I bear them ill will, but circumstances alter
cases and if I am not bound to them by a definite pact I shall feel
myself at liberty to act as appears best to me."

The velvet glove was off and the mailed fist bared. Machiavelli allowed
himself a moment's reflection. He was aware that Agapito and the Bishop
of Elna were watching him intently.

"What exactly would Your Excellency have us do?" he asked as
nonchalantly as he could. "I understand that you have already come to
terms with Vitellozzo and the Orsini."

"Nothing has been signed yet and so far as I'm concerned I'd just as
soon nothing were signed. It is not my policy to crush the Orsini: if
the Pope dies I must have friends in Rome. When Pagolo Orsini came to
see me one of his complaints was the behaviour of Ramiro de Lorqua; I
promised to give him satisfaction and I shall be as good as my word.
Vitellozzo is another matter. He is a snake and he has done everything
he could to prevent my settling my differences with the Orsini."

"Perhaps it would be better if Your Excellency were more explicit."

"Very well. I desire you to write to your masters that it may very well
be that the King of France will order them to restore to me the
_condotta_ which they withdrew without rhyme or reason and they will be
obliged to obey. It is surely better for them to do this willingly than
by compulsion."

Machiavelli paused to collect himself. He knew that every word he said
was fraught with danger. When he spoke it was in as ingratiating a
manner as he could assume.

"Your Excellency acts with prudence in assembling his forces and making
friends; but so far as the _condotta_ is concerned, Your Excellency
can't be classed with hireling captains who have nothing but themselves
and a few troops to sell. Your Excellency is one of the powers of Italy
and it would be more suitable to make an alliance with you than to
engage you as a mercenary."

"I should look upon such an engagement as an honour," the Duke answered
suavely. "Come now, Secretary, surely we can arrange something that will
be to our common advantage. I am a professional soldier, bound to your
state by ties of friendship; it is a slight your masters put upon me in
refusing my request. I don't believe that I'm mistaken in thinking that
I could serve them as well as anyone else."

"I venture to point out that there would be no great safety for my
government when three quarters of its troops were in the hands of Your
Excellency."

"Does that mean that you doubt my good faith?"

"Not at all," said Machiavelli with a fervour he was far from feeling.
"But my masters are prudent and they must be circumspect. They cannot
afford to take a step which they might have reason to regret. Their
chief desire is to be at peace with all men."

"You are too intelligent not to know, Secretary, that the only way to
assure peace is to be prepared for war."

"I have no doubt that my government will take such steps as they deem
necessary."

"By taking other captains into their service?" the Duke asked sharply.

This was the opportunity Machiavelli had been looking for. He knew that
Il Valentino was subject to sudden attacks of rage and, having vented
it, would scornfully dismiss the object of his wrath. Machiavelli was
too eager to get away to care if he angered him.

"I have every reason to believe that such are its intentions."

To his astonishment the Duke laughed. He rose from his chair and stood
with his back to the fire. He answered with complete good humour.

"Are they under the impression that it is possible to remain neutral in
the unsettled conditions that now prevail? Surely they have more sense.
When two neighbouring states go to war, the one that has counted on your
help because of the intimate relations between you will think you under
an obligation to share its fortunes, and when you fail to do so, will
bear you a grudge: the other will despise you for your timidity and lack
of spirit. To the one side you are a useless friend and to the other an
enemy little to be feared.

"The neutral is in such a position that he can help one party or the
other; and in the end he is forced into such a situation that he is
obliged against his will to enter the fray which he was unwilling at the
beginning to enter boldly and with good grace. Believe me, it is always
wiser to take one side or the other without hesitation, for one or the
other of them will be victorious and then you will fall prey to the
winner. For who will come to your rescue? You can give no reason why
anyone should protect you and will find no one to do it. The victor has
no use for friends he can't trust and the vanquished will do nothing for
you, even if he can, because you wouldn't come to his help when your
forces might have saved him."

Machiavelli had no wish at the moment to listen to a disquisition on
neutrality and he only hoped that by then the Duke had said his say. But
he hadn't.

"Whatever the risks of war, the risks of neutrality are greater. It
renders you an object of hatred and contempt, and sooner or later you
will fall victim to the first person who thinks it worth his while to
destroy you. If on the other hand you come out vigorously on one side
and that side wins, even though its power is so great that you may have
cause to fear it, you have put it under an obligation and attached it to
yourself by bonds of friendship."

"And is it Your Excellency's experience that men's gratitude for past
benefits is so considerable that they will hesitate to exercise their
power at your expense?"

"Victories are never so decisive that the victor can afford to alienate
his friends. It is to his best interest to treat them with justice."

"And supposing the side you have taken loses?"

"Then you are all the more valuable to your ally. He helps you to the
best of his ability and you are the companion of fortunes that may rise
again. So, whichever way you look at it, neutrality is folly. That is
all I have to say to you. You will be wise to repeat to your masters the
little lesson in statesmanship that I have thought well to give you."

With these words the Duke sank into a chair and held out his hands to
the blazing fire. Machiavelli, bowing, was about to withdraw when the
Duke turned to Agapito da Amalia.

"Have you told the Secretary that his friend Buonarotti is delayed in
Florence and will not be arriving for some time?"

Agapito shook his head.

"I know no such person, Excellency," said Machiavelli.

"Surely. The sculptor."

The Duke was looking at him with smiling eyes and Machiavelli on a
sudden guessed of whom he was speaking. He had written to his friend
Biagio for money and had received an answer from him to say that he was
sending it by Michelangelo, a sculptor. The name meant nothing to him.
But the Duke's remark suggested that his effects had been searched,
evidently with the connivance of Serafina, and he congratulated himself
on having put his important correspondence in a safe place; he had kept
in his lodging only papers of little consequence, but among them was
Biagio's letter.

"There are many stonecutters in Florence, Excellency," he said coolly.
"I cannot be expected to know them all."

"This Michelangelo is not without talent. He made a Cupid in marble and
buried it in the ground so that when it was dug up it was taken for an
antique. Cardinal di San Giorgio bought it, but when he discovered the
fraud returned it to the dealer and in the end it came into my hands. I
have sent it as a present to the Marchioness of Mantua."

Il Valentino spoke in a jesting way and Machiavelli for a reason obscure
to him received the impression that he was being made a fool of. He had
the irascibility of the highly sensitive man he was and his impatience
overcame him. He was quite willing to affront the Duke if only he could
secure his freedom to keep his appointment.

"And does Your Excellency propose to have him make a statue to rival the
one Leonardo made for the Duke of Milan?"

The shaft quivered through the air and the secretaries, startled,
glanced at the Duke to see how he would take it. The great equestrian
statue of Francesco Sforza, thought by many to be Leonardo's
masterpiece, had been destroyed by the soldiery when Marshal Trevulzio
captured the city; and Francesco's son, Lodovico il Moro, who had
commissioned it, a usurper like Caesar Borgia himself, driven from his
city, was now a prisoner in the castle of Loches. Machiavelli's remark
was well designed to remind Il Valentino how dangerous his position was
and to what depths he might fall if his good fortune deserted him. The
Duke laughed.

"No, I have more important work for this fellow Michelangelo to do than
to make statues. The defences of this city are useless and I'm going to
let him draw plans for its fortification. But you were speaking of
Leonardo; I should like to show you some drawings he has made of me."

He made a sign to one of the secretaries, who left the room and soon
returned with a portfolio which he handed to the Duke. He showed the
drawings to Machiavelli one after the other.

"Unless you had told me they were portraits of Your Excellency I would
never have known it," said he.

"Poor Leonardo, he has no great gift for catching a likeness. But as
drawings I am assured they are not without merit."

"That may be, but I think it a pity that with his gifts he should waste
his time painting pictures and making statues."

"I can assure you that he will not do so while he is in my service. I
sent him to Piombino to drain the marshes and lately he has been at
Cesena and Cesenatico to cut a canal and make a harbour."

He handed the drawings back to the secretary and, with a graciousness
which Machiavelli noted acidly was no less regal than that of the King
of France, dismissed him. Agapito da Amalia accompanied him out of the
Duke's study. During the month he had been at Imola, Machiavelli had
taken pains to gain the chief secretary's confidence. He was related to
the great Roman family of the Colonna, the bitter rivals of the Orsini,
and so might be supposed to have a certain friendliness for the
Florentines whose enemies they were. From time to time he had given
Machiavelli information which he accepted as true or false according to
his judgment of its likelihood. As now they passed through the presence
chamber which was used on ceremonial occasions he took Machiavelli's arm
and said:

"Come into my room. I have something to show you that will interest
you."

"It is late and I am sick. I will come tomorrow."

"As you will. I wanted to show you the articles of agreement between the
Duke and the rebels."

Machiavelli's heart stood still. He knew that the document had arrived
at Imola and he had in vain used every method he could think of to get a
sight of it. It was of extreme importance to the Signory to know what
the terms of the pact were and they had written to complain of his
negligence. It was useless for him to tell them that he sent them all
the facts as he discovered them, but that in the Duke's court secrets
were well-kept and none knew what the Duke meant to do until he did it.
At that moment a clock struck: he had kept Aurelia waiting for two
hours. The fish fry would be ruined and the fat capons roasted to a
cinder, and he was hungry, for he had eaten nothing since before noon.
They said that love and hunger were the two most deep-rooted instincts
of man, and who could be blamed for yielding to them? Machiavelli
sighed: the safety of Florence was at stake; her liberty in danger.

"Come then," he said.

He thought bitterly that never had a man been called upon to sacrifice
so much for the good of his country.

Agapito led him up a flight of stairs, unlocked a door and ushered him
into a small room, with a bed along one wall, which was dimly lit by the
flame of an oil lamp. From it he lit a tallow candle and offered
Machiavelli a chair, then he sat down himself, at a table littered with
papers, and leaning back, crossed his legs comfortably. He had the
appearance of a man to whom time was no object.

"I could not give you a copy of the articles before for a reason I will
tell you, and for the same reason I did not give one to the agent of the
Duke of Ferrara or to anyone else. The Duke and Pagolo Orsini drew up a
draft which was agreeable to them both and the Lord Pagolo took it away
to show it to the captains with the understanding that if they agreed to
it he would do likewise on behalf of the Duke, who gave him his power of
attorney. But when he had started, the Duke examined the document again
and it seemed to him that an article should have been included which
took into account the interests of France."

Machiavelli had been listening with impatience, for he wanted to see the
agreement, if possible get hold of it, and be gone; but now he gave the
speaker all his attention.

"The article was duly drawn up and the Duke ordered me to ride after the
Lord Pagolo and tell him that unless it was accepted he wouldn't sign. I
caught him up and he flatly refused to accept it, but after some
discussion he said that he would take it to the others, but he didn't
think they would accept it either. And so I left him."

"What is the point of the article?"

There was laughter in Agapito's voice when he answered.

"If it is accepted it opens a window through which we can slip out of
the agreement and if it is not accepted it unlocks a door through which
we can stride with our heads in the air."

"It looks as though the Duke has more desire for revenge on those who
have endangered his state than for peace."

"You may be quite sure that the Duke will never allow his desires to
interfere with his interests."

"You promised to show me the agreement."

"Here it is."

Machiavelli read it eagerly. By its terms the Duke and the rebels were
thenceforward to live in peace, concord and union: they were to retain
their commands under him with the same pay as before and as a sign of
good faith each one of them was to deliver into his safekeeping one of
his legitimate sons as a hostage; but they stipulated that not more than
one of the captains at a time should encamp with the Duke and then for
no longer than suited him. On their side they agreed to restore to him
Urbino and Camerino and in return he undertook to defend their states
against anyone, with the exception of His Holiness the Pope or His
Majesty the King of France, who attacked them. This was the clause that
Il Valentino had insisted on and which, as Agapito had said, even a
child might see made the treaty worthless. Bentivoglio of Bologna and
Petrucci of Siena were signing a separate agreement with the Pope. With
a frown Machiavelli read the document a second time.

"How can they expect the Duke to forgive the injuries they have done
him?" he exclaimed when he had finished. "And how can the Duke be
expected to forget the perils in which they have put him?"

"_Quem Jupiter vult perdere, prius dementat_," quoted Agapito with a
cheerful smile.

"Will you allow me to take this document away to make a copy of it?"

"I couldn't let it out of my hands."

"I promise to return it tomorrow."

"It's impossible. The Duke may ask for it any minute."

"The Duke never ceases to assure me of his sincere friendship for
Florence. It is of the greatest importance that my government should be
made acquainted with this agreement. Believe me, you will not find them
ungrateful."

"I have been concerned with affairs of state too long to count on the
gratitude of princes or governments."

Machiavelli continued to press him and at last he said:

"You know that I would do a great deal to oblige you. My respect for
your intelligence is only equalled by my admiration for your integrity.
I do it with misgiving, I will allow you to make a copy of the agreement
here."

Machiavelli gasped. It would take him half an hour to do this and time
was passing. Was ever lover placed in such a predicament? There was
nothing to do but to submit. Agapito gave him his place at the table, a
sheet of paper and a new quill. He lay down on the bed while Machiavelli
scribbled away as fast as his task would let him. As he wrote the last
line he heard the night watchman cry out the hour of the night and
immediately afterwards the church clock struck. Midnight.

Agapito went downstairs with him and when they came to the court round
which the Palace was built called for two men of the guard to light
Machiavelli back to his lodging. A chill rain was falling and the night
was raw. When they arrived at his house Machiavelli dismissed the
soldiers with a gratuity and unlocked the door. He waited within till he
could no longer hear their steps and, locking up behind him, slipped out
again. He crossed the alley and gently knocked in the prearranged
manner. There was no reply. He knocked again. Twice, a pause, once, a
pause and then twice more. He waited. A bleak wind blew down the narrow
alley, gusts of rain splashed his face, and though he was well wrapped
up, with a muffler to keep the noxious air of night out of his lungs, he
shivered in the cold. Was it possible that the women had grown tired of
waiting? But where was Piero? He had told him to stay in the yard till
he came and Piero had never failed him before. Piero must have explained
why he was delayed and after all, though for different reasons, it was
as essential to them, those two women, as it was urgent to him that the
opportunity should not be lost. On the walk from the Palace he had
noticed on passing the front of the house that no light showed, and it
occurred to him now that it would be well to see if there was a light at
the back. After knocking once more, again to no purpose, he went back
into his own house and up to his bedroom, since from there he could see
into the yard of Bartolomeo's house and the windows that faced it.
Nothing. He looked into impenetrable darkness. It might be that Piero
had gone in for a moment to drink a cup of wine and to warm himself and
by now was back at his post. Machiavelli went out again into the cruel
night. He knocked, he waited, he knocked, he waited, he knocked, he
waited. His feet and hands were like ice; his teeth were chattering.

"I shall catch my death of cold," he mumbled.

Suddenly he was swept by a gust of anger and he was on the point of
thundering on the door with both his fists. But prudence restrained him;
he would be no further advanced if he aroused the neighbours. At last he
was forced to conclude that they had given him up and were gone to bed.
He turned away and, miserable, let himself into his own house. He was
cold, hungry and bitterly disappointed.

"If I don't catch my death of cold, I really shall have the colic
tomorrow."

He went into the kitchen to find something to eat, but Serafina bought
the day's food every morning and if there was anything left over kept it
under lock and key, so he found nothing. The brazier had been taken out
of the parlour and it was cold as death, but Machiavelli had not even
the solace of going to bed; he had to sit down and write a report of his
conversation with the Duke. It took him a long time, because he had to
write the more important parts in cypher. Then he had to make a fair
copy of the articles of agreement to enclose in his letter. He did not
finish till the small hours of the morning. The missive was urgent and
he could not afford to wait till he found a casual messenger who could
be trusted to deliver a letter for a gold florin or two, so he clambered
upstairs to the attic where his two servants slept, woke them and told
the more reliable of the two to get his horse saddled and be ready to
ride out of the city as soon as the gates were opened. He waited till
the man was dressed, let him out of the street door and then at last
went to bed.

"And this should have been a night of love," he muttered savagely as he
pulled his nightcap well over his ears.


[xxiii]

He slept restlessly. He woke late in the morning and found his worst
fears realized. He had caught cold and when he went to the door to shout
for Piero his voice sounded like an old crow's. Piero appeared.

"I'm sick," he groaned. "I've got fever. I think I'm dying. Get me some
hot wine and something to eat. If I don't die of fever I shall die of
starvation. Bring a brazier. I'm chilled to the bone. Where the hell did
you get to last night?"

Piero was about to speak when Machiavelli stopped him.

"Never mind about that. Later, later. Get me some wine."

He felt a little better when he had drunk and eaten. He listened
sullenly when Piero explained that he had waited in the yard for more
than an hour as Machiavelli had told him to do. He had waited though the
pouring rain soaked him to the skin. He had waited though Monna Caterina
begged him to come in.

"Did you tell them what had happened?"

"I said exactly what you told me to say, Messere."

"What did they say?"

"They said it was a pity."

"They said it was a pity?" croaked Machiavelli wrathfully. "My God! And
to think that the Almighty created woman to be a helpmate to man. They
said it was a pity. What would they have said to the death of Hector and
the fall of Troy?"

"At last they forced me to take shelter. My teeth were chattering. They
said we could hear your knock from the kitchen. They made me take off my
coat and dry myself by the fire."

"And the fish and the capons?"

"We kept them hot a long time and at last Monna Caterina said they'd
only spoil so we'd better eat them. We were hungry."

"I was starving."

"We left something for you. Some fish and half a chicken."

"Considerate."

"We heard the clock strike once and we heard it strike a second time and
Monna Aurelia went to bed."

"She did what?" Machiavelli spluttered.

"We tried to get her to wait a little longer. We said you'd be coming in
a minute. She said that two hours was enough to wait for any man. She
said that if business meant more to you than pleasure there wasn't much
pleasure to be expected from any intimate relations with you.

"A _non sequitur_."

"She said that if you loved her as much as you pretended you'd have
found some excuse to break off your interview with the Duke. We reasoned
with her."

"As if one could reason with women!"

"But she wouldn't listen. So Monna Caterina told me it was no good my
waiting, she gave me another drink of wine and sent me away."

It occurred to Machiavelli then that Piero had no key to get in with.

"Where did you spend the night?"

The boy gave him an arch, complacent smile.

"With Nina."

"You spent your night more profitably than I did then," said Machiavelli
grimly. "But I thought she'd gone to stay with her parents."

"That's what she told Monna Caterina. We'd arranged it beforehand. She
got La Barberina to let her have a room in her house and I was to join
her as soon as I could get away."

La Barberina was a procuress with a well-established and respectable
business in Imola. For some minutes Machiavelli was silent. He was not a
man to accept defeat.

"Listen, Piero," he said when he had well considered, "that old fool
Bartolomeo will be back before night. We must act quickly. Let us not
forget that when Jupiter wished to gain the favours of the beautiful
Danae he approached her in the likeness of a shower of gold. Go to the
merchant Luca Capelli where I bought the gloves I sent to Monna Aurelia
and get him to let you have the scarf in blue silk with the silver
embroidery that he showed me. Say I'll pay for it as soon as the money
arrives that I'm expecting from Florence. Then take it and ask to see
Monna Caterina; give her the scarf for Aurelia and tell her that I'm
dying of love and the cold I caught waiting at the door, but that as
soon as I'm better we'll meet and I will devise a new plan to satisfy
Monna Aurelia's desires and my own."

He waited impatiently for Piero to execute the commission and return
with a report of his reception.

"She liked the scarf," said Piero. "She said it was pretty and asked how
much it cost. When I told her she liked it still more."

"Very natural. What else?"

"I told her that it had been impossible for you to get away from the
Palace and she said it didn't matter at all and not to give it another
thought."

"What!" cried Machiavelli, outraged. "Really women are the most
irresponsible creatures in the world. Doesn't she see that her whole
future is involved? Did you tell her that I stood out in the rain for an
hour?"

"Yes. She said it was very imprudent."

"Who expects a lover to be prudent? You might as well ask the sea to be
calm when it is assailed by the angry winds of heaven."

"And Monna Caterina said she hoped you'd take care of yourself."


[xxiv]

Machiavelli was laid up for several days, but by dint of purging and
bloodletting recovered and the first thing he did then was to seek out
Fra Timoteo. He told him the tragic story. The monk was sympathetic.

"And now," said Machiavelli, "let us put our heads together and think
out some way to get rid of our good Bartolomeo again."

"I have done my best, Messere; I can do no more."

"Father, when our illustrious Duke attacked the city of Forli he was
repulsed, but he did not for that reason raise the siege; he used every
stratagem his intelligence suggested and eventually brought about its
surrender."

"I have seen Messer Bartolomeo. He did exactly what I told him to do and
he is persuaded that the intercession of San Vitale was efficacious. He
is convinced that Monna Aurelia conceived on the night of his return
from Ravenna."

"The man is a fool."

"Though a religious I am not so ignorant as to be unaware that a certain
time must elapse before it can be known whether he is right or wrong."

Machiavelli felt some irritation. The friar was proving less helpful
than he had expected.

"Come, come, Father, do not take me for a fool too. Whatever miraculous
powers the saint's relics may possess, we know that to make a sterile
man fertile is not one of them. I invented the story myself and you know
as well as I do that there isn't a word of truth in it."

Fra Timoteo smiled blandly and there was unction in his voice when he
replied.

"The operations of Providence are mysterious, and who can know the ways
of the Eternal? Have you never heard the story of St. Elizabeth of
Hungary? Forbidden by her cruel husband to succor the necessities of the
needy, he met her in the street one day when she was carrying bread to
the poor. Suspecting that she was disobeying his orders, he asked her
what she had in her basket and in her fright she told him it was roses.
He snatched the basket from her and when he opened it found that she had
told the truth: the loaves of bread had been miraculously turned into
sweet-smelling roses."

"The story is edifying," said Machiavelli coldly, "but the point escapes
me."

"May it not be that San Vitale, hearing in paradise the prayers that the
pious Bartolomeo addressed to him, was moved by the simple faith of this
good man and performed for him the miracle which you had assured him it
was in the saint's power to do? Does not Holy Scripture tell us that if
we have faith we can move mountains?"

If Machiavelli had not possessed great self-control he would have given
rein to his anger. He knew very well why the monk was refusing his
further aid. For twenty-five ducats he had done what he had agreed to do
and it was not his fault if the plan had miscarried. He wanted more
money, and Machiavelli had no money to give him. The chain he had given
Monna Caterina, the gloves, the attar of roses he had bought for Aurelia
had taken all his spare cash; he owed money to Bartolomeo, he owed money
to several merchants, the money he was receiving from the Signory only
sufficed for his current expenses. He had nothing to offer now but
promises and he had an inkling that promises would mean little to Fra
Timoteo.

"Your eloquence and your piety, Father, bear out the good report I have
heard of you and if my letter of recommendation to the Signory has the
effect we both desire I am sure it will be to the spiritual benefit of
the people of Florence."

The monk bowed with a grave dignity, but Machiavelli saw that he was
unmoved. He went on.

"A wise man does not put all his eggs in one basket. If a plan
miscarries he tries another. Do not let us lose sight of the fact that
if Bartolomeo is disappointed in his hopes he will adopt his nephews to
the injury of his wife and his mother-in-law and to the loss of your
church."

"It would be a misfortune which it would be my Christian duty to
persuade all concerned to bear with resignation."

"We are told that God helps those who help themselves. You have not
found me ungenerous in the past, you will not find me ungenerous in the
future. It is to your interest as well as to that of the two ladies that
Bartolomeo's hopes should not be disappointed."

A faint smile for a moment lit Fra Timoteo's Roman features.

"You know that I would do much to oblige a person of your distinction,
Messere, but supposing that the good Bartolomeo's hopes are
disappointed, how do you propose that we should gain God's help by
helping ourselves?"

Machiavelli suddenly got an idea. It amused him so much that he nearly
burst out laughing.

"Father, like the rest of the world you have doubtless from time to time
to take a purge, and if you take a dose of aloes at night you have
certainly discovered that its action is more satisfactory if you take a
dose of salts in the morning. Does it not occur to you that the efficacy
of Bartolomeo's pilgrimage to San Vitale would be increased if he made
another to Rimini, for example, which would oblige him to absent himself
from this city for another twenty-four hours?"

"You are a man of so many devices, Messere, that I cannot refuse you my
admiration. But this one comes too late. Messer Bartolomeo may be a
fool, but I should be more of a fool than he if I counted on his being
more of a fool than he is."

"Your influence over him is great."

"That is all the more reason for me not to risk losing it."

"Then I can't count upon your aid?"

"I do not say that. Wait a month and then we will talk of it again."

"To a lover a month is a hundred years."

"Let us not forget that the patriarch Jacob waited seven years for
Rachel."

Machiavelli saw well enough that the monk was mocking him. He was going
to do nothing until Machiavelli could make it worth his while. He was
seething, but he knew it would be fatal to show his irritation.
Controlling himself, he parted from the monk with a pleasantry: he
begged him to accept a florin for a candle to be burnt at the altar of
the miraculous Virgin so that Bartolomeo's wishes should be fulfilled.
There was no sting in a defeat accepted with spirit.


[xxv]

His only hope now of having his way with Aurelia was to enlist the aid
of Monna Caterina. It was obvious that her concern at the misadventure
which had frustrated their well-laid scheme must be great, greater than
his indeed, for with him it was only a matter of satisfying his desire
for a pretty woman; but her very security was at stake. He could no
longer rely on the monk, but in her he had a self-interested ally and
that was an ally you could count on. He had a firm belief in the
ingenuity of her sex, to deceive was food and drink to it, and it was to
her manifest advantage to do everything she could to bring their plan to
a successful issue. He decided to arrange a meeting with her. The
secluded life the two women led made it none too easy, but fortunately
Piero was there to act as a go-between. He congratulated himself on his
foresight in urging the boy to make love to Nina.

Next day he bought a beautiful fish at the market and sent it by Piero
to Bartolomeo's house at a time when he knew the fat man would be about
his business in the city. It would be very unlucky if he could not get
an opportunity to see Monna Caterina alone and make an appointment.
Piero carried out his commission with his usual competence and returned
to tell his master that after some hesitation she had agreed to meet him
at such and such an hour, three days from then, at the Church of St.
Dominic. Her choice of place was adroit. It was evident that with her
feminine intuition she had realized that Fra Timoteo could be trusted no
longer and it was just as well that he should not see them together.

Machiavelli went to St. Dominic's without an idea in his head, but he
was untroubled, for he was confident that Monna Caterina would be able
to suggest something; his only fear was that it would cost too much
money. Ah, well, if the worst came to the worst he would have to borrow
once again from Bartolomeo; after all, it was only just that he should
pay for the service Machiavelli was prepared to render him.

There was not a soul in the church. Machiavelli told Monna Caterina how
it had happened that he had not been able to keep the appointment and
how he had stood knocking at the door in the rain and how he had caught
a dreadful cold.

"I know, I know," said Monna Caterina. "Piero told us and we were
greatly distressed. Aurelia kept on saying: 'The poor gentleman, it
would be on my conscience if he died.'"

"I had no intention of dying," said Machiavelli. "And if I had been at
the gates of paradise the thought of Aurelia would have brought me
back."

"It was all very unfortunate."

"Let us not think of the past. I have recovered my health. I am full of
vigour. Let us think of the future. Our scheme has miscarried, we must
devise another; you are a clever woman, and I find it hard to believe
that you cannot arrange some way whereby all our wishes may be
satisfied."

"Messer Niccol, I did not want to come here today; I only came because
of your Piero's entreaties."

"He said you had shown hesitation. I could not understand."

"No one likes to be the bearer of ill tidings."

"What do you mean?" cried Machiavelli. "It is impossible that Bartolomeo
should have conceived any suspicion."

"No, no, it is not that. It is Aurelia. I have argued with her, I have
gone down on my bended knees, I can do nothing with her. Ah, my poor
friend, girls are not what they were when I was young; then it never
occurred to them that they could disobey their parents."

"Don't beat about the bush, woman. Tell me what you mean."

"Aurelia refuses to go on. She will not do what you desire."

"But have you put the consequences before her? Haven't you shown her
what her position will be, and yours, if Bartolomeo adopts his sister's
sons and Monna Costanza becomes mistress of your house?"

"I have said everything."

"But the reason? Even a woman must have a reason for what she does."

"She believes that by a special interposition of Providence she has been
preserved from mortal sin."

"Sin?" shouted Machiavelli, in his agitation forgetting the decorum due
to the sacred building in which they were thus conversing.

"Do not be angry with me, Messer Niccol. It is not for a mother to
persuade her daughter to act contrary to the dictates of her
conscience."

"Saving your presence, Madonna, you are talking stuff and nonsense. You
are an experienced woman and she is but an ignorant girl. It is your
duty to point out to her that of two evils, not only reason but heaven
itself commands us to choose the lesser. Who in his senses would refuse
to commit a little sin, and one to which considerable pleasure is
attached, in order to gain a great good?"

"It is no use, Messere, I know my daughter, she is as stubborn as a
mule; she has made up her mind and I can do nothing with her. She wishes
me to tell you that in memory of the interest you have taken in her she
will always treasure the elegant gloves and the silk scarf you gave her,
but she will accept no more presents from you and desires you to offer
none. She desires you further to make no more attempts, either direct or
indirect, to see her. For my part I shall always remember your kindness
with gratitude and I only wish I could make up to you for the
disappointment you have suffered."

She paused for a moment, but Machiavelli made no reply.

"I need not tell a man of your wit and worldly wisdom that women are
capricious and uncertain. If he chooses the right moment even the prude
will accept the embraces of a lover, but if he misses it even the wanton
will refuse them. I bid you a very good day."

Monna Caterina gave him a curtsey in which according to his perspicacity
an observer might have seen derision, resentment or civility and was
gone.

Machiavelli was confounded.


[xxvi]

Notwithstanding all his attempts during the next month it was not till
he was about to leave Imola that he saw Aurelia again. Fortunately his
work kept him too busy to brood over his disappointment. The rebels were
reported to be at loggerheads. At last, however, all signed the
agreement which Agapito had shown Machiavelli except Baglioni of
Perugia, who told them they were fools and dupes to put their hands to
such a document and, when he found them determined to make peace at any
cost, in a passion strode out of the church in which they were meeting.
The Duke appointed Pagolo Orsini governor of Urbino, which by the terms
of the treaty he recovered, and to reward him for persuading the
captains to sign it made him a present of five thousand ducats.
Vitellozzo wrote humble letters in which he sought to excuse his
actions.

"The traitor stuck a knife in our backs," said Agapito, "and now he
thinks he can undo the harm with soft words."

But Il Valentino appeared to be well pleased. It looked as though he
were prepared to let bygones be bygones and restore the repentant rebels
to his confidence. His amiability seemed suspicious to Machiavelli and
he wrote to the Signory that it was hard to guess and impossible to know
what the Duke had in mind. He had now large forces at his disposal and
it was evident to all that he would make use of them. Rumours were
current that he was making preparations for his departure from Imola,
but whether he intended to march south and attack the Kingdom of Naples
or north to wage war on the Venetians was more than anyone could tell.
Machiavelli was disturbed to hear that influential persons from Pisa had
come to offer him their city. Florence had spent time, money and lives
in the attempt to recapture it, for its possession was necessary to the
Florentines' commerce, and if it was held by the Duke their position,
both from the economic and the military standpoint, would be hazardous.
Lucca was close and the Duke, speaking of it, remarked in a way that
Machiavelli thought ominous that it was a rich territory and a mouthful
for gluttons. If after gaining possession of Pisa he seized Lucca,
Florence would be at his mercy. In an interview with Machiavelli the
Duke brought up again the matter of the _condotta_ and the wretched
envoy was hard put to it to explain, in such a way as not to offend him,
the Signory's hesitation to grant him the command he wanted. The plain
fact was that they were determined not to place themselves in the power
of an unscrupulous man whom they had every reason to distrust. But
whatever sinister plans he turned round in that handsome head of his,
the Duke was evidently not ready to resort to more than veiled threats
to induce the Florentines to accede to his demands, for he listened to
Machiavelli calmly enough. He ended by telling him that he was about to
set out for Cesena with his army and once there would do what he decided
was necessary.

He started for Forli on the tenth of December and reached Cesena on the
twelfth. Machiavelli made arrangements to follow him. He sent Piero with
one of the servants ahead to make sure of a dwelling and, having taken
leave of certain persons who had obliged him during his sojourn at
Imola, empty now that the Duke, with his court and all the hangers-on,
had left, finally went to say good-bye to Bartolomeo. He found him at
home and was ushered into his study. The fat man received him with his
usual boisterous cordiality. He had already heard of Machiavelli's
approaching departure and expressed his regret in very handsome terms.
He said how greatly he had enjoyed the acquaintance of such a
distinguished visitor and how much he deplored that he would no longer
have the opportunity to play with him those too infrequent games of
chess and to entertain him at his house with such poor fare as he could
provide. Machiavelli on his side paid him appropriate compliments and
then with some embarrassment entered upon a matter which was on his
mind.

"Listen, my dear friend, I am come not only to thank you for all your
kindness to me, but to ask you to do me one more kindness still."

"You have only to mention it."

Machiavelli gave a slightly bitter laugh.

"I owe you twenty-five ducats. I haven't the money to pay you. I must
ask you to wait a little longer."

"It is a matter of no consequence."

"Twenty-five ducats is a considerable sum."

"Let it wait, let it wait, and if it's inconvenient for you to pay
there's no reason why you should. Look upon it as a gift rather than a
loan."

"There is no reason why you should make me such a present. I couldn't
possibly accept such a favour at your hands."

Bartolomeo leaned back in his chair and burst into a great booming
laugh.

"But didn't you guess? It is not my money. Our good Duke knew that with
the rise of prices and the necessary expenses of your mission your
circumstances were embarrassed. Everyone knows that the Signory is
niggardly. I received instructions from His Excellency's treasurer to
provide you with any sum you might need. If you had asked me for two
hundred ducats instead of twenty-five I would have given them to you."

Machiavelli went pale. He was dumbfounded.

"But if I had known the money came from the Duke nothing would have
induced me to take it."

"It was because the Duke knew your scruples and admired your integrity
that he chose me to be the go-between. He respected your delicacy. I am
betraying his confidence, but I do not think you should remain ignorant
of so generous and disinterested a gesture."

Machiavelli stifled the obscenity that rose to his lips. He had little
belief in the Duke's generosity and none in his disinterestedness. Did
he think to buy his good will for twenty-five ducats? Machiavelli's thin
lips tightened so that his mouth showed as no more than a bitter line.

"You are surprised?" smiled Bartolomeo.

"Nothing the Duke may do can any longer surprise me."

"He is a very great man. I have no doubt that we who have enjoyed the
privilege of being useful to him will on that account be remembered by
posterity."

"My good Bartolomeo," said Machiavelli, "it is not the great deeds men
do that make them remembered by posterity, but the fine language with
which men of letters describe their deeds. Pericles would be no more
than a name if Thucydides had not put into his mouth the speech that has
made him famous."

While saying these words he got up.

"You mustn't go without seeing the ladies. It would grieve them not to
bid you farewell."

Machiavelli followed him into the parlour. There was a certain
constriction in his throat and it seemed to him that his heart was
beating at an unaccustomed rate. The women had not expected a visitor
and they were in their everyday clothes. They were taken aback to see
him and perhaps none too pleased. They rose to their feet and curtseyed.
Bartolomeo told them that Machiavelli was leaving for Cesena.

"What shall we do without you?" cried Monna Caterina.

Since Machiavelli had the conviction that they would do perfectly well
without him, he merely smiled a rather sour smile.

"Messer Niccol will doubtless be glad to leave a place which offers so
little to divert a stranger," said Aurelia.

Machiavelli could not but think there was a hint of malice in her tone.
She resumed her work and he noticed that she was still busy with the
elaborate embroidery of the shirts the material of which he had brought
from Florence.

"I hardly know which to admire most, Monna Aurelia," he said, "your
patience or your industry."

"They say the devil finds work for idle hands to do," she replied.

"And pleasant work, too, on occasion."

"But dangerous."

"And hence more attractive."

"Yet discretion is the better part of valour."

Machiavelli didn't much like having his remarks capped, and though he
smiled, his retort was acidulous.

"They say that proverbs are the wisdom of the multitude, but the
multitude is always in the wrong."

Aurelia was not looking her best. The weather had been bad for some time
and she had waited too long to dye her hair. The roots showed black. One
might have thought that she had made up that morning in haste, for the
natural olive of her skin was not quite disguised by the cosmetics she
had applied.

"By the time she's forty she'll be no more desirable than her mother,"
said Machiavelli to himself.

After a decent interval he took his leave. He was glad he had seen
Aurelia again. He still desired her, but his desire was not so
importunate as it had been. He was not a man who because he was
disappointed of the fat quails he had promised himself for his dinner
was disinclined to eat the pig's trotters that were set before him; and
when he saw that to pursue Aurelia further was fruitless, he had on
occasion assuaged his urgent passions in the arms of sundry and not too
expensive young women whose acquaintance he made through the good
offices of La Barberina. Now when he looked into his heart he could not
but see that, so far as Aurelia was concerned, he was suffering as much
from wounded vanity as from the pangs of unrequited love. He came to the
conclusion that she was rather stupid; otherwise she would not have gone
to bed in a pet because he had kept her waiting a mere three hours;
otherwise it would never have occurred to her that in satisfying his
appetite she was committing a sin, at least till after she had committed
it. If only she knew as much about life as he did she would know that it
is not the temptations you have succumbed to that you regret, but those
you have resisted.

"Well, it'll serve her right if Bartolomeo adopts his nephews," he said
to himself. "She'll be sorry then that she was such a fool."


[xxvii]

Two days later he arrived at Cesena. The Duke's artillery was
approaching the city, his army was at full strength and he was well
provided with money. It was evident that something was afoot, but what,
none could tell. Notwithstanding the activity that prevailed there was
in the air a stillness like that which they say obtains before an
earthquake: men are uneasy and restless, they know not why, and
suddenly, without warning, the ground under their feet shakes and the
houses come tumbling about their ears. Machiavelli twice requested the
Duke to receive him and the Duke, thanking him for his courtesy,
returned the message that he would send for him when he had need of him.
He could get no information from the secretaries. They repeated that the
Duke told nothing till he was ready to act and he acted as necessity
dictated. It was obvious that they were as ignorant of his plans as
everyone else. Machiavelli was sick and sore and he had no money. He
wrote to the Signory asking for his recall and advised them to send in
his place an ambassador with fuller powers than they had been willing to
grant him.

But Machiavelli had not been in Cesena a week before an unexpected event
occurred. Going one morning to the Palace which the Duke had
requisitioned for his own use, he found all the French captains there.
They were angry and excited. It appeared that they had on a sudden
received the order to take themselves off within two days and they were
deeply affronted by their abrupt dismissal. Machiavelli racked his
brains to think of a plausible explanation for this step. His friends at
court told him that the Duke could no longer stand the French, since
they caused him more trouble than they were worth, but it seemed the
height of folly to send away so important a part of his armed force when
the troops left to him would not be superior to those under the command
of the captains, Orsini, Vitellozzo, Oliverotto da Fermo and the rest,
in whose loyalty, after their recent rebellion and unwilling submission,
he could certainly place small trust. Was it possible that the Duke had
so much confidence in himself that he wanted to show the King of France
that he no longer needed his help?

The French went away and a few days later another occurrence took place
which Machiavelli, a student of human nature as well as of politics,
found of quite peculiar interest. Ramiro de Lorqua was summoned to
Cesena. He had remained faithful to the Duke, he was a good soldier and
an able administrator. He had been for some time governor of Romagna.
But his cruelty and dishonesty had made him hated and feared by the
people and at last, driven beyond endurance, they sent representatives
to lay their complaints before the Duke. When Ramiro arrived he was
arrested and thrown into prison.

On Christmas Day Piero woke Machiavelli early.

"Come into the Piazza, Messere, and you will see a sight worth seeing,"
he said, his young eyes sparkling with excitement.

"What is it?"

"I will not tell you. There is a great crowd assembled. Everyone is
amazed."

It did not take Machiavelli long to dress. It had been snowing and the
morning was raw. In the Piazza, on a mat on the snow, lay the headless
body of Ramiro de Lorqua, richly dressed, with all his decorations, and
gloves on his hands. At a little distance was his head stuck on a pike.
Machiavelli turned away from the shocking sight and slowly walked back
to his lodging.

"What do you make of it, Messere?" asked Piero. "He was the Duke's most
valiant captain. They always said the Duke trusted him and relied on him
as on nobody else."

Machiavelli shrugged his shoulders.

"It has so pleased the Duke. It shows that he can make and unmake men at
his pleasure according to their deserts. I suppose that the Duke had no
further use for him and was not displeased to show by an act of justice
that he had the interests of his people at heart."

It was generally believed that Ramiro had been the lover of Lucrezia
Borgia, and it was dangerous to be either the husband or the lover of
Caesar Borgia's sister. He loved her. Her first husband, Giovanni
Sforza, escaped death only because she warned him that Caesar had given
orders for him to be killed. He threw himself on a horse and rode for
dear life till he reached the safety of Pesaro. When the Duke of Ganda
was fished out of the Tiber with nine wounds in his body common report
ascribed his murder to Caesar and the reason given was that he also had
loved Lucrezia. Pedro Calderon, a Spaniard and a chamberlain of the
Pope, was killed at Caesar's command "because of something offending the
honour of Madonna Lucrezia." She was in point of fact, it was said, with
child by him. Her second husband, Alfonso, Duke of Bisceglie, was
equally unfortunate. One day, a year after his marriage, when he was
only nineteen, he was set upon by armed men as he was leaving the
Vatican and desperately wounded; he was helped back to the papal
apartments, where for a month he hovered between life and death; then,
refusing to die of his wounds, he was strangled in bed one hour after
sunset. Alfonso of Bisceglie was the handsomest man in Rome and Lucrezia
had made the mistake of loving him too fondly. No one in Italy doubted
that he owed his death to Caesar Borgia's jealousy.

Machiavelli had a good memory and he had not forgotten something that
the Duke had said to him at Imola. Pagolo Orsini had complained of
Ramiro's brutality and the Duke had promised to give him satisfaction.
It was unlikely that he cared anything for the complaints of Pagolo,
whom he despised, but was it not possible that by his execution of
Ramiro he would dissipate the last of the suspicions harboured by the
rebellious captains? How could they fail to rely on his good faith when
to gratify one of their number he had sacrificed the most competent and
highly trusted of his lieutenants? Machiavelli laughed within himself.
It was just the kind of thing that would appeal to Il Valentino, at one
stroke to placate the outraged people of Romagna, assure his false
friends of his confidence in them and wreak his private vengeance on one
who had enjoyed the favours of Lucrezia.

"At all events," Machiavelli said to Piero cheerfully, "our good Duke
has rid the earth of one more rascal. Let us find a tavern and drink a
cup of hot wine to get the chill out of our bones."


[xxviii]

There was a very good reason why Machiavelli had not been able to
discover Il Valentino's projects and that was because they were still
unsettled. Something had to be done, for there was no sense in having an
army and not using it, but it was not so easy to decide what. The
captains sent representatives to Cesena to discuss the matter with the
Duke, but no agreement was reached, so after some days they despatched
Oliverotto da Fermo with a concrete proposition to put before him.

This Oliverotto da Fermo was a young man who not long before had got
himself much talked about. Having been left fatherless in early
childhood, he was brought up by his uncle, his mother's brother, called
Giovanni Fogliati, and on reaching a suitable age was sent to learn the
profession of arms under Paolo Vitelli. After Paolo's execution he
joined his brother Vitellozzo and in a short while, because he was
intelligent and vigorous, became one of his best officers. But he was
ambitious. He thought it base to serve when he might rule, and so
concocted an ingenious plan to better himself. He wrote to his uncle and
benefactor that since he had been away from home for some years, he
would like to visit him and his native town and at the same time see to
his paternal estate. And because his only concern had been to gain
renown, so that his fellow citizens should see that he had not spent his
time in vain he desired to come in an imposing way with a hundred
horsemen, his friends and servants, in his train; and he begged his
uncle to see that he was received in an honourable manner, which would
be not only a credit to him but to his uncle whose foster child he was.
Giovanni Fogliati was gratified to see that his nephew was not forgetful
of the care and affection with which he had treated him and when
Oliverotto arrived at Fermo, very naturally took him to live with him.
But after some days Oliverotto, not to be a burden on his uncle, moved
into a house of his own and invited him and all the most important
personages of Fermo to a solemn banquet.

When they had feasted and made merry, Oliverotto, broaching a topic that
was of concern to all of them, spoke of the greatness of the Pope and
his son Caesar and of their undertakings; but getting up on a sudden
with a remark that these were matters that must be discussed in private,
he led his guests into another room. They had no sooner seated
themselves than soldiers came out of their hiding places and killed them
one and all. Thus he gained possession of the city, and since all were
dead who might have resisted him and the regulations he made, both civil
and military, were efficient, within a year he not only made himself
safe in Fermo, but formidable to his neighbours. This was the man then
whom the captains sent to Il Valentino. The proposition he brought was
with their combined forces to invade Tuscany or if that did not suit him
to seize Sinigaglia. Tuscany was a rich prize. The capture of Siena,
Pisa, Lucca and Florence would provide great spoil to all who took part
in the enterprise and Vitellozzo and the Orsini had old scores with
Florence which they would be glad to settle. But Siena and Florence were
under the protection of the King of France and the Duke was not prepared
to anger an ally of whom he might yet have need. He therefore told
Oliverotto that he would not join in an attack on Tuscany, but would be
well pleased to have Sinigaglia taken.

Sinigaglia was small, but not unimportant, for it was on the sea and had
a good port. Its ruler, the widowed sister of the unfortunate Duke of
Urbino, had signed the compact at La Magione along with the rebel
captains; but after the reconciliation, in which she would have no
share, leaving Andrea Doria, a Genoese, to defend the citadel, she had
fled with her young son to Venice. Oliverotto marched on the city and
occupied it without opposition. Vitellozzo and the Orsini advanced with
their troops and quartered them in the vicinity. The operation had been
conducted with only one hitch: Andrea Doria refused to surrender the
citadel except to Il Valentino in person. It was strong and to take it
by storm would cost time, money and men. Common sense prevailed. Now
that the Duke had sent away his French contingent the captains could no
longer regard him as formidable and so, informing him of Andrea Doria's
demand, they invited him to come to Sinigaglia.

When he received this request he had already left Cesena and was at
Fano. He sent a trusted secretary to tell the captains that he would
come to Sinigaglia at once and to request them to await him there. Since
the signing of the treaty they had shown no inclination to encounter the
Duke in person. Anxious to dispel the mistrust which their neglect
indicated, he instructed the secretary to inform them in a friendly
manner that the estrangement they persisted in maintaining could only
prevent the pact they had agreed on from being effective; and that for
his part his one and only desire was to avail himself of their forces
and their counsels.

Machiavelli was astounded when he heard that the Duke had accepted the
captains' invitation. He had closely studied the treaty and it was
evident to him that neither side put the smallest trust in the other. On
learning that the captains had asked Il Valentino to join them at
Sinigaglia because the commander of the citadel refused to deliver it to
one of his officers, he was convinced that they were setting a trap for
him. The Duke had dismissed his French men-at-arms and so considerably
diminished his strength. The captains had all their men at Sinigaglia or
near at hand. It seemed obvious that the commander had made his
condition with their connivance and when the Duke entered the city with
his mounted men they would attack and cut him and them to pieces. It was
incredible that he should hazard himself almost defenceless among his
mortal enemies. The only explanation was that he trusted in his star
and, blinded by arrogance, thought to cow those brutal men by the power
of his will and the force of his personality. He knew they were afraid
of him, but perhaps he had forgotten that fear may well make brave men
out of cowards. True, fortune hitherto had favoured the Duke, but
fortune was inconstant. Pride goeth before a fall. Machiavelli chuckled.
If the Duke walked into the trap laid for him and were destroyed, it
would be to the great advantage of Florence. He was the enemy; the
captains, held together only by their dread of him, could be separated
by skillful manoeuvres and disposed of one by one.

Machiavelli chuckled too soon. When the Orsini, hoping to entrap the
Duke, made the commander of the citadel an offer of money to refuse to
deliver it to anyone but the Duke in person, the commander had already
received the gold the Duke had paid him to do just that. He had guessed
his captains' design and foresaw what they would do to induce him to
come among them. He was a secret man and it was not his habit to discuss
his plans till the moment arrived to put them to execution. On the night
before leaving Fano he called together eight of his most trusted
followers. He told them that when the captains came to meet him one of
them was to place himself on each side of each one of them and, as
though to do him honour, accompany him till they reached the Palace
which had been chosen as his residence. Once there they would be at his
mercy. Not one of them would leave it alive and free. He had scattered
his troops about the country so that none should know how great a force
he disposed of and now he gave orders that they should assemble in the
morning at a river about six miles on the way to Sinigaglia. As a sign
of good faith he had sent his baggage wagons on ahead of him and he
smiled as he thought how the captains must lick their chops when they
contemplated the great booty that awaited them.

All being settled, he went to bed and slept soundly. He started betimes
in the morning. It was the thirty-first of December 1502. The distance
between Fano and Sinigaglia was fifteen miles and the road ran between
the mountains and the sea. The advance guard of fifteen hundred men was
headed by Lodovico della Mirandola; then came a number of Gascons and
Swiss, a thousand of them; after them the Duke in full armour on a
richly caparisoned charger; and then the rest of his cavalry.
Machiavelli was not highly susceptible to aesthetic emotion, but he
thought he had never seen a prettier sight than this army winding its
slow way between the snow-capped mountains and the blue sea.

The captains were waiting at a point three miles from Sinigaglia.

Vitellozzo Vitelli till his health was ruined by the French sickness was
a man of powerful physique, big and strong, but spare, even gaunt, with
a sallow, clean-shaven face, an aggressive nose and a small, receding
chin. His eyelids drooping heavily over his eyes gave them a strange,
brooding expression. Ruthless, cruel, rapacious and brave, he was a fine
soldier and had the reputation of being the best artilleryman in Europe.
He was proud of his possession, Citta di Castello, and of the fine
palaces, adorned with frescoes, bronzes, marble figures and Flemish
tapestries with which he and his family had enriched it. He had loved
his brother Paolo whom the Florentines had beheaded and he hated them
for it with a hatred time could not lessen. But owing to the mercury
with which the doctors dosed him he suffered from attacks of intolerable
depression and he was but a shadow of his old self. When Pagolo Orsini
at the time they were negotiating a reconciliation brought Il
Valentino's terms to the assembled captains, Gian Paolo Baglioni, Lord
of Perugia, would not accept them and though for a time Vitellozzo,
mistrusting the Duke's offers, sided with him, he had not the strength
to withstand the nagging arguments of the others and in the end agreed
to sign. But he signed against his better judgment. True, he had written
humble letters of submission and apology, and Il Valentino in return had
assured him that all was forgiven and forgotten; but he was uneasy. His
instinct told him that the Duke had neither forgotten nor forgiven. One
of the articles of the agreement had been that only one of the captains
at a time should be on service in the Duke's camp and there they were,
all of them, gathered together. Pagolo Orsini reasoned with him. He had
visited the Duke several times, they had talked together long and often,
openly and frankly, as man to man, and it was impossible not to be
convinced of his sincerity. What better proof of it could there be than
that he had dismissed his French lancers and so could only conduct an
enterprise with their assistance? And why had he executed Ramiro de
Lorqua if not to show that he was prepared to listen to their demands?

"Believe me, the rebellion has taught the young man a lesson and there's
good reason to believe that in future we shall have no cause to be
displeased with him."

Pagolo Orsini did not, however, think it necessary to tell Vitellozzo of
a certain conversation he had had with the Duke. The Pope was past
seventy, a man of a plethoric condition who lived the life of a man in
his prime, and a stroke might kill him at any moment. Il Valentino could
control the votes of the Spanish cardinals and the cardinals his father
had created; in return for an assurance that his states would be secured
to him he was prepared to ensure the election to the papacy of Pagolo's
brother, Cardinal Orsini. The prospect was dazzling. Pagolo was the more
inclined to trust the Duke, since it seemed certain that he needed the
Orsini as much as they needed him. Vitellozzo was the first of the
captains to come forward to greet the Duke. He was unarmed, dressed in a
shabby black tunic, and over it he wore a black cloak lined with green.
He was pale and troubled and you might have thought from the look on his
face that he knew the fate in store for him. No one seeing him then
would have supposed that this was the man who had once thought on his
own resources to drive the King of France out of Italy. He was riding a
mule and was about to dismount, but the Duke prevented him and, leaning
over, he put a friendly arm round his shoulder and kissed him on both
cheeks. Within a few minutes Pagolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina rode
up with their attendants and Caesar Borgia received them with the
courtesy due to their great birth and the happy cordiality of one who
has been too long parted from dear friends. But he noticed the absence
of Oliverotto da Fermo and on asking for him was told that he was
awaiting him in the city. He sent Don Michele to fetch the young man and
while they waited engaged the captains in desultory conversation. No one
could be more charming than he when it was worth his while, and to see
him then you would have thought that nothing had ever happened to mar
the harmony of his relations with the three commanders. He was gracious,
as befitted his station, but without hauteur, so that there was no hint
of condescension in his manner. He was composed, urbane and affable. He
enquired after Vitellozzo's health and suggested sending his own surgeon
to treat him. With an amused smile he gaily chaffed the Duke of Gravina
about a love affair in which he was engaged. He listened with flattering
interest to Pagolo Orsini's description of the villa he was building in
the Alban hills.

Don Michele found Oliverotto drilling his troops in a square beyond the
river outside the city walls. He told him that it would be wise to let
his men take possession of their quarters or they would be seized by the
Duke's. The advice was good and Oliverotto, thanking him for the
sensible suggestion, immediately acted on it. Having given the necessary
orders, he accompanied Don Michele to the spot where the others were
waiting. The Duke welcomed him with the same warm friendliness as he had
welcomed the others. He would not let him do the homage he was prepared
to do; he used him as a comrade rather than as a subordinate.

The Duke gave the order to advance.

Vitellozzo was seized with terror. He had seen by now how great was the
force that followed the Duke and knew for a certainty that the plot the
captains had made stood no chance of success. He made up his mind to
rejoin his own troops, which were encamped but a few miles away. His
illness offered a convincing excuse. But Pagolo would not let him go.
This was no time, he argued, to let the Duke think they were doubtful of
his good faith. Vitellozzo was broken in spirit; he lacked the
resolution to do what his instinct told him was his only chance to
escape. He allowed himself to be persuaded.

"I have a conviction that if I go, I go to my death," he said, "but
since you are determined to take the chance, whether it be to live or
die, I am ready to face fate with you and with the others to whom
destiny has linked us."

The eight men whom the Duke had ordered to escort the captains took up
their positions one on either side of each of the doomed men and, headed
by their commander, splendid in his shining armour, the cavalcade rode
into the city. On reaching the Palace that had been set aside for the
Duke's residence the captains wished to take leave of him, but he urged
them in his frank and open way to come in so that they might immediately
discuss the plan he wished to put before them. He had much to say that
could not fail to be of interest to them. Time was important. Whatever
they decided to do must be done quickly. They agreed to what he asked.
He ushered them through the doorway and up a fine flight of stairs that
led to the great reception room. Once there he begged them to excuse him
so that he might attend to a call of nature and no sooner was he gone
than armed men burst in and arrested them. Thus he played the same neat
and simple trick on them that the graceless Oliverotto had played on his
uncle and the chief citizens at Fermo and it had not even cost him a
banquet. Pagolo Orsini protested at the Duke's breach of faith and
called for him, but he had already left the Palace. He gave orders that
the troops of the four captains should be disarmed. Oliverotto's men,
being near at hand, were taken by surprise and those who resisted were
butchered, but the others who were encamped at some distance were more
fortunate; they got wind of the disaster that had befallen their masters
and, combining their forces, succeeded, though with serious losses, in
fighting their way to safety. Caesar Borgia had to content himself with
putting to death the immediate followers of Vitellozzo and the Orsini.

The Duke's soldiers, however, were not satisfied with plundering
Oliverotto's men. They set about sacking the city. They would have
spared nothing but for the Duke's stern measures; he did not want a
ruined city, but a prosperous one from which he could get revenue, and
he had the looters hanged. The city was in a turmoil. The shopkeepers
had put up their shutters and honest citizens cowered in their houses
behind locked doors. Soldiers broke into the wineshops and forced their
owners at the sword's point to give them wine. Men were lying dead in
the streets and mongrel dogs lapped their blood.


[xxix]

Machiavelli had followed the Duke to Sinigaglia. He spent an anxious
day. It was dangerous to go out alone or unarmed and when obliged to
leave the wretched inn where he had taken refuge he was careful to be
accompanied by Piero and his servants. He had no wish to be killed by
excitable Gascons the worse for liquor.

At eight o'clock that night the Duke sent for him. On the former
occasions on which Machiavelli had had audience with him it had been in
the presence of others, secretaries, churchmen or members of the suite;
but on this occasion, to his surprise, the officer who ushered him into
the room in which the Duke was seated immediately withdrew and for the
first time they were alone.

The Duke was in high spirits. With his auburn hair and neat beard, his
cheeks flushed and his eyes shining, he looked handsomer than
Machiavelli had ever seen him. There was assurance in his mien and
majesty in his bearing. He might be the bastard of a wicked priest but
he bore himself like a king. As usual he came straight to the point.

"Well, I have done your masters a great service in ridding them of their
enemies," he said. "I desire you now to write to them to collect
infantry and send it with their cavalry so that we can march together on
Castello or Perugia."

"Perugia?"

A cheerful smile lit up the Duke's face.

"The Baglioni refused to sign the treaty with the others and he left
them saying: 'If Caesar Borgia wants me he can come and fetch me at
Perugia and come armed.' That is what I propose to do."

Machiavelli thought that it had not done the others much good to sign
the treaty, but contented himself with smiling.

"To crush Vitellozzo and destroy the Orsini would have cost the Signory
a lot of money and then they wouldn't have done it half so neatly as I
have. I don't think they should be ungrateful."

"I'm sure they are not, Excellency."

The Duke, a smile still on his lips, but his eyes shrewd, held
Machiavelli with a steady gaze.

"Then let them show it. They haven't stirred a finger and what I've done
is worth a hundred thousand ducats to them. The obligation is not legal,
but tacit, and it would be well if they started to discharge it."

Machiavelli very well knew that the Signory would be outraged at such a
demand and he had no wish to be the transmitter of it. He was glad to
have a way out.

"I should tell Your Excellency that I have asked my government to recall
me. I have pointed out to them that they should have here an envoy of
more consequence and with fuller powers than mine. Your Excellency could
more profitably discuss this matter with my successor."

"You are right. I am tired of your government's temporizing. The time
has come for them to make the decision whether they will be with me or
against me. I should have left here today, but if I had the town would
have been sacked. Andrea Doria is to surrender the citadel tomorrow
morning and then I shall set out for Castello and Perugia. When I have
settled my business there I shall turn my attention to Siena."

"Would the King of France consent to your taking cities that are under
his protection?"

"He wouldn't and I'm not so foolish as to think so. I propose to take
them on behalf of the Church. All I want for myself is my own state of
Romagna."

Machiavelli sighed. He was filled with an unwilling admiration for this
man whose spirit was so fiery and who was so confident in his power to
get whatsoever he wanted.

"No one can doubt that you are favoured by fortune, Excellency," he
said.

"Fortune favours him who knows how to take advantage of his opportunity.
Do you suppose it was a happy accident, by which I profited, that the
governor of the citadel refused to surrender except to me personally?"

"I wouldn't do Your Excellency that injustice. After what has happened
today I can guess that you made it worth his while."

The Duke laughed.

"I like you, Secretary. You are a man with whom one can talk. I shall
miss you." He paused and for what seemed quite a long time looked
searchingly at Machiavelli. "I could almost wish that you were in my
service."

"Your Excellency is very kind. I am very well content to serve the
Republic."

"What does it profit you? The salary you receive is so miserable that to
make both ends meet you have to borrow from your friends."

This gave Machiavelli something of a turn, but then he remembered that
the Duke must know of the twenty-five ducats Bartolomeo had lent him.

"I am careless of money and of an extravagant disposition," he answered
with a pleasant smile. "It is my own fault if from time to time I live
beyond my means."

"You would find it hard to do that if you were employed by me. It is
very pleasant to be able to give a pretty lady a ring, a bracelet or a
brooch when one wishes to obtain her favours."

"I have made it my rule to satisfy my desires with women of easy virtue
and modest pretensions."

"A good rule enough if one's desires were under one's control, but who
can tell what strange tricks love can play on him? Have you never
discovered, Secretary, to what expense one is put when one loves a
virtuous woman?"

The Duke was looking at him with mocking eyes and for an instant
Machiavelli asked himself uneasily whether it was possible that he knew
of his unsatisfied passion for Aurelia, but the thought had no sooner
come into his mind than he rejected it. The Duke had more important
things to occupy him than the Florentine envoy's love affairs.

"I am willing to take it for granted and leave both the pleasure and the
expense to others."

The Duke gazed at him thoughtfully. You might have imagined that he was
asking himself what kind of a man this was, but with no ulterior motive,
from idle curiosity rather. So, when you find yourself alone with a
stranger in the waiting room of an office to pass the time you try from
the look of him to guess his business, his calling, his habits and his
character.

"I should have thought you were too intelligent a man to be content to
remain for the rest of your life in a subordinate position," said the
Duke.

"I have learnt from Aristotle that it is the better part of wisdom to
cultivate the golden mean."

"Is it possible that you are devoid of ambition?"

"Far from it, Excellency," smiled Machiavelli. "My ambition is to serve
my state to the best of my ability."

"That is just what you will not be allowed to do. You know better than
anyone that in a republic talent is suspect. A man attains high office
because his mediocrity prevents him from being a menace to his
associates. That is why a democracy is ruled not by the men who are most
competent to rule it, but by the men whose insignificance can excite
nobody's apprehension. Do you know what are the cankers that eat the
heart of a democracy?"

He looked at Machiavelli as though waiting for an answer, but
Machiavelli said nothing.

"Envy and fear. The petty men in office are envious of their associates
and rather than that one of them should gain reputation will prevent him
from taking a measure on which may depend the safety and prosperity of
the state; and they are fearful because they know that all about them
are others who will stop at neither lies nor trickery to step into their
shoes. And what is the result? The result is that they are more afraid
of doing wrong than zealous to do right. They say that dog doesn't bite
dog: whoever invented that proverb had never lived under a democratic
government."

Machiavelli remained silent. He knew only too well how much truth there
was in what the Duke said. He remembered how hotly the election to his
own subordinate post had been contested and with what bitterness his
defeated rivals had taken it. He knew that he had colleagues who were
watching his every step, ready to pounce upon any slip he made that
might induce the Signory to dismiss him. The Duke continued.

"A prince in my position is free to choose men to serve him for their
ability. He need not give a post to a man who is incapable of filling it
because he needs his influence or because he has a party behind him
whose services must be recognized. He fears no rival because he is above
rivalry and so, instead of favouring mediocrity, which is the curse and
bane of democracy, seeks out talent, energy, initiative and
intelligence. No wonder things go from bad to worse in your republic;
the last reason for which anyone gets office is his fitness for it."

Machiavelli smiled thinly.

"Your Excellency will permit me to remind him that the favour of princes
is notoriously uncertain. They can exalt a man to great heights, but
they can also cast him down to the depths."

The Duke gave a chuckle of frank amusement.

"You are thinking of Ramiro de Lorqua. A prince must know both how to
reward and how to punish. His generosity must be profuse and his justice
severe. Ramiro committed abominable crimes; he deserved to die. What
would have happened to him in Florence? There would have been people
whom his death would have offended; there would have been people to
intercede for him because they had profited by his misdeeds; the Signory
would have hesitated and in the end have sent him on an embassy to the
King of France or to me."

Machiavelli laughed.

"Believe me, Your Excellency, the ambassador they propose to send to you
now is of unimpeachable respectability."

"He will probably bore me to death. There is no doubt about it, I shall
miss you, Secretary." Then, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him,
he gave Machiavelli a warm smile. "Why don't you enter my service? I
will find work for you to do that will give scope to your quick mind and
wide experience, and you won't find me ungenerous."

"What confidence could you place in a man who had betrayed his country
for money?"

"I do not ask you to betray your country. By serving me you could serve
it to better advantage than you will ever be able to as secretary of the
Second Chancery. Other Florentines have entered my service and I don't
know that they have regretted it."

"Adherents of the Medici who fled when their lords were driven out and
were prepared to do anything that gave them a means of livelihood."

"Not only. Leonardo and Michelangelo were not too proud to accept my
offers."

"Artists. They will go wherever there is a patron to give them a
commission; they are not responsible people."

There was still a smile in the eyes that steadily held Machiavelli's
when the Duke answered.

"I have an estate in the immediate neighbourhood of Imola. It has
vineyards, arable land, pasture and woods. I should be happy to give it
to you. It would bring you in ten times as much as the few beggarly
acres you own at San Casciano."

Imola? Why had Caesar thought of that city rather than another? Once
more the suspicion crossed Machiavelli's mind that he knew of his
fruitless pursuit of Aurelia.

"Those beggarly acres at San Casciano have belonged to my family for
three hundred years," he said acidly. "What should I do with an estate
at Imola?"

"The villa is new, handsome and well built. It would be an agreeable
retreat from the city in the heat of summer."

"You speak in riddles, Excellency."

"I am sending Agapito to Urbino as its governor. I know no one more
competent than you to take his place as my chief secretary, but I can
see that it would make negotiations with the ambassador Florence is
sending to replace you somewhat embarrassing. I am prepared to appoint
you governor of Imola."

It seemed to Machiavelli that his heart on a sudden stopped beating. It
was a position of importance and one to which he had never dreamt of
aspiring. There were cities that had come into the possession of
Florence, either by capture or by treaty, but the men sent to govern
them were of great family and of powerful connections. As governor of
Imola, Aurelia would be proud to be his mistress and as governor of
Imola he could easily find pretexts to rid himself of Bartolomeo
whenever it suited him. It was almost impossible that the Duke should
make this offer without being aware of the circumstances. But how could
he be aware of them? Machiavelli felt in himself a certain complacency
as he noticed that the double prospect did not for a moment affect him.

"I love my native land more than my soul, Excellency."

Il Valentino was unused to being crossed and Machiavelli thought it
certain that on this he would dismiss him with an angry gesture. To his
surprise, the Duke, playing idly with his order of St. Michael,
continued to look at him reflectively. It seemed a long time before he
spoke.

"I have always been frank with you, Secretary," he said at last. "I know
you are a man not easy to deceive and I would not waste my time in
trying. I will put my cards on the table. I do not ask you for secrecy
if I divulge my plans to you; you will not betray my confidence, because
no one would believe that I gave it to you. The Signory would think you
were trying to make yourself important by giving out your guesses as
matters of fact."

The Duke paused for a moment only.

"My hold on Romagna and Urbino is secure. In a little while I shall have
control of Castello, Perugia and Siena. Pisa is mine for the asking.
Lucca will surrender at my bidding. What will be the position of
Florence when it is surrounded by states in my possession or under my
authority?"

"Dangerous without doubt except for our treaty with France."

Machiavelli's reply seemed to amuse the Duke.

"A treaty is an arrangement two states make to their common advantage
and a prudent government will disavow it when its circumstances are no
longer advantageous. What do you think the French king would say if in
return for his connivance while I seized Florence I offered then to join
my forces with his to attack Venice?"

Machiavelli shivered. He knew only too well that Louis XII would never
hesitate to sacrifice his honour to his interest. He took some time to
answer and when he did he spoke with deliberation.

"It would be a mistake on Your Excellency's part to suppose that
Florence could be taken at small cost. We would fight to the death to
preserve our liberty."

"What with? Your citizens have been too busy making money to be willing
to train themselves to defend their country. You have hired mercenaries
to fight for you so that you shouldn't be disturbed in your avocations.
Folly! Hireling soldiers do not go to war for any reason other than a
little money. That is not enough to make them die for you. A country is
doomed to destruction if it cannot defend itself and the only way it can
do that is to create out of its own citizens a trained, well-disciplined
and well-equipped army. But are you Florentines prepared to make the
sacrifices this entails? I don't believe it. You are governed by
businessmen and businessmen's only idea is to make a deal at any price.
Short profits and quick returns, peace in our time even at the cost of
humiliation and the risk of disaster. Your Livy has taught you that the
safety of a republic depends on the integrity of the individuals that
compose it. Your people are soft. Your state is corrupt and deserves to
perish."

Machiavelli's face grew sullen. He had no answer to make. The Duke drove
his point home.

"Now that Spain is united and France, rid of the English, is strong, the
time is past when small states can maintain their independence. Their
independence is a sham, for it is not based on force, and they maintain
it only so long as it suits the convenience of the great powers. The
states of the Church are under my control; Bologna will fall into my
hands; Florence is doomed. I shall then be master of all the country
from the Kingdom of Naples in the south to the Milanese and Venetia in
the north. I shall have my own artillery and the artillery of the
Vitelli. I shall create an army as efficient as my army of Romagna. The
King of France and I will divide between ourselves the possessions of
Venice."

"But should all this happen as you desire, Excellency," said Machiavelli
grimly, "all you will have achieved will be to increase the power of
France and arouse the fear and envy both of France and Spain. Either of
them could crush you."

"True. But with my arms and my gold I should be so powerful an ally that
the party I sided with would be certain of victory."

"You would still remain the vassal of the victor."

"Tell me, Secretary, you have been in France and have had dealings with
the French, what is your opinion of them?"

Machiavelli shrugged a somewhat disdainful shoulder.

"They're frivolous and unreliable. When an enemy resists the ferocity of
their first attack they waver and lose courage. They can stand neither
hardship nor discomfort and after a little while grow so careless that
it's easy to take advantage of their unpreparedness."

"I know. When winter comes with cold and rain they slink out of camp one
by one and then they're at the mercy of a more sturdy foe."

"On the other hand the country is rich and fertile. The King has broken
the strength of the barons and is very powerful. He's somewhat foolish,
but well advised by men as clever as any in Italy."

The Duke nodded.

"And now tell me what you think of the Spaniards."

"I have had little to do with them."

"Then I will tell you. They're brave, hardy, resolute and poor. They
have nothing to lose and everything to gain. It would be impossible to
withstand them but for one circumstance: they have to bring their troops
and armaments across the sea. If they were once driven out of Italy it
shouldn't be difficult to prevent them from coming back."

Silence fell upon them. Il Valentino, his chin resting on his hand,
appeared to be sunk in thought and Machiavelli watched him at his ease.
His eyes were hard and brilliant. They looked into a future of tortuous
diplomacy and of bloody battles. Excited as he was by the events of the
day and the amazing success of his duplicity, no enterprise seemed too
difficult or too dangerous for him to undertake, and who could tell what
visions of greatness and glory dazzled his bold imagination? He smiled.

"With my help the French could drive the Spaniards out of Naples and
Sicily: with my help the Spaniards could drive the French out of the
Milanese."

"Whichever you helped would remain the master of Italy and you,
Excellency."

"If I helped the Spaniards, yes; not if I helped the French. We drove
them out of Italy before; we can drive them out again."

"They will bide their time and return."

"I shall be ready for them. The old fox, King Ferdinand, is not one to
cry over spilt milk; if they attack me he will seize the opportunity of
revenge and march his armies into France. He has married his daughter to
the son of the King of England. The English will not miss the chance to
declare war on their hereditary enemies. The French will have more
reason to fear me than I to fear them."

"But the Pope is old, Excellency; his death will deprive you of half
your force and a great part of your reputation."

"Do you suppose I haven't taken that into consideration? I've provided
for everything that may happen when my father dies. I am prepared for it
and the next Pope will be of my choosing. He will be protected by my
troops. No, I do not fear the Pope's death. It will not interfere with
my plans."

Suddenly the Duke sprang out of his chair and began to pace the room.

"It is the Church that has kept this country divided. She has never been
strong enough to gain dominion over all Italy, but only to prevent
anyone else from doing so. Italy cannot prosper till it is united."

"It is true that if our poor country has become the prey of the
barbarians it is because it has been ruled by this multitude of lords
and princes."

Il Valentino stopped walking and, his sensual lips curling with a
sardonic smile, looked into Machiavelli's eyes.

"For the remedy we must turn to the Gospel, my good Secretary, which
tells us to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto God
the things that are God's."

The Duke's meaning was plain. Machiavelli gave a gasp of fearful
amazement. He was strangely fascinated by this man who could calmly
speak of taking a step which must arouse the horror of all Christendom.

"A prince should support the spiritual authority of the Church," he went
on coolly, "for this will keep his people good and happy, and I cannot
think of a better way to restore to the Church the spiritual authority
she has so unfortunately lost than to deprive her of the burden of
temporal power."

Machiavelli was at a loss to know how to answer a remark in which there
was so brutal a cynicism, but he was saved from the necessity of doing
so by a scratching at the door.

"Who is it?" cried the Duke with sudden anger at the interruption.

There was no answer, but the door was flung open and a man entered whom
Machiavelli recognized as Don Michele, the Spaniard known as Michelotto.
It was he, they said, who had strangled with his own hands the handsome
and unfortunate boy, Alfonso of Bisceglie, whom Lucrezia loved.
Michelotto was a big, hairy man of powerful build, with bushy eyebrows,
hard eyes, a short blunt nose and an expression of cold ferocity.

"Ah, it's you," cried the Duke, his look changing.

"_Murieron._"

Machiavelli knew little Spanish, but he could not fail to understand
that one grim word. _They died._ The man had remained at the door and
the Duke went over to him. They spoke in an undertone and in Spanish,
and Machiavelli could not hear what they said. The Duke asked one or two
abrupt questions and the other seemed to answer in detail.

Il Valentino gave that curious light, gay laugh of his which meant that
he was pleased as well as amused. After a little Don Michele went and
the Duke, a happy smile in his eyes, resumed his seat.

"Vitellozzo and Oliverotto are dead. They died less valiantly than they
lived. Oliverotto cried for mercy. He put the blame for his treachery on
Vitellozzo and said that he had been led astray."

"And Pagolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina?"

"I am taking them with me tomorrow under guard. I shall hold them until
I hear from His Holiness the Pope."

Machiavelli gave him a questioning glance and the Duke answered it.

"As soon as I had arrested the rascals I sent a messenger to the Pope to
ask him to seize the person of the Cardinal Orsini. Pagolo and his
nephew must await the punishment of their crimes till I am assured that
this has been done."

The Borgia's face grew somber and it was as though a heavy cloud lurked
between his eyebrows. There was a silence and Machiavelli, supposing the
audience was at an end, rose to his feet. But the Duke with a sudden
gesture of impatience motioned him to sit still. When he spoke it was in
a low voice, but in accents that were hard, angry and resolute.

"It is not enough to destroy these petty tyrants whose subjects groan
under their misrule. We are the prey of the barbarians; Lombardy is
plundered, Tuscany and Naples are laid under tribute. I alone can crush
these horrible and inhuman beasts. I alone can free Italy."

"God knows, Italy prays for the liberator who will deliver her from
bondage."

"The time is ripe and the enterprise will bring glory to those who take
part in it and good to the mass of the people of the land." He turned
his bright-eyed, frowning gaze on Machiavelli as though by its force he
thought to bend him to his will. "How can you hold back? Surely there is
not an Italian who will refuse to follow me."

Machiavelli stared gravely at Caesar Borgia. He sighed deeply.

"The greatest wish of my heart is to free Italy from these barbarians
who overrun and despoil us, lay waste our territories, rape our women
and rob our citizens. It may be that you are the man chosen by God to
redeem our country. The price you ask me to pay is to join with you in
destroying the liberty of the city that gave me birth."

"With you or without you Florence will lose her liberty."

"Then I will go down to the destruction with her."

The Duke gave his shoulders a displeased, peevish shrug.

"Spoken like an ancient Roman, but not like a man of sense."

With a haughty wave of the hand he indicated that the audience was
terminated. Machiavelli got up, bowed and uttered the usual expressions
of respect. He was at the door when the Duke's voice stopped him. And
now, clever actor that he was, he changed his tone to one of affable
friendliness.

"Before you go, Secretary, I would like you to give me the benefit of
your advice. At Imola you became friendly with Bartolomeo Martelli. He's
done one or two odd jobs for me not too badly. I need a man to go to
Montpellier to conduct negotiations with the wool merchants and it would
be convenient to have him go on to Paris to do various things for me
there. From your knowledge of Bartolomeo do you think I should be wise
to send him?"

He spoke casually as though there were nothing more in the enquiry than
the words signified, but Machiavelli understood what was at the back of
them. The Duke was offering to despatch Bartolomeo on a journey that
would take him away from Imola for a considerable period, and now there
could be no doubt that he knew of Machiavelli's desire for Aurelia.

"Since Your Excellency is good enough to ask my opinion I should say
that Bartolomeo is so useful to you in keeping the people of Imola
contented with your rule that it would be a grave mistake to send him
away."

"Perhaps you are right. He shall stay."

Machiavelli bowed once more and left.


[xxx]

Piero and the servants were waiting for him. The streets were dark and
empty. Dead men, most of them stripped to the bone, still lay about and
from a gallows in the main square looters hung as a warning to others.
They walked to the inn. The heavy doors were locked and barred, but on
their knocking they were examined through the judas and let in. The
night was bitter cold and Machiavelli was glad to warm himself at the
kitchen fire. Some men were drinking, some were playing dice or cards;
others were asleep on benches or on the floor. The landlord put down a
mattress for Machiavelli and Piero in his room at the foot of the great
bed in which his wife and children were already asleep. They lay down
side by side, wrapped in their cloaks, and Piero, tired after the
morning's ride from Fano, the exciting events of the day and the long
wait at the Palace, fell asleep instantly; but Machiavelli stayed wide
awake. He had much to occupy his thoughts.

It was obvious that Il Valentino knew of his abortive intrigue with
Aurelia, and Machiavelli smiled with bitter irony over the mistake that
that man of tortuous mind had made in supposing that he could use the
passion he supposed him to have to seduce him from the service of the
Republic. Machiavelli would have credited him with more intelligence
than to imagine that a man of sense could be so besotted with desire for
a woman as to allow it to interfere with the serious business of life.
Women were aplenty. Why, when the Duke had kidnapped Dorotea Caracciolo,
wife of the captain of the Venetian infantry, and Venice had sent envoys
to demand her return, he had asked them whether they thought he found
the women of Romagna so unapproachable that he was compelled to abduct
transient females. Except to say good-bye to her Machiavelli had not
seen Aurelia for several weeks and if he wanted her now it was because
he did not like to be thwarted rather than because his passion was still
at fever heat. He knew that and it would have seemed absurd to him to
yield to such a petty emotion. But he was curious to know how the Duke
had discovered his secret. Certainly not through Piero; he had tried him
and found him true. Serafina? He had been very careful and there was no
possibility that she had an inkling of what had gone on. Monna Caterina
and Aurelia were too deeply implicated in the plot to have betrayed him.
Nina? No, they had taken care of her. On a sudden Machiavelli slapped
his forehead. Fool that he was! It was plain as the nose on his face and
he could have kicked himself for not having guessed at once. Fra
Timoteo! He must be in the Duke's pay; with his close association with
Serafina and with Bartolomeo's household he was in a position to spy on
the Florentine envoy's movements, and by him the Duke must have known
all he did, who came to visit him, when he sent letters to Florence and
when the answers arrived. It gave Machiavelli a peculiar sense of
discomfort to realize that he had been under surveillance. But this
guess made everything clear. It was no coincidence that on the night
when Bartolomeo was safely praying before the bones of San Vitale, Il
Valentino should have sent for him at the very hour appointed for him to
knock at Aurelia's door. Fra Timoteo knew the arrangement and had passed
the information on. Rage seized Machiavelli and he would gladly have
wrung the sleek monk's neck. Caesar Borgia, judging Machiavelli by
himself, thought the disappointment would exacerbate his passion and so
make him more malleable to his own designs. That was why Fra Timoteo had
refused to help him further. It was certainly he who had persuaded
Aurelia that Providence had prevented her from committing a sin and so
she must refrain from it.

"I wonder how much he got besides my twenty-five ducats," Machiavelli
muttered, forgetting that he had borrowed them from Bartolomeo and
Bartolomeo had got them from the Duke.

But for all that he could not but feel a certain complacency at the
thought that the Duke was prepared to take so much trouble to inveigle
him into his service. It was far from disagreeable to realize that he
set so high a value on him. In Florence the Signory thought him an
amusing fellow and his letters often made them laugh, but they had no
great confidence in his judgment and never followed his advice.

"A prophet is not without honour save in his own country," he sighed.

He knew that he had more brains in his little finger than all the rest
of them put together. Piero Soderini, the head of the government, was a
weak, shallow, amiable man and it might have been of him that the Duke
was thinking when he spoke of those who were more afraid of doing wrong
than zealous to do right. The others, his immediate councillors, were
timid, mediocre and irresolute. Their policy was to hesitate, to
shilly-shally, to temporize. Machiavelli's immediate superior, the
Secretary of the Republic, was Marcello Virgilio. He owed his position
to his handsome presence and his gift for oratory. Machiavelli was
attached to him, but had no great opinion of his ability. How it would
surprise those silly fellows to hear that the agent whom they had sent
to Il Valentino just because he was of small consequence had been
appointed governor of Imola and was the most trusted of the Duke's
advisers! Machiavelli hadn't the least intention of accepting the Duke's
offers, but it amused him to play with the idea and imagine the
consternation of the Signory and the wrath of his enemies.

And Imola would be merely a step. If Caesar Borgia became King of Italy
he might well become his first minister and occupy the same position as
the Cardinal de Rouen occupied with the King of France. Was it possible
that in the Borgia Italy had found her redeemer? Even though it was
personal ambition that spurred him on, his purpose was lofty and worthy
of his great spirit. He was wise and vigorous. He had made himself loved
and feared by the people; he commanded the respect and confidence of the
troops. Italy was enslaved and insulted, but surely her ancient valour
was not dead. United under a strong ruler, her people would enjoy the
security they longed for to pursue their avocations and live in
prosperity and happiness. What greater opportunity for glory could any
man want than to give that suffering land the blessing of lasting peace?

But suddenly a notion struck Machiavelli with such force that he started
violently so that Piero, asleep by his side, was disturbed and made a
restless movement. It had occurred to him that the whole thing might be
nothing more than a practical joke that the Duke had played on him. He
knew well enough that Il Valentino, notwithstanding his pretence of
cordiality, was displeased with him because he felt that he had not
exerted himself as much as he might have to persuade the Signory to
grant the _condotta_ which would enhance his prestige and augment his
resources. This might be his revenge and Machiavelli felt his whole body
prickle as he thought that all that time at Imola the Duke and Agapito
and the rest had watched his ingenious moves and guffawed as they
devised ways to frustrate them. He tried to persuade himself that this
was only an idle fancy that had better be quickly forgotten; but he
couldn't be sure and the uncertainty tortured him. He spent a very
troubled night.


[xxxi]

Next morning the Duke, leaving a small force to garrison the town, set
out with his army on the first lap to Perugia.

It was New Year's Day.

The weather was bad and the roads, poor at the best of times, were
converted by the tramping horses, the baggage wagons and the marching
soldiers into a slush of mud. The army halted at small towns in which
there were no means of accommodation for so great a mass of men, and
those were lucky who found the shelter of a roof. Machiavelli liked his
comfort. It affected his temper to sleep on the bare earth in a
peasant's hut cheek by jowl with as many as could find room in which to
stretch their weary limbs. One had to eat what food there was, and
Machiavelli, with his poor digestion, suffered miserably. At
Sassoferrato news came that the surviving Vitelli had fled to Perugia,
and at Gualdo citizens of Castello were waiting to offer the Duke the
town and its territories. Then a messenger arrived to announce that Gian
Paolo Baglioni, with the Orsini, the Vitelli and their men-at-arms,
abandoning hope of defending Perugia, had fled to Siena, whereupon the
people had risen and next day ambassadors came to surrender it. Thus the
Duke gained possession of two important towns without striking a blow.
He went on to Assisi. There envoys from Siena came to ask what reason he
had for attacking their city as according to common report was his
intention. The Duke told them that he was filled with amicable
sentiments towards it but that he was determined to expel Pandolfo
Petrucci, their lord and his enemy, and that if they would do this
themselves they had nothing to fear from him; but if not he would come
with his army and do it himself. He set out for Siena, but by a
circuitous route so that the citizens might have time to reflect, and on
the way captured various castles and villages. The soldiery plundered
the country. The inhabitants had fled before them, but when they found
any that had stayed behind, old men or old women too infirm to leave,
they hung them up by their arms and lit fires under their feet so that
they would tell where valuables had been hidden. When they would not, or
could not because they didn't know, they died under the torture.

Meanwhile good news arrived from Rome. On receipt of his son's letter
telling him what had occurred at Sinigaglia, His Holiness sent a message
to Cardinal Orsini, not, naturally enough, to inform him of what had
happened to his friends and kinsmen, but to impart the glad tidings that
the citadel had surrendered; and next day, as in duty bound, the
Cardinal went to the Vatican to offer the Pope his congratulations. He
was accompanied by relations and retainers. He was conducted to an
antechamber and there together with the other members of his family put
under arrest. It was safe then for the Duke to dispose of his captives
and Michelotto strangled Pagolo Orsini, the fool who had been taken in
by the Duke's smooth words, and his nephew the Duke of Gravina. The
Cardinal was imprisoned in the Castle of San Angelo, where after no long
time he very obligingly died. The Pope and his son might congratulate
themselves on having crippled the strength of the family that had been
for so long a thorn in the flesh of the Vicars of Christ. It was indeed
a cause for rejoicing that in disposing of their personal enemies they
had done an important service to the Church. They proved thus that it
was in point of fact possible to serve God and mammon.


[xxxii]

When the Duke arrived at a place called Citta della Piave, Machiavelli
was relieved to learn that his successor was on the point of leaving
Florence. Citta della Piave was a town of some note, with a castle and a
cathedral, and he was fortunate enough to find a decent dwelling place.
The Duke proposed to stay there briefly to rest his troops and by the
time he set forth again Machiavelli hoped that Giacomo Salviati, the new
ambassador, would have come. The long journeys on horseback had tired
him, the bad food upset his stomach, and he had got little sleep in the
wretched lodgings which at the day's end he had been obliged to put up
with.

After two or three days it happened that one afternoon he lay on his bed
to rest his wayworn limbs, but uneasily, for he was not a little
troubled in mind. Though he had written almost daily to the Signory to
tell them what it behoved them to know, he had hesitated to inform them
of the more important parts of his conversation with the Duke at
Sinigaglia. Il Valentino had offered him wealth and power; the
opportunity was prodigious and it might well occur to the Signory that
since he occupied already as important a position as he could ever
aspire to he might find the temptation irresistible. They were small men
with the low suspiciousness of pettifogging attorneys. They would ask
themselves what there was between their envoy and the Duke to make the
latter think him susceptible to such advances. It would be a black mark
against him. He would be a man whom perhaps it was wise not to trust too
much and it would not be difficult to find a plausible reason for his
dismissal. Why, Machiavelli asked himself, should they suppose he would
put the interests of Florence above his own when it was just because
they did not do that that they were jeopardizing her safety? It seemed
prudent to keep silence and yet if somehow the Signory got wind of the
Duke's proposals his very silence would condemn him. The situation was
awkward. His reflections, however, were rudely interrupted by a booming
voice asking the woman of the house whether Messer Niccol Machiavelli
lived there.

"Messer Bartolomeo," cried Piero, who had been sitting at the window
reading one of his master's books.

"What the devil does he want?" said Machiavelli irritably, as he got up.

In a moment the burly fellow burst into the room. He flung his arms
around Machiavelli and kissed him on both cheeks.

"It's been the very deuce to find you. I've been to house after house."

Machiavelli disengaged himself.

"How is it you're here?"

Bartolomeo greeted his young cousin after the same exuberant fashion and
answered:

"The Duke sent for me in connection with some business at Imola. I had
to pass through Florence and I came with some of your ambassador's
servants. He'll be here tomorrow. Niccol, Niccol, my dear friend, you
have saved my life."

He once more seized Machiavelli in his arms and again kissed him on both
cheeks. Machiavelli once more extricated himself from this embrace.

"I am delighted to see you, Bartolomeo," he began, somewhat frigidly.

But the merchant interrupted him.

"A miracle, a miracle, and I have you to thank for it. Aurelia is
pregnant."

"What!"

"In seven months, my dear Niccol, I shall be the father of a bouncing
boy and I owe it to you."

If things had gone differently Machiavelli might have been embarrassed
by this remark, but as it was he was stupefied.

"Calm yourself, Bartolomeo, and tell me what you mean," said he crossly.
"How do you owe it to me?"

"How can I be calm when the dearest wish of my heart has been gratified?
Now I can go to my grave in peace. Now I can leave my honours and my
possessions to the issue of my own loins. Costanza, my sister, is beside
herself with rage."

He burst into a great bellow of laughter. Machiavelli gave Piero a
puzzled look; he could make neither head nor tail of it; and he saw that
Piero was as surprised as he.

"Of course I owe it to you; I would never have gone to Ravenna and spent
that cold night praying before the altar of San Vitale but for you.
True, it was Fra Timoteo's idea, but I didn't trust him; he'd sent us on
pilgrimages to the shrine of one saint after the other and nothing had
come of it. Fra Timoteo is a good and saintly man, but with priests you
have to be on your guard; you can never be quite sure that they haven't
some ulterior motive in their advice. I don't blame them, they are
faithful sons of our Holy Church; but I should have hesitated to go if
you hadn't told me about Messer Giuliano degli Albertelli. I could trust
you, you had only my welfare at heart, you are my friend. I said to
myself that what had happened to one of the most notable citizens of
Florence might just as well happen to one who is not the least notable
citizen of Imola. Aurelia conceived on the night of my return from
Ravenna."

His excitement and his flow of speech had brought him out into a profuse
sweat and he wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve. Machiavelli
stared at him with perplexity, distaste and vexation.

"Are you quite sure that Monna Aurelia is in this condition?" he said
acidly. "Women are inclined to make mistakes on these matters."

"Sure, as sure as I am of the articles of our faith. We had our
suspicions before you left Imola, I wanted to tell you then, but Monna
Caterina and Aurelia begged me not to. 'Let us say nothing,' they said,
'until we are certain.' Did you not notice how poorly she looked when I
took you to say good-bye to her? She was angry with me afterwards; she
said she couldn't bear you to see her looking so hideous; she was afraid
you'd suspect and she didn't want anyone to know until all doubt was
removed. I reasoned with her, but you know what women's fancies are when
they're with child."

"I suspected nothing," said Machiavelli. "It's true that I have only
been married a few months and my experience in these things is limited."

"I wanted you to be the first person to know, since except for you I
should never have been the happy father I now shall be."

He gave every indication of being about to clasp Machiavelli in his arms
again, but Machiavelli warded him off.

"I congratulate you with all my heart, but if my ambassador is arriving
tomorrow I have no time to waste; the information should be conveyed to
the Duke at once."

"I will leave you, but you must sup with me tonight, you and Piero, to
celebrate the occasion in style."

"It would be hard to do that here," said he ill-temperedly. "There is
scarcely anything to eat and the wine, if there is any, will be as bad
as it has been all along the way."

"I had thought of that," said Bartolomeo, with a bellow of laughter,
rubbing his fat hands together, "and I brought wine with me from
Florence, a hare and a suckling pig. We will feast and drink to the
health of my first-born son."

Though he was by now thoroughly out of humour, Machiavelli had fared too
badly since leaving Imola to be able to resist the offer of a tolerable
meal and so with what amiability he could muster accepted.

"I will call for you here," said Bartolomeo, "but before I go I want you
to give me some advice. Of course you remember that I promised Fra
Timoteo that I would give a picture to be placed over the altar of our
miraculous Virgin and though I know I owe my good fortune to San Vitale
I don't want to put an affront on her. She undoubtedly did her best. So
I have decided to have a picture painted of Our Lady seated on a rich
throne with her Blessed Son in her arms and with me and Aurelia kneeling
on each side with our hands clasped like this." He put his great paws
together and raised his eyes to the ceiling with an appropriate
expression of devotion. "I shall have San Vitale standing on one side of
the throne and Fra Timoteo has suggested that on the other, since the
church is dedicated to him, I should have St. Francis. Do you like the
idea?"

"Very choice," said Machiavelli.

"You're a Florentine and must know about such things: tell me to whom I
should give the order."

"I really don't know. They're a very unreliable, dissipated lot, these
painters, and I've never had any truck with them."

"I don't blame you. But surely you can suggest someone."

Machiavelli shrugged his shoulders.

"When I was in Urbino last summer they talked to me about a young
fellow, a pupil of Perugino, who they say already paints better than his
master and who they expect will go far."

"What is his name?"

"I have no idea. They told me, but it meant nothing to me and it went in
at one ear and out of the other. But I daresay I could find out and I
don't suppose he'd be expensive."

"Expense is no object," said Bartolomeo with a grandiose wave of the
arm. "I'm a businessman and I know that if you want the best you must
pay for it. And only the best is good enough for me. I want a big name
and if I have to pay for it I'll pay for it."

"Oh, well, when I get back to Florence I'll make enquiries," Machiavelli
answered impatiently.

When he had gone Machiavelli sat down on the edge of the bed and stared
at Piero with a look of complete bewilderment.

"Did you ever hear the like?" he said. "The man is sterile."

"It is evidently a miracle," said Piero.

"Don't talk such nonsense. We are bound to believe that miracles were
performed by our Blessed Lord and by His apostles, and our Holy Church
has accepted the authenticity of miracles performed by its saints, but
the time of miracles is past and in any case why in the name of heaven
should San Vitale go out of his way to do one for a fat stupid fool like
Bartolomeo?"

But even as he spoke he remembered that Fra Timoteo had said something
to him to the effect that even though San Vitale's singular power was an
invention of Machiavelli's, Bartolomeo's absolute belief in it might
effect the miracle he expected. Was it possible? At the time he had
thought it only a hypocritical excuse on the monk's part to avoid giving
him more assistance till he received more money.

Piero opened his mouth to speak.

"Hold your tongue," said Machiavelli. "I'm thinking."

He would never have described himself as a good Catholic. He had indeed
often permitted himself to wish that the gods of Olympus still dwelt in
their old abode. Christianity had shown men the truth and the way of
salvation, but it asked men to suffer rather than to do. It had made the
world feeble and given it over, helpless, a prey to the wicked, since
the generality, in order to go to heaven, thought more of enduring
injuries than of defending themselves against them. It had taught that
the highest good consisted in humility, lowliness and contempt for the
things of this world; the religion of the ancients taught that it
consisted in greatness of spirit, courage and strength.

But this was a strange thing that had happened. It shook him. Though his
reason revolted he was aware within himself of an uneasy inclination to
believe in the possibility of a supernatural intervention. His head
refused to accept it, but in his bones, in his blood, in his nerves
there was a doubt that he could not still. It was as though all those
generations behind him that had believed took possession of his soul and
forced their will upon him.

"My grandfather suffered from his stomach too," he said suddenly.

Piero had no notion what he was talking about. Machiavelli sighed.

"It may be that if men have grown soft it is because in their
worthlessness they have interpreted our religion according to their
sloth. They have forgotten that it enjoins upon us to love and honour
our native land, and to prepare ourselves to be such that we can defend
her."

He burst out laughing when he saw the blankness of Piero's face.

"Never mind, my boy, pay no attention to my nonsense. I will get myself
ready to announce to the Duke the arrival tomorrow of the ambassador and
in any case we'll get a good supper out of that old fool."


[xxxiii]

They got it. Under the influence of the first decent meal he had eaten
since leaving Imola, and the good Chianti Bartolomeo had brought from
Florence, Machiavelli expanded. He made indecent jokes, he told obscene
stories, he was lightly ribald, grossly coarse and gaily lewd. He made
Bartolomeo laugh so much that his sides ached. All three of them got a
little drunk.

The events at Sinigaglia had caused a stir in Italy and a multitude of
imaginative Italians had related the story in their different ways.
Bartolomeo was eager to hear the facts from an eyewitness, and
Machiavelli, pleasantly mellow, was very willing to oblige him. He had
written his account three or four times to the Signory, in part because
of its importance and in part because at least one of his letters had
not reached its destination. He had reflected upon the various
incidents, he had had the opportunity to gather details from one or the
other of those close to Il Valentino and he had by now got at the bottom
of much that at the time had puzzled him.

He made a thrilling story of it.

"When Vitellozzo left Citta di Castello for Sinigaglia he bade farewell
to his family and friends as though he knew it was for the last time. To
his friends he left the charge of his house and its fortunes and he
admonished his nephews to remember the virtues of their ancestors."

"If he knew the danger he was running why did he leave the safety of his
walled town?" asked Bartolomeo.

"How can man escape his destiny? We think to bend men to our will, we
think to mould events to our purpose, we strive, we toil and sweat, but
in the end we are nought but the playthings of fate. When the captains
had been arrested and Pagolo Orsini was complaining of the Duke's
perfidy, the only reproach that Vitellozzo made him was this: 'You see
how wrong you were and in what a plight my friends and I have been
placed by your folly.'"

"He was a scoundrel and he deserved to die," said Bartolomeo. "I sold
him some horses once and he never paid me for them. When I demanded the
money he told me to come to Citta di Castello and get it. I preferred to
pocket my loss."

"You were wise."

Machiavelli asked himself what had been the thoughts of that ruthless
man, old, tired and sick, during the hours that passed between the time
of his arrest and the time when, tied to a chair, back to back with
Oliverotto, Michelotto's cruel hands had wrung the life out of him.
Michelotto was a pleasant enough fellow to meet, he would drink a bottle
of wine with you and crack a lewd joke, play strange Spanish tunes on a
guitar and by the hour sing wild, sad songs of his country. It was hard
then to believe that he was the murderous brute you knew him to be. What
fearful satisfaction did he get out of doing his foul work with his own
hands? Machiavelli smiled as he thought that one of these days the Duke,
having finished with him, would have him killed with no more compunction
than when he had killed his trusted and loyal lieutenant Ramiro de
Lorqua.

"A strange man," he muttered, "perhaps a great one."

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Bartolomeo.

"Of the Duke of course. Of whom else could I have been speaking? He has
rid himself of his enemies by the exercise of a duplicity so perfect
that the onlooker can only wonder and admire. These painters with their
colours and their brushes prate about the works of art they produce, but
what are they in comparison with a work of art that is produced when
your paints are living men and your brushes wit and cunning? The Duke is
a man of action and impetuous, you would never have credited him with
the wary patience that was needed to bring his beautiful stratagem to a
successful issue. For four months he kept them guessing at his
intentions; he worked on their fears, he traded on their jealousies, he
confused them by his wiles, he fooled them with false promises; with
infinite skill he sowed dissension among them, so that the Bentivogli in
Bologna and Baglioni in Perugia deserted them. You know how ill it has
served Baglioni: the Bentivogli's turn will come. As suited his purpose
he was friendly and genial, stern and menacing; and at last they stepped
into the trap he had set. It was a masterpiece of deceit which deserves
to go down to posterity for the neatness of its planning and the
perfection of its execution."

Bartolomeo, a loquacious fellow, was about to speak, but Machiavelli had
not yet said his say.

"He has rid Italy of the petty tyrants that were its scourge. What will
he do now? Others before him seemed to be chosen by God to effect the
redemption of Italy and then in the full current of action have been
cast off by fortune."

He rose to his feet abruptly. He was tired of the party and did not want
to listen to Bartolomeo's platitudes. He thanked him for his
entertainment and, escorted by the faithful Piero, went back to his
lodging.


[xxxiv]

Next day Bartolomeo, his business transacted, set off for Perugia on his
way home. Later on Machiavelli, with Piero and his two servants and a
number of the Duke's gentlemen, rode out to meet the Florentine
ambassador. After Giacomo Salviati had changed from his riding clothes
to the dignified garb of a Florentine of rank, Machiavelli accompanied
him to the castle to present his credentials. Machiavelli was eager to
get back to Florence, but he could not leave till he had made known to
the ambassador the various persons with whom it was necessary for him to
be acquainted. Little was done at the Duke's court for love, and
Machiavelli had to inform his successor what services such a one could
render and what payment he expected. He had to give his opinion of the
trustworthiness of one and the unreliability of another. Though Giacomo
Salviati had read the letters that Machiavelli had written to the
Signory there was much that he had not ventured to say, since the danger
was constant that letters would be intercepted, and so he had to spend
long hours recounting by word of mouth a multitude of facts that it
behoved the ambassador to know.

It was in consequence six days before he could set out on the homeward
journey. The road was long and bad and none too safe and so that he
might get as far as he could before nightfall he had decided to start
early. He was out of bed by dawn and it did not take him long to dress.
The saddlebags, packed the night before, were taken down by the
servants, and the woman of the house in a few minutes came up to tell
him that all was ready for him to start.

"Is Piero with the horses?"

"No, Messere."

"Where is he?"

"He went out."

"Out? Where? What for? Tiresome fellow, doesn't he know yet that I hate
being kept waiting? Send one of my servants to find him and be quick
about it."

She hurried to do his bidding and had hardly closed the door behind her
when it was opened again and Piero came in.

Machiavelli stared at him in amazement: he was dressed, not in his own
shabby riding clothes, but in the red and yellow of the Duke's soldiers.
There was a mischievous smile on his lips, but it somewhat lacked
assurance.

"I've come to say good-bye to you, Messer Niccol. I have enlisted in
the Duke's army."

"I did not imagine you had put on that gaudy costume just for fun."

"Don't be angry with me, Messere. During the three months and more that
I've been with you I've seen something of the world. I've been witness
to great events and I've talked with men who were concerned in them. I'm
strong and young and healthy. I can't go back to Florence and spend the
rest of my life driving a quill in the Second Chancery. I wasn't made
for that. I want to live."

Machiavelli looked at him reflectively. The suspicion of a smile hovered
on that razor blade which was his mouth.

"Why didn't you tell me what you had in mind?"

"I thought you would prevent me from doing it."

"I should have looked upon it as my duty to point out to you that a
soldier's life is hard, dangerous and ill-paid. He takes the risks and
the commander gets the glory. He suffers from hunger and thirst and is
exposed to the rigour of the elements. If he is captured by the enemy he
is robbed of the very clothes on his back. If he is wounded he is left
to die and should he recover and be useless for combat little is left
him but to beg his food in the streets. He spends his life among coarse,
brutal and licentious men to the ruin of his morals and the peril of his
soul. I should have felt it my duty to point out to you that in the
Chancery of the Republic you would have a position at once respectable
and secure in which by industry and subservience to the whims of your
superiors you could earn a salary just enough to keep body and soul
together and after many years of faithful service, if you were adroit,
slightly unscrupulous and very lucky you could count on advancement if
the brother-in-law or the nephew by marriage of an influential person
did not at the moment happen to want a job. But having done my duty I
would have taken no further steps to prevent you from doing what you
wished."

Piero laughed with relief, for though he was attached to Machiavelli and
admired him, he was not a little afraid of him.

"Then you are not vexed with me?"

"No, my dear boy. You have served me well and I have found you honest,
loyal and energetic. Fortune favours the Duke and I can't blame you for
hitching your wagon to his star."

"Then you will make it all right for me with my mother and Uncle
Biagio?"

"Your mother will be brokenhearted. She will think I have led you astray
and will blame me, but Biagio is a sensible man and will do his best to
console her. And now, my dear, I must be off."

He took the boy in his arms to kiss him on both cheeks, but as he did so
noticed the shirt he was wearing. He pulled up the heavily embroidered
collar.

"Where did you get that shirt?"

Piero flushed to the roots of his hair.

"Nina gave it to me."

"Nina?"

"Monna Aurelia's maid."

Machiavelli recognized the fine linen he had brought Bartolomeo from
Florence and he stared frowning at the elaborate needlework. Then he
looked into Piero's eyes. Beads of sweat stood on the lad's forehead.

"Monna Aurelia had more material than she needed for Messer Bartolomeo
and she gave Nina what she didn't want."

"And did Nina do that beautiful embroidery herself?"

"Yes."

It was a clumsy lie.

"How many shirts did she give you?"

"Only two. There wasn't material for more."

"That will do very well. You will be able to wear one while the other is
washed. You are a lucky young man. When I sleep with women they do not
give me presents; they expect me to give them presents."

"I only did it to oblige you, Messer Niccol," said Piero, with a
disarming smile. "You urged me to make advances to her."

Machiavelli knew very well that Aurelia would never have dreamt of
giving her maid several yards of costly linen and he knew that the maid
could never have drawn the intricate design. Monna Caterina herself had
told him that only Aurelia could do that delicate handiwork. It was
Aurelia who had given the boy the shirts. And why? Because he was her
husband's third cousin? Nonsense. The truth, the unpalatable truth,
stared him in the face. On the night of the assignation, when
Machiavelli had been sent for by the Duke, it was not with the maid that
Piero had slept, but with her mistress. It was by no miraculous
intervention of San Vitale that Bartolomeo's wife was about to bear a
son but by the very natural instrumentality of the young man who stood
before him. That explained why Monna Caterina had given him ridiculous
excuses for not arranging another opportunity for him to meet Aurelia
and why Aurelia had avoided all further communication with him.
Machiavelli was seized with cold fury. They had made a pretty fool of
him, those two abandoned women and the boy whom he had befriended. He
stepped back a little to have a good look at him.

Machiavelli had never set great store on masculine beauty; he considered
it of small importance compared with the pleasant manner, the easy
conversation and the audacious approach which had enabled him to get all
the women he wanted; and though he had recognized that Piero was a
personable youth he had never troubled to look closely at him. He
examined him now with angry eyes. He was tall and well made, with broad
shoulders, a slim waist and shapely legs. The uniform set off his figure
to advantage. He had brown curly hair that covered his head like a
tight-fitting cap, large round brown eyes under well-marked brows, an
olive skin as smooth and clear as a girl's, a small straight nose, a
red, sensual mouth and ears that clung close to his skull. His
expression was bold, frank, ingenuous and engaging.

"Yes," reflected Machiavelli, "he has the beauty that would appeal to a
silly woman. I never noticed it or I'd have been on my guard."

He cursed himself for having been so stupid. But how could he suspect
that Aurelia would give a thought to a lad, cousin though he was to her
husband, who after all was no more than an errand boy just out of
school? Machiavelli had used him to fetch and carry, to run hither and
thither at his beck and call and if he had treated him with an
indulgence he now regretted it was because Biagio was his uncle. Piero
was not unintelligent, but he had none of the graces you learn by living
in the great world, and having little to say for himself for the most
part kept quiet in the presence of his betters. Machiavelli knew very
well that, as for himself, he had a way with women; he had never failed
to charm when to charm was his object and he thought there was little
anyone could teach him in the art and science of gallantry. Piero was
but a callow youth. Who in his senses could have supposed that Aurelia
would cast so much as a glance of her fine eyes on him when she had at
her feet a man of distinction, worldly wisdom and urbane conversation?
It was preposterous.

Piero suffered his master's long scrutiny with composure. He had
recovered from his embarrassment and there was a wariness in his manner
which suggested that he was alert.

"I've been very fortunate," he remarked coolly, but as though he were
somewhat inclined to take good luck as his due, "Count Lodovico Alvisi's
page fell ill on the way from Sinigaglia and had to go back to Rome, and
he's taken me in his place."

This Count Lodovico, an intimate of Il Valentino's, was one of the Roman
gentlemen who had taken service under him as a lancer.

"How did you manage that?"

"Messer Bartolomeo spoke to the Duke's treasurer about me and he
arranged it."

Machiavelli faintly raised his eyebrows. Not only had the boy seduced
Bartolomeo's wife, but he had used him to get a sought-after position
with one of the Duke's favourites. If he had not himself been so
intimately concerned he would have found the situation humorous.

"Fortune favours audacity and youth," he said. "You will go far. But let
me give you some advice. Take care that like me you do not get a
reputation for wit, since if you do no one will think you sensible, but
notice men's moods and adapt yourself to them; laugh with them when they
are merry and pull a long face when they are solemn. It is absurd to be
wise with fools and foolish with the wise: you must speak to each one in
his own language. Be courteous; it costs little and helps much; to be of
use and to know how to show yourself of use is to be doubly useful; it
is idle to please yourself if you do not please others, and remember
that you please them more by ministering to their vices than by
encouraging their virtues. Never be so intimate with a friend that he
may injure you should he become your enemy, and never use your enemy so
ill that he can never become your friend. Be careful in your speech.
There is always time to put in a word, never to withdraw one; truth is
the most dangerous weapon a man can wield and so he must wield it with
caution. For years I have never said what I believed nor ever believed
what I have said, and if it sometimes happens that I tell the truth I
conceal it among so many lies that it is hard to find."

But while these old saws and homely commonplaces tripped off the end of
his tongue Machiavelli's thoughts were intent on something much more
important and he scarcely listened to what he said. For he knew that a
public man can be corrupt, incompetent, cruel, vindictive, vacillating,
self-seeking, weak and stupid and yet attain to the highest honours in
the state; but if he is ridiculous he is undone. Slander he can refute;
abuse he can despise; but against ridicule he has no defence. Strange as
it may seem, the Absolute has no sense of humour, and ridicule is the
instrument the devil uses to hinder aspiring man on his arduous quest of
perfection. Machiavelli valued the esteem of his fellow citizens. He had
confidence in his own judgment and was ambitious to be employed in
affairs of consequence. He was too clear-sighted not to see that in this
abortive affair with Aurelia he cut a comic figure. If the story were
told in Florence he would become a laughingstock, the helpless victim of
brutal jest and cruel innuendo. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the
thought of the pasquinades, the epigrams that his misadventure would
suggest to the malicious wit of the Florentines. Even his friend Biagio,
the easy butt of his jokes, would welcome the opportunity to pay off
many an old score. He must stop Piero's mouth or he was ruined. In a
friendly way he put his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiled
pleasantly; but the eyes he fixed on Piero's, the bright darting little
eyes, were cold and hard.

"There is only one more thing I would say to you, dear boy. Fortune is
inconstant and restless. She may grant you power, honour and riches, but
also afflict you with servitude, infamy and poverty. The Duke also is
her plaything and with a turn of her wheel she may plunge him to
destruction. Then you will need friends in Florence. It would be
imprudent of you to make enemies of those who can help you in distress.
The Republic is suspicious of those who leave her service to enter that
of those whom she mistrusts. A few words whispered in the right ear
might easily lead to the confiscation of your property so that your
mother, driven from her house, would have to live on the unwilling
charity of her relatives. The Republic has a long arm; if she thought
fit, it would not be hard to find a needy Gascon who for a few ducats
would drive a dagger in your back. A letter might be allowed to fall
into the Duke's hands which would suggest that you were a Florentine
spy, and the rack would force you to confess that it was true, and you
would be hanged like a common thief. It would distress your mother. For
your own sake then, and as you value your life, I recommend you to be
secret. It is not wise to tell everything one knows."

Machiavelli, his gaze fixed on Piero's brown, liquid eyes, saw that he
understood.

"Have no fear, Messere. I will be as secret as the grave."

Machiavelli laughed lightly.

"I did not think you were a fool."

Though it would leave him with only just enough money to get back to
Florence, he thought this was a moment to be generous even to excess, so
taking out his purse he gave Piero five ducats as a parting gift.

"You have served me well and faithfully," he said, "and it will be a
pleasure to me to give Biagio a good account of your zeal in my
interests and in those of the Republic."

He kissed him affectionately and they went downstairs hand in hand.
Piero held the horse's head while Machiavelli mounted. He walked by his
side till they came to the city's gate and there they parted.


[xxxv]

Machiavelli gave his horse a touch of the spur and it broke into an easy
canter. The two servants followed close behind. He was in a vile temper.
There was no denying it, they had made a perfect fool of him: Fra
Timoteo, Aurelia, her mother and Piero; he didn't know with which he was
most angry. And the worst of it was that he didn't see how he could
settle his account with them; they had had a lot of fun at his expense
and there was no way by which he could make them pay for it. Of course
Aurelia was a fool, sly as all women were, but a fool; otherwise she
wouldn't have preferred a smooth-faced pretty boy to a man in the flower
of his age, a man of affairs who was entrusted by his government with
important negotiations. No intelligent person could deny that the
comparison was all in his favour. No one could call him repulsive;
Marietta had always told him she liked the way his hair grew on his
head; it was like black velvet, she said. Thank God for Marietta: there
was a woman you could trust; you could leave her for half a year and be
certain that she would look neither to the right nor to the left. It was
true that she had been rather troublesome of late, complaining through
Biagio that he didn't come back and didn't write and left her without
money. Well, in her condition one must expect women to be peevish. He
had been gone three and a half months, she must be getting quite big, he
wondered when she would be delivered; they had already made up their
minds that the boy should be called Bernardo after his own father now
with God. And if she grumbled at his long absence it was because she
loved him, poor slut; it would be well to get back to her; that was the
advantage of a wife, she was always there when you wanted her. Of course
she wasn't the beauty that Aurelia was, but she was virtuous and that
was more than you could say for Monna Caterina's daughter. He wished he
had thought of bringing her back a present, but it hadn't occurred to
him till that moment and now he simply hadn't the money.

He was a fool to have spent so much on Aurelia. There was the scarf, and
the gloves and the attar of roses; and the gold chain, well, no, not
gold, silver gilt, that he'd given to Monna Caterina; if she'd had a
spark of decency she'd have returned that, it would have done very well
to give to Marietta and would have pleased her. But when did women ever
return the presents you made them?

An old procuress, that's what she was, and not even honest. She knew
quite well that the chain was the price he was paying her to arrange
things for him and when she didn't deliver the goods surely the least
she could have done would be to return the purchase price. But she was
an abandoned old wanton, he'd guessed that from his first glance of her,
and she got a filthy satisfaction out of helping others to the
debaucheries that she could no longer herself indulge in. He was
prepared to bet a ducat that she'd put Piero and Aurelia to bed herself.
They must have had a fine laugh when they ate the capons and the
pastries he'd sent in by Piero and drunk his wine while he was standing
at the door in the pelting rain. If Bartolomeo hadn't been the fool he
was he'd have known it was madness to entrust a woman like that with the
charge of his wife's fidelity.

For a moment Machiavelli's thoughts turned on that gross and stupid man.
It was his fault really that all this had happened.

"If he'd looked after her properly," said Machiavelli to himself, "it
would never have occurred to me that there was anything doing and I
wouldn't have tried."

Bartolomeo was to blame for the whole thing. But what a fool he'd been,
he, Machiavelli, to send her that expensive scarf to excuse himself for
not having kept the appointment; and he'd sent it round in the morning,
by Piero of all people, when he was feeling like nothing on earth and
his voice was a croak, so that she should get it before Bartolomeo's
return. How they must have sniggered. And did Piero take the opportunity
to... They were a nice pair, he wouldn't put anything past them.

And the exasperating thing was that he'd not only lavished presents upon
her, he'd told his best stories to amuse her, he'd sung his best songs
to charm her, he'd flattered her, in short he'd done everything a man
can do to ingratiate himself with a woman; and then, then that wretched
boy came along and just because he was eighteen and good-looking got for
nothing what he'd spent a month's time to get and much more money than
he could afford. He would have liked to know how Piero had gone about
it. Perhaps it was Monna Caterina, with her fear that Bartolomeo would
adopt his nephews, who had suggested it. He invented her conversation.

"Well, what are we going to do about it? We can't wait all night for
him. It seems a pity to waste the opportunity. In your place, Aurelia, I
wouldn't hesitate. Look at him with his sweet face and his curly hair;
he's like the Adonis in that picture in the Town Hall. I know if I had
to choose between him and that Messer Niccol with his sallow skin and
his long nose and those little beady eyes--well, there's no comparison,
my dear. And I daresay he can do what you want much better than that
skinny Secretary."

A bad woman. A wicked woman. And why she should prefer that boy to
father her daughter's son rather than an intelligent man of the world
was something he would never understand.

But perhaps there had been small need for Monna Caterina to put her word
in. It's true the boy looked so innocent and seemed even a trifle shy,
but appearances were deceptive. He had a pretty power of dissimulation,
for never had he given the smallest indication that there was anything
between him and Aurelia; and he was a cool, brazen liar; the only
embarrassment he had shown was when Machiavelli had noticed the shirt;
but how quickly he had recovered himself and with what effrontery met
his master's unspoken accusations. He was quite impudent enough just to
have kissed Aurelia frankly on the mouth and when he found she did not
object, slip his hand down her open bodice between her breasts. Anyone
could guess what would happen then and Machiavelli's angry imagination
followed them into Bartolomeo's bedchamber and into Bartolomeo's bed.

"The ingratitude of the boy," he muttered.

He had taken him on this trip from sheer good nature, he had done
everything for him, he had introduced him to persons worth knowing, he
had done his best to form him, to show him how to behave, to civilize
him in short; he had not spared his wit and wisdom to teach him the ways
of the world, how to make friends and influence people. And this was his
reward, to have his girl snatched away from him under his very nose.

"Anyhow I put the fear of God into him."

Machiavelli knew that when you have played a dirty trick on your
benefactor half the savour of it is lost if you cannot tell your friends
about it. He found some small comfort in that.

But all the anger he felt for Aurelia, Piero, Monna Caterina and
Bartolomeo amounted to nothing compared with that which he felt for Fra
Timoteo. That was the treacherous villain who had upset all his
well-laid plans.

"Much chance he has now of preaching the Lenten sermons in Florence," he
hissed.

He had never had any intention of recommending the friar for that
office, but it was a satisfaction to think that if he had had the
intention he would now without hesitation discard it. The man was a
rogue. No wonder Christianity was losing its hold on the people, and
they were become wicked, licentious and corrupt, when there was no
honesty, no sense of right and wrong in the religious by profession.
Fooled, fooled, he'd been fooled by all of them, but by none so
monstrously as by that rascally friar.

They stopped to eat at a wayside inn. The food was bad but the wine
drinkable and Machiavelli drank a good deal of it, with the result that
when he got into the saddle again to continue his journey the world
looked a trifle less black to him. They passed peasants leading a cow or
riding on the rump of a heavy-laden ass; they met travellers on foot or
on horseback. For a while he pondered over the Duke's participation in
his disappointment; if it was a joke he had kept it to himself as he
kept his designs to himself, and if it was part of a scheme to get him
in his power, he knew by now that it had failed. Then his thoughts
reverted to Aurelia. It was no good crying over spilt milk. Four months
ago he had never seen her; it was silly to make such a fuss over a woman
whom he had only seen half a dozen times and with whom he had only
exchanged as many sentences. He wasn't the first man whom a woman had
led on only to let him down when it came to the point. That was the kind
of thing a wise man took philosophically. Fortunately it was to the
interest of the only people who knew the facts to say nothing about
them. It was a humiliation certainly to have been made such a fool of,
but anyone can put up with a humiliation that only he is aware of. The
thing was to look at it from the outside as though it had happened to
somebody else, and Machiavelli set himself deliberately to do this.

Suddenly with an exclamation he jerked his reins, and his horse,
thinking he was meant to stop, pulled up so sharply that Machiavelli was
thrown forward in his saddle. His servants rode up.

"Is something the matter, Messere?"

"Nothing, nothing."

He rode on. Machiavelli's exclamation and the instinctive movement had
been caused by an idea that had flashed through his mind. At first he
thought he was going to vomit and then he knew he'd had an inspiration:
it had occurred to him that there was a play in the story. That was how
he could revenge himself on those people who had mocked and robbed him;
he would hold them up to contempt and ridicule. His ill-humour vanished
and as he rode along, his imagination busy, his face beamed with
malicious delight.

He would place the action in Florence, because he felt his invention
would be more at home in those familiar streets. The characters were
there and all he had to do was to emphasize their qualities a little in
order to make them more effective on the stage. Bartolomeo, for
instance, would have to be even sillier and more credulous than he was
in fact and Aurelia more ingenuous and more docile. He had already cast
Piero for the pimp who was to engineer the deception by means of which
the hero would achieve his ends, and a pretty scamp he proposed to make
him. For the general outlines of the play were clear in his mind. He
would himself be the hero and the name he would give himself came to him
at once--Callimaco. He was a Florentine, handsome, young and rich, who
had spent some years in Paris--this would give Machiavelli the chance to
say some sharp things about the French, whom he neither liked nor
esteemed--and having come back to Florence had seen and fallen violently
in love with Aurelia. What should he call her? Lucrezia. Machiavelli
sniggered when he decided to give her the name of the Roman matron
distinguished for her domestic virtues who had stabbed herself to death
after having been outraged by Tarquinius. Of course the play would end
happily and Callimaco would spend a night of love with the object of his
desire.

The sun was shining from a blue sky, there was still snow in the fields,
but the road was crisp under the horses' hooves and Machiavelli, well
wrapped up, was pleasantly exhilarated by the activity of invention. He
felt strangely exalted. There was in his mind as yet no more than a
theme; the facts were too tame for his purpose, and he was aware that he
needed to think of a comic stratagem that would give him a coherent plot
on which he could string his scenes. What he was looking for was a
fantastic idea that would make an audience laugh and not only lead
naturally to the resolution of his intrigue, but allow him to show the
simplicity of Aurelia, the foolishness of Bartolomeo, the rascality of
Piero, the wantonness of Monna Caterina and the knavery of Fra Timoteo.
For the monk was to be an important character. In imagination
Machiavelli rubbed his hands as he thought how he would show him in his
true colours, with his avarice, his lack of scruple, his cunning and his
hypocrisy. He would give false names to all of them, but he would leave
Fra Timoteo his own so that all should know what a false and wicked man
he was.

But he remained at a loss for the idea that should set his puppets in
motion. It must be unexpected, outrageous even, for it was a comedy that
he proposed to write, and so funny that people would gasp with
astonishment and then burst into a roar of laughter. He knew his Plautus
and his Terence well and he surveyed them in his memory to see whether
there was not in their plays some ingenious fancy that would serve his
purpose. He could think of nothing. And what made it more difficult to
apply his mind to the problem was that his thoughts willy-nilly
presented odd scenes to him here and there, amusing bits of dialogue and
ridiculous situations. The time passed so quickly that he was surprised
when they arrived at the place where they had decided to spend the
night.

"To hell with love," he muttered as he got off his horse. "What is love
beside art!"


[xxxvi]

The place was called Castiglione Aretino and there was an inn which at
all events looked no worse than any of those he had slept at since
leaving home. What with the exercise in the open air and his fancy
running wild he had developed a healthy appetite, and the first thing he
did on entering was to order his supper. Then he washed his feet, which,
being a cleanly man, he liked to do every four or five days, and having
dried them he wrote a short letter to the Signory which he sent off at
once by a courier. The inn was full, but the innkeeper told him there
would be room for him in the large bed he and his wife slept in.
Machiavelli gave her a glance and said that if they could put a couple
of sheepskins on the kitchen floor he would rest comfortably enough.
Then he sat down to a great dish of macaroni.

"What is love in comparison with art?" he repeated. "Love is transitory,
but art is eternal. Love is merely Nature's device to induce us to bring
into this vile world creatures who from the day of their birth to the
day of their death will be exposed to hunger and thirst, sickness and
sorrow, envy, hatred and malice. This macaroni is better-cooked than I
could have expected and the sauce is rich and succulent. Chicken livers
and giblets. The creation of man was not even a tragic mistake, it was a
grotesque mischance. What is its justification? Art, I suppose.
Lucretius, Horace, Catullus, Dante and Petrarch. And perhaps they would
never have been driven to write their divine works if their lives had
not been full of tribulation, for there is no question that if I had
gone to bed with Aurelia I should never have had the idea of writing a
play. So when you come to look at it, it's all turned out for the best.
I lost a trinket and picked up a jewel fit for a king's crown."

The good meal and these reflections restored Machiavelli to his usual
amiability. He played a game of cards with a travelling friar who was on
his way from one monastery to another and lost a trifle to him with good
grace. Then, settling himself down on his sheepskins, he quickly fell
asleep and slept without a break till dawn.

The sun had only just risen when he set out again, and it looked as
though it were going to be a fine day. He was in high spirits. It was
good to think that in a few hours he would be once more in his own
house; he hoped Marietta would be too glad to see him to reproach him
for his neglect of her, Biagio would come round after supper, dear kind
Biagio, and tomorrow he would see Piero Soderini and the gentlemen of
the Signory. Then he would go and see his friends. Oh, what a joy it
would be to be back in Florence, to have the Chancery to go to every day
and to walk those streets he had known since childhood, knowing by name,
if not to speak to, almost everyone he passed!

"Welcome back, Messere," from one and "Well, well, Niccol, where have
you sprung from?" from another. "I suppose you've come back with your
pockets bulging with money," from a third, and "When is the happy event
to be?" from a friend of his mother's.

Home. Florence. Home.

And there was La Carolina, at a loose end now because the Cardinal who'd
kept her had been too rich to die a natural death. She was a grand
woman, with a clever tongue, whom it was a treat to talk to, and
sometimes you could cajole her into giving you for nothing what others
were prepared to pay good money for.

How pretty the Tuscan landscape was! In another month the almond trees
would be in flower.

He began once more to think of the play that was simmering in his head.
It made him feel happy and young and as lightheaded as though he had
drunk wine on an empty stomach. He repeated to himself the cynical
speeches he would put in the mouth of Fra Timoteo. Suddenly he pulled
his horse up. The servants came up with him to see if there was anything
he wanted and to their surprise saw that he was shaking with silent
laughter. He saw the look on their faces and laughed all the more, then
without a word clapped his spurs to the horse's flanks and galloped hell
for leather down the road till the poor brute, unaccustomed to such
exuberance, slackened down to its usual steady amble. The Idea had come
to him, the idea he had racked his brains to invent, and it had come on
a sudden, he could not tell how or why or whence, and it was the very
idea he wanted, ribald, extravagant and comic. It was almost a miracle.
Everyone knew that credulous women bought the mandrake root to promote
conception; it was a common superstition and many were the indecent
stories told about its use. Now he would persuade Bartolomeo--to whom by
then he had given the name of Messer Nicia--that his wife would conceive
if she drank a potion made from it, but that the first man who had
connection with her after she had done so would die. How to persuade him
of that? It was easy. He, Callimaco, would disguise himself as a doctor
who had studied in Paris and prescribe the treatment. It was obvious
that Messer Nicia would hesitate to give his life to become a father and
so a stranger must be found to take his place for one night. This
stranger, under another disguise, would of course be Callimaco, that is
to say Machiavelli.

Now that he had a plot the scenes succeeded one another with
inevitability. They fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle. It was
as though the play were writing itself and he, Machiavelli, were no more
than an amanuensis. If he had been excited before, when the notion of
making a play out of his misadventure had first come to him, he was
doubly excited now that it all lay clear before his mind's eye like a
garden laid out with terraces and fountains, shady walks and pleasant
arbours. When they stopped to dine, absorbed in his characters he paid
no attention to what he ate; and when they started off again he was
unconscious of the miles they travelled; they came nearer to Florence
and the countryside was as familiar to him, and as dear, as the street
he was born in, but he had no eyes for it; the sun, long past its
meridian, was making its westering way to where met earth and sky, but
he gave no heed to it. He was in a world of make-believe that rendered
the real world illusory. He felt more than himself. He _was_ Callimaco,
young, handsome, rich, audacious, gay; and the passion with which he
burnt for Lucrezia was of a tempestuous violence that made the desire
Machiavelli had had for Aurelia a pale slight thing. That was but a
shadow, this was the substance. Machiavelli, had he only known it, was
enjoying the supreme happiness that man is capable of experiencing, the
activity of creation.

"Look, Messere," cried his servant Antonio, riding up to come abreast of
him. "Florence."

Machiavelli looked. In the distance against the winter sky, paling now
with the decline of day, he saw the dome, the proud dome that Bramante
had built. He pulled up. There it was, the city he loved more than his
soul; they were not idle words that he had spoken when he had said that
to Il Valentino. Florence, the city of flowers, with its campanile and
its baptistery, its churches and palaces, its gardens, its tortuous
streets, the old bridge he crossed every day to go to the Palazzo, and
his home, his brother Toto, Marietta, his friends, the city of which he
knew every stone, the city with its great history, his birthplace and
the birthplace of his ancestors, Florence, the city of Dante and
Boccaccio, the city that had fought for its freedom through the
centuries, Florence the well beloved, the city of flowers.

Tears formed in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He clenched his
teeth to restrain the sobs that shook him. Florence was powerless now,
governed by men who had lost their courage; corrupt; and the citizens
who once had been quick to rise up against those who threatened their
liberties were concerned only to buy and sell. Free now only by the
grace of the King of France, to whom she paid unworthy tribute, her only
defence faithless mercenaries, how could she resist the onslaught of
that desperate, audacious man who thought her of so little danger that
he did not trouble to conceal his evil intentions? Florence was doomed.
She might not fall to the arms of Caesar Borgia, but if not to his, then
to another's, not that year perhaps, nor next, but before men now in
their middle age were old.

"To hell with art," he said. "What is art beside freedom! Men who lose
their freedom lose everything."

"If we want to get in before dark we must push on, Messere," said
Antonio.

With a shrug of the shoulders Machiavelli tightened his reins and the
tired horse ambled on.


_EPILOGUE_

Four years passed and in that period much happened. Alexander VI died.
Il Valentino had provided for everything that might occur on his
father's death, but he had not foreseen that when it took place he would
himself be at death's door. Though ill, so desperately ill that only the
strength of his constitution saved him, he managed to secure election to
the papacy of Pius III, whom he had no reason to fear, but the lords
whom he had attacked and driven to flight seized the opportunity to
regain their dominions, and he could do nothing to prevent them.
Guidobaldo da Montefeltro returned to Urbino, the Vitelli recovered
Citta di Castello and Gian Paolo Baglioni captured Perugia. Only Romagna
remained faithful to him. Then Pius III, an old man and a sick one, died
and Giuliano della Rovere, a bitter enemy of the Borgias, ascended the
papal throne as Julius II. In order to obtain the votes of those
cardinals whom Il Valentino controlled he had promised to reappoint him
Captain-General of the Church and confirm him in the possession of his
state. Caesar thought that the promises of others were more likely to be
kept than his own. He made a fatal error. Julius II was vindictive,
crafty, unscrupulous and ruthless. It was not long before he found an
excuse to put the Duke under arrest; he forced him then to surrender the
cities of Romagna which his captains still held for him, and that
accomplished, allowed him to escape to Naples. Here after a short while
by order of King Ferdinand he was again thrown into prison and presently
conveyed to Spain. He was taken first to a fortress in Murcia and then
for greater safety to one at Medina del Campo in the heart of Old
Castile. It looked as though Italy were rid at last and for good of the
adventurer whose boundless ambition had for so long disturbed her peace.

But some months later the whole country was startled to hear that he had
escaped and after a hazardous journey, disguised as a merchant, had
reached Pamplona, the capital of his brother-in-law, the King of
Navarre. The news raised the spirits of his partisans and in the cities
of Romagna there were wild scenes of rejoicing. The petty princelings of
Italy trembled in their cities. The King of Navarre was at the time at
war with his barons and he put Caesar Borgia in command of his army.

During these four years Machiavelli was kept hard at work. He went on
various missions. He was given the difficult task of constituting a
militia so that Florence should not be altogether dependent on
mercenaries and when not otherwise occupied had handled the affairs of
the Second Chancery. His digestion had always been poor and the journeys
on horseback through the heat of summer, in the cold, wind, rain and
snow of winter, the extreme discomfort of the inns, the poor food at
irregular hours had exhausted him, and in February--February of the year
of Our Lord fifteen hundred and seven--he fell seriously ill. He was
bled and purged and took his favourite remedy, a pill of his own
concoction, which to his mind was a specific for every human ailment. He
was convinced that it was to this, rather than to the doctors, that he
owed his recovery, but his illness and its treatment had left him so
weak that the Signory granted him a month's leave of absence. He went
down to his farm at San Casciano, which was some three miles from
Florence, and there quickly regained his health.

Spring had come early that year and the countryside, with the trees
bursting into leaf, the wild flowers, the fresh green of the grass, the
rich growth of wheat, was a joy to the eye. To Machiavelli the Tuscan
scene had a friendly, intimate delight that appealed to the mind rather
than to the senses. It had none of the sublimity of the Alps, nor the
grandeur of the sea; it was a patch of the earth's surface, classical
without severity, lightly gay and elegant, for men to live on who loved
wit and intelligent argument, pretty women and good cheer. It reminded
you not of the splendid solemn music of Dante, but rather of the
light-hearted strains of Lorenzo de' Medici.

One March morning Machiavelli, up with the sun, went to a grove on his
small estate that he was having cut. He lingered there, looking over the
previous day's work, and talked with the woodsmen; then he went to a
spring and sat himself down on the bank with a book he had brought in
his pocket. It was an Ovid, and with a smile on his thin lips he read
the amiable and lively verses in which the poet described his amours
and, remembering his own, thought of them for a while with pleasure.

"How much better it is to sin and repent," he murmured, "than to repent
for not having sinned!"

Then he strolled down the road to the inn and chatted with the
passers-by. For he was a sociable creature and if he could not have good
company was willing to put up with poor. When his hunger told him that
it must be getting on towards dinnertime he sauntered home and sat down
with his wife and the children to the modest fare his farm provided.
After dinner he went back to the inn. The innkeeper was there, the
butcher, the miller and the blacksmith. He sat down to play a game of
cards with them, a noisy, quarrelsome game, and they flew into a passion
over a penny, shouted at one another, flung insults across the table and
shook their fists in one another's face. Machiavelli shouted and shook
his fist with the best of them. Evening drew near and he returned to his
house. Marietta, pregnant for the third time, was about to give the two
little boys their supper.

"I thought you were never coming," said she.

"We were playing cards."

"Who with?"

"The usual lot, the miller, the butcher."

"Riff-raff."

"They keep my wits from growing mouldy, and when all's said and done
they're no stupider than ministers of state and on the whole not more
rascally."

He took his eldest son, Bernardo, now getting on for four, on his knees
and began to feed him.

"Don't let your own soup get cold," said Marietta.

They were eating in the kitchen, with the maid and the hired man, and
when he had finished his soup the maid brought him half a dozen larks
roasted on a skewer. He was surprised and pleased, for as a rule supper
consisted of nothing but a bowl of soup and a salad.

"What is this?"

"Giovanni snared them and I thought you'd like them for your supper."

"Are they all for me?"

"All."

"You're a good woman, Marietta."

"I haven't been married to you for five years without finding out that
the way to your heart is through your stomach," she said dryly.

"For that sound piece of observation you shall have a lark, dear," he
answered, taking one of the tiny birds in his fingers and popping it,
notwithstanding her remonstrance, into her mouth.

"They fly towards heaven in their ecstasy, their hearts bursting with
song, and then, caught by an idle boy, they're cooked and eaten. So man,
for all his soaring ideals, his vision of intellectual beauty and his
yearning for the infinite, in the end is caught by the perversity of
fate and serves no other purpose than to feed the worms."

"Eat your food while it's hot, dear, you can talk afterwards."

Machiavelli laughed. He slipped another lark off the skewer and while
crunching it with strong teeth looked at Marietta with affection. It was
true she was a good woman; she was thrifty and good-tempered. She was
always sorry to see him go on one of his journeys and glad to see him
come back. He wondered if she knew how unfaithful he was to her. If she
did, she had never given a sign of it, which showed that she was
sensible and of an amiable disposition; he might have gone further and
fared worse; he was very well pleased with his wife.

When they had finished and the maid was washing up, Marietta put the
children to bed. Machiavelli went upstairs to take off the clothes,
muddy and dirty, that he had worn all day and put on what he liked to
describe as courtly and regal garments; for it was his habit to spend
the evening in his study reading the authors he loved. He was not yet
dressed when he heard a horseman ride up and in a moment a voice he
recognized asking the maid for him. It was Biagio and he wondered what
had brought him out from the city at that hour.

"Niccol," he shouted from below. "I have news for you."

"Wait a minute. I'll come down as soon as I'm ready."

Since it was still a trifle chilly as the day drew in, he slipped his
black damask robe over his tunic and opened the door. Biagio was waiting
for him at the foot of the stairs.

"Il Valentino is dead."

"How do you know?"

"A courier arrived from Pamplona today. I thought you'd want to know, so
I rode out."

"Come into my study."

They sat down, Machiavelli at his writing table and Biagio in a carved
chair which was part of Marietta's dowry. Biagio told him the facts as
he had learned them. Caesar Borgia had established his headquarters at a
village on the Ebro and planned to attack the castle of the Count of
Lerin, the most powerful of the insurgent barons. Early in the morning,
on the twelfth of March, there was a skirmish between his men and the
Count's. Caesar Borgia was still in his rooms when the alarm was
sounded; he donned his armour, mounted his horse and flung himself into
the fray. The rebels fled and he, without looking to see that he was
followed, pursued, pursued the rebels down a deep ravine, and there,
surrounded and alone, unhorsed, he fought fiercely, fought till he was
killed. Next day the King and his men found the body, naked, for they
had stripped him of his armour and his clothes, and the King with his
own cloak covered his nakedness.

Machiavelli listened to Biagio attentively, but when he had finished
remained silent.

"It is good that he is dead," said Biagio after a while.

"He had lost his states, his money and his army and yet all Italy feared
him still."

"He was a terrible man."

"Secret and impenetrable. He was cruel, treacherous and unscrupulous,
but he was able and energetic. He was temperate and self-controlled. He
let nothing interfere with his chosen course. He liked women, but he
used them only for his pleasure and never allowed himself to be swayed
by them. He created an army that was loyal to him and trusted him. He
never spared himself. On the march he was indifferent to cold and
hunger, and the strength of his body made him immune to fatigue. He was
brave and mettlesome in battle. He shared danger with the meanest of his
soldiers. He was as competent in the arts of peace as in the arts of
war. He chose his ministers with discrimination, but took care that they
should remain dependent upon his good will. He did everything that a
prudent and clever man should do to consolidate his power, and if his
methods did not bring him success it was through no fault of his, but
through the extraordinary and extreme malice of fortune. With his great
spirit and lofty intention he could not have conducted himself other
than he did. His designs were thwarted only by Alexander's death and his
own illness; if he had been in health he could have surmounted all his
difficulties."

"He suffered the just punishment of his crimes," said Biagio.

Machiavelli shrugged his shoulders.

"Had he lived, had fortune continued to favour him, he might have driven
the barbarians out of this unhappy country and given it peace and
plenty. Then men would have forgotten by what crimes he had achieved
power and he would have gone down to posterity as a great and a good
man. Who cares now that Alexander of Macedon was cruel and ungrateful,
who remembers that Julius Caesar was perfidious? In this world it is
only necessary to seize power and hold it and the means you have used
will be judged honourable and will be praised by all. If Caesar Borgia
is regarded as a scoundrel it is only because he didn't succeed. One of
these days I shall write a book about him and what I learnt from my
observation of his actions."

"My dear Niccol, you're so impractical. Who d'you think would read it?
You're not going to achieve immortality by writing a book like that."

"I don't aspire to it," laughed Machiavelli.

Biagio looked suspiciously at a pile of manuscript on his friend's
writing table.

"What have you there?"

Machiavelli gave him a disarming smile.

"I had nothing much to do here and I thought I'd pass the time by
writing a comedy. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"A comedy?" said Biagio doubtfully. "I presume it has political
implications."

"Not at all. Its only purpose is to amuse."

"Oh, Niccol, when will you take yourself seriously? You'll have the
critics down on you like a thousand of bricks."

"I don't know why; no one can suppose that Apuleius wrote his Golden Ass
or Petronius the Satyricon with any other object than to entertain."

"But they're classics. That makes all the difference."

"You mean that works of entertainment, like loose women, become
respectable with age. I've often wondered why it is that the critics can
only see a joke when the fun has long since seeped out of it. They've
never discovered that humour depends upon actuality."

"You used to say that not brevity, but pornography was the soul of wit.
You've changed your mind?"

"Not at all. For what can be more actual than pornography? Believe me,
my good Biagio, when men cease to find it so they will have lost all
interest in reproducing their kind and that will be the end of the
Creator's most unfortunate experiment."

"Read your play, Niccol. You know I don't like to hear you say things
like that."

With a smile Machiavelli took his manuscript and began to read.

"_A Street in Florence._"

But then he was seized with the slight misgiving of an author who reads
something for the first time to a friend and is not sure that it will
please. He interrupted himself.

"This is only a first draft and I daresay I shall make a good many
changes when I go over it again."

He flipped the pages uncertainly. The play had amused him to write, but
one or two things had happened that he had not counted on. The
characters had taken on a life of their own and had diverged a good deal
from their models. Lucrezia had remained as shadowy as Aurelia had been
and he had not seen how to make her more substantial. The exigencies of
the plot had obliged him to make her a virtuous woman induced by her
mother and her confessor to submit to something her conscience
disapproved of. Piero, whom he had called Ligurio, on the contrary
played a much greater part than he had expected. It was he who suggested
the scheme by which the foolish husband was taken in, he who got round
Lucrezia's mother and the monk, he in short who staged the intrigue and
conducted it to a happy conclusion. He was astute, ingenious,
quick-witted and pleasantly unprincipled. Machiavelli found it very easy
to put himself into the rascal's shoes, but by the time he had finished
discovered that there was as much of himself in the artful schemer as
there was in the lovesick gallant whom he had made his hero.

Thinking how odd it was that he should play two parts in one play, he
looked up and asked Biagio:

"By the way, have you heard anything lately of your nephew Piero?"

"In point of fact I have. I meant to tell you, but with all the
excitement of Il Valentino's death I quite forgot. He's going to be
married."

"Is he? Is it a good match?"

"Yes, he's marrying money. You remember Bartolomeo Martelli at Imola? He
was some sort of relation of mine."

Machiavelli nodded.

"When Imola revolted he thought it safer to get away till he saw how
things were going. You see, he'd been one of the Duke's chief partisans
and he was afraid he'd have to pay for it. He went to Turkey, where he
had a business. The papal troops got to the city before there were any
real disturbances and as luck would have it Piero was with them. It
seems he was well liked by some influential men who had the ear of the
Pope and he managed to protect Bartolomeo's property. But Bartolomeo was
banished and lately the news has arrived that he died in Smyrna and so
Piero is going to marry the widow."

"Very right and proper," said Machiavelli.

"They tell me she's young and good-looking; evidently she needed a man
to protect her and Piero has a head on his shoulders."

"That was the impression he gave me."

"There's only one fly in the ointment. Bartolomeo had a little boy,
between three and four years old, I think he is, and that won't improve
the prospects of any children Piero may have."

"I think you may be sure that he will cherish the little boy as if he
were his own," said Machiavelli dryly.

He returned to his manuscript. He smiled with some complacency. He could
not help thinking that he had succeeded with Fra Timoteo. His pen had
been dipped in gall and as he wrote he chuckled with malice. Into that
character he had put all the hatred and contempt he felt for the monks
who fattened on the credulity of the ignorant. On that character his
play would stand or fall. He began again.

"_A Street in Florence._"

He stopped and looked up.

"What is the matter?" asked Biagio.

"You say that Caesar Borgia suffered the just punishment of his crimes.
He was destroyed not by his misdeeds, but by circumstances over which he
had no control. His wickedness was an irrelevant accident. In this world
of sin and sorrow if virtue triumphs over vice, it is not because it is
virtuous, but because it has better and bigger guns; if honesty prevails
over double-dealing, it is not because it is honest, but because it has
a stronger army more ably led; and if good overcomes evil, it is not
because it is good, but because it has a well-lined purse. It is well to
have right on our side, but it is madness to forget that unless we have
might as well it will avail us nothing. We must believe that God loves
men of good will, but there is no evidence to show that He will save
fools from the result of their folly."

He sighed and for the third time started reading.

"_A Street in Florence. Enter Callimaco and Ligurio...._"

                                THE END






[End of Then and Now, by W. Somerset Maugham]
