“He never knew what hit him.” The relived excitement comes off the guards like steam. “He and his men were at dinner in some monastery in the country when he found out. Barely had time to pack a bag and start running.”
When it comes to their own leader, there is nothing but the fiercest loyalty. “Duke Valentine’s a proper soldier. He does everything we do, and more. If we don’t eat or drink or piss, then neither does he. He’s as fast in the saddle as any man, and he never sleeps.”
How often has Niccolò read those same sentiments in Livy’s voice, extolling the virtues of those Roman generals who led by example.
“What about the rewards?” he asks, as the silence of a city hangs heavy around them.
They shrug. “He pays well and regular. So you don’t always fill your pockets with booty—half the time you lose your share fighting some other fucker for it anyway. Though more women wouldn’t go amiss. You tell him that when you see him, right? But don’t mention any names.”
When at last they reach the palace, its forecourt, framed on one side by the cathedral, is filled with empty carts with dozens of mules standing tethered, makeshift mangers and water troughs in front of them. Are they bringing in provisions or getting ready to take things away? Some prize ducal souvenirs for the victor perhaps? Niccolò will be painting pictures in words soon enough, and no detail is too small for his eye.
—
Inside, they are given elegant rooms with a covered terrace that looks out onto an inner courtyard garden, so that air circulates even in the heat of the summer, like now. Niccolò sits enjoying the splendor, stretching his limbs to compensate for the ache from days in the saddle; his small wiry body has never been as well trained as his mind.
Still, the time had not been wasted; he and the bishop had spent the journey analyzing the state of Italy, describing, pondering, diagnosing, like doctors standing over the body of a patient on the table in front of them. Except the more they look, the bleaker the prognosis. That much they agree on. As long as France has her sights on retaking Naples, the future will be foreign wars on Italian soil, pulling everyone else into orbits of allegiances. The wild card, though, is the Borgias. Cesare’s money and muscle may come from the Pope, but his own appetite for power is now matched by military skill. All around him sit dozens of little states at the whim of corrupt families dedicated to their own interests, which shift with the prevailing wind. What, or who, could forge something bigger and more stable from this chaos? Niccolò might have wished the journey had lasted longer, for it is a conversation he never tires of, as nutritious to his personality as the prospect of the next sexual conquest or twist of his racy humor. The bishop, a man more rooted in Church and family, sees the world through a narrower lens. But for this moment in Urbino, at this juncture of history, they are soldered together in the same fire: their love for their beleaguered republic and the need to uphold its interests, whatever conditions are about to be presented to them.
—
The summons comes long after midnight. Of course, Niccolò thinks as he checks his doublet and runs a hand over his cropped hair; this is a duke who never sleeps. A single servant guides them up staircases through a network of darkened rooms where once the voices of sophisticated men and women rang out, debating the skills of the perfect courtier: the balance of scholar against athlete, musician against dancer, the wit of men against the modesty of women. The very silence seems to mourn their passing.
Cesare has taken up residence in the duke’s own suite, with a fine view overlooking the drop to the valley below.
There is a wash of cold moonlight through the open windows, with strategic candles elsewhere illuminating a portrait of the old duke and his son propped against a wall and a life-size carving of a naked, sleeping Cupid, his winged body sunk luxuriously into a bed of stone.
Cesare sits in the middle of the room, wide awake, still in soldier’s clothes, his body sprawled across the arms of a wooden chair, masked head in one corner, booted legs hanging over the other side. For a commander who has just pulled off the greatest military coup of his career, it is a deliberately casual, even insolent, stance. He doesn’t move when they enter, motioning them instead to two chairs that have been placed in front of him. Behind him stands a figure with a ruined face who they know to be his bodyguard.
The servant brings wine, pouring the duke’s first, then theirs. The door closes quietly behind him. In the three years since he became a diplomat Niccolò Machiavelli has sat in rooms with many men—and even one woman—whose decisions have sent countless others to their deaths, but none of them have wielded the knife or the garrote themselves. Cesare Borgia and Miguel de Corella are both murderers. Is the churning in his stomach anticipation or fear?
The duke lifts his goblet, watching as they do the same.
“It’s not poison, gentlemen,” he says at last, when it becomes clear they are waiting for him to drink. “More likely one of the best wines in Italy. The Duke of Urbino was saving it for something special. Which I think we can agree this is. Welcome to my new state.”
His voice breaks the spell. The bishop pours out good wishes and congratulations on his military brilliance, along with hopes for a fruitful exchange: the usual dog-sniffing-dog stuff. Niccolò knows his confident boss well enough to detect an edge of nerves. Perhaps they should have brought gifts. But then what could this man, whose sword is engraved with Julius Caesar’s own motto, possibly want? In the half-light he catches a glint in Cesare’s eye.
“You are privileged to be the first to visit me, but I did not let you in to hear your compliments. I wished you to know why I am here and how the future will be for us.” His right foot sways rhythmically, responding to some unheard drumbeat. “I have taken Duke Montefeltro’s state from him because as I was traveling toward Camerino I heard that he was planning treachery against us. In this way I will deal with all those who tell me one thing and do another.”
Gravel mixed with honey: the perfect tone for delivering lies and ultimatums. The two diplomats ready themselves for the attack.
“Florence has not behaved well toward me. When I stood with an army on your borders a year ago, you were full of protestations of alliances and promises. Yet all I hear is how you run to the French king to complain like jilted suitors. It does not sit well with me, and if we cannot agree to friendship—which is all I want—then we must decide on the opposite.”
“My lord, I must protest,” Soderini says, reaching for dignity. “You speak of friendship, but the signs are all of war. Arezzo is Florentine territory. Yet your condottieri invaded and stirred rebellion up against us. If you desire friendship you should—”
“I have no sympathy for your city’s plight, Bishop, for I think she deserved it. Still, I tell you Vitellozzo Vitelli is no longer a man of mine. I quote you the letter I wrote to my own father barely a week ago. He was in our employ, but these were never our orders and I have written to him insisting he withdraw if he does not want to incur my great displeasure. You smile? No, you, sir—in the shadows.”
“If you saw a smile it was in the candlelight, not my face, Duke Valentine.”
“And you are again?”
“Niccolò Machiavelli, Secretary to the Council for Liberty and Peace,” he says clearly, as he tries to rearrange his face; he is thinking that such a private letter is made public only if it was written precisely for that purpose.
“Aha. Which means you are paid a salary by Florence, yes, so your role will not change every—what is it? six months?—as this damned republic of yours changes with each newly elected pack of inexperienced merchants. It is one of the reasons your government is anathema to me. No consistency or vision.”
“My lord!”
“With respect—”
“Ha—now I have upset you both. Good. Spare me the defense of your ancient republic. Because in truth, what has it brought you: Medici dictators and a stark mad monk? And so precarious a standing that you must go hiding in French skirts every
time someone says boo to you, while you shout value and virtue as if they were weapons rather than dreams. It’s all in vain. I understand King Louis better than any man in Italy. We are like brothers, and as brothers we help each other in every way.”
Niccolò is having trouble not smiling again. He is remembering the moment when he had finally come face-to-face with the French king, and how, after some desultory foreplay, he had watched the fist of power emerge from the diplomatic glove, the knuckles bared white underneath. He had felt a palpable physical excitement. As he does now. He has never met the Pope, but even his enemies say the man has a natural grasp of strategy, playing politics like a winning hand of cards. A talent passed through the blood or a lesson well learned? Either way it is impossible not to be impressed by it.
“I say again, I want Florence’s friendship. But if I cannot have it, I will do what is necessary to live without it, and that will be the worse for you.” The duke leans back in his chair, making an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.
Theater, Niccolò thinks. This is theater, all of it! The mask, the lapping candles, the moonlight, the palace with the silent cowed town at his feet. His eyes slide toward the door of a small room behind, where the candlelight offers a glimpse into the old duke’s studio: an entire visual world created in marquetry from a thousand slivers of different types of wood. It is famous all over Europe, this artistic wonder of Urbino. Will it too become the spoils of war, the panels hewn off the walls and put onto carts to be transported to wherever the duke sees fit? It will outrage the world, such plundering. But then outrage is this man’s specialty. Does anyone ever challenge him? Niccolò wonders. In the background, Michelotto stands statue still. Theater, yes, but backed up by threat.
“Am I boring you, Secretary?”
“No, my lord duke, not at all.” He brings his eyes back swiftly.
“I still see you smiling when you tell me I do not. Move your chair toward me so I can see you better.”
Niccolò does as he is told, and now the eyes behind the mask meet and hold his own.
“No, it’s not the light. It is the shape of your face. Quite a weasel set of features you have. So, tell me, what is the ‘secretary of Florence’ thinking now he is out of the shadow?”
“He is…he is filled with admiration.” Niccolò pauses, calculating the risk and judging it worth taking. “Both at your achievements and at the way fortune so favors a man who seizes the moment as you have done.”
The bishop clears his throat noisily, as if to disassociate himself from the implied insult, but instead Cesare’s huge laugh engulfs the room.
“Fortuna! Ha, indeed, yes, she is a magnificent strumpet. And as you say, she cannot get enough of me these days. But then as with all women, playing the courtier with her only gets you so far. You need to risk putting your hand up her skirts if you really want her to come through.” He is clearly savoring the crudeness of his language. “It is a lesson Florence with all her frills and principles could learn from. Look around you.”
He gestures to the portrait of the first Duke Federigo and his son leaning against the wall, ready for transportation. The old man, nose like a broken jetty, sits in full armor reading a book, while the boy, fair haired and chubby faced, stands by the throne like an uncomfortable, overdressed cherub.
“The grand Montefeltro family! Everything you need to know about Italy is there: the warrior father and his puny son, the present duke—or rather no longer the duke—since he has just lost it all. And why? Because he was too taken up with the trappings of art and culture to be looking at the sky as the weather changes. No wonder Fortuna deserted him. Just as she deserts a city that is paying some broken-nosed sculptor to carve a marble David to trumpet her purity while at the same time turning down the offer of an alliance with the only man who can secure her future.”
Intelligence, Niccolò thinks. It is one thing having the resources to get it, another to know how and when to use it. He can feel the bishop shifting uncomfortably on his chair.
“You see how carefully I follow your intimate civic business, gentlemen. So. Which one of us will go down in history? I wonder.” The voice now is almost seductive. “Your statue or my state? Because I promise you this: while there are those who see me as a thug, I am not a gadfly, here today and gone tomorrow. No, I am here for the future. Stability, order, law, strength, justice. I will rid Italy of this swarm of insect tyrants who sit in every other town thinking only of their own wealth and pleasure. Because as you say, Secretary, I have Fortuna on my side. So.” He pauses. “It is your decision how you move into that future. But make it speedily, for I don’t have much time. And remember, between myself and Florence there can be no middle way; either you are my friend or you are my enemy.”
A silence falls. Nothing has moved in the argument, but it seems as if he no longer cares, as if, rather, he is almost enjoying their company. Or perhaps it is the sound of his own voice, because dialogue has largely given way to soliloquy. Niccolò finds himself wondering what that face would look like without the mask. Is it really so deformed by the pox that it has to be hidden? Or does this too fit the theater of threat? If his soldiers are still nervy with the iron taste of action, then their commander will surely be even more in its thrall. Sleep must seem tame to such a man, even if Fortuna is waiting in his bed.
“You look weary, gentlemen of Florence,” he says after a while.
“We have been on horseback for some days.” The bishop’s voice is subdued.
“A long journey for old bones, I can see that,” the duke says, mockingly. “Yet, the Pope, my father, would still choose a good horse on the open road had he the time. But then he is an exceedingly healthy man for his age. I wouldn’t be surprised if he outlived us all.” The information is delivered almost as an encore, since every military commander, especially those who pay their troops well, must be sure of the longevity of the patron who foots the bills.
They leave him lounging in the chair, wine in hand, the Urbino night bleaching toward day through the windows behind him.
—
After they have gone, Cesare sits for a while, his right foot twitching still. In the shadows Michelotto’s breathing pattern starts to change, a grasping half snore giving away a man now dozing on his feet. How long have the two of them been awake? Two and a half days, maybe more. It is one of the attractions of war, how it breaks the rules of time and nature, he thinks, blocking out the first agonies of a wound, stealing future energy to fuel what feels like an endless today. But even the best soldiers have to give in to sleep, eventually.
But not him. He is already busy with the future. The taking of Urbino has changed the game, doubling his fame and his enemies in a stroke. With Florence no longer the immediate target, he needs her at least to be neutral. What will her diplomats say? At least she had not sent him sheep. The bishop is almost certainly too connected to his brother in government to grasp the nettle (would a cardinal’s hat help?), but that sly secretary might fashion a dispatch that captures both the urgency and the essence.
He pulls himself out of the chair and moves to the open windows. The sky is a wash of violet with the dawn, the air crisp and pure still. He can feel the thud of a pulse marking time inside his head. It will not be long before it becomes a hammer blow that will make sleep impossible, however much his body may start to crave it. When he can stand it no longer he will call for Torella, whose calming drafts have become an occasional medicine since his cure of the pox.
More light brings the deep drop view beneath him into focus. He can see for miles. What if he were to open his arms now and jump? Would he fall like a stone, or find himself lifted up by currents of air, a man swooping like a bird across the valley on the rising winds of Fortuna? He stands grinning broadly, imagining the disbelief of those on the ground gawping up at him.
In his room, Niccolò rolls the conversation over and over in his mind, retracing each shift and nuance. He wishes he could have stayed longer, asked more que
stions, probed deeper, casting aside the veil of diplomacy to discuss the wounded body of Italy with another kind of doctor, one who has had his hands deep in the patient’s innards.
He picks up his quill and starts to write; any dispatch must leave immediately if they are to get a fast enough response from Florence. He transcribes large gobbets of the duke’s words verbatim, for he has a formidable memory in such things. Stability, order, law, strength, justice. Noble words disguising what others might see as thuggish acts. But since when did the acquisition of power have anything to do with goodness? No, if Fortuna is at work here, then so is virtù, that shimmering slippery word that mixes strength, vitality and skill in equal measures. However black his mask, Cesare Borgia is a living example of it.
He is still writing when the light grows and the city starts to wake. Florence may not want to hear it, but it is his duty to tell them what he sees.
This lord is truly splendid and magnificent. In war there is no enterprise so great that it does not appear small, and in the pursuit of glory and lands he never rests, nor recognizes fatigue or danger. He arrives in one place before it is known that he left another. He alone decides, only at the moment of action, so that his purpose cannot be known beforehand. He is popular with his soldiers and he has collected the best men in Italy; these things make him victorious and formidable, particularly when added to perpetual good fortune.
Niccolò hears gates and doors opening, the rumble of carts rolling into the central courtyard, the thud and drag of large objects, the mournful complaint of mules as panniers are strapped to their backs with men’s voices shouting out around them. The great plunder has begun.