The assumption passes, and in respect to Ferrara’s other lady the premiere does not take place.
Meanwhile, the healers keep on coming. The latest is Gaspare Torella, sent on the express orders of Cesare Borgia himself. Exactly where Duke Valentine himself is, no one quite knows, though half of Italy is looking over their shoulders to make sure his shadow is not falling across their path. Gaspare brings with him a letter for Lucrezia from his master that makes it clear that unless he has news of her immediate recovery any pleasure at his own good fortune will be meaningless. For what wonder can there be in the world if my beloved sister is not well? It is signed from your brother who loves you more dearly than he loves himself.
After she reads it, she asks to be left alone for a while. She runs her fingers over the ink on the parchment. She is trying to hear his voice in the words, to imagine his face, but it seems she can no longer remember what he looks like. Does he still wear the mask? She must ask Torella about his health. No more attacks of the pustules and pain? Yes, she will talk to Torella. She knew him once, in Rome, remembers him as a good man. But there are so many doctors now: when she sees them all, huddled together in their black robes and cornered black caps over solemn, nodding faces, it is hard to tell one from another. They gather daily in the antechamber like a flock of crows, cawing and chattering over some new theory or remedy.
Madam, you must…My lady, you should…Perhaps if the duchess might…
I am trying to get better, she thinks angrily. What more do you all want from me?
“I am sorry to cause you such concern, gentlemen,” she announces when they gather at the foot of her bed. “This is an intermittent bout of fever and a baby, that is all, and I am sure that with your knowledge and help, nature will take her course.”
But the next time her temperature soars and she is forced back to bed, the fever does not pass, so that by the third day she burns so hot that she goes into convulsions and all they can do is wrap her in damp sheets and hold her down.
One does not need to be a doctor to know that the lady Lucrezia d’Este-Borgia is now very ill. News comes that her husband, Alfonso, has already crossed into Italy on his way back from France to be at his wife’s bedside. That night, Duke Ercole’s doctor, Francesco Castello, sits down and writes to his employer.
It is my considered opinion that the lady Lucrezia will only be freed from her distress by the birth of the baby.
But any birth is still months away.
CHAPTER 17
“They were Duke Valentine’s actual words, along with certain observations formed from the visit.”
“However the bishop, my brother, says that you alone composed the dispatch.”
“Nothing was sent without his approval.”
Despite the closed shutters and a ceiling three times a man’s height, the air inside the fleur-de-lis room of the Palazzo della Signoria in Florence is stiff with heat. Anyone with the wherewithal to leave has gone to the country. Those who govern the city, however, must remain.
“You don’t need to defend yourself.” The gonfaloniere waves Machiavelli to a chair. “Florence is beholden to you. You did a fine job.”
Hold this man dear, his fidelity, zeal and prudence leave nothing to wish for in him: those had been the bishop’s words when he had finally got back from Urbino, punch-drunk from further meetings with the bullying Borgia.
Niccolò nods gravely. Following his encounter with the duke, he is cultivating a more opaque manner; a diplomat’s face must be as unreadable as his mind. “Yet the council remains opposed to any treaty with him,” he says evenly.
“The decision was not a rejection of your views. We were simply not convinced that after this act of—of daylight robbery, the Duke Valentine will still have King Louis’s support.”
How often has he played this same question back in his mind since he left Urbino? I tell you now, I understand King Louis better than any man in Italy. We are like brothers and help each other in every way. The duke’s boast had been backed by two of his own condottieri, who had gone out of their way the next morning to tell him the same thing. But then that is exactly what they would have done if there had been any doubt. Had both he and the bishop been so mesmerized by the duke’s charisma that they had not dug deep enough behind the words?
“There is no question you are right about the danger,” Soderini continues. “As you yourself said to the council—the man is like a fox in a chicken run with a moonless night on his side.” His mouth puckers at the memory of the discussion the image had caused: the good burghers of Florence had not warmed to the image of themselves as chickens. “And our no could still become a yes. We have only asked for time to consider. Meanwhile, we will not let him out of our sight.” He pauses. “Though right now, of course, no one has any idea where he is. Urbino? Rome? Cesena? There are rumors but nothing more.” He looks expectantly at Machiavelli.
“I think he may be on his way to the king.” For, of course, he has thought about it a great deal.
“Milan is full of his enemies. Why would he do that?”
“Because once again it is what no one expects. And because…” He pauses, tasting again the insolent confidence of the man. How effective would it be if the purpose were charm rather than intimidation? “If he has any doubt as to Louis’s support it would be better to meet him face-to-face.”
“And if that happens, do you think he will prevail?”
“Yes, I think he will.”
“Hmmn. And what else do you think, Niccolò?” Such a delicate thing a republic, yet a crushing weight on the shoulders of the men who support it. There have been times over these last years when Soderini has feared he is losing the zest for the job. But never when he is in conversation with this man.
“I think if fortune remains with him, she will guide him to look to his back. The cost of Urbino was the humiliation of Vitelli, and he is a man who knows how to hold a grudge. Up until this moment all of his condottieri have been busy settling their own scores. But they’d need to be deaf and blind not to realize that from now on they are as likely to be the prey as the huntsmen.”
Soderini nods thoughtfully. If he were to press him further, would the adviser back up his soothsaying with an example from the ancients? As well as enjoying Roman history, it seems this clever young diplomat likes women and wine as much as politics; that he can turn the air blue with his jokes and that while recent marriage has given him a wife with spirit, she fights a losing battle. A serious man then, but with a capacity for fun. How Soderini wishes he had such a talent.
“We will know soon enough if you are right. Which brings me to my news. Today, the council appointed you permanent envoy to the court of Duke Valentine. When he appears you are to join him. From now on you will be the ears and eyes of Florence, never moving from his side.” He leaves a suitable pause for the news to sink in. “It is an honor. You need not thank me.”
Envoy, not ambassador. Niccolò holds the half smile on his face. He is not surprised. The Machiavelli name is not good enough to qualify for the higher rank. Permanent envoy. Of course there is nothing he would like more than to be the shadow of the duke, watch his every political and military footfall, but this is a poisoned chalice, since such a post is a guarantee of bankruptcy to any man without a private income. He is a veteran of the abuse that the state can deliver: expenses that never arrive, dispatches you end up paying for yourself, clothes that became food for moths, as no tailor will carry on working on bad credit. It is not just the man who suffers. At the French court, both he and his puny republic had become a laughingstock.
He pushes his smile wider. “Indeed, I am honored. But…but I have a house and wife to support and…” How ironic, he thinks. Fortuna opens her legs to me and I am adding up household accounts. What would Cesare Borgia do in my place?
“You will be paid your salary every month, and there will be full expenses. I shall see to that. For now you are given leave to spend some time with your wife. She is
in the country for August, yes?”
There is no point in arguing. He sees an image of a green sloping vineyard where the Machiavelli family has produced its own wine and produce, the roots going deep in the earth, for a century and a half. The grapes will be growing fat, the barrels being cleaned out ready.
“Go and breathe some fresh air, Niccolò. It is a luxury one does not get often in government.”
It is certainly his intention to go home that night. Indeed he has already sent a message to his wife to expect him. But a little relaxation would not go amiss, and he has debts to settle. Drinks for colleagues who have defended his back while he has been away, because internal politicking doesn’t stop when a man leaves his desk, and though he has made his mark these last few years, there are men inside the Palazzo della Signoria with better family names and lesser careers who would enjoy seeing him taken down a peg or two.
“You’re a lucky man, Il Macchia. The council is most taken with your style.”
His fuzz of black hair, for all the world like an inkblot covering his head, had got him his nickname early. He’d tried to grow it once, but at the first opportunity it writhed and corkscrewed out in all directions, making him more like a jester than a diplomat.
“Always straight to the point with no fancy language, though the more oblique references to Roman history throw them a bit. And a few more jokes wouldn’t go amiss as we wilt under the sea of work you give us.”
Biagio Buonaccorsi is his greatest defender: smart enough to know he will never be as smart as his boss and not interested in letting the venom of ambition get in the way of living life. Inside the vipers’ nest of government, Niccolò has found no better friend. And no more resilient drinking companion. By midway through the second jug he is feeling sweetly at home.
“Jokes, Biagio? You wanted jokes from a meeting with a bishop and two murderers?”
“Pockmarks and scars, one and the other, you said, yes? You must have seemed quite handsome in comparison. Did you have that secret little smile on your face? The one that happens when your brain is overheating?”
Niccolò winces.
“What? Did the dark duke think you were laughing at him? Come on, Il Macchia, you’re not with the gonfaloniere now. Let’s get on to the real stuff.”
It’s not only Biagio. They all want to hear it firsthand: the Borgia duke is a legend, and not many men have sat in the same room as him and lived to tell the tale. The third and fourth jugs are on them. And then of course there is the celebration for his new post—because it is known in the tavern as quickly as if the town crier had shouted it from the bell tower of the town hall: Niccolò Machiavelli, permanent envoy to the court of Duke Valentine.
One tavern leads to another, and once they have exhausted the subjects of war and plunder, the only thing left is women. Everyone “knows” this Borgia stud keeps a harem of prostitutes wherever he goes. Niccolò must have had his eyes sewn shut not to have noticed. Maybe if he cozies up enough to him in the future the duke will pass on a couple when he is finished. It isn’t long before some of Florence’s professional women find their way to the table, offering their services at a discount to a man who has come so close to glory. Between his travels, an occasional mistress and this new wife of his, they haven’t seen enough of him lately. How better to welcome a diplomatic warrior than to offer him a further conquest in bed?
All things considered it is a fine Florentine celebration. When he wakes up in Biagio’s house, his head thumping like a blacksmith’s hammer, it is already halfway through the next day. Marietta will be fretting. He will go straight home. Only then Biagio returns, and by the time Niccolò finally rides out of the southern gate of Porto Romana, the sun is setting and the world is lit up around him. Such beauty to behold.
Night falls as he gets closer to Sant’Andrea in Percussina. The farmhouse is not far from the post station where dispatch riders from Rome to Florence sometimes change horses. Of course he must stop to check for the new traffic, but the stables are shut up and the place is dark. He turns his horse toward home. A farm rises and sleeps with the sun. Just as well, for he would not want to walk in on a combative Marietta. Better to get reacquainted between the sheets. No one could call Niccolò Machiavelli a coward, simply a pragmatist.
Blunted by pleasure, he does not have his wits entirely about him as he crawls into his wife’s bed. Shush now, he says quietly to himself, don’t wake her. She is curled to one side of the bed, her hair unbound and spreading over the pillow. There is a sweet smell of chamomile. She has washed it ready for his return. From the stories he hears from his married friends, not all wives are so fond. Sentimental with success and wine, he rolls himself closer to her and slips a hand over her body.
She responds sleepily and is halfway into his arms before she realizes. But as she does he feels her stiffen. He waits. She is clearly awake now. He closes his eyes and would be asleep within minutes were it not for a distinct sniffling, followed by a few little theatrical sobs.
“Marietta.”
“Yes?” A small voice, sewn up tightly.
“I have been busy. There were last-minute dispatches to be sent.”
Silence, like a held breath. Well, diplomacy is his job…“Your hair smells good.”
Still nothing. My God, Cesare Borgia would not stand for this.
“Are you there, Wife?”
“I do not answer to that term anymore.” The sobs have gone as quickly as they came. “I have decided to go into a convent.”
He laughs out loud, for though he might want to be cross, he is suffused with the good humor of life: promotion, praise and the warmth of a woman’s scented flesh. Ha. Ah well, a few more jousts. If she were a conquest yet to be bedded, he would find such talk an aphrodisiac. “Good. Then you can pray for me.”
“You are beyond prayer!”
“Oh, I cannot believe I am that bad.”
“Niccolò! I have waited patiently for over two weeks. Your message said yesterday, without fail. I thought you had been murdered on the road.”
“Then how happy you must be that I was not. I told you—”
“More dispatches at work, yes.” She sniffs. “You dip your pen in beer these days?”
She regrets it as soon as it is out of her mouth. She has given it thought over the time he has been away, how to handle this young marriage of hers. She knows that complaint is not the way. But here she is complaining. How do other wives do it? Of course, gossip has trickled through to her—how could it not?—about the life this big-brained husband of hers leads. One night, when she was missing him, she had made the mistake of going through the papers in his desk. No snoop ever read well of themself. But she had read nothing. Amid pages of notes she does not understand about everything in nature living, dying and being reborn without the need of any God, she finds a poem written in her husband’s hand celebrating love like a bolt of lightning, passionate yearning words addressed it seems to every woman rather than his wife. She who shares his bed and will mother his children is left outside when he steps inside his mind. She is angry with herself for expecting more. Such is the punishment for a woman who falls in love with her own husband. Her mother should have warned her.
“So what name will you give yourself?” he says. “I might suggest Sister Long-Suffering.”
“I would start as a novice,” she says, her voice still small, but warmer. She hesitates. “Perhaps Sister Who-Should-Hold-Her-Tongue would be better.”
He laughs. “I think even with God’s help, Wife, you wouldn’t manage that.”
Outside, an owl hoots like a mournful ghost. Soon enough he will be packing his bag again and heading back into the maelstrom of politics. In his own way he will miss her.
“How was he then?” she says after a while.
“Who?”
“The Borgia devil.”
“Ah. Black and clever.”
“Though not as clever as you.”
Her faith is touching. “And the farm?”
/>
“There was talk of flies in the grapes a few days ago, but they seem better now. Pietro says if the weather holds we will harvest in late September. Will you be here?”
“I don’t know.” He tells her of the new post.
“Permanent envoy. How long will you be away?”
“Oh, not that long,” he lies smoothly, for why find trouble before it finds him? “It is a great honor for the family.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, Niccolò. I am not a child.”
“You could go and stay with your mother.”
“Oh no! A convent would be better than that. I will be quite well alone.” She tries to keep the disappointment from her voice. She turns to him now, opening her shift to let her breasts spill out. While there are prettier, certainly easier women in his life, with one’s eyes closed their breasts are no fuller or smoother than hers.
“So,” she says softly. “Give me something to remember you with. With a little Fortuna”—and she smiles at herself for the use of the word; snooping has its uses—“it will be a boy, as ugly as you with the same moleskin of hair. That way when I stroke his head I will miss you less.”
Niccolò Machiavelli, permanent envoy and valued and honored servant of the republic. He thinks of his father, how proud it would have made him, and how much he would have relished holding a grandson in his arms, and his prick rises effortlessly to meet the softness of a wife who smells almost as good as a mistress in bed.
CHAPTER 18
Inside Belfiore, heat, heavy as poppy syrup, moves through the summer palace, lulling, culling everyone into rest. The very air now seems infected, sliding up stairs, under doors or under windows, to each and every room. Once medicine has done all it can, living or dying becomes God’s concern, and sleep is a fine cover for the work of angels, be it killing or curing.