Then and Now (20 page)

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 eye-witness, 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 to the bottom of much that at the time had puzzled him.

He made a thrilling story of it.

'When Vitellozzo left Città 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 Barto-lomeo. 'I sold him some horses once and he never paid me for them. When I demanded the money he told me to come to Città 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 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 the 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 have 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.

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, for such was his name, 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 saddle-bags, 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 scarlet 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 Niccolo. 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 should 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 wanting to follow his star.'

'Then you will make it all right for me with my mother and Uncle Biagio?'

'Your mother will be broken-hearted. 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 boy, 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 boy'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 Niccolo,' 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 that intricate design; and 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 fellow 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, cousin though he was of her husband, would give a thought to a lad 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 no more than 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, wordly 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 it.'

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 in his arduous quest of perfection. Machiavelli valued the esteem of his fellow-citizens and the attention that was paid to his opinions by the heads of the Republic. 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 relations. 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 into 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.