I was roped in to doing a History Big Bang story (write something takes place in history over 20,000 words long) and this is the product. It’s about Machiavelli and his time spent with the court of Cesare Borgia. Inspired by the line from “Wolfe Hall” – “The summer of Cesare Borgia marked him. He stared at frescoes instead of fists and found an easier way to be”. I tole that line. By the by. You’ll see it in a letter Niccolo writes to Marietta (his wife).
Cast of Characters
Niccolo Machiavelli – a civil servant-turned-philosopher. Diplomat for the Florentine Republic.
Piero Soderini – defacto head of the Florentine Republic. Head of the Signoria.
Francesco Soderini – Bishop of Volterra, diplomat, brother of Piero Soderini.
Cesare Borgia – Former cardinal, turned general. Son of Pope Alexander VI. Attempting to carve out a Borgia state from the current Italian territories.
Leonardo da Vinci – Artist, inventor, dispenser of useful advise.
Marietta Machiavelli – Long suffering wife of Niccolo. Nee Mariette Corsini.
Lorenzo il Magnifico – (aka Lorenzo di Piero di Cosimo, Lorenzo de Medici, il Magnifico, the magnificent etc.) former head of the Florentine Republic. Grandson of Cosimo de Medici. Patron of the arts.
Piero de Medici (di Lorenzo) – Son of Lorenzo il Magnifico. Former head of the Florentine Republic. He was exiled when Savonarola came to power. His son, Lorenzo, is who the Prince is dedicated to in 1512.
Savonarola – Monk turned political leader. Lead a coup d’etat against the Medicis. Ruled Florence for four years before being declared a heritic by the Catholic Church and burned. Succeeded by Piero Soderini and a proper Florentine Republic.
Vitelli Vitellozo – General of Cesare Borgia. Eventually captures Urbino from his former master and forms a coalition against Borgia.
Angelo Polizianno - Poet and close friend of Lorenzo il Magnifico.
Tommaso – Friend of Piero Soderini and Niccolo. Civil servant in the Republic.
Brief list of relevant de-facto rulers of Florence: (in order from oldest to most “recent”)
Cosimo de Medici
Piero de Medici (the first)
Lorenzo de Medici (il Magnifico)
Piero de Medici (the second)
Savonarola
Piero Soderini
Lorenzo de Medici (the second)
“Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me?”
1513
His quill was poised above the page, ink budding at the nub so he knew it would blot. Outside a goat bleated and the sun climbed higher in the sky but his mind ignored the blue stretch. Instead there was ink on pale skin and stained sheets spread under him. The walls had been red when they should have been white and the sheets were black with Indian ink.
A knock and a servant looked warily in, saying something about super, about family, about duties, about letters that needed to be answered, about tasks that needed to be seen to, about things he needed to deal with tomorrow. So he waved a hand and said later. Always later. A voice he thought he had forgotten was laughing at him, chiding him for remembering a heart faced girl with sweet lips and sweeter thighs. The voice called Piero Soderini, the Gonfaloniere who was supposed to last a lifetime but who was now gone from Florence and from his side and from him. Gone so long ago yet so recently. He wasn’t sure which hurt more.
And then there was Cesare Borgia. Borgia the would-be-everything laughing at him for remembering Piero though he had abandoned Piero at the end. Cesare was all cruel smiles and animated humor that reminded him of empty harvesting fields. Butcher’s work done with a sickle and a hand with a talent for growth.
Your Excellency.
They were dotted on dirty paper. The room was empty and he wondered who exactly he was writing to.
“Favors from on high are always timely, never late.”
Cesare was laughing that boyish laugh again and Niccolò wished that his memory of the man had died with the man.
I say this because –
Because, because all he could remember was brown hair and black eyes and candles and vestries and aching knees from worshiping three Gods and smiling in too bright sun on a dusty road with sweetmeat sticky fingers.
Francesco Vettori. Your excellency, Francesco Vettori. He had such things to tell. Things the other man would hardly believe and so would never truly know but must be told lest they break him harder and faster than anything the Medici’s had ever done. They could drop him from the highest roof in Florence and it would be nothing to the way Cesare and Piero could break him, had broken him.
Dear Francesco, there was a boy with a black bird on his shoulder, a sword in hand, and the glint of power in his eye. He dominated by looking as he didn’t look so much as consume. God would have cowered before him, yet he lies miserable beneath the filthy earth that now holds him tighter than any lover.
But that is the end of it all. And it is always wise to start at the beginning yet this story has no beginning; no middle – only an end, and for that he begged forgiveness.
Please bear with me, my dear Francesco, though your eyes will never set themselves upon these pages. You will receive a treatise and a plea, but never myself. I have grown tired of giving myself.
They had always said that he had been born with a gift for words. A gift for spinning tales that wound their way around people’s heads and put forth foolish notions into their minds. A gift for lies, his father had insisted with the firm rule of a firm hand and firm Latin grammar. A gift for tall tales and utter nonsense that would do nothing but get the boy into trouble should he say the wrong thing, write the wrong thing. Write the wrong thing in that elegant, prosy, way of his. Write the wrong thing so beautifully that it hurt and so he would hurt and all who knew him would hurt with him.
But he told his father that he was wrong, that he’d be a good citizen, a respectful citizen, a noble citizen and keep his noble mouth shut about his noble city and its noble, noble people. Florence would be dead, gone, and utterly ruined before he lifted quill against her. She would have to be as dead as the Romans, deader in fact, before he could find it in himself to hurt her. She was his everything, after all. She and everything she stood for; for he was a good republican, an honest citizen, and he would always conduct himself as such.
He was sixteen when he took the hand of Maria, the first of many Marias, and led her to the fields outside Florence. They stretched themselves out under cork trees and giggled as fingers fumbled along, hurting more than pleasuring till they finally figured it all out. The coil of heat that had been resting in his stomach dispelled, sinking into the very marrow of his bones. He sighed with her and they ate figs and counted clouds for the rest of the afternoon as he did his best to tell her that he didn’t love her and she did her best to tell him she understood.
His father had insisted that he learn the classics, that he be granted the best humanist education possible sans Greek for Bernardo Machiavelli never took to the language and so Niccolò suffered the consequences. But, as he had that one fault in common with Petrarch, he felt that it was possibly not the worst. His fingers would trace the ancient script and he wished for comprehension but never found the time, nor the true inclination, apart from a vague longing, to learn. The vague longing was that of a poet who had seen a pretty thing across the street but couldn’t bring himself to rise out of the languid contentedness of habit to pursue – sextets would be composed instead and the form and absent fondness would forever be remembered even when desire had fled. He felt that Petrarch and Dante would understand.
And so he found himself coming to age in a world of Plato and Cicero and anti-Aristotle-when-Aristotle-was-anti-common-sense. A world where he wondered if there was more to Greek philosophy than he first thought. He remembered the angel Polizianno laughing at his youthful boasts about Maria, and Lorenzo de Medici looking at his favorite with affection and saying that Niccolò was young and would understand one day. They read Plato to him after that and told him to reread Catullus, that it was the Magnificent’s favorite.
It was then Savonarola the Monk happened and the burning of paintings and books and ideas and wishes and dreams soon followed by the monk himself. And then the republic and the desire to be something more than the son of an ancient line of vaguely dubious claim. His father was amused with his speeches and said to keep to himself, to keep to his rank, and never look to rise above. One didn’t have to search far to see what happened to those who did.
My dear Francesco, please bear with me. I have such stories to tell.
1502
Watching the ink dry, he winced as the candle fluttered in the afternoon breeze. This was the millionth letter he had written since morning and he was sure he was done with the job, politics be damned.
“Niccolò?” His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name. The ever dying sun made dust dance and he wished he could be anywhere but here, anywhere but under the severe eye of the older man watching him from the door.
“Piero Soderini?” He made sure he was all Lorenzo il Magnifico as he said it.
Piero gave a slight smile at the roll of the ‘r’s, closing the door behind him as he strode over to the ambassador’s desk.
“You were always good at imitations,” he paused. “In all ways. Your writing, especially. Aristotle, I think.”
“I hope not,” Niccolò murmured with a sly grin. “I’ve always been aiming for Plato.”
“And you say you hate the Medicis.”
“I’ve never said that, you’ve said that and then put the words in my mouth, you cruel man.”
They paused, staring at each other before Piero laughed, letting Niccolò know that he was safe. Safe to jest about times he could barely remember and that Piero remembered only too well. Old memories die harder than old habits and Piero was as true a Florentine as there ever was. Piero Soderini could be a Medici when he wanted to be, but Niccolò preferred to dance with devils he knew than with devils he could barely remember.
“A regular Polizianno, you are,” Piero murmured as he took a seat opposite Niccolò who found himself suddenly alarmed. Piero only sat when there was actual business to discuss and he only came to Niccolò when the business was something no one else wanted to touch. “Borgias. What do you think of Borgias?”
Silence. Niccolò carefully put his papers away, fingers dancing on knotted pine and his mind was reading allegories into the wood.
“I’ve always found them…fascinating.” Carefully said with face a beatific blank.
“Quite. We’re discussing the one lacking scruples,” Piero was all clipped business. “Rome rid herself of a negligent cardinal and got herself an excellent general.”
“One of the pope’s boys?”
“Yes, Cesare.”
“He’s still carving out the Borgia state?”
“Yes,” mused slowly. “And the never-quite-warm feelings between us have cooled to new depths. He’s up to something in Romagna, I think Urbino is going to fall soon.”
“He’ll actually take it?”
“For now, till someone else takes it from him. The next Holy Father perhaps, Lord forgive me for blaspheming and such.”
Niccolò allowed himself an ironic smile which only earned him a warning tut from the older man reminding him of worried lectures from his father and uncle. Show more respect, you’ve seen what happened to those who don’t. Savonarola is never kind, nor are those who follow him.
But Lorenzo was, Niccolò would remind them with the surety of a man who wasn’t sure at all. Lorenzo was, even if he was flirting with the monk, he was always kind. And he would then be reminded that the cult of the Ancients died with Il Maginifico, Plato was put back in his cave, and Niccolò had better learn to live with the world as it was, not as he would have it. Always remember that The Republic never came to be, and Aristotle and Cicero spent there lives grasping as should-have-beens, would-have-beens, and could-have-beens.
“What would you have me do?”
“We need to inform Borgia, the would-be-prince, that Florence has friendly feelings towards him and that we are willing to negotiate another treaty of alliance, if he is willing. The usual. And pardon all our past transgressions since we’ve pardoned his.”
“And Borgia, the Holy Father?”
“Have the would-be-prince relay to the would-be-Holy-Father that our intentions and feelings towards Rome are as warm as they ever were.”
“I’ll gloss over all past disagreements, then, shall I?”
He made damn sure his smile was pure amusement and Piero appreciated him for it.
“Blame them on the Medicis and we should be in the clear. And if that doesn’t work, just play for time.”
“Ah, our usual strategy then? Dither about with our arms flailing?”
“One of these days, my dear Niccolò, you will say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“So I’ve been told. Something to drink?” He was standing now, with the window behind him so Piero was given a silhouette of the younger man.
“Not at the moment, but partake yourself if you’re thirsty,” he replied with a nonchalant air and watched as Niccolò calculated an answer. The ambassador would have calculated the exact measure of every breath he took, if he could have. He would have calculated the weight of his soul and probably would have bargained enough to sell it at above market price. But such were the Machiavellis, and as such they had always been. Enough noble blood to know their rank but not enough to be potent. It was a vile mix, Piero found, especially when combined with a cunning mind that found irony an all too pleasant thing.
“I shall, if you don’t mind. When will I be departing for the wondrous world of the Borgia court?”
Piero didn’t even bother to note the tone in which the sentence had been said. Instead, he picked at his nails in boredom as Niccolò crossed the room to the decanter, robes rustling in suddenly still air.
“A week tomorrow. Cesare has sent the obligatory letter saying that everything has been arranged. You are to be given a room with a lovely view,” he paused with a frown that was too real for Niccolò’s liking. “With the would-be-prince that could either mean the mountains or the decapitated heads of the recently condemned.”
“I’ll hope for the latter then, in order to get the former.”
“Quite,” a pause, Niccolò sat back down and watched Piero over the rim of his glass. “It’s a delicate issue, I think. Though you’ve always handled delicacy well. Think France, but more local. You know how we Italians are with each other. I’m a Florentine so I condemn all Milanese except when I condemn all Romans or Venetians. Pisa’s ours now, so I don’t give a fig about them except for their port. You understand me?”
“I shall do as you say.”
“I’ll send Tommaso over later, to fill you in on the details. And Francesco will be traveling with you.” Piero stood with a grim look that did nothing to help the mood. “I will see you tomorrow, good evening, Niccolò.”
“Good evening, Piero.” He whispered the name and wasn’t Lorenzo as he said it because the older man’s gaze told him to not be Lorenzo because Lorenzo was dead and Piero di Lorenzo di Piero di Cosimo de Medici was gone, and no one left of that family was Magnificent so let it drop. Please, let it drop. And Niccolò did not fancy himself a cruel man, so he did.
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” Marietta was standing by the door with hands on her hips, a firm line for lips.
“Business, my dear, business.” He stood opposite her, waiting for the impasse to pass. She remained where she was, as stalwart and stubborn and as beautiful as ever. He liked to think that was why he had married her. That and her Corsini name and Corsini money.
“I married you, Niccolò, not your job.”
“My dear, in marrying any man you marry his job. It’s part of the deal, now please stand aside so we can discuss this without all of Florence hearing us.”
She glowered but did as he asked, closing the door behind him with a sigh that made him feel guilty. Guilty because she was young and beautiful and loved him. Loved him despite of everything and as hard as he tried he could only bring himself to be fond of her, to be appreciative of her, but never to love her. Had she been a Soderini, perhaps, a Medici certainly for opposites that aren’t truly opposites attract, maybe even the Roman Orsini. But she was a Florentine Corsini, a delicate Corsini who loved him, and he hated himself all the more for it. Every letter she wrote to him he burned, if he didn’t, he knew that her words would swallow him alive and make him relive every damnable moment and every damnable lie and every damnable word that escaped past his damnable lips when he was near her.
“I’m to leave in a week, to speak with a Borgia.”
“Which one?” She was pouring wine with her back to him.
“Does it matter? And the fratricidal one, since you’re curious.”
“Cesare?”
“The very one.”
She wasn’t happy but contained it well with a heavenly smile that made him think of a Giotto fresco for all its attempts at perfection that so utterly missed the mark.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure, a few months, perhaps more, perhaps less. Until Piero calls me back.”
She moved silently about the room, standing so she was behind him and wrapped arms about his waist. The wine was suddenly bitter and he needed to go outside, to go away, to flee from Marietta, from the achingly, disastrously beautiful Tuscan hills, from Piero and his sanity, even from his sweet Francesca who saw him only when he could make it and whose body was something he found he couldn’t live without yet wanted nothing to do with.
“Be safe,” it was murmured into his back, her hands so sickeningly possessive. “Write to me.”
“Of course, I shall try.”
And she was saying ‘I love you’ and he was replying that she was like Marie, and the others before, and that he was trying but it wasn’t possible, but please believe him he was trying his damnedest to love her because she was his wife and he was her husband and he was regretting everything and all too aware that had he truly known himself he should never have married.
“Delicious wine, Piero, as always.” Tommaso was grinning a too wide grin, wine sloshing in his cup. Niccolò sat comfortably between the youth who reminded everyone of Guiliano but no one would admit it, and Piero who was too fair and too Republican to be Piero di Cosimo yet was Piero di Cosimo all the more for it.
“I thank you, Tommaso, a toast to our soon to be leaving ambassador and friend.” He raised a glass precariously in Niccolò’s direction. “Best of luck to you. May you prosper well with the Great Sinner and get us an advantageous position.”
“I shall certainly try,” Niccolò replied with a chuckle, sipping the wine with relish. “You found more of Polizianno’s poetry you said. All Ovid, wasn’t it?”
“Ovid,” Piero waved his hand in dismissal. “Ovid and Plato and about dear, sweet, most beloved Lorenzo.”
“He died because of him, I heard,” Tommaso put in after a moment of reflection. The obligation of the drunk to remember past loves fulfilled.
“He died because of Piero di Lorenzo and Savonarola.” Piero replied sharply.
“Then by proxy because of Lorenzo, after all, who invited the blasted Monk to Florence?”
“Niccolò? Opinions on the poor angel Polizianno?”
“Angelo Polizianno,” the ambassador drawled, inflecting as he vaguely remembered Lorenzo doing. His fingers dragged over the stem of the glass, eyes glazed as he watched candles flicker. There were voices in his memories, voices and laughs and songs and dance and happiness. Happiness that was only just beginning to be understood again. Florence had forgotten, he knew, how to be happy, forgotten for four long years and Niccolò had been as pleased as he possibly could when it ended. Monks had never been his choice of people for leaders. “Della Mirandola was what I heard. Or more to the point, Piero di Lorenzo was after Mirandola and Polizianno was an unfortunate accident of too close a proximity to a hated enemy.” He paused with a frown, mind too muddy. “What I’m trying to say is that Piero didn’t mean to kill his former tutor, he meant to kill the man who reminded him of his father even more than Angelo.”
“I’ve three sons,” Piero recited. “One stupid, one smart, and one sweet.”
“That Lorenzo did.”
A moment passed as the men continued to sip wine, watching flames flicker in the still evening air. Tommaso shifted his weight, wincing and knowing that everything was going to spin when he finally decided to stand.
“Remind me,” he began, waving his finger authoritatively and narrowly avoided raming it into Niccolò’s ear. “Remind me, dear, dear friends to never. Never! Never, I say, let me drink an entire decanter of Piero’s wine. Again. For I am gone. Gone! With a very large emphasis on it all.” He paused, grinning madly at Niccolò’s and Piero’s amusement. “Tell me about the little fucker you’re going to visit. He wants our Leonardo I’m told.”
“I think the English phrase for Tommaso’s state is ‘as drunk as a Lord’. Or so I was told in France,” Niccolò said, removing the wine from Tommaso’s grasp. “And Cesare,” he laughed. “I just want to know if he actually did the dirty deed with his sister.”
“Damn well he did!” Tommaso stood woozily, fists trying to hit the table but missing. “I mean, Christ’s blood, look at her. I’d do her.”
“You’d do a cow if it batted it’s eyelashes at you convincingly, Tommaso.”
“Piero’s right,” Niccolò chuckled at the younger man’s sudden anger that didn’t last for more than a minute.
“What about your Francesca, Niccolò? Going to miss her?” Tommaso was leering with breath smelling of garlic and wine and making Niccolò suddenly nauseous.
“Of course, and I expect you to keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll leave that to her husband, his job anyhow. But Cesare! Tell me-“ a drunken stagger back to his seat. “Tell me about the little fucker.”
“The little fucker fucks,” Piero intoned with a bland smile at Niccolò, doing his best to keep the ambassador’s mood up despite everything and all that was happening. Despite Francesca and Tommaso’s new flirtations, despite Marietta’s doe eyes, despite the problems of state. Despite everything and all aside.
“At least someone is,” Tommaso muttered moodily. “I’m not, that’s for sure.”
“Marie finally realize that you’re a cad?” Niccolò jibed. “It’s about time, I say.”
“No, she finally realized that I’m broke.”
“Ah, that too. A cad and broke, good luck my dear friend, good luck.”
Tommaso glared but refrained from replying, either because he was too kind to hurt the older man, or too drunk to think of anything to say – regardless, Piero was thankful for the sudden silence and the more cheerful expression that had crossed Niccolò’s face. Tommaso could tear the ambassador apart if he wanted to. One confession of an all too true sin with an all too present lady and Niccolò would break. One could only handle so much of reality without needing some absence of it.
“I don’t think he did,” Piero suddenly said. “Do the dirty deed with his sister, that is. Unless he did it while she was still married.”
“It’s been known to happen,” Niccolò murmured with a fiendish smile. “Purity is not a widely spread virtue here in Italy. We’ve too many priests for us to be truly pure.”
“And his brother? Do you think he killed him?”
“Probably, I mean, it truly doesn’t matter, but most likely.”
“Well, an incestuous, fratricidal, sexual deviant – I wish you luck, Niccolò, I wish you luck.”
Niccolò offered a wan smile and drank to the health of his friends, his country, and their all too uncertain future.
Write to me. Marietta had asked him again. She had been standing in the palazzo watching him ready his horse. Write to me, you’ve always written beautifully. It will remind me of you. Write to me, so I know that you are safe, so I know that you are well. I worry for you. I worry for you.
She had asked it all with that angelic smile that was too much imperfect-perfect Giotto so he had promised he would. Promised with brilliant words and sweet, sweet kisses and smiles. She had known he was lying but he didn’t care.
“Writing to a sweetheart?” Francesco Soderini was leaning over his shoulder and watching the carefully worded letter slowly creep its way across the page.
“My wife,” Niccolò answered his fellow ambassador. Though Francesco was more banker than ambassador, let alone Bishop, like many a Florentine before him. Political power was all money, after all, church be damned.
“Ah, shame.” A pause. “A worldly woman?”
“Hardly, but she likes it and to keep hearth and home happy I jot a few lines to her every now and again.”
There was a pat on his back, “Good man, good man,” and Francesco absently wandered from the room humming a Misere.
“We’re meeting the Duke again, later tonight,” was called down the hall, pure after thought. “Dress well.”
My Dear Marietta,
I have arrived in Urbino, as you may be able to discern. Cesare pulled a Borgia and captured the city he meant to do no harm to.
I write to tell you that I am well and in general good health and cheer. The journey was as all journeys are – too long yet too short and all in all leaving something to be desired. What that something is I am still struggling to figure out. If you have any insights please inform me post haste.
I hope you are keeping well and that the estates are in order. Jocapo wrote to tell me that the horses and cattle and other Beasts of the Earth are doing everything that is expected of them at the farm.
And he stopped. What else was there to write? That the woman he had slept with two nights ago had elegant legs but her breasts were too small? That he found the face of the would-be-prince to be handsome, though he had only seen it from the soft glow of a single candle? That he had saddle rash? That the mountains were magnificent here in Urbino and that the court was everything one would expect? That Francesco was possibly the worst traveling companion one could hope for yet the most genius? That he missed Francesca and was hoping that Tommaso would treat her well?
You must write to tell me how you are. I am desirous to hear of all that is happening in Florence. Are the chickadees well? Are the noses of the dogs wet? Do the birds sing? You know of what I mean and what I want to hear about. I am writing to Piero as well, to tell him to check in on you to make sure you are well and have everything you need. Keep good cheer, I shall be home sooner than expected.
I am to meet the Duke for a second time tonight. We met when we first arrived, pulled into a dank room and he was wearing brilliant black. It was all bluff, of that I am sure. It’s the why that concerns me. So! I’ve expectations for tonight, expectations that I can’t begin to describe. They’re not high yet very high. He did well on the first act so we shall see how he performs on the second. Be happy.
Yours, as always, &tc. &tc. Te Deum, Lord Save us All, &tc.
Niccolò
He found himself sealing the letter though he wanted to burn it. Wanted to destroy it. Wanted to forget it though he knew he never would.
He had lied. Not lied so much as told stories. Told stories because he had been born with a gift for words and he didn’t want to get into trouble, didn’t want to tell the wrong thing to the wrong person. So he said Piero was checking in on her and left out Francesca though Marietta knew all about her. Left out his hatred and love for Tommaso. Left out his new fascination that was beginning to bloom for this Spanish upstart bastard. Left out the blueness of the sky and the sweet smell of harvested hay. And instead told stories about Jocapo and their farm and the journey and wanting to know about Florence and everything and anything he could think of that was the opposite of what he truly desired.
Te Deum indeed. For we are all damned. Amen.
“I am not pleased, my lords.”
The room was dark again and Cesare was all black, pure black, never ending black and Niccolò found himself plunging into the absence that was Cesare’s everything.
“Florence has made promises that she has not honored! And shows no intention on honoring!” Bluster, bluster, bluster, Niccolò furrowed his brow. Oh this was pure bluster.
“You, sirs, owe me an explanation. I was of the impression that we were allies and yet I am treated no different than Pisa. Milan has proven more congenial than you!”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Niccolò murmured when Francesco showed no inclination of replying. “But you have not been raped and pillaged so I’ve severe doubts that you have been treated like Pisa. If you had you wouldn’t be able to walk at the moment.”
Silence. The Bishop’s eyes were blazing fire as he silently willed the younger man to quiet down. To keep his mouth shut. To not use such words even though words were the only thing Florence had, and the only thing Niccolò knew how to use.
“You’re a card,” Cesare said slowly, face hidden in the shadows of his hat. The only colour he wore was the white plume that burst out of dark folds and jutted forward in a too gaudy manner. “You’re a damn card.”
“You take my meaning then, my lord?” He made sure his smile was coy and Cesare returned it.
“I do.”
“And may I remind you that we entered Pisa through the back door, we’re going in the front with you.”
Again silence. And oh Francesco wanted to murder him, he knew. Murder him swiftly and soundly.
“Tell me,” Cesare chuckled out. “Do you speak to all lords in such a forward manner?”
“Of course not, that would be unseemly. I merely thought that you would have the mettle to persevere through my boorishness, and the sort of mind to appreciate it.”
Cesare was barking out a laugh as he clapped Niccolò on the shoulders, “my kind of man,” he was saying, leading him from the group. Niccolò did his best to smile benignly and ignore Francesco’s fury. Piero would be amused, he told himself. Piero would find this funny, would be entertained by the Bishop’s anger and frustration, Niccolò promised himself this and more as he was guided down dank halls and he made sure to keep promising himself these things because all of hell was resting on it.
“You spent three hours with him, sans company, and you say there is nothing to report?” Francesco was staring at him with all the fury of the storm and none of its power. Niccolò chose not to reply, sealing a letter to Piero instead. To the Signoria, officially, but Piero in truth. Soderini was the best man in Florence to send the letter to. No other would understand the contents, much less agree to them.
“Did Cesare require money from us? Did you tell him that it was Vitellozo’s fault for our hostility a few months back since he made the first move against us? Niccolò,” they were facing each other and older man was close to pleading. “What passed?”
“No to the first, and in a manner of speaking to the second. And you know the contents of this letter, if anyone asks.”
“How am I to know its contents?”
“You signed it.”
“I did not.”
Earnest eyes. “You did. Just now. I must leave in a few days, to answer to the Signoria. Keep Cesare company while I’m gone. Tell him the bawdy stories of your youth.”
“Niccolò Machiavelli.”
“Francesco Soderini.”
“You are a positive monster.”
Silence. The ambassador smiled.
“Thank you.”
It was on the rolling hills of Urbino that Cesare found him; eyes closed and face to the wind. He was thinking of Marietta and Francesca and Piero and wondering how they were and worrying that Tommaso would be too hot for Florence to hold when in truth he was simply too hot for Niccolò to hold, to stomach, to tolerate.
“You’re appearing poetic,” the general murmured with an easy smile to the back of Niccolò’s head. The older man nodded, eyes still closed, lips drawn into a tight line. “What are you thinking about?”
“Home,” truth was decided on as the best answer though he had been tempted to spin tales.
“A love you miss?”
A love, yes. That he missed? No. And oh how he wanted to say yes, wanted to love her. Love her as Mirandola wrote about love, as Polizianno wrote about love, as Boticelli painted about love. Love her for her soul, for her cosmic other worldly being, as Plato intended. Find God through her and their love.
“No,” he said finally looking over at Cesare with an unreadable face. The would-be-prince found that part the most disconcerting. “Yes,” he amended with a slight smile, fingers suddenly lingering on the letter pouch. “Yes and no.”
“A lust and a love then?”
He nodded, unwilling to voice consent to something he didn’t want to be true.
“Who’s the woman? I’ve an Angela at the moment, she’s a sweet thing in her own way.”
“A woman of excellent standing and good reputation.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The wind picked up again and their robes rustled in the thin breeze. The town lay behind them and Niccolò was suddenly wondering how many lives were happening there. How many people breathed the same air, ate the same food, drank the same water, fucked the same fuck and how their lives were so changed yet unchanged by these tides of fortune men of politics deemed so important.
“And the man?” Cesare asked it quietly, discreetly, knowingly.
“A man of excellent standing and good reputation.”
“Do you take Michelangelo’s view, then?”
“Hardly.”
“So you do whole heartedly.”
The smile Cesare gave him was blinding in its knowledge, in its surety, in its complacency. It hurt, that smile, that understanding, and Niccolò wanted to hate the man for it, hate the man for knowing him better than he knew himself, for knowing him before he had a chance to return that knowledge. And Cesare wanted an answer, he could see. Wanted an affirmation for the knowledge he so surely possessed.
So, instead, since Niccolò never granted easy victories, he told a story. Told a story because that was all he knew how to do. All he knew he could do. And he told it long and well so midday bells were chiming as they wandered back to the city in silence for Niccolò had run out of words and Cesare felt that no more were needed.
“You will come back?” The would-be-prince was standing in the door of the ambassador’s room, watching him pack his books. There was a brilliant smile at the Ovid and Catullus.
“If I am sent back, to where ever back may be.”
“Your sentences are too full of words and too empty of meaning for my tastes.”
“Back is your court and when I am next sent to it, it may not be in Urbino so I must keep locations open. Hence – where ever back may be.” He said it to his saddle bag and ignored the dark eyes that were black gold by the way they glittered in candle light.
“Send my love to your -”
“I shall,” he looked up suddenly, face so empty Cesare felt ashamed of the soft grin that had been on his own lips. “And give my love to your Angela. May she continue to be sweet in her own way.”
The younger man nodded, entering the room with a plodding gate, closing the door softly behind him. Niccolò forced himself to ignore those slow, methodical, practiced movements. Forced himself to ignore the pale hands that stood out against night blue fabric, to ignore that questioning, questioning, never satisfied gaze.
“The artist,” it was hissed into his ear. Cesare’s voice was a full Spanish Roman accent. Niccolò hated it and loved it. “Bring me back the artist and all will be well.” Fingers were stroking his face; he dutifully organized his books by author. “Our agreement, Niccolò. Don’t forget it.”
“I shan’t,” and it was breathier than he would have liked it to be but Cesare was good enough to not react and left with a low bow and kind smile that was too kind so it was in fact cruel.
He was reading Livy and contemplating a commentary on it when Piero walked in unannounced. His face was as a storm from the Alps and Niccolò readied himself for the deluge. The deluge that didn’t come. Piero merely watched him finish the sentence, eyes fiery yet unreadable.
“I have spoken to him,” he finally said as Niccolò turned to face him, face mirroring the older man’s in its perfected absence of emotion.
“And?”
“He has agreed.”
There was silence before Niccolò sighed. The mood dispelled, he relaxed back into the chair, eyes closing for the briefest of moments. When they opened Piero was sitting across from him and there were lines that he swore hadn’t been there before. Lines that should never have been there, he felt.
“You said you thought Borgia was bluffing,” he began it slowly, making sure Niccolò’s attention was fully on him. On him and not out the window, not with his mistress who was no longer his, not with the strange Spaniard in the hills of the south, not on the troubles that happened every time he walked into his house. “I’ve just received word from the French. Louis had been fully prepared to defend us, had in fact sent troops to aid us against Borgia had there been trouble.” A letter slid across the desk. “You were right.”
“It was a gamble, a damned gamble and now we’ve lost Leonardo.”
“We’ve lost Leonardo only so long as Leonardo wants to be lost,” he allowed a smile hoping Niccolò would follow suite. When the ambassador remained untouchable he stopped, wondering what was happening and why all of a sudden Niccolò was made up of pure distance. “Niccolò, is everything all right?” A delicate pause. “He hasn’t threatened you in any way, has he?”
“Of course not,” he waved the concern that was making those lines that should never have been there appear, the concern that was always present whenever Niccolò was concerned. Piero said it was out of respect to the younger man’s father, out of respect to the Machiavelli line – Bernardo’s bastardization aside. Out of respect for Florence, out of respect for the ancients and their shared love for the glories of the Roman Republic they loved to believe had founded their beloved city. Out of respect for a million and one things to be counted in a million and one days yet never, never out of respect for Niccolò himself.
“Leonardo will be leaving in early July. He has a few things to finish here then he will be off. I’d think two and a half weeks at the earliest.” The tone was all business now since Piero could see that Niccolò was in no mood for it to be anything but that. “You will be sent back as well, to negotiate further details of the treaty.”
“Will Francesco be coming along?”
“We shall see,” the pause was as delicate as glass. “Depends on how things play out. What does the would-be-prince want with our da Vinci?”
“I couldn’t say. He wouldn’t elaborate. But I do know that Borgia wants to win Italy. Italy in all her entirety no one withstanding.”
“The letter he sent made Leonardo’s mind for him, he wasn’t sure before you delivered it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Do you know the contents?”
“Hardly,” Niccolò’s laugh was bitter and Piero wondered when so much of the younger man had died, when so much of the younger man had become so bitter. Wondered but forced himself to ignore the fact that Niccolò had always been this way. This way since he was a boy and had witnessed the Pazzi conspiracy and the wars and daily murders that bloodied the already too bloody streets of Florence. Wondered but forced himself to ignore the fact that the boy had been raised on the depravities of Italian politics and always seemed to fair so much the better for it. “Borgia would never disclose such information to me.”
“Really? He wrote to say he had taken a liking to you,” a new piece of paper came into Niccolò’s hands. “Wrote requesting that we send you back if we are to send any ambassador. You were only there a few days,” eyes became piercing so Niccolò refused to meet them.
“I made bawdy sex jokes about Pisa, that’s why he likes me.”
“That’s all?”
“He judges people within the first few minutes, I noted. So I took those first few minutes to make damn well sure he liked me. Your brother Francesco,” a gleeful chuckle. “Didn’t fare so well.”
Piero let the jibe slide with an affable smile, pouring himself wine and listening with something akin to contentedness as Niccolò prattled on with stories of the would-be-prince and the mountainous world of Urbino.
Francesca wanted to see him. Her hand was achingly familiar and he wondered if she still smelled of roses and chamomile. Did she still favor the nape of her neck or had Tommaso unearthed a new spot Niccolò would never had thought to look? Were her hands still soft and lips sweet?
The paper smelled of her and she was asking after him, wanting to know if he was well, if everything had gone as he would have liked, if he was in as good spirits as he was when he left. And her questions left him longing for her and for her absence and left him knowing that she truly didn’t want to see him. There was a younger man now, he knew, a younger man who was handsome and sweet and caring and everything she had always wanted. So damn her to hell, and damn Tommaso to hell, and damn Piero and Borgia to hell, even Marietta – he was done with them all. Done with them so long as he continued drinking and he was loath to think of what he would have to deal with in the morning.
The duke couldn’t control his own army. Niccolò was convinced of this as he stared at the missive. Couldn’t control his own commanders, his own advisors, his own sister, brother, father. He was riding on fortune and it was going to all end one day. End horribly and explosively or else slowly dwindle away like so many grains of sand slipping through fingers. He felt like quoting Socrates but refrained for it was evident that Piero was not in the mood.
“My dear Niccolò, please pay attention.” They were standing in the piazza near Piero’s home, conferring with heads lowered that let all passing Florentine’s know that something was afoot. “Vitellozo is on the move and Borgia is reacting. We’ve sent messages to Cesare informing him that we remain his allies and that Florence is a place of refuge should he need it.”
“For as long as we can keep Vitellozo’s troops out.”
“It’s the sentiment that counts, I think.”
“You hope, actually.”
“Glad to have you back,” the smile was honest and Niccolò felt something swelling in his chest he couldn’t put his finger on so pushed it to the side in favor of the surety of his knowledge of the political field. “Leonardo writes that Borgia is to go to Imola.”
“He wrote that back in July, it’s October now,” Niccolò gave a lingering unsure look. “Our artist is getting old.”
“Biagio seconds him, enthusiastically.”
“And you want me to go to Imola now?”
“We offered Francesco to Borgia, saying that you had personal reasons for staying,” he smiled and refrained from mentioning Marietta and her news for Niccolò didn’t look as if he could handle it. “Borgia didn’t take kindly to the suggestion and stated,” that delicate as glass pause again. “Well, he stated, adamantly, that he wanted you as diplomat and no one else.”
“Fair enough I suppose, when am I to leave?”
“A week. Ready yourself, I’m thinking it’ll be subversive war at his court.”
“And what does Leonardo write?”
“That the harvest is ready.”
“Must he always write in code? Sometimes I wonder if he is more spy than artist.”
“Spy and artist, spy and philosopher, spy and writer – there’s something about them that goes together,” Piero mused it with a carefully bemused look. Niccolò simply offered a sly smile in return.
“I suppose, if you insist. What about politicians? If I am to be a spy then you must be something.”
“Lover, I’d like to think. But I have my doubts.”
“Only have your doubts if you discuss treaties and wars after the sordid act.”
“I take it’s not the acceptable post-coitus conversation?”
“So Francesca informs me.”
The smile on Piero’s face became gentle as he took Niccolò’s arm.
“It’s good to have you back, a damn shame to lose you again.”
“I’ll be home by Easter, I think.” He stopped, catching the look in Piero’s eye. “I don’t know any more than you,” he quickly assured him.
“You may not know more but you always seem to see more.”
He let the compliment float by with a wave of his hand and a look that said that’s enough now, no need to make a fuss, I’ll be home soon. That’s enough now, that’s enough.
Marietta said not a word as he readied his bags. So he left with a kiss to her cheek and an assurance of his love and goodwill that, to her credit, she did not believe.
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