Then and Now (7 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bartolomeo burst into a fat laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Machiavelli pricked up his ears.

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

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

'Will you let me see it?'

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

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

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

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

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

She gave him a pinched glance.

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

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

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

She gave a laugh that was more like a snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Machiavelli knew that was a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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