Then and Now (5 page)

'What are you waiting for, Secretary? You may withdraw.'

He did not trouble to acknowledge Machiavelli's low bow. Agapito da Amalia accompanied the envoy down the stairs.

'His Excellency is a quick-tempered man and is unused to being crossed,' he said.

'That is a fact which has not escaped my observation,' replied Machiavelli acidly.

Piero and the courier were waiting in the guard-room, and when the doors were duly unbarred and unlocked the three of them went out into the square. His attendants conducted Machiavelli to the Golden Lion. They had made much of the fact that the repast they had ordered was for the Florentine envoy, and he ate well and amply. The wine of the country, though not to be compared with the Tuscan wine, was strong, and he drank freely. On reflection he came to the conclusion that his conversation with the Duke was after all not unsatisfactory. Il Valentino's anger seemed to indicate that he was nervous, and his insistence on an immediate alliance with the Republic that he knew his position was perilous. Machiavelli was indifferent to the scant courtesy with which he had been treated. He knew when he started on his mission that he need not expect to be used with consideration. Having done eating and belched his full, he bade the courier show the way to the monastery where he was to lodge. In view of his importance a cell had been vacated for him, but Piero and the courier were to share a straw mattress in a corridor along with a number of transients only too glad to have a roof over their heads. But before going to bed Machiavelli wrote a letter to the Signory in which he described the events of the evening. The courier was to take it back to Florence at the crack of dawn.

'You had better write to Biagio so that he can tell your mother you have arrived here without mishap,' he said to Piero. 'And ask him to send me a Plutarch.'

Machiavelli had brought his Dante with him, and besides that only Livy's
Annals.
When Piero had finished, Machiavelli without ceremony took the letter and read it. He smiled faintly when he read:
'Messer Niccolo was silent throughout the morning, and thinking he was occupied with weighty matters I did not disturb him; but after he had dined he talked with so much wit, clearness and good sense that it seemed to me we had hardly left Scarperia when we were arrived at Imola. He thinks I have a good voice. I wish it had been possible to bring my lute.'

'A very good letter,' said Machiavelli. 'The message you have asked Biagio to deliver to your mother is very fit and proper. And now after this long day let us take a well-earned rest.'

Machiavelli needed little sleep and awoke soon after sunrise. He called Piero to help him dress. His riding clothes were packed in the saddle-bags and he put on the black raiment which was his usual wear. He had no intention of remaining at the monastery, for he needed quarters where he could if necessary receive persons in secret, and he knew very well that at the monastery his visitors and his movements would be conspicuous. The courier was already on his way to Florence. With Piero to accompany him, Machiavelli set out for the Golden Lion. Imola was a bright little town and there was no sign that it had not long since changed masters. As they walked through the narrow, tortuous streets they passed a good many people going about their various business, and they looked contented. You received the impression that the tenor of their lives remained unaltered. Now and then pedestrians had to make way for a man on horseback or for a string of donkeys with a load of firewood. A man sauntered by with she-asses, whose milk was good for pregnant women, and announced his presence with the habitual cry; an old crone popped her head out of a window and called him; he stopped, and in a minute she appeared at her door with a beaker. A pedlar of pins and needles, thread and ribands, passed along raucously calling his wares. There were shops in the street in which was the Golden Lion; there was a customer at the saddler's, a man was having his hair cut at the barber's, and a woman was trying on a pair of shoes at the shoemaker's. There was about all an air, not of opulence, but of a comfortable prosperity. No beggars pestered.

They entered the Golden Lion and Machiavelli ordered for himself and Piero bread and wine. Dipping the bread in the wine they made it palatable and then drank what remained of the wine. Thus fortified they went to the barber's and Machiavelli had himself shaved; the barber sprinkled strongly-scented water on his short black hair, and combed it. Meanwhile Piero had been meditatively stroking his smooth chin.

'I think I need a shave, Messer Niccolo,' he said.

'It can wait a few weeks yet,' said Machiavelli, smiling thinly; then to the barber: 'Put some of your scent on his head and run a comb through his hair.'

They were both ready. Machiavelli enquired of the barber where was the house of a certain Messer Bartolo-meo Martelli whom he desired to visit. The barber gave them directions, but they were so complicated that Machiavelli asked if he could not get someone to show them the way. The barber went to the door of his shop, and calling an urchin who was playing in the street, told him to conduct the strangers. Their way led through the principal square, the square in which was the palace occupied by the Duke, and since it was market day it was crowded with the stalls of the farmers who had brought into the city for sale fruits and vegetables, chickens, meat and cheese, and with the stalls of chapmen with brass, ironmongery, cloth goods, old clothes and what not. A great throng of people were bargaining, buying, or merely looking, and there was a din of voices. It was a gay and busy scene under the bright October sun. As Machiavelli and Piero entered the square they heard the wail of a brass horn and some of the noise was stilled.

'It's the crier,' yelled the little boy excitedly, and seizing Machiavelli's hand he began to run. 'I have not heard him yet.'

A number of people surged forward, and looking in the direction they took Machiavelli saw that there was a gallows at the other end of the square and two men were hanging there. It was not a sight he cared to see, and he snatched his hand away. Forgetting his errand the boy raced towards the centre of interest. The crier in a loud voice began to speak, but he was too far away for Machiavelli to hear what he said. He turned impatiently to a stout woman who was standing guard over her stall.

'What has happened?' he asked her. 'What is the crier saying?'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'It's only two thieves who've been hanged. By the Duke's orders the crier comes every half hour till noon and says they've been hanged because they stole the property of citizens. They're French soldiers, they say.'

Machiavelli repressed a start. It could not be what he suspected, but he had to see for himself. He strode forward, squeezing his way through the crowd, jostling and jostled, his eyes fixed on the two hanging bodies. The crier had said his say, and stepping down from the platform on which the gallows had been erected sauntered nonchalantly away. The crowd thinned and Machiavelli was able to get close; there was no doubt about it; though their faces were horribly distorted by the strangling rope, they were the two Gascon soldiers, the man with the scowl and the scar, the boy with the shifty eyes, who had been brought in the night before to be judged and sentenced by the Duke. It hadn't been a comedy then. Machiavelli stood stock still and stared with dismay. His small guide touched his arm.

'I wish I'd been here when they hanged them,' he said regretfully. 'No one knew anything about it till it was all over.'

'It's nothing for little boys to see,' said Machiavelli, hardly knowing that he spoke, for his thoughts were busy.

'It wouldn't be the first time,' the child grinned. 'It's fun to see them dancing in the air.'

'Piero.'

'I'm here, Messere.'

'Come, boy, take us to Messer Bartolomeo.'

For the rest of the way Machiavelli, frowning, his lips closed so tightly that his mouth was no more than a bitter line, walked in silence. He tried to think what had been in Il Valentino's mind. Why should he have hanged two useful soldiers because they had stolen a few bits and pieces of silverware when a flogging would have adequately punished the crime? It was true that human life meant nothing to him, but it was unbelievable that he should be so eager to win the confidence of the people of Imola as to risk the anger not only of the commander of the Gascon troops, but of the troops themselves. Machiavelli was puzzled. He was convinced that his presence at that moment was in some way necessary to the Duke's purpose; otherwise, even if he had troubled to deal with the affair in person, he would have waited till he had finished his important conversation with the Florentine envoy. Did he want to show the Signory that he was independent of the French and, notwithstanding the revolt of his captains, strong enough to risk their displeasure; or was the whole point of the scene the scarcely veiled threat he had made when he told Machiavelli that the soldiers could have safely sold their loot when they were in Florence? But who could tell the workings of that ruthless, crafty brain?

'This is the house, Messere,' said the boy suddenly.

Machiavelli gave him a coin and the urchin with a hop, skip and a jump ran off. Piero raised the bronze knocker and let it fall. There was a delay and Piero knocked again. Machiavelli noticed that the house was of handsome proportions, evidently the abode of a man of substance; and the windows on the second floor, the
piano principale,
were not as might have been expected of oiled paper, but of glass, which showed that he had ample means.

Machiavelli did not know Bartolomeo Martelli, but he had been instructed to get in touch with him. He was a person of consequence in the small city, an alderman, and a man of property. He owned land in the immediate neighbourhood of Imola and several houses in the town itself; his father had made money by trade in the Levant and he had himself spent some years of his youth in Smyrna. It was on this account that he had connections with Florence, since the Florentines had always traded with the Near East and many of the citizens were settled in its various cities. Bartolomeo's father had been in partnership with a Florentine merchant of good family and had eventually married his daughter. He was distantly related to Biagio Buonaccorsi, for their maternal grandmothers, long since dead, were sisters; this indeed was one of the inducements Biagio had held out to Machiavelli to persuade him to take young Piero with him. The connection would make it easier for Machiavelli to get on intimate terms with the useful man.

And Bartolomeo might be very useful. He was not only a considerable man in Imola, but it was he who had led the party that brought about the capitulation of the city without a struggle. The Duke, who was always generous with other people's property, had rewarded him with the gift of an estate which carried with it the title of count, a fact Machiavelli had learnt from the loquacious barber, and he had learnt also that Bartolomeo, though he pretended otherwise, was inordinately pleased with his rank. The Duke trusted him, knowing it was to his advantage to be trustworthy, and had employed him on various commercial missions in which he had conducted himself with credit. The Duke was secret, but it was likely that Bartolomeo knew as much about his plans as anybody, and Machiavelli was confident that he would in due course succeed in extracting from him anything he knew. The Signory had a hold on him. He had inherited from his mother two houses in Florence, and if he did not behave an accidental fire might easily destroy one of them; and if this were not a sufficient deterrent means might possibly be found to damage the business in the Levant in which he still had a large interest.

'It is good to have friends,' Machiavelli reflected, 'but it is as well that they should know you can retaliate if they should be led to act otherwise than as friends should.'

The door was opened by a serving man. When Machiavelli, first giving his name, asked for his master, he said:

'The Count is expecting you.'

He led them into a court-yard, up an outside staircase, and into a room of moderate size which a glance showed was used by the master of the house as his office. They waited a minute or two and Bartolomeo blustered in. He greeted his visitors with noisy heartiness.

'I heard of your arrival, Messer Niccolo, and I have been awaiting you with eagerness.'

He was a big corpulent man of about forty, with long hair, receding from his forehead, and a full black beard; he had a red face, shining with sweat, a double chin, and a somewhat imposing paunch. Machiavelli, himself as lean as a rail, did not like fat men; he was used to say that no man could grow fat in Italy without robbing the widow and the orphan and grinding the faces of the poor.

'Biagio Buonaccorsi wrote and told me you were coming. A courier brought the letter yesterday.'

'Yes, a courier was coming and Biagio made use of him. This is Piero Canestrini, son of our good Biagio's sister.'

Bartolomeo gave a ringing laugh, and taking the boy in his arms, pressed him to his paunch and kissed him on both cheeks.

'Then we are cousins,' he cried in a loud, booming voice.

'Cousins?' murmured Machiavelli.

'Did you not know? Biagio's grandmother and my grandmother were sisters. They were both daughters of Carlo Peruzzi.'

'Strange he should never have told me. Did you know this, Piero?'

'My mother never told me.'

Machiavelli only disclaimed knowledge of this fact with which of course he was perfectly acquainted, because it was one of his principles never to let anyone know how much you know except with good reason. He was pleased to see that Piero had taken the cue without a moment's hesitation. A good boy.

Bartolomeo asked them to sit down. There was no fire-place in the room, but a brazier of live charcoal took the chill off the air. He asked after his friends in Florence, which he frequently visited on business, and Machiavelli gave him news of such as he knew. They chatted about one thing and another, and presently the conversation turned upon Piero Soderini who had just been elected Gonfalonier for life.

'He is a good friend of mine, a very worthy and honest man,' said Machiavelli. 'It is at his express desire that I have come to Imola now.'

He thought it well to let Bartolomeo know that he had the confidence of the head of the Republic.

'I am very glad to see you and you may be assured that you can count on my services. I asked Biagio to send a bolt of fine linen, but in the circumstances I suppose you had no opportunity to bring it.'

Biagio, since he was ever ready to do a service, was constantly asked to do commissions for all and sundry, and no one used him more unconscionably than Machia-velli.

'On the contrary,' he answered. 'Biagio made a point of my bringing it, but my servants have it and they will not get to Imola till later in the day.'

'My wife is making me some shirts. She was taught embroidery by the nuns and I have no hesitation in saying that there isn't a woman in Imola to equal her. She is an artist.'

Machiavelli's mind was busy. He was trying to size the man up. Bluff and hearty, plethoric, which suggested that he liked to eat well and drink deep, with a fat laugh and a booming loquacity. It remained to be seen whether the jovial manner and frank cordiality masked an astute and scheming brain. He had the reputation of being a good business man who drove a hard bargain. Machia-velli turned the conversation to Imola and its condition. Bartolomeo was eloquent in praise of the Duke. He had adhered scrupulously to the terms of the capitulation; the sum he had exacted on occupying the city was not unreasonable, and he was proposing to spend much on making it a finer and grander place. For Imola was the capital of his newly-acquired state. He was having plans drawn out for building a new palace for himself, a new house for the merchants to meet at, a hospital for the poor; order reigned in the city, crime had diminished and justice was prompt and cheap. Poor and rich were equal before the law. Commerce was flourishing; bribery and corruption had ceased. The Duke interested himself in the agricultural resources of the country and had given instructions that everything possible should be done to foster them. The troops were stationed outside the city, which was entering upon an era of prosperity and everyone was well satisfied.

'Long may it last,' said Machiavelli pleasantly, 'and what will happen to you if the Duke's captains overthrow him and march into your city with their troops?'

Bartolomeo burst into a bellow of laughter and slapped his thigh.

'They amount to nothing. They know they're powerless without the Duke and they'll come to terms with him. Believe me, it will all blow over.'

Machiavelli could not make up his mind whether Bartolomeo believed what he said, wanted to believe what he said, or was just saying what he wanted Machiavelli to believe. He had still not made up his mind whether the man was stupid or clever. That frankness, that enthusiasm, that guileless air and those smiling, friendly eyes might conceal anything. He changed the conversation.

'You were good enough to say that you would be pleased to be of service to me. Can you tell me where I can find a place to live with Piero and my servants?'

'I wish you had asked me anything but that,' Bartolomeo laughed boisterously. 'What with the Duke's court and all the hangers-on, poets, painters, architects, engineers, to say nothing of the people from his other possessions who are here on business, and the merchants, the vendors of this and that, who've been attracted by the opportunities to make money, there isn't a hole or comer in the city that isn't occupied.'

'I wish to stay here no longer than I need, but I am at the orders of the Signory. I cannot conduct my business in a monastery cell. I must find accommodation for Piero and my servants.'

'I will ask my mother-in-law. She knows more about a matter like this than I do. I will call her.'

He left the room, and on his return after an interval invited his guests to follow him. He led them into a much larger apartment, with handsomely-painted walls and a fireplace. The ladies were seated at work by the fire. They rose when the strangers entered and curtsied in response to their low bows. One of them was a middle-aged woman of a comely presence.

'This is my mother-in-law, Monna Caterina Cap-pello,' said Bartolomeo. 'And this is my wife.'

She was young enough to be his daughter. Following the fashion of the day her hair, naturally dark, was dyed very fair; and since the swarthy skin of Italian women did not go with this, her face, neck and bosom were heavily coated with a white cosmetic. The contrast of the golden hair with her handsome black eyes was very effective. Her eyebrows were plucked to a thin line. She had a small straight nose and a lovely mouth. She was dressed in a pale grey, with a full skirt, billowing sleeves, and a bodice fitting her slim figure tightly and cut low in a square to show her snowy bosom and the outline of her young full breasts. There was a virginal quality in her beauty and at the same time a ripeness that made a highly attractive combination. Machiavelli, though his face gave no indication of it, felt a queer sensation in what he was pleased to call his heart.

'A very pretty young woman,' he said to himself. 'I should like to go to bed with her.'

While the two ladies brought up chairs for the visitors to sit on, Bartolomeo explained to Monna Caterina Machiavelli's difficulty and then, as an afterthought, added that in Piero he had found a cousin whom he had never seen. Both women gave the boy a smile when the relationship was explained to them, and Machiavelli noticed with pleasure that Bartolomeo's wife had good teeth, small, even and white.

'Would these gentlemen not like some refreshment?' asked Monna Caterina.

She was dressed very like her daughter, but in a darker colour, and since it was not thought proper for a respectable elderly woman to dye her hair or to paint her cheeks she was as nature made her; but she had her daughter's fine black eyes and in youth must have been as beautiful. Machiavelli said they had already breakfasted, but his host insisted that they should at least drink a glass of wine.

'Aurelia, go and tell Nina,' he said to his wife.

The young woman went out. He repeated to his mother-in-law what Machiavelli had told him about his requirements.

'It's impossible. There's not a room to be let in the whole city. But wait. Since Messere is a person of consequence and this young man your cousin, it may be that Serafina would take them. She has always refused to take lodgers; only the other day I told her it was a shame to keep that room empty when people were willing to pay anything to have a roof over their heads.'

Bartolomeo explained that Monna Serafina was the widow of one of his factors in the Levant and the house she lived in belonged to him. Her eldest son was in his office at Smyrna, and she had two children living with her, a boy who was to be a priest and a girl of fourteen. It was on their account, so that they might not be exposed to the danger of bad company, that she had refused to have strangers in her house.

'She could hardly refuse you, my son, if you made a point of it.'

It was odd to hear Monna Caterina address the fat man as her son, for she could not have been more than two or three years older than he.

'I will take you round myself,' said Bartolomeo. 'I'm sure it can be arranged.'

Aurelia came back and was immediately followed by a maid who brought a salver on which were glasses, a bottle of wine and a dish of sweetmeats. Aurelia sat down and resumed her work.

'Messer Niccolo has brought you the linen, dear,' Bartolomeo said, 'so you can get to work on my shirts.'

'God knows you needed some new ones,' said Monna Caterina.

Aurelia smiled, but did not speak.

'Let me show you how beautifully my wife embroiders.'

Bartolomeo went over to Aurelia and took the material on which she was busy.

'No, Bartolomeo, these are women's things.'

'If Messer Niccolo has never seen a woman's shift it is high time he did.'

'I am a married man, Monna Aurelia,' said Machia-velli with a smile that made his thin face not unattractive.

'Look at the beauty of her needlework and the elegance of her design.'

'Is it possible that she draws it herself?'

'Of course. She is an artist.'

Machiavelli made a suitable compliment and the garment was returned to her. She thanked him with a smile of her bright eyes. When they had eaten of the sweetmeats and drunk a glass of wine Bartolomeo proposed that he should take them round to the widow Serafina.

'Her house is just behind this one,' he said.

Machiavelli and Piero accompanied him downstairs, and through a small yard in which was a well with a carved well-head and a chestnut-tree, its leaves now scattered after the first frost of autumn, to a small door that led into a narrow alley.

'Here we are,' said Bartolomeo.

The deserted alley suggested to Machiavelli that visitors could in all likelihood come to see him without being observed. Bartolomeo knocked, and in a minute the door was opened by a thin, tallish woman with a lined face, darkly pale, sullen eyes and grey hair. The look of suspicion she wore changed, when she saw who it was that knocked, into one of effusive welcome. She begged them to enter.

'This is Messer Niccolo Machiavelli, First Secretary of the Second Chancery, and envoy to the Duke from the Florentine Republic, and this youth is my cousin
Piero, nephew of my good friend and relative, Biagio Buonaccorsi.'

Monna Serafina led them into a parlour and Bartolo-meo set forth the purpose of their visit. Monna Serafi-na's face went glum.