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  '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.

  12

  Il Valentino was in the habit of working far into the night, and so did not get up early in the morning. His secretaries, kept busy till all hours, took advantage of this to sleep late, and so next morning Machiavelli, with nothing much to do till after dinner, his letter to the Signory dispatched, thought he would take things easily. He read his Livy and made a few notes of the reflections his reading had occasioned and then to pass the time took his borrowed lute. It had a good tone, resonant but sweet, and he had noticed when first he tried it that it suited his light baritone. It was a sunny day and he sat by the open window enjoying the grateful warmth. Somewhere in the not far distance they were burning wood and the smell of it was pleasant in his nostrils. The lane that separated Serafina's house from Messer Bartolomeo's was so narrow that a donkey with panniers could hardly have scraped its way through, and from his window Machiavelli looked down into the tiny courtyard with its well-head and its chestnut-tree. He began to sing. He was in good voice that morning and liking the sound of it went on. Then he noticed that the window in a room opposite was being opened, he could not see by whom, he did not even see the hand that fixed the paper panel, but he had a sudden thrill of exultation, for he was convinced that the unseen person could be none other than Aurelia. He sang two of his favourite songs, love songs both of them, and was in the middle of a third when the window was suddenly closed as though someone had come into the room. This somewhat disconcerted him and a suspicion passed through his mind that it might have been the maid interrupted by her mistress who did not want to be found neglecting her work to listen to a stranger singing in the next house. But at dinner-time his well-directed conversation discovered to him that the window that had been opened was that of the nuptial chamber of Bartolomeo and his young wife.

  Later on in the day he went to the Palace, but succeeded in seeing neither the Duke nor any of the secretaries. He entered into conversation with various persons who were lounging about apparently with nothing to do and asked them what the news was. They knew nothing, but he received the impression that they knew at least that something had happened. Whatever it was, a secret was being made of it. Presently he ran across Bartolomeo, who told him he had an appointment with the Duke, but he was too busy to see him.

  'We're both wasting our time here,' said Machiavelli with his pleasant friendliness. 'let us go to the inn and drink a cup of wine. We might have a game of cards, or if you can play chess, a game of chess.'

  'I'm fond of chess.'

  On their way to the Golden Lion Machiavelli asked him what everyone at the Palace was so busy about that day.

  'I haven't a notion. I can't get anyone to tell me anything.'

  By the slight peevishness of Bartolomeo's tone Machiavelli guessed that he was telling the truth. He had a great idea of his own importance and it humiliated him to find that he was not in the Duke's entire confidence.

  'I have heard that when the Duke wishes to keep something secret not even those closest to him know about it,' said Machiavelli.

  'He's beer occupied with his secretaries all day. Messengers have been dispatched one after the other.'

  'It's evident that something has happened.'

  'I know that a courier arrived from Perugia this morning.'

  'A courier, or someone disguised as a courier?'

  Bartolomeo looked at him quickly.

  'I don't know. What do you suspect?'

  'Nothing. I was only asking.'

  It was but a short walk to the inn. They ordered a flagon of wine and asked for chessmen. Machiavelli was a good player and it did not take him long to discover that Bartolomeo was no match for him, but he amused himself by giving him a hard game and letting himself be beaten in the end. Bartolomeo was puffed up with pride and while they drank their wine pointed out to Machiavelli exactly what mistakes he had made and what his move should have been to counter his opponent's strategy. Machiavelli blamed himself for his want of foresight. On their way back to their respective domiciles Bartolomeo remarked:

  'My mother-in-law says she heard someone singing in your house this morning. A very pretty voice. Was that you or my young cousin Piero?'

  'Piero's voice is better than mine, but it was I who was singing. I'm flattered that Monna Caterina should not have thought too badly of my efforts. Biagio and I and one or two more used often to while away the time by singing.'

  'I sing a very good bass myself.'

  'Piero sings tenor. It would be an excellent combination. If you don't object to my humble quarters it would be a great pleasure to me if you would come in when you have nothing better to do, and we'll give our good friend Serafina a little concert.'

  Would the fish swallow the fly that was so skilfully cast? There was no sign of it.

  'We will certainly do that. It will bring me back my youth. When I was a young fellow in Smyrna we Italians would sing all the time.'

  'Patience,' Machiavelli muttered to himself. 'Patience.'

  When he got in, taking a greasy pack of cards, he began to play patience, but as he played he turned over in his mind what Bartolomeo had told him and what he had learnt from Serafina. He had a plan, and it was a good one, but to carry it out called for ingenuity. The more he thought of Aurelia the more she inflamed his fancy, and it tickled him to death to think that he could provide Bartolomeo with the child, preferably male, that he so much wanted.

  'It is not often,' he reflected, 'that you can do a good action with so much pleasure to yourself.'

  It was evident that he must ingratiate himself with Monna Caterina, for without her he could do nothing, but the difficulty was to get on terms with her sufficiently intimate to enable him to enlist her help. She was a woman of voluptuous appearance, and it occurred to him that he might persuade Piero to go to bed with her. Piero was young. At her age she could not fail to be grateful. But he dismissed the notion; it would serve his purpose better if Piero became the maid's lover. But they said that in her time Monna Caterina had been gay. If there was one thing of which Machiavelli was convinced it was that when a woman ceased to be desirable a procuress is born.
He thought there was a natural instinct in the sex that led them to enjoy vicariously pleasures that were no longer befitting to their age. And what should she care about Bartolomeo's honour? It was to her interest that Aurelia should have offspring.

  And what about this Fra Timoteo? He was their confessor; he was a friend of the house. It might be worth while to see him and find out what sort of a man he was. It might be that he could be put to good use. Machia-velli's meditation was on a sudden disturbed by a tap on the shutter. He looked up but did not move; the tap, low and discreet, was repeated. He went to the window and slightly opened the shutter. A name was muttered.

  'Farinelli.'

  'Wait.'

  'Are you alone?'

  'I am alone.'

  He went into the passage and opened the door. In the darkness he could see nothing but that someone was standing there. Farinelli, it may be remembered, was the Florentine accountant with whom Machiavelli had made contact the day after his arrival. Huddled in a cape, with a scarf to conceal his face, he slipped in and followed Machiavelli into the parlour. It was lit by a single candle. He sat at the table close to Machiavelli so that he need hardly raise his voice above a whisper.

  'I have something important to tell you.'

  'Speak.'

  'Can I count on the generosity of the Signory if what I say is useful to them?'

  'Without doubt.'

  'A messenger, riding post, arrived at the Palace today. The rebels have at last signed articles of agreement. They are pledged to stand by Bentivoglio in defence of Bologna, to reinstate the dispossessed lords in their dominions, and not to undertake any separate negotiations with the Duke. They have decided to collect seven hundred men-at-arms, a hundred light horse and nine thousand foot. Bentivoglio is to attack Imola and Vitellozzo and the Orsini are to march on Urbino.'

  'That is news indeed,' said Machiavelli.

  He was pleasantly excited. Stirring events exhilarated him and he looked forward with the anticipation of a spectator at a play to seeing how the Duke would cope with the danger that confronted him.

  'There is one more thing. Vitellozzo has given the Duke to understand that if he can have reliable assurances that no attempt will be made to deprive him of his own state of Castello he will rejoin him.'

  'How do you know this?'

  'It is enough that I know it.'

  Machiavelli was perplexed. He knew Vitellozzo, a sullen, suspicious, moody man, subject to wild rages and to attacks of profound depression. The syphilis from which he suffered had so affected him that sometimes he was hardly sane. Who could tell what wicked plans that tortured brain was contriving? Machiavelli dismissed the accountant.

  'I can count on your discretion, Messer Niccolo? My life would be short if it were discovered that I have told you what I have.'

  'I know. But I am not one to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.'

  13

  From then on things moved quickly. On hearing of the uprising in Urbino the Duke had sent two of his captains, Spaniards both, Don Ugo da Moncada and Don Michele da Corella, to put it down. Making Pergola and Fossombrone their headquarters they ravaged the surrounding territories, sacked the towns and killed most of the inhabitants. At Fossombrone women threw themselves and their children into the river to escape the savagery of the soldiery. The Duke, sending for Machiavelli, told him of these exploits with a great deal of good humour.

  'It looks as though the season were not too healthy for rebels,' he said with a grim smile.

  He had just received news from an envoy of the Pope at Perugia that on his arrival the Orsini had come to assure him of their loyalty to the Holy Father and to excuse their acts. Machiavelli remembered what Fari-nelli had told him about Vitellozzo.

  'It is difficult to understand what they have done that,' he said.

  'Use your brain, Secretary. It can only mean that they're not yet ready and want to gain time by behaving as though an accommodation were still possible.'

  A few days later Vitellozzo carried the city of Urbino by assault and the Duke again sent for Machiavelli. Machiavelli expected to find him disconcerted by the bad news, but he did not even mention it.

  'I want to confer with you as usual on the matters that concern your government and our common interests,' he said. 'I have received this letter from someone I sent to Siena.'

  He read it aloud. It was from the Chevalier Orsini, a bastard of that noble and powerful house, who was in the Duke's service. He had spoken with the leaders of the conspiracy, and they had declared their desire to be on good terms with the Duke and professed their willingness to re-enter his service if he would abandon his attack on Bologna and instead combine with them to invade the Florentine territories.

  'You see what confidence I place in you,' he added, when he had finished, 'and what trust I have in the good faith of your government. In return they should place more reliance on me than they have in the past and they can be sure that I shall not fail them.'

  Machiavelli did not know how much of this to believe. The Orsini were the bitter enemies of Florence and would welcome the opportunity to restore the exiled Medici to power. It was not unlikely that they had made some such offer. He could only suppose that the Duke had not accepted it for fear of angering the French and was divulging in it in order to put the Republic under such an obligation that the Signory would be willing to give him again the profitable condotta he had not long before forced upon them at the sword's point, but which, the danger passed, they had to his vexation withdrawn from him. A condotta was the term used for the engagement of a mercenary captain, hence called condottiere, for a period of time. On his salary, settled after a lot of haggling on both sides, he paid his men and made a pretty penny for himself.

  Two days later the rebel forces attacked the Duke's army under the joint command of the two Spaniards and defeated it. Don Ugo da Moncada was taken prisoner and Don Michele da Corella, wounded, fled to the stronghold of Fossombrone. It was more than a set-back, it was a disaster. The news was kept secret in Imola, for, as Machiavelli wrote to the Signory, in the Duke's court things which were not to be bruited about were not spoken of; but he had his ways of finding out what was important for him to know, and as soon as the event reached his ears he went to the Palace and requested an audience.

  Machiavelli entered the presence with a lively sense of curiosity. He was desirous to see in what state he would find the Duke, hitherto self-confident and imperturbable, now that ruin stared him in the face. He could not but know that he could expect no mercy from his enemies. He was calm and even gay. He spoke of the rebels with disdain.

  'I don't want to boast,' he said, 'but I expect the outcome, whatever it is, will show what stuff they're made of and what stuff I'm made of. I know them well, the whole gang of them, and I think nothing of them. Vitel-lozzo has a great reputation, but all I can tell you is that I've never seen him do a thing that needed courage. His excuse is the French sickness. The fact is, he's good for nothing but to ravage undefended territories and rob those who haven't the guts to stand up to him. A false friend and a treacherous enemy.'

  Machiavelli could not withold his admiration for this man who faced destruction with such an indomitable spirit. His situation was desperate. The Bentivogli, Lords of Bologna, were on his northern frontiers; Vitellozzo and the Orsini, flushed with victory, must be advancing from the south. Attacked simultaneously on two fronts by superior forces he could not escape annihilation. Il Valentino was no friend of Florence and his downfall and death would be a relief to the Republic, but Machiavelli, against his will, had an inclination – it was no more than that – to wish that he might succeed in extricating himself from the strait he was in.

  'I have received letters from France,' said the Duke after a pause, 'from which I learn that the King has instructed your government to give me every possible assistance.'

  'I have heard nothing of it,' said Machiavelli.

  'Well, it is true. You will write to your masters and
tell them to send me ten squadrons of cavalry, and you may add that I am ready to make a firm and indissoluble alliance with them from which they will gain all the advantages that may be expected from my help and my good fortune.'

  'I will naturally carry out Your Excellency's instructions.'

  The Duke was not alone. With him were Agapito da Amalia, the Bishop of Elna, his cousin, and another secretary. There was an ominous silence. The Duke stared at the Florentine envoy reflectively. The silence and those staring eyes would have incommoded a more nervous man than Machiavelli, and even he had to exercise some self-control to maintain an air of composure.

  'I've heard from various sources,' said the Duke at last, 'that your government is urging the Lords of Bologna to declare war on me, and that they're doing this either because they wish to ruin me or to make a pact with me on more favourable terms.'

  Machiavelli contrived to smile with as much geniality as his cold and somewhat austere cast of countenance allowed.

  'I don't believe it for a moment, Excellency,' he replied. 'The letters I receive from the Signory never fail to contain protestations of friendship for the Holy Father and yourself.'

  'I don't believe it either, but protestations of friendship are more convincing when acts conform with them.'

  'I am sure my government will do everything in its power to show the sincerity of its intentions.'

  'If it is as wise as it is dilatory I am sure it will.'

  Within himself Machiavelli shivered. He had never in his life heard such cold ferocity in a man's voice.

  14

  For some days after this Machiavelli busied himself in gathering information from his agents, from Bartolomeo, from Farinelli and from those about the Duke. He could trust no one completely and he knew that Il Valentino's intimates told him only what they wanted him to know. But the most puzzling fact of it all was the inactivity of the revolting captains. The Duke's troops, which he had been enlisting wherever men were for sale, had not yet arrived, and thought he still held some fortresses in the states that had rebelled, it was impossible to believe that he could withstand a determined assault. Now was the time to attack. Now. Yet they did nothing. Machiavelli was at his wit's end; he could not for the life of him understand what caused them to delay. Then an event occurred that increased his bewilderment: the Orsini sent an emissary to the Duke's court, who arrived one evening and left next day; Machiavelli for all his efforts could not find out the purpose of his visit. He had by now received the Signory's reply to the Duke's demand for armed help, and in the hope of getting some inkling of what was happening, he applied for an audience. It was not without trepidation that he went to the Palace, for what he had to tell the Duke was that the Florentines had no troops to send and all they were prepared to offer was an assurance of their benevolence. Machiavelli had seen Il Valentino in a rage and he knew that it was terrible; he braced himself to bear the storm with fortitude. No one could have been more astonished than he when the Duke received the intelligence he brought with indifference.