Machiavelli: The Novel Read online

  Published 2013 by Prometheus Books

  Machiavelli: A Renaissance Life. Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Markulin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Upper cover image: detail of Niccolò Machiavelli or Portrait of Machiavelli,

  by Santi di Tito, oil on canvas dated to the second half of the sixteenth century

  Lower cover image: The Piazza della Signoria in Florence, by Bernardo Bellotto,

  ca. 1742, located at Szépmüvészeti Múzeum, Budapest, Hungary

  Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke

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  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Markulin, Joseph.

  Machiavelli : a renaissance life / Joseph Markulin.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-61614-805-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-61614-806-5 (ebook)

  1. Machiavelli, Niccol?, 1469-1527. 2. Statesmen--Italy--Biography. 3. Intellectuals--Italy--Biography. 4. Political scientists--Italy--Biography. 5. Authors, Italian--Biography. 6. Italy--History--1492-1559--Biography. 7. Florence (Italy)--History--1421-1737--Biography. I. Title.

  JC143.M4M3785 2013

  320.1092--dc23

  2013022352

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Sandy, a shooting star . . .

  Prologue Ending in an Execution: May 23, 1498

  PART 1: A BOYHOOD AT THE SUMMIT OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION

  1. Carp, Artichokes, Black Beans, White Beans

  2. The Devil’s Ass—and the Angel’s Thousand Black Teeth

  3. An Ambush and an Apparition

  4. The Archbishop of Outlaws

  5. The Jewess

  6. In the Ghetto

  7. A Witch Hunt

  8. A Guide for the Perplexed

  9. The Handkerchief

  PART 2: THE PROPHET

  10. Balls! Balls! Balls!

  11. At the Tyrant’s Deathbed

  12. Tavern Talk, Then Church and an Arresting Sermon

  13. Revolution in the Streets, Politics in the Monastery

  14. A Mysterious Frenchman and a Dental Procedure

  15. Son of the Spider

  16. Amazon on the Ramparts

  17. The Bombardiers

  18. A Miraculous Delivery

  19. The City of God on Earth

  20. The Prophet Dishonored and a Final Interview

  PART 3: THE ANTICHRIST AND HIS EXTENDED FAMILY

  21. The New Pope Enjoys Bullfights

  22. An Embassy to the Amazon Queen

  23. All Hail Caesar!

  24. The Subtleties of Spanish Hospitality

  25. The Third Marriage of the Whore of Babylon

  26. A Honeymoon of Sorts: Caviar and Conspiracy

  27. Niccolo Meets a Famous Artist and Caesar Arranges a Peace Conference

  28. Into the Sink of Iniquity

  29. The Hospital for Incurable Diseases

  30. A Voyage to the New World and Last Respects to a Departed Pontiff

  31. Two More Popes, Another Famous Artist, and a Recumbent Caesar

  PART 4: LESSONS IN CIVIL GOVERNMENT

  32. The War with Pisa 1: Scientific Advances

  33. Clogs

  34. The Black Death Spawns a Family Fortune; Niccolo Goes to Germany and Suffers Abdominal Pains

  35. The War with Pisa 2: Corruption in High Places

  36. Politics, Compromise, and Revenge

  37. A Dinner Party

  38. Confusing News from Rome

  39. The War with Pisa 3: Conclusion

  40. An Anonymous Denunciation, a Pope Rampant, and a Rat King

  41. The Gonfaloniere Abdicates, Eggs and Pudding Are Consumed

  42. Boiling Lead

  PART 5: WHEEL OF FORTUNE

  43. A Lean Christmas and a Fat New Pope

  44. A Perfumed Progress and the Garden of Earthly Delights

  45. A Person on His Way Up: Niccolo Gathers Disciples

  46. Enthroned in a Privy, Niccolo Receives Important Messages; A Dutchman Is Elected Pope

  47. Amid the Clamor of Lutherans, Niccolo Visits the Little Sparrow in Florence and Sees a Startling Cartoon in Rome

  48. An Artist’s Model, a Lottery Ticket, and Big, Blue Pills

  49. Liqueur for a Lickspittle

  50. The Ragtag Armies of the Apocalypse and the Regeneration of Florence

  Ercole d’Este was so filled with awe at the sound of his own name that he often choked with emotion when called upon to pronounce it. Not that he was an excessively vain man. Rather, it was an inordinate pride in his ancestry that caused him to treat his name with a respect bordering on veneration.

  The Este family had ruled Ferrara for over two centuries, and for the most part, they had ruled it wisely, promoting the general welfare by developing industry and agriculture, building broad roads, and straightening streets. They had supported the fledgling university and had persuaded the eminent Greek scholar Guarino da Verona to come there and lecture. They had built a public park within the narrow confines of the city walls, a thing unheard of at the time. And, of course, most importantly, they had strengthened the city’s fortifications.

  Ferrara was a small state but a rich one, and like all the other city-states of northern Italy, she was constantly at war. Political turbulence had become a way of life for the dozens of arrogant dukes who were incessantly attacking or being attacked, marching off to battle or waiting out sieges in their impregnable fortresses. Ferrara, by comparison, was at peace more often than many of the others. The Este, through the judicious use of marriage bonds and the skillful weaving of secret alliances, had brought calm and relative stability to the city.

  Ercole (Hercules) d’Este managed his affairs well. He had to, for he literally owned the realm, and his prosperity, not to say survival, depended on it. He owned the land and all its bounty; he owned the grain and the vines; he owned the river and the fish in the river; he owned the mines, the mills, and the cattle; and last, he owned the people. He had complete authority to do anything he wished. His power was absolute. He could make laws or dissolve them. He could promote interests friendly to himself and his family, and he could kill his enemies with impunity. He reserved the right to impose taxes, to punish crimes, and to declare war. But as tyrants go, Ercole was one of the less abusive ones, and he retained the love and respect of his subjects.

  Attached to the court of the Este family was an illustrious physician by the name of Savonarola. Although originally from Padua, Savonarola had secured his post in Ferrara on the basis of his reputation as a world-famous authority on the curative properties of spas and mineral waters. But more than that, he was a staunch proponent of the beneficial effects of alcohol, which he was always quick to prescribe for any illness. He maintained that it fortified the blood, revived the heart, dissipated superfluous body fluids, prevented fevers, and aided the digestion. If taken in sufficient quantities, it also cured colic, dropsy, paralysis, worms, and scurvy. It calmed toothaches, gave protection against the plague, and drove away wind. In alcohol, the physician Savonarola had found his panacea, and his prescriptions were eagerl
y received by the Este and their court. His position was secure, and he was much sought out as an eminent man of science. Upon retirement, his duties passed to his son, who faithfully executed, in every detail, the precepts and traditions of the father.

  When Girolamo Savonarola was a boy, it was decided that he, too, like his father and his grandfather before him, would study medicine in order to assume his rightful post as third-generation court physician. But the boy was ill-suited to the role. From the way his father talked, young Girolamo had the distinct impression that the court physician had been engaged more as a tavern keeper than as a doctor. Medicine as practiced by the Savonarolas was as much a matter of dispensing cheer and goodwill as anything else.

  Unlike his bibulous progenitors, Girolamo was a gloomy, introspective child. Physically, he was small, ugly, and clumsy. He was pale and withdrawn, and he cared little for the company of other children. He preferred to be alone, and the thing that seemed to give him the most pleasure in life was his lute. He would play for hours sad, plaintive melodies that he composed himself. And he would compose verses, too, and set them to music.

  Although he showed no particular interest in the study of medicine, he mastered his lessons easily. And, while outwardly he appeared dazed and inattentive, it soon became clear to his teachers that he was possessed of a brilliant mind. Brilliant but restless and nervous. He would dispense with his medical texts and required lessons in short order and then withdraw to the solitude of his room, to his music, to his poetry, and to the one book that brought him solace—the sacred scriptures. He read the prophets avidly—Jeremiah in particular. But the text that he had read and reread perhaps a hundred times and of which he never tired, what sparked his mind and fired his imagination, was the Book of the Apocalypse.

  At the age of sixteen, his studies were progressing satisfactorily, and the elder Savonarola decided it was time for his son to be introduced to the court and its pleasures, so that he could begin his practical training for the profitable position that awaited him. The pompous doctor exploded when he saw his son bundled for the august occasion into his usual plain clothes—a simple grey frock with wool stockings.

  “You expect to go to court dressed like that! The Duke will laugh at you! They’ll mistake you for a lout, for a stable boy! You! A Savonarola! Who would ever believe it?”

  He had the boy’s mother comb and curl his long black hair. He gave him a velvet cap to wear and insisted that he gird himself with a leather belt from which hung a small, sharp, useless dagger with a jeweled handle. This hastily created courtier, feeling slightly ridiculous, examined himself in the polished tin mirror. He had no choice now but to step out into the cool autumn air, with his new accoutrements, and walk, almost run, through the streets of Ferrara, to keep up with the strides of his energetic father, the great physician swathed in scarlet and silver. Gawky, timid Girolamo Savonarola was on his way to the rich, exciting life that would soon be his.

  When they arrived at the ducal palace, the court physician and his young charge were greeted with much merriment, and many cups were raised. Duke Ercole himself, dressed as a soldier, although he seldom ventured forth on any military expedition, welcomed the boy and wished him every success. To say that the young Savonarola was dazzled would be an understatement. Never had he seen such a brightly illuminated hall. In the Savonarolas’ modest apartments and in most of the dwellings of Ferrara, evening was a time of soft light, the orange glow of fires and candles. But the Este palace, even at night, was ablaze. The enormous hall was lit by magnificent chandeliers, candles, and lanterns by the thousands, and huge roaring fires to which alum had been added to make them burn a brilliant white. And everywhere the unbelievable shower of light fell, it glanced back, flashing from gold and silver like lightning.

  The profusion of silks and furs, lace, leather, and polished armor stupefied the boy. And blonds! He had never seen so many blonds in his life. “Is every woman at the court of Ferrara blond?” he thought. “Is that what separates the nobility from us?” Later he was to learn that these exquisite waves of blond hair were fashioned for the most part, of yellow silk. A few of the billowing coiffures, like that of the duchess, were made of real human hair, brought down from Germany in the north, they say, imported at an extravagant price, or, according to darker rumors, taken in battle.

  When the meal was served, the boy’s stupor only grew: countless birds and meats that he could not even identify, exotic vegetables that the duke grew on his estates, like the bulbous white eggplant he had had brought from Africa. Others came from the Levant and the Far East, along with spices that overwhelmed the palate.

  And what was he to make of this curious pronged instrument set beside this plate? At home they ate with knives, and his mother kept big wooden spoons for soup. But this must be the fork his father had described to them as he grumbled through their evening meals, complaining that all civilized people used a fork and did not spear their meat and toss it at knifepoint into their mouths. Here, fork, knife, and spoon were all of gleaming silver! And the goblets! While Duke Ercole, a profound traditionalist, insisted on taking his wine in a golden cup, not unlike the chalice used by the priests in the cathedral, the other guests were drinking from goblets fashioned of glass, a material so precious and so rare that Girolamo had only heard of it. So exquisite and so fragile.

  As the meal turned slowly into a rowdy melee, Girolamo Savonarola drifted unnoticed to a seat against the far wall of the hall, which was now reverberating with the shouts and songs of the drunken court. From this vantage point, he sat in dumbfounded silence and watched the evening unfold without fear of being drawn into its drunken, sinful frenzy.

  When the eating was finally over and the tables had been cleared, it was time for entertainment. Every court in Europe has its share of jesters, fools, buffoons, and madmen. Ferrara was no exception. The duke and his family kept a company of assorted dwarves of whom they were exceedingly proud. They even built a special wing onto the palace to house their diminutive entertainers. The dwarves’ apartments included a group of tiny, low-ceilinged rooms furnished with miniature beds, tables, and chairs. Small windows placed no more than a foot from the floor opened onto a courtyard where a miniature fountain was surrounded by shrubs and low benches. Whether the Este constructed this tiny world as a convenience for its inhabitants, however, was open to question. Many said it was more of a curiosity—a zoo, really, where the large guests went about bumping their heads comically on the ceilings as they elbowed their way through the narrow corridors. The full-sized visitors would laugh heartily whenever they spotted one of the little inhabitants going about his everyday business. They would gawk and ogle them. Sometimes they made faces.

  And so when dinner was finished, nothing was more natural than that the duke summon his troupe of tiny entertainers. The serious, silent boy, sitting apart from the other guests, was staring wide-eyed as twenty little merrymakers literally tumbled into the center of the hall. Never had he imagined that he would see so many dwarves together, all in one place. Few courts kept more than one or two.

  They rolled and sweated, turning somersaults, juggling, howling, grunting, and singing in their shrill, unpleasant voices. One crooked gnome danced wildly with a baboon dressed in women’s clothing. The cacophony they produced with their toy musical instruments, coupled with the roars of laughter from the court began to mount in intensity. If they tumbled too close to one of the guests in their antics, they were soundly kicked back into the center of the hall. They acted out obscene skits, cackling in their falsetto voices, so that they sounded more like frantic wild animals than humans.

  Matello, the leader, was known as the Emperor of Madmen. He appeared in a priest’s cassock and began to deliver a sermon to the crowd. At first, he spoke in measured tones, but as he progressed, his harangue reached a hysterical pitch that only caused his congregation to redouble their now-delirious laughter. As he neared the climax of his homily, his voice squeaking up into ever higher and seemin
gly impossible registers, he invoked the judgment of God, which he proceeded to produce in the form of a huge wooden and papier-mâché phallus that he had concealed beneath his robes. With this unlikely instrument of retribution, which he called the Swift Sword of the Lord, he began to mete out punishments to the band of sinners. He swung his weapon recklessly and energetically and brought it down on the heads of his rollicking flock. In the madness that followed, they pelted him with whatever was at hand—food, plates—until, worn out, the Emperor collapsed and was carried from the hall.

  If Matello’s comedy brought tears of laughter to the eyes of this sophisticated assembly, there is no way to describe their reaction to Crazy Catherine, the most famous female dwarf in all of Italy. She was an alcoholic, and a bit of a kleptomaniac, hiding the trinkets and treasures she stole in her little room. But Crazy Catherine had one particular talent that made her admirers overlook her defects. In the middle of any show, at any time, she was able to perform her special trick, on command. When one of the Este, or anyone familiar with Catherine’s peculiar talent heaved a burning brand onto the floor and shouted, “Water! Catherine!” she would run to the flame, hitch up her long skirts, and, throwing her head back in shameless laughter, proceed to extinguish the blaze with a stream of urine! This trick she could perform a dozen times in one night!

  And so the noble company howled ever louder with Catherine scurrying frantically around the hall, putting out fires and farting—that was her other area of expertise—Girolamo Savonarola sat unable to move. Never had he seen such a depraved spectacle. Never had he suspected that the finest and most cultured citizens of his noble city amused themselves in this unseemly manner.

  Anyone glancing in the boy’s direction would have thought him asleep, overcome by the wine or exhausted by the revels. He was leaning back against the stone wall, head bent forward, with his long dark hair obscuring most of his face. But if someone had managed to look into his eyes, he might have jumped back in terror. For he would have seen burning there a fire that all the water in the river Po might not suffice to extinguish. He would have seen in the green eyes of this skinny, morose boy the holy fire that would one day leap forth to ignite the passions of thousands of sinners.