PART ONE – AD 1502, 1503
CHAPTER ONE
As they descended the Apennines into the lowlands of the Romagna, the heat of late July grew more oppressive, and the westering sun was in their eyes. But Bishop Soderini had insisted that they continue their punishing pace, for he was determined to reach Urbino by nightfall.
His urgency dated from two days before, when, shortly after departing from Florence, they had reached the town of Pontasieve and found it to be in the grip of panic. A refugee priest, barely coherent, had told them that Cesare Borgia had moved with his characteristic speed and decisiveness and, by an act of breathtaking treachery, seized the strategically important city of Urbino. That, then, was where they must go to confer with the terrifying Duke of the Romagna as they had been charged by the ruling Signoria of Florence. And their mission had suddenly taken on even greater urgency.
So the bishop had urged them on over the Apennines, setting a pace that was remarkable for a man of nearly fifty. But he was finally forced to call one of his brief halts beside a small stream, lest they wear out their horses short of their destination. He slid to the ground and stood unsteadily for a moment, holding onto his saddlebow, finally showing his age.
“All right, dismount!” John Blackfield ordered the soldiers of the escort. With a clatter and jingle of gear and a chorus of relieved grunts, they did so, and went off to answer calls of nature. They were of various origins, but all Italians. There were no other Englishmen, although it wouldn’t have been extraordinary if there had been. Nevertheless, the soldiers obeyed him with no more than the usual quota of griping. At age twenty-two (fairly mature for a profession that did not lend itself to long life expectancies), he had risen far enough in the trust of the Florentine Republic to be entrusted with assignments like this one, escorting a diplomatic mission that might well be crucial to the Republic’s survival.
As he led his horse down to the stream to drink, he heard a voice from behind that echoed his own thoughts of a moment before. “I heard your name mentioned, Captain. By its evidence, you must be English.”
Blackfield turned and saw Soderini’s subordinate Niccolò Machiavelli, leading his own horse. He knew of the lean, dark, medium-tall man with the puzzling smile by reputation, as Florence’s most able diplomatic negotiator, but had never met him. “So I am, by birth,” he assented.
“Not too surprising,” Machiavelli nodded. “Giovanni Acuto was hardly the last English soldier of fortune in Italy—only the best known.” (He used, Blackfield knew, the Italian name of John Hawkwood, who had led the White Company in the thirteen hundreds.) “They’ve been common enough in our Italian states since the wars with France, when after each campaign an army would be disbanded, leaving a great many battle-hardened men at loose ends.”
“True, sir,” said Blackfield. “And now, with the wars of York and Lancaster over in England, there’s been little demand there for such as me.”
“Yes, no doubt.” Machiavelli’s tone suggested that he was deferring to Blackfield’s superior knowledge of these matters. But Blackfield suspected that the Florentine was as well informed about the state of affairs in today’s England, under Henty VII of the new Tudor dynasty, as he was about everything else in Europe. “And you’ve clearly been here a while—your Italian is so good.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve always had a certain gift for tongues,” said Blackfield, somewhat uncomfortable. What was Machiavelli driving at?
“Obviously. And yet…” Machiavelli turned and looked him straight in the eyes. Machiavelli’s eyes were dark even for an Italian’s, and very large, and they were hard to look away from. “How much do you understand about the reason for His Excellency’s mission?”
All at once, comprehension dissolved Blackfield’s bewilderment. Quite simply, Machiavelli was the sort of man who needed to expound… which required someone to expound to. And he could hardly do so to the bishop, his nominal senior. And he might as well have expounded to the horses as to the common soldiers. That left Blackfield, who sensed that he wouldn’t want a complete dolt for an audience. So he carefully began to set forth that which he did, in fact, know.
“Well, sir, about three weeks ago Vitellozzo Vitelli, one of the officers of Duke Valentinois—”
“Or Il Valentino, as the common people in Italy call him,” said Machiavelli. “But just call him by his name.”
“—crossed into Florence’s territory and occupied the town of Arezzo, which was already in revolt, and has since advanced further, occupying town after town in the Val di Chiana. It was rumored that Piero de’ Medici is now in Arezzo.”
“The rumor is apparently true,” said Machiavelli grimly. Piero was the pretender to the rule of Florence, which seven years earlier had thrown out the Medici and inaugurated a republic. It was no secret that Pope Alexander VI, born Rodrigo Borgia, wanted the Medici reinstated. And no one harbored any illusions that Piero would be anything but a Borgia puppet.
“And then,” Blackfield continued, “two weeks ago Borgia left Rome with his army to reassert his control of the Romagna, of which his fa-… that is, His Holiness the pope has made him duke.” His third such campaign in as many years, Blackfield reflected. The pontifical boar-pig’s gift of the Romagna, legally part of the papal territories, to one of his innumerable illegitimate offspring, merely meant that Cesare had the right to try and take its various small city-states away from the petty tyrants and robber barons who terrorized them from their fortresses. “The duke sent word to Florence that he wished to have a delegation sent that was empowered to negotiate for the republic. But then, day before yesterday, we learned on the road that he had taken Urbino. I’m still not clear on how he managed that.”
Machiavelli chuckled without humor. “I think I’ve pieced together the story, from what that terrified priest told us. On the same day he sent to Florence asking for our mission, he sent to his ally Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, asking permission to cross his territory, and also asking Guidobaldo to send a thousand troops to aid Vitellozzo. Guidobaldo complied. Then Valentino suddenly reversed direction, marched sixty miles to the undefended Urbino, which surrendered. Guidobaldo fled for his life into the mountains.”
Blackfield emitted a long, low whistle. “Which places Borgia in an excellent position, only about twenty miles from Vitellozzo in the Val di Chiana, to march on Florence.”
“You’ve grasped it,” Machiavelli nodded. “And Florence is defended only by its assurance of protection from King Louis.” He referred to Louis XII of France, currently ensconced in Milan, to which he had some sort of hereditary claim. “And the Signoria would be stupid to count on that. Louis has got his hands full contesting the Kingdom of Naples with the Spaniards. And he seems to be charmed by Duke Valentinois.” Machiavelli chuckled. “No doubt about it, Borgia’s caught Florence with its breeches down and its arse in a bucket.”
Blackfield frowned. Machiavelli’s tone seemed to hold a note of approval. “Ah, sir, this act will bring a great deal of criticism down on Borgia. Guidobaldo is well known to be a fool and a weakling, but his family, the Montefeltros, are very well regarded. And besides… well, even in war—”
“Yes. Frightfully treacherous, wasn’t it? And yet…” Machiavelli’s eyes took on a faraway look, and he spoke to himself as much as to Blackfield. “For almost ten years now, ever since that clown Charles VIII of France let himself be persuaded to invade Italy and assert his dynastic claim to the throne of Naples, Italy has been nothing but a battleground between the French and the Spaniards, where foreign armies march back and forth, pillaging and raping at their pleasure. Eventually one of them will win, and Italy’s slavery will be complete. And there’s not a damned thing we can do about it as long as we’re divided into a gaggle of squabbling city-states. I’m loyal to the Republic of Florence, but no republic can impose on Italy the unity it needs. That’s going to require a prince who’s willing to do whatever it takes—including actions like Borgia’s. The unification of Italy, and the restoration of her ancient greatness, is more important than any points of honor.”
“So, sir,” said Blackfield, “you’re saying that… um, that the end justifies the means?”
“Hmm! Not exactly the way I would have put it, but… Yes, not a bad phrase. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Come, in God’s name!” Bishop Soderini called out. “Let us depart.”
“Well,” said Machiavelli as they remounted, “for now, our concern must be to save the Republic of Florence from its folly.”
“Earlier, you made that sound hopeless,” said Blackfield dubiously.
“Oh, we’ll have to make various concessions. And… I have in mind a certain additional inducement that may help persuade Borgia.”
**********
Despite the Bishop’s haste, it was shortly after dark when they rode through the gates of Urbino. They had barely dismounted in the courtyard of the ducal palace when a detachment of soldiers in Borgia red-and-yellow livery approached. Their officer ordered the soldiers of the escort taken to their quarters. The delegation was to come before the duke at once.
“But,” spluttered Soderini, “we must rest, and prepare ourselves. And…” He gestured at their travel-soiled clothes.
“The duke said at once,” said the officer. Like many of Borgia’s soldiers—and Borgia himself, on his father’s side—he was a Spaniard, and his accent was almost impenetrable. But there was no mistaking his gesture. Soderini and Machiavelli followed him up the staircase and into the palace. Blackfield was unsure which direction he should take. He decided to accompany the ambassadors with whose safety he was charged.
The interior of the palace Duke Guidobaldo had hastily vacated was lit only by occasional torches. They proceeded to a heavily guarded door. As it swung open and the emissaries entered, the guards clashed their halberds together in Blackfield’s face. “Not you,” the officer snapped. In no position to argue, Blackfield turned away.
But before the door closed, he got a glimpse of the room within. It was unfurnished, and lit only by a single candle. In that dim, flickering light he could barely make out a tall figure dressed in unrelieved, unornamented black from head to toe, standing with his features immobile as a statue’s. Those features, framed by long dark hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard, were classically regular, although slightly marred by the pustules of the French disease.
For an instant, a shudder ran through him, as though he was being vouchsafed a fleeting glimpse through the door of Hell and had looked on its ruler.
Then the door swung shut behind Soderini and Machiavelli, and Blackfield was hustled away. But through the door he could hear Soderini begin to speak diffidently, only to be cut off mid-word as Borgia spoke harshly and without preamble. “I am not pleased with your government. How can I trust you, how can I be sure you will not attack me? You must change your government and pledge to support me—for I have no intention of letting this state of affairs continue...”
Then Blackfield was shoved further along the passageway and could hear no more.
**********
Tired as he was from the journey, Blackfield remained awake and alert, for they were totally in the hands of a man who had by repute murdered, among various others, one brother and one brother-in-law. The sacred status of emissaries was unlikely to mean any more to Borgia than did any other sacred things.
After a time, Soderini and Machiavelli came from their meeting, wearing the shaken looks of thoroughly bullied men. Without a word to Blackfield, they retired to their own room, through whose walls he could hear them muttering to each other but could not make out their words. He imagined they were composing their dispatch to the Signoria.
The next day, they were all fed, but Soderini and Machiavelli were not invited to eat with Valentino. At one point, in the morning, Blackfield managed to draw Machiavelli into a brief conversation.
“Borgia claimed Vitellozzo was acting on his own—although he didn’t pretend to be disapproving. The Bishop did his best to remind him of Florence’s promise of protection from King Louis. But he said we were deceived.” Machiavelli smiled his very individual smile. “You know, Giovanni… I mean John; I won’t make that mistake again. Anyway, I have some small experience of bullies.” And, Blackfield thought, a slightly built man like him probably did, as a boy. “And that experience tells me they’re often bluffing. I sense that Borgia is bluffing now. Anyway…” He grew very pensive and walked off, leaving Blackfield wondering.
Later in the day, Blackfield saw Machiavelli and Soderini accosted in the courtyard by two men he recognized as Giulio and Paolo Orsini, two of Valentino’s condottieri commanders. He saw an animated discussion before the participants broke up. He managed to intercept Machiavelli.
“Oh, that.” Machiavelli’s smile was almost bubbling over into laughter. “That ‘chance’ encounter was of course arranged by Borgia. They exaggerated the size of his army, and told us that Vitellozzo’s invasion of Florentine territory had the full support of King Louis. Now I know he’s bluffing. But why does he need to bluff? What has happened? Could it be something to do with his relationship with King Louis…?” By this time Machiavelli was walking away, talking to himself, and had left Blackfield behind.
That night, Soderini and Machiavelli were summoned to a second meeting with Valentino, this time at midnight. Blackfield never got close to it. He waited up until the emissaries returned to their quarters. This time Machiavelli sought him out.
“You will remain here, as the Bishop’s guard,” said Machiavelli tersely. “But detail two of your men to accompany me. I’m going back to Florence with our dispatch—and riding hard.”
“But what happened?”
“Borgia made the same threats as before, but this time he’s issued an ultimatum. The Signoria must reply to his demands in four days. That’s why I must return as quickly as possible.” Then Machiavelli startled Blackfield by smiling his very individual smile.
“Why are you so cheerful?”
“Don’t you see? If Vitellozzo really acted on his own account, it means Borgia isn’t in full control of his commanders. It also means that the invasion did not have King Louis’ prior approval.” Machiavelli’s smile widened. “Besides, I don’t think he really wants to force the issue with Florence. You see, I’ve offered him the inducement I mentioned before.”
“You never explained what that was.”
“The services of the man he’s wanted for some time as his civil and military engineer: Messer Leonardo da Vinci.”