Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

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 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he had not long before forced upon them at the sword’s point, but which, the danger passed, they had to his vexation withdrawn from him.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 a 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 setback, 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 wish to boast,” he said, “but I expect the outcome, whatever it is, will show of what stuff they’re made and what stuff I’m made of. I know them well, the whole gang of them, and I think nothing of them. Vitellozzo 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 withhold 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 would 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 piercing 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.

FOR SOME days after this Machiavelli busied himself in gathering information from his agent, 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 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 though 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, 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.

“I’ve told you several times and tonight I tell you again that I’m not devoid of resources. The French lancers will be here soon and so will the Swiss infantry. You can see for yourself that I’m engaging troops every day. The Pope has no lack of money, nor the King of men. It may well be that my enemies will regret their treachery.”

He smiled and his smile was cruel and cunning.

“Would it surprise you to know that they’ve already made offers of peace?”

Machiavelli repressed a start.

“Messer Antonio da Venafro came on their behalf.”

This was evidently the mysterious visitor of whom Machiavelli had heard. He was the confidant and trusted adviser of Pandolfo Petrucci, Lord of Siena, who by common report was the brains of the conspiracy.