Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“It was necessary for our honour to act with energy against enemies of the Republic. It was necessary to show that Florence has the courage to provide for her safety.”

“Why then did you leave his brother alive?”

Machiavelli irritably shrugged his shoulders. It was a sore point.

“Men were sent to fetch Vitellozzo and bring him to Cascina. He suspected a trap. He was ill in bed. He asked for time to dress and somehow managed to escape. The affair was bungled. How can you provide always against the stupidity of the people you have to deal with?”

The Duke’s laugh was light and gay. His eyes sparkled with good humour.

“It is an error to keep to a plan when circumstances have arisen that make its execution inadvisable. When Vitellozzo slipped through your fingers you should have taken Paolo to Florence and instead of throwing him into a dungeon housed him in the best apartment of the Palazzo Vecchio. You should have tried him and, whatever the evidence, declared him innocent. Then you should have restored his command to him, increased his pay and bestowed on him the highest honours at the disposal of the Republic. You should have convinced him that you had entire confidence in him.”

“With the result that he would have betrayed us to our enemies.”

“That might have been his intention, but for a while he would have had so to act as to prove that the trust you placed in him was justified. These mercenary captains are avaricious and will do anything for money. You might have made offers to Vitellozzo so handsome that he could not have brought himself to refuse; he would have rejoined his brother, and when you had lulled them into security, with a little ingenuity you could have found a suitable occasion to kill them both swiftly and without trial.”

Machiavelli went red in the face.

“Such treachery would leave an eternal blot on the fair name of Florence,” he cried.

“Traitors must be dealt with treacherously. A state is not governed by the exercise of Christian virtues, it is governed by prudence, boldness, determination and ruthlessness.”

At this moment an officer came into the room and in a whisper spoke to Agapito da Amalia. Il Valentino, frowning at the interruption, with impatient fingers drummed on the table at which he sat.

“His Excellency is occupied,” said Agapito. “They must wait.”

“What is it?” asked the Duke sharply.

“Two Gascon soldiers have been caught looting, Excellency. They have been brought here under guard with the objects they seized.”

“It would be a pity to make the subjects of the King of France wait,” said the Duke, smiling faintly. “Let them be brought in.”

The officer went out and the Duke amiably addressed himself to Machiavelli.

“You will excuse me if I attend to a little matter of business?”

“My time is at Your Excellency’s disposal.”

“I trust you had no adventures on the road, Secretary.”

Machiavelli took his cue from the Duke’s tone.

“None. I was fortunate to find an inn at Scarperia where I was given a tolerable meal.”

“It is my desire that men should travel in my dominions as safely as it is said they could do in the Roman Empire of the Antonines. While you are here you will have opportunity to see for yourself that now that I have dispossessed those petty tyrants who were the curse of Italy I have by wise administration done much to render the lives of my people secure and prosperous.”

There was a noise without of shuffling feet, voices were raised, and then, the great doors of the spacious chamber being flung open, a crowd surged in. First came the officer who had come in before and he was followed by two men who from their respectable dress Machiavelli supposed must be dignitaries of the city. On their heels came two women, one old, the other middle–aged, and with them an elderly man of decent appearance. Then came a soldier carrying a pair of silver candlesticks and another with an ornamental goblet of silver gilt and two silver platters. They wore the red–and–yellow uniform of the Duke’s own troops. Then, half pushed, half dragged by soldiers, entered two men with their hands tied behind their backs. They were shabby in nondescript garments and, standing among the Duke’s uniformed men, looked a ruffianly pair. One was a scowling fellow of forty, of powerful physique, with a thick black beard and a livid scar on his forehead, and the other a smooth–faced boy with a sallow skin and shifty, frightened eyes.

“Stand forward,” said the Duke.

The two men were given a shove.

“What is the charge?”

It appeared that the house of the two women had been broken into when they were at Mass and the silverware stolen.

“How can you prove these articles were your property?”

“Monna Brigida is my cousin, Excellency,” said one of the two respectable men. “I know the articles well. They were part of her dowry.”

The other confirmed this. The Duke turned to the elderly man who seemed to be with the two women.

“Who are you?”

“Giacomo Fabronio, Excellency, silversmith. These two men sold me the pieces. They said they had got them at the sack of Forli.”

“You have no doubt that these are the men?”

“None, Excellency.”

“We took Giacomo to the Gascon camp,” said the officer, “and he picked them out without hesitation.”

The Duke fixed the silversmith with harsh eyes.

“Well?”

“When I heard that Monna Brigida’s house had been broken into and her candlesticks and platters stolen, I became suspicious,” the fellow answered, his face pale and his voice tremulous. “I went at once to Messer Bernardo and told him that two Gascon soldiers had sold me some silverware.”

“Was it from fear or prudence?”

The silversmith for a moment could not find his voice. He was shaking with terror.

“Messer Bernardo is a magistrate, I have done much work for him. If the goods were stolen I didn’t want them to be in my possession.”

“What he says is true, Your Excellency,” said the magistrate. “I went to see the articles and immediately recognized them.”

“They are mine, Excellency,” vehemently cried the younger of the two women. “Everyone will tell you they are mine.”

“Be quiet.” The Duke turned his gaze on the two Gascons. “Do you confess that you stole these things?”

“No, no, no,” screamed the boy. “It is a mistake. I swear on the soul of my mother that I didn’t. The silversmith is mistaken. I have never seen him before.”

“Take him away. A few turns on the rack will bring out the truth.”

The boy gave a piercing shriek.

“No, not that. I couldn’t bear that.”

“Take him.”

“I confess,” gasped the boy.

The Duke gave a short laugh and turned to the other.

“And you?”

The older man threw back his head defiantly.

“I didn’t steal them. I took them. It was our right; we had captured the city.”

“A lie. You did not capture the city. It capitulated.”

By the rules of Italian warfare at the time if a city was taken by storm the soldiers were allowed to loot and keep everything they could lay hands on; but if a city capitulated, though the citizens were called upon to pay a large sum to defray the expense to which the condottiere had been put to gain possession of their city, they saved their lives and their property. The rule was useful, for it made the citizens willing enough to surrender; it was not often that devotion to their prince induced them to fight to the death.

The Duke pronounced sentence.

“My orders were that the troops were to remain without the walls and that any harm done to the persons or property of the citizens should be punished by death.” He turned to the officer. “Hang them in the square at dawn. Let it be published in the camp what their crime was and its punishment. Have two soldiers stand guard over the bodies till noon and let the town crier inform the population at proper intervals that they can rely on the justice of their prince.”