In this room the various councils of the Florentine republic would have met during the renaissance. And off to the left was the little cubicle where we think Machiavelli might have worked. Until he was called upon to sit in on the discussions…
‘So, members of the council, it is agreed, yes? As long as Florence is under the protection of the French King we stand firm against any hint of Borgia aggression or pressured overture of friendship.’
In his seat in the corner, Under-secretary Niccolò Machiavelli notes down the general murmur of approval. Piero Soderini, the elected leader of the republic, is an honourable and principled man, and it is impossible not to respect him. In another era, one of honour and principle, Niccolò thinks, he would make a most successful politician.
‘Under-secretary: if you would stay behind for a moment.’
High on the frescoed wall of the council chamber St Zenobius, the first bishop of Florence, stands with open arms, giving his blessing to good government, a glimpse of the cathedral’s famed dome peeking out from a pillar behind. It pains Niccolò every time he sees it, for this city that he so loves has changed dramatically in the years since the great Domenico Ghirlandaio stood with his brushes on the scaffold. Once respected everywhere for her wealth and stability, she now spends her diplomatic life looking nervously over her shoulder, like a young virgin on the street at night. To survive with her name, if not her purity, intact, what is needed is a government that can temper republican honour with a more pliant pragmatism. But these are not the thoughts that he is paid to deliver. Unless directly asked.
‘Do I gather you have some issue with the decision of the council, Niccolò?’
‘I am its under-secretary, not an elected member, Gonfaloniere. It is my job to advise, not conclude.’
‘Except with you one cannot always tell the difference. So speak your mind.
This extract from In The Name of the Family: A Novel of Machiavelli and the Borgias
When Niccolò Machiavelli crossed this bridge every day to work there was no upper story and certainly no tourists. Instead it was a rough cobbled path leading through blood and offal…. This is what he might have seen…
His journey takes him down Via Guicciardini on the south side of the city and across the river Arno via the Ponte Vecchio. A maverick winter snowfall has turned into a grimy frost and the ground cracks like small animal bones under his feet. On the bridge fresh carcasses are being unloaded into the butchers’ shops. Through the open shutters he catches glimpses of the river, its surface of the water a silvery apricot under the rising sun. A feral dog streaks across his path, going for a gobbet of offal near the wheel of a cart. It earns him a kick in the ribs for his daring but his jaws remain firmly clenched over the prize. Scavenging opportunist! Stick a feathered hat on him and give him a sword and you’ve got half the country.
Across the bridge, he passes by the side of San Pier Scheraggio church into the open space of the Piazza della Signoria. The great bells from the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore sound out, marking the starting hour of the day and his thoughts move briefly to the cathedral workshop where a Florentine is chiseling into a block of flawed marble, commissioned by the state to produce a great statue of David to be placed on the façade of the cathedral. Nine months he’s been at it with no one allowed near the work, though the leaked gossip talks more of its size than its beauty. It remains to be seen whether it will be powerful enough to shield the city from the Borgia Goliath.
As the last chimes die away, a series of contorted male shrieks rise up from somewhere nearby; a late coupling between the sheets or a few early knife thrusts into a belly? Niccolò smiles. Such are the sounds of his beloved city, the sounds indeed of the whole of Italy.
This extract from In The Name of the Family: A Novel of Machiavelli and the Borgias
A historical Comparison
There are moments when rather than feeling like a straight line, history starts to resemble a circle…
In 1492, having been viewed as an outsider for the biggest job in the Catholic church, Rodrigo Borgia barnstormed his way through a sweaty conclave, using threats and bribery to neutralise his rivals and win the papal crown. When the final vote was held, we are told that he jumped to his feet and punched the air with the words “Yes, I am pope”.
A corpulent, energetic man in his sixties, he was already famous for his great wealth, his ruthless financial dealings – he was the church’s vice chancellor for many years – and his inveterate womanising. Though his position as a cardinal demanded celibacy, for him (as for many high clerics) that did not mean chastity. He had seven children in all, four of them by a recent long-term mistress whom he discarded after some years for a much – much – younger model.
Right from the start, the Borgia papacy specialised in family self-aggrandisement. He staged a huge showy inauguration playing to the Roman crowds. Top positions went to family and friends. He built his own apartments in the Vatican, having them extravagantly decorated by the most fashionable painter of the day and when his daughter got married, he threw a lavish wedding inside those same rooms.
His eldest son Cesare was his closest advisor, finally moving into the Vatican and using papal funds to run a military campaign to annex Papal States into the Borgia dynasty. Rodrigo himself was by all accounts so fond of his daughter Lucrezia that when her first marriage was annulled in favour of a new alliance on the grounds of her husband’s impotence, the furious man (whose first wife had died in childbirth) remarked publically: “I have known my wife an infinity of times and the pope only wants her back for himself.” One lie led to another and what started as gossip soon became accepted in history as fact.
In a world not shy of brutality and ruthlessness the Borgias still stood out. When the Spanish came to ask for a lion’s share of the new world (America starts here) the pope got a royal bride for his son out of the deal. When one of the Roman families moved against him during a French invasion, he had the head of the family poisoned in prison and some years later annihilated half the rest. He lied and dissembled without compunction. The bodies of his enemies were found garrotted in the Tiber and when an anonymous letter damning the family’s actions was samizdated around town (renaissance media was mainly gossip but sometimes print), Cesare Borgia caught a Venetian on the streets distributing it and cut off his hand and tongue. When Venice’s ambassador complained, the Pope replied “Ah, he’s a nice boy but he can’t abide insults.’
Rodrigo died in 1503, felled by a mosquito bite during a viciously hot Roman summer: the gossip was that his bed chamber was full of cavorting bare chested devils (speaking if not in Russian, then a strange tongue, come to claim him after the deal made with him to let him rule. His body was so bloated that it started to decay almost immediately and had to be hurriedly buried, men pushing and shoving into a coffin, which was already too small for it.
His papacy was to have a powerful impact on the history of Europe. His political and diplomatic dealings were followed with acute interest by a young Florentine envoy, who spent months at the court of Cesare Borgia. His name was Niccolò Machiavelli and used what he had seen and learned when he wrote his political masterpiece ‘The Prince’. A few years later Martin Luther, who had visited Rome as a young monk during the 1500 jubilee and been appalled at what he saw, nailed his 17 treatises to the church door at Wittenberg. The protestant reformation, spreading war and bloodshed across Europe, had begun. History, then as now, has consequences.
In the Name of the Family: A novel of Machiavelli & the Borgias is out now
So, after a resounding silence of almost two years I am coming up for air to say thank you to all who have written. Forgive me if my replies have been slow. Writing is the most all consuming job and I find it so painful to have to leave and return to it, that while I am “in” everything else gets a little lost. I wish I could do it differently, but I can’t.
Blood and Beauty is now finished ( bar a few proof edits and a better map – this is Italy as you have never seen it before) and the clock ticking on publication; May in England. July in America and Canada. Many of you will come to this family with images and thoughts from things written , old history or the recent sky TV series. All I can say is – suspend everything you think you know and let the novel paint the world and the people for you. In so far as it is possible ( of course we never know everything about the past – and this is certainly so when it comes to the Borgias) I have set out to be as true to the real history as we know it , even down to real words spoken or written by and about them. And the story that emerges… well I really I think it is more complex, more satisfying and more compelling than anything you will have learned in the past.
There is a big debate to be had on how far historical fiction is fiction or history. And what is the responsibility of the novelist to balance imagination with facts. As those who know my work will appreciate this is the first time I have written entirely about “real people” and that has been the biggest challenge. To bring them alive for a modern reader while still being true to their roots and moment within history. (which despite all of having the same emotions, often makes them “different” in some ways from us). It has been an exhausting but fascinating journey. I hope the result is worth it. I have no doubt you will tell me.
My web site will be moving within the next month to a different format, but I will move with it. And talk as I go about the journeys I made through modern Italy to find the past – and how much of it is still there for you to see. I hope you will join me for the ride.
Thank you all