This time, Niccolò hears the soft footsteps on the stairs and notices how they stop in front of his door. “Envoy, it is I, Rodriguez. Are you still asleep?”
Niccolò nervously walks to the door. Did someone see him go in or out of Dianora’s room? He doesn’t think so. It was too dark. But he can’t rule it out.
“I’m awake. What is the purpose of your visit?”
“His Excellency is asking for you.”
There’s no way out, Niccolò thinks as he quickly opens the door. Rodriguez is alone.
“Has the duke returned?”
“This morning at dawn. He asks you to bring him what you have written.”
“I left it at the Rocca.”
Valentino is wearing neither his mask nor his gloves. He’s in his riding clothes and is covered in dust from traveling.
Dianora is nowhere to be seen. Had it all been a trap? The expression on the duke’s face seems friendly enough. Can Niccolò trust him?
“Welcome, Machiavelli. I was eager to see you and read the new pages.”
The duke appears to be in a good mood. He reaches out for the new chapter. Niccolò relaxes and hands him the black leather folder that contains the most recently completed section; Valentino opens it and picks up the first piece of paper.
“Before you begin reading, Your Excellency, I need to convey a message to you from the gonfalonier on behalf of the fate of Silvestro de’ Buosi, whom you are keeping prisoner. Pier Soderini offers a sincere apology if he has in some way offended you.”
Borgia’s brow furrows as he reflects on the case. “Silvestro de’ Buosi? Ah yes, Naldi’s troops captured him. They were furious with him and wanted to kill him.”
“The Republic would be both grateful and willing to offer a recompense if you would free him.”
“It’s already a great deal that he’s alive. I asked Naldi to spare his life even though he didn’t want to, but I certainly can’t free him. What do I stand to gain by helping one and offending many? I will order that he be treated with care, this much I can do.”
He looks down at the page and begins to read carefully, stopping here and there to ponder a passage, ignoring Niccolò, who stands nearby. Or perhaps he has forgotten about him entirely.
At least half an hour goes by before Cesare speaks. He seems transfixed; occasionally he nods lightly.
Outside the window, from the plains, comes the sound of soldiers training for battle under the command of military fife and drum units. The duke is so concentrated on what he is reading that he doesn’t even notice.
Finally he looks up and toward Niccolò but his eyes peer far off into the distance. “Your prose has a classical ring to it. I like it. Here and there it reminds me of Sallust.”
“Actually I was thinking of him while I wrote it.”
“You can tell, but only a careful eye would be able to detect it. I often read Sallust. And Tacitus, and Plutarch, too, as you know. At night, before falling asleep, their chronicles keep me company. I find them instructive.”
“I agree with you.”
“You did a very good job this time. The only thing that occurs to me is that you’re lacking in warfare experience.”
“I was present at—”
“—at many battles against Pisa, I know. But you were always in the background. You don’t know what a person feels during battle. Come, sit down, take notes.”
They sit down at the stone table. Valentino brusquely pushes away the stack of libelous writings, rests his forearms on the surface, and stares at Niccolò.
“It’s important to take the information that our subordinates report with a margin of error. When soldiers are sent out, they tend to see the enemies as being more numerous than they actually are.”
“So how do you make a decision?”
“I bring together all the information I have and then decide. On my own. If I am weak, I retreat. Otherwise I attack with a rapid offensive and always in places where the enemy doesn’t expect it, where he feels strong.”
“Strong?”
“Yes, although obviously not to an excessive degree. I always position my armies carefully before I go into battle. I station them in places where I can assemble them rapidly, in a single day. I can do battle against thirty thousand men with just ten thousand.”
Who exactly is he talking to now? His biographer or the envoy of the Republic? Perhaps both at the same time.
“Do you know what truly decides the outcome of a battle? What really pushes the soldiers forward? It’s the example of their superiors and the people alongside them. Yes, when we do battle, we’re . . . like brothers. And what guarantees victory is . . . the spirit that a true commander can arouse in his soldiers.”
“Spirit?”
“Yes. Spirit counts far more than weapons, which of course have to be the best. How do you think I conquered Romagna? Only with cannons? No, they would never have been enough on their own. My men were galvanized by desire. A desire for adventure and conquest that I managed to instill in them.”
“But what if the troops stop and panic in the midst of a battle? What if they retreat?”
“Then I make sure that the men who bring up the rear slay them.”
Niccolò continues to take notes. The fife and drums grow louder.
“Military life is the highest form of existence, believe me. In it lies the secret of power . . . ”
A decisive knock at the door interrupts them.
“Enter!” Valentino says, somewhat annoyed, but sits up when he sees a tense Corella coming toward him, accompanied by a messenger covered in dust.
Don Miguel announces that there’s news from the third district but before continuing he glances rapidly at Niccolò. Should he continue?
Cesare nods, he may.
Corella informs him that two villages have rebelled and chased out the garrison soldiers.
The work of Fosco Tinardeschi, Niccolò thinks to himself. While Borgia’s allies are proposing peace they are simultaneously preparing for war, perhaps to procure better conditions from the treaty that they’re currently negotiating.
Valentino is almost pleased by the news. “Good, Miguel! Sack and burn the villages! That will serve as an example and will rouse the soldiers’ spirits.”
He turns to Niccolò. As if dictating, he says, “It’s healthy when a conquered town fights back, much in the same way that certain illnesses, when well cured, make the organism stronger.”
He looks at Corella. “Show no pity. Raze the buildings to the ground, hang all rebel leaders, and slaughter their families.”
He turns back to Niccolò. “Rebels need to be punished swiftly. That’s how you keep your kingdom.”
Niccolò is stunned. As Borgia goes back to issuing orders to don Miguel on how and when and where to strike, Niccolò compares the man’s lucid ferocity with the dithering and irresolute conduct of the Dieci and I-have-faith, and thinks back to how especially ineffective the leaders were at the revolt of Arezzo, the summer before. They didn’t punish the city for rebelling, they left the walls intact, they sent in additional troops, and ordered the noblemen of Arezzo to come to Florence for a scolding. Talk instead of action. Words alone cannot keep the Republic standing.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Niccolò is distracted. The duke finishes giving instructions to Corella, who starts to leave, and the duke is now addressing him again.
“We were discussing what it means to do battle when we were interrupted. I want you to understand what I’m talking about, and experience is the best instructor. Miguel!”
Corella, already at the door, turns back. “Yes, my lord.”
“Before you leave, send me a fifer and a drummer. The best ones.”
Niccolò looks with curiosity at Valentino. What is he thinking?
“Follow me,” Cesare says and walks over to the balcony.
They step out into the bright sunshine. The two crossbowmen who stand at either end automatically raise their weapons and point them out at the plains.
Below, beyond the dry ditch, obeying the signals relayed to them by the fife and drum corps, are four companies of one hundred men. They’re simulating a deep attack against a hillock that is being defended, for the sake of the exercise, by two hundred soldiers spread out in five rows. The assailants advance in close-knit ranks, one after the next.
“Those men are all subjects of mine from Romagna, they’re the same men you saw marching in a disorganized manner under your window. They were farmers, with no experience of weapons. I entrusted them to my best trainers and now, in less than a month, they move as a compact unit. Look at how they immediately recognize the signals that are being communicated to them. Can you see? Each company has its own fifer and drummer, near the flag-bearer. Can you hear the beat of that drum? It’s from that company, the one farthest away, down there. That sound means: turn to the right. And do you hear the fifer? That means: to the attack.”
Niccolò watches as the troops indicated by Borgia change direction and begin to rush up the hill. Other signals directed to troops on the opposite side have them bend to the left and begin running up the hill. The two central groups maintain the pace. Then they, too, initiate a swift attack, following different signals.
“That’s the flanking maneuver, and it wasn’t terribly well executed. But they will improve. Soon I will be able to send them into battle and they will fight honorably.”
Niccolò realizes that Valentino is capably transforming simple peasants into his own private militia. He wonders whether Florence might ever do the same.
There’s the sound of footsteps behind them. The drummer and fifer have arrived.
“Do you want to try and control the troops, Niccolò? I will order them to follow the commands issued from up here. You merely have to tell the musicians where you want them to go and your commands will be translated into music.”
“I truly do not think I am capable, Your Excellency.”
“Try! It costs you nothing!”
Before he can even answer, Valentino has told the fifer and drummer to issue a command to the entire company: stop, listen, and prepare for commands to be executed as one unit.
“They’re all yours,” Cesare says, gesturing to the soldiers who have interrupted their assault exercise and are busily recomposing their ranks, only slightly ruffled after their running.
“What should I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stop wasting time.”
“I would like the troops to go around the hillock and approach one side of those who are defending it.”
“All together or one at a time?” the drummer asks him.
“All together.”
The drummer beats loudly on his drum, echoing from above, and the sound of the fife flies through the air over the plains. The four groups do an about-face, retreat about a hundred meters, shift their formation, and recompose themselves.
Then the music of the drummer and fifer changes. The four hundred soldiers obey.
Niccolò observes how the dark mass advances like a single person. He feels loftily surprised that he was the one who made it happen, almost noble. Something deeply primordial rises up inside him.
Borgia watches him attentively, judging him. “Are you beginning to understand what it means to be in command?”
Niccolò nods.
“There’s nothing quite like this feeling,” Valentino adds.
Niccolò, thrilled, issues another order for the musicians. “To the attack!”
The two men hesitate and glance at the duke.
“You want them to attack now?” Cesare asks to be certain and with some amusement.
“Now. Yes.”
Valentino smiles and turns to the drummer and fifer. “Obey him.”
There’s a fast roll of the drums, a shrill whistle from the fifer, and the troops rush forward in unison. The first line sinks into the ditch. A few of them clamber out, but before they can all emerge, the second line is already on top of them. Then the third line closes in and the soldiers fall together in a shapeless heap. The men in the final row stop short and lose formation.
Borgia bursts out laughing. “Didn’t you see the ditch?”
“No . . . ”
At a gesture from the duke, the fifer and drummer stop. Cesare can’t stop laughing. It’s contagious and soon Niccolò is laughing, too. The crossbowmen and players try not to chuckle but have a hard time of it.
“Do you know that those men think that I gave the order?”
Niccolò is mortified. He turns serious again.
“Don’t worry! It’s not serious! We’ll say it was that idiot of an ambassador from Ferrara, that I let him command briefly to please my sister, the Duchess, Her Ladyship,” Valentino says, laughing again. “I’m grateful for the distraction, thank you.” The duke wipes away a few tears and issues terse orders to the two musicians. The drummer drums, the fifer fifes. In the blink of an eye, the soldiers retreat. Those who fell down jump to their feet, and the rows are recomposed.
“Companies in line,” Borgia orders.
The men get line up.
“Half-moon formation.”
The mass of soldiers assumes the shape of a scythe.
“Advance at top speed.”
Dust rises from eight hundred feet running at the same time across the plain.
“Faster.”
The dust cloud grows thicker.
“Bend the tip of the half-moon toward the hillock, have the rest of the army follow. At the attack.”
The scythe attacks in one point only, cutting through the lines of defense. The two groups mix together.
Cesare looks over at Niccolò, who is watching in admiration.
“That’s what a commander can do. If this were a real battle, from this moment on everything would depend on the soldiers, as I was saying earlier.” He turns to the drummer and fifer. “Beat the retreat,” he orders. Then Cesare looks at Niccolò. “And you go back to your desk; it’s better for everyone.”