BOOK XII

'AUT CÆSAR AUT NIHIL.'

CÆSAR BORGIA.

1500-1503

'A prince must be a beast as well as a man.'

NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI.--_Il Principe._

I

'We, Cæsar Borgia of France, by the Grace of God, Duke of Romagna, Lord

of Piombino, Gonfaloniere of the Holy Roman Church, and Captain-General;

'To all our lieutenants, castellans, captains, condottieri, officers,

and subjects;

'We commend unto you the most famous and well-beloved Leonardo Vinci,

our architect and chief war-engineer, and command that ye give him

everywhere unhindered passage, permitting him to examine, measure, and

judge of everything he may desire to see in our fortresses, and

affording him all co-operation, and as many men as he may need to help

him. And we bid our other contractors to enter into accord in all

matters with the will of the above-mentioned Leonardo, to whom we

entrust the oversight of all the fortresses and castles in our

dominions.

'Given at Pavia on August 18th, in the year of our Lord, 1502, and

the second of our reign in Romagna.

'CÆSAR, dux Romandiolæ.'

So ran Leonardo's new credentials.

These were the years in which Cæsar Borgia was gradually recovering for

Alexander VI. the ancient States of the Church, said to have been

conferred on the papacy by Constantine the Great. He had taken the town

of Faenza from the eighteen-year-old Astorre Manfredi; and Forlì from

Caterina Sforza. The lad and the woman had been confided to his

protection. He threw them both into the Castle of St. Angelo. He

concluded a fraudulent treaty with the Duke of Urbino, and in 1502

planned a campaign against Bologna. He was intent upon making himself

sole and absolute ruler of Italy. In September his enemies, including

the dukes of Perugia and Siena, as well as other important personages,

assembled at Mugione, and concluded a secret alliance against him.

Vitellozzo Vitelli swore the oath of Hannibal, that within a year he

would slay, imprison, or exile the common foe. Report of this alliance

having been bruited abroad, it was joined by some of the greater

princes. Urbino rose in revolt; Cæsar's own troops mutinied; the King of

France was slow in coming to his help; he seemed on the verge of ruin.

Nevertheless he still had resources, and his enemies were dilatory. The

opportunity was let slip, and presently these, his allied enemies,

entered into negotiations with the usurper. He overreached them,

contriving to set them at variance with each other; by profound

dissimulation and courteous manners converted them to a more or less

favourable attitude; and presently made an urgent appointment to meet

his foes in parley at the newly-conquered town of Sinigaglia.

Leonardo had quickly become a prominent personage at Cæsar's court. The

duke employed him in adorning the various towns with palaces, libraries,

schools, barracks, and canals. He constructed engines of war, made

military maps, and was present at all Cæsar's bloodiest exploits.

Leonardo did not wish to see too clearly, or to know too accurately,

what was taking place around him. He eschewed politics. He confined

himself almost entirely to observations on physical and social

phenomena: the manner of planting orchards, the machinery for ringing

the bells at Siena Cathedral, the low music of the falling water in the

fountain of Rimini, the dove-cot in the Castle of Urbino. He noted how

the shepherds at the foot of the Apennines placed their horns in the

narrow openings of deep hollows, so that echo should increase the volume

of their sound. For whole days he stood on the desolate shore of

Piombino, watching the falling of the waves; and while all around him

the laws of human justice were being broken, mused on the invariability

of nature, and found deep-seated joy in the eternal justice of the Prime

Mover.

On a day in June the corpses of the young Astorre and his brother were

found in the Tiber, stones tied round their necks. The crime was

universally attributed to Cæsar. But that day Leonardo noted--

'In Romagna four-wheeled carts are used, the front wheels small, the

back large: the construction is faulty, for all the weight rests on the

front.'

II

In the latter half of December 1503 the Duke of Valentinois, with his

whole court, moved from Cesena to Fano, on the shores of the Adriatic,

twenty miles from Sinigaglia, where the meeting was appointed with his

former enemies, Oliverotto da Fermo, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and Gian Paolo

Baglioni. A few days later Leonardo came from Pesaro to join his patron.

On the way he was overtaken by a storm. The mountains were covered with

impassable snow-drifts, the mules slipped on the ice; great waves were

heard breaking on the seashore at the foot of the precipice. As darkness

came on the travellers lost the path, and, dropping the reins, they

trusted themselves to the instinct of their beasts. The mule Leonardo

was riding suddenly stopped and grew restive, scenting the corpse of a

man who had been hanged, which still dangled from the branch of a

solitary tree.

At last they saw a distant light, and the guide recognised the inn at

Novilara, a mountain town half way between Pesaro and Fano. The

travellers quickened their steps, and presently were knocking at the

massive entrance door, studded with nails like the gate of a fortress. A

sleepy ostler came first; then the landlord, who declined to receive the

new arrivals. All his rooms, all his stables were overfilled; there was

not a bed in which three or four were not sleeping--all persons of

quality, soldiers and courtiers of the duke's suite.

Leonardo told his name and exhibited his credentials, sealed with the

duke's seal. The host poured forth a torrent of apology, and made offer

of his own chamber, which at present contained only three French

captains, all passably drunk and sound asleep.

Leonardo entered the kitchen, which according to the wont of the Romagna

inns served also as a parlour. It was very dirty, with patches of damp

on the bare walls; guinea-fowl were sleeping on their perches, and baby

porkers squeaking round the door; onions, gherkins, and sausages were

suspended from the ceiling. A whole pig was roasting before the immense

glowing fire. Guests crowded at long tables, drinking and quarrelling

over cards.

Leonardo sat down by the stove, and presently, at a square board close

by, he saw Baldassarre Scipioni, an old man, formerly captain of the

duke's Lancers; Alessandro Spanocchia, the treasurer; Pandolfo

Collenuccio, legate from Ferrara, and a fourth gentleman, a stranger,

who was gesticulating forcibly, and crying in a thin squeaky voice:--

'I can prove this also, _Messeri_! I can prove this by instances from

ancient and from modern history! Call to mind the states which have

acquired military glory--Romans, Spartans, Athenians, Ætolians, and the

trans-Alpine hordes. All the great commanders collected their armies

from the citizens of their own country. Ninus from the Assyrians, Cyrus

from the Persians, Alexander from the Macedonians. I grant you that

Pyrrhus and Hannibal won victories by means of mercenaries, but these

were generals of exceptional genius. Nor must ye forget my main

proposition--the very corner-stone of military science--viz., that in

infantry, and infantry alone, lies the strength of an army. Not in

cavalry, not in fire-arms and powder, ridiculous toy inventions of

modern times.'

'You go too far, Messer Niccolò,' replied the captain of lancers with a

smile; 'fire-arms are becoming of some importance. Whatever you say

about the Romans and the Spartans, I venture to think our troops are

much better equipped. A squadron of our French soldiers, or a battery of

thirty bombards, would have made short work of your ancient Romans.'

'Sophisms! Sophisms!' retorted Messer Niccolò with increasing

excitement. 'I perceive in your words fearfully perilous error! Some day

the Italians will be taught, by a rude lesson, the weakness of mercenary

armies, and the pitiful powerlessness of cavalry and artillery. Remember

how the handfuls of Lucullus routed 150,000 horsemen, among whom were

cohorts of mounted men exactly similar to the squadrons of the present

French cavalry!'

Leonardo looked curiously at this man who spoke like an eye-witness of

the victories of Lucullus. The stranger wore a long garment of dark red

cloth, falling in straight folds; it resembled that worn by the

statesmen of the Florentine Republic and the secretaries of the

embassies. It was, however, old and stained. The sleeves were

threadbare, and such linen as was to be seen was frayed and soiled. The

man had great bony hands, copiously dyed with ink, and a wart on one

finger. There was little dignity in his air; he was lean and narrow

shouldered, about forty years of age, and with sharp irregular features.

Sometimes when he was speaking he would look over the head of his

interlocutor, as if peering into space like some long-sighted rapacious

bird. In his restless movements, in the feverish flush of his swarthy

cheeks, above all, in the intentness of his large grey eyes, there was

evidence of smouldering fire within. The eyes themselves were malicious;

yet at times, in their sardonic smile, in their cold displeasure, there

was an expression of weakness almost pathetic.

Messer Niccolò continued to pour forth his notions; and Leonardo

marvelled at the strange mixture of truth and error in his talk, at his

audacity, and his slavish appeal to the authority of the ancients. He

approved him when he spoke of the scientific difficulty in using guns of

large calibre, owing to the inaccuracy of their range; but the next

minute he asserted that fortresses were useless, because the Spartans

and the Romans built none. He appeared to regard the opinions of the

Greeks and Romans much as Leonardo regarded mathematical axioms. The

latter, however, did not hear the conclusion of the dispute, as the

landlord called him to the bedchamber reserved for him upstairs.

III

It snowed all night, and in the morning the guide refused to continue

the journey, the weather being in his opinion not fit even for a dog to

go out in. Leonardo was forced to remain at the inn. He amused himself

trying a self-turning roasting-spit which he had invented.

'With this mechanism,' he expounded to the astonished onlookers, 'the

cook need have no fear of burning the meat, for the action of the fire

remains even. With increase of heat it turns faster, that is all.'

It would seem that the success of his flying-machine could hardly have

afforded him greater pleasure than the perfection of this cooking

engine.

In the same room Messer Niccolò was explaining to certain young

artillery sergeants an infallible system, based on abstract mathematics,

for winning at dice--'circumventing,' as he called it, 'the caprices of

the strumpet Fortune.' Every time he tried to give a practical

illustration of its value, he lost, greatly to his own astonishment and

to the amusement of his audience. The conclusion of the game was

unexpected and not entirely to Messer Niccolò's glory. It revealed that

his pouch was empty, and that he could not meet his losses.

Late that evening there arrived another guest, with a great array of

servants, pages, grooms, jesters, negroes, animals, boxes, and chests.

It was the elegant Venetian courtesan, the _magnifica meretrice_, Lena

Griffi, who had been so nearly despoiled by Savonarola's 'youthful

inquisitors.' Two years ago, following the example of many of her

sisterhood, the repentant Magdalen had cut her hair and shut herself up

in a convent. This was, however, merely an artifice to raise her price

in the city tariff of courtesans, drawn up for the use of strangers.

From the monastic chrysalis she had emerged like a butterfly awakened to

a new and more splendid life. Very soon the _mammola veneziana_ had

risen to great celebrity, and had fashioned for herself, according to

the usage of the principal courtesans, a fine genealogical-tree, by

which it appeared that she was the daughter of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza,

brother of Ludovico, Duke of Milan. She became the mistress of an old

and doting cardinal, whose infirmities were palliated by his wealth, and

was now journeying to Fano, where her elderly lover was attached to

Cæsar Borgia's camp. The host could not refuse admission to so exalted a

personage. He accommodated her suite by turning out certain Ancona

merchants from a fair-sized bedroom, housing them in the forge, and

promising them a reduction in their bill. Similar treatment he proposed

for Messer Niccolò and his room-mates, the French captains, in order to

provide a chamber for the lady herself.

Messer Niccolò, however, protested, and grew very angry, asking the

landlord if he had lost his reason, if he knew with whom he was

speaking? if it were not unheard-of insolence to insult respectable

people for the pleasing of the first jade tumbled in out of the street?

Here intervened the hostess, a masterful lady who, in the words of the

proverb, had not 'pawned her tongue to a Jew'; she suggested that before

making so much noise he had better pay the bill for himself, his

servant, and his three horses; and also return the four ducats lent him

last Friday by her husband. And she added, in a stage whisper, that she

wished a bad Easter to all the adventurers and beggars who swarmed on

the high roads, and, pretending to be great ones, lived at free quarters

and mocked at honest people. No doubt there was some applicability in

all this, for Messer Niccolò was reduced to silence, and seemed

considering how he could retire with the best grace from his position.

Meantime servants were already removing his goods, and Madonna Lena's

monkey was grimacing at him, and jumping over the table among his papers

and great leather books, the _Decades_ of Livy and Plutarch's _Lives_.

Leonardo now approached and said, raising his berretto:--

'Messere, if it would please you to share my room, I shall account it an

honour, if your worship will permit me to render so slight a service.'

Niccolò seemed astonished, and even confused; recovering himself,

however, he accepted the offer with suitable thanks. Leonardo took him

to his room, and assigned him the best place. The more he looked at this

strange man the more attractive and interesting did he seem to him. He

presently learned his name: He was Machiavelli, secretary to the Council

of Ten in the Florentine Republic.

Three months earlier the astute and vigilant Signoria had sent

Machiavelli to make a treaty with Cæsar Borgia. The latter had proposed

a defensive alliance against their common enemies, Bentivoglio, the

Vitelli, and the Orsini; but the Florentines, fearing the duke too much

to desire either his friendship or his enmity, had commanded their envoy

to meet his propositions merely with diplomatic and ambiguous

expressions of goodwill, and secretly to obtain free passage for their

traders through the duke's territory along the shores of the Adriatic, a

matter of no small importance to their commerce.

Leonardo also disclosed his name and rank; and soon he and his new

friend were conversing with that ease and mutual confidence occasionally

natural to persons of opposite character, and habitually solitary and

meditative.

'Messere,' burst out Niccolò, and his candour was not unattractive, 'I

know you by repute as a great painter; but I warn you I have no

knowledge of painting, nor am I even fond of it. Of course you may

respond, as did Dante to the street mocker who offered him a fig, "I

wouldn't change one of mine for twenty of yours!" but I confess I am

more interested in having learnt from the duke that you are an expert in

military science. How important that is! Civil greatness is founded upon

war, and depends on the regular army. I am writing a book on monarchies

and republics, wherein I shall discuss the natural laws which govern the

life, growth, decline, and death of every state, just like a

mathematician discussing the laws of number, or a natural philosopher

physics. Hitherto, sir, all who have written about the state----'

Here he stopped, and chid himself with a good-humoured smile.

'Forgive me, Messere, I am taking a mean advantage. It may be that

policy interests you as little as painting interests me?'

'Not so,' said Leonardo. 'I tell you candidly I don't affect statecraft,

because such talk is apt to be idle. But your opinions are so new and

surprising, that, believe me, I am thrice happy to learn.'

'Beware, Messer Leonardo,' said the other; 'these matters are my

hobby-horse. I will go without bread, if I may but talk upon politics

with a man of understanding. The mischief is, to find the man of

understanding! Our great ones think of naught but the price of wool and

of silk, while I' (he smiled bitterly) 'am made of neither.'

Leonardo reassured him, and added, in order to keep the conversation

going:--

'You have said, Messere, that politics should be an exact science

founded upon mathematics, like mechanics, which finds its certainty in

the observation and experience of nature. Did I understand you aright?'

'Perfectly!' cried Machiavelli, frowning, and looking into space beyond

his companion's head, with that air of a far-sighted bird habitual to

him. 'I desire to reveal a new thing to men about human affairs. The

Laws of nature, which are outside man's will, outside good and evil, are

the laws which guide the life of every society. All former writers on

this subject have dealt with the good and the bad, the noble and the

base. I do not concern myself with governments which ought to be, nor

with what seems to be, but with that which really is. I inquire into the

nature of the great bodies, known as republics and monarchies, and I

commit myself neither to praise nor to blame, like a mathematician or an

anatomist. I will tell men the truth, even if they burn me for it, as

they burned Fra Girolamo. For the task is dangerous.'

Leonardo smiled, observing Machiavelli's excitement, and thought: 'With

what passion he praises dispassionateness!'

'Messer Niccolò,' he said aloud, 'if you succeed according to your

intentions, you will have done more than Euclid or Archimedes.'

Leonardo was struck by the unconventionality of what he had heard. He

remembered how, thirteen years earlier, he had himself written on the

margin of certain anatomical sketches:--

'May the Most High assist me to study the nature of human beings, their

temperaments and habits, even as here I have studied their internal

organs!'

IV

Suddenly Machiavelli exclaimed, his eyes sparkling merrily: 'The more I

listen to you, Messer Leonardo, the more I am astounded that we should

have met. Some most rare combination of the stars! The minds of men are,

I protest, of three qualities. First, those who see of themselves;

secondly, those who see when they are shown; thirdly, those who see not

of themselves, neither see when they are shown. Your worship, and I

myself (for I would not be guilty of false modesty) belong to the first

category. But you laugh? Ah! such a meeting will not easily come to me

again on this side the grave, for on earth the elect are few. Permit me

to read you a most beautiful piece of Livy.'

He took a book from the table, adjusted the tallow candle, put on iron

spectacles (broken and tied up with string), the large round glasses of

which gave him a grave and devout expression, as if he were addressing

himself to some act of worship. But no sooner had he found his passage,

and opened his lips, than the door opened, and a little wrinkled old

woman came in, curtseying and bowing.

'I crave your pardon, gentlemen, for this annoyance,' she mumbled, 'but

my illustrious lady, Madonna Lena Griffi, has lost her favourite

animal--a rabbit with a blue ribbon round its neck. We have searched two

hours for it, but vainly.'

'There are no rabbits here,' said Messer Niccolò, angrily; 'go to the

devil!' And he was about to eject her, but suddenly checked himself, and

having looked at her narrowly, both with and without his spectacles, he

cried:--

'Monna Alvigia! Is it really you, you old witch? I thought the devil had

long ago roasted your old carcase!'

The woman blinked and cowered, answering his polite greeting with a

sorry smile.

'Oh, Messer Niccolò! how many years, how many winters since we have seen

each other! I had never expected God would give us this pleasure again!'

Machiavelli invited the old woman to follow him to the kitchen for a

crack; but Leonardo, providing himself with a book and seating himself

in a corner, begged them to remain. Then Messer Niccolò sent for wine

with a lordly air, as if he were the most honoured guest in the inn.

'Hark ye, friend,' he said to the servant who took his order, 'bid that

skinflint, your master, beware how he serve us that acid stuff we had

yesterday, for Monna Alvigia and I are like Arlotto the priest, who

would not kneel if the wine were bad.'

Monna Alvigia forgot her rabbit and Niccolò his Livy; over their pitcher

of wine they gossiped like old friends. Alvigia told tales of her youth

when she had been fair to see and much courted, and she had done what

she wished and it had not mattered what she did. Had she not once in

Padua lifted the mitre from the head of the bishop and placed it upon

her own? But years passed by, and her beauty faded, and her lovers

abandoned her, and she had to support herself by hiring rooms and by

taking in washing. Then she fell ill, and she thought of sitting among

the beggars at the church door, and even of ending herself by poison.

But the Holy Virgin came to her aid and rescued her from death. With

the aid of an old abbot, who was in love with the young wife of a

blacksmith, she entered upon a trade far more profitable than that of a

laundress.

The story was interrupted by a summons from Madonna Lena, who required

pomade for her monkey's wounded paw, and Boccaccio's _Decameron_, which

she always kept under her pillow beside her prayer-book.

The old woman gone, Messer Niccolò mended a pen, took paper, and began

his report to the Magnificent Signori of Florence, on the dispositions

and actions of the Duke of Valentinois, a piece of profound

statesmanship, written in easy, almost jocular style.

'Messere' he exclaimed, raising his eyes to Leonardo, 'confess I

surprised you by my sudden passage from discussion of the virtue of

ancient Sparta to vain gossip about women with that old hag! Judge me

not too harshly! We must imitate nature. Are we not men? Is it not

legended that Aristotle, in the very presence of Alexander his pupil,

permitted the leman whom he loved to ride on his back while he caracoled

on all fours? Shall simple sinners be more discreet?'

By this time the household slept. All was silent save for the chirp of

the cricket, the muttering of Monna Alvigia, and the growling of the

monkey as she anointed its paw. Leonardo had gone to bed, but lay

watching his quaint companion, who still gnawed his pen and stooped over

his writing. The candle flame threw on the wall a vast shadow of his

head with its sharp-cut angles, its protruding lower lip, its thin neck

and long beak-like nose. Having finished his report he sealed it up, and

wrote the words usual on despatches: '_Cito, citissime, celerrime_.'

Then he opened his Livy and pursued his occupation of many years, the

compiling of notes for the _Decades_.

The shadow on the wall danced and wavered and grimaced as the candle

flickered and burned low; but the face of the Florentine secretary

preserved its stern and dignified calm; the reflection of the greatness

of ancient Rome. Only in the depth of his eyes, in the corners of his

lips there showed sometimes a two-faced cunning, a mocking cynicism.

V

Next day the storm was over. The sun sparkled on the frozen windows; the

snowy fields and hills, soft as down, shone dazzlingly white under the

azure sky. His companion was no longer in the room when Leonardo awoke.

He dressed and descended to the kitchen where, to the joy of the cook, a

joint was roasting on the automatic spit.

He ordered his mule and sat down to breakfast. Beside him was Messer

Niccolò talking excitedly to a couple of newcomers. One of these was a

faultlessly fashionable youth with an undistinguished face, a certain

Messer Lucio, related to Francesco Vettori. This Vettori was a man of

note in Florence, intimately connected with Piero Soderini the

_Gonfaloniere_, and very favourably disposed to Machiavelli. He had sent

Lucio with letters to Messer Niccolò from his friends.

'Be not disquieted about the money,' Lucio was saying; 'my uncle assures

me that last Thursday the Signori promised----'

'But, my dear sir,' interrupted Machiavelli, 'can two servants and three

horses be fed with promises? At Imola I received sixty ducats and paid

debts of seventy. If it were not for the compassion of the benevolent,

the secretary of the Florentine Republic would starve. It is vain for

the Signori to talk of the honour of their town if they force the man

whom they send to a strange court to beg for his sheer necessities.'

Messer Niccolò knew these complaints were useless, but it solaced him to

make them. The kitchen being nearly empty, he spoke without reserve.

'Here is our fellow-citizen, Messer Leonardo da Vinci--the

_Gonfaloniere_ must know him,' resumed Machiavelli, indicating the

painter, to whom Lucio bowed courteously. 'Messer Leonardo was witness

only last night of the humiliations to which I am daily subjected. I

demand--hear you?--I do not ask, but I demand leave to resign my

office,' he concluded, his anger still waxing, and addressing the young

Florentine as if he saw in him the whole Magnificent Signoria. 'I am a

poor man, sir, and my affairs go from bad to worse, and my health

likewise. If matters continue as they are I shall return home in my

coffin. Moreover I have done all which is possible to do, with the poor

powers accorded me. To drag out the negotiation, to go around and

about, one step forward and two steps back, "I will" and "I won't"--that

is not work for me! The duke is too clever for such childishness! Well,

I have written to your uncle----'

'My uncle,' interrupted Lucio, 'will doubtless do all he can for you,

Messer Niccolò; but the Magnificent Ten, to tell truth, consider your

reports so essential to the weal of the republic that they will not

permit you to retire. "Who is there," they say, "able to take his place?

He is a man of gold; he is the ear and the eye of our commonwealth!" I

swear to you, Messere, that your letters have so great a success in

Florence that you could not desire a greater. All are bewitched by the

incomparable felicity of your style. My uncle informed me that at a late

meeting in the council chamber, upon the reading of one of your merry

letters, the Signori burst themselves with laughter----'

'Oh, that's it, is it?' exclaimed Machiavelli, his face contorted with

rage. 'Ah, now I understand! My letters are amusing to the Magnificent

Signori; they burst themselves with laughter, and they admire my

diction. Thank God, Niccolò Machiavelli is capable of something! Yet I

live here like a dog, I freeze and go hungry, I shake with fever, and am

insulted by landlords, all for the good of the republic. The devil take

the republic, and the _Gonfaloniere_ too, snivelling old woman! May you

all be buried unshriven and uncoffined!' And he burst into the vulgar

vituperation of the market-place, helplessly furious at the thought of

these chiefs of the people, so utterly despicable, and yet his masters.

To divert his thoughts Lucio handed him a letter from his young wife,

Marietta; a few lines written in a round childish hand on coarse grey

paper.

'_Carissimo Niccolò mio_,' so she wrote, 'I am told that in those parts,

where you are now, fevers and other sicknesses abound. You may fancy my

care for you. My thoughts give me no peace day nor night. The boy, thank

God, is well. He grows apace, and is like you. His little face is white

as the snowdrift, but his head, with its thick black curls, is like

yours. He seems beautiful to me because he is like you. He is lively and

merry as though he were a year old. Believe me, directly he was born he

opened his eyes and he shouted with a voice which filled the house. I

pray you, forget us not. I entreat, return to us at the earliest moment,

for to wait longer passeth my endurance. And, meanwhile, may the Lord

protect you, and the blessed Virgin! I send you two shirts and two

handkerchiefs and a towel. Your,

MARIETTA in Florence.

Leonardo observed that Machiavelli reading this letter seemed another

man. His face lit up with a tender smile not to be expected on his harsh

features. The smile, however, quickly disappeared. He shrugged his

shoulders, crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pouch, then said

savagely--

'Who told her I was ill?'

'Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio, 'every day Monna Marietta has been to

the members of the council asking for you, and inquiring where you are

and how you fare.'

'I know! I know! 'Twas like to be so. Affairs of state should be

reserved for celibates. One of the two--politics or a wife--not both.'

Then he turned abruptly and said, 'And you yourself, good youth; you are

perhaps thinking of wedding?'

'Not at present, Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio.

'Never commit that folly; unless you have the shoulders of Atlas. Eh!

Messer Leonardo?'

The painter understood that Messer Niccolò loved Marietta passionately,

but was ashamed to admit the fact.

The inn was now emptying fast; Leonardo prepared for his start and

invited Machiavelli to ride with him. But Messer Niccolò shook his head,

saying he must wait for money from Florence before he could pay his

bill. He spoke sadly, his assumed levity having suddenly collapsed. He

looked ill and wretched. Inaction, long stay in one place was misery to

him. Not without cause had the Council of Ten complained of his

frequent, causeless, and unexpected removals, which were great

embarrassment to their affairs.

Leonardo took him aside and offered to lend the requisite money.

Machiavelli declined.

'You hurt me, my friend,' said the painter; 'remember this rare

conjunction of the stars! You would confer a benefit upon me.'

There was so much kindness in Leonardo's voice that Messer Niccolò had

not the courage to persist in his refusal. He took twenty ducats which

he promised to return on receipt of his money from Florence; then

immediately paid his score, with the lavishness of a great noble.

VI

They started. The morning was calm and exquisite; the air, still

freezing in the shade, was in the sunshine almost spring-like in its

warmth. The deep blue-shadowed snow crackled under the feet of the

beasts. Between the white hills shone the pale green of the winter sea,

and yellow lateen sails glanced here and there like poised butterflies.

Niccolò talked, jested, and laughed. Every trifle excited him to some

amusing or cynical reflection.

Passing a fishing village the travellers saw a group of fat and jolly

friars on the church steps selling rosaries to the women, whose husbands

and brothers stood aloof staring stupidly.

'Fools!' shouted Messer Niccolò, 'know you not that fat easily goes

aflame; and that holy fathers like pretty women not only to call them

fathers but to make them so?'

Leonardo asked him what he had thought of Savonarola. Niccolò replied

that at one time he had been Fra Girolamo's zealous partisan, hoping to

find him the saviour of his country; but too soon he had begun to see

the weakness of the prophet.

'The whole splenetic gang became nauseous to me,' he mused. 'I detest

even to think of it. The devil take them!' he added energetically.

VII

About noon they rode in at the gates of Fano. The houses were alive with

Cæsar's courtiers, captains, and troopers. Two rooms in the best

situation had been assigned to the ducal engineer; he offered one of

them to his travelling companion, who in such a crowd might have had

difficulty in procuring a lodging.

Machiavelli presented himself at once at the palace, and when he

returned he brought important news.

Don Ramiro de Lorqua, who had been governing in the duke's name, had

been executed. On Christmas day the people had found the headless corpse

wallowing on the ground in a pool of blood, an axe beside it, the

ghastly head stuck on a spear.

'The cause of the execution is unknown,' said Messer Niccolò, 'but 'tis

the talk of the whole town. Let us go together and listen to the

conjectures of the rabble. 'Tis an opportunity to study the natural laws

of politics.'

Before the old cathedral of San Fortunato a crowd was expecting the

coming forth of the duke, who was about to review his troops. Leonardo

and Machiavelli joined the throng in which but one subject was being

discussed.

'I can make nothing of it,' said a young workman with a dull,

good-natured face. 'I thought Don Ramiro had been loved and enriched

above all the court.'

'The very reason of his chastisement,' replied a respectable shopkeeper,

dressed in a squirrel pelisse; 'Don Ramiro has been deceiving our duke.

He has oppressed, imprisoned, plundered the people. Before his lord he

wore sheep's clothing; he fancied things hid were not things forbid. But

his hour came; the sovereign's patience was exhausted, and for the good

of the people he did not spare his friend; he cut off his head without

trial, without hesitation, without delay, as a warning to others. Now

they see how terrible is the duke's wrath, how impartial his justice. He

puts down the mighty from their seats and exalteth them of low degree.'

'_Reges eos in virga ferrea_,' declaimed a monk. 'Thou rulest them with

a rod of iron.'

'Ay, ay! They need an iron rod, the sons of dogs, the oppressors of the

people!'

'He knows when to pardon, and when to strike.'

'We want no better sovereign.'

'Truly,' said a peasant, 'the Lord has at last had pity on Romagna.

Before, there was flaying both of the living and of the dead and the

taxes were our starvation. The last pair of oxen in our stalls had to

go! But since the Duke Valentino came we have been able to breathe. May

the Lord keep him in health!'

'And the judges!' said the shopkeeper; 'their delay used to eat one's

very heart! 'Tis different now.'

'He has protected the orphan and consoled the widow,' put in the monk.

'He is merciful. 'Tis not to be denied he is merciful to the people.'

'He gives offence to none.'

'O Santo Iddio!' murmured a feeble old woman, beside herself with

admiration; 'may the Blessed Virgin preserve to us our father, our

benefactor, our bright sun!'

'Do you hear them?' whispered Machiavelli. '_Vox populi vox dei._ I have

always said one must be in the plains to see the mountains; one must be

among the people to know the sovereign. I'd like to get them here, those

folk who call the duke a tyrant! These things are hid from the wise and

prudent, but revealed unto the simple.'

Martial music was heard and the crowd was astir.

'He comes! Look!'

They stood on tiptoe and craned their necks, curious heads were thrust

from windows, women and girls, their eyes full of love, ran out on the

balconies and _loggie_ to see their hero, _Cesare bello e

biondo_--'Cæsar, the blond and beautiful.' It was rare good luck, for he

hardly ever showed himself to the people.

The musicians walked first, making a deafening clatter of kettledrums in

time with the heavy tread of the soldiers. Next came the duke's

Romagnole guard, all picked and handsome men, carrying halberts three

cubits long. They wore cuirasses, and helmets of steel, and their

garments were parti-coloured, the right side yellow, the left red.

Niccolò could not admire enough this truly Roman array. After the guard

came equerries and pages, in clothes of unsurpassed splendour; camisoles

of gold brocade, mantles of pounce velvet with gold-embroidered

slashings, their scabbards and belts of snakes' scales, with knobs

representing the seven heads of the viper vomiting poison--the

cognisance of the Borgias. Embroidered on their breasts was the word,

'Cæsar.' They were followed by the bodyguard, Albanian _stradiotes_,

with curved yataghans. Then Bartolomeo Capranica, the _Maestro del

Campo_, carried the naked sword of the Gonfaloniere of the Roman Church.

After him came the ruler of Romagna himself, Cæsar Borgia, Duke of

Valentinois. He was mounted on a black Barbary stallion, with a diamond

sun on its headband: he wore a pale blue silk mantle with the white

lilies of France embroidered in pearls, and a corselet wrought into the

gaping mouth of a lion. His helmet was a dragon, with scales, wings, and

fins of wrought brass, resounding at every movement.

At this time Cæsar Borgia was six and twenty; his face had grown thin

and worn since Leonardo had seen him at Louis XII.'s court at Milan.

His features were sharper, and his eyes, with their glow like polished

steel, were graver and more impenetrable. His hair and pointed beard had

darkened; his long nose seemed more aquiline. Complete serenity still

reigned upon his impassive face; only now there was a look of still more

strenuous daring, of terrifying keenness, like the edge of a bared and

sharpened sword.

The duke was followed by his artillery, the best in Italy. Brass

culverins, falconets, iron mortars firing stones--drawn by oxen, their

heavy chariots rolling along with a dull roar and mixing with the voices

of the trumpets and kettledrums. In the glow of the setting sun, cannon,

cuirasses, helmets, spears, flashed lightning; Cæsar was riding in the

imperial purple of a conqueror, straight towards the immense blood-red

sun.

The crowd gazed at the hero in silence, holding its breath, wishing, yet

fearing, to greet him with applause, in an ecstasy of admiration akin to

terror. Tears flowed down the cheeks of the old beggar woman, and she

murmured:--

'Holy saints! Holy mother! The Lord has permitted me to see his face! O,

our beauteous sun!'

The flashing sword entrusted to Cæsar by the pope was the fiery glaive

of the archangel Michael himself.

Leonardo smiled, seeing on Machiavelli's face the very same look of

artless enthusiasm.

VIII

On reaching home Leonardo found a letter from Messer Agapito, bidding

him wait on his Excellency the next day. A little later, Lucio, who was

passing through Fano on his way to Ancona, came in for a visit, and

Machiavelli spoke to him of the execution of Don Ramiro de Lorqua.

'To divine the real reasons for the actions of a ruler like Cæsar

Borgia, is almost impossible,' he said, 'but as you ask me what I think

of this deed, I will tell you. Till its conquest by the duke, Romagna

was under the yoke of a number of petty tyrants, and full of disorder,

plundering and violence. To end this state of turbulence Cæsar appointed

his astute and faithful servant, Don Ramiro, as his lieutenant. This man

accomplished his task; he inspired the people with a salutary terror,

and established perfect tranquillity throughout the country, but he did

it by a long series of cruel punishments. When the prince saw that his

object was gained he determined to destroy the instrument of his

severity. Don Ramiro has been seized, on the ground of extortion, and

executed; his dead body lies exposed to public view. This terrible

spectacle has at once gratified and awed the people. The duke's action

has been wise, for he has reaped three clear advantages. First, he has

slain the tyrants; secondly, by condemning Ramiro he has disassociated

himself from his lieutenant's ferocity and so has gained a character for

gentleness; thirdly, by sacrificing his favourite servant he has set an

example of incorruptible equity.'

Machiavelli spoke in a low dry voice, with expressionless countenance,

as if stating his reasoning on some theorem.

'From your own words, Messer Niccolò,' cried Lucio, 'I perceive that

this supposed equity is the excess of villainy!'

Sparks of fire appeared in the secretary's eyes, but he looked away and

spoke as coldly as before.

'It may be so,' he assented, 'but what of it?'

'What of it? Would you approve such scoundrelly statecraft?'

'Young man, you speak with the inexperience of youth. In politics, the

difference between the way men should and the way they do act, is so

great, that to forget it means to expose yourself to certain ruin. For

all men are by nature evil and vicious; they are virtuous only for

advantage or through fear. A prince who would avoid ruin, must at all

hazards learn the art of appearing virtuous; and he must be or not be

virtuous as the case may require. He must disregard all uneasiness of

conscience as to those secret measures without which the preservation of

power is impossible; for upon accurate knowledge of the nature of good

and evil, it is clear that the power of a prince will often be

undermined by his virtuous actions and augmented by his crimes.'

Lucio again protested. 'Reasoning thus,' he cried, 'anything would be

permissible, and there is no wickedness which you could not justify!'

'That is so,' replied Machiavelli with perfect serenity, and, as if

insisting upon the significance of his words, he raised his hand and

added solemnly: 'All is permissible to the man who knows how to rule.'

Then he resumed in his former dry tone of ratiocination, 'Therefore, I

conclude that the severity of the Duke of Valentinois, who has put an

end to pillage and violence throughout Romagna, has been more rational

and no less merciful than the leniency of our Florentines, who have

permitted continued revolts and have fomented disorder in all the

provinces under their sway. For it is better to strike down a few than

bring a whole state to ruin as result of its licence.'

'But,' said Lucio, somewhat overwhelmed, 'have there been no rulers that

were strangers to this cruelty? Think of Antoninus and Marcus Aurelius.'

'Do not forget, Messere, that I am discussing the government of

conquered, not of hereditary principalities; and the acquisition, not

the maintenance, of authority. The emperors you have named could afford

clemency, because in the preceding years there had been sufficiency of

bloody deeds. The founder of Rome slew his brother--a horrid crime--but

this fratricide was necessary to the establishment of a sole authority,

without which Rome would have perished from the weakness consequent on

domestic strife. Who shall be able certainly to balance a single

fratricide against all the virtue and wisdom of the Eternal City?

Doubtless we ought to prefer the most humble fortune to greatness

founded upon evil deeds; but he who has once abandoned the path of

abstract righteousness, must, if he would not perish, walk resolutely in

the path of evil and follow it to the end: for men revenge themselves

only for small offences, great offences depriving them of the power of

revenge. Therefore, a prince must inflict only serious injuries on his

subjects, and must refrain from minor injustices. Yet the generality

persist in choosing the middle course between wrong and right, which is

the most perilous. They recoil from crimes which demand great courage,

and commit only vulgar baseness which profits them not.'

'Your words make my hair stand on end, Messer Niccolò,' said Lucio, much

shocked, but thinking a jest the most courteous form of reply: 'You may

speak the truth, but I shall flatly refuse to believe these your real

opinions.'

'Truths always seem improbable,' said Machiavelli dryly.

Leonardo, who was listening, had already observed that Messer Niccolò,

while pretending indifference, was casting sly glances at Lucio as if

to gauge the effect his words were producing. It was evident that

Machiavelli had little self-command, was not possessed of calm and

conquering strength. Unwilling to think like other men, hating the

commonplace, he had fallen into the opposite error, into exaggeration,

into the affectation of views rare and startling, but incomplete and

paradoxical. He played with such words as _virtue_ and _ferocity_, much

as a juggler plays with naked swords. He had a whole armoury of these

polished, shining, tempting and dangerous weapons, ready for the

disabling of men like Messer Lucio; men of the herd, respectable,

sensible, conventional. He punished them for their triumphant

mediocrity, and for his own disregarded superiority; he cut and

scratched them; but did not kill or even seriously wound them. Leonardo

remembered the monster which he had once painted on the wooden 'rotello'

for Ser Piero da Vinci; an animal put together from the different parts

of a variety of repulsive reptiles. Had not Messer Niccolò put together

as useless and impossible a monstrosity in his superhumanly astute and

conscienceless prince? A being contrary to nature, fascinating as

Medusa, invented for the terrifying of the vulgar? Yet under this

wantonness of imagination, this artistic dispassionateness, Leonardo

perceived great suffering in the soul of Messer Niccolò, as if a

juggler, playing with swords, were himself cut to the quick.

'Is he not one of those unhappy sick men,' thought the painter, 'who

seek relief from pain in envenoming their wounds?' He did not know the

last secret of this dark spirit, so like, and yet so unlike, his own.

Messer Lucio, like a man in a nightmare, was struggling with the Medusa

head evoked by Messer Niccolò.

'Well, well!' he said, 'I will not dispute with you. Severity may have

been necessary to princes in the past. We can pardon them a good deal

for the sake of their heroic virtues and exploits. But, pardon me, what

has this to do with the Duke of Romagna? _Quod licet Jovi non licet

bovi._ What is permitted to Alexander the Great or to Julius Cæsar, may

be unpardonable in Alexander the pope or in Cæsar Borgia, of whom we

cannot yet say whether he be Cæsar or nothing. I at least think, and all

will agree with me----'

'Oh, of course, all will agree with you,' interrupted Niccolò, out of

patience, 'but that is no proof, Messer Lucio. The truth does not lie on

the high road where all men pass. But to conclude the discussion, here

is my last word. As I observe the acts of Cæsar, I find them perfect;

and I would suggest him as a model to all who would obtain power by

force of arms and by successful adventure. He combines cruelty so well

with virtue, he knows so accurately when to caress and when to crush,

the foundations of his power are so firmly though so quickly laid, that

already he is an autocrat, the only one in Italy, perhaps the only one

in Europe. It is hard to imagine what may not lie before him in the

future.' Machiavelli's eyes burned, his voice shook, and red spots

glowed on his sunken cheeks; he seemed like a seer. From the mask of a

cynic looked out the face of the former disciple of Savonarola, the

fanatic.

But Lucio, weary of the discussion, had no sooner suggested sealing a

truce with two or three bottles from the neighbouring cellar than the

visionary disappeared.

'Nay,' cried Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'let us go to a different tavern. I

have a good scent in such matters, I know where we shall find handsome

women.'

'What, in this scurvy little town?' said Lucio.

'Listen, my lad,' said the dignified secretary of the Florentine

Republic, 'never you despise these same small towns. In their vile

alleys you can sometimes find what will make you lick your fingers for

delight.'

At these words Lucio slapped Messer Niccolò on the back, and called him

a sly dog.

'We will take lanterns,' continued Niccolò, 'we will wear cloaks and

vizards. On such expeditions mystery is half the pleasure. Messer

Leonardo, you accompany us?'

The artist excused himself.

He did not enjoy the customary gross talk about women, and avoided it

with instinctive repulsion. This man of fifty, the intrepid student of

the secrets of nature who could accompany criminals to their execution

that he might see the last look of terror in their eyes, was often put

out of countenance by a jest, did not know which way to look, and

blushed like a schoolboy.

Niccolò, without more ado, carried off Messer Lucio.

IX

Early next day a chamberlain came to inquire whether the ducal engineer

were satisfied with his quarters, and to bring him a present from Cæsar.

According to the hospitable custom of the time it consisted of

provisions, a sack of flour, a cask of wine, a sheep, a dozen fat

capons; and also two large torches, three packets of wax candles, and

two boxes of _confetti_. Impressed by these compliments, Machiavelli

begged Leonardo to say a word for him to the duke, and obtain him the

favour of an interview. At eleven in the evening, Cæsar's customary

reception-hour, they went together to the palace.

The duke's manner of life was strange enough. Summer and winter he went

to bed at four or five in the morning, so that for him it was dawn at

three in the afternoon, sunrise at four; at five he began to dress and

to dine and to conduct his business affairs all simultaneously. He

surrounded his doings with mystery, not only out of natural

secretiveness, but by studied calculation; he seldom left his palace,

and always masked. Only on great festivals did he show himself to the

people, and to the troops only in moments of extreme danger. He liked to

astonish; his appearances were always dramatic, like those of a

demi-god.

Scarce credible reports were current as to his profuseness. All the gold

continually flowing into the treasury of St. Peter's did not suffice for

the expenditure of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the Church. Envoys reported

that he spent not less than eighteen hundred ducats daily; and that when

he rode through the streets crowds followed him to pick up the easily

dropped silver shoes, with which his horses were shod, solely as

largesse to the people. Wonders were told also as to his physical

strength. He could bend horse-shoes in his fingers (thin and delicate as

a woman's), twist iron rods, break the cables of ships. At a bull-fight

in Rome some years ago, when he had been Cardinal of Valenza, the

youthful Cæsar had cut a bull in half with a single stroke of his sword.

Inaccessible to his courtiers and to the ambassadors of great

potentates, he was often to be seen on the hills round Cesena watching

the boxing matches of the wild Romagna herdsmen, and sometimes taking

part in the sport.

At the same time he was the ideal of a cavalier and the paragon of

fashion. On the day of his sister Lucrezia's marriage with Alfonso

d'Este, he left the siege of a fortress and rode from the camp to the

wedding, unrecognised, and clad in black velvet with a black mask. He

passed through the crowd of guests, bowed, and when all drew back in

surprise, danced to the strains of the music with such grace that at

once the cry was raised, '_Cesare! Cesare! L'unico Cesare!_'

Heeding neither guests nor bridegroom, he drew Lucrezia aside and

whispered in her ear. Her eyes fell, she flushed, then grew white, to

the enhancement of her dainty pearl-like beauty. It might be she was

innocent; there was no question that she was frail; report added

submissive, perhaps even criminally submissive, to the terrible will of

this her brother.

He, it seemed, cared for one point only, that there should be no proofs.

Fame probably exaggerated his sins; but possibly the reality was more

terrible than fame. At any rate he knew how to conceal his actions, and

to wipe out every trace of them.

X

The old Gothic municipal palace of Fano served as the duke's residence.

Leonardo and Machiavelli crossed the dreary hall where less important

visitors were received, and entered an inner apartment, once a chapel.

There was stained glass in the lancet windows; and the Apostles and

Fathers of the Church were carved in oak on the high stalls of the

choir. On the ceiling was a faded fresco of the Holy Dove hovering over

clouds and angels. The courtiers were standing and talking in

undertones, for the near presence of the sovereign was felt even through

the walls. The ill-starred envoy from Rimini, a bald and feeble old man

who had been waiting three months for his audience of the duke, clearly

worn out by many sleepless nights, had fallen into a doze. Now and then

the door opened, and the secretary Agapito, with an anxious air,

spectacles on nose and pen behind his ear, looked in, and summoned to

his Highness one or other of those waiting. Each time, the bald old man

from Rimini shuddered, started up, saw it was not his turn, sighed

heavily, and again sank into his doze. His slumbers were soothed by the

sound of an apothecary's pestle beating in a mortar; for, a suitable

room being lacking, this chapel was used not only as the ante-chamber to

the presence but also as the surgery. Where the altar had stood was a

table crowded with the bottles, gallipots, and retorts of a physician's

laboratory, and behind it Gaspare Torella, the bishop of Santa Giusta,

and the chief physician to the Duke of Valentinois, was preparing a

fashionable medicine, a decoction of '_guaiaco_,' or, as it was commonly

called, 'Holy tree,' brought from the new islands discovered by

Columbus. The bishop-doctor, while he rubbed the yellow lumps in his

shapely hands, was discoursing on the nature of this healing tree; and

the oaken saints on the stalls seemed listening in amazement to the

strange talk of these new shepherds of the Lord's flock. The chapel was

lighted only by the physician's blinking lamp; the air was choked by the

pungent smell of the medicine, mingled with faint perfume of the incense

of earlier years; one might have fancied this an assembly of prelates

engaged in the performance of some strange mystic rite. Meantime the

Florentine secretary was taking now one, now another of the courtiers

aside, and adroitly questioning them as to Cæsar's policy. Presently he

approached Leonardo and whispered to him very mysteriously.

'I shall eat the artichoke; I shall eat the artichoke!'

'What artichoke?' asked the painter, bewildered.

'Precisely; what artichoke? It seems the duke propounded a riddle to

Messer Pandolfo Collenuccio, the Ambassador from Ferrara. He said, "I

shall eat the artichoke, leaf by leaf." It may signify the league of his

enemies whom he means to separate, and so destroy one by one. I have

puzzled my brains over it for an hour.' Speaking still lower, he

continued, 'Here all is riddle and trap. They chatter about every kind

of nonsense, but directly you speak of affairs they become dumb as monks

at dinner. But they shall not deceive me; I know very well there is

something in the air. I' faith, sir, I would sell my soul to know what.'

And his eyes glowed like a desperate gamester's. Before Leonardo could

reply, he was summoned by Messer Agapito. Through a long gloomy passage

guarded by the Stradiotes, Leonardo arrived at the duke's bedchamber, a

spacious room hung with tapestry and silk. On the ceiling were painted

the amours of Pasiphae and the bull. The bull, the heraldic emblem of

the Borgias, was repeated on all the ornaments of the room, together

with the triple tiara and the keys of St. Peter. The room was warm and

scented. A fire of juniper burned on the marble hearth, and the lamp oil

was perfumed with violets. Cæsar, elegantly dressed, lay on a flat couch

in the middle of the room; he cared for two postures only, reclining, or

sitting on horseback. Apparently indifferent to everything, he leaned

his elbow on a pillow, listened to a report from a secretary, and

watched a game of chess which two of his attendants were playing on a

jasper table by his side. He had the faculty of divided attention. With

a slow, uniform, mechanical movement he passed backwards and forwards

from one hand to the other a golden ball filled with scent, which he

carried as religiously as his Damascene dagger.

XI

He received Leonardo with a peculiar and charming courtesy. Not

permitting him to kneel, he held his hand and made him sit in an

armchair by his side. The duke wished to consult him about plans

tendered by Bramante for a new monastery at the town of Imola, which was

to be called Valentino, and to have a superb chapel, a hospital, and a

refuge for pilgrims. By such munificent works of charity he wished to

erect a monument to his own Christian beneficence. After Bramante's

designs, he exhibited letters just cut for Girolamo Soncino's new

printing-press at Fano, being zealous in the encouragement of the arts

and sciences in his dominions. Agapito then gave his master a collection

of eulogistic odes by Franceso Uberti the court poet; these Cæsar

received graciously, commanding a liberal reward for the author. Then,

as he insisted upon seeing satires no less than eulogies, the secretary

handed him a poem by Mancioni the Neapolitan, who had been seized and

confined in the Castle of St. Angelo in Rome. This sonnet was full of

savage abuse; in it Cæsar was called a mule, the mongrel offspring of a

harlot and a pope, sitting on a throne, once Christ's now Satan's; a

circumcised Turk, a disfrocked cardinal, incestuous, apostate,

fratricidal.

'Why, O God, waitest Thou?' cried the poet; 'carest thou not that Holy

Church has become a stall for mules, a den of orgies?'

'How does your Excellency wish the villain to be dealt with?' asked

Agapito.

'Leave him till my return,' replied the duke quietly, 'I will deal with

him myself. I shall know how to teach these scribblers manners!' he

added, in a low voice.

Cæsar's method of teaching manners was not unknown. For less serious

affronts he had cut off hands, and seared tongues with red hot irons.

His report finished, the secretary withdrew. Then audience was given to

Valguglio, the astrologer, who had drawn a new horoscope. The duke

listened attentively, for he was a believer in the influences of the

stars. Valguglio explained that Cæsar's late illness was due to the

entrance of Mars into the sign of the Scorpion; the complaint would pass

when Venus had reached her rising in Taurus. Had the duke any matter of

importance in hand, let him choose for its date the afternoon of the

31st of December, as the conjunction of stars that day was propitious;

and bending toward the duke's ear and raising his finger impressively,

the astrologer repeated thrice in a mysterious whisper--

'_Fatilo_, _Fatilo_, _Fatilo_'--'Do it. Do it. Do it!'

Cæsar made no reply, but it seemed to Leonardo that a shadow passed over

his face. Then he dismissed the seer and turned again to the _Ingegnere

Ducale_.

Leonardo unfolded military plans and maps. Not merely scientific,

showing the nature of the soil, the direction of the watersheds, the

mountains, the windings of the rivers--they were also artistic

bird's-eye pictures of the localities, coloured after Nature, and with

every detail executed in perfection. Squares, streets and towers of the

towns could be recognised; the spectator felt as if flying over the

earth, and seeing at his feet an infinite expanse. Cæsar examined with

great attention the topography of the district bounded on the south by

the lake of Bolsena, on the north by the Val d'Ema, on the east by

Arezzo and Perugia, on the west by Siena and the littoral. This was the

heart of Italy, Leonardo's home, the territory of Florence, long coveted

by the duke. Immersed in thought, enjoying this fancied flight, Cæsar

gazed long at Leonardo's drawing, and felt as if he and the great

inventor were in such sort engaged in the same work. He raised his eyes

to the artist and cordially pressed his hand.

'I thank you, my Leonardo. Continue to serve me thus and I shall know

how to reward you. Are you comfortable among us?' he continued

solicitously; 'are you satisfied with your salary? Have you any request

to make? You know my pleasure in gratifying you.'

Leonardo, profiting by the opportunity, asked an audience for Messer

Niccolò. Cæsar shrugged his shoulders with a good-humoured smile.

'He is a strange man, your Messer Niccolò. He demands audience, and,

when I receive him, talks about nothing at all. Why did they send me

such a mysterious person?' Presently he asked Leonardo's opinion of the

man.

'I find him, Excellence, one of the most astute and most clear-sighted

persons I have met in my whole life.'

'He is certainly intelligent,' said the duke, 'and I doubt not he has

understanding of affairs. And yet--he is unreliable. He knows no mean in

anything. However--I wish him well, especially since he has your good

word. He is guileless, though he thinks himself the most cunning of men,

and would deceive me, whom he considers the enemy of your Republic. I

pardon him, understanding that he loves his country better than his

soul. Well, I will receive him; tell him so. By the way, have I not

heard he is compiling a book on Statecraft and the Art of War?'

Cæsar laughed his low pleasant laugh, as if reminded of something which

had tickled him.

'Have you heard about the Macedonian phalanx? No? Then listen. Once,

Messer Niccolò explained from this very book on war to my Master of the

Camp, Bartolomeo Capranica, and other captains, the laws of ranging

troops after the manner of the phalanx. He spoke with such eloquence

that all desired to see the phalanx in actual fact. We went to a

suitable field and Niccolò was to give orders. Well, he wrestled with

two thousand soldiers for nearly three hours exposing them to the cold,

the wind, the rain, but he could not form his own phalanx. At last

Bartolomeo lost patience; he had never read a military book in his life,

but he took the troop in hand, and in the twinkling of an eye he had

drawn up the infantry in the desired order. There we see the difference

between practice and theory. But take care how you allude to it! Messer

Niccolò does not like to be reminded of anything Macedonian!'

By this time it was three o'clock and the duke's supper was brought, a

dish of fruit, trout, and some white wine; like a true Spaniard he ate

and drank most sparingly. Leonardo was dismissed, but not before Cæsar

had again thanked him for the maps. Three pages carrying torches were

detailed to escort him to his lodging.

The painter told Machiavelli about his interview with the duke. When he

spoke of the maps of the Florentine territory Messer Niccolò grew

thoughtful.

'What? You? A citizen of our republic, for our bitterest enemy? Do you

know, sir, that for this you may be accused of treason?'

'Really?' said Leonardo, astonished: 'I don't wish to think so, Niccolò.

I am no politician, but obey like a blind man.'

Silently they looked into each other's eyes; and each recognised the

profound difference between them. The one might be said to have no

country: the other loved his country, in Cæsar's phrase, 'above his own

soul.'

XII

That night Niccolò went away, leaving no word as to the Whither and the

Why.

He returned next day, weary and frozen, entered Leonardo's room, bolted

the door, and announced that he wished to speak on a matter of

profoundest secrecy. Then he began a narrative.

Three years ago, one winter evening, in a deserted corner of Romagna

between Cervia and Porto Cesenatico, a body of cavalry was escorting

Madonna Dorotea, wife of Battista Caracciolo, captain of infantry in the

service of the _Serenissima Signoria_ of Venice, and her cousin, Maria,

a fifteen year old novice in an Urbino convent, from Urbino to Venice.

Horsemen armed and masked fell on the party, seized the ladies, put them

on horses, and carried them off. From that day they had not been heard

of. The Council and Senate of Venice, considering themselves outraged in

the person of their captain, appealed to Louis XII., to the King of

Spain, and to the pope, openly accusing the Duke of Romagna of the

abduction of Dorotea. However, they could not prove their case, and

Cæsar replied mockingly that, having no lack of women, he had not

occasion to steal them by highway robbery. Reports began to be current,

moreover, that Dorotea had quickly consoled herself, and that, having

forgotten her husband, she followed the duke in all his campaigns.

Maria, however, had a brother, Messer Dionigi, a young captain in the

service of Florence. When all the complaints of the Florentine Signoria,

before whom he had laid the matter, proved as vain as the

representations of the Venetians, Dionigi determined to act on his own

authority. He presented himself before the duke under a feigned name,

gained his confidence, obtained admission to the dungeon of the Castle

of Cesena, found his sister, disguised her as a boy, and made his escape

with her. But at the Perugian frontier the fugitives were overtaken,

Dionigi was killed, and Maria haled back to her prison.

Machiavelli, as Secretary of the Florentine Republic, was interested in

the event. He had been in Dionigi's confidence, and had learned from him

not only the plan of rescue, but the accounts which the brother had

acquired of his sister's ill-fortune, and of her reputation as a

miracle-working saint, bearing the 'stigmata' like St. Catharine of

Siena.

Cæsar, tired of Dorotea, had cast his eyes on Maria, and having never

experienced difficulty with women, not even with the most discreet,

counted on an easy conquest. He was mistaken. The girl met him with a

resistance which he could not overcome. Report said that of late the

duke had constantly visited her in her cell, staying for long periods

alone with her. But what passed at these interviews no one knew.

Machiavelli ended his recital with expression of a fixed determination

to rescue Maria.

'If you, Messer Leonardo, will consent to help me, I will so arrange the

matter that none shall know of your share in it. First I shall require

of you information as to the internal construction and arrangement of

the Castle of San Michele, where Maria is kept in durance. You, as the

court engineer, will find it easy to obtain entrance and to discover all

we need to know.'

Leonardo for all reply gazed at his friend in amazement, and presently

Messer Niccolò broke into a forced and somewhat angry laugh.

'I hope,' he said, 'you do not honour me by thinking me over

sentimental, too chivalrously generous? Whether Cæsar seduce this minx

or no is nothing to me. Would you know why I concern myself in the

affair? First, to show the illustrious Signoria that I am good for

something besides foolery; but secondly and chiefly, because I require

amusement. If a man commit no follies he loses his wits through

weariness. I am sick of chattering, playing dice, going to bawdy houses,

and making vain reports to the Florentine Wool-staplers. So I have

devised this adventure: action I assure you, not mere talk. The

opportunity must not be wasted. My whole plan is ready and I have taken

all necessary precautions.'

He spoke hurriedly as if excusing himself. Leonardo, however, understood

that he was ashamed of genuine kind-heartedness, and was trying to

conceal it under a mask of cynicism.

'Messere,' said the artist, 'I pray you to rely on me in this matter as

on yourself. But on one condition, that if we fail, I shall share your

responsibility.'

Niccolò, visibly touched, clasped his hand, and at once set forth his

design. Leonardo made no criticism, though in his heart he doubted

whether it would prove practical. The liberation of the captive was

fixed for the 30th of December.

Two days before the date agreed upon, one of Maria's gaolers, who was in

Niccolò's pay, came running to inform him that Cæsar knew all.

Machiavelli being absent, Leonardo went in search of him to give him

this news. He found the Florentine Secretary in a tavern, where a troop

of gamesters, chiefly Spanish soldiers, were fleecing inexpert players

at dice or cards. Surrounded by a merry group of young libertines,

Machiavelli was expounding that famous sonnet of Petrarch's on Laura,

which ends:--

'E lei vid' io ferita in mezzo 'l core'

and discovering some obscene allusion in every line, while his hearers

were convulsed with laughter.

Suddenly an uproar arose in the next room; women screamed, tables were

overthrown, swords clashed, coins and broken bottles were dashed against

the walls and floor. One of the players had been detected cheating.

Niccolò's audience ran to join the fray, and Leonardo whispered his news

to his friend, and led him home.

It was a still, star-lit night. New fallen snow creaked under their

feet; the fragrance of the air was delicious after the stifling tavern.

When Messer Niccolò heard that their plot for the rescue of the girl

Maria had come to the knowledge of the duke, he replied coolly that for

the moment there was no occasion for alarm. Then he continued with

voluble apology.

'You were surprised to find me acting cheap jack to that Spanish rabble?

What of it? 'Tis law of necessity. Necessity jumps, Necessity dances,

Necessity trolls catches. They may be rascals, but they are more

generous than the magnificent Signoria of Florence.'

There was so much bitterness and self-accusation in his tone that

Leonardo could not bear it.

'You are wrong, Messer Niccolò,' he said, 'to speak thus with me. I am

your friend and shall not judge like the vulgar.'

Machiavelli turned away--and answered in a low voice, 'I know it--judge

me not harshly, Leonardo. Often I jest and laugh lest my heart's grief

should set me weeping. Such is my lot! I was born under a luckless star.

While my fellows, men of no intelligence, succeed in everything, live in

honour and luxury, acquire power and wealth, I remain behind them all,

out-jostled by fools. They think me a buffoon, perchance they be right.

Yet I fear neither great labours nor certain perils; but what I cannot

suffer is that my life should be consumed in the pitiful effort to make

two ends meet, to tremble over every groat, to endure paltry affronts

daily from my inferiors! 'Tis an accursed life! If God do not come to my

aid, I shall end by abandoning my work, my Marietta, and my son. What am

I but a burden to them and to all? Let them think what they will: let

them imagine me dead. I will hide me in some distant hamlet, some corner

of the earth where none shall know me; where I shall be clerk to the

_podestà_, or teacher of the alphabet in a village school, that I may

not die of starvation so long as I retain my senses. My friend, there is

naught more terrible than to feel in yourself the power to do something,

and to know that you will perish and die without ever having

accomplished anything whatsoever.'

XIII

As the day for the adventure approached, Leonardo perceived that

Machiavelli, notwithstanding his anticipations of success, was losing

his coolness, and becoming inclined either to undue caution or to over

precipitancy. The artist knew well this state of mind: the result, not

of cowardice nor of pusillanimity, but of that treachery of the will,

that fatal irresolution when the moment for striking has arrived, which

is inherent in men made for contemplation rather than for action.

On the eve of the eventful day Niccolò went to a little place near the

Torre di San Michele, to make the final preparations. Leonardo was to

join him early in the morning. Left alone, the latter momentarily

expected disastrous news; he felt very little doubt that the affair

would end in some stupid failure, on a par with the prank of a

schoolboy.

The dull winter morning was dawning, and he was about to make his start

when Niccolò returned. Pale and woe-begone, he sank half-fainting on a

chair.

''Tis at an end,' he said shortly.

'I expected as much!' cried Leonardo. 'I guessed we should fail.'

'We have not failed, but we are too late; the bird has flown.'

'How has she flown?'

'This morning, before the dawn, Maria was found on the prison floor with

her throat cut.'

'And the murderer is----?'

'The murderer is unknown, but it is not the duke. Cæsar and his

executioners are no bunglers, and this poor child has been

hacked----They say she has died a maid. My notion is that she

herself----'

'Impossible! She would not have done it. She was a saint----'

'Anything is possible. You don't know this crew yet. And that infamous

assassin--I tell you that infamous assassin is capable of anything! He

could force even a saint to lay hands on herself! Ah! I saw her twice in

the beginning of her martyrdom, when she was not so closely watched. She

was fragile, with an innocent face like a child's. Her hair was thin and

of pale gold, like Lippo Lippi's Madonna in the Badia. There was no

special beauty about her. Oh, Messer Leonardo, you cannot know what a

sweet, helpless child she was!'

He turned away, tears glistening on his eyelashes. But he continued in a

sharp, forced voice:--

'I have always said it! An honourable man in this court is like a fish

in a frying-pan. I have had enough of it! I was not made to be a slave.

The Signoria must transfer me. I won't stay here.'

Leonardo was sincerely grieved for Maria, and he would have done his

utmost on her behalf. Nevertheless it was a relief both to him and to

Messer Niccolò that there was no longer any demand upon them for

decisive action.

XIV

The larger part of Cæsar's army marched out of Fano at dawn on the 30th

of December, and encamped outside Sinigaglia. Next day (the date

recommended by the astrologer), the duke himself was to arrive.

Sinigaglia had been besieged by the confederates of Mugione, who had

come to terms with Cæsar, and were now acting for him. The town had

surrendered, but the commandant of the castle swore he would open his

gates only to Cæsar in person. Accordingly the duke had sent word that

he was coming, and he had invited the repentant confederates to meet him

on the banks of the Metauro, where his camp lay, that they might hold a

council of war. These men, his former enemies, now his allies, had

perhaps a presentiment of evil, and would have declined to meet him.

However, he reassured them, 'bewitching them,' as Machiavelli afterwards

wrote, 'like the basilisk which entices its victims by the sweetness of

its singing.'

Machiavelli left Fano with the duke. Leonardo followed alone some hours

later.

The road led southwards along the seashore. On the right, mountains

descended sheer to the sea, scarcely allowing room for the narrow road

at their base. It was a grey day, very still; the water was grey and

unruffled as the sky. The drowsy air, the chirping of the birds, black

spots and holes in the surface of the snow, all portended a thaw.

At last the brick towers of Sinigaglia came in sight; the town lay like

a trap between the mountains and the sea, not a mile from the Adriatic,

not a cross-bow shot from the foot of the Apennines. Upon meeting the

stream of the Misa, the road turned sharply to the left; here was a

bridge slanting across the little river, and behind it the gates of the

town frowned across a square with low buildings, chiefly storehouses

belonging to Venetian merchants. At that time Sinigaglia was a large

semi-Oriental bazaar, where Italian traders exchanged their wares with

Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Persians, and Slavs from Montenegro and

Albania. At this moment, however, even the busiest streets were empty.

Leonardo met only soldiers. Here and there in the long arcades, which

extended monotonously along each side of the street, in the shops, the

warehouses, the _fondachi_, he saw traces of plunder--broken glass,

forced locks, severed bolts and bars, doors thrown open, and wares and

bales ruthlessly exposed. There was a smell of fire, and some

half-consumed houses were still smoking; corpses hung from the iron

lamp-stanchions at the corners of the palace.

It was growing dark when, in the principal piazza near the palace,

Leonardo saw Cæsar Borgia surrounded by his guards. He was punishing the

soldiers who had pillaged the town. Messer Agapito was in the act of

reading their sentences; then at a sign from the duke the condemned were

conducted to the gallows. At this moment Leonardo was joined by

Machiavelli.

'What do you think of it?' asked Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'if indeed you

have heard----'

'I have heard nothing, and am glad to meet you. Pray tell me.'

Machiavelli took him into the next street, then through several narrow

lanes, choked with snow, to a deserted district by the shore. Here in a

lonely tumble-down hovel, belonging to the widow of a shipbuilder, he

had succeeded in finding the only vacant quarters in the town, two

diminutive rooms for himself and his friend. He lit a candle, drew a

bottle of wine from his pocket, broke its neck against the wall, and

seated himself opposite Leonardo, gazing at him with glowing eyes.

'You have not heard?' he said gravely. 'A rare and memorable thing has

been done. Cæsar has revenged himself on his enemies. The conspirators

have been seized; Oliverotto, Orsini, and Vitelli are awaiting sentence

of death.' He threw himself back in his chair, watching Leonardo, and

enjoying his astonishment. Then making an effort to appear calm and

dispassionate, he told the story of the trap of Sinigaglia.

Arrived early at the camp on the Metauro, Cæsar sent forward two

hundred horsemen, set the infantry in motion, and followed them himself

with the rest of the cavalry. He knew that the allied generals would

come to meet him, and that their forces had been distributed in the

forts surrounding the town, so as to make room for the new troops.

Outside the gates where the road curved, following the bank of the Misa,

he drew up his cavalry in two lines, leaving space between them for the

passage of the infantry, which, without a halt, crossed the bridge and

entered the gates of the town.

The allies, Orsini, Gravina, and Vitellozzo, rode out to meet the duke,

escorted by a few horsemen. As if presaging disaster, Vitellozzo was so

gloomy and abstracted that those about him who knew his customary phlegm

were astounded; it was known that he had taken leave of his family as if

going to his death. The generals dismounted from their mules and saluted

the duke. He also left his horse, gave his hand to each, and then

embraced and kissed them, calling them his 'beloved brothers,' with many

demonstrations of courtesy. According to a preconcerted arrangement,

Cæsar's captains surrounded the generals in such a way that each was the

centre of a group of Borgia's adherents; meantime the duke, observing

the absence of Oliverotto, signed to Don Michele Corella, his captain,

who rode off, and having found Oliverotto with his troops, made a

pretext for bringing him also to Cæsar's presence. Then, conversing

amicably on military matters and future tactics, they went all together

to the palace, which stood just in front of the fortress.

At the entrance the generals would have taken their leave, but the duke,

with the same urbanity as before, invited them into the palace.

Scarcely had they set foot in the first chamber, when the doors were

secured, armed men rushed on the four generals, seized, disarmed, and

bound them. Such was their astonishment that they scarce offered any

resistance. The duke intended to disembarrass himself of his victims

that very night by strangling them in a secluded part of the palace.

'Truly, Messer Leonardo,' cried Machiavelli, 'I would you had seen how

he embraced them and kissed them! One mistrustful glance, one suspicious

gesture might have betrayed him; but there was such sincerity in his

voice, on his countenance, that till the final moment I guessed naught,

nor could have believed he was acting a part. Of all stratagems since

politics began, this must be the finest!'

Leonardo smiled. 'Doubtless,' he said, 'his Excellency has exhibited

audacity and craft; but I comprehend not what in this betrayal so moves

your admiration.'

'Betrayal? Nay, sir, when it is a question of saving your country, there

can be no question of betrayal or of loyalty, of good or evil, of

clemency or cruelty. All means are alike, provided the object is

gained.'

'Is this a question of saving his country? Methinks the duke has studied

but his own advantage.'

'Can it be that even you do not understand? Cæsar is the future autocrat

of an united Italy. Never was a time more favourable for the advent of a

hero. If Israel had to serve in bondage in order that Moses should

arise; if the Persians had to lie under the yoke of the Medes that Cyrus

might be exalted; if the Athenians had to waste themselves in

internecine strife that Theseus might have eternal glory, then it is

necessary also, in this our own day, that Italy be shamed, and enslaved,

bound, and divided, without a head, without a leader, without a guide;

devastated, trampled on, crushed by all the woes which a nation can

endure, in order that a new hero shall rise to be the saviour of his

land. Many times men have appeared whom she has fancied the destined

one, and have died leaving the great deed undone. Half-dead, scarce

breathing, she still awaits her deliverer, who shall heal her wounds,

put an end to disorder in Lombardy, plunder in Tuscany, extortion and

murder in Naples. Day and night Italy cries to her God, if, perchance,

He will send her a saviour!'

His voice rang like a chord too tightly stretched, and broke. He was

white and shaking, and his eyes glowed. In his excitement was something

convulsive, powerless, akin to epilepsy.

Leonardo remembered how, speaking of Maria's suicide, he had called the

Duke of Valentinois a monster of crime. He did not point out the

inconsistency, knowing that Messer Niccolò, in his exaltation, would

repudiate his softer mood.

'Who lives long, sees much, _Niccolò mio_. But permit me one question.

Why is it _to-day_ that you have assured yourself of Cæsar's divine

election? Has the _inganno di Sinigaglia_ proved his heroism?'

'Yes,' replied Machiavelli, recovering his impartial air; 'the violence

of his action has shown that he has the rare combination of great

qualities and their opposites. I do not blame. I do not praise. I simply

examine. Here is my reasoning on the matter: there are two ways open to

him who would arrive at a particular end. The first is law, the second

violence. The first belongs to men--the second to beasts. He who wishes

to rule must tread both ways, must know how to be either beast or man.

Such is the inner meaning of the old legends of Achilles and other

heroes nurtured by Chiron, the centaur, half-god, half-beast. The major

part of men cannot support the weight of liberty, and fear it more than

death. When they have committed a crime they are crushed under the

burden of repentance. 'Tis only the hero, the man of destiny, who has

the strength to support liberty, who breaks laws without fear, without

remorse, who remains innocent even in evil, as do beasts and gods.

To-day, for the first time, I have seen in Cæsar the infallible sign

that he is elect of God!'

'Yes, yes, I understand,' said Leonardo moodily; 'but to my thinking

that man is not free who, like Cæsar, dares all because he knows naught

and loves naught. _I call him free who dares all because he knows all

and loves all._ That is the liberty whereby men shall conquer both good

and evil, the height and the abyss, the bounds of earth, its obstacles

and burdens; shall become as gods, and fly.'

'Fly?' said Machiavelli bewildered.

'When they have perfect knowledge they will make themselves wings. 'Tis

a subject upon which I have thought much. Perhaps nothing will come of

it. I care not; if it be not I, 'twill be another. The day will come

when there shall be wings.'

'Well, let us congratulate each other. Our talk has led us to a new

creation. My prince is to be half-god, half-beast; and you have given

him wings.'

But the striking of a clock in the neighbouring tower drove Messer

Niccolò forth; he had to hasten to the palace that he might learn of the

impending execution of the generals.

Isabella Gonzaga, Marchesa of Mantua, by way of congratulation, sent

Cesare a carnival gift of a hundred pretty masks in coloured silk.

XV

Cæsar returned to Rome in the beginning of March 1503. The Pope proposed

to reward the hero with the Golden Rose, the highest distinction which

the Church could confer on her champions. The cardinals assented, and

two days later the ceremony of investiture took place. The Roman Curia

and the envoys of the great powers assembled in the Sala de' Pontefici,

which looks out on the Cortile del Belvedere. Alexander VI., seventy

years of age and corpulent, but still vigorous and majestic, ascended

the dais, wearing the begemmed mantle and triple crown, the ostrich fans

waving over his head.

Trumpets blared, and at a signal from Johann Burckhardt, Master of

Ceremonies, the armour-bearers, pages, couriers, and guards of the Duke

of Romagna, entered the hall, accompanied by Bartolomeo Capranica, his

Master of the Camp, bearing the naked sword of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the

Roman Church. The sword was gilded and damascened with delicate designs.

First, the Goddess of Fidelity seated on a throne, with the legend,

'Fidelity is stronger than Arms.' Secondly, Julius Cæsar in his

triumphal car, with the legend, '_Aut Cæsar aut Nihil_.' Thirdly, the

passage of the Rubicon with the legend, 'The die is cast.' Lastly, a

sacrifice to the Bull of the House of Borgia--naked priestesses burning

incense over a human victim, and on the altar the inscription '_Deo

optimo maximo Hostia_,' and lower, '_In nomine Cæsaris omen_.' The human

sacrifice to the beast acquired a more terrible meaning from the fact

that these engravings and mottos had been ordered at the moment when

Cæsar was contemplating the murder of his brother Giovanni, in order to

take from him this sword of the standard-bearer of the Church.

Following the insignia of his office came the hero himself, crowned with

the lofty ducal _berretto_, embroidered in pearls with the Holy Dove. He

approached the Pope, removed the _berretto_, knelt and kissed the ruby

cross on the shoe of the Pontifex Maximus. Cardinal Monreale handed the

Golden Rose to His Holiness. It was a marvel of the jeweller's art; from

a phial concealed under the gold filigree petals exhaled the perfume of

innumerable roses. The Pope stood, and in a voice quivering with emotion

uttered the words:--

'Receive, most beloved son, this rose, symbol of the joy of the two

Jerusalems, earthly and heavenly, of the two churches, militant and

triumphant; the incorruptible flower, the delight of the saints, the

beauty of imperishable crowns. May thy virtue flower in Christ as this

rose, which blossoms on the shore of many waters! Amen.'

Cæsar received the mystic rose from the paternal hands.

It was more than the old man could bear. To the disgust of Burckhardt,

the stolid German master of the ceremonies, he broke through the

prescribed ceremonial; bending over his son he stretched out his

trembling hands, his face contracting and his shoulders shaking as he

murmured:--

'Cesare! Cesare! _figlio mio!_'

The duke handed the rose to the Cardinal di San Clemente, and the Pope

embraced him in a frenzy of joy, laughing and weeping.

Again the trumpets blared, the great bell of St. Peter's pealed, and was

answered by the bells of all the churches in the city, and by salvos of

artillery from the Castle of St. Angelo. In the Cortile del Belvedere

the Romagnole guard shouted:--

'_Viva Cesare!_ _Viva Cesare!_'

And the duke came out on the balcony to greet his troops. Under the blue

sky, in the brilliance of the morning sun, his vesture gold and purple,

the Dove of the Holy Spirit on his head, the mystic rose in his hand, to

the people he was not a man, but a god.

XVI

That night there was a splendid masked procession; the triumph of Julius

Cæsar as it was shown on the sword of the Duke of Valentinois and

Romagna. He himself took his seat in the chariot bearing the inscription

'Cæsar the divine'; his head was crowned with laurel, and he carried a

palm-branch in his hand. The chariot was surrounded by his soldiers,

dressed as Roman legionaries, with eagles and javelins. All was

correctly ordered in accordance with descriptions on books and

representations in monuments and medals.

Before the chariot walked a man in the long white robe of an Egyptian

hierophant, carrying a banner with the Borgia Bull, purple and gilded;

the bloody Apis, protecting god of Alexander VI. Boys in cloth of silver

sang to the clashing of timbrels:--

'_Vive diu Bos!_ _Vive diu Bos!_ _Borgia vive!_' Glory to the Bull!

Glory to the Bull! Glory to Borgia!' And high above the crowd, lighted

by the flare of torches, swung the image of the beast, fiery as the

rising sun.

In the crowd was Leonardo's pupil, Giovanni Boltraffio, who had newly

arrived from Florence. Looking at the purple beast he remembered the

words in the Apocalypse:--

'And they worshipped the Beast, saying, Who is like unto the Beast? who

is able to make war with him?

'And I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of

blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And upon her forehead was a

name written--"MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND

ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."'

Like the Seer of Patmos, Giovanni 'wondered with a great wonder.'