Chapter Text
PART ONE
I
Power to the Medicis rose in Florence, the worst of the worst to ever happen. After twenty-two days of torture of the strappado, the exiled diplomat, Niccolò Machiavelli, limped his way into the woods south with dislocated shoulders, and a sharp pain that throbbed within his upper region. Each move from the chest or even the neck caused a greatly uncomfortable sensation in the joints of his collarbone and arm—and if moved too quickly, would cause sharp pain that felt as if your bones pierced your flesh.
“Curse those folks.” Muttered Machiavelli as he laid himself on the grass amongst all the spruce woods that towered over his lonely being. Hedges of leaves upon the trees blocked the sun into obscurity, leaving small rays to shine upon the shadowed grassy lands. He closed his eyes, letting the minimal rays shine upon his face as the locked joints of his shoulders remained in their abnormal places.
Thoughts of his father’s small property down in San Casciano constantly plagued him, along with his wife, Marinetta Corsini. He had to get there as soon as he could, he didn’t want to stay in the woods for too long. But he had to let himself rest. Leaves rustled along the chilly breeze; birds chirped mosaically; small critters hopped through the forest. A quiet time. A peaceful time.
Machiavelli dreamt.
From there his mind wandered to an alternate timeline, scavenging for a position in politics he was. He wandered the forests for days, reaching cities such as Sicily, Venice, here on out, before circling back to Florence; unexiled. One day, he found Lorenzo de Medici wallowing in misery in the alleyway of a Florentine marketplace, wounded, beaten and bruised. Recognising the young man as the Italian statesman and banker, now de facto the ruler of the Florentine republic, Machiavelli approached him carefully. Lorenzo noticed the approaching stranger and came down upon his knees and cried, “I am lost! I am lost!”
“What is wrong, Lorenzo?” Questioned Machiavelli, “Why are you hurt?”
“I am too weak!” Pleaded the ruler, “The Pazzis and their merciless anti-medici factions are rising in power. I have been too kind to people, and now I am lost. I don’t know what to do!”
“Come, Lorenzo, do not cry, as it is unruly for a man in such a position. Come here, and let me share with you my insights.”
Lorenzo crawled closer to Machiavelli, hanging onto his ankles for dear life. “Tell me your words, dear stranger.”
“I shall propose you a personal question. What do you think makes a good prince?” Questioned Machiavelli.
“A good prince is the people’s first servant,” Answered the statesman.
“Yes, but what does that entail? Do you recognise the sacrifices? What is the end goal? How shall people perceive you?”
Lorenzo pondered. Machiavelli got on his knees, consoling him as he spoke. “The position of a prince refers to the political position—one’s conduct of power—rather than the human on its own. That said, you are ought to differentiate personal human morals to that of a political position, where the stakes of one’s actions greatly contrast from a typical human acting morally. As one remembers, you are dealing with a nation, not an individual.”
The ruler listened closely upon the diplomat’s words, carefully considering each sentence.
“Thus,” Continued Machiavelli, his hand consoling the man’s shoulder, “A good person who acts in rightful moral conduct does not make a good prince . For you are merely acting good in the moral sense, rather than in the political sense—and thus, weakness and ignorance is created in your power. You ought to be easily taken advantage of. To prevent such, you must act in ways regardless of what is considered morally ideal. It is about appearances, not intentions. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Answered Lorenzo happily, “I am forever grateful for your words. Why don’t you write down all your knowledge, for it is greatly necessary for my ruling? I will happily seat you a political position, perhaps make you my vice-ruler someday.”
The prospect of financial and political stability gave Machiavelli a wicked grin, “I would love that. No, I would endorse that. I would make a great leader—fear upon my enemies. They shall fall, their blood upon my prideful hands as a warning.”
Machiavelli gracefully took upon Lorenzo’s hand, “I shall make the greatest philosophical insight known to man—a manual to preserve your reign; you and I, we shall rule together, preserve the Florentine identity. You shall remain as prince.”
Then, Machiavelli awoke.
A new vision was sparked within him. It was a new prospect, an ideal, and a way for him to return to political Florentine power. A new book—a manual for the ruler’s enlightenment, something that would save the empire. Yet, a warning for which he had to be aware of what the other rulers would go on to do.
Time had quickly washed over, and before he knew it, he opened his eyes to a darkened forest; the scarlet colour of the sunset snuck between the hedge of tree leaves. Glows of fireflies illuminated portions of the forest; the hooting of owls reverberated through the trees; branches and sticks rustled with critter activity. His shoulders remained dislocated, but the pain had numbed for a while. Machiavelli was careful with how he would lift himself—first, he stiffened the muscles in his stomach, readying himself to lift forward without exerting force on the shoulder blades. Then, with a couple of grunts, he lunged forward, only to fall back.
After a couple of these attempts, he had finally sat up. Then the hollowness of his stomach settled in, for he had not eaten the whole day. Then suddenly, voices of human beings sparked in the forest close to him. The flame of a torch was seen off in the distance, and Machiavelli had to duck down behind a bush. Horse hooves clomped along the slightly muddy trails of the forest, the soldiers above speaking with a strangely intimidating casualty. Machiavelli recognised the yellow-and-blue checkered chestplate of their armour, and their faces half covered by the barbute metal helmet—they had to be the Medici’s militia.
“So we kill all the traitors, all the suspected traitors, and those who refuse to run.” Said one of the soldiers, “But I’m sure we’ve got everyone in this forest. We should be off by sunset. I need to check upon my wife.”
“I’m hungry.” Commented by another, “Say, how about we take a short break and start hunting rabbits?”
“Not a bad idea.” Approved the other, “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I am quite starving too.”
Machiavelli needed to move along—if he was out in the forest like this, the militia would quickly figure out he was an exile. Crawling the other way continued to cause great discomfort to his shoulders, as they turned and moved abnormally.