Chapter Text
It all started too quickly. Filippo Strozzi didn’t even remember what topic they were discussing – was it still on the militia? Or was it about how to deal with the pope, the one Medici who is now in captivity in Rome, but is still expect to hold some power over their beloved Italia once things settle down a bit? He was even taking notes, preparing them for delivery to Francesco Vettori later in the Palazzo della Signoria.
Niccolo Machiavelli gasped sharply, a hand pressed into his abdomen. “Niccolo!” Filippo reached for him across the table, “Is it your stomach again? Hold on, I’ll call Madonna Marietta.”
“Wait.” Niccolo’s hand trembled under Filippo’s, “It’s not the first time. It will get better soon, and she already has enough to worry. Just…pass me the bottle of pills, will you? It’s in the second drawer.” His voice was weak, shaky and laboured. Filippo wondered if it’s really not the first time for him to be in this amount of pain – how did he manage the past year riding all over Italy, at one time even crossing the Apennines in snow?
The bottle was easy enough to find. “I hope you know what you’re taking.” Filippo opened the bottle, “Just one?”
Niccolo nodded. Filippo placed one of the light-brown small ball into his palm, and pushed the glass of water towards him. “Easy,” he lowered his voice, “let me help.” His friend’s hands are so shaky that Filippo doubted if he could even lift the glass. So he went by his friend’s side, held the glass of water for him, and watched him swallow the pill.
“How long does it usually take to get better?” Filippo asked, “You’re sure you don’t want Madonna Marietta here?”
Niccolo was already struggling to breathe, and Filippo decided that he’ll not listen to his protests anymore. “No, I’m going to get her. I’ll not leave until you get better, okay?”
He found Marietta teaching Baccina on the abacus in the girl’s little room, and kept his voice as low as possible. If Niccolo doesn’t want his wife to worry, then his children even less.
Marietta flied to her husband’s side, grabbing his hands and calling his name. “Madonna,” Filippo placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her, “shall we get a physician?”
Marietta was on the edge of tears, “Messer Strozzi – could you ask Bernardo to go? He knows one near the bridge.”
“I will, Madonna.” As Filippo left the study, he heard Marietta’s distressed voice. “You just returned home not even three weeks ago! And you’re already giving me this again.”
“Marietta,” that’s his friend’s low and weak voice, “I’m - ” and he did not hear the rest. The eldest Machiavelli boy had already grown into an adult, who thanked him for taking care of his father, put down the paper that he’s working on, and left from the front door of the modest house.
When Bernardo arrived with the physician, Filippo already helped Marietta move Niccolo to their bedroom. He’s pale as a ghost, his skin clammy and cold. The pain did not seem to fade away as Niccolo promised him, and a fever seemed to have started developing. Marietta asked Bernardo to keep an eye on the young children – Lodovico was not home since quite some time, and he’s the only other adult in the family.
The physician’s expression was grave. “I’m afraid the poison has already spread.”
“Poison?” Filippo felt like he’s hit by a hammer, “What poison?” He looked to Marietta, and the woman also stared back at him.
“He ate at home in the past two days.” Marietta murmured, “surely there’s nothing - ”
“Then there’s only the medicine,” Filippo’s voice was shaky, “but he only took it after the pain started.”
The doctor opened his bag. “Not necessarily what he took.” He fumbled through its content, vials, bottles, tools. “I mean the poison in his body – the unbalanced humors. I’m afraid I don’t know of any cure, but I can give him opium to lessen the pain.”
“Please, doctor - ” Marietta almost fainted, and Filippo had to support the woman.
“No.” Niccolo’s voice was low, “Marietta…The only thing I have now is my mind.”
“Even now, Niccolo?” She clutched the fabrics of her dress tight, “I…I’ll ask the boys to call -”
“Madonna,” Filippo said, “I’ll go and fetch friends. And I’ll ask Bernardo to come in.”
So he went. He found Luigi and Zanobi in a small garden, where they used to spend the afternoon reading and debating before they fled Florence. They promised to look for other friends – the small group who were once sitting together in Orti Orcellari, who listened, spoke, debated, drank and laughed together. Francesco was still in endless meetings in Palazzo della Signoria, and he could only ask a notary in one of the offices to pass the news when all these come to an end.
Filippo came back to the Machiavellis’ to a full room. Marietta sat by his bedside, his right hand in hers, Bernardo right next to her; the younger children sat on the floor, young Guido holding even younger Piero and Baccina close. Niccolo seemed still lucid, his black eyes on Marietta’s tear-stained face.
“Francesco is still busy, but I asked a notary to send word.” Filippo wiped off the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve.
“Thank you, Filippo.” Niccolo smiled at him, his lips drained of colour. “I didn’t think I’ll see the garden gathering again, lest here.”
He stepped away, as did the group of friends, giving him and his family some space. He spoke softly to his wife, to the children – and then they heard Marietta calling his name again, shaking his hand.
“Mamma.” Bernardo gently took her hand, “let father sleep for a while.”
Will it just be a while? The friends exchanged a look, or will it be the final time?
Time dragged on. At one point Marietta drew the curtains close, and the children lit the candles. They passed a jug of water, some bread and figs around for a simple dinner.
“…I think I’d go to hell…”
“Niccolo!” Marietta put her piece of bread down, “No, you’ll not – oh, no, how can I forget! Bernardo, please, go and get a priest -”
“I’d rather – ah, Marietta…” Niccolo’s eyes were still unfocused, “what did you say?”
“You’ll not go to hell, Niccolo.” The woman clutched his arm, “You cannot.”
“You brought a lot people here, my love.” Niccolo spoke softly. “I – I had a dream.”
And everyone listened. “The poor are blessed for a journey to Heaven, the courtly and philosophical destined for Hell.”
“And you - ” Marietta’s eyes were red and puffy, “You.”
“Marietta, dear.” He took her hand, “I’m sorry. For everything. Please, take care of the kids.”
Bernardo entered with a breathless priest. Niccolo turned his head – to great effort – to look at his habits, and turned back to Marietta. “Please, Niccolo.” She pleaded, “I know you never really did. But just one last time?”
He watched her with a soft, gentle expression. “One last time, Marietta.” She let go of him, brought the children with her, and everyone else bowed their head and retreated out of the bedroom.
The priest didn’t stay long alone with him. It was an extremely rapid confession, Filippo thought. Maybe he still doesn’t believe it, maybe he’s just doing it for Marietta and the children’s sake, or maybe he’s too weak to speak anymore. He stood with the group of friends, watched on as the black-clothed priest anointing his forehead and hands with oil. As the priest took his left hand, usually covered with a glove, Filippo saw a faint mark on his ring finger. No one else seem to take note of it, but Luigi and Zanobi exchanged a brief look.
A piece of bread, a sip of water, a string of soft prayers. “You’ll not be condemned to hell now, okay?” Marietta whispered to him, “Watch over your children.”
“And you.” Niccolo wanted to touch her hair, but he’s unable to lift his hand anymore.
They stayed for a couple more hours, until the church bell called Lauds. The candles ran short, morning light swept into the room through the slits between curtains. The priest placed a cross on his chest, “Requiescat in pace.”
“….I have the lamentable duty of informing you that our father, Niccolo, died on the 22nd of this month…He allowed Brother Matteo, who kept him company until his death, to hear the confession of his sins. Our father left us in the deepest poverty, as you know.”
The boy put the pen down. “Mamma, is there anything we should write?”
“That’s enough, thank you, Piero.” Marietta kissed Piero on his head, folded the letter and sealed it.
“Madonna, let me.” Filippo took the letter from her, “I’ll see it sent tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Messer Strozzi.” She bowed to him. “The children and I, and Niccolo, are in your debts.”
“Please don’t say that, Madonna,” He went down to look into the young boy’s eyes, “We’ll keep him in our fond memory.