Exiled, isolated, and depressed, Niccolo Machiavelli longs to return to power at any cost—but with the threat of torture still hanging over his head, Niccolo must bend to the will of the powerful Medici family.
As a university student, I read
Machiavelli’s The Prince more than once. In my political theory class,
we talked about his zero-sum view on politics. In a class on Renaissance Italy,
we discussed his relationship with the Medici and Savonarola. I was so
fascinated with Machiavelli that I wrote my undergraduate thesis on his
assessment of the political uses of religion.
Some years later, I’m now a history
professor, and I assign The Prince in my classes. Readers come to the
text with preconceived notions: that Machiavelli was ruthless, lacked any moral
code, and was, in short, “Machiavellian.” But consider the context. Less than a
year earlier, Machiavelli had been arrested, thrown in jail for three weeks,
and tortured multiple times. Upon release, he was exiled. And then he sat down
to write The Prince, dedicating it to the very family that tortured and
exiled him.
Yes, The Prince is cutthroat.
But Machiavelli was writing for cutthroat rulers.
Just imagine Machiavelli in exile, waiting
to hear what the Medici think of The Prince, still hating the family
that ruined his life. Imagine one of the greatest political minds in history
stuck in a small village, surrounded by “lice,” his brain molding (his words,
not mine!).
As Machiavelli wrote in a letter to
his friend Francesco Vettori, dated 10 Dec 1513, “these Medici princes should
begin to engage my services, even if they should start out by having me roll
along a stone. For then, if I could not win them over, I should have only myself
to blame.”
To what lengths would he go to win
over the Medici?
Those questions inspired my novel, The
Lion and the Fox, which is set just after Machiavelli finishes The Prince.
Machiavelli wants to impress the family that abused him. What would he do if
they asked him to investigate a murder? And what if the Medici family still
suspected Machiavelli of plotting against them?
That hook allowed me to explore the
world of Renaissance Florence through the eyes of a political exile,
disillusioned with the bravado of young patrician rulers yet still dependent on
their favors. I wanted to show a darker side of the Renaissance, one that often
doesn’t appear in the rosy descriptions of Renaissance art. Clashes of honor, extravagant
displays of wealth, and falls of fortune were parts of daily life in
Renaissance Florence—as was the violence that could erupt at any moment.
I also wanted to create a rich and
realistic role for Florence’s women by not only giving them a voice but also
showing the power wielded by those forced to history’s margins. Although they
were often treated like material goods to exchange on the Florentine marriage
market, their value assessed by the dowry system, women were more than just
wives, sisters, or daughters. In Florence, women used informal networks to get
what they wanted. And in a city where nearly one in five women was a
prostitute, brothels were big business, and most were run by women.
As a history professor, I challenged
myself to think of history in different terms—and it taught me some lessons
about the gaps in my historical training. What did it feel like to walk the
streets of Renaissance Florence? What, exactly, did a courtesan wear in the
early sixteenth-century? And if a dead body was found in the Arno River, where
would it be taken?
If you’re wondering just how far
Machiavelli might be willing to go—you’ll have to read the book!
Sylvia Prince
