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This is a pump.fun project. It will be posted at 11pm PST. The CA will go here as soon as the dev gets to it: iVV4jchRyRiYf1FBaQ2sCXTavesWsevQ6haNCMUpump

14 August 1481

"What is this?"

Barto's voice carried through the dark house into Niccolò's small bedroom.

"It looks like a horse," Niccolò said back.

"I can't see any saddle!" His brother was nearly frantic. He was always frantic with worry for Niccolò. Even when he'd been younger he'd worried that Niccolò might be kidnapped or worse, but he couldn't understand why his brother would do something like this now. The last time they'd seen each other it had been a week ago and then he hadn't come home at all.

"Brother, you must trust me. Sit down." Niccolò stood up, feeling his way along the wall to get to the window that led out onto their tiny balcony. Once there, he pulled the curtain open enough so that the moonlight could fall across the wooden floorboards. Barto leaned in to listen to Niccolò.

The sound of water crashing against rocks could be heard clearly even over the wind and the sounds of distant traffic.

"What are you doing, Niccolò? You've never told me what your plan was before. I thought we were going fishing tomorrow." This time, when his brother spoke, the anxiety was clear in his tone. It wasn't until now that Niccolò realized how much he missed talking about this stuff with his brother.

"You know I don't want to talk about it now. Come sit by me, please."

Barto stepped away from the window and sat on the end of Niccolò's bed. A moment later, Niccolò felt the bed shift as Barto took his hand. "Alright, tell me."

As soon as Niccolò began speaking, he could feel his own panic begin to fade. Barto seemed to be able to calm him down no matter how angry he got. “Dad thinks it’s about time I learn horseback riding. Every eldest son of the Old Marquesses of Tuscany before us starts at the age of 12.” Barto felt relieved, yet envious. “Where did father acquire the horse?” Barto asked. “Beats me, but he is also putting me into lessons to learn better grammar, rhetoric, and Latin.” 

“That’s great! Maybe then you won’t have trouble remembering things the next time you go off on some adventure!” Barto grinned.

“I suppose,” Niccolò said. “But I really hope Father will let me continue studying philosophy with him. I mean, I love the subject, but…”

“Yeah…” Barto said. “You need to be skilled at something if you want to become a real politician someday. You also know politicians don’t live long, right?”

Niccolò laughed at this. “I’ll take that risk.”

“So, are you planning to go alone?”

“No, Father invited one other person along, someone new in town who is interested in learning about politics.”

Barto frowned. “Someone new? What of me and Marco? His own sons.”

Niccolò shrugged. “Dad is a cold human. We should get to bed.”

* * * * *

19 August 1481

Niccolò walked quickly along the dirt road that led north through the town. He had not brought anything except his sword. He looked around carefully. There were only two men walking behind him. One was an older gentleman wearing robes, who kept looking toward the sky. The second man was taller, dressed in a black cloak and holding a large, metal club. The stranger held his club low, near the ground. It reminded Niccolò of a crossbow. But these weapons were not used for hunting, and their blades were made for cutting wood.

When he looked again, both men were nowhere to be found. He sighed. They probably wanted to follow him to the school, where he would try to convince his father to allow him to continue his studies. He didn't mind being followed. These men were far too suspicious to be mere servants of the Count of Castello.

At least these two might be honest. The count's spies were more likely to be hired thugs than honest agents. Still, Niccolò hoped that the two would leave him alone. If he made it to the school, they may decide to stop following him altogether. If they tried anything, that could be bad for everyone involved.

When he reached the gates to the school, he paused and glanced over his shoulder again. The two men were still nowhere to be seen.

Niccolò began his studies with his new teacher, Paola da Ronciglione. Ronciglione: a good name for the woman. She was tall and beautiful, with golden hair pulled up in a bun and eyes as blue as the sky. She seemed to understand his language perfectly; she could read his lips almost before he knew it. They spent several hours a day discussing politics, literature, history, philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, geography…

Niccolò liked her immensely.

And yet, he had to admit, there was a part of him that was jealous of her ability to speak Greek so fluently. For most people, this would require years of study and practice. Only those who were fluent in many different languages were able to speak in Greek easily. He'd always hated it. He loved to speak the common tongue better than anyone else he knew – except perhaps for Barto – but his parents had insisted that he learn Greek.

After the first month, he started asking Paola questions to make sure he understood everything correctly. Her answers were always correct, and she was patient with him.

 * * * * *

3 November 1481

On his walk home Niccolò would hear the town news, typically from the church, or in rare cases the gossip of the town. Gossip is a waste, thought Niccolò, who knew it’s value was derived from the motivators of fear and greed. His father taught him this. Their family had ruled before the Medici's, four generations ago. His great-great grand father was also named Niccolò, and had significant power and influence that gave Machiavelli its household name in Florence. Nevertheless, with changing tides of uncertainty between shifting condottieris allowed for an unspoken agreement of peace between Medici's and Machiavelli's. They had more to gain by keeping the outsiders out, rather than imploding and losing their homeland all together. This was generally understood. Although, the Medici's were extremely powerful without question; they could surely do whatever they wanted. However, if they became too aggressive, the Condottieri would retaliate with a force equal to the Medici's and a war would ensue. This would be disastrous. So, Niccolò learned to avoid conflict, and he avoided fighting, unless there was no choice. He knew this had nothing to do with the fact that he was the son of a nobleman who was a duke's cousin.

While this policy of avoiding conflict had helped him survive over the years, he knew that sooner or later this was bound to lead to a problem. That problem being the Duke’s eldest son. When the time came, Niccolò would be expected to step in to help his father deal with that problem. In reality, he would probably just be used to fight whoever needed killing.

He shook his head. As soon as the idea of being used as a weapon crossed his mind, he pushed it away. He wanted to be like his father, an influence, without getting his hands too bloody. He knew, a quick death would be a waste of potential, especially without an heir. Then again, maybe Barto and Marco would succeed him. 

 * * * * *

It was a cold winter. There was massive famine. Amid the harshest conditions of any winter of the recent years, conspiracy began to raise over the succession of the late King of France, Charles VII. 

Although it was difficult for some people to accept that someone as young as Charles VII had fathered an illegitimate child, a few believed it, mainly because he died soon after giving birth to a bastard child, his wife having passed on shortly after the birth of the baby. Many nobles began plotting against him, including Niccolò himself. But this baby died after a year anyway, rendering the issue irrelevant. Still, Niccolò was a man of philosophy, he wanted to speculate as much as he could.

The conspiracy was well known within the circles of nobility, and so it had already begun before word of the king’s pregnancy spread beyond the small circle of friends that remained loyal to him. Even though Niccolò never had much contact with the other lords of the court, he heard plenty about them. One such story that Niccolò overheard while walking along a street in Florence told the story of the two cousins, the brothers Alessandro and Francesco Bologna, who were attempting to assassinate the newly crowned king. Another story was about Cesare Borgia and his illegitimatacy to Pope Alexander, but everyone in Florence had heard that story. 

Niccolò had been walking home when he heard another rumor: the plotters had planned to kill a member of the Medici family. Though he never knew anyone personally involved, the rumors continued. Niccolò wondered what it meant if these stories had circulated for decades without ever reaching him. He was very curious.

 * * * * *

As the spring arrived, Niccolò decided to take advantage of his newfound freedom to explore his options. He left his estate and went to the nearby town of Verona, hoping he might find something interesting there. He had no particular goal except to get away from the constant supervision and restrictions of the house. Verona had many things Niccolò admired.  Its cathedral had the finest art collection in Europe, its opera was always performed by the best musicians available, its wine was excellent, and even the local farmers provided some of the tastiest vegetables and fruits he'd ever eaten. 

Verona was one of the oldest cities in Italy, founded in 994 by Albigensian monks. In the Middle Ages, Verona was famous for its fine wines, the famous Fiesole wine and the famous Camaldoli wine. The city was famous for its fine architecture and for the fact that it was one of the three biggest cities in the region. It was also notorious for having a large population of prostitutes. The women wore colorful clothes and decorated themselves with jewels, gold chains, and rings. Many of them were called by the title Visconti, which signified “little girl” in Italian. All in all, Verona was an exciting place for a boy who had grown up in an austere home.

However, the streets of Verona were not quite what Niccolò expected. They were lined with old buildings filled with dusty wooden floors, broken windows, cobblestones covered in trash, and narrow stone walls that appeared ready to cave in at any moment. Some of the buildings were built in such a way that it seemed they were trying to reach the heavens above, while others appeared to be leaning towards the earth.

As Niccolò walked through the cobblestone alleys, he passed by countless doors leading into the homes of various nobles and wealthy merchants. Every room contained a painting, statue, sculpture, window, tapestry, book, or jewelry, all of which were worth thousands of florin each. He could see why people lived here. It was certainly better than the cramped rooms and poverty of Florentine neighborhoods. 

Niccolò spent four nights before it was time for him to return. Over his stay he learned something, that there was now an inherent claim to the throne in France. As a thirteen year old, not only did Niccolò travel alone and navigate Italy with tact, but he learned spiteful details about the politics over the span of Europe. Politics and philosophy were after all his favorite things. An inherent claim to the throne in France was only made possible by way of remarkable audacity. Anne of Brittany was already married to a Hapsburg, Holy Roman Emporer Maximilian I, yet another noble by the name of Charles became the administrator of Anne of Brittany by remarrying her himself. Great, thought Niccolò, another crazed king. There was no peace in all of the lands. The most aggressive and ruthless would ascend, time and time again. Charles, for instance, was a year younger than Niccolò. Perhaps it was time Niccolò made his own move.

Niccolò knew that he wasn't going to live forever. He wouldn't have minded living for centuries and watching humanity progress toward perfection, but unfortunately life wasn't always so fair. He was born into this world with a single purpose. If he didn't fulfill his purpose soon, there would be no hope left for him. The future was inevitable. He knew this. His father had warned him since the day Niccolò was born that he would be in danger. When he turned eighteen he began to think for himself.

 * * * * *

18 June 1487

A week before Niccolò was due to depart for Venice, the Medici family received word that the king, Charles VIII, was about to die.

His physicians advised him to remain abed in bed for a week before making preparations for his departure, but when the week ended he insisted upon going to meet with his advisors. At first they resisted, insisting that he take the time to recuperate before undertaking such a trip, but they finally relented. The following morning, when news reached the palace that his physicians and servants were refusing to allow him to ride, the king set off in his carriage. The Medici family bought up all the merceneries when they caught wind of this, which told the Machiavelli’s that a war was coming. 

Pope Alexander and Charles were friends after all, common enemies of Florence, Italy. 

Niccolò studied over these last 5 years. He became an excellent swordsman, and was incredibly influential.  This included helping Cardinal Alessandro and Francesco Bologna gain control of the Papal States. However, as he approached adulthood he discovered that he had no love for the Holy See. Instead, he preferred to work directly for the Duke of Ferrara. For reasons he couldn't fathom, that made him happy.

So far, everything had gone smoothly. The Duke of Ferrara gave him the opportunity to become a spy and gather information regarding the French royal family. Unfortunately for Niccolò, his plans never got completed. After nearly a year working in the service of the Duke of Ferrara, Niccolò found out that the Duke's son, Giovanni, was being groomed by an unknown woman named Patricia Bellini. The reason for this was revealed to him during a meeting between Patricia and Duke Girolamo of Milan. Patricia said she was sent to help him secure an alliance, one to unite both the Duchy of Milan and Italy together. Apparently, the Duke of Milan had a plan to unite his territories to the south.

After counsulting Niccolò, the Duke Girolamo asked "What do you intend to do?"

Niccolò said, "Nothing, milord," although he felt like he should make some attempt to stop the impending war. He had no idea how it would affect the rest of Italy, however. He simply knew the Italian army wouldn't give up easily, and if the battle took place in France, that meant his cousin Giovanni would fall to a foreign force. He didn't want that. He needed his cousin alive, and Giovanni had become important to him.

Patricia shook her head and smiled. "That won't happen," she said.

"Why not?" demanded Niccolò.

She looked at Niccolò and said, "You're right, my friend. Honestly, war will break out. You are much smarter than you appear. This is something you cannot stop. The cogs are turning and working, and Charles will have his way into Italy, while the pope conspires and divides it for him. We will need more clever men like yourself. Talents, combined with courage, will be invaluable. Now I must go. You understand the consequences of your actions if you were to speak of this?"

Niccolò replied, "Of course, madame.”

"Good," said Patricia. And with that, she left the room.

24 June 1487

Niccolò stood at the edge of the marble terrace overlooking the bustling piazza below. From this high vantage, the rooftops of Ferrara gleamed under the late afternoon sun, their red tiles flickering like embers. Traders, mercenaries, and nobles alike shuffled beneath him, oblivious to the looming storm of war.

His mind raced. Patricia’s words echoed louder than the bells of San Giorgio: “The cogs are turning.”

He turned, startled, as heavy footsteps approached from behind. It was Giovanni, the Duke’s son, adorned in ceremonial armor polished so clean that it reflected the marble like water. His boyish face was now hardened, the softness of adolescence scrubbed away by ambition.

“Niccolò,” Giovanni called, his voice sharpened by frustration. “You heard the news then?”

“Yes,” Niccolò nodded. “France marches. Charles seeks Naples… and more. His ambitions will drown Italy in blood if we allow it.”

Giovanni scowled. “Then we fight.”

Niccolò sighed. “No. We think.” He paced. “Ferrara cannot stand alone. Milan plots with the Papal States. Florence will hedge its bets. Venice watches, waiting for the highest bidder. War is certain, but the victor is not.”

Giovanni gripped the hilt of his sword. “Then what? Wait? Watch while France crushes Naples and marches north?”

“No,” Niccolò paused, gazing south. “We manipulate. We whisper into the right ears. We make enemies fight each other. And when the dust settles… Ferrara stands stronger than ever.”

A silence stretched between them until Giovanni broke it, chuckling bitterly. “Sometimes, Niccolò, I wonder if you were born with ink in your veins instead of blood.”

“I wonder the same.”

12 July 1487

The roads were dangerous now. Every village between Ferrara and Florence bristled with mercenaries, scouts, and thieves disguised as soldiers. Niccolò traveled disguised, wearing a brown wool cloak dirtied with dust. His sword hidden, his satchel filled not with coin but letters — letters that could change the fate of Italy.

One was addressed to Lorenzo de’ Medici himself. Another to the Doge of Venice. Each one crafted with precision — part threat, part promise.

As the sun dipped behind the Apennines, Niccolò reached a small monastery near Bologna. He dismounted and knocked.

A monk opened the door, eyeing him suspiciously. “Travelers aren’t welcome past sundown.”

Niccolò pulled a silver florin from his cloak and handed it over. “I’m not a traveler,” he said softly. “I am a messenger of peace… or of war.”

The monk stepped aside. “Then enter. And may God forgive us both.”

15 August 1487

By the time Niccolò arrived in Florence, the city was boiling. Rumors spilled from every tavern and merchant stall — the King of France had crossed into Italy. Siena had fallen without a fight. Milan was mobilizing. The Pope’s armies stirred like hornets.

Inside the Palazzo Medici, Niccolò stood before Lorenzo himself — Il Magnifico.

Lorenzo was older than Niccolò imagined. His face was pale, his body thin, but his eyes — his eyes burned like a forge. “So… Ferrara sends a philosopher,” Lorenzo mused, fingers tapping the lion-shaped armrest. “Not a general. Interesting.”

Niccolò bowed deeply. “Ferrara sends a solution, my lord.”

Lorenzo laughed softly. “Then speak. I grow tired of fools who bring me only problems.”

Niccolò stepped forward, unrolling a map across the marble table. “France pushes south. The Pope betrays us. Milan prepares for war. But… there is a way. If Venice closes the Adriatic to the French navy, Florence raises her army, and Ferrara holds the passes to the north… we can trap Charles like a boar in a pit. We force him to negotiate. Not with swords, but with fear.”

Lorenzo leaned in, smiling. “A pit of our own making… clever.”

23 September 1487

As the leaves turned amber, Niccolò’s plans began to set in motion. Alliances whispered in candlelit rooms became ink on parchment.

But not everyone favored diplomacy.

News arrived that Giovanni had disappeared — ambushed, perhaps, on his way back from Milan. Some whispered betrayal. Others whispered assassination.

Standing alone on the Ponte Vecchio that evening, watching the Arno’s black waters flow beneath him, Niccolò whispered to himself:

“Power is never given… only taken.”

And in that moment, the boy philosopher became something more. Something dangerous.

8 October 1487

The bell tower of Santa Maria del Fiore struck midnight as Niccolò stood in the shadows of the Duomo. Rain dripped from his cloak, the air heavy with the smell of wet stone and smoke from nearby torches. His contact was late. Very late.

Across the square, a figure finally emerged — slim, wrapped in a gray cloak with a crimson sash barely visible beneath. A signal.

“Patricia,” Niccolò muttered. “Of course.”

She stepped close, lowering her hood. Her hair was slicked against her face, but her expression was dry as marble. “You’ve heard the news?” she asked without greeting.

“About Giovanni,” Niccolò replied. “Yes. Gone. Or worse.”

“Worse.” Patricia’s voice softened. “Captured. Milan holds him. Leverage for what’s coming.”

Niccolò cursed under his breath. “This was supposed to be a war of ideas, not hostages.”

“Naive,” Patricia replied. “Ideas only matter when backed by force. You should know this by now.”

She handed him a sealed letter, wax stamped with the symbol of the Duchy of Milan — a crowned serpent devouring a child. “Terms. From the Duke. Ferrara must abandon the northern passes or Giovanni dies.”

Niccolò didn’t open it. He didn’t need to. He knew what was inside.

“I expected more subtlety,” Niccolò said bitterly.

Patricia smirked. “Subtlety is for men with time. You, my friend, are out of it.”

11 October 1487

Back in Ferrara, the Duke paced his war chamber like a lion trapped in a cage. His advisors argued in circles — pay the ransom, surrender the passes, stall, fight. None of it mattered. None of it would change the math.

Niccolò sat silent, staring at the flickering candle. His hands steepled beneath his chin.

At last, the Duke turned to him. “Well?” he snapped. “Speak, boy. You always have something clever to say.”

Niccolò stood. “There is another way. Milan values appearances. They want leverage, not blood. If we convince Milan that killing Giovanni would ignite the entire league against them… they won’t.”

The Duke frowned. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

“By manufacturing outrage,” Niccolò answered. “Spread word to Florence, Venice, even to the Pope, that Milan has broken sacred laws. Use the clerics. Use the merchants. Spin it as an affront to all Christian order — a noble youth kidnapped by his own allies.”

“And if that fails?” the Duke asked.

“Then we do what men always do when words fail.” Niccolò’s eyes hardened. “We buy swords.”

22 November 1487

In the cold dawn light, Ferrara’s banners lined the hilltops. Behind them, an army. Not large, but fast. Mercenaries from the Black Bands of Cesena, pikemen from Bologna, crossbowmen hired from Genoa.

Niccolò rode beside the Duke, armored not in steel, but in velvet, a sword at his side but parchment in his saddlebag. His weapon was not war. His weapon was fear of war.

As they approached Milan’s forward camp, a herald rode out to meet them. Behind him, on a wooden platform, bound but alive… Giovanni.

The Duke gritted his teeth. “We end this today, boy,” he growled. “One way or another.”

Niccolò nodded but said nothing. His eyes were on the horizon — not at the enemy, but at the future.

Because he understood something the others didn’t yet realize.

Wars were not won with armies.

Wars were won with perception.

And perception… was his craft.

3 December 1487

The banners of Ferrara fluttered weakly in the winter wind. What was supposed to be a negotiation felt off. The Milanese were too quiet. Too compliant. Their camp lacked the usual tension before a battle. No shouts. No orders barked. No sharpening of swords.

Niccolò felt it deep in his bones — something was wrong.

The Duke dismounted, approaching the wooden platform where Giovanni was held. Milanese officers stepped aside with polite smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. Niccolò followed, eyes scanning every face, every hand, every shadow.

“Release my son,” the Duke demanded.

The Milanese captain gave a respectful nod. “Of course. We are men of honor.”

Giovanni was cut free. His face was bruised, but he walked tall.

The Duke turned, motioning for him. “Come, son.”

But Giovanni didn’t move. He stood still.

Niccolò stepped forward. “Giovanni,” he called softly. “It’s over. You’re free.”

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, voice low but sharp. “I am not.”

The Duke blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Giovanni drew a folded letter from his coat. The seal wasn’t Milanese — it was Venetian.

Niccolò’s stomach dropped.

Giovanni’s voice was steady. “While you were negotiating, Father… I was negotiating as well.” He handed the letter to the Duke, who tore it open with shaking hands.

“The Republic of Venice recognizes me as the rightful Duke of Ferrara,” Giovanni said, louder now, as Milanese soldiers closed ranks behind him. “Effective immediately. By the signatures of the Doge, the Council of Ten, and… Milan.”

The Duke staggered back as though struck. “You… you traitor.”

“I am a survivor,” Giovanni said coldly. “You taught me well.”

Niccolò stepped back slowly. His mind spun, calculating. Venice had played them all. Milan too. The Duke of Ferrara was being replaced, not by a foreign invader, but by his own blood — a son sold to the highest bidder.

And in that moment, surrounded by betrayal, Niccolò realized something that would shape his entire life:

Loyalty is not real. Only leverage.

Giovanni turned his gaze toward Niccolò. “You, however…” His hand hovered near his sword. “You are dangerous. I’ve read your letters. Your plans. You’ve played this game longer than anyone. But you played for the wrong side.”

Niccolò didn’t flinch. “I played for myself.”

Silence.

Then Giovanni smiled. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

That night, Niccolò rode alone through the snow, leaving behind Ferrara, leaving behind everything. Not in defeat — but in clarity.

Trust was a weapon. Power was a lie. And men… were nothing but pawns dressed as kings.

From this, he would never forget.

And one day, the world would learn his name — not as a noble, not as a soldier… but as Machiavelli.