My second meeting with Niccolò Machiavelli took place in L’Albergaccio, the tavern where he spent much of his time after being exiled from Florence by the Medici. It was a heated midafternoon, and so we were alone together.“Buon pomeriggio,” I said. “Good afternoon.”“Buona sera,” he replied, less formally.“Tutto posto?” he asked. “Everything all right?”“No,” I replied, “everything is not all right.”“Peccato!” he said. “Too bad! Still the political problems in your country?”“Yes,” I said. “And they are getting worse. The conservatives—as they call themselves, although they are in actuality subversive radicals—are now talking about launching civil war.”“Guerra civile!” Niccolò expostulated. “A
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