“The Machiavelli?”

“Yes, the writer,” Luigi said. “If you are interested, I will ask her about it.”

Ross nodded. “Sì. I am.”

The woman who managed the villa was in the courtyard. She was softly singing as she held a tin watering can over one of the potted plants. When she saw them, she greeted them loudly with “Benvenuti, signori”; then she walked over to shake hands. She introduced herself as Anna Ferrini. She was a short, stout woman with dark, clear skin and reddish hair. Ross guessed her to be a decade older than himself. She lived in the villa as well as managed it.

Luigi asked, “Signora, is it true that Machiavelli once lived here?”

“Sì.” She launched into a partial explanation of the villa’s history, which coincided with what Ross already knew of Machiavelli’s life. After his fall from grace, the Medicis banished Machiavelli to this country villa, away from the tongue and muscle of the politics he loved. Here, in the very section of the villa Ross was looking to rent, he wrote the essays and tomes that made him famous. He had died in the villa, though no one knew exactly where.

Anna spoke of the former tenant casually, but to Ross this fact held intrigue even beyond the obvious historical significance of the place itself. He saw it as an omen. He too was an exile of sorts.

The villa had been in the Ferrini family for many generations. They had only started renting out the apartment in the last three years. With the explanation completed, Anna waved them forward. “Venite, signori.” Come, gentlemen. “It is too hot outside.”

As they followed her toward the apartment, Ross asked Luigi, “Has it been available long?”

“No. And I think it will rent fast. This is a nice place. A German couple lived here for more than a year. It has been vacant only a few weeks. They only rent to foreigners.”

Ross thought that peculiar. “Why is that?”

“Because of the laws in Italy it is almost impossible to make someone leave once they have moved in. Sometimes the landlord has to pay a lot of money to get them out. If you tell foreigners to leave, they will.”

Anna directed them into the kitchen. Though the apartment had no air-conditioning—few homes in Italy did—it was significantly cooler inside the apartment, as the villa’s thick stone walls kept out the heat. The kitchen was small, with a gas stove, an oven and a sink that looked like a trough cut from unglazed stone. Ross ran his hand across the basin and was pleased.

In the center of the room there were a small table with painted tiles and two oak chairs. The refrigerator was typical Italian, small, with rounded corners like an appliance nostalgic of midcentury America. To the side of the refrigerator was a door, no higher than five feet, which led downstairs to a wine and prosciutto cellar. Anna flipped on a light switch and they descended the narrow stairwell single file. The air was musty and pungent. The space was bigger than Ross expected, easily as big as the kitchen above it. It was illuminated by a single bare lightbulb dangling from a cord. A large slab of red, cured prosciutto still hung from a hook toward the back of the room. The meat was flat on one end where a knife had shaved off strips. “The Germans left it,” Anna said. “It comes with the apartment.” It was clear from her tone that she considered this a benefit.