The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  “Basta!” Battista roared, flinging the pillow off and to the floor in one fluid motion of frustration, jumping out of bed, and kicking it as if it were the men who woke him. Stumbling and tripping to his door, his unsteadiness adding fuel to the flames of his fury, he leaned out the door to scream once again. “Enough!”

  Despite himself and his ire, he bit back a smile as silence doused the tomfoolery below, as hissing whispers took the place of childish braying.

  Battista walked back into his room and stood in the midst of the chaos. He could not remember what time he and Frado had arrived home. They had traveled hard all through the night, not knowing for sure if di Carcaci’s men had regrouped and resumed their chase. Not daring to slow and find out.

  They had arrived at Battista’s three-story home on the Street of St. Proculus in the shadow of the Palazzo dei Pazzi as only a smudge of the next day’s light appeared on the horizon; not a soul had been stirring in the quietest of hours, save for those spirits haunting this ancient city.

  As he stood with the afternoon sun streaming through his southern windows, he looked down at himself, shiny black hair falling in two large, soft waves to his chin.

  He still wore his thick hose, though the laces fell loose, the long ties hanging down to his knees. He wore neither boots nor stockings, satchel nor jerkin; his ecru linen undershirt hung out on one side only, as if he had fallen asleep while trying to dispatch it, and the whole of it was a mass of wrinkles, wounded by the crush of his hard sleep. The night’s antics had exhausted him, not an easy task on a man of his prowess, of his eight and thirty years. Oh, but what a night it was.

  The sculpture! The thought of it lurched into his mind. He kicked at the piles of clothing and linens covering the floor, searching for the satchel.

  With a rejoicing cry, he spied it, rushed to it, and flopped to the floor beside it. Throwing the flap of the bag wide, he took the wrapped bundle in his hands and tenderly unfurled its covers with a cautious grace as if he unclothed a beautiful woman. It had been his night’s conquest and he caressed it with the respect such a distinction deserved.

  Rising slowly, he laid it lovingly upon his mattress as he headed for the corner chamber pot. Opening his breeches, taking his stance, he took his aim, and—

  “Take that back, you scurrilous mongrel!”

  He jumped at the screech rising up from below, and turned to yell back.

  “Merda!” He cursed, realizing with disgust that his release had already begun. Battista stared down at the mess he’d created—censuring his own slovenliness. What would it require to cure him of the excesses of his maleness?

  “Nuntio!” he called down for his servant, certain the abiding man never strayed far. “Your assistance, if you please.”

  “Sì, Messere Battista.” The answering cry came but two seconds later and Battista smiled at its cheerfulness. “I’m coming.”

  The scene below was no improvement from the one left behind.

  With one sharp and critical glance, Battista could see all, for better and worse. The open design revealed every corner of the ground floor; no walls stood to hide the offenses. One bricked corner served as kitchen, another bookshelf cubby as a study, while the entire street front half of the modest home functioned as a catchall of settees, feather mattresses, tables, books, cards, dice, bottles, and men. Upon every surface treasures sat, painted tables overflowing with glass vases, antique bronzes, ancient illuminated manuscripts, and around them the crates, boxes of every shape and size, stood like sentinels, some full, others empty, tops off, waiting with open hungry mouths for their own treasures to be packed in. The wooden-slat boxes commanded the room above all else.

  If he had the family he imagined in the portrait, it would be here, in this part of the house, that they would take their leisure together, read together in the quiet of the evenings, and entertain their families in the sacredness of a Sunday afternoon. But that portrait lived only in his mind. In truth, this room belonged to his band of men as much as to him; here they congregated—day, night, and every moment in between. Battista refused to complain, though a part of him longed to, and far too often these days, for without these men he could not do his work.

  “There he is. He will tell you the truth of it.” Frado’s call greeted him first, though Battista had not yet taken the last step off the stairs.

  “Battista!” another man cried. “Frado jabbers that he saved you from near death. Tell us this is but another of his vividly imagined tales.”

  A trunk-legged older man jumped to Battista’s side, his high-pitched squeak incongruent to his boulderlike build. “I have news, Battista, such that will please you well, I’m thinking.”

  Others rose from their lounging positions, chattering away as they gathered round him. Battista stood in the heart of the maelstrom, not knowing whom to answer, which to turn to first, like the mother bird who has brought but one worm back to a crowded nest.

  He answered none of them, merely held up a long, lean hand as he made his way to the kitchen and the warmth of its ever-burning fire. An early spring had come to call, long before the pending late April Easter, but here and there a chilly day made a surprise visit, a day such as this.

  With slow nonchalance, he placed the sculpture in the center of the large, round cherrywood table in the center of the area, took his time to pour a mug of spiced hot water and to grab a sweet bun from the still-warm pan. Sauntering toward a vacant settee, he plopped himself onto it and bit off a large bite.

  “I am most sorry to tell you, Ercole”—Battista chewed on the sweet bread along with his words, wide jaw muscles bulging with the effort—“but it’s true. If not for Frado, I would be in the clutches of the duca di Carcaci and his guards at this very moment.”

  Battista smiled over the rim of the terra-cotta cup as he sipped from it, watching Frado swagger away, his age-imposed monk’s tonsure of black hair and round circle of baldness hidden beneath a royal blue beretto. Ercole and another followed grudgingly behind. Battista held his tongue as his portly friend carried on about his audacious exploits in last night’s adventure. Frado tortured them with a performance worthy of the stage, pudgy arms mimicking as if he himself had scaled the palazzo walls, taken on twelve guards single-handedly, and come away with every treasure the duke possessed. Battista allowed the man his glory gratefully. Indeed, if not for Frado, he would have felt the noose about his neck years ago; it was his pleasure to share every moment of réclame and profit with the man.

  “Speaking of profit,” Battista announced to the room as if they had been privy to his thoughts, “have you sold any of the extra items from the Fénis Castle?”

  “Ah, it is of this I longed to tell you.” The stocky Barnabeo sat beside him, gap-toothed grin spreading at the opportunity to share his news at last, voice squeaking higher with pleasure. “Del Nero has taken both pieces, the painting and the bronze, at a most generous price.”

  As he spoke, Barnabeo took from his waist a large purse, which he handed to Battista with a noted flair, pride in a job well done in the flourish.

  The jangling of heavy coins brought them all to attention, and every man drew near, once more the baby birds looking for a morsel from their mother.

  “Sì, Francesco, I should have known.” Battista nodded happily, well pleased. He called Francesco del Nero a true friend, as he did only a few. The support of his fellow Florentine patriot del Nero kept them all fed, and del Nero’s recommendations to Filippo Strozzi brought Battista entrée to those who held the greatest art in all of the Republic. “When you drink these florins away, and I know you will,” Battista told the men with a wink, handing each one a heavy gold piece, “be sure to raise your tankard to del Nero.”

  “Del Nero!” the men sang in chorus, laughing at the prospect Battista so easily foretold.

  Battista called Frado to him, leaned over the back of the small sofa, and handed the man the purse and the coins left within it. “You know what needs to be done with these, m
y friend. But take an extra for yourself. You’ve earned it.”

  Frado pulled two coins from the purse and tucked them into a barely visible flap on his well-stretched jerkin, but not without a smug smirk in Ercole’s direction. All knew of Ercole’s desire to take Frado’s place, of his longing to accompany Battista on his expeditions and not be a part of those who worked in either their preparation or conclusion. For all that Ercole and Frado had much in common ... same age, same build, and same quiet disposition ... all knew what Ercole would do he would do for the glory of it. What Frado did he did in loyalty to Battista and to benefit others. True purpose is the gauge by which all lives are judged.

  “Now, my friends, to the matters at hand.” Battista rubbed his hands together, then brushed the trunk hose covering his thighs, ridding himself of crumbs, knocking them to the gray stone floor without thought. “Giovanni, write to King François and tell him of our latest acquisition on his behalf, would you? He will be overjoyed, I am quite sure.”

  The young fair-haired man nodded. “Sì, as sure as I am that Pompeo cheats.”

  “Dio mio, Giovanni, let it go. I do not cheat.” Pompeo ran in from the kitchen where he studied the newly acquired statuette quietly. As he ran his hands through his hair, the thick black spikes stood out like a porcupine’s quills while his smooth and youthful cheeks turned scarlet, nose still swollen and red from the impact of Giovanni’s fist. “How often must we have this same argument?”

  “As often as you cheat.” Giovanni jumped to his feet, sticking out his chest as he thundered toward Pompeo.

  “You are sh—”

  “Basta!”

  Once more Battista put a halt to the bickering, jumping between the infuriated men with a strong hand toward each. Unlike most Tuscan men—typically lean and small, unremarkable and unintimidating—Battista rose to an impressive height, and few had the nerve to test the brawn accompanying the breadth.

  He sighed with exasperation, eyeing both with paternal impatience. “Pompeo, I do not know if you cheat. I know only that you win at cards far too often. Giovanni, you stink at cards, which is why Pompeo always plays against you and why he always wins.”

  The others in the room howled with laughter, both combatants possessing the grace to grin as they stepped apart, leaving their argument for the next time the cards were dealt.

  “I will send the missive, Battista, this very day,” Giovanni said contritely, returning to the subject of his work.

  “Sì, bene.” Battista sat once more, stretching his long legs out before him, propping his feet upon the ottoman, and wiggling his long, still-uncovered toes. “Have we received any more requests from France?”

  “Nothing yet,” Giovanni replied. “But there are a few old requests we’ve yet to fill.”

  Battista turned a scowling brow to the man in the chair beside him. “Make me a list, Gio? Per favore? ”

  “Of course.” The young man stood at once.

  These fellows to a one were dedicated to Battista, to his work for Florence and for the food, clothing, and comfortable lives their work provided. He ruled them with a loving but firm hand and they responded with affectionate and devoted diligence. They were his famiglia, as much as his mother and widowed sister, who lived but a stone’s throw away.

  “Pompeo, have you added this piece to the list?” Battista called to the man behind him as he stared out the window. He marveled at the glass coverings so recently installed on this floor of the house; cloudy and cluttered with lead, they were difficult to see out of, or, by the same token, into. And for the latter he was most grateful. He willingly gave up the view of the passersby on the street for the privacy and seclusion the barriers afforded.

  “I have.” Now calm, his veracity no longer questioned, the youngest of the group came to sit with Battista. “I may look at it a bit more before packing it away, if I may. It is quite beautiful.”

  Battista beamed at the man more than a decade younger than he. Pompeo’s deep admiration for art and antiquities made him ideal for his work. He had spent his childhood apprenticed in the bottega of the great Cellini, and had learned much at the master’s hands. When Pompeo admitted knowledge to be his gift, more so than ability, he had found his way to Battista.

  “Of course. But by the end of this day, sì?”

  “Sì, Battista, grazie. Someday I hope to travel to the cathedral and see it for myself. If it is anything like this, it must be brea—”

  The door flung open with a slam, whumping away Pompeo’s words, and a thin, lavishly dressed man of Battista’s age rushed in.

  “I have news. Oomph!” the man cried, tripping over one of the dozens of crates strewn about the room, bringing forth a curse before the tidings. “Merda! Is it not yet time to send these things on their way?”

  Battista chuckled at the comical picture Ascanio created as he stumbled, arms windmilling, struggling to gain his balance. “There is not enough yet to fill a quarter of a cargo hold. Transport costs a fortune. Unless we fill the entire ship, most of our profit will sail away with it.”

  “I understand, but can we not ... not”—Ascanio swirled his jeweled hands about as if stirring two big cauldrons of soup—“not organize it better?”

  As if he heard his name called by a thought, the stooped Nuntio wandered down the stairs, yellowed rags bound for the garbage heap in hand. “I will work on it today, signore.”

  “Grazie, Nuntio. You are—”

  “Enough of your housekeeper’s cares, Ascanio. What is your news?” Battista barked.

  Ascanio stood in the middle of the room, hands to hips, jaunty grin upon his ruddy face.

  “France and Spain are at war ... again!”

  Three

  Necessity brings him here, not pleasure.

  —Inferno

  The small orchestra—nothing more than a chitarra, a harpsichord, and a viola—in the shell-shaped niche played a lively saltarello. A smattering of couples kicked and hopped, merrily displaying their grace and virtuosity, their costly costumes and glittering gems. Amidst this intimate gathering in a small sala of the Mantua palazzo, cheerful voices, smiling faces, and bubbling laughter filled the quick hollows between songs ... a cheery night indeed.

  Jolly for all save the two growling at each other over their chair arms.

  The master of the house did little to disguise his impatience with his ward, who sat beside him, each slumped into the exquisitely upholstered chairs, each falsely convinced of their anonymity in the far corner of the spacious green marble salon. She burned with her own ire, the crimson stain painting her pale face as no cosmetic ever dared.

  “I have no immediate plans to travel, Madonna Aurelia, and therefore neither do you.” Federico II of Gonzaga, the marquess of Mantua, made the pronouncement through his small, clenched teeth, looking much like a dark version of his favored bichon frise kept forever by his side, though not nearly as amiable as that tail-wagging creature.

  “I am not suggesting you travel, Zio.” Though the nobleman was not her uncle, the Lady Aurelia called him by the title—for the sake of explanation—as she had the men who came before him.

  The chestnut-haired woman clamped her hands in her lap, wringing them almost painfully, as if she could stifle their angry quiver. How she loathed it when he spoke to her as if she were a child, when he used the formal form of her title, as if to badger her with his serious intent. This man, to whom she must forever answer, had become lazy of late, as those who judged him turned their gaze to other sights.

  Inheriting his title from his father while too young to wield it, Federico had lived under the regency of his mother, Isabelle d’Este, for many years. In the hopes of escape, the headstrong adolescent had launched upon a military career that ended with middling success, and returned as a man to take his rightful place as lord of Mantua. His mother, still spry and intellectually curious at fifty-three, had taken to travel, leaving her son free to do as he chose. And he chose to do little. With no wife, an accommodating mi
stress, and a rich court, Federico rarely stirred from the confines of his palazzo, his one niggling duty the protection of the Lady Aurelia.

  “I hoped to do some traveling on my own.” Aurelia leaned toward the marquess, willing him to turn his gaze back.

  She would not, by nature, raise her voice, only if she must. She respected the power of this man, of the nobility represented in this room. These courts of the Italian city-states retained the military and political influence of the previous age, when families gained position by protecting their rulers. They then in turn became dependent upon these lords for their hospitality and largesse. It was a vicious circle, and she lived in its center. But she comprehended her own power and, more importantly, her value, and it gave a determined lilt to her voice.

  “Not alone, of course,” she continued when the marquess deigned to look at her, round brown eyes skeptical beneath raised bushy brows. “There is a group of women about to set off on a journey to Venice, and I long to accompany them. Your mother is there and we would join her. There will be chaperones and servants by the score. Surely such protected travel would not be remiss.”

  “This is a question asked and answered, Aurelia.” Federico raised his voice, punctuating his admonition with a pounding fist on the padded chair arm. Jumping to his feet, he tugged down on the skirt of his fitted velvet doublet, throwing his lace-encircled hands up into her face. “I will not entertain it further.”

  The music squeaked to a close, strangled upon the grip of his anger, and the courtiers hushed in the empty wake of it. The marquess stomped away, parting the dancers upon the veined stone floor, to take a seat with a group of men at the distant corner, as removed from her as possible without leaving altogether.

  Aurelia cringed, teeth scraping together, eyes raised to the portrait above her and the condemning faces of Luis Gonzaga and his three sons, Guy, Fillippino, and Feltrino, the branch of the House of Gonzaga that had begun the family’s control of Mantua two centuries ago. As they looked down, their descendant denied and humiliated her; she wanted nothing more than to disappear. Each hand moved to a chair arm, gripping it till the knuckles shone white, and she started to rise.