The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  But the aperture boasted no glass, and the shutters did little to suppress the voices.

  “I am surprised to see you again so soon, donna mia,” the aged voice warbled with respect.

  “My lady,” Battista ruminated, she called Aurelia my lady; she must know the truth of Aurelia’s identity, at the least that she is a noblewoman. In this notion he found yet another unpleasant surprise.

  But he allowed none of his misgivings to show on his face or in his posture. As if he belonged to the house, he availed himself of the wine left behind, raising his cup with a smile to any who passed him by, to the revelers beginning to fill the street in the summerlike heat of this night. The passage would fill soon, leading as it did to more than one of the large piazzas that would host a myriad of entertainments on an evening such as this.

  His smiles disguised a gruesome grimace as the merrymaking plugged the air, and he struggled to hear the conversation within.

  “I could not wait ... needed ... ,” Aurelia said, impatience clear in her clipped diction.

  The woman responded, but only a smattering of words reached his ears. “... I am doing my best, I promise you. But the painting you ...”

  Battista longed to scream with frustration as he lost the older woman’s voice behind a bout of boisterous laughter, the hilarity of a group of young men passing along the street, full of themselves and their amusement. But what he had heard ... His jaw hurt as he bit down upon his anger. Aurelia spoke to this woman about a painting, but which—the Duccio or the Giotto—he could not tell, but it did not matter. Her complicity with this woman could only be a disloyalty to him, and it stabbed him with its vile purpose.

  The women’s voices reached him again, words of thanks from Aurelia, imbued now with gratitude replacing irritation.

  “I understand, Signora Alberini, really I do, but ...” Aurelia breathed deep on the proclamation and he heard a tone of deference, and yet she clearly urged the woman to give her more ... but more what he didn’t hear.

  Battista threw back a full mouth swallow of wine, poured another dose, and tossed that down his gullet as well. He supposed she could be trying to help their cause, one respecting his goal. But if that were the case, why would she not have shared her efforts with him?

  From the very start, Battista had often wondered if Aurelia’s actions were in the service of her guardian; the marquess of Mantua was a well-known art collector. Her devotion to him, her gratitude for her care and sustenance, might easily induce her to such a challenge, to obtain not only the triptych but also the antiquity, for the Mantuan collection. Battista’s first fear returned to haunt him once more, laying waste to all the trust his and Aurelia’s collective experience had built between them.

  “Then if I am still here, Signora Alberini, I will return in a week.”

  He heard Aurelia’s words clearly, realizing with a start that she stood at the door, that the portal inched open.

  Clasping onto the name she tossed out so casually, a revelation that would allow him further inquiry into this incident, Battista jumped to his feet, almost crashing the chair to the street, dashing off in the opposite direction than that from which they had arrived.

  Hidden well within a gaggle of people—a family of both young and old—Battista dared to look back at her. As he surmised, Aurelia lowered her veil before her face, dipped a shallow curtsy in parting, and headed back toward his house. He glared at her back, at the retreating figure of a woman who had become, once more, a stranger.

  The dead of night stretched out long and hollow; in its dimness he found no ease, thoughts tangled on Aurelia and her nocturnal encounter. Like specters—one by the name of anxiety, the other agitation—two women, though they were one and the same, stood in his mind. The stranger thrust into his life by necessity, the friend who helped him survive and triumph. What he felt for each was equally as powerful, two encompassing emotions that tipped each end of a broad spectrum.

  More than once, he had made for the steps, lifting one leg to make the climb, to barge into her room and demand an explanation. But each time, the face of the woman who had pulled him from the grip of fire rose up before him, holding him in place, preventing him from destroying what lay between them.

  And yet if allegiance was their truth, why did she not come to him of her own accord?

  “Damn it,” he swore under his breath, the same thought pelting him like hard nuggets of hail. He had to end the torment, had to ask her. He jumped up again, jumped to the stairs, and—

  The front door banged open, the blood-covered face in its threshold the countenance of the devil himself.

  “Battista!” the apparition cried out, one trembling hand raised, reaching out.

  The specter knew his name. Battista drew his daggers, held them before him in defense. Until he rushed forward, until he saw the black hair and round dark eyes beneath the dirt, the blood, and the tears.

  “Pompeo!” Battista yelled, shoving the blades back into their scabbards, thundering across the room, jumping the furniture to get to the man before he fell to the floor.

  Just as he dropped, Battista reached him, catching him in his embrace, controlling the descent as they both lowered to the polished wooden planks.

  Battista pushed the sweat- and dirt-crusted hair from the young man’s face. “Are you injured? Is this your blood?”

  He searched Pompeo’s skin, his hands, his doublet, but found no wound, nothing to cause such a stain.

  Pompeo opened his mouth to answer, but naught more than a sob came from his throat. As the tears dribbled off his chin, he shook his head.

  Footfalls thundered on the stairs, first one and then another, lighter.

  “Ercole? Where is Ercole?” The words scratched Battista’s throat as they squelched out, for he needed nothing more than this solitary ravaged form to answer the question.

  Battista panted, he couldn’t find enough air; his heart pumped, though he would stop it, unable to believe his life continued if one of his men’s had ended.

  Pompeo squeezed his eyes shut tight, great dollops of tears forced through the crinkled lids, as he whispered the harsh declarative, “Dead.”

  Frado wailed as if struck, staggering away from the men on the floor.

  Battista kissed the boy’s head, holding the young man close, rocking Pompeo as he offered up a silent prayer for this boy’s safekeeping and the care for the immortal soul of his lost comrade.

  Over the top of Pompeo’s head, Battista’s gaze found Aurelia, stabbing her, as if she alone had killed Ercole.

  Sixteen

  To doubt is not less grateful than to know.

  —Inferno

  The darkest days of death do not occur as the loved one is laid in the ground, but rise up as life continues, their absence keen amidst the forever-changed normality.

  Aurelia saw the descending of such grief upon Battista in the days following Ercole’s funeral; she saw the dashing of his hopes each time the door opened and the roly-poly man did not stand in the threshold, imparting good news in the dour manner so particular to his contrary demeanor.

  Aurelia did her best to distract him, to keep his thoughts on the next piece of triptych, to the puzzle of where their Purgatory awaited them. But the days of frustrated study—hours spent over the paintings and the poem—only served to exacerbate his misery. He had found Purgatory in the passing of his dear friend.

  Withdrawn and sullen, Battista barely spoke, and if he did he offered naught but clipped and choppy words filled with frustration. His irritation seemed most often directed toward her, and his petulance wounded her, though she pushed the nonsensical injury away as best she could. He blamed himself for Ercole’s death, she was sure of it, and wondered if perhaps he blamed her as well. He worried that the forgery had not been put in place—destroyed in the same fiery end as Ercole—worried more that the missing piece would bring attention and more danger to their quest.

  Aurelia studied the book in her hands, gaze flitting fr
om the words devoid of meaning for all the many times she read them, to the face of the man impenetrable no matter how often scrutinized.

  With a knock needing no answer, Barnabeo pushed through the door; even this barreling man shuffled beneath the weight of loss.

  Tossing a velvet pouch upon Battista’s lap, Barnabeo plopped himself onto the settee beside him. “The duke was very happy to pay top dollar,” Barnabeo declared with little pleasure. “He did not even bother to haggle.”

  Battista pulled at the tasseled drawstring and peeked into the purse, a wan, if satisfied, smile appearing on his gloomy face.

  With little enthusiasm, Battista handed out the coins, dispersing the bounty earned, in some way, by them all.

  Frado eagerly skipped forward, palming his coins, and, with a curt nod, quit the room with the same expeditious efficiency.

  Aurelia followed him, holding the door open as he rushed from it, squinting into the sunny day as the small man trundled quickly away, lost in the swirling activity on the busy street.

  “Again?” she asked of his retreating form, turning to Battista as Frado strode out of sight. “You pay him and he cannot wait to leave you. Where does he rush to with such urgency?”

  She flounced back down in the wing chair she favored, the soft maroon velvet cushions squishing beneath her in a comforting manner. Elbows on knees, she perched on its edge, her query held in the air as she stared pointedly at the men. She did not miss the glance they shared, a masculine intimacy glinting with amusement.

  She tilted her head to the side, the snippet of lightness most welcome in a house bereft of it for many a day, the pale cheer infecting her own lips. “What?” she asked them, expecting some bizarre tale of heavy drinking and carousing.

  Ascanio pushed his chair from the table, fussing at his lace-edged cuffs. “Frado gives most of his earnings to the orphanage.”

  “Or the Church,” Giovanni offered from the chair beside him.

  Aurelia’s mouth gaped, floundering like a fish abandoned on dry land, but she could not contain her astonishment, and her fluster pleased the men to no end.

  Battista chuckled, and it was the sound of a man longing to come back to life. “He lives here and I feed him, without charge for either. He believes his is a blessed life and that he should bless others in return.”

  Aurelia spun back to the portal in wonder, eyes squinting as if the shadow of the surprising Samaritan stood in the threshold still.

  She closed her flapping lips, unable to respond. There was so much to this world she would never understand, and yet so much to be held in glory.

  Of a sudden Battista pulled up from his slouch, rubbing his face with both hands as if washing it, growling a bit as he did. “I have had enough of this.”

  Yanking his hands from his face, he looked at the company of mournful men.

  “Ercole would hate this,” Battista told them contritely. “It is the feast day of San Giuseppe, his favorite of all the holy days... .”

  “Because of the zeppole,” Barnabeo mumbled, but not without the rumble of laughter.

  Battista smiled, looking almost relieved to do so. “Sì, the zeppole. How he loved them. He would rail against us all for sitting here, moping, when such a party was to be enjoyed.”

  He stood up, pulling Barnabeo up with him, pushing the rock of a man toward the door.

  “Go, all of you. Exchange these dark, dreary clothes for your brightest red. Meet back here as quick as you can. In the name of Ercole will we eat and drink, and drink some more.”

  The men responded, Ascanio the first, all too willing to become resplendent once more. In the wake of their departure, Aurelia held her breath. Battista had not seemed to include her, but then it might only be her own apprehension.

  He faced her then, unable to hide the shadow in his eyes from her knowing glance. “Come, Aurelia, don your prettiest dress. On my arm you will enjoy this day.”

  Aurelia released the breath she had held for what seemed like days and stepped to him, hand brushing his arm lightly. “You have given them what they need ... what we all need ... as you so often do,” she told him, soft voice loud with admiration; this man was a leader and a friend, he nurtured and protected them.

  He mumbled something, but she paid it little heed as she rushed away, lifting her skirts to run up the stairs, eager to be out of the house, to enjoy a festival in public rather than behind the walls of a well-guarded palazzo, her craving for fun and adventure making her deaf to his response.

  “The whole town is about,” Battista said as he licked the yellow custard from his fingers.

  They ate the zeppole purchased from a street vendor’s cart, the sweet goo oozing from the light and flaky pastry with every bite, as they stood at the side of the crowded street, wedged between the pastry vendor and another offering aromatic portions of stufator, serving the stew in hollowed-out, crusty bread.

  Aurelia closed her eyes to the delight, allowing herself to feel nothing but the flavors and textures assaulting her mouth.

  The procession of children had just passed—little boys in their first pair of fancy hose, little girls with garlands of flowers in their hair—each carrying a gift to lay at the feet of St. Joseph in the Duomo, the great cathedral in the center of the city, where the saint’s statue stood. Their little arms overflowed with flowers, limes, candles, wine, and more, carrying on the tradition begun in Sicily in the Middle Ages, thanking San Giuseppe for ending a devastating drought.

  On every corner of the city, bedecked in flags of red, its people offered a different delight, every piazza a joust or a pageant, even the churches—restrained in the late days of Lent—held Scripture readings, lighthearted words to celebrate the saint’s day. And everywhere floated the strains of music.

  Aurelia lunged forward, bumped into from behind by a laughing, handsome young man, but smiled as the offending gallant kissed her hand in apology.

  “You speak the truth,” she chuckled to Battista. “I have never seen so many people in one place before.”

  Ascanio laughed as Frado took a stand at her back, a protective guard dog at his post. She rubbed her hand on his arm, acknowledging his care, and he winked over his shoulder at her. They had lost Giovanni and Pompeo somewhere along the path, the younger men called away by the rattle of the dice or the giggle of a woman.

  “Perhaps you will see someone you know.” Battista leaned down, lips close to her ear.

  She tilted away with a frown, not recognizing him behind the intense expression. “I know no one in Florence save you and your men,” she told him with a shake of her head.

  Battista’s brows bolted up his smooth forehead. “Really? No one?” His voice bit her with scathing sarcasm.

  Her breath escaped her, as if he squeezed her with his large, powerful hands rather than a withered glare.

  “N ... no, not a one,” she replied, taking yet another step away, her voice sounding tentative, even to her own ears.

  Battista sneered at her with the disguise of a smile, and the band around her chest drew a notch tighter. Something disturbed him—some knowledge—she was certain of it, and his knowledge frightened her as nothing thus far had.

  “Come.” He took her almost roughly by the arm and led them west, along the crowded Via Largo. “We do not want to miss the ceremony.”

  As the red-tiled dome of the Duomo rose up in front of them, Aurelia lost all taste for the celebration. Should she speak to him, should she tell him more, enough, at least, to end the jabbing questions?

  Her jaw ached as her teeth ground together; if only he asked her a direct question instead of this spiteful meandering, this intellectual sparring. She could better handle pointed confrontation than speculation at what boiled in his head.

  Aurelia rankled at the itch of vulnerability, a frightening state, especially after so many years in the protection of the marquess.

  “Battista,” Ascanio hissed. “Look!”

  Turning back with Battista, Aurelia follow
ed Ascanio’s narrowed glare.

  On the other side of the widening avenue, a group of men stood stiff and motionless, a mammoth boulder in the stream of frolicking humanity. Though dressed in a similar fashion to Battista and the other men in their group, this posse wore their swords and daggers with greater number, wore their aggressive attitude upon their slashed and colorful sleeves, the chips on their shoulders, and the sneers on their lips. They gave no way as the crowds tried to pass. One stocky man stood at the front of the group, a pale-skinned black-haired man, his coarse beard covering most of his face, a snarling thin lip visible behind the untrimmed mustache, a bone white scar running from the edge of his mouth toward his jaw.

  As Battista turned, they found each other. With slow deliberation, the man raised his hand to his mouth, put the tip of his thumb to his teeth, and, with a hateful glare, flicked it out at Battista.

  Aurelia sucked in her breath. Ascanio bounced on his toes, launching himself toward the brigade of men.

  “No, Ascanio, do not bother.” Battista pulled him back, grabbing both of Ascanio’s arms to contain the man’s anger. “Sfacciato. They are not worthy of our consideration.”

  Aurelia watched as the gang of brigands ambled away, studied the miscreants Battista had labeled as lacking face, one of the greatest condemnations an Italian dared bestow upon another. The depth of a person’s honor they held in the face, or so people believed.

  “Who was that man, Battista?” She had seen much in their time together, but never had she seen someone act so purposefully and publicly sense vegogna, without shame.

  Battista looked at her oddly, as if suddenly remembering her presence. “That, dear Aurelia, is Baldassare del Milanese. As I do, he calls himself an art dealer, but everything he does, he does for his own profit.”