“He is nothing like you,” Frado growled from beside them. “He takes with no compunction, hurting whoever may stand in his way.”
“I did not know he was back in Florence.” Ascanio calmed, voice thick and clogged with distaste, as the dangerous bravi strode away. “I thought they were staying in Rome these days?”
“Apparently not,” Battista mumbled, none too pleased at the turn of events. “Find Giovanni and Pompeo, would you? We need to tell them of Milanese.”
“We will meet you at the Duomo,” Ascanio called, stepping away to his errand.
Battista nodded, putting one arm around Aurelia, the other around Frado. “Come, mei amici, to the ceremony.”
Aurelia puffed with relief. The amiable Battista had returned, forgetting—or so it seemed—the prying questions he had put to her, and the appearance of his enemy.
“I am not sure if that hat matches your lovely gown.” Battista’s hand hovered with amiable propriety at the small of her back as he led Aurelia through the now-dark streets. “But it becomes you.”
She had had no red to don, had chosen a simple pink dress and matching snood, but as the day progressed, as Battista pulled out whatever pebble niggled in his shoe—the fugue of irritability that had plagued the start of their outing—he had bought her a bright red broad, circular hat to perch upon her head.
Aurelia raised her eyes to see the brim. “Grazie mille, Battista. I will have a gown made to match, for this has become my most favored headpiece.”
He beamed at her as Pompeo fell upon them, arms thrown upon their shoulders, fumes of alcohol—of wine and ale—coming off him in waves.
“I will buy you that dress, donna mia, for I am a verra rich man.” The slight youth laughed as he leaned heavily upon them. He may have drowned his sorrow in whatever libations he found, but he had won at every game of chance he entered. The purse at his belt jangled with coins of all shapes and sizes.
Battista jerked his head back, eyes fluttering beneath the barrage of Pompeo’s breath. “I think you need to find a bed before you fall.” He chuckled. “Stay with us tonight. I do not think you will make it home.”
“No, no, I mus return to the pary.” Pompeo pulled away, spinning ungainly in the opposite direction.
Battista grabbed his arm, wrapping it back around his shoulders as Frado took the other.
“Nonsense, silly boy,” Battista chided Pompeo lightly. “We are no more than steps from home. You will pass out in a few minutes anyway.”
Pompeo blinked with surprise. “I will?”
Ascanio and Giovanni, bringing up the rear with equal inebriation, laughed at his gibberish.
At Battista’s blue door, the group bade their good nights, Barnabeo promising to see the other two drunkards safely to their beds.
“Nuntio must still be at the festival,” Battista remarked, waving to the others as they strode away, heading into the house shrouded in darkness. Not a candle had been lit; only the low-burning fire in the kitchen grate shed any light in the house.
Dropping Pompeo upon a couch, the youth more unconscious by the minute, Battista stumbled about, cursing softly as he lurched upon things unseen, hands out waving about, feeling his way, finding what he needed. Aurelia watched the shadow of him stagger like a blind ghost as she kept by the door and the safety of street torchlight. Finally, Battista lit first one candle, then another.
“What the—,” Frado barked.
With a thud and curse, he hit the ground.
“Are you drunk, too?” Battista laughed, the merriment dying upon his tongue as he turned, illuminations in hand.
Even in the meager light, the destruction was clear. Furniture lay overturned, cushions shredded, their feather guts strewn about. The crates in the corner had been ripped open, their contents tossed helter-skelter with no care for their value.
Aurelia slapped her hands over her mouth, as if they could stifle the scream barely caught in her throat. She had never seen such purposeful devastation. Statues lay in pieces, paintings ripped from their frames, furniture broken, thrown to the ground for no good reason save the goal of demolition.
“Frado!” Battista cried, recovering from his stifling shock, rushing to his fallen friend’s side, and pulling him up. “Are you hurt?”
Frado shook his round face, the bulbous cheeks turning bright red as he surveyed the wreckage. “Why would a thief do such a thing?” he hissed.
Battista’s nose crinkled in distaste. “They were looking for something specific. And when they did not find it, they took their frustration out on my possessions.”
“The triptych!” Aurelia cried, rushing through the debris, tripping in her hurry to the painting and the last place she had seen it, resting on the small desk in the study. But in the dark recess of the corner cubby she found only more wreckage, the desk overturned, the painting nowhere to be seen.
Her fisted hands shook, nails digging crescents into the flesh of her palms. All their work had been for nothing; this one fiendish act had erased all her good intentions. She should have destroyed the painting when she had the chance; she had rationalized her behavior for that purpose and she had failed, hesitating for the sake of Battista, for the longing for yet more adventure.
He came up behind her, pieces of a Greek figurine in his hands. “My father gave me this.” Though he stood beside her, his voice came from far away, back at the time his deceased parent had presented him with the gift.
The crash echoed through the chamber, the piece of the small woman shattering against the wall. Aurelia yelped in fear, jumping back. Battista threw another piece, his scream of anger louder still.
“How dare they!” he thundered, his beautiful face mangled with his wrath, all anger and frustration boiling deep within—whether at the wreckage, Ercole’s death, or something more—bubbling to the surface.
“Storm’s comin’,” Pompeo mumbled from his perch upon the settee, head hanging off the edge of the hard furniture now without cushions, falling quiet once more, falling into unconscious oblivion.
Ignoring the drunken man, as they all did, Aurelia stared at Battista, frightened, though more for him than herself; to be consumed by anger was to be eaten alive.
Yet her own anger refused to yield; it festered as Battista failed to see what was missing. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “The painting, Battista. The Giotto is gone.”
He eyed her darkly, but said not a word. She watched as he closed his eyes and breathed deep, pushing the sweaty hair off his face with both hands, resting them on the top of his head as he gathered himself visibly.
“Did you hear what I said?” she railed at him in frustration. “The painting has been stolen.”
Battista shook his head, dropping his hands to his sides as if in relief. “It is perfectly safe.”
Aurelia knuckled her eyes in confusion. “What? What do you say?” She flung an accusatory finger at the overturned desk. “Look, it’s—”
“It’s locked away.” Battista righted a chair, wiping debris from its navy and gold upholstery. “Whenever I leave the house, I secure the most valuable of my possessions in the safe room.”
“In the ... safe room?” Aurelia whispered, confounded. “I ... I did not know you had such a room.”
“Few do.” He turned, surveying the totality of the damage with a sweep of his gaze.
Aurelia seesawed on her relief and her concern, pondering once more this man and his secrets ... displeased to find he claimed as many as she.
“It is hard to know for certain, but it appears nothing was taken,” Frado called out from the far corner, plunging through the debris, finding pieces left undamaged and placing them back into the crates.
“I am not surprised,” Battista hissed. “No one in all of Florence, in Rome and beyond, would have the audacity to purchase a piece owned by della Palla.”
From another man it would be a boast; from Battista it was a hard-edged truth.
Aurelia rifled among the rubble. “I don’t
think many pieces are damaged, either.” She placed some cushions back where they belonged. “It seems to look much worse than it is, as if whoever did this created disarray with a purpose.”
“Baldassare.” Battista spat the name as a curse.
Frado groaned and slumped into a chair, hands full of broken marble shards. “Dio mio. Of course. He has been back, what, two days?”
“But why?” Aurelia asked either of them. “I understand the rivalry between you, the ill will, but why would he cause such chaos? Why not just take what he came for?”
Battista crossed to the kitchen, kicking debris out of the way of his stampede. Grabbing the squat, round bottle of russet-colored brandy, he did not bother with a cup but put the rim to his lips and tossed the liquid down his throat. “Because he did not find what he came for.”
“The painting,” Frado hissed.
“The painting,” Battista growled, throat rough from the harsh alcohol.
“Baldassare is on the same trail. May the devil take him,” Frado cursed.
Battista laughed without amusement. “It had better be soon, or else there are only worse days ahead.”
Seventeen
He listens well who takes notes.
—Inferno
“Wait... what?” Aurelia pestered with a squelch, a hand toto her forehead as if it pained her. “What are you saying? Do you mean to imply someone else knows of the antiquity and ... and the triptych?”
Battista refused to answer her, out of spite to be sure; she had not answered him, had not been truthful with him. Why must he be so with her?
He steeped in the juvenile emotion; he distinguished it clearly with faultless internal vision, but he would not deny it regardless.
The door squeaked open; his hand rushed to his daggers, only to hold at the sight of Nuntio, at the alarm blanching the old man’s face.
“Madre mia, what goes here?” Nuntio staggered into the room. Battista threw back one more mouthful of brandy, plunked the bottle on the table, and stepped to him. “I am sorry for this.” He placed a hand on Nuntio’s shoulder. “Hire however many people you need to clean this up. Cost is no matter, do you hear? I will not have you exhaust yourself over this.”
Nuntio looked up, face slack with shock, mouth an open silent maw.
“Do you understand?” Battista goaded him for an answer.
“Sì, sì,” Nuntio assured him, though he did not sound certain.
“Bene.” Battista nodded, pleased with that at least, and made for the door, wrenching it open.
“Where are you going?” Aurelia called after him, but he gave her no answer, showed no pause.
“Let me go with you.” She scuttled after him.
The alarm in her voice held him then, the shudder of concern. It brought him up sharply, a bitter tug-of-war between sincerity and hypocrisy. He wanted neither just now.
“Where I am for, no lady should follow.”
Aurelia took another step toward him, opened her mouth, and he closed the door in her face.
“Basta,” he said to the night. He did not intend such rudeness, but his head could stand no more. “Enough,” he said again, and turned left, heading for the Via de’ Martelli.
A gathering would certainly take place tonight, he mused. Though not a member of the group whose company he sought, his friend offered the invitation in perpetuity, and Battista would avail himself of it for the first time, its diversion the craved tonic.
In the streets, the merriment prevailed ... with rousing voices and laughter of the celebratory, with the music, and the indulgences. He stopped at a wine vendor and purchased two large bottles of sweet, white Greco wine, the perfect beverage for gentlemen. He had no time to fulfill the custom of the get-together—a potluck of sorts—but Battista hoped his circumstances would find him forgiven, that and the wine.
The home and studio of Florence’s most flamboyant sculptor, Giovanni Francesco Rustici, lay just beyond the Duomo, near the site of the old university. Battista found the column-flanked door thrown wide, the opulent interior aglow with candlelight and laughter, replete with the presence of La Società del Pauiolo.
“Buonanotte! ” Battista gave herald as he entered the foyer of the mansion, heading to the left and the sound of male voices boisterous in spirited conversation.
“Who calls?” The cry found him, and though it attempted severity, the undertone of laughter dispelled it as feeble. From the left corridor Rustici rushed out, a red cape unfurling out behind him, glittering chains jangling upon his broad chest.
“Well, if it isn’t Battista della Palla, as I live and breathe.” The dimples in the man’s round cheeks came out to play at the sight of his new guest. Though Rustici had left youth behind long ago, youthfulness belonged to him, reddish frizzy hair not yet grayed, stocky figure not yet turning to fat. It seemed his childlike attitude kept him forever young.
Battista bowed, relieved he still wore his fine festival costume. Though Rustici forsook his noble lineage at such gatherings, accepting guests in bohemian garb or even craftsmen in worn work gear, Battista thought himself better prepared in his finery, especially on this day of celebration.
“Good evening, Messere Rustici.” Battista straightened. “I hope you do not mind my last-minute appearance. I have need of your hospitality and the company of amiable fellows.”
The sculptor waved a chubby hand dismissively; word of Ercole’s demise had swept through the city, if not that of all of Battista’s tribulations. Sympathy combined with the knowledge of Battista’s sponsor, and Rustici welcomed him willingly.
“The wine stays, but you must go.” The feisty artist cracked with laughter at his own quip, grabbed the bottles from Battista’s hands, and set off like a general at the head of a charge. “This way, young man, we have just the distractions for one in need.”
Battista followed with a sigh of relief, leaving the heavy burdens of grief and worry at the open door.
At the end of a long, well-lit corridor, double doors stood open, welcoming him into the remarkable room Battista had only heard of, never seen.
In honor of the group who gathered at his home, Rustici had converted a mammoth wine vat to resemble a cooking cauldron, wherein his guests—the Company of the Cauldron—sat around a circular table amidst the unique, august environment.
“Michelangelo? You have a guest!” Rustici cried as he pushed the astonished Battista farther into the room.
“Meraviglioso!” a hoarse voice responded above the patter of running feet. On his short legs came the scruffy artist, arms held out and open in a fond, delighted greeting. “How wonderful!” he cried as he wrapped Battista in a warm embrace.
“I thought we would never see you here.” Michelangelo released his grip, holding the younger man at arm’s length, peering intently at the youth he had once called an apprentice.
Battista shrugged, a shy child’s gesture, the same as when they’d first met, humbled, as always, when in the presence of this most gifted and kind man.
“Grazie, Michelangelo, it does me well to see you.”
“Why did it take you so long to come?” The artist shook a finger at him. “You have been on my invitation list for years.”
The Company of the Cauldron, an artist-based society, allowed but twelve members at any one time; only one member’s death could bring the initiation of another. But each member was allowed to invite four guests, though they must be of similar artistic occupation as the members—sculptors, painters, architects, or musicians.
“I never felt ... ,” Battista struggled for an explanation, abandoning it and any need for artifice with this man. “I have never thought myself worthy of such company.”
Michelangelo cuffed him, though lightly and with one of his rare smiles, the artist’s amber eyes sparkling with flecks of blue and yellow. “You could have been great, had you the patience. And what you do for Firenze ...”—the man’s gruff voice hushed to a whisper—“... well, it makes you far more worthy than h
alf these rascals. Come, you’ve arrived just in time.”
Michelangelo pulled him to the large, round table and pulled an empty chair beside his own place, leaning over to whisper in his ear, “You remember the one rule, sì?”
Battista nodded vigorously; the eccentric, ebullient Rustici had but one rule for the society he hosted, one developed after two of its most distinguished members had fallen into a nasty squabble. The question, which was the preeminent art form, painting or sculpture, the very same discussion that had sent two masters into a vicious argument, a quarrel that had forever darkened the relationship between Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci.
Battista gave greeting to the other men, trying his best to appear nonchalant in the company of such talent as Andrea del Sarto, Antonio da Sangallo, Lorenzo di Credi, Baccio d’Agnolo, Michelangelo’s close friend Francesco Granacci, and many others, the house full on this festival night.
A wide, polished beam, the “cauldron’s” handle, arched over their heads, holding a series of lanterns casting a suffused, comforting glow over the room. Servants prowled the circumference of the vat, filling the expensive Venetian crystals with costly Tuscan vintages and Battista’s pale yellow wine. From below their feet, through slates of polished mahogany, the cadence of festive music wafted up, tossed about on the bang and sizzle of a busy kitchen.
Battista lost himself in the splendor of the moment, of the company by his side, by the beauty all around him, by the never-ending flow of wine.
Taken unaware, he jumped at the shrill blast of a fife. Michelangelo laughed, calming him with a hand upon his shoulder.
“Time to eat.” The artist grinned with a waggle of busy salt-and-pepper brows.
Battista relaxed, but only for a moment. Yelping like a little girl, he grabbed at the table as it fell away from them, as servants manning ingeniously devised winches lowered the trencher, only to reel it back up once the scullions below had covered it with the most creative food Battista had ever seen.
The King's Agent Page 19
