The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

The gathering cried out with delight and rousing applause at the sight of the first course, one concocted by their host. Depicting a scene from the Roman poet Ovid, the two broiled roosters were dressed up as Ulysses and his father. With the aid of iron needles strategically inserted to hold their poses, the Ulysses lowered his father into a pie, the edible representation of the Fountain of Youth.

  “Are we to eat it or put it on display?” Battista laughed to Michelangelo, hands stinging, unable to cease his clapping.

  Michelangelo nodded merrily, seeing it all through Battista’s uninitiated eyes. “It only just begins.” He chuckled with a threat proved easily fulfilled.

  As the night progressed, the creations kept coming, bedazzling the eye and the imagination, as well as the palate. A cathedral made of pasta followed next, along with a pig dressed as a serving girl, and a set of blacksmith’s tools, including an anvil composed entirely of pressed calf’s head. The crowning glory of the meal came from del Sarto himself, a miniature temple in the classical design, its floor a shiny montage of colored jellies, columns of red sausages veined to resemble marble, the capitals of sculpted Parmesan cheese, and the roof of marzipan. The oversize altar—the pièce de résistance—was sheet music crafted of elongated pasta with peppercorns for notes.

  Battista tried it all, how could he not, and sat back with a belch, rubbing his protruding tummy as the conversation turned, as it so often did with artists, to the muse.

  “... I crave something simple but about which I can feel deeply.”

  He had heard Michelangelo explain this before, knowing it spoke of the man’s love for his mother, the loss of her as a child, his loneliness, and his hunger for love. Though he cared deeply for the man, the familiar talk lulled Battista—full of food and wine—into a half doze, until he heard the name.

  “... like Giotto.”

  Battista sat up, head snapping to the side. “Scusi?”

  “I said I take much inspiration from nature, from places that capture my imagination,” del Sarto repeated, “as did Giotto.”

  Battista waggled his head, knowing only too well of Giotto’s proclivities. Suddenly sober, intensely alert, Battista took in every word, though nothing proved helpful, until the talk turned to mysticism and the unexplainable subjects artists included in their work and, again, the mention of Giotto.

  “We are more highly attuned to the supernatural,” Rustici gave words to the wildly held notion of those born with a creative soul. “The three stars of Pyxis. Remember his rendering above the mountains to the south? His painting came decades before their discovery. How do you explain that, I ask you?”

  “The Pyxis above the mountains!” Battista slapped the table, a clap of thunder crashing above the lively conversation, deafening and muting all and at once.

  Michelangelo leaned toward him, brow furrowed over his crooked nose. “Are you all right, my friend?”

  Battista came back to the room, his stunning inspiration tucked safely away.

  “Sì, sì, pray forgive me,” he bade the whole group. “I had forgotten how beautiful that particular piece was. Perhaps I have had a bit more wine than is wise.”

  “Nonsense!” Rustici yelled from the opposite side of the table, grabbing a bottle and leaning over to fill Battista’s goblet once more. Battista threw back his head and laughed, grabbing the beverage eagerly in celebration.

  He gulped from his cup as he stewed in his thoughts, hand trembling with the triumph of finally having some clue where next to look, where the next piece of the triptych may be. Granted, there were many mountains to the south of Florence, but few had been the subject of Giotto’s painting. They had only to study his work, and perhaps the Duccio again, to discover it. Aurelia would be so thrilled, so incensed, to have some concept more precise upon which to set her great mind. She—

  Battista shook his head, euphoria at his discovery diminished. His second thought had been of Aurelia, of sharing it with her, and he pulled himself apart on thoughts of her. Was she the most intriguing woman he had ever—would ever—meet, or was she his enemy, sent by other enemies to obstruct him?

  He stood on shaky legs, grabbing at the table to steady himself.

  Michelangelo raised bloodshot eyes at him. “You are leaving us so soon?”

  Battista bowed, if awkwardly so. “I must, I’m afraid. The arms of a woman await.”

  Other men heard his proclamation and the lively heckles followed him as he bid his deep gratitude to his host, as he walked a crooked line out of the room, away from the men who would continue the festivities straight on until dawn.

  “Battista!”

  The chorus of greetings found him as soon as he threw open the tavern door; here, as among the Cauldron, many knew his name and reputation. But here the starving artists of the city celebrated, those too young, too unknown, or too untalented to gain entry to the private club. The floors were filthy, the furniture cheap and tattered, but the drinks were powerful and the company equally amiable. He would find as much ease with these rapscallions as he had with those geniuses, perhaps more, for there were women here, and many an agreeable wench among them.

  Battista grabbed but one slug of brandy from a dear friend, whose name eluded him, before searching among the women for the perfect one.

  “Well, how fine it is to see you, Battista,” she purred at him from behind, running her fingertips up his back from waist to shoulder, sending him shivering with delight.

  He reeled round, recognizing the voice. “There you are, Nerina. I was looking for you.”

  “You were?” The woman slipped languidly into his arms, the small puffed sleeves of her low-cut gown slipping from her shoulders, revealing smooth, creamy skin from her neck to the low, round curves of her breasts, the flesh nuzzling against him.

  Battista studied the woman pressed against him, the chestnut hair, the large green eyes—yes, this was the woman he came to find. Wasn’t she? He shook his head, shaking loose his already-muddled thoughts.

  “Is this the woman I saw you with at the festival, della Palla?” The greasy voice cleaved through his head.

  Battista pulled Nerina to his right as he jerked to his left and the repugnant visage of Baldassare del Milanese.

  “You dare speak to me, you son of a dog.” Battista shook with fury. “How dare you look at me after what you have done?”

  Baldassare smiled, black gums and yellow teeth revealed with an ugly fleer. “What have I done, you fool? I am an innocent man.”

  “You lie through your throat!” Battista screamed, flinging the most condemning insult at the man, lunging at him, their confrontation taking center stage amidst the tavern rabble.

  “Bastard!” Baldassare countered, any feigned amusement lost at the slap of the slur, shoving Battista with his dirty hands.

  “Liar!” Battista shoved back.

  The fist connected with his face before he could move, reactions slowed by the glut of alcohol in his blood. Battista plummeted to the floor, the bitter taste of blood filling his mouth.

  But Baldassare failed to grasp how many men Battista called friend, how many rushed to his defense, throwing Baldassare and his men to the street, a few following to ensure their retreat with a well-pitched and colorful slur.

  Nerina fell to the floor beside Battista, gathering the grimy hem of her gown and holding it to his bleeding lip.

  “Are you all right?”

  Battista nodded, rising up unsteadily, pulling her with him.

  “Many thanks, mei amici,” he called to the room and the men who had defended him so swiftly. “A round for them all, on me!” he cried to the tavern-keep, and the room thundered with cheers of approval.

  She led him away then, without argument or resistance, to her room at the top of the rickety stairs, where he pounded away his confusion in her arms, his fears and trepidations forgotten in the release.

  He gasped and flung himself up, chest heaving with labored breath, head soaked with sweat. In his alcohol-induced sleep, in h
is sexually sated repose, the dream had come upon him ... Aurelia’s words congealing with those of Rustici ... and he knew. He knew where to find Purgatory.

  Jumping up, he jostled the sleeping woman beside him, having forgotten her presence, if truth be told.

  “Battista,” she complained without opening her eyes, naked back revealed to the upper curve of her buttocks, chaotic tangle of hair fluttered across the coarse bed linens. “What are you doing? Come back to bed. I am not done with you yet.”

  He laughed, but with no intention of conceding to the lewd invitation. He threw his wrinkled linen shirt over his head, threw his arms into his jerkin, and grabbed his breeches, stockings, and boots. Bending over the bed, uncovered derriere sticking out from beneath the hem of his shirt, he bussed her smartly upon the head. “Many, many thanks, cara mia.”

  Her muttered protests left behind, Battista ran from the room and down the stairs, heedless to the stares and laughter greeting him from those breaking their fast in the tavern.

  He waved happily at them, skipping out of the building, hopping on one foot as he shoved the other in a leg of his breeches, tumbling out into the street where the morning coolness cleansed his skin and swept away any jumble remaining in his head. He had a mind to keep his hose off—to feel the invigorating air on his genitals all the way home—if only it would not have landed him in jail. Such was his happiness, such was his eagerness to tell them of his discovery.

  Battista ran so fast, though he wangled his behind into his drawers, he cared not a whit about his stockings and boots, throwing them upon the floor the instant he threw open his blue door.

  Her first thoughts, when Battista burst in the door, were prayers of thanks, gratitude to the forces of the universe that had brought him back safely. Aurelia’s second thought was of the blood staining the front of his shirt, visible through the untoggled jerkin.

  “Are you all right?” She rushed to his side, forgetting all else, in her fear for his well-being.

  Battista grabbed her at the waist and twirled her around, and she yipped with surprise.

  Frado came running, as did Nuntio, alerted by her cry, though neither seemed surprised to find Battista just now returning.

  “My friends, my friends, we must celebrate,” Battista sang.

  “I think you have been celebrating for a very long time,” Frado sniggered, and Nuntio nodded with amused agreement.

  “Sì, sì.” Battista laughed, pulling Frado into his embrace.

  “Your lip, Battista.” Aurelia pulled away long enough to dunk a cloth into the pail of water by the fire, dabbing his split lip gently.

  “It’s nothing.” He allowed her ministrations. “Baldassare’s fist.”

  “Baldassare? What?” Frado thundered.

  “He fared far worse, I assure you,” Battista said. “But forget it, forget him. I know! I know!” he sang once more, this time dancing, forming a circle to include Nuntio in his silly jig.

  “You know what, messere?” The older man laughed, struggling to keep up.

  “I know where Purgatory lies.”

  They froze, all three of them, staring at Battista with mouths agape and eyes gone round.

  “You do?” Aurelia gasped, hand to her heart.

  Battista danced without them, swirling through the room to the back doors, throwing them open to the sun and air. “The mountains of Ciociaria, in the grottos.”

  Aurelia knew nothing of the place, but she saw the light bursting in Battista’s eyes, the brilliance of his conviction. Relief made her bold and she launched herself back into Battista’s embrace, prancing about with him. This time her hand pulled at Frado. She laughed at Battista’s unvarnished joy and the true abandon of it, so relieved to see it after his days of dark moods, so thrilled to know where to find the next piece of the triptych. She had never behaved with such elated unrestraint; she became addicted to the freedom of it in that instant, the child who was never allowed to play had learned how.

  Frado laughed despite his best efforts. “And how did you make this discovery?”

  Battista finally slowed then, telling them some of his night, the time spent with the Cauldron, the words of Rustici.

  “You were with Michelangelo?” Aurelia blurted out, unable to help herself. She heard little after the mention of the artist’s name. But Battista ignored her interruption to finish his story.

  Frado nodded, grin stretching wider. “It makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Battista trilled, wrapping one arm around his friend, the other around Aurelia.

  Frado scrunched his nose and pushed Battista away. “You need a bath, you buffoon.” He laughed. “Hot water, Nuntio, and lots of it. He reeks of wine and women.”

  Aurelia’s feet faltered, her smile fading. She had smelled the strangeness, but attributed it to too much drink, blood, and a night without sleep.

  Of course he had been with a woman. He was a beautiful, young, healthy man. Where else would he have spent the night? Disappointment keen for all the logic of the thought, but she had no right to it.

  She thrust it aside, as much as she could, smiling again with the joy of Battista’s return and his breakthrough, if perhaps not as brightly as before.

  Eighteen

  The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.

  —Purgatorio

  The maps covered the small table before him, the star charts as well, but the images swam beneath his dry-eyed gaze, the roads snaking across the parchment, the stars no more than blurred blotches. Battista rubbed his stubble-covered face as if to chafe clarity into his befuddled mind; his tongue felt covered with dirt and the ache in his head swelled with each passing moment.

  He had bathed, slept, eaten, and slept some more, but still had not recovered from the residual effects of so many libations, too much rich food, a fist to the face, and a nightlong ride on a willing and energetic partner. Battista leaned his heavy head upon the tall back of his favorite chair, allowing the study’s afternoon shadows to wrap him in their comfort, and smiled. How long the pangs of his debauchery would plague him he didn’t know, but it had all been worth it; from the dregs of his cups had come the answer.

  The more he studied the Commedia, the Duccio, and the chart depicting the three-starred Pyxis, the more logical his discovery became. Pyxis, Latin for “compass,” its name, by definition, delineated it as a guidepost. He charted the route upon a map; it would be an arduous journey to the grottos, requiring a minimum of two days and many long hours in the saddle. He could not be sure of the availability of inns along the path or if they would need to bed down upon the ground.

  Battista didn’t doubt for a moment that Aurelia was up to the task; nothing she did or accomplished would surprise him. Of all he felt for her, grudging respect ranked high upon the list. If only he could cleanse himself of his suspicions, if only he could surrender unconditionally to the bond they had formed when in the grip of Hell. The connection was unlike any other he had ever experienced, not even with his own dear mother, or the men he called family.

  His eyes drooped, each blink lengthening, the lids moving slower and slower. Her enigmatic eyes rose up before him, the genteel face disguising the cunning and capable paradox of her, his recollections so clear it was as if she stood before him.

  When the light stirred behind the spotty glow of his lids, when he opened them against his own soundless protests, it was not her image, but Aurelia herself, veil in place, dressed in her simplest gown, heading for the door and quickly out of it.

  “Oh no,” Battista grumbled, rushing to his feet as fast as his pounding head allowed. “Not again.”

  “Aurelia, wait!” he cried as he flung himself from the door, groaning as the bright sunlight stabbed his eyes, closing one, then the other against the agony. “Aurelia!”

  She turned round quickly, but he could not tell if fear darkened her pale features or alarm.

  “Are you all right?” Aurelia rushed back, reaching out to take his
hands.

  Battista swallowed hard against her sympathetic supplication. He wished he could lock up his meddlesome thoughts with one of his fancy locks and make no attempt to pick it.

  “Where are you off to?” He raked his straight black hair off his face, only to have it fall again as he lowered his gaze; he could open both eyes, but only if he shielded them with a bowed brow.

  “I ... I-I-I am ... ,” she stammered, pursing her lips. “Is that why you stopped me? There is nothing amiss?”

  “No, nothing.” He straightened his shoulders in a gruff gesture of righteousness. “I was concerned for you to be out and about by yourself.”

  Her mouth formed a thin white line across her face. “I am to the sartoria if you must know. If we are to go about searching through caves, I must attire myself appropriately.”

  “I see. And how are you to pay for such clothes?”

  Her face burned with anger; it festered clearly through her heavy veil.

  In silent thunder, she opened the small drawstring purse hanging about her wrist and joggled it over her other palm. As the small incandescent pearls tumbled into her hand, Aurelia bit at him with a snapping glare.

  “They did me little good upon my veil.” She tipped her head sideways so he could see her headdress; the thick strands of her hairnet, the color of summer’s oak leaves, no longer bore the pearl punctuations at each intersection.

  “Ah, of course. You make the most—”

  “May I be on my way?”

  Battista cleared his throat against her antagonism. He forced a smile and responded with cheer, raising a crooked arm. “It will be my pleasure to escort you.”

  She looked at his appendage dubiously, but took it nonetheless. He had peeved her with his suspicions, it pained him in the stiff grip she had on his arm. Would a guilty person feel such anger? He didn’t think so, but for a man who stooped to thievery with great frequency, he knew little of dishonesty.