The King's Agent Read online

  “I do not think our next task will be as ... as warm as our last.” He offered what he hoped would be an amusing reflection.

  Aurelia bit her top lip, constraining the smile elicited by the sardonic suggestion. “Agreed. But it may present other challenges. The souls of Dante’s Purgatory struggle for salvation. It is the greatest torment of human existence ... that most like the state of life, always struggling for something better.”

  “But it is a struggle for peace, and goodness,” Battista argued. “Don’t you think?”

  Aurelia dipped her head with a quick nod. “Sì, but it is an unnecessary one if they had lived within goodness to begin with.”

  Battista frowned. “Such a condemnation, Aurelia. You do not think much of your fellow man.”

  “If it is a condemnation, I do not spare myself with its sharpness.”

  She looked away and he lost what her eyes might tell him, the sadness in her voice undeniable. He covered her hand with his free one and gave it a squeeze, touched by her melancholy.

  “We will have many a decision to make, I believe,” she continued, turning back, her hand relaxing in his embrace. “It is what sends a soul to Purgatory in the first place, the decisions they make along the journey of their life.”

  He jostled her shoulder with his in an amiable gesture. “You have been studying Dante well.”

  Her gaze pierced him. “I promised you I would have insight to this journey, and I meant it.”

  Battista wondered how he could doubt her with such a proclamation.

  “Ah, here we are.” He turned from his confusion, pointing to the large wooden scissors hanging above an opened door. “This clothier is trustworthy and reasonable. I’m sure we will find you what you need here.”

  They stepped together into the busy shop, deluged by the earthy scent of raw fabrics and the visual brilliance of an array of colors. A chattering group of women bustled over bolts of material, the pale pinks and yellows of spring, light silks and cottons for the warm months to come.

  “Mario!” Battista called a fond greeting to the merchant hurrying toward them with a callused hand outstretched, a wide smile beneath the thick and bushy gray mustache. “Come stai?”

  “Battista della Palla. I am well, my friend, and you? It has been far too long since I have seen you in my shop. It’s about time you purchased new hose. That leather must chafe you terribly in this heat. Come, come this way, I have a fine pair of thin suede that will fit—”

  “Hold, my dear fellow.” Battista laughed, barely halting the excited man and his effusive greeting. “I have not come for myself, but for the lady. Pray you make your greeting to Madonna Aurelia.”

  The man’s mouth formed an almost perfect O as his gaze fell upon Aurelia.

  Folding her veil back, she bobbed the proprietor a most graceful curtsy.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” With a flourishing hand, Mario gave her a fine leg. “I am at your service, of course. What may I get for you this fair day?”

  Aurelia smiled at the elegance of this simple merchant. “I need a pair of sturdy boots, signore, if you please. Ready-made, if available.”

  “Of course, of course. Right this way.”

  He led them past the group of women, each one offering Battista a flirtatious smile, even those old enough to be his mother, along the shelves on the right-hand wall, until he reached a small cubby. With a flourishing hand, he invited them into a U-shaped grouping of shelves covered with shoes and boots of all shapes and sizes, pungent with the strong aroma of leather.

  “Ah, here we are, just what I had in mind.” Reaching out, Mario picked up a pair of ankle boots, the smooth, light footwear a dainty confection of kid leather and lace, slim heels and large bows. “These will look lovely on a beauty such as you.”

  Aurelia shared a look with Battista; in her face he saw his own silly grin, the same twinkle at the absurd in her eyes.

  “They are beautiful indeed, signore,” she told the man with gracious respect. “But I really did hope for something much sturdier. Something not unlike Battista’s, in fact.”

  The two fuzzy gray caterpillars above the merchant’s honey brown eyes merged together and his round head fell to one side.

  “Like those?” He pointed at Battista’s worn and manly footwear, voice rising to a squeak.

  Aurelia nodded, a smile spreading across her flushed face. Mario shook his head. “I am sorry, my lady. I have nothing such as those, made for a woman.”

  “Perhaps a pair of men’s boots small enough to fit?” Battista suggested. Aurelia was not the daintiest woman he had ever met, as feminine as she may be. There were men with feet of a similar size, Michelangelo for one.

  The merchant’s eyes bulged, then sparked with ingenuity. “I believe I have just the thing.” With a snap of his fingers, he took himself off, returning in seconds with a pair of supple black boots, laced to midcalf with rawhide, almost flat with but a sliver of a heel. “They are not the fanciest, I grant you. They were ordered by a foreigner passing through, a small man who never came to pick them up.”

  Aurelia reached for them eagerly, turning her back, discreetly removing one day slipper beneath the folds of her skirts, replacing the dainty shoe with the clunky boot. Jumping up, she stomped about with an off-kilter gait.

  “They are perfect,” she crowed brightly.

  Mario shook his head, though not unpleased. “Then they are yours, donna mia. But you will need better stockings to wear beneath, something stronger.” With an emphatic finger poking the air, the merchant set off on his search.

  Aurelia walked a circle, lifting her skirts just an inch, so the boot showed on one foot while her slashed and bowed slipper showed on the other; in their dichotomy Battista thought he glimpsed her truth.

  “I have always wondered what it felt like to walk in men’s shoes.” She laughed as she sat back down. “I wonder if I will belch more and think less.”

  She intended her words purely to tease, but Battista did not find it funny, perhaps because he saw some legitimacy in the jest.

  Reaching down to unlace the boot, she raised her merry gaze. “What if I begin to lus—”

  Her stare stuck, frozen on the open door and the street behind him. Her mouth fell open, her face blanched. Battista’s hand jumped to the small scabbard at his back.

  “What is it?” he hissed, turning slowly, not knowing what threat might lie behind him.

  Aurelia swiveled in her chair, face to the back of the store. “Gonzaga’s soldiers ... t ... two of them.”

  Many a man passed the open portal, but Battista saw two—two opulently dressed with a hint of the military about the black leather jerkins and swords dangling from their sides—men who scoured the streets and the buildings, decidedly looking for something, or someone.

  Battista needed to see no more. Yanking Aurelia’s arm, he pulled her up, just as she grabbed the one slipper and one boot not on her feet, crushing them to her chest with one hand as she lifted her skirts with the other.

  They hurried through the store, hastening toward the curtain separating the main salon from the private back rooms. With a flick of a raised hand, Battista lowered Aurelia’s veil back in place. Rushing past a startled Mario, Battista ripped a small drawstring pouch from his belt and tossed it to him, a great jangling erupting as Mario caught it.

  “For the boots, amico mio,” Battista said, ignoring the merchant’s confounded regard. “And for two pairs of those hose you spoke of. One for me and another, much smaller, for her.” He jerked his head toward Aurelia as he snuck a look out the door in the distance, just in time to see the two men pass beyond it.

  “For ... what?!” Mario yawped, holding the purse before his confused gaze.

  “But we must have them by the end of tomorrow, sì? ”

  Mario’s head swiveled as his gaze followed them to the curtain. “I ... uh ...”

  “Can you do it?” Battista hesitated for the quickest of moments, Aurelia already beyond the c
amouflage of the heavy maroon screen.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Mario shrugged, almost helplessly.

  Battista cast him a quick grin and nod. “Good man.”

  Stepping swiftly through the split in the curtain, Battista followed Aurelia as she rushed through the narrow space—part kitchen, part storage—a quick glance at the plump woman stirring a pot poised over a small center grate.

  “Smells wonderful.” Battista smiled at her as he and Aurelia plunged toward the back door.

  The woman gawked at them in stunned silence as they pushed open the portal and rushed out.

  In the narrow back alley, Aurelia stepped back, giving Battista the lead.

  With the confidence of a lifelong resident, he led her through the dirt-packed side streets of the city, the narrow ribbons of pathways lined with modest two- and three-storied brick homes, no glass in the windows, lines of dripping laundry strung over their heads like colorful banners decorating a noble procession.

  “No more, Aurelia. No more wandering out and about.” He tossed the demand over his shoulder, no need to slow to berate her. “Are we not challenged enough? Now we must contend with the men of Mantua?”

  “I know, I know,” Aurelia replied breathlessly, brooking no argument. “I did tell you he would search for me.”

  He tossed her a scathing sidelong glare. “Which would not warrant such urgency were you to stay indoors.”

  Aurelia rolled her eyes, tight jaw buckling beneath flushed, moist skin. “I know, I know,” she repeated impatiently. “One need not hammer a nail already buried in the wall.”

  Nineteen

  In the middle of the journey of our life

  I came to myself within a dark wood

  where the straight way was lost.

  —Inferno

  Aurelia felt scandalous in her boots, hose, and stockings, though she wore all beneath her sturdy riding gown. She cared little if the wind rose up and tossed those skirts about, if the male apparel peeked out. The sun beat upon their heads with a scorching heat and she had forsaken her veil as the road led them through the forest and unpopulated fields in the journey south from Florence. Like her skirts, her hair flapped out behind her, whipping up with each bouncing gallop, the breeze cool and invigorating on her sweat-soaked neck. Her mouth grew dry, but she could not close it to the pummeling air, her smile unrelenting; here, at last, she basked in the unrestrained freedom she craved.

  Not long after they had passed beneath Florence’s city gate, where the strong gray blocks of pietra forte gave way to hard-packed earth, Battista had led them easterly rather than true south, galloping off the wide Via Cassia and onto a narrower, less used road. As they moved closer to the curving mountain range slicing the peninsula in two, Aurelia had not asked for an explanation, for one was not necessary; who knew what manner of beasts may follow them, they could take no chance continuing on upon the main thoroughfare.

  The logic of it did nothing to dampen her disappointment; their trek allowed only glimpses of the resplendent villages they passed from a distance. This urban land boasted many lovely towns; cresting any given hill, a traveler may see more than a few upon the horizon, their encircling walls marking the boundaries, their bell towers providing a compass point to guide them onward. Nor was the architecture confined to the rolling meadows and low flatlands; imposing mountains were terraced almost to their summits, the pale stone villas as natural a part of their façades as the gray-green olive trees and the umbrella-like pineta filling the air with their piney redolence.

  As the sun hovered near the horizon, its heat casting a vivid magenta and tangerine hue over all it touched, she pulled back on the reins, lifting herself from the saddle, peering with ingenuous awe at the mammoth city rising out of the distant plane to the west. Did she spy the walls surrounding the Vatican or perhaps the Pantheon? Could those pillars thrusting up from the ground be the columns of the Forum? She hoped they were, dared to by her desire to see such sights.

  “I’m sorry, Aurelia.” Battista’s voice came from her side; her disappointment apparent even through the dappled light filtering through the trees.

  “Perhaps, if we ...” He shook his head. “Someday, perhaps, I may show you the great city. But not now.”

  Aurelia lifted one corner of her seamed mouth; it was a hope she would wish for then, if he were to offer it again, pleased he spoke to her in a kindly manner. They had not exchanged many words over the last few days, over the course of the hard travel of the day, and when he did speak she heard again a hard edge, though if it was anger, mistrust, or impatience she did not know him well enough to determine. Their relationship had somehow fallen into disrepair, obstacles rose between them as surely as the mountains stood between the coasts, and she knew not how to bridge the divide. But she would not waste any moments on what was done, living only in each one offered her, immersed in the adventure and her goals.

  Battista turned, looking at Frado slumped in his saddle with commiseration. They had been on the road since early morning, and the older man faltered beneath the weariness they all shared.

  “I think it best we make camp for the night,” Battista said, slowing to a trot, waiting for his friend to catch up.

  “Are you sure?” Aurelia pulled up as well, though not eagerly. “Will we still reach the grottos by tomorrow if we do?”

  He turned a flat, dark gaze upon her, the coolness of gloaming back in his demeanor. “We are more than halfway there. As long as we set off at first light, we will arrive soon after midday.”

  His assessment proved accurate, if conservative, and as the sun reached its apex on the following day, their horses struggled to climb the foothills of the Ausoni Mountains, hooves slipping on the loose rock of the craggy passage. They leaned as far forward in their saddles as possible, heads almost butting with those of their straining mounts.

  “We’ll have to walk,” Battista called out as he quit his steed.

  Only too keen to follow suit, Aurelia dropped from her saddle. Rubbing her fine stallion’s sweat-drenched mane, she leaned her forehead against him as she would any other beloved friend. “You have worked hard, my dear,” she whispered, and the horse whinnied softly with a toss of his head.

  “Walk?” Frado whined. “How far must we walk?”

  It was a good question, one without an answer. Battista raised his head, hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, gaze following the path as it thinned and scaled the formation of rock and earth above them, where it blazed a brown swath through the low scrubby green vegetation. He insisted the cave they sought lay in this karst region with an innate certainty, but where the entrance may lie he could not say.

  “We must go up just a bit further, to that plateau. See it there?” He pointed to a ledge not far in the distance, and though a majestic mountain rose up beyond it, it was difficult to see what lay between. “I think we will be able to get a lay of the land from that vantage point.”

  Frado toppled from his mount with a clumsy thud, grunting and mumbling his curse-strewn dissatisfaction.

  “We will take our midday repast from there as well,” Battista tossed back as he crested the ridge. The mention of food and wine would lessen the pain of exertion. Predictably, Frado’s grumbling subsided though he continued to move at a sluggish pace.

  “Dio mio!”

  Aurelia hesitated at Battista’s stunned utterance, moving faster when she moved again. “What is it, Battista? What is wrong?”

  It took but a short sprint up the path and she stood beside him, sucking in her breath with an audible gasp, hand to her heart.

  They stood on the rim of a circular basin; below them, sheltered in the arms of the curved stone valley, lay a hidden paradise.

  Curvilinear formations of rock and vegetation sat around and among shallow pools of water, the surface so still and clear, perfect images of the curvaceous arrangements were duplicated in the reflections, their beauty multiplied again and again, an unending oasis of cre
am rock, green growth, and azure sky.

  “When I see such things, I see the hand of God,” Battista murmured reverently.

  Aurelia turned a tender gaze on the man beside her; she had never seen him attend church, yet he wore his faith with the same ease as his leather jerkin, and with equal relish. His was a spiritual soul, and she silently celebrated such theology.

  “Life’s true beauty is often concealed where the eye cannot see it. It may be found only if one is open to it,” Aurelia replied, turning back to the breathtaking panorama.

  Frado reached them, panting, only to drop to his knees as his sight beheld the vista. They laughed together, Aurelia and Battista, at his unadulterated joy at the place they had found.

  They fell silent, allowing the stillness to envelop them, offering themselves completely to it. Minutes passed uncounted, but without a care.

  Battista broke the peace, with a gesturing finger and a soft declaration. “Look.”

  They followed his signal to a spot on the curve diagonally across from them. Though not readily detectable, a jut of rocks formed an arch over an outcropping of boulder. On top of the striated stone, a cap of spiky green fronds stuck out, like short hair hackled in fright. A rim of darkness stood out between the boulder and the formation just beyond it, but whether space existed between the arch and the outcropping it was hard to tell from this distance.

  “It could be an entrance, to be sure,” Aurelia said.

  “Let’s find out.” With a cluck of his tongue and a tug on his reins, Battista pulled his horse forward, edging down the stony embankment.

  “Do we dare enter this refuge? Are we worthy?” Frado whispered.

  “I think we were meant to,” Aurelia assured him, reaching out to squeeze the man’s clasped hands, thinking without saying that the passage and this chasm could easily be symbolic of the anti-Purgatory, that which must be traversed first in Dante’s poem.

  The journey downward became ever more treacherous as they fought the pull of the earth, as they struggled to control their descent. Arriving safely if sweat-soaked, they splashed onto the plateau on the bottom, their horses dipping their mouths eagerly into the fresh, clean water. Bending at the knee, Battista, too, refreshed himself, bringing the water to his mouth with a cupped hand.