The King's Agent Page 9

  Battista replaced the dressing and swung his legs out of bed, steeling himself at the true test of his health.

  With a deferential hesitance, he planted his bare feet on the smooth, dark wood and eased his weight onto his legs. He stood unaided without overwhelming pain, but he could not step fully upon his left foot without the deep throb of discomfort, a soreness testifying to muscle trauma, not of raw, tearing flesh. Encouraged, Battista took a few steps. He could not walk without favoring the leg with a heavy limp.

  He grabbed at his satchel hanging on one of the tall carved posts of his bed. Rifling through it, tossing aside the items intrinsic to his trade, his frantic search was futile. No parchment lay within its confines.

  “Merda!” Battista flung the bag away, cursing at the parchment’s absence, for he held clearly the memory of their returning it to the satchel; he had put it back in there himself, along with Aurelia’s heavy veil that she had tossed off her head, as well as the half-full flask of brandy she had used to treat his wound. The parchment’s disappearance incited his fear to panic.

  Unconscious of his nakedness, he shuffled to the door as fast as he could and threw it open.

  From below, the sounds that were the chorus of his life rose up: male voices, raucous laughter, coins clattering upon tabletops, men chewing and slurping with little heed of good table manners.

  Many, if not all, of the men he considered family were below. He prayed Aurelia was among them and that she still had the parchment.

  She wished she could wash away her wide-eyed expression, the smile of childish delight, but it was a fruitless struggle. Aurelia had never walked alone—anywhere—she had never seen a city as magnificent as Florence, and her solitary experience of it produced an almost-unconscionable thrill.

  It had taken two days to convince Battista’s man to allow her the expedition. The man who called himself Frado had been so grateful to her for returning Battista to them—his relief no doubt a direct equal to his guilt for leaving him in the first place—his caution gave way to his gratitude.

  It had taken her all her efforts to find her way from Mantua to Florence, asking only other fellow travelers for direction, and only those with women among them, refusing to enter any village or town not gated as Florence, for fear of miscreants or discovery. Her own fearless audacity had surprised her, though she knew she had been born for more than her life had asked of her thus far.

  Frado had been so frantic with caring for Battista, bringing a physician, and fetching whatever medicinals the man required, he had nearly forgotten her. His attention finally swung her way, as he expressed his gratitude once more, with the assurance of Battista’s survival. No questions did Frado ask; no information did she offer. Aurelia thought he awaited word from Battista before deciding how to deal with her.

  But after two days of her pecking at him, Frado had procured a simple dress she could don without aid of maid, hired a simple village girl for an afternoon to help relieve her of the heavy formal gown and to bathe. And now she found herself strolling the grand avenues of the city, no chaperone shadowing her every move, no one denying her the freedom she had craved for so long.

  Aurelia circled around the unknown fairways without fear of becoming lost, certain the resplendent palazzo that had greeted her just outside Battista’s door would lead her back to it once more.

  Beyond the blue door of Battista’s casa, she had stood before the palace, immobilized by the beautiful architecture, features she would easily recall and return to ... the contrast between the rustic brick of the first floor and the white plaster of the two above it. The elegant mullioned windows and toothed cornices were but the first course of the splendid banquet served by the city of Florence.

  She strolled at leisure beneath the blurred anonymity of her thick lace veil, smiling at the pagan symbols festooning the entire city ... the statues of gods and goddesses, the simplistic hieroglyphics used in signs and business names. And alongside them, as comfortable with each other as the birch and the oak, were the plethora of churches and cathedrals. She felt more at home and more welcome with each step she took into this intriguing, bustling, dichotomous city.

  The palaces rose above the modest homes that circled them in clusters, gold spires pierced the sky, red and white domes jeweled the landscape, and a turreted, tower-studded wall girdled it all. And most lovely of all ... the gracious Florentines.

  At the side of the marquess of Mantua, the Lady Aurelia had traveled to many a splendid palace, met and hobnobbed with a surfeit of nobles, but always she had entered their compounds within a sheltered conveyance, always had she been treated with utmost deference. Never had she walked among so many so anonymously, yet she treasured every unfamiliar smile and greeting offered, offered with nothing more than the courtesy of one fellow citizen to another.

  And everywhere there was something for sale, from beneath the merchants’ shutters and their jutting benches heavy with wares, or from the shaded loggias at the foot of the grand palazzo; if one desired it, one could find it.

  Aurelia cursed her lack of money; she possessed a heavy purse full of gold florins. Unfortunately, she had had neither the time nor the opportunity to extract it from her rooms in Mantua. How she longed for a treat, an olive oil–dripping slab of fresh panini, its warm, yeasty aroma dispelling any remnant of unwashed body or the livestock that rushed intermittently through the streets, harried, raggedly dressed men with their sticks hurrying behind.

  She surprised herself when she came upon it, not knowing how she had made her way through the twisting streets to this vast piazza as the sun bid good-bye to the slight chill of morning and rose to the warmth of afternoon. But there the statue rose before her. Aurelia had heard of it, of course, all of Italy knew of Michelangelo’s Giant, but she never dared imagine she would see it, and yet her feet had led her to it as if they had known where it stood all along.

  At the end of a long gallery running in a straight line between matching buildings with rows of square arches, the fortresslike structure rose up as a sentinel standing watch over the city. Square, brick, and turreted, a tall, pink-stoned campanile topped the building, clearly one of importance, as cloaked and robed men came and went from its door, their own significance leading them in a rush.

  And there, just to the left of the enormous black wood door, stood the famous statue.

  Aurelia climbed the five stone steps to bring her directly beside its base; her eyes—green with the light of the sun—rose slowly over the finely sculpted statue.

  It was indeed a giant; Aurelia guessed it to be taller than three men. She did not shy away from the barbarous vulgarity of his nakedness, but found her perplexity over its formation equally as tantalizing. When she studied the face, all her uncertainties were answered, all of David’s mysteries were revealed. The face was, as she had heard, a bit large for the size of the head, but upon his features she saw all of the fear, tension, and aggression the real David must have felt when attacked by the colossal Goliath. Wrinkles perforated David’s forehead, thick brows drawn together, with a scornful twist to his full lips, fearful, yes, but with an inner assuredness that all evil could be felled. There was great nobility to the man etched into immortality, a beautiful determination astounding the eye as well as the soul.

  Lost in her reverie, she sensed the man before she saw him, having intuitively known for some minutes that she was no longer alone in her intimate study of the statue. Aurelia turned then, in the shared experience lingering in the air between them, and smiled at the slight man beside her.

  He was short, with spiky salt-and-pepper hair, the lines of a hard life etched the man’s face, and yet his amber eyes glowed with an uncanny illumination radiating from within. He smiled at her, thin lips spreading within the camouflage of untended facial hair.

  “Have you never seen it before?” he asked her with a voice full of gravel.

  Aurelia shook her head, a mirroring smile offered in return. “No, never. Though I have dreamt o
f it. Can you tell?”

  The man chuckled low with wise amusement. “It is in the wonder in your eyes.”

  “And you, signore? You have seen it, many times, I think, sì? It is in the pride of your smile.”

  “Oh yes.” He laughed aloud then, a baritone’s cheerful song. “I know it very well. But it is good for me to visit it now and again.”

  Aurelia turned her admiring gaze back to the sculpture. “I would look upon it every day, were I able,” she said, her hushed voice full of her wonder.

  He put a soft hand upon her shoulder, but his touch provoked no fear.

  “Buongiorno, cara.” He bid her farewell with similar familiarity, a strange bond having formed over such an astounding achievement.

  “Good day to you, sir.” Aurelia dipped him a curtsy and watched him walk away, back a bit bowed, gait a bit slow.

  She indulged in a few more minutes of luxuriant appraisal, dipping another curtsy before departing from the Giant’s side, as if she offered her respects to the artist, wherever he may be.

  With the satiated stroll of the well pleased, she made her way back to the palazzo she recognized and the casa with the blue door across from it.

  She entered the house without a knock, for indeed, those within had barely taken note of her during her stay, but the raucous, rude salutation stopped her in her tracks.

  “Where the devil have you been and where is the parchment?”

  Ten

  A great flame follows a little spark.

  —Paradiso

  Battista stood in the middle of the vast chamber, arms akimbo, greeting her with a baleful glare; his air of frustrated impatience he served to himself as well as his houseguest. If he had taken a moment’s pause, a second to think, he may have grasped the obvious.

  He may not know what lay in the heart of this woman, but surely if she had purloined the parchment she would not be returning to his home; a woman who had saved him from the Mantua palazzo, kept him alive, and brought them successfully to his door would not be dim-witted enough to deceive him and then return. But he had stewed in the juices of fear for too many hours, and he needed the release of it as the nonsensical boiled over.

  The Lady Aurelia seemed unable to move, but only for a vacuous moment.

  As she rushed to meet him across the expanse, she yanked her veil away, thick chestnut curls falling to disarray. Brown-green eyes burned with ire, full mouth stretched in a grimace.

  “I do not know these ... people ... who inhabit your home.” She stood toe-to-toe with him, flapping a hand at the men perched about the room, those struck dumb by the force of the energy between the two before them. “Or whether or not you trusted them. How could I?”

  Battista relaxed his stern posture, but stood his ground.

  “Perhaps it was unwise to have disappeared for a whole day?” He refused to acknowledge the truth of her words, grasping for some other point, no matter how obscure, with which to counter. He lifted a finger, aiming it at her heaving chest. “And you could have left the parchment with me.”

  “Parchment? What parchment?” Giovanni quipped, pale eyes beseeching the men beside him.

  “No idea,” Ascanio mumbled, petting his well-manicured mustache as Pompeo raised his shoulders to his ears in silent ignorance.

  “Of what parchment do you speak?” Frado jumped into the fray, entering the circle of the engaged combatants, only to be denied by Aurelia’s vehemence.

  “I did not know if you would survive, you lost so much blood, nor was I allowed into your room.” She edged forward, hands cutting the air with a hard slash. “Did you want me to just place it in the middle of the table here and hope for the best?”

  His mouth opened, empty of any worthy reply, and he closed it with a click of teeth. Battista tugged on the tuft of hair below his lip, mouth spreading in sardonic amusement. She was right, on all counts, and he had no cause to question or disparage her. He was not a man too proud for apologies, but looked upon them as the honorable thing to do if they would be genuine and heartfelt.

  “I am sorry, Monna Aurelia. Please forgive the dishonor of my reproach.”

  He saw the smile she struggled with and it encouraged his own to grow wider.

  “You may thank me now, for saving your life ... again.” Her head tilted sideways, brows flung skyward, nipping at him with the sarcastic quip.

  Battista threw back his head and burst out laughing; the rowdy, masculine hilarity filled the house, catching them all with its contagion.

  Who is this woman? he wondered in delight as he stepped forward and bowed low before her. “For your assistance, and my life, I thank you ... again.”

  “What parchment, Battista?” Frado commanded, booted feet stomping on stone, his cutting query severing the jovial sparring.

  Battista rose from his bow, placing a calming hand upon the insistent man’s shoulder.

  “May I have it, per favore, my Lady Aurelia?” he asked with a low creamy hum, all smooth kindness now, strong face tender with respectful petition.

  Aurelia rolled her eyes, as if she saw right through him and his courtesy, and tossed her response to Frado.

  “If you take four steps from the bed in my chamber, a board will creak beneath your feet. Beneath the creak you will find the parchment.”

  Frado ran off as if the devil himself raced him to the quarry. “Are you hungry, signorina?” Nuntio appeared by Aurelia’s side, one arm raised gallantly to her as the other gestured to the table and the food spread upon it.

  She took his arm, a pleased smug smile offered to Battista, one criticizing him for allowing his servant to be more of a gentleman than he.

  Battista followed behind with an incredulous, if amused, waggle of his head. He joined her at the table and in the meal, having found his lost appetite upon her return. But they had barely sat when Frado rushed back into the room, incautiously clearing some room on the polished banquet table with a flailing arm and flattening the parchment upon the empty space as the men in attendance gathered round him.

  As Battista shared a look with his dinner companion, the words upon the scroll returned to his recollection, as did the puzzle they offered.

  “Would you fetch Lucagnolo, Ercole? But only if his wife can spare him.” Battista made the request between bites of wine-soaked veal, the tender meat melting on his tongue. He had learned soon upon waking that the young’s man wife still suffered from her illness, one that had, in fact, worsened in the last few days.

  “And Barnabeo? Do we have need of him?” the rough-and-tumble man asked of the only other not among them as he headed for the door.

  Battista shook his head. “His expertise could not help us with this.”

  Over his plate, he watched as the four remaining men read the confounding message, each following Frado’s finger as it brushed across the parchment, the scratching coming in fits and starts as he balked over the bewildering words.

  Battista lowered his gaze quickly as Frado’s rushed up to his face, the feel of his colleague’s scathing look sufficient to reproach him, but averting his eyes would not save him from the tirade surely on its way. Frado flung himself into the closest chair, the wooden legs screeching against the stone.

  “First one and then three? Tell me this is a joke, Battista. Tell me it is some kind of cruel jest or I may just throttle the lif—”

  “I know, Frado, I know, amico mio. But what can we do, eh?” He raised his hands up and out as he shrugged his shoulders to his ears. “We know a piece such as this, one of such import, would not ... could not ... be gotten easily. That which is most cherished in life is often the most difficult to attain.”

  Frado offered no argument, but his cynical gaze flicked from Battista’s face to Aurelia’s.

  Battista heard the thought behind the glance and spoke to it without further prodding. “She saved my life, not once, but twice.”

  They spoke of her as if she were not there, but she seemed to derive no insult from it, continuing to ea
t with graceful movements, cutting small pieces of her meat and savoring each bite, one at a time.

  “I think we can trust her. I am fairly certain she can help us.”

  Aurelia did respond then. “I told you I could. And I will.”

  This last she directed to Battista, who accepted the pledge with a lukewarm nod.

  “But we do not even know where to begin. This ... this ...” Frado waved an impatient, stubby hand at the parchment. “If these words were any more cryptic they could be the clues to the Holy Grail itself. I can make no sense of it. Can you?”

  Battista floundered for some appeasement, but Pompeo delivered it.

  “Here, this passage is the most important and the most intriguing, I think.” He lowered his eyes to the parchment, a finger tapping the words about a third of the way along the message. “The painting we seek was rendered by the same who painted a Madonna and Child with St. John, an—”

  “Oh, sì,” Frado blundered over Pompeo’s words with his sarcasm. “There are only hundreds of those about, as if it were not one of the most popular subjects of the moment.”

  “True, Frado, true. But here, these words, ‘the air ship will point the way.’ Those are the most peculiar of all.”

  “All of this is peculiar,” Frado mumbled under his breath, the low growl of a guard dog as danger approached.

  “It is illogical.” Ascanio took a chair at the table, pouring them all a glass of vino da tavola, the dark red liquid releasing its heavy aroma as it splashed in their tankards. “Whatever is an air ship and where would you find one?”