The King's Agent (15 page)

“Who has had their breakfast?”

Slowly, and with shared perplexity, Ascanio, Barnabeo, and Ercole raised their hands, fearing punishment for having started the day with a meal, as did most people.

“
Bene, bene,
” Battista said with a decisive tick of his head. “Then you three shall be the first. Go, now. The rest of us will have a bite.”

The three men needed no further encouragement, rushing away with satisfied smirks, turning a closed ear to the grumbles of disappointment chasing them away.

“Have no fear,” Battista assured those peevishly left behind. “Giovanni, you and Lucagnolo will follow in a very short while. Aurelia, Frado, and I will make our way there last.”

The plan seemed to pacify his companions and they continued on, enthusiasm only slightly dampened by the delay. Turning left yet again, Battista led them onto a broad avenue, the Tiber River just visible at the end of the slight curve of the Via del Proconsolo.

As if in unspoken agreement, the men swerved to the east side of the avenue and a cozy, casual
osteria
with but a few patrons and more than a few empty tables.

“Will this serve?” Battista turned to Aurelia as she followed along behind, almost hesitantly. “Would you prefer a trattoria or perhaps a
ristorante?
There is one I—”

“No, no, this is fine. Just fine, it’s just ...” Aurelia caught up quickly with a shy, almost-silly smile, shoulders hitching up. “Well ... I have never eaten in a public establishment before.”

The men skidded to an abrupt halt, astonishment clear in their wide-eyed, drop-jawed expressions. Battista wondered again at the strange existence of this woman.

“I, well, of course, I have taken meals at various inns,” Aurelia sputtered with some need to explain. “But I would be served in my chamber, not in the common room.”

“Well then, you are in for a real treat. I will order some of my favorites for you, shall I?” Battista pulled out a chair and tucked her in, dispelling any hesitation in her demeanor with his guidance. She seemed to be a woman choking on a man’s domination, but the unknown served as a powerful suppressant.

In the shade of the vine-covered latticework arching over their heads, the group soon munched on a variety of sweet buns served with spiced hot water.

Battista watched Aurelia watch the comings and goings of the busy street, her smile never fading even as she munched enthusiastically upon her treats.

“If we were to turn at the next corner, we would make our way onto the circular Via dei Bentaccordi. It was built on the site of the old Roman coliseum.” He licked the thick sugar off his fingers and gestured over his shoulder. “Just on the other side of that is the Piazza di Santa Croce. It is one of the most beautiful places in all of Florence.”

He boasted, assuredly, but it was a proprietary immodesty, and easily forgiven.

“Ah,
sì,
” Giovanni joined in. “It is where Battista and I play
calcio
. You should come and watch, Aurelia, if you are still with us next Sunday.”

Aurelia nodded, mouth full but spread in a grin, silent with her noncommittal. A peculiar anxiousness assailed him, as if by contagion. This quest had put a bizarre shroud over any thoughts of the future, and the details of her peculiar life had only added to the oddity of it all. He had not asked her, or himself, what would become of her after they found the triptych and the longed-for antiquity. Would she return to Mantua, return to that life without an explanation; would she be able to? And what of his involvement, how would she explain that to the marquess?

Battista flung away the thoughts as he took a long quaff of warm brew; jarring questions of his assignment cudgeled his brain, he had no need to add more.

“In the Piazza della Signoria, where we will find the Palazzo Vecchio, you will see Michelangelo’s
David.
” He continued his description of his fair city, resuming his role of guide.

“Oh, but I have seen it!” Aurelia cried with excitement, almost tottering her cup as she fluttered her hands about. “I do not know how I found it, nor do I believe I came this way.” Her head swiveled back and forth, her eyes searching for anything familiar. “But there it was, so magnificent, so breathtaking. I spent the most glorious minutes with it and this lovely man.”

“A lovely man?” More than one of her companions pestered her with a cautious query.

“
Sì
. We were both enraptured by the statue. We just stood before it in silence for the longest time.”

“Beware, Aurelia,” Battista chided her, any amusement at her wonder dissipating on the wings of responsibility. “Florence is a beautiful city, full of great sites, but like any city, it is replete with those who would do you harm. Many a dangerous rogue walks these streets.”

“No, no, he was not that kind of man.” Aurelia shook her head with a wistful smile. “He was older than I, of a kindly disposition, and had the most extraordinary eyes. They were the color of honey.”

“Ah, I see.” Battista’s smug tone said he clearly did see, but he would not taunt Aurelia with his knowledge. He turned to the two youngsters at the table. “I believe we have waited long enough, be on your way.”

Giovanni and Lucagnolo needed not another word to set their feet upon the dirt, any remaining sustenance quickly forgotten.

“And Lucagnolo?” Battista called, and the young man turned, shielding his eyes with a hand against the sun rising in the east.

“Sketch,” was all Battista said, and Lucagnolo’s knowing wink confirmed the assignment.

“As for us”—Battista turned to the two remaining by his side—“I believe Aurelia is in need of another day gown, or perhaps two.”

“A fine idea.” Frado waggled his turkey-throated head and got to his feet. Battista was pleased to see his longtime companion warming to the newcomer among them; it had been a gradual change in the face of Frado’s initial suspicion, but it now crept toward the endearing, especially after hearing Aurelia’s story. Frado had reached almost fifty years of age without a wife or children, and Battista knew he missed both. Perhaps he looked upon Aurelia as the daughter he never had.

“Let us away,” the man encouraged, wiping the flaky pastry crumbs from his kidskin hose.

Aurelia stared at Battista with tempered delight and an incongruent shake of her head. “You have done so much for me already. I did not intend my attendance to cost you.”

“I owe you my life, my lady,” Battista said, leaving a jumble of coins upon the table and once more pulling out her chair.

“Besides”—he bumped her shoulder with his as they strolled off—“they are for us as well. This one is a bit ... ripe.” He said it merrily, no harm intended, and the splotches of her embarrassment faded as quickly as they came.

It took but a few moments to order two simple gowns much like the one she wore, from the nearest tailor, and to order them sent to Battista’s home. She could not don anything but a common woman’s outfit, for to hint at nobility would restrict her movement; privileged women were not permitted to go about alone or with only men as companions.

“And you could endeavor to walk differently,” Battista suggested as they turned right onto the Piazza della Signoria, the vast courtyard hosting the city’s governmental buildings.

“Walk differently?” Aurelia pursed her lips at him, one dark brow raised high.

“
Sì
. You bring undue attention to yourself with the way you move. You should walk less ... less ... ,” but he floundered to find the words to finish, instead he tried to mimic a woman’s straight-backed but sinewy stride, making Aurelia laugh at the attempts.

“Regal,” Frado ended the thought, perfectly and without pause.

With a moment’s thought, Aurelia stopped and started, hunching her shoulders, then straightening them, taking bigger steps, then smaller, in a feeble effort to move with less grace.

“Never mind.” Battista laughed at her, leading her past the Giant and through the enormous black doors with the brown wood grids just beyond.

Once inside they blinked away the blindness of the bright outdoors, nodding with no more than unfamiliar politeness to Ascanio, Barnabeo, and Ercole, whom they passed on their way out.

“Did you find it?” Battista whispered as they neared, and only Barnabeo gave a curt nod, his beaklike nose pointed away.

“Penelope,” the man grunted, and Battista blinked, his only response.

He took Aurelia’s hand and looped it over his arm. “This way,” he told them, and crossed straight through the foyer and into the small, perfectly square courtyard just beyond.

Though much of the town hall was dedicated to the Medici family and those who ruled in their name, many rooms were opened to the city’s populace during most hours of the day, and Battista walked them with the knowledge of a frequent visitor.

He hurried his companions past the tall, narrow porphyry fountain with Putto and the Dolphin on top, resting on the center of four perfectly white, perfectly circular marble stairs in the center of the small enclosure. Four stories above the opened courtyard, the Arnolfo tower stood guard, but they crossed safely beneath its shadow.

Once more within the interior of the palace, Frado led now, up two flights of stairs and along the left corridor, no pause along the way to peruse the gold-edged architecture of the frescoes dominating most walls and many of the ceilings.

They entered the last room on the left—the corner room—and stopped. Four other people toured the small room, one devoted to a marriage of conjoined desks at the center and
Penelope at the Loom
frescoed upon the ceiling and an encompassing frieze depicting episodes from the
Odyssey
. Only four paintings decorated the walls, three of them devoted to the subject of the Madonna and Child; only one included St. John.

They ignored the two familiar men as inconspicuously as they did the elderly couple, who shuffled along arm in arm, whispering together as only lifelong companions can. Lucagnolo looked up from the small square of parchment in his hand and the chunk of charcoal blackening his fingertips, but made no outward sign of acknowledgment. After a few more scratches, he and Giovanni quit the room, though with a feigned casualness worthy of any actor upon the stage. The couple soon followed and the trio left behind jumped to the painting upon the left-side wall with a fervent anticipation they had denied since arriving.

The rendering and its subject matter were even more eerie when seen in person; the red of the Virgin’s gown beneath her cloak and the robe encircling St. John leaped out like splashes of blood and the faint halo about Mary’s head seemed to point directly to the strange shiplike shape hovering in the sky. There all eyes were drawn, but now they could see the yellow glow encircling it.

As if it were an arrow, their eyes followed its direction outward, beyond the curved edge of the painting, the round gilt frame, and along the wall. The ship’s bowsprit did indeed point to another painting, one hanging to the right and just above the Mainardi ... the only one in the room not depicting the Madonna and Child. A woman dominated the rectangular canvas pitched horizontally, only one and seen from the back, her blond, almost-white hair hidden by a golden veil that matched her gown. She stood upon a path, one step ahead of the spot where it split into three. Upon three stones of each trail, symbols were etched on the markers, symbols repeated and hanging in the sky, prominently placed over three of the many points of interest dotting the panoramic landscape of a canvas far wider than it was long. Pagan symbols all.

“Threes,” Aurelia whispered.

Memorizing as many of the details as possible, they slipped from the room, turning away from the confounding painting, scurrying away before more curious visitors entered, before any strangers could look upon the unsettled expressions most surely blatant upon their faces.

Aurelia stared vacantly at Lucagnolo’s rendering; images of Florence crowded her vision, images of a day well spent in the embrace of the glorious city. With silent chivying, she berated herself for her silliness, at her juvenile delight over things seen and done. She struggled to center herself, to find the balance within to serve that which she craved and the purpose she could not forget.

“I think you need to add a few more buildings, between the large one on the left and the mountain in the middle.” Battista’s suggestion broke her reverie.

They huddled over Lucagnolo’s sketch, placed in the middle of the table, witches watching over their bubbling cauldron. Each one proposed details Lucagnolo had missed or forgotten to include, and though they came fast and furious, the young artist did his best to infuse his rendering with the proffered elements without a smidgen of impatience or irritation.

Lucagnolo added the structures as Battista suggested: small and simple buildings, no doubt a row of basic housing for a merchant’s family or an artist’s studio.

“The symbols are definitely pagan,” Aurelia mused aloud as she studied the hieroglyphs, each repeated three times, on the three paths and in the sky. “The first is fire, I am certain of it.” She tapped one tapered finger upon the elemental triangle shape.

“
Sì,
fire,” Battista mumbled his agreement. “And the last is for God or higher being. But the one is the middle is a mystery.”

“Climbing?” Ascanio offered, but with little certainty in the soft suggestion.

“Could it be rebirth?” Lucagnolo offered, his charcoal never relenting from the parchment, unable to desist the fine-tuning with the addition of shadows and layering. He took the tip of the dark tool back to the rune in the center of the sky, the swirl of lines ending with the tip pointing upward.

“Rebirth it might be,” Aurelia agreed. She scoured her memory of the years and years of tutoring and lectures, though clearly much had been left out of her education, purposefully so.

“There were waves crashing against the castle.” Ercole jutted his chin toward the fortress standing to the far right of the sketch. A correct observation. Lucagnolo added a froth of lines upon the base of the structure, though the detail only confirmed that the castle stood on a coastline, not informed of it.