The King's Agent (24 page)

Withdrawn and sullen, Battista barely spoke, and if he did he offered naught but clipped and choppy words filled with frustration. His irritation seemed most often directed toward her, and his petulance wounded her, though she pushed the nonsensical injury away as best she could. He blamed himself for Ercole’s death, she was sure of it, and wondered if perhaps he blamed her as well. He worried that the forgery had not been put in place—destroyed in the same fiery end as Ercole—worried more that the missing piece would bring attention and more danger to their quest.

Aurelia studied the book in her hands, gaze flitting from the words devoid of meaning for all the many times she read them, to the face of the man impenetrable no matter how often scrutinized.

With a knock needing no answer, Barnabeo pushed through the door; even this barreling man shuffled beneath the weight of loss.

Tossing a velvet pouch upon Battista’s lap, Barnabeo plopped himself onto the settee beside him. “The duke was very happy to pay top dollar,” Barnabeo declared with little pleasure. “He did not even bother to haggle.”

Battista pulled at the tasseled drawstring and peeked into the purse, a wan, if satisfied, smile appearing on his gloomy face.

With little enthusiasm, Battista handed out the coins, dispersing the bounty earned, in some way, by them all.

Frado eagerly skipped forward, palming his coins, and, with a curt nod, quit the room with the same expeditious efficiency.

Aurelia followed him, holding the door open as he rushed from it, squinting into the sunny day as the small man trundled quickly away, lost in the swirling activity on the busy street.

“Again?” she asked of his retreating form, turning to Battista as Frado strode out of sight. “You pay him and he cannot wait to leave you. Where does he rush to with such urgency?”

She flounced back down in the wing chair she favored, the soft maroon velvet cushions squishing beneath her in a comforting manner. Elbows on knees, she perched on its edge, her query held in the air as she stared pointedly at the men. She did not miss the glance they shared, a masculine intimacy glinting with amusement.

She tilted her head to the side, the snippet of lightness most welcome in a house bereft of it for many a day, the pale cheer infecting her own lips. “What?” she asked them, expecting some bizarre tale of heavy drinking and carousing.

Ascanio pushed his chair from the table, fussing at his lace-edged cuffs. “Frado gives most of his earnings to the orphanage.”

“Or the Church,” Giovanni offered from the chair beside him.

Aurelia’s mouth gaped, floundering like a fish abandoned on dry land, but she could not contain her astonishment, and her fluster pleased the men to no end.

Battista chuckled, and it was the sound of a man longing to come back to life. “He lives here and I feed him, without charge for either. He believes his is a blessed life and that he should bless others in return.”

Aurelia spun back to the portal in wonder, eyes squinting as if the shadow of the surprising Samaritan stood in the threshold still.

She closed her flapping lips, unable to respond. There was so much to this world she would never understand, and yet so much to be held in glory.

Of a sudden Battista pulled up from his slouch, rubbing his face with both hands as if washing it, growling a bit as he did. “I have had enough of this.”

Yanking his hands from his face, he looked at the company of mournful men.

“Ercole would hate this,” Battista told them contritely. “It is the feast day of San Giuseppe, his favorite of all the holy days... .”

“Because of the
zeppole,
” Barnabeo mumbled, but not without the rumble of laughter.

Battista smiled, looking almost relieved to do so. “
Sì,
the
zeppole
. How he loved them. He would rail against us all for sitting here, moping, when such a party was to be enjoyed.”

He stood up, pulling Barnabeo up with him, pushing the rock of a man toward the door.

“Go, all of you. Exchange these dark, dreary clothes for your brightest red. Meet back here as quick as you can. In the name of Ercole will we eat and drink, and drink some more.”

The men responded, Ascanio the first, all too willing to become resplendent once more. In the wake of their departure, Aurelia held her breath. Battista had not seemed to include her, but then it might only be her own apprehension.

He faced her then, unable to hide the shadow in his eyes from her knowing glance. “Come, Aurelia, don your prettiest dress. On my arm you will enjoy this day.”

Aurelia released the breath she had held for what seemed like days and stepped to him, hand brushing his arm lightly. “You have given them what they need ... what we all need ... as you so often do,” she told him, soft voice loud with admiration; this man was a leader and a friend, he nurtured and protected them.

He mumbled something, but she paid it little heed as she rushed away, lifting her skirts to run up the stairs, eager to be out of the house, to enjoy a festival in public rather than behind the walls of a well-guarded palazzo, her craving for fun and adventure making her deaf to his response.

“The whole town is about,” Battista said as he licked the yellow custard from his fingers.

They ate the
zeppole
purchased from a street vendor’s cart, the sweet goo oozing from the light and flaky pastry with every bite, as they stood at the side of the crowded street, wedged between the pastry vendor and another offering aromatic portions of
stufator,
serving the stew in hollowed-out, crusty bread.

Aurelia closed her eyes to the delight, allowing herself to feel nothing but the flavors and textures assaulting her mouth.

The procession of children had just passed—little boys in their first pair of fancy hose, little girls with garlands of flowers in their hair—each carrying a gift to lay at the feet of St. Joseph in the Duomo, the great cathedral in the center of the city, where the saint’s statue stood. Their little arms overflowed with flowers, limes, candles, wine, and more, carrying on the tradition begun in Sicily in the Middle Ages, thanking San Giuseppe for ending a devastating drought.

On every corner of the city, bedecked in flags of red, its people offered a different delight, every piazza a joust or a pageant, even the churches—restrained in the late days of Lent—held Scripture readings, lighthearted words to celebrate the saint’s day. And everywhere floated the strains of music.

Aurelia lunged forward, bumped into from behind by a laughing, handsome young man, but smiled as the offending gallant kissed her hand in apology.

“You speak the truth,” she chuckled to Battista. “I have never seen so many people in one place before.”

Ascanio laughed as Frado took a stand at her back, a protective guard dog at his post. She rubbed her hand on his arm, acknowledging his care, and he winked over his shoulder at her. They had lost Giovanni and Pompeo somewhere along the path, the younger men called away by the rattle of the dice or the giggle of a woman.

“Perhaps you will see someone you know.” Battista leaned down, lips close to her ear.

She tilted away with a frown, not recognizing him behind the intense expression. “I know no one in Florence save you and your men,” she told him with a shake of her head.

Battista’s brows bolted up his smooth forehead. “Really? No one?” His voice bit her with scathing sarcasm.

Her breath escaped her, as if he squeezed her with his large, powerful hands rather than a withered glare.

“N ... no, not a one,” she replied, taking yet another step away, her voice sounding tentative, even to her own ears.

Battista sneered at her with the disguise of a smile, and the band around her chest drew a notch tighter. Something disturbed him—some knowledge—she was certain of it, and his knowledge frightened her as nothing thus far had.

“Come.” He took her almost roughly by the arm and led them west, along the crowded Via Largo. “We do not want to miss the ceremony.”

As the red-tiled dome of the Duomo rose up in front of them, Aurelia lost all taste for the celebration. Should she speak to him, should she tell him more, enough, at least, to end the jabbing questions?

Her jaw ached as her teeth ground together; if only he asked her a direct question instead of this spiteful meandering, this intellectual sparring. She could better handle pointed confrontation than speculation at what boiled in his head.

Aurelia rankled at the itch of vulnerability, a frightening state, especially after so many years in the protection of the marquess.

“Battista,” Ascanio hissed. “Look!”

Turning back with Battista, Aurelia followed Ascanio’s narrowed glare.

On the other side of the widening avenue, a group of men stood stiff and motionless, a mammoth boulder in the stream of frolicking humanity. Though dressed in a similar fashion to Battista and the other men in their group, this posse wore their swords and daggers with greater number, wore their aggressive attitude upon their slashed and colorful sleeves, the chips on their shoulders, and the sneers on their lips. They gave no way as the crowds tried to pass. One stocky man stood at the front of the group, a pale-skinned black-haired man, his coarse beard covering most of his face, a snarling thin lip visible behind the untrimmed mustache, a bone white scar running from the edge of his mouth toward his jaw.

As Battista turned, they found each other. With slow deliberation, the man raised his hand to his mouth, put the tip of his thumb to his teeth, and, with a hateful glare, flicked it out at Battista.

Aurelia sucked in her breath. Ascanio bounced on his toes, launching himself toward the brigade of men.

“No, Ascanio, do not bother.” Battista pulled him back, grabbing both of Ascanio’s arms to contain the man’s anger. “
Sfacciato
. They are not worthy of our consideration.”

Aurelia watched as the gang of brigands ambled away, studied the miscreants Battista had labeled as lacking face, one of the greatest condemnations an Italian dared bestow upon another. The depth of a person’s honor they held in the face, or so people believed.

“Who was that man, Battista?” She had seen much in their time together, but never had she seen someone act so purposefully and publicly
sense vegogna,
without shame.

Battista looked at her oddly, as if suddenly remembering her presence. “That, dear Aurelia, is Baldassare del Milanese. As I do, he calls himself an art dealer, but everything he does, he does for his own profit.”

“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.