The King's Agent (26 page)

Taken unaware, he jumped at the shrill blast of a fife. Michelangelo laughed, calming him with a hand upon his shoulder.

“Time to eat.” The artist grinned with a waggle of busy salt-and-pepper brows.

Battista relaxed, but only for a moment. Yelping like a little girl, he grabbed at the table as it fell away from them, as servants manning ingeniously devised winches lowered the trencher, only to reel it back up once the scullions below had covered it with the most creative food Battista had ever seen.

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 his 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