The King's Agent (27 page)

T
he maps covered the small table before him, the star charts as well, but the images swam beneath his dry-eyed gaze, the roads snaking across the parchment, the stars no more than blurred blotches. Battista rubbed his stubble-covered face as if to chafe clarity into his befuddled mind; his tongue felt covered with dirt and the ache in his head swelled with each passing moment.

He had bathed, slept, eaten, and slept some more, but still had not recovered from the residual effects of so many libations, too much rich food, a fist to the face, and a nightlong ride on a willing and energetic partner. Battista leaned his heavy head upon the tall back of his favorite chair, allowing the study’s afternoon shadows to wrap him in their comfort, and smiled. How long the pangs of his debauchery would plague him he didn’t know, but it had all been worth it; from the dregs of his cups had come the answer.

The more he studied the
Commedia,
the Duccio, and the chart depicting the three-starred Pyxis, the more logical his discovery became. Pyxis, Latin for “compass,” its name, by definition, delineated it as a guidepost. He charted the route upon a map; it would be an arduous journey to the grottos, requiring a minimum of two days and many long hours in the saddle. He could not be sure of the availability of inns along the path or if they would need to bed down upon the ground.

Battista didn’t doubt for a moment that Aurelia was up to the task; nothing she did or accomplished would surprise him. Of all he felt for her, grudging respect ranked high upon the list. If only he could cleanse himself of his suspicions, if only he could surrender unconditionally to the bond they had formed when in the grip of Hell. The connection was unlike any other he had ever experienced, not even with his own dear mother, or the men he called family.

His eyes drooped, each blink lengthening, the lids moving slower and slower. Her enigmatic eyes rose up before him, the genteel face disguising the cunning and capable paradox of her, his recollections so clear it was as if she stood before him.

When the light stirred behind the spotty glow of his lids, when he opened them against his own soundless protests, it was not her image, but Aurelia herself, veil in place, dressed in her simplest gown, heading for the door and quickly out of it.

“Oh no,” Battista grumbled, rushing to his feet as fast as his pounding head allowed. “Not again.”

“Aurelia, wait!” he cried as he flung himself from the door, groaning as the bright sunlight stabbed his eyes, closing one, then the other against the agony. “Aurelia!”

She turned round quickly, but he could not tell if fear darkened her pale features or alarm.

“Are you all right?” Aurelia rushed back, reaching out to take his hands.

Battista swallowed hard against her sympathetic supplication. He wished he could lock up his meddlesome thoughts with one of his fancy locks and make no attempt to pick it.

“Where are you off to?” He raked his straight black hair off his face, only to have it fall again as he lowered his gaze; he could open both eyes, but only if he shielded them with a bowed brow.

“I ... I-I-I am ... ,” she stammered, pursing her lips. “Is that why you stopped me? There is nothing amiss?”

“No, nothing.” He straightened his shoulders in a gruff gesture of righteousness. “I was concerned for you to be out and about by yourself.”

Her mouth formed a thin white line across her face. “I am to the
sartoria
if you must know. If we are to go about searching through caves, I must attire myself appropriately.”

“I see. And how are you to pay for such clothes?”

Her face burned with anger; it festered clearly through her heavy veil.

In silent thunder, she opened the small drawstring purse hanging about her wrist and joggled it over her other palm. As the small incandescent pearls tumbled into her hand, Aurelia bit at him with a snapping glare.

“They did me little good upon my veil.” She tipped her head sideways so he could see her headdress; the thick strands of her hairnet, the color of summer’s oak leaves, no longer bore the pearl punctuations at each intersection.

“Ah, of course. You make the most—”

“May I be on my way?”

Battista cleared his throat against her antagonism. He forced a smile and responded with cheer, raising a crooked arm. “It will be my pleasure to escort you.”

She looked at his appendage dubiously, but took it nonetheless. He had peeved her with his suspicions, it pained him in the stiff grip she had on his arm. Would a guilty person feel such anger? He didn’t think so, but for a man who stooped to thievery with great frequency, he knew little of dishonesty.

“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 camouflage 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.”