The King's Agent (3 page)

“Speaking of profit,” Battista announced to the room as if they had been privy to his thoughts, “have you sold any of the extra items from the Fénis Castle?”

“Ah, it is of this I longed to tell you.” The stocky Barnabeo sat beside him, gap-toothed grin spreading at the opportunity to share his news at last, voice squeaking higher with pleasure. “Del Nero has taken both pieces, the painting and the bronze, at a most generous price.”

As he spoke, Barnabeo took from his waist a large purse, which he handed to Battista with a noted flair, pride in a job well done in the flourish.

The jangling of heavy coins brought them all to attention, and every man drew near, once more the baby birds looking for a morsel from their mother.

“
Sì,
Francesco, I should have known.” Battista nodded happily, well pleased. He called Francesco del Nero a true friend, as he did only a few. The support of his fellow Florentine patriot del Nero kept them all fed, and del Nero’s recommendations to Filippo Strozzi brought Battista entrée to those who held the greatest art in all of the Republic. “When you drink these florins away, and I know you will,” Battista told the men with a wink, handing each one a heavy gold piece, “be sure to raise your tankard to del Nero.”

“Del Nero!” the men sang in chorus, laughing at the prospect Battista so easily foretold.

Battista called Frado to him, leaned over the back of the small sofa, and handed the man the purse and the coins left within it. “You know what needs to be done with these, my friend. But take an extra for yourself. You’ve earned it.”

Frado pulled two coins from the purse and tucked them into a barely visible flap on his well-stretched jerkin, but not without a smug smirk in Ercole’s direction. All knew of Ercole’s desire to take Frado’s place, of his longing to accompany Battista on his expeditions and not be a part of those who worked in either their preparation or conclusion. For all that Ercole and Frado had much in common ... same age, same build, and same quiet disposition ... all knew what Ercole would do he would do for the glory of it. What Frado did he did in loyalty to Battista and to benefit others. True purpose is the gauge by which all lives are judged.

“Now, my friends, to the matters at hand.” Battista rubbed his hands together, then brushed the trunk hose covering his thighs, ridding himself of crumbs, knocking them to the gray stone floor without thought. “Giovanni, write to King François and tell him of our latest acquisition on his behalf, would you? He will be overjoyed, I am quite sure.”

The young fair-haired man nodded. “
Sì,
as sure as I am that Pompeo cheats.”

“
Dio mio,
Giovanni, let it go. I do not cheat.” Pompeo ran in from the kitchen where he studied the newly acquired statuette quietly. As he ran his hands through his hair, the thick black spikes stood out like a porcupine’s quills while his smooth and youthful cheeks turned scarlet, nose still swollen and red from the impact of Giovanni’s fist. “How often must we have this same argument?”

“As often as you cheat.” Giovanni jumped to his feet, sticking out his chest as he thundered toward Pompeo.

“You are sh—”

“Basta!”

Once more Battista put a halt to the bickering, jumping between the infuriated men with a strong hand toward each. Unlike most Tuscan men—typically lean and small, unremarkable and unintimidating—Battista rose to an impressive height, and few had the nerve to test the brawn accompanying the breadth.

He sighed with exasperation, eyeing both with paternal impatience. “Pompeo, I do not know if you cheat. I know only that you win at cards far too often. Giovanni, you stink at cards, which is why Pompeo always plays against you and why he always wins.”

The others in the room howled with laughter, both combatants possessing the grace to grin as they stepped apart, leaving their argument for the next time the cards were dealt.

“I will send the missive, Battista, this very day,” Giovanni said contritely, returning to the subject of his work.

“Sì, bene.”
Battista sat once more, stretching his long legs out before him, propping his feet upon the ottoman, and wiggling his long, still-uncovered toes. “Have we received any more requests from France?”

“Nothing yet,” Giovanni replied. “But there are a few old requests we’ve yet to fill.”

Battista turned a scowling brow to the man in the chair beside him. “Make me a list, Gio?
Per favore?
”

“Of course.” The young man stood at once.

These fellows to a one were dedicated to Battista, to his work for Florence and for the food, clothing, and comfortable lives their work provided. He ruled them with a loving but firm hand and they responded with affectionate and devoted diligence. They were his
famiglia,
as much as his mother and widowed sister, who lived but a stone’s throw away.

“Pompeo, have you added this piece to the list?” Battista called to the man behind him as he stared out the window. He marveled at the glass coverings so recently installed on this floor of the house; cloudy and cluttered with lead, they were difficult to see out of, or, by the same token, into. And for the latter he was most grateful. He willingly gave up the view of the passersby on the street for the privacy and seclusion the barriers afforded.

“I have.” Now calm, his veracity no longer questioned, the youngest of the group came to sit with Battista. “I may look at it a bit more before packing it away, if I may. It is quite beautiful.”

Battista beamed at the man more than a decade younger than he. Pompeo’s deep admiration for art and antiquities made him ideal for his work. He had spent his childhood apprenticed in the
bottega
of the great Cellini, and had learned much at the master’s hands. When Pompeo admitted knowledge to be his gift, more so than ability, he had found his way to Battista.

“Of course. But by the end of this day,
sì?
”

“
Sì,
Battista,
grazie
. Someday I hope to travel to the cathedral and see it for myself. If it is anything like this, it must be brea—”

The door flung open with a slam, whumping away Pompeo’s words, and a thin, lavishly dressed man of Battista’s age rushed in.

“I have news. Oomph!” the man cried, tripping over one of the dozens of crates strewn about the room, bringing forth a curse before the tidings. “
Merda!
Is it not yet time to send these things on their way?”

Battista chuckled at the comical picture Ascanio created as he stumbled, arms windmilling, struggling to gain his balance. “There is not enough yet to fill a quarter of a cargo hold. Transport costs a fortune. Unless we fill the entire ship, most of our profit will sail away with it.”

“I understand, but can we not ... not”—Ascanio swirled his jeweled hands about as if stirring two big cauldrons of soup—“not organize it better?”

As if he heard his name called by a thought, the stooped Nuntio wandered down the stairs, yellowed rags bound for the garbage heap in hand. “I will work on it today, signore.”

“
Grazie,
Nuntio. You are—”

“Enough of your housekeeper’s cares, Ascanio. What is your news?” Battista barked.

Ascanio stood in the middle of the room, hands to hips, jaunty grin upon his ruddy face.

“France and Spain are at war ... again!”

Three

Necessity brings him here, not pleasure.

—Inferno

T
he small orchestra—nothing more than a
chitarra,
a harpsichord, and a viola—in the shell-shaped niche played a lively saltarello. A smattering of couples kicked and hopped, merrily displaying their grace and virtuosity, their costly costumes and glittering gems. Amidst this intimate gathering in a small
sala
of the Mantua palazzo, cheerful voices, smiling faces, and bubbling laughter filled the quick hollows between songs ... a cheery night indeed.

Jolly for all save the two growling at each other over their chair arms.

The master of the house did little to disguise his impatience with his ward, who sat beside him, each slumped into the exquisitely upholstered chairs, each falsely convinced of their anonymity in the far corner of the spacious green marble salon. She burned with her own ire, the crimson stain painting her pale face as no cosmetic ever dared.

“I have no immediate plans to travel, Madonna Aurelia, and therefore neither do you.” Federico II of Gonzaga, the marquess of Mantua, made the pronouncement through his small, clenched teeth, looking much like a dark version of his favored bichon frise kept forever by his side, though not nearly as amiable as that tail-wagging creature.

“I am not suggesting you travel,
Zio
.” Though the nobleman was not her uncle, the Lady Aurelia called him by the title—for the sake of explanation—as she had the men who came before him.

The chestnut-haired woman clamped her hands in her lap, wringing them almost painfully, as if she could stifle their angry quiver. How she loathed it when he spoke to her as if she were a child, when he used the formal form of her title, as if to badger her with his serious intent. This man, to whom she must forever answer, had become lazy of late, as those who judged him turned their gaze to other sights.

Inheriting his title from his father while too young to wield it, Federico had lived under the regency of his mother, Isabelle d’Este, for many years. In the hopes of escape, the headstrong adolescent had launched upon a military career that ended with middling success, and returned as a man to take his rightful place as lord of Mantua. His mother, still spry and intellectually curious at fifty-three, had taken to travel, leaving her son free to do as he chose. And he chose to do little. With no wife, an accommodating mistress, and a rich court, Federico rarely stirred from the confines of his palazzo, his one niggling duty the protection of the Lady Aurelia.

“I hoped to do some traveling on my own.” Aurelia leaned toward the marquess, willing him to turn his gaze back.

She would not, by nature, raise her voice, only if she must. She respected the power of this man, of the nobility represented in this room. These courts of the Italian city-states retained the military and political influence of the previous age, when families gained position by protecting their rulers. They then in turn became dependent upon these lords for their hospitality and largesse. It was a vicious circle, and she lived in its center. But she comprehended her own power and, more importantly, her value, and it gave a determined lilt to her voice.

“Not alone, of course,” she continued when the marquess deigned to look at her, round brown eyes skeptical beneath raised bushy brows. “There is a group of women about to set off on a journey to Venice, and I long to accompany them. Your mother is there and we would join her. There will be chaperones and servants by the score. Surely such protected travel would not be remiss.”

“This is a question asked and answered, Aurelia.” Federico raised his voice, punctuating his admonition with a pounding fist on the padded chair arm. Jumping to his feet, he tugged down on the skirt of his fitted velvet doublet, throwing his lace-encircled hands up into her face. “I will not entertain it further.”

The music squeaked to a close, strangled upon the grip of his anger, and the courtiers hushed in the empty wake of it. The marquess stomped away, parting the dancers upon the veined stone floor, to take a seat with a group of men at the distant corner, as removed from her as possible without leaving altogether.

Aurelia cringed, teeth scraping together, eyes raised to the portrait above her and the condemning faces of Luis Gonzaga and his three sons, Guy, Fillippino, and Feltrino, the branch of the House of Gonzaga that had begun the family’s control of Mantua two centuries ago. As they looked down, their descendant denied and humiliated her; she wanted nothing more than to disappear. Each hand moved to a chair arm, gripping it till the knuckles shone white, and she started to rise.

“Dear Aurelia, you must tell us who made your gown!” The woman sitting to her left grabbed one of her hands, her congenial comportment camouflaging the hard pull nailing Aurelia in her seat.

“Perhaps you could call for us, when next they come to fit you. We would all wish to be so wonderfully costumed. Is that not right, ladies?” Another woman gathered close, giving Aurelia no time to answer, nor did the bevy of female courtiers flocking around her like geese to the tossed crumb. They prattled on, asking questions for which they expected no answers, as the musicians struck their instruments once more and the dancing and laughter recommenced.

Aurelia smiled obsequiously, not ignorant of the worried glances these women exchanged, untouched by their pretty words and sympathetic simpering; they had seen such scenes between her and the marquess before, but they seemed to be occurring more and more frequently—and urgently—than ever. His harsh and cruel behavior appeared at times inexplicable.

No one knew much about Aurelia, only that she came to be the ward of the Gonzaga family some years ago. Aurelia was not a young woman, not a rosebud about to burst, but a flower in full bloom, a solitary, well-simmered beauty. Though she was kind, charitable, and most always affable, a loneliness lived within her, wrapped in the deeply pale skin of one forever shielded. But a feisty vein thrummed through her, one not intimidated by the noble personage who held her fate in his hands, and for that the women of the court admired—and pitied—her.

Their trilling created a vortex in which Aurelia’s anger and embarrassment subsided, in which she retreated and disappeared, and their conversation turned with distracting grace to other things ... parties attended, palaces visited, remarkable personages encountered. Words meant to divert her now poured salt into her open wound. She could bear the taunting of it no longer.