The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  “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.

  “Signore, buonanotte.” In the rousing beginning of a piva, in the rustle of activity as couples rushed to take positions on the floor, Aurelia flashed onto her feet, stepping away with a quick curtsy before her feminine guard could prevent it.

  “Good night, Aurelia,” the ladies called after her, offering nothing more to raise the woman’s spirits.

  Escaping from the noise, the eyes, and the ears of the sala, Aurelia slowed her pace, in no hurry to return to her own suite of rooms but aimless and bereft of any other possible destination.

  The palazzo of the Gonzaga family was nearly three hundred years old, and among its many buildings it boasted more than three hundred rooms, so many places to wander and be lost. But after all the years among them, she saw nothing unique in any of them; Aurelia’s eyes were blind to the beauty of the castle’s architecture and that of its surrounding buildings, and the breathtaking frescoes, paintings, and sculptures enhancing every room and cubby. Her feet faltered just steps beyond the salon’s threshold and her mind emptied; she lost her way upon paths she had walked for so many years.

  “Aurelia.”

  He whispered her name before he stepped out of the shadows behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who spoke.

  She should have known he would follow her; Federico hated for anger to fester between them for very long, but neither could he appear reticent before his courtiers. The marquess approached her with contrition clear on his dark features and the hesitance of it in his faltering step, as if she may not accept it and turn him away.

  “I am sorry for my outburst, donna mia, my lady. It was not well done of me.”

  Aurelia did turn then, how could she not, and it gave him all the encouragement he needed. He crossed the short expanse between them. He gave her a slow, graceful bow as he often did when they were alone, no matter how frequently she reminded him the gesture was not required.

  “You know from whence my stubbornness arises.” The young man took her hands in his, giving them a soft, affectionate squeeze. He still looked young to her eyes, far younger than his seven-and-twenty years, and at no time more so than when he was repentant. “I do not take my duty to you lightly, my lady.”

  He laughed a little and turned, as if to study one of the mammoth sculptures forming a gilded picket line along the barrel-vaulted hall; a long-fingered hand worried the hilt of the bejeweled ornamental sword hanging by his side, the tinkling of the metal in its sheaf echoing softly in the cavernous corridor.

  “I know,” she whispered, and in the wisp of words she breathed all the genuine fondness she felt for him.

  Federico jerked back, a cynical smirk upon his face. “You are probably the only thing in my life I do not take lightly.”

  “I do know,” Aurelia said again, stepping to him, resting a hand gently upon his velvet-covered forearm. “Nor do I take my own duty lightly. But I am not a child.”

  They both laughed then, at the enormity of her jest, and it dispelled further any ill will between them.

  “And I do understand that you are most happy when at home,” she continued softly. “But if I do not see something other than these walls, and soon, I will surely lose my mind.”

  The marquess waggled his pointy, beard-covered chin, brows pinching together. “I cannot imagine what it must be like for you.”

  In his eyes Aurelia saw his sympathy and his devotion, but it did little to assuage her need.

  “But there is nothing, save my own death, that would convince me to let you travel without me. Perhaps the ... others ... have allowed it, but I cannot.”

  Aurelia hung her head, chestnut hair catching the light of the torches above them with a fiery glint, changeable eyes grasping the shades of deep brown sadness. Any hope she may have kindled in her heart extinguished in that moment.

  Federico bent his head to hers, lips curving down at her blatant disappointment. “But let me think about a journey. Perhaps something in the near future, sì?”

  His hopeful petition, offered like a child gaining good graces, she found incontestable. She would not put aside what she owed this man, this family of honorable men.

  “Sì,” she told him, with a pale imitation of a smile. “I will look forward to it.”

  But as they said their good nights and parted ways, she knew there was nothing to look forward to, only more days without end in this most magnificent prison.

  She turned toward her rooms then, surrendering to the exhaustion nipping at her, fatigue a small, hungry creature, its sharp teeth voracious for a feeding.

  As soon as Aurelia entered the outer chamber of her apartments, three young women flocked around her, ready to do her bidding, no matter how simple, as if she herself were incapable of her own care.

  She stood resolute within the hub of the whirlpool, allowing the wimple-clad young women to do their duty, answering their questions, delighting—despite herself—in their giggles as she described the men, the women, the clothes, and the food of the lavish night of entertainments. Aurelia allowed a degree of familiarity to burgeon between her and those who lived to serve her, for theirs were often the most intimate relationships she experienced.

  “Now have a care, Teofila,” Aurelia chided as the young women rushed through their duties, removing the many layers of her evening clothes, placing her jewels in the strongbox, turning down the linens on the bed in the adjacent chamber. All the young girls were eager to be gone; on a night such as this, there was plenty of food, drink, and men left over to satisfy even the servants of the household. “Do not give your heart to the first cavalier who pretends to deserve it. There are far too many to choose from this night. You must make them earn your attention.”

  Aurelia bit her heavy top lip, confining the grin brought out by Teofila’s embarrassed laughter. She felt an affinity toward the young girl, for she looked much as Aurelia did, chestnut hair of deep waves, eyes hinting of both greens and earthy hues, depending on her mood. It was how a sister might look; it was how Aurelia imagined her sisters did look.

  Once Aurelia was in her nightgown and robe, hair unpinned and brushed out, a small fire sizzling in the grate in the bedchamber, all her cares were met and still
the women hovered near, though their eyes looked to one another and the door with more and more frequency.

  “Be gone, you old women.” Aurelia corralled them, shooing them with her hands as a farmer’s wife urged the chickens back to the coop. “I have had more than enough of your pestering.”

  Her words chided them warmly. With grateful bobs, her attendants took their leave, giggles slipping along on the promises of the night that lay before them.

  Aurelia once more stood alone, and she both embraced the solitude and despised it.

  Like these twittering young girls, like the noblewomen still making merry in the grand ballroom below, Aurelia enjoyed the beauty this life offered, a life fit for a queen. The finest gowns, the most exquisite jewels, they were all hers at the flick of a finger. But as if cursed, things so easily come by meant little.

  When she looked behind her, the endless sameness stretched back further than she could remember, and only more of the same lay ahead, the same stretch of road to be traveled day in and day out. The words she had spoken to Federico echoed in her mind; yes, she was dedicated to her duty, body and soul, to her one and true purpose. But when she heard the other women talking of their lives, their families, and their entertainments, it compounded the weight of emptiness she must bear.

  Aurelia flopped down upon the floor at the foot of her bed, legs atangle in the silk linen, head hung in the cradle of her hands.

  She never had any fun.

  Four

  And when, with gladness in his face,

  he placed his hand upon my own,

  to comfort me,

  he drew me in among the hidden things.

  —Inferno

  Fifty-two men, naked to the waist save for the sweat of their efforts, ran in the massive, hard-packed sand pit of the Piazza di Santa Croce, flashing in and out of the shadow of its grand Basilica.

  “To me, Pompeo, to me!” Battista screamed to his teammate, catching the glimpse of an opening ahead.

  The young man obliged, hurling the heavy ball of giuoco del calcio fiorentino across the distance between them. Rushing to Battista’s side, Pompeo launched his body between Battista and the opposing team coming at him from all sides, intent on stopping him from nearing the goal line running the width of each end of the piazza. All around them, the mayhem of the melee continued as men head-butted, punched, elbowed, and choked one another, anything to keep the other team from besting them, each capitalizing on the sport-shrouded opportunity to make another pay for besting him in either love or dice.

  Great guffaws of triumph rang out, groans of pain and frustration rumbled, as the players closest glimpsed who now possessed the ball. Equally as deadly with either hands or feet, Battista could hurl or kick the ball across the goal line to score a cacce, whichever method presented the best opportunity.

  Never as happy as when in the midst of calcio, Battista sneered merrily as he rampaged across the field. He had grown up playing the Florentine kick game, and he hoped he died an old man, staggering about the grounds. Few upon the field were as tall or as sturdy as he, and many a team fell to his agility.

  Battista lowered his head, put his shoulders to the oncoming rush, and barreled forward with a roar. The low wall delineating the goal line stood but meters away, and so did a row of the angriest, most determined players he had seen yet today. Their eyes burned red, their lips formed gruesome snarls.

  He cupped the red and white ball in the crook of his arm, and pulled his arm overhead, poised to launch. From his right, at the farthest tip of his vision, he saw them ... two red-breeched players hurtling toward him.

  With the graceful twirl of a court dancer, Battista lowered his poised arm behind him, turning with the movement to come round full circle. Dropping the ball to both hands, dropping both hands to his knee, he took one step forward with his left leg, and impelled his right forward, his foot smacking the ball, launching it over snarling men and goal wall alike.

  “Vittoria! Fantastico!” The whoops and cries of victory filled the square, colliding with the stone buildings lining all four sides, rebounding again and again into the air. Spectators cheered or jeered, congratulating or commiserating with their favored team as money exchanged hands from the losing to the winning wagerers.

  The pile of victorious players jumping on top of Battista was as dangerous as the opposing team had been, and he struggled to free himself of the crazed horde, but not without his own cries of delight and triumph. Pompeo found him and they embraced in the shared conquest, strutting across the piazza together, enfolded once more into the arms of their most dedicated fans.

  “Bèn fatto!” Frado saluted as he threw each man a cloth to wipe away the dirt and sweat coating his skin. “Very well done indeed.”

  “You have won us a fortune this day,” Ercole joined in, still accepting the mix of coins, large and small, from the swirl of grumbling men who shoved them into his hand. “A celebration is in order.”

  “Agreed!” Battista cried with enthusiasm, tossing aside the now-dirty rag and accepting his shirt and doublet from Giovanni’s hands.

  Beside him, Ascanio assisted Pompeo with his own clothing, as the tall, thin Lucagnolo leaned down and kissed a fey woman softly on her cheek, handing her over to another woman, similar of face but of a much heartier disposition.

  “How is she?” Battista stepped to the only married man among them.

  “Fine, grazie,” Lucagnolo responded, eyes following the two women as they made their way through the tumultuous crowd just beginning to abate.

  Battista studied Lucagnolo’s face, handsome in that very Roman way, the strong, straight nose, the high, protruding cheekbones, a face much like Battista’s, though far narrower. The concise response did not worry Battista overmuch; for the quiet Lucagnolo, such was a typical rejoinder. The worry in the man’s piercing blue eyes concerned Battista far more.

  Lucagnolo’s young wife had been ill off and on for many months, and though the devoted husband retained many a skilled and expensive physician with the income derived as both an artist and adviser to Battista on painted artwork, none seemed able to find a cause, nor a cure.

  “Her beauty is as breathtaking as ever,” Battista whispered with a squeeze of the man’s bony shoulder.

  Lucagnolo nodded, a wisp of a smile touching his thin lips.

  “Come, let us away to the trattoria. I’ve a need for much wine.” Battista gave him another squeeze and together they turned to the waiting band of men, the group trouncing off to the southwest corner of the piazza as if they had taken possession of it through their victory.

  Just beyond the long Palazzo dell’Antella, patrons encircled every round, scarred wood table running along the front of the Angelo di Fuoco, some drinking toasts, others drowning their sorrows. The still-rising midday sun found the piazza, and its springlike warmth raised the heat of the festivities.

  “Come, come.” The small, spry owner of the trattoria spied the approach of Battista and his men. “Marco, a table, chairs, presto!”

  “Grazie, Pasquale.” Battista accepted the man’s hospitality, well earned through years of patronage. Without request the table thus placed, the correct number of chairs along its perimeter, soon filled with flagons of white Frascati wine and dozens of trays of food filled with salame and other sliced meats, chunks of parmigiano and sharply flavored cheeses, and breads.

  “For you.” Pasquale himself brought over the tray of stuffed eggs, Battista’s favorite.

  “Ah, grazie, Pasquale. Grazie mille.” Battista eyed the treats with unfettered delight. Boiled, their yolks removed and mixed with raisins, cheese, and spices, the eggs were stuffed and closed once more, then fried to a golden brown.

  The men said little as they stuffed their mouths, gulped heartily of their wine, and watched the throngs of people coming and going through the square. Battista’s eyes wandered to the Basilica, its many white stone peaks and ornamented spires. His gaze moseyed to the palazzo above his head and the varying shapes
of the windows. From this vantage point, one perceived their differences, though from the Basilica they somehow all looked the same. His thoughts languished upon little else but the delicious flavors assaulting his mouth and the moment of triumph still as fresh as the thin sheen of sweat upon his brow, accepting the nods and smiles of congratulation tossed his way by passersby.

  “Did you see Alberto?” Pompeo asked him with a hearty belch, sitting back from the table, having consumed more than his share of the victuals.

  Battista threw back his head and laughed, brushing dampened locks off his forehead. “I did. He does not enjoy losing. Not that he has to do it often. When you tur—”

  “May we join you?” The deep-voiced request came from behind Battista.

  Turning in his chair, Battista acknowledged the two well-dressed men, cheerfulness watered away like cheap wine.

  Cecchino Bracci accompanied Bernardino Altoviti, as always, dressed similarly in short velvet farsetti, voluminous cloaks of camlet trimmed in miniver over these doublets, and high-crowned hats, costumes as befitted their stature as representatives of two of the leading families of Florence. The Altoviti men had been great soldiers for centuries, bestowed with the imperial knighthood, now ambassadors of great distinction. Minor nobles themselves, the Bracci family owned one of the largest banks here in Florence and in Rome as well.

  Yes, they were two of the finest members of the Florentine community, but they were serious men, far too serious for a day such as this.

  Battista reached for a damigiana of wine, pouring each newcomer a great dose of white liquid from the short, narrow neck of the large bottle, hoping to lighten their natural dourness with the spirits. But it was not to be.