The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  “Air ship?” The soft voice of Lucagnolo entered as he did, thus summoned, on the heels of Ercole, and any polite greetings were lost in the inauspicious subject matter.

  Battista ignored it and rose, as pleased to see Lucagnolo as the young man was relieved to see him, returned and recovered.

  “Bettaccia?” Battista said the single name in question as the two men separated and his throat tightened over a hard swallow at the helpless look Lucagnolo offered in explanation.

  Battista enfolded the man back in his arms, a rough embrace the only support he could think to offer.

  “Did I hear correctly?” Lucagnolo asked, narrow, slanted eyes blinking with curiosity, falling on Aurelia with undisguised speculation.

  “You did, Luca,” Battista told him, turning with a gesturing hand to the woman among them. “Please make the acquaintance of the Lady Aurelia. She is ...” Words failed him, and Battista realized he knew little of the woman, or how to explain her. He must correct this lack of knowledge, and quickly. “... She alone is to be thanked for my survival and my return.”

  Lucagnolo bowed low. “Then it is with great gratitude that I welcome you, madonna,” he bade her greeting with the formal salutation in his shy, sincere manner.

  “E tu, signore.” Aurelia tipped her head graciously.

  “Read this, Luca.” Ascanio pulled out the chair beside him and pulled the parchment toward him as Lucagnolo filled the seat.

  The soft-spoken man puzzled them all as he read the last of the words, a wan grin tickling his thin lips. “I may know of what this speaks.”

  “Cazzata,” Ercole barked the vulgarity calling Lucagnolo’s knowledge into question.

  The others laughed uncomfortably at the unflattering skepticism; Ercole may have said it in too harsh a manner, but it spoke of a shared uncertainty.

  Lucagnolo playfully cuffed the older man’s shoulder as he rose and made his way to the corner bookshelves, running a searching finger along the spines. “I would not lie to you, Ercole, you are far too fearsome. It is a phenomenon more than a few are starting to speak of openly, though many fear retribution from the Church.”

  At this last, any light amusement among them scurried away to the dark corners of the room, as if to hide from the judging eyes of the religious fanatics, those in a long line of reformists since the Dominican friar Savonarola first brought the idea to Florence a few decades ago.

  No one spoke as the painting connoisseur made his search; Aurelia pushed away her plate, either too full or too curious to eat another bite.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Lucagnolo at last announced with an edge of impatience directed inward, pulling out a square, heavy tome from a lower shelf.

  Shuffling through the pages of the large book, the young man crossed the room, plopped the heavy volume upon the table with a bang, and pointed a knowing finger upon the open page.

  “Look at this and you will know almost exactly what the words speak of.”

  The painting sketched in the book was a combination of hard-angled buildings and gracefully rounded people. It projected a vanishing perspective, with Mary glimpsed in the foreground just through an open door, two men in the gallery beside the building, and others in the background, the success of the dimensions depicted, a function of the perfect spatial and size balance of each person and object rendered.

  Ascanio clucked his tongue in recognition. “Carlo Crivelli?”

  “Crivelli, sì. You cannot see the brilliance of the man’s colors here.” Lucagnolo nodded, with a nigh on reverential whisper. “The brilliant reds of the men’s robes, the vibrant golds of the building’s stone, or the cream of Mary’s skin. But this is what we need look at the most.”

  At this, his finger rose to the top portion of the picture and the fluffy clouds infesting it. The men hunched forward, as did Aurelia, each vying for a closer look at the odd shape appearing, at first glance, camouflaged by the waves of scuttling clouds.

  Perfectly round and vibrantly white, the circular apparition emitted a beam of light through the sky and into the room where Mary stood.

  “Dio mio,” Ercole whispered harshly, crossing himself with a vigorous gesture.

  “What in all creation is that?” Frado snipped.

  “Exactly.” Lucagnolo nodded, using the other man’s question as his answer.

  “But, but that is not a ship, at least not one like any I have ever seen. Where are the sails, and the masts?” Frado’s unease over their situation clanged in every clipped word.

  “Sì,” Ercole rushed to agree. “This is some sort of circle, like the tiny dishes my mother uses to serve biscotti to the priest.”

  “Only the priest?” Ascanio raised one brow, smoothing his perfectly trimmed mustache with lithe fingers.

  Ercole nodded his boxy head with a shrug. “Sì. My brothers and I are too brutish, she says.”

  “True, on both counts,” Lucagnolo acknowledged with a half smile, turning back to the page before him. “But there are other paintings with these ... these objects floating in the air. Some are calling them air ships.”

  Beside Battista, Aurelia shivered noticeably, but he believed her chilled, not cold. It had become rather warm in the house, truth be told, though the fire had burned low and Nuntio had opened the back doors to the small, night-filled courtyard, tree frogs peeping languidly with their song of early spring.

  “This is not of the Madonna and Child.” Battista turned back to the unsettling painting and Lucagnolo.

  The young man shook his head. “No, it isn’t. But there are many others like this. I am almost certain I have seen the very one in question, but I cannot remember the artist’s name.”

  “Then there is but one thing for us to do,” Battista said, and without need for further explanation, the men stood, the maunderings and exasperated sighs rising with them.

  As the majority of the men set themselves once more to the study and the books and parchments filling it, Aurelia took herself away from the table and set about the room, rubbing her arms as she walked among the crates and boxes.

  Battista limped behind, tired, yes, but concerned, for them all.

  “Are you well, my lady?”

  She found him just over her shoulder and offered a pale imitation of an assuring smile. “Yes, fine.”

  He thought she had more to say, thought he saw it in her eyes, but her lips closed upon silence. “It is ... disturbing, sì?”

  Her smile became more heartfelt. “Yes, disturbing indeed.”

  She crossed to one of the largest crates, pushed into the front northern corner of the room.

  “These boxes, they are full of ...” Her words faded, but her raised brow implied she would accept nothing but the truth, as if she already knew his answer.

  “Gifts. For the king of France.” He laughed as he answered her, as he offered her the transparent sophistry. But she didn’t join in the jocularity.

  Rubbing one hand along the rough wood of the crate, she condemned him, “You really are a thief then.”

  His jaw flinched as a surge of anger rifled through him. He narrowed his eyes at her, a pretense of charming civility clinging to his sharp features. “I offer money, lots of money, as well as the opportunity to support Firenze ... our homeland. The king of France asks for masterpieces. In return, he pledges his support and military protection, if the need should arise. No one has a right to deny such offers.” The devotion to his city resounded thickly in every fanaticism-laced word.

  She stepped away from the crates and, with slow consideration, took in every magnificent painting covering the walls mounted in a haphazard array, every lush tapestry spread upon the floors, and the dazzling bronze and gold statues glittering in the candlelight, all displayed for the enjoyment of no one save their owner.

  Aurelia turned her gaze on him then and her silent study reached deep in his soul, scorching him with its heat. It violated him ... as if she looked beyond his physical being.

  “Your passion is true, a
s is your inspiration. But your eagerness for personal property muddies it.”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder, dark eyes twinkling. “A man has to eat.”

  “True,” she conceded, harsh, judgmental shadows fading from her features, though no answering smile did she extend, “but not a gourmet meal every night.”

  By the end of the third day, the house became a festering mess of dirty dishes, unwashed men, and books and parchments discarded and piled everywhere. Nuntio did his best, but age and infirmity slowed him and the demands outweighed his ability. Ascanio, Pompeo, and Giovanni had not returned to their own homes since the searching had begun; perhaps the eeriness of the material disturbed them too greatly to find comfort in any form of solitude. Ercole came every morning, leaving only late at night, and Lucagnolo came as often as possible.

  Aurelia closed the book on her lap—rubbing her dry, tired eyes with the heels of her palms—another endless tome detailing artists and their work, another few hundred pages of lookng at painting sketches without finding the desired one. As she stared vacantly out at the wreckage all around her, she did not know what to feel, relief or disappointment. Her stomach grumbled and she clasped onto the normal feeling, anchoring her to reality; she was hungry and needed to eat.

  Placing the heavy digest aside, she rose, took a step toward the kitchen ... and tripped, stumbling over something—or things—hidden by her full skirts.

  Her head tipped forward as her feet remained stuck behind, the off-kilter balance of her body propelling her onward without control. In a split second of panic, she saw the small, round table between chair and settee, the protruding sharp points of the sculptures upon it, as her face careened wildly toward them, an arrow intent upon its target. She threw her hands out, praying they would catch her bef—

  The arms grabbed her at the waist, expelling the air from her lungs with a yelp.

  Aurelia opened her eyes, not remembering when she had closed them, to find herself sitting in Pompeo’s lap, both of them panting with their efforts, fear, and relief of the moment.

  She blinked at the young face so close to her own and swallowed away the bitter taste of alarm. “Grazie, signore.”

  “Prego,” Pompeo replied, a wide-eyed smile of surprise on his face. But as if he suddenly realized their intimate posture, his smile turned rascally, his arms remaining firmly wrapped about her. “My pleasure to be of service.”

  The laughter broke Aurelia from the clutch of her distress, and she turned to the other, forgotten men enjoying the moment at her expense.

  “Be careful, signorina,” Giovanni twittered behind a cupped hand like a silly adolescent. “Pompeo likes older women.”

  The men guffawed at the jest. Aurelia did not know what offended her more, the lewd implication or that Giovanni thought her old. Granted she was not emerging from adolescence as Pompeo and Giovanni obviously were, but neither was she decrepit with age. She believed herself to be near the same age as Battista, quite sure, as well, that they did not consider him to be old, but men were not judged by the same harsh criteria as women.

  Aurelia turned her narrow gaze at Battista, as if he were the parent able to bring these children to heel, but he wore an equally amused smirk, avoiding her glance.

  She pushed herself from Pompeo’s all too eager grasp and straightened her skirts with an indignant flapping of her hands. Aurelia searched the floor between her chair and her landing point, grimacing at the pile of empty wine bottles littering the floor. With all the control she could muster, she pointed at them in accusation.

  “Someone has to help Nuntio clean this place up. Look at that,” she demanded they give attention to the mess upon the floor, “and that, and that.” The finger spun round the room, at the food-crusted plates growing fuzzy with mold, at the piles of books blocking almost every inch of space, at the discarded doublets and boots rank with their owners’ stench.

  Silence met her tirade; the men stared at her. Aurelia wondered if she startled them with her outburst, quickly realizing—with ever-increasing anger—that their glances were those of expectation.

  Thrusting a finger at her own chest, she almost laughed at their ill-informed estimations. “You imagine I would do it?”

  “Well, you are the only woman here,” Ercole groused, saying what they all thought.

  Aurelia raised a derisive glance heavenward, shaking her head and the mass of unkempt chestnut waves upon it. “And I have been waited on all my life. I know nothing of cleaning or cooking. Look at me.” She flung her hands up into the air, performing an ungainly pirouette, displaying her disheveled and wrinkled appearance without shame. “I know not even how to care for myself.”

  Her confession hung bitterly in the air. Would they think ill of her for flaunting her station? But with a scathing flash of insight she realized such preeminence would be the least of her words’ offense.

  “Were you the marquess’s mistress?” Battista ventured the question, the same she saw in each of their intrusive stares.

  She could have bitten off her tongue with her teeth and spat it out for its crime. Her own words had brought her to this moment, one she had been avoiding for days. Aurelia thought Battista would have asked her to explain herself far sooner than this and she had been formulating the story for some days. But she had underestimated the power of gratitude.

  With a sigh of capitulation, she plunked herself down upon the couch beside Pompeo. Perhaps it was better to tell them all at once; it would eliminate the need for duplicating the tale with each telling.

  “No, I was never the marquess’s mistress.” She shook her head, clasping her hands primly upon her lap. “I have been the ward of the lord of Mantua since just after my birth.”

  They had gathered around her, slowly, as if afraid to spook a fretful bird.

  “Are your parents ... dead?” Battista asked, wedging himself into the small space on the cushion to her left.

  Touched by the gentle sympathy in his voice, Aurelia still could not allow it to hinder her response. “I never knew my parents.” She offered the rehearsed answer, took a deep breath, and continued. “My life has been a very privileged one, it is true, but by its very nature, it has been overly sheltered and sequestered. There were directives left, by those who created me, putting stern prohibitions on my activities. It was always meant for me to live a very pious, devoted life, though without the need for vows.”

  It was a story so very close to the facts and yet so vacant of any meaningful truth, but she gleaned, by the sympathetic faces gathering around her, that it was enough.

  Not a word did the gathering offer to such a tale, for what could they say? Battista patted the ball of her hands and Aurelia had to fight the urge to fling off the embrace. She had no need for sympathy. Understanding, yes ... a relief from the mundane existence, most definitely. But pity without action was useless to the extreme.

  “Come, Monna Aurelia, your supper awaits,” Nuntio offered from his perch behind the settee, and she turned a grateful smile to the supplicating man.

  “Wonderful idea, Nuntio,” Battista praised him. “And on the morrow you will make for the lower village, near the Ponte Vecchio, use whatever funds you need to hire a maid, or perhaps two,” he continued with a shamefaced smile and a wary glance about the house. “Your dedication should not be a burden, my friend.”

  Nuntio gave a gratified bob of his head and led them to the kitchen.

  Aurelia had not seen day turn to night, had forgotten her hunger in the anxiety of the last few moments, but the mention of food brought the basic instinct rushing back.

  As the men gathered about the table and the steaming platters of food Nuntio had set upon it, the conversation turned back to their search.

  “Did I show you the work by da Panicale?” Ascanio asked of Battista, who nodded. “Frightening, is it not?”

  They all nodded in agreement, including Aurelia. She had not known such works existed and their very reality frightened her. Those who guarded her
life had taken great pains to guard her education as well, from her.

  Da Panicale’s was a crude rendering to be sure, wrought sometime early in the fifteenth century, but the anomaly of the picture could not be denied. Akin to the piece by Crivelli, the circular object dominated da Panicale’s painting, but in this work there were hundreds of them, arranged in almost precise rows, as if they were lines of an attacking army.

  “A Florentine, da Panicale,” Giovanni said, as if the fact made the reality of the image that much harder to bear.

  “Lucagnolo was correct,” Battista murmured. “There are many paintings with such ... things ... in them.”

  The thought set more than one man pushing his plate away, sending a few back to the search, but whether to resolve the issue or to avoid it, Aurelia could not tell.

  Before very long, only Battista and Aurelia remained at the table, each batting the last forgotten morsel of food around on their plates, but neither taking another bite. Try as she might, her gaze returned to him again and again; for all equal efforts, she could not deny the beauty of the rugged face. Yet it was not the splendor of the man enthralling her, but his reality.

  He looked up at her then, as if the inquisition of her gaze poked at him, and smiled in question, rich brown eyes, so deep they reflected points of light with equal brilliance, crinkling up at the corners.

  “Why you?” She placed her knife on the table and leaned forward, hands splayed in front of her hunched shoulders.

  He wrinkled his brow at her. “Scusi?”

  “Why have you chosen this as your path? Why do you trade your morality for the sake of Florence?” She understood the depth of what she asked him, cudgeled her brain to make the query simpler, but she could not, she could but repeat the first question, “Why you?”

  He laughed then, leaning back, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, and tipped his head upon his hand. “Why do any of us do what we do?”

  It was an evasive answer and she would not let it serve. She kept the question upon him with a piercing stare.