Battista smiled with a capitulating shake of his head. “I could tell you how my father was killed when I was still young, also in defense of Firenze. Or I could tell you of King François’s kindness and charity to me and my family, for that would indeed explain a great deal as well.” He leaned forward then, and their faces were no more than inches from each other; she could smell the wine’s nuttiness upon his breath. “But they are all merely pieces of the puzzle. Who knows why we do the things we do. Do you?”
He turned the tables on her, sultry stare studying every inch of her face. Aurelia backed away, from him and his probing, uncertain how to deal with either.
They sat bound in the expectant silence and she struggled for a way out of it, only too thankful when the distraction came.
“I have it! Sweet holy Mother of God, I have it!”
They all began to talk and yelp at once, turning to Giovanni as he jumped from his chair, holding a slim volume high over his head as he pranced about in victory, yellow curls falling in his crinkled, pale eyes.
“The painting? You found it?” Battista wheeled round.
“Give it here.” Ascanio tried to pluck the book from Giovanni’s hands.
“Show me,” Frado barked.
But Giovanni would not have the moment—or the book—snatched from his grasp. He rushed to the table and shoved the book upon it, resting it between Battista and Aurelia, the other men tumbling over one another to get a look.
It was round in shape, the painting was, a unique characteristic alone, but at first glance there appeared to be nothing else unusual about the work. Perched over a haloed cherubic St. John, the baby Jesus in his loving embrace, the Virgin’s large prayerful presence dominated the center of the piece. Over her right shoulder, the majority of the background depicted a shoreline and rolling hills on the opposite side. But the small portion of setting behind her left shoulder had them all straining for a better view.
Beyond the trees, just behind Mary, were more gently sloping hilltops. Upon the highest one, a man stood, gaze raised to the sky, hand shading his eyes as if he struggled to see. At the apex of the man’s gaze, the undeniable object hovered, for it satisfied even Frado’s conception of a ship, with a pointed prow and rounded bottom. And yet it hung in the sky as if it flew like a bird.
“An air ship,” Ercole whispered, and each one of them heard the quiver in his voice.
“But ... it doesn’t point to anything,” Ascanio spat a frustrated sputter.
Giovanni answered with a smirk, “It points to nothing in the painting, but who knows what it points to on the wall upon which it sits. Look.” With a tick of his chin, he redirected their attention to the words beneath the etching.
They had all been so preoccupied with the rendering itself, they had not bothered to read the caption accompanying it. The work was attributed to the great Florentine painter Sebastiano Mainardi and its current locale was no more than a few paces from this very house.
“Dio mio, it hangs in the Palazzo Vecchio.” Pompeo’s voice cracked, a telltale sign of a puberty not long discharged.
As if goaded into action by a cattle prod, more than one man rushed for the door, corralled back by Battista’s loud call.
“Where are you going? Have you forgotten the time?”
Giovanni, Pompeo, and Ercole came up sharply, laughing with embarrassment; they had lost track of the hour—of the day—truth be told.
“We will all go,” Battista promised them, “first thing on the morrow. For now, make to your beds. We have all earned a good night’s rest.”
They bid one another good night, those who lived elsewhere at last taking their leave of the casa, every face set in the same mask of turbidity, the same fear of the unknown and the ship that flew in the sky.
Eleven
Do not rest in so profound a doubt except she tell it thee,
who shall be a light between truth and intellect.
—Purgatorio
“You are quite anxious to be off,” Battista greeted Aurelia as he entered the room, amused by her fidgety waiting.
As she hovered impatiently by the door, stepping toward it and away as if in a dance, Aurelia’s fingers fluttered on the sides of her gown, her gaze plied upon the portal as if she might open it with her will. She had taken great pains to improve her appearance—the simple daffodil gown she’d worn since arriving was far less wrinkled than it had been yesterday and her hair was pinned up in a simple, if neat and flattering, coif.
She answered him with a wide smile irradiating her beauty from within and it took him aback; despite all the thoughts he chewed upon concerning her during the last few days—and there were indeed many—he continually tried to ignore her comely countenance. Green eyes glowing, full lips moist, porcelain cheeks flushed with excitement ... features too striking for any to disregard.
“Very anxious, sì,” Aurelia tittered. “I am most impressed by your beautiful city, at least what I have seen of it, and long to see more.”
Battista enjoyed this side of her immensely, had always seen it lying just beneath her stoic surface. By her own description, she had led a serious life, one bereft of many joys; it explained why she had helped him with so little consideration, had left Mantua with him so quickly. And though she tried perpetually to don the grave mien that was most probably her usual aspect, a feisty spirit longing to be unleashed lay just below, a spunky sprite hiding in the foliage of a magical garden, waiting to spring loose upon the world. He glimpsed the nymph now and again, though she tried to keep her impish smile a secret. If walking the streets of Florence appeased such mettle, Battista was only too pleased to be her guide.
“Have you broken your fast?” he asked, making for the kitchen and whatever fresh bread and jam might be available.
But she shook her head, pacing between the door and the window once more, peering out. “No, I haven’t. I’m not hungry just now.”
Battista laughed and changed direction; he would not allow his own peevishness to delay her one moment more. “We will have something to eat along the way, yes?”
“Oh yes. That would be wonderful.”
Before he could say another word, she tossed up the latch and pulled open the door, stepping out into the bright spring morning, thrusting herself into the stream of activity flowing just outside. Dawn’s rain had hurried away, leaving only small puddles in the ruts of the hard-packed dirt street, tiny blotches of water that caught the sun and sent it sparkling back upward.
“We’re leaving, Frado,” Battista called out over his shoulder, joining Aurelia on the busy street. Frado bounded gracelessly down the stairs, pulling up fast on their heels.
They had traversed barely a few paces when Battista’s men caught them up, Lucagnolo among the group, but not Pompeo, who saw to other work for Battista, an errand of little importance in comparison, but one needing doing no matter. Every face wore the same almost-childish zeal—albeit one tempered with trepidation—as that shared by Aurelia and, were he to be honest, Battista himself. Even Barnabeo’s boulderlike bald head and scarred face could not disguise his cautious curiosity.
The troupe turned left from Battista’s house and then quickly left again, away from the grand palazzo. They took up almost the entire width of the avenue, forcing others upon the fairway to step aside and make way; their legion could not have been more ostentatious were they to blare trumpets as they marched in military formation.
“This will not do.” Battista stopped, as did the group around him, now a clogging cluster of confusion.
“If we enter the Palazzo Vecchio all together, the soldiers will be upon us in an instant. We must go separately or at least in smaller groups.”
They met his pronouncement with relenting grunts of agreement, yet not a one of them volunteered to let others go first.
“Who has had their breakfast?”
Slowly, and with shared perplexity, Ascanio, Barnabeo, and Ercole raised their hands, fearing punishment for having started th
e day with a meal, as did most people.
“Bene, bene,” Battista said with a decisive tick of his head. “Then you three shall be the first. Go, now. The rest of us will have a bite.”
The three men needed no further encouragement, rushing away with satisfied smirks, turning a closed ear to the grumbles of disappointment chasing them away.
“Have no fear,” Battista assured those peevishly left behind. “Giovanni, you and Lucagnolo will follow in a very short while. Aurelia, Frado, and I will make our way there last.”
The plan seemed to pacify his companions and they continued on, enthusiasm only slightly dampened by the delay. Turning left yet again, Battista led them onto a broad avenue, the Tiber River just visible at the end of the slight curve of the Via del Proconsolo.
As if in unspoken agreement, the men swerved to the east side of the avenue and a cozy, casual osteria with but a few patrons and more than a few empty tables.
“Will this serve?” Battista turned to Aurelia as she followed along behind, almost hesitantly. “Would you prefer a trattoria or perhaps a ristorante? There is one I—”
“No, no, this is fine. Just fine, it’s just ...” Aurelia caught up quickly with a shy, almost-silly smile, shoulders hitching up. “Well ... I have never eaten in a public establishment before.”
The men skidded to an abrupt halt, astonishment clear in their wide-eyed, drop-jawed expressions. Battista wondered again at the strange existence of this woman.
“I, well, of course, I have taken meals at various inns,” Aurelia sputtered with some need to explain. “But I would be served in my chamber, not in the common room.”
“Well then, you are in for a real treat. I will order some of my favorites for you, shall I?” Battista pulled out a chair and tucked her in, dispelling any hesitation in her demeanor with his guidance. She seemed to be a woman choking on a man’s domination, but the unknown served as a powerful suppressant.
In the shade of the vine-covered latticework arching over their heads, the group soon munched on a variety of sweet buns served with spiced hot water.
Battista watched Aurelia watch the comings and goings of the busy street, her smile never fading even as she munched enthusiastically upon her treats.
“If we were to turn at the next corner, we would make our way onto the circular Via dei Bentaccordi. It was built on the site of the old Roman coliseum.” He licked the thick sugar off his fingers and gestured over his shoulder. “Just on the other side of that is the Piazza di Santa Croce. It is one of the most beautiful places in all of Florence.”
He boasted, assuredly, but it was a proprietary immodesty, and easily forgiven.
“Ah, sì,” Giovanni joined in. “It is where Battista and I play calcio. You should come and watch, Aurelia, if you are still with us next Sunday.”
Aurelia nodded, mouth full but spread in a grin, silent with her noncommittal. A peculiar anxiousness assailed him, as if by contagion. This quest had put a bizarre shroud over any thoughts of the future, and the details of her peculiar life had only added to the oddity of it all. He had not asked her, or himself, what would become of her after they found the triptych and the longed-for antiquity. Would she return to Mantua, return to that life without an explanation; would she be able to? And what of his involvement, how would she explain that to the marquess?
Battista flung away the thoughts as he took a long quaff of warm brew; jarring questions of his assignment cudgeled his brain, he had no need to add more.
“In the Piazza della Signoria, where we will find the Palazzo Vecchio, you will see Michelangelo’s David.” He continued his description of his fair city, resuming his role of guide.
“Oh, but I have seen it!” Aurelia cried with excitement, almost tottering her cup as she fluttered her hands about. “I do not know how I found it, nor do I believe I came this way.” Her head swiveled back and forth, her eyes searching for anything familiar. “But there it was, so magnificent, so breathtaking. I spent the most glorious minutes with it and this lovely man.”
“A lovely man?” More than one of her companions pestered her with a cautious query.
“Sì. We were both enraptured by the statue. We just stood before it in silence for the longest time.”
“Beware, Aurelia,” Battista chided her, any amusement at her wonder dissipating on the wings of responsibility. “Florence is a beautiful city, full of great sites, but like any city, it is replete with those who would do you harm. Many a dangerous rogue walks these streets.”
“No, no, he was not that kind of man.” Aurelia shook her head with a wistful smile. “He was older than I, of a kindly disposition, and had the most extraordinary eyes. They were the color of honey.”
“Ah, I see.” Battista’s smug tone said he clearly did see, but he would not taunt Aurelia with his knowledge. He turned to the two youngsters at the table. “I believe we have waited long enough, be on your way.”
Giovanni and Lucagnolo needed not another word to set their feet upon the dirt, any remaining sustenance quickly forgotten.
“And Lucagnolo?” Battista called, and the young man turned, shielding his eyes with a hand against the sun rising in the east.
“Sketch,” was all Battista said, and Lucagnolo’s knowing wink confirmed the assignment.
“As for us”—Battista turned to the two remaining by his side—“I believe Aurelia is in need of another day gown, or perhaps two.”
“A fine idea.” Frado waggled his turkey-throated head and got to his feet. Battista was pleased to see his longtime companion warming to the newcomer among them; it had been a gradual change in the face of Frado’s initial suspicion, but it now crept toward the endearing, especially after hearing Aurelia’s story. Frado had reached almost fifty years of age without a wife or children, and Battista knew he missed both. Perhaps he looked upon Aurelia as the daughter he never had.
“Let us away,” the man encouraged, wiping the flaky pastry crumbs from his kidskin hose.
Aurelia stared at Battista with tempered delight and an incongruent shake of her head. “You have done so much for me already. I did not intend my attendance to cost you.”
“I owe you my life, my lady,” Battista said, leaving a jumble of coins upon the table and once more pulling out her chair.
“Besides”—he bumped her shoulder with his as they strolled off—“they are for us as well. This one is a bit ... ripe.” He said it merrily, no harm intended, and the splotches of her embarrassment faded as quickly as they came.
It took but a few moments to order two simple gowns much like the one she wore, from the nearest tailor, and to order them sent to Battista’s home. She could not don anything but a common woman’s outfit, for to hint at nobility would restrict her movement; privileged women were not permitted to go about alone or with only men as companions.
“And you could endeavor to walk differently,” Battista suggested as they turned right onto the Piazza della Signoria, the vast courtyard hosting the city’s governmental buildings.
“Walk differently?” Aurelia pursed her lips at him, one dark brow raised high.
“Sì. You bring undue attention to yourself with the way you move. You should walk less ... less ... ,” but he floundered to find the words to finish, instead he tried to mimic a woman’s straight-backed but sinewy stride, making Aurelia laugh at the attempts.
“Regal,” Frado ended the thought, perfectly and without pause.
With a moment’s thought, Aurelia stopped and started, hunching her shoulders, then straightening them, taking bigger steps, then smaller, in a feeble effort to move with less grace.
“Never mind.” Battista laughed at her, leading her past the Giant and through the enormous black doors with the brown wood grids just beyond.
Once inside they blinked away the blindness of the bright outdoors, nodding with no more than unfamiliar politeness to Ascanio, Barnabeo, and Ercole, whom they passed on their way out.
“Did you find it?” Battista whispered
as they neared, and only Barnabeo gave a curt nod, his beaklike nose pointed away.
“Penelope,” the man grunted, and Battista blinked, his only response.
He took Aurelia’s hand and looped it over his arm. “This way,” he told them, and crossed straight through the foyer and into the small, perfectly square courtyard just beyond.
Though much of the town hall was dedicated to the Medici family and those who ruled in their name, many rooms were opened to the city’s populace during most hours of the day, and Battista walked them with the knowledge of a frequent visitor.
He hurried his companions past the tall, narrow porphyry fountain with Putto and the Dolphin on top, resting on the center of four perfectly white, perfectly circular marble stairs in the center of the small enclosure. Four stories above the opened courtyard, the Arnolfo tower stood guard, but they crossed safely beneath its shadow.
Once more within the interior of the palace, Frado led now, up two flights of stairs and along the left corridor, no pause along the way to peruse the gold-edged architecture of the frescoes dominating most walls and many of the ceilings.
They entered the last room on the left—the corner room—and stopped. Four other people toured the small room, one devoted to a marriage of conjoined desks at the center and Penelope at the Loom frescoed upon the ceiling and an encompassing frieze depicting episodes from the Odyssey. Only four paintings decorated the walls, three of them devoted to the subject of the Madonna and Child; only one included St. John.
They ignored the two familiar men as inconspicuously as they did the elderly couple, who shuffled along arm in arm, whispering together as only lifelong companions can. Lucagnolo looked up from the small square of parchment in his hand and the chunk of charcoal blackening his fingertips, but made no outward sign of acknowledgment. After a few more scratches, he and Giovanni quit the room, though with a feigned casualness worthy of any actor upon the stage. The couple soon followed and the trio left behind jumped to the painting upon the left-side wall with a fervent anticipation they had denied since arriving.
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