Battista nodded. “Are you cold, cara? ”
“I am. And quite thirsty,” she hinted.
“I shall get you wine and a blanket. I will return in an instant, have no fear.”
He stood with a smirk but no modesty, the pale flesh of his hard, rounded buttocks aglow in the dark room. A surge of desire roiled through her. She had never seen a man such as he completely naked; she had prepared men for burial, old men whose physical beauty had long since passed. But what she saw ... the powerful build, hard muscles, and sharp angles of a man in his prime ... it was a sight not soon forgotten. She understood why an artist longs to capture such beauty in the immortal form of a sculpture.
With another giggle, she nestled into the bed, stopping herself from reaching out, grabbing his arm, and pulling him back to her bed as he slipped wraithlike from the room. She felt wanton and languished in it. Aurelia understood, for the first time, why her guardians shielded her from the pleasures of the flesh. How would she return to a life without it? She did not know, had no care to think of it at all.
Her drowsy stare made its way out the window, finding the stars blazing in a moonless, inky sky. She had come so far in this adventure, and she looked back upon it with more than a modicum of guilt; she had gone places and done things severely prohibited.
As if her guardian stood before her, Aurelia shook her head and laughed low in her throat; she would keep doing them, there was simply no question about it. Oh, the time of reckoning drew closer, but she wrinkled her nose at it, dispersing it like water under the heavy weight of a falling rock. She would see Rome, see Battista naked before her again ... see this quest to its conclusion. Consequences be damned.
He eyed her from the doorway, unseen in the gloom, watched her delicate features as they changed from delight to concern and back again. From here, he glimpsed the smattering of freckles beginning to blossom over the bridge of her fine nose, and they taunted him, as if each one were evidence of the ways he had led her astray.
Battista knew every inch of her, going where no man had ever gone. But who was she? The enigma of her nibbled away at him, stopped him from stepping over the threshold, though a blanket to warm her fell over his shoulder and a small carafe of wine to refresh her he held in his hand.
Aurelia stretched then, her soft skin shushing against the sheets, arching her back, her curves abounding beneath the thin fabric. The linen clung to her sweat-moist skin like fog upon a rolling meadow, the translucent beauty just beyond sight yet not beyond imagination. His passion devoured him, erasing all thoughts to the contrary, and he fairly ran into the room.
She smiled up at him in the darkness as he laid the blanket across her body.
Without a word, he filled a small tumbler and held it as she drank. Assured of her satisfaction, he pulled back the coverings and laughed as her flesh broke out in chilly bumps. As Aurelia stared at him in astonishment, Battista tipped the bottle slowly over her body, dribbling the wine into the hollow of her belly.
He trembled with control as she shivered at the sensation. His dark gaze never leaving her eyes, he lowered his head, and drank of her, her moans of pleasure wafting into the peace of the night.
Aurelia’s slumbering breath crooned in his ear, but he attained no equal peace.
With as little movement as possible, he slipped his arm from beneath her head, slithered from beneath the covers, and stood for an expectant moment by the bedside. Looking down at her—at the slumberous serenity upon her exquisite, almost-exotic features, the russet curls tossed and feathered about her head—he stood rooted to the floor, wanting only to submerge in the vision, to fill himself with the masterpiece before him.
It was a beauty in its prime, not one just beginning. But how could such beauty have gone untouched for so long? No one would call him unworldly or naïve; it was only the common and the poor who valued virginity, not those of Aurelia’s class. Courts were replete with sexual entanglements. So how could she have preserved her innocence for so long? The better questions were why, and how dare he be the one to deny such perpetuation.
Slipping into his breeches, picking up his undershirt, Battista could bear her beauty and the questions it created no more.
The wooden steps creaked as he descended, the groan of a nightly specter, and he tiptoed into the dining room, pushing at the swinging door leading to the kitchen.
In search of food, more of Agniola’s delicious pizzelle, he pulled up quick at the sight of his friend perched by the low-burning embers of the house fire, rocking in a straw and wood chair, a parchment on his lap and a piece of charcoal in his hand.
Michelangelo’s face brightened in the dimness. “You could not sleep, amico karissimo? ”
Battista grinned at the silly endearment, one the artist had used since his childhood. “I am exhausted and yet slumber eludes me.”
He searched the cupboards until he found the cookies and brought the platter, a pitcher of spiced cider, and a tin cup to the table. Michelangelo lit a slim taper from the embers by his side and placed it in a stick upon the table as Battista filled his mouth with the sweet, flaky pastry.
“Aurelia,” Michelangelo breathed her name with a sigh. “She is ... is ...”
Battista sniffed. “I have no sufficient words for her, either.”
“Do you love her?” Michelangelo asked with little need of words, seeing the answer in his friend’s gaze.
“As much as any man such as I can love another.”
“Bah!” Michelangelo scoffed, slapping the air between them with an impatient hand. “You have used your own legendary reputation to avoid love. You are more capable of it than most.”
Battista released his head into the hand propped on the small kitchen table and rubbed his forehead. “But I can’t think of it now. I must see to my mission. Things grow more perilous by the moment, do they not? What have you heard of the emperor and the pope?”
Michelangelo placed the chunk of charcoal down upon the parchment and let the thick paper roll up of its own volition.
“No more than a week or so hence, King François renounced all intention to abide by the Treaty of Madrid. He will not be bound by it, as he swears he signed it under duress.”
“He was Charles’s prisoner for nearly two years as his country faltered, as did his health. I imagine his days involved a great deal of duress.”
Michelangelo agreed with a curt nod and continued. “The pope has given François his blessing.”
“That is good.” Battista bit off another mouthful of a cookie.
“But many are angry with the pope. They consider him the dregs of the Medici and call him the Mule. He antagonizes those of the Republic by bringing his family into Vatican Palace, obviously grooming them.”
“He ca—”
“And yet the emperor not only refuses to release François’s children, he continues to move south from Piacenza.”
Battista dropped his cookie to his plate, his hands to his lap, and his jaw to his chest.
“It is madness.” His head shook in disbelief. He had begun this quest, this mission for François, out of a keen sense of loyalty, in the hope that it would bring the king’s promises of military support for the Republic to fruition. But as Battista’s exhausted, unfocused gaze reached out to the future, he knew that finding this relic, that which would bring the king of France the power he claimed it to possess, was more vital than ever.
“Go to bed, Battista.” Michelangelo rocked back, the well-worn chair creaking rhythmically. “Go back to the woman who warms it, and find your comfort there, for there is little to be had elsewhere in this world.”
Twenty-three
Art, as far as it is able, follows nature,
as a pupil imitates his master;
thus your art must be, as it were, God’s grandchild.
—Inferno
She had waited three more days, but she would wait no longer. She had been resting for almost a fortnight; she could bear to rest no longer.
“Battista?” she called out from the bottom of the stairs, as she had for the third time in as many minutes. “Are you not ready yet?”
Pacing between the foot of the stairs and the threshold she so longed to cross, she wondered what took a man so long to prepare. He wore no gown, nor did he have need to worry much over what clothing to choose or how to pin up his hair. Battista favored the same type of breeches, jerkin, and silk shirt as always. Not that she would be so foolish as to complain about his attire; the form-fitting fashion displayed his build to its utmost, and she had grown quite fond of simply watching him, clothed or not. There was something so very enticing about a muscular, masculine man who moved with almost-feminine grace.
Light footfalls creaked upon the stairs, and Battista floated down with the lightness of a dancer and the sureness of a soldier. Even on this outing, daggers hung from the sheaths hung from a thick brown belt slung low about his hips. His leather jerkin, tailored to mold his form like skin, was slashed at the top shoulder points and lashed with trim, long laces.
Aurelia smiled up at him. “Do you think Michelangelo will join us soon?”
She had no wish to be rude or abrupt, especially with their generous host, but she could contain her eagerness no longer, it twitched her knees beneath her skirt and chewed upon her lips.
“I am here, cara mia.” Michelangelo poked his head out from behind Battista, so small as to creep unseen in his friend’s shadow.
“You look very fine,” Aurelia said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Grazie.” Battista preened, pulling his jerkin down by the hem to better shape it about his strapping form.
“I was talking to Michelangelo,” Aurelia quipped, laughing at Battista’s crestfallen expression. The artist chuckled low, but Aurelia held him. “Truly, messere, I was. The lovely color of your tunic brings out your eyes.”
Michelangelo looked down at his light cotton shirt of fallow brown with pleased, if humble, delight. She had not seen him in it and thought it new, as well as the long hose and sandals he wore. The abnormal warmth of spring continued, and though this day began cloudy, it promised every intention of providing the same heat as the last ten. Michelangelo had long since taken to donning the cooler footwear Roman men preferred during warm summers.
“You do look rather fine,” Battista agreed with good nature, any perceived slight forgotten in the spirit of the day’s outing. “And you, Aurelia, look mag—where is your sling?”
Aurelia’s shoulders drooped like a denied child’s and she inched her bandaged, splinted hand behind her back as if he would forget her injury were he not to see it.
She pointed toward the door with her good hand. “This is Rome, Battista ... Rome. I will look an elderly frump in such a contraption.”
Battista shook his head with a lick of his lips as his eyes fell upon the creamy skin beneath the high, thin fabric of her chemise, above the low, straight neckline of her gown. “There is nothing in this world that could diminish your beauty.”
He came toward her with a sway of his hips, and she thought he meant to kiss her there, in front of Michelangelo. They kept their intimacy secret to no one in the house, most especially Michelangelo. His room sat between theirs and each had tiptoed past his door in the middle of the night, their muffled moans of passion cresting as the moon rose and fell.
But Battista veered past her and into the dining room, swiping the rough calico sling from the table where she had abandoned it.
“And there is nothing in me that will allow you to risk further harm to your hand.”
Her lips compressed upon her somber countenance; she did nothing to help, nor hinder, as he cradled her arm in the strip of fraying fabric and brought it over her head to rest on her shoulder and neck.
Michelangelo frowned with sympathy at her crestfallen visage; gone was the vibrant beauty ready to take on the grandest city in all of Europe.
“Wait, my dear. Wait just a moment.”
He rushed away with the insistent command, hastening up the stairs and just as quickly back down. He brought with him the loveliest shawl she had ever seen, a shimmering silk triangle, the tassel beads sparkling as they tinkled together, the green vines and yellow flowers vibrant against the purple background. It matched, to perfection, the pale lavender of her new spring gown.
With tender attention to her hand, he wrapped it round her, positioning it with an artful eye and a motherly cluck of his tongue, perfectly camouflaging her sling, tying the ends upon her opposite hip. It made her look ever more festive despite the lump of her cradled arm beneath.
“It was my mother’s,” he told her softly, stepping back to survey his handiwork.
Aurelia’s heart trembled; she could but imagine what it must mean to him.
Michelangelo reached forward, one last adjustment made with thumb and index finger, as if he took his chisel to stone for one last perfect strike. Aurelia took his hand before he drew it away. “I will cherish the moments within its care.”
His lips twitched beneath the wiry black hair and he closed his eyes in silent acknowledgment.
“Then let us be off, shall we?” He held out one crooked elbow and led her to the door. “There is so very much to show you.”
Aurelia smiled at Battista from over her shoulder as they stepped out into the overcast day.
“Rome needs no sun to sparkle with brilliance,” Michelangelo chirped, waving at the low clouds, denying them any power.
From his doorstep, he led them to the left, along the rising Via della Bottegha Oscure, toward the hill in the near distance.
“Oh, what a disappointment.” Michelangelo pouted as he watched Aurelia drop the veil over her eyes. “I had hoped to squire about a beautiful woman through the streets of Rome. All my friends would be so very jealous.”
Aurelia tossed her head and laughed. “I am sure there are many beautiful women in Rome, far more beautiful than I. It is only proper for me to don my veil.”
Michelangelo peered at her through the tops of his eyes, a dark skeptical glint in the bright amber, and she squirmed beneath the scrutiny; the artist saw far more than was good for either of them.
“Even through your lace, donna mia, your particular shine blazes through.”
She dipped her head at him as he called to Battista over his shoulder.
“Come, amico karissimo, I would have both my beautiful guests beside me.”
Battista caught up to them with a few large strides and smiled at her over Michelangelo’s head. The artist began his tour as he used their strength and youth to assist him up the rise.
“This is one of the seven great hills of Rome. From here, we may see much of the city spread out before us, a banquet at our feet, to be devoured, each delicious bite.” As they leaned into their climb, he gestured his bearded chin at the great palazzos flanking the broad lane. “If you look closely at some of the surrounding grounds, you may see the protrusion of ancient ruins, those built by the Sabines.”
They came to the summit and he led them into a small circular cobbled piazza, open on both the north and south sides, a petite fountain at its center, the small cherub dribbling water stingily from its overturned vessel. As a haze of sunshine struggled through thinning cloud cover, the splendor of Rome created a sparkling vista.
Aurelia could not breathe for the beauty of it; everywhere she sent her gaze it landed upon triumphs of architecture and antiquity, grandeur enticing visitors to this city from the world over: temples, chapels, arches, and palaces. Masterpieces both ancient and modern, designed and constructed by artists far ahead of their time, like Hadrian, and those of recent years, such as Bramante, who did their utmost t
o be as worthy as their predecessors.
“The city is so very different than the first time I saw it,” Michelangelo said pensively.
Aurelia tugged her gaze from the landscape to the small man beside her. “Were you not happy to be here?”
He dismissed his past with a twitch of his shoulder. “I had left Florence an unhappy young man ... frustrated and confused ... and came upon this metropolis that was, then, no more than a waste heap.”
“Certamente, no!” Aurelia protested with a breathy objection, throwing back the veil as if it distorted the truth.
“It is true, my dear. I thought the Vandals had sacked it once more. More than half the buildings were gutted or abandoned, goats and pigs grazed as if they owned the land, garbage was piled everywhere. And the stench?” His wrinkled face scrunched at the memory of it. “Between the refuse, the dead animals left to rot in the streets, and the open dung holes, it was hard to walk about without becoming nauseated. Only the assurance of my friend Leo Baglioni convinced me it was the truth of the city. At the time.”
He took a step away, holding out his arms as if to embrace the city. “But even then the work had begun, and now ... look. It is magnificent, no?”
Without waiting for their agreement, for they must agree, he reached out a hand, guiding her eye to the treasures surrounding the hill with a heavy-knuckled finger. In the distance to the east, the half-tumbled, dark stones of the Coliseum stood amidst the glimmering bright stone of the resplendent palazzos edging it; the imposing ruins of the Forum poked at the sky in the foreground, almost at their feet.
“In Greek, the word Pantheon means ‘to every God.’ Did you know that, Aurelia?” Michelangelo pointed north, directing her appraisal to the sharp roof and columns of the temple.
“I did,” she answered without hesitation. She thought more lay in the depths of his query and she knew subterfuge to be a futile exercise with this man and no longer bothered with it. “Rome was a great pagan Mecca. A shining example of acceptance for any faith and spirituality, such as it was, before Constantine and the Vatican.”
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