The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  “Good morning, donna mia.”

  Michelangelo peeped hesitantly around the threshold, respect holding him unhappily at the door, longing inching him forward.

  “Buongiorno, Michelangelo,” Aurelia whispered.

  “May I come in?”

  Aurelia nodded with a cautioning finger pressed against pursed lips.

  Michelangelo tiptoed in, shoulders crunching up as wood creaked beneath his weight. Ornella moved not an inch, her slumber deep and all encompassing. The baby Battista twitched, but only slightly, a tight-fisted hand—one no larger than a grape—escaped from his bundling, flapping haphazardly in the air, rubbing against his face with no more control than an instinctual one. The child’s bud mouth opened, stretching in a perfect circle, nose crinkling as he yawned.

  Aurelia put a hand to her mouth, stifling the delighted giggle. Michelangelo heaved a quivering breath, surprising Aurelia with the bright tears shimmering in his eyes.

  “This is the true masterpiece. God’s greatest creation. I am nothing but a rank imitator.”

  Aurelia stood and crossed to his side, taking his hand as they stood over mother and child.

  “Perhaps.” She surprised him. “But his life, all human life, is made rich by art, and yours is the greatest of our age. Civilizations are remembered not for the mundane, but for the breathtaking.”

  Michelangelo breathed deep, a sigh of acceptance, and squeezed her hand.

  From beyond the windows Battista’s voice came in on the breeze, teasing Jacopo affectionately, as men were wont to do, his deep baritone at odds with the chirping starlings.

  Aurelia stepped to the window. On the cobbles below, the men walked together, each with a bucket in his hands, heading for the cistern in the middle of the courtyard. The inn shared the cozy space with three other buildings of a similar construction of wood-trimmed brick. Chairs dotted the circumference, snug groupings tucked into arbors and vine-heavy lattices, cool cubbies where neighbors socialized and guests took the air.

  From below came the sound of the front door creaking open, heavy footfalls, and a rumble of deep voices.

  “It must be others looking to break their fast,” Aurelia remarked.

  “There is no one below,” Michelangelo whispered. “Frado has gone to fetch us some pastries and cider.”

  “I will go tell them the inn is closed.” Aurelia headed for the door.

  “B-but ... b-but ... ,” Michelangelo stammered, hands gesturing to mother and child, shoulders creeping up to his ears.

  Aurelia laughed, took him by the arms, and sat him in the bedside chair. “You need only stay by their side. I will be back in a moment.”

  Michelangelo perched himself on the edge of the seat, back straight, hands held tight in his lap. His gaze locked upon the woman and the baby, an expression of attentive joy upon his craggy face.

  “You know you long to be here and nowhere else,” Aurelia teased him as she slipped from the room, pleased to see a twitch of a smile play at the corner of his lips.

  The bliss of these moments wrapped her in a tight embrace, cheeks swollen with smile-born apples, bouncing as she skipped down the stairs.

  Two men stood just inside the door, turning away from the emptiness of the inn, to make their way back out to the street.

  “I am sorry, signori, I am afraid—”

  Aurelia’s heart slammed against her chest, blood boomed in her ears.

  Like terrifying specters come to life, Baldassare del Milanese and a savage, brutal-looking man stood in the common room of the inn.

  For a suspended moment, Battista’s nemesis blanched in shock—in that instant, Aurelia ran.

  Croaking with fear and exertion, she bunched her skirts in her fists, groaning in pain as her slippered toes skimmed off a step, calf bone crashing against a hard wood edge. She whimpered as she found her feet and hurried upward, words and warnings screaming in her head, berating herself for bounding up, where no escape lay ahead, rather than out the back door, where Battista, Jacopo, and their safety awaited.

  But her thoughts were of the mother and child and aught else.

  “Stop there, missy.” It was a growl of anger, a threatening command.

  The thudding of Baldassare’s footsteps rang in her ears, as loud as her heartbeat. She longed to turn, to see how close he came, but she dared not spare a second.

  Dropping her skirts, she used her hands to propel herself onto the second-story ledge, rushing into the first doorway toward the back of the house. Dashing to the window, she crashed the shutters open against the outer wall with a shove.

  “Battista!” she cried, the fear-saturated scream caroming off the walls of the courtyard.

  Battista spun, as did Jacopo, finding her face in the upper window. Dropping his full bucket, water splashing on the cobbles, Battista ran.

  “Milanese!” The word flew out of her mouth as she turned round.

  Booted feet trampled heavily on the floor just beyond the door.

  Aurelia jumped to the wall beside it.

  Baldassare passed the room by, blind to her flattened form against the wall.

  Aurelia pushed off and away, searching the confines of the room for anything she could use as weapon. She stood amidst a simple guest room ... a bed, a chest, a table with ewer and basin, and nothing more. She jumped to the table, grabbing the pitcher. But it was no more than a lightweight, cheap ceramic piece; she didn’t believe for a second it could cause much harm, even if smashed upon someone’s head.

  “What have we here?” Baldassare’s coarse voice snickered.

  He had come upon Michelangelo ... Ornella and the baby.

  The growl rumbled deep in Aurelia’s throat and chest; she heard it as if it came from someone or something else. She looked at the pitcher in her hand. Without thought, she turned her face and smashed the pitcher against the wall, a sneer spreading upon her lips at the pointed, jagged piece remaining in her fisted hand.

  With it held before her like a talisman, she ran from the room.

  One step into the hall and a black-gloved hand reached out at her, grabbing her skirts around her ankles. Baldassare’s companion—poised still a few steps down on the stairs—tore the fabric of her gown as Aurelia leaped away. She kicked out, struggling to get free.

  “Leave her alone!” Battista bellowed from the foot of the stairs.

  Aurelia shot away, freed as her attacker turned to his.

  A hard male caterwaul burst out behind her, with it a slamming of bone against flesh, a thudding of body upon floor. She flashed a look back as her feet continued forward, catching a bone-chilling glimpse of Battista and the man launched in combat.

  Aurelia plunged forward, into the corner room.

  “Take thee away, Milanese.”

  Michelangelo stood between the intruder and the bed, small hands fisted and raised before him.

  Behind him Ornella—now fully awake—curled her body away from the fracas and around her child, head turned over her shoulder, face stricken with fright at the sight of the strange, evil-looking man in her bedchamber.

  “You have no business with these good people.” Michelangelo remained undaunted in the face of portentous villainy.

  The baby whimpered and mewed, too new to comprehend the evil in his midst. Ornella hushed and soothed him without taking her gaze from the threatening scene beside her bed.

  “Signore Buonarotti, I have no fight with you.” Baldassare stood a foot from the artist, towering over the small man, a dagger spinning in his right hand. “But you conspire with the wrong sorts of people. A dangerous practice, I can assure you.”

  “You are the wrong sort, Milanese. Do not delude yourself into thinking otherwise. You are no better than a sewer rat.”

  The man’s fisted hand flashed up and the heel of his palm crashed into Michelangelo’s head; the frail body dropped to the ground like a stone.

  “Watch your tongue, old man.” Battista sneered at the semiconscious form at his feet.


  Blood thundered in Aurelia’s ears, fervor thudded through her veins.

  “Leave him alone!” she cried.

  Launching her body forward, she shoved the jagged piece of porcelain into Baldassare’s back.

  With a howl of pain, Milanese arched against the attack.

  Aurelia pulled away, drawing her weapon with her, devastated to see no more than the tip of the makeshift dagger red with blood, frustrated to find no more of it had penetrated the thick leather of his jerkin or his skin.

  “Schifosa!” Baldassare pounced with frenetic rage, left hand swinging out and colliding with her cheek. “You bitch!”

  Pain burst on her face, and Aurelia staggered from the blow, dropping her makeshift dagger, throwing her hands out to catch herself as she careened off the wall.

  Aurelia yelped as two clenching hands dug into her shoulders, her feet flying out beneath her as they jerked her backward. Her shoulders thumped against a hard body, her senses assaulted by a reek of body odor and foul breath.

  “How lovely you feel, signorina,” Baldassare whispered in her ear, the rank pant defiling her skin. “I feel for myself why della Palla takes you wherever he goes.”

  The bolus of her last meal rose with burning acid in her throat as Baldassare’s left hand stroked the curve of one hip and the other circled her neck in a threatening, ever-tightening, caress.

  “Perhaps if you cooperate, if you show me some of the kindness you have bestowed upon Battista, I will spare you any further discomfort.”

  Aurelia turned, forehead rasping against the wiry black stubble upon his chin.

  “I would rather rot and give my body to the worms than give it to you.”

  “Vaffanculo!” Baldassare shouted, shoving her roughly.

  Aurelia hit the wall, too quickly propelled to catch herself, slumping to the floor as black spots danced in her eyes.

  “Bat—,” she began, losing the word as Baldassare grabbed her once more, two hands clenching the collar of her gown. Her head snapped back as he picked her up and off her feet with one powerful move. He shook her like a rag doll, their faces but a hair’s breadth apart.

  “Where is the painting?” Spittle flew off his yellow teeth, spraying her face. “Tell me where it is or I will kill you.”

  Aurelia squeezed her eyes shut, clearing her head. Hysterical laughter clogged her throat, bitter with the irony of his threat, a self-sabotaging act, though he knew it not.

  “God cursed you as a fool,” she hissed, meeting his narrowed gaze. “You will see every drop of my blood spilled before I tell you a thing.”

  Baldassare’s upper lip curled; his chin jutted out with hate and anger.

  His bloodshot gaze darted left; from the hall, the sounds of fists crashing against skin and bone beat like a battle drum. From their right, the baby’s whimpers turned to cries, high pitched and needy.

  Thin white lips spread between black stubble. Baldassare pushed her away again. She stumbled but did not fall, and he jumped to the bed.

  Drawing again a dagger with one hand, he reached for the baby.

  “No!” Ornella screeched, weak hands flailing against Baldassare as he palmed the newborn in his broad hand, the baby’s head flopping dangerously in the space between thumb and forefinger.

  “Then perhaps you will be willing to spare the life of this child.” Baldassare glared at Aurelia, taunted her with the newborn he held in his hand.

  The baby’s cries became a wail; it filled the house, filled Aurelia with a bloodlust that quaked through her body.

  “No, stop.” She tiptoed forward, hands out before her as if in surrender. “I will tell you anything. But please, put the baby down.”

  Baldassare laughed low and fiendish, pulling the baby closer to his chest, placing the dagger point but an inch away from the infant’s heart. “I will put the baby down, when you bring me the painting.”

  “My baby!” Ornella screamed, kicking out, a hard heel connecting with the back of Baldassare’s knee.

  “Oomph!” Baldassare grunted as his leg buckled, his hold on the baby collapsing. The infant plunged from his hand.

  Ornella screamed incoherently, lifting up from the bed, hands reaching out.

  Aurelia lunged forward, one hand grabbing Baldassare’s dagger-wielding wrist, the other grabbing the second dagger at his waist.

  Ornella caught the baby, the force of his weight against her weakness bearing him, and her hands, down toward the floor, her knuckles brushing the cold wood. With a gnashed groan, she pulled him to her.

  “Damn you!” Baldassare cried, struggling against Aurelia, tossing her off him, and turning his fury upon Ornella.

  Ornella curled her body away, spine nubs clear through the whisper-thin chemise, cupping herself about her baby.

  Baldassare wrenched his hand and his dagger, lifting it over his head.

  “No!” Aurelia screamed as he plunged the dagger downward, as the dagger disappeared ... into Ornella’s back.

  The woman’s body stiffened, blood spurting from the gash as Baldassare withdrew the blade, spreading like the plague against the white linen. Ornella shuddered, and collapsed.

  With the screech of a rabid animal, Aurelia leaped upon Baldassare.

  The baby wailed as his mother’s weight fell upon him.

  Battista staggered through the door, blood running from his nose and lips.

  With a moan, Michelangelo awoke, sitting up with a yap of terror.

  But Aurelia saw none of it, heard none of it.

  With her legs wrapped around Baldassare’s body, she grabbed the side of his head with her left hand, fingers snarling and pulling in his greasy hair as she shoved her thumb into his eye. Pliable flesh giving way with nauseating fluidity.

  He screamed with the pain of it.

  Aurelia’s body jerked around as he tried to shrug her off, but she clung on with the tenacity of a barely sated leech, one thirsty for fullness. Baldassare roared with frustration and pain.

  But Aurelia heard nothing.

  She tossed the dagger in her right hand upward, switching her hold upon it, the steel shank protruding now from the heel of her palm.

  She raised it up, her bloodcurdling cry calling the devil into the room, into her heart. She screamed again as she plunged it into Baldassare’s neck and yanked it across.

  Hot, red sticky blood spurted out, a wellhead uncapped, the fetid odor infesting her nostrils, gagging in her throat. Baldassare’s eyes bulged out, gaze locked with hers in astonishment, but only for a moment.

  As the blood ran from his throat, as the light was doused in his eyes, all life slumped from his body, and he tumbled to the floor, Aurelia with him.

  Twenty-seven

  No one thinks of how much blood it costs.

  —Inferno

  The pain quivered upward as the tip of her spine slammed against the floor, her head bounced against the hard wood planks. But Aurelia gave not a pause to the pain. The dead man’s blood dripped down her face, but she thought only of Ornella.

  Crawling upon her hands and knees, Aurelia heard her own whimper as if it came from afar, a wounded soul lost forever in Purgatory. Aurelia threw herself against the edge of the bed, pulled Ornella toward her and off the baby.

  In the young woman’s dead eyes Aurelia saw the price of her folly. Even as Ornella’s blood spread across the bed, Aurelia shook her.

  “Please, Ornella, do not die. You cannot be dead,” Aurelia pleaded, weeping. “I never meant—”

  “Ornella!” The anguished howl came through the door as Jacopo reached the threshold. Rushing forward, he pulled his dead wife from Aurelia’s hands. Wrapping his arms around Ornella, rocking her as he sobbed her name.

  Michelangelo scurried to the bed, lifting the wailing baby, wrapping the infant in his arms and a blanket as he ran from the room and the sight of the carnage.

  Battista staggered to Aurelia, pulling her up as he called the artist back. “Michelangelo! Take her!”

  With a face
the color of a rain-drenched sky, Michelangelo turned round, cupping the baby against his chest with one arm.

  “Come, Aurelia,” he beckoned, stepping back to grab her hand, to pull her forward, as her feet seemed unable to move themselves. “Come.”

  As Michelangelo led her, Aurelia watched over a shoulder as Battista dragged Baldassare’s bloody body away from a keening Jacopo, the red fluid flowing from the dead man’s neck leaving a staining line upon the floor as Battista pulled the corpse from the room and kicked it into another, slamming the door closed.

  She turned away as Michelangelo led her down the stairs, as Battista caught up to them and came to her side, wrapping his arm around the small of her back.

  They reached the ground floor in time to see Baldassare’s companion, loyalty abandoned, hobbling from the inn, door banging against the wall in his urgency to be gone.

  Battista led her to a chair as Michelangelo cooed and walked the infant in circles around her; she heard little but the loud humming in her ears. She held her hand up before her face, certain it was no longer there, the numbness so pervasive, it seemed impossible to believe her form still existed. But there it was, trembling in front of her eyes, still wet with the stain of blood.

  Jacopo stumbled down the stairs, a wraith heavy with the shroud of death, sobbing as Battista reached out and placed him in a chair beside Aurelia. Running to the kitchen and back again, Battista placed two tumblers full of dark amber liquid in their hands.

  “Drink, both of you.”

  Aurelia stared at him and the cup in her hand with little cognition. Battista led the cup to her lips and tipped it back. The liquid burned her throat, and she turned from it. But he grabbed the back of her neck and forced the remaining liquid upon her until it was all gone, until her eyes watered with the strength of the brew. She coughed and sputtered, pushing him away.

  Jacopo needed no such ministrations. He tossed it back, gulping it down, wiping the remnants of it from his mouth with the back of his hand.