The King's Agent

by Donna Russo Morin

  The young girl stared at her mistress, brows knitting with concern, clearly unconvinced.

  “Would ... would you care for a turn through the garden, madonna?” Teofila asked softly, still troubled. “There is more than enough time before the meal begins.”

  Aurelia shook her head. “I think not, cara. I think perhaps I shall read.”

  She rose, slipping slowly out of her private room into the sun-dappled sitting chamber just beyond. Crossing to the grouping of saffron velvet wing chairs and a round claw-footed mahogany table in front of the bright windows, Aurelia picked up the leather-bound book from the table’s polished surface. She made no move to open it, merely tucked it in the crook of her arm and stood before the diamond-shaped panes of glass.

  Teofila followed her mistress. “Are you sure there’s—”

  “I am fine, Teofila, truly. Take yourself to your meal and fetch me when it is time for mine,” Aurelia implored, gaze locked upon the flourishing landscape beyond her window. The straight paths checkered through the formal garden, leading her sight away, where her heart longed to follow.

  “Go,” she implored her maid’s hovering presence.

  At last, Aurelia heard the swish of heavy skirts and the click of the latch as Teofila passed out of the room.

  Aurelia’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. As she stood in silent reflection, the sun inched itself around the pale ochre peak of the palazzo and drenched her face with its light. Aurelia closed her eyes, remembering the feel of the sun as she galloped about the country, Battista by her side.

  “Stop it,” she chided herself softly, opening her eyes. But as she gazed upon the garden, bright blooms of pink and yellow now rimmed with curled edges of brown, withering in the late summer heat, she could not stop her thoughts. Aurelia chewed upon all the nothingness that lay ahead of her, wondering if it was yet emptier for all her recollections. Was she better off when she didn’t know what she was missing? She pushed the dour thought away, denouncing it.

  Instead, she saw, on the panorama before her, the faces of those she had met, the extraordinary places she had seen, the laughter, the excitement. Aurelia’s spirits lifted; her lips spread, the corners turning up, her cheeks bloomed as if she lived it again.

  “You look happier than I have seen you in a very long while.”

  Aurelia turned to the door, having not heard it open again, finding the marquess standing in the threshold.

  He offered a quick bow, she a simple curtsy, as he took a few steps into the room.

  “I have made a decision,” Aurelia told him with a glimmer in her eye. “Right in this very moment.”

  “Well, then.” Federico crossed his hands smartly upon his chest. “I am doubly pleased to have arrived.”

  “As am I.” Aurelia stepped lightly toward him. “I have decided to accept my life, and its purpose, without question, and to be glad only of what glory it holds, not remorseful for anything it may not.”

  The marquess snorted a pleased puff of air. “So, you have obtained your rightful wisdom?”

  Aurelia smiled at the notion, head waggling a bit as she chewed upon it. “So it would seem.”

  “It is well indeed.” He nodded. “Then you may greet this moment in the spirit in which it is given.”

  Federico stepped to the right of the door, but turned his head back and leaned through it.

  “Messere?”

  Before Aurelia voiced a word of question, before the crease of curiosity fully formed upon her forehead, Battista stood in her door.

  “You ... you are ... here?” Aurelia gasped, staggered back, a hand to her chest, eyes wide at the sight of him.

  With that dashing demeanor, resplendent in leather, and crowned with rakish charm, Battista gave her a half smile. “I am, donna mia.”

  “I told you I would be back.” He stepped toward her, afraid of her greeting, cautious before her protector and the man’s unerring attention.

  “You did,” she breathed away her astonishment. “You did, Battista, but I did not ... I dared not ... hope.”

  And there it was, the smile he believed he had helped her find. It was enough.

  Battista abandoned all propriety at the door. He rushed ahead, her arms opening, and threw himself into them. His mouth found hers, covering her face, her head, her neck, with his kisses.

  She laughed, quivering beneath him, and he held her all the tighter.

  The marquess of Mantua sputtered a grumbling cough with a smidgen of embarrassment, an inchoate announcement of discreet leave-taking.

  Aurelia looked up at Battista, swallowing any boisterous surprise. “What did you say to him? I cannot believe he has left us alone.”

  As the nobleman closed the door quietly behind him, Battista blinked, round eyed, shoulders rising to his ears. “I said nothing, I swear.” He looked down at her. “Did you tell him, Aurelia? Did you tell him all of what you ... we ... experienced?”

  She had the grace to look shyly away. “I did. I thought he deserved the truth.”

  Battista nuzzled her nose with his. “All the truth?”

  The flush creeping across her smooth, pale skin answered him, and he laughed as his mouth found hers. They immersed themselves in the delight of each other, silent moments passing uncounted.

  Aurelia pulled away first, passion bowing to a more rational state of curiosity.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He led her to the chairs in front of the windows, throwing the sash wide before sitting across from her; the breeze was thick with redolence and pollen, cooling their ardor.

  “I wanted you to know of Florence from a Florentine.” Battista grinned. Word of the revolt would have arrived quickly to the door of the marquess, but he feared what prejudice might have arrived with the report, which side had done the telling. Aurelia deserved to know the truth of those she cared for.

  She leaned forward eagerly. “It is good news?”

  Battista rolled his eyes gratefully heavenward. “It was amazing, Aurelia, simply amazing,” he began his tale, excitement bristling in his deep voice. “By the time I returned, the streets were clogged with people, every street and alley leading to the Medici palace. At first, it looked as if a fight would ensue. Ippolito had sent the guards to surround the palace, a human wall. But ...” He paused for a breath.

  “But ... ,” Aurelia squeaked, hanging on his words.

  “But the guards are Florentines, sì? As the people began to rush the palace, they parted.” Battista laughed merrily. “Like Moses parted the sea, it was miraculous. And then many things happened all at once. Niccolò Capponi, the son of he who once drove out Piero de’ Medici, stepped onto the balcony and announced, ‘The Republic lives again! The Medici are no more!’ Then he called for all citizens to arm themselves and rally to the Piazza della Signoria!”

  Aurelia cocked an eye at him. “It could not have gone so easily, surely?”

  Battista shook his head. “It did not. At that same moment, Cardinal Passerini arrived at the head of the duke of Urbino’s cavalry. So many of them, we stopped counting. To this day, no one knows who opened a gate to them. Then the real fighting began.” Battista’s recollections doused his joy, his head hung with the heaviness. “So many died. So much bloodshed.”

  Aurelia reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it with all her might.

  Battista looked up and began again, hands waving in the air with the riotous story. “But the cardinal wanted to retake the palace and the committee of the people would have none of it. They bolted the doors. The duke and his men attacked them with long pikes, but those inside took to the windows and the roof. They threw everything and anything down upon the marauders, furniture, armor, crockery. It was outrageous. It was all wonderful, except ...”

  She slapped at his hand as he left her hanging once more. “Except. . . ?”

  Battista shook his head. “Something struck the Giant. I thought Michelangelo would die. The left arm broke off, just below the elbow.�
� He pitched her a sidelong look. “But you knew that would happen, sì?”

  Aurelia’s mouth stretched into a grim line. “I had a thought of it, nothing more. I had hoped he could stop it.”

  “He could not. Nothing that day could be stopped.”

  “Tell me the rest,” she urged him from the very edge of her chair.

  Battista shrugged. “The fighting continued for days. It was unlike war, Aurelia, it was carnage in the street.” He looked up at her, a bright star in his deep brown eyes, the smile returning to his well-formed mouth. “But we took the ground. The Republic indeed lives.”

  Aurelia jumped up and threw herself in his arms; it was the greatest trophy any warrior ever wished to attain. She pulled back of a sudden, pushing him away.

  “And what of the Giant? What of Michelangelo?”

  Battista laughed. “You will not believe it. It seems one of Michelangelo’s apprentices, Guido, ah, no, Giorgio, Giorgio Vas-sari, and a friend by the name of Cecchino, I believe ... it makes no matter, though. In the ruckus, they retrieved all the broken pieces, and in the middle of that first night they went to Michelangelo’s house to tell him they were hidden at Rossi’s father’s house, another of the artist’s apprentices. They were all safe.”

  “And ... he can repair him?”

  Battista nodded. “He does so as we speak.”

  Aurelia sighed deeply with profound relief.

  “We did not save Florence, cara mia, but Florence was saved nonetheless.” Battista tipped his forehead to hers; his story told, the worst of the past few months over, he found release and care in her arms.

  “We may not have saved Florence, but we spared the world a terrible fate, never doubt it,” she whispered, safe in their intimacy. “You spared the world.”

  Battista smiled without opening his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest in this very spot for the rest of his days. “I have done my best, I can say no more.” He laughed. “I think I may give up my plundering and live off my bounty.”

  Aurelia pulled her head away, piercing him with the intensity of her glare. “Be not at war, Battista, I wish it for you with all my heart. But you must be forever on your guard. You have mixed your lot with mine. You cannot doubt what it may mean.”

  He kissed her quick and light. “It is where I belong, it is—”

  “You must never forget the evil that taints the good in this world,” she plunged ahead, allowing him no room to naysay her. “So many men throughout time have thrown their lot in with the bad. You must always beware. Even I, and those who will come after me, can never know all the powers at work in this world. Dante knew of man’s woes, men’s darkness. We can never forget.” She squeezed his shoulders, her thin fingers digging into his arm, and shook him as she would a mischievous child. “Promise me, Battista.”

  He looked down at her, convinced by the potency of her warning and the ardency of her emotions. All they had seen and done ... he could never deny any possibility ever again. “I promise, my lady. To you, I swear it.”

  Aurelia’s smile lifted with reassurance, gaze moving to his mouth, lips opening to him. With a low moan of pleasure, he met her invitation, lips brushing hers before capturing them tenderly.

  They barely heard the light knock on the door and, though they both desired to, they did not ignore it.

  “Enter,” Aurelia called, her soft breath caressing his face.

  “Per favore, madonna.” The young maid opened the door a crack and leaned her head in. “The marquess says it is time for your guest to depart.”

  “Yes, of course,” Aurelia responded, and turned to the maid. “We will be out in just a moment.”

  The maid dipped a curtsy but not without a waggle of her brows at her mistress; Aurelia giggled like a young girl.

  “There are many who care about you here,” Battista said grudgingly. “I am glad of it. But there are more who love you back in Florence.”

  Aurelia stepped away, but he pulled her to him yet again.

  “Come with me.” It was a last desperate plea, one he knew she must deny, one he had to make regardless.

  She reached up, her soft fingertips closing his lips. “For all things there is time and purpose. We must serve our time and our purpose. To be together would change both.”

  He kissed her fingertips; he would bother her no more. As he had heard her tell the marquess, he would accept the joys of what they had, without dwelling on what they could not have.

  “I will walk you out,” she said, and, curling her hand in his arm, led him through the palace and out into the courtyard.

  Gonzaga waited for them in the sparkling sunshine, the scent of warmed stone sharp in the air. The marquess cast upon him a most particular look, and Battista feared reprisal came at last. But Federico approached with an extended hand. Battista took it with cautionary surprise.

  “I come to bid you farewell and safe journey, della Palla.” Federico looked up at him with an eye of respect. “I blame you not, not at all. You served my ward well. Nothing else needs to be said.”

  “She is well worth serving, signore.” Battista shook the hand in his. “It was my honor to do so.”

  From beside him Aurelia yelped with delight, tossing off his hand and running to the near courtyard gate.

  Turning, Battista smiled. Aurelia rushed at Frado, who had appeared in the square, his and Battista’s horses’ reins in hand. Battista’s smile turned to laughter as she threw her arms around the startled man, unable to deny the twinge of pain at the sight of these two—two so very dear to him—sharing their mutual affection.

  Turning from the marquess with a tip of his head, Battista neared the pair in time to hear Aurelia’s decree.

  “I leave him to your capable hands, dear fellow,” Aurelia said sweetly.

  “Sì, donna mia.” Frado blushed. “Of course, my lady.”

  Aurelia turned to Battista, parting no longer deniable.

  He bowed, taking her hand and brushing the soft underside of her wrist with his lips. Neither would say the word; they simply smiled as space rose up between them.

  “Once a year,” Aurelia called out as he approached his horse. He twisted back round in silent question.

  “Once a year, I am allowed guests,” she said again. “But none have ever called.”

  His heart trembled in his chest, mouth curling, kissed by a bittersweet grin. “Then perhaps I shall be the first.”

  Aurelia’s lips puffed with air; her eyes glistened. “The first, sì. And the only.”

  Battista’s restraint broke. Dropping his reins, he ran back, pulled her to him, and heedless of the eyes upon them—from the courtyard, from the stairs, from the windows of the palazzo above—his mouth lit upon hers, drinking of her with a deep and passionate kiss.

  Lifting slightly, he brushed his lips over hers, across her moist cheek, to flutter against her ear, where he whispered the words of Dante:

  “ ‘O lady, you in whom my hope gains strength, you who, for my salvation, have allowed your footsteps to be left in Hell, in all the things that I have seen, I recognize the grace and benefit that I, depending upon your power and goodness, have received.’ ”

  Battista lifted his head just enough to see her face, the glow of her sweet smile.

  “ ‘You drew me out from slavery to freedom by all those paths, by all those means that were within your power. Do, in me, preserve your generosity, so that my soul, which you have healed, when it is set loose from my body, be a soul that you will welcome.’ ”

  POSTSCRIPT

  I saw within Its depth how It conceives all things in a single volume bound by Love, of which the universe is the scattered leaves

  —Paradiso

  Pope Clement VII remained a prisoner in the Castel Sant’Angelo for many months. He exchanged his life for a ransom of 400,000 ducats as well as the cession of many highly coveted territories within the Papal States. Disguised as a peddler, he escaped Rome and took refuge first in Orvieto and then in Viterbo. Wh
en he returned to Rome, in the fall of 1528, he was to find a city destroyed and deserted. Clement became a weak, ineffectual man, in many ways the puppet of the emperor, in order to secure the fate of the Medici family. In later years, it appeared Clement would tip his alliance back toward France, but the world was never to know. He died in 1534, after ingesting the death cap mushroom. Only a few days before his demise, Pope Clement VII commissioned Michelangelo to paint the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel.

  Historians disagree on the extent of collusion on the part of Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, in the sack of Rome. Charles had tried for some time to gain an audience with the pope, only to be turned away. Some theories propound that Charles’s men took the matter into their own hands, gaining him access in an unprecedented violent manner. There are, however, an equal number of theories claiming Charles was, at heart, a peaceful man, though his life was occupied by a series of wars, a man committed to opposing and thwarting the Protestant reform. These same speculations claim the emperor was embarrassed by the acts committed in his name, though he suffered no compunction in taking full advantage of their victory.

  Most all agree that May 6, 1527, when Rome fell, marks the end of the Renaissance era.

  Every year on May 6, new recruits are sworn in to the Swiss Guard in commemoration of the soldiers’ bravery on that fateful day.

  In 1529, the emperor’s forces—with the blessing of the pope—besieged Florence. The citizens of the Republic, including Battista della Palla and Michelangelo Buonarroti, fought bravely for many months, though they fell, in the end, to the emperor’s superior military might. When the Republic tumbled in 1530, Charles V restored the power of the Medici, who were to rule until 1737.

  Battista della Palla returned to his art acquisition during the siege, hoping to bolster Florence’s supplies and allies. For the French king, François I, Battista attempted to acquire the celebrated panels of the Story of Joseph painted by a trio of artists, Andrea del Sarto, Jacopo Pontormo, and Il Bacchiacca, from Pierfrancesco Borgherini. Borgherini’s wife thrust herself between della Palla and his bounty, castigating him as “a most vile dealer in secondhand goods, a cheap salesman,” one determined “to dismantle the furnishings of respectable men’s bedrooms.”