The King's Agent (50 page)

Battista heaved a sigh of surrender, but not without his own smile. Moving in the opposite direction of the crowds, they galloped quickly to the shadow of the imposing San Lorenzo and to Michelangelo’s house beside it.

“Michelangelo!”

Aurelia jumped from her horse as Battista called his friend’s name and tied both horses to the bollard near the door. She entered without a knock, rushing up the stairs to the studio above.

“What madness prevails?”

The spare man looked ever more thin and fragile as he stood in the window, the sun’s bright light devouring him, diminishing him still further.

“It is the madness we have hoped for,
amico mio
.” Battista strode to his side, scanning the view as Michelangelo did, from the gabled windows.

They could not see the Piazza della Signoria from this vantage point, but they could see smoke, tendrils of it rising black and accusatory into the bright blue sky. They could see people rushing from the homes and shops of the neighborhood, all converging toward the same apex. Michelangelo pushed at the sash and the righteous, determined sounds of a people united rose up in a chorus, a loud prayer to the heavens, one screaming for justice and fairness, for the people and the Republic.

The clang of the bell called them out, deep and dark,
La Vacca,
the cow. It sang only in times of great trouble; it called the people to its tower in the piazza and they rushed to it.

“La Vacca mugghia!”
they cried to each other, the warning inherent in the seemingly innocuous expression. “The cow lows!”

“You must—,” Battista began.

“You must make your way to the piazza, Michelangelo,” Aurelia commanded.

“What? No!” Battista turned, angry at the dangerous suggestion.

She laid a hand on his arm. “He will be all right, Battista. I swear to you.” Aurelia turned back to the artist standing between them, turmoil cutting a deep swath in his wrinkled forehead. “There is much to protect in the piazza, much that you care about.”

Michelangelo’s eyes protruded.

“My Giant,” he breathed.

The door below crashed open.

“Michelangelo!” the beckoning cry rose up.

The older man smiled through his fear. “It is Granacci. I will be safe with Granacci,
amico karissimo.
”

Battista’s worried gaze lingered upon the man, but for only a moment. If Michelangelo’s oldest friend did not keep him well, then no one could. Battista gave Michelangelo a nod, pulling him back, devouring him in a bear hug, before letting him go once more.

The artist rushed off, almost passed her by, almost. Michelangelo pulled himself up short, turning with the saddest smile Aurelia had ever glimpsed. Her breath hitched in her chest.

“I will not see you again, will I?” The thought dawned fretfully upon him.

She shook her head, trying so very hard to smile, not daring to speak.

Michelangelo crushed her to him. His arms quivered as they held her. The muscles, so very sinewy from years of plying hammer and chisel, latched about her body.

Aurelia grabbed onto him as if she held on to life itself.

“You were with me on that scaffold,
donna mia,
” his harsh voice slipped in as a whisper in her ear, words spoken for her and her alone, words of adoration and devotion. “You will be with me forever.”

“Of all that is wrong in what I have done”—her voice cracked upon the words, at the emotions so potently close to the surface—“I would do it all again to have met you.”

They separated, not either happily, and she found her own bitter sweetness there upon his face. With a shoo of her hands, she impelled him, “Hurry now, Michelangelo.”

With one last look at her, a quick smile for Battista, the artist ran from the room, down the stairs, and into the street, taking up the cry of his friends and his heart.

“
Popolo, libertà!
The people, liberty!”

The afternoon waned as they galloped through the countryside, the hard, quick thudding of the hooves like the beats of their hearts. They found but a little ease from the heat as they crossed through the forest leading to the edge of Mantua. They took not a moment’s respite; too much urgency hung thick in the air.

As they crested the last rise, Aurelia pulled hard on her horse. “Stop here, Battista.”

He reeled as he pulled back and around, his horse bucking at the harsh command. His dark eyes frowned at her as she leaped from her horse, ran to his, and pulled on the bridle.

“You cannot be captured, Battista. It is imperative you return to Florence.” Looking up, Aurelia thought he would argue, but she saw only jaundiced acceptance.

Without a word, he jumped from his saddle, dropped the reins from his hands, and yanked her into his arms. Battista hurt her with his embrace, but only with loving intent. Aurelia wrapped her arms about his back, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Their love was a brutal thing, painful by its very nature, and yet more beautiful than anything they had ever known.

Aurelia leaned back; she would have one last look at him, one last moment to memorize his dearness.

Battista smiled at her in understanding; he lowered his mouth and for a stolen moment, as birds twittered around them, as wind soughed through the leaves above them, he paid homage to her with his lips.

With a grunt, or was it a sob, from deep in his throat, he pulled away, setting her at arm’s length.

“I will be back,” he said, and jumped upon his horse, setting it to motion with a harsh “heeya.”

Aurelia waved, even as she lost sight of him in the sea of trees.

Thirty-five

The Love which moves the sun and the other stars.

—Paradiso

T
he maid hovered and twirled about her mistress, a lovely lark flitting about the resplendent flower, finishing the last touches of the intricate plaits, wrapping the copper tresses about the head and pinning them in place. The young girl, her own hair hidden beneath her starched white wimple, smiled with self-satisfied pleasure at her own artistry. As Teofila placed the jeweled net gingerly upon Aurelia’s coiffure, clipping it together at the nape of her mistress’s neck, she beamed.

“There.” Teofila clucked, stepping back to admire her work from a distance. “You look quite lovely, Donna Aurelia. Your gown is perfect, your hair just so. Even those indecent freckles have all faded away. Your skin is as perfectly pale as when you left.”

Her maid’s words brought her round, brought Aurelia from passive tolerance to troubled awareness. She sat upon the embroidered cushion surrounded by all the elegance of her life, the opulence of the Mantua palazzo, feeling no less than a foreigner arrived upon a strange land.

Aurelia raised her hands to her face, fingers brushing her skin as if to see it with her touch. She was once again fair of face and the fact brought her nothing but sadness. Aurelia released her head into the basket of her hands and squeezed her eyes closed, pinching out a lone soundless tear to slip down her cheek.

“My lady,
mi dispiace molto,
” Teofila gasped in horror, never having seen her mistress shed a single tear in all the years she had served her. “I am so very sorry. If I have ... What have I ...”

Aurelia forced a smile and quickly dashed the offending droplet from her face with the back of her hand. “Nothing, Teofila, you have done nothing to offend. Do not worry yourself. It is but my own silliness, naught more.”

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!”