The King's Agent (39 page)

“My cousin,” Michelangelo interjected with a bark. “From the north, on my mother’s side.”

It was true his late mother came from a noble lineage, unlike his father, and Michelangelo did indeed call more than one noblewoman cousin. But it was rare to find any member of the family in the company of the artist; they had all but abandoned Lodivico di Buonarroti and his motherless brood at the moment of Francesca’s passing.

Aurelia bent over the pope’s ring in silent obeisance, as expected from any woman, keeping her head bent low and her gaze humble through her veil.

“Are you enjoying your visit to the Vatican, my child?” the pope asked, his long face crinkled and quizzical as he looked upon Aurelia, and Battista recognized it with empathy; he had felt the same thing many times when looking at her himself, a strange mixture of fascination and suspicion.

“Very much, Holy Father,” Aurelia replied softly.

“And what have you enjoyed the most?” Clement took a step back, penetrating gaze slipping slowly up and down the length of her, not with lascivious intent, but in study, as if she were one of the precious works of art held in the Holy City.

Her lips inched up at the corners. “The ceiling of the Sistine, Your Holiness. I have never seen the like, not even in my imagination.”

Clement nodded sagaciously. “It is the same answer these days, though I myself agree. Why do you think that is? It is, after all, just a painting.”

He plied the statement with outlandish intention, particularly with the creator standing beside him. Purposefully instigating, Battista thought, a question posed more for the nature of Aurelia’s answer than the answer itself.

With her gaze upon Michelangelo, she answered forthrightly, “It is the physical realization of his spiritual gift. Few are able, in this life, to find it. We all know it, recognize it when we see it, and we envy and worship it at the same time.”

The flood of words flew off her tongue, and Aurelia sucked the corner of her top lip into her mouth, as if to stem the tide.

“You have an astounding clarity of vision from those startling eyes of yours, my lady.” Clement held up a hand, two fingers straight, two tucked down, and made a small sign of the cross before her. “And what were you to see next?”

“Actually, Holy Father, we were about to head for home,” Michelangelo replied before the others could say different. “You know how easily fatigued I am. I fear I have no more strength left, for today at any rate.”

“Then I shall see you out myself, shall I?” The pronouncement disguised itself as a question, and the corpulent pope took his place beside Battista as he led them out in the same direction they had come, Aurelia and Michelangelo behind, two Swiss Guards bringing up the rear.

“You feel François can be trusted, do you, della Palla?”

Battista found no words, taken aback by Clement’s blunt approach to the matter. The irony of the discussion was not lost on him. “Indeed, Holy Father.”

The pope scratched at the white skullcap upon his head. “I hope you are right, young man. I hope
I
am right. And what of Henry, the English king? What do you know of him?”

“Very little,” Battista answered honestly. He knew the sovereign to be but another player in the juggling for power that had gone on between France, Spain, and England for time untold. He knew what François thought of his English counterpart, for the king and his mother and sister had railed on against the aggressive sovereign many a time when in Battista’s company.

“I think he may be a bit mad.” Clement chuckled with dark amusement. “He has taken one agreement to think he can secure another.” The pope’s voice plunged to a barely coherent mumble. “Divorce. Utter madness, I tell you.”

Battista said nothing, for surely nothing could he be expected to say to such a proclamation. The pope shook his head and turned back to Michelangelo.

“And what of my library, my friend? How does it progress?”

Michelangelo nodded with his specter of a smile. “Quite well, Holy Father. Better than I anticipated. In fact, I shall be returning to Florence within the next few days, in the company of these two delightful young people.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky man?” the pope said.

“Oh yes,” Michelangelo replied, avoiding Battista’s pointed stare. “Very lucky indeed.”

Twenty-four

Less than a drop of blood remains in me
that does not tremble; I recognize the signals of the ancient flame.

—Purgatorio

A
rooster crowed in the distance, a raucous laugh at those who thought to stay abed, and the soft bells of morning called the faithful to mass. Aurelia snuggled into the stillness of daybreak, one unlike any found at other times. Dawn built a bridge for her, one out of her body, one allowing the stillness to enter her, to cleanse her thoughts of clutter.

Gliding down the stairs, slipping silently into the dark kitchen, she took a long draught of mulled cider and threw open the shutters, breathing in the unsullied lush air of a new day. Mourning doves cooed in the trees between the house and the studio, and Aurelia closed her eyes, letting the soothing sound fill her. Curling up in the well-worn stuffed chair before the window, she tucked the layers of her homespun gown beneath her legs. As the sun crept over the horizon, the enveloping blanket of light and warmth tucked her in.

The strange sound pulled at her, a low but insistent scratching. Aurelia struggled to open her eyes, so deeply had she fallen into meditation, the surface of consciousness lay far above.

Aurelia peered across the room through the hazy slits of her eyes and glimpsed Michelangelo, perched on a corner stool, almost hidden in the opaque shadows the room accommodated, hand flying furiously across the paper he hunched over, eyes jumping from her to the creation of her he conceived and back. She should stop him, but each stroke felt like a caress, as if he brushed her jawline with his fingers instead of rendering it with his charcoal. It was a wondrously soothing feeling, and she luxuriated in it, banishing all thought of consequence, allowing him—and the birth of the day—to continue without disruption.

Too soon the floor above them creaked as others in the household awoke; groggy, companionable voices passed outside the window as men made their way to the studio. The day had commenced against both their desires.

“No one will ever see it,
donna mia,
” he spoke without lifting his eyes, using the finest point of the charcoal now, making only the minutest movements with his hand.

She chuckled softly, but didn’t move. “Ah, so you know it is forbidden.”

Michelangelo shrugged one shoulder, but continued his work. “I knew when the vision came to me all those years ago in the chapel. And I know it now. But my adoration will not allow me to stop.” He shrugged again. “Of course it is forbidden, or else you would not be on this quest,
sì?
”

He looked at her then, head cocked to the side, brow furrowing as his hand stilled.

“Why
did
you come? Surely there are others who would be, should be, charged with this task?”

Aurelia opened her eyes, calamitous thoughts barging their way into her mind; there would be no turning back, not for this day.

“You will think me frivolous and selfish.” She hung her head, unable to look him in the eye.

She heard his scuffling steps approach, found his kind face appear in her downcast gaze. Michelangelo knelt at the side of her chair, one hand taking hers, the other holding his parchment.

“I should not have a bad thought of you, Aurelia.” He breathed a laugh. “Who am I to judge one such as you? Or anyone, for that matter.”

“I came,” Aurelia found the words in his unconditional empathy, “for me.”

He tilted his head yet again.
“Scusi?”

Aurelia patted his hand with a smile. “I had, of late, found the burden of my position difficult to bear, the isolation of it most especially, the terrible sameness of it.” Her smile fled. “I wanted to experience this life, not just be a witness to it, but the lighter side of life, not that of duty and responsibility.”

“The lighter side of life?” Michelangelo’s raspy voice fairly squeaked with incredulity. “And you have chosen this ... this quest ... to find the
lighter
aspect of life?”

Aurelia threw back her head and laughed with unadulterated delight. Michelangelo, jaw dropping for half an instant, joined her, dancing with her in the irony.

Their laughter flittered away, the lark on a soft spring breeze, and he placed her drawing in her lap and released his charcoal to the floor. Taking both her hands with his, he kissed them.

“You and those who will follow you have my heart, my fealty, and my silence, Madonna Aurelia.” He whispered his pledge with formality. “Now and forever.”

Tears came to her eyes; she found the feel of them strange. In all her years, she could not remember a moment so breathtaking, so heartbreaking, as to bring her to tears. Whatever the consequences of her impetuous actions might be, to know this man, to experience him and Rome and all he had shown her, was a joy worthy of it all.

“I ask but one thing.” Michelangelo lowered his forehead to the knuckles of her hand, voice muffled into the puffed and worn fabric of the chair arm. “That you bring no harm to Battista, to
amore mio
. That I could not bear.”

Aurelia sniffed a sigh, it was a difficult request, but one she had already pledged herself to. How much easier things would have been were Battista not the man he was, possessing such beauty, of every incarnation.

She picked up the parchment in her lap, studied the face so skillfully etched upon it, one so familiar and yet alien. “I must do whatever I must, but I can promise you no hurt shall befall him, least not while our lives intersect, for he is m ... my love as well.”

She gave him a conditional answer, and she saw the edge of dissatisfaction in his honey-colored eyes. His throat throttled a swallow and his ethereal smile peeped out at her once more.

“I shall come with you, then, if I may,” he requested with a giddiness more suited to a child. “I would see the end of this, at least from Firenze.”

“A wonderful idea,” she assured him. “You shall be marvelous company on the journey. It will be well that you are near, once—”

“Buongiorno.”
Battista popped his head into the kitchen, face bright with glee. “Frado has returned. We make for Florence.”

Just as quickly, he darted out, leaving Aurelia and Michelangelo warm in the wake of him.

Michelangelo stood and took the parchment, gaze roving over it with a critical though pleased eye. As she stood and joined him, as they headed for the door, he stepped to the low house fire, no more than burning cinders not yet stoked for the day, and placed the thin drawing material upon the glowing embers.

They left the kitchen, Aurelia’s likeness turning to fluttering ash behind them.

Twenty-five

Beauty awakens the soul to act.

—Purgatorio

T
hey passed the Porta Flaminia as the midday sun arched overhead, their horses tossing their heads as they crammed through the northernmost gate leading out of the city with hundreds of others, on foot and on horse, who came and went on any given day. Just beyond the gate, just past the dirt-stained brick face of the Aurelian Wall constructed more than a century and a half ago, the hard-packed, well-traveled road split into two. Battista led his small group to the left and onto the Via Cassia, the major thoroughfare leading all the way to Florence.

He was not well pleased to have left so late in the day; he had all intentions of setting off at day’s first light. But Michelangelo did not travel as quickly or as well as the others, and Battista made concessions to his elder friend with but a little annoyance.

“I will enjoy this journey so very much more than the one which brought me here,” Michelangelo grumbled to Frado, who rode beside him. “Granacci and Gianotti were very cranky for the entire two days.”

Battista shared a sidelong glance with Aurelia, seeing the same amusement in her light-dappled eyes, never so brilliant, even through her veil, never so green, as when the sunlight gleamed through them. Michelangelo complained halfheartedly; his two friends were invaluable to him, as loved as he was loved in return. No doubt they were as miffed as he by the artist’s sedate pace.

“We will spend the night in Poggibonsi.” Michelangelo raised his voice to reach the two young people ahead of him. “At my favorite inn. I stop there whenever I pass from Rome to Florence or back. They know me well.”

“I can well imagine.” Battista rolled his eyes at Aurelia, and she stifled a twitter in the thickness of a forced cough.

It had rained the night before, a hard, drenching rain, and the dirt of the road had yet to dry, had yet to turn to dust and be kicked up to clog their throats and their eyes. As the crowds of travelers thinned, as the other wayfarers made their stops or their turns along the way, Aurelia pushed back her veil. As the horses trotted along—for Michelangelo was inclined to move no faster—her body bounced gently in the saddle and she raised her closed eyes to the sun.

Battista laughed at the sight of her.

Aurelia opened her left eye at him. “What is so amusing?”

“You.” He laughed again fondly. “You are quite the sight.”

The soft breeze in the hot, dry air picked up the long strands of curls streaming down her back, a chestnut profusion of shimmering floss. No longer did she feel the need to pin and tuck it beneath her veil, but she allowed it to fall free like water from a cliff.

“You are hardly recognizable as the same woman I met not so very long ago.”