The King's Agent Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    Lucagnolo’s young wife had been ill off and on for many months, and though the devoted husband retained many a skilled and expensive physician with the income derived as both an artist and adviser to Battista on painted artwork, none seemed able to find a cause, nor a cure.
    “Her beauty is as breathtaking as ever,” Battista whispered with a squeeze of the man’s bony shoulder.
    Lucagnolo nodded, a wisp of a smile touching his thin lips.
    “Come, let us away to the trattoria. I’ve a need for much wine.” Battista gave him another squeeze and together they turned to the waiting band of men, the group trouncing off to the southwest corner of the piazza as if they had taken possession of it through their victory.
    Just beyond the long Palazzo dell’Antella, patrons encircled every round, scarred wood table running along the front of the Angelo di Fuoco, some drinking toasts, others drowning their sorrows. The still-rising midday sun found the piazza, and its springlike warmth raised the heat of the festivities.
    “Come, come.” The small, spry owner of the trattoria spied the approach of Battista and his men. “Marco, a table, chairs, presto! ”
    “ Grazie, Pasquale.” Battista accepted the man’s hospitality, well earned through years of patronage. Without request the table thus placed, the correct number of chairs along its perimeter, soon filled with flagons of white Frascati wine and dozens of trays of food filled with salame and other sliced meats, chunks of parmigiano and sharply flavored cheeses, and breads.
    “For you.” Pasquale himself brought over the tray of stuffed eggs, Battista’s favorite.
    “Ah, grazie, Pasquale. Grazie mille .” Battista eyed the treats with unfettered delight. Boiled, their yolks removed and mixed with raisins, cheese, and spices, the eggs were stuffed and closed once more, then fried to a golden brown.
    The men said little as they stuffed their mouths, gulped heartily of their wine, and watched the throngs of people coming and going through the square. Battista’s eyes wandered to the Basilica, its many white stone peaks and ornamented spires. His gaze moseyed to the palazzo above his head and the varying shapes of the windows. From this vantage point, one perceived their differences, though from the Basilica they somehow all looked the same. His thoughts languished upon little else but the delicious flavors assaulting his mouth and the moment of triumph still as fresh as the thin sheen of sweat upon his brow, accepting the nods and smiles of congratulation tossed his way by passersby.
    “Did you see Alberto?” Pompeo asked him with a hearty belch, sitting back from the table, having consumed more than his share of the victuals.
    Battista threw back his head and laughed, brushing dampened locks off his forehead. “I did. He does not enjoy losing. Not that he has to do it often. When you tur—”
    “May we join you?” The deep-voiced request came from behind Battista.
    Turning in his chair, Battista acknowledged the two well-dressed men, cheerfulness watered away like cheap wine.
    Cecchino Bracci accompanied Bernardino Altoviti, as always, dressed similarly in short velvet farsetti, voluminous cloaks of camlet trimmed in miniver over these doublets, and high-crowned hats, costumes as befitted their stature as representatives of two of the leading families of Florence. The Altoviti men had been great soldiers for centuries, bestowed with the imperial knighthood, now ambassadors of great distinction. Minor nobles themselves, the Bracci family owned one of the largest banks here in Florence and in Rome as well.
    Yes, they were two of the finest members of the Florentine community, but they were serious men, far too serious for a day such as this.
    Battista reached for a damigiana of wine, pouring each newcomer a great dose of white liquid from the short, narrow neck of the large bottle, hoping to lighten their natural dourness with the spirits. But it was not