The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin Read Free Book Online

properly,” Giovanni replied.
    “You did, Gio, most distinctly,” Battista assured him of a job well done. “But why is he so insistent? And what is this piece he speaks of?”
    Pompeo leaned forward, hands braced upon the table. “He gives us very little information. His reference to Praxiteles is clear, but then he confuses the point with the next line.” The young man turned his intense black eyes to Giovanni. “You are sure of it?”
    Giovanni took up both parchments once more, dedicated, not defensive. “Ah, sì . That section was quite clear. ‘By Praxiteles’s hand it was wrought, but which Praxiteles I do not know.’ ”
    “This means something to you?” Battista asked of Pompeo.
    “It does. Praxiteles was a remarkable Greek sculptor, in the days long before the birth of our Lord. But he is the only Praxiteles I know of.”
    “A child of his by the same name?”
    Pompeo shook his head vehemently, spiky hair tossed with the motion. “Praxiteles never married. It is rather interesting, in truth. It is oft told that he loved the same woman for all his life, modeled many of his works after her in fact, but they never married nor had children. Marriage may not have been necessary, but the insistence to procreate was deeply ingrained.”
    “A child by another woman, perhaps?”
    “Perhaps, though his unwavering fealty to the woman was well known and often remarked upon.”
    “Knowing who made it is but a small part of this mystery,” Frado grumbled, pointing to the pages on the table with unfettered accusation. “Finding it with this ... this ... bizarre information will be quite another.” His round face scrunched and reddened at the thought of the effort lying before them, much of it upon his rounded shoulders.
    Battista waved a hand back and forth before his face as if to scatter an aggravating fly.
    “What do we know?” Reaching across the table, he pulled the translation closer. “It is a sculpture, not very large, almost dagger-like but with more purpose to it, and wrought by the hand of a man named Praxiteles.” He raised one long finger from a fist for each item mentioned.
    “Well, then,” Frado mumbled, “we know everything.”
    Battista slammed his palms upon the table and each man jumped at the slap.
    “It is enough to begin, yes?” It was a puzzle, and he had never met one that did not excite him.
    Few of the mumbled acknowledgments were enthusiastic.
    Battista stared at Frado, a narrow-eyed, twinkling glare, the slightest upward tilt on his full lips. “Enough. Sì, Frado?”
    Frado looked hard at the man, at the youngster who had insisted Frado’s skin be saved as if it were his own. Long ago, Frado had thrown the lot of his life in with this patriot disguised as a scoundrel; he would not—could not—change anything now.
    “Yes, yes, yes. Enough. Come now.” Frado pushed his rotund form away from the table and stomped away, heading for the study and the shelf upon shelf of books. Ascanio, the most learned on sculptures and antiquities, followed close.
    With his satisfied smirk full blown, Battista rose to join them, brought up short by the hand on his arm. He looked up to the face and found Giovanni and his apprehension.
    “Are you not concerned by the last line? That I did translate word for word.”
    Battista looked down at the closing words of the translation.
    It is said to possess the strength I need to reign victorious.
    The two men exchanged a glance over the paper; each reflected the same worry and hesitation, the same struggle with the perplexing allusion.
    “A victory for François is a victory for Florence. We must not forget.” Battista gave Giovanni’s shoulder a squeeze. “The path to victory is never without peril.”
    Giovanni offered but a hesitant nod, mouth stretched in a grim line across his face, and said no more of it.

    With the setting of the sun, Nuntio gathered every candle and candlestick and set them about the study, on every small table, on