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for the great works of art Battista provided him.
    “That is why you must continue your work, Battista,” Cecchino chimed in. “Intensify it if you must. For the time is upon us and your work might well be the key to our freedom.”
    Battista nodded his head, throwing back a last gulp of his wine. He scanned the faces of his men as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Seeing the same burning passion in their eyes that pulsed in his heart, he banged his empty cup upon the table. “ Sì . The time is now.”
     
    Nuntio rushed at him the moment Battista opened the door. Behind the bowed man’s back, he spied the stranger sitting upon his settee, and his hand eased toward the daggers at his waist.
    “He comes with a message. I tried to make him leave it ... I tried to keep him beyond the door ... but he pushed his way in.” Nuntio’s rheumy eyes drooped at the corners, flicking back and forth between Battista and the stranger.
    The strange visitor stood but did not move, drawing out no weapon, no look of fear or concern upon his unfamiliar features. Battista recognized no threat and concerned himself more for Nuntio’s fretting.
    He gently took the older man’s gnarled hands—the skilled fingers that had once picked more locks than Battista might see in a lifetime—in his, led Nuntio to the large table, and poured him a glass of whatever lay in the bottle perched upon it.
    “All is well, Nuntio. Have no fear.” Battista put the metal cup of red, fragrantly fruity liquid in the man’s quivering hands. “I know you did your best. You always do.”
    Nuntio graced him with a silent, grateful glance before lowering his lips to the wine.
    Battista turned back to the stranger, the soft sheen of patience and caring upon his face disappearing behind a stony countenance.
    “You have entered my home when you were not made welcome. I can only hope, for your sake, you have good cause.”
    The man’s right hand reached to the pouch at his waist.
    With a clamorous clanging and the sharp shing of steel upon steel, four swords and three daggers promptly pointed at his chest, the only missing weapon belonging to Lucagnolo, now returned to his wife.
    The man’s dark-avised face paled, and he swiftly raised both hands in the air.
    “A message, signore. One I was instructed to put into your hands and your hands alone.”
    Battista took in the measure of the man through narrowed eyes. With a flick of his head and the tip of his dagger, Battista gave the man permission to continue. With the weapons leveled at him, he’d be a fool to attempt anything else.
    Wary gaze remaining cautiously upon the circle of men surrounding him, the stranger pulled out a thick fold of parchments. At once, Battista recognized the seal of the French king. He replaced the dagger to its rightful place with his usual reverse twirl flourish and stepped forward, accepting the message. François had never sent a communication directly to Battista before; he didn’t know what to expect or what this man knew, but Battista would reveal nothing to him in the ignorance.
    Drawing out two large coins from his purse, Battista placed them in the man’s hand. “A pleasant journey to you, messere . I am saddened we will not see you here again.”
    The man reached out tentatively and accepted the coinage; there was no mistaking Battista’s cryptic salutation, nor the profundity of it in his pointed glare. “ Arrivederci, signore.”
    With a tilted tip of his beretto, the courier took his leave. With a tick of Battista’s chin, the bald and bull-like Barnabeo stepped out behind him; he would award the man a safe, if covert, escort out of the city.
    Battista watched their shadowy images pass the glazed windows, swiftly retreating to the table, breaking the red wax fleur-de-lis seal with a snap, and unfurling the folded golden parchment with a crackle. As he sat, his men gathered round him, their silence thick with curiosity and the scraping of chair legs