Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (6 page)

PART II

CHAPTER SEVEN

Goat Guts

With a rooster’s crow, any hope that I had of waking up in New York City faded. I saw that a fresh water jug and a chunk of soap were waiting for me as I stretched my arms in the cool air. I rolled onto my belly to look out the window directly behind the bed. Making a circle in the clouded glass with my fingers, I saw that sunbeams had not yet climbed over rooftops of Via dei Benci. Falling back on my pillow, I pulled Idan back out of the satchel. It was December 20, 1469 and the mysterious number thirty had turned to twenty-nine. Was Idan counting down to something? It could be counting down days, but twenty-nine days till what? Hopefully until Mrs. Reed found me, but it might not be that at all. I could vanish on the twenty-ninth day.

Thinking it was much too early for all these questions, I put Idan’s long chain around my neck and slid it under my nightgown. The cold metal against my navel made my hairs stand up. My lavender sneakers were waiting for me at the edge of the bed, so I pulled them on, grabbed a wool blanket, and descended the stairs to the kitchen. Everything in the kitchen looked grey except for Zia, who was surrounded by a halo of candle light. She looked even more saintly than the painting of the Virgin Mary hanging in my little room. Her weathered hands moved quickly as she sewed the gift of green velvet to my wool dress. For a little while I stood there basking in the glow of her goodness and watching her at work. As I stifled a yawn, she looked up.

“My dear child, I did not hear your steps! I daresay my hearing is getting worse,” she confessed, examining her work. “Stand here, Viola. I want to make sure it is long enough.” She pinned the dress against my shoulders and gave me a victorious look. “My hearing might not be what it was, but my tailoring is like a good wine.”

“Thank—”

“Stop! Do not finish that word. I know you are thankful, and you can repay me by not worrying so much about it. You are not my guest but part Cioni.”

Touched, I knelt down and squeezed her tightly. In our embrace I could smell the scent of rosewater lingering on her shawl. Her stomach gave a loud grumble and I could not help laughing.

Pulling away, I asked, “May I make breakfast, Zia?”

“I was hoping Georgina would have laid us a surprise but she has not yet … I thought you said you did not know how to cook?”

“I said I know a little bit.” In the pantry I found some oats, honey, cinnamon, and walnuts.

Twenty minutes later light crawled its way through the window as Zia and I ate our hot cereal. “How strange this is, Viola. Is this common where you come from?”

“Very!”

“What is it called?”

“Oatmeal.”

“O-mil-e?”

“Close enough.” I smiled, painfully aware of what I must sound like in Italian.

When our wooden bowls were empty, she urged me to dress. “We are going out soon and cannot be late.”

This time around putting on all the layers and newly tailored dress was much easier. The sea green trim of the dress hid my Converse from sight. Although I was appreciative, it felt as if I was covering up Violet Menet for the sake of Viola Orofino. Chrysalises started to hatch in my stomach as the meeting with the workshop owner approached. Somehow, I knew that being close to Leonardo was key to getting back to my life.

“Where are we going, Zia?” I asked as she twisted my hair.

“To church, then to Andrea’s workshop. That reminds me, can you carry the goat leftovers while I carry the cannelloni?”

In my head I was thinking “Gross!” But aloud, I said, “
Si, va bene
.”

With last night’s supper and a bag of intestines, we left for church. I had not been to any kind of church since I was very young. We were all still a family then. If I closed my eyes I could still see us walking together and feel the pain in my hand from the squeezing contests with Clara. Thinking about it made me sad, but I tried to recreate the memory all the same. The heavy swoosh sound of the bag’s contents against my dress drew me back to our walk. It had been about ten minutes when I asked whether we were going to the closest church to home.

“Santa Croce is closer to home, but I know too many people there! When we arrive you will see how people gossip. If it were not for my piety, I might say that it is the only reason people go to the house of the Lord. To answer your question, no, I would much rather go to a church that is farther and away from busy tongues,” she said, balancing the leftovers as we walked.

After a couple more minutes, Zia stopped abruptly in a narrow plaza teeming with vendors, gypsies, and church goers. In front of us was a jagged building made of pebbles and mortared with sticky mud. There were three wooden doors left, center, and right. Half a dozen elegant horses were drinking from a narrow stone basin propped against the church. We glided by a shoeless man attending to the steeds while Zia guided me to the door on the left.

“This cannot be the church!” I bellowed. While entering San Lorenzo, I was shocked at the sheer grandeur of the church.

“Hush! Nonsense, child, of course it is. What did you think of us Florentines? We may be quick to make a profit, but we put our money where our mouth is when it comes to the holy family,” said Zia with a proud countenance.

Never would I have thought that behind the crumbly exterior was a palace of light suspended by columns, arches, and a golden ceiling. Savoring my amazement, Zia began to give me all the basilica’s juicy details.

“San Lorenzo is a very old church but it was re-made into a basilica by a complete madman and genius named Brunelleschi. He has solved many problems that other men have scratched their beards raw over. It took a long time to bring it up to date, but they just finished the interior. Isn’t it heavenly?” I gawked in agreement. “Much of the renovation was paid for by the most powerful family in Florence.”

“What is their name?” I asked.

“You have already met one of them.”

“Leonardo?”

Zia held back a fit of laughter behind her shawl. After a moment she crossed herself and murmured, “No, Viola! Do you not remember the handsome young man, Giuliano Medici, who saved you from the stampede in Piazza della Signoria?”

“Oh!” My eyes began to sift through worshipers searching for Giuliano’s fur cap and brown curls. On either side of the nave were arcades and elaborate altars dedicated to different saints. Looking down, I could see the green trim of my dress graze the cobalt and cream diamond tiles. Zia chose to sit at a wooden bench towards the back of the church.

“Why are we sitting here?” I asked, looking at the rows of empty wooden benches ahead.

“Those seats are for people that are part of the grasso class. You and I are somewhere in between the grasso and minuto.”

“What does that mean?”

“The grasso are bankers like the Medici family, noble families, or wealthy merchants. The minuto, well, they are everybody else,” she paused to wipe her nose with a handkerchief. “But in the end, we all make our final journey some down there,” she said, tapping her foot on the colorful marble, “and fewer up there.” Zia gestured pointing up towards the ceiling. Following her finger, I looked up at the ceiling and was mesmerized by its simple beauty. It was covered with white square panels framed in golden lace. In the center of each square was a gold sunflower.

Sorrowful and eerie voices chanted holy hymns that rang off the walls of the basilica. Zia tugged on my sleeve and nudged her head towards the front of the church. Everyone stood for the procession of priests and altar boys making their way to the altar. They paced through the middle aisle, their draped arms carrying a jewel-encrusted book, a crucifix, and a swinging metal container filled with perfumed smoke. Standing up, I squinted to see the thick swirly lines of the embroidered fabric protecting the altar and the flowers stacked on its steps. The music, incense, and candlelight caused my eyes to glaze over while my mind wandered through memory.

Once I noticed the singing had stopped, I was the last person standing. Zia tugged at my dress as a sea of heads stared at me. Giuliano was one of those heads ogling me with his swoon-worthy smirk. The glare and serious expression of the man next to Giuliano brought me back to reality. His face looked very familiar but I could not place it. My face felt hot and turned a brilliant shade of red before I sat down.

“Your head is in the clouds, Viola! Do try to pay attention to where you are and why you have come!” Zia whispered.

Although there were many heads and bodies in my line of vision, I saw Giuliano and his austere companion had begun whispering. Of course I thought they were talking about how ridiculous I looked standing there after everyone else had sat down. Unable to look elsewhere, I noticed that even though the mysterious man was taller and older, he was not as handsome as Giuliano. On his head was a red turban hat that draped onto his shoulder and grazed his steel blue tunic. Similar to Giuliano, he had a prominent nose but it was slightly askew as if it had been broken once or twice. The stranger looked very important as he sat in the first row directly behind the priest. Lavishly dressed ladies and gentlemen surrounded him. The way he carried himself radiated power. My whole body shuddered when I saw the shaved head of the man sitting two seats from Giuliano. It was the man from the hanging. Every fiber of his being gave me a sick feeling. His voice had spoken the words of doom for that young girl who was now no more.

“Who are those two men sitting next to Giuliano?” I breathed.

“The one with the hat is Lorenzo de’ Medici. Some call him il Magnifico; he is Giuliano’s brother.” Once the words left her lips, the divine man seemed to have heard his name whispered and glared at me again.

Immediately, I turned my gaze and decided on the spot that I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Medici family. Zia also seemed shaken by the attention, as she did not answer the second half of my question for long minutes.

“The other man is named Pietro Sforza. He is Florence’s justice for the year,” she said, counting the wooden bead of her rosary.

After the last celestial hymn, Zia and I waited for our turn to leave the opulent sanctuary and gradually made our way through the tall front door. When we finally reached the outside and descended the final step, Zia looked at my hands and asked, “Where is the bag for Andrea?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tick-Tock

“Jesus!” I exclaimed.

With that slip of tongue, I hiked up my dress and ran back into San Lorenzo to get the goat guts. When I reached the aisle where we had been sitting, the stinky sack was nowhere in sight. I had only been in charge of one thing and I had already lost it.

“Why would her nephew hire me if I can’t even keep track of one rotting bag of organs,” I lamented as I scanned the aisles.

There were still many stragglers lingering towards the grand altar. I peeked down at my converse and modest dress before taking careful strides towards the front of the church. As I approached the altar’s floral steps, the shimmer of the women’s dresses and the twinkle of the men’s jewels caught my eye. Zia’s warnings of social class rang in my ears as I crossed over to one of the side aisles to avoid their eyes. It suddenly felt like high school again. Normally I would take the long way around the school just to avoid being “igknowed”—like that awkward moment when someone who sat next to you in Geometry saw you in the hallway and recognized you but chose to ignore you.

The sound of laughter pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up and saw two men, the one with the red hat that scowled at me and the one with the shaved head. My instinct urged me to run. I searched for somewhere to hide. To my right was a wooden confessional. Without hesitation I darted inside. Unsure whether they had seen me, I held my breath and listened hard while I waited for their footsteps to pass. For a brief moment, I realized just how ridiculous I was acting.

Why am I hiding
?
I thought as I peered through the honeycomb hexagons carved in the wooden door.

While I waited for them to pass, a ticking sound began to fill the cramped confessional. I looked for the source of the “tick-tock … tick-tock … tick-tock.” The frequency doubled quickly, and soon I felt a thump against my navel. My eyes bulged when I realized the ticking sound was coming from Idan. The sound and pace continued to increase and Idan vibrated more violently in an effort to be heard. I slipped its chain from around my neck and tucked it under my bottom to deafen the sound. Even with my whole weight and heavy dress there was a still low tick. Thankfully, the chatter of lingering folk masked the ticking.

“Has Simonetta Vespucci broken Giuliano’s heart yet?” asked the man with the shaved head.

The regal gentleman chuckled. “I’m afraid not, Pietro. The good Lord knows it would be good for him but alas she has broken plenty of other hearts.” He stopped just short of the confessional. “Speaking of pretty ladies … did you notice that girl that remained standing whilst all others sat during the eulogy?” he asked. A silence followed. My legs turned to mush as I began to shake in my holy alcove. “She wore a blue dress … striking girl but odd nonetheless.”

“I confess your grace, I barely recall her. Why?” asked Pietro.

“Giuliano told me he found her in the most extraordinary circumstances.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite! Apparently, she had suffered from some sort of fainting fit during the execution. He said she wore the most peculiar clothes—”

“What kind of clothing?” interjected Pietro. If his companion was surprised at the sudden tension in his friend’s voice, he did not show it.

“Tights made of a hard fabric and strange slippers … Are you all right?” he asked as Pietro stiffly turned around. “I merely say this because I think Giuliano fancies her. He seems to believe she was kidnapped,” said the gentleman who seemed on the verge of another good laugh.

“Why is that?” asked Pietro.

“He said she spoke Tuscan with a heavy accent.” All I could see were both their backs. I tried to calm myself but my breathing had quickened as the conversation continued.

“Lorenzo,” said Pietro, recovering his stiff demeanor. “I think this girl may be very … valuable to you.”

“I already have a mistress, as you well know.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then how? You just said you barely remember seeing her …” said Lorenzo.

“You must trust me. She possesses an object that is most precious and worth more than all the gold you possess.” Lorenzo sneered at this.

“Let us arrest her then,” he suggested. The change in the gentleman’s playful tone shocked me.

“No,” said Pietro, examining the passersby before continuing. “We shouldn’t discuss this here.” He led the way towards the entrance.

It was several minutes before I let myself breathe easily again, my mind buzzing with doubt.
How did the creepy man know about Idan?
I wondered.

The pocket watch was no longer ticking when I fastened it back around my neck. When an elderly woman passed by my hiding place, I remembered that Zia was waiting for me. I didn’t want to leave my hiding place, but I didn’t want her to worry either.

My hand shook as I pushed the door open. Instantly, I noticed Giuliano. He was a few rows up and on the verge of untying the bag of goat guts. “I wouldn’t open that if I were you,” I said, a bit out of breath.

“But you know how curious I am,” he implored with a smile that dimpled at the corners of his mouth. “I suppose I will follow your advice, as the bag has a rotten smell to it.”

“They are goat bones and organs. We are going to take them to Maestro Verrocchio’s workshop,” I explained, not wanting him to think I go around carrying stinky sacks of rotten body parts. He held out the bag and as I took it I noticed he had a large gold ring with five red stones and one blue arranged in a circle.

“I hope you are feeling better, Viola. If I may say so, you look much changed since last we met … but your eyes are just as brilliant,” he said in a charming but sincere voice. Thinking back to yesterday, the last and first time he saw me: mud, blood, and tears caked my face.

“Oh yes … thank you, Signore Medici.”

“Please, call me Giuliano, Viola.”

By this point in the conversation I was so nervous that I began to fidget with a piece of hair that had fallen from my braided bun. “All the same, I did not get a chance to thank you for carrying me to safety.”

“Yes, that … well, it was partially selfish,” he admitted. Not knowing what to say, I stood there mute and rooted to the spot.

“My young lord, what a pleasure it is to speak with you twice in only two days,” said Zia, who had just entered the basilica. “I must admit I was worried about Viola. She came in such a hurry because she forgot ingredients for my nephew and was taking such a long while. But now I see she has been conversing with the very best of company.”

“You are kind, Zia Cioni,” replied Giuliano with a slight nod of his head. “I did not know your nephew was Master Verrocchio. He is a great maestro indeed! In fact, I am so glad you mentioned his name as I was going to go to his workshop to commission a banner for my brother Lorenzo’s tournament. Shall we walk together?” I gulped hard at the mention of his brother’s name.

“We would be most grateful for your company,” said Zia.

As we made our way out onto the street, Zia gracefully squeezed herself between Giuliano and me. We walked silently in this singular arrangement until Zia asked Giuliano for his opinion of the sermon. Since we had left the church, I was trying to think of something impressive to say, but everything that occurred to me sounded lame.

“It was a bit long for my taste but …” began Giuliano, but my attention slowly faded from the conversation as the same clamor of a clock ticking grew—the same tick I heard in the Piazza della Signoria. To make this strange situation weirder, I had the kind of uneasiness that sneaks up your spine when you feel like you are being watched.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,” Idan quickened. I turned back to look at Giuliano, but he was still speaking intently with Zia. What was happening to Idan? Wishing that I could look at it, my fingers moved to dampen Idan’s tick.

“OUCH!” I blurted, feeling a sharp pain. I cradled my other arm to comfort my shoulder’s sting.

There were deep scratch marks like cat claws. Their talons breached my sleeves and the first layer of skin. Flecks of blood spotted my pink skin and torn fabric. I turned back to see who was the culprit. All I could make out was a blurry profile of a tall man with a shaved head. The upper sleeves of Pietro’s tunic had spikes embedded in its leather. A smirk danced on the man’s lips while his sharp mustache threatened his cheeks. He stared back at me. Idan’s tick slowed as the distance between us widened and the drops of blood filled the void where skin had lived. Just before he turned into the city’s labyrinth, he waved.

“What was that?” pressed Giuliano, examining my injured shoulder.

I wanted to point out the man that had hung that girl, the same man that was sitting next to them in church, but he was gone and so was the Idan’s incessant tick. Catching my breath, I realized Giuliano and Zia had stopped walking.

“Who did this?” he asked, looking behind us with my blood on his fingers. Zia’s face also looked anxious as she peered up at me.

“Thank you, but I did not mean to worry any of you. Someone … just didn’t notice where I was walking. Must have been carrying something sharp,” I said as Giuliano offered me his handkerchief. “Could happen to anyone.” I pressed the muslin against the wound.

The rest of the walk was uneventful. Zia talked about the weather while my mind spiraled around the tick and the stranger. Finally we stopped outside a narrow three-story building. The bottom level, constructed of dark stones, partially opened onto the street. It had dark wooden fencing and a hard canvas tarp. As we approached the entrance, there was a strong smell of wax and smoke. A melody of hammers and hollers drifted onto the street. Giuliano went in first and the lively noises dulled to a light clatter. Zia and I followed close behind.

The floorboards of the workshop yawned under the many feet of busy boys and men hurrying around the large room. The studio overflowed with sturdy worktables that supported frames, mixing bowls, brushes, eggs, screws, nails, and glass bottles. Neat rows of familiar and alien tools hung on the walls. Large and small unfinished paintings leaned against surfaces, waiting to be made timeless. Sheets of gold and blocks of marble glittered by the hot oven embedded into one of the east walls. The oven was at chest level and surrounded by neat red brick. A boy around seven years old tended the fire. Other lads were grinding minerals in stone mortars or mixing potions in shallow bowls. The older boys and men were busy drawing, painting, or carving models. Here and there were yards of stiff fabrics draped over furniture.

Zia and I waited at the entrance as Giuliano spoke, hands moving and eyes smiling, with a man in his early forties. He was listening to Giuliano with an attentive expression and his thumbs looped under the belt tightened beneath his round paunch. Suddenly, Giuliano gestured towards the entrance. The man gave us a fleeting smile, nodded, and became serious once more. They both clasped hands before Giuliano walked back over to us.

“I must be off as I have other errands to run for my brother.”

“Yes, well you must be incredibly busy. Thank you for accompanying us,” said Zia.

“We will see each other quite soon,” answered Giuliano as he looked at me. His eyes caught me off guard so I didn’t have time to look elsewhere.

“If it is God’s will,” Zia replied.

“It is … Please keep the handkerchief.” He kissed the back of my hand. When he left the workshop, Zia stared at me with a concerned expression.

“Oh, dear child, I am not sure what to make of that look he gave you, and I can see from the color in your cheeks that you have the same sickness about you. It is not a wise match for so many reasons! Do not think me a bitter old lady, sweet Viola, I just want to protect you from the harsh world we live in and all its evils. When you meet Margherita, you will know what I mean.” She frowned.

The man that had been speaking with Giuliano walked to the entrance with arms spread wide. His dark serious eyes and round face lit up at Zia’s face. His chin doubled over onto his white collar and his receding hairline hid under a soft black leather hat. The dust that covered his black tunic almost made it sparkle.

“As usual, Zia, you bring me good luck!” he said as he picked her up in a tight embrace.

“Put me down, Andrea! You will break my bones and then you will have to add me to the long list of people you take care of,” she said, clutching his arms.

“You can imagine my surprise at seeing you on the heels of the young Medici. He just commissioned a bust as well as a banner for their family’s joust tournament,” he said, placing her gently on the floorboards.

“No doubt it will be your top priority!”

“It is just that I have about thirty other top priorities at the moment,” he consented, casting a glance around the bustling workshop.

“My dear nephew, you must keep your focus and finish your tasks. You have been that way since you were a child. You could not play with one toy. It was imperative you had insects, lizards, pots, and swords at your disposal!”

“My healthy balance of inquisitiveness and procrastination is my weakness,” he admitted. “Leonardo told me that he saw you at the Mercato and to expect you accompanied by a young girl.”

“This is Viola, Andrea. She is my new ward.” He scanned me, squinting his eyes into slits.

“May I speak with my Zia alone for a moment, Viola?” Verrocchio asked as he guided Zia farther into the workshop.

From a distance I could see Zia sitting on a chair and Verrocchio bent over her. She pulled out her locket and pointed in my direction. He glared at her as Zia continued to talk. After several agonizing minutes, she gestured for me to join them.

“Zia has explained to me your situation. I beg your apology if in any event I was rude just now. I had no idea that my Zia had taken on a ward and I did not want her to be played the fool. Could I see your locket for a moment?” asked Verrocchio.

Taking care not to pull out Idan, I unfastened my shawl and took off the locket. He held both lockets in his hand and studied them to the minutest detail.

“They are exactly the same, which is of course impossible,” he said to himself.

“Do not bother trying to figure it out. It is clearly an act of God,” she said, standing. “I have brought you your favorite cannelloni and to give you the goat’s spare bits for glue.” She placed both sacks on a nearby worktable. “I also want you to find a job for Viola in your workshop.” 

Verrocchio stirred from his inspection of the lockets. “Can you not see that this workshop is full of boys and men, Zia? I do not want to be responsible for a pretty, young girl of fourteen. Surely, you can see it is a most precarious situation.” At this point of the conversation, not only was I starting to feel like a sack of goat guts that no one wanted, but my eyes caught a painting that almost made me pee in my stockings.

The painting of the angels and the Jesus being baptized, the same painting that had been the door of the tunnel, was resting against the back wall of the workshop. My spirits dampened at the sight of the unfinished painting. How was I going to get back if the painting was missing an angel? Although I had no idea of how to get back, the sight of the painting was also encouraging. It was too big of a coincidence to find myself standing in front of the same painting I had lost myself in more than five hundred years later. Surely, my problem had something to do with the painting.