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

by Maria C. Trujillo

  “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.
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  “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.”