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

by Maria C. Trujillo

  My mind throbbed. “Stop that!” I yelled.

  In an effort to wake myself from my hallucination, I pinched the skin on my forearm. Nothing happened. Cool air hit the exposed wounds on my knees, making my limbs shiver. Turning in circles, I tried to find an outlet, but I was stuck. Waves of people surrounded me, and beyond that were foreign-looking antiquated buildings. The stench made it difficult for me to breathe so I cupped a bloody hand over my nose.

  Focusing once again on the platform, I saw a strong, T- shaped wooden post with a noose dangling from it.

  Oh my God … This is a nightmare.

  The crowd quieted as three men approached the wooden platform. The first man was short and heavyset. Each one of his facial features was unnaturally curvy but his expression severe. The two tall men directly behind him were dressed in elegant black costumes. The one at the rear had a crooked nose and wore a red cap, but he soon trailed off into the crowd followed by an escort of guards. The remaining two men mounted the stairs to the wooden platform. The woman was shaking violently in the midst of the rotten food surrounding her. Pity filled my heart.

  It was at this particular moment, that I realized the crowd around me was shouting in Italian. “Murderer!” screamed a chorus of voices.

  The round man was on a stool adjusting the rope while the taller man unwound a scroll. His long features and tailored mustache gave him an austere appearance as he read aloud to the crowd. It was impossible to catch every word because of the noise around me. The only words I heard were “trial...Silvia...drowned...children...guilty.” The cheers of the crowd were deafening as he rolled up the parchment.

  A shrill scream penetrated the poisoned air and their revelry. Two guards dressed in purple tunics had forced the woman to the stool and were tightening the noose around her pale neck. She no longer seemed human, but sprite-like. Her irises and pupils merged into one while her lips parted, screaming silently. The limber man’s shaved head disappeared into the mob while the stout one placed his foot against the knobby stool. His boot swung back and then all went black.

  While I regained consciousness, fear kept my eyes shut tight. My body slowly left the ground. My face felt dry as the sweat and tears began to crystallize. Lying there limp in anonymous arms, my heart beat so fast I thought he might feel it. The only thing I could hear was the faint voice of an elderly woman.

  “Oh! Thank you, Signore Medici! You are kindness and greatness itself. I would not have been able to lift her out of there with these old tired arms. It is so good of you to help a poor woman and this odd girl. What a terrible place to faint, right in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria! She could have died there and the hooded men would have had to carry her body off with the rest of those poor sick souls.”

  “It is nothing,” replied the voice of the young man carrying me. “She is heavy! Where should I let her down?”

  “My home is just a little ways on Via dei Benci,” answered the older woman.

  After walking a bit, I felt the stranger strengthen his grip around my shoulders and knees, his fatigue setting in. He stopped and I could hear the sounds of keys jangling and wood creaking. The stranger walked up a step and gently set me down on a wooden table. It was too short so my feet dangled off the end.

  “You are too gracious, Signore Medici, please sit and rest! I must apologize because I have not gone to get water or milk yet … I have only table wine and my gratitude to offer you.” Sprawled across the table, I could hear the woman speak while she fumbled around the room. The sound of a chair scraping the tiled ground approached me.

  “No, thank you,” he said politely. “You have the privilege of knowing my name but I do not yet know yours.”

  “Signora Caterina de Cioni, but everyone calls me Zia Cioni.”

  “Then I insist you call me Giuliano.”

  “Are you sure, my young lord? Would that not be unwise?”

  “Not at present. You will call me Giuliano, and I will call you Zia Cioni.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Giuliano, Zia!” he said cheerfully.

  “Giuliano!”

  “Now then, do you know this young woman? Is she your relative?”

  “Upon my word, I do not know her but she does seem familiar. There was such a crowd about the Piazza today. I was on my way to Mercato Vecchio when I got caught up in the mob and almost tripped over this poor thing. I tried to pull her up but could not. That is when you came and helped me. So you see, I know just as much as you, good sir … I do hope she is not too badly hurt.” She walked over to the table and felt my forehead. “First, I will try my smelling salts,” she said, her voice uneasy.

  “What funny dress she has! It is not in my manner to go about alone or enter homes of those I do not know, but this peculiar girl has captured my curiosity,” observed Giuliano.

  “Indeed!” answered Zia Cioni. “Aha! Found them. For a moment, I thought I had lent them to Signora Rossi. My mind these days is not what it once was.”

  Two pairs of footsteps approached the table. Seconds later I felt glass press against my lips and an alarming scent consumed my nose. I began to cough hoarsely. Rolling onto my side, I opened my eyes that were brimming with water again. They focused on the brown tiled floor, mossy wool, and soft leather shoes.

  A hand rubbed my back, “You are all right, girl! These are powerful salts. I get them from the best apothecary,” clucked Zia Cioni.

  Looking up, I saw the pale face of an elderly woman. She had a constellation of dark moles scattered across her face. Concern was written across the wrinkles of her forehead. The light sifting through the room highlighted a large white scar under her left eye, and a gray shawl concealed her hair, giving her a holy air.

  “There you are,” she said as she peeled the locks of hair from my face. “Good gracious, look at those eyes! In all my days I have never seen such eyes.” I made a move to sit up but she pushed me on my back again. “Do not sit up just yet, child.”

  “Some of that table wine might do her some good, no?” suggested Giuliano.

  He had been standing on the other side of the table silently observing. I turned towards his voice. A tingly feeling propelled through my veins. Giuliano Medici, who had referred to me as “heavy,” had the most charming face. Black curly hair surrounded his square chin and shoulders. He had a slender nose that turned down. Spirited brown eyes surrounded by long eyelashes looked down at me. He had a cleft in his chin and his lips naturally curved into a smile. From my position on the table, it was hard to tell how tall he was, but he did have an athletic build. Unfortunately, his outfit looked ridiculous, especially considering the meager surroundings of the room. Giuliano wore a short mustard tunic trimmed with dark fur. Underneath was a brown suede coat that buttoned up to the nape of his neck.

  “Yes … one blue, one brown, astonishing.” My cheeks felt hot when I realized I had been staring at him.

  “What is your name child?” asked Zia Cioni.

  “Violet.”

  “Excuse me? Vi–what?” questioned Giuliano.

  “I mean Viola.”

  “Viola, what is your full name?” pressed Zia Cioni.

  “Oh … Viola …” I tried to buy time. Thinking it probably would not be wise to give them my real name, I settled for my mother’s last name. “Viola Orofino,” I finished, trying to make it sound natural.

  “You have a foreign accent … You are not from here?” asked Giuliano suspiciously.

  “I am not sure where here is. I sort of stumbled here. It is probably best if I go back to that plaza. Can you show me where it is?” I asked, pulling myself up.

  “You are in my home and you are not leaving quite yet,” said Zia Cioni in a pacifying tone.

  “Where is your home?” I implored.

  “On Via dei Benci.”


  “And where is that?”

  “Firenze, of course,” said Giuliano with a concerned expression. There was a long bout of silence before he spoke again. “Were you kidnapped, Viola?” His question did seem like the most reasonable explanation. Firenze … how did I travel to Florence, Italy? I needed to talk to someone I knew.

  “Do you have a phone, Zia Cioni?”

  “I am sorry, a what? I have never heard of such a thing,” She shrugged.

  My heart sank. Extending my legs, I slid off the table and walked to the entrance.

  “Viola! Wait! You must rest,” pleaded Signora Cioni.

  Unlike the door in the tunnel, this door opened at my slightest touch. The street scene that flooded my eyes caused my knees to buckle. The early morning light was just reaching the narrow street of Via dei Benci. The path was crowded with men dressed in clothing similar to Giuliano's, though less fine. Shuffling past the door was an old man in somber garb and fur cap carrying a sack full of threadbare books. Further along a veiled woman held the hand of a small boy of five or so and tried to keep up with his skip. The boy was tossing a lemon in his other hand. Three men argued loudly about money. The air was heavy with the stink of garbage and discarded matter decaying on the road. Wanderers huddled near houses with bowls attached to their starving fingers.

  “What’s wrong, Viola?” asked a distant voice.

  “I’m lost.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Locket

  With the help of curiosity, clumsiness, and a tunnel, I had lost myself in Italy and in time. I closed the door and dropped to my knees. Covering my face with my hands, dry blood and all, I wept until I gasped for air. Zia Cioni muttered inaudible words to Giuliano. He answered the elderly woman by swiftly leaving the house. Zia Cioni grabbed my hand and beckoned me to stand. Sniveling, I forced myself to my feet.

  Looking around the room I saw the long wooden table I had been lying on and three chairs surrounding it. An array of dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling with packing string. On the east side of the room, two small windows gave the optimism that only early light brings on the homely kitchen. On the opposite wall was a wooden staircase. Zia Cioni led me up the stairs and into a room.

  The chamber was small but it had a straw bed with clean linen draped over it. She urged me to sit on the only other piece of furniture in the room—a heavy chest—and assured me she would return shortly. I was completely alone. How did I end up in this dreadful mess? My mind frantically searched for shreds of hope while my body shook. Will I ever see my parents or Clara again? My stomach growled. The fruitcake seemed like centuries ago.

  While I waited for Zia, I took off my satchel, which was spotted with muck, and made sure nothing had fallen out. My sketchbook, birthday pencils, pens, strawberry lip gloss, and empty wallet fell onto the bed. I knew that was everything I had brought, but the satchel didn’t feel empty.

  Looking inside, I saw the zipper pocket looked heavy. After unzipping it, I felt my fingers close around cool metal. When I pulled the object out, its long, glittery chain fell across my lap. Hours earlier I had seen the diamond-shaped object in Mrs. Reed’s hands! She must have put it in my satchel before I went into the gallery, but why? Why had she pushed me into this? With my head buzzing with questions, I looked for my answers in the angular contraption.

  It fit comfortably into my palm, but the four knobs at each angle gave it an awkward look. On the back, I could see hundreds of engraved lines encircling an inscription that read “Idan.” Adding the letters to the long list of things I was confused about, I opened its case. The gold metal framed a diamond face that did not tell time. Instead, a sheet of glass protected four round miniatures of a rising sun, bright sun, setting sun, and a moon made from precious stones at each corner. There was only one golden hand, and at that moment it was in between the rising and bright sun. Framing the clock’s face were rectangular windows under which different things were inscribed. The rectangle at the top read “December” and the one to the right had the number nineteen. In the bottom peepholes of the clock were the numbers 1469 and thirty. What did this thing mean and why was it in my bag?

  Zia Cioni’s approach interrupted my investigation. I thrust Idan, along with my other belongings, back into the satchel. When Zia opened the door, I was staring absently at a small but delicate painting of the Virgin Mary caressing baby Jesus. She returned with a basin of water and a sponge. She motioned for me to take off my clothes. Feeling weak and embarrassed, I shrugged them off.

  She gave me a startled look and said, “What strange underclothes! You will freeze in such rubbish. Start to clean yourself; I will be back with some proper clothing … You are very lucky as I think you might be the same size my daughter was before she left home. I still have some of her dresses.”

  I washed my face and hands then moved onto my bloody knees until the water was a murky mauve. She returned with a pile of clothes and another pitcher of water. After dressing me in stockings, a white cotton dress, and a woolen indigo dress, she was content that I had on a sufficient number of warm layers. She then opened the window, looked down, and threw the dirty water onto the street.

  After refilling the basin, she insisted I soak my hair. Her dry hands rubbed the edges of my face and hair with coarse soap. Drops of freezing water rolled down my back. During this process of clothing and primping, my mind had fallen into a meditative state. My eyes were parched but my heart wanted to grieve. Zia Cioni brushed and pulled my hair into arrangements. I must have looked like a sad zombie to her. My skin felt clammy against her warm touch.

  “Why does your soul cry now that your eyes cannot, sweet child?”

  “The public execution is still on my mind … and you have been so kind, Zia Cioni,” I answered, my eyes fixed on the painting.

  “I am but a lonely Christian widow, and my only living child is in the country far away from me. So you see, your company, however brief, gives me strength. You are lovely and burdened. Sorrow should cringe in the presence of your youth.” She paused a moment. “Tell me what troubles you, Viola.”

  “I am not sure if I can explain, but I think I may be lost forever. I have zero hope of seeing my family again, and I don’t have any money or way to repay you. All I have is this locket …” I took off my locket. Delicate lines caressed its silver case and the embellished pearl at its center. Sure of its value, I held out the locket to her.

  She stared at me panting for words.

  “How did you get that?” She picked up the locket to inspect it.

  “It was my grandmother’s. My mom gave it to me on my twelfth birthday. She was—”

  Zia gave me an incredulous look. She pulled out a locket from her dress. It was identical. “How is this possible? My ailing husband gave this to me before he passed away and you have the same one.”

  Realizing that I was possibly in the presence of a very great grandmother, I thought about movies I had watched about time travel. Would confessing have repercussions on my future? Opting for silence, I sat staring stupidly at both lockets. Suddenly I felt less alone and my foreign surroundings seemed more welcoming.

  Zia’s mouth quivered. “Surely this is a sign from God that I was meant to find you. You have been sent by the good Lord himself and I will make sure you lack for nothing.” With these reassuring words, she fastened the locket around my neck and kissed my forehead. “You must not worry, child. You are with family now. Do not grieve for the past. There is a plan for all those willing.”

  She grabbed my hands and examined them. “I can see you have not worked a day in your life. Your hands look like those of young Medici!” She laughed. “We will have to change that. What are your skills? Can you sew?”

  “No, but I can learn,” I said

  “Hmm … Can you cook?

  “A little,” I confessed.

  “
Pray! What have you been doing with your youth?”

  “I’ve learned other things though! I read and write. I’m pretty good at math. But mostly, I have been drawing and painting.”

  “Allora? That is most unusual. Those are all male professions. This makes things most difficult.” She paused. “Do you have proof you can do such things?”

  “I do.”

  “Show me.”

  I took my sketchbook out of the satchel and passed it to her. She looked curiously at the doodles, quotes, and stickers covering it. As Zia started to flip through the pages, she passed some sketches of school children, bedroom sheets, strangers in central park, a garbage can full of protest posters, and my dad. She closed it and handed it back to me.

  “I will speak to my nephew, Andrea, tomorrow. He is very famous here and owns a workshop. There might be some work for you there, but do not show your notebook to anyone.” I nodded in agreement. “Speaking of Andrea, I must make my goat cannelloni! They are his favorite and he could use the rest of the goat to make glue.” She stood up and signaled for me to do the same.

  “Glue from a goat?” I asked.

  “Of course, child! How do you think that paper sticks to your book?” Remembering where and when I was, I stopped myself.

  “Come, Viola, idleness is for the Devil and we have been idle indeed! Let us finish the day’s tasks and we might roughen those delicate hands of yours.” She stood in the doorway and waited for me to follow her. When I stood up, my stomach made a loud gurgling sound.

  “Oh, Viola! You must be hungry. Why did you not say so? It is nearly two in the afternoon and I am starting to get hungry as well. Shall we eat something before our errands?” she asked.