Nodding in agreement, I followed her down the staircase. Zia went into a room tucked behind the kitchen and carried out a wooden platter laden with cheese, fruit, and bread.
Apart from the table and its chairs, there were two large ceramic barrels in one corner of the room and next to the table was a shelving closet. The shelves held glass jars and had painted vine detailing around the edges. There was a stove with a fire pit below it and several pots waiting to be useful.
“The bread is dry, but you see I was going to go to the Mercato Vecchio but God thankfully put you in my way,” she said, placing the wooden block on the table. “We will go as soon as we are well fed. Oh, Viola, could you please get a knife from the cupboard?”
In reply, I walked over to the shelves, where there were knives with leather handles.
Zia cut some slices of goat cheese, small green apples, and dry bread. Also on the block was a small bowl with olive oil. “The oil will soften the bread … eat!” she encouraged.
Although eager, I took little bites. While we ate in silence, my mind started to wander. When was the last time I ate? It was the fruitcake with Mrs. Reed, and before that the pastries with my dad … My stomach lurched and my appetite left. I missed my dad already and it had been less than four hours since I went through the tunnel. Where in the past was I exactly? A knock at the door stirred me from my thoughts. Zia peered out the window and then opened the door.
A woman in her early twenties with a baby in her arms stepped through the entrance. The baby had rolls at his ankles and neck that made him extra adorable.
“Was that the young Medici in front of your house?” she asked as the baby grabbed her long red hair.
“It was,” added Zia, wringing her wrists. It was then the visitor noticed me.
“I beg your pardon. I had no idea you had guests,” she said, but made no move to leave. Tied around her tiny waist was an apron with scalloped edges, and the white dress underneath stretched across her shapely hips.
“Oh, this is not a guest. This is my niece, Viola. She is visiting from the country.”
“How wonderful! Have you come to spend time with our dear Zia or to find a husband?” she asked, looking me up and down.
“At least for now, to keep me company,” interrupted Zia. “This is Giulia Bianchi and this is young Luca. Giulia, this is Viola Orofino.”
“How lovely she is! Are you feeding her? She looks like she’s been frightened half to death,” observed Giulia. Baby Luca was growing restless in her arms.
“We were just getting to that,” said Zia. “Who is looking after the other baby?”
“My husband, I just ran over to see what on earth that handsome young man was doing in your house.”
“My niece fainted at the execution this morning in Piazza della Signoria. I tried to lift her up but could not, so the young Medici helped me as he was near us.”
“How romantic,” said Giulia, her green eyes sparkling. “Well, I will leave you to your meal as it’s time for feedings anyway.”
“Does Giulia have many children?” I asked a few moments after she left.
“Just one, the prettiest little girl you ever saw.”
“And Luca?”
“Oh, she is a wet nurse.”
Since when do people have wet nurses? My thoughts drifted to the pocket watch and its inscription. Did the diamond’s face give me any clues about where I was in time? It said the word “December.” Did that mean that today was still my birthday, December 19th? What about the other numbers thirty and 1469?
Judging from the clothes, the wet nurse, as well as bits and pieces of history class, I decided that I must be somewhere in the Middle Ages. All I knew about the period was that there was a lot of war, sickness, and people were really dirty. After looking around the room, I decided everything looked clean. But what if I got sick? When was that terrible plague again? Cursing myself for not being a better listener in history class, I decided to take a risk.
“Zia … do people here get sick often?” I asked trying not to sound too concerned.
“Well, that depends. I suppose you mean the Moria?” She frowned. “Well the city has strict rules about who they let into the city and where our dead can be buried so as to avoid sickness. Much of my family was killed by the terrible disease you speak of. But it has been about fifty years or so since we have had an outbreak. The best thing to do is to avoid any sick person and bad airs.” She finished nibbling on a dried fig. It might be difficult because so far everything except for Zia’s home smelled bad.
“I’m sorry to hear about your family. That must have been very painful. I hope my question did not upset you.”
“Of course not, but it is sad to think of loved ones lost. Although we must all meet our maker someday.” She cleared the table. “There is a shawl on the chair. Why don’t you wrap it around your pretty face so we may finish our errands for the day?”
Picking up the creamy shawl, I pulled it over and tucked the corners into the heavy dress. While Zia finished clearing the table, I went upstairs to grab my satchel.
“Take care to hold that satchel close to you. Do not speak to anyone unless I say otherwise, and do not let go of my arm, Viola,” she told me with a stern voice as she unfastened the lock of the door.
Zia stepped out and I followed close behind.
CHAPTER FIVE
Silk
When I looked out the door for the second time, all of Florence had awakened, and an icy chill blew through the street. The hungry scavengers had not left their posts but were now lost among the many people going about their business. Men dressed in dark monochromatic capes, tights, and fur hats flooded the street. After warning me to watch for the front step, Zia grabbed my hand and guided me to one of the doors across the street.
“We’d best get this over with,” she said, shaking her head.
A hefty middle-aged woman opened the door. She had light eyes with pillows of skin cushioning them. “I was just on my way to call on you. I saw the strangest thing … It looked like Giuliano de’ Medici was carrying a young girl in fr—”
“Yes, that is why I stopped by. This is my niece, Viola. She is … well, what I mean to say is Viola has come from the country to stay with me.”
“I am Signora Rossi,” she said with a curt nod. “I had no idea you had a niece named Viola.” Her eyebrows arched as she rubbed her thick fingers on the spotted dishcloth slung about her belt. “I would’ve remembered as it is my favorite name,” she said, crossing her arms.
Zia shifted her weight from side to side, letting her eyes settle on the ground. “It is a nice name,” she said.
“Well, what happened?”
“When?”
“With the young Medici?” insisted Rossi.
“Oh yes … well, Viola fainted at the execution of that poor girl, and—”
“Poor girl indeed! She was accused of drowning her babe in the Arno,” interrupted Signora Rossi. They both crossed themselves.
“Well the young Medici was nearby and he graciously helped carry her to my house.”
“What a strapping young man,” said Rossi, her small mouth curling into a smile. “A fine match for my Maria.”
“But she is engaged to that sweet young boy!”
“Sweet he may be, but rich he is most definitely not.” She rolled her eyes. “I would invite you to sit by the fire but Maria and my husband are not dressed for company.”
“That is all right. We are on our way to the market.”
“May I call on you later?”
“By all means,” answered Zia as she steered me away from the door. As we walked towards the end of the street, the sun came out from the clouds. “I feel quite awful lying, but it’s for the best, I assure you.”
A group of young men c
lad in beautiful tunics of lavender, crimson, and emerald walked past us. They were joking and laughing at each other. Each of the four had short swords attached to their embroidered belts. Women were scarce but the few that glided through the street exposed their marble skin and long hair proudly. Such young women left a trail of whispers behind them. The most stunning ladies wore smooth silks and plush, velvet gowns. Others, myself included, wore warm woolen dresses. The dark blue dress Zia had given me was a little too short, so as I walked down Via dei Benci, everyone could see my purple Converse poking out from beneath.
Zia locked her arm with mine as we made our way through hordes of people. The dusty walls that lined the street were at least thirty feet high, and all the doors opened directly onto the road. The smell of saltwater and fish wafted around the donkeys, chickens, and small altars of the Virgin Mary. The cobblestones were slippery, so I put all my energy into being graceful and careful.
When I almost slipped, Zia exclaimed, “Heavens, child, you are clumsy! It must be those peculiar shoes. Be steady, Viola, especially when I am attached to you.” Pressing her small hand against my own, we continued down the street.
The deeper we climbed into the heart of the city, the taller the walls, the wider the streets, and the brighter the light. Makeshift carts made of battered wood and fabric propped themselves up on random corners. Many of the stalls sold wool, used clothing, and vegetables. One stand sold bright flowers. The white petals and crisp green stems of the lilies stood out in spite of the gloomy surroundings.
“Some things don’t change.” I smiled to myself, thinking back to Angela’s Flower Shop on the corner of my apartment building. Flowers have always bloomed, and merchants will always sell them on street corners.
“That is better! I like to see a young girl smile,” said Zia, her eyes twinkling, as we continued to tread along the slippery path. “This is called Piazza della Signoria. This is the blessed place where I found you,” said Zia as the street opened onto a plaza.
The square was emptier now but I could still feel the ground vibrate under hundreds of feet, hooves, and wheels. The only evidence of the horror scene that had taken place a few hours ago was the wooden platform and the noose. Suddenly, I became more aware of the cold moisture in the air and the dryness of my throat.
“It was so horrible,” I muttered softly.
“Some call it justice but many call it entertainment. I don’t care for it. Somehow that wooden post and bit of rope bring out all that is wretched in humanity. The crowds are unbearable! I try not to come near the piazza for fear of being trampled to death, but this morning it was unavoidable.”
Laughter erupted from a rickety stage nearby. Old and young, poor and wealthy, swarmed around the modest stage. The actors played using masks with exaggerated noses, lips, and eyebrows. Even though one of the actors faked their death, there was a steady stream of laughter from the audience. The cheerful sound trailed off with the growing rumble of a clock ticking.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?
“A ticking sound?”
“I can’t hear anything over that racket.” She pointed to the stage.
Although several towers and storefronts enclosed the plaza, the largest building was by far the most impressive.
“That is where all the important government officials work. It is called the Palazzo della Signoria,” she continued, pointing to a sandy brick building that looked like a fortress with its great walls, stepped roof, and looming bell tower.
Through the gaps of the battlement, we could see marching guards clad in polished metal. More than anything, the building looked intimidating and allowed only a few rows of clover-shaped windows for light.
Zia tugged at my arm and we continued to make our way through the plaza. Before we swerved onto another street, I lingered in the center square. The constant ticking sound had not stopped. Where was it coming from? Was it Idan? Quickly, I counted how many doors there were in the Piazza della Signoria. In total I tallied forty, give or take two. How was I going to try to open forty doors? Maybe I could come every morning and make notes about who goes in and out of each door? The one that no one comes out of should be the door to get back to Mrs. Reed’s gallery.
What if I chose the wrong door? They could accuse me of breaking and entering or trying to steal something. They would probably arrest me and drag me up that deadly wooden platform. The anxiety from the early morning pressed against my chest again. Zia noticed my tense body and stoic expression.
“Don’t worry so, Viola. Upon my honor, I am an old woman and I worry less than you. We cannot have that! Let us go down this street instead. I think you will like this next part of the city.” Patting my hand, Zia took a sudden right. “All women enjoy this spectacle, the vain and the humble. My late husband was one of the finest tailors in Florence and he would often come to this street on business. It is called Via Vacchereccia,” she explained with a proud smile that made her scar vanish.
As we walked down the promising street, the stink dwindled. The cotton canopies of the buildings swirled against the wind’s will and the strong rope that grounded them. When we drew closer I could see hundreds of baskets with little loose packets of material in a rainbow of colors. The bundles looked like wrapped spider webs shimmering under the waves of their canopies. Little signs were written on each basket, but I couldn’t read them.
“Do you know what is in those baskets, Viola?”
“Material?” I answered. Zia turned and pointed to the store on the opposite side of the street. The shop front burst with shelves, upon which neat rows of material shone. “Is that silk?”
“Yes! Those bundles are raw silk, and that is what it looks like after it is woven. Silk is beautiful from start to finish, no?” Zia observed as she approached the store merchant.
He was an older man with a wide nose and a shaggy mustache that concealed his lips. When his blue eyes met Zia’s, his hollow cheeks almost reached his eyebrows and in his smile he revealed a few golden teeth. When they both spoke in very fast Italian, I was reminded of how alien I was. I understood little, but it was evident that the merchant was thrilled to see Zia.
She reached for my hand and passed it to the old man. “This is Viola, my niece from the country. Viola, this is Signore Soldo.”
The old man cradled my long fingers and gave my hand a scratchy peck.
“Your niece is our blossoming violet among this city of wilting flowers.” He grinned at his own wit. In my embarrassment, I veered my eyes towards the waves of silk contained in the shelves. Not letting go of my hand, he led me further into his shop. “Although I cannot boast of having the finest silks in Florence, they are very close.” Letting go of my hand, he reached to move the footstool. With one last glance at me, he climbed and retrieved two velvets of different colors, sea green and apricot. “Which one do you like best, young lady?” asked Signore Soldo. His question reminded me that it was still my birthday. In answer, I pointed to the sea green velvet. “Excellent. I thought you would choose that one! The color attempts to match the grace and singular color of your eyes.” He wrapped the fabric with thin sheets of cotton.
“Oh, sir, I cannot pay for it!” I said, shaking my head.
“But it is a welcoming gift to Florence … Besides, I only give such exquisite material to the most exquisite ladies.” He winked.
“Hush, Francesco! You will scare the girl senseless.”
He bowed his head in apology. “God will forgive me as he knows I only speak the truth. Such beauty has obviously been inherited from her aunt.”
“Thank you for the gift. I will hem this to the bottom of Viola’s dress. She is too tall for it, poor child. We will visit another day.”
“Please do visit me again, ladies,” he begged.
“Thank you, Signore, for the gift,” I said a
nd extended my hand to shake his. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulled my hand towards him, and gave it another prickly smooch.
“Another time, Francesco!” said Zia. We weaved our way out of the shop and onto the street of silk. “We are almost there, dear,” Zia assured me, turning right onto a street with an inscribed plaque that read “Via Calimala.”
Looking up I could see that the bright morning light had faded. The humidity and smoke that drifted into the street from nearby ovens and chimneys made the air so heavy it felt like we were cutting our way through the lane. The smell of fresh bread and soil melded with the smoke that burned through my nose. After some minutes of walking, the street opened up into another plaza.
“At last! My feet are tired,” admitted Zia.
CHAPTER SIX
Leonardo
Unlike the Piazza della Signoria, the Mercato Vecchio was more constricted. The walls surrounding it were punctured with hovels that sold baskets of fish, meat on hooks, grains in jars, animals in cages, and milk in canisters. As we strayed deeper into the market, there were several shrines with a cross and a bit of painted fabric draped over its arms. There were also pairs of wooden benches where the devout could reflect. The piazza had a breath of its own, made up of the men, women, children, and animals heaving through it. On one corner of the piazza was a small fountain where children filled their buckets with water.
On the opposite side was a slender column. It had a leaning figure at the top carved from white stone. At the base, several steps wrapped around the column. While some shoppers rested on these steps, most people in the market were bargaining or begging. Several women with simple dresses and hats were seated on barrels and selling their goods on the floor with only scraps of fabric protecting their livelihood. One was only a girl about my age. She was selling chickens, eggs, milk, and cheese. Sleeves rolled up past her elbows revealed forearms that were thick from farm work. Her bored and hungry expression was the same one I had in Mr. Barnett’s biology class.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 5
