“It was designed by the same architect who finished the Duomo.”
“Brunelleschi?”
“Good girl.” He smiled.
“I am going to say ‘good boy’ every time you do something I approve of and see how you like it,” I said.
“Then you won’t be saying it often.” He grinned and walked towards the double doors of the basilica.
Similar to San Lorenzo, it had a nave with a side aisle on either side separated by an arcade. The same black and white stripes covered the ribs of the ceiling. The hundreds of candles that marked the passageways burned with a mystical glow. Leonardo walked towards the left aisle. Supporting the basilica were several pillars that made up the colonnades. An elevated horizontal band of stone attached itself to one of the pillars. An elaborate staircase leading to the suspended porch wrapped around the pillar. A round disk that looked as if it had cut into the stone lay suspended above the round capsule.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an ambo,” he replied, lowering his voice. “It was designed by our friend Brunelleschi, but I think his adopted son ended up finishing the job.” Elaborate floral motifs were carved into the ambo. Its borders framed scenes from the Bible. “An ambo is where they read from the scripture,” he explained, grabbing my hand.
Midway down the left aisle we stopped in front of a wall staring at a painting of Christ crucified. Leonardo and I stood in respectful silence for the masterpiece. The painting was rather morbid and dark. Only the muted light struggling through the stained glass could touch the painting. The color palette ranged from burgundy to taupe and dark blue. It looked to be about twenty feet tall.
We both had to look up at the gloomy figures that occupied the painting’s space. Close to the bottom lay a stone sarcophagus supporting a bone skeleton. A string of words appeared as if carved into the stony crypt.
Above the crypt two heavily draped figures flanked each side of the painting. The one on the left was an older man clothed in a dull red cloak with his hands clasped in prayer, staring up at the cross. His companion on the right was in the same pose but dressed like a nun in black from head to toe. Further into the painting stood two figures; I assumed one of them was the Virgin Mary because of her halo. She had her arm up in a gesture that suggested she was presenting her son. The standing figure opposite her also had a halo. In between them was Christ crucified.
What really stunned me about the painting was the figure behind Christ. The figure was a robust older man with a white beard and another halo suspended over his head. He was lifting up the cross that held Jesus.
“Is that supposed to be God?”
“Si! Gutsy, huh?”
“I suppose. I don’t remember seeing another painting of God. I’ve only seen paintings of Jesus,” I said.
“That’s your biggest question?” he asked, astounded. “What about his use of perspective? It is almost flawless! Do you not see how realistic he made the arch or barrel vault that sets the scene? How he painted the coffers in the ceiling that shelters the father and his son?”
“Keep your pants on! That was just my first question,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “What does it say there by the skeleton?”
“In Latin it says, ‘As I am now, so you shall be. As you are now, so once was I.’”
“To remind us that we are all going to die?” I asked.
“Exactly … memento mori, a reminder of death.”
“Who is the figure standing next to Mary?”
“That is John the Baptist, the patron saint of Florence. The two kneeling on the floor are the patrons that commissioned the painting.”
“What about the white bird right above Christ’s head?”
“That is a dove that completes the Holy Trinity meaning … the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
“How did he paint it on the wall?”
“It is true fresco, which is done by painting directly onto wet plaster. It’s usually done in parts.”
“That’s really incredible but it sounds kind of stressful.”
“It can be. That is probably why Master Verrocchio never does frescoes. Essentially, this is a painting of a chapel instead of an actual one.”
“He seems to really understand the human body,” I said, noticing the stretched muscles of Christ’s body being pulled down by gravity.
“It was and still is revolutionary. Everything in the painting leads to one point … right below Christ’s feet.” His face was full of awe.
“I appreciate it, Leo.”
“Good girl,” he teased. “Let’s head back to Zia’s. I don’t want to test her patience again.”
“Look who’s scared now?” I said as we passed devout whispers of devotion.
“It is not about being scared. It is about being considerate,” he joked.
The long walk home reminded me of what my dad used to say when it was particularly cold outside. “Doesn’t this chill make you feel more alive, Violet?” he would ask. I had never been away from him this long before. A bittersweet feeling stirred every time I thought of him. Missing Dad made time pass by so much slower. All these reminders of death might be meant to spook everyone, but they just made me appreciate what I had more.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Banner
“Dear girl!” squeaked Zia as the door swung open. “You almost scared the soul out of me … I wasn’t expecting you home so early.”
“Leonardo wanted to surprise you.” I locked the door behind me.
“That is a good lad,” she said, loosening her fingers from the heavy fabric that fell across her lap. “Did you have a good day?”
“I did.”
“Why are your fingers so orange?” she asked, staring at my hands.
“I looked down at my fingers to see that the creases in between my nails and skin had turned a rusty orange.
“One of the apprentices spilled ocher powder and I had to clean it up,” I said truthfully.
What I failed to mention was that I was the apprentice who knocked over the jar. Overall I was proud that I had not set anything on fire. As Zia had started to embroider again, I made my way to the stairs.
Before I could reach the platform, she said, “A boy came to deliver a package for you.”
Turning around, I saw a bundle wrapped in sandy linen waiting on the table. From the corner of my eye, I could tell that Zia was looking for a reaction. I could feel her searching every line and quiver of my expression. Once I approached the table, I saw there was also a note with my name carefully written. Pressed into the seal’s red wax was a coat of arms with six circles and two crossed keys. Recalling this morning’s walk, I held my breath while I broke the wax and unfolded the letter. Unlike the illegible scrawl of Leonardo, the hand that had wielded the blue ink was elegant.
Viola,
When I arrived at your door this morning, I had imagined our walk would turn out differently. It would have begun by slowly walking alone together, side by side. I would invite you to the banquet tomorrow and you would say yes. I would warm your hand with my own. In my attempt to charm you, I would stumble, you would laugh, and if I was exceptionally lucky, I might steal a kiss. Alas, my imagination got the best of me. The constant kindness in your expression was absent this morning. I regret your distress over Signore Maroni’s situation and my defensive behavior. I hope you accept this apology along with the gifts I have sent.
Until tomorrow then.
Yours,
Giuliano de' ‘Medici
Slowly, my lungs let out the air they had been holding tight.
“What does it say?” asked Zia innocently.
My cheeks grew warm at her question. I was annoyed but not surprised at her curiosity. I definitely couldn’t tell her everything the le
tter said; that would be way too embarrassing.
As I stared at the letter trying to come up with a good edit, Zia said, “I am not very good at reading, and with these weary eyes it is almost an impossible thing,” she confessed.
The irritation I tried to conquer melted into guilt. I read the letter aloud, censoring the parts about any kind of bodily contact. After I had folded the letter, I looked to see her reaction but it was stoic. As I opened the package, a small paper fell onto the tiled floor.
“Oh my God,” I said, peering down at the parchment.
“My child, do not use the Lord’s name in vain. It is a capital sin.”
“Zia, Giuliano acquitted Signore Maroni’s debt,” I said, showing her the note. She just held it up close to her eyes then far away in an effort to understand the minute lettering. “Look there, it says, ‘Signore Maroni, this receipt confirms that your debt has been paid in full.’”
“Heavens! That is very gracious of him,” she said, her eyes widening. The way Zia’s mouth and eyebrows contracted spoke volumes of the inner struggle inside her.
When I unraveled the last layer of linen, I felt the smooth pebbled surface of leather. The tailored gloves were a rich coffee color and lined with smoky fur. I could not help smile at how perfectly they fit. My bitten nails and flaky skin looked undeserving of the lovely gift.
Zia took the other glove and carefully examined the stitching and material. “An exquisite gift,” she admitted.
Placing the glove gently on the table, she walked over to the garlicky stew that was simmering on the stove. While she stirred our supper, I tried to think of ways to bring up the tournament tomorrow. I thought it would be easier if I did not meet her eye directly.
“Where is the tournament tomorrow?”
“In the Piazza de Santa Croce.”
“Oh! So it’s very close,” I said, my eyes wide with excitement. For a moment I waited to see if she would say anything, but the only sound came from the simmering pot. “I imagine there will be a lot of people … should we leave early to get a good spot?” I said, trying to insinuate it was a given.
Only on very rare occasions did I have to ask for my parents’ permission. My dad encouraged me to be independent and to explore the city. If I asked him if I could go to a party, he would practically push me out of the house. I guess he was always concerned I was not social enough.
“I haven’t decided whether we are going at all,” said Zia. Right away, I knew her response had everything to do with her misgivings about Giuliano.
“You don’t want to go?” I asked.
“Of course I do … Such festivities are few and far between,” she paused covering the pot. “However, sometimes what we want to do and what we should do are at odds with each other.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I assured her. She broke off some rosemary from an overhanging bundle and slipped it under the pot’s lid. “I would love to see the tournament. I have never seen one before.”
Zia passed me plates and spoons to set on the table. “What did you say when he invited you to the banquet?” She grimaced.
“I thanked him for the invitation, but said I couldn’t go.”
“I don’t believe we will go to the tournament either,” said Zia, staring at down at the tiled floor.
My heart skipped a beat. “Why?”
“Well, first of all, you don’t have papers. What if something happens and a guard asks you for them?”
“I do have papers,” I said, suddenly aware I had never told Zia about my strange encounter with Lorenzo de’ Medici.
“You what?” she asked, stepping closer to me.
“Lorenzo de’ Medici gave me identification papers.”
“Why haven’t you spoken of this?”
“I am sorry … it slipped my mind.”
“Why do you think he did that?” she asked with her hands on her hips. “Men like the Medici always have a reason.” Honestly, I had never stopped to think about it.
“The papers state that my name is Viola Orofino and that I am visiting Florence for a time at the request and courtesy of the Medici family.”
“What a mess this is!” She huffed. “I know this decision will upset you and it is not my intention.”
I clenched my fists and could feel frustration boiling up from inside me. I needed to be alone. As I scaled the stairs Zia said, “It is for the best, Ginerva.”
“My name is Viola,” I corrected her, my voice corroded with anger.
I took off my many layers of clothing in a rush to slip under the blankets. It felt safer there. Beneath the woolen blankets I felt comforted, and it was okay to cry myself to sleep on an empty stomach.
Daybreak and unusual sounds from below woke me. Just by tilting my head back, I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. I had not slept in so late since I arrived in Florence. The soft blue sky was spotless, but it was a sunny day I wanted nothing to do with. From outside my window I could hear excited voices and feet rushing past. I pulled the heavy covers over my face to block out the light and fervor of all those allowed to go to the tournament.
“Why did the tournament have to be so close to my window?” I lamented, my stomach grumbling almost as loud as my mouth. A knock at the door interrupted my brooding thoughts.
“Viola … are you awake?” asked Zia. It was hard work to be mad at her. The door groaned open. “My dear, come down and eat,” she implored, sitting at the foot of my bed.
When I stole a peek from my shelter, I could see how conflicted Zia was. The grooves of her wrinkles ran deeper and her skin looked even paler than usual.
“I’ll be down soon,” I assured her.
“This morning I went to get some fresh bread and—”
“Caterina Cioni!” called a man’s voice.
We both crammed the narrow window to see who it was. Signore Soldo, the silk trader I had met on my first day, was on the doorstep with a golden grin, holding a basket. Before she rushed out of the room, I caught a glimpse of the blush that had bloomed on her white cheeks.
Painfully aware of my hunger, and that this encounter might be the single most exciting event of the day, I hurried out of bed. After splashing water on my face and pulling a shawl around my shoulders, I tiptoed towards the top of the stairs. I paused and listened to the conversation unfolding below.
“What do you mean you aren’t going?” asked Signore Soldo.
“I trust old age hasn’t gotten the better of you yet … What you heard the first time. Viola and I are not going to the tournament.”
“Why ever not? Is she ill?”
“Heavens no!”
“Then what?” asked Signore Soldo. The smell of sizzling ham wafted up to my hiding place.
“I’m doing it to protect Viola!” she retorted.
“From who?” he asked, completely clueless of her frustration.
“The Medici,” she whispered loudly. A reverent pause followed the name.
“But how could that sweet girl …”
“She didn’t offend them, if that is what you’re thinking,” she said defensively.
“I think I see it now,” he said with boyish delight. “Which one is trying to court her then?”
“The prince,” she said, setting plates and cutlery on the table.
“Giuliano? The boy? What are you worried about then?” he said, waving her trepidation aside.
“They are such a powerful family, Francesco … and I mean to keep her safe from harm, even if it means not going to a silly tournament.”
“A silly tournament indeed! What is silly is this conversation. The harm that haunts you will never come. He enjoys her beauty and no doubt her other unique qualities, as do all those around her. He will soon tire of this chase, or decide one d
ay he fancies red hair instead. Those are the ways of boys who want for nothing.” Sitting in my hiding place, I knew Signore Soldo’s words were probably true, but they stung all the same.
“That’s what Andrea says,” Zia confessed with a sigh of relief.
“Your nephew and I are men … Leave these sorts of matters to us.”
“That might be, but the last time I left such matters to men, my only daughter shunned me.”
“You and Ginerva still aren’t speaking?”
“No, she lives in Vinci and cannot forgive me for turning her away,” said Zia miserably.
“Come now! I want no more of this sad talk. I will be your escort to the tournament and will have no more nonsense about two of Florence’s most beautiful women not going! You will surely spoil my appetite if you continue to defy me,” he said cheerfully.
“There she is,” he said after I crept out of my hiding place.
“Buongiorno, Signore Soldo.” I smiled.
“How old that makes me sound. Please call me Francesco, I insist!” he said, placing a scratchy smooch on the back of my hand. “I thought I heard someone’s stomach grumbling.” He winked. The usually modest table was loaded with fresh bread, soft cheese, and honey ham.
“Shall we eat?” he asked.
“Si,” I said, quickly finding my place. With no delay I served myself a juicy slab of ham and a thick slice of walnut bread. I took a generous mouthful of the sweet meat before I dressed my bread with butter.
“So, Viola … from what your aunt has shared with me, I hear congratulations are in order,” he said as he rolled up the burgundy sleeves of his tunic. “You’re the lucky girl who swooned the handsome Giuliano de’ Medici … Surely you are the envy of every young heart in the city.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think he likes me that much. He is probably just bored with nothing else to do or think about,” I said tactfully in between mouthfuls. Zia looked surprised at these words.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 17
