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

by Maria C. Trujillo

  “See that, Zia! And you were worried about Viola. We should be fussing over poor Giuliano, who will be the one left with his heart broken,” he teased.

  “He is anything but poor,” pointed out Zia.

  “Well, enjoy his attentions while they last, then,” encouraged Francesco.

  “I am so glad you came,” I said.

  “As am I.”

  He stared at Zia. Since I finished breakfast first, Zia sent me upstairs to put on my dress with the sea green trim. Zia had sewn up the torn sleeve and washed out the bloodstains from Pietro Sforza’s spike tunic. After I had slipped on my Converse, Zia came holding something in her hand.

  “Zia, I wanted to say sorry for being so ungrateful last night,” I said. “I know you were just trying to protect me.”

  “This belonged to Ginerva,” she said, showing me a web of woven string and purple iridescent shells. I thought maybe she did not hear me but then I realized this was her way of forgiving my foolishness. “Would you like to wear it?” she asked

  “I would! How does it go?”

  She began to comb my hair back with her fingers. Shortly after she had gathered and secured all my hair in the net, we met Signore Soldo by the entrance. Before the door shut behind us, he pronounced himself the luckiest man in the world.

  The sunlight that toppled over the houses warmed me from the outside in. Via dei Benci was swarming with carts peddling fried food and beverages in questionable ceramic cups. The smell of manure, wet hay, and cooking meat were hosting a competition of their own. Apart from the vendors were parents dragging lines of children stringed together by little hands. The usual scarcity of women had reversed overnight. It seemed that for every man, there were at least two women and an elderly person bringing up the rear. What we all shared in common, other than dressing in our finest clothes, was our excitement as we marched towards Piazza de Santa Croce.

  Among the mass of moving citizens were knights clad in a confetti of different metals. Each had an escort of young boys carrying their tools of chivalry or guiding their horses. The brave men brandished a collection of colorful banners as they weaved through the popolo. A few of the knights spoke in alien tongues or sported thick accents from foreign lands.

  As we drew closer to the piazza, clumps of bright tents sprouted from the ground. “Those are for the knights participating in the tournament. Some sign up on their own accord while others are invited,” explained Signore Soldo, clearly enjoying my amazement.

  The Medici had erected a vast circular fence for the occasion. Statuesque guards manned posts along the wooden divider. Elevated balconies were built against the stone buildings surrounding the piazza, each decorated with draped fabric in rainbow hues and intricate patterns. Inside the luxurious alcoves were clusters of wealthy families crowding to find the best seat. Ladies with hair ornaments or hats almost as extravagant as their fur-trimmed gowns pointed at the strutting men and their horses inside the circle.

  The grandest building in the piazza was the church that loomed over the festivities. On the steps of Santa Croce was the largest balcony. From it the crest of the Medici house waved proudly in the strong breeze. Shielding my eyes from the bright sun, I searched for a sign of Giuliano, but much like the other balconies it was full of ladies, distinguished elders, and prim children.

  Meanwhile, the rest of Florence fended for a good spot. Luckily I was tall for my age and could see the men practicing at their swordplay behind the barrier. Soon after we started to push forward into the crowd, I felt hands tugging on my dress. “Just what do you think you boys are doing?” demanded Francesco.

  Two little faces full of freckles peered up at me. Both boys looked very close to about five or so.

  “Nonno said to look for a girl with one blue eye and one brown, tall, with chestnut hair,” one recited.

  “We are supposed to bring her to where Nonno is,” said the other.

  “Where is your grandfather?” asked Zia, kneeling closer to them.

  Without further delay to their mission, they pulled me through the crowd. There were many rough comments and lots of “mi scusi” on my part. We finally reached a clearing right by the fence that Signore Maroni had been fighting to keep. When he saw his grandsons leading me, the corners of his white bristle-like mustache crinkled into a smile. He went to one knee. My face burned with embarrassment when his grandsons mimicked his example.

  “Thank you, my lady, for lifting my burden,” he said earnestly from behind his spectacles.

  “What?” Zia and Francesco had finally arrived to the clearing.

  “Without your intervention, I know I would be in debtors' prison. I would be unable to provide for my grandsons, let alone take them to this tournament.” His piercing blue eyes brimmed with emotion.

  “Please! There is no need,” I protested, glancing around nervously.

  To my horror, almost the whole of Verrocchio’s workshop, including the master himself, had surrounded us. They were all staring, amused by the scene before them. For sure I will be teased for this tomorrow, I concluded, catching a mischievous smirk from Perugino.

  “Signore Maroni has been saving your seat all morning,” said Sandro Botticelli, who was standing next to Verrocchio.

  “That is most kind,” thanked Zia.

  “It is nothing,” he assured us.

  The trumpets sounded and the crowd pushed forward, forcing us to cozy up to one another. Zia was wedged in between her nephew and Signore Soldo. Perugino, who was lifting little Renzo on his shoulders, was on my left and Leonardo was on my other side. From the corner of my eye, I could see Sandro looking up nervously at the Medici box.

  “It’s starting!” shouted Renzo. All the competitors were lining up on their steeds with their banner boys and pages following close behind.

  As they filed in the arena, the master of ceremonies stated the rules. “Let us all take a moment to thank the most illustrious family in Florence and congratulate Lorenzo the Magnificent on his future nuptials!” boomed the announcer.

  The crowd roared. Leonardo was shouting something at Perugino, but I could not hear it over the cheers. Perugino grabbed my hand and pointed it at one of the banners.

  “Does that look familiar?” he yelled in my ear.

  “Oh my God,” I mouthed, squinting my eyes. “Is that me?” I screamed back. Leonardo and Perugino nodded.

  PART IV

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Joust

  “I told you that someday you would see the portrait I drew of you,” said Leonardo when the sound died down.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “No … and honestly I am a little annoyed. It is my sketch. I should have painted the banner,” he said.

  “Well, it would have been nice if someone could have asked me before they put my face on a banner,” I said, but Leonardo’s face screwed up in confusion.

  The shock of seeing my face framed by blue velvet still had not lifted. My eyes followed the pole that bore the flag to Giuliano astride his black horse. The moment I saw him I understood what Signore Soldo meant this morning when he said I was the envy of every young heart in the city. Giuliano gleamed in silver arms slashed with golden bands. His plumed helmet was propped on his saddle while he waved at the crowd ahead of him.

  Why would he like me? I wondered, as I fought the temptation to pinch myself.

  Next to him was his elder brother, Lorenzo. It was surprising to see him smiling atop his ivory horse, his hands clasped together in a grateful gesture. Instead of a lady, Lorenzo’s banner displayed a fleur-de-lis made of gold thread accentuated with precious stones.

  “Despite the way this looks, the Medici are not the only powerful family in Florence,” explained Perugino. “Next to Lorenzo are the Pazzis … They’re an even older and more noble family.” Pointin
g to Giuliano, he continued. “On the other side are members of the Salviati and Pitti.” The line dispersed and so began the games.

  First there was a series of sword fights, one of which included Giuliano against a member of the Pazzi. The clash of metal on metal bounced around my skull. Perugino must have felt my nervous jerks.

  “In the good old days they would fight to the death. Now they just get points.” He stifled a yawn as Giuliano unarmed the Pazzi.

  The next game was the mace. What a terrible event to witness. “Boys,” I sighed as I watched them bat each other up with a spikey ball. People were crowded so close together that I was actually hot, despite the clouds of breath that evaporated into the fervent air. Leonardo passed me a flask of warm honey wine. I drank a few sips even though what my itchy throat longed for was a cold bottle of water. A short break followed the mace while they set up for the joust. The ache in my legs told me that it had already been several hours. Poor Sandro had not been able to stand still the whole tournament.

  “Are you okay, Sandro?”

  “Yeah! Why? Do I not look all right?” he asked, pulling his auburn hair over his ears.

  “He is in love,” piped his apprentice Fillipio. It was unclear whether Sandro had turned scarlet from anger or mortification. The whole tournament he had been staring at the Medici balcony and now I knew why.

  “No need to explode, Sandro. There is not a man in this city who is not at least half in love with Simonetta Vespucci,” said Perugino.

  “Shut up!” demanded Sandro.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “The fairest lady in Tuscany,” a lust-filled Salai declared from the knot of people.

  “She is the one with the long blonde hair in the front row,” directed Verrocchio.

  It was difficult to see her from so far away, but she certainly looked beautiful. Sandro’s arms were crossed and he was trying hard to look everywhere except the Medici balcony. Music announced the beginning of the joust competition. The wooden lances were much longer than I had imagined from movies. Although each opponent was clad in armor from head to toe, it looked very violent all the same. At the cue of the trumpets, horses and their poised riders launched at each other from opposite sides of the long rope barrier. The fabric cloaking the horses danced against the breeze as strong muscles geared up for motion.

  Right before they collided, I chickened out and hid behind Perugino’s shoulder. Leonardo smiled at my cowardliness. The sound of splintering wood and the groan of the crowd followed. Looking up I saw one triumphant man about to do a victory lap and the other bent over his saddle limp as a rag doll. Two other duels went on following a similar pattern before it was Lorenzo’s turn.

  “He is going against the Salviati,” said Perugino.

  Although Lorenzo cut an opposing figure in his blue armor with veins of black, his opponent was equally splendid. Salviati looked taller and stronger than Lorenzo. His horse was covered with an indigo and shell print that looked like train tracks.

  “Shields are so lame nowadays,” reflected Leonardo.

  “Oh, you think you can do better?” Verrocchio challenged.

  “Certainly. They are always the same. They have a girl, some saint, or worse … their coat of arms. Just in case we forget who they are.”

  “You sound very arrogant, son, even for Fruosino da Vinci,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  “Good day, Father,” greeted Leonardo.

  “I will have to take you up on your boast and commission you to make me a shield.”

  As I stared at the both of them I realized Leonardo was almost the spitting image of his father. Piero was the same height and looked as fit as his son. Although he was in his late thirties, he was balding. A closely manicured beard framed a pleasant grin beaming through crooked teeth. “I hope you do not mind if I watch the end of the tournament with you and your friends,” he said, sizing me up.

  “The people behind us surely will mind, but I don’t,” replied Leonardo.

  “So,” he said, shifting his weight, “tell me what you would put on my shield if not a saint?”

  “Something that would frighten any man off his horse.”

  “Even Giovanni Salviati?”

  “That’s a lot of man to throw off,” doubted Sandro.

  Once again the trumpet sounded, and so the mob of people held their breath. For seconds only the beat of pounding hooves and tolling metal of armor met our ears. The horses sprinted as the men locked their elbows to steady their lances. Lorenzo’s lance hit the corner of Salviati’s shield, causing his shoulder to turn at an unnatural angle. Lorenzo’s opponent had overshot his target, forcing him to drop the lance. Wood chips scattered and fell onto the hay that littered the stone floor of the piazza. As the distance between the men grew, so did the blare of the masses. An eruption of hoots and applause followed.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Now they give out the prizes,” answered Verrocchio.

  The ceremony was short. Each knight received a wreath of laurel from the fair hands of Simonetta Vespucci. The Gondi family won the mace competition, the Pazzi triumphed in the swords, and the Medici conquered the joust.

  “There is only one grand prize and it is going to go to Lorenzo, of course,” said Leonardo.

  “Who wants to place a bet on what it will be?” suggested Perugino.

  “It is going to be a helmet,” said Verrocchio.

  “A sword!” shouted Renzo.

  “A lute?” offered Fillipio.

  “Anything but a shield,” hoped Leonardo.

  To all our great amusement, it was a helmet. After the prizes were awarded, the master of ceremonies declared the tournament officially over. The crowd stalled awhile, enjoying the last few minutes of entertainment before they began to shift and stretch their limbs. Peddlers took final requests for wine and cream pastries.

  “I expect to see you for dinner tonight,” pronounced Leonardo’s father.

  “Agreed.”

  “Feel free to bring your lovely friend. The house could use some cheering up,” he said before disappearing into the swarm of bodies surrounding us. We had all made a silent pact to wait for the horde of spectators to thin out.

  “Viola?”

  I knew Giuliano’s voice right away. Before I spun around I tried to brace myself for his armor and dimples, but it was no use. It was as if he had been copied and pasted out of a fairy tale. Even the sweat that gathered around his cheeks looked godly. I meant to say something but forgot what it was. Instead, I stood there gaping like a fish out of water. Everyone in a mile radius stared at me like I had an infectious disease. I could tell what they were thinking: “Why is a Medici talking to that girl?”

  “Did you enjoy the tournament?”

  “Yes!” I stuttered. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Giuliano said with a low bow.

  “You are wonderful … I meant were! But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t also …” I stammered, hoping that someone would stop me. Sweat started to drip from my scalp and not in the flattering way.

  “As are you, Viola,” he said, fighting back his laughter. “I see you are in excellent company.” He looked around at my entourage of men and Zia.

  “Yes, I’m very lucky,” I agreed, my eyes widening as Lorenzo approached. He was only clad in half armor revealing the black tunic and gold threading below his breastplate.

  “Hello, Signorina Orofino,” offered Lorenzo.

  “Buonasera, Signore Medici,” I said, respectfully lowering my head.

  “Greetings to you all,” he added politely to the hundreds of eyes upon us. After whispering something in Giuliano’s ear he turned to Zia. “I understand that you are Viola’s aunt.” Zia’s pupils doubled in size. “I wanted to pe
rsonally invite Signorina Orofino to the banquet this evening at our Palazzo.” Zia looked to me and then to Signore Soldo who nodded.

  “We are honored by your invitation,” she consented.

  “Excellent! She may bring along a chaperone of your choosing. Shall I send a carriage?”

  “No … thank you, sir. We will manage without.”

  “Good evening to you all,” he said before walking off towards the large party that awaited him. Once Lorenzo had left, Giuliano resumed his easy air.

  “A page boy should be waiting at your house with your mask.”

  “Mask?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s a masked banquet,” he explained before grazing his lips against the back of my hand. “And now I must follow my brother’s example … till this evening then.” While I tried to pull myself together, a chorus of workshop boys blew kisses and whistles.

  “Stop that!” I shouted, but the noises just got louder. I looked around the crowd for Zia and saw that she was having a conversation with Sandro Botticelli who was on his knees. “What’s going on?”

  “This young man was just swearing his life to protect you,” said Zia, amused.

  “With all due respect, Zia, I think you should let him,” advised Leonardo. “He’s a gentleman and he will make sure she gets home earlier than I do.” It never occurred to me that I might have another chaperone other than Leonardo.

  The sun hung low in the sky by the time we had finished the chaperone arrangements and said our goodbyes. Zia, Francesco, and I did our best to navigate the manure traps and mud holes along the path home. As promised, a dark-haired boy was sitting on our doorstep with a large wooden box.