Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (12 page)

“Massimo it is! Leonardo, you will take her to get clothes for Massimo, no?”

“That will be interesting.”

“Excellent. While you two are gone, I will explain to the workshop our new situation.”

“Master Verrocchio?”

“Yes, Viola?”

“I think that Leonardo wanted to ask you something.” Verrocchio and I both turned towards Leonardo. His eyes focused on his boots as he shifted his weight from side to side.

“Out with it, Leo. It is unlike you to keep your opinions to yourself. You are making me terribly nervous.” Still Leonardo stalled. “Honestly, I am busy and if you don’t speak up, you will most definitely sour my excellent mood.”

“I want to paint the angel.”

“What angel?” asked Verrocchio.

“The missing one from the Baptism of Christ.”

“Oh yes, for a moment I forgot about it entirely,” Verrocchio confessed, scratching his head. He looked Leonardo over for a moment. “You have a model in mind?”

“For several days now … It’s a boy I drew by Mercato Vecchio.”

“If you feel you are ready.”

“I do,” assured Leonardo.

“Wasn’t there something else?” I added, feeling bold.

“Yes...” Leonardo cleared his throat “...I wanted to paint it in oil.”

“I don’t care how you do it as long as it’s glorious.”

“It will be,” said Leonardo, beaming ear to ear.

As Verrocchio handed me my satchel, he placed three coins in my palm. “Be quick about it. The day is almost over.” Not being able to contain my gratitude, I gave him a tight squeeze. “
Grazie
!”

“
Prego
Viola,” he returned.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ponte Vecchio

We had only made it half way out the door when Leonardo gave me a smug smile that said, “I told you so.” A cloud of feathers surrounded us as plundering pigeons flew from our path.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” I asked.

“I thought my smile said it all.”

“Your smile is lacking some information.”

“That’s not its fault.” He shrugged. “The guilt lies with my secretive companion.”

“Ugh, you always have to have the last word,” I protested.

It was difficult for me to trust anyone, especially after Salai had threatened me. After my confession to Verrocchio, I felt better than I had since I arrived in Florence. It felt like gravity had loosened its strangling grip on me.

“You’re right. Maybe I have been a bit too …”

“Elusive? Mysterious? Distrustful?” he mocked.

“Any of those would work.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know that sometimes you can be … bossy?” I said.

“That’s a very nice way of putting it, and yes, I know that too … I will lay off a bit,” he consented, offering his arm out for me. “Almost forgot to say thanks for pushing me to ask Master Verrocchio.”

“More like forcing you, but you’re welcome all the same.”

The sun was about to make its descent behind the heavy layer of clouds. Frost was settling in between the cracks of the cobblestones. The road’s travelers scattered to finish their day’s business.

Looking around, I did not see any other women on the road we were on. After pausing for thought, I realized that I seldom saw any women walking on the street. Rarer still were girls my age. Perhaps I noticed it then because I was thinking about how lousy it was that I had to pretend to be a guy just to be an apprentice.

“Why are there no women around?”

Leonardo laughed. “There are many. You just can’t see them because they are barricaded in their homes and only come out for church. As a rule, women do not walk around Florence. I might even go as far as to say it is highly discouraged. So most of the women that must walk on the street are old, impoverished, or accompanied by men.”

“Why?”

“Many think a woman’s proper place is at home. Anything outside of it, especially the street, is considered man’s domain.”

“You don’t believe that, right?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” he said, turning onto Via Della Porcellana. It was sad to think of all those girls cooped up behind their balconies. Suddenly, the foul but free air smelled sweeter.

As we passed a pit where workers quarried porous stone, we heard a voice call out, “Leonardo!” We turned around to see a man in his early twenties with wavy auburn hair.

“Ciao, Sandro!” returned Leonardo. The young man approached us with a wide smile. Similar to Leonardo, he wore an indigo tunic that fell just above his knees. The taupe cloak draped about his person gave him an ancient Roman appearance.

“It has been a while,” said Sandro, grabbing Leonardo’s free hand.

“You have been lost. Last week was the first time I have seen you miss a guild meeting.”

“You are not even in the guild yet and you take attendance,” laughed Sandro.

“That is a mere formality.”

“Yes, I know … Well, my father has bought the property just there …” He motioned to a quaint two-story house four doors down. “I have converted the bottom floor into my own workshop.” Sandro’s smile was handsome but not brilliant. He had a strong face in that instead of his features mixing harmoniously, each feature was so pronounced that it stood out separately. His bottom lip weighed down his curvy upper lip. Green eyes bulged from his manicured brow and accentuated his straight nose. His chin was prominent but he had a jawline that most models on the advertisements in Times Square would envy.

“Come in and see,” he pleaded. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled Leonardo into the workshop and I followed.

The workshop was bare. Three worktables and benches arranged in an L shape huddled around the fireplace. The pools of wax on their weathered surfaces suggested late nights at work. Oddly enough, one table had a cracked human skull at its center with fruits and flowers arranged around it. A few tools hung on the wall opposite the fireplace. Piles of wood were scattered about the workshop. On three easels were paintings of the Virgin Mary in different poses. The silhouettes were striking. Each figure was elongated and curved around the painting’s panel.

Leonardo and Sandro were talking about the wonders and woes of running your own workshop when I noticed a boy who looked to be only a year or two younger than me. He was silently preparing a wooden panel for painting. Sawdust from leveling the gesso clung to the buttons of his rust-colored tunic.

“I was sorry to hear about Master Lippi,” said Leonardo.

“Yes.” He grimaced. “Very untimely if you ask me. Actually, he was the picture of health the last time I saw him, which was only two weeks before his death. I mean a little round about the edges but …” His eyes were alert and his tone disbelieving.

“What are you trying to say, Sandro?” asked Leonardo.

In the midst of their conversation, I noticed an open sketchbook on the worktable. It was too tempting to resist. I tiptoed closer so it would be easier to steal a few casual glances.

“What you’re hearing my friend, think—” He stopped and glanced over at the corner where the boy was working. Sandro shook his head, pointed at the skull. “Memento mori.”

Drawn on the open sketchbook page was the head of a gorgeous girl. She had long curls that jumped off the page and some red chalk had been added to her lips. The mysterious lady’s nose was dainty and petite, and her eyes were inlaid perfectly underneath her slightly arched eyebrows.

“True, one of the only truths we really know … All will die,” agreed Leonardo.

The morbid conversation led way for an awkward silence. On the opposite page were more portraits of the same lovely girl. My eyes grew a little wider when I saw that one of the portraits included a full nude drawing. I had seen nude women in paintings or statues. However, it seemed weird to look at the stark body in the middle of a workshop full of modest Virgin Marys and even stranger amid conversations of death.

“Well, we must be going. We have to get to Ponte Vecchio before the shops close,” announced Leonardo.

“But you have not introduced me to your fair friend,” Sandro pointed out.

“Yes, sorry about that. This is Viola. She is a new housemaid at Verrocchio’s workshop … Viola, this is Sandro Botticelli.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, tilting my head.

“Likewise.”

“It’s too bad Verrocchio swept you up. As you can see I am in need of a housemaid. You don’t by any chance have a sister with your extraordinary eyes?”

“No, I do not,” I answered uncomfortably.

“But she does have a twin brother with those same eyes,” interjected Leonardo.

“
Allora
? I am fascinated by twins.”

“As am I.” Leonardo winked at my surprise. It was amazing how naturally he spun such coherent lies. “Who is that diligent boy in the corner?”

“I, too, have neglected the duties of introduction,” he consented. “Fillipio, come please.”

The boy walked over to the entrance of the workshop, his eyes barely leaving the stone floor. The dark hair that framed his face and ears was covered with a round blue hat.

“This is Fillipio Lippi, son of my late master. Fillipio, this is Leonardo da Vinci and Viola …”

“Orofino,” I finished. Fillipio politely nodded his head after each introduction.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, but we must be off.”

“Would you mind if we accompanied you? I have a mind to eat meat this evening but have none in my pantry. It would do us good to walk, would it not, Fillipio?”

“We will be almost running to make it on time, but you are more than welcome to come along,” warned Leonardo.

Botticelli grabbed a red hat off a hook near the staircase. “Mama! I am going out! Come watch the shop,” he yelled.

After we heard the creak of the floorboards above we headed out to continue our journey to Ponte Vecchio. Leonardo and Sandro led the way while Fillipio and I fought to keep up with their swift steps. It felt good to be at the rear and have someone else block the wind. The smell of rotten fish met my nostrils before I could even glimpse the river. My insides winced at the stench. To soften the scent, I started breathing heavily through my mouth.

“It stinks, right?” said Fillipio.

“Yes! No one ever talks about it so I just assumed I’d get used to it … eventually.”

“I am new here as well.” He had lovely tear shaped eyes that drooped a little at the corners of his face.

“Sorry to hear about your father,” I said.

“Oh … thanks,” he said, scratching at the cleft in his chin.

“Are you training to be an artist as well?”

“Yeah, I was training to be one under my father but he died, so my mother asked Botticelli if I could continue my apprenticeship with him,” he explained with a slight lisp.

“Did you move here?”

“Yes, about a week ago, but so far I don’t like the city very much.”

“Why?”

“It’s small.”

“
Allora
?”

“I was living in Spoleto, so I am used to lots of green and wide open fields. Here you are constantly surrounded, and like I said, the smell is awful,” he added.

“Viola, this is a cursed and unlucky ditch,” called Leonardo.

“What is?”

“The Arno,” he answered, slowing down his pace to walk beside me. “A year after I arrived in Florence, the river flooded the lower parts of the city. It got so bad that benches from Santa Croce floated around here. When the flood subsided it left a sewer of waste behind.”

“How lovely,” I said, looking at the river.

“Maybe you will have the same luck,” teased Sandro.

As we teetered a little closer to the bank of the river, I looked down to see makeshift piers made of tattered wood scraps. Women and men were pouring buckets of dyes and obscure compounds into the river. Garbage littered the surface and moved with the current of the river. Florence’s garbage lapped against the sides of the banks.

“That is so sad,” I said.

“Look at that, a much more pleasant sight for the eyes to rest upon,” proclaimed Sandro.

He was pointing to a stone bridge. The bridge’s elegant arch connected both sides of the riverbank. Its long passageway was lined with shops. They looked to be designed for more defensive purposes with their thick walls and tiny windows. As the sky darkened, lamps flickered across the skyline. We hurried across the bridge. The walls that surrounded the bridge provided shelter from the rain but little else.

Every shop owner had a sturdy wooden table upon which he displayed his goods. It was clear we were late by the sloppy second pickings left over. Several men haggled high prices for mediocre or poor meat. The bridge’s shops mostly sold meat except for the occasional secondhand clothes dealer. Leonardo found the vendor he was looking for.

While he browsed and negotiated prices with the vendor, a scarecrow of a man with a huge nose, the street began to quiet. Four men clothed in chest armor and stripes of blue and red marched across the bridge. As they approached voices hushed and breaths were held. The helmets that shielded their heads shone silver and plumage exploded from their tops. All four approached an elderly man’s stand on the opposite side of the bridge. When Leonardo realized something was happening, he beckoned me to get underneath the shelter. Sandro took Leonardo’s cue and used his body to block me from view.

“But I want to see what’s going on!” I protested.

“Hush!” said Leonardo.

“You are being—”

“Bossy, I know … now get down and tighten the shawl over your head.”

Bending down, I looked through the gaps their legs allotted. The shop owner was a kind looking man who had an uncanny resemblance to my only grandpa. His white mustache matched the finely cut hair that circled his bald spot. He had a face both round and sweet. His bottom lip was trembling with his hands clasped together. Cries of help followed as the guards unsheathed their long swords. The old man’s eyes widened as he grabbed for the few baskets of fish he had left on the table. The men began to mercilessly pound on the table. The shop owner fell back and the fish in his baskets flew in every direction.

My heart flooded with pity. Looking around at the merchants and market stragglers, I was shocked to see their hollow expressions—the same apathy I had seen the day of the execution. In an attempt to stop the flow of tears, I shut my eyes tight and covered my ears. The thrashing stopped.

When I stood up the guards were walking back in the direction they came from and the older man remained where he had fallen. His hands supported the weight of his head. He looked so alone. No one had to tell me this would not be fixed by buying a new table. Something serious had happened. The guards had broken more than his table.

“Viola! Don’t!” urged Leonardo as I rushed past him and over to the weeping man. The baskets of fish he had tried to save were overturned. Kneeling down next to him, I could feel his helplessness.

“Signore …”

“Leave me,” he gasped. It would have been impossible for me to leave him. Instead, I gently touched his shoulder.

He looked up at me, both surprised and distraught. Anger crossed his face briefly but shame followed.

“You have a face of an angel,” he whimpered.

“I can tell you have the soul of one,” I said. He tenderly grabbed the hands I offered him. His eyes were sapphires. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I am afraid not,” he said picking up a shard of the broken table. “I’m so ashamed I don’t think I can even stand up.”

Years of toiling under the Tuscan sun had darkened and thickened the flesh of his hands and face. He had the look of a man who had lost too much weight in too little time. As I held his hands, I could hear him quietly recounting his troubles to himself.

“How will I pay back the loan if I cannot sell my goods? What if I go to jail? Who will take care of my grandsons?” I tried hard to keep it together but with each plea my heart gave way to a new wave of sympathy. Leonardo, Sandro, and Fillipio had walked over and begun replacing the fish in the reed baskets.

“How much for the fish, sir?” asked Sandro. The man looked at Sandro as if he had just said a bad joke. “I mean it in earnest.”

“They are ruined.”

“Hardly … a bit of hot water will set them right.” Sandro left a chunk of coins beside the man. “There is extra there for the basket,” he said, picking up the basket.

“Sir, you have given me too much!” protested the old man.

“Nonsense, this is an excellent basket!”

“Sir, I would like to buy the other basket.” I insisted.

From my satchel, I grabbed the money Verrocchio had given me for the clothes. Leonardo bent beside me and handed me a few coins of his own. I took the old man’s hand and placed the coins in his palm. Sandro and Leonardo helped the elderly man to his feet.

“What is your name, dear child?”

“Viola.”

“You are a gift,” he said, kissing my hand. “My name is Alfredo Moroni. For the few years left in me, I am at your service.” I shook my head at this gratitude and bid him farewell.

We left the Ponte Vecchio with all of Signore Moroni’s fish in our arms. We parted ways with Sandro and Fillipio at the end of the bridge. Leonardo and I continued on to Zia’s house. The streets were slippery and I had to hold on tight to Leonardo’s arm. So many questions were buzzing around my head. I didn’t even know where to begin.

“Why did those armed men break Signore Moroni’s table?”

“He is bankrupt and has debt that is overdue … It’s a common practice,” he admitted as we turned left onto Via dei Benci.

“A debt with who? Who would do such a thing? It’s like Moroni said. How will he pay the debt if both his table and his pride are broken?” I raged.