Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (27 page)

We sat together in silence for at least an hour, my hands and face buried into my sweaty dress. I shivered, too proud to grab the blanket.

“I will work on persuading my brother … Do not worry,” he said, slipping through the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Visitors

It was not until the locks turned behind him that my panic turned into loneliness. “What will I do? Surely, Mrs. Reed will figure out a way for me to get out. She couldn’t go back without me, could she?” I told the moonlight that stole through the window. “But how did I know it was really Mrs. Reed? There were hints and the notes … but they could have been written by someone else, maybe Pietro?”

My mind ventured into a gloomy hopeless place. I tried to rock myself to sleep so I could suspend the pain that had crept up on me. The chill that frosted the stone surfaces made it impossible. That was when my pride surrendered. I strode to the opposite side of the cell and covered myself with the thick purple woolen cloak. Sometime in between the sobs, I fell asleep underneath the warm huddle perfumed by Giuliano’s minty cologne.

I woke to the sun caressing my back. My subconscious scrambled after the dream that was slipping away. It had been a bad dream, but it was better than the nightmare I had awoken to. There in my cloth cocoon I was safe. It had cost me my pride and possibly my own fatal judgment. With each inhale I allowed myself to think on Giuliano’s dimples, but with every exhale I cursed my weakness. My body was in survival mode searching for fat to feast on. My limbs moaned and my scabby skin felt taut. Dry flakes of blood from the sling stuck to my fingers.

There was a faint knock at the door before it opened. Alessandro came and placed a tray on the floor. Without saying another word, he left. I rolled out of the narrow bench. Novels had prepared me for ashen muck with a side dish of anonymous hairs. To my great surprise there was fresh bread, soft cheese, an apple, and some juice. With the tray in tow, I retreated to my bench and savored the breakfast with little bites.

As I chewed the morsels, I tried to prolong the inevitable—my future. Giuliano had promised that Lorenzo would not hang me. At least he was being positive. How much was his promise really worth? I couldn’t really tell the truth apart from the lies. Hanging or no hanging, it was clear I would never see my parents or my sister again. There was no way out. Tomorrow at dawn the metal door would open to a tunnel that would carry me home to my family. Stranded three hundred feet in the air, I would miss that open door and my only opportunity.

“How awful,” I groaned, realizing I could see the metal door from my window. I would not be able to go home but I could watch my captors cross through the tunnel’s threshold from my cell.

Up until that moment the ramifications of what might happen if the door did open for the Medici had not occurred to me. Worse than not being able to go home, I might be single-handedly responsible for imploding history. Those were the thoughts that kept me company when the locks turned again.

“
Buongiorno
, Signorina Orofino.” A shaved head and its sharp features snuck past the door. Pietro's lips puckered as they repressed a smile.

“
Buongiorno
.”

“What unfortunate circumstances we find ourselves in,” he said, rubbing his scalp. “No doubt you are scared about your punishment.” He let this reminder hang in the cold air before he continued. “But I have come to tell you there is no need to trouble yourself.” In any other scenario I would have jumped for joy, but my time in Florence had taught me to be skeptical if not defensive.

“Why is that?”

“Because I am willing to strike a deal with you … and forgive and forget what has occurred between us,” said Pietro.

“I’m sorry? Forgive what?” I asked. He pressed his fingers against the pressure points between his eyes. Before lifting his head, he counted softly.

“What do you say you and I drop this charade?” he said in sounds that were distantly familiar. It was so strange to hear English again and even more so to speak it. “You tell me where the statue is, and I will make sure you don’t die. What do you say? I don’t think you could refuse such a deal.” My tongue wagged a bit trying to find my bearings. “You are taking too long … which means you are trying to come up with some story.”

“What statue?”

“The one you saw at my house only a few days ago?” he said, impatiently tapping his left foot.

“I haven’t seen it since.” He stared at me a long while before speaking again.

“Do you have any idea how long and hard I have been working on that replica?”

“Are you talking about the
David
you stole from the Medici Palazzo?”

Pietro’s eyes darted towards the walls, half-expecting them to come to life. In one swift movement, he jolted forward, grabbing my neck between his rough hands. “I’m not to be played with, Viola … Again, what have you done with my sculpture?”

“I don’t know where it is,” I gasped, feeling his grip tighten.

He looked straight into my eyes searching for deceit, but when he did not find it, he let go. I coughed trying to move the lump in my throat.

“She must have taken it,” he murmured to himself. Pillows rested underneath his sunken eyes and wrinkles creased his dark tunic. He turned back to face me after regaining his composure. “It is unfortunate we were unable to help each other,” he said, starting for the cell’s entrance. He banged on the door and the keys scraped. “I’d keep Donatello’s
David
a secret just between us if I were in your shoes,” he said, smirking at my grungy converse. “Oh yes! And just in case you were wondering, she won’t come for you. Trust me, I know her very well.” He walked through the door.

“Who? Do you mean Mrs. Reed?” I shouted before the door slammed behind him.

In a short conversation my hopes of a rescue had vanished. I screamed something shrill that rang through the tower before I collapsed back on the bench. Hours of brooding crawled by as I mulled over the events of the past two days. Didn’t Leonardo have a plan? Or was he bluffing? Maybe I should have stayed in the cave… If only Zio knew how right he had been about the tower. Alessandro came back to switch the food trays, but the new meal lay forgotten on the terracotta floor.
I could tell Lorenzo about the David … but who would he believe
? I thought desperately.

An argument was brewing behind the door. I stood up and moved towards the raised voices. Even though my ear was pressed against the wood, I only caught a few words, “father," "problem," "trouble,” before I heard the locks shift again. I ran back to my bench and waited for my second guest.

“Signore Maroni!” I rushed towards his kind face and plump belly. “How did you—” I stopped when I felt a hard shell where his soft stomach should have been. “What?” I asked but he hushed me by placing a finger to his lips. His brilliant blue eyes winced with urgency.

“I have come to check on you, sweet girl,” he said in a loud voice, lifting up his tunic shirt. Beneath his tan undershirt, someone had coiled strong rope around his chest and past his paunch. He motioned for me to help him while he continued to spout fatherly concerns.

“Why have you not eaten your lunch? Is that a calzone? How lucky you are!”

I tried to move as quickly as my heart beat. I kissed the top of his head gratefully after I unraveled each layer. He blushed behind his square spectacles. He pointed towards the blankets.

“Do not worry, Viola, I’m sure the Medici will be merciful on you,” he said while I hid the pile of rope under the cloak. “Don’t be sad, you will see how much better you feel after nightfall.” He passed me a parchment that had been folded over several times. “Be sure to eat your food.” He winked, knocking on the door. “Starving yourself is not the answer,” he advised before tipping his hat at Alessandro.

The guard glanced at the discarded plate and grumbled something that sounded like “girls” before the door closed again. I waited several minutes before I loosened my fist around the note. Once I had unwrapped it, I immediately recognized the cryptic scrawl.

Viola,

Since I could not wrap enough rope to cover the distance between your window and the piazza, you will have to swing it. There is a metal clasp knotted to one end of the rope. Press on the circle to release what I like to call “the claw.” It should secure the rope to the window ledge. Swing to your left, as you are facing the tower, and then jump onto the roof top right behind the Signoria. I’ll be waiting for you there. Do not descend until the fun begins, just after nightfall. You will know when the time is right. Whatever happens, be the lioness.

Leonardo

My body trembled as I took a second look at the long fall between my window and the piazza. I stuck my head out and looked towards the right. The edge was barely visible from my limited vantage point. Tomato sauce speckled the paper while I reread the escape plan a hundred times over. I did not shred the paper until I had memorized its contents. Sore muscles twitched at each creak, squawk, and yelp. A bad case of the jitters infected me as I waited in nervous anticipation. I tried to rest and conserve my strength, but my eyelids kept blinking open trying to gauge the changing colors of the clear sky. Gradually, my pupils expanded with the dimming light.

The freezing wind blew through my only hope of escape. As instructed, I pressed on the protruding circle of the metal knot attached to the rope. The lever released sharp edges forming a spiky hook.

“How clever,” I said as I used its thorny talons to rip through both layers of my dress.

Using both hands, I tore the fabric until it fell in a jagged line around my calves. I wrapped the salvaged strips around my palms. Night came soon after and I waited, listening hard. It started as a low rumble and then grew into a symphony of shouts, hurried footsteps, and horn blows. Something had obviously gone wrong. Cries carried up to my tower from the piazza below. This must have been the sign Leonardo was talking about, but it seemed rather ominous. I hooked the spiked clasp into one of the window’s corners until it had sunk into the sediment.

Lifting one knee at a time, I hunched into the small arch. I looked down at the sheer cliff that fell beyond the windowsill. Before I could retreat, the scraping of metal locks rushed me. One leg, then two, dangled above the face of the Signoria. The cell door creaked. I saw Alessandro’s blue-green eyes just before I gripped the rope around my bandaged hands and disappeared behind the window. There was no time to think about how I could splatter all over the cobblestones far below. Suddenly, I was hyperaware of my body’s jumble of bones, muscles, and skin. My arms locked and I wrapped my left leg around the rope and crossed my right foot over my left leg. In my delirium I could not help but be grateful for Coach Phillips forcing me to do rope climbs in gym class. Alessandro’s balding head poked out from the top of the window.

Little by little, I slipped down the rope until I hung near the stepped battlement. My arms were already tired. I kicked off the surface, all the while anxiously eyeing the edge or the window. My hands were sweating and causing my grip to slip.

“One last jump,” I groaned, pushing off with all the energy I had left. The rope curved around the edge and I let go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Refuge

I landed hard on my knees, sliding forward onto the sandy pavement. My stockings ripped and so did the scabbed gash on my knees. Scarlet beads dripped onto the white sand as I ran. I looked over the rooftop but in my breathless state, I saw no one.

“Over here!” called Leonardo, his frame hooded in darkness. There was a four-foot drop to get to the next roof. “Hurry up!”

I leaped and tumbled over slightly. My legs shook as I started to slide. Leonardo caught my hand and pulled me back onto the flat edge. “We’re late,” he said, tugging me along the ridge. We stopped at the edge. While Leonardo examined the tiles, I tried to catch my breath. “There it is,” he said tugging at a rope with an identical metal claw. “Right, so grab the rope like this and you are just going to slide a little ways ’til you reach the balcony. Wait for me there.”

I looked over the precipice. “That’s not a balcony. That’s a shelf!”

“Which leads to a balcony … Come on! This is easy compared to what you just did.”

I sat on the roof’s edge and held on to the rope with my splintered fingers. With my back to the fall, I started sliding down. My fingers surged with pain as the sharp straw pressed against my skin. Once the balls of my feet reached the narrow ledge, I leaned forward and grabbed  the open window frame. Doubling over, I pulled my torso into the portico. After my legs were safely inside the balcony, I tugged at the rope. Within seconds, Leonardo swung into the balcony with one smooth nimble motion.

“You’re such a show-off.”

“How about … ‘thank you, Leonardo, for getting me out of prison.’” He paused. “Then you could follow up with something like, ‘not only are you a genius but you are also my hero,’” he said, opening the door beyond the roofed balcony, which led down a dark corridor.

“That goes without saying,” I whispered.

“Why are you whispering? This is my house,” he said, pointing towards the room we had dined in on Christmas.

“Oh! That is right, it was right behind the Signoria.” We hurried down the stairs and stopped at the main entrance. Leonardo pressed his ear against its wooden surface. “What are you listening for?”

“Lions.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Remember my friend Jacopo, the giant who takes care of the lions?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the Signoria keeps several of them in a hall on the first floor. A few hours ago, he fed them a few extra deer. When they were good and full, he opened the gate … by accident.” He winked.

“They could have hurt someone!”

“No, they could not. They are too lazy. Even if they did, serves them right for cooping them up where they do not belong. At least they got to stretch their legs a bit,” he said, handing me his cloak and then opening the door.

“Where are we going?” I asked, fastening the cloak around my neck.

“Shhh! You’ll see.”

The cool night deepened, and the strong wind that had been my cellmate had calmed to a breeze. Its presence soothed the burn of my scrapes and cooled my sweat. Leonardo led me in a half circle through a series of back streets. The familiar fumes of campfire floated past us as we turned onto Via Vacchereccia. The decadent displays of silk bundles and luscious textiles were absent from the hanging canopies. Leonardo walked up to Signore Soldo’s shop, but before he could knock I seized his hand.

“Wait!”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

“I promise he will not be in any kind of danger. Anyway, it is too late for that. Let us be honest, without serious help you would not have been able to do it alone,” said Leonardo.

“I know.” I frowned.

“For your information I did not force anyone, no more than you forced me. They were all eager to help.”

“What do you mean
they al
l
?
” I asked. Leonardo turned towards me, placing his hands on my shoulders.

“What, did you believe that all prison guards are as gentle as Alessandro and prisoners get to eat sausage calzones? Or that they all let in sweet-looking grandfathers to visit prisoners?” Leonardo knocked twice at Signore Soldo’s shop door.

“So you’re saying Alessandro was involved too?”

“Luckily for us, Alessandro is Signore Maroni’s son,” said Leonardo.

“That is why he helped us?”

“If it was not for you, his sons’ only caretaker and beloved Nonno would be locked up in debtors' prison.”

“Who’s there?” called Signore Soldo.

“Brunelleschi,” answered Leonardo. The door cracked open.

“Heavens above, Viola, look at you! What did they do to you?” asked Signore Soldo as he bolted the door behind us. His eyes lingered at the jagged hem, bleeding knees, and bandaged hands.

“No one … I did this to myself.”

“I think she looks great!” added Leonardo. “Like a proper warrior.”

“A proper mess more like it! Go back to the pantry. There is a bucket of water that should still be hot,” said Soldo pointing past the shelves of silk. “I brought your things from Caterina’s house. They are back there too.” I walked towards the back of the shop.

The pantry was much like Zia’s. Jars teemed with pickled food and spools of thread lined the cabinets that covered the walls. In the center of the pantry, a metal bucket steamed. A lump of pink soap bubbled at the bottom of the warm water. One by one, I peeled off the grungy layers that had protected my body. Their crusty surface made a hard sound when they hit the tile floor. I lathered the dirt and blood until the red color changed to white. My knees took the longest. Each soapy stroke was torturous. The brown water was lukewarm when I finished. Naked, I looked around for my dress, but instead I found my ripped jeans, purple scarf, and black undershirt. It felt strange pulling on clothes that seemed to belong to a stranger. As I wrapped the scarf around my neck, I could smell the musky books and the flowery perfume that rested on my dresser in New York City. The chime of Renzo’s voice reached me before I left the pantry.

“What are you doing here, Renzo? You could get in an awful lot of trouble,” I said, walking towards the shop front.

“But more importantly, did you tell anyone you were coming?” asked Leonardo.

“I wouldn’t risk my maiden’s life!” exclaimed Renzo defensively.

“Well, you’d better hope you were not followed. I do not know how long it will be before they realize Viola is gone.”

Signore Soldo stirred the pot of lentil soup before ladling it into four shallow bowls. We pulled out the table pushed to the side during shop hours and sat at its benches.

“I’m afraid it’s not Zia’s cooking, but at least it’s piping hot,” he apologized. “I have had to learn to fend for myself, you know. I just assume adding a healthy dose of garlic makes anything taste better.” He placed a basket of brown bread on the table. “I am also convinced it keeps me young.”

“Cooking or the garlic?” laughed Leonardo.

“The garlic! Sit here by the fire, Viola.”

“Thank you, Signore Soldo … for everything,” I said.

“It is my absolute pleasure,” he said, taking a seat at the bench across from me. “What you have done for Zia...” he choked “...there are no words.”

“He thinks you are an angel, Viola,” said Leonardo.

“So what if I do? It makes a lot more sense than the rubbish you have all come up with. To be frank, I care for my version much more.”

It was hard not to harbor that fuzzy feeling inside as the fire warmed my back and I looked around at my brilliant rescue party. After only a few ravenous spoonfuls of silence, there was a rap at the door.

“Who is it?” called Signore Soldo.

“It is Andrea del Verrocchio,” answered the voice.

Leonardo got up to check the tiny peephole. Soon after, Verrocchio’s large figure stepped into the shop. He sighed with relief when he saw me.

“How did you know we were here?” asked Leonardo.

“I followed Renzo.” The poor boy looked around and scratched at the phantom lice nibbling around his ears.

“Well, I was being extra careful! I did not hear anyone behind me.”

“To his credit he was,” added Verrocchio. “Once I saw him knock at this door, I decided to come by on my way back from the hospital.”

“Why did you go to the hospital? Are you unwell?” we asked.

“Nothing like that,” he said, removing his hat and taking a seat at the bench. “I’ve been looking for Salai since Christmas Eve and have only just found him. The nurse told me they spotted him crumpled in a ball by the Ospedale degli Innocenti. What had started out as a bad case of drunkenness almost turned into pneumonia.”

“I don’t feel the slightest bit sorry for him,” I interjected, not meeting Verrocchio’s eye.

“Well, I do,” he said. “It was a pitiful sight seeing him there. He’s not as heartless as you suppose him to be.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“Then it is a good thing I did not come to convince you of anything,” he said, accepting the glass of wine from Signore Soldo. “I came to apologize.”

“To me?”

“Yes, I realize I did not really teach you anything.”

“You were busy,” I said, wiping stray lentils from my mouth. “And I did learn a lot, especially from Renzo and Leonardo.” He took a long drag from the wine glass. The lines on his forehead spoke of regret. “There really was not enough time. How long do apprentices usually stay with you?”

“It depends on the apprentice, but usually about a decade.” Another thump at the door interrupted the many side conversations happening at once.

“Who’s there?” repeated Signore Soldo for the fourth time.

“Medici,” said the deep voice beyond the door. I was halfway to the pantry and into a panic attack when I heard Sandro’s stifled laughter.

“Just kidding! It is Botticelli.” We all let out a sigh of relief when the door opened and Sandro brushed passed Leonardo.

“You scared me to death!” I said.

“But now you are so glad to see me! I just wanted a bit of fun is all.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Well, I felt a little responsible for what happened to you.”

“It had noth—”

“If I would have been a proper guardian, this might never have happened.”

“That’s not the case, but it seems I won’t be able to convince you otherwise.”

“You’re right.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said.

“Well, I went to Verrocchio’s workshop after I heard the news to see if I could help in any way.”

“He helped me to test out the claw,” said Leonardo, who stood up to join the conversation.

Verrocchio reached up to pat Sandro on the back, congratulating him on his new patron. The interruption allowed me a brief moment to look around the shop.  

“What is wrong?” asked Leonardo. I shook my head. “Why is it with all women you must ask what is bothering them three or four times before they actually tell you?”

“It’s just, I know that when I go back, I’ll never see any of you again. I’ll be leaving behind the few friends I have.”

“You have no friends where you come from?”

“Does my father count?”

“Definitely not.” He grinned.

“Then no, I don’t.”

“As people that care about you, we want you to be safe. That is no longer possible for you in Florence. I say this with all the love of a brother … you do not belong here. I do not think you will lack for friends ever again.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I cannot be too sure of anything so abstract, but the Viola I met at Mercato Vecchio would not have dangled off the side of the Signora.”

“You might be right,” I said, chewing my lip.

“By the way, do you have any genius ideas for getting back?”

“We need a way to be in the piazza watching for the perfect moment to take back Idan,” I said.  

“How are you planning on that?” asked Leonardo.

“All we need is half of a good plan, but mostly great timing.”

“You can be performers!” said Renzo, squeezing himself into the middle of the huddle.

“There is that theatre troop that performs in Piazza della Signoria,” Leonardo agreed.

“How would we manage that?” I asked.

“Sandro and I can make the masks,” explained Leonardo, his voice escalating with excitement. “We just need volunteers … Two is a suspicious number.”

“How many times do I have to say that I don’t want anyone else getting in trouble!”

“One person in a costume is scary at best,” pointed out Leonardo. “As I was saying, you also need to put on a cloak and a hat that covers most of your head … Come to think of it, my father has a couple of those. I guess he’s a little self-conscious about his balding. I will grab those.”

“I want to be a performer,” implored Renzo.

“I have always had a flair for drama,” offered Signore Soldo.

“And I,” said Sandro, tossing back the remaining red wine.

“But what if you all get caught?” I asked.

“Stop worrying so much,” said Leonardo. “The minute you make a slow run for it, we will take off at a much quicker pace.”

“Very funny.”

“It is a natural gift,” teased Leonardo. “Unlike your running skills.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.” He stood up and Sandro followed his lead. “We will be here in a couple of hours.” A cold gust squeezed through the crack in the door as they opened it.

Once it closed behind them, the fire dampened. Verrocchio beckoned me to sit next to him. I could tell by the batting of his eyelashes that the glass he held in his hand was one of several.

“I also wanted to give you this.” He pulled out my spotted apron from the workshop. “I thought you would want to keep it as a memento,” he said as I traced Margherita’s embroidery with his thumb.

“Thank you … I’m sure you must miss her,” I said, accepting the folded apron.

“More than words can express.” He clenched his jaw. “I will also miss you, Viola.”

“You mean Massimo?”

“No, I mean Viola.” He pulled me into a hug and without another word, finished his wine and left.