Blue Sheep Red Lily

By Terrie Bird

It is the fourteenth century and Florence is a bustling city, generating considerable wealth from its thriving woollen cloth industry and famed banking houses.
Curious, capable and determined, Cammilla's life takes an unexpected turn when she is forced to leave her farming family and move to nearby Florence. She learns to read and write and develops a head for business, putting her at odds with Florentine customs and traditions. From child, to bride and then mother, her strength of character is constantly tested as she faces challenging and emotional situations, as well as searching to unravel the mysteries of her family secrets.
Cammilla’s story takes place against a background of real life events including the devastating effects of the Black Plague, the tumultuous wool workers’ rebellion, the construction of the grand duomo – Santa Maria del Fiore, and the growth and development of the city’s woollen cloth industry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terrie Bird
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9780473283193

Terrie Bird

Terrie Bird left her native Australia in the 1980’s and lived for a number of years in Zimbabwe and Thailand and currently lives in New Zealand. She has a background in retail business, office administration and, during her time in Thailand, worked as a volunteer for an organisation assisting Thai artisans in marketing locally produced handicrafts.Since 2003 she has made numerous trips to various parts of Italy but always with a special love of Florence and the Tuscan countryside. It was on one such trip in 2007, while exploring Florence, she began to wonder what had brought about the city's treasure trove of architecture, sculpture and painting. Where had the money come from to fund the grand sculptured buildings, magnificent churches with marble facades and frescoed interiors, enchanting bridges, and the abundance of paintings and sculptures now housed in the city’s museums? Who were the artisans responsible for these creations, and what was life like then for an ordinary Florentine? And so, the idea for Blue Sheep Red Lily was born. Over the course of the next six years, including several more trips to Florence, those original musings developed into this, Terrie’s first novel.Plans are already underway for her second.

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Map 1

Map 2

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction and, with a few exceptions, the characters are fictitious. Drawing on the works of eminent scholars and historians, and various contemporary sources, the setting depicting fourteenth century Florence and the daily life of the Florentines, is as accurate as the author knows how to make it. The sources provide the facts. Any mistakes in their application to the story, rest with the author alone.

Two characters, namely, Simone Talenti and Donatello, are true to life although the context in which they are presented is the subject of the author’s imagination. Simone Talenti was, in fact, trained as a stonecutter. Apart from designing and working on the Or San Michele, and collaborating on the design of the Loggia dei Priori (now called Loggia dei Lanzi), he sculptured numerous works for the duomo and campanile, and served for a time as capomaestro at the duomo. Information about him after 1383, however, has proven to be elusive.

Donatello was an apprentice in Lorenzo Ghiberti’s workshop. In 1401, both men entered the competition to make a set of bronze doors for the Battistero di San Giovanni. Ghiberti won the competition and Donatello assisted him in the project’s execution.

There is little doubt the Alberti family commissioned the painting of The Legend of the True Cross in the main chapel of the church of Santa Croce. Lack of documentation, however, prevents precise dating of the work’s commencement. Dates ranging from 1380 to 1388 have been suggested. For the purpose of the story, the commencement date is assumed to be 1385.

A glossary is provided to assist the reader unfamiliar with foreign terminology used in the story. In some instances, however, precision is elusive. For example, the distinction between stonecutters as opposed to sculptors was not definitive at this time. In general, those men who worked with cut stone (stonecutters, sculptors and hewers) were known as scarpellini, or scalpellini. Those who engaged in construction work using stone and brick were known as muratori (wallers).

During the period of the story, Italy was a collection of independent city-states often in conflict and with changing alliances. Unification did not come about until 1861.

The story follows the Florentine calendar year of the time with the year beginning on

25 March, the Feast Day of the Annunciation, and also recognised as the first day of spring.

TB

PART I

1342

Chapter I

Cammilla. Are you awake?

Sì, Mamma, replied Cammilla, her dark eyes wide and alert. In truth, she had hardly slept. Excitement and impatience had kept her mind darting from one thought to the next, preventing a peaceful sleep.

Hurry and dress, Papa is already in the barn preparing for the journey.

Cammilla rolled off the thin straw mattress she shared with her two brothers. Matteo, two years older than her seven, was beginning to stir. As usual, four-year-old Argiento was sound asleep. Lying in a basket at the foot of the mattress, baby Marietta contentedly sucked on her fist.

Cammilla pulled down the hem of her long-sleeved linen camicia and slipped her head and upstretched arms through the openings of a coarse linen tunic. Pushing back long strands of curling dark brown hair from her face, she tied a strip of cloth around her head. As she did, her gaze followed the faint stream of moonlight filtering through the window and falling softly at her feet. Dawn was still more than an hour away.

I’ll help you pick the beans, said Matteo, his words jumbled in a long yawn.

Cammilla laughed. You are not even awake.

I am too. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Do you want my help or not?

You will have to hurry, said Cammilla grinning. I will leave a basket for you.

Cammilla ran across the straw-covered floor to the only door in the two-roomed farmhouse. Stepping outside she breathed in the tepid air, a sure sign another steamy day lay below the horizon. She picked up two empty baskets by the door and trod carefully down a hardened earth path to the vegetable plot. Even though she knew the path well, light from the near-full moon was a comforting guide. One of her daily tasks was to tend the plot, and make sure the hens and pig stayed on the other side of the rickety fence surrounding the vegetable beds and clumps of herbs.

Matteo followed closely behind. They set their baskets down beside a bed of trussed bean plants. The moon’s silvery light reflected off the smooth green pods, making them easier to see amongst the tangle of darker leaves. An early morning harvest would ensure the beans retained their best flavour.

Cammilla began picking. Tell me again, Matteo, about the city.

She had visited the nearby village of Settignano, but she had never been to the great city in the valley below. Over and over she had pleaded with her papa to take her with him to the city’s market. His replies were always the same. ‘One day, carissima mia, one day when you are bigger and strong enough to walk there and back and not tire.’

At last, the day she longed for had arrived.

Please, Matteo, tell me, she asked again, her tiny hands working swiftly pulling the plump pods downwards and dropping them into the basket.

Matteo smiled. He often went to the city market with their father, and for days afterwards Cammilla would badger him to tell her what he had seen.

Tall towers, lots and lots of them, that almost touch the sky, he at last replied. And houses. So many houses, with more than two rooms. Some as high as five storeys. Not so far from the market, they are building a duomo and, it is said, when finished it will be the biggest and grandest duomo ever built. He paused for a moment and pulled the basket toward him, dropping in a handful of beans. The streets are always busy. Pack animals, carts, men on horseback, and people, many, many people, he said, widening his eyes. Oh, and there is the great river. You must ask Papa to take you there after the market to watch the boats and fishermen.

It sounds so exciting, Matteo. I cannot wait, she said smiling. I only wish you were coming too.

Next time, said Matteo. Papa says I must finish harvesting the grain today. You can tell me all about it on your return.

Satisfied they had not missed a single plump pod, Cammilla and Matteo picked up the baskets and walked back to the barn. An add-on to the farmhouse, the barn was constructed of the same mud-brown brick with a clay-tiled roof extending over the pig pen. Every spring their papa bought a piglet from the local village market, and each time Cammilla tried not to get too fond of its adorable little snout and perky pink ears. She knew come the beginning of winter the pig would disappear. Days later she would find its severed hind legs and various seasoned salumi and salsicce hanging from the rafters to cure in the cold dry air.

At the entrance to the barn, a gate made of dried saplings hung at a skewed angle. Aside from being a stable for Asino, the family ass, the barn boasted a threshing floor, wooden fermenting vats, and a loft to store the family’s supplies of grain, straw, oil, vinegar and wine. Cammilla and Matteo dropped the baskets to the ground just inside the barn entrance.

It is a good harvest this morning, Papa, said Cammilla.

Bene, said Alamanno, his hazel-green eyes focused on the task at hand, You have done well.

Cammilla watched as he lifted one of two grey-weathered wicker baskets of plums onto the wooden pack saddle already fastened to Asino’s broad back. Yesterday afternoon, she and Matteo had collected the first of the season’s waxy purple orbs from heavily laden trees in the family’s small orchard. She loved to climb trees, and relished the challenge of seeing how high she could climb before feeling the branches begin to bow under her weight.

Matteo, you hold the basket steady, while I tie it on, said Alamanno.

Sì, Papa, Matteo replied, taking the weight of a basket.

Shall I pick some herbs, Papa? asked Cammilla.

Sì, but only enough to fill that sack, he said, pointing at an empty sack lying on the ground by Asino’s water trough. You can take the knife hanging by the door.

Cammilla unhooked the knife, picked up the sack, and skipped back down to the vegetable plot. Cutting handfuls of herbs, she layered them into the sack. Wafts of lemon-fragrant thyme, sweet-smelling marjoram, and pine-scented rosemary swirled up and tickled her nose. The bouquet of wild aromas reminded her of walks with Matteo, taking the pig into the adjoining woodland to forage. Sometimes, when the days were long and their farm chores completed, their papa allowed them to walk as far as the nearby stone quarries.

Cammilla carried the sack of herbs back to the barn. She waited while her papa and Matteo finished securing the baskets to the pack saddle.

Alamanno had worked the soil all his life, rising well before dawn and ceasing only when the light had faded at the day’s end. Each week he took vegetables, fruit, and sometimes his woven baskets, to sell at the market in Settignano’s central square. Once, perhaps twice in a month, if the harvest was plentiful, he and Asino made the longer, nearly four mile journey into Fiorenza to the much larger Mercato Vecchio.

He took the sack of herbs from Cammilla and placed it on top of the basket of beans secured between the two of plums. Finally, he picked up a clay flask of watered wine and tied it to the pack saddle. The flask’s protective covering of coiled, twisted straw would keep the liquid cool for their journey.

Are we ready? asked Cammilla, looking expectantly at her papa.

Sì, andiamo, he replied, leading Asino out of the barn.

Cammilla and Matteo followed.

They were met by Leonetta, their mamma, coming out of the house. Here, Cammilla, take this with you, she said, giving her a draw-string bag.

Cammilla pulled open the strings and peeked inside. There was a half loaf from yesterday’s bake and a wedge of cheese wrapped in vine leaves.

Don’t eat it all at once. Save some for the journey home, said her mamma smiling.

Grazie, Mamma, she replied excitedly, and looped the bag’s strings over her shoulder. She kissed her mamma and Matteo on the cheek, then, waving her hand behind her, ran to catch up with Alamanno and Asino.

The trio walked in single file along a moonlit track. Whistling a familiar tune, Alamanno kept a steady pace, leading Asino around rocky outcrops protruding from the stony earth. The slackened rope connecting Alamanno and the dun grey ass was hardly necessary as both had walked the route numerous times before. Like a trusted friend, the winding path guided them down to the open plain below.

Following behind, Cammilla kept pace with the clop, clop of Asino’s hooves on the hard ground. She looked up and from side-to-side, but could only make out soft grey shapes of dense scrub oak and bushy laurel lining the path. She slowed her pace to lengthen the distance between herself and Asino, hoping to gain a better view of what was ahead. Even stretching up on her toes, all she could see above Asino’s ears were the blurred shadows of tall cypress. On, on she walked.

After a while, they approached a clearing about two-thirds of the way down the hill. As they did, a distant melodic toll echoed up from the city below. Church bells announcing the impending dawn and rallying the devout to the new day’s Mass. The cloudless sky had begun to lighten, although the sun still dozed just below the horizon. Lagging behind her papa and Asino, Cammilla quickened her pace to catch up. The bells continued to toll, resonating through the early morning stillness, increasing her excitement.

In her rush to pass Asino, she bumped into one of the baskets, spilling three plums onto the ground. Quickly she scooped up the unharmed fruit, brushed off the dirt with the sleeve of her camicia, and returned them to the basket. Giving Asino a wider berth she caught up with her papa. He had come to a stop at the clearing and was gazing out across the valley plain. She curled her fingers around his strong, calloused palm. He looked down at her and smiled.

Fiorenza, he uttered.

Cammilla’s eyes widened. From the family’s hillside podere, and the nearby stone quarries, she had sometimes caught sight of the city straddling the Arno. From those distant points, it only ever appeared as a blurred blob of mottled brown and red.

It is much bigger than I ever imagined, Papa, she said, realising this was the closest she had ever been.

Her gaze followed the track. Winding gently down the hill, it widened and straightened along the valley floor, coming to a halt at the city’s eastern-most gate. Flag-topped watch towers punctuated the high stone walls circling the city. Surrounding the forbidding fortifications and for as far as the eye could see, garden plots, stands of olive trees, vineyards, grain fields and woodlands, stretched to the foot of the hills bordering the valley plain. Scattered in between were muddled hamlets and an occasional solitary monastery or convent, recognisable by its bell tower or rooftop belfry.

At the corner of her vision, Cammilla could see the tree line of the river Arno. Her papa had told her the great river began its journey far beyond the family podere in the mountains above the lush Casentine forest cutting its way through the hills, and onto the broad valley plain. Many times he had relayed the story of the Arno’s fury. In 1333, two years before she was born, a violent storm raged over the mountains for four days and nights. The river swelled, flowing faster and faster, ripping whole trees and chunks of soil from its banks. As the raging torrent flooded the valley plain destroying crops and drowning livestock, swirling waters flowed into the city, flooding buildings and piazzas, and dumping mud and debris in the streets. People climbed to safety in the upper floors of houses and towers, but hundreds drowned. So great was the Arno’s force it had carried away three of the four bridges spanning its banks. Only the Ponte Rubaconte was spared.

The bells have stopped, Papa.

Sì, and we must keep moving, he said smiling. You can walk beside me. The track is wider from here.

They walked on to the bottom of the hill. The busy chatter of birds and haunting chants of monks at a nearby monastery broke the early morning silence. As they moved closer, the city’s wide expanse of tall tower houses and burnished-red rooftops sunk behind the crenellated walls.

Alamanno and Cammilla joined the queue outside the Porta alla Croce. Flaming torches, ensconced in metal brackets, enhanced the warm ochre of the stone walls. Cammilla looked up at the tower rising above the high-arched gate. Two uniformed guards appeared from behind the tower’s battlements. After a short perusal of the goings on below they disappeared from view. At the top of the tower was hoisted a white standard emblazoned with the famed red lily of Fiorenza.

Cammilla was eager to enter, but knew she had to be patient and wait in line with the other contadini. Some had come leading beasts heavily laden with fresh produce and bundles of firewood. Others had carts loaded with earthen jars of olive oil packed in straw, and caged live capons, blissfully unaware of their fate once inside. Her papa explained that anyone bringing goods into the city had to pay the gate gabelle, the gate taxes, before being permitted entry.

In front of Cammilla and Alamanno, a peasant woman, wearing what appeared to be an unusual amount of clothing for a warm summer’s morning, was roughly pulled aside by a guard. An argument followed and there was much yelling and screaming from the heavily-clothed woman. Finally, she relented and pulled up her skirt. There, neatly hidden in the folds of her under-skirt, were two pigeons and a partridge, their broken necks tied to a strip of cloth fixed around her waist. She removed the feathered booty and surrendered it to the guard. He grinned triumphantly, and sent her back from where she came.

Cammilla stood open-mouthed, fascinated by the spectacle. Her eyes followed the woman as she marched passed the waiting queue. Straight-backed and defiant she did not look back. With the spurned woman’s hasty departure Alamanno and Cammilla were next.

Still chuckling to himself, the guard turned to Alamanno. And what do you bring into our fine city today? he asked, feigning an officious tone.

Two baskets of plums, one of beans and a sack of herbs, replied Alamanno.

Mmm...are you sure you are not hiding a pigeon or two under there? The guard prodded at Alamanno’s clothing with his finger.

Alamanno took a step back, smoothing down the coarse fabric of his belted tunic. Certainly not! he replied indignantly. He could not deny that he felt the gabelle were excessive, tempting some to be remiss in declaring the true quantity of their load, but not him. He would never dare to be dishonest and sneak in goods without paying his dues.

Sniggering to himself, the guard glanced over the contents of Alamanno’s baskets. Dieci piccioli, he said in a more serious tone, and waved Alamanno over to the collections’ clerk.

Alamanno handed the lead rope to Cammilla. Take Asino and wait here.

Sì, Papa, she replied, gently scratching Asino’s nose.

She watched her father walk over to the collection booth. Standing before the clerk, he untied the palm-sized goatskin purse attached to a flax belt around his waist. He took out ten brown coins and placed them on the clerk’s bench. The clerk recorded the transaction in a register then dismissed Alamanno with a polite nod.

We can go in now, said Alamanno, taking back Asino’s lead. Follow me and keep close.

They walked past the collection booth toward two enormous wooden gates closed under the arched entrance. An armed guard, like the two Cammilla had seen on the tower, waved them through a smaller portal hinged into one of the gates.

Cammilla followed Alamanno and Asino. In awe of the size of the gates, she turned back to look at them from inside. So big and so high, she thought, her head bent back and mouth agape. Slowly stepping backwards, so as she did not have to disturb her gaze, Cammilla could just make out the haloed head and shoulders of the Blessed Virgin painted in the arched lunette above the closed gates. She took another few steps backwards to widen her view of the painting, when she tripped. Her knees hit the dusty road with a thud and she felt something sharp pierce her skin. Instinctively she looked up and saw her papa. He was walking quickly towards her, Asino in tow. Quickly she stood up, brushing the dust from her tunic.

What have you done to yourself? he asked, wiping the dirt from her leg.

A trickle of warm blood oozed from a cut immediately below the knee. She felt the wetness and a stinging pain.

Tutto bene, Papa. It doesn’t hurt, really it doesn’t, she said, trying her best to sound unbothered by her clumsiness.

Tears began to well up behind her eyes, but she was determined not to cry. Taking out a handkerchief tucked inside her tunic, she wiped the wound. She winced, holding back her tears. The gash was small but deep, the culprit, no doubt, one of the jagged stones littering the dirt road.

Come over here and we can clean away the blood and dirt, said Alamanno, taking her by the hand, and tugging Asino’s lead with the other.

They walked to a well a few steps from the roadside. Cammilla limped, but remained steadfast and did not allow a single tear to fall, or a solitary utterance of pain to escape her lips.

Alamanno pulled on the rope, drawing up the attached bucket from the depths of the stone-walled well. Dipping a corner of her handkerchief into the cool water, Cammilla carefully washed the wound.

Let me help you, said Alamanno, reaching for the wet cloth.

I can do it, Papa. It was silly of me to fall, she said lightly, dabbing at the wound.

Maybe the walk is too far for you and you are tired.

No, no, Papa, really, I am not tired, she quickly replied, I was not looking where I was going.

She could feel him watching her as she worked cautiously around the bloodied wound. She held her mouth tight, trying not to flinch. Directly above the cut were several other scars in various stages of pinkness. Permanent reminders of previous clumsy encounters.

Your poor knee already looks like it has had its share of mishaps, said Alamanno sympathetically. He pulled out his handkerchief and folded it crossways to make a bandage. Take this and cover the wound.

Keeping her injured leg straight, Cammilla bent over and tied the makeshift bandage around her knee. When she stood upright the cloth immediately fell to her ankle.

Let me tie it. I will take care not to hurt you, said Alamanno, adjusting the bandage. There. Is that too tight?

No, she replied, not wanting to admit it was, just a little, but at least she knew the bandage would stay in place.

From somewhere not too far ahead came the deep tolling of church bells.

Dio Mio! It is the bells of the Badia, exclaimed Alamanno.

The abbey belonged to the Benedictine monks, and from its elegant campanile, the bells tolled the liturgical hours guiding both the monks and laity in their daily lives. The distinctive monotonous clang signalled the start of the working day. And, at day’s end, the same bells tolled, freeing workers from their toil.

We must move quickly, Cammilla, and get to the market square before the streets become too crowded. He grabbed Asino’s lead and headed back onto the road. Otherwise it will be more difficult for us to pass through with our load.

Absorbed in the dilemma of her bloodied leg, Cammilla and Alamanno had lost track of the time and not noticed the warm peach glow of sunrise was fading from the eastern sky. Walking with an uneven gait, Cammilla quickened her pace to catch up to Alamanno and Asino. Although her pride had taken a small knock, the fall had not diminished any of the excitement she was feeling in anticipation of the day ahead. The throbbing ache from her knee was a minor annoyance she was willing to accommodate. Nothing was going to spoil this day. The day she had looked forward to for so long was finally here. And so was she. Here in the bustling city of Fiorenza.

She kept pace with Alamanno as they walked towards the Mercato Vecchio. On both sides of the road, people were tending vegetable plots and preparing to harvest grain from the fields surrounding their wooden and brick houses. Tethered goats munched on anything within their reach, while foraging pigs wandered about with their snouts close to the ground. It was as if the contado had seeped under the walls, blending effortlessly into the city within.

Cammilla and Alamanno merged with the procession of farmers and market vendors heading to the marketplace. They walked alongside pack animals carrying basket loads of summer vegetable and fruits, and carts loaded to spilling point with the new season’s melons and striped marrows. Men pulled oxen-led carts containing old pieces of metal, wooden barrels of wine, and firewood. Ahead, a young farmer boy waved a menacing stick, attempting to keep together a flock of errant sheep, and peasant women balanced flat wicker trays of brightly coloured blooms upon their heads. As they neared the city centre, the dirt road became a stone-paved street. Apprentices and artisans on their way to their botteghe, workshops, and men to their offices, mingled with the throng of marketeers and beasts.

At last, Alamanno and Cammilla arrived at the old market square.

Does your knee hurt? asked Alamanno.

Only a little, Cammilla lied.

He frowned, obviously unconvinced, but did not question her further. Well, we are here. Best you stay close. There are many people rushing about and I do not want you to be in the way.

The warning had no sooner left his lips when a burly man carrying a wooden barrel on each shoulder ran into Cammilla, pushing her to one side. Fortunately, she did not lose her footing and managed to swiftly step out of the path of an oncoming cart carrying squawking hens in wicker cages.

Why is everyone rushing? she asked, catching her breath. Are we late because I fell over?

It is the same every market day. Sellers are eager to set up their stalls before the square becomes crammed with buyers and lookers, said Alamanno, searching for a break in the crowds. We must move quickly. Stay close.

Leading Asino to the other side of the square, Alamanno stopped near a group of flower-selling women seated around the edge of a circular brick platform. In the centre of the platform was a water well, beside which stood a young girl. Cammilla guessed she was not much older than herself. Her face was crinkled under the strain of pulling the rope over the wooden pulley. As the dripping bucket appeared, the young girl grabbed the handle and pulled it onto the ledge of the well. Cammilla thought of her daily walks with Matteo to collect water from the stream at the bottom of the podere. She wondered if the girl lived nearby and was fetching water for her family.

Cammilla! exclaimed Alamanno. Are you listening?

His unusually raised tone made her jump. Mi dispiace, Papa, I am sorry. There is so much to look at.

You will have time for that later, cara mia, he replied in a softer tone. He handed her the lead rope. I want you to hold Asino steady while I unload the baskets.

Is this where you have your stall, Papa? she asked, staring over at the other vegetable and fruit sellers who were busily displaying their produce on wooden trestle tables.

Sì. Now hold him steady, instructed Alamanno, untying the baskets.

But, Papa, we do not have a table.

Don’t worry about the table. I must get Asino unloaded and stabled before the market officials make me pay a fine.

He put the baskets, sack of herbs and flask at Cammilla’s feet.

A fine? asked Cammilla.

Animals are only permitted to stay in the market if they are for sale, said Alamanno, taking Asino’s lead. He put his hand on Cammilla’s shoulder. Listen carefully. You are to stay here by the baskets and not move. I will not be gone long.

Cammilla nodded obediently and watched him lead Asino away to the nearby stables.

Alone, she had a few moments to take in her surroundings. She felt exhilarated as well as a little frightened, although she would only admit that to herself. She looked back to the water well. Wet patches on the stone platform faintly glistened, but the young girl was gone.

There was so much to see, Cammilla did not know where to look first. She had been to the local village market with her mamma and papa, but it was not nearly as large, busy or noisy. Carts, carrying sacks of milled flour to the bakers’ ovens, squeaked loudly as they moved over the uneven paving stones. A young farmer skillfully balanced a bucket of fresh sheep’s milk on each end of a pole that bowed across his bony shoulders. His body and the buckets moved in perfect time as he weaved his way between carts, beasts and people. Women and servant girls pushed and shoved, competing with innkeepers and tavern owners to get their hands on the choicest fruit and vegetables. Fresh produce, all the colours of the rainbow, was displayed in baskets and neat mounds set upon disordered rows of trestle tables. The flower sellers seated around the well squabbled in high-pitched tones over their territorial rights for space. Nearby, a money lender was seated at a cloth-covered portable table. His fingers played with the counters of the abaco as he waited for his first customer.

Alamanno soon returned. He carried a wooden plank under one arm and two sawhorses over his other shoulder. He assembled the table quickly and Cammilla eagerly began arranging the plums in pyramidal mounds. She had been watching the other stall holders display their produce and was confident she could do it on her own without any instruction from her papa. She gathered the beans into two neat piles, either side of the plums, then began to decoratively place bunches of the aromatic herbs in between.

While Cammilla was still sorting the herbs, a short, plumpish woman with a young boy at her side approached the table. She was cloaked in a dull green mantello fastened at the neck. The front opening revealed the patched bodice and skirt of her long-sleeved, ankle-length gamurra. She picked up one of the plums, gripping it firmly in her palm.

What price are your plums? she asked Alamanno.

Six for five piccioli, he replied genially.

Picking up another one she inspected the fruit further. Mmm...I think it is a little expensive. She looked along the row of stall holders and pointed to a woman three stalls away, her table displaying mounds of plums and figs. See that one? She asks five piccioli for seven pieces.

Monna, I ask a fair price. I can guarantee my fruit is the best quality, said Alamanno defensively.

But, why should I pay the same and get less? Is that fair? questioned the woman.

Cammilla and the boy exchanged looks of mild amusement.

Monna, said Cammilla with a smile and courteous nod. Papa speaks the truth. He only brings the best quality fruit to market.

Maybe he does, dear child, but he still asks a higher price. I cannot be wasting my husband’s hard earned soldi.

She picked up another plum and inspected it.

Monna, if you were to buy six of my papa’s plums you would be able to use every one of them and only throw away the stone. Quickly glancing over at the other fruit seller, Cammilla lowered her voice. The plums she sells are smaller than Papa’s.

Amused by Cammilla’s boldness the woman replied, You will have to speak louder my dear I cannot hear you over the loud din of vendors.

Straightening up and trying her best to appear unafraid Cammilla looked directly at the woman and spoke a little louder. Papa’s plums are bigger and juicier.

Glancing across to the fruit seller in question, Cammilla saw she was busy with a customer. The plums that lady sells do not look as fresh as Papa’s. Some are bruised and you would have to throw away more than the stone.

Alamanno quickly tried to excuse Cammilla. Mi dispiace, Monna, she does not mean any disrespect.

But the woman, appearing not to have heard him, had already grabbed her boy’s hand and was pulling him along to the table of the other plum seller.

Alamanno turned to Cammilla. It was impolite of you to speak that way. You should know better your manners. Best you stay out of –

On the contrary, your little girl has made a good point, interrupted the woman, her boy’s hand still grasped in hers. She is indeed correct. These plums of yours are larger and fresher than others for sale today. I will take twelve. Can you give me a good price for twelve? she asked, with a mischievous grin.

How about nine piccioli and I will give to you a bunch of herbs at no extra cost? replied a relieved Alamanno.

Sì, I think that is fair, she replied.

Alamanno took the woman’s empty basket and counted out twelve plums, while Cammilla quickly gathered together stalks of rosemary, thyme and marjoram.

What about you, child, do you think that is a fair price?

Sì, Monna, Cammilla replied, putting the herbs in the woman’s basket. I am sorry if you thought me rude. I only meant to help.

Where is that you have come from today?

From near the village of Settignano, Monna, replied Cammilla.

Such a long way for one so small.

I have seven years, said Cammilla proudly, and it is not so far.

Well then, I might see you again, the woman smiled.

Cammilla looked to her papa.

We will see, he said, patting Cammilla on the shoulder.

Cammilla waved to the little boy as the woman pulled him along to the next stall.

When Cammilla turned back she noticed a man of bulky proportions jammed in between their table and a stationary cart. He was staring straight at her. He wore a pale blue berretta, and the frayed neck and wrists of a white camicia were visible under his green gonnella. Tucked under his arm, he carried an odd shaped roll of cloth. His other arm was stretched across his chest to secure the cumbersome bundle. It was his hands and fingernails that captured Cammilla’s attention. They were blue.

You would like to buy some plums? she asked, averting her stare from his hands.

No, he replied politely, but I am sure they are the best plums in the market today.

Beans? she offered, holding up a handful for him to inspect. They are fresh. I picked them myself this morning.

I am already late and must be on my way, he replied, shaking his head and looking away. If only this cart would move and let me pass.

As if hearing his frustrated grumble the cart moved and the man with the blue hands disappeared into the crowds.

Chapter II

Bernardo woke to the toll of church bells. He glanced over at his sleeping wife, Alfonsina, and carefully slid out of bed. He dressed quickly, putting on a white camicia, a pair of mud-brown hose and his well-worn leather shoes. Parting the bed curtains, he took a green, long-sleeved gonnella from a bracket of wooden pegs, belting the knee-length tunic at the hip with a flax cord attached to which was a leather purse. Lastly, he put on his head a faded blue, felted woollen berretta.

He bent down and whispered to his wife. Will you be joining us for the service, cara mia? He already knew the answer to his question, but rather than give her a reason to chastise him later he asked it anyway.

Alfonsina rolled over, her eyes still closed. She threw her crooked arm against her forehead. How can you possibly expect me to step outside of this room when I feel so wretched? she replied, with a theatrical tone.

Then shall I prepare a tonic of crushed herbs and dried figs?

There is no remedy for what ails me. You can pray for me. Pray the Good Lord will grant me the things in life He surely would agree I deserve.

Sì, cara mia, as always I will pray for you and do my best to have you well and content, he replied, knowing it would be of little use. He had tried to give to her all he could but in her eyes it was never enough. It would never be enough.

Closing the bed chamber door behind him, Bernardo saw his younger brother, Giannotto, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

Giannotto was an accounting clerk with the Peruzzi, one of the city’s largest merchant banking companies. He had returned to Fiorenza nearly three months ago, after spending three years working in the company’s Avignon office. Bernardo was glad to have him back home.

Bernardo and Giannotto were almost the same height, and had the same brown hair and brown eyes, but that is where the similarities ended. Bernardo’s generous girth, very likely attributable to his love of food, was the antithesis of Giannotto’s lean frame. One might have described Giannotto as lanky, had he been taller. His slim face accentuated his long, slender nose, while Bernardo’s rounded nose was less prominent centred between fleshy, pink-tinged cheeks. A smile came easily to Giannotto’s thin-lipped mouth, whereas Bernardo’s full and slightly protruding bottom lip, below a thinner upper lip, gave him a cheerless and more serious appearance.

Where are the others? Bernardo asked reaching the bottom step.

They have gone on ahead, said Giannotto, looking up to the landing from where Bernardo had come. And Alfonsina, is she not coming with you?

No, she is feeling a little poorly and thought it better to rest.

Of course, replied Giannotto, not entirely surprised by her absence. He had noticed even in his brief time back home that Alfonsina seemed to do her best to separate herself from the rest of the family, even though they all lived under the same roof.

Bernardo and Giannotto exited the house onto the street. They walked a little way along the Porta Rossa before turning down an alley. Frpm the far end, the weak glow of an oil lamp below a votive painting of the Blessed Virgin guided their way. Even though sunrise was near, the sky’s budding light was still too weak to penetrate the maze of masonry below.

I keep forgetting how melodic the dawn bells sound, Giannotto mused. Their tone is so crisp and rousing.

At this early hour they do not have to compete with the usual din of the streets, said Bernardo, keeping up with his brother’s spritely stride.

Quite so, agreed Giannotto.

Leaving the alley, they turned onto the street of the old Roman baths.

Do you miss Avignon? Bernardo asked randomly.

Sometimes, replied Giannotto. Avignon is truly an exciting city. The great trading post between north and south, as well as the centre of Christendom. The streets are constantly buzzing with the comings and goings of merchants, most of them from the Italian states. Reconstruction of the bishop’s old quarters into a grand residence for the Papal Court has caused a noticeable influx of skilled artisans, from stonecutters to goldsmiths, the majority of who are Fiorentini. I must admit, Bernardo, it was when I heard those men speak our Tuscan tongue I realised how much I missed home.

So you are glad to be home then?

Of course, laughed Giannotto.

At last, they arrived at the Piazza del Limbo. Named by the city’s ancient forebears, the square was once a cemetery for unbaptised infants although no sign of the doomed infants’ interment remained. The Piazza was bordered by the river on one side, adjacent to which was a parish church dedicated to the Holy Apostles, the Santi Apostoli. Orange trees lined the other two boundaries.

Ah, the intoxicating scent of orange blossom, said Giannotto, taking a deep breath. It always smells fresher and sweeter in the dawn.

They crossed the square to the steps of the church. Above the entrance, a lunette of the Blessed Virgin flanked by angels was the only adornment on the roughened stone façade. Passing under Her graceful gaze, Bernardo and Giannotto entered through a slim doorway. Halting briefly, they let their eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. Mixed aromas of molten candle wax and incense saturated the cool air. Amber flames flickered from candles on the central altar and in two iron candelabra suspended from the ceiling at the head of the nave, providing the only light in an otherwise dark interior.

Bernardo and Giannotto walked down the nave of majestic green marble pillars, crowned with stone capitals taken from the remains of the nearby Roman baths. Bernardo spotted his mother and father, Contessa and Benedetto, standing near the aisle pulpit. Beside them were Giannotto’s wife Simonetta and their young son Dettino. Their heads were bent in prayer.

The family regularly attended Mass on Sunday at the Santi Apostoli but today was not Sunday, nor was it a saint’s day, or special feast day. In fact, this morning’s service was not a particularly important one on the Christian calendar. Nevertheless, Benedetto had summoned the family, as he did on occasions, to hear the lesson preached by a renowned priest visiting from Siena. Despite Bernardo being in his fortieth year and Giannotto three years younger, their father, as head of the family, expected his orders to be obeyed without question. ‘The teachings of Christ are food for the soul,’ he said. ‘To hear them often nourishes our connection with God.’

Bernardo felt there were far too few men of God who practiced what they preached, or who truly cared about the spiritual well-being of their fellow man. He believed strongly in the teachings of Christ and did his best to live by Christ’s example, but his general contempt of clerics discouraged him from attending Mass more often than the usual Sunday service.

Bernardo and Giannotto took their places alongside the rest of the family, just as the Sienese priest entered the church through the side door.

After the service, the family lingered outside in the orange-scented square, greeting friends, neighbours and business acquaintances. Most had attended the dawn sermon, while others had chanced to pass through the piazza on their way to their workplaces or the markets. For the men it was a chance to learn of news from beyond the city walls, discuss the latest decisions and happenings of the governing Signoria, and to forge business relationships. The women unabashedly relished the opportunity to exchange tit bits of gossip.

Bernardo would like to have stayed. Even though he did not have the patience for tedious debates about the political agendas of the city’s leaders, he did enjoy a congenial social exchange with like-minded men. This morning, however, he could not linger. He had an errand to attend to on the way to his bottega, before which he felt he should return home and see to his ailing wife. Rather than be remiss in his marital duty, or lax in his work responsibilities, he politely excused himself and left.

Wearing a white linen camicia and sleeping cuffia with the cloth strings loosely fastened under her chin, Alfonsina was sitting up in bed when Bernardo returned. Her hands were clasped in her lap on top of the embroidered edge of the bed sheet. She had brought with her a coffer full of the fancy-worked linens, and the bed, as part of her dowry.

She scowled at Bernardo as he came into the room.

So you saw fit to return and see to me before you set off to your pathetic, foul bottega.

Bernardo sighed silently. Are you feeling any better? he asked, keeping an even tone.

She glared at him with the amber eyes of a lioness stalking its prey, her thin lips pursed to almost white below a pronounced Roman nose. She raised her outstretched arm, and flicked her hand, a dismissive gesture he was well used to. Without a word she turned her head away from him. Bernardo stood for a moment staring at the back of her capped head then left the room.

With heavy feet he stepped back down the stone stairs to the ground floor and into a narrow, windowless corridor. The corridor connected two entrances into the house, one fronting the street from where he had just come, and the other leading to the neighbourhood courtyard at the rear, where he now exited.

He crossed the courtyard onto which neighbouring houses backed, and where he and Giannotto had played as children. Passing under a stone archway, he turned into a dimly lit alley. Following the alley to its end, Bernardo arrived at the grain market. Already women carrying empty cloth sacks, and delivery boys with carts ready to be loaded, were gathering in the square in front of the grain loggia. They talked amongst themselves while waiting for the grain officials to take their places and start the day’s trading.

Bernardo continued on across the street of the Calimala and traversed the busy Mercato Vecchio. He did not usually walk this way to his workplace, but today he had to collect tools from the blacksmith’s bottega behind the market square, where he had left them for repair a few days before. Even though the day had barely begun, the workday bell had already sounded and artisans and apprentices were at work in their botteghe. The monotonous chinking of hammer on anvil and chisel on stone resonated off the stone facades, echoing into the immediate streets. Acrid smoke from the forges and braziers of armourers and blacksmiths permeated the still, warm air.

Bernardo collected the repaired tools, wrapping them in an old piece of woollen cloth. Bound together they were easier to carry and prevented him from accidently stabbing anyone with the sharp-ended fire poker. Cradling the bundle across his chest, he headed back towards the market square.

A rectangular brick and wooden pavilion with a wide, overhanging tiled roof occupied the centre of the square. Within the pavilion, shops sold all manner of foods. Butchers proudly displayed long strings of plump salsicce, and salted and dried meats. Swinging sharp bladed knives, they sliced choice cuts from a freshly killed beast, while salivating dogs paced back and forth expectantly. With a swift flick of the wrist a poulterer broke the neck of a pheasant, hanging its flailing body on a hook. Its feathered cousins, contained in willow cages on the ground below, clucked and pecked unsuspectingly. Tripe sellers held up chunks of rubbery, honey-combed flesh, tempting passing customers. Up and down the rows of shops, vendors loudly shouted their special offerings of the day.

Tall stone towers and narrow-fronted houses, two, three and four floors high, bordered the market’s perimeter. Some, their window shutters closed and doors locked, were owned by wealthy citizens who had retreated to their estates in the contado to escape the summer heat. On the ground floors, rented shops faced onto the square. Osteria and tavern owners prepared for the day’s diners. General provisions dealers erected trestle tables outside their shops to display their multitude of wares. Oil and wine merchants were busy unloading deliveries into their cellars. Between the shop frontages and central pavilion, wood workers, cobblers, coopers and barbers plied their trade from a string of shed-like stalls. Farmers and peasant women vied for the vacant spaces in between from which to sell their fresh vegetables, fruit, flowers, nuts, animal fodder and firewood. Market porters, pushing carts and carrying weighty loads on their heads and shoulders, deftly manoeuvred their way around the throngs of shoppers to make their deliveries.

Bernardo dodged and weaved his way through the crowds, keeping his arms wrapped firmly around the cloth-covered tools. As he was about to pass a group of fruit and vegetable stalls, he came to a sudden halt behind a wooden cart hemmed in by the market hordes. While waiting for the cart to move, his attention was caught by a young peasant girl with unusually large, dark eyes that dominated her sun-browned face. She was speaking rather assertively to a customer, a stout woman clad in a green mantello. Struck by the girl’s persuasive boldness, Bernardo could not help but listen to the amusing exchange between the two of them. The girl appeared self-assured, yet there was a vulnerable quality to her lip-tightening determination to protect the good reputation of her father’s premium plums. Bernardo looked over to the girl’s father. His sun-bronzed face was creased into an uncomfortable expression of embarrassment mixed with pride. Some may have taken his daughter’s retort as impertinent, but her softly spoken words and polite reverence only seemed to encourage the willingness of the woman to engage in some light-hearted banter. For a fleeting moment, Bernardo felt there was something strangely familiar about the girl. Whatever it was eluded him and he was certain he had never seen her before.

Satisfied with her purchase of plums, the woman left. The girl then turned to Bernardo and met his stare. She asked if he would like to buy some plums, or perhaps a handful of beans, which she insisted she had picked herself that morning. At that moment, the obstructing cart moved. Bernardo politely declined the girl’s offer and left the market.

Hugging the tools against his chest he walked quickly, only breaking his stride to miss the fallout of a bowl of night water tipped from a third storey window. Amongst the conglomerate of wooden, stone and brick buildings, high towers stood like sentries. Protruding terraces and enclosed balconies on upper floors created valuable living space for the inhabitants, while severely reducing precious sunlight in the streets below. Arches of brick and stone straddled alleys, bolstering buildings and providing a foundation for an extra room or two in the crowded city centre.

The streets hummed with the movement and sounds of people going about their daily business. Women hurried back to their kitchens, carrying baskets brimming with produce for the cooking pot. Tardy artisans headed to their botteghe, and groups of noisy labourers jostled each other as they walked to the city’s building sites. Merchants and guildsmen, their arms folded across their chests, strolled purposefully to their company offices and guild residences.

Reaching an uncluttered piazza Bernardo took a moment to enjoy a brief respite. Much of the square was in shadow, cast by the Palagio dei Priori. He was reminded of the walks he took as a boy with his father along the river. They deliberately walked this way home to watch progress on construction of the city’s grandest building. A formidable fortress, the Palagio was erected alongside a razed enclave of towers and houses once owned by a noble family. His father had told him that, in the closing decades of the previous century, aristocratic families, who claimed whole streets as their own, had fought for political control of Fiorenza. Their often violent battles resulted in bloodshed and destruction of property, causing constant fear amongst innocent citizens. The violence eventually ended when the city’s twenty-one arti, guilds, gained sufficient strength to suppress the power of the warring factions and restore order. Ordinances were introduced to reduce the height of privately-owned towers and increase the number of citizens eligible for election to public office, and plans were adopted to build the Palagio dei Priori, grand residence of the eight Priors of the governing Signoria.

Craning his neck, Bernardo looked up to the protruding crenellated crown at the top of the Palagio. Day and night, armed guards patrolled the stone ramparts keeping watch over the streets below. Above them rose a tower from where trained eyes combed the surrounding contado. A stone belfry at the top of the tower housed a huge bronze bell. Its lowing tone hastened citizens into the piazza to hear public announcements by the Priors or, in times of unrest, to assemble the military divisions of the city’s sixteen neighbourhood districts.

Bernardo continued on across the piazza and turned into a chasm-like lane between the exterior walls of the Palagio and church of San Piero Scheraggio. Farmers and cattle merchants sometimes brought their livestock to market along this route. A pungent earthy aroma hung heavily, trapped between the high stone walls attached to which flaming torches illuminated the dark