Chapter 16
Capitolo Sedici
Ravenna swept out of the Palazzo della Signoria, her mind buzzing.
The stone facade loomed behind her, bright sunlight catching on the crenelated roof.
She couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Not only had she held her ground against the most powerful man in Florence, but he would consider her demands.
She felt like laughing; she felt like spinning around in tight circles like she did with Tereza to make her giggle.
“Bravissima,” came a cool voice, whispered close to her temple.
She turned to squint up at Saturnino. The sun’s rays shone over the rich black of his hair, and his eyes glittered a vibrant green.
For the dozenth time, she wished she didn’t find him appealing.
“I keep expecting him to burst out of those doors, screaming that he’s changed his mind and won’t consider my request after all. ”
“He won’t.” Saturnino glanced at the tall double doors of the old palace. She followed the line of his gaze; Signor Luni approached, walking slowly toward her, his expression holding a glimmer of annoyance as if she were a misbehaving child who refused to do what she was told.
“I assume that you are pleased with the outcome of the meeting?” Signor Luni asked.
Ravenna smiled. “Si, grazie.”
“Meraviglioso,” Signor Luni said. “Now that we’ve wasted the whole of the morning, let’s return to the palazzo. I trust you’ll make up the hours lost.”
“You go on,” Saturnino said. “I’ll take her back.”
Signor Luni looked at his son narrowly. “Need I remind you—”
“You don’t,” Saturnino cut in.
“Then what are you planning on doing?” Signor Luni demanded in a testy tone.
Saturnino held out his arm toward Ravenna, and she accepted it with a bemused smile to the sounds of Signor Luni’s indignant sputtering. “Celebrate her victory.”
Then he led her away from his father, away from the bustling palace filled with scheming politicians.
They wove through the maze of narrow alleys lined with wooden stalls, canvas awnings flapping in the breeze, casting shade over the scores of buyers meandering on the cobbled path.
Prices for a variety of wares were called out by street vendors; a Greek spice trader offered fragrant cinnamon, clove, and saffron, while a Turkish merchant displayed shimmering glassware and metal ornaments that glinted in the sunlight.
Ravenna passed a stall where bottles of olive oil gleamed like jewels on a necklace, sold by a man who said he was from Navarre.
Ravenna had never experienced a market like this one.
Her gaze flicked from one stall to another.
Apprentices and workers rushed through, carrying baskets and purchasing small hammers, chisels, whetstones.
Painters bought pigments from apothecary stalls—cinnabar, ochre, ultramarine—while a dark-skinned physician offered his services for any ills.
Saturnino guided her through the jostling crowd, her shoulders brushing against merchants and artists, workers and revelers.
She passed rows and rows of stalls owned by bakers and local farmers selling small bundles of cheese, apples, figs, cabbages, onions, salted anchovies, and sardines.
Barrels filled with almonds, raisins, and dates from the Mediterranean were sold by a jovial trader who told stories to his customers as they filled cloth bags with their purchases.
The scent of roasted chestnuts and the tang of citrus flooded her nose.
Her stomach rumbled.
“This way.” Saturnino jerked his chin in the direction of another wooden stall where the cook was busily roasting meat. They stood in line, Ravenna gazing at Saturnino with a faint notch between her brows.
He looked at her expectantly. “Yes?”
Ravenna recalled a time when her twin brothers had lavished her with compliments and praise throughout the day only for her to discover it had all been a ploy to lure her to their side of an argument against their parents.
She had a keen sense Saturnino was attempting the same ploy by not taking her straight to the palazzo, giving her a tour of Florence’s busy and oldest market instead.
She narrowed her eyes. “What is it that you want?”
“A lampredotto sandwich,” he said promptly. “A Florentine specialty. Would you like to try one?”
“What is it?”
“It’s made from the stomach of a cow, and slow cooked with tomatoes, onions, and celery and served on a toasted bun.” He craned his neck to better see the other offerings. “They also have—”
“I’ll try it,” she said. “But only if you tell me why you’re behaving differently.”
“Am I?” he asked mildly.
Her eyes narrowed farther. “You know you are.”
They reached the front of the line. Saturnino placed their order, dipping his hand into a leather satchel tied to his belt and pulling out a handful of soldi, the silver coins glimmering like polished mirrors in his pale hand.
The cook handed them two sandwiches placed on wooden trenchers and bid them to return both once they finished eating.
“I asked you a question,” Ravenna said after she’d taken the first bite, a savory concoction loaded with spices and flavor.
Saturnino indicated to her sandwich. “What do you think?”
“It’s delicious.” She raised her brows expectantly. “What is it that you want?”
“I heard you the first time,” he said wryly. “And I’m thinking.”
“It’s not a difficult question.”
“But answering it is,” he said quietly. “Eat your sandwich, Ravenna.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he made no further reply.
They stood off to the side of the chaotic square to enjoy the rest of their meal.
On all sides, they were surrounded by tightly packed buildings with overhanging upper stories overlooking narrow cobbled streets.
Small bundles of twigs and branches tied with colorful thread and arranged in star shapes hung from front doors.
Bowls filled with honeyed nuts and herbed salt sat on front stoops next to carved wooden figurines and lit candles, despite the sun being out.
“Why light a candle during the day? It seems like such a waste.”
“Offerings for witches and fae. In Florence, people leave gifts like these to show they’re welcome here.” Saturnino indicated the stoops. “Those are shadow candles. They’re meant to burn down completely, and the smoke is believed to symbolize a friendly hearth.”
“In Volterra, we leave offerings to guard against the fae,” she said. “Witches, too, I suppose. All magic is heresy.” She couldn’t keep the wary bitterness from coating her next words. “And it’s not welcomed.”
“The churches in Florence are more aligned with the Holy Roman emperor,” Saturnino said. “Neither sees magic as a threat, not when it brings beauty and order to the city. It’s easier to coexist with what you can’t destroy.”
She shot him a puzzled look.
“Florence is a city rooted in creativity, intellect, and trade,” Saturnino explained. “Magic, much like art and philosophy, is another form of inspiration. What point is there in stifling it? Florence thrives on what it creates, whether from God’s hands or a witch’s.”
“But even churches in Florence must answer to Rome,” she said.
Saturnino’s lips turned downward. “Which is why war is coming for us all. Florence is only the beginning.”
This she knew all too well.
Ravenna’s eye was drawn to a commotion on the side of the piazza where a group of men, dressed in doublets and striped hose, red capes fluttering in the wind, were practicing flips and spins.
They tossed Florentine flags high into the air in intricate patterns, the red iris whirling in a tight circle, before the acrobats caught them with astonishing precision.
“Sbandieratori,” Saturnino said. “Flag throwers practicing for the Easter parade.”
Ravenna watched their routine, delighted, until her attention was arrested elsewhere.
A musician with rich, dark skin played a lute at one corner, while an enraptured crowd gathered around him to listen.
The notes were gentle and flowing, rising high in the air, blending in with the sounds of the market.
It reminded her of a choir song, haunting and melodic.
The city of Florence, the Medici, had been the enemies of Volterra for as long as she could remember.
But as Ravenna gazed out in the Mercato Vecchio, brimming with people from all ends of the earth, eating together, enjoying the music, trading and bartering, laughing and playing, it was hard for her to think of them as such.
They were all trying to make a life for themselves and for their loved ones, however they could with whatever they had.
It moved her, making her feel connected to these strangers, who suddenly didn’t feel like strangers at all. She was no different from any of them. The opposite was true. If they knew who and what she was, Florence wouldn’t turn her away from its city gates.
They’d offer shelter, refuge, rest.
Sanctuary.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes as the musician’s song rose higher, louder, sweeping her up, gifting her a profound sense of peace.
“Music has always felt like church to me,” Saturnino said softly. “Beautiful, filled with grace, and truer than the empty prayers offered by men who count coins.”
She turned to him, surprised. She’d forgotten he was there; she’d been so caught up in the song of Florence.
“He’s very talented,” Ravenna commented between delicate bites.
“Malik da Firenze also sings in the choir,” Saturnino said. “He’s preparing to perform in Rome, Avignon, Seville. It’s a great opportunity for others to hear his work, and perhaps he’ll finally have a wider appreciation and acclaim for his talent.”
Her brow furrowed. “How do you know so much about him?”
“I’m his patron,” he explained.
Her eyebrows rose. “You mean your father is?”
“No, I mean I am.”
“I didn’t realize you had an appreciation of the arts,” she said.