Flower of 1348

The ombre shades of death hung heavy along the skyline. With her head slightly turned, she could just make out the black outline of the becchini (coffin bearers). Moving in wearied cadence, six of them were etched against the early morning sky. Carting away the newly dead and even some who were still clinging to a bit of life. At this distance, she could not distinguish between the two. All she could see were mounds of human flesh being jolted and jiggled in a horrid movement toward the exit of the Citta’ di Firenze (City of Florence).

Grey. Everything she saw was grey. The sky, the frigid cobbled stones beneath her sitting form, even her hands gaunt with fatigue and hunger, were the strangest shade of faded stone. She did not have the strength to get up. The majority of her weight was being supported by the thick stucco wall of the end shop on the Ponte Vecchio. She had collapsed here while trying to make her way out of the citta’. Lacking the strength and resolve to continue on, she had slid to the ground after walking the 84 meters across the bridge to get to the East bank of the Arno. The butcher and tanner shops which perched along the expanse of the stony bridge were eerily quiet and vacant. The strong smells of raw meat and steaming hide were replaced by other odors which were unspeakable. Crossing the Arno river via this beautiful bridge had been her best attempt to flee to the countryside. Perhaps there she would have a better chance of surviving.

The year 1348 was supposed to be her year to shine. Her time to grow into her womanhood. To become a wife. She was going to bloom into her full radiance like the yellow ball of sun captured in the painting hanging on her bedroom wall. It was in fact a painting of a puffy flower with a perfect circular shape. This heirloom had been a gift from her father. It was procured on one of his many trips to England. It soon became her favorite possession. There was a sense of hope every time she looked up at that flower. A sense of warmth. As if she were being wrapped within the loving and protective arms of her father.

At the moment, every semblance of warmth and protection had been robbed by deadly sickness. Her father often traveled to England as a merchant, working to establish healthy trade relations between King Edward the Third and the bountiful Tuscan countryside. In the early summer of 1348 he ventured to England and never came back. She could only assume the horrible sickness was to blame. No couriers were allowed to cross into Italy and absolutely no one with symptoms of ailment were allowed to enter the citta’ di Firenze. She would be left in anguish. Not knowing.

It was now 1350. For two years she had remained in the boarded up two story house settled amongst the green terraced hills of Western Firenze. This had been her childhood home. A beautiful home with an expansive living room and furniture (a rare luxury). It was often flooded with happy light that encapsulated her fondest memories with a golden glory. In 1348 it became a prison. What once had been a happy home transformed into a catacomb of angst and loneliness. That was definitely part of why she ventured out this morning to flee. The deep gashes in the fabric curtains, ferocious rips in the silken robes along with the gaping holes in the living room walls were all a testament to the fact that she would completely lose her mind if she stayed. Her fear of the plague was as heightened as her fear of having to remain in the darkness. Eating what remained of solidified old bread that tasted of stucco powder. She now was nothing more than faded skin stretched across frail bones.

The day she had been closed away by the attendants was the worst of her life. “What about Bindo?!” she had screamed at the top of her lungs. Her shrieks were soon suffocated by the thud of heavy wood. Wood being placed over windows and doors. Being bolted into place in fact. She was told that this was for her own protection. As being the solitary mistress of the house and completely alone, someone might break in and take advantage of her virtue as well as help themselves to the large store of bread, wine and cheese. Italy had collapsed into anarchy overnight. News from the centro della citta’ detailed riotous vagabonds raiding homes while dead bodies outlined by bodily fluids choked the streets.

She begged the servants to stay with her. “Please!” she cried. “I’m so incredibly scared. Don’t leave me. Please!!” She could not convince them to stay. Her father’s loyal attendants had been to the Ponte Vecchio that morning to claim what little meat and vegetables remained. What if they had been exposed? Since birth they had lovingly cared for her. Love was now driving them to hurt her. To break her emotionally. To be alone in complete darkness would break anyone. They thought the sickness would be gone in a few weeks. They would come for her then. They promised.

Those first few weeks she spent her days anxiously sitting by the front door waiting for a knock. Waiting for Bindo’s rich, bravado voice to penetrate the ugly mass that stood between her and the sun. She missed him more than anything. The kiss they shared beneath a beautiful, silvery moon now seemed a lifetime ago. The scent of the purple grapes wafting up to heaven from the entangled vines was a distant memory. The way the earth clung to the heat it had taken from the sun during the day was something she would soon forget.

Instead of Bindo’s voice or the knock of her attendants on the door, she could vaguely make out the sound of crying. Endless crying. Crying mixed with the shouts of the becchini to “bring out your dead.” Crying mixed with the squeak of rusty wheels on wooden carts. For two years she woke up to these sounds and went to sleep with them. Then one day she couldn’t hear the sounds she had become so accustomed to. Instead she heard the very faint, fluttering notes of a songbird. She grabbed a bronze candlestick that had migrated from England with her father and began bashing at one of the windows. It took several hours but she finally broke through the outer wood. By sheer will. The last thing she saw before she left the abandoned house was the painting of the golden orb flower. The one her father had given to her.

On her way down to the Ponte Vecchio she came across no one. There was no sun to greet her. The vines on the terraced green hill were overgrown and brown from the winter cold. Eerie silence penetrated her harshly. Her taute frame moved lethargically and erratically. She awkwardly made her way to the spot where she now sat slumped against the edge of the bridge. Wrapped in what once was a fine red velvet robe, she closed her eyes against the cold, hopeless surroundings. At that moment a singular ray of golden light broke through the clouds settling on her brow. She could sense that something new was on the horizon. It was done now. The sickness. Her thoughts trailed off as the image of her lovely flower bursting with yellow flitted behind her eyelids. It was just there. Just out of reach… It was from her father...

She was right of course. Right about something new coming. A new way of life was coming. Just quivering beneath that skyline...ready to burst forth with fury. A movement with a deep appreciation for creativity, expression and passion. The Renaissance would be birthed in the center of Firenze, Italia. Mere feet from where she took her last breath at the end of that famous bridge. The Renaissance would be birthed out of the fertile ground of Tuscany. A new wave of humanity would flourish. Art, science, and an appreciation for living a fulfilling life would flood the mindsets of those living in her homeland. Out of a land swarming with death, new beginnings would arise. It would come. Soon enough it would begin. It was just there, off in the horizon.