The Florentine Canvas: A Tragic Tale of Renaissance Inspiration
January 10, 1509
Seventeen-year-old Lorenzo Veneziani watched—petrified as one who glimpses the face of a Gorgon—as the flames of his fireplace devoured the greatest work of art he had ever created. The blazing canvas flared with a light that singed an image into his mind he would never forget—his own skill and passion, utterly consumed by fire and the draconian nature of his father. Lorenzo considered reaching for his painting despite the searing flames, but both the iron teeth of the fireguard and the mountainous stature of his father barred the way. Niccolò Veneziani prodded at the canvas with an iron rod, meticulously positioning it so that every fragment of Lorenzo’s creation had withered into an ember.
Even through the flames and smoke, Lorenzo could make out one final remnant of his painting: a tree-branch sprung from the arms of the Greek nymph Daphne, in a metamorphosis to escape the pursuit of the god Apollo. This had transformed Daphne into a laurel, which happened to be the tree whose meaning Lorenzo’s own name bore. Now the artist understood Daphne’s powerlessness: all his passion had been stolen from him, leaving the artist to enter a nightmare he had never dreamed of experiencing.
“Stai meglio senza, figlio,” Niccolò muttered, placing the rod on a stone shelf. “You’re better off without it, son. The world of art was not made for the likes of you. You, Lorenzo, are the son of Niccolò Veneziani. Your future holds, not the potential for artisanship, but the opportunity to become a soldier even more successful than your father. How could you turn down such a golden future, and pursue this foolish hallucination of a career in art?”
Lorenzo’s eyes grew hot with tears, glinting brightly with the flare of the hearth. “How could you stifle all my life’s passion?” he sobbed, leaning against the wall of his Venetian home. “How could you choke my dreams and talent, binding a sharp cord around my neck? I live for art, Papá, I breathe its spirit. How dare you try to steal it from me, and force my life to take this path I never asked for. If you keep hurting me like this, Papá, keep crushing my passion…” The sobbing choked his voice. “I will leave Venice forever, and lead a better life in Florence where my dreams will be embraced.”
Niccolò stormed in his son’s direction, clamping a fist over Lorenzo’s wrist. “No, you will not. You will fight for your city, and drive back the League of Cambrai just as Venice defeated Genoa two centuries ago. The Imperial forces have betrayed us, and the Italian Wars have begun. Nothing will await you in Florence, either, but strife against the Sienese. Those godless Ghibellines will triumph over the Guelphs, if cowards like you continue to hide in the shadows. I refuse, as well, to accept this Grecian obsession. Italy has risen above the times of Greece and Rome. We have become a nation, not of art, but of military. The Black Death has only recently ceased, but folk like you have brought about an even greater plague—this monstrosity the French call ‘la Renaissance’.”
Lorenzo broke free from his father’s grasp. “Well, this thing you call a ‘monstrosity’,” he roared, glancing at the fully consumed canvas, “is where my life leads me! I don’t care if you want me to earn a fortune for this family, and I don’t care if we can afford to buy a damned horse or not. I’m leaving, Papá. Look to Florence if you wish to find me.” Shoving all his possessions in a knapsack, Lorenzo threw the door open. “You will find nothing but a successful artist there.”
“Arrivaderci, then,” Niccolò called. “Do not return until you have proved your worth.”
Lorenzo slammed the door shut, dashing into the chilling winter air while the tears froze on his cheeks.
November 7, 1512
Twenty-year-old painter Lorenzo Veneziani had been living in Florence for three years. A great deal of events had occurred in the third year of his residence. Michelangelo had finished painting the Sistine Chapel in late October, the Medici family had returned to Florence after an eighteen-year exile, and the French had won the Battle of Ravenna on April 11 as part of the War of the League of Cambrai.
As for Lorenzo, he had been living a glorious yet humble life of constant inspiration and unbridled artistic expression. Ever wandering the narrow stone streets beneath the tall edifices crowned with vermillion terracotta rooftops, not once did he yearn to return to his past life in Venice and to his neglectful father. An artistic spirit seemed to wisp through the atmosphere like a westerly zephyr ever so gentle, mingled with the sounds of lively music and the whiff of fresh paint. With a modest home to keep him warm and a fulfilling career in Renaissance painting, Lorenzo felt as though he were roaming the paradisiacal fields of Elysium.
One day, capturing the vibrant colors of Florence on his canvas from upon the Ponte Vecchio bridge above the meandering Arno—as was his daily wont—Lorenzo encountered a proud-looking man about his age, striding his way with a group of three companions by his side.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Lorenzo Veneziani at his canvas,” the man sneered, crossing his arms with a sneer on his face. “The fabulous virtuoso whose name’s been ringing across the streets like a blaring horn.”
“Sì, è il mio nome,” Lorenzo replied. “What is yours, signore?”
The man puffed his chest conceitedly. “Remus de’ Medici, son of Laszlo de’ Medici, illegitimate son of Piero de’ Medici, brother of Giuliano II de’ Medici, ruler of Florence. Sì, Sì, it’s an honor to meet you as well. Although recently I’ve heard tidings I found to be rather troubling—tidings about your quest to receive a commission from my noble family.”
Lorenzo’s eyes lit up. “It would be an honor, Illustrissimo. I’ve dreamed all—”
“I’m sure you would find it delightful,” Remus continued, inching closer. “But my father just wanted me to let you in one un piccolo segreto.” The noble leaned close to Lorenzo’s ear, whispering, “My family isn’t the keenest on inviting any Venetian art into our galleries. Perhaps if your paintbrush were more Florentine, your blood more… more pure…”
A bitter frown crossed Lorenzo’s face. “I don’t mean to sound discourteous, Illustrissimo, but surely the noble House of Medici can spare room for artwork created merely by an artisan raised in a different city. I’ve lived too passionate a life, signore, trodden too zealous a path, to have my goals cast aside now by some ill-advised measure of the ‘purity’—as you call it—of my heritage.”
Remus’s face adopted a scowl more resentful than Lorenzo’s own. “You speak with noticeable gall, Veneziani. It is no admirable thing, addressing your superiors in such a manner.” Rolling up his sleeves, Remus snarled, “What do you say, boys, we teach this lowly artisan how to properly respect his betters?”
“Count me in,” said the man standing to Remus’s right, clenching his brawny fists like shrivelled florets. “I’ve been waiting years to deal a blow fit for a scum like this.”
“Francesco, Giovanni,” Remus demanded, “do me a favor and grab hold of that gorgeous canvas he’s spent the day perfecting. Such a treasure deserves to be set free. Let’s launch this belleza on a lovely little cruise down the Arno. As for Brutus and I… we’ll have a mighty good time with the more physical business,”
“Ah, amici miei,” Lorenzo whimpered, clutching the canvas with both hands. “It has been an honor conversing with Illustrissimo, but I will not allow you to lay such violent hands on my art and me. I could have this reported to the authorities, if you choose to proceed beyond this point. I should like to warn you that the suppression of art and the assault of citizens is not taken lightly—”
“I should like to warn you,” Remus growled, raising his fist above Lorenzo’s head, “that insolence against the House of Medici does not go to pass without a proper punishment. Francesco, Giovanni, you know what to do. Brutus… let’s pay this estraneo—”
“Stop!” a feminine voice suddenly called from behind, rendering all five men motionless. Francesco and Giovanni set down the canvas, and Remus signalled Brutus to lower his fist. All five turned slowly in the direction from whence the voice had originated, finding a fair and elegantly-dressed woman striding their way. She was one of the most gorgeous women Lorenzo had ever seen, with wavy almond hair that reached her shoulders and a smooth face that must have set her age at about Lorenzo’s own. A collection of papers were tucked beneath her left arm, and in her right hand rested a quill dipped in a small inkwell.
“Saluti, Beatriz Mercanti,” Remus greeted, “most renowned writer in the district, and fair daughter of far-traveled Sandro Mercanti. Ah, my lady, has a star fallen from the sky? Never have I seen such dazzling beauty on this earth.”
Beatriz walked indifferently past the nobleman, placing herself like a barricade between Lorenzo and the tormentors. “Remus de’ Medici, grandson of Piero the Unfortunate, why spoil your time pestering one whose talent and passion is better-spent than any skill you’ve ever attempted to acquire? Be off, now, and do not think that asserting your dominance over others—possibly the only ‘talent’ I’ve seen you perform, if such an act can be given the name—will earn you much merit.”
Remus stood transfixed—still as a marble statue fashioned by the hands of a skilled sculptor—and glancing in stupefaction at his equally petrified cronies. All of a sudden, to everyone’s surprise: “She’s right, boys. Why waste our time and effort picking on this sap, when there are more noble matters to which we must attend?”
“I say we take our leave,” Brutus agreed. “Arrivaderci, Beatriz. And you, Veneziani… we’ll be back to finish some unfinished business.”
And just like that, the five made their way down the broad passageway of the Ponte Vecchio bridge.
Lorenzo turned to Beatriz with incredulity. “That was very brave of you,” he complimented, “speaking so confidently to their faces. How can you find such courage within you?”
“Oh, it’s truly nothing,” she replied. “I just can’t stand it when people disrespect art like that.”
“Tell me about it,” Lorenzo muttered. “Three years ago, I left my home city of Venice solely because my father loathed my passion for painting. He… he cast my finest canvas into the fireplace one evening, and I could take it no longer. I haven’t seen nor spoken with him since that fateful night.”
Lorenzo heaved a sigh. “It’s been impolite of me not to introduce myself. My name is Lorenzo Veneziani. And you are… Beatriz Mercanti?”
“È il mio nome.” Beatriz shook Lorenzo’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you too, Lorenzo. I’m very sorry about your father. I couldn’t imagine the sadness that must have caused you.”
Beatriz’s soft voice seemed to ease Lorenzo’s soul into a state of rest. He heard, for the first time in his life, the voice of one who truly understood him. There was a kind of warmth in her chestnut eyes.
“I’ve had my own fill of suppressed ambition,” she reflected, taking a seat on the bench where Lorenzo sat. “My father is a merchant, constantly traveling the East for trade and commerce. He’s visited parts of Greece, all the Italian city-states, and Mohammedan places as far north as Constantinople and as far south as Mecca. They say commerce is the mother of the Renaissance. Time and again I’ve begged him to let me come along. Time and again he’s told me that his missions are too dangerous for a girl. To make up for it, my father brings back small relics from the culture he’s bargained with, little pieces of art and literature for me to admire. I’ve learned to translate Greek and Arabic. I wonder what he’ll bring back from his trip to Venice. He’s been gone for nearly a month, and is bound to return in twenty days.”
Lorenzo smiled. “I see you find inspiration in all the literature you’ve read,” he pointed out. “I’ve often observed you writing for hours on this very bridge, stroking a quill across your papers with that nimble hand of yours.”
A bright pink hue passed across her face. “Sì, I am a passionate writer. I always come to this bridge when I wish to be inspired, for here I am surrounded by artisans—mainly jewelers, but also painters like you.”
“Not all those who walked on this bridge today were artisans.” Lorenzo grinned. “Snobs, too.”
Beatriz laughed. “Don’t let whatever they said get to you,” she advised. “They could never be artists, even if they tried their hardest. It’s a good thing there are people like you and me in this wide world, people who find beauty in everyday things and discover a way to give them meaning. Your painting, Lorenzo, truly captures the grandeur and vibrancy of our city.”
“I’d love to catch a glimpse of your art, my lady, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Beatriz lifted the collection of papers from beneath her arm, placing it on her lap. “My latest piece of work has been a Greek tragedy,” she explained. “I started it six months ago, and I believe it’s nearing its completion. It will certainly be done by the time Papá arrives, and I can imagine the big smile that will be on his face when I show it to him. And I would be truly honored…” Beatriz’s eyes lit up for a moment, but she bowed her head slightly. “Truly honored if he brought my story with him, to trade with someone in a far land. But it’s a silly dream, and I know it’ll never happen.”
“Of course it can happen,” Lorenzo reassured, skimming the pages in Beatriz’s hands. “If you put effort and passion into it, your success will come within reach. I’ve seen how assiduously you’ve worked on it, spending long days writing on this bridge.”
Beatriz smiled warmly. “Thank you, Lorenzo. I need your encouragement.”
“I need yours, too,” Lorenzo whispered. “You’re the only friend I’ve met who really accepts my artwork. I came to Florence for people like you, Beatriz. I’ve only known you for a matter of minutes, yet already feel more inspired than I’ve been in a long time. Tell me, Beatriz: what shall I paint next? Where will my career in art take me?”
Beatriz pondered for a moment, then whispered a thought into Lorenzo’s ear.
Lorenzo Veneziani and Beatriz Mercanti spent the last light of the afternoon together. Lorenzo painted, Beatriz wrote, and together they created their art side-by-side. They talked while they worked, exchanging one another’s stories and rejoicing in their shared interest in creation. Finally, when the sun had sunk below the Florentine hills, they gathered their supplies and prepared to depart.
“My mother must be expecting me for dinner,” Beatriz announced. “And I’m sure you have a family awaiting your presence, no?”
Lorenzo shook his head. “I live alone, but I’d best get going to prepare dinner.”
A slight smile crossed Beatriz’s lips. “Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner?”
Lorenzo found it nearly impossible to turn down such an opportunity, and hardly had the words left her lips when he uttered his assent. So the painter followed the writer down the stone avenues of Florence, warmed by the light of the sunset while chilled by an evening breeze. As soon as they had entered Beatriz’s street, the comforting waft of freshly-baked pasta greeted his nostrils. The warmth of the Mercanti household was more hospitable yet, but the most kindly of all was the gentle spirit of Signora Laura Mercanti.
Beatriz’s mother had Lorenzo seated and served before he could ask where the coat-hanger was. A plate of buttery pasta lay before him, filling his nostrils with a homely aroma. Two of the kindest faces he had known were smiling at him, and a classic Italian dish was satisfying his hunger; Lorenzo could not have asked for a more heavenly evening.
Lorenzo started by introducing himself to the warmhearted woman. He reflected on his life, his passion for art, how Beatriz had supported him during the encounter with Remus de’ Medici, and the long conversation they had shared together on the Ponte Vecchio bridge. When he mentioned the subject of Beatriz’s father, Laura’s face darkened like a ray of sunlight obscured by clouds.
“What’s wrong, Mamma?” Beatriz whispered, clutching her mother’s hand. “Is Papá alright?”
After a moment of grave silence, Laura nodded. “He’s fine,” she confirmed. “He sent me a letter that arrived this morning, while you were off doing your writing. He encountered a group of traders from the Papal States while traveling to Venice, he told me, and apparently these traders warned of an upcoming Sienese raid on Florence. If these tidings are accurate, we could be in grave danger.”
Beatriz’s brow furrowed. “Those Sienese are still on bad terms with us? Have they not had their fill of warfare, after the Battle of Montaperti?”
Lorenzo grimaced. “Their military turned out to be more powerful than Florence had anticipated. That was three centuries ago, and I’m certain Siena’s population has only increased since then. I’m shocked they’re still vying for hegemony of Tuscany.”
“It’s no wonder they chose this year to strike,” Laura mused. “The Medici family was what wrecked Florence’s government in the first place, so badly that we saw no other option but to banish them from our city for eighteen years. And now they’ve only just crept their way back into Florence this year. Our city is at its weakest now, I’ll warrant—struggling with political confusion, waiting for the Medici to fully claim their throne, and still deciding on whether or not to call Florence a republic. The Sienese must hate to see the return of a powerful leader to our city, and they’re taking advantage of our current condition. We must brace ourselves. They could burn our structures, kill our people… and destroy our art.”
Lorenzo felt his skin crawl. He had abandoned his father’s expectations of a career in military, joining a new life in Florence which now threatened to take his passion from him once again.
“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Lorenzo announced, suddenly exiting his seat. “I could not begin to describe my gratitude for the company you’ve shown me. Though I fear all this ominous talk has quite diminished my appetite for dessert, and the hour grows late. I must be going.”
Laura and Beatriz, understanding of Lorenzo’s urge to depart, gladly ushered him to the door. The painter thanked Beatriz for her kindness and Laura for her exquisite cooking, arranging with Beatriz to meet at the Ponte Vecchio on the morrow before setting off for home. The air was filled with a wind almost as chilling as the winter evening three years ago, when he had left Venice to chase a new life as one would chase an unattainable sunset.
The seed of his next painting had been sown in his mind, but Lorenzo Veneziani was oblivious to the changes the upcoming raid would bring to it.
November 17, 1512
Ten days had elapsed since the conversation at the Mercanti dining table. The Sienese raid on Florence had begun.
Lorenzo Veneziani was present on the rooftop of his Florentine home when the deathly scent of smoke entered his nostrils from afar. Trembling, he placed his paintbrush on the sill of his canvas and gazed into the distance. Everywhere, all about him, dozens of plumes of smoke towered above the vermillion rooftops of Florence like Greek pillars wrought of black obsidian. Flames licked at the walls of houses like the tongues of some Tartarean beast, and the sounds of wailing voices pierced the sky from all directions. Lorenzo watched citizens dashing madly about the streets, some bleeding uncontrollably or smitten by Sienese blades.
Lorenzo’s gaze scanned this vast expanse of a city fraught with chaos, then darted to the right and settled on the canvas he had been painting all day. In this piece of art, he had captured all of Florence—every house, every rolling hill, every bridge spanning the Arno, all the brilliant colors of the city’s rooftops… and in the midst of it all, sitting on a wooden stool above a flat rooftop overlooking the entire city, a passionate painter stroked his brush across a tall canvas.
“You should depict yourself,” Beatriz had whispered to him, on the day they had met. “True art is no more than the perception of one’s own talent.”
For the following ten days, Lorenzo and Beatriz had spent every morning together on the Ponte Vecchio. Their dexterous hands moved with a kind of synchrony, spreading delicate streaks of ink and paint like cords binding them together.
At midday, the couple would gather their supplies and enjoy a hearty lunch at a trattoria near the bridge. Then, in the afternoon, they would go their respective ways: Lorenzo to his rooftop canvas and Beatriz to her afternoon writing at the Mercanti household.
Now, high upon the roof of his house, Lorenzo Veneziani felt a sensation akin to the petrification he had experienced upon first learning the destructive nature of fire three years ago. He saw, just as he did that final evening in Venice, a world of ideal beauty marred by the replacement of stagnation—like the dullness Medieval architecture had brought upon art after the decline of Classical sculpture’s liveliness, which would be revived one millennium later by the Renaissance concept of humanism. This canvas was a cinderblock of the Renaissance, a flickering ember of the Greco-Roman world and a mirror reflecting human nature.
Only one thing was missing from the tempera painting, and Lorenzo had been contemplating what it was exactly for nearly ten minutes. Then the smoke had reached him, and Lorenzo felt foolish for having lacked the answer until now.
Fire. The embodiment of destruction. The hound that had pursued him all his life. The weapon wielded by the Sienese, whose assault he had been dreading for ten days without the slightest clue as to when and at what scale it would occur.
Now he knew the utter size of the army. The threat it posed. The damage. The horror. The fire, belching smoke into the sky and biting structures beyond count. He saw it now. A smudge of red and orange paint coating a distant rooftop, and a dense streak of gray-black oil binding the city to the sky. The painting was complete.
“What’re you doing, scemo?” he suddenly chided himself, leaping from his three-legged stool. “Now is not the time for leisurely idling!”
Lorenzo heaved the canvas into his arms and dashed toward the exit of the roof, throwing a door open and flying like an arrow down the narrow stairwell. When he reached a cabinet on the lower floor of his home, the artist encased his already-dried painting in a portfolio. Thank heavens I haven’t been working with oil paint, he thought to himself as the canvas slid cleanly into the case.
Hurriedly packing all his supplies into the same knapsack he had borne to Florence three years ago, Lorenzo made his way to the doorway and prepared to step once again out of the world he knew. After opening and closing the door one last time, the brave painter bolted down the Florence streets in the direction of Beatriz’s house. The uncomfortable sensation of trepidation intensified in his stomach as the sounds of bursting gunpowder and panicked screams grew louder and louder by the moment, rising with as great an extremity as the increasingly stifling odor of smoke. The sun was close to setting below the horizon, painting the city’s ivory-white sandstone houses with a ginger hue.
Finally, midway between Beatriz’s house and his own, Lorenzo rounded a corner and there she was—Beatriz Mercanti, with her long auburn hair and gorgeous chestnut eyes, dress fluttering gracefully as she rushed in Lorenzo’s direction with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Lorenzo!”
“Beatriz!”
And the couple surged toward one another, sprinting as swiftly as their legs could take them, hearts brimming with emotion and eyes overflowing with tears. And for a moment reality seemed to be handing a heartfelt embrace toward them like a coveted ingot of glittering gold, a gleaming pearl, a shimmering jewel, a key to heaven; and for a moment this gift was all they could have wished for, a chance to throw their arms around one another if but for a fleeting second. Then, when they were but a few paces from one another and their desire for union blazed the brightest… out from a narrow alleyway sprang a Sienese soldier like a vicious cat pouncing upon an unsuspecting mouse, and plunged his razor-sharp dagger into Beatriz’s left shoulder with a roar of fury.
“Beatriz!” Lorenzo howled, voice wracked with anguish. Frozen solid with stupefaction, the painter watched her crumple backwards to the ground, wailing in agony and clamping her hand to her shoulder while the blood spurted out uncontrollably. Beatriz’s eyes were sealed shut with pain, her teeth clenched like closed gates; the hollers came blaring from her gullet like a war horn, and her body writhed with convulsions akin to the quakes that strike the earth.
“That’s what you get for fawning up to the pope, Guelph-scum!” the Sienese man spat. “Our Holy Emperor won’t be satisfied until every one of you beasts has been properly tamed!”
Swiveling in Lorenzo’s direction, the man tightened his grasp on the flashing dagger. “You’re next!”
Suddenly, a gleaming black object the size of an apple came hurtling from Beatriz’s right hand—it was her inkwell, striking the man square in the nose and splattering his face with jet-black ink tinted red from his nosebleed. The man hollered, desperately rubbed his blackened eyes, and charged furiously at Beatriz’s sprawling, half-dead body. But at that moment Beatriz swung her leg with all the force she could muster and struck it against the man’s own, knocking him off his feet. The dagger slipped free from his hand and clattered to the ground, just as the Sienese soldier staggered back and hit the stone.
Beatriz’s remarkable feat caused Lorenzo’s state of petrification to crumple apart like an ancient stone statue. A feeling of immense rage began to overtake him, seething within his soul like a surge of boiling water. Leaping over the two bodies, he stooped to grab hold of the dagger and raised it above the man’s body.
“You stabbed the woman I love,” he growled under his breath, thrusting the weapon downwards and sinking it deep into the soldier’s chest. A gasp wheezed from the man’s lungs in the final throes of death, sending all his life and energy into oblivion. A powerless, utterly defeated expression seized his eyes, piercing deep into Lorenzo’s face as if searching for any mercy left in the painter’s soul. But it was too late. The man’s eyes glazed over, adopting a dead appearance like murk on a puddle’s once-clear surface.
Shoving the dagger into his coat’s pocket, Lorenzo hauled Beatriz’s weakened body into the narrow alleyway. Vines of ivy coiled round its walls, between which they were the only two souls in sight. Lorenzo used the dagger to cut a square of leather from his coat, placing it desperately on Beatriz’s wound to block the outflow.
“Beatriz, oh, Beatriz,” he sobbed, tears welling in his eyes, “please, Beatriz… please don’t go…”
Beatriz managed a weak smile, lifting her right hand to feel Lorenzo’s cheek. “It hurts… so badly… but it lessens the pain, Lorenzo, to see your face…”
Lorenzo clutched Beatriz in his arms. “We can still make it to safety, Beatriz,” he insisted. “I will carry you, all the way to the nearest aid, and will not stop no matter what labor it may force my bones to endure. We can still chase our future together, pursue our artistic dreams side-by-side. You could write stories to touch the world, and I could bring them to life with my paintings. You are the love of my life, Beatriz, my most burning passion—and I will not let go of you, ever, no matter—”
“Lorenzo.” Beatriz’s pained whisper silenced his voice. “You, too, are the greatest love I have ever known. But our time together has been fleeting, for I feel that I am approaching my final minute. The p-pain… it is immense…”
Tears streamed down Lorenzo’s cheeks. “Oh, Beatriz… what then, do you desire in your last moments?”
“I ask only that you take my story, and share it with my father. Flee the danger of Florence, and return to Venice. He will be there, and you will be tasked with the difficult duty of informing him about my death. My mother…” A chill froze her. “I know not where my mother is. Whatever fate she’ll be met with, I’ll never learn. But you’ll know, Lorenzo. And if my mother’s gone…” A pause. “My father, he’ll see this story as the last remnant of this family’s memory.”
Lorenzo heaved a deep breath. “I will find your father, Beatriz,” he promised, struggling through sobs. “And if luck permits, your mother. I don’t know how I will, but I vow by our love to track them down—even if it takes my entire life. Perhaps, Beatriz, it would comfort you if your father and I finished the story together?”
Beatriz’s lips managed a halfhearted smile. “Yes, that would please me… that would please me very much. I want you to choose the ending, Lorenzo, for I do not know it myself.”
“Then the story will live on,” Lorenzo whispered, “though I’ll see to it your name will not go forgotten.”
All of a sudden, the leather patch on Beatriz’s shoulder went from mahogany to deep crimson. She winced in pain, clenching her teeth until a gasp rattled from her throat and she fell back against the wall powerlessly. “M-may… the R-ren… Renaissance…” she wheezed, clutching onto Lorenzo’s coat with feeble hands. She never finished her sentence.
Lorenzo Veneziani watched the life wane from the eyes of his beloved, two stars whose twinkling light dwindled into nothingness before him. He watched the motion die from her limbs like a breeze ceasing to rustle a tree’s branches, and he witnessed the blood drain from her once rosy cheeks until all he saw was a face paler than the sandstone houses of Florence. Sighing, he gently put her eyes to rest beneath the merciful shade of her eyelids.
Lorenzo sat beside the silenced body of Beatriz Mercanti for many minutes, letting his sorrowful tears fall on her cheeks like morning dewdrops. Gone as she was, there was a peaceful look in her face reminding Lorenzo of the hope that remained—the next chapter in their story waiting to be written. Reaching into a satchel nestled below her arm, he transferred Beatriz’s quill and papers into his own knapsack.
“Your name will live on,” he whispered, kissing Beatriz’s forehead for a few moments. Then, rising, he turned toward the exit of the alleyway. Awful as he felt leaving her body behind, Lorenzo knew only urgency could bring both their legacies to safety. The sound of an explosion served as a final reminder to flee the city.
Making his way to the broad avenue, Lorenzo Veneziani glanced into his wallet. Ten florins. A considerable sum of money, his reward for three years of artisanship in Florence. Enough to buy him a horse, and therefore enough to buy him a chance to regain his father’s approval. Enough to buy him a key to his past life in Venice, only one he planned to spend differently.
He knew a man, Filippo, who sold horses in the suburb of Fiesole five miles from Florence. Filippo, he knew, ran an inn where he could spend the night—a night free from the havoc of the Sienese. With the dagger flashing in his left hand and the knapsack snug tightly on his shoulder, Lorenzo Veneziani dashed down the Florentine streets toward the sunset.