Chapter 1 - Florence

He laid back on the couch, another beautiful day. He had a cup of tea, and enjoyed the sun coming in through the windows. He was happy, but not very energetic. But this was all soon about to change.

He always loved how the sun would touch the skin, warm the arm a little, or with a little soft stroke over the face, filling him with joy and happiness. It reminded him of his countless trips to warmer places, to travels in the past, and also how wonderful life can be, with just a little sunshine and peace of mind.

Outside the window he would watch the trees and the flowers, they were in full bloom now. “Such a wonderful little wonder of nature,” he thought to himself. And then he kept reading a new book he had found a few days ago, in a favorite book shop in town. He always loved the book shops, how they were little worlds to get lost in, every time or mostly every time, discovering something new in the shelves, a little novel about some people or times he was interested in, or sometimes a history book or maybe a nice photography book of nature or travels, or maybe of arts.

The book he was reading now was about an Italian family in the fourteen hundreds, who lived in Florence. It was not one of the richest families, or of the poorest families, and neither did they know the great painters or architects or artists of that time. It was a family with a merchant father and a teacher mother, and three little wonderful kids growing up in the cultural center of Europe at that time, having normal days but being drawn into the atmosphere of the times, with the rebirth of classical culture, books, enlightenment, and a final transformation from the dark ages towards a new bright and creative, and open, period of European history.

For the little family this was just the current times, and things were moving very slowly from day to day, but they did enjoy the new buildings that were built, the new big dome in the middle of the city, and how the best artists from around the world were being drawn towards their beautiful home town. The kids were still too young to have chosen their future paths, but one seemed to have a natural disposition for commerce, and the youngest one was already very good with his hands, making and repairing and mending things. The last one though, was a bit more lacking in talent it seemed, but it was still a bit early. He was only ten years old, it could come later. While his brothers at seven and twelve would probably pursue their natural talents in the coming years, and make fine young men and citizens of Florence. Their mother and father were happy and proud of all of them, and they gathered everyone for a big supper meal in the evenings, talking about their day and sometimes about the times, and the fortunate lives they had been given.

Reading this little story was great for David as he was lying on the couch, enjoying the tea and the sunshine. He had just started the little book, but already felt like he had one foot in the life of the little Florentine family of Rinozzo, some 600 years ago.

And as the sun was shining he was quickly gliding into the book again, and into the young lives of Lorenzo, Giovanni and Michelangelo. They were growing up with a sense of being frontiers of the world history, that this was a point when the world was entering into a new and better, and improved level of human civilization, never seen before. Michelangelo, being the commercial and oldest son, sensed the business potential in this, and was already making plans for real estate and trade opportunities in the city. Lorenzo, the youngest one, didn’t think so much about this, and was more concerned about learning as much as possible about how things were working in the house, but he had heard about the new machines that someone was inventing in a little town outside Florence, and he was super interested and talked about this often around the evening supper meals, with the whole family.

  As for Giovanni, it was harder to tell. He seemed excited about the times, but didn’t talk so much. He did ok at school, but didn’t work that hard with it, and he often withdrew and preferred to be by himself at times. But for him too, the changing world around him had an impact on everyone, and he always seemed to listen very attentively when people were talking about the city, the world beyond the walls, and the politics of the rulers. His eyes always fixated, and he would barely move while listening. “Maybe he’s just trying to understand the world,” his mother said one night in the bedroom, before going to bed. “I just wish he would speak a little more,” said his father. “I’m afraid that he’s worrying too much. These are good times. We will all be great.”

  Their father Tomaso had indeed very good times in his business, spending long days in the market and trading goods from exotic places to the richest families in Florence. He could see no reason to be skeptical or have any hesitation about embracing the wonderful and incredible times they were living in. While their mother, Lucrezia, shared her son’s seemingly more thoughtful approach to the times they were going through. She was teaching languages and history at a secondary school in the city, and knew that the times of big change could also be times of unpredictable power shifts, and even chaos, confusion and collapse. But she didn’t talk about this so much. She rather wanted to be positive, supportive, and make sure the whole family was happy. But she was always keeping an extra eye on little Giovanni.

It was early spring at the time, in early March, and after a mild winter, the sunshine was warming again, and the people were spending more time outdoors after the brief period of colder days. Tomaso and Lucrezia usually went to their friend's restaurant on Saturday evenings after the children were put to bed, and Lucrezia’s sister would look after the children. They would meet with all their friends and enjoy the food, the wine, and all the stories that were starting to circulate in town, about the local families, about neighboring cities, about France and other countries. Tomaso was listening for new opportunities for his work, Lucrezia was enjoying time with her friends, and wanting to learn more things about the changes in other places, and the culture and fashion of other cities. After a nice evening meal out they would go home, look over the children, have a quiet glass of wine on the balcony, and then go to bed. It was a good life for them, and they saw a sparkling future for their kids as well, trying to build them up as healthy good people, and supportive of each other. 

  And so these weeks were passing, in March 1460. The Rinozzo family had a good, but modest position in Florence, and the children were growing and taking shape in the emerging times in Europe.

He reached out for his cup of tea and kept thinking about the history of those times. “The Renaissance was such an incredible period,” he thought to himself. “Such a compressed explosion of arts, politics, enlightenment, progress. And such a display of enormous creativity.” Sometimes a historical book would be like a little sprinkler of new ideas to him, new inspiration, and a whole new perspective of the past and the present, at the same time. “Imagine growing up in those times,” he thought. 

And as the birds were flying over the roof tops of Florence one morning in March 1460, little Giovanni was watching out of the window of his bedroom too, loving the sight of the sunshine stroking gently over the city, the sunrays carefully reflecting in the beautiful river, and the bustle from the local market square where the people were setting up their booths for the day, smiling and chatting with each other, showing the latest and newest merchandise of the day, and all being lifted by the tremendous spirit of the times, being in the very front of European culture and having the admiration of the entire continent. All of this contained in a little town with the most beautiful churches and paintings in the world, a little town where a little walk was a stroll through the most sophisticated and refined architectural and intellectual surroundings there had ever been.     

  And people would often left all this unsaid, just having a little coffee, an espresso, in the strong and pleasant morning sunlight.

Little Giovanni was watching all of this and thinking about the world, and about people, and why the different people were behaving like they did. He wondered about what their motivation was, what their stories were, what choices they had made as children, in adolescence, in adult life. He was carefully observing the different people crossing over the market and noticed how they walked, the way they exchanged greetings with each other, the way they had chosen to dress that day. And he also watched the birds, the trees, and the river again. Even though he had never lived anywhere else, he felt happy and fortunate to grow up where he did, and he liked his family very well. His father was always warm and nice, helpful, a heart of gold, and even though not always the most philosophical or refined thinker, he had good morals and the right instincts for being a good person, he thought. And he was a great father who was building a nice home for them too, which Giovanni was very grateful for. He loved his brothers too, and especially liked his mother, Lucrezia. She was always so interesting to listen to, and he loved the little sandwiches she made, and just spending time with her in the evenings, reading or playing cards, or a little game.

And then he got ready for school, looked one more time out the window, and went down the stairs. He would often walk with Lorenzo or Michelangelo, depending on when they started, and today is was with little Lorenzo, having just started the first grade. They went out the door, and the sun was getting a bit warmer now. They both smiled, and waved to Lucrezia. She was upstairs at the balcony and smiled down to them. “Have a great time at school!” she said. And they both went into the streets and disappeared in the early bustle of the town.

For Tomaso, these days were beyond his imagination growing up just a few decades earlier. The town was still thriving at that point, but nothing like this. He enjoyed the connections he had with the other merchants, sometimes briefly also the rich and important families, and sometimes even being in the proximity of the rulers of the city. One of his silent little dreams was to meet the ruling family in the Palace, for a banquet, an audience, or a commercial arrangement, as the crowning of his achievements and position as a prominent tradesman of the times. But he also knew that this was far away still, and that he would have to keep working for a long time, and build up his reputation further, before this could become reality.

  In the meantime he enjoyed the family life with his beloved kids, and the everyday life in the markets, chatting with his friends. And he belonged more among these people by nature, his own people and tribe, and he mostly knew this. Just a slight pull of ambition made him admire the ruling class of the city, but this usually faded away quickly. He would prefer to be happy, rather than influential and powerful. And he would always tell the most wonderful jokes to the amusement of the crowds in the markets. And this was how Tomaso would over time spend most of his life and his days, in happy company in the markets, and in a joyful home with a loving family. He felt fortunate and loved the city too. It was a good life for Tomaso.

In the Palace the atmosphere was quite different from the sunny and prosperous days of the Rinozzos. At one end of the table sat the Lord of Florence, Ezio di Barberozzini, with his sons Marcello and Cesario along the one side, and his advisors along the other. The room was tense as they were receiving new reports from the neighboring city states, who were always trying to build up their forces and threatened to attack or overthrow the other city rulers. And at this point, an attack seemed imminent from Pisa, again.

Ezio was so tired of all of this, a life in inherited power, a never ending succession of intrigue, games, pressure, and brutal warfare. He knew he had to protect the city, but he found a life long experience of human nature in power depressing and deeply monotone. He listened to the reports, his advisors, involved his sons in the discussions, and then made his decisions. He was ruthless and resolute, as time had learned him that this was the most humane and practical way of handling these issues. He, as so many others, had tried a softer approach as a younger ruler, only to suffer more blood on his hands, and prolonged conflicts, that he later understood could have been ended more swift and quickly, with a firmer hand. He did not wish to have learned this lesson, or later understanding that this early bloodshed was the inevitable outcome of the philosophy of his younger years, but once all of this was accepted and molded into his moral thinking and perspectives, there was a simplicity and clarity in the field of these issues, that made navigating a city a more predictable and a practical task. A task he now mastered to the fullest, though with little enthusiasm, but in his mind he sometimes made up more pleasant metaphors for his duties, like gardening. He was simply tending his garden, weeding out things, cutting off branches, and also sowing seeds and nurturing growing plants and flowers.

  This technique of metaphors had come in his later years, and added a certain detachment towards his harsh and merciless treatment of enemies, neighboring cities, or unwanted elements in his own city and principality. He would only be reminded of this long and hardening transition, when one of his sons sometimes spoke, suggesting a more cautious first few steps when a new situation occurred. But there was not much more to be said about these issues for Ezio, it was all established and confirmed a long time ago. He would just bring out the rough and efficient equipment, and tend to his garden. Then it was all peaceful and orderly again. And he very briefly had some peace of mind.

His sons would mostly just accept and observe their father, Marcello being the softer one, by inexperience and not by weakness, while Cesario was the harder one, partly by influence of his father, and partly by impatience and a little component of insecurity and stubbornness. His two sons went along well for the most part, and it had yet to be decided which one should inherit the lordship of Florence, when the time came. Ezio was still waiting to see what reality would do with the demeanor and moral philosophies of Marcello, having less faith in Cesario as time would probably only make him more stubborn and the elements of insecurities only worsen with increasing amount of power and responsibilities. But time would tell, and Ezio was also building up a council of advisors and experienced leaders that would be a firm support for his sons, and especially the one who would later become the future Lord of Florence.

As he was reading, David’s thoughts were drifting along with the story, and with the two different families who were living in Florence in the early stages of the Renaissance. “Such different times, and yet so familiar human traits,” he thought. The sun was still shining in the window, and the cup of tea was still warm and pleasant. He was somewhat mostly curious about little Giovanni, the middle child, but also intrigued by the nature of politics of those times, the swiftness of decisions sealing the fate of a city, and a state, and how a city and the ruler was practically the same thing. He would sometimes dream of those times, and the simplicity and romantic perspectives on managing the little societies. And yet, he also knew it was a lot more complicated than that, for those living through those times from day to day. Another sip of tea, and the old times and city began to drift towards him in his mind, the blistering sun and the splendor and beauty of the city, and the river, and this day in he early spring of old Florence. There was a vibration of spirit, activity, openness and creativity over the whole city, as the new Dome marked the center of a new world, and the finest architects of the times had gathered to erect new buildings to symbolize power, beauty and a newfound sophistication, build on the era and civilization of the Romans and the Greeks. Seen from a little hill top nearby, it was indeed like a growing flower, and the most refined splendor of a magnificent flower unfolding in slow motion, as the rebirth of a hidden and suppressed era was once again rising above the surface. And it was all contained in a little town, in a little open valley, bathing in sunshine.

And as little Giovanni was walking home from schooling that day, on the little cobblestoned streets, he came to the little opening with the Cesario and the workshops, and today a man was standing in the door with a coffee, smiling as he greeted some friends that were walking by, and having a break in his work. Giovanni was as always curious, and wanted to have a little peak into the workshop. The man was enjoying the little pause, but noticed the young boy, and always liked showing the children in the town his work, as part of the culture and community they were all building together. “Just come on in,” he said, and Giovanni didn’t know what to say, but just smiled and nodded, and stepped into the little bottega. And it was the perfect time in the afternoon, as the sun was passing and filling the room with a glowing light, and Giovanni could see the sculptures and paintings that filled the workshop everywhere. “Just have a look,” the man said, and Giovanni was studying the artworks in silence, still not saying anything. A colleague was sitting in the other corner working on some smaller artworks of wood, just warmly smiling and not saying anything either. Giovanni was absorbing everything slowly and especially noticed a couple of smaller sculptures he liked, and in one of the paintings there were two little angels in the lower corner that had an incredible detail and beauty, like they were standing out in relief, or being two real small angels coming out of a flat surface, almost otherworldly in their appearance. He looked a bit longer and the man said: “Ah yes, that is from one of our youngest students, a very talented young painter.” Giovanni was very pleased that he had noticed something special about this.

  And then he felt he had seen enough for today, and looked at the man with a short: “Thank you.” He walked out and went home, and later that evening when they all had their evening supper, with Michelangelo, Lorenzo and his parents, he did not say anything about the workshop and the visit. He just listened to the others, and loved the meal they had today. Pasta and sauce, and parmigiano. 

When he went to bed that night he kept seeing the two sculptures, and the painting with the two angles. It was his favorite painting now, and then he kept thinking about the man, how he drank his coffee, his voice when he said "come on in", and his colleague in the corner working steadily on his artwork, and the look in his eyes. The colleague was a very happy man, he thought. He looked like he loved what he was doing. And Giovanni hoped that he could be like that too, when he was older. And then the angels came back, the faces, the details of their faces, their hair, the hands, and the look of their eyes, before little Giovanni fell asleep for the night. It had been a nice day, was his last thought, and then it was all dark, and nothing.

A few quarters away another man was sitting in his bedroom about to go to bed, and thinking about his day. It was Marcello in the Palace, and he wondered about the decisions that his father had made today. He loved his father but found him too brutal and harsh sometimes, but he also knew that his father might have other reasons for this, than what was apparent to Marcello. He was also worried about the consequences, and that his father was creating a bigger war out of a conflict that might be resolved in more peaceful manners. He was also a bit tired of his brother always encouraging the hard and merciless approach to delicate situations, and never once suggesting a more diplomatic or nuanced strategy in the management of politics in the region. He trusted his father, but not at all his brother. And even though he thought that deception was a neutral tool when corresponding with the neighboring city states, he did not support the openly hostile and aggressive tone as the first step in every situation. Life had already taught him that a softer first outreach could give better results. But these thoughts were never welcome in the court of the Palace. But for now, he would listen, observe the outcomes, and try to understand his father’s perspectives better. “But there could be better ways to protect our city, ” he thought. “Today was not a good day for us.”

  He walked across the room, lay down in bed, and turned off the light. “Let’s see in the coming weeks,” he thought. “There is still time.”

And then, the city was soon dark and silent. The broad valley had a cold moonlight slowly gliding over the hillsides that night, like a silver veil softly stroking the mountains and over the roof tops. And the moon was secretly bathing in the river, with no one to see. And for a few moments, it was like time stood still, frozen and unmovable, and immensely beautiful in the night.

Reviews

[Schatzi]

Hello Dave Ellis,

All in all, the story is interesting. You don't use too much dialogue either and your imagery is good. If you are looking to improve your story, may I suggest, for instance: "He had a cup of tea, and enjoyed the sun coming in through the windows." Not a bad sentence, however, if you changed just a word or two and you could have: 'He held a steaming hot mug of Earl Grey tea between his hands. The steam rose and warmed his nose as he inhaled the sweet aroma he loved so much. It was still early, but the orange sky was slowly revealing the morning's warm rays.' Now you have created a scene the reader can see, smell and feel.

The only other suggestion I have is to split your paragraphs into smaller paragraphs. Some are great and others are too long, which can overwhelm the reader. I honestly think that if you took my two suggestions to heart that you will find you have about three chapters here. These are simply suggestions though so feel free to ignore them but I do think you have a worthwhile story here.

Thank you for sharing!

Kind regards,

Schatzi

[Dave Ellis]

Dear Schatzi,
thank you so much for your wonderful and thoughtful comments. I really take this to heart, and it's in some way a big step to receive more professional feedback like this, on my writings.
So thank you for that, and also as it came so quickly. Inspiring, and comforting.

The last thing first,
it's a perfect point, as I have been reflecting on my tendency to write very "densely" at times, and whether that is doable as a stylistic choice, or simply gets too condensed for readers, or at least for most readers.
Or put differently, how much to "paint and flesh it out" for a reader, and how much to leave to the reader's imagination. I'm looking into this a lot.

And I love the scene they way you are describing it! Great suggestion!! :) And I can really feel it, and I think I understand also emotionally how different, and "bigger" it is.

I will work on both of these issues when rewriting this piece, or writing new ones :)

Have a great weekend!

Dave

[Schatzi]

"Or put differently, how much to "paint and flesh it out" for a reader, and how much to leave to the reader's imagination. I'm looking into this a lot." You have just described a new writer's Achilles heel. It will take you some time to figure this out for yourself but if your aim is to have your work published one day then it is well worth it.

One piece of advice I can offer you here is not to get bogged down in the details. Remember that your readers will be immersed in the world you create so they will be able to figure out the details without boring them everything.

A good example of this is to think about the process of brushing your teeth. If you go through all the details it's boring but if you just mention it like say, Tina dropped her toothbrush into the cup and stared at her bruised eye as she wiped toothpaste from the corner of her mouth. That explains everything and so much more without boring the reader with the mundane details.

Anyway, I'm glad you found my advice and examples helpful. I look forward to reading your revision.

[Dave Ellis]

Thanks again, so much! This is super helpful for me :))

And I'll be writing some new stuff too I think, incorporating these ideas and suggestions.

Side-point;
I've noticed that my super short poetry tends to appeal to creative/visual people, a LOT, but not so much/not at all to others. Some people just need a tiny cue, and wonderful imagery is created in their minds.
Others simply seem to need more full descriptions of things.

Just one of those newbie discoveries ;)

And btw. I love your toothpaste scene! Can still taste it :)

D

[Schatzi]

Unfortunately, you can't cater to everyone. You want to give just enough details without overwhelming your reader and still move the plot along.

Glad you liked that scene. :)