A decade later...
1665
Genoa, Italy
"Papa," Joseph said once more with his Italian-and-French-wrapped accent. I looked up from the notes I hastily seized from my university study ten years ago. I yearned to be back in Florence, but I could never go back there again, never, not after the ambush. I was never prepared to flee, but we had three wood-plank trunks, in which we stuffed a portion of our possessions and stowed away on a friend's merchant carriage to Genoa. We then hitchhiked there, following the carriage. That was when Joseph was only the miniature age of six. He was a grown man now, turning sixteen in a few weeks. I responded, but in a mildly annoyed manner.
"Yes?"
"I just wanted to, well, go to the Lighthouse for a while. Lunetta and Marcello are headed there as well, to watch the sun set, and they asked if I could tag along too." He bit his pink bottom lip, waiting patiently for an answer. I thought about this for a moment. Any day could be my last with my bambino d'oro, but then again, he had a long life to go. I weighed each consequence, and decided it was best for him to make his own decisions.
"Joseph, you can go. But remember, take your paints and canvas. It will be a good starting point for a young artist to master different methods of painting." He grinned with his crooked smile, and his gold-flecked eyes widened as if it were an owl's. His chestnut hair was the perfect balance between my unruly mahogany hair and Marie's uptight cinnamon locks, as the wind from the window blew ruffling it even more. He wore an excited look on his face.
"Thank you so much Papa," Joseph gleefully said, hugging me for the first time that day. He rushed down the masonry steps, forgetting to pick up his paints and canvas. Again. Joseph whizzed past Marie, who was wheezing and wobbling up the steps, laying a hand across her bulging stomach, and barely grasping to the candelabra, an heirloom belonging to my father, and his father, and his father, all the way to Roman times. She placed the candelabra on my desk, and in her French-and-Italian-wrapped voice, spoke softly like a sweet breeze blowing by.
" Sweetheart, take a break from restoring your notes and come eat. I roasted rosemary quail and olives, and it's sitting on the table right now. It will cool off and won't taste as delicious." Marie closed her eyes for she was expecting anytime now. She hobbled down the steps again, stopping to catch her breath.
"Marie, dear, I'd loved to eat with you and-" Right, Joseph left. "Eat with you. Let me finish this off first. I only have two or three sentences left. She looked back at me with her tired, insignificantly wrinkled face, and she continued on, struggling to not fall over.
As soon as she turned the corner, I shuffled through my notes- wait a minute. I didn't have a section of my Copernican theory notes. Oh well, too late now, Hugo. I set my notes down on my olive wood desk, and headed down the steps. I looked out the small niche cut out in the stone wall. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft pink-and-orange glow over the olive orchards on our dozen-acre estate in Genoa. A single cloud in the evening sky was resting peacefully in the colorful sky. I thought to myself, Genoa is almost like Florence; life will be better than ever.
We ate by the fire, though it was quite warm. Marie hungrily ate the quail, satisfying her cravings. Only green olives remained, swirling around the terracotta dish. I Right then, I heard a rock turn over, flying at the feet of the front door. I looked outside the window, and saw man, the same man from a decade ago, only a few paces away.
"Run and hide, Marie!" my loudly whispered words entangled in shock. I obscured my pregnant wife from view, behind all the trunks of dishes, knives, and scudi. She begged in protest for me to stay with her, but I comforted her, and pretended to act as if nothing happened, when the man came to the door and knocked. Swiftly, I concealed a bread knife in the inside pocket of my robe. I put on a devilish smile, and ran to open the door.
