In this blog post dedicated to the Uffizi Museum in Florence, I give you my advice to prepare a visit to the Uffizi Gallery. I tell you how to avoid waiting on the site, but also how to choose the best time of day to enjoy the Uffizi Museum without finding too many people, if you make a reservation for the Uffizi Gallery, ...
Finally, in the last part of the ticket in the Uffizi Gallery, I show you the works that should not be missed during a visit to this museum in Florence. In fact, with such a collection, it is impossible to discover all the works of the Uffizi museum in one visit.
rtion and his breath come in great heaving gasps did he slow. At last he paused, doubled over, too spent to continue. He listened for pursuit, but the blood was pounding in his head so loudly, he couldn’t hear anything else. Gradually that subsided, and he glanced around. The only noise was the trill of birdsong. All at once, a sense of shame came over him. Why hadn’t he pulled out his short sword and confronted the man? Why had he immediately assumed the Roman would best him? A hunting spear was dangerous, but difficult to wield in the cramped space of a forest pathway. If he’d had time to get out his weapon, he could have defeated and killed the other man. The next moment he told himself he’d done the sensible thing. Where there was one Roman, there would be others. He might have run into a whole troop of the enemy, and found himself facing impossible odds. Flight was his only hope. It would be foolish to throw his life away in a confrontation. He was hardly ready for combat against experienced warriors.
That was why he was making this journey, so he could find a place to train, so that someday, he would be ready. He let a breath out like a sob, suddenly overwhelmed with frustration and fatigue. Three days he’d been traveling east. Now, he’d have to turn back, or change direction. What if he went south? As far as he knew, the tribes there hadn’t been overrun by the Romans. He cursed aloud, then started forward. The first thing he must do was find a stream where he could drink his fill and replenish his waterskin. And from now on he would have to proceed with more caution.
He glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge direction. Aye, he would go south. It seemed the wisest thing to do. For a brief moment, he considered that the sighting of the Roman might have been a sign from the gods. Maybe they were trying to tell him that his destiny lay elsewhere. Or, he might be imagining things because he was so drained by his panicked run. “I wish you were here, Sirona,” he said aloud. “I could sorely use your insight and wisdom.” The only response was the sweet, bright cry of a lark. * * * Someone was following him. Bryn halted and glanced back into the gold green blur of the thick elm and oak forest. Or, maybe it was some thing, he thought uneasily. Whatever it was, man or beast, it had been pursuing him since he set out that morning. When he’d first heard the tell-tale crack of branches and rustle of dried leaves, he’d assumed it was some sort of game.
Getting out his bow and an arrow, he’d slipped behind a large tree trunk to wait. When no deer or boar appeared, he’d decided the animal had caught his scent and left the area. He’d started walking once again, but soon experienced the unmistakable feeling he was being stalked. Remembering his encounter with the Roman, he decided to put away the bow and arrow and get out his short sword. Now he paused, listening, gripping the wire-wrapped wooden hilt of the weapon tightly in his sweaty palm. His heart raced. Why would a wolf pursue him when there was so much other prey around? If it were a man, then why didn’t he confront Bryn and be done with it? Why stealthily follow after him? He took a deep breath and tried to decide what his father or one of his warriors would do.
They wouldn’t wait for their pursuer to strike, but would boldly seek out whoever or whatever was following them. The only trouble was, it seemed as soon as he halted, the being tracking him also halted, so he had no clear sense of exactly where his pursuer was. How could he confront an enemy he couldn’t see? Somehow, he must set a trap for his pursuer. He increased his pace until he was going as fast as he could without tripping. Then, all at once, he whirled and started back the other direction, his eyes scanning the forest, searching for a blur of movement. He thought he saw something and headed straight towards it. As he passed a large tree, something flashed to his left. He jerked to a halt and stared hard in that direction. Although he saw nothing he could identify as anything other than a natural feature of the woods, he started toward the place where the hint of movement had been. He held his sword at the ready, his whole body thrumming with tension. As he passed several hawthorn bushes large enough to conceal a man, his breathless dread increased. Now he was certain his pursuer was human. No animal would behave like this. He searched the bushes but found nothing. Frustrated, he halted his quest and looked around. He knew, simply knew, there was someone out there.
Why didn’t he show himself? He began to slash at the bushes around him, swearing oaths, “Coward! Dog! Come out and show yourself!” As he raised his arm for another go at the hapless vegetation, he felt something sharp dig into his back. “Here I am,” a male voice said from behind him. Bryn could feel the weapon piercing his crys. As several heartbeats passed, he considered that at least the man had spoken in the Pretani tongue. He wasn’t facing a Roman this time, but one of his own people. “Who are you?” the man finally asked. “And what are you doing slinking around in the territory of the Dobunni?” “I wasn’t slinking around,” Bryn said. “I was merely traveling through. If I’d encountered a settlement or farmstead, I would have stopped and announced myself.” “Oh, really?” the man sneered. “I saw you pass right by a cattle bothy, creeping through the trees so you wouldn’t be seen.” Bryn experienced a twinge of shame at being caught in a lie. The fact was, he’d decided not to approach any settlement or dwelling until he’d had a chance to observe the inhabitants. He’d fixed upon this plan after encountering a dead man among the trees. The body showed several sword wounds, now covered with maggots. The discovery had sent a chill of horror down Bryn’s spine.
Bad enough to think he might be set upon and killed while he was alone and far away from his family, but the idea of having his body left to rot truly sickened him. “You can’t blame me for being cautious,” he said. “I’m a stranger here and don’t know how I might be greeted by your tribe. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t approach me.” Bryn felt the point of the sword or knife point dig more deeply into his flesh. “I’m approaching you now,” the man said. “So, what are you doing here?” “I’m seeking a place in the warband of some chieftain. I’ve left my own tribe, for reasons I don’t wish to reveal. I would serve another man, if he be valiant and honorable. And, most of all, I wish to fight the Romans.” All at once, the pricking pain in Bryn’s back eased, and his captor let out a guffaw.
“You want to serve a chieftain who is honorable and valiant, and you’ve come to the territory of the Dobunni? That’s a fine jest. My father knows nothing of honor, although he is brave enough.” He gave another hearty laugh. Bryn turned to stare at the man, who was now red-faced with mirth. He was young, perhaps a year or two older than Bryn, short and stocky, with wild, wavy black hair and dazzling blue eyes. He wore leather bracco beneath a crys of plain, undyed wool, with a strip of crimson-dyed leather for a belt. While Bryn gazed at him, puzzling over his words, the man’s expression turned wary. He looked Bryn up and down, sizing him up. “Are you skilled with weapons?” “Some,” Bryn hedged. The man held up his sword. “We’ll fight. If you win, I’ll take you to my father and you can swear yourself to him, if you wish.” “And if I lose?” Bryn asked, his stomach sinking. The young man grinned wolfishly. “Perhaps I’ll spare your life. Perhaps not.” “Please,” Bryn said. “Before we fight. Let us introduce ourselves. If I’m going to die, then I want to know the name of the man who kills me. I am Bryn ap Tarbelinus of the Tarisllwyth branch of the Ordovice.”
“And I am Cadwalon ap Cadwyl of the Dobunni,” the man said. Then he lunged. Bryn only narrowly avoided the blade. He backed up, trying to recall all the advice he’d heard about swordplay. Watch the man’s eyes. Rest your weight on the balls of your feet. Keep your sword up. As they engaged in earnest, Bryn found he could barely keep out of harm’s way. His opponent moved with lightning quickness, and it was only Bryn’s desperate panic that enabled him to avoid being stabbed. As he was steadily driven backwards, Bryn realized he’d soon get pinned against a tree and be unable to maneuver. Then he would die. He tried to feint, to throw the other man off balance. It was no use. His opponent was too experienced, too wily and quick. Llew, save me, Bryn thought desperately. Cernunnos, lord of the forest, come to my aid! He didn’t want to die here, alone, unmourned. Sirona’s face flashed into his mind. He wondered if he’d ever see her again. He tried to go on the offensive, driving forward.
By the time he reached the place where the other man had stood, Cadwalon was gone, and Bryn’s weapon slashed thin air. He let out a yell of rage and began to flail wildly with his blade. Cadwalon repeatedly moved out of reach at the last moment. Then, when Bryn grew winded, his opponent began to press him once more. Bryn tried to meet each blow and deflect it. Finally, a second too late, he lost his grip on his sword and it went spinning off into the bushes. “Aha!” Cadwalon cried in triumph. He backed Bryn into a tree, his sword blade digging into Bryn’s throat. Bryn waited, breathless and terrified. He wanted to beg for his life. Digging his nails into his palms, he fought the cowardly urge. He would die a man. Perhaps his spirit would someday return to the living and he would have another chance to prove himself as a warrior. He saw his opponent’s mouth quirk and one of his dark brows went up, reflecting surprise and, it seemed, amusement.
All at once, Cadwalon drew back. He nodded, looking pleased. “I like you, Bryn ap Tarbelinus. I would offer you a place in my warband.” Bryn opened his mouth to answer that he would be delighted to fight beside someone so skilled. But before he could speak, Cadwalon continued, “But the fact is, I have no warband. I’m still forced to fight for my father. It won’t always be this way, I promise you. Someday I’ll be chieftain.” Bryn let out his breath in a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to die after all. Had his prayers to the gods been answered, or was it simply his destiny to live a while longer? He remembered Cruthin saying after the wolf almost killed him that it clearly wasn’t his time to die yet.
At this moment, Bryn felt the same. Yet his future was far from settled. Remembering Cadwalon’s words, he said, “You told me your father is not an honorable man. What does that mean?” Cadwalon shrugged. “I could give you many instances of my father’s defiance of the law. Which tale would you like to hear?” When Bryn shook his head, not knowing how to answer, Cadwalon continued, “After my father had his face slashed in battle and his eye put out, the Drui said he could no longer be king because he was flawed and therefore, unacceptable to the gods. So he killed all the Drui and left their bodies to rot.” Cadwalon smiled broadly. “Or, perhaps you would like to hear of how when he couldn’t get Oswael and his warband to stop raiding our cattle, he invited the chieftain to come to our hall for one of the festivals. After the meal was over and Oswael and his men were very drunk, my father had his warriors fall upon the visitors and kill them.” Bryn gaped. The things that this man, Cadwyl, had done were terrible, horrifying violations of the sacred laws of their people. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “Doesn’t Cadwyl fear the gods will punish him?” Cadwalon threw back his head and laughed.
Gallery of the Uffizi, the most famous museum in Florence
The Uffizi Gallery is clearly the most famous museum in Florence. In a city full of museums, the Uffizi Museum can only be considered as the main museum of the city.
Visit the Uffizi Gallery is:
Discover a magnificent Florentine palace.
enjoy the most beautiful collection of Italian paintings (Botticelli, Michelangelo, Titian, ...)
The Uffizi Gallery, a Florentine palace, was built in the sixteenth century and is the work of architect Giorgio Vasari.
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