A Bolt From the Blue (13 page)

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Manuscript Sul Volo

 

 

 

 

 

“
Y
ou want Tito to assist you in building the flying machine, instead of me?”

My words incredulous, I stared at the Master. That must have been why Tito had been gone for so long the night before. While the rest of us were mourning and praising our fallen friend, Tito had been busy convincing Leonardo that he should take on what had been my role.

“Have I failed you in some way, Master?” I persisted, trying to keep my feelings of betrayal from coloring my tone. “I have worked diligently and kept my counsel.

“And, besides,” I added a bit peevishly, “Signor Angelo is my father and not Tito’s. That should count for something.”

We were in Leonardo’s private chambers, where I had come at his summons fi rst thing upon awakening. I had found him and my father seated at his worktable, the pair of them bent over a sheaf of drawings and notes. The model of the flying machine sat nearby, rakishly draped in green silk.

Leonardo leaned back in his seat and gestured me to take the spot on the bench beside my father.

“My dear boy, pray do not take this as an affront,” he said as I settled myself. “I have given the matter due consideration and believe it the best solution for us all.”

He paused to make another note on the page before him before continuing. “Tito came to me last night, telling me the same tale that he said he shared with you. His distress was genuine and his arguments persuasive. It is imperative that we complete the flying machine before another such incident happens. Tito is a diligent worker with experience building boats, and he has assisted me in the past with my designs.”

Glancing over at my father, he went on. “Signor Angelo and I agree that our model has served its purpose, and that it is time to complete work on the full-sized model. One cannot overlook the fact that Tito is far larger and stronger than you, meaning he is better able to provide the brute force needed. And while I do not question your valor, should another assault occur, he would be better able to defend against it.”

I bit my lip lest I blurt out a reminder of the times that I
had
been forced to defend myself against an assailant or even leap to the Master’s aid when he himself was under attack. How could he forget that I’d survived being stabbed and left for dead inside a locked burial vault, had stood unarmed against sword-wielding assailants, and had escaped a deadly fire unscathed? Yet I dared not speak of these dramatic events before my father, lest he whisk me from Milan faster than a hawk could swoop upon a helpless rabbit.

Instead, I glanced at my parent in silent supplication, hoping he would see the injustice of this arrangement, but he merely shook his head.

“I fear I must concur with Signor Leonardo on this matter. Work on the full-sized model will require strength that a young, er, boy such as you may not possess.”

Unspoken was what I knew must be foremost on his mind: his fear that this project held dangers far greater than a dropped plank upon one’s toe or a hammer connecting with an unsuspecting thumb. And while I understood his concern, that did not lessen the sting I felt at his words.

My dismay at this dual perfidy must have been apparent, for Leonardo gave me a kind smile.

“All is not lost, my dear Dino,” he pronounced with a grand sweep of his hand. “You see, I have not forgotten my words to you from several days earlier. Once the plastering for the new fresco is complete and the outlines of the stencils pounced, you will pick up a brush and work with Paolo and Davide in painting the background.”

Once, such an announcement from the Master would have brought me to my knees all but weeping in gratitude. Now I managed little more than a grudging, “I shall be glad to assist them,” before making my bows and rushing out the door.

My unsettled humors were further stirred when I almost stumbled over Tito as he was leaving the main workshop. I halted and favored him with a sour look.

“I am surprised you do not fare better when playing dice,” I told him, “given your skill in tossing words so that they readily tumble your way.”

He did not pretend not to understand my words. Indeed, he had the good grace to look ashamed, if his tone when he replied held a note of defiance.

“I did not mean to replace you, Dino, only to join you in helping the Master with the flying machine. And I will not deny that I would like to gain some of the fame for my part in building it. But you must believe me that my motives go far beyond any glory I might earn.”

He paused and gave the familiar glance about him, as if fearing eavesdroppers. “As I told you, I cannot help but worry that the Master may be in danger, after what happened to Constantin. I may have failed our friend, but I vow I shall not fail Leonardo in the same way. He does not know it, but my true plan is to serve as his personal man-at-guard.”

At that, he reached beneath his tunic and whipped out a knife that I had never before seen him carry. The straight, sharp blade appeared finely crafted and was one such as gentlemen wore about town for protection . . . hardly a weapon that an apprentice might own, let alone be able to wield.

It was my turn to gaze about lest anyone be within sight or hearing of us. Eying the weapon with mingled admiration and alarm, I asked in a low tone, “Tito, where ever did you find such a knife?”

“My uncle gave it to me. He was a soldier, and he told me every man should have a weapon lest he be taken unawares when danger threatens.”

Tossing his unruly black hair from his eyes, he sliced the blade through the air before him as if dispatching an imaginary attacker. Then, to my relief, he hid the knife beneath his tunic once more.

“Don’t worry. I can use it,” he said with a shrug. “But the Master would forbid me to carry such a weapon, and so I shall keep it hidden. You will not tell him, will you?”

For a single unworthy moment, I considered doing just that. By exposing Tito’s secret, I might gain back my role as assistant in this project. Despite the fact that he had been hired by Il Moro to build weapons of war, Leonardo loathed violence and disapproved of carrying arms.

On the other hand, I had seen him wield a sword when danger threatened and knew he was not foolish enough to let his scruples override the safety of those around him . . . including himself. And, in truth, I would feel better knowing that both the Master and my father had someone with them as they worked who could serve as protector.

Thus, I shook my head.

“I shall say nothing, so long as you swear you will tell me everything that happens each day as you work,” I agreed. “And you must tell me if you see anyone acting suspiciously near the Master or my father, so that I may help you to keep an eye on that person.”

I thought again of the mysterious robed figure that had spied upon me at the parade grounds and perhaps later as I’d searched for Constantin’s killer in the quadrangle. If that person still lurked about Castle Sforza, I had not seen him again. Perhaps those strange sightings had been but a coincidence, merely a visitor who had gone about his true business and was long departed from the castle grounds.

Tito and I parted with a polite enough clasp of our hands, though I admit with some shame that I still struggled with my resentment. And I was further mollified later in the day when, quite unexpectedly, my father appeared in the chapel and summoned me to one side.

“Your master took young Tito with him to purchase more fabric for the wings,” he whispered, so that none of the others could hear. “While they are away, perhaps you would care to come see this grand machine of his.”

The shed where the flying machine was stored lay not far from the stables. Pulling a large key from his pouch, my father unfastened the heavy lock that barred the pair of large doors. He opened one just wide enough for us to slip inside and then pulled the doors shut behind us. I barely noticed his actions, for I was staring in awe at the full-sized craft in the center of the shed’s dirt floor.

More correctly, it was the body of the flying machine that sat propped up on a trio of wooden supports. The skeletal framework of wings lay to one side, one already covered in linen and the other still bare. The body was longer than I’d expected it to be, perhaps twice my length with the blunt little tail included. Though it was of deceptively simple design, my artist’s eye could see now that much thought had gone into creating a craft of graceful yet practical lines. Once the finished wings were attached, it would be a magnificent sight, indeed! And if it could truly be made to fly—

“Oh, Father, would it not be wonderful to be the one who piloted this craft about the clouds,” I cried, envying the Master the opportunity he would have.

My father shrugged. “I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground,” he replied, though I sensed he, too, had begun to see the possibilities of Leonardo’s invention.

And so I returned to my labors in far better humor than when I’d started the day. My feelings toward Tito were again amicable when he joined the rest of us outside the kitchen for the evening meal.

Once we finished our usual stew and started back toward the workshop, he contrived to fall several paces behind the others. With an almost imperceptible twitch of his head, he gestured me to join him.

“We made quite good progress,” he confided, leaning close enough so that I could smell the garlic from the evening’s meal upon his breath. His pockmarked features reflected far greater cheer than they had in many days as he went on. “We have almost completed the machine’s body, though Master Leonardo declared that the pedal mechanism needs adjustment.”

He described their progress in a bit more detail and finished, “And I saw nothing amiss . . . No one spied upon us or appeared unduly interested in our work.”

He paused to assume a swaggering manner, putting a hand to the breast of his tunic, under which I was certain was hidden his knife. “Of course, I was ready for any trouble.”

“Of course,” I echoed, torn between relief and dismay at this show of bravado. Had he ever actually faced someone intent on robbing him of his life, I wondered, or was his only experience that of slashing at imaginary foes?

Something of my doubt must have shown upon my face, for he frowned and added, “Fear not, Dino. I swear that should anyone attempt to harm the Master or your father, I will gladly lay down my life to protect them.”

By then, we had reached the workshop, so I had time for but a grateful nod before we rejoined the others. While an air of solemnity still hung over our small band, the mood was lighter than the evening before. Once our usual nighttime tasks were complete—new brushes from boar bristles and weasel hair carefully tied, charred sticks ground to black powder for pouncing stencils, new wood panels sanded for later use by the Master in his painting—Davide called a halt to our labors.

“Tommaso, perhaps you will play your lute for us tonight,” he suggested.

Tommaso obliged by fetching the battered instrument and strumming a few chords. This was Paolo’s cue to pull out his dice. Within a few moments, an affable game of chance had commenced near the glowing hearth, with the youths eagerly wagering bits of broken pottery in place of the coins that we, as mere apprentices, lacked.

I could not help but be cheered by these signs that our collective heart, while still sorely wounded, had begun to mend. The humble Constantin would not have wanted us to mourn him unduly, I was sure. And so I joined Tommaso in a song about a page who cleverly bested every noble he encountered. Once I was certain the others were engrossed in their amusement, however, I pretended a need for the privy and slipped out of the workshop.

My knock at Leonardo’s private quarters was tentative as I recalled my graceless leave-taking from them that morning; still, I knew that my embarrassment was mine alone. My father would already have forgiven my sulky manner, and I suspected that the Master had long since forgotten our exchange. I had no chance to confirm that last, however, for it was the former and not Leonardo who answered my summons.

“It’s good you have come,” my father declared as he thrust his head out into the night. His quick glance in either direction reminded me of Tito’s similar gesture.

Apparently satisfied that no spies lurked about, he motioned me inside and with a fi rm hand closed the door behind me. His expression was one of worry as he took a seat at Leonardo’s worktable. A few pages of notes lay scattered there. He moved them aside along with the now-empty bowl that had held his stew, and I noticed that but a single evening’s repast had been eaten. The Master’s usual spot was conspicuously empty.

The bed was unoccupied, as well, the blankets stretched neatly across it and Pio lying curled upon the Master’s pillow. He opened a sleepy eye; then, apparently deciding that slumber was preferable to greeting a late visitor, he yawned and settled back to sleep again.

Gesturing me to sit, my father began, “I wondered how to send word to you without drawing the notice of your fellows. Does anyone else know you are here? Good,” he replied when I shook my head. “You must keep what I tell you a secret from all of them, including your friend Tito.”

It was my turn to frown as I saw that no candlelight glowed from beneath the closed door that led to Leonardo’s private workshop. If the Master was neither here in his quarters nor toiling in his workshop, perhaps he was still locked away in the storehouse with his flying machine. That, or he’d set off on yet another nocturnal adventure. But why should his absence this particular night seemingly have caused my father dismay?

My own uneasiness growing, I demanded, “What is going on, Father? Has something happened to the Master?”

“Fear not. Signor Leonardo is well,” he was quick to assure me. “But his concern over the murder of young Constantin was such that he has set off on a mission this very night. While he did not divulge his destination, he confided that his plan is to ride to the spot where the duke and the French king’s representatives are meeting. Leonardo intends to inform his patron what has happened here at the castle in his absence.”