A Bolt From the Blue (11 page)

By now, several apprentices were gathered around the Master, listening to further words of comfort. The rest stood huddled together, exchanging words of praise for their dead friend. As I moved to join that second group, I noticed that, like I, Tito stood slightly apart from the others.

He chose that same moment to glance in my direction. Under the circumstances, I did not expect to see the usual casual smile he normally wore; still, something in his expression took me aback. For his pockmarked face reflected not so much grief as impatience, while his black eyes held anger rather than unshed tears. And though he and Constantin had not been the closest of friends, in recent days I had seen the pair together on numerous occasions.

Noting my scrutiny, Tito’s expression darkened, and for a moment he appeared to struggle with some inner emotion. Just as swiftly, he tossed his unruly black hair off his forehead and made his way toward where the Master stood.

I frowned as I joined the other huddled group of apprentices. Surely Tito must grieve Constantin’s loss as the rest of us did, I told myself as I linked arms with Vittorio and Paolo. Perhaps he simply was one of those people who embraced anger rather than sorrow under trying circumstances.

Soon after, the Master took his leave of us, with the admonition to finish our usual evening’s tasks before we settled in for the night. Under the circumstances, such a demand might have seemed unduly harsh. We all realized, however, that he sought to keep both our hands and our heads occupied while we attempted to reconcile ourselves to the tragedy that had happened in our midst.

Once the last paint pot was cleaned and the final broom tucked away, we gathered a bit uncertainly near the hearth, where the fire lay dying. It was usually Constantin who lit the night’s ration of candle stubs so that we might spend an hour of amusement before taking to our cots. No one appeared inclined to take on his role, just as none of us was disposed to indulge in merriment. Thus, it was with unspoken if mutual agreement that we put aside our usual ritual and retired early to bed.

Or, rather, the others did. I slipped out of the workshop and, shivering in the cool night air, made my way to Leonardo’s quarters in search of my father.

7

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

F
or once, I was relieved to find that the Master was not within when I knocked upon his door. Where he would have gone, I could not guess, though I suspected his absence had something to do with the day’s events.

Instead, it was my father who ushered me inside. He’d been working at the Master’s table, for several candle stubs burned bright upon it. The model of the flying machine sat amid scattered papers where my father had recorded notes and measurements from the test flights he and the Master had carried out. Glancing at the pages, I noted in some surprise that his sheets bore a striking similarity to those in Leonardo’s notebooks . . . save, of course, for the mirrored handwriting that was the Master’s alone.

My father gestured me toward the bench and took a seat beside me. I leaned against his shoulder, recalling Constantin’s mention of his father, and how he would have given ten years of his life to sit with his parent one more time.

Your wish has been granted,
I thought, smiling mistily as I pictured the pair seated at some heavenly table and eagerly speaking of all that had happened since they last had seen each other in life.

My father must have heard my reflexive sigh, for he put a comforting arm around me.

“Your friend Constantin was a fine young man,” he remarked, “and a talented painter, as well. I am sorry that I did not have a chance to know him better, but I can tell you that your master spoke highly of him.”

He hesitated and then shifted about so that he held my gaze. “And I can also assure you that this cruel charade of carrying the boy’s dead body about pained Signor Leonardo greatly. Do not worry, Delfina. I see now that he did what he thought must be done.”

“But does he believe that Constantin betrayed him?”

“Your master is a man of the world. He is not naive enough to dismiss the possibility that even the best of us can be tempted. For some, that temptation may be coin; for others, perhaps the prospect of a more prestigious post.”

When I made a sound of protest, he added, “But, no, I do not think he suspects the boy of any wrongdoing.”

He stood abruptly and paced the small room, stroking his neat beard. Again, I was struck by the resemblance between him and Leonardo. Perhaps had I allowed myself a more critical eye, I might have conceded that my father’s features were more pleasant than handsome, and his bearing rather more sturdy than graceful. Side by side, they could not be confused with each other; still, the two men might have passed for older and younger brother, with the Master the fairer of the pair.

As those idle thoughts fl ittered through my mind, my father halted in his pacing, as if he’d come to a decision. He proved me right, when he began to speak.

“I have given this matter much thought since this afternoon,” he began in a tone befitting the day’s solemn mood. “I fear that Signor Leonardo has inadvertently opened the gates to evil with this invention of his. It is an unnatural thing, the prospect of a man soaring above the treetops like a bird. No good can come of it, I am certain. I fear that if your duke is given this power, he will use it most cruelly against both enemy and friend.”

He paused and shot me a keen look. “I will, of course, keep my agreement with your master and continue work upon the flying machine. But once my part is done, I shall gather my tools and leave Milan so that I do not have to witness what will come next. And I think it best that I take you with me.”

I leaped to my feet and stared at him in dismay.

“Father, surely you would not make me abandon my apprenticeship! What happened to Constantin was a terrible thing, but the Master shall learn who killed him. There’s no need for me to leave.”

“You don’t understand, my child,” he countered, his expression sterner than I recalled ever seeing. “This has nothing to do with your unfortunate friend’s murder. Signor Leonardo has already said that the duke intends to use this flying machine—should it prove successful—to go to war with his neighbors. One province or two falling victim to Il Moro’s newfound supremacy would not mean much. Such is the way it has always been, for the dukedoms cannot help but bicker like children. But I fear this time it will be different.”

“I don’t understand, Father. What difference can it make?”

“If Ludovico grows too powerful,” he replied, “he will eventually bring the wrath of Rome upon Milan. The Medicis of Florence will surely support the pope, as will any other dukes not under Ludovico’s control. The ensuing war will be bloody, and I shall not leave my daughter here to face such carnage!”

His tone had an air of finality about it that struck me silent. And, truth be told, I suspected he could be right about what might happen should the callous Ludovico gain control of the very skies. But how could I abandon Leonardo and my fellows to such danger?

Not willing to debate the subject with him, I merely nodded my assent; then, to change the subject, I began telling him about the new fresco that we’d begun preparation for in the chapel. I did, however, purposely neglect to mention the scenes depicting Christ’s travels in strange Eastern lands . . . most particularly the sketch that showed him levitating above a crowd. I knew my pious father would find it heretical, so much so that he might forget his promise to the Master and hurry me away from Milan this very night!

A short time later, I kissed my father on the cheek and took my leave. Leonardo had not yet returned, and I wondered if he would wander the night until dawn, as was often his wont. For myself, I preferred the comfort of my bed. Thus, I slipped back into the workshop, dark save for the final flickers of the dying fire tucked deep within the hearth.

I negotiated the shadows with care, making my way through the maze of worktables and benches until I reached the converted storeroom that served as the apprentices’ sleeping quarters. Running the length of the workshop and accessed by but a single entry, it was little more than a long hallway flanked on either side by a dozen shallow alcoves. While once those hollows would have held boxes and barrels, now each contained a narrow cot and a small wooden chest for storing personal items.

While it might have seemed odd to house a score of young men as if they were but the aforementioned boxes and barrels, it had proved a fine arrangement. In truth, we enjoyed far more luxurious accommodations here than did most of the castle’s inhabitants. There were sufficient numbers of both alcoves and cots that we each had a bed to ourselves, while most of the castle’s other apprentices and servants slept two or three to a single bed . . . That was, assuming they had a bed and not merely a pallet of straw and blankets laid upon the stone floor.

Of course, the foot of each of our beds protruded from the alcove, leaving but a narrow aisle between the two rows, so it was easy to stub one’s toe or bruise one’s shin when wandering in the dark. Still, we had the illusion of personal chambers, a grand extravagance for youths of our station.

Moreover, it had been the relative privacy of our sleeping quarters that had allowed me to maintain my male disguise for these many months. Each morning before the sun rose, I used the shadowed alcove to my advantage, secretly donning the corset that flattened my female curves before putting my tunic over it. And, every night, I performed the same ritual in reverse, removing the rough garment again under cover of darkness. I dared not guess how I might have managed such a deception had several of us been tumbled together into a single bed like a litter of pups.

Climbing beneath my thin wool blanket, I reached beneath my tunic and swiftly untied the corset lacings; then, shrugging out of the offending garment, I tucked it beneath my pillow and breathed a sigh of relief. But, not surprisingly, sleep proved elusive this night.

I was not the only one to lie restlessly upon my cot. I could hear around me the muffled sounds of shifting bedcovers, along with the occasional sigh or sob, quickly suppressed. Under cover of darkness, I allowed myself my own silent flurry of hot tears in memory of my friend. Tears finally spent, I found myself staring up at the narrow windows set high along the storeroom’s outer wall.

I watched as the dozen slim fingers of moonlight that had thrust their way into the room retreated once more with the passing minutes. I dared not shut my eyes, lest I see Constantin’s pale face before me. Neither did I wish to sleep, for I feared I would see his death played out before me again in my dreams. And so I fought slumber for what felt like hours.

I must have been defeated in that battle, however, for sometime later I jerked awake from dreamless slumber to realize someone stood in the darkness beside my cot.

My first thought was that it must be the Master. In times past, when we’d had other murders to solve, he’d often awakened me in the middle of the night to accompany him on some secret errand or another. But the shadow looming beside me was not his . . . was not one that I recognized.

Abruptly, I recalled the mysterious robed figure. Was he the murderer of Constantin? Had he found me here, among my sleeping fellows, and even now was prepared to butcher me in the same way?

But before panic took full hold, the figure softly called, “Dino, are you awake?”

“Tito?” I replied in an uncertain whisper, recognizing the speaker’s voice though he still stood cloaked in shadow. “It’s late. What do you want?”

“I must talk to you.”

His tone held a note of urgency, and as he leaned toward me, I caught a glimpse of his pockmarked features in the ribbon of moonlight that lay over my cot. His mouth turned downward in grim lines rather than rising in the usual casual smile he always affected. I was reminded of his reaction earlier this night, when the Master had announced the news of Constantin’s murder. Tito’s reaction then had struck me as odd, but now his manner was far stranger.

Abruptly, I sat up in bed. Tito occasionally served the same role as I had once with Leonardo, assisting him with secret projects and confidential errands. Perhaps he knew something about recent events that I was not yet privy to. Perhaps the Master’s absence earlier this night had signaled something far more ominous than I had been willing to believe!

“What’s wrong? Did something else happen?” I demanded in a soft, urgent voice, trying to tamp down the sudden alarm that swept me.

Tito shook his head. “Nothing else has happened . . . That is, not yet.”

His soft tone dropped lower still, so that I strained to hear his last words. “Please, come outside with me for a bit. I—I must confess to you about Constantin’s murder.”