A Bolt From the Blue (27 page)

I stared for a puzzled moment, surveying this strange collection, before the obvious answer came to me. “Master,” I cried in surprise, “can we be going off to war?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Gesturing me back into the workshop, he went on. “As soon as I read your letter, I spoke with the captain of Il Moro’s guard, who claimed that his wrists were bound. It mattered not even if we knew with certainty that the Duke of Pontalba had broken the treaty and was behind the theft of the flying machine. The captain cannot send his men into Pontalba unless Ludovico himself first declares Milan to be at war. And so I decided that if I could not have Ludovico’s soldiers at my disposal, I would create an army of my own.”

He indicated the canvas-covered frames I had seen earlier. Paolo and Tommaso were at diligent work upon a pair of them, and I realized they were painting life-sized figures of men-at-arms.

“They’ve finished a small force already,” he said, pointing to stack of similar canvases drying nearby.

“And, see, I have raided my stage sets that I use for the various pageantries,” he added, nodding toward the collection of flat props, which included trees and bushes and carts. “In another hour or so, we shall be finished loading the wagons and be ready to set off.”

“We’re going to attack Castle Pontalba with painted soldiers?” I asked in no little confusion.

He shook his head.

“I seek only to give the appearance of siege. From a distance, it will appear as if we have all of Milan’s army ready for attack. My intent is to approach the castle in parlay, representing myself as Ludovico’s captain of the guard, and negotiate the return of Milan’s master engineer.”

“But, Master, can this work?”

“Perhaps. I have already dispatched an urgent message to Il Moro explaining what has occurred and asking that he agree to send his troops against Pontalba. But since the duke may prove fickle—or his army be tardy—I will not wait for his response. As for my plan, Nicodemo will know that Ludovico’s force is greater, and with luck he shall see the virtue of cooperating without bloodshed. If not, then we shall serve as distraction for as long as possible, until reinforcements arrive . . . or until our deception is discovered.”

He stopped short of saying what might happen should the Duke of Pontalba learn that he had been duped by an artist and a group of apprentices. Still, I was able to guess at a plausible ending myself, and that bleak outcome dampened my initial enthusiasm over the Master’s plan. But inaction could prove equally dangerous, not only for my father and the duchess, but for the entire province.

And so I put myself to work loading our supplies. Tito had also joined our ranks, a large bundle balanced on his back as he scaled one of the wagons. Once the last prop had been securely packed, once the buckets of water and bags of food were loaded alongside the weaponry, we tied concealing cloths across the wagon beds and then assembled back in the workshop.

Leonardo entered a moment later, dressed now in black and red parti-colored trunk hose and a white tunic, over which he’d laced a heavy black leather jerkin. A sword dangled from one hip, and a long knife from the other, while a helmet was tucked beneath one arm. Looking less the great artist now and more the hardened soldier, he gestured us to gather closer.

“We are about to embark upon a mission of great importance in the name of the Duke of Milan,” he intoned with the gravity of a bishop. “Already, all here have given me their vows of secrecy as we made our preparations. Your job going forward will be to provide distraction by appearing to be part of an armed force poised to attack Castle Pontalba . . . and so I shall ask for another vow, one of loyalty.”

He paused and raised a hand to silence a sudden eager stirring among the youths.

“First, however, I will have you recall that what is to come will be but a masquerade,” he went on. “You will be performing as if in a pageant. You will not fight or otherwise bear arms but simply add an air of veracity to the role that I shall play. That does not mean, however, that your part is unimportant . . . nor does it guarantee that you will not face true danger at some point.”

The murmurs, which had earlier settled down, resumed again at this disquieting possibility. A few of the boys glanced uncertainly among themselves, the cheeks of more than one youth growing pale. Leonardo allowed this interlude to continue for a few moments and then raised his hand again for order.

“I will assure you once more that your participation in this mission is strictly voluntary,” he continued. “You are apprentices and not soldiers; thus, I cannot force you to join me. Neither will I think the less of you if you choose to remain behind. And the only reward for those who take part is the knowledge that they will have helped preserve Milan and rescued two of our citizens cruelly held captive in Pontalba as we speak. So make your decision carefully but quickly . . . and all who wish to join me, step to my right hand.”

He flourished the hand in question most dramatically, and for an instant all was still. Then, with nary a murmur, every apprentice—myself, included—marched over to his dexter side. Leonardo waited until we were settled in place and then surveyed us with a look of pride.

“Very well, then lift your own hand, and vow that you shall follow my orders these next few days with the same obedience that a soldier pays to his captain.”

The flurry of hands and eager cries of agreement brought a proud tear to my eye. Surely with so valiant a band, my father would soon be rescued, and the duchess and the flying machine both restored to their proper places.

“And now,” Leonardo continued, pointing to a pair of large barrels beside him, “if you are to play the part of soldiers, you must look the role. I have assembled a fine collection of tunics and jerkins, as well as mail, which should serve our purpose. Each of you choose a proper uniform for yourself and then gather in the empty wagon outside the workshop.”

The next few minutes took on the element of a mock battle as we apprentices scrambled to find white tunics and dark blue cloth jerkins that fit from the one barrel, and appropriate bits of armor and mail from the other. The swiftest among us claimed breastplates and helmets, while the others had to be satisfied with mail headpieces and gloves.

Once I had my own gear in hand, I slipped away to the Master’s makeshift forge. A few moments’ foraging among the leftover bits of iron and other metals yielded success. Concealing the objects that I’d sought inside my belt pouch, I brushed the soot from my hands and rejoined my fellows.

Soon enough, it was a respectable-looking contingent that clambered into the fourth wagon reserved for the “troops.” Tommaso, Paolo, and Tito each took the reins of one supply wagon, while Davide prepared to drive the one that would carry the remainder of us apprentices. All four conveyances were, in turn, harnessed to matched steeds that must have come from Il Moro’s own stables. I wondered how the Master had managed so bold a feat and then shrugged. Leonardo had his own way of laying hands on whatever he needed, be it horses or tunics.

Eying my borrowed helmet with its fl amboyant black plume in satisfaction, I balanced it upon my knee as Davide whipped up our team and drove our wagon into the main quadrangle. The other three wagons followed in precise formation after us, making a grand sight as we slowly rolled toward the main gate.

But where, I wondered, was the Master?

The sudden clash of hooves accompanied by what sounded like a dozen swinging swords heralded his approach from behind us. As one, we turned and then gasped, our eyes wide with awe. For Leonardo, now wearing a warrior’s gleaming breastplate and helmet, was driving what could only be but another of the fantastic war machines he had designed for Ludovico.

But while pulled by a pair of ordinary black stallions, this was no commonplace chariot. Each elaborately carved wheel was equipped with twin scythes mounted at its axle that spun as the vehicle moved forward. Evil-looking spikes studded the wheels’ frames and provided additional defense should the spinning blades not suffice to stop a flank assault. Larger scythes were mounted on a shaft protruding behind the chariot and turned in concert with the wheels to protect against a rear attack. The largest blade of all was mounted on yet another shaft, which rose high above the driver’s head, spinning like a silvery bird of prey.

Impressive as the sight was now, I could imagine how it would look in battle, the scythes enveloping the driver in a whirlwind of steel and singing a sure promise of destruction for any man or beast who drew too near the chariot. Never had any of us seen such a machine before . . . nor, I guessed somewhat smugly, would the Duke of Pontalba’s men ever have been privy to such a sight.

We gave a fine cheer as Leonardo passed us by to lead our convoy toward the castle gates. Whatever agreement he had concocted with the captain of the guard must have been successful, for the heavy wood and iron grille was already raised, and the path before us was clear.

With a dramatic flick of a lever, the Master shut down his whirling blades, so we departed the castle with far less fanfare . . . and with far less likelihood of endangering any innocent passersby! He took a quicker route through the city than Rebecca had used, so that before long we were on the road and headed toward Pontalba.

“Wait! Signor Leonardo!”

We were but a short way down the road when several of us heard that faint salutation, repeated more than once over the rumble of wagon wheels. Curious, we all peered back, but the remaining wagons blocked our view of the way from which we’d come. It was not until we reached a small curve in the road that we could see past the last wagon again to discover the source of those frantic cries.

I was not sure whether to laugh or groan at the sight of a familiar cart bearing down with eager speed upon us. This time, the mare who pulled it was gray, and the driver was a beautiful young girl . . . but the sturdy figure doing the hailing was none other than the washerwoman Rebecca.

By the time we slowed for another curve, the nimble Novella had maneuvered the cart alongside us. Rebecca, arm bandaged and wimple restored, gave us all an offended look.

“You cannot be off without me!” she cried. “What if you need my help again?”

“Rebecca, you are injured,” I countered in no little concern. “You should be resting and tending to your arm instead of driving about the countryside.”

“I can rest later. Signor Leonardo needs my help now.”

I glanced over at Novella in appeal, but she merely lifted a slim shoulder and kept driving. Doubtless the girl had long since learned that her mother was to be treated as a force of nature, something to be endured and not to be contained. As for Vittorio, he was grinning broadly. Gesturing the girl closer still, he stood and with a nimble hop went from our wagon to the cart.

“Do not worry,” he declared as he took the reins from an admiring Novella and settled in. “I shall keep them apace of us, and when we stop to rest the horses, the Master will decide if they stay or go.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to reflect that the Master might not have much choice in the matter. After all, it was a public road, and the washerwoman had as much right to it as he. The battle between Milan and Pontalba might not be the only fight we witnessed these next days, I wryly told myself. But I would not protest her coming with us, should I be queried on the matter. Indeed, I found myself unaccountably cheered by the washerwoman’s doughty presence.

Settling more comfortably myself, I let my thoughts linger on my father’s determined words he’d spoken the night I had left him. He had put aside his past doubts to envision himself soaring from the highest rooftops of Castle Pontalba and swooping like a hawk out of his enemy’s reach. If my father dared to attempt so dangerous a feat on his own, then perhaps the Master’s plan was not so impossible, after all.

Perhaps an army of untrained boys with no weapons but paint and their wits might find victory against an army when led by such inimitable generals as Leonardo the Florentine and Rebecca the washerwoman.

19

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

L
ed by Leonardo, our makeshift army traveled south at a swift pace toward the Duke of Pontalba’s castle. As before, the road between both points was but lightly traveled, and even the Master’s fantastical chariot drew but a few curious glances from the pilgrims that we passed.

The expected clash between Rebecca and the Master did not occur, after all. I guessed that he had anticipated this turn of events, for he’d been quite cordial to the two women. In a courtly gesture, he’d positioned their cart in the place of greatest safety between his chariot and our wagon. I was grateful for this action, for I could see that Rebecca was yet weak and feverish despite her protests of fine health.