A Bolt From the Blue (3 page)

“I’m sure the Master would not expect me to spend the entire day hunched over my notebook,” I agreed and rose once more. The volume in question I took care to tuck under my arm lest it spur his curiosity. I was certain that Vittorio would not ask to see my work unless I first offered; still, I had to be on my guard, as this day’s sketches were ones that I was loath to share.

“I’ll go with you as far as the workshop,” I offered instead, “else I know I will never hear the end of your complaints. But I wonder, Vittorio, if your feet are as swift as your tongue?”

He gave me a quizzical look. Before he had time to question my meaning aloud, however, I flashed him a grin and took off at a run.

2

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Arundel

 

 

 

 

 

A
n instant later, I heard a shout and a bark behind me; then Vittorio and Pio came rushing past, their long legs readily putting distance between them and me as we headed toward the workshop. I grinned more broadly and slowed my pace, letting them take the lead. The corset I secretly wore beneath my tunic, tightly tied to flatten my female attributes, also held my lungs in check and made running for more than a short distance difficult.

Thus, I found myself the subject of Vittorio’s good-natured taunting when I finally caught up with him and the panting hound not far from Leonardo’s quarters.

“Ha, you run slow as a girl,” the youth declared as I joined him. He strutted about in triumph while Pio was content to flop on his side in the grass, pink tongue lolling. “All your moping has made you grow weak. Look at you, Dino. Once you were taller than me, but I have outstripped you in height as well as speed!”

Standing there beside him, I realized he spoke the truth. He was a good head taller than me and might soon be as tall as the Master. And how had I not realized before now that his once-smooth chin was covered in blond stubble grown in a fair imitation of Leonardo’s neat dark beard? Even his voice had lost its childish timbre and had deepened.

For Vittorio was no longer a boy but was almost a man, I realized in chagrin. And surely such was the case with most of the other apprentices with whom I had begun my studies more than a year ago. So caught up had I been in my own sorrows these past months that I had paid scant attention to my fellows, had missed the way they were rapidly taking on adult bearings. And as more time passed, they must notice that I, alone of their number, remained small and smooth-cheeked, voice never growing deeper and form never broadening.

But even if they remained oblivious to such differences, surely the Master, with his keen eye for the human body, would become suspicious when one of his boys never grew to be a man.

To cover my dismay, I assumed an offended air. “You may be faster and taller, Vittorio, but I am still your senior in age. You should show respect to me.”

“I respect the fact that you are far slower than me,” he replied with a grin, his humor dimmed not at all by my censure.

Giving a light tug to the small hound’s lead, he went on. “Pio and I are off to find more pleasant company. But I overheard Constantin and Tito making plans to wander the marketplace and look for likely subjects to depict the apostles in the Master’s next fresco. Why don’t you go along with them?”

“Perhaps I will, when I finish this last sketch,” I agreed with a careless shrug, though I knew full well I would do no such thing. “Now go, and be sure to tell me later how you fared with Novella.”

I gave Pio a final scratch behind the ears and waved away the pair of them. Boy—or, rather, young man—and hound trotted eagerly in the direction of the castle gates. I waited until Vittorio and his charge were halfway across the grassy quadrangle that stretched between the main castle and its battlement-topped walls. Then, after making certain I was alone, I settled upon the rough bench outside the workshop and let my notebook slip to the seat beside me.

My small moment of pleasure had already faded, replaced by the familiar cloak of sorrow. Certainly, the day itself could not be blamed for my unsettled humor. The cloudless sky above provided a cheery blue backdrop for small flocks of birds making their annual return to their native fields. The castle’s neatly regimented trees and gardens were in the midst of their own resurgence, tender leaves and blossoms budding with grand enthusiasm from every branch and stem. Even the air around me was ripe with promise, with just enough nip lingering from the previous chill night that the coming warmth of the afternoon would be that much more welcome. Indeed, all of nature seemed to be marching with unbridled eagerness into this new season.

I, however, felt as if I were caught in a perpetual winter.

Once, the prospect of wandering the grand city of Milan would have been most inviting. What better escapade could there be than losing myself in its flamboyant tangle of canals and market squares and narrow cobbled ways? But since that terrible night of several months past, I had sworn off adventure of even the mildest sort.

I sighed, realizing that some small part of me still missed that excitement. It seemed a lifetime ago when I would eagerly wait for the Master to summon me in the middle of the night, so that I might help him solve whatever puzzle was foremost in his thoughts. And as for my elegant page’s outfit, it gathered dust lying in the bottom of the trunk where I kept my belongings.

The garb had sprung from Luigi’s clever needle, specially commissioned by the Master for me. Disguised as his boy servant, I had accompanied the Master in his dealings with dukes and ambassadors and contes, being paid scant notice by such nobles because of my humble role. Such clothes also allowed me to mingle with the castle’s servants, so that I might be privy to secrets that Leonardo could never learn in his position. But now those handsome silks lay unworn these many months, hidden away in much the same manner that I, for all practical purposes, had hidden myself.

“Dino!”

The sound of my name being called shook me from my thoughts. It was not one of my fellows who summoned me but instead was the Master himself. His business in the city must have taken less time than he had imagined . . . That, or some more urgent matter had caused him to return early. Obediently, I jumped to my feet, while hoping that he did not seek me out, in particular.

But, of course, he did.

“It is well that you are here and easily found, my dear boy. You have saved me the trouble of searching you out,” Leonardo said in satisfaction, striding toward me.

Despite my dismay, I watched his approach with my usual admiration. While often the Master wore the same humble tunic and trunk hose as we apprentices, other times he dressed with the fastidious elegance of a noble. Today was such a day, though this particular tunic was of more sober cut than the bright colors he usually favored.

Tailored in dark blue trimmed in brown, the garment’s sleeves were slashed to reveal the cream-colored blouse he wore beneath. The tunic’s short length showed to advantage his long legs encased in parti-colored dark blue and cream trunk hose. A matching puffed cap in blue and cream perched rakishly atop his mane of dark russet hair, which streamed to his shoulders and glinted beneath the midday sun. Given the splendid figure he cut, it was no wonder that Leonardo was accounted one of the most handsome men at Castle Sforza.

A small blade of sorrow abruptly pierced me. For a time after I’d first arrived at his workshop, I’d harbored a thrilling if quite secret admiration for Leonardo, though his behavior toward me—or, rather, toward Dino—had been nothing but paternal. I had even allowed myself to daydream of what might happen between us should he ever learn the truth as to my true sex. But all that had changed when, in the space of a few days, I had found and lost my first great love, the Duke of Milan’s dashing captain of the guard.

In my grief, I had blamed Leonardo for that horrific accident that had claimed both my captain and the young contessa. I had finally come to understand that the Master had been but an instrument in setting in motion the tragedy, but the damage to my heart had been done. Perhaps the only good to come of the situation was the fact that, in the aftermath, I had sorted out my feelings toward Leonardo. My regard for him was no longer that of a maid for a man but simply that of a student for his master.

He halted before me, his expression unreadable as he towered above me. “While I am pleased to have discovered you so readily, this day was to be yours,” he reminded me. “I had hopes that you might leave the castle grounds along with the other apprentices.”

“I was doing as you instructed, Master, and spent the day sketching,” I protested. “I felt I could apply myself with greater attention here at the castle, rather than being distracted by the sights and noise of the city.”

“My dear boy, sometimes it does one good to seek out distraction,” he countered with a smile. “But since you have applied yourself with such great diligence, let us see what you have accomplished.”

Too late, I realized his intent. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could stop him, the Master caught up my notebook and flipped open its soft leather cover.

The small volume fell open to the page where I’d tucked the bit of chalk, revealing the sketch I had been working upon when Pio disturbed me. I swallowed back a sound of dismay as I watched Leonardo’s smile fade, his gaze fi xed upon the page. What he would say when he finally spoke, I could not guess. All I knew was that this particular portrait was one I had not wished to share with anyone, especially not with him.

A long moment passed while he surveyed the work . . . a likeness of the archangel Michael, his wings unfurled and blazing sword drawn. It was a common enough theme that I had chosen, the subject as familiar as any of the saints or mythological figures that peopled the Master’s frescoes. At first glance, my warrior angel would have warranted no greater interest than any other artist’s rendering of that subject.

But I knew that Leonardo would look more closely.

In my mind’s eye, I saw what he saw, handsome features rendered in black chalk and set into implacable lines reflecting an archangel’s vengeful nature. The figure’s pose was traditional, his gaze firmly fixed beyond the viewer. But while dressed in the expected white robes and shiny battle raiment, this Michael’s muscular form transcended the usual depiction. Indeed, he resembled not so much a godly messenger as a sensual and quite human male, so that the drawing might be seen as less a study of religion and more a lesson in anatomy.

But what made it more than a simple portrait were the eyes.

I had thought to reflect that same potent male energy in his gaze. What had appeared upon the page was instead something darker, starker. These eyes held no boastful, righteous fury; rather, they silently spoke of the inner pain of a simple soldier who had wearied of the fight, no longer caring that his battles were divinely ordained.

And, of course, I had needed no model for my portrait. The face I had given my archangel was the same handsome dark face that I saw in my dreams each night . . . the same face that I would never again see in my waking hours.

Even as those thoughts flashed through my mind, Leonardo looked up to meet my gaze again. For an instant, his eyes seemed to mirror the anguish of those eyes upon the page before him, seemed to recognize the pain in my heart. My breath stilled for an instant. Could it be that he, too, relived the events of that terrible night, as I did?

Just as swiftly, he regained his usual expression of mild good humor. He closed the notebook and handed it back to me.

“Very well-done, my boy. I believe it is time to put you to work painting frescoes instead of merely plastering walls.”

I had no time to ponder that unexpected move upward in my apprenticeship, however, for he added, “We shall speak of your new role later. For the moment, I need you to follow me, as I require your presence in my quarters to discuss this new project I have begun for Il Moro.”

He referred, of course, to the Duke of Milan, popularly dubbed “the Moor” because of his swarthy coloring. Had I chosen to sketch Ludovico, I would have paid the greatest attention to the coarseness of his features, which, belonging to a more cheerful man, could have passed for handsome rather than cruel. And, of course, I would emphasize the heavy cap of jet-black hair in which he took great pride, never mind that it had begun to thin in the back.

A coldly ambitious ruler, he had come to his position a few years earlier following the assassination of the previous duke, his brother. While the court advisers were busy pointing fingers of blame for that murder, Ludovico had taken advantage of the distraction to wrest control of the province from his widowed sister-in-law and infant nephew, the rightful heir.