A Bolt From the Blue (39 page)

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

I
met Leonardo the next morning at the appointed hour outside the iron gates leading to Il Moro’s private quarters. Uncertain what to expect, I had dressed in the simplest of my mother’s gowns and carried my apprentice’s tunic draped over one arm. The Master noted this last with an approving nod as he greeted me.

“You appear much restored,” he observed, taking me in with a quick glance from head to foot. “Is Signor Luigi’s salve performing its usual miracle upon your wound?”

“I am almost healed,” I assured him . . . and, quite surprisingly, I realized I spoke of my heart and not simply of my flesh.

For, sometime in the night, as I tossed restlessly upon my pallet, I had found within myself an acceptance of my fate. Though I might shed more tears in the days to come, regretting all I had lost, I would also rejoice in what I had found in the Master’s workshop. While I had known fear and sorrow and pain, I had also found adventure and love and true friendship. None of this would have been mine had I not ventured from my room and set off on my grand journey so many months ago.

Leonardo seemed to understand what I had meant, for I saw answering warmth in his gaze. With a gallant gesture, he escorted me past Il Moro’s guard and led me down a familiar passage to the duke’s private chapel. I made my genuflections and then gazed about me with a sigh.

Not many days ago, that same chapel had been little more than four walls covered in flaking plaster, cobwebs and grime clinging to its corners. Constantin had still been alive, and Tito had yet to succumb to treachery and murder . . . and I was still the boy apprentice Dino. But now, new layers of plaster had been smoothed over the walls and long since dried; the background for the various scenes had been stenciled on in black dust and drawn over in red ink; and perhaps half of the fresco had already been finished, the soft colors of the tempera glowing beneath a row of oil lamps hanging from the beam above.

And now it was I—Delfina, and not Dino—who stood here alongside Leonardo, with Tito and Constantin only memories.

The Master gave me no time to linger on those doleful thoughts, however, for he began an eager explanation of the work that had already been done. I listened intently, aware this might be the last of his lectures I ever heard. Much of the background work, I knew, had been completed by Paolo and Davide, who could cleverly match the Master’s style and so had been charged with the fresco’s lesser details. The main figures had been painted by Leonardo, though I wondered in some amazement when he’d found the time. And then, with an inner smile, I guessed that he had likely stayed up all the previous night, gripped by one of those furies of creativity that so often held him captive for hours at a time.

I recognized the scene directly before us, for it was the one that I had found faintly shocking when I’d first perused the Master’s sketches. But, seeing the idea brought almost fully to life, I began to understand Leonardo’s intent.

This particular scene from the missing years of Christ’s young adulthood was, as Leonardo envisioned it, a time of great learning. Surely he had been a voracious scholar, familiarizing himself with the teachings of many lands and many cultures. And thus it was one of these exotic lands that the Master depicted.

Just as in the sketch I’d seen, the painting’s background illustrated a land of blazing sun and bright colors. The buildings and temples were portrayed with exotic detail, from the rows of jewellike tiles painted around every window and door, to the golden domes atop many of the taller edifices.

With a smile, I noted that among the flurry of palm trees and grasses that dotted the landscape, tigers lurked and monkeys scampered. Parrots adorned in feathers of green and red dangled from a dozen tree branches, their curved beaks opened to emit what would have been a deafening chorus had they been real and not plaster. I even spotted a thick serpent curled upon a rock, its upper body stretching almost as tall as the humans nearby who appeared not to notice its menacing presence.

But, delightful as the scene was at first glance, it had far deeper purpose.

I had studied with the Master long enough to understand his theories of composition. I knew he aligned every painted boulder, every tree, every minor figure, so that the arrangement formed lines that drew the viewer’s eye inexorably to the painting’s central subject. But had he simply scattered the rocks and parrots and temples heedlessly about this particular scene, every eye still would have been drawn to the painted figure that sat in silent contemplation, unaware of the splendid distractions about him.

The traditional golden nimbus about his bowed head identified the figure as that of the Christ. But this version of our Lord was far different from any I’d ever seen. While not as young as the boy who had astounded his elders in the temple, neither was he the Christ of middling years already embarked upon his glorious mission of salvation. Instead, the dark-haired youth appeared little older than I, his handsome face with a hint of a beard retaining traces of the soft roundness of boyhood.

He wore but a snowy loincloth, revealing the tanned limbs and broad chest of a young man who engaged in physical work . . . as a carpenter, perhaps.

But most compelling was his pose. Legs crossed as if seated upon the ground, he instead appeared to float several feet above it, eyes shut and head bent in prayerful attitude.

Not surprisingly, a crowd had gathered around him to observe this miracle. Men and women, boy and girls, dark-skinned and light, they appeared to have come from many lands. Some knelt, and others stood . . . while a few had prostrated themselves, hands over their heads lest their unworthy eyes glimpse such glory. All were united, however, in the looks of joyful awe upon their faces as they bore witness to this marvelous sight.

“It is beautiful,” I breathed, swept by awe of my own as I took in every detail.

Appearing gratified by my compliments, the Master smiled. “It is a minor piece,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, “though I am pleased with it, nonetheless. But I did not bring you here to admire what I have done. Rather, I intend to put my apprentice Dino to work.”

When I gave him a puzzled look, he pointed to a section of blank plaster not far from the painted image of the young Christ. Perhaps half the size of a
giornata
—the traditional amount of wall space that could be painted in a single day before the fresh plaster dried—the empty space was strangely out of place amid this finished work. Even the plaster appeared recently applied . . . as I suspected that it had been, from the telltale flecks of white I noticed on the Master’s left sleeve.

“You will recall that, before all this sad business happened, I told you it was time for you to put aside the plaster blade and pick up a brush. And so, I have saved this spot for you,” he said, pointing to the unblemished square.

I was aware that my mouth had dropped open in a most unseemly manner. “You—you wish me to finish a portion of your fresco?” I finally managed, hardly daring to believe this could be so. When he nodded, I could only shake my head in return.

“But what shall I paint?”

“Whatever you wish. The spot is yours to do with as you will. Everything you need is already here.”

He gestured to a small table, upon which had been laid out jars of fi nely ground pigment, along with a jug of water and a bowl of fresh egg yolks. Combined, those simple ingredients would make the soft shades of tempera that would seep into the plaster and bring it to life. A row of shells, shallow with pearllike inner bellies, waited to be used as dishes for each color. Beside them, a short vase held brushes of all sizes.

“Do not tarry,” he went on, idly picking up a jar of pigment and then putting it aside. You have but a few hours before the plaster dries.” Before I could make a reply to that, he turned and strode out the chapel door, leaving me alone with the fresco.

I stood transfixed for several long moments, staring at the blank plaster and wondering again how I could possibly fill it. But as I gnawed at my lip in frustration, fearful lest I disappoint the Master in this final task, a familiar voice seemed to speak in my head.

It’s easy, Dino,
I heard Constantin’s soothing words, sounding as real as if he were standing beside me.
Just paint what you know . . . Paint from your heart.

And suddenly I knew what I was meant to depict upon that pristine square of plaster. Smiling, I pulled my tunic over my gown and reached for the bowl of egg yolks. Piercing each yellow globe, I poured their contents into the various shells. Carefully, I added water and pigment, until each new mixture of tempera was the shade and consistency that I sought. Then, taking up a soft brush, I began to paint.

 

 

It was well into the afternoon when I put down the brush a final time. Stripping off my tunic, I stepped back to survey my work. Though my hands and arms ached with the hours of effort, and my injured leg throbbed from standing upon the cold stone floor, I felt a swell of excited satisfaction. Surely the Master would be pleased, I told myself . . . but if not, somehow it mattered little. I had accomplished what I had set out to do, and I could point with no little pride to this small bit of fresco as being my finest work.

Still, I spared a final critical eye for my painting. I had taken care to blend my background to the surrounding fresco, so that it joined seamlessly with the rest of the scene. Each color had been applied with care, layered one atop another with painstaking precision. But most important was the trio of male figures I had painted within that small landscape. They had sprung from my brushes with a skill I’d not realized I possessed, glowing with life upon what had once been but a blank square of plaster.

Blinking back sudden tears, I studied the image of a young man—thin but wiry and possessed of a calm smile—who sat upon a grassy knoll. His hands casually wrapped around one knee, he watched with happy amazement the miraculous scene before him. Behind the youth stood a man old enough to be his father. Though his hair was gray and his features and body thicker, he bore a striking resemblance to the young man upon whose shoulder his strong hand rested. His air was respectful, in keeping with the wonders nearby, but his look of paternal pride was reserved for his son.

A short distance behind the pair, a second young man was poised in mid-run, as if rushing to see the miracle before it was too late. Indeed, such was his hurry that his cap had tumbled from his tangled mane of black hair. He did not look back, however, but kept single-mindedly to his pace. A smile danced upon his pockmarked face, and his expression was that of a true believer whose faith had at last been confirmed.

I was still studying my work when the chapel door creaked open behind me. I sensed the Master’s presence almost before I heard his soft footsteps upon the stone floor. Wordlessly, he paused beside me and for a long while studied the portion of fresco into which I had poured my heart. At last, he turned back to me.

“Well-done, young apprentice,” he said, the warmth of his smile soothing all of my aches. “I had expected much of you, and yet you surpassed those expectations. This is a work worthy of a master.”

Before I could reply, his smile broadened into a grin. “And I see you have taken a master’s liberty by putting yourself into the scene, as well, if perhaps symbolically.”

He pointed to the painted image of a hawk perched upon a tree behind the figures of Constantin and his father. Dark of feather and green of eye, the small raptor lifted a single wing, as if about to take flight.

I felt myself blush as I returned his grin. “I could not help myself . . . though, of course, I would never have dared to paint my face among the worshippers.”

“Ah, but that is half the fun,” the Master countered, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Surely you saw that I did not hesitate to give myself a most prominent role in the scene.”

Staring at the fresco, I frowned for a moment as I tried to pick him out from the painted crowd. It was then that I noticed what I had missed before, that the Christ figure bore more than a passing resemblance to the Master as he must have looked a decade earlier.

“But what if the duke notices?” I gasped out, torn between being scandalized and amused by this subtle bit of blasphemy.

Leonardo merely shrugged. “I suspect he will be more likely to believe that the resemblance is to himself, if he notices anything at all.”

The soft chime that was his wrist clock sounding the hour put a halt to that moment of amusement.

“It is finished,” he softly said, a shadow stealing over his handsome features. “You have done what you were meant to do here, and it is time for you to leave us. Your father is waiting outside the chapel gates to take you back to the city, so that you can start for your home on the morrow. And so, I fear that nothing more remains than to say good-bye to my dearest Dino.”

You cannot say good-bye,
I wanted to cry out,
for I cannot bear to leave the castle, to leave you!
But a painful lump had lodged in my throat so that the words remained unspoken.

Swiping away a few errant tears that had slipped down my cheeks, I took a steadying breath and asked instead, “Will you make my farewells to Signor Luigi? He was a true friend to me, and I shall miss him despite his sharp tongue.”

“I will tell him,” he agreed with a hint of a smile, “no matter that the good tailor will be loud in his protests before he ever admits his fondness for you.”

“And Vittorio, do not let him pine too long for Novella,” I rushed on. “He thinks himself in love with her, you know.”

“I know, and I shall counsel him to patience, for I suspect the washerwoman and her daughter may one day return.”