A Bolt From the Blue (6 page)

“Then let us go and meet them,” I urged with a smile. “The Master will be looking for us there, anyhow.”

And we did, indeed, find Leonardo awaiting us in the main workshop. As for the other apprentices, they had begun returning from their day’s outing and were gathered around him sharing their tales of where they had gone and what they had done. Vittorio had returned, as well—the mischievous Pio still at his side—and looked quite pleased with himself, so that I guessed his assignation with Novella had proved a success. While the youths laughed and chatted, Leonardo listened with his usual air of kind interest, occasionally urging the shyest among them to offer their thoughts.

My father and I observed the scene for some moments before the Master finally noticed our presence.

“Ah, Master Angelo,” he exclaimed, giving my father that more formal title now that we were among others. “Let me introduce my assistants to you.”

I felt a rush of pride as my friends made their bows and then listened respectfully while my father, in turn, gave them a brief account of his accomplishments. A few of the boys—Tito and Paolo, I knew for certain—had some knowledge of woodworking and appeared suitably impressed by the commissions my father described. For my part, I stood to one side and contented myself with my good fortune at having been born to a father of such kindness and talent.

When my father returned the floor to the Master, Leonardo said, “If you will recall, draftsmen, I gave you a holiday today. A few more hours yet remain, so again I task you with spending them in some enjoyable manner until it is time for the evening meal.”

A small cheer rose at this, and under the Master’s indulgent smile the youths swiftly scattered. Then he turned to my father and me. “And now, it is time for me to reveal to you the nature of my latest invention, which requires a master cabinetmaker’s skilled touch.”

We returned to his quarters and waited while, with a show of great secrecy, he left us alone and stepped into his private workshop. He reappeared a few moments later, carrying a cloth-covered object perhaps as wide and broad as my arm. Setting it upon the table, he gestured us closer and said, “You must excuse my caution, but I must first make certain that we are not being observed.”

While my father and I exchanged puzzled glances, he checked the door to make certain it was latched and then pulled the shutters closed across the window. What could be beneath this cloth that required such precautions against its being seen? I had been prepared for something substantial, similar to his expandable bridge or his river dredger . . . perhaps a catapult that tossed flames. Whatever lay hidden beneath that length of oiled linen, however, could hardly be of that scale.

I frowned. It mattered little to me what this invention was, for as Leonardo’s apprentice I was here at his whim. If not here, I would be toiling in the main workshop or smoothing plaster upon yet another wall in the duke’s chambers.

My father, however, was a different matter. He had left behind his own workshop and his own commissions—not to mention my mother and brothers—solely on Leonardo’s word. What promises the Master had made to entice him into the duke’s service, I could not guess, though I knew full well the Master’s persuasive ways. As clever with words as he was with his brush, Leonardo could talk a rabbit into a wolf’s jaws. Still, I could not think that he would bring my father to Milan on a fool’s mission. But from the expression on his face, Angelo della Fazia certainly had traveled all this way in the expectation of seeing something . . . larger.

“First, I must swear you both to secrecy,” the Master reminded us, seeming unaware of our doubt. “Other than Ludovico himself, no one else has been privy to what I am about to reveal. The fate of Milan—indeed, of the entire world—might rest with this invention. And so, I must have your vows that you will not speak of what I am about to show you with anyone other than ourselves.”

I must point out that Leonardo had been appointed Il Moro’s master of pageantry for a good reason, given that he knew how to add drama to the most mundane moments. He demonstrated that talent now as he paused, his hand upon the cloth, while a look of almost mystic fervor settled upon his handsome features. Despite my earlier doubt, my curiosity was piqued. Perhaps I had been too hasty in my rush to judgment, I told myself as I eagerly gave him my promise of silence.

Nodding, his gaze flicked from me to my father as he awaited a second response. My father was frowning, but I guessed from the inquisitive tilt of his head that he had decided Leonardo would not have brought him all the way to Milan for a trifle.

“Very well, Signor Leonardo, you have my vow, as well. I swear I shall reveal nothing of this matter to anyone else.”

Leonardo gave a satisfied smile. “Then I shall hold you in suspense no longer. But prepare yourselves, for I am about to show you the future,” he declared and snatched away the cloth.

4

—Leonardo da Vinci,
Codex Atlanticus

 

 

 

 

 

M
y father and I stared at what appeared at fi rst glance to be a linen and wood crucifi x; however, the requisite Christ figure was posed unlike any I had ever seen. Rather than resting supine with arms stretched wide, he was stretched at length upon his belly, hands and elbows to his sides. As for the crucifix’s crosspiece, it was constructed of cloth laid over delicate ribbed frame that seemed to resemble wings. Not so much those of a bird, perhaps, but more like the scalloped leathery appendages belonging to a bat.

Certainly, this was no religious carving, after all. Then realization struck with a serpent’s swiftness, and I gazed up at Leonardo in wide-eyed disbelief.

It should be said that the Master’s doings were of great interest here at Castle Sforza. From his glorious frescoes, which added color and gaiety to the fortress’s gloomy halls, to the elaborate pageants and parades, which provided feast day entertainment, all were subject to scrutiny by various and sundry of the castle’s inhabitants. Indeed, he was watched and discussed almost as closely as was Il Moro himself.

During the past few weeks, the rumor passed among the castle servants—and always accompanied by a snicker or roll of the eyes—concerned a new machine that they called “Signor Leonardo’s folly.” I’d also overheard the occasional whisper from one apprentice or another who had claimed to have seen a drawing of this marvel. But while I had no doubt that the invention might exist upon paper as part of the Master’s copious output of sketches both whimsical and sublime, I had never believed he would attempt to build it.

And yet, here it lay before my eyes.

Properly awed, I asked in a respectful tone, “Tell me, Master, is this what I think it is?”

“If you think that it is a flying machine,” he replied with a small smile, “then yes, it is.

“A scale model, of course,” he was quick to clarify as my eyes grew wider, “although I have also commenced work on the frame of the man-sized version. Still, there are several modifications that must be made to the design before either craft is deemed flight-worthy. Weight distribution is one issue that I—”

“A flying machine?”

The abrupt question came from my father, his tone incredulous. Worse, his usually placid expression reflected more than a hint of anger. Staring at the Master as if the younger man had taken leave of his senses, my father shook his head.

“Can it be, Signor Leonardo, that you summoned me to Milan on a fool’s errand?” he sputtered. “I thought to be serving the duke on a project of great importance, but you appear to be having a joke at my expense. I think it best that I forget this matter and return home to my own workshop.”

He paused to give me a concerned look and added, “And perhaps I should take my, er, son with me.”

“Father, no,” I cried before the Master could make a reply.

Clutching his tunic sleeve, I persisted, “I cannot leave, and you must stay as well. Signor Leonardo would not jest about such a matter. I have seen with my own eyes many of his wonderful inventions. If he says he can build a machine that flies, I am certain it can be done.”

“Your loyalty to your master is commendable,” my father replied in a stiff tone, “but I would be remiss in my duty to let you be led astray. Had God meant us to fly like birds, he would have given Adam feathers, rather than creating him naked and in need of a fig leaf. Surely you must see this is folly.”

“Folly to those who are not bold enough to dream.”

With those words, Leonardo carefully lifted the miniature flying machine from the table. Holding it in both hands at arm’s length, he assumed his familiar tone of lecture that I knew well from the workshop.

“Consider this, Signor Angelo,” he went on. “Had you never before seen a bird in flight, you would call me mad or worse if I were to describe such a creature to you. For, without any knowledge that such a feat was possible, you would claim that no creature could leave the confines of the earth for the sky.”

He paused to raise and lower the model a few times, causing its cloth wings to flap in a quite birdlike fashion.

“And yet we all know that the falcon can soar with the clouds and that the lark flits from tree to tree with but the beat of a wing. Why should man, with his mighty intellect, not be able to devise a craft to mimic a bird’s form, thus allowing him to sever his bond with the earth and join his feathered brethren?”

With those words, he handed the model to my father, who took it with apparent reluctance. I saw a new spark of interest in his eyes, however, as he deigned to study the design.

“Hmmm . . . interesting,” he muttered, carefully turning the small machine about. Indicating the supporting portion of the wing framework, he added, “This piece appears overly heavy and rigid for its purpose. Replacing it with two narrow rods would lighten the weight and add flexibility while still maintaining stability. And certainly the choice of wood is a factor. You will require something with strength yet suppleness—perhaps ash—with special care taken for the quality of the grain.”

“And that is why I require your help, Signor Angelo,” the Master replied with a small smile. “While I am certain that my craft is soundly engineered, building it will require the expertise of a man who understands every nuance of the wood that will form it.”

My father merely snorted. Then, with a grudging nod, he conceded, “With the right materials, a large-scale version of this machine should prove but moderately difficult to build. Whether or not it can be made to fly is another issue. What manner of propulsion do you propose?”

“Ah, that is the easy part.”

Leonardo strode over to the shelves and held out a hand. My gaze followed, and I saw that he was reaching for a tiny hawk inexplicably perched there between two stacks of manuscripts.

After an instant of surprise—how had such a bird made its way into the Master’s workshop?—I realized that the feathered creature was long since dead. But so skillfully had the small raptor been mounted, with its wings spread wide and its head proudly tilted, that I almost expected it to take flight at his approach. Of course, it did not, and he carried it back to where my father and I stood.

“We know that a bird’s greatest strength lies in its breast,” he explained, holding the hawk in one hand and pointing to that portion of its anatomy with the other. “Those sturdy muscles allow its wings to beat with swiftness enough to send it aloft. In comparison, a bird’s legs are fragile limbs designed primarily for clutching at a branch for support or for hopping about short distances between flights.”

He set the stuffed bird upon the table and retrieved the model from my father. Returning the invention to its original spot on the table alongside its feathered counterpart, he detached the carved male figure fi xed atop it.

“Here is our source of power,” he declared, “but what remains is the question of how it should best be used.”

Deftly, he manipulated the figure’s jointed limbs. Now the wooden arms were extended to either side and the legs were bent, so that its stance mimicked the hawk’s flight-ready form.

“One might be inclined to try to duplicate the bird’s method of locomotion, with tucked legs and flapping arms,” he went on, “but such an experiment would prove faulty. No matter how strong the man, such a motion could be kept up for but a short time. For, unlike a bird, a typical human does not hold his greatest strength in his chest; rather his legs are the most powerful portion of his anatomy.”

He paused to reconfigure the wooden man so that its arms were bent and positioned close to its sides, while its nether limbs were extended to full length.

“To take advantage of that strength,” he explained, “I designed a pedal system that allows the greater might of the legs to exert the needed force to fl ap the wings.”