A Bolt From the Blue (7 page)

“So it will be almost like running in place,” I ventured as I tried to picture how this would work.

“Exactly,” he said with a nod. “The sky pilot—that is what I have dubbed the man who will operate those controls—will recline atop the flying machine and pedal vigorously to make the wings move up and down, giving the craft sufficient lift. Simultaneously, he will use his hands to control horizontal and vertical movement by manipulating cords that adjust the angle of both the wings and the rudder.”

His explanation complete, he returned the figure to its previous position atop the model.

“There are many other principles at work here, of course, but you now know the fundamental theory behind my design. Given that, Signor Angelo, do you still see only folly in this plan?”

My father frowned, holding the Master’s calm gaze with a troubled look of his own. I waited uneasily for his reply, knowing that my fate might well be affected by his decision. I could not deny that my first obedience must be to my father; still, Leonardo had become a parent of sorts to me, as well. Were I to be forced to choose between them, it would be a heart-wrenching decision, to be sure!

After a long moment, my father slowly shook his head. “I fear, Signor Leonardo, that I do not believe this machine of yours will ever fly,” he declared, the blunt words sending my heart plummeting toward my boots with the speed of an eagle diving for its prey.

But before I could give way to despair, his next words halted that figurative flight as he added, “Still, I have no doubt that you yourself are convinced that you can accomplish this fantastical feat. Under such circumstances, my own feelings matter naught. And so I will be honored to work alongside you on this project on behalf of the Duke of Milan.”

It was all I could do not to cheer this great news, but I contented myself with a broad grin. Leonardo looked pleased, as well, and grasped my father’s hands in his.

“We shall make fine partners . . . and Dino shall prove a worthy assistant, as well,” he added, including me in his smile. Reaching for the discarded length of oiled cloth, he quickly wrapped it about the model so that the small craft was well hidden and its lines blurred beneath the folds of fabric.

“But, for the moment, I think that Dino should rejoin his fellows,” he told my father. “For I wish now to show you my progress on the full-scale model, and I must make a rule that only you and I shall have access to the shed where it is kept.”

“Do not worry, Master. I understand,” I was quick to assure him. “I shall find Constantin, for he told me he will be spending the remainder of the afternoon taking measurements in the chapel for the new fresco. I am certain he can use another set of hands.”

“Very good. And fear not—you shall join your father and me in the morning to help finish testing our model.”

I left the pair and headed off to the small chapel in the duke’s private wing. Safely ensconced behind high walls and an iron gate, and with its own tower, that portion of the castle served as an ultimate stronghold against any outside army’s attempt at conquest. There, the duke could make a final stand should the fortress ever be overrun by one of his enemies. For now, however, the soldiers who guarded that entry gave me but a cursory look as I explained my errand and then let me pass.

The chapel was perhaps large enough to hold two dozen worshippers, though the peeling plaster and dust-covered pews indicated it had been some time since Mass had been celebrated there. I made my genuflection toward the small altar and then chided myself for my lapse into blasphemy as I saw, not the martyred Lord, but the design of the Master’s flying machine in the crucifix hanging above it.

Constantin put aside his sheaf of notes and welcomed me with a smile. He was sketching the dimensions of the chapel’s walls, making notes of heights and lengths as he calculated the needed size of the scaffolding we would soon be assembling there. I grasped one end of the cord he had been using to take his measures and began calling out numbers to him as we made our way about the room.

When we’d finished, we settled in one of the dusty pews. While Constantin filled in the rest of his sketch, we talked about my father’s arrival in Milan.

“I am not surprised that the Master kept your father’s arrival a secret from you,” Constantin assured me with a grin. “He enjoys a clever trick as much as any boy. I am sure he will laugh to himself for many days each time he recalls the look that must have been upon your face. The one thing I do not understand is how he could have known beforehand that Master Angelo was your father.”

I recounted the Master’s explanation, and the senior apprentice nodded. “Your father must be a talented master, indeed, for Leonardo to have requested his services.”

With his next words, however, his amusement sobered into a sigh, and his reedy voice took on a somber note.

“Ah, Dino, you do not know how fortunate you are to have your father here with you. My father is long dead, and yet I still miss him as if he were just now gone. I know I would gladly give ten years of my life to have him back long enough to share one last meal with him.”

Then he brightened. “But let us not speak of sad things. We are finished here, and we still have some time before the evening meal. Why don’t we go watch the soldiers practicing with their horses in the quadrangle?”

I readily agreed. It was a favored pastime of us apprentices, observing Il Moro’s mounted men and their immense steeds as they conducted their warlike maneuvers upon the parade ground. Though they used wooden weapons and practiced prescribed drills, the sight of the armored men and colorfully blanketed horses dashing about still was exciting, no matter that it happened almost daily.

We found a spot a safe distance from the action, though still close enough that we had to duck the occasional clod of dirt sent flying by a shod hoof. Constantin and I were not the only observers, for two of the stableboys and a handful of pages were already gathered where we sat. We youths clapped and cheered each skillful move, all of us secretly picturing ourselves performing such dramatic feats.

I had leaned closer to Constantin to praise one soldier’s particularly adroit use of his sword, when I noticed the group of serving women milling not far from where we sat. Some juggled baskets and bundles, others stood empty-handed, but all seemed as enthralled as we by the soldiers’ performance.

All, that was, save for one robed figure.

Male or female, I could not tell, for the simple brown cloak muffled the person’s form sufficiently that I could distinguish neither broad shoulders nor womanly curves. But what sent a sudden shiver through me was not simply the way that that hood of the figure’s cloak was pulled over his head so that the sturdy fabric partially concealed his face. Rather, it was the fact that this decidedly ominous presence appeared to be focused not upon the soldiers, but directly on me.

Shaken, I turned to Constantin and gave him a swift nudge. “Look,” I whispered, though I could not have been overheard for the sound of the mock combat, even had I shouted. “Do you see that person watching me?”

“Watching you? Where?” Constantin obediently glanced about, and then grinned a little. “Do you mean those serving women? I fear you think too highly of yourself, Dino, for they are reserving their admiration for the soldiers, and not you.”

“No, I mean the one in the robe . . .”

I trailed off as I realized that, in the few seconds I’d been distracted by talking with Constantin, the object of my uneasiness had vanished. Or perhaps the person still stood there but had shrugged off the robe and was merely one of the ogling females, so that I had been mistaken in attributing anything sinister to the incident.

I heard a few shouted commands from one of the soldiers, signaling the end of the demonstration. I rose and brushed the grass from my tunic, deliberately ridding myself, as well, of the uneasy feeling that had gripped me. Obviously, it had been far too long since I’d last joined the Master in a dramatic adventure, I thought with a wry shake of my head. Why else would I be seeing menacing figures where there was none, and attributing sinister motives to innocent passersby? Perhaps it was fortunate that I now had this new assignment working as my father’s assistant to keep my imagination in check.

But for the rest of the day, I found myself glancing over my shoulder, lest I discover a robed figure standing behind me and inexplicably watching my every move.

5

—Leonardo da Vinci,
The Notebooks of Delfina della Fazia

 

 

 

 

 

B
y the next morning, my eagerness to begin work with my father and the Master had banished all memory of the previous day’s odd incident in the quadrangle. While the other apprentices had gone off to begin assembling the scaffolding in the duke’s private chapel, I had hurried to Leonardo’s private quarters to learn my assignment. Now I was too busy juggling the cloth-draped model of the flying machine and fearing at any moment I might drop it or break it, to be concerned about an unknown person wearing a long cloak.

“Let us make haste,” the Master urged, shouldering a leather sack that he’d pulled from beneath his table. “There is much work ahead of us, for Il Moro wishes a demonstration of the flying machine as quickly as possible.”

“Shall we return to the shed to start modifying the wings?” my father asked, grabbing up his own bag of tools.

Leonardo shook his head. “The duke has arranged for a secluded spot here on the castle grounds where we may finish proving my design away from spies and other curious eyes. It has the advantage of being open to the sky, while being a pleasant place in which to spend a day at labor. We shall give the model that young Dino carries a full battery of tests today and then decide if we are ready to apply what we’ve learned to the full-sized model.”

My father and I followed the Master out the workshop door, the flying machine balanced carefully in my arms. Even swaddled in cloth, the scale craft was as light as Leonardo’s tiny mounted hawk. I carried it with the same care I might have used to handle that small creature, arms stiffly extended before me as if in a gesture of offering. Given the secrecy of our work, I was relieved that the three of us drew no unwarranted attention as we marched across the quadrangle in the direction of the duke’s familial quarters.

As it turned out, our destination lay not far from the Master’s workshop. Halting before its wooden gate, I realized in some dismay that this place was all too familiar to me. It was secluded, as Leonardo had said, surrounded by rough stone walls twice as high as me and accessible only by that single gate. He unlocked the narrow entry and, ushering us in, carefully fastened it shut behind us.

Leonardo would have been familiar with the place, too; thus, it was with some surprise that I saw his expression was untroubled as he strode along the informal stone path that wended its way through the soft, clipped grass. I made my way most reluctantly, unable to forget what had happened the last time I set foot here in this spot. Indeed, how could I not remember the garden where, soon after my arrival at the castle, I twice had looked upon the frightening countenance of Death?

My first encounter had taken place while the rest of the court was being entertained by a living chess match that Leonardo had arranged at the duke’s command. I had been on an errand for the Master, bidden to search out Il Moro’s cousin, who was inconveniently absent from the festivities on the playing field. I had all but stumbled across that missing man’s body sprawled on the lawn not far from where I now stood, a bloody knife protruding from his back.

Though the greater misfortune obviously had been the conte’s, that had not stopped me from cursing my own bad luck in finding him . . . That was, until later. Unsettling as the discovery had been, in the long run it had proved oddly fortuitous for me. Had someone else of the court discovered the dead man, I would never have become the Master’s confidante while we investigated together in an attempt to expose a brutal killer and prevent another murder.

Still, I suppressed a small shiver at the memory. In trying to stop that assassination, I had almost become a victim myself. One dark night soon after, I had confronted another knife-wielding assailant in this same garden in hopes of preserving an old man’s life.

Foiled in one attempt, that would-be killer had decided I should instead be the one to join the luckless conte in death. I had escaped that most dire fate because of the Master’s timely intervention. With such a history, I told myself, the garden should surely seem to me a place of dread and horror.

Instead, the place wrapped me in an embrace of unexpected tranquillity. The breath I had been holding as I followed after the Master slipped from me in a relieved sigh. Truly, there was nothing frightening at all about the garden, I told myself as I gazed about.