A Bolt from the Blue, page 21
Leonardo listened intently and waited for Tito to give a brief description of the fortress grounds. When we’d both finished, he gave an approving look that encompassed Tito, as well as me.
“You have managed some fine reconnoitering,” he said, “and now we must put your intelligence to work. But first, we will set up camp and assemble our army.”
With the same care, we slipped from our hiding places and retraced our steps back to the wagons. By that time, the other apprentices under Davide’s direction had worked with silent efficiency to unload the wagons. Leonardo, appearing pleased at the progress, gathered his troops together for more instruction.
“We are fortunate,” he said, “in that we will have half a moon to work beneath, for we cannot risk any other light . . . and yet the night will not be so bright that we might be spotted from the castle’s parapets. So, let us divide into three teams so that I may make your assignments. As soon as darkness falls, we shall set a stage such as Pontalba has never before seen.”
We used the short respite to make a quick meal. I checked on Rebecca, who had roused from her slumber and appeared somewhat restored as she softly bantered with Vittorio.
“Make certain she takes the herbed wine and allows you to put salve upon her arm,” I reminded Novella in quiet tones. “And it is important that she rests tonight, lest we need to call upon her counsel tomorrow.”
Once darkness had settled firmly upon the forest, we began our work. Under Leonardo’s exacting direction, we moved with swift silence to set the canvases with their painted men-at-arms just behind the first line of trees at the forest’s edge. Arranged into several small squadrons, their wood frames were camouflaged by those props depicting boulders and various bits of greenery. Interspersed among the false army were the actual weapons we’d brought with us, lacking only ammunition to make them deadly.
The work took several hours, so that our labors did not end until well past midnight. Huddling together beneath our blankets, for the night had grown quite chill, we prepared for a few hours of fretful sleep.
“Do you think we shall be killed?” I overheard young Bernardo ask Tito in quiet, quavering tones not long after we’d settled in.
I did not catch the words that Tito said in response, but they seemed to satisfy the younger boy. Whatever his answer, I prayed that Tito was right. Though the Master had claimed that our role would be little more than a masquerade, I feared that the cunning Nicodemo lo Bianco might prove a more formidable foe than Leonardo anticipated.
Dawn rose upon a substantial-looking army poised at the forest’s edge . . . or, at least, that was how it was designed to appear from the vantage point of the duke’s castle. Leonardo had cleverly added further verisimilitude to the scene with a score of campfires, which he’d had lit as the sun eased past the horizon. Tended by one of the younger apprentices, their curling plumes of smoke hinted at a greater force camped behind that false front line. The Duke of Milan’s standard—a wily garden snake twisting across an azure field—was planted prominently beyond the last of the trees, proclaiming to all who might look which particular noble this army served.
But, clever as he was at pageantry, Leonardo knew that an unmoving illusion would soon be seen for what it was. Thus, the remainder of us apprentices had already donned our makeshift uniforms. Spreading ourselves wide among the painted forces, we milled about with purpose, adding needed motion to the static scene. And while we had been bidden to silence during the night, our conversation was now encouraged . . . taking care, as Leonardo reminded the younger ones of us, to keep our voices at a manly pitch.
It was not long after the first cock crowed that we heard a shout from atop the castle walls.
“Finally, they stir,” Leonardo murmured in satisfaction. “Let us see if our opening performance is convincing enough to for them to request the next act.”
From our concealment behind some of the painted backdrops, we watched as more soldiers gathered atop the battlemented walks, spreading themselves along that front. It was fully daylight, however, before we heard the familiar squeal and rumble that was the drawbridge dropping into place. A few minutes later, the immense wooden gate rose high enough to allow a small contingent of helmed and armed men on horseback to ride in tight formation from the castle.
“Aha, our subterfuge was convincing,” the Master observed in satisfaction as the half-dozen riders halted halfway between the castle walls and the forest’s edge. “It appears that they wish to parlay.”
He had already donned his gleaming helmet and breastplate and strapped his sword to his hip, assuming the role of captain of Il Moro’s guard. He started for the small clearing where Davide was harnessing the twin black steeds to the scythed chariot. Two of the draft horses had been pressed into service to play military mounts and waited, smartly blanketed and saddled, beside the chariot. Tommaso and Paolo had been similarly assigned martial roles and were dressed in matching helmets and breastplates slightly less ornate than those that Leonardo wore. They climbed atop their borrowed horses and, each balancing a tall staff that flew the Duke of Milan’s familiar serpentine coat of arms, awaited orders.
“Master,” I asked, barely able to hide the anxiety in my voice, “will you demand my father’s release first thing?”
“I will not tip our hand immediately,” he replied with a shake of his plumed head.
Frowning in the castle’s direction, he went on. “I shall begin by appealing to the Duke of Pontalba as an ally of Milan and let him think we wish his help in tracking down those responsible for the crime. He will have but two choices at that point . . . either claim ignorance of the matter or admit his culpability and offer me terms for the return of your father and my craft. I suspect that he will not relinquish either without a fight, but I hope our show of force will at least make him consider that option.”
“But what if that does not work?”
He glanced my way again and laid a comforting hand upon my shoulder. “Fear not, my boy. We shall retrieve your father, one way or the other.”
He motioned the other apprentices closer.
“Should I be able to talk myself past the castle gates,” he addressed us all, “I have instructed Davide how to maintain our illusion in my absence. Follow his orders as you would mine. You draftsmen are not to leave your posts unless Davide deems the situation too dangerous and calls a retreat. Most important, you are not to engage anyone from the castle unless on my express orders.”
We murmured our assent and stepped back as the Master climbed into his war machine. Paolo and Tommaso each put a heel to flank, setting their steeds toward the forest’s edge. Leonardo and his chariot followed after, the machine’s deadly blades keeping to their sheathed position until the trio broke out into the open.
I could almost hear the gasp from the opposing forces as soon as the chariot with its singing blades came into view. The sun was high enough so that it reflected off those whirling scythes with blinding radiance, the sight calling to mind Ezekiel’s fiery chariot. Had so small a force of men ever before stirred hearts to such awe? I wondered, eyes wide. Surely, in the face of Leonardo’s grand invention, Nicodemo would see the prudence of negotiation rather than war.
After what appeared to be a deliberately circuitous route—doubtless meant to allow everyone from the castle who was watching a good look at the magnificent machine he was driving—Leonardo and his two men halted before the duke’s contingent.
Of course, we could hear nothing from our vantage point at the forest’s edge. Neither could we see much of what was happening beyond a few broad gestures exchanged between the Master and the man who appeared to be Nicodemo’s spokesman. After but a few minutes’ conversation, however, Paolo and Tommaso abruptly wheeled their horses about.
“Why are they leaving the Master alone with the duke’s men?” Vittorio asked in some alarm as the pair began a brisk trot back toward us. “And, wait—he’s being captured!”
“He’s not captured,” Bernardo protested, his voice quavering. “They’re just taking him to the castle. Right, Dino?”
“No weapons are drawn,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt, “so I’m sure that is the case. But let us watch to see what happens.”
For, as we were speaking, we could see the soldiers splitting their ranks in two. Now three of the horses and riders made a wide circle around to the rear of the chariot. The other three soldiers remained in place and simply whirled their steeds about, leaving Leonardo and his scythed machine neatly positioned between the two groups of mounted men. At a signal from their leader, they began a measured trot back toward the castle . . . keeping, of course, a prudent distance between themselves and Leonardo’s whirling blades.
Tommaso and Paolo had returned by this time. Quickly dismounting from their horses, they hurried over to where the rest of us stood. Paolo raised his hand to stave off the questions we fired at him; then, plucking off his helmet, he addressed Davide while making sure that the rest of us could hear him.
“The captain of the guard was quite bold,” he explained. “He demanded to know why Milan’s army was camped upon their doorstep, given that Milan and Pontalba are allies. The Master told him that it was a matter he could discuss only with the Duke of Pontalba himself. Of course, the captain protested that and, of course, the Master acted as if he would not give way. But finally, he told the captain that Il Moro’s court engineer had mysteriously disappeared from Milan, along with one of his inventions . . . and that someone claimed spies from Pontalba were responsible for the crime.”
“That was when the captain agreed that the Master might speak with the duke,” Tommaso spoke up, continuing the tale. “The Master gave him two conditions. First, he wished the meeting to be private, so that his men—he meant me and Paolo—must be allowed to return to their fellows. Second, he said he must be free to depart the castle whenever he wishes . . . and if he has not rejoined his men by noontide, Milan’s army will assume that Pontalba has broken their treaty and act accordingly against them.”
“Look!” Vittorio interjected before Tommaso could say more. “They’re closing the gate.”
As the last rider cleared the entry, the heavy wooden grille began a slow descent, closing with a thud that we could hear from where we waited. The finality of the sound struck us all silent, as if we’d watched our beloved Master descend past hell’s fiery gates.
Davide was fi rst to break the silence. After glancing at the sun to judge its position, he turned to the rest of us.
“Why do you tarry? Master Leonardo left us with crucial tasks to perform in his absence. Lorenzo and Giovanni”—he gestured to the two youngest boys—“make sure you keep the campfires burning. You others, man your posts so that you can be seen.”
Soldierlike, we jumped to attention, doing our best to make twenty youths appear as two hundred. The remaining horses had been relieved of wagon duty and stood blanketed and saddled. Our best equestrians mounted them and rode to the clearing, where they began imitating the same maneuvers that Constantin and I had watched Il Moro’s men practice in the castle’s quadrangle.
I joined the remaining apprentices in playing my part as a man-at-arms. Following the Master’s earlier directive, we each stepped into view at one spot for a few moments. Then, slipping back into the trees, we quickly moved to another place, repeating the drill. A few times, I added a different color plume to my helmet or replaced my breastplate with a tunic of mail, so that I gave the appearance of a different person.
Had my father’s life not been at risk—not to mention the lives of the Master and the duchess!—I might have found this masquerade most exciting. As it was, my somber expression surely mirrored the countenance of a man prepared for battle.
Sometime later, I took a respite from my role to retreat deeper into the forest and relieve my bladder. That business accomplished, I settled upon a fallen tree trunk and, pulling off my helmet, squinted up at the sun. Perhaps an hour had passed since the castle gate had closed upon Leonardo’s retreating figure . . . perhaps two. All I knew with certainty was that his deadline of noontide was still some hours away. Wishing I had a wrist clock like the Master’s to more accurately judge Time’s passage, I sighed and reached again for my helmet.
“Dino!”
The soft voice calling my name belonged to Tito. He stepped out from behind a concealing tree, and I saw in consternation that he was dressed once again in his apprentice’s tunic. Before I could question why he had abandoned his post, he started toward me. I saw to my surprise that he was accompanied by Rebecca.
Though her injured arm was still wrapped, Signor Luigi’s treatment must have been effective, for the washerwoman looked much restored. Even so, I viewed the pair with some suspicion.
“What are you doing?” I demanded in the same low tone. “The Master left us with orders to make it appear as we were Il Moro’s army.”
“His orders!” Tito gave his head a disgusted shake. “Bah, I fear Leonardo’s orders may bring death to all of us.”
So saying, he seated himself on one side of me, while Rebecca settled on the other edge of the tree trunk. Thus surrounded, I crossed my arms and shot him a sour look.
“What is this you say, Tito? The Master would do nothing to put us in danger. His plans never fail.”
Though, of course, I promptly recalled that such was not always the case. How could I forget his elaborate scheme the night of the masquerade, the same night when we’d first laid eyes upon Nicodemo lo Bianco, dressed in a devil’s finery? Two people had died most terribly as a result of Leonardo’s well-intended machinations.
Pushing that memory firmly away, I moderated my tone and added, “Very well, tell me your thoughts . . . but do it quickly, for I must return to the front lines.”
20
The winds blow in great change, and not always for the better.
—Leonardo da Vinci, The Notebooks of Delfina della Fazia
Tito glanced side to side, as if to reassure himself no one was listening. Lowering his voice further, he went on in an urgent tone. “I told you that my uncle was a soldier. I have learned much from him, and I fear this subterfuge will be found out. And if it is not, I am certain that the duke will not release the Master back to us, no matter that he thinks an army waits outside his walls.”
“That may be,” I agreed, “but if that happens, Il Moro’s true army will eventually arrive to take our place.”
Tito shook his head. “But don’t you see? For all that the castle appears in disrepair, it has withstood many attacks before. They have a fine well and stores enough to last a long siege. Do you truly think Il Moro will want to spend weeks—or even months—waging war simply to rescue the Master and your father?”
“But the flying machine—”
“—is of no import,” he exclaimed, cutting my argument short. “You and I could build another for Il Moro, and surely this thought will occur to the duke, as well. He will know that Leonardo’s sketches with all his notes are still in his workshop, and he will know that we have worked upon the design long enough to have a fair understanding of its principles. Your father and the Master, and anyone else”—he paused to give me a significant look, and I knew that he meant by that last the Duchess Marianna—“they are dispensable. All that matters is the notes. We must act now or live with the consequences.”
My stomach twisted into a hard fist of stone as I reluctantly considered the truth of Tito’s words. No matter how brilliant an artist and inventor Leonardo was, he was no military general . . . nor had he ever been a soldier.
Moreover, I knew that Il Moro’s affection for his master engineer was limited to his current usefulness. Doubtless many other artists and inventors were waiting for the opportunity for such a patron as he. Ludovico would go to war if it served his cunning purposes, and not out of loyalty or sentimentality.
I glanced at Rebecca to gauge her opinion on the matter. Her broad face was drawn in serious lines as she nodded.
“I fear Tito is right,” she replied, no trace of banter in her tone. “That duke, he won’t willingly free your father. And with Signor Leonardo, he’s got another hostage to barter back to Il Moro. But I have an idea how to smuggle your father from the castle, if we can but gain entry.”
In a basket of laundry, perhaps?
The question rose unbidden to my lips, but I bit it back. The Master must have been certain of the washerwoman’s loyalty, for he had allowed her to accompany us this far. And should the Duke of Pontalba learn that the man he thought was Leonardo the Florentine was instead Angelo the cabinetmaker, my father might never have the chance to put into effect his own plan of escape.
Taking a deep breath, I returned Rebecca’s nod with one of my own. “Very well, I agree that we must do something. So what is our plan?”
Rebecca’s broad face split into a wide grin. “Why, same as last time. We do some laundry.”
A short time later, I was once again wearing my simple apprentice’s tunic and seated beside Rebecca as she drove her cart toward the castle’s gate. We’d told Lorenzo and Giovanni, the only ones of the apprentices who noticed us hitching up the cart, that we were acting under Davide’s orders; thus, we had avoided any questions from the pair. For her part, Novella had agreed to distract Davide with claims of a twisted ankle long enough for us to be beyond call before he noticed our defection.
Unfortunately for our plan, the senior apprentice was not easily misled from his duty. Barely were we halfway across the cleared field when Tito grasped my arm and softly said, “Look, Davide has come after us.”
I turned in my seat to see that the senior apprentice—dressed in helmet and breastplate, and mounted upon one of our makeshift war steeds—was indeed galloping in our direction. Wheeling most dramatically around us, he halted in our path and drew a flashing sword, so that Rebecca was forced to pull up her mare or run over him.
