A Bolt from the Blue, page 3
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.
Though he had claimed his assumption of the dukedom had been but a temporary measure until the boy was old enough to take on that role, no one had believed that Ludovico would ever release the reins of rule, save by force. Popular opinion had soon proved right, with even Ludovico abandoning that fiction to petition the pope to grant him the title that he had spuriously claimed. Recognition had yet to be bestowed, so that Ludovico felt compelled to justify his ill-gotten title by waging war upon Milan’s neighboring provinces.
And in these modern times, war was being waged less by men and horses and more by machines . . . hence, the true reason for Leonardo’s presence in the duke’s court. For, despite his title of court artist, it had not been his brilliance at portraiture or frescoes that had brought the Master to his post here in Milan.
Rather, it was his engineering genius—which he had immodestly detailed in a series of dramatic missives to Ludovico—that had first piqued the duke’s interest in hiring a man whom others dismissed as an eccentric Florentine.
But surely Ludovico and Leonardo had been destined for each other. For how could a man of battle like Il Moro resist the chance to employ a master engineer who claimed he could build underwater boats and portable bridges, let alone machines that could discharge a dozen deadly bolts in the time it would take a man to fire but a single shot? And where else would Leonardo have found a patron willing to invest in fantastical designs that, to my mind, might never see light save upon paper?
I suspected that the project the Master had commenced upon was more of this fanciful military equipment. Maybe this time it was the armored wagon propelled by pulleys and cables, rather than by horses. Or maybe it was the folding boat, small enough when collapsed to fit into a cart, but when opened could carry half a dozen men across all but the most rugged of streams.
Once, I would have eagerly embraced such an opportunity to work by his side but—despite my earlier moment of weakness—no more. And he’d understood without it being said that I was finished with acting as his extra set of hands, save in the workshop. Of course, any of my fellow apprentices would eagerly serve in my stead, so that I knew my presence had not been missed these past months.
Why, then, I wondered in some resentment as I obediently followed after him, had he sought me out this time?
Aloud, I merely replied, “I am happy to accompany you, Master, but it appears we are headed in the wrong direction for your workshop.”
“You are quite observant, Dino,” he said with a smile, “and so I confess that first we must go to the castle gates to meet someone. Did I tell you that I have found an artisan of some skill to assist in the woodworking portion of this design for Il Moro? I fear I had little choice in this, as my competency in that area is somewhat limited.”
I doubted that was the case—Leonardo conquered every challenge he put his hand to—but I gave a polite nod. Still, the project must require some great precision, I told myself, else he would have contented himself with Tito’s assistance. The son of a boat builder, Tito was one of the older apprentices though newer to the workshop than was I. Despite his tendency toward boastfulness, he was a pleasant enough companion and quite capable with both brush and chisel.
I held my opinion on the matter to myself, however, as we moved at a brisk pace across the broad quadrangle toward the clock tower. The structure, oddly slim and graceful compared with the rest of the castle’s architecture, stood as an elegant sentinel visible for some distance. Its clever brickwork bore the Sforza family’s rather sinister coat of arms which, quite fittingly, was emblazoned with a wily grass snake.
As always, the main gate was manned by members of Il Moro’s paid army. Dressed in scandalously short dark tunics over parti-colored trunk hose, with swords dangling from their hips, they kept swaggering guard over the traffic to and from the castle. Most of the mercenaries were foreign born, some gray-haired veterans and some little more than boys, and ranging from brutishly effective to ruthlessly efficient in their skills at arms. Thanks to the Master, I’d had more dealings with Ludovico’s soldiers than I would have liked . . . save, of course, for my time spent with one certain captain.
Depending upon Ludovico’s current relationship with his various neighbors, the immense wood and iron gateway at the tower’s base might be closed. At such time, visitors had to pass through a small portal cut into that gate in order to breach the broad walls that ran the perimeter of the castle’s extensive grounds. With its immense watchtowers—two square, and two cylindrical—hunkering at each of its four corners, it was this forbidding stone barrier that served as the castle’s main line of defense against intruders. Of course, since Castle Sforza had been built as a fortress and not simply as a noble dwelling, its complex of buildings and courtyards was enclosed by still more walls. The duke’s own quarters were located in an innermost wing of the castle and were protected from outside entry by heavy iron gates.
Today, however, the gate was thrown wide-open, allowing a broad view of the town beyond.
“And I do believe you will find this particular project to be of great interest,” Leonardo was saying with some pride as our steps took us closer to the tower. “Unfortunately, we have but a short time in which to finish building the prototype, as the duke is anxious to put my design to test. But should it prove a success, I do not hesitate to predict that my invention will change the very course of man’s history.”
I was used to such dramatic declarations from the Master; still, my curiosity was piqued. Perhaps he had in mind something more than another elaborate war wagon, after all. And I wondered, as well, why he would need my assistance in building it, when my creative skills were limited to the brush. Whatever it was could not be overly large, or he would have enlisted another of the apprentices with a far more muscular frame than mine as his assistant.
“Ah, here we are,” he declared as we reached the gate and took up station along the well-worn gravel path that led from the castle grounds to the clearing beyond the walls.
He pretended not to notice my unease while we stood for several long minutes waiting for whoever was due to meet us. It was a kind gesture, and gratitude momentarily tempered the feeling of disquiet that had filled my breast. For here beneath the clock tower we were well within sight of the two rough-hewn cylindrical towers that served as its flanking counterpoints . . . the two towers that symbolized the pain that fi lled my soul. Rather than gaze upon them, I kept my attention fi xed upon the tips of my shoes.
“—well-known beyond his own town,” came Leonardo’s voice from beside me.
I realized with a guilty start that he had been speaking for some moments, with the subject apparently this craftsman who had yet to appear. Dutifully, I sharpened my attention.
“It was during my visit to Florence at Christmastide,” he continued, “that I saw an example of a door he had made for a noble’s private chapel there. The grapevines he had carved upon it were so real that I had to touch them with my own fingers before I was convinced they were not living plants. And so when I determined I needed a master woodworker to assist me, he was the man who came to mind.
“Of course,” he added with a shrug, “I first had to learn his name and next discover his home. Then came the task of convincing him to leave his family behind for the opportunity to toil under Ludovico’s patronage for a few months.”
“I’m certain he was honored by the offer,” I responded as I fondly thought how my father had always dreamed of receiving such a commission . . . and my mother, more so!
To be sure, the artisan with a noble patron ofttimes found that a duke’s purse strings were tied more tightly than those of the middle class. This I had learned from listening to Leonardo’s laments regarding Ludovico, whose disinclination to make good his debts was well-known. But the prestige of having had a patron of rank served to bring other clients more inclined to pay their bills.
The Master, meanwhile, was nodding at my words.
“He seemed pleased with the offer, particularly when he learned the commission would bring him to Milan. It happens that he has family here whom he has not seen for some time.”
He gave me a conspiratorial grin and added, “His sole obstacle was his wife, who objected to the possibility of his prolonged absence. But he finally wrote to assure me that he had gained her permission and so would be here to meet me at noon of this day.”
He paused to glance at his right wrist. Strapped to it with twin bands of leather was a flat metal box perhaps the size of my palm. This was one of his inventions, which he called a wrist clock. A miniature version of the tower clock above us, it was designed in much the same way to track the day’s hours. Though I’d scoffed when I first saw it, I had quickly come to admire the clever device and secretly wished for one myself.
The wrist clock began chiming the hour at the same moment its far larger brother above sounded its own call. Leonardo peered through the open gateway, his expression expectant as he flicked his elegant fingers in the reflexive gesture of his that always indicated impatience.
“Let us hope that our new craftsman views punctuality as a virtue and not as a vice,” he remarked, “for I am anxious to begin work this very day.”
And I was anxious to return to the workshop, I thought a bit resentfully. I still could not fathom why the Master required my presence. After all, there was no mystery to be solved, no cruelly murdered corpse to identify.
Aware that such thoughts were unworthy—as Leonardo’s apprentice I was bound to obey him—I dutifully strove for a moderate demeanor. Meanwhile, his expression brightened.
“See, I had no cause for concern,” he exclaimed, “for our good cabinetmaker approaches.”
Curious, I followed Leonardo’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the midday sun to discover the subject of his scrutiny.
A knot of milling tradesmen and servants had parted to reveal a tall man of middle years striding toward the gate. His moderate garb—a brown cloth hat and belted, knee-length brown tunic over yellow trunk hose—marked him a craftsman, as did the patched leather sack that doubtless held the tools of his trade. In the opposite hand, he carried a tall, carved stick such as many pilgrims carried while trudging the rocky roads that led to and from the city. Designed to ease one’s way over uneven paths, the sturdy stick served equally well as a means of defense should the traveler be set upon by bandits . . . not an unheard-of event in this province.
I frowned, for something about this man seemed familiar. Indeed, with his mane of wavy dark hair and neat beard, he looked rather like the Master from a distance. But it was not this vague resemblance that held me; rather, it was the way he moved humbly if confidently among his fellows, pausing once to assist an elderly man in a tattered leather jerkin struggling with the bundle of twigs balanced upon his skinny back.
By now, the newcomer was close enough for me to make out his features, and my eyes opened wide in surprise. I knew this man, I realized with a gasp, knew him as well as I knew myself!
It was at that moment that the man turned to meet my gaze. He halted again, his leather sack slipping from his shoulder as he stared at me. Then a warm grin split his pleasant features, and he caught up his bag again.
The few moments it took for the guards to wave him and several others through the gates seemed to stretch into hours. I was aware of Leonardo’s hand upon my shoulder in a gesture of gentle restraint, doubtless to keep me from making a spectacle of myself before the soldiers. I allowed him to stay my movements, but only until the man was safely past the gate.
Then, unable to wait an instant longer, I shrugged off the Master’s grasp and rushed toward the newcomer, flinging myself into his open arms with a joyful shout of, “Father!”
3
Feathers shall raise men towards heaven even as they do birds . . .
—Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript I
“Ah, child, I have missed you!” Angelo della Fazia exclaimed, lifting me from my feet with his hug just as he had done when I was but a small girl.
Then, as if realizing his gesture might appear a far too exuberant greeting to bestow upon a male child, he abruptly set me back down. His gaze flicking in Leonardo’s direction, he gave me an awkward pat upon the shoulder and amended, “Rather, it is good to see you again.”
“It is good to see you,” was my warm response. Not caring what the Master might think, I grabbed my father’s hands in mine. “Though I confess I did not recognize you at first. You have cut your beard differently, and your hair is longer.”
“That last is not by design,” he said with a small laugh. “I am so busy these days with my commissions that I scarce have time to stop for a meal, let alone sit still long enough for the barber to shear me.”
Frowning, he took an equally close look at me. “I was hard-pressed to recognize you, as well. Your clothes and your hair . . . they are—”
“Pray, Father, do not tell me I have changed so much since you last saw me,” I interrupted him, fearful lest he make a misstep and reveal my disguise. “Despite my apprentice’s tunic, I am still your well-loved son Dino.”
“Ah, yes, that you are, my well-loved son,” he agreed with great vigor. “So tell me . . . er, Dino . . . are you well?”
“Quite well now,” I responded, certain that my wide grin should have been proof enough for him.
And I realized that, at least for the moment, my melancholy had indeed slipped from my shoulders like a discarded cloak. Perhaps the excuse I had given to Vittorio earlier had been the truth, after all. Until that momentous night when I had made my decision to leave home in male guise, I had never in my brief life been away from my family even for a day. Looking back over the recent months, I could see how I had instinctively made Leonardo and my fellow apprentices stand in for the father and brothers I had left behind.
But, here in the presence of my true parent, I realized with a pang that even the most beloved friends could never take their place.
Blinking rapidly so that no tears might mar my carefully boyish facade, I instead asked, “But how can this be, that you are here in Milan? Surely you are not the craftsman that the Master has said is to join him?”
“He is, indeed,” Leonardo spoke up, satisfaction evident in his tone. Then his smile took on a mischievous quirk.
“You do not know how pleased I was to discover that the man whose genius in wood I admired was also the sire of a favored young apprentice,” he told me. “I noted right away that our Signor Angelo had the same family name as you. That was when I recalled you had once told me that your father was an accomplished cabinetmaker from that same part of the province. And as there was some familial resemblance, it was easy to deduce that the two of you were related by blood.”
His grin broadened.
“When I first put the question to Signor Angelo, however, he was reluctant to admit any such connection. Perhaps he feared that your work might reflect poorly upon his name. But once I explained that young Dino was one of my more promising students, he was more than willing to claim you. And he agreed to allow me to make his arrival a fine surprise for you.”
“Please, Signor Leonardo,” my father mildly protested, “my reluctance came from a fear lest some favoritism be shown. I have never doubted young Del—that is, Dino’s—talent with a brush.”
I held my breath, praying the Master had not taken heed of my father’s momentary slip in calling my name. To my relief, he appeared not to have noticed, for he merely nodded. “A talented family, indeed. But let us be off to my workshop. You shall share my quarters for the duration of your stay, Signor Angelo, if that is acceptable to you.”
“I am honored, Signor Leonardo.”
With that, we started back across the quadrangle. Although I had many questions for my father, most could not be asked in the Master’s presence . . . most specifically, those concerning my mother. Instead, I contented myself with eager inquiries after my brothers’ welfare.
“Both are well,” my father replied with a proud smile. “Georgio has taken on most of the daily tasks for our workshop, and he is bringing in work of his own.”
I listened, well impressed, as he named some of our town’s more prominent gentlemen who had commissioned Georgio’s services. Then his smile broadened. “As for Carlo, he has found himself a young woman and will be married this summer.”
“Carlo is taking a wife?”
I stared at my father in amazement and burst out laughing. “I must admit I am surprised, for he was always one to duck his head and mumble whenever a likely young woman looked his way. You must tell him how happy I am for him.”
“Ah, but you will be able to do that yourself,” Leonardo interjected, “for I am certain we can spare you from the workshop for a few days to attend that happy occasion.”
“That’s very good of you, Master,” I managed, though I wondered what excuse I could give him for rejecting his kindness when that time came. I met my father’s gaze and saw the same doubt in his eyes. Later, when we had the chance for private conversation, I would hear from his lips whether or not my mother would allow me to return home again.
