A Bolt from the Blue, page 4
We reached Leonardo’s private quarters a few moments later. I gazed about with familiar pleasure for, unlike most of the apprentices, I had been privileged to set foot there numerous times in the past. The single main room served as his bedchamber, as well as the place where he took his meals and entertained his guests. The furnishings were modest if practical: a narrow cot and wardrobe, a larger rectangular table flanked by two benches, and a smaller table and two chairs.
Setting this room apart from most, however, were the wooden shelves lining the far wall . . . or, rather, the objects displayed upon those rows of rough boards. Mixed among the expected crockery were animal bones and clay models of human feet, along with baskets of fur and feathers, and several rock specimens chosen for their intriguing shapes. On the topmost shelf lay what appeared to be the hand of a gigantic frog but was actually a webbed swimming glove that was one of the Master’s newer inventions. His substantial personal library—perhaps two dozen different books—filled any remaining gaps and overflowed onto a stack on the floor beneath.
Gesturing toward the bed, he grandly pronounced it as Signor Angelo’s for as long as he stayed there. “Do not worry,” he added as my father attempted to protest this hospitality. “I have a pallet made up in my private workshop, where I can sleep in equal comfort.”
The workshop in question lay directly off his quarters, with entrance gained by the single narrow door set into the far wall. Perhaps twice as large as his personal chamber, it was the place where Leonardo conducted many of his experiments and built most of his scale models. His larger projects, I knew, were to be found in one of the locked sheds at the far side of the quadrangle.
Unlike the main workshop where we apprentices toiled, the Master’s private workshop normally was kept locked whenever the Master was not within. Once and almost by accident, however, I’d managed a glance inside that secret chamber.
With most of its space taken up with an immense wooden table, which would take four or five men to move, the place had been an exercise in ordered chaos. Sketches and notes covered fully half of that tabletop, with the remaining space taken up by pens and knives and brushes and paints. From the walls and ceiling hung both wood and paper models of various inventions, some appearing to be weapons, and others far more fanciful devices that I could not identify. I’d spent but a few moments there, but I knew that—had I been given leave—I could have spent hours studying what was in a sense the outer expression of the workings of Leonardo’s brilliant mind.
My father made short work of settling in . . . fortunately for him, as the Master’s eagerness to begin their collaboration was obvious. Still, with a gracious nod, he restrained himself and instead played the thoughtful host for a while longer.
“Since you had a bit of a journey this morning, Signor Angelo, perhaps you and Dino would care to stop by the kitchen. I am certain they will accommodate you even this late. I know you two will have much to discuss, and there may be little time for private conversation with him once you and I are well into our project.”
“An excellent plan, signore,” my father agreed with a small smile. “As you say, we have much news to share.”
Turning to me, the Master went on. “Afterward, bring your father back to the main workshop. We will let him make his acquaintance with our other apprentices, and then I shall show him what has brought him here to Milan.”
Bowls and spoons in hand, my father and I took our leave of Leonardo and began the short walk across the quadrangle.
“An impressive fortress,” he declared as he looked about the series of interconnected buildings that made up the main castle. Glancing up at the battlemented walks of the immense outer walls, he added, “It appears secure against any intruders, and yet the design is pleasing to the eye. The red stone and the white symbolize both strength and vision. And the towers rise with grace, despite their great size.”
“I think it the finest palace in all the world,” I replied with no little pride, as if I were Il Moro himself hearing his compliments.
My father smiled. “Ah, and how many palaces have you seen in your time, my child? Now, let us hope that the quality of the duke’s kitchen reflects the same majesty.”
Though the kitchen boy grumbled a bit at serving us this late, we still enjoyed a fine stew and dark bread that appeared to satisfy my father’s appetite. And as we ate, I broached the subject that had niggled at the back of my mind ever since I arrived in Milan.
“And how does Mother fare?”
“Quite well. Her health is good, her beauty is undiminished, and her tongue is as tart as ever.”
“And does she ever speak of me?” I asked, though without much hope.
My father hesitated before shaking his head.
“I fear she has not forgiven you for leaving as you did, in the dark of night and with no word but a terse note. And, of course, she suspects that I have some idea of your whereabouts. Though she is angered at the notion that I know something that she does not, I think it also brings her some comfort to know that you are alive and presumably well.”
I sighed, a painful knot that had nothing to do with the stew forming in my stomach. From my girlhood, my mother and I had managed but an uneasy truce at the best of times. As I grew older, her exasperation with me had grown in equal measure. What decent man, Carmela della Fazia had argued more than once, wanted a wife more interested in drawing pictures than in having babies? If I did not give up my painting, then I surely would never be married.
She had felt herself vindicated when, by sheer dint of effort, she finally had arranged a marriage for me with a well-to-do merchant willing to overlook my reputation as an eccentric young woman. For myself, I’d been horrified at the prospect of wedding a man more than twice my age who was known for his tight purse strings and his fondness for pretty young servants. And so, with my father’s help, I had conceived the plan that brought me here to Milan.
“What was said to Signor Niccolo, when he came to make his offer of marriage?” I asked with another sigh, referring to the man who would have been my husband.
My father’s lips twitched just a little as he replied, “Your mother told him that you suffered a conversion in the middle of the night and decided to take yourself off to a nunnery where you might devote the remainder of your life to good works.”
“Well, at least that would explain my shorn hair,” I replied with a flicker of a rueful smile. “I wonder if she will ever forgive me for disappointing her so.”
“It is hard to say, my child. Your mother is a woman of stern mind, and she is not prone to changing it. You will need to give her more time, I fear.”
I refrained from pointing out that she’d had more than a year to resolve her harsh feelings. Instead, I deliberately turned the conversation to cheerier topics.
“I am so happy that you are here in Milan with me,” I said in a warm rush. “I always envied Georgio and Carlo for being able to spend their days with you. If you can but convince the Master that I would make you a fine assistant, perhaps we can work together just as you and my brothers do.”
“Do not worry, my child,” he replied with a fond smile. “I have already informed your master that a condition of my employment is having you at my side.”
We went on to speak of other things. The subjects mattered little to me, for I was happy simply to bask in my father’s attention again. But finally, he said, “I know that Signor Leonardo must be growing impatient with us. We must return to the workshop and continue our conversations later. Besides, I am anxious to see where you live and work. Your master has, what, two or three other apprentices besides yourself?”
“There are almost twenty of us, Father,” I proudly told him. “I have made many fine friends. There is Constantin, our senior apprentice, and Paolo and Davide and Tommaso and—”
“You share quarters with that many young men?” he choked out, looking aghast. “I had no idea! Surely, that is highly improper, no matter that they think you a boy. I cannot allow that. I shall speak to your master, and—”
“Father, please!”
I glanced about, hoping his cries had not attracted any attention. Fortunately, the only one about was the kitchen boy, who seemed more concerned with stealing a few choice morsels from the plates he was scraping into the garbage pile than listening to our conversation.
“I swear to you, Father, there is nothing unseemly in this arrangement. We each have our own cot, tucked away into an alcove, so it is like being in our own chamber. And I have always been careful to preserve my modesty . . . and theirs, as well. No one has ever questioned whether or not I am a boy. But if you say anything to the Master, suggest any changes to him, he may have cause to suspect the truth about me.”
I finished my plea and watched in dismay the struggle that played across my father’s pleasant, open features. The artist in him understood my dream of one day becoming a master like Leonardo. The parent, however, was aghast at the thought of his daughter living among so many males with no other female around to safeguard her virtue. And while my father always claimed my mother to be the more stubborn of the two, I knew that he could be equally firm in holding to a notion, should he believe it was the right thing to do.
Finally, and to my great relief, he gave a small nod. “Very well, Delfina . . . or, I suppose I must get used to calling you Dino. No matter, I shall reserve my judgment for a time. If I can assure myself that your fellows do indeed treat you as a boy, I will rest easier allowing your masquerade to continue a bit longer.”
“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
A bird is an instrument working according to mathematical law, which instrument it is within the capacity of man to reproduce with all its movements.
—Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus
My 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.”
