Leonardo and the Death Machine Read online

  Fortunately the mob was breaking up as the guardsmen pressed forward, seizing anyone who resisted. Once they were in the clear, Leonardo breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You push things too far, Simone,” said Sandro with a shake of the head. “It would have been enough to get Leonardo away from there without provoking them.”

  “Hah!” scoffed Simone. “We were in no danger from those lackwits.”

  The brothers were entirely unlike each other except in one respect. They had a similarly stocky build which had earned them the nickname Botticelli – the Little Barrels. In Simone’s case it was mostly muscle.

  Sandro was one of the young artists who assisted at Maestro Andrea’s workshop. It was there that he and Leonardo had met and become friends. Leonardo had dined several times at the boisterous Botticelli household with Sandro, his parents, his three brothers and their wives.

  “What was all that about hills and plains?” Leonardo asked.

  “Pitti and his cronies are called the party of the Hill,” Simone explained, “because he is building that monstrosity for himself on the high ground in the Oltrarno.”

  Leonardo nodded. “And what about the Plain?”

  “That is the party of the Medici family,” said Simone, “who built their great house on the flat ground on this side of the river. Everybody is supposed to support one side or the other. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Dangerous, I’d say,” said Leonardo. “It’s a lucky thing you came by.”

  “Yes, I was just fetching my brother here from the home of the wealthy Donati family,” said Simone with a sly wink.

  Leonardo saw then that Sandro was carrying a satchel filled with all his artist’s equipment. “What were you doing there?” he asked.

  “I have a commission,” Sandro replied, beaming proudly. “I have been engaged to paint a portrait of Lucrezia Donati.”

  “The most beautiful woman in all of Florence!” Simone added, giving his brother a playful dig in the ribs.

  “Lucrezia Donati!” Leonardo exclaimed. “I’ve heard whole tournaments have been held in her honour.”

  Sandro raised his blue eyes soulfully to Heaven as though he were seeing a vision. “She is an ideal of womanhood, Leonardo. Words cannot encompass such beauty, only the skill of a dedicated artist.”

  “But you?” said Leonardo incredulously. “You’ve only just left your master Fra Lippi’s workshop! How did you land this prize?”

  “Lucrezia is the sweetheart of Lorenzo de’ Medici, the son of the most important man in Florence,” Sandro explained. “Lorenzo is frequently sent off as an ambassador to faraway cities, and he wants a small portrait of Lucrezia to take with him wherever he goes. In particular he wants it completed before he leaves for Naples in a few days’ time.”

  “Yes, but how did he come to pick you?” Leonardo pressed him.

  Sandro frowned briefly at the interruption then carried on. “He was at Fra Lippi’s workshop, inquiring if my former master might do this painting for him. Fra Lippi was much too busy to do it at short notice, but he recommended me. I was summoned to the Medici house to show Lorenzo some samples of my work, and he was impressed enough to engage my services.”

  Leonardo’s mouth puckered. “I wish I could have a share of your good luck,” he said gloomily. “I have nothing to look forward to but chores and practice.”

  “Your turn will come,” Sandro said. “After all, you’ve scarcely started your apprenticeship.”

  “In the mean time,” said Simone, “we have important business to attend to.” He laid a hand on Leonardo’s shoulder and began steering him away from the square.

  “But my master—” Leonardo protested, pointing back in the direction of the Via dell’Agnolo.

  “Can do without you for a little longer,” Simone finished for him. “My friends and I are short-handed, and I need you and Sandro to save the day. Now hurry, because we’re already late.”

  “Late for what?” Leonardo asked.

  “A battle to the death!” Simone answered with a wicked grin.

  4 THE LION OF ANCHIANO

  Leonardo was dragged out into the middle of the football field, protesting that he needed to change his clothes.

  “No time,” Simone told him. “The game’s already started and those woolworkers have got us outnumbered. You have played before, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve kicked a ball around back home,” said Leonardo, “but nothing like this.”

  The football green was squeezed into the western corner of the city walls, flanked on one side by an orchard and on the other by a slaughterhouse. Each team boasted nearly thirty men, the goldsmiths distinguished by their yellow sashes, the woolworkers in red. Many of them already bore cuts and bruises, and they were taunting each other with insults and obscene gestures.

  “There’s no use arguing,” Sandro advised his friend. “When it comes to playing against the woolworkers, nothing matters to Simone except victory.”

  “And how do we win?” Leonardo asked uneasily.

  “Get the ball over the enemy goal line,” replied Sandro with a shrug. “That’s as much as I can understand. I wouldn’t be here at all, but family is family.”

  With a ragged cheer the goldsmiths gathered around the Botticelli brothers. “It’s about time you got here, Simone. We’re already one goal down.”

  “Don’t worry, lads,” said Simone, slapping Leonardo on the back. “I’ve brought along a secret weapon. This is Leonardo da Vinci, as quick and skilful a player as ever kicked a ball.”

  “He looks fit enough,” somebody commented.

  “But he’s dressed for courting, not sporting,” joked a wiry youth with a mop of curly black hair. There was a round of crude laughter.

  “Don’t let these pretty feathers fool you, Jacopo,” said Simone. “He’s a craftsman like us, a worker in stone, metal and wood, not a milksop scholar. Back in his home village they call him the Lion of Anchiano.”

  A wild whoop greeted the ball as it came arcing through the air from the other end of the field. Before it hit the ground, both teams charged in to the attack.

  “What’s this ‘Lion of Anchiano’ nonsense?” Leonardo asked as he caught up with Simone.

  Simone grinned broadly. “I’ve given you a reputation. Now all you have to do is live up to it. Grab the ball and run with it if you can. Otherwise kick it upfield to one of our lads.”

  The teams collided with a roar and Leonardo was tossed about like a piece of driftwood. A mad flurry of kicking and gouging ensued. He was shoved, elbowed, kneed, punched and even spat on.

  It seemed one of the unspoken aims of the game was to inflict as much injury on the opposing team as the loose rules allowed. Several times Leonardo was knocked to the ground and had to scramble to his feet to avoid being trampled. But he soon learned to give as good as he got, shouldering woolworkers aside in the fight to get his hands on the ball.

  It was briefly his, until another goldsmith snatched it away and booted it upfield. With a bound, the agile Jacopo plucked it from the air and made for the goal line. Everyone stampeded after. Leonardo joined the race, yelling encouragement to his team-mate. Jacopo raced on, leaping over the line a good three strides ahead of his pursuers.

  A resounding cheer went up from the goldsmiths. With the score now tied, both sides trooped back to midfield to begin again.

  In that short breathing space, Leonardo discovered to his horror that his fine satin shirt and scarlet hose were hopelessly muddied and torn. Even as he contemplated the grass stains on his knees, a passing woolworker jostled his elbow.

  “Not so fancy now, are you?”

  Leonardo’s temper flared and he stalked towards the centre of the field.

  Sandro joined him as they awaited the kick off, his cherubic face bright red under his sweaty mop of golden curls. “Too many pastries,” he panted ruefully.

  Before Leonardo could comment, the woolworkers kicked the ball back into play. He dived in with a vengean
ce. One more goal would clinch it.

  Out of the press of scuffling bodies the ball suddenly popped skyward. Curving through the air it dropped unexpectedly into Sandro’s arms. The young artist froze in dismay. Howling and screeching, the woolworkers closed in on him from all sides like hungry wolves.

  Upfield, Simone was waving frantically for the ball.

  “Kick it away!” Leonardo yelled, racing to his friend’s assistance.

  Sandro remained paralysed, the grasping hands of the woolworkers almost upon him. With hardly a moment to spare, Leonardo snatched the ball from his friend. Spinning about, he booted it high upfield.

  Simone jumped and caught it. In the next instant Leonardo and Sandro disappeared under an avalanche of bodies. Crushed beneath the weight, Leonardo fought for breath in the sweat-soaked darkness. Somewhere amid the grunts and curses he heard a pained yelp from Sandro.

  Then a raucous bellow of triumph sounded across the field.

  Simone had scored the winning goal.

  One by one the players were dragged off the heaving pile, freeing the two victims at the bottom. Leonardo was hauled dizzily to his feet, flushed and gasping. The goldsmiths flocked around him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. The unexpected pleasure of finding himself a hero banished – for the time being – all thoughts of his ruined clothes.

  “Come on, Sandro, we’ve won!”

  But Sandro was still curled up on the ground, clutching his right wrist. He groaned. “No, no, no, I’ve lost. I’ve lost everything!”

  Back at the Botticelli house Sandro’s mother wound the bandage tightly around his injured wrist, tutting and muttering to herself all the while. He flinched as she gave it a final tug before standing back to regard her handiwork. Wrapped inside the bandage was a poultice of stewed nettles and vinegar that gave off a pungent odour.

  “Now you keep that arm rested,” the old woman instructed. “I’m going to the kitchen to mix you a broth of leeks and pig’s trotters. That will put the colour back in your cheeks.”

  Sandro stared mutely at the green-stained bandage and wrinkled his nose.

  “I’m sure it will be a help,” Leonardo said politely, adding to himself, if he survives drinking it.

  The old lady scuttled off, leaving the two young men alone for the first time since the end of the football game. Having completed his apprenticeship with Fra Filippo Lippi, Sandro had only recently set up as an artist in his own right. Until he could afford to open his own workshop, his father had allowed him to turn one of the storerooms at the back of the house into a temporary studio.

  That was where they sat now, surrounded by sketches of saints, centaurs, Madonnas, satyrs and angels that were spread all over the walls.

  “It’s a rotten bit of luck, your arm getting stepped on like that,” Leonardo said sympathetically.

  Sandro raised his blue eyes slowly, as if unwilling to look upon a world that could be so cruel. “Who knows how long it will be before I can use a paintbrush again?” he moaned. “I took my first step on the ladder of success and the rung has snapped beneath my foot.”

  Leonardo felt a pang inside. Seeing the normally jolly Sandro brought low like this was like seeing the sun blotted out by an eclipse. “Can’t Lorenzo just wait a bit longer for his portrait?” he suggested.

  “I told you, he wants it before he leaves for Naples next week,” said Sandro, “and wealthy families like the Medici are accustomed to getting what they want.”

  Leonardo nodded slowly, understanding the problem. He knew from his own father that it did not pay to inconvenience rich and powerful people. “There will be other clients, Sandro.”

  “Do you think so? For an artist who has broken his very first contract? No, this is ruin for me. I should have stayed behind in the Piazza della Signoria and taken my chances with Pitti’s ruffians.”

  The mention of the confrontation in the square suddenly jogged Leonardo’s memory. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind but events had been moving too fast for him to give it any thought.

  “Sandro, didn’t Simone say the Medici supporters called themselves the party of the Plain?”

  “Plain, lake, mountain – what difference does it make?” Sandro sighed.

  We shall bring destruction down on the plain, Silvestro had said. And Leonardo was sure it had something to do with the machine he was building.

  He closed his eyes and visualised the scene in Silvestro’s studio. As far back as he could remember, Leonardo had had a gift for recalling exactly any image he had seen. Now he placed himself back in that room, walked over to the desk. There was the diagram before him, each detail precise in itself, but its purpose still elusive. In order to study it properly, he would have to make a copy of his own.

  Rising from his stool, he sidled towards a stack of drawing paper and fingered the topmost sheet. “Sandro, could I borrow some of this paper?”

  “Helpyourself,” groaned Sandro, rubbing his injured wrist.

  Leonardo took the sheet and laid it flat on a table by the window. Grabbing a stick of charcoal from a nearby pot, he quickly began sketching. A cog here, a wheel there, a cord, a weight. Yes, that looked right. As the machine took shape on the page, so a plan began to form in his mind.

  When an opportunity comes your way, grab it with both hands before somebody steals it, his father had told him more than once.

  “Sandro, you know that ladder of success you were talking about? Instead of climbing up rung by rung, how would you like to fly straight to the top?”

  Sandro looked up with doleful eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Leonardo picked up the paper and held it in front of Sandro.

  “Look, I’ve made this copy of a diagram I saw at Maestro Silvestro’s today. He’s involved in some sort of plot against the Medici – I’m sure of it.”

  Leonardo repeated all he had overheard and described how he had seen the stranger again in the Piazza della Signoria.

  Sandro squinted at the drawing. “But this is just a lot of sticks ands wheels,” he protested. “It’s no threat to anybody.”

  “Look, Sandro, suppose the Medici are in some sort of danger. Wouldn’t they be more than grateful to anyone who could warn them of that? Wouldn’t they reward them with a lifetime of well paid work? There would be no more broken ladders for you.”

  And no more drudgery in the workshop for me, he thought. He could trade the gratitude of the Medici for a commission of his own!

  “And why would they listen to either of us?” Sandro objected. “You are a mere apprentice and I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me in jail for breach of contract.”

  “You give in too easily, Sandro,” Leonardo scolded him. “The contract isn’t broken yet. There must be something you can do.”

  Sandro pondered for a moment then brightened. “You’re right, Leonardo,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I will go to church at once, to the Chapel of the Innocents. I will pray for Lorenzo to come down with a fever until I have recovered. But no.” He struck himself on the brow with the flat of his hand. “What manner of Christian am I to wish such a thing on my patron! No, a brief falling out between him and Lucrezia, that would be enough.”

  Leonardo folded up the drawing and tucked it away inside his tunic. “Sandro, you’re being totally impractical – as usual. All you really need is someone to help you finish the portrait.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Sandro sighed. “What artist worthy of the name would let his work pass under the name of another?”

  Leonardo laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “An artist wouldn’t, but an apprentice might.” He added pointedly, “A very talented apprentice.”

  5 A BIRD IN FLIGHT

  When Leonardo came out of the workshop the next day, he walked straight into an ambush. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards down the Via dell’Agnolo when he was seized and hauled into the dingy alley beside the coppersmith’s shop.

  Before he could cry out, a grimy palm
clamped itself over his mouth. His arms were pinned to his sides from behind and a glint of metal appeared under his left eye.

  It was a chisel that had been honed to a razor-sharp edge.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet,” hissed a voice.

  Leonardo recognised the speaker: Silvestro’s apprentice, Pimple-face, breathing fish fumes and garlic into his face. Twitcher must be behind him, holding his arms.

  Pimple-face slipped his hand from Leonardo’s mouth but kept the chisel close enough to slice his cheek open if he tried to call for help. With his free hand he felt inside the leather satchel strapped to Leonardo’s belt.

  “What’s he got there?” Twitcher asked.

  “The usual stuff – brushes, palette knife, paint rags,” Pimple-face replied. He looked Leonardo over. “Not dressed so handsome today, are you, Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “Somebody steal your fancy gear?” taunted Twitcher.

  Leonardo was wearing the drab working clothes he had come to Florence in while his one good outfit was being washed and repaired after yesterday’s misadventure. Determined to protect his dignity, he responded stiffly, “I only dress up for special occasions.”

  “Like visiting old Silvestro, you mean?” sneered the Twitcher.

  “That’s what we come about,” said Pimple-face. “When you was visiting, you didn’t see nothing, right?”

  Leonardo squirmed. “I don’t know what you mean. I only came to deliver a message.”

  “Oh yes, the bill,” chortled Twitcher. “Old Silvestro was fit to throttle his own grandma when he opened it.”

  “And he was even madder when we told him we saw you nosing around,” said Pimple-face. “He sent word to his client.”

  “Now this client, he don’t like nosy people,” said Twitcher. “He told Silvestro to take care of it.”

  Pimple-face leered unpleasantly. “So here we are.” He grabbed the front of Leonardo’s tunic and pressed the chisel against his cheek.

  Leonardo swallowed hard. His copy of Silvestro’s diagram was tucked inside the tunic, perilously close to Pimple-face’s clutching fist. He had spent half the night finishing the drawing, borrowing one of Gabriello’s candles so he’d have enough light to work by.