Leonardo and the Death Machine Page 6

  “Why were those men trying to kill you?” Leonardo asked.

  Fresina gave him a sidelong look. “If I tell you, perhaps you will try to kill me too.”

  “Nonsense. I saved you.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Fresina conceded.

  Leonardo was taken aback by her surly manner. “You could at least try to sound grateful.”

  “I am a slave,” the girl retorted flatly. “People treat me however the whim takes them. What has gratitude to do with it?”

  Leonardo shook his head and tried to get back to the point. “Look, I need to know what happened back there.”

  Fresina drummed her fingers on her knees. “I see Tomasso let them into the house by a back door. The three of them are sneaking about like thieves, so I follow. I am very good at not being seen.”

  “Not good enough, it seems,” Leonardo observed.

  Fresina showed her teeth like a vixen. “And you, you would do better? You are the one who fell on his face!” She slapped her palm flat on the ground.

  Leonardo took a deep breath to calm himself. Talking to this girl was like wrestling with a cat. “What happened next?” he asked.

  “Next I hear them talk nonsense, about someone called Gottoso.”

  “Gottoso? Who is that?”

  “I do not know. Did you not listen when I said it was nonsense? Then they find me. At first I get away, but then Tomasso catches me” – she made a snatching movement with both hands – “and they pull me into that room where you are hidden like a thief.”

  “I am no thief,” said Leonardo. “It was an accident.”

  “So what are we to do now? Hide here until we starve?”

  Leonardo rubbed his brow. “I don’t know. It’s only a matter of time before the city guards come looking for us.”

  Fresina shuddered and her blue eyes revealed a gleam of fear. “You cannot let them take me. Last year, a slave named Lucia was accused of poisoning her master, and do you know what they did to her?”

  Leonardo shook his head.

  “She was hauled through the streets so everyone could spit on her. Then flesh was torn from her bones with red hot pincers before she was burned alive at the stake.”

  Leonardo felt his stomach heave. “And you witnessed this?”

  “Every slave in the city saw it,” said Fresina, her eyes glistening. “It was meant as a lesson to all of us.”

  “But still, the truth is on our side,” said Leonardo.

  “The truth!” Suddenly, Fresina was all fire again. “Who would care what I say, a runaway slave with blood on her hands?”

  “They might listen to me.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am apprenticed to Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio, one of the most respected artists in the city.”

  “Artist!” Fresina spat the word out like it was a seed that had been stuck to her tongue. “Why could you not be a man of influence? A banker perhaps.”

  Leonardo bristled. “I am also a debt collector.”

  Fresina pondered this. “That is more promising,” she admitted.

  “Yes, but still not enough,” Leonardo said. “We need to get to someone who will believe me, but we won’t get far if anybody spots the blood on your clothes. You stay here while I scout around.”

  He stood up and made his way around to the side of the tavern. Through an open window he could see the place was filled with workmen washing away the thirst of a long day with ale and wine, and satisfying their hunger with bread and roasted meat.

  The group nearest to him had cast their cloaks upon the floor close by. They had already littered their table with empty wine jugs and had just commenced a bawdy song about a soldier and a miller’s daughter.

  The landlord hurried over from the bar. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I beg you. There are some priests eating their supper at that table over there.”

  “Priests? Why should they worry?” joked one of the men. “They hear worse things every day in confession.”

  His friends all roared with laughter and they launched back into their song with fresh vigour. The landlord was still trying vainly to quiet them when Fresina appeared at Leonardo’s side.

  She peered inside and a sly smile lit her lips. “That is what we need.”

  Before Leonardo could stop her, she leaned in through the window. She stretched so far she would have fallen in if Leonardo had not caught hold of the back of her robe. She groped around until she located one of the discarded cloaks. With a hiss she wriggled back and slid down beside Leonardo, her prize bundled up in her arms.

  Inside the wine shop the singing continued without interruption. Leonardo stared at the girl, aghast. “You stole that!”

  “Of course. In Circassia a good thief is praised for his nimble fingers and his daring.”

  Leonardo sighed. A stolen cloak, he supposed, was a small enough crime compared to what they were already accused of.

  Fresina sneaked away from the window and wrapped the cloak around herself. Both the bloodstains and her distinctive slave’s garb were hidden in its folds.

  “There – now where do we go?”

  “There’s only one person I can go to,” said Leonardo, “but I don’t think he’ll be pleased to see us.”

  9 THE HAND OF GOD

  Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio’s own apartments were above the workshop and were reached by a private stairway off the main street. At the top of the steps Leonardo paused.

  “You keep quiet and let me do all the talking,” he instructed Fresina.

  “I hope you talk better than you fight,” Fresina muttered.

  Leonardo wondered whether he should have left her behind, but he dismissed the thought and knocked gently. There was a scuffle of feet and the door opened, revealing Maestro Andrea’s round face. The artist’s brow furrowed.

  “Leonardo da Vinci, what are you doing here?”

  “I need your help, Maestro,” Leonardo replied.

  Andrea stepped back to admit his visitors and closed the door behind them. “Who is this girl?” he asked.

  “I will explain everything to you,” Leonardo promised, “but first I must tell you this – neither of us is guilty of any crime.”

  A strange expression passed across Andrea’s face like a shadow on the moon. “You had best sit down,” he said, gesturing towards a bench.

  As he and Fresina seated themselves, Leonardo noted the girl’s eyes darting suspiciously about the simply furnished room, as if she expected a trap to be sprung. Andrea settled himself on a chair opposite and fixed his pupil with a quizzical gaze.

  “It all began with Sandro Botticelli,” said Leonardo. “He wanted me to help him with a piece of work without his client, Lorenzo de’ Medici, learning of my involvement. This was at the house of the Donati family. When Lorenzo de’ Medici unexpectedly called on the house, I was forced to hide inside a chest. When everyone else had left, I discovered that I was locked in.”

  He stopped and looked up, expecting Andrea to question him or to laugh at how ludicrous the story sounded. The artist’s face was a complete blank. With a tiny movement of the head he prompted his pupil to continue.

  From there on Leonardo told the whole story in as much detail as he could recall. He even admitted how he had fallen flat after leaping from the chest.

  “Finally, Maestro, I could think of nowhere else to go,” he concluded. “There was no one else I could trust.”

  Andrea leaned back and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Your story is absurd, Leonardo.”

  Fresina had kept doggedly silent, but now she burst out, “If he were making this up, would he make himself out such a fool? No, he would give himself the part of a hero.”

  “I did risk my life for you,” Leonardo reminded her, nettled by her critical words.

  Andrea raised a hand to quiet them both. He said to the girl, “It is not possible to make any sense of this unless we know why these men wished to dispose of you.”

  Fresina made a
disgusted noise. “It is as I told Leonardo, they talked nonsense.”

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what was said?” Andrea suggested placidly.

  Fresina sprang up. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and Andrea flinched at the sight of the blood on her dress. Oblivious to his reaction, she threw herself into her tale.

  “I creep along behind them, out of sight,” she began, tiptoeing across the floor. “Then I listen at the door they shut themselves behind.” She cocked an ear, re-enacting the whole scene. “I do not hear all because some of them speak louder than others. Tomasso, he is the quietest, the most afraid of being heard, but he is complaining that they ask too much of him.

  “‘Information is all we need,’ say the others. ‘The comings and goings of your mistress and her friend Lorenzo.’

  “Tomasso says something else. ‘You are too fond of the dice and the cards,’ the men say. ‘You owe us very much money. What do you think will happen if we call in the debt? You will go to prison and what will become of your wife and children?’

  “Tomasso is worried about someone he calls Il Gottoso. He worries what he will do.”

  “That is Piero de’ Medici,” said Andrea. “He suffers badly from gout, an inflammation of the joints that causes him great pain. That is why they call him Il Gottoso, the Gouty One.”

  “The other two say not to worry about him,” Fresina resumed, raising her voice to let them know she was vexed at being interrupted. “They say everything has been arranged and Il Gottoso will be struck down by the hand of God.”

  “God?” Leonardo repeated, puzzled.

  Fresina silenced him with a scowl. “Yes, God!” she repeated emphatically. “Tomasso makes a noise like he is giving in. ‘You must be ready for the signal to let our men in,’ they tell him. ‘We will strike like lightning and there will be no time for mistakes.’ One of them laughs when they say this. I do not know why.”

  Leonardo was about to interrupt but Andrea signalled him to keep quiet.

  “Then I lean too hard against the door,” said Fresina, stumbling forward. “It falls open and I am seen. I turn and run, but they chase me down the passage. Tomasso takes hold of me and they drag me into the closest room before I can get free.” She wrapped her arms around herself and wobbled from side to side. “After that Leonardo has told you all, the foolishness included.”

  “And you do not know who these men were?” Andrea asked. The girl shook her head. He turned to Leonardo. “Nor you?”

  “One of them I saw at Silvestro’s yesterday, but all I know is that his name is Rodrigo.”

  Andrea got up and went to his desk. He came back with a sheet of paper and a piece of crayon which he handed to his pupil. “Draw the man who was commanding Rodrigo.”

  Leonardo quickly sketched the features of the two men. Fresina leaned over him, puckering her mouth. “The nose should be longer,” she said.

  “It is exactly correct,” Leonardo retorted testily. He handed the drawing to his master.

  Andrea bit his lip. “You did not recognise this man?” he asked, pointing to the aristocratic face.

  “No,” Leonardo replied.

  Andrea tapped the picture with his finger. “He is Diotisalvi Neroni, the most dangerous man in Florence. I heard he has a mercenary in his employ, a Spaniard who acts as bodyguard and messenger for him. If Neroni is your accuser, you may as well stick your head in the noose.”

  “But, Maestro, what is all this about?”

  Andrea sat down again and motioned to the other two to do likewise. “As you know,” he began, “when the bankrupt aristocrats lost power and the trade guilds took over the running of our city, the Signoria was created, a body of nine men elected every two months from the membership of the guilds. The day to day affairs of Florence are tended by the Signoria, but there are important decisions which cannot be left to their squabbling. That is why the real power lies with the head of the wealthy Medici family, first the great Cosimo de’ Medici and now his son Piero.”

  “Lorenzo’s father,” Leonardo explained to Fresina.

  “I know that!” she hissed at him.

  “Since Cosimo’s death,” Andrea continued, “Luca Pitti, a vain buffoon who fancies himself a hero of the people, has been trying to oust the Medici and make himself our leading citizen. He has not the wit to achieve this himself, but he has a dangerous ally in Neroni. Neroni is as cunning as a fox and he knows that it is he himself who will really hold the reins of power should the Medici fall.”

  “What can we do against such a man?” asked Leonardo.

  “Nothing,” Andrea declared flatly. “All we can do is get you out of here. As soon as they learn who you are, this is the first place they will come looking for you.”

  “Could you not go to the Medici and tell them?” Leonardo suggested.

  “Tell them what?” Andrea demanded. “That my apprentice was locked in a chest? That he has fled with a runaway slave girl and they are both accused of murder? And what will become of me, do you think, if it ever comes out that I had a hand in helping you?”

  Leonardo hung his head. Until now he had not thought of just how much trouble he was bringing down on his master. “I am sorry. There was nowhere else.”

  Andrea huffed for a moment and then spoke in a more sympathetic tone. “What we must do is get you out of the city before the Constable’s men find you here.”

  The next instant all three of them started in fright. As if in answer to Andrea’s words, there was an urgent banging at the door.

  10 THE OUTCASTS OF HEAVEN

  Andrea stood bolt upright. Inhaling sharply between clenched teeth, he waved Leonardo and Fresina to a corner out of sight. The banging grew louder. Taking a moment to straighten his tunic and restore his composure, Andrea walked up to the door and opened it.

  Sandro Botticelli almost fell headlong into the room.

  “Andrea,” he gasped, “have you seen Leonardo? I looked for him among the apprentices downstairs but—”

  Andrea yanked him into the centre of the room and slammed the door shut. As soon as he glimpsed Leonardo lurking in the corner Sandro raised his eyes to Heaven with hands outspread. “May all the saints be thanked!” he exclaimed.

  “Sandro!” Leonardo cried, running to clasp his friend’s hand.

  When they had released each other, Sandro caught sight of Fresina emerging from the shadows. “You’ve brought the murderess here!” he exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

  “She’s no more a killer than I am,” said Leonardo. “But tell me, what are you doing here?”

  “We got to the dinner party at Alberti’s house and – can you believe it? – I was seated at the very lowest part of the table between some Greek silk trader who barely spoke a word of Italian and a fish merchant with bad breath. Fine clients they would make for an aspiring artist!”

  “Sandro, we do not have much time,” Andrea pressed him.

  “Yes, of course,” said Sandro. “I was still thinking of Leonardo back at the Donati house, hoping he had managed to get out without ruining our plan. I made an excuse and left Alberti’s, intending to gain entry to the Torre Donati by claiming I had returned for some brushes I had left behind. When I got there the whole street was in uproar. I was told that the chamberlain had been murdered by a slave girl, who had then fled with an unidentified youth.”

  “Unidentified – what a relief!” said Leonardo.

  “It won’t be long before they find out who you are,” said Sandro. “All they have to do is ask Lucrezia Donati.” He groaned. “How could you get into such a mess? What happened to the man Tomasso?”

  “It was two other men who killed him,” Leonardo replied. “They made it look as though Fresina had committed the crime and they planned to do away with her as well. I explained it all to Maestro Andrea.”

  Andrea was pacing the floor in long strides, clenching and unclenching his fists. Catching Sandro’s eye, he said, “We all know the penalty for aiding an escaped slave is death
, but we cannot worry about that. Even as we speak the city gates are being closed, so the only way out is by the river.”

  “My father has a rowboat,” said Sandro. “He keeps it tied up by the tannery, close to the water. He used to use it a lot, but now he—”

  Andrea stopped him short with a jab of his finger. “Go and fetch it as quickly as you can. We will meet you beneath the Ponte alle Grazia, here on the north side of the river.”

  He bundled the young artist outside and shut the door after him. Then he turned to Fresina and rubbed his jaw like a man plagued by a toothache.

  “You cannot go around in that bloodstained dress. We will have to find you some other clothes. Perhaps we could borrow an outfit from one of the apprentices.”

  Soon they were hurrying through the streets towards the river. Fresina was dressed in a tunic and breeches with her long, fair hair bunched up under a round cap. The stolen cloak was wrapped around her slender shoulders.

  “It’s lucky Gabriello is close to her size,” said Leonardo.

  “I’ll buy him a fresh suit of clothes to replace these,” said Andrea.

  Fresina sniffed at her sleeve. “They are not even clean.”

  “I had to take them out of the laundry pile so no one would notice,” said Leonardo. “I didn’t think a slave would be so fussy.”

  “My mistress always insists my clothes are clean and spotless,” said Fresina proudly. “The Donati keep a very fine house.”

  “Then why don’t you go back to the Donati?” snapped Leonardo. “Obviously nothing I’ve done is good enough for you.”

  Fresina’s lip quivered. Averting her face she hurried on ahead. Leonardo felt ashamed of himself for lashing out at her. He started to catch up, but Andrea laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let her cry her tears now and get them out of the way.”

  By now they had reached the river’s edge. A slippery path took them down under the Ponte alle Grazia, which was the closest bridge to the workshop.

  The water lapped quietly against the stonework, and here and there the dark shape of a boat slid silently down the river. Chapels had been built upon the piers that thrust out from the bridge and from them came the rhythmic murmur of worshippers at their evening prayers. Fresina slumped into a heap in the shadows, her face buried in her folded arms.