Leonardo and the Death Machine Page 7

  “Maestro,” Leonardo began, “I know how much trouble I am bringing down upon you, but…”

  Andrea waved the apology aside. “I do it for myself because I too was once unjustly accused,” he said gruffly. Then he added, “And I do it for you…because you have it in you to one day be a great artist.”

  Leonardo was taken aback. It was the first compliment Andrea had ever paid him. “Really, Maestro?”

  “Do you think I would have tolerated you this long if I did not believe that?”

  “But I thought Nicolo was your favourite. You allow him to do real art while I wash brushes and prepare canvas.”

  “I encourage him to practise his technique, for although it is a pale imitation of my own, it is all he will ever have. From you I expect more. I expect you to find something inside yourself that will make you both a great artist and a great man. Everything else follows from that.”

  “That’s what I want too, Maestro.”

  “No, Leonardo, what you want is success, fame and wealth. But those are not the things that make a man great.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me tell you a story that someone once told to me,” said Andrea. He gazed out over the surface of the river, as if he could see pictures forming there. “Long ago, at the beginning of the world, when Satan in his pride rebelled against God, there were angels who were too cowardly to join either side. They thought only of themselves and hid from the war in Heaven.

  “Afterwards, as they were neither good enough for Heaven nor wicked enough for Hell, God took away their wings and exiled them to earth. Here they became the souls of men, and only by proving their courage can they regain their wings. That is what makes us great, Leonardo, our choices and the courage we need to make them.”

  Leonardo fell silent. For the first time he realised how little he had understood of what his master had been trying to teach him ever since he arrived in Florence.

  Fresina’s voice suddenly piped up. “The boat!”

  She jumped to her feet, her spirits instantly restored.

  Andrea frowned. “Is it Sandro?”

  Leonardo’s keen eyes peered through the gloom. “Yes, it is.” He waved and Sandro returned his salute before bringing the boat to rest beneath the bridge. Sandro’s face bore signs of strain and Leonardo felt a pang of conscience: it must have been very hard for him to row this far with an injured wrist.

  “Get in quickly!” Sandro urged breathlessly.

  He helped Fresina and Leonardo climb aboard but when Sandro tried to sit down again, Leonardo hauled him up by the arm.

  “You stay here, Sandro. We will go the rest of the way ourselves.”

  “But how will my father get his boat back?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Leonardo grimly. “Worry about what will happen to you if you are caught helping us.”

  “Leonardo is right,” Andrea said, offering his hand. “You have done all you can.”

  He helped Sandro ashore then pushed the boat away from the bank. Sandro gave a wave of farewell before Andrea dragged him off. As he watched them disappear, Leonardo realised that he was not so alone as he had always thought. But the knowledge may have come too late: he did not know if he would ever see Andrea and Sandro again.

  He turned the boat around and started westward, keeping close to the shore so they could hide in the shadows. Only when he looked back and saw the walls of Florence slipping into the darkness behind them did he begin to relax.

  “We should be safe now,” he said. “With any luck they won’t guess we’ve managed to escape the city.”

  “There is no escape for me,” said Fresina. “Wherever I go, I am still a slave and I will be hunted.”

  Leonardo adjusted their course to avoid a sandbank. “How did you become a slave?” he asked after a long silence. “Were you convicted of a crime or captured in war?”

  “My father needed money. So he sold me.”

  “Your father?” Leonardo was shocked.

  Fresina shrugged. “It is common enough. After all, a daughter cannot fight in battle or plough a field. He told me I was going to become an important lady in the palace of a Turkish sultan. Instead, I was packed into a cramped, smelly ship with a hundred other slaves, many of them younger than me.”

  She rubbed a hand across her eyes and continued. “We sailed, I do not know for how long. There is no night and day in the darkness below decks. At last I was brought to the city of Venice and locked up there. I was given short but intense lessons in the Italian tongue and the Christian faith – so that I would fetch a better price.”

  “You must hate your father,” Leonardo said.

  Fresina’s face was invisible in the dark. “He had to think of the good of the family,” she said. “We Circassians are a practical people.”

  “I think perhaps we are not so very different from each other after all,” Leonardo murmured.

  “You still have not told me where we are going,” said Fresina. “Are you just going to row and row until somebody stops us?”

  “I’m taking you home,” Leonardo grunted between strokes of the oars.

  Fresina leapt up with a squeak, almost overbalancing the boat. Leonardo gripped the side to keep himself from falling overboard and waved her angrily back to her seat.

  “Sit down, you silly little fool! You almost capsized us!”

  Fresina sat back down with a defiant glower. “Why are you so afraid? Can you not swim?”

  Leonardo realised his hand was trembling. With an effort of will he managed to steady it. “Of course I can swim,” he snapped. “But there are treacherous currents in this river that can suck you under unexpectedly. A man would have to be able to breathe underwater to survive them.”

  Fresina narrowed her eyes, realising that she had given him a genuine scare. “I will sit still if you wish,” she said, “but do you really think you can reach Circassia in this boat?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Leonardo. “I’m takingyou to my home. To Anchiano.”

  “Oh,” said Fresina, her shoulders sagging.

  “Believe me,” Leonardo told her, “I’d much rather we were going to Circassia, no matter how far away it is. We’d probably get a warmer welcome there.”

  11 THE HOMECOMING

  The next day even the landscape seemed to bear out the truth of Leonardo’s words. It was not very welcoming.

  “How many more hills must we climb?” Fresina complained, flinging herself down on the grass. “I swear we could have walked to Circassia by now.”

  Leonardo did his best to be patient. “We’ve come most of the way by boat,” he said, “and it’s only a few more miles on foot.”

  He had tied the boat up in the night so they could catch a few hours’ sleep. They had resumed their journey with the dawn, following the Arno westward to where it would eventually reach the port of Pisa and the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. An hour ago they pulled into shore close to the town of Empoli and concealed the boat beneath some overhanging bushes. Leonardo knew they might need it again, depending on what happened when they reached Anchiano.

  He sat down beside the girl, his eyes following a hawk as it sailed effortlessly across the blue sky.

  “Why are you always watching the birds?” Fresina asked suspiciously. “Are you looking for omens?”

  “I don’t believe in omens,” said Leonardo. “I want to understand how birds fly.”

  “And why do you want to know that?”

  “When I was only an infant, a bird – a kite it was – landed in my cot. It hopped on to my chest then tickled my nose with its tail feathers before flying away. I stretched out my arms and howled because I couldn’t fly after it.”

  “And that is why you watch the birds – because you want to fly after them?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Fresina nodded knowingly. “You want to be a sorcerer then.”

  “Of course not. Only fools believe in magic.”

  “H
ow can a man fly without magic?” Fresina demanded, waving her fingers under his nose. “He cannot fly unless he first tames the spirits of air.”

  “The spirits of air?”

  Fresina scowled at his ignorance. “Back in Circassia we have wizards who know of such things. They summon the spirits of air to bring the wind and the spirits of water to bring rain. Of course, now that I am a Christian…” she made a perfunctory sign of the cross over her breast “…I no longer believe in such things.”

  “I believe in the things I can see, the things I can touch,” said Leonardo. “A bird, by the action of its wings, moves through the air the way a fish swims in water. So why can’t a man do the same?”

  “Because he has no wings,” said Fresina. “You can no more fly with the birds than I can sit at table with my mistress.”

  “I would need to build something,” Leonardo admitted. “Wings of leather or wickerwork perhaps.” Suddenly, he could see himself soaring over the green hills of Tuscany with a huge pair of man-made wings strapped to his back.

  Fresina squinted at him critically. “You are a fool if you will not use magic. The men who are trying to kill us are sorcerers and only magic can protect us from them.” She spat on her forefinger and smeared an invisible symbol on her brow. “If you have any sense, you too will make a mark against the evil eye.”

  Leonardo roused from his reverie. “What makes you think they’re sorcerers?”

  Fresina almost snarled with impatience. “Did I not tell you what they said? They are going to summon the hand of God to destroy their enemies, just like the sorcerers in my own land. In Circassia they call upon Shible for thunder, Tleps for fire and Seosseres for wind.”

  “You need to leave those superstitions behind,” said Leonardo. “All they do is muddle the mind. Do you talk this way to your master and mistress?”

  Fresina swallowed suddenly and seized him by the hand. “You must swear to tell no one I spoke of these things,” she said urgently. “I am a good Christian now and I would be beaten if my master, Signor Donati, knew I had spoken of heathen things.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Leonardo promised. “But this has nothing to do with magic. It’s something to do with a machine.”

  Fresina wrinkled her face at him as though he were raving.

  “Never mind,” Leonardo sighed. “That knowledge won’t do us any good now.” He had meant to show the drawing to Maestro Andrea, but events had moved too quickly. And Anchiano was the last place on earth where he could expect such mysteries to be solved.

  Overhead, the hawk swooped down on an unsuspecting sparrow and snatched it away in its sharp claws. The ruthlessness of the kill reminded Leonardo of how the man Rodrigo had slain Tomasso with one thrust of his dagger.

  He stood up and offered Fresina his hand. “Come on. We must not delay.”

  Peasants were out among the vineyards and orchards, chatting as they worked. Knowing all the paths and tracks of the region, Leonardo was able to keep his distance from them to ensure he was not recognised.

  “You say your family has a farm here?” said Fresina.

  “Yes, up there on the slopes of Monte Albano,” said Leonardo, pointing to the high ground ahead. “Vinci, the town we take our family name from, is on the other side of the mountain. Most of our fields are hired out to peasant farmers who pay a share of their crop as rent to my grandfather Antonio.”

  “And your father lives here also?”

  “Sometimes,” Leonardo answered uncomfortably. “He’s a notary.”

  “What is that?”

  “He draws up business contracts and arranges the sale of land and property,” Leonardo explained. “He travels a lot because of his work.”

  “But your mother will be here.”

  “No, she will not,” Leonardo responded sharply.

  Fresina flinched at the harshness of his tone. She eyed him curiously. “Then who is there to help us?”

  “My grandparents are kindly people,” Leonardo explained. “They may find us a place to hide until this business is cleared up.”

  He broke off at the sight of a familiar figure ahead and a happy smile drove the trouble from his face. A rugged, wide-shouldered man with thick curly hair was striding towards them, carrying a pitchfork in one hand. Leonardo waved eagerly.

  “Who is this?” Fresina asked.

  “It’s my uncle!” Leonardo exclaimed. “Uncle Francesco!”

  He ran to the man and the two embraced. By the time Fresina had caught up, Leonardo had become sober again. “Is my father here?” he asked.

  The welcoming grin faded from Francesco da Vinci’s plain, guileless face. “He’s in Pistoia on business. Don’t expect him back before tomorrow.”

  “And is she with him?”

  “She is,” Francesco replied.

  “That’s good,” said Leonardo. “I wouldn’t want him involved. Not with his reputation.”

  “Involved in what?” asked Francesco. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Fresina. “And who is this?”

  “Fresina, the reason I’m here,” said Leonardo. “We had to get out of Florence to escape some powerful men.”

  Francesco’s brow creased like a newly ploughed field and he worked his lips as if he were digesting a difficult meal. “It sounds complicated,” he said. “You can explain when we get home.”

  He strode off up the winding path and Leonardo and Fresina followed behind.

  “He talks younger than he looks,” Fresina observed in a whisper.

  “He has a good heart,” Leonardo said defensively, “even though my father treats him like a fool.”

  Soon they came to a large cottage surrounded by several smaller outbuildings. Franceso paused. “Best the girl stays out here till we talk to your grandfather,” he said.

  Leonardo agreed. “Fresina, you stay out of sight by that wagon over there. I’ll come for you shortly.”

  He followed Franceso indoors to a plain room with a large hearth, a simple rug and one hanging on the wall showing a scene of a horse race. The old man seated by the fireplace stood up shakily. A weak smile shone through his thick white beard.

  “Leonardo!” he said. “My boy, how have you been?”

  “Well, Grandfather,” Leonardo replied, embracing the old man.

  “Your grandmother will be overjoyed,” said the aged Ser Antonio da Vinci. “She misses you greatly. Even more than Francesco misses your help on the farm.”

  “Wait till I show you the new calves, Leonardo,” Francesco beamed.

  Leonardo was about to speak, but was struck dumb when another man emerged from the back of the house. He was tall and handsome and dressed in a fine brocaded doublet. Behind him was a pretty young woman, only a few years older than Leonardo, whose head was bowed in wifely submission.

  “Piero, what are you doing here?” Francesco exclaimed. “I thought you were in Pistoia.”

  “My business concluded early,” replied Piero da Vinci. “More to the point, what is my son doing here?” He turned a baleful eye upon Leonardo.

  12 THE PRODIGAL SON

  If he had been dragged in chains before the magistrates of Florence, Leonardo could not have felt more guilty. His throat went dry and he had to cough before he could speak. The last thing he could do now was tell the truth.

  “Hello, Father,” he said lamely. “I had a few days free so I thought I would come home.”

  His father’s proud lips curled. “To do what exactly? To almost drown in the river again? To fill the house with lizards and insects?”

  “They were models for his drawing,” said Francesco. “And very fine monsters he made out of them too.”

  “That is why he belongs with Andrea del Verrocchio,” said Ser Piero. “To turn that idle scribbling into a proper profession. He shows little enough aptitude for the law or for farming.” He fixed a suspicious eye on Leonardo. “Why should Andrea allow you to go? Today is no holiday that I know of.”

  “Things are very slow at the works
hop,” Leonardo said, knowing how feeble this sounded.

  “You aren’t in some sort of trouble again, are you?” Ser Piero asked accusingly. “I told Andrea to keep a sharp eye on you. I warned him of how undisciplined you are.”

  Leonardo shuffled his feet and could not meet his father’s eyes. “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “Then why are you here? What are you hiding?”

  Leonardo knew he had to come up with a reason his father would accept without question and he could think of only one. He looked up and spoke clearly.

  “I came to ask for money.”

  “Ha! I thought as much!” said Ser Piero, raising a hand in the air as though he had just scored a point in court. “Did I not negotiate a salary for you with Andrea? Did I not give you enough to equip yourself for your new career?”

  “Life in Florence is very expensive,” said Leonardo petulantly. He knew that the worse he made himself appear in his father’s eyes, the less chance there was his father would question his reasons for being in Anchiano.

  “What is expensive? Fine clothes? The best wine? That is not what I sent you there for.”

  “I must make an appearance of being a gentleman,” said Leonardo. “I would not want to shame you.”

  “Shame me? If you are neglecting your studies to come here begging for money, then that is exactly what you are doing.”

  Ser Antonio tried to intervene. “Piero, I am sure he will not be staying long. We could spare him something.”

  “Do not let him take advantage of your soft heart, Father,” said Piero. “He does not even have the manners to greet his mother properly.”

  He ushered his young bride forward. The girl looked embarrassed, but did her best to smile upon her stepson. Leonardo bowed his head.

  “Piero, he has come a long way,” said Francesco mildly. “We should offer him a meal.”

  “There is food for him in Florence,” growled Piero. “Maestro Andrea does not let his apprentices starve, even if he does not dress them up in silk and gold.”