A Bolt from the Blue

2

An instant later, I heard a shout and a bark behind me; then Vittorio and Pio came rushing past, their long legs readily putting distance between them and me as we headed toward the workshop. I grinned more broadly and slowed my pace, letting them take the lead. The corset I secretly wore beneath my tunic, tightly tied to flatten my female attributes, also held my lungs in check and made running for more than a short distance difficult.

Thus, I found myself the subject of Vittorio’s good-natured taunting when I finally caught up with him and the panting hound not far from Leonardo’s quarters.

“Ha, you run slow as a girl,” the youth declared as I joined him. He strutted about in triumph while Pio was content to flop on his side in the grass, pink tongue lolling. “All your moping has made you grow weak. Look at you, Dino. Once you were taller than me, but I have outstripped you in height as well as speed!”

Standing there beside him, I realized he spoke the truth. He was a good head taller than me and might soon be as tall as the Master. And how had I not realized before now that his once-smooth chin was covered in blond stubble grown in a fair imitation of Leonardo’s neat dark beard? Even his voice had lost its childish timbre and had deepened.

For Vittorio was no longer a boy but was almost a man, I realized in chagrin. And surely such was the case with most of the other apprentices with whom I had begun my studies more than a year ago. So caught up had I been in my own sorrows these past months that I had paid scant attention to my fellows, had missed the way they were rapidly taking on adult bearings. And as more time passed, they must notice that I, alone of their number, remained small and smooth-cheeked, voice never growing deeper and form never broadening.

But even if they remained oblivious to such differences, surely the Master, with his keen eye for the human body, would become suspicious when one of his boys never grew to be a man.

To cover my dismay, I assumed an offended air. “You may be faster and taller, Vittorio, but I am still your senior in age. You should show respect to me.”

“I respect the fact that you are far slower than me,” he replied with a grin, his humor dimmed not at all by my censure.

Giving a light tug to the small hound’s lead, he went on. “Pio and I are off to find more pleasant company. But I overheard Constantin and Tito making plans to wander the marketplace and look for likely subjects to depict the apostles in the Master’s next fresco. Why don’t you go along with them?”

“Perhaps I will, when I finish this last sketch,” I agreed with a careless shrug, though I knew full well I would do no such thing. “Now go, and be sure to tell me later how you fared with Novella.”

I gave Pio a final scratch behind the ears and waved away the pair of them. Boy-or, rather, young man-and hound trotted eagerly in the direction of the castle gates. I waited until Vittorio and his charge were halfway across the grassy quadrangle that stretched between the main castle and its battlement-topped walls. Then, after making certain I was alone, I settled upon the rough bench outside the workshop and let my notebook slip to the seat beside me.

My small moment of pleasure had already faded, replaced by the familiar cloak of sorrow. Certainly, the day itself could not be blamed for my unsettled humor. The cloudless sky above provided a cheery blue backdrop for small flocks of birds making their annual return to their native fields. The castle’s neatly regimented trees and gardens were in the midst of their own resurgence, tender leaves and blossoms budding with grand enthusiasm from every branch and stem. Even the air around me was ripe with promise, with just enough nip lingering from the previous chill night that the coming warmth of the afternoon would be that much more welcome. Indeed, all of nature seemed to be marching with unbridled eagerness into this new season.

I, however, felt as if I were caught in a perpetual winter.

Once, the prospect of wandering the grand city of Milan would have been most inviting. What better escapade could there be than losing myself in its flamboyant tangle of canals and market squares and narrow cobbled ways? But since that terrible night of several months past, I had sworn off adventure of even the mildest sort.

I sighed, realizing that some small part of me still missed that excitement. It seemed a lifetime ago when I would eagerly wait for the Master to summon me in the middle of the night, so that I might help him solve whatever puzzle was foremost in his thoughts. And as for my elegant page’s outfit, it gathered dust lying in the bottom of the trunk where I kept my belongings.

The garb had sprung from Luigi’s clever needle, specially commissioned by the Master for me. Disguised as his boy servant, I had accompanied the Master in his dealings with dukes and ambassadors and contes, being paid scant notice by such nobles because of my humble role. Such clothes also allowed me to mingle with the castle’s servants, so that I might be privy to secrets that Leonardo could never learn in his position. But now those handsome silks lay unworn these many months, hidden away in much the same manner that I, for all practical purposes, had hidden myself.

“Dino!”

The sound of my name being called shook me from my thoughts. It was not one of my fellows who summoned me but instead was the Master himself. His business in the city must have taken less time than he had imagined. . That, or some more urgent matter had caused him to return early. Obediently, I jumped to my feet, while hoping that he did not seek me out, in particular.

But, of course, he did.

“It is well that you are here and easily found, my dear boy. You have saved me the trouble of searching you out,” Leonardo said in satisfaction, striding toward me.

Despite my dismay, I watched his approach with my usual admiration. While often the Master wore the same humble tunic and trunk hose as we apprentices, other times he dressed with the fastidious elegance of a noble. Today was such a day, though this particular tunic was of more sober cut than the bright colors he usually favored.

Tailored in dark blue trimmed in brown, the garment’s sleeves were slashed to reveal the cream-colored blouse he wore beneath. The tunic’s short length showed to advantage his long legs encased in parti-colored dark blue and cream trunk hose. A matching puffed cap in blue and cream perched rakishly atop his mane of dark russet hair, which streamed to his shoulders and glinted beneath the midday sun. Given the splendid figure he cut, it was no wonder that Leonardo was accounted one of the most handsome men at Castle Sforza.

A small blade of sorrow abruptly pierced me. For a time after I’d first arrived at his workshop, I’d harbored a thrilling if quite secret admiration for Leonardo, though his behavior toward me-or, rather, toward Dino-had been nothing but paternal. I had even allowed myself to daydream of what might happen between us should he ever learn the truth as to my true sex. But all that had changed when, in the space of a few days, I had found and lost my first great love, the Duke of Milan’s dashing captain of the guard.

In my grief, I had blamed Leonardo for that horrific accident that had claimed both my captain and the young contessa. I had finally come to understand that the Master had been but an instrument in setting in motion the tragedy, but the damage to my heart had been done. Perhaps the only good to come of the situation was the fact that, in the aftermath, I had sorted out my feelings toward Leonardo. My regard for him was no longer that of a maid for a man but simply that of a student for his master.

He halted before me, his expression unreadable as he towered above me. “While I am pleased to have discovered you so readily, this day was to be yours,” he reminded me. “I had hopes that you might leave the castle grounds along with the other apprentices.”

“I was doing as you instructed, Master, and spent the day sketching,” I protested. “I felt I could apply myself with greater attention here at the castle, rather than being distracted by the sights and noise of the city.”

“My dear boy, sometimes it does one good to seek out distraction,” he countered with a smile. “But since you have applied yourself with such great diligence, let us see what you have accomplished.”

Too late, I realized his intent. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could stop him, the Master caught up my notebook and flipped open its soft leather cover.

The small volume fell open to the page where I’d tucked the bit of chalk, revealing the sketch I had been working upon when Pio disturbed me. I swallowed back a sound of dismay as I watched Leonardo’s smile fade, his gaze fi xed upon the page. What he would say when he finally spoke, I could not guess. All I knew was that this particular portrait was one I had not wished to share with anyone, especially not with him.

A long moment passed while he surveyed the work. . a likeness of the archangel Michael, his wings unfurled and blazing sword drawn. It was a common enough theme that I had chosen, the subject as familiar as any of the saints or mythological figures that peopled the Master’s frescoes. At first glance, my warrior angel would have warranted no greater interest than any other artist’s rendering of that subject.

But I knew that Leonardo would look more closely.

In my mind’s eye, I saw what he saw, handsome features rendered in black chalk and set into implacable lines reflecting an archangel’s vengeful nature. The figure’s pose was traditional, his gaze firmly fixed beyond the viewer. But while dressed in the expected white robes and shiny battle raiment, this Michael’s muscular form transcended the usual depiction. Indeed, he resembled not so much a godly messenger as a sensual and quite human male, so that the drawing might be seen as less a study of religion and more a lesson in anatomy.

But what made it more than a simple portrait were the eyes.

I had thought to reflect that same potent male energy in his gaze. What had appeared upon the page was instead something darker, starker. These eyes held no boastful, righteous fury; rather, they silently spoke of the inner pain of a simple soldier who had wearied of the fight, no longer caring that his battles were divinely ordained.

And, of course, I had needed no model for my portrait. The face I had given my archangel was the same handsome dark face that I saw in my dreams each night. . the same face that I would never again see in my waking hours.

Even as those thoughts flashed through my mind, Leonardo looked up to meet my gaze again. For an instant, his eyes seemed to mirror the anguish of those eyes upon the page before him, seemed to recognize the pain in my heart. My breath stilled for an instant. Could it be that he, too, relived the events of that terrible night, as I did?

Just as swiftly, he regained his usual expression of mild good humor. He closed the notebook and handed it back to me.

“Very well-done, my boy. I believe it is time to put you to work painting frescoes instead of merely plastering walls.”

I had no time to ponder that unexpected move upward in my apprenticeship, however, for he added, “We shall speak of your new role later. For the moment, I need you to follow me, as I require your presence in my quarters to discuss this new project I have begun for Il Moro.”

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!”