A Bolt from the Blue

6

My gasp was audible, even as my tongue momentarily failed me. As for my father, his mild features darkened in outrage.

“I cannot permit such a travesty, signore,” he decreed, his tone defiant. “The boy is dead, and by another man’s hand. We cannot pretend this did not happen. We must discover the villain responsible and bring him to justice.”

“Master, surely you cannot mean to abandon Constantin’s body,” I cried before he could answer, having finally regained my voice. “He is-was-my friend and your loyal apprentice. He deserves better than to be left for a carrion eater’s feast! Why can you not go to Il Moro’s guard and tell them of this crime so that they might attempt to find his killer?”

Leonardo raised a hand in protest, his expression as stern as my father’s. “Temper your outrage, and I shall explain further. . but first, I must show you what I discovered tucked into Constantin’s purse as I was settling him beneath a cloth.”

He reached into his tunic and withdrew a thin sheaf of folded papers. Smoothing their creases, he wordlessly proffered them for my father’s examination. He began to peruse them, while I shamelessly gazed over his shoulder to see what secrets they held.

I needed but a glimpse to realize that the papers belonged to Leonardo. The tightly scribed writing in the familiar mirrored hand that ran from right to left could belong to no one else. As for the sketches that illustrated that text, they showed sections of the very flying machine that we had spent the afternoon testing. I noticed, as well, that one edge of each page was uneven, and I guessed that they must have been cut with haste from one of the Master’s many notebooks.

I ventured as much aloud, earning his approving nod.

“The volume that once held these pages is even now sitting on the table in my private workshop.”

He paused and shrugged.

“When they were removed from their binding, I cannot say, though these particular sketches were completed perhaps a month ago. And I am not in the habit of reviewing my work once it has been committed to paper. Thus, if not for this day’s tragic incident, another few weeks might have passed before I ever discovered the theft.”

“And you believe that these drawings of your flying machine are the reason for the young man’s murder?” my father asked, his frown deepening.

Leonardo nodded. “As I told you on your arrival, the duke is most anxious for a demonstration of the flying craft. He has fears regarding his treaty with France, which is in jeopardy.”

He paused to lower his voice, though there was no one about save my father and me to hear him.

“It is not commonly known, but as we speak Il Moro and a contingent of his men are on their way to a secret rendezvous with the French king’s representatives,” he went on. “But his greater concern is his alliances within the province. . particularly the treaty with his newest ally, the Duke of Pontalba. Ludovico’s military might on the ground, while adequate, is insufficient to give him free rein in this region.”

He raised a cautioning finger skyward. “Should Il Moro prove to these nobles that he holds domination in the sky-a feat that no one in history has ever before accomplished! — his problem is solved. They will have no choice but to submit to him. But if someone else manages to conquer the clouds before he does, both he and Milan will find themselves subject to another man’s rule.”

While we considered that state of affairs, Leonardo managed what was, for him, a humble expression.

“Certainly, we must allow for the possibility that another man in the region has the intellect to conceive of a similar design on his own,” he conceded. “But word of such a genius would surely have come to my ears by now, just as my own reputation spread beyond Florence. And as I have heard tell of no comparable man, I deem it unlikely. But should a person gain access to my design, my notes. .”

The Master trailed off with a shrug. Returning the pages to him, my father stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Your drawings that I have seen thus far are detailed. With them, a man with an apt hand and sharp mind might manage to build his own flying machine,” he agreed. “But if that had been the intent, who of the duke’s allies-or enemies-would be bold enough to set a spy out to steal your design? And why was your apprentice murdered, and yet these pages left behind?”

“Those are the questions that plague me, and the reason I am loath to let word of Constantin’s murder spread until I have a chance to speak with Il Moro.”

As he spoke, Leonardo started toward the spot where Constantin lay. Reluctantly, I followed after him, my father at my side with his hand again resting upon my shoulder.

I was reassured to see that the apprentice’s face and upper body were covered by the same cloth in which the small flying machine had earlier been wrapped. But barely had I registered that relief when Leonardo knelt beside the still figure and drew back the fabric, exposing the youth’s pale, still features.

“Now, we must connect these stolen drawings to Constantin,” he coolly declared, his gaze unyielding as he looked down upon his senior apprentice.

“As I see it, two possibilities exist,” he went on. “The first is that Constantin accidentally discovered that someone had stolen the pages-perhaps caught him in the very act-and attempted to recover them. But, tragically, his bold attempt was met with violence. The thief dared not let his identity be revealed and so stooped to cruel murder lest Constantin reveal his treachery to all.”

He paused and drew the cloth lower, revealing the bloody bolt, which he must have pulled from Constantin’s back. The short arrow lay upon the youth’s thin chest like a spent bird, its metal tip and sleek wood shaft stained in dried blood, the fletched feathers tipped in gore. I shuddered at the sight, knowing this was one image I would never scrub from my memory.

“The second possibility,” he continued, “is that Constantin himself stole the sketches. . perhaps at someone else’s behest, or else with the idea that he might find a person willing to pay him good coin for the information. But something went wrong-treachery among thieves, perhaps-and he was killed for his efforts.”

“No, Master,” I choked out, shaking my head. “Constantin would never betray you in such a fashion! Of that, I am certain. Remember, too, that he called for your help with his last breath. Pray, do not let him go to his grave with such a stain upon his reputation!”

Leonardo surveyed the youth’s face a moment longer before once more drawing the cloth over his slack features. Then, with a sigh, he rose and led us a decent distance from the body.

“Believe me, my dear boy,” he answered my plea, “I do not wish to consider such evil of so fine a youth. But until we discover his assailant, we must prepare ourselves for any explanation.”

Straightening his tunic with its rust-colored slash of dried blood across his breast, he addressed my father.

“The manner of Constantin’s murder is our greatest clue. You will agree that a crossbow is not the weapon of a common man but that of a noble or a soldier. Did you perhaps take note of the bolt that struck him down?”

“It appeared finely crafted of some hard wood, perhaps English yew, and the fletching is expertly tied,” Angelo replied. “But the bolt is short. It must have come from a weapon small enough to be spanned using a simple lever. . a weapon that could be fired with one hand.”

I promptly thought of the crossbows that Il Moro’s soldiers used. Most of their weapons were of the sort that required not so much skill as brute force to handle. With a broad bow mounted upon a long stock, these weapons were far more powerful at a short distance than a traditional bow, if perhaps less accurate. But while an archer of but moderate strength could readily nock an arrow onto a long bow, I had seen for myself that spanning a crossbow took far greater force.

The older style of these weapons was still carried by some of the gray-haired mercenaries who filled the ranks of Il Moro’s army. This crossbow required the assistance of a large hook that dangled from the soldier’s belt and that was designed to catch the slack bowstring. Pointing the crossbow toward the ground, the man would place one raised foot into the metal stirrup mounted at the end of the crossbow’s wooden stock, almost as if he were climbing into a saddle. But rather than making a graceful leap upward, he’d instead straighten his leg. The strength of that limb pressing downward would effectively pull the hooked bowstring upward along the crossbow’s stock, holding it taut until the string caught upon the stock’s locking nut so that the bolt could be properly set.

Such a complicated ritual took time, however, with the result being that a traditional archer could shoot a dozen or more arrows to every bolt fired from a crossbow. Even those more modern weapons, which used a cranking device, could not be fired as swiftly as the long bow. Still, they could more readily pierce armor or shields, making them fearsome weapons.

I knew, of course, that a far smaller crossbow would be used by men on horseback. Efficient if less powerful, such a weapon was light enough to be carried about. But there was no mistaking its deadly force, as we had learned to our fresh grief. For surely this had been the sort of weapon employed by Constantin’s murderer.

Leonardo, meanwhile, was nodding his agreement with my father’s words.

“As you said, a finely crafted bolt. . one designed to kill with the greatest efficiency. Such a weapon may bespeak a professional assassin in our midst. That is why I wish to keep the circumstances of the attack upon Constantin confidential until I consult with the duke, and it is the reason for the pretense I have proposed.

“Fear not, Dino,” he added with a glance at me. “I shall not have you take part in this grim deceit, nor your father, save that I shall need him to bring me the wagon with which I shall take the unfortunate Constantin from this place. With a bit of misdirection, everyone who sees us depart will believe that the boy merely slumbers beside me. Moreover, you and Signor Angelo will be able to speak truthfully that you saw us leave the castle and plead ignorance of what might have happened beyond its walls.”

I bleakly considered this proposed scenario, picturing Constantin’s limp form propped upon the wagon seat next to the Master. It would be a bold bluff, his passing through the gates beneath the guards’ scrutiny with a dead youth as his companion. Still, I knew that Leonardo was accomplished at creating illusion and could readily pull off such a ruse, such skill at stagecraft yet another reason that Il Moro charged him with conducting the court’s regular pageants.

“I shall remain gone as long as necessary,” he went on, “and I will return with Constantin wrapped in a blanket and the story that he was killed by bandits on the road from Milan. Such attacks are a common enough occurrence these days that no one will question my claim. With his death formally established, we will be able to begin preparations for laying him to rest.”

My father seemingly had doubts about this audacious plan, however, for he shook his head.

“Such a tale may serve for everyone else, but what of this assassin? He will know that the boy was killed here in the garden and not upon the road. Besides, surely the man responsible is long gone from here and would care not what happens next.”

“It is possible,” the Master conceded, “but I am not certain that your theory is correct.”

Leonardo’s expression was considering as he went on. “If Constantin was killed because of my flying machine, the assassin did not achieve his primary goal of obtaining the information to build the craft. He or his confederates may still be among us. Thus, we must gird ourselves against a possible second attempt at theft. . perhaps a second try at murder.”

As he spoke, I abruptly recalled the mysterious hooded figure I had seen the day before, seemingly spying upon me. Though I had not determined why I, of all people, had warranted such strange scrutiny, it occurred to me that perhaps I had glimpsed Constantin’s assassin.

And why not? The flowing robes could easily conceal a small crossbow within their folds, I reasoned in some concern. Moreover, such a disguise could be shrugged off in moments, allowing its wearer to blend into a group of servants or of nobles, depending upon what he wore beneath it.

Not wishing to alarm my father-for surely he would be distressed to learn that I might have drawn the assassin’s notice-I waited while the two men conferred a moment longer. Finally convinced of the wisdom of Leonardo’s plan, my father gave me an encouraging nod and strode with grim purpose from the garden in search of a wagon. Only when the gate had closed behind him did I confide in the Master my fears about this puzzling stranger.

He listened with keen interest to my story, but his response took me aback. “Odd, how this unknown person made his initial appearance at the same time that Signor Angelo first arrived here in Milan,” he coolly observed.

I instinctively bristled at this seeming accusation against my father. Surely he could not think that so fine a man as Angelo della Fazia would have anything to do with murder!

Seeing my reaction, Leonardo was swift to assume a placating tone.

“Do not worry, my dear boy. I do not mean to imply that your sire has any involvement in this matter. But it would seem that someone deduced the reason for my bringing him into the duke’s service and decided the time was ripe to strike.”

“Do you truly believe what you said earlier, then, that someone else might fall victim to this assassin?” I asked with no little trepidation, picturing my father or another of the apprentices-or Leonardo himself! — lying sprawled upon the ground, a bloody bolt protruding from his cold flesh.

The Master stroked his neat beard, his expression grim. “I am loath to play prophet under such circumstances, but I would venture to say that we have not seen the end of this matter.”

“Perhaps since we all dress in identical tunics and trunk hose, he mistook me for Constantin,” I weakly offered, now picturing myself as the one lying in a heap with an arrow in my back and my lifeblood spilling into the dirt.

I had no time to dwell on this unsettling scene, however, for I heard the staccato knock upon the gate that was the prearranged signal for my father’s return. The Master swiftly unlatched the gate, and the pair maneuvered the small cart and sturdy little horse into the garden. Then my father turned to Leonardo, his manner firm.

“I would not have Dino witness what we must do next to carry out your plan. Let him rejoin his fellows.”

“I am of the same mind,” Leonardo said with a swift nod, much to my relief.

To me, he added, “The other apprentices should still be in the small chapel preparing the walls for our next fresco. Make your way there, and if they question you, simply say that I bade you lend them assistance for the day. As for Constantin, you may say that you last saw him leaving the castle grounds with me. Give them no hint that anything is amiss.”

“As you will, Master,” I agreed, sending my father a look of silent gratitude. No matter that I understood Leonardo’s intent, I did not think I could bear to stand by and watch my friend being lashed to the wagon like a bundle.

I took my leave of the garden with more haste than dignity. But even with the gate shut behind me again, I could picture in my mind’s eye what must happen next. . the two men lifting Constantin into the wagon and carefully arranging his dead limbs into a cruel mockery of repose. Tied to the seat and wrapped in a cloak, his lifeless form would doubtless pass unnoticed by the guards as Leonardo drove through the castle gates.

I shuddered. I suspected that familiar handling of the dead-no matter that the victim was well-known to him-would not cause the Master much distress. He had examined many a corpse in the time that I had known him; indeed, he was rumored to have secretly cut open dead criminals in the same way that a tanner flayed a beast, simply to further his anatomical knowledge. But as for my father. .

Despite my distress, I felt a surge of affection that momentarily warmed my chilled flesh. Though willing to risk confrontation when his principles were put to test, my father’s veins ran with mild humors. I knew that Constantin’s death had touched him greatly, though he barely knew the apprentice. Likely he pictured one of my brothers, or me, when he looked upon the murdered youth. I knew that, while he took part in this charade out of grim duty, his heart was surely wounded by the task.

I left with no backward glance toward the garden, though I did spare several uneasy looks about me as I made my swift way across the broad quadrangle. Surely no one would attempt to strike me down in so public an arena, I reassured myself, taking comfort in the usual bustle of servants and tradesmen making their own way about the grounds. Still, my shoulders twitched in uneasy anticipation of a well-placed bolt between them, and I kept a keen watch for the mysterious robed stranger who might have played a cruel role in this day’s tragic events.

Reaching the main castle unscathed, I headed toward the duke’s private quarters, where the family chapel lay. For the moment, the apprentices were busy setting up the scaffolding within the narrow chamber and preparing the walls with new plaster. No painting had yet begun, for Leonardo had been distracted by his work on the flying machine and had managed but a few sketches for this particular fresco.

At the duke’s direction, the work was to depict scenes from the missing years of Christ’s young adulthood. I had seen some of the Master’s preliminary drawings on the subject and had found them surprising, to say the least. One, in particular, portrayed the Son of God in a strange land populated by elephants and tigers, and with the surrounding temples oddly domed and decorated in bright colors. As for the Christ figure, he was depicted seated with his legs crossed, and seemingly floating high above the ground before an approving crowd of brown-skinned men. I wondered if Ludovico had seen the sketches and if he had approved them.

I rather suspected that he had not!

Cursorily inspected and ushered past by the familiar pair of bored guards who kept watch at the inner gate, I entered the chapel. Within, the apprentices were hard at work with brooms and rags, removing all traces of dirt from the walls in preparation for the layers of fresh plaster to be troweled on during the next few days. Some balanced upon the newly erected wooden scaffolding as they cleaned cobwebs and soot from the eaves; the rest labored at sweeping the lower walls and corner crannies. Though they chatted as they worked, their tone was respectfully subdued as befitted the sanctified setting.

The sleek hound, Pio, was there, as well. Irreverently perched upon one carved wooden pew, he lay on his haunches with long legs stretched before him and paws neatly crossed in the prayerful attitude that had earned him his name. Unlike Il Moro’s men, he appeared quite interested in the apprentices’ work, his bright brown eyes taking in every move, though he obediently kept to his place.

Vittorio was the first to notice my entrance.

“Dino,” he cheerily called, waving his broom in my direction and hopping down from the scaffolding. Remembering that he was in a house of worship, he lowered his voice and went on. “What are you doing here? I thought you were helping the Master and your father.”

Swiping off my cap, I made a quick genuflection in the direction of the altar and then turned to him. “The Master said he did not need my assistance this afternoon and instructed me to help the rest of you, instead.”

“But what of Constantin?”

This question came from Tito, who was perched on the scaffold above us, near where Vittorio had been working.

“We’ve not seen him in some time, not since we returned from the midday meal,” he went on, earning the nods of Bernardo and a few other youths working alongside him. “Do you know where he is?”

“I saw him leave through the castle’s main gate with the Master,” I obediently repeated the explanation that Leonardo had given me. “What their destination was, I cannot say, other than that they left.”

Tito’s pockmarked face took on a look of confusion. “Are you certain it was he that you saw with the Master?” At my nod, he complained, “Why would Constantin leave without a word to us, and without putting one of the other apprentices in charge?”

“Perhaps he felt we are well trained enough that we can perform our tasks without his watching over us constantly,” I replied, making my best attempt at an unconcerned shrug. Then, with a gesture toward Pio, I lightly added, “Besides, he has left a spy in our midst. Pio will surely report our bad behavior should we do anything amiss.”

The hound chose this moment to yawn broadly, his pink tongue unfurling like a bright ribbon. He gave an audible groan and flopped most gracelessly onto his side for a nap. Vittorio and the others snickered at the sight, and even Tito allowed himself a grin. I managed a smile of my own, realizing this might well be the last moment of shared amusement among us apprentices for some time, once news of Constantin’s murder became known.

Shaking off that thought, I grabbed up Vittorio’s broom and vigorously attacked a cobweb. “Come; we must get back to work, lest Pio speak ill of us later. Does anyone know how much plaster we will need to mix tomorrow?”

With my words, the others resumed their earlier tasks. I applied myself to my work, as well, concentrating on the youths’ quiet chatter lest my thoughts drift back to Constantin and the unknown assassin who might still be lurking within our midst. Maintaining my air of unconcern took no little effort, though I was relieved that no one seemed to notice my subdued air and false smiles.

No one, that was, save Pio. After a few moments, he roused himself from the pew and padded over to where I stood. He stared at me with liquid brown eyes and touched an inquiring paw to my leg in an innocent show of canine concern.

I bit my lip hard lest it tremble and bent low to give the hound a fond pat, taking that opportunity to discreetly brush the sudden dampness from my eyes. For a moment, at least, my grief lightened.

I sighed. Though welcome, the sweet innocence of Pio would not suffice to assuage the mourning that would ensue in our workshop once the Master brought word of Constantin’s senseless murder. I could only hope that his would be both the first and the last killing. . could only pray that no other apprentice would fall victim to yet another bolt from the blue before the duke’s flying machine was completed and his victory ensured.

The Master waited until we apprentices had finished our evening meal and were gathered back at the workshop to break the grim news of Constantin’s murder to us. His handsome features drawn into hard lines, he gave the terse explanation that he’d settled upon that afternoon. It was a sadly familiar tale of brutal bandits and swift death on the road leading from Milan.

“But you may rest easy on one score,” came his solemn assurance as cries of disbelief met his words. “Know that your fellow apprentice died most bravely in defense of his master. And know, too, that I am both humbled and grieved by his sacrifice. . and that I would have taken the arrow in his stead, were it possible.”

“Master, we must avenge him!” came a shrill cry from behind me, rising over the muttered curses and muffled sobs that had begun to fill the room.

The speaker was Bernardo. The youngest of the apprentices, he could have modeled for the cherubs in any of the Master’s frescoes, with his round, pink face and halo of curly brown hair. Now, however, the soft curls trembled in rage, while the plump cheeks were dark with anger and dampened by tears.

“We must find the bandit who murdered Constantin and kill him ourselves,” he cried, shaking his fist. “Master, give me leave to go, and I shall search him out.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tommaso exclaimed, his beefy features tight with grief. “What of you, Paolo, and you, Tito. . and the rest of you? Will you not join us?”

Bold calls of agreement promptly rose from the others. Swept by that tide of emotion, I found myself clenching my own fist and vowing vengeance along with the rest. But as the clamor grew, Leonardo lifted a quelling hand.

“Your loyalty to the good Constantin is admirable,” he said, his stern gaze moving across the room until the cries settled to a few mutters, “but such a dangerous mission is a matter for Il Moro’s guard. A group of them left the castle soon after my return and now are scouring the countryside for the men that set upon us.”

His passing glance halted on me for a few seconds, and I caught the faintest of nods from him.

The gesture reassured me that the duke’s men were indeed combing the hills and tree-dotted plains around Milan. And while the brigands they sought were fictional, Constantin’s murderer was not and might be lurking somewhere beyond the castle walls. The soldiers would surely be on the alert for any suspicious person, no matter if he were dressed in a bandit’s rags or showed himself as my mysterious robed stranger.

To my surprise, Leonardo added, “But though the duke’s men are beyond the gates searching out this villain, that does not mean there might not be danger lurking here at the castle. Until this man is caught, I urge all of you to remain vigilant. Do not wander about the grounds alone, and keep a keen eye out for strangers.”

Had I not known the true circumstances of the day’s events, I might have been puzzled. And, indeed, a few apprentices glanced uncertainly at one another at these last instructions. The only question asked, however, was regarding the fate of our fallen friend.

“Master, what becomes of Constantin. . That is, shall he be buried here?”

This question came from Davide, one of the older apprentices. Blond and of wiry build and measured temperament, he was known as the workshop’s peacemaker, the one who stepped in to settle squabbles and mend torn friendships. He and Constantin had been close friends, I knew. And thus Davide’s words echoed with gravity far beyond his years, while his stricken expression reflected all of our grief.

Leonardo nodded. “Most of his family is either dead or living far away in the Greek isles,” he replied, “so there is no one to claim him other than us. He shall have a fine funeral and be laid in our churchyard tomorrow afternoon.”

He fell silent, and I saw reflected in his face the same grief that I had seen as he held the dying Constantin in his arms. Surely few masters cared for their apprentices as he did, I told myself, swiping fresh tears from my own eyes. Constantin had been equally devoted to him, which was why I knew that his last act could never have been one of betrayal. He had been running to Leonardo, and not simply fleeing someone else.

By now, several apprentices were gathered around the Master, listening to further words of comfort. The rest stood huddled together, exchanging words of praise for their dead friend. As I moved to join that second group, I noticed that, like I, Tito stood slightly apart from the others.

He chose that same moment to glance in my direction. Under the circumstances, I did not expect to see the usual casual smile he normally wore; still, something in his expression took me aback. For his pockmarked face reflected not so much grief as impatience, while his black eyes held anger rather than unshed tears. And though he and Constantin had not been the closest of friends, in recent days I had seen the pair together on numerous occasions.

Noting my scrutiny, Tito’s expression darkened, and for a moment he appeared to struggle with some inner emotion. Just as swiftly, he tossed his unruly black hair off his forehead and made his way toward where the Master stood.

I frowned as I joined the other huddled group of apprentices. Surely Tito must grieve Constantin’s loss as the rest of us did, I told myself as I linked arms with Vittorio and Paolo. Perhaps he simply was one of those people who embraced anger rather than sorrow under trying circumstances.

Soon after, the Master took his leave of us, with the admonition to finish our usual evening’s tasks before we settled in for the night. Under the circumstances, such a demand might have seemed unduly harsh. We all realized, however, that he sought to keep both our hands and our heads occupied while we attempted to reconcile ourselves to the tragedy that had happened in our midst.

Once the last paint pot was cleaned and the final broom tucked away, we gathered a bit uncertainly near the hearth, where the fire lay dying. It was usually Constantin who lit the night’s ration of candle stubs so that we might spend an hour of amusement before taking to our cots. No one appeared inclined to take on his role, just as none of us was disposed to indulge in merriment. Thus, it was with unspoken if mutual agreement that we put aside our usual ritual and retired early to bed.

Or, rather, the others did. I slipped out of the workshop and, shivering in the cool night air, made my way to Leonardo’s quarters in search of my father.