Leonardo and the Death Machine

3 THE INFERNAL DEVICE

The stranger halted and fixed Leonardo with a hostile stare. The man’s sallow face was all sharp angles with heavy brows and a slash of a mouth – as if it had been carved from flint by an impatient sculptor and left unfinished.

Leonardo felt himself being probed by the cold, grey eyes. He had the awful feeling that if the man suspected he had been listening at the door, his life would not be worth a single denaro.

The stranger’s gaze moved down over Leonardo’s garb, his expensive tunic and scarlet hose. A flicker of amusement curled his lips. You are obviously no threat, that thin smile seemed to say. I don’t need to waste any time on you.

Without speaking, he turned and walked away. Leonardo felt insulted and relieved at the same time. Taking advantage of the open door, he stepped cautiously into Maestro Silvestro’s chamber.

The artist was standing at the far end of the room with his broad back to the doorway. He was grumbling angrily to himself as he poured a cup of wine. He tossed the drink back in one swift draught, like a man throwing water over a blazing fire, and immediately refilled his cup.

“I’ll skewer him, that cut-throat, if he talks to me like that again,” Leonardo heard him growl.

He paused inside the doorway, uncertain what to do next. See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. He studied the artist in silence. He noted that Silvestro’s once expensive clothes had been sewn up and patched many times over. That suggested he had once been a prosperous artist who had fallen on hard times. The fact that the clothes hung about his body in loose folds meant he had also grown thinner. Probably through guzzling jugs of wine in place of his meals, Leonardo guessed.

He peered around as Silvestro continued to mutter bitterly into his cup. Immediately to his right stood the master’s desk, its surface cluttered with coloured vials, lengths of decorative framing, and jars of powder and ink. Leonardo’s eye was immediately drawn to a large sheet of paper that lay in the midst of the confusion. It was covered in drawings the like of which he had never seen before.

He took a furtive step closer to the desk. The page was crammed with intricate diagrams of notched wheels, pulleys, rods and weights, all fitted together into a complex mechanism.

Is this what the two men were arguing about? Leonardo wondered. And if so, what is it?

He had seen arrangements of cogs before, in the watermill on his family property at Anchiano, but nothing quite like this. Once he had even seen something similar inside an expensive clock that Maestro Andrea was embellishing for one of his clients. But this device was not exactly like that either.

What was it they had said about destruction?

He peered intently at the diagram, trying to piece together in his mind what would be the consequence of the weights moving, of the cogs turning one against the other. With one finger he began to follow the lines, tracing out the possible movements of the device. He was so absorbed in his study he was taken completely by surprise when a beefy hand clamped on to his shoulder.

“Who the devil are you?”

Maestro Silvestro spun the boy around and glowered at him suspiciously. His coarse, jowly face was nearly as red as the droplet of wine that was trickling down his chin. He grabbed the corner of the drawing between two fingers and flipped it over, hiding the diagram.

“What are you doing here, thief?” he demanded.

His breath gusted over Leonardo and the wine fumes almost made him swoon. He tried to wriggle loose, but Silvestro’s thick fingers just tightened their grip on his shoulder.

“I am no thief,” Leonardo protested. “I was sent here by Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio.”

“A spy!” Silvestro exclaimed. “That pig has sent you here to steal my secrets and turn them to his own profit. Well, whatever you have seen, it will do you no good.”

Silvestro’s fingers dug into his shoulder with bruising force.

“I’m no spy either,” Leonardo persisted desperately. “I am simply delivering a message.” He groped for the sealed note and handed it to the artist as a peace offering.

Silvestro scowled at the letter without taking it. “What is it?” he demanded.

Leonardo squirmed, realising that a demand for money would only enrage Silvestro further.

“It did not befit my lowly station to inquire,” he said, laying the paper down gingerly on the edge of the table. “But I am sure it is a message redolent of the deep respect Maestro Andrea has expressed for you on many occasions. Do not trouble yourself to open it until you have the leisure to enjoy its eloquent contents to the full. Perhaps tonight after supper…”

Silvestro’s grip loosened slightly. Leonardo wriggled free and backed out of the door. He retreated across the workshop, bowing as he went, only too well aware of the apprentices sniggering at him. When he saw Silvestro take a step towards him, Leonardo swung round and raced out into the street.

He beat a hasty retreat from the unsavoury neighbourhood of the Oltrarno and did not slow his pace until he was safely across the Ponte Vecchio. On the north side of the Arno, he paused for breath, leaning on a wall and gazing down into the water.

The sight brought back the memory of a day last year when Leonardo had perched on a rocky ledge hanging out over the same river many miles to the north. He had longed then to spread his arms out like wings and fly off like a bird, leaving behind the dull routine of the family farm.

Distracted by his daydream, he had lost his footing and plunged headlong into the river. Flailing about in the water, he had managed to grab the trailing branch of a bent old tree and pull himself up. If not for that, Leonardo might have been sucked under by the current and drowned.

The memory was enough to set his heart pounding like a hammer. Turning abruptly away from the river, he hurried up the street into the heart of the city.

The Piazza della Signoria was filled with noise and bustle. All around the vast open square, merchants, entertainers, preachers and politicians were vying for the attention of the passers-by. A large crowd had gathered before the steps of the palace where the Signoria held their meetings. An excited figure was haranguing them, waving his clenched fist in the air as he spoke.

“This is what the Medici will bring down upon us, a war with Venice,” he warned shrilly. “And for what? For the sake of an upstart who is the son of an upstart, a bandit who has stolen the title of Duke of Milan.”

The crowd booed the name of Medici and yelled in agreement with the orator. One man dared to call out against the speaker only to be quickly silenced by his neighbours.

From the other side of the square Leonardo could hear another speaker loudly praising the Medici to the cheers of his audience. Here and there he saw people accost strangers and demand their opinion with sharp voices and upraised fists.

In the past he had heard many noisy arguments being waged in this square, but they were usually resolved with a jug of wine and good-natured laughter. Over the past few weeks, however, these lively debates had become charged with hostility and threats of violence.

It all reminded him of the angry exchange he had overheard at Silvestro’s workshop. Then, as if conjured up out of that memory, he saw the man in the green cloak crossing the square directly ahead of him.

Leonardo pulled up short and ducked behind a trio of black-robed nuns whose way had been blocked by a wheedling pedlar. When the sisters moved off, Leonardo was relieved to see that the sinister stranger now had his back to him. He had fallen in with a gang of men led by a lanky fellow with bright red hair and a long, pointed nose.

Are they involved in the same plot as Silvestro? Leonardo wondered.

He edged nearer, trying to catch what they were saying. The distinctive rasp of the green-cloaked man stood out from the voices of the others, but Leonardo could not distinguish his words. Suddenly, the stranger made a chopping gesture with his hand and departed, heading off towards the north side of the square.

Leonardo hesitated only a moment. He would surely be expected back at the workshop by now, but for what? So he could spend the rest of the day spreading paste over canvas with a hogshair brush?

See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. And that was what he would do. He would follow this man, and in doing so, learn what it was Silvestro was so anxious to hide.

He started to tail the stranger, but he had only gone a few steps when the red-haired man stepped directly into his path. “Ho! Here’s a fine young peacock! And yet he skulks about like a rat!”

Leonardo pulled up short and blinked at him. “I was proceeding about my business,” he said, straightening his tunic. “By what right do you block my way?”

“The right every loyal citizen of Florence has to protect the public interest,” the redhead answered. He leaned forward, his nose weaving from side to side as if he were trying to spear a fish. “Tell me, my young peacock, who you are for – the Hill or the Plain?”

The question was so ludicrous, Leonardo was actually annoyed. “If you want to argue about geography, go and bother someone else,” he said curtly.

He immediately regretted his words, for the redhead’s four friends now drew in around him. Some of them had cudgels stuck in their belts and they were fingering their weapons with an air of menace.

“I asked you a simple question,” the red-haired man growled. “Are you for the Hill or the Plain?”

Leonardo had no notion what they wanted, but he was sure it would be a bad idea to give the wrong reply. He swallowed. “That’s an important question.”

“He is for the valley!” interposed a voice.

A burly young man with a thick, black beard elbowed his way into the circle. He was followed by a shorter fellow with a head of feathery golden curls that shone like a halo above his plump, cherubic face.

“What do you mean he is for the valley?” the red-haired man demanded. “What valley?”

The newcomer displayed a fist big enough to knock all of them flat with one blow. “The one between your ears,” he replied, his broad chest swelling with laughter. He rapped his knuckles on top of the man’s head and threw a brawny arm around Leonardo’s shoulders.

“Come along,” he said heartily, “I have better things for you to do than waste time with these idlers.”

Leonardo beamed with relief. The golden-haired youth was his friend Sandro Botticelli and the other was Sandro’s brother Simone. Together the three of them tried to move away, but the ruffians blocked their path.

One of them whipped out his cudgel and brandished it at Simone. Simone snatched the club from his hand and jabbed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Redhead and his friends uttered outraged curses, but none of them appeared eager to tackle the muscular Simone now he was armed.

Leonardo’s eyes darted this way and that in expectation of an attack. He saw that more people were converging from every side, shouting challenges and threats.

“What’s this? Pitti’s thugs looking for trouble?”

“We’ll put them in their place!”

“We’d like to see you try, you Medici lackeys!”

Supporters of the two sides began jostling and shoving each other, buffeting Leonardo and his friends from side to side like boats caught in a storm. Someone made a lunge for Simone only to be laid flat with one punch.

“We have to get out of here!” Sandro exclaimed as a rock flew past his head.

“Yes, but how?” asked Leonardo.

“Order! Order!” a voice barked over the hubbub. “Give way or be arrested!”

“Give way, I say!” bellowed another.

Both had foreign accents, German or Hungarian. Leonardo couldn’t say which, but he could see a body of uniformed men driving a wedge between the rival factions.

“Praise Heaven!” gasped Sandro. “It’s the city guard!”

The guardsmen were all foreign mercenaries under the command of a Constable who was also recruited from outside Florence. This was to ensure that the forces of law had no ties to any family or party in the city.

“Come on!” said Simone, seizing the other two by the arm and hauling them through the crowd.

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 vengeance. 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.”