Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

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.”