Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

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!”

“ Ah, child, I have missed you!” Angelo della Fazia exclaimed, lifting me from my feet with his hug just as he had done when I was but a small girl.

Then, as if realizing his gesture might appear a far too exuberant greeting to bestow upon a male child, he abruptly set me back down. His gaze flicking in Leonardo’s direction, he gave me an awkward pat upon the shoulder and amended, “Rather, it is good to see you again.”

“It is good to see you,” was my warm response. Not caring what the Master might think, I grabbed my father’s hands in mine. “Though I confess I did not recognize you at first. You have cut your beard differently, and your hair is longer.”

“That last is not by design,” he said with a small laugh. “I am so busy these days with my commissions that I scarce have time to stop for a meal, let alone sit still long enough for the barber to shear me.”

Frowning, he took an equally close look at me. “I was hard-pressed to recognize you, as well. Your clothes and your hair. . they are-”