Robert Harris - Leonardo and the Death Machine

“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.

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.