Robert Harris - Leonardo and the Death Machine

“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.”

Leonardo felt a pang inside. Seeing the normally jolly Sandro brought low like this was like seeing the sun blotted out by an eclipse. “Can’t Lorenzo just wait a bit longer for his portrait?” he suggested.

“I told you, he wants it before he leaves for Naples next week,” said Sandro, “and wealthy families like the Medici are accustomed to getting what they want.”

Leonardo nodded slowly, understanding the problem. He knew from his own father that it did not pay to inconvenience rich and powerful people. “There will be other clients, Sandro.”

“Do you think so? For an artist who has broken his very first contract? No, this is ruin for me. I should have stayed behind in the Piazza della Signoria and taken my chances with Pitti’s ruffians.”

The mention of the confrontation in the square suddenly jogged Leonardo’s memory. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind but events had been moving too fast for him to give it any thought.

“Sandro, didn’t Simone say the Medici supporters called themselves the party of the Plain?”

“Plain, lake, mountain – what difference does it make?” Sandro sighed.

We shall bring destruction down on the plain, Silvestro had said. And Leonardo was sure it had something to do with the machine he was building.

He closed his eyes and visualised the scene in Silvestro’s studio. As far back as he could remember, Leonardo had had a gift for recalling exactly any image he had seen. Now he placed himself back in that room, walked over to the desk. There was the diagram before him, each detail precise in itself, but its purpose still elusive. In order to study it properly, he would have to make a copy of his own.

Rising from his stool, he sidled towards a stack of drawing paper and fingered the topmost sheet. “Sandro, could I borrow some of this paper?”

“Helpyourself,” groaned Sandro, rubbing his injured wrist.

Leonardo took the sheet and laid it flat on a table by the window. Grabbing a stick of charcoal from a nearby pot, he quickly began sketching. A cog here, a wheel there, a cord, a weight. Yes, that looked right. As the machine took shape on the page, so a plan began to form in his mind.

When an opportunity comes your way, grab it with both hands before somebody steals it, his father had told him more than once.

“Sandro, you know that ladder of success you were talking about? Instead of climbing up rung by rung, how would you like to fly straight to the top?”

Sandro looked up with doleful eyes. “What do you mean?”

Leonardo picked up the paper and held it in front of Sandro.

“Look, I’ve made this copy of a diagram I saw at Maestro Silvestro’s today. He’s involved in some sort of plot against the Medici – I’m sure of it.”

Leonardo repeated all he had overheard and described how he had seen the stranger again in the Piazza della Signoria.

Sandro squinted at the drawing. “But this is just a lot of sticks ands wheels,” he protested. “It’s no threat to anybody.”

“Look, Sandro, suppose the Medici are in some sort of danger. Wouldn’t they be more than grateful to anyone who could warn them of that? Wouldn’t they reward them with a lifetime of well paid work? There would be no more broken ladders for you.”

And no more drudgery in the workshop for me, he thought. He could trade the gratitude of the Medici for a commission of his own!

“And why would they listen to either of us?” Sandro objected. “You are a mere apprentice and I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me in jail for breach of contract.”

“You give in too easily, Sandro,” Leonardo scolded him. “The contract isn’t broken yet. There must be something you can do.”

Sandro pondered for a moment then brightened. “You’re right, Leonardo,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I will go to church at once, to the Chapel of the Innocents. I will pray for Lorenzo to come down with a fever until I have recovered. But no.” He struck himself on the brow with the flat of his hand. “What manner of Christian am I to wish such a thing on my patron! No, a brief falling out between him and Lucrezia, that would be enough.”

Leonardo folded up the drawing and tucked it away inside his tunic. “Sandro, you’re being totally impractical – as usual. All you really need is someone to help you finish the portrait.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Sandro sighed. “What artist worthy of the name would let his work pass under the name of another?”

Leonardo laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “An artist wouldn’t, but an apprentice might.” He added pointedly, “A very talented apprentice.”

When Leonardo came out of the workshop the next day, he walked straight into an ambush. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards down the Via dell’Agnolo when he was seized and hauled into the dingy alley beside the coppersmith’s shop.

Before he could cry out, a grimy palm clamped itself over his mouth. His arms were pinned to his sides from behind and a glint of metal appeared under his left eye.

It was a chisel that had been honed to a razor-sharp edge.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet,” hissed a voice.

Leonardo recognised the speaker: Silvestro’s apprentice, Pimple-face, breathing fish fumes and garlic into his face. Twitcher must be behind him, holding his arms.

Pimple-face slipped his hand from Leonardo’s mouth but kept the chisel close enough to slice his cheek open if he tried to call for help. With his free hand he felt inside the leather satchel strapped to Leonardo’s belt.

“What’s he got there?” Twitcher asked.

“The usual stuff – brushes, palette knife, paint rags,” Pimple-face replied. He looked Leonardo over. “Not dressed so handsome today, are you, Leonardo da Vinci? ”

“Somebody steal your fancy gear?” taunted Twitcher.

Leonardo was wearing the drab working clothes he had come to Florence in while his one good outfit was being washed and repaired after yesterday’s misadventure. Determined to protect his dignity, he responded stiffly, “I only dress up for special occasions.”

“Like visiting old Silvestro, you mean?” sneered the Twitcher.

“That’s what we come about,” said Pimple-face. “When you was visiting, you didn’t see nothing, right?”

Leonardo squirmed. “I don’t know what you mean. I only came to deliver a message.”

“Oh yes, the bill,” chortled Twitcher. “Old Silvestro was fit to throttle his own grandma when he opened it.”

“And he was even madder when we told him we saw you nosing around,” said Pimple-face. “He sent word to his client.”