Robert Harris - Leonardo and the Death Machine

For Debby, who gave me my wings.

Cover Page

Title Page Leonardo and the Death Machine Robert J. Harris

Dedication For Debby, who gave me my wings.

Maps Maps

1 FISHBONES AND FIRE

2 THE DEBT COLLECTOR

3 THE INFERNAL DEVICE

4 THE LION OF ANCHIANO

5 A BIRD IN FLIGHT

6 THE GIRL IN THE TOWER

7 A WELL-BUILT PRISON

8 THE HONOUR OF THIEVES

9 THE HAND OF GOD

10 THE OUTCASTS OF HEAVEN

11 THE HOMECOMING

12 THE PRODIGAL SON

13 THE BRAWLER

14 DAGGER’S POINT

15 COGS AND WHEELS

16 THE DOOR TO THE UNIVERSE

17 THE SECRET OF THE EGG

18 BENEATH THE DOME

19 DISCOVERY AND DANGER

20 A MAN OF INFLUENCE

21 A NEST OF VIPERS

22 A CHOICE OF ANGELS

23 THE UNHOLY MOUNTAIN

24 INTO THE DARKNESS

25 THE PIT

26 THE MACHINERY OF DEATH

27 THE AGE OF WONDERS

Afterword

Also by the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

“One – two – three,” Leonardo muttered, counting each stroke of the mallet. The third hit drove the nail flat into the wood, fixing another stretch of canvas on to the frame.

Only two more nails to go. “One” – thud – “two” – thud – “three” – thud.

There were twenty nails in all and at least three knocks were required to bash each one in. If he didn’t hit the nail just right, it would bend in half. When that happened, the bent nail had to be worked loose and tossed away so that a new one could be hammered in its place.

“Make sure you knock those nails in straight, country boy, otherwise you’ll tear the canvas,” warned Nicolo. He was finishing a painting of a laughing woman, using a bust made by their master as a model. At seventeen he was the senior apprentice in the workshop. The master, Andrea del Verrocchio, was away at a meeting with the members of the Signoria, the ruling council of Florence, leaving Nicolo in charge.

“No need to worry about that,” said Leonardo. “This is the last one.”

Mentally, he painted the older boy’s face in miniature on the head of the final nail and brought the mallet down with a vengeful whack. Leonardo stared in amazement at the result and grinned. For the first time he had driven the nail right into the wood with a single blow. He would have to remember that trick.

He stood up to admire his handiwork and caught a whiff of rotten fish. The smell stung his nostrils and made his stomach lurch.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” said skinny little Gabriello. He was stirring fishbones around in an iron pot over a raised brick fire pit. This melted them into a paste that was spread over the canvas before any paint was applied.

“Still, it could be worse,” the little apprentice added. “We could be using calf hooves again and they really stink.”

“Some things smell even worse than that,” said Leonardo with a sidelong glance at Nicolo.

Gabriello chuckled, then coughed as the fishy fumes got into his throat. The senior apprentice did not notice the insult. He was too busy painting the last few locks of the woman’s hair, his tongue stuck into his cheek in concentration.

Leonardo lifted the frame up off the straw-covered floor and leaned it carefully against one of the worktables. He nodded in satisfaction. The frame was firmly constructed, the canvas straight and taut. When Maestro Andrea came to inspect it, he would be pleased.

A gust of wind from the open window sent a puff of acrid dust up his nose. Leonardo turned away quickly so that his sneeze missed the canvas, then waved his hands about to clear the air.

The dust came from the corner of the room where Vanni and Giorgio were standing over a slab of porphyry, grinding brightly coloured minerals with their mortars. This produced a fine powder which would be mixed with egg to make paints. They were chatting together and occasionally breaking into song, their voices rising raucously above the rumble of passing carts and the yells of pedlars hawking their wares in the street outside.

“Pipe down and pay attention to what you’re doing!” Nicolo barked at them. “You’re spreading that dust all over the room.”

Leonardo pulled out his kerchief and blew his nose. He had thought that when his father brought him to Florence to be a pupil in the workshop of a great artist, he would be leaving behind the dirt and stench of the farmyard. But there was just as much dirt here and the stench was even worse. When Maestro Andrea was sculpting a statue, the dust hung so thick in the air it was like a chalky fog. And always there was the stink of fishbones, eggs, charcoal, turpentine and all the other unglamorous materials of the artist’s trade.

Tucking his kerchief back into his sleeve, Leonardo went to the corner where his own paintings and sketches were stored. Reaching into the midst of them, he pulled out his latest work, one which Maestro Andrea had not assigned him. As he examined the object, Nicolo’s voice boomed out behind him.

“There! It is done!”

From his grandiose tone you would have thought he had just fitted the last brick into the great dome of the cathedral instead of completing a routine exercise.

Nicolo beckoned Vanni and Giorgio over to admire his ‘masterpiece’. They gladly left their grinding materials behind and hurried over to examine the canvas, brushing the mineral dust from their aprons.

“It’s very good, Nicolo,” said Vanni, knowing exactly what he was supposed to say.

“Yes, it’s very good,” Giorgio echoed automatically.

Leonardo strolled over and eyed the finished picture. All the life and animation of Maestro Andrea’s sculpture had been lost in Nicolo’s painting. It was as if he had strained the meat and vegetables out of a rich stew and reduced it to a thin, unappetising gruel.

“So what do you think, Leonardo da Vinci?” Nicolo asked. The stern challenge in his voice made it clear exactly how Leonardo was supposed to answer. But Leonardo had taken enough insults from Nicolo that he wasn’t going to let slip this chance to hit back.

“I think that if a corpse ever wants its portrait painted, you’ll be the man for the job,” he replied. Gabriello slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Nicolo growled and raised his fist.

Leonardo took a step back but did not flinch. He was three years younger than the senior apprentice but equal in both height and strength. If Nicolo wanted a fight, he was ready – and eager – to oblige. But Maestro Andrea had made it clear that anyone caught fighting in the workshop would immediately find himself out on the street without a denaro to his name.

The same thought was evidently in Nicolo’s mind. He lowered his fist, though his face was still ruddy with anger. “You may dress up like the son of a rich man,” he sneered, “but you still have the taste of a farm boy.”

Leonardo winced. He was proud of the blue velvet tunic and scarlet hose he wore under his apron, even though he knew some of the other apprentices sniggered at his finery.

“At least I have some taste,” he retorted. He waved at the painting. “This isn’t art. This is murder.”

Nicolo’s eyes flashed with rage. “It is more than a clumsy left-hander like you could ever do!” Then he spotted what was in Leonardo’s hand and snatched the wooden object from the younger boy’s grasp. “What’s this? Some sort of toy?”