Leonardo and the Death Machine

by Robert J. Harris

  Leonardo straightened his tunic and flicked a spot of ash from his sleeve. “All the young gentlemen of Florence are dressing like this,” he said defensively.

  “All the rich young gentlemen of Florence,” Maestro Andrea corrected him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with making a good impression.”

  “You are quite correct,” said Andrea, waving him away dismissively. “Now go and make a good impression on Maestro Silvestro.”

  Leonardo returned to the workshop, taking off his smock as he headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Nicolo demanded.

  “I have an important commission from Maestro Andrea,” Leonardo answered haughtily. “He wants me to exercise my eyes and my understanding.”

  Escaping from the workshop, Leonardo strode off down the Via dell’Agnolo, muttering resentfully to himself. After all his hard work his flying device was ruined, and now he was reduced to collecting debts. He very much doubted he would see anything to inspire him today.

  In this year of 1466, Florence was the centre of trade and banking for all of Europe, and the bustle in the narrow streets bore witness to the city’s importance. Wagons and carriages jostled alongside workers hurrying to and from the foundries and textile factories. Buildings rose up to three storeys high, with balconies jutting out of the top floors. Neighbours on opposite sides of the street could almost reach across and shake hands with each other.

  As he approached the River Arno, Leonardo saw the flatboats heading downstream, carrying off their bolts of brightly coloured Florentine cloth to be transported to Spain, France, England and Germany. Other boats were bringing their cargo of untreated wool into the city to be washed, combed and dyed in the factories.

  The city’s oldest bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, loomed ahead, its honey-coloured stonework bathed in the glow of the hot August sunshine. Both sides of the bridge were lined with the shops of butchers, leatherworkers and blacksmiths. As Leonardo crossed over, a blacksmith tipped a bucket of ashes into the river, provoking a volley of curses from the boatmen passing below.

  As soon as he entered the Oltrarno, Leonardo was reminded of his home village of Anchiano, many miles to the north. Washing was strung between the trees, chickens scratched at the doorsteps, and everywhere there was the smell of garlic and baking bread.

  In stark contrast to the humble cottages was the huge stone palace Leonardo could see rearing up like a cliff face in the middle of the Oltrarno, with workers swarming all over its scaffolding. He knew from the gossip of his fellow apprentices that it belonged to Luca Pitti, an ageing politician who liked to think of himself as Florence’s leading citizen. Even though the real power in the city lay in the hands of the Medici family, Pitti was determined to prove that he was every bit their equal, even if he went bankrupt in the process.

  Leonardo turned right, away from the palace and towards the church of Santo Spirito. Silvestro’s workshop was in one of the alleys behind the church, but Leonardo wasn’t sure which one. He paused to sniff the air and immediately caught the pungent scent of cow dung, burnt ox-horn, and wet clay, all of which were used in the casting of bronze statues.

  Following his nose he soon arrived at the shabby workshop of Silvestro. The shutters hung drunkenly from the windows and there were several tiles missing from the roof. Acrid smoke streamed from Silvestro’s furnace and hung in a sullen, black cloud over the street. Finding the door ajar, Leonardo pushed it open and stepped inside.

  A pair of surly apprentices in stained, threadbare smocks looked up as he entered. They were mixing up a supply of casting wax. One had a face covered in pimples while the other was twitching as though his clothes were filled with lice.

  Proud of his own finery, Leonardo drew himself up in a dignified fashion and inquired, “Is Maestro Silvestro at home?”

  The two apprentices turned to each other with dull, expressionless eyes. Leonardo was reminded of a pair of oxen in a field.

  “He’s in his private studio,” grunted Pimple-face.

  “And where would that be?” asked Leonardo.

  The Twitcher tilted his head to indicate a stout door at the far end of the workshop.

  With a curt nod of thanks, Leonardo moved on. Behind him he heard one of them mutter, “He must think he’s an envoy from the Pope.” The other apprentice sniggered.

  Leonardo ignored them and cast his eyes over the room. The shelves along the wall held only a few jars of pigment and these were thickly caked with dust. Discarded bristles and splinters of wood littered the rush-covered floor.

  As he raised his fist to rap on Silvestro’s door, Leonardo was brought up short by a sudden outburst of angry voices from the room beyond. They were as furious as a couple of dogs fighting over a bone. Even muffled by the door their words were clearly audible.

  “Today! You said today!” snarled the first voice, rough as sandstone.

  “I said the components would be complete by today,” the second voice boomed like a gusty wind. “I never said the construction would be complete, never!”

  “I think you know what happens to men who cross me,” rasped the first man.

  “Save your threats for those you are paid to terrorise,” the second man said. “All will be ready on schedule.” Leonardo could hear the weakness underlying his confident words.

  “Very well,” the first voice grated. “But I will hold you to that at some cost if you should fail.”

  “Silvestro does not fail,” the other retorted with renewed bravado. “He is only let down by lesser men. Do not worry, we will bring destruction down on the plain, eh?”

  “Be sure of it,” was the brusque response.

  Leonardo had been leaning in closer and closer. When the door opened, his heart leapt into his mouth. He jumped aside as a fearsome individual in a dark green hood and cloak swept out of the room.

  3 THE INFERNAL DEVICE

  The stranger halted and fixed Leonardo with a hostile stare. The man’s sallow face was all sharp angles with heavy brows and a slash of a mouth – as if it had been carved from flint by an impatient sculptor and left unfinished.

  Leonardo felt himself being probed by the cold, grey eyes. He had the awful feeling that if the man suspected he had been listening at the door, his life would not be worth a single denaro.

  The stranger’s gaze moved down over Leonardo’s garb, his expensive tunic and scarlet hose. A flicker of amusement curled his lips. You are obviously no threat, that thin smile seemed to say. I don’t need to waste any time on you.

  Without speaking, he turned and walked away. Leonardo felt insulted and relieved at the same time. Taking advantage of the open door, he stepped cautiously into Maestro Silvestro’s chamber.

  The artist was standing at the far end of the room with his broad back to the doorway. He was grumbling angrily to himself as he poured a cup of wine. He tossed the drink back in one swift draught, like a man throwing water over a blazing fire, and immediately refilled his cup.

  “I’ll skewer him, that cut-throat, if he talks to me like that again,” Leonardo heard him growl.

  He paused inside the doorway, uncertain what to do next. See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. He studied the artist in silence. He noted that Silvestro’s once expensive clothes had been sewn up and patched many times over. That suggested he had once been a prosperous artist who had fallen on hard times. The fact that the clothes hung about his body in loose folds meant he had also grown thinner. Probably through guzzling jugs of wine in place of his meals, Leonardo guessed.

  He peered around as Silvestro continued to mutter bitterly into his cup. Immediately to his right stood the master’s desk, its surface cluttered with coloured vials, lengths of decorative framing, and jars of powder and ink. Leonardo’s eye was immediately drawn to a large sheet of paper that lay in the midst of the confusion. It was covered in drawings the like of which he had never seen before.

  He took a furtive step closer to the desk. The page was crammed with
intricate diagrams of notched wheels, pulleys, rods and weights, all fitted together into a complex mechanism.

  Is this what the two men were arguing about? Leonardo wondered. And if so, what is it?

  He had seen arrangements of cogs before, in the watermill on his family property at Anchiano, but nothing quite like this. Once he had even seen something similar inside an expensive clock that Maestro Andrea was embellishing for one of his clients. But this device was not exactly like that either.

  What was it they had said about destruction?

  He peered intently at the diagram, trying to piece together in his mind what would be the consequence of the weights moving, of the cogs turning one against the other. With one finger he began to follow the lines, tracing out the possible movements of the device. He was so absorbed in his study he was taken completely by surprise when a beefy hand clamped on to his shoulder.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  Maestro Silvestro spun the boy around and glowered at him suspiciously. His coarse, jowly face was nearly as red as the droplet of wine that was trickling down his chin. He grabbed the corner of the drawing between two fingers and flipped it over, hiding the diagram.

  “What are you doing here, thief?” he demanded.

  His breath gusted over Leonardo and the wine fumes almost made him swoon. He tried to wriggle loose, but Silvestro’s thick fingers just tightened their grip on his shoulder.

  “I am no thief,” Leonardo protested. “I was sent here by Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio.”

  “A spy!” Silvestro exclaimed. “That pig has sent you here to steal my secrets and turn them to his own profit. Well, whatever you have seen, it will do you no good.”

  Silvestro’s fingers dug into his shoulder with bruising force.

  “I’m no spy either,” Leonardo persisted desperately. “I am simply delivering a message.” He groped for the sealed note and handed it to the artist as a peace offering.

  Silvestro scowled at the letter without taking it. “What is it?” he demanded.

  Leonardo squirmed, realising that a demand for money would only enrage Silvestro further.

  “It did not befit my lowly station to inquire,” he said, laying the paper down gingerly on the edge of the table. “But I am sure it is a message redolent of the deep respect Maestro Andrea has expressed for you on many occasions. Do not trouble yourself to open it until you have the leisure to enjoy its eloquent contents to the full. Perhaps tonight after supper…”

  Silvestro’s grip loosened slightly. Leonardo wriggled free and backed out of the door. He retreated across the workshop, bowing as he went, only too well aware of the apprentices sniggering at him. When he saw Silvestro take a step towards him, Leonardo swung round and raced out into the street.

  He beat a hasty retreat from the unsavoury neighbourhood of the Oltrarno and did not slow his pace until he was safely across the Ponte Vecchio. On the north side of the Arno, he paused for breath, leaning on a wall and gazing down into the water.

  The sight brought back the memory of a day last year when Leonardo had perched on a rocky ledge hanging out over the same river many miles to the north. He had longed then to spread his arms out like wings and fly off like a bird, leaving behind the dull routine of the family farm.

  Distracted by his daydream, he had lost his footing and plunged headlong into the river. Flailing about in the water, he had managed to grab the trailing branch of a bent old tree and pull himself up. If not for that, Leonardo might have been sucked under by the current and drowned.

  The memory was enough to set his heart pounding like a hammer. Turning abruptly away from the river, he hurried up the street into the heart of the city.

  The Piazza della Signoria was filled with noise and bustle. All around the vast open square, merchants, entertainers, preachers and politicians were vying for the attention of the passers-by. A large crowd had gathered before the steps of the palace where the Signoria held their meetings. An excited figure was haranguing them, waving his clenched fist in the air as he spoke.

  “This is what the Medici will bring down upon us, a war with Venice,” he warned shrilly. “And for what? For the sake of an upstart who is the son of an upstart, a bandit who has stolen the title of Duke of Milan.”

  The crowd booed the name of Medici and yelled in agreement with the orator. One man dared to call out against the speaker only to be quickly silenced by his neighbours.

  From the other side of the square Leonardo could hear another speaker loudly praising the Medici to the cheers of his audience. Here and there he saw people accost strangers and demand their opinion with sharp voices and upraised fists.

  In the past he had heard many noisy arguments being waged in this square, but they were usually resolved with a jug of wine and good-natured laughter. Over the past few weeks, however, these lively debates had become charged with hostility and threats of violence.

  It all reminded him of the angry exchange he had overheard at Silvestro’s workshop. Then, as if conjured up out of that memory, he saw the man in the green cloak crossing the square directly ahead of him.

  Leonardo pulled up short and ducked behind a trio of black-robed nuns whose way had been blocked by a wheedling pedlar. When the sisters moved off, Leonardo was relieved to see that the sinister stranger now had his back to him. He had fallen in with a gang of men led by a lanky fellow with bright red hair and a long, pointed nose.

  Are they involved in the same plot as Silvestro? Leonardo wondered.

  He edged nearer, trying to catch what they were saying. The distinctive rasp of the green-cloaked man stood out from the voices of the others, but Leonardo could not distinguish his words. Suddenly, the stranger made a chopping gesture with his hand and departed, heading off towards the north side of the square.

  Leonardo hesitated only a moment. He would surely be expected back at the workshop by now, but for what? So he could spend the rest of the day spreading paste over canvas with a hogshair brush?

  See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. And that was what he would do. He would follow this man, and in doing so, learn what it was Silvestro was so anxious to hide.

  He started to tail the stranger, but he had only gone a few steps when the red-haired man stepped directly into his path. “Ho! Here’s a fine young peacock! And yet he skulks about like a rat!”

  Leonardo pulled up short and blinked at him. “I was proceeding about my business,” he said, straightening his tunic. “By what right do you block my way?”

  “The right every loyal citizen of Florence has to protect the public interest,” the redhead answered. He leaned forward, his nose weaving from side to side as if he were trying to spear a fish. “Tell me, my young peacock, who you are for – the Hill or the Plain?”

  The question was so ludicrous, Leonardo was actually annoyed. “If you want to argue about geography, go and bother someone else,” he said curtly.

  He immediately regretted his words, for the redhead’s four friends now drew in around him. Some of them had cudgels stuck in their belts and they were fingering their weapons with an air of menace.

  “I asked you a simple question,” the red-haired man growled. “Are you for the Hill or the Plain?”

  Leonardo had no notion what they wanted, but he was sure it would be a bad idea to give the wrong reply. He swallowed. “That’s an important question.”

  “He is for the valley!” interposed a voice.

  A burly young man with a thick, black beard elbowed his way into the circle. He was followed by a shorter fellow with a head of feathery golden curls that shone like a halo above his plump, cherubic face.

  “What do you mean he is for the valley?” the red-haired man demanded. “What valley?”

  The newcomer displayed a fist big enough to knock all of them flat with one blow. “The one between your ears,” he replied, his broad chest swelling with laughter. He rapped his knuckles on top of the man’s head and threw a brawny arm around Leonardo’s shoulder
s.

  “Come along,” he said heartily, “I have better things for you to do than waste time with these idlers.”

  Leonardo beamed with relief. The golden-haired youth was his friend Sandro Botticelli and the other was Sandro’s brother Simone. Together the three of them tried to move away, but the ruffians blocked their path.

  One of them whipped out his cudgel and brandished it at Simone. Simone snatched the club from his hand and jabbed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Redhead and his friends uttered outraged curses, but none of them appeared eager to tackle the muscular Simone now he was armed.

  Leonardo’s eyes darted this way and that in expectation of an attack. He saw that more people were converging from every side, shouting challenges and threats.

  “What’s this? Pitti’s thugs looking for trouble?”

  “We’ll put them in their place!”

  “We’d like to see you try, you Medici lackeys!”

  Supporters of the two sides began jostling and shoving each other, buffeting Leonardo and his friends from side to side like boats caught in a storm. Someone made a lunge for Simone only to be laid flat with one punch.

  “We have to get out of here!” Sandro exclaimed as a rock flew past his head.

  “Yes, but how?” asked Leonardo.

  “Order! Order!” a voice barked over the hubbub. “Give way or be arrested!”

  “Give way, I say!” bellowed another.

  Both had foreign accents, German or Hungarian. Leonardo couldn’t say which, but he could see a body of uniformed men driving a wedge between the rival factions.

  “Praise Heaven!” gasped Sandro. “It’s the city guard!”

  The guardsmen were all foreign mercenaries under the command of a Constable who was also recruited from outside Florence. This was to ensure that the forces of law had no ties to any family or party in the city.

  “Come on!” said Simone, seizing the other two by the arm and hauling them through the crowd.