“Come!” said Lucrezia.
The slender face of Fresina appeared. “Mistress,” she said, “Signor Lorenzo de’ Medici is on his way up. He says he wants to view the portrait.”
“Thank you, Fresina,” said Lucrezia. She waved the girl away and slammed the door shut.
Sandro grabbed Leonardo by the shoulder and propelled him towards the window.
“Quick!” he ordered. “Get in the chest!”
7 A WELL-BUILT PRISON
Sandro flipped open the catch and threw up the lid. “Come on, get in!” he said, pointing to the empty interior of the chest.
“Are you crazy?” Leonardo exclaimed. “I’m not getting in there!”
“But you have to,” Sandro insisted, his eyes feverish with panic. “If Lorenzo finds you here, he’ll know exactly what’s going on.”
“He’s right,” Lucrezia agreed. “Lorenzo will see the paint is fresh and wonder why Signor Botticelli has stopped. He will spot the bandage, and even worse, he will see that your hands, Leonardo, are covered with paint.”
Leonardo spread out his hands and stared at them in horror. Paint had smeared over his fingers during his brief struggle with Sandro and it was as incriminating as blood.
“But there isn’t enough room,” he protested.
“Yes, there is,” said Sandro. “Have you learned nothing from studying perspective?”
With Sandro prodding him on, Leonardo clambered reluctantly into the chest. Lucrezia pressed his artist’s satchel into Leonardo’s arms before Sandro pushed him down on to his knees.
“This would be easier if you were a bit shorter,” Sandro grunted. “Bow your shoulders and tuck in your chin. And be quiet!”
With those final words he slammed the lid shut.
From inside the darkness of his prison, Leonardo heard the door of the room open. Then a curiously high-pitched, nasal voice spoke.
“Lucrezia, Signor Botticelli – hard at work I see.”
“Lorenzo, I was not expecting you,” said Lucrezia lightly.
“I hope that doesn’t make me any less welcome,” Lorenzo countered playfully.
“Not at all,” Lucrezia laughed. “I was getting tired of posing and your arrival gives me the excuse to persuade Signor Botticelli to abandon his work for the day.”
She sounded completely casual and relaxed, not at all as if she had someone shut up inside a linen chest.
“When I heard you were here, Signor Botticelli, I was happy for the chance to witness your skilful hand at work,” said Lorenzo.
Inside the chest Leonardo winced at the choice of words. The last thing they wanted was for Lorenzo to spot Sandro’s injury.
Sandro cleared his throat nervously. “Of course, I would be happy to continue, but if the lady is wearying…”
“And the sun is almost gone,” Lucrezia added. “It is not possible to continue.”
“Well, while there is enough light left to see by, let me have a look at the work in progress,” said Lorenzo.
“Would it not be better to wait until it is finished?” Sandro suggested. Leonardo could hear the note of alarm in his voice.
“Pah!” Lorenzo exclaimed good-humouredly. “Even a half-finished image of Lucrezia will delight the eye twice as much as a finished portrait of any other woman in Florence.”
Leonardo heard footsteps making their way to the easel. He could hear his own heart beating faster in the darkness. He didn’t know whether it was because he feared Lorenzo would uncover their deception or because he was awaiting his verdict on the painting.
What manner of man is this Lorenzo de’ Medici? he wondered again. The heir of the most powerful man in Florence, the sweetheart of the beautiful Lucrezia. Surely he must be a handsome and regal individual in spite of his curious voice.
Leonardo decided he had to see for himself. He put a hand to the lid and eased it open a fraction, a gap no more than the width of a finger. There, standing by the painting, was Lorenzo, and Leonardo could not have been more amazed.
What he saw was a young man of average height who looked to be no more than sixteen years old. Far from looking like a handsome noble, he was as plain as a peasant, with a bulbous nose indented at the bridge and a chin that jutted out like the buttress of a cathedral. His straight black hair hung down to his shoulders like a widow’s shawl.
Even Sandro, who was always so eager to please, would have a hard time making a handsome portrait out of that face, Leonardo thought.
Lorenzo folded his arms and regarded the painting. “Already I can see the beauty of her features emerging from the canvas,” he said, “like the figurehead of a ship emerging from the fog. It will be completed by the week’s end?”
“Certainly,” Sandro replied. Even in that one word Leonardo could hear Sandro’s relief that his patron had not spotted anything suspicious. But then Sandro caught sight of the tell-tale chink below the lid of the chest and bit his lip in alarm.
“My father expects me to leave for Naples any day now,” said Lorenzo, “and I must have this picture with me.”
He turned away from the portrait towards the window, as if he could glimpse that far-off city already. Sandro quickly stepped in front of him, blocking Lorenzo’s view of the chest. “Ah, yes, your embassy to Naples,” he said. “Embassies, alliances, you cannot have too many of them.”
Lorenzo laughed. “Tell that to Luca Pitti and his cronies.”
“Perhaps we should leave and let Signor Botticelli pack up his things,” Lucrezia interposed with a twinkle. “I’m sure he wants to get home to his supper.”
“Now that brings me to why I came here in the first place,” Lorenzo declared enthusiastically. “I am on my way to the home of Leon Battista Alberti.”
“Alberti the artist?” asked Sandro. He inched his way backwards, closer and closer to the chest until he had completely blocked Leonardo’s view.
“Yes,” Lorenzo continued, “and also Alberti the architect, the athlete, the writer, the historian, the engineer. Not only is he the most brilliant conversationalist in the whole of Tuscany, he lays a table that would convert a hermit to gluttony. I knew, Lucrezia, that you would want to come with me.”
“Sometimes, Lorenzo, you know my mind so well, it makes me wish I had some secrets to keep from you,” Lucrezia laughed.
“And you shall come too, Signor Botticelli,” Lorenzo added.
“Er, I have several things…” Sandro mumbled. He sat down heavily on the chest, forcing the lid shut and plunging Leonardo into darkness once more.
“Nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure,” said Lorenzo. “No, you must come. I insist upon it!”
There was an element of steel in Lorenzo’s tone, and yet he had lost none of his pleasant charm. For the first time Leonardo could believe that this was indeed someone who was learning to wield power. But he still seemed a poor match for Lucrezia’s beauty and wit.
“I think it would be wise to accept Lorenzo’s invitation,” Lucrezia said pointedly. “Think of all the potential patrons you could meet.”
“Yes, of course, patrons,” said Sandro blankly.
“Come, I have a carriage outside with plenty of room for all of us,” Lorenzo said jovially.
Sandro was pulled to his feet and Leonardo could hear him being ushered out of the door with lavish descriptions of the feast that awaited them. Once their voices had passed beyond his hearing, he waited a few minutes to make sure everyone had left the building.
Deciding at last that it was safe to emerge from hiding, he pressed one hand against the lid and gave a shove. It didn’t budge.
Aghast, Leonardo pushed again, harder. Still the lid wouldn’t shift. When Sandro sat down on the chest he must have jolted the clasp down into the locked position.
Leonardo was trapped!
His first impulse was to cry out for help, but not only could he not face the humiliation of being found like this, he could not risk exposing the deception they had played on Lorenzo de’ Medici.
The only way to save the situation was to get himself out of the box and then slip out of the house unnoticed. All that was holding him in was a metal clasp hooked on to a small peg sticking out of the side of the chest. Surely that was not so much to overcome.
He arched his back and pushed up against the lid, trying to break the clasp. Strain as he might, he soon realised that he did not have enough space to exert any leverage. He rocked this way and that, thumping and kicking at the chest’s interior. He tried to detect some sign that the wood was buckling at the seams, but nothing moved.
Puffing from the effort, he cursed the skill of the Florentine craftsman who had constructed so stout a prison. He realised he might have no other recourse than to shriek for assistance, whatever the consequences.
With a groan of frustration he slumped against the side of the chest. His artist’s satchel dug him in the ribs. Only then did he remember the contents of the bag: oil cloths, brushes, a stylus – and a palette knife.
After much awkward wriggling he managed to slide his hand into the bag. He groped blindly for the knife and felt his fingers close around the handle. He slipped it out and twisted into position.
Hoping the short blade would bear the strain, Leonardo probed for the crack where the lid and the chest met. Pushing hard, he forced the tip of the blade into the hairline gap, then slid it along, seeking the clasp.
Metal met metal with a dull chink. Holding his breath, Leonardo painstakingly jiggled the knife handle up and down, forcing the blade forward. For an awful moment the clasp resisted.
Then it popped loose. Stifling a whoop of triumph, Leonardo raised the lid and stuck his head out. His first breath of fresh air was like a swallow of wine. He wiped a trembling hand across his sweaty brow and leaned over the side of the chest. All that remained now was to find a way to leave without being detected.
“Here! In here!”
The voice came from the passage on the other side of the door. There was the sound of a scuffle and the doorhandle began to turn. As the door swung open, Leonardo recoiled into the chest and hastily lowered the lid. He caught a fleeting glimpse of four figures before darkness swallowed him yet again.
He groaned inwardly. Was he ever going to get out of here?
“There is no other way,” rasped a ruthless voice. “We must kill her now. It will take only a small cut.”
“No!” protested another. “You cannot commit bloodshed here in my master’s house.”
“Your master?” a third man repeated sarcastically. “I am the one who holds your debts. I am your master – for all the use you have been to me.”
There came a muffled noise, like someone trying to cry out.
“Hold her tightly!” snapped the third man. “She already got away from you once.”
Stiffening, Leonardo realised that he recognised two of those voices. The first, harsh and foreign-sounding, he had heard arguing with Maestro Silvestro. The second was that of Tomasso, the chamberlain of the household. The third voice he did not know, but its tone was that of a man used to giving orders.
“She has heard too much,” snapped the rasping voice. “Let us finish her and be gone.”
“Keep that dagger back, Rodrigo!” the third man commanded. “We must be more subtle.”
“That cushion there on the chair,” suggested the rough-voiced Rodrigo. “Smother her and no one will know how she died. Who will care what happened to a slave?”
Leonardo’s mouth had gone completely dry. In spite of the danger, he had to see what was going on. Setting the tips of his fingers against the lid, he eased it up the merest fraction.
Through the sliver of light he saw the chamberlain’s crimson tunic, and the grey woollen robe of the slave girl Fresina. Shifting his head and squinting upward, he saw that Tomasso had the girl’s arms fastened to her sides, one hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from crying out. Off to the left he could make out the glint of a dagger in a leather-gloved fist.
“Do it then, Tomasso!” the third voice ordered. “It is because of your carelessness we are in this situation.”
The chamberlain quailed. “No, no! Spying for you is one thing, but I will not become a murderer.”
There was a tense pause. “Very well,” said the third voice. “Give the girl to me.”
A richly dressed figure with a long, aristocratic face stepped into view and took charge of Fresina, carefully keeping her mouth covered. “If you haven’t the stomach for it, then go,” he told Tomasso. “And be sure to hold your tongue.”
The chamberlain looked pathetically grateful as he backed towards the door. The next instant there came a sudden flash of steel and a dull thunk. Tomasso gave a strangled grunt and collapsed on the floor, Rodrigo’s dagger protruding from his heart.
8 THE HONOUR OF THIEVES
The horror of it took Leonardo’s breath away. Through the narrow chink he stared at the body on the floor, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Rodrigo’s hooded form glided forward and knelt to retrieve his bloody weapon.
“I did not tell you to kill him,” said the aristocratic man irritably. He tightened his hold on Fresina who was struggling to break free.
“He would have talked,” said Rodrigo. “Your hold on him was not strong enough to ensure his silence.”
“But now we have a bloody corpse on our hands and we still have this girl to dispose of.”
“There will be corpses enough before long,” said Rodrigo. “What do two more matter?”
“Our plans are not yet ripe,” said the other man, “and we cannot risk exposure now. We must think creatively.” There was a moment of silence then he said, “Tear a piece of cloth from the girl’s sleeve.”
There came a ripping sound.
“Place it in the dead man’s hand and fold his fingers over it,” the leader directed. “Now smear some of the blood from your dagger over her clothes.”
“I see,” said Rodrigo approvingly. “It will look as if he caught her stealing and she stabbed him.”
Fresina recoiled as Rodrigo approached her with the dagger, her blue eyes blazing with panic.
“Do not struggle, girl,” he advised. “It will do you no good.” Once the grisly work was done, he stepped back like an artist admiring the results of his labours.
“Now what do we do with our little murderess?” the leader wondered.
“Let me break her neck and fling her out of the window,” said Rodrigo harshly. “It will appear she fell to her death attempting to escape from the house.”
Leonardo’s throat tightened. He had been a helpless witness to Tomasso’s sudden death and now they were going to murder this innocent girl before his eyes. He couldn’t just crouch here in hiding and let it happen, but what could he do against two armed men?
“Check the window and make sure the drop is sheer,” the leader ordered.
The chest lay directly under the window. Leonardo shrank down as the hooded assassin approached, praying that he would not notice the opening under the lid. Rodrigo leaned over the chest, his legs blocking out the light.
Leonardo knew this was his only chance to save the girl, whatever the risk. Licking his dry lips, he tensed his limbs under him. With a wild cry, he jumped up.
The lid flew up and cracked Rodrigo on the jaw. He reeled backwards, stunned by the unexpected blow. Tumbling across the floor he crashed into a side table and brought the tray of refreshments toppling down on his head.
The other man’s arrogant, aristocratic face twisted in anger at the sight of Leonardo. “Are there mice in every corner of this infernal place!” he snarled.
Flinging Fresina aside, he drew his sword. Leonardo leapt out of the chest, lunging at him. The swordsman dodged and Leonardo pitched helplessly on to his belly, the blade slashing through the air above his head.
Leonardo made an undignified scramble to get out of reach. Rodrigo, meanwhile, was struggling to pick himself up. “By Christ’s wounds!” he croaked. “I saw that boy at Silvestro’s. He must be a
Medici spy!”
“Then he will learn that he has chosen the wrong side,” said his companion. He pushed Leonardo on to his back with the toe of his boot and pointed the sword at his chest.
Leonardo stared at the blade. “I’m no spy!” he gasped. But he knew that would not save him.
Then he saw Fresina jump to her feet and seize hold of the easel. Whirling her body around like a pinwheel, she slammed Lucrezia’s portrait right into the swordsman’s face. The man went down like a felled ox, colliding with Rodrigo so that they both went rolling across the floor.
Leonardo jumped up and grabbed the slave girl by the arm. “Come on!”
She dropped her makeshift weapon and the two of them made a dash for the door. Once in the passage, Leonardo darted towards the stairs.
“Where are we going?” the girl asked.
“Anywhere we won’t be murdered,” Leonardo said.
Confused shouts and hurrying footsteps were converging from all parts of the house. Statues and hangings flew by in a blur as the two fugitives raced to the front door and tumbled out into the street. Their headlong exit turned the heads of passers by and sharp cries of alarm broke out behind them.
“Murder! Murder! Stop them!”
Heads appeared at neighbouring windows.
“That girl! Look, there’s blood on her dress!” a voice cried.
“She’s a slave!” exclaimed another, makingit sound like an even worse accusation.
Leonardo took Fresina by the hand and yanked her around the corner of the house into a lane. It led to a maze of backstreets that were now sunk in shadow with the setting of the sun. The sounds of pursuit faded behind them. Once they were several streets away, they paused for breath.
Leonardo looked at Fresina. To his eyes the bloodstains on her robe blazed like the flames of a bonfire. “We have to get out of sight,” he said.
They ducked into an alley that took them to the rear of a tavern. Here they squatted down behind a stack of barrels, safe from sight. Distant voices still barked here and there, but the general alarm was subsiding as the chase petered out.
Leonardo and the Death Machine Page 5