Leonardo and the Death Machine

by Robert J. Harris

  “Not yet,” said Lorenzo. “I’m hoping something will turn up.”

  He vaulted over the altar rail and Leonardo leapt after him. Over his shoulder he glimpsed Neroni’s men drawing their swords as they pursued.

  Up ahead the priest was just coming out of the sacristy, having hung up his robes after mass. Lorenzo barged past the astonished cleric and into the room, Leonardo tumbling in behind him.

  Lorenzo slammed the door shut and hauled over a table to prop against it. Together, they added some chairs and a cabinet to the barricade. Then they looked around them. Priestly robes hung along the walls and the various instruments of the mass – candles, bowls and chalices – were laid out on the shelves. But there was no other door, only a small wooden stair in the far corner.

  “Where does that go?” Leonardo wondered.

  “Up to the choir loft,” said Lorenzo. “A dead end.”

  “This is a cathedral,” said Leonardo. “Can’t we claim sanctuary from the bishop? The church is supposed to help those who throw themselves on her mercy.”

  “Not in this case, I’m afraid,” said Lorenzo. “The bishop is Neroni’s brother.”

  Leonardo’s heart plummeted. The next moment the door shuddered at a violent blow from outside.

  Neroni’s voice resounded through the church. “Smash it in!”

  “We have to go up,” said Lorenzo. “At least we can defend ourselves better at the top of the stairs.”

  Leonardo did his best to visualise the interior of the cathedral outside the sacristy door. A plan had occurred to him. “Up it is,” he agreed, “but grab some of those priests’ robes on the way.”

  He snatched a set of green vestments from the wall and took off up the stairs.

  “It’s a little late to adopt a disguise,” said Lorenzo, but he grabbed a set of robes anyway.

  They scrambled up into the gallery then crouched low out of sight. Below, the thunder of fists on wood continued.

  “The way they’re pounding at that door, I doubt they’ll hear us up here,” said Lorenzo. “With any luck, they’ll assume we’re propping up our barricade.”

  Leonardo inched forward and peered over the railing. Above his head, the vast, empty curve of the dome swelled like a blank sky. Below, he could see the long marble floor stretching out towards the bronze door that led to safety. It was at least a twenty-foot drop. Hidden from view by the overhang of the gallery, Neroni’s men continued their assault on the sacristy door. Leonardo couldn’t imagine that it would hold out much longer.

  He separated out the robes he had brought and started tying them together.

  “Your plan is that we should climb down,” Lorenzo said approvingly.

  “Something like that,” Leonardo grunted.

  He added Lorenzo’s robes to the makeshift lifeline. A part of his mind winced at having to crush and twist such fine fabrics. Lorenzo helped him secure the colourful rope to the gallery railing.

  Praying that the knots would hold, Leonardo swung himself on to the rail and took a tight grip on the line. As Lorenzo made ready to follow, the sacristy door gave way with a loud crash.

  “Quick! Up the stairs!” they heard Neroni bellow.

  “Grab hold and jump for it!” Leonardo cried as heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden steps.

  Gripping the bulky rope, they launched themselves off the rail and plunged towards the marble floor below. The line snapped taut. For an instant, their legs flailed in midair. Then the hastily tied knots broke loose.

  They hit the floor with a thud, the loose vestments billowing down on top of them. Lorenzo jumped up first and pulled Leonardo to his feet.

  They made a desperate dash down the length of the cathedral. Behind them, Leonardo could hear Neroni raging at his men. By the time their pursuers had come clattering back down the stairway, the fugitives were outside. As they rushed down the steps, Leonardo bent to retrieve his hat which still lay where Neroni had thrown it. Shoving it back on his head, he raced across the square after Lorenzo. Diving into the shelter of a narrow alley, they stopped to take a breath.

  “I must go straight to my father and mobilise our followers,” said Lorenzo. “Come with me and tell him all you have told me.”

  Leonardo shook his head. “Everything that has happened is part of some scheme I can’t quite see yet. But the key to it all is the machine. The only place I can find the answer is in Silvestro’s workshop.”

  Lorenzo conceded the point with a wave of his hand. “Go then. I cannot waste time arguing while Lucrezia is in Neroni’s hands.”

  Leonardo paused an instant. “Whatever happens,” he said, “please see to it that Fresina is safe. She is being cared for by my friend, Sandro Botticelli.”

  “Of course,” said Lorenzo. “Good luck to you.”

  He turned and hurried off to the north of the city. Leonardo headed in the other direction, towards the Oltrarno, towards the place where the mystery had begun.

  19 DISCOVERY AND DANGER

  The noon bell was tolling in the tower of Santo Spirito and Leonardo could hear the congregation chanting their midday prayers inside. He averted his face as a troop of stonemasons marched past, heading for the Pitti Palace.

  Retracing his step through the narrow streets that surrounded the church, he found himself once more outside Silvestro’s dilapidated workshop. The sky was overcast and the air was heavy with impending thunder, which made the building look even more dreary than it had before.

  The front door was closed, so he crawled beneath the window and took a cautious peek over the ledge. The workshop was empty. He stood up and glanced around to make sure no one was passing, then slipped a leg over the ledge and climbed inside.

  Tools had been abandoned willy-nilly, powder and paint lay carelessly uncovered, and scraps of paper and splinters of wood littered the dirty floor. On one of the worktables was a half-eaten loaf of bread, some crumbs of cheese and a pair of cups containing the dregs of cheap wine. Leonardo ran his finger around the rim of one of them and discovered it was still moist. Someone had been here this morning and there was no telling when they would return. He would have to make his search a quick one.

  Leonardo cautiously approached Silvestro’s private chamber and listened at the door. Hearing no sound, he stepped inside and found it empty. He sniffed the air, suddenly aware of a strange, unfamiliar odour. Unable to identify it, he dismissed it from his mind and made for the desk.

  A brisk search of Silvestro’s papers turned up nothing but overdue bills and half-finished sketches of human figures. There was no trace of the diagram he had seen before.

  At the back of the room was a hanging decorated with a picture of Vulcan, the blacksmith of the Roman pantheon. Leonardo pulled it aside to reveal an archway leading to the forge room. The floor was coated in a layer of soot and ash marked with so many footprints Leonardo wasn’t afraid to add his own.

  He crossed over to the furnace and laid a hand on it. It was completely cold. He looked around and saw some fragments of clay, the remains of moulds that had been deliberately smashed. Then, in one corner, he spotted something that made him catch his breath.

  It was a chest, fastened with a padlock, and it was exactly the right size to hold the object he had come in search of. Leonardo pressed his palms down on the lid, as if by doing so he could sense what was inside. Surely it could be only one thing – Silvestro’s machine.

  He looked around for something to break the lock with and saw a long-handled shovel used for loading coal into a furnace. He grabbed it and stood over the chest.

  Taking careful aim, he lifted the shovel above his head and swung. The iron blade slammed into the padlock, tossing off sparks. Leonardo struck again and again, until he was perspiring from the effort. Then he gave one last, almighty blow and the padlock broke, dropping to the floor with a clank.

  Setting the shovel aside, Leonardo unfastened the front of his smock and flapped it to cool himself off. He reached for the chest and realised his ha
nd was trembling. The prospect of finally uncovering the secret was so exciting he could hardly bring himself to believe it. He took hold of the lid, raising it slowly at first, then threw it up with a yell of triumph.

  The cry was choked off in his throat as the stink of rotting flesh swept over him and he staggered back in horror. Curled up in the chest was no piece of machinery – it was the dead body of Silvestro.

  Leonardo stifled his fright and forced himself to take a closer look. The front of the artist’s tunic was stained with dried blood, his skin pale, his eyes bulging. Leonardo reached out hesitantly to touch his cheek and felt cold flesh under his fingers.

  It was obvious that Silvestro had been dead for some time, and it was equally obvious from the deep red stain over his breast that he had been killed by a single stab wound to the heart. Rodrigo’s handiwork. Leonardo could not help glancing nervously around, as if the Spaniard might be lurking somewhere in the shadows, even though he had clearly committed this murder before setting out for Anchiano.

  Silvestro was dead, the moulds destroyed, the diagram removed, and Leonardo, who had seen it, was marked for death. This proved the importance Neroni attached to the machine. But how could Leonardo report this discovery to anyone when he was already wanted for murder himself? And what if he were found here with another body?

  He slammed the lid shut and hurried back through Silvestro’s study into the workshop. He was nearing the front door when he heard two familiar voices outside.

  “What do you reckon’s happened to old Silvestro then?”

  “Lying on the floor of some tavern someplace, sleeping off one of his binges, I expect. We won’t see him for days and then he won’t remember nothing.”

  It was the artist’s two apprentices and Leonardo knew they were sure to recognise him. As the door opened, he swerved and made a dash for the window.

  “Hoy!” exclaimed Pimple-face. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s him!” answered his friend. “The one that was dressed so fancy!”

  Leonardo threw himself headlong at the open window, his arms stretched out before him. He hit the ground rolling and collided with a rain barrel. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet and took off at a run.

  The two apprentices burst out of the front door in pursuit.

  “Come back here! The Constable wants you!”

  Leonardo dodged this way and that through the maze of narrow streets, moving too fast to have any idea where he was. Suddenly, he found himself below the looming walls of the church of Santo Spirito. At the far end of the street a dozen armed men were approaching.

  Leonardo was sure that if they saw him running, they would stop him and ask his business, and he could hear the apprentices catching up behind him. He froze on the spot, unable to decide which way to go, which was the greater risk.

  Just then four monks stepped out of the shadow of the church. They surrounded Leonardo, raising their arms in prayer so that their long sleeves flapped around him like sheets on a drying line.

  “Walk with us,” one of them hissed out of the side of his mouth, “and keep low.”

  Leonardo crouched down so that he was lost among the voluminous folds of the monks’ grey robes as they walked, intoning Latin prayers as they went. He heard Silvestro’s apprentices skid to a halt close by.

  “Where’s he gone then?”

  “Burn his bones! There’s a reward out for that sneak!”

  The monks continued their solemn progress up the street while the apprentices continued to curse their ill luck. The armed men parted ranks before the brothers, bowing respectfully to them as they passed.

  They rounded a corner into a small square where they halted and all turned inward to face Leonardo. Leonardo straightened up and tried to thank them, but the lead brother raised a hand to silence him.

  “Are you Leonardo da Vinci, the pupil of Andrea del Verrocchio?” he asked.

  Taken aback, Leonardo’s first instinct was to lie. But surely, if he could not trust these holy men who had come to his rescue, there was no one he could trust.

  “Yes, brother, I am,” he answered. “But how do you know my name?”

  All of the monks were staring at him intently and only now did he catch a glimpse of the faces under the shadow of their cowls. They were all bearded with hard, purposeful eyes, not the faces of holy men but of soldiers.

  “Now!” the lead brother commanded.

  Leonardo was immediately seized in an unbreakable grip. When he tried to cry out, a gag was stuffed into his mouth. Two of the brothers removed the cords from around their waists and used them to bind his arms to his sides. Another of them yanked a sack down over his head and shoulders.

  Guided by the brothers, he stumbled blindly along the street. After a few moments, he heard the snort of a horse and the creak of wagon wheels. He was hoisted up and tossed into the back of the wagon. Someone hauled a sheet of canvas over him and then they were off.

  Leonardo’s stomach sank. Not only had he failed to find Silvestro’s machine, but he had fallen into the hands of the enemy. There was little hope now that he would live to tell his tale.

  20 A MAN OF INFLUENCE

  There was a roll of thunder and the rain began pattering down on Leonardo’s canvas covering. He struggled and twisted, trying to wriggle loose, but his bonds had been tied by men who were obviously used to this sort of work. His captors had said nothing to him since making him their prisoner, and they had said precious little to each other either.

  There were two men up front driving, but all Leonardo heard out of them was an occasional grumble about the weather. Hoofbeats to the rear told him there were at least two more men riding escort, so that was all four of them accounted for.

  They were not monks then, but what? Mercenaries? Bandits? Slavers? And where were they taking him? They had left the sounds of the city behind long ago, so they were not going to Pitti’s palace – perhaps because it was safer to dispose of him elsewhere.

  Finally, the wagon slowed to a halt and the canvas was stripped away. Leonardo could not tell if it was day or night, though he was sure they had been travelling for hours. He was dragged from the wagon and set down on a surface of wet cobbles. He could hear activity around him, muted voices, footsteps, doors being opened and closed.

  Still without addressing him, one of his captors took him by the shoulder and steered him indoors. He felt wooden flooring beneath his feet and then the softness of an expensive carpet.

  The sack was pulled away and the light of a dozen candles stung Leonardo’s eyes. He was still blinking when a pair of servants entered the room, one carrying food and drink, the other a basin of water and some towels, and laid them out on the table.

  The man who had brought him here removed the gag and the ropes. “Stay here and do not try to leave,” he ordered. “The door will be guarded.”

  He ushered the servants out and locked the door after him.

  Leonardo looked around at his prison. It was certainly a comfortable one, with two soft chairs and tapestries on the wall. The windows were high and barred and the rain was still drumming on the sill.

  Whoever these people were, they appeared to be in no hurry to kill him. A pang of hunger reminded him that if he were to try to escape, he would need to keep his strength up. Walking over to the table, he washed his face and hands, drying himself off vigorously with the towel. Then he attacked the food with relish.

  There was freshly baked bread, slices of honeyed ham, and partridge flavoured with quince jelly. The wine was the most delicious Leonardo had ever tasted. After the meal and two full cups, the tension and anxiety that had beset him all day gave way to irresistible fatigue. He sank into a chair and slipped into a deep, welcome slumber.

  As he slept, his thoughts raced like multicoloured threads being whipped through the cogs and spools of a complex machine. He saw the diagram he had copied from Silvestro’s workshop, so tantalising in its inscrutable detail. Then he saw the whole of the city of Flor
ence laid out before him in the same way.

  The city itself had become a machine, driven by the cogs and springs of the mysterious plan. The towers rose and fell in a complex sequence, the colossal dome of the cathedral was turning like a millwheel, and the streets were shifting back and forth like shuttles in a loom.

  Then the relentless motion became a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring into the face of Lorenzo de’ Medici.

  He jumped to his feet and Lorenzo backed off, raising his empty hands. “Easy, Leonardo. You are among friends here.”

  Lorenzo’s hair and his riding clothes were damp from the rain. A sword with a silver hilt hung from his belt.

  Leonardo was confused. “Where is here?”

  “My father’s villa at Careggi. I’ve been riding around our estates rousing our people to arms. When I got back, I was told you had arrived.”

  Leonardo laughed with relief. “I thought I had been taken by Neroni’s men!”

  “Before leaving Florence, I sent some of my most trusted men to protect you from Neroni,” Lorenzo explained. “I described you to them, told them where you were headed and ordered them to bring you safely to me here.”

  “Why were they dressed up as monks?”

  “My idea,” said Lorenzo with a smile. “I did not think it would be safe for them to enter the Oltrarno without a disguise, and the abbot of our local church owes me several favours. I’m sorry they treated you as they did. They were afraid you might be dangerous.”

  “They showed up just in time,” said Leonardo. “I was caught between a flood and a fire when they appeared.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No, something far worse: Silvestro’s dead body. Rodrigo’s work, I’d guess.”

  Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. “Matters grow more serious by the hour. Perhaps this will be enough to provoke my father to action.”

  Leonardo caught an undertone of frustration in Lorenzo’s voice.

  “He is ready to see you now and there is only a short while left before he retires for the night. I am afraid he will not stay up even a minute beyond his customary bedtime, no matter what the emergency.”