Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  “We’ll get you for this, Giacomo,” Simone says.

  “You wont get anybody,” Caterina says, “or you’ll feel my pan against your head. Come back to study as gentlemen, or do not come at all. It’s all the same to me.”

  “You expect us to return after this outrage, woman?” Filippo says. “If we do, it will be with an armed guard to take you away.” Then he turns to me. “Keep an eye out for us, gypsy boy. It may be the last thing you see.”

  The door closes behind them, and we are alone—and alive, thanks be to the Virgin. And Caterina.

  “Don’t say anything, boy. I’m an old woman, near the end of my stay here on Earth. If they’d knifed me I would have thanked them for hastening my journey.”

  “Caterina, you saved me—”

  “The good Lord did, when he told me what to do and gave me the strength to do it. Now, let us clear up this room before the Master returns, or well have some real … some real … explaining to …”

  She stumbles—Caterina! I go to her and she grips my arm; we make our way to the kitchen, where she sits down on her favorite chair by the kitchen fire. I’ll put another log on, though the Master will scold me for doing so. He does not like us to use more than four logs in one day, even when the air outside is cold enough to freeze blackberries to their stems.

  How did this old woman wield such a heavy pan?

  She pulls the blanket up over her knees and closes her eyes.

  Then I hear the bells of nearby San Ambrogio. One … two … three. I agreed to meet Renzo for knife practice at three! I should stay and watch over my Caterina. But she is sleeping. There is nothing more I can do for her now.

  XIX

  I set off at a run for the Eastern Gate.

  In our street, children are playing kick with a ball made from stitched cloths. From an alleyway, the metalworker’s hammer strikes his anvil with a repeated Ching! Ching! Ching! There are no more leaves on the tree whose branches hang over our garden wall. Winter is here.

  As I turn a corner, a man pulling a full cart, head down and struggling with it on the uneven stones, bumps into me, and we both fall. A hundred apples are released into the air and bounce off in all directions. The accident attracts several ragged children, who seize handfuls of the fruit and then dissolve into the shadows.

  “Fool!” the apple seller shouts at me. “My apples! Someone save my apples!”

  “I am sorry!” I help him up. He shakes me off.

  “This is a street, boy. I have a business to attend to. Stay in bed if you want to daydream.”

  And away I go, while he shouts oaths at my back.

  The Eastern Gate is just ahead and there is only a short line of people waiting to leave the city—hurry, hurry, Renzo is waiting for me!

  I pass through and now I am on the road to Monza, which leads away into the hills. Monza has always lived in the shadow of our city; they call it “Milans little sister.” And, like all little sisters, it seeks to mimic its elder. It even has a cathedral, but it is no more than a shed compared to ours.

  I leave the road and cross the open grassland towards the Lazaretto. There is the oak we use as a target. No Renzo. The sky has turned a dull gray, and the clouds sit uncomfortably on the horizon, as if waiting for something to happen.

  Perhaps he too was delayed. More likely he came here and left when he did not see me. He doesn’t like to wait for anyone, my friend. Even me.

  I’ll throw a few knives, warm up my arm.

  One: overhead, raising the elbow high, forearm snap.

  Not bad. I go to the tree and pull out the knife from the thick bark.

  Two: from the left, holding the blade by the tip, flicking the wrist.

  Hmm. Too much twist. The knife hit the trunk and bounced off.

  Three: underarm, bringing the hand up with a snap.

  Hurrah! Direct hit! One day soon I will be as capable as Renzo.

  But I don’t feel like practicing on my own. What happened with the students has greatly upset me. I am tired of their insults. I must find my parents. And my master must help me too, he owes me that, or—I will leave him.

  But what is this? A horse has appeared from behind the west wall of the Lazaretto. A fine white horse. And no rider. That’s strange. I saw a white horse not an hour ago. Then it turns its head … it has a black ring around the left eye. It’s the same horse that was brought to the house—the one that I was told to keep my hands off!

  I approach with a soft tread.

  “Gently, girl, gently, I won’t hurt you. What are you doing out here all alone? Don’t shy away, now, I’m your friend.”

  Every time I draw near enough to touch her, she trots away. But if she is here, where are her masters? And why the Lazaretto? Who ever comes here except Renzo and me? This is where the plague sufferer is sent to live out his final days or hours, his boils swelling and bursting, his hair falling out in handfuls, sweating hot tears of blood from his skin. Only a madman would think of entering such a place willingly.

  Only a madman like me. Something is going on here. I mean to find out what.

  There is no chain on the gates, but they are firmly locked. From the inside?

  I’ll try the ragged old bell rope. One tug—and it falls off! Surely there have been no visitors here for many years, and the white horse is merely an odd coincidence.

  But I have heard the Master say that coincidence is the visible result of invisible intention, as if God wanted to draw our attention to something, but was waiting for us to do the work.

  And here’s one shutter broken on its hinges. I could pull it…open … and …

  I’m in. A small dusty room, the plaster falling from the walls. The frame of a bed, the wood old and rotten. A chair lying on its side. How many unfortunates have died here? I’ll open the door of the room slowly, quietly, someone might hear. (Who? There’s been no one here for years.)

  But as I leave the room, there is a soft sigh, as of a woman’s breath. I turn around sharply, my heart quickening, in time to see a gray shadow pass into the wall and disappear from sight. Great Heaven, what was that? I wait for another sign, all of my senses straining, hardly daring to breathe. But there is nothing more.

  I walk down a dark, drab corridor, through another door, and out into a central courtyard, open to the sky.

  And in the middle of it …

  A gigantic bird.

  The same design as I saw in the drawings at Maggio’s workshop.

  But fifty times the size.

  Its wings are very like a bat’s in shape and form, curved in the center and pointed at the tip. The ribs are still uncovered wood, so finely crafted that you might think Nature herself had created a new race of wooden birds.

  Underneath the wings is a kind of open box with a seat, pedals, and a lever. Beneath that, in a smaller box, a jumble of coils and springs of sundry sizes, some tightly wound, some loose in their casing.

  And two wheels sitting under the machine, for ease of transport.

  It is incredible. It is impossible. It is inexplicable.

  And it is here, right before my eyes.

  My master has built his flying machine.

  And then, from behind me, I hear: “I told you he’d find us, Master Leonardo.”

  I turn to see my master and Messer Maggio walking towards me.

  “So you did, Maggio. But can you tell me why the boy followed me, when he knows not to?”

  “Master, I did not follow you! I was here to meet my friend and I saw the white horse—”

  “I do not have the time to argue with you, Giacomo. You have seen what you came to see. Now get you home. You should not be here!”

  “But, Master, now that I am, will you not show me how you made such a miraculous machine?”

  The Master’s face softens. Explanations are his special pleasure.

  “By approaching the task as a man of science, not superstition,” he says. “To make it simple for you: A bird is a mechanism for flight. Flight is g
overned by mathematical laws. Man made those laws. Therefore man can make a mechanism for flight. Which is what I have done. With Maggio’s invaluable help, of course.”

  “And the bat, Master? Why did you choose the bat as your model?”

  “Because its wings are suitable for our needs, being covered with light, smooth, strong skin. It requires less power than feathered wings to produce flight. We have built the machine using those same principles of lightness and strength.”

  “But how can a man work the wings rapidly enough to raise his own weight above the earth?”

  “He can’t.” The Master points to the wooden box beneath the pilot’s seat. “Unless, that is, someone has invented a way to multiply his natural capacity many times, through a system of linked, weighted springs, which, when operated by the pilot, will cause the wings to beat as if propelled by twenty men, lifting him clear of the earth and into the sky—higher than trees, roofs, steeples, spires, and clouds—for as far as his strength and endurance may take him!”

  Thoroughly fantastical.

  “And how are the springs to be made to work, Master?”

  “Why, by the pilot pressing down on these pedals—here and here, down and down, as if he were pressing grapes. And with his hands, using this lever to steer the craft left and right (note the rudder on the tail for that very purpose).”

  “Remarkable, Master!”

  “Yes, I do believe it is.” He turns his back to me. “Maggio, I trust the thick fustian cloth will be suitable for the body of the craft. For the wings, we will cover them with the treated silk, which is light and strong, not dissimilar in texture to the skin that covers a bat’s wings. What say you?”

  “What can I say, Master Leonardo? Every moment I am asking myself if this is not all a dream.”

  “My dear Maggio, this will be a dream come true, if we can conclude what we have so successfully commenced,” the Master says.

  “Night is drawing in,” Maggio says. “I will tidy up inside before we leave.”

  “Thank you, Maggio, that will be most welcome,” my master says.

  And we watch him walk away.

  When he is out of hearing, the Master takes my arm and pulls me towards him: “Now, boy, I want the truth. Without further delay. The truth!”

  “The truth?” I can feel my lips quivering.

  “Why were you following me, Giacomo?”

  “Master—on my word, I wasn’t!”

  “You came here by chance?”

  He looks at me with stony eyes, and in them I see the old mistrust. But mistrust cannot make a traitor out of me. I will tell the Master what the Duke has ordered me to do, even if I perish for it. Truth be told, I would rather forfeit my life than betray my master. I will tell him everything.

  “Yes, Master, I swear it was chance that brought me here. But there is more. It is a long story.”

  “Shorten it.”

  “The Duke is desperate for a weapon to use against the French army, which even now is approaching our borders. Somehow he knows that you are working on an amazing new invention. He has commanded me to spy on you and report back to him.”

  “You will tell him nothing of what you have seen,” the Master says.

  “Yes, Master. I mean, no. But he has threatened to take his revenge on me if I fail him.”

  “Not if he wants me to finish the Last Supper. He tried to frighten you, is all.”

  He succeeded.

  The sky grows dark. We must leave soon or be cloaked in blackness.

  “Master,” I say, “who were the men who came to the house today?”

  The Master ignores the question.

  “You can tell me, Master, surely you can.”

  He shakes his head. “Must you always know everything?” he says. I nod. He sighs. “They wish to buy the flying machine.”

  “What, Master? You are double-dealing the Duke?!”

  “Lower your voice, boy. It is the Duke who has been double-dealing me! Why is Michelangelo invited here to Milan, if not to usurp my position? Why should I not look elsewhere to secure my future, if the Duke will not secure it for me?”

  “Then who are they, Master?”

  “You do not need to know. But I can tell you this: My new patrons are very generous, unlike the Duke—why, even today they gave me the white horse, freely and without conditions, they were so pleased with what they saw. The flying machine, after twenty years of thinking and planning, is almost ready to fly. But it will not fly for the Duke!”

  Oh, Master, you have not betrayed Milan and offered it to the French, have you? I pray you have not. They are our enemies. There is no reward great enough to sanction the act of treachery.

  “What about the two intruders who broke into our house, Master? Were they working for the Duke, do you think?”

  The Master shakes his head.

  “I still do not know,” he says. “And it troubles me.”

  “And the Last Supper …”

  “What about it, boy?”

  “Master, the Pope is coming—”

  “Giacomo, I am more than aware of the Pope’s intentions. How could I not be, when you remind me at every turn?”

  There is a strange stillness in the darkening air. No birds fly over this house of death.

  “I do not want you emptying your mouth to anybody about this,” the Master says to me. “Not to the Duke, not to your friends. You will say nothing. Is that understood?”

  I nod my head.

  “Swear it.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Say it, boy.”

  “I do swear not to tell anyone what I have seen.”

  “This invention is my—our—chance to leave Milan,” he says.

  “And when the Duke comes looking for me, Master? In a few days he expects an answer.”

  “Let me worry about the Duke.”

  You won’t worry alone. Then another thought comes to me—

  “Who will pilot it, Master, when it is finished? You will need someone brave of heart and strong in the leg to fly it for you, someone like—”

  “Enough, boy. It is too early to consider who should have that honor.”

  Now Maggio has joined us once more.

  “I am not too tall, Master, and will fit snugly in the seat—”

  “Enough, Giacomo. The hour is late. Maggio, what say you we cover our great bird against the night air and return to Milan?”

  “You read my mind, Master Leonardo.”

  What was that noise? It sounded like a tile falling off the roof.

  “Do you hear something, Master?”

  “The wind in the trees, boy.”

  “Or an unhappy spirit returned to its place of death,” Maggio says.

  “Maggio, I took you for a man of reason. There are no ghosts in the Lazaretto.”

  Neither are there any trees, Master.

  Maggio and the Master begin to gather up the waxed cloth that lies in a stiff pile to one side of the flying machine.

  Then the Master says: “We have enough work here for you, too, Giacomo, if you care to help.”

  But—“Master! There’s something up there!”

  I point to the roof. I thought that I saw something. Someone.

  He does not even glance upwards.

  “Giacomo, I am not falling for your tricks. Take a corner of the cloth and help us cover the machine.”

  Now clouds as fleecy as spinning wool pass before the moon; and when they have drifted across the sky there is nothing—no one—to be seen.

  “Now that you know what we are up to,” the Master says, on our journey home, “you can return here tomorrow. We have need of another pair of hands.”

  XX

  I wake to the sound of Caterina calling for me. A rock could not sleep through such a summons, I swear.

  Outside my window, the sun is up, but it is sickly; it can scarce crawl out of its bed to give us light. The leafless branches of the trees show like black lines against the silvery sky.
r />   “The Master’s been and gone,” she says, when I have stumbled into the kitchen. “And he left without his breakfast. He’ll be sorry he did.”

  “Gone without me? He promised that I could help him work on—Caterina, I’ll be back later to do my chores!”

  I run out of the house and across town to the Eastern Gate. The air is cold, which persuades me to run all the more swiftly. At the Lazaretto I bang on the doors and call for the Master. No answer. Then I must again climb through that window with the broken shutter.

  In the central courtyard all is quiet. No Master. No Maggio.

  And no flying machine.

  Gone. Gone? Gone!

  Somebody has stolen the flying machine!

  And, to judge by their absence, somebody has stolen my master and Maggio, too.

  The day passes more slowly than a cart with a broken wheel.

  He has still not returned by the time Caterina and I go to our beds.

  Sleep is impossible. Every noise jerks me awake. A dog barking. A shutter slamming. An argument in the street between two drunks, which turns into a fight. Plenty of that when you live near The Dangling Bat, a notorious tavern. Nonetheless, this house is better than some we’ve had. Father Vicenzo chose it for its closeness to Santa Maria delle Grazie. Perhaps he thought that it would help the Master finish the painting more quickly; if so, as you already know, he was sadly mistaken.

  “The Master never returned last night,” Caterina announces, the next day. “What will we do?”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t abandon us, Caterina.”

  “How can you be sure?” she says.

  Wherever he has gone, he has left us unprepared. Sometimes he drops a few coins in the clay pot in the kitchen. I take a look. I run my hand around the inside. Nothing. Nothing but air.

  “There’s a dice game tonight,” Caterina says. “The astrologer Massimo told me I will have good luck.”

  “You’ll have good luck if he does not take all your money,” I say.

  I sit down before the fire. Five more logs to go, five more logs to freezing.

  “We’ve still got the shopkeepers,” I say. “They won’t refuse us if they know the Master is away and we are left penniless.”

  She shakes her head. “I think they’ve had enough of Leonardo da Vinci,” she says. “It’s the dice, or starve we must.”