All the men were her frank and devoted admirers. I have heard that the very shopkeepers and artisans who saw her pass on the street were wont to roll their eyes in awe at her loveliness, and even to fight jealously over this noble creature they dared not address. Of those present, she appeared to prefer the dark, dashing Giuliano de Medici.
"I fear that it will be a hot summer," she mourned as she finished her sherbet. "There will be little ice left in the storehouses, even now."
"Nay, then," I made haste to say. "Ice may be kept through the hottest months, if it is placed in houses banked with earth." I quickly sketched such a half-buried shed. "And also let the ice be covered deep with sawdust and chaff."
"How!" demanded the painter, Botticelli. "I have known chaff to be placed over fruit in a shop, and so keep it from freezing. If chaff keeps fruit warm, will it also make ice cold?"
I was on the point of launching into a discussion of refrigeration and insulation, but prudently stopped short.
"It does indeed bring coldness," I assured him. "Or rather it keeps the coldness that is there already."
"Black magic," muttered Abbot Marriotto, crossing himself with a beringed hand.
"Nay, white magic," decided Lorenzo, "for it does good on earth, does it not, and no harm to any creature? Ser Leo, do you guarantee that ice will thus remain through the summer, and not perish?" He turned to a servant. "Go you," he ordered, "and summon a secretary." And then to me: "He shall make notes of what you say, young sir, and tomorrow shall see the building of such a house. Therein my ice shall lie, with good store of chaff to insure its cold."
"This strange young man is a learned doctor," said the silvery voice of a lady, who toyed with a goblet of jeweled gold.
"Does he not know of more exalted things than chaff and houses buried in the earth?" asked Simonetta Vespucci, deigning to smile upon me. "Ser Leo—for so you seem to be called—can you not tell us a tale of these stars, which now wink out in the sky and float above our earth?"
Her eyes and her smile dazzled me, understandably, along with any man on whom they turned. Perhaps that is why I ventured to dazzle her in turn.
"Madonna Simonetta," I said, "permit me to say that those stars are worlds, greater than ours."
"Greater than ours?" she cried, and laughed most musically. "But they are no more than twinklets, full of spikes and beams, like a little shining burr."
"They are far away, Madonna," I said. "A man, if only at the distance of a hundred paces, appears so small that he can be contained within the eye of a needle held close before you. So with these bodies, which are like the sun—"
"The sun!" she interrupted. "The sun, Ser Leo, is round, not full of points like a star."
There was applause of her lively protest, from all the men and most of the women.
For answer, I took up a sheet of the paper on which I had been sketching, and asked for the loan of a pin. One of the ladies had a silver bodkin in her cap, and offered it. With this I pierced a hole in the paper.
"Madonna," I addressed Simonetta, "hold this hole to your eye, and look through it. The smallness of the opening will shut away the glitter ...So, you do it correctly. Now"—I pointed to where, in the evening sky, hung shimmering Jupiter—"look yonder. Is that star, seen through the hole in your paper, a burr or a small round body?"
"This is marvelous," she exclaimed. "It is indeed round, like a gold coin seen from a distance."
The others cried out in equal astonishment, and each must needs look through the hole in the paper at Jupiter. I turned over in my mind the possibilities of explaining a telescope, but decided not to offer another foggy theory that I could not support with exact plans or models. I contented myself with attempting to lecture on astronomy.
"Gentlemen and fair ladies," I said, as impressively as I could manage, "these stars look so small that nothing appears less, yet there are a great many that are far larger than our own Earth. Think then how trivial our own star would appear if—"
"Faith, Cousin," called out a voice I knew, "you seek to belittle the world, and Florence, and Lorenzo the Magnificent!"
It was Guaracco, absolutely overwhelming in green and gold, who strode forward and paid fulsomely cordial respects all around.
"Forgive my young kinsman, Your Magnificence, if he has been impertinent," he pleaded eloquently. Then, turning to me: "Will you step aside, Leo? I have a message for you, from Lisa."
At the mention of that name, a little murmur of laughing congratulation went up, to the effect that I must have a sweetheart. Indeed, I felt a quickening of my pulse as Guaracco and I walked a little away through the garden, out of the range of the lamplight.
"What is the message from her?" I asked him.
"That was but an excuse to get you alone," he growled. "I warn you, Leo, say no more of these matters of the stars."
"But why not?" I demanded, surprised.
"The stars in their courses are a specific knowledge of sorcerers. I overheard your teaching just now—"
"I was teaching truth," I broke in, warm to defend myself.
"I know it," he said. "I do not think this little mote, our planet, is the center of all things. But the old belief is part of my trade. I frighten or reward or guide men by horoscopes and prophecies—from the stars. Do you not show me a liar, else I may smooth your way to destruction."
I glared at him, but in my mind was more wonder than rage. Once again he showed himself a sound scientist; once again he showed that he hid his knowledge and fostered error for profit. Only some great evil wish dictated such action. I need not to be too ashamed, I feel, to say that he made me afraid.
Notes:
*6 - Botticelli's most famous paintings are those of Giuliano's sweetheart, Simonetta Vespucci. He was a favorite of Florentine society, and a loyal friend of the Medicis.
*7 - Poliziano, in later life, was a tutor to the children of Lorenzo, and remained in the Medici household until the death of his patron.
*8 - Lorenzo was later able to bring about this alliance, both for peace among the Italian powers and safety from the Moslem raiders.
CHAPTER IX
The End of the Evening
Guaracco did his best to be the lion of the occasion. Not that he did not merit attention; he could charm and astound and inform. Lorenzo publicly and good-humoredly withdrew his previous opinion that Guaracco was dull, and bade him talk on any subject he would. Strange, philosophy-crammed conversation intrigued Lorenzo, as the jokes of a jester or the gambols of jugglers might intrigue a more shallow ruler.
And Guaracco obliged, with improvements upon my discussion of war machines. To my multiple-fire device, he added a suggestion whereby the crossbows of Lorenzo's guard might be improved—a simple, quick lever to draw and set the string instead of the slower and more cumbersome moulinet or crank.
The company praised and approved the idea, and Guaracco beamed. He liked it less when Botticelli suggested, and Lorenzo agreed, that I make clearer his rough sketch of the lever action.
"I perceive"—Guaracco smiled satirically—"that you also admire my kinsman's drawing. Has he told you of that other talent he hopes to develop? Flying?"
"Flying?" repeated the beautiful Simonetta, her eyes shining.
"Aye, that. With a machine called an 'airplane.' "
He used the Twentieth Century English word, and I must have started visibly. How did he know the name and invention? I did not remember telling him about airplanes. But Simonetta was already laughing incredulously.
"Belike this young man seeks to soar with wings, and reach those great worlds and suns he pretends to see in the sky," she suggested merrily, a twinkle in her eyes.
"It sounds like sacrilege," Giuliano garnished his sweetheart's apparent effort to embarrass me. "Flight is contrary to man's proper nature."
I was a little angry. "How contrary?" I demanded. "Is it more contrary or sacrilegious than to ride comfortably and swiftly on the back of a horse."
The abbot
came to my support. "The young man says sooth," he pronounced. "Holy writ sings of the righteous: 'They shall mount up with wings as eagles,' and again, in the words of the Psalmist himself: 'O, that I had wings like a dove!' Surely such flight would not be ungodly, unless it were accomplished by the aid of black magic."
"Well, Ser Leo?" Lorenzo prompted me.
He leaned back in his cushioned chair of state, crossing one long nobby leg over the other. His companions grouped themselves gracefully, if syco-phantically, around him. All were waiting for my reply to the abbot's last suggestion.
"Your Magnificence, there is no such thing as black magic," I said, "either in my devices, or elsewhere."
Every eye widened, and Guaracco stiffened as though I had prodded him with a dagger. I remembered that he had come close to frightening me not an hour before, and determined to make some amends to my own self-respect.
"Of all human discourses," I elaborated warmly, watching him, "the most foolish is that which affirms a belief in necromancy." Guaracco glared, but I did not hesitate. "If this necromancy, or black magic, did truly exist, he who controlled it would be lord of all nations, and no human skill could resist him. Buried treasure and the jewels of Earth's heart would lie manifest to him. No lock, no fortress could remain shut against his will. He could travel the uttermost parts of the Universe. But why do I go on adding instance to instance? What could not be brought to pass by such a mechanician?"
As I finished, there was a sigh, a mutter, and finally Lorenzo struck his hands together in applause.
"Well said, Ser Leo!" he cried. "Do you not think so, Guaracco? Does this not prove that there are no sorcerers?"
"It proves, at least, my innocence of the charge of sorcery." Guaracco smiled, and bowed to give the reply strength. "If I could do such things, would I be so humble and dependent a servant of Your Magnificence? Surely"—and his eyes found mine once more— "nothing is impossible to a true necromancer."
"Nothing," I agreed, "except refuge from death."
His smile vanished.
Lorenzo lolled more easily in his chair.
"This bethinks me," he remarked. "One matter has not been settled. Ser Leo is a boy, a student of the arts, yet he conquers with ease my nonpareil swordsman. That smacks of enchantment."
I spread my hands in one of the free Florentine gestures I was beginning to use.
"I make bold to deny that it was aught but skill."
"We must make trial."
His Magnificence permitted himself another faint grin. I must have shown an expression of worry, for Giuliano burst out into confident laughter and sprang forward, hand on hilt.
"Let me do the trying," he cried, his gay, handsome face thrusting at me in the white light of the lamps.
Simonetta's silvery chuckle applauded her cavalier. The abbot also called for this unecclesiastical performance to take place without delay. Before I well knew what was happening, the chairs, benches and other furniture had been thrust back, the lamps trimmed to give more light, and I faced Giuliano in the center of the cleared space. Poliziano had run to fetch something, and he came close to me.
"Here, young sir," he said, "defend yourself." And he thrust a hard object into my hand.
Giuliano had already drawn his sword and wadded his cloak into a protection on his free arm. I transferred my own weapon to my left arm, and at sight of it my heart sank. It was a mere cane of wood, hard and round and of a sword's length, such as Florentine lads used for fencing practice. Giuliano, on the other hand, fell on guard with a blade that was one of the finest and sharpest I ever saw. Plainly, I was to furnish sport for this gallant and his friends, and all the advantages were denied me.
Because I must, I lifted the cudgel to cross his steel. Lorenzo grunted.
"Your cousin is sinister-handed, Guaracco," he observed. "Belike that is the secret of his skill."
"I fear not," said Giuliano, with unmalicious zest, and he disengaged and thrust at me.
Apparently he meant business, for the point would have nicked, wounded my breast had I not shortened my own arm and beat it aside. Cheers went up from the ladies—then slid into dismayed screams. For, extending my parry to its conclusion as a riposte, I smote Giuliano smartly on the inside of the elbow, and he wheezed in pain and sprang back out of reach. Had I followed and struck again, he might have been forced to drop the sword. But I realized that I had to do with the second greatest man in Florence, and only stood my ground.
Giuliano laughed again. "God's wounds, what a tingler!" he praised me. "I'll ward it another time."
Forward he came again, right foot advanced, his cloaked left arm brought well up. Again I awaited his thrust, parried it and drove it out of line, then riposted as before. He, as good as his promise, interposed the folds of the cloak, taking a muffled tap on his left forearm. But that hurt him somewhat, and he retreated. This time I followed him, avoided an engagement, and half struck at his head. But I stopped in time, fearing to injure him and make dangerous enemies. Instead I diverted the course of the stroke into a sweeping moulinet, passing over his weapon to my right and his left, and terminated it in a resounding thwack on Giuliano's velvet-sleeved sword arm.
Absolute silence fell, then a murmur of consternation from the onlookers. For Giuliano's smile had vanished, and his eyes flashed fire. Plainly the contest had ceased to be sport with him—my thumps had made him angry. He snapped out a soft blasphemy, advanced quickly, and sped a slashing cut—not at me, but at my stick. The edge of his steel, keen as a razor, shore through the tough wood without effort, and I was left with a mere baton in my hand, a truncated billet no more than fifteen inches long.
"No, no, Giuliano, spare him!" called out Lorenzo, but too late to balk his bother's murderous stab at my throat.
I managed to parry with the short length of wood remaining to me, causing his point to shoot upward and over my left shoulder. At once I stepped forward, well within his lunge. Before he could retreat or recover, my free right hand caught the cross-guard of his weapon, and wrenched. His own right arm, bruised twice in the previous engagements, had lost some of its strength, and in a trice I tore the sword away from him.
At once I dropped my severed stick, fell back and whipped the captured hilt into my left hand.
"By your leave, my lord," I panted, "I will continue the matter with this more suitable equipment."
But then Lorenzo, Poliziano, and Guaracco had sprung forward and between us. The sorcerer caught me in his arms and wrestled me farther back, his red beard rasping my ear as he hissed out a warning to take care. Lorenzo the Magnificent was lecturing Giuliano in the manner of big brothers in every land and generation. And Giuliano recovered his lost temper.
"Hark you, Ser Leo, I did amiss," he called out to me, laughing. "I had no lust to hurt you at the beginning. I meant only fun. And then—" He broke off, still grinning, and rubbed his injured arm. "I forgot myself. It is not many who can teach me either swordplay or manners but, by Saint Michael of the Sword! You have done both."
It was handsomely said, and I gladly gave him back his weapon, assuring him that I bore no ill-will. At that, he embraced me in the impulsive Latin manner, swearing that he would stand my friend forever. The company subsided to chairs again, happy that no harm had befallen either of us.
"We wander from the path of our earlier discourse," reminded Abbot Mariotto tactfully. "Ser Leo was speaking of a flying machine. Where is it, my son?"
"It is not yet constructed, Holy Father," I replied.
As with so many other things, the principle of flying a heavier-than-air machine was caught only vaguely in the back of my head. I could visualize roughly the form, a thin body with a rudder for tail and outspread wings. And something to stir the air.
"Belike you would strap wings to your arms," suggested Giuliano.
"Impossible," spoke up Poliziano. "Are not men's arms too weak for flight? Would there not need great muscles, at least as strong as those of the legs?"
I
had an inspiration, and an answer. "The muscles of our legs are many times stronger than needful to support the weight of our bodies," I told him.
Lorenzo, eager as always for new philosophic diversion, challenged me to prove it. I asked him to get me a long, tough plank, and servants were sent scurrying after it. While I waited, I chose a strong, straight chair, and sat upon it. A cushion I took and laid upon my knees. When the plank arrived, I balanced it upon this cushion.
"Now, come, all of you," I invited, "and rest yourselves upon this plank."
Lorenzo did so at once, and then his brother. The others followed laughingly, not excepting the abbot and Madonna Simonetta—ten in all, supported upon my knees. Only Guaracco stood aloof.
"Your long shank support many hundredweight, my stout Cousin," he said, "but what does this prove?"
"It proves his argument, and the fallacy of mine," handsomely replied Poliziano for him, as he rose from his seat at one end of the plank. "His legs have tenfold strength, and his arms may be strong in proportion, enough to flap his wings and waft upward his entire weight."
"Then let me see it done," pronounced Lorenzo, with a grand finality that made my heart sink. "I am ambitious, Ser Leo, to watch you 'mount up with wings as eagles.' And I do not forget the other arrangement, by which you will make solid shot to explode."
This last labor, which I had been glad to slight in conversation, now seemed actually the easier.
But Simonetta and the other ladies professed themselves weary of cold science, be it ever so important in a masculine world, and demanded music. Poliziano, whose voice was as sweet as his appearance was ungainly, immediately snatched up a silver lute and picked out a lively tune. The song he rendered was saucy and merry, and not a little shocking; but the holy abbot led the loud applause.
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