by K. C. Dyer
Of course! Darrell looked again at the tall noble, and the memory of his teenage features and vivid blue eyes came flooding back. His eyes remind me of his grandfather, she thought, a strange feeling settling into her stomach.
Leonardo brandished the notebook under Darrell’s nose. “See all that was nearly lost to me?” He flipped through the pages like a man possessed. “A complete underground waterworks system — a furnace fired by hydraulics — a cross-bow that can kill many men with a single shot — a flying machine.”
“My friend, you must take better care with your ideas — and your notebooks.” Giovanni spoke to Leonardo but grinned at Darrell. “Just last evening, I had to take back this very notebook from an unscrupulous criminal. He was ready to sell it to some cheap imitator of my friend’s ideas, and it was no easy task to dissuade him.” He clasped Leonardo by the hand. “Guard your secrets well, my friend. There are many who would pay a fine coin to see your deepest musings and your private projects.”
Giovanni caught Darrell’s gaze once more with his vivid blue eyes and smiled. “Did you miss your most amiable companion last evening?” he asked, as he reached over and ruffled Delaney’s fur. “For when I most had need of help, I turned and found him by my side.”
“My dog?” Darrell reached over to stroke Delaney’s soft head and remembered her long wait for him by the fire at the wedding.
Giovanni stood and struck a self-mockingly dramatic pose, though he had trouble suppressing a grin. “When my friend told me of the stolen notebook and of the threat to sell it, I was incensed. I leapt on my horse and galloped off to stop this nefarious deed.”
Leonardo rolled his eyes at Darrell. “I was packaging up my belongings, so I begged him to go in my stead.”
Giovanni raised his eyebrow. “Do not ruin a good story, Leo.” He cleared his throat dramatically and gazed off into the distance. A small girl, her clothes black with dirt, crept away from the skirts of her mother, who was begging on the steps of the cathedral. The tiny girl stood with her mouth open and her eyes glued to Giovanni.
“On I rode through the darkness, fear in my heart, until at last I came upon the small inn where the villain had said he would meet Leonardo. As I tied my horse outside, your friend here,” he looked down fondly at Delaney, “crept up beside me and put his head under my hand. It was as if he had arrived to help me in my quest.” Several other children gathered around Giovanni’s feet, and his eyes twinkled briefly at Darrell before he resumed his narrative.
“The inn was dark, and stank of sour ale, spoiled food — and worse. A small fire that crackled in a soot-smudged fireplace provided the only light. Uncounted numbers sat around in the dark, drinking ale and muttering. I called for the innkeeper to bring out his lamp, but just as he set the thing on the long wooden counter, the door blew open and a wind, cold as death, whistled through the room.”
The tiny girl at Giovanni’s feet gasped. Leonardo shook his head indulgently. “Get on with it, if you must,” he said gruffly, trying unsuccessfully to disguise his own interest.
Giovanni bent over, clearly playing to his rapt audience. “‘It’s not a time for light, but for darkness,’ came a voice from the doorway, and silence dropped over the room like a shroud.”
He puffed up his chest and resumed his heroic stance. “‘I do not fear to show my face in the light,’ I said, and looked around the assembled company.”
Giovanni turned his glance to Darrell, clear blue eyes aglow. “I readied myself for the bargaining when who should pad in through the open doorway but my friend here. He leaned firmly against my knee. As we stood bathed in the light of the fire, shadows dancing wildly on the wall behind us, I knew all would be well, for I had a noble partner in this terrible endeavour.”
The crowd gathered around Giovanni’s feet nodded and smiled at each other appreciatively.
He pulled his features into a vicious grimace. “The voice from the door snarled ‘Get that stinking cur out of here.’ Something caught the corner of my eye, and I turned my head in time to see a clay pint pot flying through the air at the dog. I caught the pint pot with ease, and swung it onto the worn wooden table that served as a counter.”
Giovanni bent down and lifted one of Delaney’s ears. The dog’s tail thumped. “‘In the corner, mia cane,’ I whispered, and stood up to face the man at the door. I recognized him. His name is Salvatore and he is known in Firenze as a petty thief and a pickpocket. A young man but not a good man. I knew when I looked in his eyes that I would need all the wiles of my own brain and that of my noble partner to triumph.
“‘You bring a cold wind, Salvatore. Is it bad news you have for me as well?’ Salvatore sneered and stepped into the lamplight. I could see his dirt-streaked face, marked with a livid red scar searing across one cheek and down his jawline. He is no older than I, but clearly his years have been hard.
“‘I hope it’s gold you have brought for me tonight, mio signore,’ he spat, ‘or the news will be nothing but bad.’ He ducked his head toward the dark corner. ‘That dog marks you, signore. And one thievin’ beast exposes another, so they say.’
“I laughed at him. ‘The dog belongs to a friend, and he’s simply here — to keep me company.’ I pointed at Sal’s smirking face. ‘From the look of you, you’ve fought a recent battle or two since I’ve seen you last.’
“Salvatore’s mouth pushed more deeply down at the corners, if that be possible, and he spat a wad of phlegm into the straw at the my feet. ‘Just nicked m’self as I sent a lesser man to his maker,’ he whispered. ‘He arrived without the gold he promised me, and paid the price for his mistake.’”
Giovanni wrinkled his nose. “The fellow sickened me with his smell, and I had no further patience for his words. ‘I have your gold, man. Have you got that which I seek?’
“‘Maybe so. The gold first, mio signore.’ He stuck his hand in my face.”
Giovanni straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. “‘I don’t pay for what I can’t see.’ Salvatore snarled and spat again, but he pulled a slim volume out of his sleeve. My heart leapt! I took the book, gently opened it, and traced my finger over the name inscribed on the flyleaf.”
Leonardo grinned up at Giovanni. “Success at last, my good friend!”
Giovanni shook his head. “Not yet, I fear. I flipped through the book and the firelight danced on the pages. I turned to Salvatore.
“‘This is a prize worth more to me than jewels,’ I told him, and tossed the small bag of coins you had given me, Leonardo. The bag clinked as it landed at his feet and he dropped to his knees to retrieve it.
“The bag disappeared into the same sleeve from which the book had come. For the first time he broke into a grin himself, his mouth missing more than half its teeth, the others black with rot.”
The children groaned appreciatively, but Giovanni shook his head.
“Alas! My joy at finding the book led me to forget to remain alert. While I read through Leonardo’s notebook, Salvatore spoke. ‘Did I not mention the price has increased?’ he chortled, and I became all too aware that two of his cronies had crept up behind me, as I felt the sharp point of a knife behind each ear.”
The children gasped in horror, but Leonardo leaned back on the bench and raised his eyebrows.
Giovanni’s face took on crafty expression, and as he gazed down over his audience, he flexed his knees slightly. “I showed nothing on my face, but readied myself for whatever was to come. I looked down at Sal, chuckling and still on his knees in the filthy straw that covered the dirt floor.
“‘I know you to be a man without honour,’ I said quietly. ‘I should have expected no less.’
“‘You should have known better,’ he mocked me, struggling to his feet. ‘But a greater man than you has need of this same prize.’ He snatched the volume out of my hands. ‘Yet, why either of you value words over gold, I cannot fathom.’ He jerked his head, and the two men with knives clutched my arms with iron grip. ‘You know what needs be done,�
� he told them. ‘The usual spot.’”
Giovanni grinned and held his arms back to show how he had been pinned. “My arms felt close to breaking, but I gave no sign. ‘The usual spot, Sal? Don’t you have a more special place planned — for me and my dog?’”
He gave a piercing whistle and the whole group jumped. Delaney sat up alertly and the children laughed. “From the dark corner a missile came flying, planting two front paws between Sal’s shoulder blades. Salvatore went down hard, his head glancing off the flagstone hearth. Taking advantage of my moment of surprise, I gave a mighty heave of my arms,” Giovanni mimed this action to the delight of his audience, “and with a sickening crack, smashed together the skulls of the two men who held me. They slapped to the floor like dead codfish.”
The children laughed aloud and one little boy clapped his hands enthusiastically.
Giovanni grinned. “I shook out my tingling arms and scooped the book out of the straw. Stepping over the prone bodies of the men on the floor, I strode to the door of the inn, the dog at my heels. I looked back at the scene behind me: two thugs unconscious on the floor, and Salvatore struggling to his feet with filth and straw all over his clothes.
“‘Keep the gold, Sal. I always pay my due.’
“Salvatore looked down at the two bodies still prostrate on the grimy floor. ‘Some filthy book, all marked over in unreadable scrawl.’ He shrugged. ‘But still — I believe I got the best of the bargain.’”
Giovanni grinned at the group, now numbering at least twenty. “As my friend here will confirm, I could not agree less.”
He looked down at Darrell. “Outside I mounted my horse and called to the dog. ‘Mia cane! Time now to ride like the wind and return this prize to my friend, so that he may continue his work in peace.’ And you know,” he added, his voice low, “the dog barked just as if he understood my words and chased my galloping horse all the way home through the black and windy night.”
He bowed flamboyantly and sat down on the bench beside Darrell to much cheering and applause.
As the crowd dispersed, Leonardo rolled his eyes at Darrell again. “This is what I get for having an actor for a friend,” he complained good-naturedly.
Giovanni ruffled Delaney’s fur. “I do thank you again, signorina. He reminds me of a dog who once used to visit my grandfather. Keep by his side. He is a most — helpful beast.”
He stood abruptly and clapped Leonardo on the shoulder. “I am away, mio amico, to see to my own business. I wish you well on your journey, and I will come and help you set up your studio in Milan next month, mmm?”
Leonardo nodded and waved as his friend strode off. Delaney jumped to his feet and barked once before returning to his spot beside Darrell.
Darrell swallowed. She had learned much about Leonardo’s life from books, but seeing him here, sitting beside her — he was more real than the man she had read about. His notebook proved he was a sculptor, a painter, a mechanic, a physicist, a designer, an architect, and so much more. But what of his “secret project” — the time machine? The notebook was not complete, and Darrell could see several blank pages near the end. “It looks like you still have room for more ideas,” she ventured. “Why do you need to move away?”
“I can’t seem to get anything finished here,” he complained. “My mind is so full, there are not hours in the day enough to make the smallest dent in the ideas racing through my brain.” He leapt to his feet and Darrell followed, still clutching the satchel, frantic with worry that he would brush her aside and return to the lodging of the duke.
“I am in constant fear of the competition here. Lesser artists — they will stop at nothing to have a taste of what my mind can provide.” He walked back along the street, the way Darrell had come, rather than toward the duke’s lodgings. A sliver of hope glimmering in her chest, she hastened behind, and soon they were walking down the tree-lined lane leading to his studio and, further along, to Verrocchio’s home.
“In Milano, I will be better able to accomplish great things. My new patron, Duke Sforza, will have all the war machines he can possibly use, and I will have time to spend on my most exciting project ever.”
Darrell’s heart pounded. The secret project!
He brandished his notebook and grinned. “When this new project comes to light,” he said, his expression suddenly boyish, “people everywhere will say ‘Leonardo’ when the word they mean is ‘genius’.”
In spite of her excitement, Darrell rolled her eyes. Leonardo the man seemed so different from the boy, but his ego certainly hadn’t diminished over the years. “Don’t they believe that already?” she asked, her voice dry.
Leonardo carried on as though she hadn’t spoken. “They will see me in the streets of Milano and they will say, ‘Now there goes a man who has changed the world.’”
The low stone building soon appeared, and Darrell followed Leonardo around the back, trying to keep her footing on the rough cobblestones and still keep up with his long stride. She was concentrating so hard she only narrowly missed crashing into him when he stopped suddenly in front of her.
“Look at this,” he whispered, and pointed to a muddy ball of twigs and branches tucked into the corner of a tree. The gnarled tree grew near a window of the back wall of the studio.
Leonardo’s voice dropped to a gentle croon. He leaned against the wall and slowly stretched out his hand. Darrell held her breath. A tiny bird hopped into Leonardo’s open palm, and he drew his hand close for Darrell to see. The bird shivered but held perfectly still, eyes of brilliant black darting.
“I have spent many months cultivating a friendship with this uccello,” Leonardo breathed, his strident voice of a moment before now dropped to the timbre of a whispered breeze. “This small creature has much more to teach me than I could learn in a dozen lifetimes. I have watched her build her nest on this windowsill, carrying mouthfuls of mud for weeks and spitting them into place, cementing the twigs and leaves she has carried in her beak. The architecture!” He smiled. “The design of the place. So compact, so perfect for the upbringing of her uccellini.”
He passed his notebook to Darrell with a nod. “You can see in these pages I made many sketches to document her progress in building this work of art she lives in with her small family.” He smiled again at the bird. “And the process of learning to fly! Just as I felt I may be able to do justice to her hard work in a painting, she pushed her uccellini from the nest.” He rested one finger on a twig and the tiny bird hopped off his hand and ran up the branch to her nest.
Darrell turned the pages of the notebook with trembling fingers. It was jammed with words and half-finished drawings, studies of animals and birds. Near the back, a series of designs of some complicated machinery filled several pages. And on one page, three words were written repeatedly in both regular and mirror script, and trapped in a spiderweb of connected lines: Tempo, Spazio, Luce.
Time. Space. Light.
Darrell suddenly felt wobbly all over. Could this be the answer? Clutching the book tightly, she shook her head to clear it and realized that Leonardo was still speaking about the tiny birds.
He continued as though in a dream, his voice soft. “I was mesmerized. How did she know they were ready? How did they learn? What kept them aloft? I had to know!”
He strode to the studio door and flung it wide.
Darrell followed him inside. His mind jumps from one topic to the next like quicksilver. No wonder he never gets anything done. She stepped forward into a large room, the like of which she had never seen before.
It was a total mess. Large lumps of clay sat in one corner, a damp cloth thrown carelessly over top. Another corner held great mounds of broken crockery. The floor was strewn with dust and blotched with vast smears of paint. At least four easels displayed canvasses in various stages of completion, and a strange Rube Goldberg-like contraption made out of soldered iron stood in the centre of the room.
Leonardo strode over to a heavy oak table, the top of which was st
acked high with paper and parchment, canvas and cloth. With one large hand, he swept the surface clean and with the other he grabbed the satchel from Darrell. Reaching inside, he pulled out a rolled page and spread it wide on the now-cleared surface.
His face softened. “One piccolo uccellino misjudged the branch one day and fell. I ran out to find his wee body on the ground beneath the window, still shaking, still quivering.”
Darrell was astounded to see Leonardo’s eyes redden.
“I picked up the wee babe and it died in my hand. It had failed to learn the lesson nature and its mother had tried to teach. I was determined the death of the bird would not be in vain. I carried the small corpse to this very table and began a complete anatomical study.” He pointed to the page he had pulled from the satchel, depicting several detailed sketches of the anatomy of a small bird.
“You cut it up?” For a moment Darrell forgot about the notebook she held as her heart filled with outrage. “You took the poor dead hatchling and you cut it up?”
Leonardo, his own tenderness of the moment before apparently forgotten, looked annoyed.
“Of course I cut it up, ridiculous girl. I needed to see the way the feathers were attached and how the bones were formed if I wanted to learn how it could fly.”
“But it couldn’t fly! That’s why it died!” Darrell couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Don’t you care that it was once a living creature? You only studied it so you could figure out how to build an airplane.” She clutched the book to her side and glared at him.
Leonardo glared right back at her, his thinning hair bristling around his head in a red halo. He opened his mouth, apparently ready to bellow back at Darrell, and then closed it abruptly with a snap. “Air — plane?” he muttered quietly.