Leonardo and the Death Machine
Robert J. Harris

For Debby, who gave me my wings.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Maps

1 FISHBONES AND FIRE

2 THE DEBT COLLECTOR

3 THE INFERNAL DEVICE

4 THE LION OF ANCHIANO

5 A BIRD IN FLIGHT

6 THE GIRL IN THE TOWER

7 A WELL-BUILT PRISON

8 THE HONOUR OF THIEVES

9 THE HAND OF GOD

10 THE OUTCASTS OF HEAVEN

11 THE HOMECOMING

12 THE PRODIGAL SON

13 THE BRAWLER

14 DAGGER’S POINT

15 COGS AND WHEELS

16 THE DOOR TO THE UNIVERSE

17 THE SECRET OF THE EGG

18 BENEATH THE DOME

19 DISCOVERY AND DANGER

20 A MAN OF INFLUENCE

21 A NEST OF VIPERS

22 A CHOICE OF ANGELS

23 THE UNHOLY MOUNTAIN

24 INTO THE DARKNESS

25 THE PIT

26 THE MACHINERY OF DEATH

27 THE AGE OF WONDERS

Afterword

Also by the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Maps

1 FISHBONES AND FIRE

“One – two – three,” Leonardo muttered, counting each stroke of the mallet. The third hit drove the nail flat into the wood, fixing another stretch of canvas on to the frame.

Only two more nails to go. “One” – thud – “two” – thud – “three” – thud.

There were twenty nails in all and at least three knocks were required to bash each one in. If he didn’t hit the nail just right, it would bend in half. When that happened, the bent nail had to be worked loose and tossed away so that a new one could be hammered in its place.

“Make sure you knock those nails in straight, country boy, otherwise you’ll tear the canvas,” warned Nicolo. He was finishing a painting of a laughing woman, using a bust made by their master as a model. At seventeen he was the senior apprentice in the workshop. The master, Andrea del Verrocchio, was away at a meeting with the members of the Signoria, the ruling council of Florence, leaving Nicolo in charge.

“No need to worry about that,” said Leonardo. “This is the last one.”

Mentally, he painted the older boy’s face in miniature on the head of the final nail and brought the mallet down with a vengeful whack. Leonardo stared in amazement at the result and grinned. For the first time he had driven the nail right into the wood with a single blow. He would have to remember that trick.

He stood up to admire his handiwork and caught a whiff of rotten fish. The smell stung his nostrils and made his stomach lurch.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” said skinny little Gabriello. He was stirring fishbones around in an iron pot over a raised brick fire pit. This melted them into a paste that was spread over the canvas before any paint was applied.

“Still, it could be worse,” the little apprentice added. “We could be using calf hooves again and they really stink.”

“Some things smell even worse than that,” said Leonardo with a sidelong glance at Nicolo.

Gabriello chuckled, then coughed as the fishy fumes got into his throat. The senior apprentice did not notice the insult. He was too busy painting the last few locks of the woman’s hair, his tongue stuck into his cheek in concentration.

Leonardo lifted the frame up off the straw-covered floor and leaned it carefully against one of the worktables. He nodded in satisfaction. The frame was firmly constructed, the canvas straight and taut. When Maestro Andrea came to inspect it, he would be pleased.

A gust of wind from the open window sent a puff of acrid dust up his nose. Leonardo turned away quickly so that his sneeze missed the canvas, then waved his hands about to clear the air.

The dust came from the corner of the room where Vanni and Giorgio were standing over a slab of porphyry, grinding brightly coloured minerals with their mortars. This produced a fine powder which would be mixed with egg to make paints. They were chatting together and occasionally breaking into song, their voices rising raucously above the rumble of passing carts and the yells of pedlars hawking their wares in the street outside.

“Pipe down and pay attention to what you’re doing!” Nicolo barked at them. “You’re spreading that dust all over the room.”

Leonardo pulled out his kerchief and blew his nose. He had thought that when his father brought him to Florence to be a pupil in the workshop of a great artist, he would be leaving behind the dirt and stench of the farmyard. But there was just as much dirt here and the stench was even worse. When Maestro Andrea was sculpting a statue, the dust hung so thick in the air it was like a chalky fog. And always there was the stink of fishbones, eggs, charcoal, turpentine and all the other unglamorous materials of the artist’s trade.

Tucking his kerchief back into his sleeve, Leonardo went to the corner where his own paintings and sketches were stored. Reaching into the midst of them, he pulled out his latest work, one which Maestro Andrea had not assigned him. As he examined the object, Nicolo’s voice boomed out behind him.

“There! It is done!”

From his grandiose tone you would have thought he had just fitted the last brick into the great dome of the cathedral instead of completing a routine exercise.

Nicolo beckoned Vanni and Giorgio over to admire his ‘masterpiece’. They gladly left their grinding materials behind and hurried over to examine the canvas, brushing the mineral dust from their aprons.

“It’s very good, Nicolo,” said Vanni, knowing exactly what he was supposed to say.

“Yes, it’s very good,” Giorgio echoed automatically.

Leonardo strolled over and eyed the finished picture. All the life and animation of Maestro Andrea’s sculpture had been lost in Nicolo’s painting. It was as if he had strained the meat and vegetables out of a rich stew and reduced it to a thin, unappetising gruel.

“So what do you think, Leonardo da Vinci?” Nicolo asked. The stern challenge in his voice made it clear exactly how Leonardo was supposed to answer. But Leonardo had taken enough insults from Nicolo that he wasn’t going to let slip this chance to hit back.

“I think that if a corpse ever wants its portrait painted, you’ll be the man for the job,” he replied. Gabriello slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Nicolo growled and raised his fist.

Leonardo took a step back but did not flinch. He was three years younger than the senior apprentice but equal in both height and strength. If Nicolo wanted a fight, he was ready – and eager – to oblige. But Maestro Andrea had made it clear that anyone caught fighting in the workshop would immediately find himself out on the street without a denaro to his name.

The same thought was evidently in Nicolo’s mind. He lowered his fist, though his face was still ruddy with anger. “You may dress up like the son of a rich man,” he sneered, “but you still have the taste of a farm boy.”

Leonardo winced. He was proud of the blue velvet tunic and scarlet hose he wore under his apron, even though he knew some of the other apprentices sniggered at his finery.

“At least I have some taste,” he retorted. He waved at the painting. “This isn’t art. This is murder.”

Nicolo’s eyes flashed with rage. “It is more than a clumsy left-hander like you could ever do!” Then he spotted what was in Leonardo’s hand and snatched the wooden object from the younger boy’s grasp. “What’s this? Some sort of toy?”

“Give that back!” cried Leonardo hotly. He made a grab that Nicolo easily avoided. The senior apprentice waved his prize in the air so that everyone could see it.

It was a wooden cylinder, small enough to fit into a man’s hand, with a piece of cord dangling from a hole in the side. There was another hole in the top into which a wooden spindle had been fitted. From the end of the spindle, four thin wooden blades spread out in different directions like the petals of a flower.

“Is that what you’ve been doing in that corner all this time?” asked Vanni.

“It looks like a little windmill,” said Giorgio, “except the vanes are on top instead of on the side.”

“Is that what it is, country boy?” Nicolo asked. “A toy windmill to remind you of life on the farm?”

“No, not at all,” said Leonardo, so annoyed he could hardly speak.

“Maybe it’s a baby’s rattle.” Nicolo shook the wooden device by his ear, but it made no sound. Leonardo was tempted to make another grab but he was afraid of damaging his creation.

“I give up, Leonardo,” smirked Nicolo. “What does it do?”

Leonardo glared at him. “It flies.”

“Flies?” The answer was so incredible it wiped the sneer from Nicolo’s face.

“A merchant from Padua was selling one like it in the market,” Leonardo explained. “He said it came from Cathay and he wanted five florins for it.”

Vanni let out a low whistle. It was a sum beyond the imagination of apprentices like themselves.

“But for a few denari he let me examine it to see how it worked.”

“And then you made your own,” said Gabriello admiringly.

“Yes, I finished carving the four blades last night.”

“And you think it will fly?” snorted Nicolo. “You’ve gone mad, country boy. The smell of turps has rotted your brain.”

“Here, I’ll show you,” Leonardo offered, reaching for the device.

Nicolo yanked it out of reach. “Not so fast,” he said. “We have to make sure there’s no trickery here. How does it work?”

Leonardo gritted his teeth and reined in his temper. Ever since he had arrived at the workshop three months before, Nicolo had been goading him, mimicking the country accent he had been working so hard to erase, sneering at his drawings and telling him his hands were better suited to the plough than the brush and palette.

“There’s a screw inside and the stick with the vanes on top is fitted into that,” Leonardo explained slowly and carefully. “When you pull the string, the screw turns and sets the vanes spinning.”

“That’s it?” Nicolo asked.

Leonardo nodded. Grinning, Nicolo took a tight grip on the cord and prepared to pull.

“No, let me do it!” yelled Leonardo.

It was too late. Nicolo jerked his elbow back so hard the string snapped off. No one noticed that. What they noticed was the flying. Its blades a spinning blur, the spindle shot into the air, drawing gasps of astonishment from the apprentices.

“It’s sorcery!” Gabriello squeaked as the flying device came twirling towards him. It hovered for a second over the metal grille of the fire pit. Then – to Leonardo’s horror – it dropped.

Gabriello leapt away with a squeal of panic. Leonardo lunged for the device as it fell between the bars of the grille.

Too late again. There was a clang and a crash and a screech from Vanni.

Leonardo had knocked the gooey mess of bubbling fishbones on to the fire. Gobs of it ignited and burst into the air like shooting stars. They rained down on the floor and in an instant the straw covering burst into flames.

Gabriello and the other apprentices stampeded for the door.

“You stupid bumpkin!” Nicolo howled at Leonardo. “You’ve set the house on fire!”

2 THE DEBT COLLECTOR

Leonardo clenched his fists and fought down his panic. What was he to do? In a few moments the fire could spread out of control. The only firefighters in the city were some volunteers from the stonemasons’ guild, but there was no time to summon them.

Then he remembered how his Uncle Francesco had stopped a fire that sprang up in the barn when one of the cows kicked over a lantern. Looking quickly around, he snatched the dust covering from one of Maestro Andrea’s paintings. He hurled it over the fire and flung his own body on top of it to smother the flames.

He could feel the heat beneath him and smell the charred straw. Leonardo screwed his eyes tight shut and he held his breath, half expecting to be incinerated. That was still preferable to the humiliation of seeing the workshop destroyed through his clumsiness.

An excited babble of voices prompted him to open his eyes. Gabriello was leaning over him. “I think the fire’s out,” he said.

The other apprentices gathered around, nervously giggling and elbowing each other. Their faces were still white with shock. Leonardo propped himself up on one elbow, looking around for Nicolo.

“You saw, didn’t you?” he challenged. “You saw it fly.”

“I saw a stick jump into the air and fall into the fire,” Nicolo replied. He shook his head. “Not very impressive.”

Nicolo still had the other part of the flying device in his hand and now he flung it away contemptuously. It clattered across the floor and rolled out of sight under a table.

A rage hotter than any fire welled up inside Leonardo’s breast. He would knock that smirk off Nicolo’s face, no matter what the consequences.

He jumped to his feet. But before he could swing a punch, the door banged open.

Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio marched in, a dozen rolls of parchment tucked under one arm and a heavy leather satchel slung over the other. He strode briskly across the room towards his study without even looking at his apprentices.

“Leonardo da Vinci!” he called as he vanished through the doorway.

Leonardo started guiltily. “Yes, Maestro?”

“Fetch me a pitcher of water! The rest of you, this is not a holy day. Get back to work!”

Nicolo snatched the scorched covering off the floor and stuffed it away out of sight under a workbench. Vanni and Giorgio gathered up the burnt straw and pitched it out of the window. Gabriello darted off to prepare a fresh pot of fishbones.

Leonardo rushed out of the back door to the pump and filled a pitcher with fresh water. When he got to the study, Maestro Andrea had laid down his scrolls and satchel and was studying some letters. Leonardo poured a cup of water and handed it to him.

“Don’t leave,” the maestro said as he lifted the cup to his lips. “I have something else for you to do.”

As Maestro Andrea drank, Leonardo looked around at the drawings that littered the tables and the walls, studies of saints and angels, soldiers and animals.

With his round, pleasant face and stout belly, Andrea looked like a prosperous baker. In fact, he was one of the most brilliant and successful artists in Florence. He was so busy that he sometimes had to bring in other artists as his assistants. Recalling this, Leonardo had the exciting thought that perhaps the master was going to ask for his help in completing a major work.

Andrea gulped down the last of the water and smacked his thick lips. “Arguing terms with the members of the Signoria is thirsty work,” he said. “Still, if our government want a new statue of St. Thomas for their chapel they will have to pay a decent price.”

Leonardo tried to sound businesslike too. “I finished stretching the canvas, Maestro,” he reported.

“I saw that when I came in,” said Andrea, “just as I saw the overturned pot and the burnt straw and smelled the charred fishbones.”

Leonardo was astonished. He could have sworn the master had not so much as glanced their way before entering his study. “There was an accident,” he began apologetically.

Andrea raised a hand to silence him. “You are young men with high spirits and you will have your misadventures. As long as no one was hurt, there is no more to say.”

“You said you had something for me to do,” Leonardo reminded him.

“Yes, here it is,” said Andrea. He presented the boy with a folded sheet of parchment sealed with a blob of wax.

“What’s this?” Leonardo asked eagerly. “A sketch of the new work you’ve been commissioned to do? Would you like me to do the preliminary outlines?”

Maestro Andrea shook his head. “It’s a bill for fourteen florins,” he stated flatly.

“A bill?” Leonardo’s heart plummeted. “Maestro, don’t make me a debt collector. I came here to be an artist.”

“Money is the lifeblood of art, Leonardo. If you haven’t learned that by now you should go back to your father and be a notary like him.”

The suggestion stung Leonardo like a hot needle. “No, I don’t want to be like him. But I hoped…”

“You hoped what?” Andrea asked.

Leonardo raised his head to meet his master’s eye. This was no time to be nervous and awkward. That would not earn his respect.

“I hoped you would have a proper piece of art for me to do, not a practice painting on used canvas or a wax model.”

“What? Have you aged ten years overnight? Have the talents of the masters seeped into your soul while you slept? To become an artist takes years and you have been here for only a few months.”

“You do not become an artist by running errands, Maestro,” Leonardo persisted.

Andrea peered down his snub nose at the boy. “I have told all of you many times that an artist begins his work by seeing and completes it by understanding. What are you going to see sitting around here? I’m giving you the chance to go out and find some inspiration. Now take this note to Maestro Silvestro’s workshop.”

“The one who borrowed that bronze from you last month?”

“The very same,” Maestro Andrea confirmed. “He still hasn’t replaced it, so I’ll have the money instead.”

“But it’s in the Oltrarno,” Leonardo complained, wrinkling his nose. This was the name given to the area of the city on the southern side of the River Arno. It was still more village than city and was notorious for its floods and outbreaks of plague.

“Very true,” Andrea agreed dryly. “I am sure your beautiful clothes will bring a welcome dash of colour into the lives of the unhappy people who live there.”

Leonardo straightened his tunic and flicked a spot of ash from his sleeve. “All the young gentlemen of Florence are dressing like this,” he said defensively.

“All the rich young gentlemen of Florence,” Maestro Andrea corrected him.

“There’s nothing wrong with making a good impression.”

“You are quite correct,” said Andrea, waving him away dismissively. “Now go and make a good impression on Maestro Silvestro.”

Leonardo returned to the workshop, taking off his smock as he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Nicolo demanded.

“I have an important commission from Maestro Andrea,” Leonardo answered haughtily. “He wants me to exercise my eyes and my understanding.”

Escaping from the workshop, Leonardo strode off down the Via dell’Agnolo, muttering resentfully to himself. After all his hard work his flying device was ruined, and now he was reduced to collecting debts. He very much doubted he would see anything to inspire him today.

In this year of 1466, Florence was the centre of trade and banking for all of Europe, and the bustle in the narrow streets bore witness to the city’s importance. Wagons and carriages jostled alongside workers hurrying to and from the foundries and textile factories. Buildings rose up to three storeys high, with balconies jutting out of the top floors. Neighbours on opposite sides of the street could almost reach across and shake hands with each other.

As he approached the River Arno, Leonardo saw the flatboats heading downstream, carrying off their bolts of brightly coloured Florentine cloth to be transported to Spain, France, England and Germany. Other boats were bringing their cargo of untreated wool into the city to be washed, combed and dyed in the factories.

The city’s oldest bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, loomed ahead, its honey-coloured stonework bathed in the glow of the hot August sunshine. Both sides of the bridge were lined with the shops of butchers, leatherworkers and blacksmiths. As Leonardo crossed over, a blacksmith tipped a bucket of ashes into the river, provoking a volley of curses from the boatmen passing below.

As soon as he entered the Oltrarno, Leonardo was reminded of his home village of Anchiano, many miles to the north. Washing was strung between the trees, chickens scratched at the doorsteps, and everywhere there was the smell of garlic and baking bread.

In stark contrast to the humble cottages was the huge stone palace Leonardo could see rearing up like a cliff face in the middle of the Oltrarno, with workers swarming all over its scaffolding. He knew from the gossip of his fellow apprentices that it belonged to Luca Pitti, an ageing politician who liked to think of himself as Florence’s leading citizen. Even though the real power in the city lay in the hands of the Medici family, Pitti was determined to prove that he was every bit their equal, even if he went bankrupt in the process.

Leonardo turned right, away from the palace and towards the church of Santo Spirito. Silvestro’s workshop was in one of the alleys behind the church, but Leonardo wasn’t sure which one. He paused to sniff the air and immediately caught the pungent scent of cow dung, burnt ox-horn, and wet clay, all of which were used in the casting of bronze statues.

Following his nose he soon arrived at the shabby workshop of Silvestro. The shutters hung drunkenly from the windows and there were several tiles missing from the roof. Acrid smoke streamed from Silvestro’s furnace and hung in a sullen, black cloud over the street. Finding the door ajar, Leonardo pushed it open and stepped inside.

A pair of surly apprentices in stained, threadbare smocks looked up as he entered. They were mixing up a supply of casting wax. One had a face covered in pimples while the other was twitching as though his clothes were filled with lice.

Proud of his own finery, Leonardo drew himself up in a dignified fashion and inquired, “Is Maestro Silvestro at home?”

The two apprentices turned to each other with dull, expressionless eyes. Leonardo was reminded of a pair of oxen in a field.

“He’s in his private studio,” grunted Pimple-face.

“And where would that be?” asked Leonardo.

The Twitcher tilted his head to indicate a stout door at the far end of the workshop.

With a curt nod of thanks, Leonardo moved on. Behind him he heard one of them mutter, “He must think he’s an envoy from the Pope.” The other apprentice sniggered.

Leonardo ignored them and cast his eyes over the room. The shelves along the wall held only a few jars of pigment and these were thickly caked with dust. Discarded bristles and splinters of wood littered the rush-covered floor.

As he raised his fist to rap on Silvestro’s door, Leonardo was brought up short by a sudden outburst of angry voices from the room beyond. They were as furious as a couple of dogs fighting over a bone. Even muffled by the door their words were clearly audible.

“Today! You said today!” snarled the first voice, rough as sandstone.

“I said the components would be complete by today,” the second voice boomed like a gusty wind. “I never said the construction would be complete, never!”

“I think you know what happens to men who cross me,” rasped the first man.

“Save your threats for those you are paid to terrorise,” the second man said. “All will be ready on schedule.” Leonardo could hear the weakness underlying his confident words.

“Very well,” the first voice grated. “But I will hold you to that at some cost if you should fail.”

“Silvestro does not fail,” the other retorted with renewed bravado. “He is only let down by lesser men. Do not worry, we will bring destruction down on the plain, eh?”

“Be sure of it,” was the brusque response.

Leonardo had been leaning in closer and closer. When the door opened, his heart leapt into his mouth. He jumped aside as a fearsome individual in a dark green hood and cloak swept out of the room.

3 THE INFERNAL DEVICE

The stranger halted and fixed Leonardo with a hostile stare. The man’s sallow face was all sharp angles with heavy brows and a slash of a mouth – as if it had been carved from flint by an impatient sculptor and left unfinished.

Leonardo felt himself being probed by the cold, grey eyes. He had the awful feeling that if the man suspected he had been listening at the door, his life would not be worth a single denaro.

The stranger’s gaze moved down over Leonardo’s garb, his expensive tunic and scarlet hose. A flicker of amusement curled his lips. You are obviously no threat, that thin smile seemed to say. I don’t need to waste any time on you.

Without speaking, he turned and walked away. Leonardo felt insulted and relieved at the same time. Taking advantage of the open door, he stepped cautiously into Maestro Silvestro’s chamber.

The artist was standing at the far end of the room with his broad back to the doorway. He was grumbling angrily to himself as he poured a cup of wine. He tossed the drink back in one swift draught, like a man throwing water over a blazing fire, and immediately refilled his cup.

“I’ll skewer him, that cut-throat, if he talks to me like that again,” Leonardo heard him growl.

He paused inside the doorway, uncertain what to do next. See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. He studied the artist in silence. He noted that Silvestro’s once expensive clothes had been sewn up and patched many times over. That suggested he had once been a prosperous artist who had fallen on hard times. The fact that the clothes hung about his body in loose folds meant he had also grown thinner. Probably through guzzling jugs of wine in place of his meals, Leonardo guessed.

He peered around as Silvestro continued to mutter bitterly into his cup. Immediately to his right stood the master’s desk, its surface cluttered with coloured vials, lengths of decorative framing, and jars of powder and ink. Leonardo’s eye was immediately drawn to a large sheet of paper that lay in the midst of the confusion. It was covered in drawings the like of which he had never seen before.

He took a furtive step closer to the desk. The page was crammed with intricate diagrams of notched wheels, pulleys, rods and weights, all fitted together into a complex mechanism.

Is this what the two men were arguing about? Leonardo wondered. And if so, what is it?

He had seen arrangements of cogs before, in the watermill on his family property at Anchiano, but nothing quite like this. Once he had even seen something similar inside an expensive clock that Maestro Andrea was embellishing for one of his clients. But this device was not exactly like that either.

What was it they had said about destruction?

He peered intently at the diagram, trying to piece together in his mind what would be the consequence of the weights moving, of the cogs turning one against the other. With one finger he began to follow the lines, tracing out the possible movements of the device. He was so absorbed in his study he was taken completely by surprise when a beefy hand clamped on to his shoulder.

“Who the devil are you?”

Maestro Silvestro spun the boy around and glowered at him suspiciously. His coarse, jowly face was nearly as red as the droplet of wine that was trickling down his chin. He grabbed the corner of the drawing between two fingers and flipped it over, hiding the diagram.

“What are you doing here, thief?” he demanded.

His breath gusted over Leonardo and the wine fumes almost made him swoon. He tried to wriggle loose, but Silvestro’s thick fingers just tightened their grip on his shoulder.

“I am no thief,” Leonardo protested. “I was sent here by Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio.”

“A spy!” Silvestro exclaimed. “That pig has sent you here to steal my secrets and turn them to his own profit. Well, whatever you have seen, it will do you no good.”

Silvestro’s fingers dug into his shoulder with bruising force.

“I’m no spy either,” Leonardo persisted desperately. “I am simply delivering a message.” He groped for the sealed note and handed it to the artist as a peace offering.

Silvestro scowled at the letter without taking it. “What is it?” he demanded.

Leonardo squirmed, realising that a demand for money would only enrage Silvestro further.

“It did not befit my lowly station to inquire,” he said, laying the paper down gingerly on the edge of the table. “But I am sure it is a message redolent of the deep respect Maestro Andrea has expressed for you on many occasions. Do not trouble yourself to open it until you have the leisure to enjoy its eloquent contents to the full. Perhaps tonight after supper…”

Silvestro’s grip loosened slightly. Leonardo wriggled free and backed out of the door. He retreated across the workshop, bowing as he went, only too well aware of the apprentices sniggering at him. When he saw Silvestro take a step towards him, Leonardo swung round and raced out into the street.

He beat a hasty retreat from the unsavoury neighbourhood of the Oltrarno and did not slow his pace until he was safely across the Ponte Vecchio. On the north side of the Arno, he paused for breath, leaning on a wall and gazing down into the water.

The sight brought back the memory of a day last year when Leonardo had perched on a rocky ledge hanging out over the same river many miles to the north. He had longed then to spread his arms out like wings and fly off like a bird, leaving behind the dull routine of the family farm.

Distracted by his daydream, he had lost his footing and plunged headlong into the river. Flailing about in the water, he had managed to grab the trailing branch of a bent old tree and pull himself up. If not for that, Leonardo might have been sucked under by the current and drowned.

The memory was enough to set his heart pounding like a hammer. Turning abruptly away from the river, he hurried up the street into the heart of the city.

The Piazza della Signoria was filled with noise and bustle. All around the vast open square, merchants, entertainers, preachers and politicians were vying for the attention of the passers-by. A large crowd had gathered before the steps of the palace where the Signoria held their meetings. An excited figure was haranguing them, waving his clenched fist in the air as he spoke.

“This is what the Medici will bring down upon us, a war with Venice,” he warned shrilly. “And for what? For the sake of an upstart who is the son of an upstart, a bandit who has stolen the title of Duke of Milan.”

The crowd booed the name of Medici and yelled in agreement with the orator. One man dared to call out against the speaker only to be quickly silenced by his neighbours.

From the other side of the square Leonardo could hear another speaker loudly praising the Medici to the cheers of his audience. Here and there he saw people accost strangers and demand their opinion with sharp voices and upraised fists.

In the past he had heard many noisy arguments being waged in this square, but they were usually resolved with a jug of wine and good-natured laughter. Over the past few weeks, however, these lively debates had become charged with hostility and threats of violence.

It all reminded him of the angry exchange he had overheard at Silvestro’s workshop. Then, as if conjured up out of that memory, he saw the man in the green cloak crossing the square directly ahead of him.

Leonardo pulled up short and ducked behind a trio of black-robed nuns whose way had been blocked by a wheedling pedlar. When the sisters moved off, Leonardo was relieved to see that the sinister stranger now had his back to him. He had fallen in with a gang of men led by a lanky fellow with bright red hair and a long, pointed nose.

Are they involved in the same plot as Silvestro? Leonardo wondered.

He edged nearer, trying to catch what they were saying. The distinctive rasp of the green-cloaked man stood out from the voices of the others, but Leonardo could not distinguish his words. Suddenly, the stranger made a chopping gesture with his hand and departed, heading off towards the north side of the square.

Leonardo hesitated only a moment. He would surely be expected back at the workshop by now, but for what? So he could spend the rest of the day spreading paste over canvas with a hogshair brush?

See and understand, Maestro Andrea had told him. And that was what he would do. He would follow this man, and in doing so, learn what it was Silvestro was so anxious to hide.

He started to tail the stranger, but he had only gone a few steps when the red-haired man stepped directly into his path. “Ho! Here’s a fine young peacock! And yet he skulks about like a rat!”

Leonardo pulled up short and blinked at him. “I was proceeding about my business,” he said, straightening his tunic. “By what right do you block my way?”

“The right every loyal citizen of Florence has to protect the public interest,” the redhead answered. He leaned forward, his nose weaving from side to side as if he were trying to spear a fish. “Tell me, my young peacock, who you are for – the Hill or the Plain?”

The question was so ludicrous, Leonardo was actually annoyed. “If you want to argue about geography, go and bother someone else,” he said curtly.

He immediately regretted his words, for the redhead’s four friends now drew in around him. Some of them had cudgels stuck in their belts and they were fingering their weapons with an air of menace.

“I asked you a simple question,” the red-haired man growled. “Are you for the Hill or the Plain?”

Leonardo had no notion what they wanted, but he was sure it would be a bad idea to give the wrong reply. He swallowed. “That’s an important question.”

“He is for the valley!” interposed a voice.

A burly young man with a thick, black beard elbowed his way into the circle. He was followed by a shorter fellow with a head of feathery golden curls that shone like a halo above his plump, cherubic face.

“What do you mean he is for the valley?” the red-haired man demanded. “What valley?”

The newcomer displayed a fist big enough to knock all of them flat with one blow. “The one between your ears,” he replied, his broad chest swelling with laughter. He rapped his knuckles on top of the man’s head and threw a brawny arm around Leonardo’s shoulders.

“Come along,” he said heartily, “I have better things for you to do than waste time with these idlers.”

Leonardo beamed with relief. The golden-haired youth was his friend Sandro Botticelli and the other was Sandro’s brother Simone. Together the three of them tried to move away, but the ruffians blocked their path.

One of them whipped out his cudgel and brandished it at Simone. Simone snatched the club from his hand and jabbed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Redhead and his friends uttered outraged curses, but none of them appeared eager to tackle the muscular Simone now he was armed.

Leonardo’s eyes darted this way and that in expectation of an attack. He saw that more people were converging from every side, shouting challenges and threats.

“What’s this? Pitti’s thugs looking for trouble?”

“We’ll put them in their place!”

“We’d like to see you try, you Medici lackeys!”

Supporters of the two sides began jostling and shoving each other, buffeting Leonardo and his friends from side to side like boats caught in a storm. Someone made a lunge for Simone only to be laid flat with one punch.

“We have to get out of here!” Sandro exclaimed as a rock flew past his head.

“Yes, but how?” asked Leonardo.

“Order! Order!” a voice barked over the hubbub. “Give way or be arrested!”

“Give way, I say!” bellowed another.

Both had foreign accents, German or Hungarian. Leonardo couldn’t say which, but he could see a body of uniformed men driving a wedge between the rival factions.

“Praise Heaven!” gasped Sandro. “It’s the city guard!”

The guardsmen were all foreign mercenaries under the command of a Constable who was also recruited from outside Florence. This was to ensure that the forces of law had no ties to any family or party in the city.

“Come on!” said Simone, seizing the other two by the arm and hauling them through the crowd.

Fortunately the mob was breaking up as the guardsmen pressed forward, seizing anyone who resisted. Once they were in the clear, Leonardo breathed a sigh of relief.

“You push things too far, Simone,” said Sandro with a shake of the head. “It would have been enough to get Leonardo away from there without provoking them.”

“Hah!” scoffed Simone. “We were in no danger from those lackwits.”

The brothers were entirely unlike each other except in one respect. They had a similarly stocky build which had earned them the nickname Botticelli – the Little Barrels. In Simone’s case it was mostly muscle.

Sandro was one of the young artists who assisted at Maestro Andrea’s workshop. It was there that he and Leonardo had met and become friends. Leonardo had dined several times at the boisterous Botticelli household with Sandro, his parents, his three brothers and their wives.

“What was all that about hills and plains?” Leonardo asked.

“Pitti and his cronies are called the party of the Hill,” Simone explained, “because he is building that monstrosity for himself on the high ground in the Oltrarno.”

Leonardo nodded. “And what about the Plain?”

“That is the party of the Medici family,” said Simone, “who built their great house on the flat ground on this side of the river. Everybody is supposed to support one side or the other. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Dangerous, I’d say,” said Leonardo. “It’s a lucky thing you came by.”

“Yes, I was just fetching my brother here from the home of the wealthy Donati family,” said Simone with a sly wink.

Leonardo saw then that Sandro was carrying a satchel filled with all his artist’s equipment. “What were you doing there?” he asked.

“I have a commission,” Sandro replied, beaming proudly. “I have been engaged to paint a portrait of Lucrezia Donati.”

“The most beautiful woman in all of Florence!” Simone added, giving his brother a playful dig in the ribs.

“Lucrezia Donati!” Leonardo exclaimed. “I’ve heard whole tournaments have been held in her honour.”

Sandro raised his blue eyes soulfully to Heaven as though he were seeing a vision. “She is an ideal of womanhood, Leonardo. Words cannot encompass such beauty, only the skill of a dedicated artist.”

“But you?” said Leonardo incredulously. “You’ve only just left your master Fra Lippi’s workshop! How did you land this prize?”

“Lucrezia is the sweetheart of Lorenzo de’ Medici, the son of the most important man in Florence,” Sandro explained. “Lorenzo is frequently sent off as an ambassador to faraway cities, and he wants a small portrait of Lucrezia to take with him wherever he goes. In particular he wants it completed before he leaves for Naples in a few days’ time.”

“Yes, but how did he come to pick you?” Leonardo pressed him.

Sandro frowned briefly at the interruption then carried on. “He was at Fra Lippi’s workshop, inquiring if my former master might do this painting for him. Fra Lippi was much too busy to do it at short notice, but he recommended me. I was summoned to the Medici house to show Lorenzo some samples of my work, and he was impressed enough to engage my services.”

Leonardo’s mouth puckered. “I wish I could have a share of your good luck,” he said gloomily. “I have nothing to look forward to but chores and practice.”

“Your turn will come,” Sandro said. “After all, you’ve scarcely started your apprenticeship.”

“In the mean time,” said Simone, “we have important business to attend to.” He laid a hand on Leonardo’s shoulder and began steering him away from the square.

“But my master—” Leonardo protested, pointing back in the direction of the Via dell’Agnolo.

“Can do without you for a little longer,” Simone finished for him. “My friends and I are short-handed, and I need you and Sandro to save the day. Now hurry, because we’re already late.”

“Late for what?” Leonardo asked.

“A battle to the death!” Simone answered with a wicked grin.

4 THE LION OF ANCHIANO

Leonardo was dragged out into the middle of the football field, protesting that he needed to change his clothes.

“No time,” Simone told him. “The game’s already started and those woolworkers have got us outnumbered. You have played before, haven’t you?”

“I’ve kicked a ball around back home,” said Leonardo, “but nothing like this.”

The football green was squeezed into the western corner of the city walls, flanked on one side by an orchard and on the other by a slaughterhouse. Each team boasted nearly thirty men, the goldsmiths distinguished by their yellow sashes, the woolworkers in red. Many of them already bore cuts and bruises, and they were taunting each other with insults and obscene gestures.

“There’s no use arguing,” Sandro advised his friend. “When it comes to playing against the woolworkers, nothing matters to Simone except victory.”

“And how do we win?” Leonardo asked uneasily.

“Get the ball over the enemy goal line,” replied Sandro with a shrug. “That’s as much as I can understand. I wouldn’t be here at all, but family is family.”

With a ragged cheer the goldsmiths gathered around the Botticelli brothers. “It’s about time you got here, Simone. We’re already one goal down.”

“Don’t worry, lads,” said Simone, slapping Leonardo on the back. “I’ve brought along a secret weapon. This is Leonardo da Vinci, as quick and skilful a player as ever kicked a ball.”

“He looks fit enough,” somebody commented.

“But he’s dressed for courting, not sporting,” joked a wiry youth with a mop of curly black hair. There was a round of crude laughter.

“Don’t let these pretty feathers fool you, Jacopo,” said Simone. “He’s a craftsman like us, a worker in stone, metal and wood, not a milksop scholar. Back in his home village they call him the Lion of Anchiano.”

A wild whoop greeted the ball as it came arcing through the air from the other end of the field. Before it hit the ground, both teams charged in to the attack.

“What’s this ‘Lion of Anchiano’ nonsense?” Leonardo asked as he caught up with Simone.

Simone grinned broadly. “I’ve given you a reputation. Now all you have to do is live up to it. Grab the ball and run with it if you can. Otherwise kick it upfield to one of our lads.”

The teams collided with a roar and Leonardo was tossed about like a piece of driftwood. A mad flurry of kicking and gouging ensued. He was shoved, elbowed, kneed, punched and even spat on.

It seemed one of the unspoken aims of the game was to inflict as much injury on the opposing team as the loose rules allowed. Several times Leonardo was knocked to the ground and had to scramble to his feet to avoid being trampled. But he soon learned to give as good as he got, shouldering woolworkers aside in the fight to get his hands on the ball.

It was briefly his, until another goldsmith snatched it away and booted it upfield. With a bound, the agile Jacopo plucked it from the air and made for the goal line. Everyone stampeded after. Leonardo joined the race, yelling encouragement to his team-mate. Jacopo raced on, leaping over the line a good three strides ahead of his pursuers.

A resounding cheer went up from the goldsmiths. With the score now tied, both sides trooped back to midfield to begin again.

In that short breathing space, Leonardo discovered to his horror that his fine satin shirt and scarlet hose were hopelessly muddied and torn. Even as he contemplated the grass stains on his knees, a passing woolworker jostled his elbow.

“Not so fancy now, are you?”

Leonardo’s temper flared and he stalked towards the centre of the field.

Sandro joined him as they awaited the kick off, his cherubic face bright red under his sweaty mop of golden curls. “Too many pastries,” he panted ruefully.

Before Leonardo could comment, the woolworkers kicked the ball back into play. He dived in with a vengeance. One more goal would clinch it.

Out of the press of scuffling bodies the ball suddenly popped skyward. Curving through the air it dropped unexpectedly into Sandro’s arms. The young artist froze in dismay. Howling and screeching, the woolworkers closed in on him from all sides like hungry wolves.

Upfield, Simone was waving frantically for the ball.

“Kick it away!” Leonardo yelled, racing to his friend’s assistance.

Sandro remained paralysed, the grasping hands of the woolworkers almost upon him. With hardly a moment to spare, Leonardo snatched the ball from his friend. Spinning about, he booted it high upfield.

Simone jumped and caught it. In the next instant Leonardo and Sandro disappeared under an avalanche of bodies. Crushed beneath the weight, Leonardo fought for breath in the sweat-soaked darkness. Somewhere amid the grunts and curses he heard a pained yelp from Sandro.

Then a raucous bellow of triumph sounded across the field.

Simone had scored the winning goal.

One by one the players were dragged off the heaving pile, freeing the two victims at the bottom. Leonardo was hauled dizzily to his feet, flushed and gasping. The goldsmiths flocked around him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. The unexpected pleasure of finding himself a hero banished – for the time being – all thoughts of his ruined clothes.

“Come on, Sandro, we’ve won!”

But Sandro was still curled up on the ground, clutching his right wrist. He groaned. “No, no, no, I’ve lost. I’ve lost everything!”

Back at the Botticelli house Sandro’s mother wound the bandage tightly around his injured wrist, tutting and muttering to herself all the while. He flinched as she gave it a final tug before standing back to regard her handiwork. Wrapped inside the bandage was a poultice of stewed nettles and vinegar that gave off a pungent odour.

“Now you keep that arm rested,” the old woman instructed. “I’m going to the kitchen to mix you a broth of leeks and pig’s trotters. That will put the colour back in your cheeks.”

Sandro stared mutely at the green-stained bandage and wrinkled his nose.

“I’m sure it will be a help,” Leonardo said politely, adding to himself, if he survives drinking it.

The old lady scuttled off, leaving the two young men alone for the first time since the end of the football game. Having completed his apprenticeship with Fra Filippo Lippi, Sandro had only recently set up as an artist in his own right. Until he could afford to open his own workshop, his father had allowed him to turn one of the storerooms at the back of the house into a temporary studio.

That was where they sat now, surrounded by sketches of saints, centaurs, Madonnas, satyrs and angels that were spread all over the walls.

“It’s a rotten bit of luck, your arm getting stepped on like that,” Leonardo said sympathetically.

Sandro raised his blue eyes slowly, as if unwilling to look upon a world that could be so cruel. “Who knows how long it will be before I can use a paintbrush again?” he moaned. “I took my first step on the ladder of success and the rung has snapped beneath my foot.”

Leonardo felt a pang inside. Seeing the normally jolly Sandro brought low like this was like seeing the sun blotted out by an eclipse. “Can’t Lorenzo just wait a bit longer for his portrait?” he suggested.

“I told you, he wants it before he leaves for Naples next week,” said Sandro, “and wealthy families like the Medici are accustomed to getting what they want.”

Leonardo nodded slowly, understanding the problem. He knew from his own father that it did not pay to inconvenience rich and powerful people. “There will be other clients, Sandro.”

“Do you think so? For an artist who has broken his very first contract? No, this is ruin for me. I should have stayed behind in the Piazza della Signoria and taken my chances with Pitti’s ruffians.”

The mention of the confrontation in the square suddenly jogged Leonardo’s memory. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind but events had been moving too fast for him to give it any thought.

“Sandro, didn’t Simone say the Medici supporters called themselves the party of the Plain?”

“Plain, lake, mountain – what difference does it make?” Sandro sighed.

We shall bring destruction down on the plain, Silvestro had said. And Leonardo was sure it had something to do with the machine he was building.

He closed his eyes and visualised the scene in Silvestro’s studio. As far back as he could remember, Leonardo had had a gift for recalling exactly any image he had seen. Now he placed himself back in that room, walked over to the desk. There was the diagram before him, each detail precise in itself, but its purpose still elusive. In order to study it properly, he would have to make a copy of his own.

Rising from his stool, he sidled towards a stack of drawing paper and fingered the topmost sheet. “Sandro, could I borrow some of this paper?”

“Helpyourself,” groaned Sandro, rubbing his injured wrist.

Leonardo took the sheet and laid it flat on a table by the window. Grabbing a stick of charcoal from a nearby pot, he quickly began sketching. A cog here, a wheel there, a cord, a weight. Yes, that looked right. As the machine took shape on the page, so a plan began to form in his mind.

When an opportunity comes your way, grab it with both hands before somebody steals it, his father had told him more than once.

“Sandro, you know that ladder of success you were talking about? Instead of climbing up rung by rung, how would you like to fly straight to the top?”

Sandro looked up with doleful eyes. “What do you mean?”

Leonardo picked up the paper and held it in front of Sandro.

“Look, I’ve made this copy of a diagram I saw at Maestro Silvestro’s today. He’s involved in some sort of plot against the Medici – I’m sure of it.”

Leonardo repeated all he had overheard and described how he had seen the stranger again in the Piazza della Signoria.

Sandro squinted at the drawing. “But this is just a lot of sticks ands wheels,” he protested. “It’s no threat to anybody.”

“Look, Sandro, suppose the Medici are in some sort of danger. Wouldn’t they be more than grateful to anyone who could warn them of that? Wouldn’t they reward them with a lifetime of well paid work? There would be no more broken ladders for you.”

And no more drudgery in the workshop for me, he thought. He could trade the gratitude of the Medici for a commission of his own!

“And why would they listen to either of us?” Sandro objected. “You are a mere apprentice and I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me in jail for breach of contract.”

“You give in too easily, Sandro,” Leonardo scolded him. “The contract isn’t broken yet. There must be something you can do.”

Sandro pondered for a moment then brightened. “You’re right, Leonardo,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I will go to church at once, to the Chapel of the Innocents. I will pray for Lorenzo to come down with a fever until I have recovered. But no.” He struck himself on the brow with the flat of his hand. “What manner of Christian am I to wish such a thing on my patron! No, a brief falling out between him and Lucrezia, that would be enough.”

Leonardo folded up the drawing and tucked it away inside his tunic. “Sandro, you’re being totally impractical – as usual. All you really need is someone to help you finish the portrait.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Sandro sighed. “What artist worthy of the name would let his work pass under the name of another?”

Leonardo laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “An artist wouldn’t, but an apprentice might.” He added pointedly, “A very talented apprentice.”

5 A BIRD IN FLIGHT

When Leonardo came out of the workshop the next day, he walked straight into an ambush. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards down the Via dell’Agnolo when he was seized and hauled into the dingy alley beside the coppersmith’s shop.

Before he could cry out, a grimy palm clamped itself over his mouth. His arms were pinned to his sides from behind and a glint of metal appeared under his left eye.

It was a chisel that had been honed to a razor-sharp edge.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet,” hissed a voice.

Leonardo recognised the speaker: Silvestro’s apprentice, Pimple-face, breathing fish fumes and garlic into his face. Twitcher must be behind him, holding his arms.

Pimple-face slipped his hand from Leonardo’s mouth but kept the chisel close enough to slice his cheek open if he tried to call for help. With his free hand he felt inside the leather satchel strapped to Leonardo’s belt.

“What’s he got there?” Twitcher asked.

“The usual stuff – brushes, palette knife, paint rags,” Pimple-face replied. He looked Leonardo over. “Not dressed so handsome today, are you, Leonardo da Vinci?”

“Somebody steal your fancy gear?” taunted Twitcher.

Leonardo was wearing the drab working clothes he had come to Florence in while his one good outfit was being washed and repaired after yesterday’s misadventure. Determined to protect his dignity, he responded stiffly, “I only dress up for special occasions.”

“Like visiting old Silvestro, you mean?” sneered the Twitcher.

“That’s what we come about,” said Pimple-face. “When you was visiting, you didn’t see nothing, right?”

Leonardo squirmed. “I don’t know what you mean. I only came to deliver a message.”

“Oh yes, the bill,” chortled Twitcher. “Old Silvestro was fit to throttle his own grandma when he opened it.”

“And he was even madder when we told him we saw you nosing around,” said Pimple-face. “He sent word to his client.”

“Now this client, he don’t like nosy people,” said Twitcher. “He told Silvestro to take care of it.”

Pimple-face leered unpleasantly. “So here we are.” He grabbed the front of Leonardo’s tunic and pressed the chisel against his cheek.

Leonardo swallowed hard. His copy of Silvestro’s diagram was tucked inside the tunic, perilously close to Pimple-face’s clutching fist. He had spent half the night finishing the drawing, borrowing one of Gabriello’s candles so he’d have enough light to work by.

“An artist’s work is his own private business,” said Pimple-face. “Understand?”

Leonardo couldn’t nod without cutting his face. “I understand,” he breathed.

“What did you see?”

Leonardo could feel his heart pounding against the folded drawing. “Nothing,” he replied meekly.

Pimple-face released his grip and patted Leonardo on the head like a clever dog. “That’s right, you didn’t see nothing, you don’t know nothing, and you don’t remember nothing.”

With the edge of the chisel still so close to his face, Leonardo wished for a moment that were true.

At a gesture from Pimple-face, Twitcher released him. Sniggering, the two apprentices scuttled off into the crowd that was passing along the Via dell’Agnolo.

Leonardo slumped against the wall and felt his cheek to make sure the skin wasn’t broken. Things were getting more dangerous than he had anticipated. Was it worth risking his life just to gain favour with the Medici? No, only a fool would get caught in the middle of this power struggle.

He pressed a hand to where the drawing was hidden. Maybe he should burn it before Silvestro and his friends discovered he had made a copy of their design. But no, he could not help feeling that this was the key to his future, his chance to enter a wider world.

The clang of a nearby church bell made Leonardo start. He would have to sort this out later. He was already late. He darted out of the alley and ran the rest of the way to the market.

Sandro was at the agreed meeting place: beside the statue of Abundance in the centre of Florence’s Old Market.

“Where have you been?” he exclaimed when he spotted Leonardo emerging from the crowd. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

Raising his voice above the hubbub of barter, Leonardo said, “I couldn’t leave until I finished all the chores Maestro Andrea had for me.” He had decided to say nothing about his encounter with Silvestro’s apprentices until he was certain of what to do.

They were surrounded by butchers’ stalls and the air was buzzing with insects drawn to the raw meat. Sandro swatted away a fly with his uninjured hand. “Well, it hasn’t done my stomach any good, I can tell you. Every time I think of this plan of yours, it hurts like there was a sea urchin rolling around inside it.”

He set off, awkwardly manoeuvring his way around a pair of squabbling vendors. Leonardo wove through the crowd, keeping in step with his friend.

“There is one thing we need to settle first,” Leonardo said, drawing level. “My fee.”

Sandro stopped by a fish stall where trout, pike and eels lay on the slab. The eyes of the fish were wide and their mouths agape, as if they were still surprised at being netted.

Sandro gave Leonardo an equally startled look. “Your fee?”

“Why are you so shocked? Don’t tell me you’re doing this portrait for free.”

“That’s different. I’m an artist and you’re only an apprentice.”

“Apprentice or not, this is professional work I’m doing,” Leonardo said in his most reasonable voice. “Maestro Andrea says that money is the lifeblood of art.”

“Friends should not discuss such matters,” said Sandro, walking on. “Money is the poison that blights the flower of affection.”

“What’s that supposed to be – a proverb?”

Sandro shrugged. “It’s what my brothers always say when I try to borrow money from them.”

They were passing a trader whose caged birds were stacked one on top of the other like bricks in a wall. At the top of the stack was a lark that was beating its wings feverishly against the bars of its cage. Being so close to the sky seemed to make its confinement even more unbearable.

Leonardo knew how it felt. “I’ll tell you what,” he suggested, “why don’t you give me a gift of some sort?”

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Sandro conceded, “as long as it’s a very small gift.”

“All right – that bird,” Leonardo said, pointing.

Sandro tilted his head and gave the bird a dubious look. “It doesn’t look very clean.”

“Look, just buy me the bird and we’ll call that my fee.”

“Six soldi,” said the birdseller, holding out his hand.

“That’s outrageous!” objected Sandro.

“Do you want to spend the rest of the day arguing,” demanded Leonardo, “or do you want to get to the Torre Donati while there is still light to paint by?”

Sandro sighed and reached into his money pouch. Carefully, he counted the coins into the birdseller’s hand. “I hope you appreciate that you have made me destitute.”

“Don’t worry,” said Leonardo, lifting down the cage. “Soon you will be famous and wealthy enough to buy a thousand birds.”

He inspected the latch on the cage. It was a simple loop of wire and he easily worked it loose. The cage swung open and the bird hopped out on to his outstretched palm.

“What are you doing?” asked Sandro, aghast. “It’s going to—”

The lark took flight. Whipping the folded paper out of his tunic, Leonardo used the back of it to make some rapid sketches of the bird as it soared off. It left the market behind, arcing gracefully across the sky to disappear behind the dome of the Duomo, Florence’s cathedral.

“That’s my money flying away!” Sandro exclaimed.

Leonardo surveyed his work. “What’s the point in having a bird if you can’t watch it fly?”

Sandro peered over his friend’s shoulder. In mere moments Leonardo had made several lightning sketches of the bird in flight, showing in sequence the movements of its wings and tail as it soared over the rooftops.

“How could you see all that?” Sandro asked. “It was too quick.”

“Not if you pay attention,” said Leonardo. He tapped himself on the temple with his stick of charcoal. “Everything I see is stored up here like a stack of pictures one on top of the other.”

“Well, you don’t need to go to all that trouble just to paint a bird,” said Sandro.

“It’s not about painting,” Leonardo explained. “I want to understand how it flies.”

“It flies because that’s what it’s meant to do,” said Sandro. “A bird is meant to fly in the air, a fish is meant to swim in the sea, a man is meant to walk on the ground.”

“And an apprentice is meant to keep to his place,” Leonardo added under his breath. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

They soon arrived at the Torre Donati, a lofty fortress of yellow stone. Sandro gripped the brass knocker, which was in the shape of a dragon’s head, and rapped three times on the door. It was opened by a plump, fastidious man in a crimson tunic who waved them brusquely inside.

“Tomasso, the chamberlain,” Sandro whispered to Leonardo. “This is my assistant, Leonardo da Vinci,” he informed the chamberlain. “Is your mistress ready for the sitting?”

Tomasso took a backward step and called out, “Fresina!”

A girl of about thirteen came scampering from a room at the back of the house. She had a slender face and long yellow hair tied in plaits. She also wore the distinctive grey robe of a slave.

“Fresina, go to your mistress,” Tomasso instructed. “Tell her the painter is here.”

He emphasised the word ‘painter’ as though he were announcing that the weekly delivery of garden manure had arrived.

The girl bobbed her head and scurried off.

“I believe you know the way,” Tomasso said to Sandro.

“You’d think he was the master of the house,” said Leonardo, as Sandro led the way up a flight of steps.

“We artists are an insignificant group compared to the bankers, merchants and clothmakers who run the city,” said Sandro. “Our job is simply to serve the needs of the rich, the same way a cook or a tailor does.”

They entered a spacious room on the topmost floor where the sun slanted through the westward facing window. The chamber itself was panelled in polished oak. On one wall hung a tapestry depicting the Labours of Hercules while under the window stood a large chest decorated with pictures of a deer hunt.

Near the centre of the room stood an easel on which there was a small picture about one foot square. Leonardo walked over and examined it. The chestnut hair, coiled in the latest fashion, was almost finished, as were the delicate ears. The eyebrows had been sketched in, and there were the faintest lines of a nose, but the rest of the face was blank.

“It’s quite good, as far as it’s done,” Leonardo said.

“Whatever you do, don’t spoil it,” said Sandro anxiously. “Make sure you follow my style. Never forget that the way to please your subjects is to bring them to perfection in the portrait. Imagine they have been carried up to Heaven and paint them as they would appear there.”

“I don’t know what people look like in Heaven,” said Leonardo. “I can only paint what I see.”

Sandro began unpacking his art supplies and setting them out on the table to the left of the easel. “You will have to mix the paints on the palette,” he said. “My wrist is plaguing me like a wound today.”

“Leave it to me,” said Leonardo.

He set to work preparing the various hues and colours he would need to complete the portrait. Sandro pestered him throughout the whole process, giving him unwanted advice about the use of white lead and viridian green.

Leonardo lifted up the palette. “If you don’t stop fussing like a fretful mother, I’ll crack this over your skull,” he warned.

It was at that moment that Lucrezia Donati walked into the room.

6 THE GIRL IN THE TOWER

Leonardo’s heart missed a beat. He wondered at once if any portrait could do justice to those dark, almond-shaped eyes, which grew wide at the sight of the raised palette. In the next instant they crinkled with mirth as Lucrezia laughed.

“What is going on? Has a war broken out?” she inquired. “Is there not enough uproar in the streets without our artists turning on each other?”

Lucrezia’s mouth was as animated as her eyes, changing shape rapidly with every syllable she spoke. A thousand different expressions could be glimpsed beneath the surface of that beautiful face.

Leonardo managed to tear his gaze away from her. He tilted the palette towards the window and squinted. “I was just holding it up to observe how the colours catch the light,” he said.

“Yes, it’s very important how the colours catch the light,” said Sandro, placing a finger on the edge of the palette and pushing it gently down towards the table.

The slave girl Fresina entered behind her mistress, carrying wine and sweetmeats on a tray. She placed it on a small side table by the door and Lucrezia dismissed her with a wave.

“She has very unusual colouring,” Sandro noted, following the slave girl with his gaze as she left.

“How like an artist! Couldn’t you just say you find her very pretty?” Lucrezia mocked him gently.

Sandro’s face reddened and he cleared his throat nervously. “Where does she come from?”

“From Circassia, on the far shore of the Black Sea,” Lucrezia replied. “Father purchased her at the market in Venice. He says Circassian slaves are better behaved than Tartars and work harder than Russians. And their women are renowned for their beauty.”

There was only one thought on Leonardo’s mind and he couldn’t help blurting it out. “The only beauty that concerns us today is that which stands before us.”

Lucrezia’s long eyelashes fluttered in amusement. “That was very gallant,” she observed, “and you actually sounded as if you meant it. Is there a knight out of the old romances hidden beneath that humble garb?”

Leonardo felt a flush come to his cheek and hoped Lucrezia was not aware of it. He removed his cap with a flourish and bowed. “Leonardo da Vinci.”

“And what brings you here today, Leonardo?”

“He is a pupil of my good friend, the artist Andrea del Verrocchio,” Sandro interposed. “Andrea has asked me to help him develop his technique.”

“In what way?”

“Maestro Sandro Botticelli has kindly agreed to allow me to make a small contribution to his portrait of you,” said Leonardo.

“A very small contribution,” Sandro emphasised. “A few background details, no more than that, but enough to improve his handling of draperies and woodwork.”

“Is that what he’s going to do now?” asked Lucrezia.

“Why, yes,” said Sandro. “We were just preparing the paints when you came in.”

“In that case, you won’t need me.” She turned to the door.

“Oh, but we do!” Leonardo exclaimed. “A portrait must be whole, the subject reflected in the background and all the surrounding objects.”

“Exactly,” Sandro agreed. “Never underestimate the importance of harmonising the shades of the room with the lovely colouring of the subject.” He steered Lucrezia towards the small seat by the wall and sat her down.

“Now if you would just resume the pose of yesterday.” With a gentle finger he tilted her head away from the canvas.

Leonardo was relieved: it was vital that she not be aware he was actually painting her face. Quickly, he finished mixing the colours and set about completing the line of her nose which Sandro had left unfinished. Sandro was doing his best to distract her with amusing talk.

The work was more challenging and more wonderful than Leonardo could have imagined. He had made copies of paintings as part of his training, and he had painted original landscapes of his own. But even in repose there was such energy in Lucrezia’s features that painting her was like trying to capture the hundred different moods of the sea or the flight of a lark across the sky.

By the time he reached her chin, Lucrezia was growing impatient. “This is taking a long time for a few insignificant background details,” she said.

“Alas, he is a slow worker,” said Sandro dolefully. “The left hand, you see. No, do not look! It is important that you keep your head absolutely still.”

Lucrezia sighed deeply and maintained her pose.

“I will check his progress,” said Sandro.

He came to Leonardo’s side and frowned at the portrait. “This here,” he said in a low voice, “it’s too dark.” He was pointing at the lips.

“This is exactly as I see it,” said Leonardo tightly.

“It’s not right,” Sandro insisted. “Here, let me show you.”

Forgetting his injured arm, he made a grab for the brush. Leonardo fended him off and there was a brief struggle, ending with a cry of pain from Sandro. He jerked back, his teeth clenched in agony, but he did not move fast enough to hide the bandage on his wrist.

Lucrezia jumped up and ran to him. “What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?”

She gently took his forearm and eased it away from his body. Sandro was helpless to resist.

“It’s nothing. He’s fine,” said Leonardo, trying to steer her back to her seat.

But it was too late. Lucrezia was already staring at the portrait, at her face which was nearly complete. “You haven’t been painting the background at all!”

She looked from the portrait, to Leonardo, to Sandro’s injured wrist cradled in her hands. “I see you are unable to paint, Signor Botticelli, but why go to such lengths?”

Sandro hung his head. “The deception was not for your sake, but because of Lorenzo de’ Medici,” he confessed. “I did not want him to discover that I could not complete my commission. This is my first work for anyone of importance and if I fail to deliver it on time, I shudder to think of the consequences.”

Lucrezia was only half listening. She was absorbed in the painting. She lifted a finger to adjust her hair, looking as though she expected the portrait to do the same. “I can scarcely believe this was painted by a stranger,” she said. “Even in this unfinished state I see so much of myself here, I believe my portrait and I could swap places and no one would know the difference.”

She turned to Leonardo and he could feel her gazing at him with the same intensity as she had examined the portrait. It was as if the painting had opened a door between them and she could now see him with the same clarity with which he had painted her.

“It is a great gift you have, to see so much,” said Lucrezia.

Leonardo found himself nervously fingering the hem of his tunic. “I…I am glad you are pleased,” he stammered.

“He has potential,” Sandro conceded. “Of course, I had already made a start and given him detailed instructions on how to continue.”

At the sound of Sandro’s voice Lucrezia turned to him and the spell was broken. Leonardo felt as if the light in the room had Suddenly dimmed.

“But how did you think to keep up the pretence?” Lucrezia asked. “I was bound to see the picture before you left.”

“Sandro was going to pretend to be painting the very part which I had already done,” Leonardo explained. “In fact, his brush would not touch the canvas. I would keep you sufficiently distracted so you would not notice.”

Impish amusement played about Lucrezia’s lips. “Very resourceful,” she complimented them.

“But now, of course, it is all for nothing.” Sandro sighed.

Lucrezia’s smile grew wider and her eyes flashed mischievously. “Only if I tell Lorenzo.”

“You mean you will keep my secret?”

“It’s such an ingenious trick,” said Lucrezia, “I would not want to spoil it any more than I would want to spoil the painting itself. Besides, Lorenzo thinks himself so very clever. This would pay him back prettily for the trick he played on my cousin last week. Poor Giuseppi! Lorenzo and his friends carried his bed from his house while he was sleeping, so that he woke up in the middle of the Piazza Santa Trinita.”

Sandro fell to his knees and kissed the girl’s hand. “You have the kindness of a saint!”

“I don’t know about that,” Lucrezia giggled. “But I do hope a sense of fun wouldn’t be out of place in Heaven.”

Leonardo laughed too, but their sense of relief was interrupted by an urgent rap at the door.

“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.”

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