Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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