Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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