Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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