Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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