Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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