A Bolt from the Blue

A small blade of sorrow abruptly pierced me. For a time after I’d first arrived at his workshop, I’d harbored a thrilling if quite secret admiration for Leonardo, though his behavior toward me-or, rather, toward Dino-had been nothing but paternal. I had even allowed myself to daydream of what might happen between us should he ever learn the truth as to my true sex. But all that had changed when, in the space of a few days, I had found and lost my first great love, the Duke of Milan’s dashing captain of the guard.

In my grief, I had blamed Leonardo for that horrific accident that had claimed both my captain and the young contessa. I had finally come to understand that the Master had been but an instrument in setting in motion the tragedy, but the damage to my heart had been done. Perhaps the only good to come of the situation was the fact that, in the aftermath, I had sorted out my feelings toward Leonardo. My regard for him was no longer that of a maid for a man but simply that of a student for his master.

He halted before me, his expression unreadable as he towered above me. “While I am pleased to have discovered you so readily, this day was to be yours,” he reminded me. “I had hopes that you might leave the castle grounds along with the other apprentices.”

“I was doing as you instructed, Master, and spent the day sketching,” I protested. “I felt I could apply myself with greater attention here at the castle, rather than being distracted by the sights and noise of the city.”

“My dear boy, sometimes it does one good to seek out distraction,” he countered with a smile. “But since you have applied yourself with such great diligence, let us see what you have accomplished.”

Too late, I realized his intent. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could stop him, the Master caught up my notebook and flipped open its soft leather cover.

The small volume fell open to the page where I’d tucked the bit of chalk, revealing the sketch I had been working upon when Pio disturbed me. I swallowed back a sound of dismay as I watched Leonardo’s smile fade, his gaze fi xed upon the page. What he would say when he finally spoke, I could not guess. All I knew was that this particular portrait was one I had not wished to share with anyone, especially not with him.

A long moment passed while he surveyed the work… a likeness of the archangel Michael, his wings unfurled and blazing sword drawn. It was a common enough theme that I had chosen, the subject as familiar as any of the saints or mythological figures that peopled the Master’s frescoes. At first glance, my warrior angel would have warranted no greater interest than any other artist’s rendering of that subject.

But I knew that Leonardo would look more closely.

In my mind’s eye, I saw what he saw, handsome features rendered in black chalk and set into implacable lines reflecting an archangel’s vengeful nature. The figure’s pose was traditional, his gaze firmly fixed beyond the viewer. But while dressed in the expected white robes and shiny battle raiment, this Michael’s muscular form transcended the usual depiction. Indeed, he resembled not so much a godly messenger as a sensual and quite human male, so that the drawing might be seen as less a study of religion and more a lesson in anatomy.

But what made it more than a simple portrait were the eyes.

I had thought to reflect that same potent male energy in his gaze. What had appeared upon the page was instead something darker, starker. These eyes held no boastful, righteous fury; rather, they silently spoke of the inner pain of a simple soldier who had wearied of the fight, no longer caring that his battles were divinely ordained.

And, of course, I had needed no model for my portrait. The face I had given my archangel was the same handsome dark face that I saw in my dreams each night… the same face that I would never again see in my waking hours.

Even as those thoughts flashed through my mind, Leonardo looked up to meet my gaze again. For an instant, his eyes seemed to mirror the anguish of those eyes upon the page before him, seemed to recognize the pain in my heart. My breath stilled for an instant. Could it be that he, too, relived the events of that terrible night, as I did?

Just as swiftly, he regained his usual expression of mild good humor. He closed the notebook and handed it back to me.

“Very well-done, my boy. I believe it is time to put you to work painting frescoes instead of merely plastering walls.”

I had no time to ponder that unexpected move upward in my apprenticeship, however, for he added, “We shall speak of your new role later. For the moment, I need you to follow me, as I require your presence in my quarters to discuss this new project I have begun for Il Moro.”