A Bolt from the Blue

As always, the main gate was manned by members of Il Moro’s paid army. Dressed in scandalously short dark tunics over parti-colored trunk hose, with swords dangling from their hips, they kept swaggering guard over the traffic to and from the castle. Most of the mercenaries were foreign born, some gray-haired veterans and some little more than boys, and ranging from brutishly effective to ruthlessly efficient in their skills at arms. Thanks to the Master, I’d had more dealings with Ludovico’s soldiers than I would have liked… save, of course, for my time spent with one certain captain.

Depending upon Ludovico’s current relationship with his various neighbors, the immense wood and iron gateway at the tower’s base might be closed. At such time, visitors had to pass through a small portal cut into that gate in order to breach the broad walls that ran the perimeter of the castle’s extensive grounds. With its immense watchtowers-two square, and two cylindrical-hunkering at each of its four corners, it was this forbidding stone barrier that served as the castle’s main line of defense against intruders. Of course, since Castle Sforza had been built as a fortress and not simply as a noble dwelling, its complex of buildings and courtyards was enclosed by still more walls. The duke’s own quarters were located in an innermost wing of the castle and were protected from outside entry by heavy iron gates.

Today, however, the gate was thrown wide-open, allowing a broad view of the town beyond.

“And I do believe you will find this particular project to be of great interest,” Leonardo was saying with some pride as our steps took us closer to the tower. “Unfortunately, we have but a short time in which to finish building the prototype, as the duke is anxious to put my design to test. But should it prove a success, I do not hesitate to predict that my invention will change the very course of man’s history.”

I was used to such dramatic declarations from the Master; still, my curiosity was piqued. Perhaps he had in mind something more than another elaborate war wagon, after all. And I wondered, as well, why he would need my assistance in building it, when my creative skills were limited to the brush. Whatever it was could not be overly large, or he would have enlisted another of the apprentices with a far more muscular frame than mine as his assistant.

“Ah, here we are,” he declared as we reached the gate and took up station along the well-worn gravel path that led from the castle grounds to the clearing beyond the walls.

He pretended not to notice my unease while we stood for several long minutes waiting for whoever was due to meet us. It was a kind gesture, and gratitude momentarily tempered the feeling of disquiet that had filled my breast. For here beneath the clock tower we were well within sight of the two rough-hewn cylindrical towers that served as its flanking counterpoints… the two towers that symbolized the pain that fi lled my soul. Rather than gaze upon them, I kept my attention fi xed upon the tips of my shoes.

“-well-known beyond his own town,” came Leonardo’s voice from beside me.

I realized with a guilty start that he had been speaking for some moments, with the subject apparently this craftsman who had yet to appear. Dutifully, I sharpened my attention.

“It was during my visit to Florence at Christmastide,” he continued, “that I saw an example of a door he had made for a noble’s private chapel there. The grapevines he had carved upon it were so real that I had to touch them with my own fingers before I was convinced they were not living plants. And so when I determined I needed a master woodworker to assist me, he was the man who came to mind.

“Of course,” he added with a shrug, “I first had to learn his name and next discover his home. Then came the task of convincing him to leave his family behind for the opportunity to toil under Ludovico’s patronage for a few months.”

“I’m certain he was honored by the offer,” I responded as I fondly thought how my father had always dreamed of receiving such a commission… and my mother, more so!

To be sure, the artisan with a noble patron ofttimes found that a duke’s purse strings were tied more tightly than those of the middle class. This I had learned from listening to Leonardo’s laments regarding Ludovico, whose disinclination to make good his debts was well-known. But the prestige of having had a patron of rank served to bring other clients more inclined to pay their bills.

The Master, meanwhile, was nodding at my words.

“He seemed pleased with the offer, particularly when he learned the commission would bring him to Milan. It happens that he has family here whom he has not seen for some time.”

He gave me a conspiratorial grin and added, “His sole obstacle was his wife, who objected to the possibility of his prolonged absence. But he finally wrote to assure me that he had gained her permission and so would be here to meet me at noon of this day.”