A Bolt from the Blue

He paused to glance at his right wrist. Strapped to it with twin bands of leather was a flat metal box perhaps the size of my palm. This was one of his inventions, which he called a wrist clock. A miniature version of the tower clock above us, it was designed in much the same way to track the day’s hours. Though I’d scoffed when I first saw it, I had quickly come to admire the clever device and secretly wished for one myself.

The wrist clock began chiming the hour at the same moment its far larger brother above sounded its own call. Leonardo peered through the open gateway, his expression expectant as he flicked his elegant fingers in the reflexive gesture of his that always indicated impatience.

“Let us hope that our new craftsman views punctuality as a virtue and not as a vice,” he remarked, “for I am anxious to begin work this very day.”

And I was anxious to return to the workshop, I thought a bit resentfully. I still could not fathom why the Master required my presence. After all, there was no mystery to be solved, no cruelly murdered corpse to identify.

Aware that such thoughts were unworthy-as Leonardo’s apprentice I was bound to obey him-I dutifully strove for a moderate demeanor. Meanwhile, his expression brightened.

“See, I had no cause for concern,” he exclaimed, “for our good cabinetmaker approaches.”

Curious, I followed Leonardo’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the midday sun to discover the subject of his scrutiny.

A knot of milling tradesmen and servants had parted to reveal a tall man of middle years striding toward the gate. His moderate garb-a brown cloth hat and belted, knee-length brown tunic over yellow trunk hose-marked him a craftsman, as did the patched leather sack that doubtless held the tools of his trade. In the opposite hand, he carried a tall, carved stick such as many pilgrims carried while trudging the rocky roads that led to and from the city. Designed to ease one’s way over uneven paths, the sturdy stick served equally well as a means of defense should the traveler be set upon by bandits… not an unheard-of event in this province.

I frowned, for something about this man seemed familiar. Indeed, with his mane of wavy dark hair and neat beard, he looked rather like the Master from a distance. But it was not this vague resemblance that held me; rather, it was the way he moved humbly if confidently among his fellows, pausing once to assist an elderly man in a tattered leather jerkin struggling with the bundle of twigs balanced upon his skinny back.

By now, the newcomer was close enough for me to make out his features, and my eyes opened wide in surprise. I knew this man, I realized with a gasp, knew him as well as I knew myself!

It was at that moment that the man turned to meet my gaze. He halted again, his leather sack slipping from his shoulder as he stared at me. Then a warm grin split his pleasant features, and he caught up his bag again.

The few moments it took for the guards to wave him and several others through the gates seemed to stretch into hours. I was aware of Leonardo’s hand upon my shoulder in a gesture of gentle restraint, doubtless to keep me from making a spectacle of myself before the soldiers. I allowed him to stay my movements, but only until the man was safely past the gate.

Then, unable to wait an instant longer, I shrugged off the Master’s grasp and rushed toward the newcomer, flinging myself into his open arms with a joyful shout of, “Father!”

3

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Feathers shall raise men towards heaven even as they do birds…

– Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript I

“Ah, child, I have missed you!” Angelo della Fazia exclaimed, lifting me from my feet with his hug just as he had done when I was but a small girl.

Then, as if realizing his gesture might appear a far too exuberant greeting to bestow upon a male child, he abruptly set me back down. His gaze flicking in Leonardo’s direction, he gave me an awkward pat upon the shoulder and amended, “Rather, it is good to see you again.”

“It is good to see you,” was my warm response. Not caring what the Master might think, I grabbed my father’s hands in mine. “Though I confess I did not recognize you at first. You have cut your beard differently, and your hair is longer.”

“That last is not by design,” he said with a small laugh. “I am so busy these days with my commissions that I scarce have time to stop for a meal, let alone sit still long enough for the barber to shear me.”

Frowning, he took an equally close look at me. “I was hard-pressed to recognize you, as well. Your clothes and your hair… they are-”

“Pray, Father, do not tell me I have changed so much since you last saw me,” I interrupted him, fearful lest he make a misstep and reveal my disguise. “Despite my apprentice’s tunic, I am still your well-loved son Dino.”

“Ah, yes, that you are, my well-loved son,” he agreed with great vigor. “So tell me… er, Dino… are you well?”