A Bolt from the Blue

“It would seem I was the sole one the guards observed behaving oddly,” he replied with no little chagrin. “So intent was I in trying to discover that poor boy’s assassin that I did not realize my own actions might be looked at with suspicion. The captain of the guard questioned me thoroughly himself.”

My father gave a wry snort at the memory.

“An unpleasant fellow, he was… foreign, and quite large, with blond mustaches,” he proclaimed, describing the man I knew as the new captain of Il Moro’s guard. “At any second, I expected the point of his sword to appear at my throat and for him to lead me away. I had to invoke Signor Leonardo’s name several times before he was content to leave me be.”

With a sidelong look at the Master, he added, “I fear that I misled him with my reasons for my haste. Since I am but a visitor here in Milan, I hesitated to speak the word murder aloud when I did not have you there to bear witness in my behalf. Instead, I told him that one of your apprentices had been sent on a fool’s errand, and that I was trying find the boy before he wasted a day wandering about the city looking for a merchant who did not exist.”

The Master gave a brisk nod of approval.

“I can see where our young Dino has learned his clever ways. It is well that you kept your peace, Signor Angelo. But we should not tarry in sight of all where we might draw suspicion,” he added and pulled open the gate. “Let us return to the garden so that we may discuss what must happen next.”

Once inside, he closed the gate behind us again and stood before it as if barring our escape. I was glad to focus on him rather than gaze toward the spot near the boulder where I knew Constantin lay. But for the moment, the Master’s attention was for my father.

“As I said, Signor Angelo, you spoke prudently when you suggested we would do well not to fling about words such as murder. Until we know the reason that my apprentice met so cruel a fate, we must keep such speculation to ourselves.

“And that is why we must make haste to remove Constantin’s body from the garden and carry him far from the castle grounds.”

6

*

… for us wretched mortals, there avails not any flight…

– Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus

My gasp was audible, even as my tongue momentarily failed me. As for my father, his mild features darkened in outrage.

“I cannot permit such a travesty, signore,” he decreed, his tone defiant. “The boy is dead, and by another man’s hand. We cannot pretend this did not happen. We must discover the villain responsible and bring him to justice.”

“Master, surely you cannot mean to abandon Constantin’s body,” I cried before he could answer, having finally regained my voice. “He is-was-my friend and your loyal apprentice. He deserves better than to be left for a carrion eater’s feast! Why can you not go to Il Moro’s guard and tell them of this crime so that they might attempt to find his killer?”

Leonardo raised a hand in protest, his expression as stern as my father’s. “Temper your outrage, and I shall explain further… but first, I must show you what I discovered tucked into Constantin’s purse as I was settling him beneath a cloth.”

He reached into his tunic and withdrew a thin sheaf of folded papers. Smoothing their creases, he wordlessly proffered them for my father’s examination. He began to peruse them, while I shamelessly gazed over his shoulder to see what secrets they held.

I needed but a glimpse to realize that the papers belonged to Leonardo. The tightly scribed writing in the familiar mirrored hand that ran from right to left could belong to no one else. As for the sketches that illustrated that text, they showed sections of the very flying machine that we had spent the afternoon testing. I noticed, as well, that one edge of each page was uneven, and I guessed that they must have been cut with haste from one of the Master’s many notebooks.

I ventured as much aloud, earning his approving nod.

“The volume that once held these pages is even now sitting on the table in my private workshop.”

He paused and shrugged.

“When they were removed from their binding, I cannot say, though these particular sketches were completed perhaps a month ago. And I am not in the habit of reviewing my work once it has been committed to paper. Thus, if not for this day’s tragic incident, another few weeks might have passed before I ever discovered the theft.”

“And you believe that these drawings of your flying machine are the reason for the young man’s murder?” my father asked, his frown deepening.

Leonardo nodded. “As I told you on your arrival, the duke is most anxious for a demonstration of the flying craft. He has fears regarding his treaty with France, which is in jeopardy.”

He paused to lower his voice, though there was no one about save my father and me to hear him.