A Bolt from the Blue

“It is not commonly known, but as we speak Il Moro and a contingent of his men are on their way to a secret rendezvous with the French king’s representatives,” he went on. “But his greater concern is his alliances within the province… particularly the treaty with his newest ally, the Duke of Pontalba. Ludovico’s military might on the ground, while adequate, is insufficient to give him free rein in this region.”

He raised a cautioning finger skyward. “Should Il Moro prove to these nobles that he holds domination in the sky-a feat that no one in history has ever before accomplished!-his problem is solved. They will have no choice but to submit to him. But if someone else manages to conquer the clouds before he does, both he and Milan will find themselves subject to another man’s rule.”

While we considered that state of affairs, Leonardo managed what was, for him, a humble expression.

“Certainly, we must allow for the possibility that another man in the region has the intellect to conceive of a similar design on his own,” he conceded. “But word of such a genius would surely have come to my ears by now, just as my own reputation spread beyond Florence. And as I have heard tell of no comparable man, I deem it unlikely. But should a person gain access to my design, my notes…”

The Master trailed off with a shrug. Returning the pages to him, my father stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Your drawings that I have seen thus far are detailed. With them, a man with an apt hand and sharp mind might manage to build his own flying machine,” he agreed. “But if that had been the intent, who of the duke’s allies-or enemies-would be bold enough to set a spy out to steal your design? And why was your apprentice murdered, and yet these pages left behind?”

“Those are the questions that plague me, and the reason I am loath to let word of Constantin’s murder spread until I have a chance to speak with Il Moro.”

As he spoke, Leonardo started toward the spot where Constantin lay. Reluctantly, I followed after him, my father at my side with his hand again resting upon my shoulder.

I was reassured to see that the apprentice’s face and upper body were covered by the same cloth in which the small flying machine had earlier been wrapped. But barely had I registered that relief when Leonardo knelt beside the still figure and drew back the fabric, exposing the youth’s pale, still features.

“Now, we must connect these stolen drawings to Constantin,” he coolly declared, his gaze unyielding as he looked down upon his senior apprentice.

“As I see it, two possibilities exist,” he went on. “The first is that Constantin accidentally discovered that someone had stolen the pages-perhaps caught him in the very act-and attempted to recover them. But, tragically, his bold attempt was met with violence. The thief dared not let his identity be revealed and so stooped to cruel murder lest Constantin reveal his treachery to all.”

He paused and drew the cloth lower, revealing the bloody bolt, which he must have pulled from Constantin’s back. The short arrow lay upon the youth’s thin chest like a spent bird, its metal tip and sleek wood shaft stained in dried blood, the fletched feathers tipped in gore. I shuddered at the sight, knowing this was one image I would never scrub from my memory.

“The second possibility,” he continued, “is that Constantin himself stole the sketches… perhaps at someone else’s behest, or else with the idea that he might find a person willing to pay him good coin for the information. But something went wrong-treachery among thieves, perhaps-and he was killed for his efforts.”

“No, Master,” I choked out, shaking my head. “Constantin would never betray you in such a fashion! Of that, I am certain. Remember, too, that he called for your help with his last breath. Pray, do not let him go to his grave with such a stain upon his reputation!”

Leonardo surveyed the youth’s face a moment longer before once more drawing the cloth over his slack features. Then, with a sigh, he rose and led us a decent distance from the body.

“Believe me, my dear boy,” he answered my plea, “I do not wish to consider such evil of so fine a youth. But until we discover his assailant, we must prepare ourselves for any explanation.”

Straightening his tunic with its rust-colored slash of dried blood across his breast, he addressed my father.

“The manner of Constantin’s murder is our greatest clue. You will agree that a crossbow is not the weapon of a common man but that of a noble or a soldier. Did you perhaps take note of the bolt that struck him down?”

“It appeared finely crafted of some hard wood, perhaps English yew, and the fletching is expertly tied,” Angelo replied. “But the bolt is short. It must have come from a weapon small enough to be spanned using a simple lever… a weapon that could be fired with one hand.”