A Bolt from the Blue

He paused again, and then his voice broke. “I-I saw Constantin lying on the ground, dead, and I knew it was my fault. I knew he had been frightened of… someone. If I had put aside my anger and insisted on coming with him, perhaps none of this would have happened. Or, at the very least, perhaps I would have glimpsed the villain responsible.”

He fell silent at that last, and for a long moment no words passed between us. Now I understood his odd reaction when the Master had told us what had happened. Like me, he had felt grief… but, like me, he had not been surprised at Leonardo’s words, for he already knew that Constantin was dead. His anger had reflected his struggle with his own feelings of guilt at what he had-and had not-done.

“Tito, listen to me. You could not have known what would happen,” I assured him. “The fault lies only with the foul murderer, and no one else. You should not take on blame, any more than should I.”

“I-I cannot help it,” he shot back, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “And I don’t understand why the Master pretends that Constantin was killed by bandits, rather than there in the garden.”

I hesitated, tempted to explain the Master’s reasoning as best I could, given that Tito already knew the truth of much of what had happened. But recalling the vow of secrecy that my father and I had taken, I stubbornly shook my head.

“Tito, you know I cannot speak of things that the Master has told me in confidence.”

“Bah, it does not matter,” he softly cried, “for I know what this is about. All of us apprentices know that he and your father are secretly building a flying machine. What else can be happening but that someone is trying to steal Leonardo’s plans for it and sell them to Il Moro’s enemies? I’m right, am I not? And, somehow, Constantin was caught in the middle of it.”

His chin jutted toward me, his manner now at once fearful and aggressive. Unwilling to engage him while he was caught in the throes of such emotions, I wrapped my blanket more tightly about me and turned on my heel.

“I can say no more, Tito,” I called back to him. “Now, let us return to the workshop, and tomorrow you can ask whatever you wish of the Master.”

I did not look to see if he followed after me. Indeed, I hoped he did not, for I needed time to consider what he’d revealed. The fact that Tito claimed that Constantin had been distraught for several days was telling. Certainly, it was something that the Master must know.

As I approached the darkened workshop again, I glanced at the windows of Leonardo’s private quarters. As when Tito and I had first stepped out into the night, no light burned there. I pictured my father fast asleep within and wondered if the Master had ever returned from whatever errand had taken him from us. He had said he was to arrange for Constantin’s burial, but surely that had taken only a brief conversation with the priest.

Despite myself, I could not help a niggling sense of worry. While I knew that Leonardo could hold his own in a fight-to be sure, I had seen firsthand his surprising competence with a blade-that did not mean he could not be taken unawares. As I climbed back into my own bed once again, I could only pray that he was ensconced safely somewhere and not in the grip of the mysterious robed figure who might well be Constantin’s killer.

The next day passed soberly as we spent the morning putting the first layers of plaster upon the chapel walls. To my relief, Leonardo had appeared in the main workshop as we were climbing from our cots. I was glad to see his midnight excursions had not brought him any harm, for he looked hale and hearty; still, the solemn set to his features reflected the grief we all were feeling. He himself took on Constantin’s role of assigning tasks and directing our progress, wisely leaving us no leisure to dwell upon our loss.

We applied ourselves to the work with great diligence, and not just because the Master was supervising our labors. Instead, it seemed an unspoken agreement that we should do our very best work upon this particular fresco. In that way, Constantin would be proud should he gaze down on us from the heavens in between plastering and painting his very own portion of eternity.

We halted our work earlier than usual, pulling on clean tunics to make the sad journey by foot along the rocky path to the churchyard outside town. It was a familiar trek to a spot that held far too many grievous memories for me. How many more times, I bitterly wondered, would I be forced to make this journey while I lived here in Milan?

Paolo, Davide, Tommaso, and Vittorio shouldered the bier upon which Constantin, wearing his apprentice’s tunic, lay wrapped in a simple shroud. The rest of us, along with Leonardo and my father and those castle servants who’d also been Constantin’s friends, followed after. I smiled a little through my tears, however, when I glanced back and saw that a final mourner had joined our sad procession.