A Bolt from the Blue

The small hound, Pio, had roused himself from his usual afternoon nap and now trailed a short distance behind us. He seemed to understand both the solemnity and the purpose of the occasion, for he did not indulge in his usual antics. Instead, he marched with the high-stepping grace characteristic of his breed, keeping dignified pace with us as we headed in the direction of the burial grounds.

As Constantin had no family in Milan to witness this final stop in his earthly journey, we apprentices and Leonardo stood in for his siblings and parent. It was a short service, little more than the bored muttering of the priest who had been pressed into service at the cost of a few coins. Even so, I was swept by melancholy as I listened to the familiar Latin prayers and unashamedly clutched my father’s hand. I had come to regard Constantin as a dear friend during these past many months, and I would sincerely mourn his absence in my life.

But it wasn’t until we returned to the workshop that the finality of Constantin’s death was made clear. Calling us together, Leonardo announced that he had chosen a new senior apprentice to take Constantin’s place.

“I have decided upon Davide,” he said, giving that youth an encouraging nod.

Davide squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Master, I am humbled by your trust in me,” he replied as the rest of us murmured our approval, “and I shall endeavor to be as fair and diligent in my duties as our fallen friend.”

“I have every confidence in your abilities,” Leonardo answered with a small smile. “And now, your fi rst job shall be to lead your fellows to the evening meal, after which there are many tasks here in the workshop to finish before you take to your beds this night.”

We obediently gathered up our bowls and spoons and, led by Davide, trudged from the workshop toward the kitchen. By then, the pall that had hung over our emotions had begun to lift, so that we managed a bit of conversation over our stew. Then Paolo shared a humorous anecdote about Constantin, which ended with the latter getting the better of Paolo by the end of the tale.

Paolo’s self-deprecating account broke the stern wall of silence we’d unconsciously erected around our friend’s memory. One by one the rest of us spoke up with an amusing story or quip about him, with our tears now ones of hilarity as much as sorrow. Thus, by the time our meal was done, our spirits were far lighter than they’d been at the day’s start.

But I’d not forgotten my conversation with Tito the night before. Seemingly, neither had he, for he’d managed to keep his distance from me all of this day, avoiding my gaze every time I looked his way. And when I would have spoken to him now as we were gathering our empty bowls for the return to the workshop, I realized he was no longer among our number.

“Tito left some time ago, while Bernardo was telling the story about Constantin stepping into a bucket of plaster,” Vittorio said when I questioned him about the other youth’s absence. “He told me he did not feel well and that he was going to return to the workshop.”

I frowned as I licked my spoon clean and set it into my bowl. I did not wish to doubt Tito, for I knew he had been greatly affected by Constantin’s death. Perhaps our return to merriment had happened too quickly for him. And so I kept my suspicions to myself, even when Tito proved not to be in his cot or anywhere about the workshop. It was not until Davide was snuffing the evening’s ration of candles that Tito rejoined us, slipping past the door unannounced as if he’d merely been gone to take a piss.

And it was not until morning that I learned just where Tito had been and what he had done while he was gone.

8

*

The movement of the bird ought always to be above the clouds.

– Leonardo da Vinci, Manuscript Sul Volo

“You want Tito to assist you in building the flying machine, instead of me?”

My words incredulous, I stared at the Master. That must have been why Tito had been gone for so long the night before. While the rest of us were mourning and praising our fallen friend, Tito had been busy convincing Leonardo that he should take on what had been my role.

“Have I failed you in some way, Master?” I persisted, trying to keep my feelings of betrayal from coloring my tone. “I have worked diligently and kept my counsel.

“And, besides,” I added a bit peevishly, “Signor Angelo is my father and not Tito’s. That should count for something.”

We were in Leonardo’s private chambers, where I had come at his summons fi rst thing upon awakening. I had found him and my father seated at his worktable, the pair of them bent over a sheaf of drawings and notes. The model of the flying machine sat nearby, rakishly draped in green silk.

Leonardo leaned back in his seat and gestured me to take the spot on the bench beside my father.