A Bolt from the Blue

“Halt, lest you act with too much haste! If you hang him, you will have executed the very man you wish to keep alive… for he is Leonardo the Florentine, and not I.”

“Listen to him not,” the Master protested with equal vigor as a mutter of puzzled voices rose around them. “The man beside me is Leonardo. It is his life that you wish to preserve.”

“He seeks but to spare me,” my father called out. “I am Angelo della Fazia, a simple cabinetmaker. He is Leonardo.”

The murmur of voices grew, while a flash of uncertainty washed over Nicodemo’s craggy features. Signaling his soldiers to release their captive, he gazed from Leonardo to my father and back again, a dark frown furrowing his high brow as he took in the resemblance between the two.

“Pah, I could well believe that my foolish spies might kidnap the wrong man. And so it is possible that he”-the duke jerked a thumb at my father-“is an imposter, and you speak the truth. But, as they say, you may always know when a man from Milan is lying by the fact that his mouth is open.”

Turning to his soldiers again, he commanded, “These two are of no import. The flying machine is all I want. Hang them both, and be done with it.”

A roar of assent rose from the men within the hall, drowning out my cry of fear. Barely had the soldiers laid rough hands upon both their captives, when a familiar voice cried out over the chaos.

“Wait, Uncle! I can tell you which one of these men is Leonardo the Florentine.”

The claim came from the dark-haired youth with a pockmarked face who was pushing his way through the milling men to where the Duke of Pontalba stood. Earlier, he’d been dressed in a plain brown tunic, but he no longer wore an apprentice’s simple garb. Instead, he was clad in red and gold parti-colored trunk hose, over which he wore a blue silk tunic trimmed in gold, his white shirt puffed through the many slits in his sleeves. With a rolled brim hat of gold similar to his uncle’s sitting rakishly atop his head, he was all but unrecognizable as my friend Tito.

“What have you done?” I softly cried, knowing full well that he could not hear me but unwilling to believe that the youth whom I had considered to be both a friend and ally was apparently neither.

And yet, as my thoughts tumbled back over the events of the past weeks, the revelation made an odd sort of sense.

Tito had claimed his uncle was a soldier, which was surely the truth, for the Duke of Pontalba was a military man. Too, he drove a team of horses with far greater skill than a humble apprentice would possess. And, more than once, had I not heard him dismiss those of lesser ranks with a callousness that did not befit an apprentice’s station? As for the knife I’d seen him brandish, I had known at a glance that it was far too fine a weapon for a youth such as he to possess.

But why would a young man of his background buy an apprenticeship to a master painter?

The soldiers, meanwhile, had halted at Tito’s words and gazed uncertainly at the duke for direction. Shaking his head in disgust, Nicodemo gestured them to bring their prisoners forward once again.

“Very well,” he agreed, his sour tone matching his expression as he spared a glance for the youth beside him. “Stay a moment, and let us pause to hear what my worthless nephew has to say about this.”

A blush darkened Tito’s face, but his expression was defiant as he pointed at the Master.

“This man is Leonardo the Florentine, inventor of the flying machine. The other man is who he claims to be, nothing but a cabinetmaker who was staying with Leonardo. I gave your spies a fine description of the person they wanted. It is not my fault that they took the wrong man.”

Nicodemus raised a sparse brow. “Are you saying, boy, that you’ve known from the start that the man we were holding was not Ludovico’s master engineer?”

The duke’s tone was mild enough, but something in his expression made Tito sputter as he answered, “I knew… That is, I came back to the castle to tell you… but I-”

Swift as a knife strike, Nicodemo slapped his nephew. The sound of flesh against flesh was loud enough for me to hear where I stood. Tito staggered from the impact, clutching at his jaw. To his credit, however, he promptly straightened and, heedless of his now-bleeding lip, met his uncle’s cold gaze.

“That is for allowing me to look like a fool before my men,” the duke remarked, though with far less vitriol than I might have expected.

His fury apparently spent for the moment, he strode back around the table and again seated himself in his carved chair. Turning an ironic look on Tito, he waved a careless hand.

“My apologies, Nephew,” he said with mock graciousness. “In all the excitement, I forgot to welcome you home to Pontalba again. And now, since you were supposed to be my eyes and ears in Milan, perhaps you will enlighten me with any other information that you have neglected to provide.”

Dabbing the back of his hand to his lip, Tito nodded.