A Bolt from the Blue

“Why should the others have all the fun?” the first guard agreed with a laugh.

Leaving me to my own devices, the pair moved with eager purpose in the same direction from which I’d come. I waited a few moments longer lest any other guards appear; then, emboldened by this small success, I continued on my way.

A few moments later, I found the flying machine in the same place that I’d left it… and I gave a soft cry of relief to realize that my father had not been idle in his captivity. For no longer was Leonardo’s grand design but hewn lengths of wood and frames of stretched cloth. Instead, the craft now appeared as some fantastic, gossamer-like creature-not quite bird and not quite insect-which had landed by some providential accident upon this slate roof.

Knowing that my life depended upon it, I swiftly went over every one of its lines to assure myself that the flying machine was a finished work. Both cloth-covered wings had been affixed to the sleek body, their total span almost four times my height. Lengths of braided cord and leather served as its sinews, connected at various points on both wings and body, and attached to a series of foot pedals and hand levers, which the pilot would control.

I gave each an experimental push and was gratified to see the wings sweep up and down in measured response. The rudderlike tail had been completed, and a simple knob pulled up and pushed down made that nether limb of the craft rise and fall accordingly.

And no longer did the flying machine hunker on its bladderlike underbelly much as a sickly goose. Instead, four large wheels had been added to either corner of the supporting frame, raising the body sufficiently so that the entire craft could roll about with ease on a flat surface.

I spotted a rope looped through a stirrup mounted beneath the craft’s nose, and I let my gaze follow that cord’s length to its starting point. Someone, no doubt my father, had tied the other end to a short chimney at the top of a slanted section of roof behind the flying machine. Tracing a path back down from the chimney and past the craft again, I saw that it led to a spot where a section of the parapets had long since been broken away from the roof’s edge, leaving a sheer drop to the ground.

Recalling my father’s plan, I guessed that it would be but a simple matter for a single person to use that rope and stirrup like a pulley to drag the craft back toward the chimney and tie it off. Once the pilot was settled in the craft, he-or she-could release the rope and allow the flying machine to roll down that incline again. The path was both long enough and steep enough so that, by the time the craft reached the roof’s edge, it should have gained sufficient momentum to fly like a captive hawk abruptly freed of its jesses.

But what would happen if my father had misjudged the angle and speed?

The fleeting image of a hawk tangled in her hunting laces and plummeting to the earth flashed through my mind. At that thought, fear gripped me with so cold an embrace that I dropped to my knees and squeezed my eyes shut.

Folly, my inner voice cried. To attempt such a flight was to court certain death! The Master had said that the craft should be tested over water at first, lest a failure cause it to drop from the sky. What madness had led me to think that I, Delfina della Fazia, could accomplish a feat that had been the sole purview of birds and angels, up until now?

The sound of shouting men and stamping horses from the main courtyard below pierced the veil of fear that wrapped me. I eased over to the parapets, peered down, and caught back a gasp. Two score or more mounted men, and at least twice that number on foot, were gathering below me.

I saw no archers, and I reasoned that the duke would not want to waste good arrows on such a sparsely numbered opponent. But the other weapons I saw were equally deadly. Some of the soldiers brandished swords; others wielded crossbows or pikes. And all were readying themselves and their steeds to hunt down fewer than twenty young men, unarmed save for what sticks or stones they might snatch up in defense!

Tears welled in my eyes as I heard the soldiers’ cruel laughter and jokes ring loud above the sound of hooves and steel. The Duke of Pontalba had given his men leave to slaughter those apprentices who resisted them. Taken unawares as they surely would be, the youths would have no time to flee but would be forced into either submission or battle.

Davide would fight back, I told myself… and Paolo, and Tommaso, and Vittorio. Would the others stand their ground as their friends fell around them? Or would they realize the futility of resistance and give their surrender, to find death later once the duke deemed them of no further use as hostages?