Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  “He has turned it into a spectacle for the rich to goggle at and invited all of Lombardy, the fool.”

  But perhaps the Duke is not such a fool after all. In order to keep the support of his allies, Lombardy’s greatest families, against the French, he must convince them that Milan has something truly extraordinary, a weapon that will cause the enemy much consternation. If the French have cannons on wheels, the Duke must have something better—and what can better a flying machine? Once the word goes abroad that he has such a remarkable invention, perhaps the French will call off the attack!

  “Well, Maggio, are we ready?”

  “Not long now, Master Leonardo.”

  “Very good. Please examine the foot pedals one more time before Giacomo enters the box.”

  “I will,” Maggio says. “Quite the crowd, eh?”

  “Indeed it is, though I wish it were not.” Then the Master turns back to me. “Now remember, Giacomo, the sequence of the pedals: left, right, left, left, right, right, left—”

  “Master, you have told me this a hundred times!”

  “Then one more repetition will seal the others in your head. And take rests on the wind currents whenever you can, without losing your forward impetus, which will be maintained by short stamps on the pedals. You must treat our machine like a musical instrument, playing according to the tempo, and at all times sensitive to the most harmonious combination of pedals and lever.”

  “Yes, Master.” Musical instrument? He really has lost me.

  The Duke has emerged and is coming towards us, a group of counselors and servants in attendance.

  “Ah, Leonardo, you’re here at last, thank goodness! After what happened at Santa Maria, I have been afraid of another mishap.”

  “My lord, there will be no mishap here today.”

  “For weeks I have been telling my friends of your wonderful machine, and my hopes that it will so affright the French that they run home cowering, hands over heads—ha! ha!—but now I see it in the open, I can only say that it looks less … less menacing than I remember.”

  Before the Master can respond, I say: “My lord, it will look menacing enough to the French when it is dropping iron balls on their heads.”

  “Silence before the Duke!” someone thunders.

  The Duke waves him down as if he were swatting a fly, and the fellow shrinks back into the assembly.

  “My lords, you have not met Master Leonardo’s faithful servant,” the Duke says. “Leonardo never goes anywhere without Giacomo to defend his name and uphold his reputation.”

  Well, somebody has to do it.

  “I am also the pilot of the flying machine, my lord.”

  “Are you, now! Your master has high expectations of you—even as high as the clouds! Ha ha!”

  The assembly smiles and titters at this uninventive jest.

  “Now then, Master Leonardo, show us how it works.”

  “As a bird works, my lord, by the flapping of its wings,” my master responds. “When the pilot places his feet on the pedals and pulls on this lever here (activating the springs there and there), the wings will beat and thence raise the structure off the earth.”

  “They will?” The Duke looks dubious.

  “They will.” The Master looks masterful.

  “There, gentlemen,” says the Duke. “I told you that Leonardo had more up his sleeve than paintbrushes! How fortunate we are to have him on our side!”

  “My lord,” one of the counselors says, his bald head reflecting flashes of the sun as he walks to the fore, “this machine is more suited to Mount Olympus than Milan, the airy invention of an artist with his head in the clouds, who imagines he can transport the rest of himself there with it!”

  “It will fly,” my master says. “I vouchsafe it.”

  “He may have his head in the clouds,” another lord says, “but I vow his feet will never leave the earth!”

  They’re mocking my master! Look at him blush. I must say something—

  “My lord Duke, there is only one way to test my master’s invention. Let me fly it for you now!”

  “Giacomo, you speak well. We cannot talk it down before we have given it a chance to rise. Leonardo, do you take up the challenge?”

  “My lord, I am ready. Let your counselors bear witness to the invincible mind of Leonardo da Vinci, who can take the wings of a bird and give them to a man, who was never given them by God! Giacomo?”

  I bow to the Duke and prepare to enter the wooden box. What will it feel like, to float above the Castle turrets? To look down on the Duke and his lords, instead of being looked down on? I will soon find out.

  “Giacomo …” My master takes my arm as I am entering the box. “Before you go, I want to thank you. For your courage, for your loyalty, for your faith in me and the Last Supper—and for saving both of us from Assanti. After Easter, God willing, we shall commence your painting lessons. So be diligent with the controls and come back safe!”

  He is still holding my arm. I place my hand over his.

  “Oh, Master, do you—do you really mean it?”

  “I never say anything I do not mean, boy. Not intentionally, at least. And meaning without intention can hardly be called the result of considered thinking.”

  He’s lost me again.

  “Now, lad, the Duke is ready and waiting.”

  He gently removes my hand and places it on the box in which I will sit.

  “In you go, then,” he says.

  “Thank you, Master.” I won’t waste time with more speech, but in my mind I am endlessly repeating thank you, thank you, thank you.

  He will teach me to paint—HE WILL TEACH ME!!

  I already feel light-headed, and the craft is not yet off the ground.

  Maggio is giving the signal that all is ready.

  Rodolfo approaches and says: “Don’t pull too hard on the lever. It’s been known to seize up, and if that happens you’ll go into a dive. I’ll be praying for you!”

  He shakes my hand and retires. At this moment one of the Duke’s trumpeters sounds the ready. The Duke stands and waves at me. I wave back. Then he sits. The crowd of nobility in the viewing stand follows his example.

  Well, my friends, here we are.

  After many years of deliberations and delays, one of my master’s inventions has finally been built to full size and will now be tested.

  I cast a last look at my master. He stands ten paces from the flying machine, his arms crossed. He smiles at me, and in that smile I see something I have never seen before: pride. And something else, too …

  My heart tightens, and I feel joyful and sad, both at once.

  If only Caterina was here to see me!

  But now I must clear my mind and concentrate.

  I begin to press down on the pedals. Now, what was that sequence again? How could I forget! Left, right, left, left, right, right, left …

  Thanks to the ingenious system of interlocking springs that my master has designed, one thrust of my leg on the pedal produces the same power as twenty. Therefore, each time I press down once with my right and left legs, I achieve a motion forty times greater than a man is capable of producing, without using up any more of my strength than I would if I was raising my legs up and down to walk.

  Left, right, left, left, right, right, left …

  The momentum is building. The springs are contracting and releasing in concert.

  Saint Francis, the wings have begun to move! One beat, two beats—and now they are developing a rhythm—one and two, and one and two—it’s working, by Heaven! My master’s calculations were correct, every one of them. And what is so amazing is that with every thrust of my foot, yet without exerting more pressure, the wings beat faster and faster.

  Now I must draw the lever back slowly, slowly, to adjust the angle of the wings to allow for the craft to lift—

  “Master! It works!”

  He has uncrossed his arms and raised two fists to the sky in jubilation (I’ve never seen him jub
ilant before). He’s urging the great bird upwards—

  Now to release the lever a notch to permit the machine to find its balance—

  It’s rising! It is rising from the ground!

  Cheers have broken out from the soldiers lining the walls! They’re shouting “Long live the Duke!” and “Leonardo—our hero!” and “Death to the French dogs!”

  And now the Duke and his assembly have raised themselves from their seats and—and they’re applauding! The nobles and counts and earls and ladies and all the rest of them are applauding—and cheering, as well!

  Now I have found a steady rhythm—left, right, left, left, right, right, left—the wings are beating smoothly, and the machine has lifted more than one braccio from the earth …

  … Two braccia! …

  … Four, and still it rises!

  Now I understand what the Master meant—it is rather like playing a musical instrument! As I ascend above the heads of the crowd, I decide that—yes!—I’m going to fly the Master’s creation over the Castle walls and down the Ticino River! I want all of Lombardy to see the great bird and bear witness to my master’s genius!

  Now that I am more than twice the height of a man above the earth, I will try to direct the nose of the craft towards the western walls. The great bird is responding with such ease that I should be able to clear them in a short time.

  Many of the Duke’s nobles have left their seats and begun making their way towards me. All those rich robes, the plumed hats, and velvet cloaks—trying to get a better look at me, Giacomo, the servant! Many of the Duke’s foot soldiers have also abandoned their posts and come running.

  But where is the Master? And Maggio? They have been swallowed up by the crowd now assembled below—all cheering and waving hats and swords.

  Master, where are you?

  And then I see him, standing quietly in the center of the throng.

  He is still looking up at me and smiling.

  And finally I understand—

  He was always there by my side, even when I doubted it.

  He was watching over me from the very first day.

  And when he scolded me, sometimes too harshly, it was because he worried.

  He is not my father. But he has been everything a son could want in one.

  Suddenly, the machine lurches and begins shaking—Saint Francis, the thing is trembling like a branch in a storm! I can scarce hold the lever—the right wing is tilting down—oh no, I think we’re falling—but keep pedaling, Giacomo, keep her in the air—don’t let her down yet or you will let down the Master!

  Then from the crowd comes a voice like a hammer striking the anvil: “Bring that creation of the Devil back to earth at once!”

  Everyone’s head turns to see whence the order was issued—over there? No, from the other side of the square.

  I’m still treading up and down, up and down on the pedals, and the machine is somehow staying aloft, but it is no longer rising, and the shuddering of the wings is almost uncontrollable—

  Now the Master is waving at me—but he’s waving me back to earth!

  Someone is standing beside him, someone in robes of white that shimmer in the sunlight like distant waterfalls. Is it Pope Alexander? By Heaven, it is! Behind him are five gentlemen in scarlet robes with glittering gold trim. His cardinals.

  The crowd below has dispersed—the cheering has ceased.

  “Bring her down, Giacomo—now!” the Master shouts up at me, hands cupped around his mouth.

  All right, Master, if that’s what you want. It was coming down anyway, if you want to know, whatever I chose to do with it.

  So I reverse the order of the pedals—left, right, right, left, left, right, left—and attempt to bring her down as gently as I can, though the spring mechanism is making a frightful scraping and squeaking noise as I do. I fear the Master still has some work ahead of him before the flying machine is ready to be used in military action.

  The Duke is hurrying over to where my master and the Pope are speaking to each other. Something has gone badly wrong, if the Duke can be made to run in haste across his own castle grounds.

  My legs are bursting with the effort—the craft felt so light in the air, but the nearer it comes to the ground, the heavier it seems. But I do not cease pedaling until the machine lands safely back on the grass with a solid bump.

  And then the right wing makes a terrible cracking sound and falls off.

  I undo the belt that secured me to the seat. Rodolfo is there to help me out of the box. I am trembling violently.

  There is no more cheering, no more applauding. The whole Castle has gone silent. And as I jump down to the ground, I hear: “Blasphemy!”

  Spoken, nay, shouted, by the Pope. It seems he is well recovered from the attempt on his life three nights ago.

  To which my master replies, hands on hips: “Nonsense!”

  I remain underneath the left wing of the flying machine, unsure whether to advance. The Duke has now joined the Pope and my master.

  “Your Holiness,” the Duke says, bending to touch his lips to the Pope’s heavy gold ring, in the center of which, like some ruby toad, squats the largest red stone I have ever seen.

  “Your Holiness,” Duke Ludovico says once more, receiving no reply, “how have we offended?”

  “I am almost murdered in one of your churches, Ludovico, and now I bear witness to one of the Devil’s instruments in your very own castle!”

  “This is no winged demon, Your Eminence,” my master says, “it is a machine for flying. And I built it.”

  “You built it?” the Pope says.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He’s forgotten Maggio’s part in the construction. Perhaps that is a good thing, given the Pope’s visibly increasing wrath.

  “No, no, the Devil built this. It is the Devil’s work! I have an infallible instinct for the mark of his black hand.”

  “Your Excellency, this is no devil, this is the great Leonardo da Vinci, painter and inventor to the Court of Milan,” the Duke says. “He saved your life in the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie.”

  “That was you, was it?” the Pope says.

  The Master does not reply.

  “So you believe that man has the power to fly like a bird?”

  “Believe? There is no need to believe,” the Master says. “We have all seen it with our own eyes.”

  “That is heresy, Master Leonardo. A man cannot fly, or it would be written in the Holy Scriptures.”

  “Nonetheless, Your Eminence, a man did fly. You witnessed it yourself!”

  The Master looks around him, but the Duke and everyone else are looking at the grass.

  “You are not listening, my dear fellow,” the Pope says. “A man cannot fly.”

  The Duke and my master exchange glances.

  “Am I being clear enough for you?” the Pope says. “Man was not meant to fly. It is heresy to suggest he can. It is blasphemy to attempt to prove he can. And it is treason to contradict the word of the Pope, who says he cannot. And there’s an end to it. God did not give a man wings.”

  Everybody looks at my master.

  “Neither did God give man fins,” he says, “yet he crosses the oceans.”

  The air around us seems to grow colder on the instant. Pope Alexander’s accompanying cardinals turn to him to see what will happen next. The Pope raises his hand.

  “Master Leonardo, I see that the Duke of Milan permits you certain license here, and for his sake, as we are newly reunited, our policies and intentions mutually agreeable, I will not at this time have you censured for your liberal tongue.”

  “Your Holiness, I meant no offense.”

  “What you mean, Leonardo, is for me alone to decide. I traveled here to Milan, at great personal discomfort, let me add, for two reasons: to discuss the threat of the French with Duke Ludovico, and to view the Last Supper for myself. I have now accomplished both of those aims. What happened here just now did not happen, and there is an end
to it.”

  Silence. Nobody moves. The Pope is staring at my master, almost daring him to argue further.

  But my master is not a fool. He changes the subject instead.

  “Did Your Excellency find my painting worthy?” he says.

  “I would take issue with the meaning of the gestures you have given to the Disciples. You have interpreted the Gospel in a way that is disputatious and vexing to me.”

  The Pope turns and prepares to depart.

  Is that it? Is that all His Excellency, Pope Alexander VI, has to say about my master’s work? No—the Pope turns back.

  “Let me add that I have never yet seen the equal of this painting, and I heartily wish that it were on the wall of one of our Vatican chapels, instead of here in Milan. The face of Christ is a triumph, and I do not use that word lightly. It has inspired me for today’s sermon at the Cathedral. The theme is resurrection, Leonardo. The resurrection of our Lord and the resurrection of the Church’s union with Milan. But remember this, Master Painter-Inventor: Only God has free passage in the heavens, and only His angels have wings.”

  And without waiting for a response, the Pope and his cardinals direct themselves towards the Duke’s apartments.

  With the Pope gone, the Duke now looks very pleased with himself.

  “Did you hear that, my lords? The Pope wishes he had our painting in the Vatican! But he never will, unless God gives him the power to move walls!”

  Or my master follows him to Rome.

  “Well, Leonardo,” the Duke says, “it seems that the flying machine will not fly again.”

  “My lord, you are not going to let the Pope—!”

  “Peace, Leonardo. Let be. His Holiness is pleased with the Last Supper. Milan will have a firm ally in Rome, God willing, and in good time, too. If the flying machine must remain on the ground, that is a small price to pay for our larger safety. The Pope has an army of fifty thousand. We will need every man.”

  “I am your obedient servant, my lord Duke.”

  The look on my master’s face bespeaks another answer entirely, something containing a few choice insults.

  “Now, now, my worthy painter, do not despair. The French are not so near that we cannot continue with our other work. I want you to start the portrait of the late Duchess, my Lady Beatrice, on the wall opposite the Last Supper.”