Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  Tista was a tall, gangly boy with a shock of blond hair. Although he was about the same age as Niccolo, it was as if he had become Niccolo's apprentice. The boys had become virtually inseparable. Niccolo seemed to relish teaching Tista about life, art, and politics; but then Niccolo had a sure sense of how people behaved, even if he lacked experience. He was a natural teacher, more so than Leonardo. For Leonardo's part, he didn't mind having the other boy underfoot and had, in fact, become quite fond of him. But Leonardo was preoccupied with his work. The Black Death had given him a reprieve—just enough time to complete and test his machine—for not only did Il Magnificoagree to rendezvous in Vinci rather than Pistoia, he himself set the date forward another fortnight.

  It was unbearably warm in the studio as Niccolo helped Leonardo remove the windlass mechanism and twin 'oars' from the machine, which were to be packed into a numbered, wooden container. "It's getting close," Niccolo said, after the parts were fitted securely into the box. "Tista tells me that he heard a family living near the Porta alla Croce caught fever."

  "Well, we shall be on our way at dawn," Leonardo said. "You shall have the responsibility of making certain that everything is properly loaded and in its proper place."

  Niccolo seemed very pleased with that; he had, in fact, proven himself to be a capable worker and organizer. "But I still believe we should wait until the dark effluviums have evaporated from the air. At least until after the becchini have carried the corpses to their graves."

  "Then we will leave after first light," Leonardo said.

  "Good."

  "You might be right about the possible contagion of corpses andbecchini. But as to your effluviums...."

  "Best not to take chances," Verrocchio said; he had been standing in the doorway and peering into the room like a boy who had not yet been caught sneaking through the house. He held the door partially closed so that it framed him, as if he were posing for his own portrait; and the particular glow of the late afternoon sun seemed to transform and subdue his rather heavy features.

  "I think it is as the astrologers say: a conjunction of planets," Verrocchio continued. "It was so during the great blight of 1345. But that was a conjunction of three planets. Very unusual. It will not be like that now, for the conjunction is not nearly so perfect."

  "You'd be better to come to the country with us than listen to astrologers," Leonardo said.

  "I cannot leave my family. I've told you."

  "Then bring them along. My father is already in Vinci preparing the main house for Lorenzo and his retinue. You could think of it as a business holiday; think of the commissions that might fall your way."

  "I think I have enough of those for the present," Andrea said.

  "That does not sound like Andrea del Verrocchio," Leonardo said, teasing.

  "My sisters and cousins refuse to leave," Andrea said. "And who would feed the cats?" he said, smiling, then sighing. He seemed resigned and almost relieved. "My fate is in the lap of the gods...as it has always been. And so is yours, my young friend."

  The two-day journey was uneventful, and they soon arrived in Vinci.

  The town of Leonardo's youth was a fortified keep dominated by a medieval castle and its campanile, surrounded by fifty brownish-pink brick houses. Their red tiled roofs were covered with a foliage of chestnut and pine and cypress, and vines of grape and cane thickets brought the delights of earth and shade to the very walls and windows. The town with its crumbling walls and single arcaded alley was situated on the elevated spur of a mountain; it overlooked a valley blanketed with olive trees that turned silver when stirred by the wind. Beyond was the valley of Lucca, green and purple-shadowed and ribboned with mountain streams; and Leonardo remembered that when the rain had cleansed the air, the crags and peaks of the Apuan Alps near Massa and Cozzile could be clearly seen.

  Now that Leonardo was here, he realized how homesick he had been. The sky was clear and the air pellucid; but the poignancy of his memories clouded his vision, as he imagined himself being swept back to his childhood days, once again riding with his Uncle Francesco, whom they called 'lazzarone' because he did not choose to restrict his zealous enjoyment of life with a profession. But Leonardo and the much older Francesco had been like two privileged boys—princes, riding from farmstead to mill and all around the valley collecting rents for Leonardo's grandfather, the patriarch of the family: the gentle and punctilious Antonio da Vinci.

  Leonardo led his apprentices down a cobbled road and past a rotating dovecote on a long pole to a cluster of houses surrounded by gardens, barns, peasant huts, tilled acreage, and the uniform copses of Mulberry trees, which his Uncle Francesco had planted. Francesco, 'the lazy one,' had been experimenting with sericulture, which could prove to be very lucrative indeed, for the richest and most powerful guild in Florence was the 'Arte della Seta': the silk weavers.

  "Leonardo, ho!" shouted Francesco from the courtyard of the large, neatly kept, main house, which had belonged to Ser Antonio. It was stone and roofed with red tile, and looked like the ancient long-houses of the French; but certainly no animals would be kept in the home of Piero da Vinci: Leonardo's father.

  Like his brother, Francesco had dark curly hair that was graying at the temples and thinning at the crown. Francesco embraced Leonardo, nearly knocking the wind out of him, and said, "You have caused substantial havoc in this house, my good nephew! Your father is quite anxious."

  "I'm sure of that," Leonardo said as he walked into the hall. "It's wonderful to see you, Uncle."

  Beyond this expansive, lofted room were several sleeping chambers, two fireplaces, a kitchen and pantry, and workrooms, which sometimes housed the peasants who worked the various da Vinci farmholds; there was a level above with three more rooms and a fireplace; and ten steps below was the cellar where Leonardo used to hide the dead animals he had found. The house was immaculate: how Leonardo's father must have oppressed the less than tidy Francesco and Alessandra to make it ready for Lorenzo and his guests.

  His third wife, Margherita di Guglielmo, was nursing his first legitimate son; no doubt that accorded her privileges.

  This room was newly fitted-out with covered beds, chests, benches, and a closet cabinet to accommodate several of the lesser luminaries in Il Magnifico's entourage. Without a doubt, Leonardo's father would give the First Citizen his own bedroom.

  Leonardo sighed. He craved his father's love, but their relationship had always been awkward and rather formal, as if Leonardo were his apprentice rather than his son.

  Piero came down the stairs from his chamber above to meet Leonardo. He wore his magisterial robes and a brimless, silkberretta cap, as if he were expecting Lorenzo and his entourage at any moment. "Greetings, my son."

  "Greetings to you, father," Leonardo said, bowing.

  Leonardo and his father embraced. Then tightly grasping Leonardo's elbow, Piero asked, "May I take you away from your company for a few moments?"

  "Of course, Father," Leonardo said politely, allowing himself to be led upstairs.

  They entered a writing room, which contained a long, narrow clerical desk, a master's chair, and a sitting bench decorated with two octagonally-shaped pillows; the floor was tiled like a chessboard. A clerk sat upon a stool behind the desk and made a great show of writing in a large, leather-bound ledger. Austere though the room appeared, it revealed a parvenu's taste for comfort; for Piero was eager to be addressed as messer, rather than ser, and to carry a sword, which was the prerogative of a knight. "Will you excuse us, Vittore?" Piero said to the clerk. The young man rose, bowed, and left the room.

  "Yes, father?" Leonardo asked, expecting the worst.

  "I don't know whether to scold you or congratulate you."

  "The latter would be preferable."

  Piero smiled and said, "Andrea has apprised me that Il Magnifico has asked for you to work in his gardens."

  "Yes."

  "I am very proud."

  "Thank you, father."

  "So you see,
I was correct in keeping you to the grindstone."

  Leonardo felt his neck and face grow warm. "You mean by taking everything I earned so I could not save enough to pay for my master's matriculation fee in the Painters' Guild?"

  "That money went to support the family...your family."

  "And now you—or rather the family—will lose that income."

  "My concern is not, nor was it ever, the money," Piero said. "It was properly forming your character, of which I am still in some doubt."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm sorry, but as your father, it is my duty—" He paused. Then, as if trying to be more conciliatory, he said, "You could hardly do better than to have Lorenzo for a patron. But he would have never noticed you, if I had not made it possible for you to remain with Andrea."

  "You left neither Andrea nor I any choice."

  "Be that as it may, Master Andrea made certain that you produced and completed the projects he assigned to you. At least he tried to prevent you from running off and cavorting with your limp-wristed, degenerate friends."

  "Ah, you mean those who are not in Il Magnifico's retinue."

  "Don't you dare to be insolent."

  "I apologize, father," Leonardo said, but he had become sullen.

  "You're making that face again."

  "I'm sorry if I offend you."

  "You don't offend me, you—" He paused, then said, "You've put our family in an impossible position."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your business here with the Medici."

  "It does not please you to host the First Citizen?" Leonardo asked.

  "You have made a foolish bet with him, and will certainly become the monkey. Our name—"

  "Ah, yes, that is, of course, all that worries you. But I shall not fail, father. You can then take full credit for any honor I might bring to our good name."

  "Only birds and insects can fly."

  "And those who bear the name da Vinci." But Piero would not be mollified. Leonardo sighed and said, "Father, I shall try not to disappoint you." He bowed respectfully and turned toward the door.

  "Leonardo!" his father said, as if he were speaking to a child. "I have not excused you."

  "May I be excused, then, father?"

  "Yes, you may." But then Piero called him back.

  "Yes, father?" Leonardo asked, pausing at the door.

  "I forbid you to attempt this...experiment."

  "I am sorry, father; but I cannot turn tail now."

  "I will explain to Il Magnifico that you are my first-born."

  "Thank you, but—"

  "Your safety is my responsibility," Piero said, and then he said, "I worry for you!" Obviously, these words were difficult for him. If their relationship had been structured differently, Leonardo would have crossed the room to embrace his father; and they would have spoken directly. But as robust and lusty as Piero was, he could not accept any physical display of emotion.

  After a pause, Leonardo asked, "Will you do me the honor of watching me fly upon the wind?" He ventured a smile. "It will be a da Vinci, not a Medici or a Pazzi, who will be soaring in the heavens closest to God."

  "I suppose I shall have to keep up appearances," Piero said; then he raised an eyebrow, as if questioning his place in the scheme of these events. He looked at his son and smiled sadly.

  Though once again Leonardo experienced the unbridgeable distance between himself and his father, the tension between them dissolved.

  "You are welcome to remain here," Piero said.

  "You will have little enough room when Lorenzo and his congregation arrive," Leonardo said. "And I shall need quiet in which to work and prepare; it's been fixed for us to lodge with Achattabrigha di Piero del Vacca."

  "When are you expected?"

  "We should leave now. Uncle Francesco said he would accompany us."

  Piero nodded. "Please give my warmest regards to your mother."

  "I shall be happy to do so."

  "Are you at all curious to see your new brother?" Piero asked, as if it were an afterthought.

  "Of course I am, father."

  Piero took his son's arm, and they walked to Margherita's bedroom.

  Leonardo could feel his father trembling.

  And for those few seconds, he actually felt that he was his father's son.

  Four

  The Great Bird was perched on the edge of a ridge at the summit of a hill near Vinci that Leonardo had selected. It looked like a gigantic dragonfly, its fabric of fustian and silk sighing, as the expansive double wings shifted slightly in the wind. Niccolo, Tista, and Leonardo's stepfather Achattabrigha kneeled under the wings and held fast to the pilot's harness. Zoroastro da Peretola and Lorenzo de Credi, apprentices of Andrea Verrochio, stood twenty-five feet apart and steadied the wing tips; it almost seemed that their arms were filled with outsized jousting pennons of blue and gold. These two could be taken as caricatures of Il Magnifico and his brother Giuliano, for Zoroastro was swarthy, rough- skinned, and ugly-looking beside the sweetly handsome Lorenzo de Credi. Such was the contrast between Lorenzo and Giuliano di Medici, who stood with Leonardo a few feet away from the Great Bird. Giuliano looked radiant in the morning sun while Lorenzo seemed to be glowering, although he was most probably simply concerned for Leonardo.

  Zoroastro, ever impatient, looked toward Leonardo and shouted, "We're ready for you, Maestro."

  Leonardo nodded, but Lorenzo caught him and said, "Leonardo, there is no need for this. I will love you as I do Giuliano, no matter whether you choose to fly...or let wisdom win out."

  Leonardo smiled and said, "I will fly fide et amore."

  By faith and love.

  "You shall have both," Lorenzo said; and he walked beside Leonardo to the edge of the ridge and waved to the crowd standing far below on the edge of a natural clearing where Leonardo was to land triumphant. But the clearing was surrounded by a forest of pine and cypress, which from his vantage looked like a multitude of rough- hewn lances and halberds. A great shout went up, honoring the First Citizen: the entire village was there—from peasant to squire, invited for the occasion by Il Magnifico, who had erected a great, multi-colored tent; his attendants and footmen had been cooking and preparing for a feast since dawn. His sister Bianca, Angelo Poliziano, Pico Della Mirandola, Bartolomeo Scala, and Leonardo's friend Sandro Botticelli were down there, too, hosting the festivities.

  They were all on tenterhooks, eager for the Great Bird to fly.

  Leonardo waited until Lorenzo had received his due; but then not to be outdone, he, too, bowed and waved his arms theatrically. The crowd below cheered their favorite son, and Leonardo turned away to position himself in the harness of his flying machine. He had seen his mother Caterina, a tiny figure nervously looking upward, whispering devotions, her hand cupped above her eyes to cut the glare of the sun. His father Piero stood beside Giuliano de Medici; both men were dressed as if for a hunt. Piero did not speak to Leonardo. His already formidable face was drawn and tight, just as if he were standing before a magistrate awaiting a decision on a case.

  Lying down in a prone position on the fore-shortened plank pallet below the wings and windlass mechanism, Leonardo adjusted the loop around his head, which controlled the rudder section of the Great Bird, and he tested the hand cranks and foot stirrups, which raised and lowered the wings.

  "Be careful," shouted Zoroastro, who had stepped back from the moving wings. "Are you trying to kill us?"

  There was nervous laughter; but Leonardo was quiet. Achattabrigha tied the straps that would hold Leonardo fast to his machine and said, "I shall pray for your success, Leonardo, my son. I love you."

  Leonardo turned to his step-father, smelled the good odors of Caterina's herbs—garlic and sweet onion—on his breath and clothes, and looked into the old man's squinting, pale blue eyes; and it came to him then, with the force of buried emotion, that he loved this man who had spent his life sweating by kiln fires and thinking with his great, yellow-nailed hands. "I love yo
u, too...father. And I feel safe in your prayers."

  That seemed to please Achattabrigha, for he checked the straps one last time, kissed Leonardo and patted his shoulder; then he stepped away, as reverently as if he were backing away from an icon in a cathedral.

  "Good luck, Leonardo," Lorenzo said.

  The others wished him luck. His father nodded, and smiled; and Leonardo, taking the weight of the Great Bird upon his back, lifted himself. Niccolo, Zoroastro, and Lorenzo de Credi helped him to the very edge of the ridge.

  A cheer went up from below.

  "Maestro, I wish it were me," Niccolo said. Tista stood beside him, looking longingly at Leonardo's flying mechanism.

  "Just watch this time, Nicco," Leonardo said, and he nodded to Tista. "Pretend it is you who is flying in the heavens, for this machine is also yours. And you will be with me."

  "Thank you, Leonardo."

  "Now step away...for we must fly," Leonardo said; and he looked down, as if for the first time, as if every tree and upturned face were magnified; every smell, every sound and motion were clear and distinct. In some way the world had separated into its component elements, all in an instant; and in the distance, the swells and juttings of land were like that of a green sea with long, trailing shadows of brown; and upon those motionless waters were all the various constructions of human habitations: church and campanile, and shacks and barns and cottages and furrowed fields.

  Leonardo felt sudden vertigo as his heart pounded in his chest. A breeze blew out of the northwest, and Leonardo felt it flow around him like a breath. The treetops rustled, whispering, as warm air drifted skyward. Thermal updrafts flowing invisibly to heaven. Pulling at him. His wings shuddered in the gusts; and Leonardo knew that it must be now, lest he be carried off the cliff unprepared.

  He launched himself, pushing off the precipice as if he were diving from a cliff into the sea. For an instant, as he swooped downward, he felt euphoria. He was flying, carried by the wind, which embraced him in its cold grip. Then came heart-pounding, nauseating fear. Although he strained at the windlass and foot stirrups, which caused his great, fustian wings to flap, he could not keep himself aloft. His pushings and kickings had become almost reflexive from hours of practice: one leg thrust backward to lower one pair of wings while he furiously worked the windlass with his hands to raise the other, turning his hands first to the left, then to the right. He worked the mechanism with every bit of his calculated two hundred pound force, and his muscles ached from the strain. Although the Great Bird might function as a glider, there was too much friction in the gears to effect enough propulsive power; and the wind resistance was too strong. He could barely raise the wings.