Dark Mondays

SILENT LEONARDO

The inn is dark, low and uninviting. Its ale is not good, nor are its rooms cozy. The locals give it a wide berth. Even travelers benighted in English rain generally prefer to ride on to the next village, rather than stop at such an unpromising spot.

This is precisely why it stays in business.

The inn, as it happens, is subsidized by certain shadowy men. They made themselves so useful to the late king that their services have been retained by his usurper. Royal paranoia keeps them on the move, listening, spying, collecting evidence; and this remote country tavern has proven a great place to meet unseen, to interview witnesses, exchange information. Or to sequester those whose status is somewhere between political prisoner and guest…

The man entering the inn has no name, at least none that will ever make it into history books. He hangs his cloak of night on its accustomed peg. He climbs the stair without a word to the innkeeper. He has no need to give orders.

Two men are seated at a table in an upper room. He sits down across from them, studying their faces by the light of one candle.

They are both men of middle age, in travel-worn garments. The one leans forward, elbows on the table, staring into the eyes of his visitor. He has a shrewd, coarse, sensual countenance, like an intelligent satyr. The other sags back against the wall, gazing sadly into space. He has the majesty of a Biblical prophet, with his noble brow and milk-white beard, but also an inexpressible air of defeat. The visitor notes that his left arm, tucked into a fold of cloak, is withered.

Preliminary courtesies are exchanged. The satyr speaks easily, with ingratiating gestures and smiles, congratulating the visitor on his precise Italian. Ale is brought; the satyr seizes up his tankard, drinks a toast to their enterprise and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He begins to speak. Unseen behind a panel, a clerk takes down every word.

No, he don’t talk. That’s what I’m for!

Is he my master? No, no, signore, we’re more sort of partners. Almost like brothers, you see? His mama and mine, they lived on the same farm. But Leo’s a gentleman, yes. Father was from a good old family. Much too good to marry his poor mama, but Ser Piero couldn’t get no sons by any other girl, so he kept his boy and brought him up, with a tutor and everything.

And, was the boy smart? Why, Leo was writing with his left hand (and, you know, that’s hard to do) by the time he was four! But then, one fine day, we boys were playing out in the orchard, and there was this big apple out on a high branch. Leo climbed out after it. And the branch fell! Boom, down he came and broke his left arm. Broke it so bad, the bones stuck out and the Doctor thought it might have to come off. Even when he saved the arm, it didn’t work so good anymore. It’d been shattered. Never grew right, after.

So then, Leo had to learn to do everything with his right hand. And I guess maybe it threw his humors out of balance, because he started to stutter. Stammered so bad nobody understood one word he was saying. Except me! I listened to him, you see, signore? And I could, uh, interpret for him. He got so he wouldn’t say nothing to nobody, except when I was around. We got such a, what’s the word, such a rapport, Leo and me, that I know what he wants to say before he says it.

And his papa said, “Say, Giovanni, you’re such a smart boy, my Leo needs you around to do his talking for him. You come live with us. I’ll pay you a nice salary.” Which was a big opportunity for me, I don’t mind telling you. When Leo was studying in books, I got to play in the street and learn a little something of the ways of the world, you understand? And I learned how to fight, which was good, because nobody dared call Leo a dummy or steal from him, while I was around.

I said, “Don’t feel bad, Leo, you’re plenty smart! One of these days we’ll get rich off your cleverness, wait and see!” And we did, signore. Plenty of times, we’ve been rolling in scudi. We just had bad luck. It could happen to anybody.

Ah! Well, let me tell you about Florence. Leo’s papa sent us to Andrea del Verrocchio, that was a big rich painter there. I said, “How are you today, signore? I’m Giovanni Barelli and this is Leonardo da Vinci, and he’s the greatest painter you’re ever going to teach, and I’m his manager”.

Signore Andrea didn’t take that too well, he must have been thinking, “Who are these kids?” But he looked over Leo’s little pictures that he done, like this rotten monster head he painted on a shield, with dead snakes and flies so real you could practically smell it, and he agreed to take Leo as an apprentice.

It probably didn’t hurt that Leo was good-looking as the Angel Gabriel himself, in those days. Those artistic types, they like the boys, eh? Saving your grace’s presence, but that’s how it is in the Art World.

So we settled into that studio, with all those other boys there, and Leo painted better than any of them. He painted so good, pretty soon he was better than Signore Andrea. Signore Andrea painted this big picture of Jesus getting baptized, but Leo helped him some. And, I’m telling you, there were these two holy angels standing side by side in the picture, and the one Signore Andrea painted looked grubby and sneaky as a pickpocket, but the angel Leo painted was just beautiful, shining so bright you’d think he had a candle stuck up his, uh, hidden under his robe or something.

I watched Signore Andrea and I could tell he wasn’t so happy about this. The little boys were crazy jealous, and I knew sooner or later somebody would slip poison into Leo’s dinner. So I went to Signore Andrea, I said, “Thanks a lot for the training, signore, but it’s time my Leo opened his own studio someplace else, don’t you agree?”

But he didn’t agree. He said Leo had to work for him a certain number of years and a day, or he wouldn’t get into San Luca’s Guild, blah blah blah. I saw Signore Andrea didn’t want no competition. So I knew it was time to get us some leverage.

Any rich man has secrets, eh, signore? You know what I mean, I can tell. And I could climb drainpipes real good, and open windows too, and get locked cabinets open with one of Leo’s palette knives. Pretty soon, I knew some things about Signore Andrea I’m sure he wouldn’t want the Pope to hear about. You’d be amazed how fast he changed his mind about Leo getting his own studio, after I put a little word in his ear! Even threw in a nice parting gift of money.

And, signore, the commissions poured in! Big murals for churches. Painted shields and armor. Portraits of little, rich girls. Half those little girls fell in love with Leo, good-looking as he was. Of course, to talk to him they had to go through me, and I wasn’t so bad-looking either, in those days. Life was sweet, signore.

The only problem we had, and I’m only telling you this because it turned out to be a blessing in disguise, was, if I left Leo alone in his studio while I was out with Ginevra or Isabella or Catarina, I’d come back and find he’d been, uh, distracted by his little drawings. Just filling up page after page with pictures of his hands, or water, or clouds or dead mice or anything. “Leo,” I said, “think of that nice bishop, waiting for his painting of the three wizards adoring Baby Jesus! You got to concentrate, Leo!” I told him.

I thought if I took his pens and paper away and locked him in, he’d have to paint. And it worked. But then one night I came in late, and I was a little, maybe, upset, because I was having troubles with Isabella, and I went to let Leo out so he could eat. There was this big canvas he was supposed to have been working on, still white as Isabella’s—well—he hadn’t painted one brushstroke on it, signore. What he done was drawn all over the walls. I was so mad I socked him, boom, and he went flying. The candle fell and set fire to his straw mattress. What I saw, with the room all lit up, was that these were all drawings of machines.

Which was something new for him, see? Instead of useless things, here were pictures of gears and blades and ratchets, with soldiers and horses getting cut to little pieces by them. “Giovanni,” I said to myself, “you’re looking at a fortune here!”

So I beat out the fire, and I gave Leo all the pens and paper he wanted. I went off to the kitchen and made him a nice dish of fried cheese. And while I cooked I figured, figured, all the time figured the angles.

Well. You heard of Galeazzo Sforza, eh? Duke of Milan, Lord of Genoa, the one they call il orrendo? Yes, him.

He was crazy mean. The kind of little boy who liked to pull wings off flies, and worse when he grew up. No beauty, either; eyes too close together and a weak chin. But he respected artists, signore.

The duke had only been on the throne a couple of years then, but people already knew the way his tastes ran, which is why I thought of him when I saw Leo’s pictures. So Leo wrote this beautiful letter to him, about what he could design for his dungeons and armies. I told him what to write. Such a letter we sent, signore! Such a lot of promises we made. I knew it was our necks in the halter if we couldn’t deliver, but I had faith in Leo.

Pretty soon the duke sent a letter back, too, mostly saying, “Why don’t you boys come to my palace in Milan so we can have a nice little talk?” It came at a good time, because Isabella’s papa was about to send over a couple of his boys for a little talk with me, you follow, signore? So I bundled up Leo and his books and papers and pens on one fast horse, and me on another, and away we went.

Now, one book Leo had with him was by this old Greek named Hero, full of clockwork and infernal machines. Leo studied the whole time we traveled. First, he copied the pictures. Then he made new drawings, taking all the old machines apart on paper and mixing up the pieces. Every inn we stopped at, he’d sit there at a table, drawing, while I got the drinks and talked to girls. We had to buy another horse to carry all the ideas Leo had.

We went to see the duke, in Milan. You know what he was doing, when we were shown in? He was gambling with a pretty girl. He’d bet her she couldn’t keep an egg in her open mouth from the stroke of noon until midnight. Her father’s life was the stake. She was standing there the whole time with tears in her sweet eyes, her mouth stretched wide around this goose egg, and I knew her jaws must have been aching bad. He was just ignoring her. If I didn’t know what kind of man he was before, I knew then.

But I acted big, I told him about the great machines Leo invented, that would make him powerful as Caesar, Alexander, Charlemagne! And, maybe I’m a little crude when I express myself, and I was only a country boy then and didn’t know much about impressing people. I could see the duke smiling, like he was going to enjoy sending us to the dungeon for wasting his time.

Lucky for us both, Leo had his papers with the drawings all ready, and his beautiful clear handwriting that anybody could read. Leo bowed before him and offered the sketchbook. The duke looked at the pages, and he couldn’t take his eyes away after he’d seen the picture on top. He started reading, saying nothing, turning pages. After a while he called for some wine. He didn’t give us any. We stood there, and the girl stood there too with the egg still in her mouth, staring at us. The sun slanted across the tiles on the floor and the fountain outside splashed the whole time.

Finally the duke closed the sketchbook. He asked Leo if he could really build all these devices, and I told him of course we could! Only, we’d need some of his best armorers and blacksmiths, not to mention money. “Well,” said the duke, “Smart boys like you, you’ll have everything you want!”

I thought to myself, “Giovanni, your fortune’s made!”

So you can imagine, signore, how I nearly wet myself when Leo walked over to the girl and took the egg out of her mouth. Who were we, to criticize a rich man’s fun? But the duke, he took it all right. He just laughed and said we could have the girl too.

Her name was Fiammetta. She was crazy in love with Leo from that moment. Waited on him hand and foot, in the nice rooms the duke gave us. Cooked and cleaned and brushed his clothes, which was nice for me, because I was too busy for that now.

But, signore, you should know that Leo is chaste. Eh? No, no, not like that at all. It’s all up here with him, see? So you can be sure there wasn’t nothing sinful going on. Which I’m telling you in case your king has any question about his morals.

So, I got busy. We had a whole kind of blacksmith-studio to build, and workers to hire. I got a clerk to copy Leo’s drawings and pass them out to the workers, so everybody understood what we were making. There was iron and coal to buy. Getting it all up and running was like making a big machine, too, but I’m good at that. I can run around, yell at people to get going. I push things, you see? And I pushed Leo on the job, so his mind didn’t wander. He kept wanting to change the design once he’d finished, kept having new ideas. “Leo,” I told him, “get organized! One thing at a time!”

But, once all the workmen understood Leo’s designs, he could afford to draw his little pictures. The big machine started rolling. The master smith, smart man named Marulli, such a pity he’s dead now, he really caught fire with the idea of Leo’s steam engine. He even pointed out one or two ways it could work better. Pretty soon the forges were going day and night. The workers were coming in all hours and forgetting to eat, they were so excited.

The duke himself came in to watch. I showed him all the models, and the work going on. He had the brains to appreciate good ideas. He was happy with our work, I tell you. There was a look in his nasty little eyes that was almost pure. You know what I mean? Bad men don’t love God or other men, but sometimes they love things, and that’s the closest they ever get to being human.

So what happened? The duke got himself armed for war and, sure enough, one started. The Ligurians sent in condottieri to take Pavia.

Yes, Pavia, you know the name? Famous siege. Changed the way wars were going to be fought forever after, and I should know, because I was there. You want to hear what really happened?

Pavia was defended pretty good. Il orrendo had built new walls only a little while before. The condottieri got there and saw they had one tough nut to crack. Then up came this Pavian traitor named Lazzaro Doria, and he said to them: “Say, there’s this big place called the Mirabello over there, it’s the duke’s own hunting estate with walls and a castle, and he ain’t home. If you camp there, you can starve out the Pavians from a nice defensible position.”

“Good,” said the condottieri. Pretty soon they were living high, eating venison from the duke’s own park while the Pavians were rationing food, marching out in the morning to make big threats and fire off a gun or two. At night they slept in the duke’s feather beds. One soft campaign!

Until the duke heard about it. I was there when he got the news and I saw him smile. Uh-oh, I said to myself, I sure wouldn’t want to be those condottieri.

“Barelli,” he said, “I think we’ll give our new toys a test. Load the engines; we’re going to Mirabello.”

Well, that was easier said than done, because of what-you-callems, logistics. But I’m good at pulling things together, see? All we had ready was the Horse, but I pulled Leo from playing with his models and got him to make a few changes. We finished a few other little surprises too. And on the day the wagons rolled for Mirabello, Fiammetta begged to come along. Just like a woman, eh? Crazy in love. We took her with us, in the baggage train.

You should have seen us marching along, signore. Soldiers with their steel armor shining in the sun. The duke with his pretty armor and the Sforza banner streaming, such bright colors! What a day that was, the sky so blue and the hills so green! Leo rode next to me on a white horse and half the soldiers thought he was an angel, with his golden hair, sent from God to work miracles for us. The war-wagons were all loaded, so heavy their axles creaked, with bad news for Mirabello…

You a soldier, signore? No, that’s none of my business, you’re right. But anybody, soldier or not, would have admired the duke’s strategy.

When we got to Pavia, the duke ordered his men in without any of the special stuff we brought. Just like they were an ordinary army come to relieve Pavia, see? The condottieri were caught with their pants down, saving your presence, but they beat his men back and ran to Mirabello.

So there they were, safe behind the wall of the park. The game was turned on its head, a siege to break a siege. The duke brought his army up and occupied the land north and east of the park. He sent his herald to the Porta Pescarina to say, “Hey! You! Genovesi big shots! Come out here right now, or I’ll send your heads home to your mamas in a bunch of fruit baskets!”

The condottieri didn’t know il orrendo like we did, or they’d never have said what they did in reply, which was something real rude, saving your presence. He got their answer and he smiled, and spat out a fig he was eating and said: “Barelli, let’s have some fun with them.”

So I grabbed Leo and we ran back to the wagons. I ordered the Horse to be unloaded.

The duke sent troops in a feint attack, as though they were going to breach the wall at the Porta Pescarina. He did it so slow, and so obvious, the condottieri laughed and whooped from their places on the wall. But in a few minutes they stopped and got real quiet, looking east, where our wagons were.

What they saw, signore, were teams of men pulling on ropes, raising with pulleys and tackle a big monster, an iron Horse. We’d brought it lying on its side, lashed to three flat wagon-beds. It rose up slow. When it stood at last, tall as a church tower, it looked like Sin and Death.

It stood there maybe a half hour, while we made it ready. All the time the condottieri were staring at it, trying to figure it out. We could hear their officers telling them it was just a Trojan Horse. “That’s the oldest trick in the book!” they said. “Dumb Sforzas!”

But then it began to roll forward, all by itself, belching steam. The rumbling and clattering it made was the only sound for miles. The condottieri were frozen like rabbits. We hardly drew breath ourselves, watching it. The duke looked like he was in church, seeing something holy. Leo was biting his lips to blood, praying I guess that everything would work. Fiammetta was crying, but that’s what women do, eh?

And the condottieri were so busy looking east, they didn’t think to look north, which they should have done.

Because, there was the duke’s cavalry, racing along like they were at full charge. But they weren’t charging the walls, signore. They were pulling the Flying Machines. Yes, that was the first place they were ever used. You didn’t know? Leo’s invention! Oh, he sweated blood over those, his little clockwork bird models, no use to anybody until I slapped him and said: “Not flapping, gliding! Look at how vultures fly, dummy!”

Fast and faster the horses ran, and men ran behind holding up the big machines with their spread canvas, bouncing, looking foolish until they lifted off—one, two, three, ten angels of death rising up on black wings! And such big shadows they cast, crossing the bright face of the sun that day. You had to look hard to see the tiny man in each one, clinging tight to the framework, but I could make them out, and, I’ll tell you, signore, every one of them had wet himself.

Some crashed right away, ran into trees or only got across a few fields before coming down, but there were three that remembered to work the controls. They circled and soared. Only one or two archers on the wall noticed them—nobody else could tear their eyes away from the Horse, that was coming on faster now, but it didn’t matter. By the time they got a few shots off, the Flying Machines were high up out of range. Still they circled, just like vultures. Then—ha, ha!—they laid their eggs, signore.

Yes, they dropped grenades of Greek Fire, on the army camped in the park behind the wall. Dropped from so high, how far it splattered! What screams we could hear! Smoke began to rise, and you could see the men on the wall thinking: “We’ve been tricked! They sent this stupid Trojan Horse to make us look the other way while they attacked from the sky!”

But they were wrong, signore.

Because, while half of them were running from their positions on the wall to try to put the fires out, the Horse just kept rolling closer. The ones who were smart enough to stay at their posts, you could see them wondering: “What’s it doing? Do they think we’ll let it through the Porta Pescarina?” Because, see, they expected a Trojan Horse to be full of soldiers. That’s called, ah, what’s that big word, Leo? Misdirection.

Only when it got right to the base of the wall did they figure out it must be some kind of siege engine. They started peppering it with crossbow bolts, which only tinkled off like rain. The Horse just stood there a minute, smoke coming from its nostrils like a real horse breathing out steam on a cold morning.

Then it began to rise up, rearing from its wheeled platform, and the gears ratcheting echoed loud over the field. I was keeping my fingers crossed, because I didn’t know if we’d made it able to extend high enough. But up it went, and pretty soon it brought its big iron forefeet down, clang, on the battlements. Men on the wall were hitting the feet with axes; no good. Up above, the Horse turned its head slow, like it was looking at them. Smoke twined out of its nostrils, past the flames dancing there, from the little oil-lamps we’d built in.

Now, in the head there was a little room, with one gunner in there. He worked a pump. Nasty stuff—worse than Greek Fire, Leo’s own invention—came spraying out of the head, igniting as it passed the flames in the nostrils, splashing all over the men on the wall. Then we heard screams! Some of them died right there, cooked like lobsters in their own armor. Some jumped down and ran, trying to get to the little Vernavola stream that ran through the park, but it was already full of men trying to wash off the Greek Fire.

And so they left the wall undefended.

Now, signore, the Horse’s head opened right up, like one of Leo’s pictures of cadavers opened out, and from his platform the gunner opened fire over the wall, but not with a cannon! No, this was a machine with rotating chambers, fired hundreds of little grenades, looked like bright confetti flying, but where they came down there wasn’t no carnival, you see? Boom boom boom, black smoke and red flame, men flying to pieces, little pieces, arms and legs blown everywhere! We found them for days afterward, all over the park.

But that ain’t the best part.

The Horse’s behind had a room in it too, and three men in there got busy, cranking the reciprocating gears, and the Horse’s prick—is that the word in English, not too rude? Well, saving your presence, but that’s what came out of the Horse, an iron prick turning as it came, with a burin on the end all sharp points. It bit into the wall. Oh, we laughed like hell! Round and round it went, boring at the wall, one big screw!

When the screw had gone in deep, the men set the Horse in motion, thrusting and pounding at the wall like it was a mare. I thought the duke was going to rupture himself; he laughed so hard the tears were streaming down his face.

But when the wall broke, when it fell in with a crash like thunder, he was all business: he gave the order and his men charged the breach, shrieking. They poured through, looking like silver ants below the horse. Not that there was much work for them to do, when they got inside. You never saw such a sight in your life, signore. Most of the condottieri burned black, or blown to bits, or both. It was fantastic. Magnificent. You wouldn’t believe ordinary men could do it, but we did.

What happened afterward?

Well, Ingratitude is a terrible sin. The duke got to thinking, I guess, that he could conquer the world, as long as he was the only one with these machines. He figured the only way to be sure nobody else got them was to see Leo and me didn’t go nowhere, and the only way to be sure of that was a nice unmarked grave for us. Marulli put a word in my ear. Me and Leo were out of Pavia on fast horses the same night, you can bet.

…The girl? Oh, Fiammetta. Funny thing about that… she hanged herself, after the battle. Women! Eh?

But we went other places, made stupendous things. We never made another Horse, but il orrendo got what was coming to him when it blew up the next time he tried to use it. That’s how God punishes bad men. Plenty of other great princes were happy to see us! War ain’t like the old days, signore, oh, no. You don’t need hundreds of peasants to send in waves against your enemy’s walls; all you need is a few smart guys with a good machine or two.

And you don’t need hundreds of peasants to work your fields, either, if you got the steam-powered plows and mowers Leo invented.

But that didn’t go so good, with the riots and all; maybe you heard about that? Well, it’s all quiet over there now. After the work we did for Cesare Borgia, Machiavelli called us in. He said, so nice and polite: “What do we do with all these useless, disobedient peasants? Nobody needs them anymore. Please, Ser Leonardo, with your brilliance in solving logistical problems, with your unparalleled talent for orderly arrangement and innovative thinking—could you not propose a final solution to this problem?

And, you bet, I kept Leo’s nose to the grindstone until we had one.

But, can you believe it? Even with us being big shots with defense contracts, there’s always some rich man after Leo’s valuable time, trying to get Leo to paint his wife’s portrait or some other foolishness. And that’s the reason—well, that and a few other things, like Cesare Borgia getting murdered—that Leo and me thought we needed a nice vacation someplace besides Europe. So, we try our luck here in England, eh?

The satyr falls silent, gazing intently at his host. The melancholy man for whom he speaks appears disinterested in the conversation; he has watched the shadows on the wall the whole time.

The nameless man smiles, sips his ale, refills the satyr’s tankard. With a slightly apologetic air, he explains that all this is most impressive; it is certainly an honor to converse with the men who fathered modern warfare. His master found the Flying Machines, in particular, of great use in the late civil strife. And it is a shame, before God, that such artistry of invention has not been suitably rewarded. However—

England has no need of the redundancy camps nor the crematoria. Two generations of dynastic war have left it with a shortage of peasantry, if anything; and in any case, it is a country of smallholdings. Steam plows, able to subdue vast acreage in Europe, might prove impractical in a country of lanes and hedgerows. Even if that were not the case, it has of late been rumored abroad that in Europe corn is so plentiful now, as a result of the new devices, there is even a glut on the market. His master is a thrifty man; it would scarcely be in his interest, therefore, to invest in steam-farming.

Perhaps his guests have another proposition?

The satyr narrows his eyes. He is silent a long moment, pulling thoughtfully on his lower lip. He glances at his silent friend, who does not respond. At last he smacks the table with the flat of his hand, laughing heartily.

Well, sure, we have lots of ideas!

And it’s a good thing for your master we’re here, and I’ll tell you why.

You had those Roses Wars over here, right? First the Red Rose up, then the White, then Red, then White. Now your Henry Tudor’s on top, but for how long?

England’s confused. That makes the crown slippery on the head. I heard about those two little boys in your Tower, eh? Pretty convenient for you that they just disappeared like that. Who done it? Nobody knows what to think. What you need, signore, is to tell them what to think.

Leo and me, we’re old men now, and we know something about human nature. You got to tell your story like it was the truth. Make it such an exciting story everybody wants to hear it, and make sure your version is the only one they get to hear. Then everybody will believe it. So, what do you do?

You get some smart poet to write a play, and you send actors to every village in England. Not just one troupe of actors, but a hundred, a thousand, and Leo will build steam-coaches to get them everywhere fast. Not in threadbare old costumes but in scarlet and purple silks, cloth of gold! Leo will make it so gorgeous the people have to look. He’ll make it a spectacle, with fireworks, music, dancing! All to show how Henry Tudor is the best thing that ever happened to England.

You got to get your message out, signore. That’s how you’ll win wars, in the future.