Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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      The slave girl Fresina entered behind her mistress, carrying wine and sweetmeats on a tray. She placed it on a small side table by the door and Lucrezia dismissed her with a wave.

      “She has very unusual colouring,” Sandro noted, following the slave girl with his gaze as she left.

      “How like an artist! Couldn’t you just say you find her very pretty?” Lucrezia mocked him gently.

      Sandro’s face reddened and he cleared his throat nervously. “Where does she come from?”

      “From Circassia, on the far shore of the Black Sea,” Lucrezia replied. “Father purchased her at the market in Venice. He says Circassian slaves are better behaved than Tartars and work harder than Russians. And their women are renowned for their beauty.”

      There was only one thought on Leonardo’s mind and he couldn’t help blurting it out. “The only beauty that concerns us today is that which stands before us.”

      Lucrezia’s long eyelashes fluttered in amusement. “That was very gallant,” she observed, “and you actually sounded as if you meant it. Is there a knight out of the old romances hidden beneath that humble garb?”

      Leonardo felt a flush come to his cheek and hoped Lucrezia was not aware of it. He removed his cap with a flourish and bowed. “Leonardo da Vinci.”

      “And what brings you here today, Leonardo?”

      “He is a pupil of my good friend, the artist Andrea del Verrocchio,” Sandro interposed. “Andrea has asked me to help him develop his technique.”

      “In what way?”

      “Maestro Sandro Botticelli has kindly agreed to allow me to make a small contribution to his portrait of you,” said Leonardo.

      “A very small contribution,” Sandro emphasised. “A few background details, no more than that, but enough to improve his handling of draperies and woodwork.”

      “Is that what he’s going to do now?” asked Lucrezia.

      “Why, yes,” said Sandro. “We were just preparing the paints when you came in.”

      “In that case, you won’t need me.” She turned to the door.

      “Oh, but we do!” Leonardo exclaimed. “A portrait must be whole, the subject reflected in the background and all the surrounding objects.”

      “Exactly,” Sandro agreed. “Never underestimate the importance of harmonising the shades of the room with the lovely colouring of the subject.” He steered Lucrezia towards the small seat by the wall and sat her down.

      “Now if you would just resume the pose of yesterday.” With a gentle finger he tilted her head away from the canvas.

      Leonardo was relieved: it was vital that she not be aware he was actually painting her face. Quickly, he finished mixing the colours and set about completing the line of her nose which Sandro had left unfinished. Sandro was doing his best to distract her with amusing talk.

      The work was more challenging and more wonderful than Leonardo could have imagined. He had made copies of paintings as part of his training, and he had painted original landscapes of his own. But even in repose there was such energy in Lucrezia’s features that painting her was like trying to capture the hundred different moods of the sea or the flight of a lark across the sky.

      By the time he reached her chin, Lucrezia was growing impatient. “This is taking a long time for a few insignificant background details,” she said.

      “Alas, he is a slow worker,” said Sandro dolefully. “The left hand, you see. No, do not look! It is important that you keep your head absolutely still.”

      Lucrezia sighed deeply and maintained her pose.

      “I will check his progress,” said Sandro.

      He came to Leonardo’s side and frowned at the portrait. “This here,” he said in a low voice, “it’s too dark.” He was pointing at the lips.

      “This is exactly as I see it,” said Leonardo tightly.

      “It’s not right,” Sandro insisted. “Here, let me show you.”

      Forgetting his injured arm, he made a grab for the brush. Leonardo fended him off and there was a brief struggle, ending with a cry of pain from Sandro. He jerked back, his teeth clenched in agony, but he did not move fast enough to hide the bandage on his wrist.

      Lucrezia jumped up and ran to him. “What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?”

      She gently took his forearm and eased it away from his body. Sandro was helpless to resist.

      “It’s nothing. He’s fine,” said Leonardo, trying to steer her back to her seat.

      But it was too late. Lucrezia was already staring at the portrait, at her face which was nearly complete. “You haven’t been painting the background at all!”

      She looked from the portrait, to Leonardo, to Sandro’s injured wrist cradled in her hands. “I see you are unable to paint, Signor Botticelli, but why go to such lengths?”

      Sandro hung his head. “The deception was not for your sake, but because of Lorenzo de’ Medici,” he confessed. “I did not want him to discover that I could not complete my commission. This is my first work for anyone of importance and if I fail to deliver it on time, I shudder to think of the consequences.”

      Lucrezia was only half listening. She was absorbed in the painting. She lifted a finger to adjust her hair, looking as though she expected the portrait to do the same. “I can scarcely believe this was painted by a stranger,” she said. “Even in this unfinished state I see so much of myself here, I believe my portrait and I could swap places and no one would know the difference.”

      She turned to Leonardo and he could feel her gazing at him with the same intensity as she had examined the portrait. It was as if the painting had opened a door between them and she could now see him with the same clarity with which he had painted her.

      “It is a great gift you have, to see so much,” said Lucrezia.

      Leonardo found himself nervously fingering the hem of his tunic. “I…I am glad you are pleased,” he stammered.

      “He has potential,” Sandro conceded. “Of course, I had already made a start and given him detailed instructions on how to continue.”

      At the sound of Sandro’s voice Lucrezia turned to him and the spell was broken. Leonardo felt as if the light in the room had Suddenly dimmed.

      “But how did you think to keep up the pretence?” Lucrezia asked. “I was bound to see the picture before you left.”

      “Sandro was going to pretend to be painting the very part which I had already done,” Leonardo explained. “In fact, his brush would not touch the canvas. I would keep you sufficiently distracted so you would not notice.”

      Impish amusement played about Lucrezia’s lips. “Very СКАЧАТЬ