Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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       2 THE DEBT COLLECTOR

      Leonardo clenched his fists and fought down his panic. What was he to do? In a few moments the fire could spread out of control. The only firefighters in the city were some volunteers from the stonemasons’ guild, but there was no time to summon them.

      Then he remembered how his Uncle Francesco had stopped a fire that sprang up in the barn when one of the cows kicked over a lantern. Looking quickly around, he snatched the dust covering from one of Maestro Andrea’s paintings. He hurled it over the fire and flung his own body on top of it to smother the flames.

      He could feel the heat beneath him and smell the charred straw. Leonardo screwed his eyes tight shut and he held his breath, half expecting to be incinerated. That was still preferable to the humiliation of seeing the workshop destroyed through his clumsiness.

      An excited babble of voices prompted him to open his eyes. Gabriello was leaning over him. “I think the fire’s out,” he said.

      The other apprentices gathered around, nervously giggling and elbowing each other. Their faces were still white with shock. Leonardo propped himself up on one elbow, looking around for Nicolo.

      “You saw, didn’t you?” he challenged. “You saw it fly.”

      “I saw a stick jump into the air and fall into the fire,” Nicolo replied. He shook his head. “Not very impressive.”

      Nicolo still had the other part of the flying device in his hand and now he flung it away contemptuously. It clattered across the floor and rolled out of sight under a table.

      A rage hotter than any fire welled up inside Leonardo’s breast. He would knock that smirk off Nicolo’s face, no matter what the consequences.

      He jumped to his feet. But before he could swing a punch, the door banged open.

      Maestro Andrea del Verrocchio marched in, a dozen rolls of parchment tucked under one arm and a heavy leather satchel slung over the other. He strode briskly across the room towards his study without even looking at his apprentices.

      “Leonardo da Vinci!” he called as he vanished through the doorway.

      Leonardo started guiltily. “Yes, Maestro?”

      “Fetch me a pitcher of water! The rest of you, this is not a holy day. Get back to work!”

      Nicolo snatched the scorched covering off the floor and stuffed it away out of sight under a workbench. Vanni and Giorgio gathered up the burnt straw and pitched it out of the window. Gabriello darted off to prepare a fresh pot of fishbones.

      Leonardo rushed out of the back door to the pump and filled a pitcher with fresh water. When he got to the study, Maestro Andrea had laid down his scrolls and satchel and was studying some letters. Leonardo poured a cup of water and handed it to him.

      “Don’t leave,” the maestro said as he lifted the cup to his lips. “I have something else for you to do.”

      As Maestro Andrea drank, Leonardo looked around at the drawings that littered the tables and the walls, studies of saints and angels, soldiers and animals.

      With his round, pleasant face and stout belly, Andrea looked like a prosperous baker. In fact, he was one of the most brilliant and successful artists in Florence. He was so busy that he sometimes had to bring in other artists as his assistants. Recalling this, Leonardo had the exciting thought that perhaps the master was going to ask for his help in completing a major work.

      Andrea gulped down the last of the water and smacked his thick lips. “Arguing terms with the members of the Signoria is thirsty work,” he said. “Still, if our government want a new statue of St. Thomas for their chapel they will have to pay a decent price.”

      Leonardo tried to sound businesslike too. “I finished stretching the canvas, Maestro,” he reported.

      “I saw that when I came in,” said Andrea, “just as I saw the overturned pot and the burnt straw and smelled the charred fishbones.”

      Leonardo was astonished. He could have sworn the master had not so much as glanced their way before entering his study. “There was an accident,” he began apologetically.

      Andrea raised a hand to silence him. “You are young men with high spirits and you will have your misadventures. As long as no one was hurt, there is no more to say.”

      “You said you had something for me to do,” Leonardo reminded him.

      “Yes, here it is,” said Andrea. He presented the boy with a folded sheet of parchment sealed with a blob of wax.

      “What’s this?” Leonardo asked eagerly. “A sketch of the new work you’ve been commissioned to do? Would you like me to do the preliminary outlines?”

      Maestro Andrea shook his head. “It’s a bill for fourteen florins,” he stated flatly.

      “A bill?” Leonardo’s heart plummeted. “Maestro, don’t make me a debt collector. I came here to be an artist.”

      “Money is the lifeblood of art, Leonardo. If you haven’t learned that by now you should go back to your father and be a notary like him.”

      The suggestion stung Leonardo like a hot needle. “No, I don’t want to be like him. But I hoped…”

      “You hoped what?” Andrea asked.

      Leonardo raised his head to meet his master’s eye. This was no time to be nervous and awkward. That would not earn his respect.

      “I hoped you would have a proper piece of art for me to do, not a practice painting on used canvas or a wax model.”