Leonardo and the Death Machine. Robert J. Harris

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       4 THE LION OF ANCHIANO

      Leonardo was dragged out into the middle of the football field, protesting that he needed to change his clothes.

      “No time,” Simone told him. “The game’s already started and those woolworkers have got us outnumbered. You have played before, haven’t you?”

      “I’ve kicked a ball around back home,” said Leonardo, “but nothing like this.”

      The football green was squeezed into the western corner of the city walls, flanked on one side by an orchard and on the other by a slaughterhouse. Each team boasted nearly thirty men, the goldsmiths distinguished by their yellow sashes, the woolworkers in red. Many of them already bore cuts and bruises, and they were taunting each other with insults and obscene gestures.

      “There’s no use arguing,” Sandro advised his friend. “When it comes to playing against the woolworkers, nothing matters to Simone except victory.”

      “And how do we win?” Leonardo asked uneasily.

      “Get the ball over the enemy goal line,” replied Sandro with a shrug. “That’s as much as I can understand. I wouldn’t be here at all, but family is family.”

      With a ragged cheer the goldsmiths gathered around the Botticelli brothers. “It’s about time you got here, Simone. We’re already one goal down.”

      “Don’t worry, lads,” said Simone, slapping Leonardo on the back. “I’ve brought along a secret weapon. This is Leonardo da Vinci, as quick and skilful a player as ever kicked a ball.”

      “He looks fit enough,” somebody commented.

      “But he’s dressed for courting, not sporting,” joked a wiry youth with a mop of curly black hair. There was a round of crude laughter.

      “Don’t let these pretty feathers fool you, Jacopo,” said Simone. “He’s a craftsman like us, a worker in stone, metal and wood, not a milksop scholar. Back in his home village they call him the Lion of Anchiano.”

      A wild whoop greeted the ball as it came arcing through the air from the other end of the field. Before it hit the ground, both teams charged in to the attack.

      “What’s this ‘Lion of Anchiano’ nonsense?” Leonardo asked as he caught up with Simone.

      Simone grinned broadly. “I’ve given you a reputation. Now all you have to do is live up to it. Grab the ball and run with it if you can. Otherwise kick it upfield to one of our lads.”

      The teams collided with a roar and Leonardo was tossed about like a piece of driftwood. A mad flurry of kicking and gouging ensued. He was shoved, elbowed, kneed, punched and even spat on.

      It seemed one of the unspoken aims of the game was to inflict as much injury on the opposing team as the loose rules allowed. Several times Leonardo was knocked to the ground and had to scramble to his feet to avoid being trampled. But he soon learned to give as good as he got, shouldering woolworkers aside in the fight to get his hands on the ball.

      It was briefly his, until another goldsmith snatched it away and booted it upfield. With a bound, the agile Jacopo plucked it from the air and made for the goal line. Everyone stampeded after. Leonardo joined the race, yelling encouragement to his team-mate. Jacopo raced on, leaping over the line a good three strides ahead of his pursuers.

      A resounding cheer went up from the goldsmiths. With the score now tied, both sides trooped back to midfield to begin again.

      In that short breathing space, Leonardo discovered to his horror that his fine satin shirt and scarlet hose were hopelessly muddied and torn. Even as he contemplated the grass stains on his knees, a passing woolworker jostled his elbow.

      “Not so fancy now, are you?”

      Leonardo’s temper flared and he stalked towards the centre of the field.

      Sandro joined him as they awaited the kick off, his cherubic face bright red under his sweaty mop of golden curls. “Too many pastries,” he panted ruefully.

      Before Leonardo could comment, the woolworkers kicked the ball back into play. He dived in with a vengeance. One more goal would clinch it.

      Out of the press of scuffling bodies the ball suddenly popped skyward. Curving through the air it dropped unexpectedly into Sandro’s arms. The young artist froze in dismay. Howling and screeching, the woolworkers closed in on him from all sides like hungry wolves.

      Upfield, Simone was waving frantically for the ball.

      “Kick it away!” Leonardo yelled, racing to his friend’s assistance.

      Sandro СКАЧАТЬ