id="u9fb5bb65-d615-509e-a7e4-1bb883f863de">
Leonardo and the Death Machine
Robert J. Harris
For Debby, who gave me my wings.
Table of Contents
“One – two – three,” Leonardo muttered, counting each stroke of the mallet. The third hit drove the nail flat into the wood, fixing another stretch of canvas on to the frame.
Only two more nails to go. “One” – thud – “two” – thud – “three” – thud.
There were twenty nails in all and at least three knocks were required to bash each one in. If he didn’t hit the nail just right, it would bend in half. When that happened, the bent nail had to be worked loose and tossed away so that a new one could be hammered in its place.
“Make sure you knock those nails in straight, country boy, otherwise you’ll tear the canvas,” warned Nicolo. He was finishing a painting of a laughing woman, using a bust made by their master as a model. At seventeen he was the senior apprentice in the workshop. The master, Andrea del Verrocchio, was away at a meeting with the members of the Signoria, the ruling council of Florence, leaving Nicolo in charge.
“No need to worry about that,” said Leonardo. “This is the last one.”
Mentally, he painted the older boy’s face in miniature on the head of the final nail and brought the mallet down with a vengeful whack. Leonardo stared in amazement at the result and grinned. For the first time he had driven the nail right into the wood with a single blow. He would have to remember that trick.
He stood up to admire his handiwork and caught a whiff of rotten fish. The smell stung his nostrils and made his stomach lurch.
“Horrible, isn’t it?” said skinny little Gabriello. He was stirring fishbones around in an iron pot over a raised brick fire pit. This melted them into a paste that was spread over the canvas before any paint was applied.
“Still, it could be worse,” the little apprentice added. “We
