It wasn’t difficult to find the house of Leonardo da Vinci. The first passerby they asked told them the way. They left town through the back gate and walked past several houses made of volcanic tuff that were built into the rock like caves. The dusty road led along the same terrace where the royal castle was located. After about a quarter mile they reached a wall surrounding a two-storied house built with red roof tiles and gray tuff, and several smaller outbuildings. In contrast to the castle, which they could still see in the background, the house seemed modest, more appropriate for a higher administrator than for one of the greatest minds of Christendom.
Johann could tell by the crowd gathered outside the gate that they were at the right place. The people seemed to wait as reverently as the disciples of a messiah. Most of them, with their dusty clothes and creased hats, looked like they had traveled far to be here. Several court officials in livery were among the crowd, accompanied by a handful of soldiers. The men armed with halberds paced the rows of supplicants and appeared to question each one about their business. Johann noticed that people spoke in hushed voices, like at a funeral.
“Is it always this busy?” asked Karl, looking around. “I mean, Leonardo is a famous painter and inventor, but this . . .” He tapped the onlooker closest to him, an older man who looked like a scribe with his black garb and slightly inflamed eyes. “Are all those people here to see Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Well, only very few will actually get to see him,” the man said with a shrug. “But everyone wants to pay their respects to the great artist before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean?” asked Johann.
The man looked at him with wonder. “Haven’t you heard? Leonardo da Vinci is seriously ill. The physicians say he won’t be with us for much longer. The king has already been to say farewell. Apparently his majesty would have liked to stay longer—he loves Leonardo like a father, after all—but the election in the German Empire forced him—”
“I must see him,” said Johann, trying to hide his shock. At the same time he felt strangely empty.
It can’t be! Please, God, tell me it isn’t true!
“See Leonardo da Vinci?” The man gave a low chuckle. “Look around you!” He gestured at the crowd of others waiting outside the gate. “Everyone here feels somehow connected to Leonardo. And many have come a long way to be here. The master worked in Rome as well as Florence and Milan. I myself have traveled from Romorantin, where we still hope for a canal system thought up by the great Leonardo that will drain our swamps. I am the second mayor there.” He made a sweeping gesture at everyone around them. “These people are patricians, officials, and some commoners who want to thank the master for a small sketch or a painting in a church. Others are here to seek his advice, or they hope to gain access to his famous notebooks where he recorded many of his inventions. There is so much the master knows, and it would be a pity if it were forgotten after his death.”
“Indeed,” replied Johann faintly.
He felt very old all of a sudden. He had traveled all the way from the snowy, cold German Empire, from Bamberg to Metz and on to France, just to end up in front of closed gates. The man he had pinned all his hopes on was dying, perhaps from the same affliction Johann suffered. How much time had he left? Days, weeks? He and Leonardo were similar in this respect, too—death was reaching out for them. How could he have believed the great Leonardo da Vinci would receive him just like that—a goddamned nobody?
A nobody.
He looked at the mayor from Romorantin.
“Who must I speak with if I want an audience?”
The mayor pointed at a young man with long blond hair, a very broad nose, and a self-important expression on his face. He was holding a scroll and occasionally noted down a name. Then he continued to pace the rows. So far he hadn’t let a single person through the gate. “That is Francesco Melzi, sort of the steward at Château du Cloux. But don’t waste your efforts—the fellow can’t be bribed and is generally a real toad. He decides who is allowed to see the great master, like Cerberus, the hellhound.”
“Thank you.” Johann turned away and started heading toward the steward.
“What are you doing?” asked Greta in a whisper as she and Karl tried to keep up with him. “Are you going to threaten the flunky?”
“I hope that won’t be necessary.” Johann pulled the Figura Umana from his bundle. The pages were tattered and dirty from the long journey, and the binding was coming loose in places. “Tear it in half,” he ordered Karl. “I don’t have the strength.”
“The Figura?” Karl stared at him with shock. “You can’t be serious!”
“Perfectly serious. If we want to see Leonardo da Vinci, we have to make sacrifices. My left hand is paralyzed—I need your help. Tear it in half.”
Karl sighed deeply. Then, wearing a pained expression, he took the book and ripped it in two.
Johann thanked Karl, took the two halves, and coughed noisily until the steward finally looked at him with irritation.
“What do you want?” barked Francesco Melzi, already turning his attention back to his scroll. “You can see yourself that there is a long line. If you have a present for the master, you can hand it to one of the servants. Other than that, come back tomorrow. Or better yet, next
