letters on the porch’s squat, square brick columns. “Soldiers were billeted here—the farmer probably carried off all his fodder and the stores in his cellar ahead of them, so the soldiers moved on. But the farmer has not come back.”
I would have been considerably less frightened to learn that the place was occupied.
Giacomo again unsheathed the impressive knife at his belt and blithely wandered into the porch, leaving Leonardo to mouth impotently after him, before he and Tommaso reluctantly followed. Niccolò arched his eyebrows and shrugged. As I joined him, I allowed the butt of the knife I keep within my sleeve to drop into my hand.
Tommaso remained in the porch, to keep watch, while the rest of us walked directly into the livestock stables; perhaps the gate had been removed to serve as firewood. We found nothing but a dirt floor that might have been picked over by a plague of locusts, though the place still smelled of the animals. Niccolò, Leonardo, and Giacomo began inspecting the bare plank ceiling, which was supported by heavy crossbeams. I presumed they were looking for the trapdoor, which usually opens from the farmer’s bedroom on the floor above, so that he can quickly look over his stock if he hears some sort of noise in the middle of the night.
“Maestro!” Tommaso called from his post on the porch. “We’ve been followed.”
I looked out and saw the three men standing just beyond the porch. In Imola I had been struck by the handsome faces and proud bearing of many of the Romagnole peasants. But these three, attired in horsehair capes, their legs bare, were so miserably afflicted that they more resembled beasts: One had skin like an elephant on his cheek and neck, all weeping pus—what they call Job’s disease—while another had replaced his nose with a scrap of leather shaped into a semblance of the missing item, though it had been painted much whiter than his ruddy skin. The third man’s black teeth were as jagged as a lamprey’s. He carried a sickle, while his companions were armed with a baker’s forchetta and a pitchfork. None of them, however, had a white beard or in any fashion appeared to be a goat.
No sooner had I observed these arrivals, than behind me Giacomo said, “I wager he’s up there.” I turned to find him pointing at the ceiling.
Coming to Giacomo’s side, Messer Niccolò squinted through the shaded porch at the three beasts, who were brightly lit by the snow-reflected sun. “Lift me up now,” he said, “before they decide to come in here.”
Leonardo himself wrapped his arms around Messer Niccolò’s knees and lifted him as if he were a child. The secretary pounded the palms of his hands against the seam on either side of the trapdoor but effected nothing; no doubt the latch could only be opened from the room above.
“They are coming!” Tommaso called from the porch, his growlpitched urgently higher. Indeed the three men had spread out; crouching slightly, they crept warily toward the alchemist like a wolf pack.
With quite a calm demeanor, Messer Niccolò said, “We had better make our numbers known.” As soon as Leonardo had put him back on the ground, the two of them, followed by Giacomo and his stiletto, rushed out to the porch. “You stay out of sight,” Niccolò instructed me.
The two factions faced each other at a distance of several paces, theirs having superiority in arms, while we were favored by number and stature. The three interlopers looked among one another, shaking their heads, conversing in the belching diction of the Romagna, so that I could understand nothing. But they did not seem inclined to withdraw.
“Are they waiting to be reinforced?” Niccolò asked.
The sound was behind me, but it was as if a great heap of snow had slid off the roof and struck the ground. Just then something dark flew by the corner of my eye and I imagined the ceiling had begun to fall down around me.
I turned to see the trapdoor hanging from its
I would have been considerably less frightened to learn that the place was occupied.
Giacomo again unsheathed the impressive knife at his belt and blithely wandered into the porch, leaving Leonardo to mouth impotently after him, before he and Tommaso reluctantly followed. Niccolò arched his eyebrows and shrugged. As I joined him, I allowed the butt of the knife I keep within my sleeve to drop into my hand.
Tommaso remained in the porch, to keep watch, while the rest of us walked directly into the livestock stables; perhaps the gate had been removed to serve as firewood. We found nothing but a dirt floor that might have been picked over by a plague of locusts, though the place still smelled of the animals. Niccolò, Leonardo, and Giacomo began inspecting the bare plank ceiling, which was supported by heavy crossbeams. I presumed they were looking for the trapdoor, which usually opens from the farmer’s bedroom on the floor above, so that he can quickly look over his stock if he hears some sort of noise in the middle of the night.
“Maestro!” Tommaso called from his post on the porch. “We’ve been followed.”
I looked out and saw the three men standing just beyond the porch. In Imola I had been struck by the handsome faces and proud bearing of many of the Romagnole peasants. But these three, attired in horsehair capes, their legs bare, were so miserably afflicted that they more resembled beasts: One had skin like an elephant on his cheek and neck, all weeping pus—what they call Job’s disease—while another had replaced his nose with a scrap of leather shaped into a semblance of the missing item, though it had been painted much whiter than his ruddy skin. The third man’s black teeth were as jagged as a lamprey’s. He carried a sickle, while his companions were armed with a baker’s forchetta and a pitchfork. None of them, however, had a white beard or in any fashion appeared to be a goat.
No sooner had I observed these arrivals, than behind me Giacomo said, “I wager he’s up there.” I turned to find him pointing at the ceiling.
Coming to Giacomo’s side, Messer Niccolò squinted through the shaded porch at the three beasts, who were brightly lit by the snow-reflected sun. “Lift me up now,” he said, “before they decide to come in here.”
Leonardo himself wrapped his arms around Messer Niccolò’s knees and lifted him as if he were a child. The secretary pounded the palms of his hands against the seam on either side of the trapdoor but effected nothing; no doubt the latch could only be opened from the room above.
“They are coming!” Tommaso called from the porch, his growlpitched urgently higher. Indeed the three men had spread out; crouching slightly, they crept warily toward the alchemist like a wolf pack.
With quite a calm demeanor, Messer Niccolò said, “We had better make our numbers known.” As soon as Leonardo had put him back on the ground, the two of them, followed by Giacomo and his stiletto, rushed out to the porch. “You stay out of sight,” Niccolò instructed me.
The two factions faced each other at a distance of several paces, theirs having superiority in arms, while we were favored by number and stature. The three interlopers looked among one another, shaking their heads, conversing in the belching diction of the Romagna, so that I could understand nothing. But they did not seem inclined to withdraw.
“Are they waiting to be reinforced?” Niccolò asked.
The sound was behind me, but it was as if a great heap of snow had slid off the roof and struck the ground. Just then something dark flew by the corner of my eye and I imagined the ceiling had begun to fall down around me.
I turned to see the trapdoor hanging from its
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