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PART ONE
He who controls the weather, will control the world. He who controls gravity, will control the universe. He who controls time, will never be around.
—THOMAS FREY, FUTURIST
PROLOGUE
Clos Lucé
Amboise, France
April 30, 1519
The light was dying, and so was Da Vinci.
Francesco Melzi stood in the window staring out at the gray spires of the Château Amboise. Saying goodbye to his friend, his mentor, his lover, was impossible. But there was no escaping the reality they were facing. Da Vinci had days left to live, and his copious papers were not yet completely sorted.
Melzi’s lover lay on the bloodred velvet coverlet, pillows stacked behind him. He was asleep now; there was a peace about him, a gauzy aura that made Melzi realize Da Vinci truly was not long for the world.
Melzi lit more candles against the falling light and stepped to the table. They were down to the last three crates, so old the wood was cracked and stained. He would sort some more before he took a light dinner in the kitchen. Da Vinci was too weak to make the trek himself anymore. A tray would be brought later, and the old master wouldn’t eat from it.
Melzi studied the pages, admiring the ingenuity, the genius, not understanding everything he was reading and seeing. A man ahead of his time, was Leonardo.
A voice, weak but warm, came from behind him. “Oh, to be young in the face of death.”
Melzi jumped to his feet and went to the bed. “You’re awake.”
Da Vinci smiled weakly. “Not for long, I am afraid. Are we nearly finished?”
“I’m down to the last few crates. How are you feeling?”
A small twisted smile. “Like I am dying. I am sorry to leave you, my friend.”
“Stop, please. I do not wish to hear it. In my mind, you will live forever.”
“These are good words for an old man to hear. Now, where were we?”
Melzi went to the table and picked up the folio he’d just opened. The image drawn on the front was easily understood; a monstrous lightning bolt took up the entire page.
Da Vinci whispered, “Ah, my thunderbolt. Bring it to me.”
Da Vinci’s hands were too weak to hold the folio, so Melzi placed it in his lap and opened it.
Inside were numerals and drawings and more depictions of lightning.
Melzi asked, “What is this?”
There was new urgency in Da Vinci’s tone and a sudden fire in his eyes. “Listen to me carefully. This must be destroyed.”
“Destroyed? We can’t destroy any of your work. Surely you must be joking.”
“I am not. These plans, these ideas, they are not of this world. If the wrong person were to see them and try to build this machine, it could be the end of all our days.”
“Whatever is it meant to be?”
Da Vinci began to cough, clutching the folio to his chest. The parchment became flecked with small droplets of blood. Melzi rushed to the pitcher, poured doctored wine into a goblet, and brought it to his mentor’s side.
“Drink this. It will help.”
“I do not want drugs.” Da Vinci heaved. “You must swear to me, Francesco, that these pages will be burned. Do it now while I watch.”
“Drink some wine, and I promise I will do as you say.”
Melzi helped Da Vinci drink, then set the glass back on the table.
“Now, before I consign it to the ashes, what is this?”
Da Vinci’s eyes were still bright. “La macchina di fulmine.”
“A lightning machine?”
“Sì.”
The lightning bolt on the cover made more sense now. Melzi looked at the pages in awe.
“You are telling me you have designed a machine that can control the weather?”
“No, no. It was only an idea, born of an ancient myth. A painting I was commissioned for, of Zeus and his thunderbolt. I turned down the commission, but the idea of the power he supposedly held fascinated me. All things are brought forth by nature. Why could one not control nature in return?”
“So you found a way to bring it to life? A way to harness the power of a storm?”
The drugs in the wine had worked quickly, but Da Vinci fought against them, shaking his weary head to clear it. “It is too dangerous to discuss the details of how it could work, even with you, my friend. If someone were ever able to control the weather, they could control the whole world. Fire the pages, now. I insist.”
Melzi had no choice. He went to the grate and began feeding the folio into the flames, one page at a time. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Da Vinci had fallen asleep. Sadness overcame him again. He reached for another page, caught himself staring at the sketch. It was beautiful, like so many of Da Vinci’s works.
Da Vinci began coughing again, the blood coming to his lips. Melzi set the folio down on the table, went to his friend, his master, wiped his face and held him. There would be time to burn the papers later. For now, he needed to hold the man he loved.
