But our beloved master was tiring, slowing down; life leaving him like sand running out of a glass. He was old. He did not seem to be in pain. He accepted a little more wine than he had been used to drink to help him sleep. That was the only change.
And Salai drooped, wracked with mourning. The last picture which my master completed was of Salai. He is John the Baptist, with Salai’s wicked smile, pointing upward. There are other drawings of him, beautiful and lewd, proud of flesh.
Still il Maestro asked Salai to lie down next to him, the master’s head on his bare chest, breathing in his familiar scent. I heard them whispering together when it was my watch.
Salai left the master and grabbed me. I woke from my sad half-drowse.
‘Yer ‘ave ter ‘elp me,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘What would you do for ‘im?’
‘Anything,’ I said with complete truth.
‘Then come,’ he said, and urged me out of my clothes. He lay down next to the dying old man. He pulled me down almost on top of him.
‘Let me see you again, my Salai,’ whispered the master. ‘Let me hear you cry out once more.’
‘Yes,’ said Salai, and kissed me hard, thrusting his hips up so that our sexes collided. I knew what he was doing. Mourning, broken hearted, Salai could not give the master what he wanted on his own; the fugitive scent and taste and sound of the flesh, now that il Maestro was leaving it. Salai could not fabricate desire. He needed me to make love to him, something I had always wanted to do. But not like this, not like this!
‘Stop thinkin’,’ snarled my lover, shaking me. So I suspended thought. I kissed that pomegranate mouth with teeth like seeds, I sucked, I bit, I tasted, and our bodies clashed, then slowed as we caught our own rhythm. In the firelight, on the French King’s pillows, I made bittersweet love to Salai as I had desired to do for so long, and I wept as I climaxed, and so did Salai, so that I tasted tears in his final kiss.
Then I mopped us clean with my shirt, and listened to the master as he praised us, called us beautiful, called everything beautiful, bade a loving farewell to life, and moved into sleep and thence into death as softly as a cloud passing.
Salai was killed in a duel two years after il Maestro’s death. I don’t think he particularly wanted to live. Neither did I, but here I am. I have the notebooks, the household, the legacy of that amazing man to secure for the future. I am not allowed to die yet. I must make sure that no one will ever forget Leonardo Da Vinci, the most wonderful man in the world. And while the paintings live, no one will ever forget Salai.
FOLLOW THE DRINKING GOURD
Spring 1863
‘Good day, Sir,’ said the crippled soldier to the Quaker.
‘God give thee a good day, Friend,’ said the Quaker to the crippled soldier.
The grey-clad man held the hawser of a flat boat: in it were seven slaves. Ex-Sergeant Zephaniah Shaw leaned on his crutch and looked at them. They stared back. Their eyes were hopeless, inured to pain and defeat, with just a spark of defiance left. One woman clutched her baby closer, and it began to wail. She hushed it. Zephaniah was suddenly ashamed to be a human. He waved an elegant hand.
‘But I would not delay you,’ he said, ‘in your appointed task.’
The grey-clad man released the boat. They both watched as it floated noiselessly away on the current. The man at the bow had a steering oar. The boat began to turn.
‘They will be across the river before dark,’ said the Quaker. ‘Will thee sit, Friend? I have a small dwelling here. I can offer thee coffee and a cake or two.’
‘I thank you, Sir,’ said Zephaniah. He limped forward. The Quaker offered his arm, and for the first time since he could walk on his own, Zephaniah accepted some help. He leaned into the Quaker, who smelt strongly of soap and tarred rope. ‘I am Zephaniah Shaw,’ he said. ‘I would appreciate knowing your name.’
‘So that thou canst inform on me, Friend Zephaniah?’ asked the Quaker. He was smiling as he said it. A plain, pleasant face, brown eyes, cropped brown hair and ordinary features, which were transformed into angelic beauty when he smiled. Zephaniah very much wanted to make him smile again.
‘So that I can stop calling you sir,’ he replied. ‘I had enough of that in the Army of Northern Virginia. I have travelled a long way to meet you.’
The house was small but clean. It had the usual three rooms, bedroom, kitchen and parlour. It was also blessedly warm with heat from a glowing iron stove. Zephaniah groaned as he was lowered down onto a soft chair. His missing leg should not hurt. It was, after all, missing below the knee. Legacy of a cannon ball at Chancellorsville. He thought it ought to do him the courtesy of staying quiet, since it had left him so discourteously.
‘I am John Wall,’ said the Quaker, ‘a Friend, as thee might have guessed. And thou wert a soldier, Friend Zephaniah. A Man of Blood.’
‘That is true,’ responded Zephaniah. ‘But I am a man of blood no longer. In fact I am not much of a man at all, these days.’ He stretched out the unwounded leg and winced. ‘I am battered and crippled and all my occupation is gone.’
‘Wert thee a slave holder?’ asked John Wall, putting two mugs on the scrubbed table and pouring coffee from an enamel pot.
‘No,’ said Zephaniah. ‘Most people ain’t, you know. Or possibly you don’t. I will be going as soon as I can stand again, if your virtue is tainted by my foul bloodstained company.’
‘Nay, nay, Friend, don’t be so hasty,’ said John, putting soothing hands on his touchy guest. ‘I meant thee no offence. Drink thy coffee and maybe a little improvement from this bottle, here, and allow me to tend thee.’
‘I don’t need...’ protested Zephaniah then subsided with a sigh.
‘I do the same for thy slaves,’ said John Wall, and smiled again. This dazzled Zephaniah long enough so that by the time he had a mind to be offended again, his boots and trousers had been removed and a sure gentle hand was washing and drying his foot, which was blistered with much walking. Then oil was rubbed into the stump, some sort of aromatic, which felt cool then hot and eased the pain so that he sighed again.
‘And the crutch will have galled thy armpit,’ commented John Wall. ‘Since thou hast done me the honour of coming so far to see me, Zephaniah, I must make thee comfortable. Give me that shirt, and I’ll wrap thee in this quilt which the Pennsylvania Abolitionist ladies made for us.’
Overwhelming benevolence can be just as stunning as violence. By the time Zephaniah woke up from a brief drowse into which these kindnesses had sent him, John Wall was mixing biscuits to bake in the hot oven, on which a savoury stew was warming.
‘There,’ he said, slotting his iron skillet into the oven. ‘Supper in a little time. Don’t move, my Friend. I can carry it to thee. It’s just stew. Tomorrow there may be fish. I have all my lines set. Woundy great fish on this side of the river. Thou wilt stay the night?’
‘I will, I thank you, John,’ Zephaniah had never been so comfortable. For the moment, nothing hurt. But it was more than that. John Wall seemed to radiate such goodness and virtue that being in his presence was like lying down in the sun.
‘So,’ said John, sitting down on a chair near the soldier. ‘Why did thee come looking for me, Friend?’
‘I lost my leg, I was sent home,’ said Zephaniah, ‘but it was home no longer. Hungry, scrabbling,