“Signor Medici,” he said through gritted teeth. “I deeply apologize—”
But once again, Lorenzo held up his hand. He tilted his head as he studied Ravenna, his arms folded across his embroidered doublet. “Why would I concede to your requests, signorina? It is hardly in my favor.”
Ravenna nodded to herself, as if she had anticipated the question. “I am here at the…invitationof the Luni famiglia, and I am charged with working a miracle. I can’t do that work unless I know the people I care about in Volterra are safe. I would think that what matters to the Luni family also matters to you.”
A chill scraped down Silvio’s spine. The girl was smarter than she looked, and had an intuitive grasp of negotiation tactics. She could not have known how close the two families were, how irrevocably linked their destinies were.
He expected Lorenzo to put the sculptress in her place. An eviscerating set-down disguised in a polite reply. But the politician deliberately flicked his gaze to the other young artist instead.
“What do you think, Leonardo?” Signor Medici asked.
“Creating is hard enough when one has no daily troubles,” Leonardo said quietly. “Let alone the weight of a city’s fate on their mind. Grant Signorina Ravenna’s requests so that she may work in peace. We all benefit from art.”
Lorenzo flicked his dark eyes to Silvio. Now they knew where both artists stood—artists they needed in their plans to move against Rome. Lorenzo arched a brow, and Silvio reluctantly nodded; they didn’t have a better option. They both needed Ravenna to extract the Nightflames. It was a need they had spun into a story about performing a miracle, just so the people of Florence could spread the word back to Rome. News of Ravenna and hermiraculoustalent would reach the pope’s ears, and his reaction would reveal his scheming against Florence. Silvio and Lorenzo knew the man had many spies lurking on their streets.
It was time to lure them out of their shadows.
“I will consider your request,” Signor Medici said, and Ravenna inhaled sharply, twin blooms of red scalding her cheeks. “However, if Iwereto agree, I would do so for only the length of your stay in Florence. Once you have completed your task, my orders will resume in Volterra. You will have earned your neighbors a short respite, if at all.”
“Excellent,” Ravenna said. “I would like it put down in writing.”
Silence blanketed the room. They all stared at her. Her voice rang with certainty. She was the picture of elegant composure, and Silvio blinked at her; for a second, she seemed taller than she was.
“I want it known in Volterra that it wasmewho earned them a respite from your control, Signor Medici,” Ravenna explained. “I want the news hung in the piazza, where everyone will have the chance to see it.”
Silvio exchanged a glance with Lorenzo, flabbergasted. It was one thing to make her request, it was quite another forLorenzo de’ Medicito publicly acknowledge it. It would make the politician look weak, undermining his control of the situation. Silvio cut a glance to his son, intent on communicating that he should keep the human in line, that it was he who was responsible for her.
But his son was gazing at the sculptress with an inscrutable expression, damnably silent.
“A bold request for someone who doesn’t understand the cost of such a demand,” Lorenzo said finally. “The answer is—”
“Surely you don’t fear the weight of your own signature, signore?” Saturnino asked, a subtle note of challenge in his tone. “It’s not a concession but a declaration of control. Let Volterra see you as the architect of peace.”
Silvio didn’t agree, but before he could speak, Lorenzo de’ Medici said, “I’ll consider it.”
Ravenna looked as if she wanted to protest further, but Silvio said loudly, “How magnanimous of you to consider her bold request, signore.” He turned toward the sculptress. “Wait outside a moment. Signor Medici’s guards will keep you company.”
She glared at him but left the room, her spine straight and regal.Yes, she was certainly more trouble than she was worth. When the door closed behind her, he turned to the artist from Milan.
“What progress has been made?”
“It is nearly finished,” Leonardo da Vinci replied, unrolling the parchment. He laid it flat onto the desk, and the four of them pored over the drawings. It was a detailed sketch of a mechanical war machine, loosely shaped in the form of a dragon. Structurally, it was a cylindrical tent made of wood and big enough to hold twenty bowmen. Narrow slits cut into the sides provided visibility and access for shooting. The machine sat on a platform with wheels.
“How will it move?” Saturnino asked. “It looks heavy and cumbersome.”
“It will be self-propelled,” Leonardo explained. “Using coiled springs.”
“Is that a tail?” Signor Luni asked. “What does that do?”
“It’s a spout,” Leonardo said. “For whatever horror you want to unleash during battle.”
“Genius,” Signor Medici said. “It will take just twenty men?”
Leonardo nodded. “Your finest archers.”
“I will send them with you for your return to Milan,” Signor Medici said. “I would like a written report after you’ve completed a demonstration.”
The artist nodded. “Anything else?”
