The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg

Breakfast

"Where is that damned engineer! Did you tell him to hurry!" I yell at the servant. I appreciate punctuality.

"I'm sorry, Lord." comes the reply, and the man does indeed look sorry as I stare down at him. A soft nudge to the horse's flank makes the chestnut stallion dance a few steps closer and the servant jumps backwards. "He said to tell you he will be here... in an hour; when he's had his breakfast."

"An hour!"

"Yes, Lord."

"Out of my way!" I dig my heels in and the horse carries me back into the fortress at speed as the morning sun lifts its face above the horizon. There was a chill in the air a moment ago, but Leonardo's defiance dispels it in my body as the anger flares. Who is he to defy me?

It's been almost a month since he came to work for me. I have yet to find a subject he is ignorant about and not for lack of trying. There is a quiet, almost shy, quality to him which annoys me at times. But also something intense in the way he watches the world. When he looks at me it feels like he is committing every detail of my being to memory. There is something slightly unnerving about this silent study. Evaluating scrutiny. But I let him. Though I'm not certain why.

The carpenters and metal smiths I have put him in charge of, love him. Somehow he had managed to involve them in a side project of trying to optimise the explosive yield of gunpowder. I found them all roaring with laughter a few weeks ago as they were taking a break, shooting at a straw puppet with a tiny cannon they had cast. These little breaks he creates somehow make the team's productivity soar and I feel confident I will have my machinery on time. Probably even before the time agreed upon. I'm not going to let him go after that. I am, however, not going to take any insolence from him either. When I call him, I expect him to answer to it immediately.

I make my way, fuming, to his room. Guards and servants wisely give me a wide berth. I pound once on the door before throwing it open forcefully. He is sitting in there, by the paper-strewn table, his back turned. He looks as though he just got out of bed. Although he has his pants on, his feet are bare on the soft, luxurious rugs and his sleeping-shirt hangs loose around him. His hair sticks out in unruly tufts.

He doesn't turn as I barge in. He has been lifting a mug to his lips, but the hand stops midway, knuckles turn white and his back stiffens.

"Maybe I haven't made it clear to you how I want things, but I will now." I tell his back. "When I call on you because I wish to inspect your progress, you-"

He slams the mug down, sloshing hot coffee on the table: "Tell me, Your Grace..." he interrupts pointedly, stopping me in mid sentence. "When did you have breakfast? About an hour ago?" He rises and faces me, and every trace of shyness is gone. "Well, just over an hour ago I went to bed after a long night of work. For you! Now..." He approaches me, anger makes his eyes flash and though there is no doubt that I could take him if it came to blows, I find myself impressed by the sudden display of raw authority. It suits him, the anger.

"...The mighty Borgias might not need sleep, but I do! And if you want me to accompany you anywhere, you will give me more than a minute's warning from now on. I'm a paid member of your staff, not a slave and not a soldier."

"How dare you speak to me like that, you bastard son of a peasant! I ought to throw you out right now and keep you blasted drawings." I shout. And then he gives a dismissive laugh: "Do you think I would give the man most famous for his duplicity the real designs? You can keep the papers; they are worthless without my assistance. And though you might be able to find someone who can eventually make my inventions work, you certainly cannot do it before the spring campaign begins!"

He is furious. The beautiful anger has been unfolding before me and I have no doubt that he is telling me the truth. And suddenly I find that I respect him. It's odd. He has no family name, no noble lineage to lean on and only one friend who would, perhaps, go to war on his account should he come to harm. All he does is his own merit.

This deception of his is an elegant little move and standing his ground before my anger is impressive; I might just as soon imprison him, have him beaten until he revealed every secret he might cling to, remove him from the ranks of the living as I saw fit. He knows this and yet he stands there, obnoxiously rebellious.

The smile that suddenly jumps to my lips is a surprise to me as much as it appears to be to him. My anger rapidly fades, though his is still smouldering attractively like the embers in the fireplace.

"Meet me in the courtyard in an hour." I tell him and he bows his head in acknowledgement, though I feel the intensity of his stare follow me out of the room.

Next Chapter - Silence