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Description
I’ve thought a hundred times about destroying the preceding pages, tearing them out of my notebook and throwing them on the fire of my forge. But the thought of such willful destruction of the incredible discovery they contain gives me pause, and I find myself unable. Maybe I haven’t learned anything at all these last few days. But, if remain they must, then on the chance this notebook too is one day lost and then found again, I want to follow them with a cautionary tale of their destructive nature. Perhaps DaVinci too, after designing this machine, unlike me was wise enough to realize it shouldn’t be built, but like me found himself unable to erase its creation. Perhaps, like mine shall, the facing pages of his notebook held a warning. Such thoughts give me small comfort, even if they do not erase my sin.

After all, this invention, for all its brilliance, for all its advent consumed and excited me, led me, in the end, to fear for my soul.

I’m not accustomed to writing about my own life like this. I will try to be ordered. First the warning, then the tale.

Do not build this machine. You have a duty, not only to science and discovery, but also to your fellow man, and your conscience. ‘For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, but lose his soul in the process.’ Mk 8:36

There. Now, lest this book is ever seen by eyes not my own, unlikely as that is, I have resolved to commit this chapter of my life to its pages.

Ever since I was small, despite an atmosphere less than conducive to learning, I have always sought knowledge, and I would be lying to say it does not come easier to me than to most. What is the nature of fire? How does something as heavy as a ship float upon the water? How do birds fly, and can man be made to join them? My mind has always been filled with questions, and though many of these I’ve answered, countless more have taken their place. I have always desired to follow the footsteps of the greatest thinkers of history, and that desire is where this story begins.

D’artagnan was dealing with some admirer of his when I spotted the scrap of paper in the laundry basket. Curious, always curious, I left the group, as amusing as my friend was being, and went to investigate. The drawing, the unreadable script, the age – I hardly dared to believe it was what it appeared to be, and my shocked disbelief slipped out in a word. ‘No!’

‘Yes!’ I barely heard D’art refute me for some reason.

‘It can’t be true!’ I continued, heedless.

‘But it is!’ D’art laughed.

‘Do you know what this is?’ I asked them.

‘Uh, this is time to go?’

Was he even paying attention? ‘No, this scrap of paper!’

‘Show me later?’

‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, and I don’t believe I am, this is a fragment from one of the most sought-after works of all time. The lost notebook of Leonardo DaVinci1!’ Jacques and Ramon leaned in to look more closely, then both looked at me. I started walking, thinking only of getting the paper back to my lab, where I could study it more closely. Even D’art’s comical struggles against the over-amorous washmaid were forgotten. Nothing mattered but that scrap of paper.

As it turned out, between dropping off the laundry and a scheduled morning patrol, I didn’t have a chance to do as I pleased until after lunch. D’art and Jacques had drifted off somewhere, probably together, but Ramon followed me into my lab, still eating. I’ve never understood his passion for food. I myself only really eat because it’s necessary, and sometimes I forget even to do that. If only it were possible for man to subsist on coffee and ideas alone.

Ramon watched as I pinned the paper into a stand and then remained in that position, peering at it. ‘As everybody knows,’ I finally said, straightening and turning to grab something from one of the worktables behind me, ‘DaVinci died in Paris.’

‘I didn't know it,’ Ramon said, reaching out to touch the precious paper.

‘Ah!’ I barked, grabbing his arm to stop him. ‘Don’t touch that! You’ve got chicken grease on your fingers.’ I once again bent over the fragment.

‘Actually, it’s goose,’ he corrected me, ‘and it’s marinated in vinegar and honey and then it’s roasted on a spit. It’s crispy yet succulent. You want some?’ He stuck the goose leg under my nose, but I barely glanced at it, slightly annoyed, and he withdrew it. ‘You sure that’s DaVinci?’

‘Positive,’ I stated.

‘It just looks like a mess to me,’ he argued, waving the goose leg at the paper.

I rotated the stand, partly to move the paper out of the range of flying grease, and partly in preparation for my next experiment. I held up the mirror I’d retrieved facing the far side of the paper, saying, ‘DaVinci wrote backwards with his left hand using a mirror to keep his ideas safe from prying eyes.’ In the mirror an image came into focus of close Italian writing, a part of a sketch of some kind of device, and in one corner the words ‘Leonardo 1487.’

‘Wow! Look at that!’ Ramon whispered. There was a pause as we both considered the drawing, some kind of handle and gear. ‘What is it?’ Ramon eventually asked.

‘DaVinci is said to have designed fantastic machines that were never built. He kept his ideas in a notebook that was never found.’ I set the mirror on the table, took the stand and fragment in hand, and began to pace with it, my friend largely forgotten. ‘Leonardo, Leonardo,’ I whispered, half to myself, half calling across the ages to the Master. ‘Of what wondrous invention is this but a part?’

Ramon, realizing I had left him quite behind, said something about still being hungry, and left me to my thoughts.

I spent the next however many hours puzzling out that handle. The notes, such as they were, that accompanied the drawing concerned its design and construction, but did not mention of what larger device it might be a part. It was a frustrating dead end, and I was ruefully considering what hypothetical things I’d give for more of the notebook when there was a knock on my lab’s door. ‘Come in,’ I called. A fellow Musketeer came in, holding an envelope.

‘Delivery for you,’ he said, holding it out.

‘Oh.’ It was not the normal time for post. ‘Thank you.’ I took it from him, and he left, thankfully without seeing my face as I looked at the envelope. It was adorned with the Cardinal’s seal. The letter inside read:
My Dear Private Siroc,

I would be very much honored by your company for tea this afternoon at five, in my chambers. I have heard much of your talents, and have something I wish to discuss with you. I look forward to our conversation.
Mazarin

I was at once worried and suspicious. He knew his failure on the river had been due to my sub-aquatic chamber. Had he also realized it had been my flying machine that had saved Jacques’ brother? And that I had been the one who’d determined where the missing children had been held? It wasn’t unreasonable to think he had. Mazarin seemed to know everything that occurred within France. What could he possibly want to discuss with me, though? Did I dare go into the lion’s den? Could I ignore my burning curiosity about the reason for this strange invitation? No, I could not. And perhaps he would betray something himself in the conversation. Any information on the enemy is useful, right? I put the fragment in a safe place and walked out the door.

I knocked on the Cardinal’s door just before five. He answered it personally. He was alone in the room. I wasn’t sure if this was a relief, or cause for concern, and I was tense as he smiled at me. ‘Ah, the distinguished Siroc.’ He stood aside with an invitation to enter. ‘Good to see you, my friend,’ he said as I walked slowly into the room. Etiquette forbade me from asking him to what friend he was speaking. He closed the door. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He strode over to where a small table and two chairs sat by the window. ‘Please, by my guest.’ He picked up from the table one of two plates bearing pastries and held it out to me, saying, ‘They’re quite harmless – unless of course you’re watching your waistline.’ I just looked at it. He spoke in a joking manner, but even by joking about it he lent weight to my possible distrust, acknowledged there were reasons I might carry it. And trust him I surely did not. ‘Ah.’ He set the plate down, cut the pastry, and bit into one of the halves before once again offering the other to me. I picked up the cake with a forced smile and inspected it, no intention of eating it. I had no appetite. ‘Now you can relax,’ Mazarin said. I thought about telling him there was little chance of that, but opted for playing things close to the chest. After all, keeping secrets is nothing new to me. Even my friends don’t actually know me that well.

He sat, licking his fingers, and I took the other chair, placing the pastry back on its plate. ‘I must say, I was…surprised by your invitation.’ This, I figured, was more polite than ‘Why am I here?’

‘Well, I suppose I can understand that,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard the rumors too.’

‘Rumors?’

‘Things people say about me.’

‘What do they say?’ I prompted.

‘What don’t they say?’ he parried with charm. ‘That I’m evil, I’m manipulative, that I’m part of some vast conspiracy designed to – whatever. It’s all so tiresome.’ And true, I thought to myself. ‘Actually, you and I are quite similar.’

My eyebrows climbed. ‘There’s a thought that hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘Well, we both wish to push the limits of the intellect. We go where knowledge takes us. Let the small-minded have their conventional morality, their bedtime stories of good and evil.’ This was my first one-on-one meeting with Mazarin, and I was beginning to understand his frightening power over people. It was as if he could look deep into my mind and see all of my darker thoughts, my cynical logic, my near obsession with discovery. ‘Real genius looks unblinking into the future,’ he continued, a subtle, but by no means unnoticed, compliment. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Just as the great Leonardo DaVinci did.’

I barely managed to keep my reaction hid. He had shown his hand. He somehow knew I had acquired a piece of the notebook, and that was the reason for this meeting. ‘Did he?’ I asked, still wondering where this was going.

‘He did.’ He stood, and began moving around toward my back. ‘But unfortunately, Leonardo could never find a patron with enough true vision to support his unconventional genius. Imagine what he could have accomplished if he’d had the riches of a kingdom at his disposal. Imagine what you could accomplish.’ There it was. ‘I have the means to give you a real laboratory.’ He put a hand on my shoulder from behind, and I chilled. ‘Real assistants and equipment.’

I stood to get away from that seductive touch and turned to face him. ‘I’m afraid I could never leave the Musketeers,’ I told him. If the man I’d escaped from all those years ago ever found me, being a Musketeer would be my one hope of salvation. Not to mention my friends, my captain-

‘The loyalty of the superior mind is to its own genius,’ Mazarin countered, ‘and I believe you are a superior mind. Are you not? Please, no false modesty.’

‘I have a natural curiosity,’ I was forced to admit carefully, my mouth suddenly dry.

He saw right through my cautious choice of words and stepped closer. ‘Of course you have. And if given a map to the outer reaches of the imagination, would you not follow it?’

I didn’t reply, but I didn't have to. I would follow it. I would in a heartbeat and never look back, and he knew it. He smiled. ‘I of course don’t expect an answer right away,’ he continued suddenly, backing off.

‘…an answer?’ I asked, momentarily dazed.

‘About the laboratory.’

‘The laboratory,’ I sighed, recalling that part of the discussion. He didn’t say what such an offer would be in exchange for, but he didn’t have to. Even I could guess that he wanted the use of my mind, maybe almost as much as I wanted the use of DaVinci’s notebook. ‘I think you know my answer,’ I finally said, determined not to let him see how much he’d shaken me.

‘Well,’ he shrugged, crossing to the door. ‘Something may yet happen to change your mind.’ He opened the door. ‘I look forward to your next great creation. Siroc.’ It was said as a goodbye.

‘Cardinal,’ I returned, and walked swiftly from the room. I almost wanted to run, but for the strange sensation of the ground crumbling beneath my feet.

Description
I’ve thought a hundred times about destroying the preceding pages, tearing them out of my notebook and throwing them on the fire of my forge. But the thought of such willful destruction of the incredible discovery they contain gives me pause, and I find myself unable. Maybe I haven’t learned anything at all these last few days. But, if remain they must, then on the chance this notebook too is one day lost and then found again, I want to follow them with a cautionary tale of their destructive nature. Perhaps DaVinci too, after designing this machine, unlike me was wise enough to realize it shouldn’t be built, but like me found himself unable to erase its creation. Perhaps, like mine shall, the facing pages of his notebook held a warning. Such thoughts give me small comfort, even if they do not erase my sin.

After all, this invention, for all its brilliance, for all its advent consumed and excited me, led me, in the end, to fear for my soul.

I’m not accustomed to writing about my own life like this. I will try to be ordered. First the warning, then the tale.

Do not build this machine. You have a duty, not only to science and discovery, but also to your fellow man, and your conscience. ‘For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, but lose his soul in the process.’ Mk 8:36

There. Now, lest this book is ever seen by eyes not my own, unlikely as that is, I have resolved to commit this chapter of my life to its pages.

Ever since I was small, despite an atmosphere less than conducive to learning, I have always sought knowledge, and I would be lying to say it does not come easier to me than to most. What is the nature of fire? How does something as heavy as a ship float upon the water? How do birds fly, and can man be made to join them? My mind has always been filled with questions, and though many of these I’ve answered, countless more have taken their place. I have always desired to follow the footsteps of the greatest thinkers of history, and that desire is where this story begins.

D’artagnan was dealing with some admirer of his when I spotted the scrap of paper in the laundry basket. Curious, always curious, I left the group, as amusing as my friend was being, and went to investigate. The drawing, the unreadable script, the age – I hardly dared to believe it was what it appeared to be, and my shocked disbelief slipped out in a word. ‘No!’

‘Yes!’ I barely heard D’art refute me for some reason.

‘It can’t be true!’ I continued, heedless.

‘But it is!’ D’art laughed.

‘Do you know what this is?’ I asked them.

‘Uh, this is time to go?’

Was he even paying attention? ‘No, this scrap of paper!’

‘Show me later?’

‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, and I don’t believe I am, this is a fragment from one of the most sought-after works of all time. The lost notebook of Leonardo DaVinci1!’ Jacques and Ramon leaned in to look more closely, then both looked at me. I started walking, thinking only of getting the paper back to my lab, where I could study it more closely. Even D’art’s comical struggles against the over-amorous washmaid were forgotten. Nothing mattered but that scrap of paper.

As it turned out, between dropping off the laundry and a scheduled morning patrol, I didn’t have a chance to do as I pleased until after lunch. D’art and Jacques had drifted off somewhere, probably together, but Ramon followed me into my lab, still eating. I’ve never understood his passion for food. I myself only really eat because it’s necessary, and sometimes I forget even to do that. If only it were possible for man to subsist on coffee and ideas alone.

Ramon watched as I pinned the paper into a stand and then remained in that position, peering at it. ‘As everybody knows,’ I finally said, straightening and turning to grab something from one of the worktables behind me, ‘DaVinci died in Paris.’

‘I didn't know it,’ Ramon said, reaching out to touch the precious paper.

‘Ah!’ I barked, grabbing his arm to stop him. ‘Don’t touch that! You’ve got chicken grease on your fingers.’ I once again bent over the fragment.

‘Actually, it’s goose,’ he corrected me, ‘and it’s marinated in vinegar and honey and then it’s roasted on a spit. It’s crispy yet succulent. You want some?’ He stuck the goose leg under my nose, but I barely glanced at it, slightly annoyed, and he withdrew it. ‘You sure that’s DaVinci?’

‘Positive,’ I stated.

‘It just looks like a mess to me,’ he argued, waving the goose leg at the paper.

I rotated the stand, partly to move the paper out of the range of flying grease, and partly in preparation for my next experiment. I held up the mirror I’d retrieved facing the far side of the paper, saying, ‘DaVinci wrote backwards with his left hand using a mirror to keep his ideas safe from prying eyes.’ In the mirror an image came into focus of close Italian writing, a part of a sketch of some kind of device, and in one corner the words ‘Leonardo 1487.’

‘Wow! Look at that!’ Ramon whispered. There was a pause as we both considered the drawing, some kind of handle and gear. ‘What is it?’ Ramon eventually asked.

‘DaVinci is said to have designed fantastic machines that were never built. He kept his ideas in a notebook that was never found.’ I set the mirror on the table, took the stand and fragment in hand, and began to pace with it, my friend largely forgotten. ‘Leonardo, Leonardo,’ I whispered, half to myself, half calling across the ages to the Master. ‘Of what wondrous invention is this but a part?’

Ramon, realizing I had left him quite behind, said something about still being hungry, and left me to my thoughts.

I spent the next however many hours puzzling out that handle. The notes, such as they were, that accompanied the drawing concerned its design and construction, but did not mention of what larger device it might be a part. It was a frustrating dead end, and I was ruefully considering what hypothetical things I’d give for more of the notebook when there was a knock on my lab’s door. ‘Come in,’ I called. A fellow Musketeer came in, holding an envelope.

‘Delivery for you,’ he said, holding it out.

‘Oh.’ It was not the normal time for post. ‘Thank you.’ I took it from him, and he left, thankfully without seeing my face as I looked at the envelope. It was adorned with the Cardinal’s seal. The letter inside read:
My Dear Private Siroc,

I would be very much honored by your company for tea this afternoon at five, in my chambers. I have heard much of your talents, and have something I wish to discuss with you. I look forward to our conversation.
Mazarin

I was at once worried and suspicious. He knew his failure on the river had been due to my sub-aquatic chamber. Had he also realized it had been my flying machine that had saved Jacques’ brother? And that I had been the one who’d determined where the missing children had been held? It wasn’t unreasonable to think he had. Mazarin seemed to know everything that occurred within France. What could he possibly want to discuss with me, though? Did I dare go into the lion’s den? Could I ignore my burning curiosity about the reason for this strange invitation? No, I could not. And perhaps he would betray something himself in the conversation. Any information on the enemy is useful, right? I put the fragment in a safe place and walked out the door.

I knocked on the Cardinal’s door just before five. He answered it personally. He was alone in the room. I wasn’t sure if this was a relief, or cause for concern, and I was tense as he smiled at me. ‘Ah, the distinguished Siroc.’ He stood aside with an invitation to enter. ‘Good to see you, my friend,’ he said as I walked slowly into the room. Etiquette forbade me from asking him to what friend he was speaking. He closed the door. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He strode over to where a small table and two chairs sat by the window. ‘Please, by my guest.’ He picked up from the table one of two plates bearing pastries and held it out to me, saying, ‘They’re quite harmless – unless of course you’re watching your waistline.’ I just looked at it. He spoke in a joking manner, but even by joking about it he lent weight to my possible distrust, acknowledged there were reasons I might carry it. And trust him I surely did not. ‘Ah.’ He set the plate down, cut the pastry, and bit into one of the halves before once again offering the other to me. I picked up the cake with a forced smile and inspected it, no intention of eating it. I had no appetite. ‘Now you can relax,’ Mazarin said. I thought about telling him there was little chance of that, but opted for playing things close to the chest. After all, keeping secrets is nothing new to me. Even my friends don’t actually know me that well.

He sat, licking his fingers, and I took the other chair, placing the pastry back on its plate. ‘I must say, I was…surprised by your invitation.’ This, I figured, was more polite than ‘Why am I here?’

‘Well, I suppose I can understand that,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard the rumors too.’

‘Rumors?’

‘Things people say about me.’

‘What do they say?’ I prompted.

‘What don’t they say?’ he parried with charm. ‘That I’m evil, I’m manipulative, that I’m part of some vast conspiracy designed to – whatever. It’s all so tiresome.’ And true, I thought to myself. ‘Actually, you and I are quite similar.’

My eyebrows climbed. ‘There’s a thought that hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘Well, we both wish to push the limits of the intellect. We go where knowledge takes us. Let the small-minded have their conventional morality, their bedtime stories of good and evil.’ This was my first one-on-one meeting with Mazarin, and I was beginning to understand his frightening power over people. It was as if he could look deep into my mind and see all of my darker thoughts, my cynical logic, my near obsession with discovery. ‘Real genius looks unblinking into the future,’ he continued, a subtle, but by no means unnoticed, compliment. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Just as the great Leonardo DaVinci did.’

I barely managed to keep my reaction hid. He had shown his hand. He somehow knew I had acquired a piece of the notebook, and that was the reason for this meeting. ‘Did he?’ I asked, still wondering where this was going.

‘He did.’ He stood, and began moving around toward my back. ‘But unfortunately, Leonardo could never find a patron with enough true vision to support his unconventional genius. Imagine what he could have accomplished if he’d had the riches of a kingdom at his disposal. Imagine what you could accomplish.’ There it was. ‘I have the means to give you a real laboratory.’ He put a hand on my shoulder from behind, and I chilled. ‘Real assistants and equipment.’

I stood to get away from that seductive touch and turned to face him. ‘I’m afraid I could never leave the Musketeers,’ I told him. If the man I’d escaped from all those years ago ever found me, being a Musketeer would be my one hope of salvation. Not to mention my friends, my captain-

‘The loyalty of the superior mind is to its own genius,’ Mazarin countered, ‘and I believe you are a superior mind. Are you not? Please, no false modesty.’

‘I have a natural curiosity,’ I was forced to admit carefully, my mouth suddenly dry.

He saw right through my cautious choice of words and stepped closer. ‘Of course you have. And if given a map to the outer reaches of the imagination, would you not follow it?’

I didn’t reply, but I didn't have to. I would follow it. I would in a heartbeat and never look back, and he knew it. He smiled. ‘I of course don’t expect an answer right away,’ he continued suddenly, backing off.

‘…an answer?’ I asked, momentarily dazed.

‘About the laboratory.’

‘The laboratory,’ I sighed, recalling that part of the discussion. He didn’t say what such an offer would be in exchange for, but he didn’t have to. Even I could guess that he wanted the use of my mind, maybe almost as much as I wanted the use of DaVinci’s notebook. ‘I think you know my answer,’ I finally said, determined not to let him see how much he’d shaken me.

‘Well,’ he shrugged, crossing to the door. ‘Something may yet happen to change your mind.’ He opened the door. ‘I look forward to your next great creation. Siroc.’ It was said as a goodbye.

‘Cardinal,’ I returned, and walked swiftly from the room. I almost wanted to run, but for the strange sensation of the ground crumbling beneath my feet.