Ser Piero, his father, had not accompanied him beyond his apartments. They had traveled together, silently, down into Florence from backward Vinci, nestled in the mist-shrouded hills. This had not been his first trip into Florence. Earlier this year, when he had accompanied Ser Piero into the mud-streaked streets of Florence in the wake of the flood, he had been awed. He had thought he was just on hand to help his father with trivial concerns.

Ser Piero was a notary and his services were in much demand after such a disaster. His son, however, was a bastard, and would be unable to pursue his father’s legal profession. Their family line was respected, but solidly Fourth Estate, with no history of arms. In any case, Leonardo was not made of soldiery stuff. Leonardo must apprentice as some sort of artisan to make his way in the world, and clear Ser Piero’s conscience for his bedding that peasant girl, Catarina. As much as Leonardo enjoyed living on the family estate with his uncle and grandmother, it would not do for him to linger there as a ward, or take to the land like the boisterous fool ‘step-father’ who Ser Piero had married Caterina off to.

His father was a practical man and had seized upon the opportunity to arrange for his apprenticeship. Upon their earlier journey into Florence, his father had directed him to bring his sheaf of drawings, the ones he had done sitting at the foot of the cave, his secret boyhood refuge. In Vinci he had the reputation for a ‘drawing hand,’ based largely on his lonely diversions and the shield he had painted for a client of his father’s. The fact that Ser Piero took into account his talents and inclinations when considering his future, was, at the least, an indication that he cared for him in the way that another man would care for his legitimate son.

Leonardo was to be apprenticed to Master Andrea del Verrocchio, a man he had met once, and who his father had assured him was a good friend—A good client more like, I should think. Father is quite the client’s man.

He stood now among a stray pig and a few fluttering hens on the foot-worn flagstones of Agnolo Way, before Master Verrocchio’s bustling shop. The shop’s awning was raised to let the sun illuminate the workspace within. This was aided by the whitewashed walls. One old man worked on a sculpture’s turntable. Another was busy with something at a workbench. A fellow in middle years—skinny to the point of bad health—painted a board propped up on an easel. A boy worked on a grindstone, while another took the grinds to mix with oils.

Yet another boy ran off with a parcel under his arm. And the man who ruled this bustling little shop walked along inspecting the work of the various hands, but, more intently, inspecting what must have been his own work, various plans and sketches and diagrams hanging from the whitewashed walls of his shop.

You are to be one of his hands, to fall under his inspecting eye—look.

The stand before him and to his left had not caught his attention upon arrival, he thinking it just a notice of services offered, and the livestock milling about its base tending to discourage inspection. An a three-legged stand, just to the left and the fore of the open shop—just before one stepped in front of the shoemaker’s shop, was a handsomely painted board. The board was bordered in dark cloud and soot-stained earth. It was an image that evoked war without any of the things of war. The only ‘things’ of war visible were the arrows that protruded from the chest of the stricken figure that looked heavenward for guidance—or was it forgiveness?

You poor soul, you! What is it you seek in the sky above: an archangel, God, our Mother Mary?

I would seek Mary if I possessed your pain-filled eyes, I know.

A deep sure voice, commanding yet kind, unusually kind he thought, brought him from his silent dialogue with the painted figure, “You know him, Leonardo?”

He did not look around to he who he knew was his new master, enwrapped as he still was in the painted figure, but spoke as much to it as he did to the voice behind him, “He is a saint I know, and I know him now, all but his name.”

The voice behind him seemed pleased, “Leonardo, meet Saint Sebastian, patron saint of Warriors. Saint Sebastian, this is Leonardo of Vinci who you hold in your hand. Let him go please: he is not for you.”

Leonardo smiled and turned to look up at the man who spoke to paintings. “You speak to your work, like a man to his true-born son?”

The small mouth below stern eyes softened. “No, like a mother to her child—every one of which is part of her.”

“Why is he out here, Master? He is a fine piece and should be hanging in a church niche, I think.”

His new master seemed saddened now, and brought his hands out from behind his back and crossed them before his paunch. “A man, a younger son of the well-to-do, paid for this painting in advance, before heading off to fight the Turk. He asked me to keep it ever in front of the shop until his return. It is a good piece so makes a good notice for those minor patrons who would hire us for bread and butter work. If I kept it out all day, the clouds would have already faded—it has been years now. So I just bring our good saint out at noon on each day of dry skies in case he who paid for his saint’s adoration should return. I suspect though, that they are already together.”

They stood together for some while looking at the pained eyes searching heaven from the dark world depicted on the painted board. Soon the man’s strong hand came down upon his shoulder. “It is time you joined us. Do your part and you shall have a roof, and a family under it, as long as you should like.”

He wanted to thank him, but knew he would choke on the words. So he nodded and let his master guide him into this place where beauty was interpreted for a world that could be so ugly at times.

I want a home, a family, a true father. God please guide my hand in setting things down for the eye to see. And please, make no saint of me!