Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales Read Online Free Page A

and explained to him that he had brought some gifts for the High Priest and that da Vinci would be greatly angered if Niccolò were not permitted an audience with the one on high.
    ‘I am the High Priest’s son,’ said Niccolò, ‘and I wish to pay homage to my father.’
    Messages were sent, answers received, and eventually Niccolò found himself being hoisted in silver cages up the various stages of the Tower: pulled rapidly aloft by winches through which ran golden chains with counterweights. An invention of his father.
    With him went his bundles of statuettes.
    He reached the summit of the tower and was ushered into a huge room on his knees, before the powerful presence of the High Priest, da Vinci. The room was decorated to the quintessence of perfection, its ceilings painted by great artists, its walls carved with wonderful bas-relief friezes, and on the cloud-patterned marble floor stood statues sculpted by the genius da Vinci himself.
    A thin middle-aged man stared at Niccolò with hard eyes, from a safe distance. He rubbed his arthritic hands together, massaging the pain, while the guards stood poised with heavy swords, ready to decapitate Niccolò if their master so gestured.
    ‘You claim to be my son,’ he said, ‘but I have many sons, many daughters—bastards all of them.’
    Niccolò replied, ‘It’s true, I’m illegitimate, but how could it be otherwise? You’ve never married.’
    The old man laughed softly.
    ‘That’s true. I loved only one woman—and she failed me.’
    Niccolò assumed a puzzled expression.
    ‘How did she fail you, my lord?’
    ‘She scarred herself, making her loveliness ugly to my sight. She was a vision of beauty, that became horrible to my eyes...’ The memory was obviously painful to da Vinci, for he paused for a moment in deep thought, a frown upon his face, then his mood changed, and he said, ‘What? What is it? Why did you request, no demand , to see me?’
    ‘I bring you a gift, my lord,’ said Niccolò. ‘A present for my father. Three hundred and thirty-three statuettes, all carved with great skill by a talented artist—a genius—every one of them a masterpiece.’
    ‘Who is this artist? Raphael? Michelangelo?’
    Niccolò raised his head and smiled.
    ‘I am the artist, my lord.’
    This time da Vinci roared with laughter.
    ‘Let me see the gift.’
    The guards unwrapped the rags and the statuettes began to appear, were placed carefully upon the marble floor, until they covered a huge area of the great room. Eventually, they were all on view, and the High Priest motioned for the guard to bring one to where he stood. He studied it, first while it rested in the guard’s hands, then taking it in his own and turning it over and over, cautiously, but also admiringly.
    ‘This is indeed a beautiful work of art,’ said da Vinci, holding up the figurine so that the soft light caught the patterns on its buffed and polished surface. ‘How many of them did you say are in the set?’
    ‘Three hundred and thirty-three.’
    Da Vinci smiled.
    ‘You know the value of numbers. Three—the Perfect Harmony.’
    ‘Or union of unity and diversity...’
    ‘Both. And here we have the perfect number—three threes.’
    ‘Angels, cherubim, seraphim,’ said Niccolò. He began to arrange them in a large circle on the marble floor. ‘As you see,’ he continued as he worked, concentrating, not looking up at da Vinci, ‘they are also an interlocking puzzle. Each angel fits into another, but only one other. You will notice that the pattern of the marble flows through the figures, like an ocean current, following the holy circle. I defy you to find where the pattern begins and where it ceases, for it is one continuous flowing band.’
    ‘Marvellous...’ Niccolò heard the High Priest breathe.
    There were angels of every kind, some nude, some clothed in flowing robes, some wielding swords of justice. There were seraphim brandishing spears of truth, and cherubim with little