The Knights of Time and the Forgotten Book

Chapter 9: Salaì

“I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY TO GIVE YOU,” Salaì yelled. “GO AWAY.”

The innkeeper led us up some stairs and opened a door. She quickly ducked and a ceramic vase flew past and smashed against the wall.

A man in his early forties was looking outside the broken window. “Oh, it’s you,” he said blankly after glancing at us.

“Master Giacomo, these people do not want your money.”

The man turned round and picked up a half-empty wine bottle sitting on his desk and drank directly from it. After a few sips he said, “Then what do they want? My property? My paintings?”

“They said they came to warn you about thieves and something being stolen,” she said before leaving the room.

“Thieves?” With this, Salaì ignored the fact that he was half-drunk and looked at us, his auburn curls jumping up and down and with his brown eyes, even though bloodshot, he looked straight at us. He rubbed his stubble. “Wait one second... who are you? And why have you come to warn me of thieves.”

“I'm Veronica, and these are Jeremy and Brandon. We found out that someone is going to try stealing some of your most prized possessions; the last things your patron and mentor Leonardo Da Vinci left you.”

“Oh, they have already been stolen!”

I gulped down hard. We failed. “Sorry?” I asked.

“By the king of France. One of his attendants came here exactly a month after he died. I wasn’t in a very good state, meaning I was drunk, so I had no idea what went on that evening. The attendant asked me to sign a document which said I wholeheartedly give the Mona Lisa and all the other paintings to the king of France, and I, of course being as drunk as I could be, said yes. A day later the attendant came for them and showed me that document. I couldn’t say no to the king. My head was on the line. In fact, I couldn’t say anything since I bloody signed it. So now the Mona is hanging over the king’s latrine and all I can do now is sit here and mope. That ugly little man who just ran out is the king’s attendant. He just came to tell me that he won’t give me the refund.”

Salaì sighed and sat on his desk. The chair creaked as he sat forward and rested his head on his hand. “That is why, as you see, I’m trying to drink till I go unconscious.” He paused. “Why am I telling you all this again?”

“The king stole your paintings, but it’s not the paintings we’re talking about,” I said.

“Great. Something else to get stolen from me. I’m going to end up in deeper debt than I already am.”

“Okay...” Brandon said. “Dude, look, we aren’t talking about the paintings, although thank you for your beautiful insight into the story. Mate, you need to get a hold of your life! Get up and do something. Paint! Write! Anything! Doesn’t Leonardo inspire you to do anything special and meaningful with your life?”

With that, Salaì suddenly burst into tears as we stood there awkwardly.

“Leonardo!” he moaned, as he took out a handkerchief from a frilly pocket. “Why did death have to take him? I miss him so much sometimes; his weird nose, his raspy voice and especially his long, white, beautiful beard.”

He sniffled and Brandon awkwardly put his arm around him and patted his back.

“I never showed him how much I appreciated him, and while he lived all I did was get drunk and avoid work. No wonder he was always mad at me. I was a horrible apprentice. And now, he’d be so ashamed to know that I lost his works.”

“No he wouldn’t, Salaì. I bet he loved you with all his heart and really accepted you and your slacker attitude,” Brandon said.

He started crying even more. “I know he did.”