Voices It all began when I found and bought a box full of reels of audiotape at a rummage sale.

I was telling my old mate Gill about it, he'd come round with a bottle of vino, and a book on Surrealism he'd been talking about for a couple of days. Gill and I go back a long way teenagers in the sixties. Both crazy about music played in a rock band in the seventies, him on drums, me on bass, we still play at his place sometimes; just for fun and we're both mad about all kinds of books... Oh, and we both go do-lally at the antics of politicians... We sat in my front room sipping his wine, pleased with and enthusiastically listening to one of the reels on my old Aki Tape recorder. It was a collection of rather obscure sixties' music Rhythm And Blues, Mo-town, and such. 'Yeah, twenty five quid the lot... he wanted thirty five... I played it cool, and said, twenty. The guy said, no, at first. Then he looked at the tapes again, did a little reassessment of his wares, which I sussed he knew little about, then said ''twenty five'', and I said, ''done!''' 'Yeah,' Gill laughed, 'good buy, you don't see them that often these days.' 'There's sixteen of the buggers if they're all as good as this...,' I frothed. 'They're in perfect condition; worth a lot more than twenty five quid, even if all the others turn out to be empty. I'm glad I kept my old Aki.' We began going through the others, looking at the labels on the box covers, which were marked only by letters and numbers; some kind of coded filing system, indiscernible to us. The cover of the one we were listening to was marked M. No.5 (M. notes A1). Well, we didn't have any notes... 'The M could be music,' said Gill 'Yeah, right,' I agreed. They all carried the symbol M, but two. These two were labelled: S.C.A1 (s.c. notes A1), and S.C. A2. (s.c. notes A2). This made no sense to either of us. After listening to the first reel, we decided to play the first of the two marked with S.C. Just see to what was on them... As we sat back and listened, we were a little surprised not to hear music, but a voice; a young man's voice... that said: 'This is an archive recording of a series of stories told by the members and guests of the Story Club. A club formed in nineteen sixty-eight by a loose group of people who enjoy and value the telling of stories. 'We put no restrictions other than technical -- on our narrators. 'Some of the stories are original, some are not. Some are fiction, and some are not. We hold the distinction to be immaterial...' Gill and I exchanged grins of acknowledgement and anticipation. There was a slight pause, then the voice simply stated the date: 'First of May Nineteen-sixtyNine.' Then, a second, gruffer voice, introduced himself as: 'David Green, a founding member of the Story Club'. He then stated that the following story was true, and he had read it in an American Newspaper, and it was called 'Pet Bite'. He then told a story that began with a man, who after waiting in the Casual Department of a New York hospital took his turn to be seen by the doctor with a very large wound above the elbow of his left arm. The man told the doctor it was a dog bite. The doctor was rather taken aback by the size of it. The man told him, it was a very large dog; a Great Dane. Unbeknown to the man, it is a doctor's duty in New York to report all attacks by dogs to the police, which he got the nurse to do, while he treated the man, who needed fifty stitches. Before the doctor was finished stitching, a couple of cops turned up. They were also shocked

by the seriousness of the wound, and asked a lot of questions, about his dog. They explained to the man, that the city had rules about keeping dangerous dogs, and that large dogs must be muzzled. The man told them, that it had all been an accident, because he was teasing his dog, Blake, with a piece of meat, and it had never happened before, and that he always muzzled him when they went out. The Police then insisted that they drive him home, and take a look at the dog, and fill out a report. ..The man seemed put out, and was very quiet all way to his apartment, where he suddenly told the police he had been lying to them. He told them he wanted to come clean. He didn't, in fact have a dog... He then told them what he had, was a tiger! A fully grown Bengal tiger! 'What in your apartment?' they cried. 'No, but at first yes...' He'd bought the tiger when it was a kitten he actually used that word three years ago. They became friends; he loved Blake! But as he got bigger, he also got rougher and rougher and some times he could get quiet wound up in play. The man became very wary of his cat, but he couldn't bring himself to send his 'buddy' off to some cage in a zoo... a prison! So he had the idea of renting the apartment next door; to get some distance from him. Every day he would bring three four chickens for Blake. But Blake seemed to be getting even wilder as they spent less and less time together. Over the last few weeks Blake had really begun to frighten him. So he started now only to open the door to feed him, but then only enough to throw the food inside. But today, has he was putting the food in, Blake must have been waiting for him... and he bit the hand that fed him! He'd got the man's arm in his jaws. After a brief panic and wrestle, he had managed to get loose by forcing the door shut on Blake's mouth! So the conclusion was that the police had to call in an animal rescue squad, who drilled a large enough circle in the door, for a marksman to shoot Blake with a tranquilliser dart, before hauling him off to the zoo. And thus it was, for the next four hours Gill and I listened to story after story. Sometimes spellbound. There were all kinds of voices telling all kinds of stories. Some were funny, crazy, sad, touching, happy, nostalgic, strange. Some were no more than expanded jokes. Some were memoirs. Some were portraits of friends, wives, husbands. Some were confessions; as if the telling might act as some kind of penance and redemption. A very old sounding voice told his story of being part of a gang as a boy in World War Two, who not knowing any better had and risked being shot as a looter, while robbing shops and houses during the blitz. One man told of a hilarious and disastrous visit to a brothel in Amsterdam as a teenager. A woman told a very sad tear-jerking story of her horrible life with an abusive husband. 'Because,' as she said, 'you men should bloody-well hear it!' Well, it was the seventies. A strange one was the guy who took L.S.D. He was alone in his apartment. During the trip he became convinced he had found the meaning of life yeah, right, as you do! So he wrote it down and put it in an envelope, then forgot about it, and got on with his trip. The next morning he opened the envelope only to read: ''THE SMELL OF TURPINTINE PREVAILS...'' Some stories were adventurous. One man told how at aged thirteen he had stowed away on a trawler bound for a three week fishing trip to Iceland. They didn't find him for a week. A very strange story was another confession by a voice, which said he was so ashamed that he hadn't told this story to anyone since it happened... As teenagers, he and a friend, while hiking on the Yorkshire Moors, had come across an old well; your stereotypical well; with a wall around it, but without a bucket. As kids do, they

began dropping pebbles down it to see how deep it was, but they heard nothing. So they hunted ever bigger stones. But still they heard nothing. They then noticed a very large heavy stone, about a metre in dynamiter. It had a chain attached to it that disappeared in the long grass and over a hill. They began pulling the chain in, but it seemed unending; they got bored and tired. Then, just for the hell of it, they decided to throw the stone down the well. They struggled with it, but by rolling it they got it over to the well. Then he succeeded in lifting it onto the wall, before letting it fall down into the darkness. To their utter shock and horror they quickly, very quickly realised that the other end of the chain was, in fact, attached to a goat that had been peacefully grazing over that hill... This sudden end left Gill and I opened-mouthed-speechless! 'But of all the stories, there was one, which really stood out from the others, although we later discovered the story is not original. We listen to it several times over the next days. It was a story which seemed unique in its content, and its telling, and Gill and I felt it must be related here in full. The story teller does not introduce himself in the way the others do, nor does he give the story a title. In a deep dark voice, with a slight northern accent, that seems to hang in the air, he begins by giving the date: nineteen-seventy-three, and then: 'My name is not important call me Ishmael... 'There are names that set fire to the mind. Names and lives lived legends. And one such legend is Leonardo. A legend in his lifetime, and who now seems immortal to us. That single name common in his own time is enough now for us to know we are talking of non-other than Leonardo da Vinci... 'He seems to be have been a man with fifty pounds of ideas per square inch resting on his brain. ''Man is general, but Leonardo was not,'' someone said. 'Legends can be stories with a root in truth, or severed from the past. And they have a course of their own an evolution they are not limited to the concrete. So here is a whale of a story within the legend of Leonardo: 'The legend and his oldest and favourite apprentice, Ambrogio were working in the dissecting area of his busy workshop and studio, which was within the premises of the Servite Community, of Milan. 'They were just completing the filling of a human heart with hot wax. Time well spent, the legend thought. For the end of what had been a busy dissecting season would soon be upon them the weather was getting warmer, flies were beginning to buzz... and the last body-part that man's heart had been lying on that quickly melting ice for a couple of days... and the price of ice! 'So for the last ten days Leonardo had been making the most of this remaining time, although, as always, he had all sorts of other pressing things going on...; not only several works of art in progress, but also many other duties in his service to the Duke of Milan. 'But now they had to be off back to work on one of the longest of those ongoing pressing things. He'd swing back here in a few days to see the results of his wax heart, and write up the notes... 'He told Ambrogio to ready himself to accompany him to the convent. ''Come on lad, look lively, there's no rest for the weird!'' he laughed. Ambrigo was seventeen, tall and slim, with curly copper hair, and he would soon be an artist in his own right. He had been with the Master since the age of twelve, and was in total awe of him. 'The legend took off his heavy apron, and quickly cleaned himself. He left instructions for the next few days with the other apprentices and servants in his employment, before he and Ambrogio hit the milling, crowded, narrow streets of Milan, heading for the Convent of Santa

Maria delle Grazie, where in the refectory on a large wall, he was in the process of painting, what he hoped would, and in fact did become one of his greatest masterpieces, which he called The Last Supper. 'The legend's tall athletic figure with his apprentice Ambrogio in the rear strove through the busy streets. He was a conspicuous figure with his long flowing hair, and short colourful clothes; contrary to the short hair, and long darker clothes which was the fashion of the day. 'As they walked the narrow streets both were observing the myriad of faces of the passing peasants and the trades people, as if searching for a lost friend. Ambrogio, with the gem-glitter of the morning sun making him shade his eyes with his hand, also had to struggle with a small handcart, containing all the paraphernalia of an artist, while trying to keep up with his master's long, and never ending legs. ''What about him there with the broken teeth, Master?'' Ambrogio called. '''No,'' the legend called back without turning, ''he may give you the willies, but that face is really a mere comic masquerade... and too much of an ilk; an unfortunate face, yes, but an accident too easily forgiven why, he looks as content as a fish! '''No, Ambrogio, my Judas, must show a vileness from within a symbol of what's he is, his capacity, his self-loathing. Imagine someone who had just sold out the Messiah!'' ***** ..'Three years ago Leonardo had sent his Curriculum Vita to Lodovico Sforza the new Duke of Milan, which consisted of a list of the polymath's many diverse talents and services he could offer him. The list stated he could construct all kinds of buildings, conduct bodies of water here and there. He was an inventor of machines of all kinds; some for times of war; for both offence and defence; portable bridges, a cannon that could fire a hail of small rocks, he could construct subterranean passages, and armoured wagons, etc. The list was long. And finally at the end he stated: he could also draw, paint, and sculpt as good as any man alive. 'The Duke, a bit of a culture vulture, who had his ear to the grapevine, had heard much of Leonardo's growing fame, had heard of his many skills. And though, greatly impressed with these stories, and the many examples he'd seen of the master's work as a painter, sculpture, inventor, and had heard of his reputation as a great thinker... it was, in fact, more for what he'd heard of the legend's phenomenal lyre playing that had swung it for him, and induced him to invite the legend to Milan to work for him. For the Duke was a great lover of music, and the music of the lyre in particular, which he himself had recently begun to play. 'And Leonardo knowing also of the Duke's love of music, had arrived at the palace with a magnificent gift: a lyre inlaid with much silver in the shape of a horse's head, which he himself had made for the young Duke. He had designed the instrument to produce a greater volume, and a sonorous harmony. 'On meeting Leonardo, the Duke was overwhelmed with his ingenious ideas and conversations, and by his excellent improvisation both on the lyre and in verse, which it, was agreed by all, surpassed all other court musicians. 'The Duke immediately commissioned him to make many things: a nativity on an altarpiece panel, as a present for the Emperor, and to sculpt a magnificent horse the 'Gran Cavallo' (a very complex rearing giant horse to be built first in clay which they say was staggering then to be cast in seventy tons of bronze. But which in fact, would, never be finished... because guess what? A historical and fatal folly -- bang! bang! a war with France the seventy tons of bronze would be turned into canons, and the magnificent clay horse would be used for target practice by the archers...Well, that's the way the world wags.) And for the

Friars of S. Dominic Convent, the Duke commissioned the very large Last Supper, which after three years the Master was still labouring with. 'His other duties included those of state engineer, plus the creating and supervising of many artistic and cultural projects; the organising of festivals, and entertainment, plus the giving of advice on numerous subjects. He was also expected to show his face regular at the Duke's scene play the court; shock and amaze them with the undreamed of..., to crush wine with them, though he was no fan of booze, and improvise and sing his share of dithyrambs to Bacchus on that lyre. There had been many late nights, heavy, scenes... and, O the constant rapport... But such is the price of fame, and the need of money. 'So, he had been juggling with all these duties since he'd arrived. But what had recently added an extra weight to the juggling act, was the rather pushy, tactless Prior of the convent, who during conversations with Leonardo, and through his secretary, tried wearyingly to press him; with fool questions such as how much longer the painting might take to complete, and if it could not be done more rapidly, and that he might work as does the gardener who cuts the grass. It bugged the Prior that Leonardo spent many hours only standing gazing in contemplation before the work. Or that he worked some days without a break, then he would be gone for a few days. Leonardo would often split from the rectory and walk around the corner to the Convent Corte Vecchia, where he was also working on his beloved Gran Cavallo. 'Leonardo's way of working on The Last Supper so bugged the Prior that he took his case to the Duke. That he might press Leonardo to bring a finish to the work; and within a reasonable deadline, and that he should be pressed to sign a contract to that effect... 'So the Duke summonsed Leonardo to tactfully ask if there were some unforeseen problem. Over the next hours Leonardo laid it all on the young Duke. He simply gave him de rigour plugged in his high voltage vocabulary and let the poetry run.... He dismantled the whole artist-thing like butchering a bovine. He brought him elegantly into the complex labyrinth such work resembles. The subtle decisions involved at every stage in the mysterious rendering of emotions and thoughts in paint. He explained the interaction of forces and character of line, the subtle perceived distances of hues from the eye, the need for a clear state of mind; free to roam all other fields to make endless discerning connections. He told the Duke of his 'looklistening' technique, which allowed the artist to listen to a picture like a symphony. ''It is the language of the eye and it blazes like truth.'' He explained, how after hours of painting, lost in its fugue, the eye and mind become hypersensitive also to the colours in the natural world. And how with this creative state of mind the artist becomes a smoking head of ideas that demand to be expressed and responded to. ''The artist must not only answer to life, but to his imagination,'' the Master insisted. A statement which seemed to trouble The Duke, somewhat... ''And all this... to render paint to speak sublimely on the end of a brush, or at the fingertips, To put mystery into a smile.'' 'The Master, drunk on his passion, and lured on by the Duke's fascinated and eager ear, even broke his own rule by the telling of many of his secrets: his painting techniques, his drawings of his flying machines, and many of his other wondrous devices. He told him of his secrete room which only he could enter and even of some of its contents... ' 'Finally, he related to the young Duke the very practical problems involved in this particular piece of work. Such as his present, and so far, unsuccessful search for a suitable model for his Judas. 'He explained how he had easily found the models for the Apostles; they had been more a case of expressions rather than types; though a multiple array of expressions: shock, horror, disbelieve, suspicion, rage, fear. All displayed on their faces at that moment when Christ lays

the future on them. Tells them that one of them, one of his chosen one's, has sold him out. It was this moment, he, the artist, had chosen to 'stop time in paint'. 'Then he told him how, not long after, he had been lucky to find his Christ Anima Mundi a young man from the choir of Saint Dominic. An angelic face, complete with a divine air. Such innocence...! 'But Judas is another! ''Is he tool of God or Devil?'' 'Judas is the face he is the face the viewer will look for... his face and his expression must be recognizable... must give him away; give away his character, and his treacherous act. 'The Master then told The Duke of his pursuit of his Judas among the houses of his friends, and people attached to the church it isn't easy to get a man who thinks well of himself to sit for someone like Judas...why a man could take real offence just by the asking. 'He told The Duke of his new tack to find him. How he had begun to look further afield, going by night into the slum areas. And how if he found him, he would pay a good fee to his Judas though not as much as thirty pieces of silver -- and he would do the very opposite of Christ, and keep his intentions, and his chosen one in the darkness of ignorance. 'The Duke was mesmerised by Leonardo's adventurous world, and swore him as much time as he needed to finish his work, without any further clumsy interference from the unenlightened Prior. And he wished him luck that he might find his Judas, promising him assistance in his search, in the way of body guards whenever he needed to enter the slum areas. 'Leonard thanked The Duke for his sensitivity and understanding. And assured The Duke that if all his efforts to find his Judas failed... well, he could always use the Prior as the model. Which sent The Duke into roars of laughter that echoed and accompanied Leonardo as he left the palace with a satisfied smile on his face, and a glint in his eye that went all the way to China. ***** 'Weeks had gone by since this meeting, and still the legend's night-searches to the slums had made no progress. The places were hellish; black as a snake's stomach. Here were your authentic Renaissance slums -- black squares and streets lit by fire, full of swirling smoke, arrant with all the dramaturgy of life: black lurking, back-stabbing mischief surrounding the bear pits, gambling joints, dive-bars, dens, knocking-shops, slop-houses, and speak-easys. Peopled by an inebriated mob, a sordid mash-up, a brouhaha, the hubbub of low life: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, soldier, sailor, beggar-man, thief, and of course, hustlers, whores, and pimps... And they were all under no law, but that of the Milanese, warring, rapscallion gangsters... 'Leonardo did take up the Duke's offer of a few sharp blades and needed to who were lean and hard as crowbars, and openly displayed their full fighting kit. They were commanded to stay by the Master's side at all times. He was also often accompanied by his friend Luca Pacioli, and a couple of his closest servants. 'Night after night they entered and combed these ever darker and notorious street-sinks... Sometimes they would pass a group of eyes that would fix on them. Eyes that measure your muscles, and weigh your purse. Life here, trapped under the foot of poverty, was short, mean, and violent. And although, Leonardo was no stranger to all that is human, these searches still caused him to muse on his own good fortune, and how every life should have shape... and should be marked by far more than the mere comings and goings of cradles and coffins... 'Many times he felt these wasps of doubt. He wondered, if he should compromise his ideal...

this face of Judas, which he knew was somewhere out there, and who, he alone would recognize. He wasn't crazy about spending his, and his friend's time like this... dragging them down into this rotten subterranean world every night. In search of what they probably thought was a mythical creature. He could, he mused, be getting on with The Gran Cavallo. If he could simply settle for one of the scores of possibles they had stumbled upon; the-almost-butnot-quites. But he, somehow, could not settle for a face that was not right... he had to hang in there. And this all brought him to wonder, not only at the strangeness of his own mind, but of the complexity of identity itself. Who we are... It amazed him how human beings keep this nebula like identity all together... ''Why, under the surface of every man is a mass of conflicts, moods, and contradictions that we somehow manage to balance...'' 'As Leonardo and Ambrogio arrived at the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie they entered into the rather dark refectory. The Master stood contemplating his work in progress, while Ambrogio lit the large torches, and made up their pallets. They began work; touching up the almost, but for the missing face, finished picture. As they worked they sang, and recited verse, and talked, played word games. Ambrogio told the master many jokes he had heard wandering minstrels tell, and the Master tested the boy on his knowledge, until they heard the striking of eight bells, when they stopped and ate a small meal, before their troupe of heavily armed bodyguards, arrived, ready for yet another night search in, yet another, dismal slum. 'Fetid, fowl, insalubrious, and noxious were some of the more refined adjectives the group employed as they entered the very worst of the slums: Wooden Town, outside the city walls. If the city had an anus, this was it. 'The sky was getting mucky, as they left the city. They entered the slum as a part of a thin stream of people, but were suddenly pulled and pushed into a thick press of a caroming mob that swept them along the street. Wild, exotic, faces and voices surrounded them faces of worldly features, some tattooed, and of many hues, but also many hooded and hidden faces like their own. The intimacy of so many sordid bodies gave of a stench, that caused them to muffle their noses with cloths and fear the plague. 'Among the buzz of the mob the Master took in the many cadences of speech, word-waggery, hard grinding talk, raw and sour remarks from sneering mouths...He heard an exchange between two briny voices over his shoulder, that included one of those New World turn-ofphrases that was doing the rounds; both eccentric and outre. '''Are you hungry?'' '''Hungry? Why, I could eat a Benedictine!'' 'Imagine that, thought the Master. 'They were suddenly funnelled into a small square, fire threw absurd shadows on the swimming elephant-grey boarded walls. The place was full of hassle, and witchy yells and curses. There was a swelling air of murder and devilling, full of cat-hidden-tension. They realised something horrific and public was about to take place, which they didn't want to be a part of. An old testament voice was proclaiming what sounded like a message from oblivion. ''They make their own entertainment here,'' one of the soldiers commented. 'They managed, with the guards' help, to force their way through to the other side of the square, where they turned a foot, and swung into a side street off a sided street. There, they came upon the most saturnine looking den they had ever seen: The Smoky Porky, where inside, the soldiers informed them, narcotic fumes took men from themselves and the world... 'After rapping on the heavy door, they were confronted through a small square hole in the door by a large disgruntled looking face of a woman, who looked as if she was about to lay an egg. They informed her of no more than their search for a man, and bought entrance with threats and a small sum of money.

'Sweet, earthy fumes like Pan-poop engulfed them as they made their way down into a dank catacomb; a warren of low narrow passages, and tiny dirty cubicles, each containing prone, drugged, dreaming bodies. 'They began going from one to the other. Leonardo considering the faces of the dreamers, as they lay almost unconscious of the company's presence the guards manhandling them turning them over when the Master couldn't rightly see them. 'Then, hallelujah! they found him! This moment would also make a wonderful painting the scene frozen in time. The string of people around the supine body of Judas, barefoot and in rags. And at the centre, that eureka moment lit-up on Leonardo's face... 'The Master sucked in breath when he set eyes on him... The man was rank, stinking, blood and vomit splattered, an unnatural ball of filth. A black, black, beard, that absorbed all light, on a yellow bony face of slime, with a grim savage mouth that lied without speaking, and eyes that stole a slow half squint at them, then rolled to and fro. Yet, that one brief look was long enough for the Master to see it was indeed the eyes and face of his Judas. He could imagine this face like a paper cut-out, to be simply put into the empty space in his picture; the final missing piece to a puzzle. 'Take him, nolens volens!' cried the Master, and the guards sprang in to action, lifting the arms and legs of the limp body before steering him away.' **** 'They carried the man back to Leonardo's studio. He was in such a state, the Master put him into the hands of the apprentices. Who washed and tended the many sores on his body. 'They made up a bed for him on the raised platform, where the models pose. The man was barely conscious, and could scarcely hold down liquids. His eyes rolled like marbles in a shoebox. Both the Master and Ambrogio couldn't wait, and began some initial sketches as the wretch slept, albeit, with closed eyes, and a sagging mouth, they knew it was the live fish they really needed. 'The next day was the same, though the man did call for drink, and was given water, which he spat out in disgust. ''Wine! Wine!'' he sobbed loudly, as his eyes rolled away again. But Leonardo would allow him no wine. He had poured enough screech down his throat. ''Every drink brings a man closer to the idiot out of his gourd: unable to think, nor speak, nor walk?'' Time and patience, he thought, and ordered that the man should be watched over while he slept, for he knew the power of this kind of thirst. 'But later, Leonardo as he listened to the man's wracked sobs, felt a sudden closeness to this poor wretch his darkness must be filled with such loneliness and fear... He thought back to his own troubles back in Florence... but, he luckily had come down handsome... But what if he hadn't? ''Yes, we are all in this totality of life together: the dead, the living, and the unborn...'' What, he pondered, had brought this creature to such a heartbreaking void? What had driven and cornered him into this cul de sac of self hate? Was it under some unbearable whip of loss or regret? He decided then and there, he would not return this man back the teeth of hell they 'd found him. He would help him. 'The following day the man awoke in the morning, in a kind of delirium, pleaded in a rough and squeezed voice for wine again. But was given only water, which he drank, before crashing out again into a long, deep sleep. The vales of sleep: the kingdom of retreat and renewal. 'The next day the apprentices informed the Master that the man was conscious. He had slept eighteen hours. The Master ordered them to wash and dress him in Judas' toga, prepare food, and a place at the table on the platform, and ready the studio and lighting for a full day of drawing and painting.

'An hour later everything was in place, each of the artists had paper and canvas, and a paintloaded palette at the ready. The artists were circularly arranged around the model's platform, which was brilliantly lit with burning torches, with the light reflected and directed with an array of mirrors. Then the man was led in on unsure but eager legs to the table of food, which he fell on like a wolf. 'The artists worked quietly, while the man ate with gusto. He took several helpings, before he finally stopped, leaned back in his chair, and for the first time looked around him, and noticed the busy artists. He shaded his eyes from the bright light attempting to see them better... '''You are a guest, Sir.'' said Leonardo from the darkness. '''I am?'' said the man with a clenched grimace on his face. '''Yes, Sir, and as you can see I have taken the liberty to employ you as a model, for which if you agree, you will be well paid for your time. Do you agree?'' 'The man looked out into the darkness, fingering his black, black beard, has he thought for a moment. He smiled, and said ''I do indeed agree, but Sir, do you have wine?'' '''Ambrogio!'' called the Master, ''bring some wine for the gentleman.'' 'Ambrogio left, and soon returned from the kitchen with a bottle, which Leonardo took from him, and walked into the bright light to give it personally to the man. The man stared at him, vis-a-vis, with a look of astonishment on his face. '''Oh! it is you, Master...'' he said in a fretful voice.., and pushed away the table and fell to his knees at the Master's feet. '''Master, ''...please forgive me, I did not see you correctly... I... I...'' '''You know me, Sir?'' asked Leonardo. '''But, Master Leonardo,'' he moaned, looking up into the artist's face, ''do you not know me...?'' 'Leonardo looked hard at the face of Judas (the face he had known before he even saw it). But he never forgot a face had seen. '''No Sir, I do not.'' '''But, Master... Master...'' the shocked face whimpered, ''I was your Jesus!'''