Now Ezio did feel something like awe, for in his heart he knew immediately who this was. He approached with reverence, and when he drew near enough to touch the cowled figure in the chair, he fell to his knees.
The figure was dead – he had been dead a long time. But the cloak and white robes were undamaged by the passage of centuries, and even in his stillness the dead man radiated – something. Some kind of power – but no earthly power. Ezio, having made his obeisance, rose again. He did not dare lift the cowl to see the face, but he looked at the long bones of the skeletal hands stretched out on the surface of the desk, as if drawn to them. There was a pen and blank sheets of ancient parchment on the table and a dried-up inkwell. Under the figure’s right hand lay a circular stone – not unlike the keys of the door, but more delicately wrought, and made, as Ezio thought, of the finest alabaster he had ever seen.
‘No books,’ said Ezio into the silence. ‘No artefacts … Just you, fratello mio.’ He laid a hand delicately on the dead man’s shoulder. They were in no way related by blood, but the ties of the Brotherhood bound them more strongly than those of family ever could.
‘ Requiescat in Pace, O Altaïr.’
He looked down, thinking he had caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. But there was nothing except that the stone on the desk was free of the hand which Ezio must have imagined had covered it. A trick of the light. No more.
Ezio knew instinctively what he had to do. He struck a flint to light a candle stump in a stick on the desk and studied the stone more closely. He put his own hand out and picked it up.
The moment he had it in his hand, the stone began to glow.
He raised it to his face as familiar clouds swirled, engulfing him …
76
‘You say Baghdad has been sacked?’
‘Yes, Father. Khan Hulagu’s Mongols have driven through the city like a conflagration. No one has been spared. He set up a wagon wheel and made the population file past it. Anyone whose head came higher than the wheel’s hub, he killed.’
‘Leaving only the young and malleable?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Hulagu is not a fool.’
‘He has destroyed the city. Burned all its libraries. Smashed the university. Killed all its intellectuals along with the rest. The city has never seen such a holocaust.’
‘And never will again, I pray.’
‘Amen to that, Father.’
‘I commend you, Darim. It is well you took the decision to sail to Alexandria. Have you seen to my books?’
‘Yes, Father – those we did not send with the Polo brothers, I have already sent to Latakia on wagons for embarkation.’
Altaïr sat hunched by the open doorway of his great, domed library and archive. Empty now, swept clean. He clutched a small wooden box. Darim had more sense than to ask his father what it was.
‘Good. Very good,’ said Altaïr.
‘But there is one thing – one fundamental thing – that I do not understand,’ said Darim. ‘Why did you build such a vast library and archive over so many decades if you did not intend to keep your books?’
Altaïr waved an interrupting hand. ‘Darim, you know very well that I have long outlived my time. I must soon leave on a journey that requires no baggage at all. But you have answered your own question. What Hulagu did in Baghdad, he will do here. We drove them off once, but they will return and when they do Masyaf must be empty.’
Darim noticed that his father hugged the small box even more tightly to his chest as he spoke, as if protecting it. He looked at Altaïr, so fragile as to seem made of parchment but inside, tough as vellum.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘This is no longer a library then – but a vault.’
His father nodded gravely.
‘It must stay hidden, Darim. Far from eager hands. At least until it has passed on the secret it contains.’
‘What secret?’
Altaïr smiled, and rose. ‘Never mind. Go, my son. Go and be with your family, and live well.’
Darim embraced him. ‘All that is good in me, began with you,’ he said.
They drew apart. Then, Altaïr stepped through the doorway. Once within, he braced himself, straining to pull a large lever just inside, up by the lintel. At last it moved, and, having completed its arc, clicked into place. Slowly, a heavy green stone door rose from the floor to close the opening.
Father and son watched each other wordlessly as the door came up. Darim tried hard to keep his self-control, but finally could not restrain his tears as the door imprisoned his father in his living grave. At last he found himself looking at what was to all intents and purposes a blank surface, only the slight change of colour distinguishing door from walls, that and the curious grooves cut into it.
Beating his breast in grief, Darim turned and left.
Who were the ones who came before? thought Altaïr, as he made his way unhurriedly down the long hallway that led to his great domed underground chamber. As he passed them, the torches on the walls lit his way, fuelled by a combustible air which led to them from hidden pipes within the walls, ignited by sprung flints which operated as his weight triggered catches under the floor. They flared for minutes behind him, then went out again.
What brought them here? What drove them out? And what of their artefacts? What we have called Pieces of Eden. Messages in bottles. Tools left behind to aid and guide us. Or do we fight for control over their refuse, giving divine purpose and meaning to little more than discarded toys?
He shuffled on down the hall, clutching the box, his legs and arms aching with weariness.
At last he gained the great gloomy room, and crossed it without ceremony. He reached his desk with the relief that a drowning man feels when he finds a spar to cling to in the sea.
He sat down, placing the box carefully by him, well within reach, hardly liking to take his hands from it. He pulled paper, pen and ink towards him, dipped the pen, but did not write. He thought instead of what he had written – something from his journal.
The Apple is more than a catalogue of that which preceded us. Within its twisting, sparking interior I have caught glimpses of what will be. Such a thing should not be possible. Perhaps it isn’t. Maybe it is simply a suggestion. I contemplate the consequences of these visions: are they images of things to come – or simply the potential for what might be? Can we influence the outcome? Dare we try? And, in so doing, do we merely ensure that which we’ve seen? I am torn – as always – between action and inaction – unclear as to which – if either – will make a difference. Am I even meant to make a difference? Still, I keep this journal. Is that not an attempt to change – or guarantee – what I have seen?
How naïve to believe that there might be a single answer to every question. Every mystery. That there exists a lone, divine light which rules over everything. They say it is a light that brings truth and love. I say it is a light that blinds us – and forces us to stumble about in ignorance. I long for the day when men will turn away from invisible monsters, and once more embrace a more rational view of the world. But these new religions are so convenient – and promise such terrible punishment should one reject them – I worry that fear shall keep us stuck to what is truly the greatest lie ever told …
The old man sat for a while in silence, not knowing whether he felt hope or despair. Perhaps he felt neither. Perhaps he had outgrown or outlived both. The silence of the great hall and its gloom protected him like a mother’s arms. But still he could not shut out his past.
He pushed his writing materials from him, and drew the box towards him, placing both hands on it, guarding it – from what?
Then it seemed that Al Mualim stood before him. His old Mentor. His old betrayer. Whom he had at last exposed and destroyed. But when the man spoke, it was with menace and authority,
‘In much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.’ The ghost leant forward, speaking now in an urgent whisper, close to Altaïr’s ear. ‘De
stroy it! Destroy it as you said you would!’
‘I – I can’t!’
Then another voice. One which caught at his heart as he turned to it. Al Mualim had disappeared. But where was she? He couldn’t see her!
‘You tread a thin line, Altaïr,’ said Maria Thorpe. The voice was young, firm. As it had been when he’d met her, seven decades ago.
‘I have been ruled by curiosity, Maria. As terrible as this artefact is, it contains wonders. I would like to understand as best I can.’
‘What does it tell you? What do you see?’
‘Strange visions and messages. Of ones who came before, of their rise, and their fall …’
‘And what of us? Where do we stand?’
‘We are links in a chain, Maria.’
‘But what happens to us, Altaïr? To our family? What does the Apple say?’
Altaïr replied, ‘Who were the ones that came before? What brought them here? How long ago?’ But he was talking more to himself than to Maria, who broke in on his thoughts again, ‘Get rid of that thing!’
‘This is my duty, Maria,’ Altaïr told his wife, sadly.
Then she screamed, terribly. And the rattle in her throat followed, as she died.
‘Strength, Altaïr.’ A whisper.
‘Maria! Where … where are you?’ To the great hall he cried, ‘Where is she?!’ But the only answer was his echo.
Then a third voice, itself distressed, though trying to calm him.
‘Father – she is gone. Don’t you remember? She is gone,’ Darim said.
A despairing howl, ‘Where is my wife?’
‘It has been twenty-five years, you old fool! She’s dead!’ his son shouted at him angrily.
‘Leave me. Leave me to my work!’
Softer, now: ‘Father – what is this place? What is it for?’
‘It is a library. And an archive. To keep safe all that I have learned. All that they have shown me.’
‘What have they shown you, Father?’ A pause. ‘What happened at Alamut before the Mongols came? What did you find?’
And then there was silence, and the silence covered Altaïr like a warm sky, and into it he said, ‘Their purpose is known to me now. Their secrets are mine. Their motives are clear. But this message is not for me. It is for another.’
He looked at the box on the desk before him. I shall not touch that wretched thing again. Soon I shall pass from this world. It is my time. All the hours of the day are now coloured by the thoughts and fears born of this realization. All the revelations that were ever to be vouchsafed me are done. There is no next world. Nor a return to this one. It will simply be – done. Forever.
And he opened the box. In it, on a bed of brown velvet, lay the Apple. A Piece of Eden.
I have let it be known that this Apple was first hidden in Cyprus and then lost at sea, dropped in the ocean … this Apple must not be discovered until it is time …
He gazed at it for a moment then rose and turned to a dark recess in the wall behind him. He pressed a lever which opened a heavy door, covering a hidden alcove, in which stood a pedestal. Altaïr took the Apple from the box, a thing no bigger than a kickball, and transferred it quickly to the pedestal. He worked fast, before temptation could work on him, and pulled the lever again. The door over the alcove slid shut, snapping into place with finality. Altaïr knew that the lever would not operate again for two and a half centuries. Time for the world to move on, perhaps. For him, though, temptation was over.
He took his seat at his desk again, and took from a drawer a white alabaster disc. He lit a candle by him and took the disc in both hands, raising it in front of his eyes, closing them and concentrating, he began to imbue the alabaster with his thoughts – his testament.
The stone glowed, lighting up his face for a long time. Then the glow faded, and it grew dark. All grew dark.
Ezio turned the disc over and over in his hands under the candlelight. How he had come to learn what he now knew, he had no idea. But he felt a deep fellowship, a kinship, even, with the husk that sat at his side.
He looked at Altaïr, incredulous. ‘Another artefact?’ he said. ‘Another Apple?’
77
He knew what to do and did it almost as if he were still in a dream. He placed the disc carefully back on the desktop, and turned to the dark recess behind it. He knew where to look for the lever, and it gave immediately when he tugged at it gently. As the door slid open, he gasped. I thought there was only one. The one Machiavelli and I buried forever in the vault under the church of San Nicola in Carcere. And now – its twin!
He studied the Apple for a moment. It was dark and cold – lifeless. But he could feel his hand, as if independent of his will, reaching out for it.
With a supreme effort, he stopped himself.
‘NO! You will stay HERE!’
He took a step back.
‘I have seen enough for one lifetime!’
He put his hand on the lever.
But then the Apple flared into life, its light blinding him. He staggered back, turning to see in the centre of the now dazzlingly lit chamber the world – the world! – turning in space, twenty feet above the floor, a giant vulgar ball of blue, brown, white and green.
‘NO!’ he yelled, hiding his eyes with his hands. ‘I have done enough! I have lived my life as best I could, not knowing its purpose, but drawn forward like a moth to a distant moon. No more!’
Listen. You are a conduit for a message which is not for you to understand.
Ezio had no idea where the voice was coming from or whose it was. He took his hands from his eyes and placed them over his ears, turning to the wall, his body wrenched to and fro as if he were being beaten. He was pulled round to face the room. Swimming in the air, filling the gaudy brightness, were trillions of numbers and icons, calculations and formulae and words and letters, some jumbled, some thrown together to make occasional sense, but splitting again to give way to chaos. And from their midst the voice of an old man; old because from time to time it trembled. It was not without authority. It was the most powerful voice Ezio had ever heard.
Do you hear me, cipher? Can you hear me?
And then – something like a man, walking towards him as if from a great distance, walking through the swirling sea of all the symbols man had ever used to try to make sense of it all – walking on air, on water, but not on land. Ezio knew that the figure would never break free to reach him. They were on two sides of an unbridgeable abyss.
Ah. There you are.
The numbers around the figure shifted and pulsed and started to flee from one another without being able to get free – in a kind of nightmarish entropy. But the figure became clearer. A man. Taller and broader than most men. Ezio was reminded of one of the statues of Greek gods Michelangelo had shown him when the Borgias’ collection had been seized by Pope Julius. An old god though. Zeus or Poseidon. A full beard. Eyes which shone with an unearthly wisdom. Around him, the trailing digits and equations ceased to battle with one another and finally began to drift away, faster and faster, until they were gone, and the world was gone, and all that was left was this – man. What else was Ezio to call him?
Tinia. Tinia is my name. I think you’ve met my sisters.
Ezio looked at the creature but it was watching the very last trailing formulae as they scurried away through the ether.
The voice when it next spoke seemed oddly human, a little unsure of itself.
A strange place, this nexus of Time. I am not used to the … calculations. That has always been Menrva’s domain.
He looked at Ezio quizzically. But there was something else – profound sadness, and a kind of paternal pride.
I see you still have many questions. Who were we? What became of us? What do we desire of you? Tinia smiled. You will have your answers. Only listen and I will tell you.
Light slowly drained from the entire room now, and once again a ghostly blue revolving globe came into view directly behind Tinia, and slowly grew in
size until it occupied almost the entire chamber.
Both before the end and after, we sought to save the world.
Small dots began appearing on the huge revolving globe, one after another.
These mark where we built vaults in which to work, each dedicated to a different manner of salvation.
Ezio saw one of the dots among the many flash brightly. It was near the eastern seaboard of a vast continent he couldn’t imagine really existed, except that he knew that his friend Amerigo Vespucci had discovered a coastline there a decade earlier, and he had seen the Waldseemüller map depicting all the discovered world. But all this map showed was further south. Could there be more? A great land there? It seemed so unlikely.
They were placed underground to avoid the war which raged above, and also as a precaution should we fail in our efforts.
And Ezio saw now that beams of light were beginning to stretch like lines across the slowing spinning globe from all the other points marked on it to the one on the strange new continent, and went on until the entire world was crisscrossed with a filigree of lines of light.
Each vault’s knowledge was transmitted to a single place …
And now Ezio’s point of view changed as he watched the great image of the world; he seemed to plummet towards it, down through space, until it seemed as if he were about to crash into the ground which rose to meet him. But then – then it was as if he were lifted up at the last moment and was skimming along close to the ground, then down again, down through a shaft like a mineshaft until he emerged in an immense underground building, like a temple or a palace hall.
It was our duty … mine, and my sisters, Menrva and Uni – to sort and sample all that was collected. We chose those solutions which held the most promise, and devoted ourselves to testing their merits. And indeed, now Ezio was in the great hall, in the mysterious vault in the mysterious land – or seemed to be there – and there, near Tinia, stood Menrva and Uni, whom Ezio had indeed encountered before …
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