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 to 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 leaned forward, speaking now in an urgent whisper, close to Altaïr’s ear. “Destroy 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 artifact 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 those 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 those who 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 colored 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, 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 close to his eyes, and 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 artifact?” he said. “Another Apple?”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
He knew what to do, but he 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 gently at it. But 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 center 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 that 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.
And 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 toward 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. But 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 that 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?
Jupiter. J
upiter 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 Minerva’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?
Jupiter smiled.
You will have your answers. Only listen and I will tell you.
Light slowly drained from the entire room, and once again a ghostly, blue, revolving globe came into view directly behind Jupiter, 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 that the map showed was farther south. Could there be more? A great land there? It seemed so unlikely.
They were placed underground to avoid the war that 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 then Ezio’s point of view seemed to change as he watched the great image of the world; and he seemed to plummet toward it, down through space, until it seemed as if he were about to crash into the ground, which rose to meet him, coming alarmingly close. 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, Minerva and Juno—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 Jupiter, stood Minerva and Juno, whom Ezio had indeed encountered before . . .
Six we tried in succession, each one more encouraging than the last. But none worked.
And then—the world ended.
The last statement was made in so simple and matter-of-fact a tone that Ezio was taken aback by it. He saw Minerva, heavy-hearted, and Juno, angry, look on as Jupiter put into action a complex mechanism that triggered the great doors of the place to close and seal themselves shut. And then—
Then a great wave of indescribable power hit the upper vault of heaven and lit up the sky like ten thousand northern lights. Ezio seemed to be standing amid hundreds of thousands of people, in an elegant city and all looking up at the supernatural display above them. But the light breeze that played on them changed, from zephyr to storm, then to hurricane, within less than a minute. The people looked at one another in disbelief, then panic, and they scurried away to safety.
The sky, still ablaze with waves of green fire, began to crackle and spark with lightning. Thunder rolled and crashed, though there was not a cloud to be seen, and bolts smashed from the heavens onto trees, buildings, and people alike. Debris flew through the air, destroying everything in its path.
Next, a colossal tremor caused the ground to shudder. Those left in the open lost their footing and before they could rise were struck down by rocks and stones carried like balls of paper by the wind. The earth shook again, more violently this time, and the screams and cries of the afflicted were drowned by the crack of lightning and the deafening scream of the gale. Survivors in the open strove to find shelter, some fighting to keep their balance by clinging to the sides of whatever buildings still stood, as they clawed their way along.
But, amid the general devastation, great temples stood firm, untouched by the catastrophe around them, bearing tribute to the technical ingenuity of those who had built them. But another great tremor rippled the ground, then another. A broad highway split in two along its length, and people fled from the growing abyss that cleaved it. The sky by then was on fire, arcs of lightning rushing from one horizon to the other, and the upper reaches of the firmament seemed about to implode.
Then it appeared to Ezio that he saw the earth from afar again, engulfed in a gargantuan solar flare, trapped in a web of gigantic fireballs; then, unthinkably, the world shifted from its axis, rolling over. The elegant city, the refined, sophisticated collection of tall buildings and manicured parks, was riven with gaping wounds as the earth split and cracked under it, ripping down previously untouched edifices and smashing them to pieces. The few remaining people in the remains of the streets screamed, one last despairing cry of agony, as the shift in the earth’s poles left the planet’s surface vulnerable to the deadly radiation of solar flares. The last structures were swept away like houses of cards in the wind.
And then—just as suddenly as it had started—all became quiet. The northern lights ceased just as a candle’s flame dies when a man blows it out, and, almost immediately, the wind calmed. But the devastation was complete. Almost nothing had been spared. Fires and smoke, darkness and decay, held illimitable dominion over all.
Through the miasma, Jupiter’s voice came to Ezio. Or to someone like him. Nothing was certain anymore:
Listen. You must go there. To the place where we labored . . . Labored, and lost. Take my words. Pass them from your head into your hands. It is how you will open the Way. But be warned. Much still remains in flux. And I do not know how things will end—either in my time, or yours.
The dust storms were clearing, the molten lava was cooling. Time accelerated as tiny shoots broke through the ground and reestablished themselves. The entrance to an underground vault opened, and people of the First Civilization emerged, and they, in turn, began to rebuild. But their numbers were few and did not increase.
Over many centuries they diminished, until there were only a few hundred left, then a few dozen, then none...
What they had rebuilt was claimed by the conquering forests. Their new buildings disappeared in their turn, devoured by time. A low-hilled, richly forested landscape enveloped those great expanses not covered by plains. And then, people—but different from the First Comers. Humans now. Those whom the First Comers had created as slaves would now, free, become their heirs. Some indeed had been taken as lovers by the First Comers, and from them a small line of people with more than human powers had emerged.
But the true inheritors were the humans. The first in this unknown land were men and women with deeply tanned skins and long, straight, black hair. Proud peoples who hunted strange, dark brown, wild cattle, riding bareback on tough ponies, using bows and arrows. People who lived in separate tribes and fought one another but with little bloodshed.
Then more people came. Paler people, whose clothes were different and covered them more fully. People who came on ships from Europe, across the Mare Occiden-talis. People who hunted down the others and drove them from their lands, establishing in turn their own farms, villages, and, again at last, towns and cities to rival those of the lost civilization, which had disappeared into the earth many millennia before.
Mark this and remember. It is never
your choice to give up the fight for justice. Even when it seems that it can never be won, that all hope is lost, the fight, the fight ensures the survival of justice, the survival of the world. You live balanced on the edge of a cliff, you cannot help that. Your job is to ensure that the balance never tips too far to the wrong side. And there is one more thing you can do that will make certain it never does: You can love.
Ezio clung to the desk. Next to him, Altaïr still sat in his chair. Nothing had moved on the desktop, not a sheet of parchment had stirred, and the stump of candle burned with a steady light.
He did not know how he had got from the recess to the desk, but now he retraced the few steps. The Apple still rested on its pedestal within the alcove, cold and dead. He could hardly make out its contours in the gloom. Its dust-covered box, he noticed, lay on the desktop.
He gathered himself together and crossed the great chamber again, making for the corridor that would lead back to the sunlight, and to Sofia.
But at the entrance to the great library, he turned once more. Far away now, as it seemed, he looked for one last time at Altaïr, sitting for eternity in the ghost of his library.
“Farewell, Mentor,” he said.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Reaching the outer doorway, Ezio found the lever by the lintel and pulled it. Obediently, the green door slid down into the ground. And there was Sofia, reading a book, waiting for him.
As he emerged, she smiled at him and stood, and came to him and took his hand.
“You came back,” she said, unable to disguise the sheer relief in her voice.
“I promised I would.”
“Have you found what you sought?”
“I have found—enough.”
She hesitated. “I thought—”
“What?”
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Sometimes our worst premonitions are the least reliable.”
Revelations Page 29