Revelations

by Oliver Bowden

  “Best cure for a cold,” said Ezio, sheepishly. “Has Niccolò arrived yet?”

  “He is right behind me,” she replied, adding drily, “I’d better bring you another bottle. This one, I see, is nearly empty.”

  “A writer needs his fuel.”

  Machiavelli had entered the room with the lack of ceremony he was entitled to as an old friend and a frequent guest. He took the cloth from Sofia.

  “Here, let me.” He wiped the glass, then the tabletop. Ezio watched him, a slightly sour look on his face.

  “I invited you here to drink, not clean up after me.”

  Machiavelli finished the job before he replied, with a smile, “I can do both. A tidy room and a good glass of wine are all a man needs to feel content.”

  Ezio laughed mockingly. “Rubbish! You sound like a character from one of your plays.”

  “You’ve never seen one of his plays,” put in Sofia, shaking her head.

  Ezio was embarrassed. “Well, I can imagine.”

  “Can you? Then why not put that imagination to work? Why don’t you buckle down and get on with this?” He indicated the neglected manuscript.

  “We’ve been over this, Niccolò. I don’t write. I’m a father, a husband, a winemaker. I’m quite happy with that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Sofia had fetched a fresh bottle of the red, and placed it by them, with two clean glasses, clean napkins, and a basket of pandiramerino. “I’ll leave you two to discuss literature together,” she said. “Once I’ve helped Andrea get the children to bed, I’ve got some writing of my own to do.”

  “What’s that?” asked Machiavelli.

  “Never you mind,” she said. “I’ll just wait to see what you think of the wine. He’s been fretting about it. Through several bottles.”

  “She’ll get her book finished well before you do yours,” said Machiavelli.

  “Never mind that,” said Ezio. “Taste this. Last year’s harvest. A disaster.”

  “If you ask for my judgment, you shall have it.”

  He sipped the wine Ezio had poured him, rolled it round his mouth, savoring it, and swallowed.

  “It’s delicious.” He smiled. “Sangiovese again—or have you changed?”

  Sofia’s face broke into a grin, as she rubbed Ezio’s shoulder. “You see?” she said.

  “A blend,” said Ezio, pleased. “But mainly my old Sangiovese. I didn’t really think it was all that bad. My grapes are the best.”

  “Of course they are.” Machiavelli took another deep draft. Ezio smiled, though Sofia noticed that his hand went to his chest surreptitiously, to massage it.

  “Come on,” said Ezio. “There’s still some light in the sky. I’ll show you . . .”

  They went outside and walked down the avenue leading to the vineyards.

  “Trebbiano for the white,” Ezio said, waving his hand at a row of vines. “You must have some with dinner. We’re getting tonno al cartoccio. Serena’s specialty.”

  “I love the way she cooks tuna,” Machiavelli replied. He looked around. “You’ve done well, Ezio. Leonardo would have been proud to see what you have cultivated here.”

  “Only because I’m using the tools he gave me,” Ezio said, laughing. “He’d be jealous. I sell twice as much wine as he ever does from his vineyards in Porta Verci-nella. Still, he should never have sent that rascal Salai back from Amboise to run the place.” Then he paused. “What do you mean—he would have been proud?”

  Machiavelli’s face grew grave. “I’ve had a letter. It’s to both of us actually but it takes forever for the post to get out here to Fiesole. Look, Ezio. He’s not too well. He’d like to see us.”

  Ezio squared his shoulders. “When do we start?” he said.

  They reached the Clos Lucé, the manor house near the château at Amboise which King Francis had given Leonardo as part of the package of his patronage, in late April. The Loire flowed at an easy pace, the banks of its brown waters crowded with trees in new leaf.

  They rode through the gates of the manor, down an avenue lined with cypress trees, to be met by a manservant. Leaving their horses in the care of an ostler, they followed the manservant into the house. In a large, airy room, its open windows overlooking the park to the rear, lay Leonardo on a chaise longue, dressed in a yellow brocade gown and half-covered by a bearskin rug. His long white hair and beard were straggly, and he had gone bald on top, but his eyes still shone brightly, and he half rose to greet them.

  “My dear friends—I am so glad you have come! Etienne! Bring us wine and cakes.”

  “You’re not supposed to have cakes. Let alone wine.”

  “Look here—who pays your wages? Never mind—don’t answer that. The same man that pays mine, I know! Just—do as you’re told!”

  The manservant bowed, and left, soon to return with a tray, which he placed ceremoniously on a nearby polished table before taking his leave again. But as he did so, he bowed once more, and said to Leonardo’s guests: “You must forgive the disorder. It’s our way.”

  Machiavelli and Ezio shared a smile. The polished table and the gleaming tray were an island in a rough sea of chaos. Leonardo’s habits hadn’t changed.

  “How are things, old friend?” asked Ezio, taking a seat near the artist.

  “I can’t complain, but I’m interested in moving on,” Leonardo said, trying to make his voice sound stronger than it was.

  “What do you mean?” said Ezio, concerned that his friend was using some kind of euphemism.

  “I’m not talking about dying,” said Leonardo, irritably. “I’m talking about England. Their new king’s very interested in building up his navy. I’d like to get over there and sell him my submarine. The Venetians never did pay me, you know.”

  “They never built it.”

  “That’s beside the point!”

  “Don’t you have enough to occupy your mind here?” asked Machiavelli.

  Leonardo gave him an outraged look. “If you can call creating a mechanical lion occupying my mind!” he snapped. “That was my liege lord’s last commission. I ask you—a mechanical lion, that walks along and roars, and as a finale, his breast opens and reveals a basket of lilies!” he snorted. “Good enough in itself, I suppose; but to demand such a gewgaw of me! Me! The inventor of flying machines, and tanks!”

  “And parachutes,” added Ezio, softly.

  “Did it come in handy?”

  “Very handy.”

  “Good.” Leonardo waved a hand toward the tray. “Help yourselves. But not me.” His voice fell a little. “Etienne’s right—the most I can stomach these days is warm milk.”

  They were silent. Then Machiavelli said, “Do you paint still?”

  Leonardo grew sad. “I’d like to . . . But somehow I’ve lost the force. Can’t seem to finish things anymore. But I’ve left Salai the Gioconda in my will. It might help him out in his old age. I think Francis would love to buy it. Mind you, I wouldn’t give you tuppence for it myself. Not my best work, not by far. I prefer the thing I did of dear little Salai as John the Baptist . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked into the middle distance, at nothing. “That dear boy. Such a pity I had to let him go. I miss him so much. But he was wretched here. He’s better off looking after the vineyards.”

  “I tend vines myself, these days,” said Ezio, softly.

  “I know! Good for you. Much more sensible for a man of your age than running around hacking off the heads of Templars.” Leonardo paused. “I’m afraid they will always be with us, whatever we do. Perhaps it’s better to bow to the inevitable.”

  “Never say that!” cried Ezio.

  “Sometimes we have no choice,” Leonardo replied sadly.

  There was silence again, then Machiavelli said, “What’s this talk of wills, Leonardo?”

  Leonardo looked at him. “Oh, Niccolò. What’s the point of pretense? I’m dying. That’s why I asked you to come. We three have been through so much. I wanted to say goodbye.”

&
nbsp; “I thought you had plans to visit King Henry of England?”

  “He’s a bullish young puppy, and I’d like to,” Leonardo replied. “But I won’t. I can’t. This room is the last place I’ll ever see. And the trees outside. Full of birds, you know, especially now it’s spring again.” He lay silent for so long, without moving, that the two friends looked at each other in alarm. But then Leonardo stirred. “Did I nod off?” he asked. “I shouldn’t. I don’t have time for sleep. Be getting enough of that, soon enough.”

  Then he was silent again. He was asleep once more.

  “We’ll come back tomorrow,” Ezio said gently. He and Machiavelli rose and made for the door.

  “Come back tomorrow!” Leonardo’s voice stopped them in their tracks. “We’ll talk some more.”

  They turned to him as he raised himself on one elbow. The bearskin fell from his knees, and Machiavelli stooped to replace it.

  “Thank you, Niccolò.” Leonardo looked at them. “I’ll tell you a secret. All my life—while I thought I was learning to live, I have simply been learning how to die.”

  They were with him a week later, when he breathed his last, in the small hours of May 2. But he no longer knew them. He was already gone.

  “A rumor’s already going around,” said Machiavelli, as they rode sadly homeward, “that King Francis cradled his head in his arms as he died.”

  Ezio spat. “Some people—even kings—will do anything for publicity,” he said.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  The seasons revolved four more times. Little Flavia had turned ten; Marcello was approaching his ninth birthday. Ezio could not believe that he had reached the age of sixty-four. Time seemed to speed up more relentlessly, the less you had left of it, he thought. But he tended his vines and enjoyed it, and still, as Machiavelli and Sofia endlessly pressed him to, continued with his memoir. He had reached Chapter XXIV already!

  He still trained, too, despite the nagging cough that had never quite left him. But he had long since handed his Assassin’s weapons over to Ariosto. There was no news from Rome or Constantinople, or indeed from Erasmus in Rotterdam, to give him any cause for anxiety, though the predicted split in the Church had occurred, with young Luther at the forefront of the Reformation in the north; and new wars threatened the world once again. Ezio could only watch and wait. Old habits died hard, he thought. And he’d become enough of a countryman to be able to catch the scent of a storm.

  It was afternoon, and he looked from his verandah across his vineyards to the south, where he could see three figures on a carriage, silhouetted on the skyline. He did not recognize them, and it was too far away to see what manner of people they were, though he saw that their unfamiliar headgear marked them as foreigners. But they did not stop. He guessed they hoped to make Florence by dusk.

  He went back into the villa and made for his room. His den. He had the shutters drawn there to help him concentrate. An oil lamp was burning on a desk scattered with papers. His day’s literary efforts. He seated himself reluctantly, put on his glasses, and read what he had written, grimacing slightly. The battle with the Wolfmen! How could he have failed to make that interesting?

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” he said, not displeased to be interrupted.

  The door opened halfway, and Sofia stood there though she did not enter.

  “I’m taking Marcello into town,” she said cheerily.

  “What—to see Niccolò’s latest?” said Ezio, looking up from his reading and not really paying attention to her. “I shouldn’t have though Mandragola was a suitable play for an eight-year-old.”

  “Ezio, Machiavelli’s play closed three weeks ago. Besides, I’m not going to Florence, just to Fiesole.”

  “I missed his play? He’ll be furious.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine about it. He knows you’ve got your head down. We’ll be back soon. Keep an eye on Flavia, will you? She’s playing in the garden.”

  “Of course. I’m fed up with this anyway. I think I’ll do some pruning instead.”

  “I must say it’s a pity to waste such a glorious afternoon cooped up in here.” She gave him a slight look of concern. “Some fresh air would do you good.”

  “I’m not an invalid!”

  “Of course you aren’t, amore. I was just thinking . . .” She gestured toward the crumpled pages scattered over the desk. Ezio pointedly dipped his quill and drew a blank sheet toward him.

  “A presto! Be safe.”

  Sofia closed the door softly. Ezio wrote a few words and stopped, scowling at the page.

  He put down his quill, took off his glasses, and crumpled the page into a ball. Then he stalked from the room. He did need some fresh air.

  He went to his toolshed and collected a pair of secateurs and a trug. Then he made his way across the garden toward the nearest row of vines. He looked idly around for Flavia but he could see no sign of her. He wasn’t unduly worried. She was a sensible girl.

  He was halfway to the vineyard when he heard a sudden noise from a nearby shrubbery. Flavia in peals of laughter. She had ambushed him!

  “Flavia, tesoro—stay where I can see you!”

  There was more laughter as the bush shook. Then Flavia peeked out. Ezio smiled, shaking his head.

  Just then, his attention was caught by someone on the road. He looked up, and, in the far distance, he saw a figure dressed in oddly colored, motley garb. But the sun was behind it, and too bright for him to make it out completely. He held his hand up to shield his eyes, but when he looked again, the figure had disappeared.

  He wiped his brow and made his way across to his vines.

  A little later, he was deep in the vineyard, pruning the Trebbiano grapes. They didn’t really need it, but it gave him something to do while his mind beavered away at the problem of recounting the story of his fight, long ago in Rome, with the group of fanatics who’d called themselves the Sons of Remus. The vines brushed his elbows as he worked. He stopped to examine a bunch of grapes, and he plucked one from the cluster. He examined it, rolling it around. He squeezed it, crushing it, and saw that it was juicy. He smiled, and ate the mangled grape, cleaning his fingers on his coarse linen tunic.

  He wiped his brow again, satisfied. A breeze blew up, making the vine leaves rustle. He took a deep breath, scenting the warm air, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  Then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

  He opened his eyes and made his way fast to the edge of the vines, looking in the direction of the villa. There, on the road by it, he saw Flavia, talking to the oddly clothed person he’d seen earlier. The figure wore a peaked hood.

  He hurried toward them, his secateurs held like a dagger. The wind freshened, bearing his warning cries away. He broke into a jog, wheezing with the effort. His chest hurt. But he had no time to worry about that. The figure was bending down, toward his daughter.

  “Leave her alone!” he shouted, stumbling on.

  The figure heard him then, turning its head, but keeping it lowered. At the same moment, Flavia plucked something, which she’d evidently been offered, from its hand.

  Ezio was nearly upon them. The figure drew itself erect, head still low. Ezio hurled his secateurs at it, as if they were a throwing knife, but they fell short and clattered harmlessly to the ground.

  Ezio drew up to them. “Flavia! Go inside!” he commanded, keeping the fear out of his voice.

  Flavia looked at him in surprise. “But, Papa—she’s nice.”

  Ezio stepped between his daughter and the stranger, and took the person by the coat lapels. The stranger’s head came up, and Ezio saw the face of a young Chinese woman. He released her, taken aback.

  The child held up a small oval coin with a square hole at its center for him to see. The writing on it—if it was writing—looked strange. Pictograms. A Chinese qián.

  The Chinese woman remained motionless, silent. Ezio, still tense, looked at her closely. He was breathing heavi
ly, winded, but his mind was razor-sharp.

  Then he saw that at her neck she wore a familiar emblem.

  The emblem of the Brotherhood of the Assassins.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Later, when Sofia had returned, the three of them sat talking in the villa while the children watched curiously from the top of the staircase. Ezio was being as hospitable as he possibly could to his unexpected guest, but he was adamant.

  “I don’t know what else to say, Shao Jun. I am so sorry.”

  The Chinese woman did not reply, but she was not angry. She was very calm.

  “I am very sorry. But I cannot help you. I don’t want any part of this.”

  Shao Jun raised her eyes to meet his. “I want to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “How to lead. How to rebuild my Order.”

  He sighed, now slightly annoyed. “No. For me, that is over. Finito.” He paused. “Now, I think you should go.”

  “Ezio, think!” Sofia scolded him. “Shao Jun has come a long way.” She turned to their guest. “Did I pronounce your name correctly?”

  Jun nodded.

  “Will you stay for dinner?”

  Ezio gave his wife a black look and turned to face the fireplace.

  “Grah-zie,” said Jun, in hesitant Italian.

  Sofia smiled. “Good. And we have a bedroom already made up. You are welcome to stay for a few nights—or as long as you like.”

  Ezio growled but said nothing. Sofia left in the direction of the kitchens, while Ezio slowly turned and observed his guest. Shao Jun sat quietly, but she was completely self-possessed. She surveyed the room.

  “I’ll be back before dark,” he told her in a bad-tempered voice.

  He stormed out, throwing his manners to the wind. Jun watched him go, a subtle smile on her lips.

  Once outside, Ezio took refuge in his vineyard.