EIGHTY-SIX
Ezio was in the children’s room, watching their sleeping figures by candlelight. He stepped up to the window and locked it. He sat on the edge of Flavia’s bed, watching her and Marcello with a heavy heart. They looked so peaceful—so angelic.
Suddenly, the room got a little brighter as Sofia entered, holding another candle. He looked up at her and smiled. She smiled back and sat at the foot of Marcello’s bed.
Ezio said nothing for a moment.
“Are you all right?” she asked, a little timidly.
He looked down at his children again, lost in thought. “I can’t seem to leave my past behind me,” he muttered. Then he turned his gaze to his wife. “I started this act of my life so late, Sofia. I knew I wouldn’t have time to do everything . . . But now I worry that I won’t have time to do anything.”
Her eyes were sad but full of understanding.
They heard a faint creaking from above and looked toward the ceiling.
“What is she doing on the roof?” Ezio muttered.
“Leave her be,” said Sofia.
Above them, Shao Jun stood on the red tiles high up near the chimneys. She had taken up a pose that was something between an Assassin attack position and simply that of someone relaxing and enjoying herself. She scanned the moonlit countryside as the night wind whispered around her.
The next day, Ezio emerged from the villa early, to grey skies. He glanced up at the roof, but, though the window of her room was open, there was no sign of Shao Jun.
He called her name, but there was no answer. He went to give orders to his foreman, for the time of the vendange was approaching, and he prayed for a good harvest this year—the grapes certainly promised it, and the summer weather had been favorable. The veraison had been good, too, but he wanted to double-check the sugar and acid levels in the grapes before picking. Then he’d send the foreman into Fiesole and as far as Florence if need be, to recruit the seasonal labor they’d need. It was going to be a busy time, and it was one that Ezio looked forward to every year—lots of physical activity and little time to think about anything else. Shao Jun’s arrival had thrown the hard-won security he enjoyed off track. He resented it. He found himself hoping that she had left before dawn.
Once he had finished his meeting with his foreman, he felt an irresistible impulse to return to the villa to see if his prayer had been answered. Somehow, he doubted it, but there was no one about when he entered the house. Grimly, following some instinct that hollowed his stomach, he made his way to his den.
He stopped short at the door. It was open. He swept into the room and discovered the Chinese woman standing behind his desk—still littered with discarded notes and pages from the days before—and reading part of the completed manuscript.
Ezio fell into a red rage. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out!”
She put down the sheaf of papers she was reading from and looked at him calmly. “The wind—it opened the door.”
“Fuori!”
Jun walked quickly past him and out of the room. He made his way quickly to the desk and shuffled the papers around, picking up one that caught his eye and reading from it. Then, unimpressed, he tossed it back on the pile and turned from the desk to stare blankly out the window. He could see Jun out there, in the yard, her back to him, apparently waiting.
His shoulders slumped. After a few more minutes’ hesitation, he left the den and made his way out to her.
She was sitting on a low stone wall. He approached her, coughing lightly in the keen October wind.
She turned. “Duìbùqĭ—I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.”
“It was.” He paused. “I think you should leave.”
She sat silently for a moment, then, without warning, she quoted: “ ‘My name is Ezio Auditore. When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it; I had time, but I did not know it; and I had love, but I did not feel it. It would be thirty long years before I understood the meaning of all three.’ ” She paused. “That is beautiful,” she said.
Ezio was stunned. He stared past Jun, reflecting. In the distance, they could hear the jingling of a horse’s reins.
“I want to understand, like you do,” Jun went on. “To help my people.”
Ezio looked at her with a friendlier eye. “I was an Assassin for a long time, Jun. And I know that at any moment, someone could come for me. Or my family.” He paused. “Do you see? That is why I must be careful.”
She nodded, and he could see that she almost felt sorry for him. He looked toward his vineyards. “I should be starting to hire people to help me with the vendange, but . . .”
He trailed off. Jun tilted her head, listening.
“Come inside. Let’s get something to eat.”
She slid off the wall and followed him.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
The market in the great square southwest of the cathedral was as busy as ever. Merchants, businessmen, servants, and peasants jostled each other in a more or less friendly way as they passed between the stalls. Jun stood under one side of the surrounding colonnade, watching the bustle as Ezio, nearby, haggled in the cold sunlight with a stallholder over the price of a grape picker’s basket. Jun was rapt, absorbing the sights and sounds of Florence. She stared openly at people just as openly as people stared at her. She was unbothered.
Ezio completed his purchase and came over, tapping her on the shoulder. “I’ll be lucky if this lasts three seasons,” he said. She looked at him as he showed her the basket, unsure what she should be looking for to judge its quality. Ezio realized this, with a smile.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
They moved through the crowds in the direction of the Piazza della Signoria, and once there sat down on a bench near the loggia, watching the people come and go, all brightly clad, except for those dressed in expensive black silks and velvets.
“Who are they?” asked Jun.
“They are the bankers,” Ezio replied. “It’s a kind of uniform, so that they can recognize each other—but it has another advantage—we can see them coming!”
Jun smiled uncertainly.
“It’s nice, no?” Ezio continued. “Full of life!”
“Yes.”
“But not always. Half my family was murdered in this piazza. Executed. Right here. Forty-five years ago. I was nineteen.”
He closed his eyes briefly at the memory, then went on: “But now, to see it like this, so piena di vita, I can’t help but feel content. And satisfied that so much pain has faded away.” He looked at her earnestly. “The life of an Assassin is pain, Jun. You suffer it, and you inflict it. You watch it happen—all in the hope that you can help it disappear, in time. It’s terribly ironical, I know. But there it is.”
They sat in silence for a while. Jun seemed watchful. Then Ezio saw her tense at something. Something she had noticed in the crowd. A flash of a certain color? A uniform perhaps? One of the Signoria guards? But the moment passed, and he let it go.
“All right,” he said, rising. “Time to drag this old man back to his villa.”
She joined him, and they left, crossing the square and taking the street, so familiar to Ezio, which ran east, just to the north of the Palazzo.
Jun kept casting backward glances.
The street they’d reached was considerably emptier of people, and finally, as they moved along it, they were alone. Suddenly, Ezio heard a noise Jun did not. He turned his head quickly.
He took a backward leap, raising his basket to shield Jun, and in the nick of time—a thrown dagger embedded itself in it. Barely a second later, someone landed Ezio a savage kick in the gut. He staggered backward and fell against a stone wall.
Meanwhile, Jun had reacted with lightning speed. She was already standing between Ezio and his assailant—another Chinese woman, similarly dressed to Jun, but stripped down to combat tunic and trousers.
The two women circled each other, almost balleti-cally, slowly, then lungi
ng at each other like striking snakes, landing slicing blows with the edges of their hands, or kicking so fast that Ezio could barely follow the movement.
But he could see that Jun was getting the worst of it. He sprang forward and struck her attacker on the head with the basket, sending her sprawling.
She lay prone, motionless. Jun stepped forward.
“Jun! She’s faking it!”
At the same moment the mysterious woman was back on her feet, falling on Jun with another knife raised. They both fell to the ground, rolling in the dust, fighting with the ferocity and the vicious agility of cats, their limbs and bodies moving so fast that they became blurred.
Then a sudden scream. The assailant broke free, her own knife buried in her chest, just above the sternum. She tottered sideways for a moment, then keeled over, striking her head on a flint buttress, and was still. This time she was not faking.
Ezio looked round. No one in sight.
He grabbed Jun’s hand.
“Come on!” he said through clenched teeth.
As they rode home in Ezio’s carriage, Jun began to explain. Ezio realized that she might have done so earlier if he’d given her the chance. He listened grimly as she told her tale.
“It was my Mentor’s wish to meet you. We left China together, in secret. But we were followed. They caught up with us in Venice. They took my master prisoner there. He bade me flee, complete our mission. I did not see him again.”
“Who are they?”
“Servants of Zhu Huocong—the Jiajing Emperor. A young man, scarcely more than a boy, and not born to rule, but fate gave him the throne, and he controls us with a ruthless and bloody hand.” She paused. “I was born a concubine, but my Mentor freed me when I was young. We returned later to save more girls, but they were—” She paused. “The emperor thought that if he drank their monthly blood it would give him eternal life.” She broke off, swallowing hard before mustering her self-control, with an effort, and continuing:
“Jiajing is a cruel man. He kills all who oppose him, and he prefers ling chi to beheading.”
“Ling chi?”
Jun made several slicing motions across her palm. “Slow process. Many thousand cuts. Then—dead.”
Ezio’s face set like granite. He whipped his horses on.
EIGHT Y-EIGHT
Sofia was in Ezio’s den, stoking a fresh fire, when she heard the carriage tear up to the front of the house. Alarmed, she rose quickly to her feet. A moment later, Ezio burst in, closely followed by Shao Jun. He rushed to the window and closed the shutters, bolting them. Then he turned to his wife.
“Pack some bags. They are putting fresh horses to the coach. Some of our men will go with you.”
“What—?”
“You must stay at Machiavelli’s tonight.”
“What’s happened?”
“A misunderstanding.”
Sofia looked from him to Jun, who lowered her eyes, embarrassed at having brought her troubles to their door.
“Give me a moment,” she said.
Soon afterward, she and the children were installed in the carriage. Ezio stood at its door.
They looked at each other. Both wanted to say something, but no words came.
Ezio stepped back and nodded to the coachman. He cracked the reins, and the horses moved forward into the gathering gloom.
As they gathered pace, Sofia leaned from the window and blew him a kiss. He raised his arm in farewell, then, without waiting to watch them out of sight, returned to the villa and closed and locked the door.
EIGHT Y-NINE
Ezio and Jun sat facing each other on wooden benches, drawn up in front of a roaring fire. Waiting.
“When I first fought the Borgia, it was revenge that drove me, and my first impulse was to aim for the head,” Ezio was telling her. “In time, however, I learned that those who inspire fear have more devoted followers than those who preach love. Killing Rodrigo and Cesare would have achieved nothing if I had not been able to replace their reign of terror with one that involved some measure of fraternity.” He paused in thought. “So I spent many years teaching men and women to think and act for themselves. First in Rome, then among our Brotherhood in Constantinople.”
“I long to read of your deeds. You must finish your book.”
“The important thing to realize is this: Love binds our Order together; love of people, of cultures, of the world.” He was silent again for a moment. “Fight to preserve that which inspires hope, and you will win back your people, Shao Jun.”
Jun stared into the flames, thinking, as the grand scope of her future widened in her imagination. “It will take a long, long time,” she said quietly, at last.
“But if you do it right, it will happen.”
Jun took a deep breath and straightened up, a determined expression on her face. She looked across at Ezio and nodded. He leaned across and patted her on the shoulder.
“Get some rest,” he said.
She rose and bowed slightly, then left the room.
Ezio turned to the fire, its glow reddening his face.
Deep in the night, disturbed by stealthy sounds outside, Ezio made his way to the kitchens. From high in the sky, the moon shone through the barred windows. Ezio approached the knife blocks and pulled several knives out, testing them for balance. Not satisfied, he put them back and cast around for some other weapon. An iron ladle? No. A chopping board? No. A poker, perhaps? Yes! He went over to the stove and picked one out, three feet long and made of heavy steel. He tested it, making two or three practice passes with it.
He tensed at a noise from above. Seconds later, a body dropped past the window. Ezio saw Jun land in a crouch, then bolt into the night. He made for the door and unlocked it, flinging it open.
There was a Chinese man there, poised for attack, who instantly lunged at him with a dao. Ezio stepped back and slammed the door on the man’s arm, smashing the radius and ulna, and the sword dropped from his hand, as the Chinese howled in agony. Ezio threw the door open again and brought the poker down hard on the man’s head, splitting the skull. He jumped over the corpse and dashed outside.
He soon found Jun, engaged in combat with three attackers. It was going badly for her, but he’d arrived in time to turn the tide, and the servants of the Jiajing Emperor retreated in the direction of the vineyard.
There, they took a stand. Jun, fighting with only her fists and feet, took one of their opponents out almost immediately, as Ezio brought down a second with his poker, ramming its point squarely into his attacker’s face. But the third Chinese managed to knock the poker from his grasp, and it was only by reaching out fast for a wooden dowel, which he plucked from the vines, that he managed to regain his advantage, beating the man to the ground, then striking him hard on the nape of the neck, crushing the cervical vertebrae.
It was over. Ezio collapsed on the gentle slope where his vines were planted, exhausted but uninjured. He caught Jun’s eye and tried to laugh, but his laughter turned into a wheezing cough.
“I sound like a dying cat,” he said.
“Come on, I’ll help you.”
She helped him to his feet, and, together, they returned to the villa.
NINETY
They were awake long before break of day. The morning was cool. Some watery sunlight found its way through the haze.
Shao Jun stood in the road, her pack on her back. Staring into the distance, she was ready to depart. She seemed lost in thought, and only turned when Ezio approached from the villa. His breathing was still labored and heavy.
He came up to her. “It is long way home, no?”
“But there is much to see along the way. Dashi, xièxiè nin—Thank you, Mentor.” She bowed slightly.
Ezio was carrying something. A small, ancient box. He held it out to her. “Here. This may be of use one day.”
Jun took it and turned it in her hands. Then she began to open it, but Ezio stopped her.
“No,” he said. “Only if you lose you
r way.”
She nodded and packed it away. Ezio squinted past Jun, peering up the road. He saw the banners of approaching soldiers.
“You should go,” he said.
Jun followed his gaze, nodded, and set off, toward the vineyards that grew on the other side of the road. Ezio watched her as she made her way quickly over the brow of a nearby hill.
The soldiers rode up soon afterward, and Ezio greeted them. When he looked in Jun’s direction once more, she had disappeared.
A few weeks later, the harvest done, and Marcello’s ninth birthday behind them, he was back in his den, trying to write again. He had made good progress this time. He stared at the last blank sheet in front of him, then dipped his quill and scribbled a few words, concentrating hard. He read them back, and smiled. Then he dropped his quill as a shooting pain in his chest caught him off guard.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” he said, collecting himself and replacing the quill in its stand by the inkwell.
Sofia entered the room.
“Just taking the kids down to Fiesole. We’ll be back just after dark.”
“Good.”
“Market day tomorrow. Are you coming with us?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She closed the door behind her. Ezio sat brooding for a moment, then, satisfied, began gathering the papers on his desk, stacking them neatly, and tying a ribbon round them.
NINETY-ONE
The next day was fine and fresh. They had stayed in Florence for lunch, and Sofia was bent on making just a few more purchases before the journey home. Ezio, walking down the street a few paces behind his wife and children, suddenly winced as a fit of coughing took him. He leaned against a wall for support.
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