Assassin's Creed: Revelations (40 page)

Ezio missed him when he wasn’t there, though he didn’t take kindly to his old friend’s sometimes acerbic comments on his frequently-put-off attempts to write a memoir. The
raccolto
of 1518 had not been good, and Ezio had caught some kind of chest infection—which he ignored—that had dragged on throughout the winter.

Early one evening, near the beginning of the following spring, Ezio sat alone by the fire in his dining hall, a glass of his own red by him. He had pen and paper, and he was trying to make a start, for the umpteenth time, on Chapter XVI, but he found recollection far less interesting than action, and after a while, as always, he impatiently pushed the manuscript away. Reaching for his glass, he was overcome by a fit of painful coughing, knocking it over. It fell with a terrible clatter, spilling wine all over the olive-wood surface of his table, but it did not break. He stood to retrieve it as it rolled toward the edge of the table, and righted it, as Sofia came in, attracted by the noise.

“Are you all right,
amore
?”

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry about the mess. Hand me a cloth.”

“Forget the cloth. You need rest.”

Ezio groped for a chair as Sofia stood by his side, easing him down. “Sit,” she commanded, gently. As he did so, she picked up the unlabeled bottle, small towel wrapped round its neck, and checked the level of wine left in it.

“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.”

“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.”