Assassin's Creed: Revelations (42 page)

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 lunging 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.”

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 your 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.

In a moment, Sofia was by his side.

“You should have stayed at home.”

He smiled at her. “I am home.”

“Sit down, here.” She indicated a nearby bench. “Wait for us. We’ll be right over there. Only take a minute or two.”

He nodded, watching her rejoin the children and wander off a little farther down the street. He made himself comfortable, letting the pain subside.

He watched the people walking to and fro, going about their daily business. He felt pleased and enjoyed watching them. He breathed in the smells of the market as it broke up around him. He listened to the sound the traders made.

“I love it here,” he said to himself. Home. Home at last.

His reverie was interrupted by the peevish voice of a young Italian who plumped himself down on the bench near him. The young man was talking, apparently, to himself. He didn’t look at Ezio.

“
Al diavolo!
I hate this damn city. I wish I were in Rome! I hear the women there are . . . mmm . . . like ripe Sangiovese on the vine, you know? Not like here.
Firenze!
” He spat on the ground.

Ezio looked at him. “I don’t think Florence is your problem,” he remarked, pained at what the young man had said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Ezio was about to reply, but the pain seized him again, and he winced, and started to gasp. The young man turned to him. “Steady, old man.”

He grabbed Ezio’s wrist as Ezio caught his breath. Looking down at the hand that held him, Ezio thought the grip was uncommonly strong, and there was something strange, almost familiar, about the man’s expression. But he was probably imagining it all. He shook his head to clear it.

The young man looked at Ezio closely, and smiled. Ezio returned the look.

“Get some rest, eh?” the young man said.

He rose to his feet and walked away. Ezio nodded in belated agreement, watching him go. Then he leaned back, seeking Sofia in the thinning crowd. And saw her at a stall, buying vegetables. And there beside her were Flavia and Marcello, baiting each other, playing together.

He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. His breathing calmed. The young man was right. He should get some rest . . .

 

 

Sofia was packing the vegetables she’d bought into a basket when something cold crept into her heart. She looked up, then around, back to where Ezio sat. There was something about the way he was sitting.

Confused, not wanting to admit what she feared to herself, she put a hand to her mouth and hurried across to him, leaving the children playing where they were.

As she got closer, she slowed her pace, looking at him. She sat down by his side, taking his hand. And then she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his hair.

One or two people looked in their direction, then one or two more, with concern; but otherwise, life in the street went on.

NINETY-TWO

Much later that day, back home, and having sent Machiavelli away, Sofia took herself into the den. The children were in bed. She didn’t think what had happened had sunk in for them, yet.

In the den, the fire had gone out. She lit a candle. She walked to the desk and picked up the neatly stacked sheaf of papers, tied with a ribbon, that lay on it. And she began to read: