Oliver Bowden: Revelations

“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, Niccolo.” 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.

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 Niccolo’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.