Revelations ac-4

by Oliver Bowden

  Ezio noticed, to his astonishment, that every single one of them was empty.

  But he had no time to ponder the phenomenon, as his eye was drawn irresistibly to a huge oak desk on a high podium at the far end of the room, opposite the entrance. It was brightly lit from somewhere far above, and the light fell squarely on the tall figure seated at the desk.

  And Ezio did feel something like awe, for in his heart he knew immediately who it was. He approached with reverence, and when he drew near enough to touch the cowled figure in the chair, he fell to his knees.

  The figure was dead-he had been dead a long time. But the cloak, and white robes, were undamaged by the passage of centuries, and even in his stillness, the dead man radiated-something. Some kind of power-but no earthly power. Ezio, having made his obeisance, rose again. He did not dare lift the cowl to see the face, but he looked at the long bones of the skeletal hands stretched out on the surface of the desk, as if drawn to them. On the table, there was a pen, together with blank sheets of ancient parchment and a dried-up inkwell. Under the figure’s right hand lay a circular stone-not unlike the keys of the door, but more delicately wrought, and made, as Ezio thought, of the finest alabaster he had ever seen.

  “No books,” said Ezio into the silence. “No artifacts… Just you, fratello mio.” He laid a hand delicately on the dead man’s shoulder. They were in no way related by blood, but the ties of the Brotherhood bound them more strongly than those of family ever could have.

  “ Requiescat in Pace, O Altair.”

  He looked down, thinking he had caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. But there was nothing. Except that the stone on the desk was free of the hand that Ezio must have imagined had covered it. A trick of the light. No more.

  Ezio knew instinctively what he had to do. He struck a flint to light a candle stump in a stick on the desk to study the stone more closely. He put his own hand out and picked it up.

  The moment he had it in his hand, the stone began to glow.

  He raised it to his face as familiar clouds swirled, engulfing him …

  SEVENTY-SIX

  “You say Baghdad has been sacked?”

  “Yes, Father. Khan Hulagu’s Mongols have driven through the city like a conflagration. No one has been spared. He set up a wagon wheel and made the population file past it. Anyone whose head came higher than the wheel’s hub, he killed.”

  “Leaving only the young and malleable?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Hulagu is not a fool.”

  “He has destroyed the city. Burned all its libraries. Smashed the university. Killed all its intellectuals. Along with the rest. The city has never seen such a holocaust.”

  “And never will again, I pray.”

  “Amen to that, Father.”

  “I commend you, Darim. It is well you took the decision to sail to Alexandria. Have you seen to my books?”

  “Yes, Father-those we did not send with the Polo brothers, I have already sent to Latakia on wagons for embarkation.”

  Altair sat hunched by the open doorway of his great, domed library and archive. Empty now, swept clean. Clutched to him was a small wooden box. Darim had more sense than to ask his father what it was.

  “Good. Very good,” said Altair.

  “But there is one thing-one fundamental thing-that I do not understand,” said Darim. “Why did you build such a vast library and archive, over so many decades, if you did not intend to keep your books?”

  Altair waved an interrupting hand. “Darim, you know very well that I have long outlived my time. I must soon leave on a journey that requires no baggage at all. But you have answered your own question. What Hulagu did in Baghdad, he will do here. We drove them off once, but they will return, and when they do, Masyaf must be empty.”

  Darim noticed that his father hugged the small box even more tightly to his chest as he spoke, as if protecting it. He looked at Altair, so fragile as to seem made of parchment; but, inside, tough as vellum.

  “I see,” he said. “This is no longer a library then-but a vault.”

  His father nodded gravely.

  “It must stay hidden, Darim. Far from eager hands. At least until it has passed on the secret it contains.”

  “What secret?”

  Altair smiled, and rose. “Never mind. Go, my son. Go and be with your family, and live well.”

  Darim embraced him. “All that is good in me, began with you,” he said.

  They drew apart. Then, Altair stepped through the doorway. Once within, he braced himself, straining to pull a large lever just inside, up by the lintel. At last it moved and, having completed its arc, clicked into place. Slowly, a heavy green stone door rose from the floor to close the opening.

  Father and son watched each other wordlessly as the door came up. Darim tried hard to keep his self-control, but finally could not restrain his tears as the door enveloped his father in his living grave. At last he found himself looking at what was, to all intents and purposes, a blank surface, only the slight change of color distinguishing door from walls, that and the curious grooves cut into it.

  Beating his breast in grief, Darim turned and left.

  Who were Those Who Came Before? thought Altair, as he made his way unhurriedly down the long hallway that led to his great domed chamber underground. As he passed them, the torches on the walls lit his way, fueled by a combustible air that led to them from hidden pipes within the walls, ignited by sprung flints that operated as his weight triggered catches under the floor. They flared for minutes behind him, then went out again.

  What brought Them here? What drove Them out? And what of Their artifacts? What we have called Pieces of Eden? Messages in bottles? Tools left behind to aid and guide us? Or do we fight for control over Their refuse, giving divine purpose and meaning to little more than discarded toys?

  He shuffled on down the hall, clutching the box, his legs and arms aching with weariness.

  At last he gained the great, gloomy room, and crossed it without ceremony until he reached his desk. He reached it with the relief that a drowning man feels when he finds a spar to cling to in the sea.

  He sat down, placing the box carefully by him, well within reach, hardly liking to take his hands from it. He pulled paper, pen, and ink toward him, dipped the pen, but did not write. He thought instead of what he had written-something from his journal.

  The Apple is more than a catalogue of that which preceded us. Within its twisting, sparking interior I have caught glimpses of what will be. Such a thing should not be possible. Perhaps it isn’t. Maybe it is simply a suggestion. I contemplate the consequences of these visions: Are they images of things to come-or simply the potential for what might be? Can we influence the outcome? Dare we try? And, in so doing, do we merely ensure that which we’ve seen? I am torn-as always-between action and inaction-unclear as to which-if either-will make a difference. Am I even meant to make a difference? Still, I keep this journal. Is that not an attempt to change-or guarantee-what I have seen?…

  How naive to believe that there might be a single answer to every question. Every mystery. That there exists a lone, divine light that rules over everything. They say it is a light that brings truth and love. I say it is a light that blinds us-and forces us to stumble about in ignorance. I long for the day when men will turn away from invisible monsters, and once more embrace a more rational view of the world. But these new religions are so convenient-and promise such terrible punishment should one reject them-I worry that fear shall keep us stuck to what is truly the greatest lie ever told…

  The old man sat for a while in silence, not knowing whether he felt hope or despair. Perhaps he felt neither. Perhaps he had outgrown, or outlived, both. The silence of the great hall, and its gloom, protected him like a mother’s arms. But still he could not shut out his past.

  He pushed his writing materials from him and drew the box to him, placing both hands on it, guarding it-from what?

  Then it seemed that Al Mualim s
tood before him. His old Mentor. His old betrayer. Whom he had at last exposed and destroyed. But when the man spoke, it was with menace and authority:

  “In much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.” The ghost leaned forward, speaking now in an urgent whisper, close to Altair’s ear. “Destroy it! Destroy it as you said you would!”

  “I-I can’t!”

  Then another voice. One which caught at his heart as he turned to it. Al Mualim had disappeared. But where was she? He couldn’t see her!

  “You tread a thin line, Altair,” said Maria Thorpe. The voice was young, firm. As it had been when he’d met her, seven decades ago.

  “I have been ruled by curiosity, Maria. As terrible as this artifact is, it contains wonders. I would like to understand, as best I can.”

  “What does it tell you? What do you see?”

  “Strange visions and messages. Of those who came before, of their rise, and their fall…”

  “And what of us? Where do we stand?”

  “We are links in a chain, Maria.”

  “But what happens to us, Altair? To our family? What does the Apple say?”

  Altair replied, “Who were those who came before? What brought them here? How long ago?” But he was talking more to himself than to Maria, who broke in on his thoughts again:

  “Get rid of that thing!”

  “This is my duty, Maria,” Altair told his wife, sadly.

  Then she screamed, terribly. And the rattle in her throat followed, as she died.

  “Strength. Altair.” A whisper.

  “Maria! Where… where are you?” To the great hall he cried: “Where is she?” But the only answer was his echo.

  Then a third voice, itself distressed, though trying to calm him.

  “Father-she is gone. Don’t you remember? She is gone,” Darim said.

  A despairing howl: “Where is my wife?”

  “It has been twenty-five years, you old fool! She’s dead!” his son shouted at him angrily.

  “Leave me. Leave me to my work!”

  Softer, now: “Father-what is this place? What is it for?”

  “It is a library. And an archive. To keep safe all that I have learned. All that They have shown me.”

  “What have they shown you, Father?” A pause. “What happened at Alamut before the Mongols came? What did you find?”

  And then there was silence, and the silence covered Altair like a warm sky, and into it he said:

  “Their purpose is known to me now. Their secrets are mine. Their motives are clear. But this message is not for me. It is for another.”

  He looked at the box on the desk before him. I shall not touch that wretched thing again. Soon I shall pass from this world. It is my time. All the hours of the day are now colored by the thoughts and fears born of this realization. All the revelations that were ever to be vouchsafed me are done. There is no next world. Nor a return to this one. It will simply be-done. Forever.

  And he opened the box. In it, on a bed of brown velvet, lay the Apple. A Piece of Eden.

  I have let it be known that this Apple was first hidden in Cyprus, then lost at sea, dropped in the ocean… this Apple must not be discovered until it is time…

  He gazed at it for a moment, then rose and turned to a dark recess in the wall behind him. He pressed a lever, which opened a heavy door, covering a hidden alcove, in which stood a pedestal. Altair took the Apple from the box, a thing no bigger than a kickball, and transferred it quickly to the pedestal. He worked fast, before temptation could work on him, and pulled the lever again. The door over the alcove slid shut, snapping into place with finality. Altair knew that the lever would not operate again for two-and-a-half centuries. Time for the world to move on, perhaps. For him, though, temptation was over.

  He took his seat at his desk again, and took, from a drawer, a white alabaster disc. He lit a candle by him and took the disc in both hands, raising it close to his eyes, and closing them and concentrating, he began to imbue the alabaster with his thoughts-his testament.

  The stone glowed, lighting up his face for a long time. Then the glow faded, and it grew dark. All grew dark.

  Ezio turned the disc over and over in his hands under the candlelight. How he had come to learn what he now knew, he had no idea. But he felt a deep fellowship, a kinship, even, with the husk that sat at his side.

  He looked at Altair, incredulous. “Another artifact?” he said. “Another Apple?”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  He knew what to do, but he did it almost as if he were still in a dream. He placed the disc carefully back on the desktop and turned to the dark recess behind it. He knew where to look for the lever, and it gave immediately when he tugged gently at it. But as the door slid open, he gasped. I thought there was only one. The one Machiavelli and I buried forever in the vault under the church of San Nicola in Carcere. And now-its twin!

  He studied the Apple for a moment. It was dark and cold-lifeless. But he could feel his hand, as if independent of his will, reaching out for it.

  With a supreme effort, he stopped himself.

  “NO! You will stay HERE!”

  He took a step back.

  “I have seen enough for one lifetime!”

  He put his hand on the lever.

  But then the Apple flared into life, its light blinding him. He staggered back, turning, to see, in the center of the now-dazzlingly-lit chamber, the world-the world!-turning in space, twenty feet above the floor, a giant, vulgar ball of blue, brown, white, and green.

  “NO!” he yelled, hiding his eyes with his hands. “I have done enough! I have lived my life as best I could, not knowing its purpose, but drawn forward like a moth to a distant moon. No more!”

  Listen. You are a conduit for a message that is not for you to understand.

  Ezio had no idea where the voice was coming from, or whose it was. He took his hands from his eyes and placed them over his ears, turning to the wall, his body wrenched to and fro as if he were being beaten.

  And he was pulled round to face the room. Swimming in the air, filling the gaudy brightness, were trillions of numbers and icons, calculations and formulae, and words and letters, some jumbled, some thrown together to make occasional sense, but splitting again to give way to chaos. And from their midst the voice of an old man; old because from time to time it trembled. It was not without authority. It was the most powerful voice Ezio had ever heard.

  Do you hear me, cipher? Can you hear me?

  And then-something like a man, walking toward him as if from a great distance, walking through the swirling sea of all the symbols Man had ever used to try to make sense of it all; walking on air, on water, but not on land. But Ezio knew that the figure would never break free to reach him. They were on two sides of an unbridgeable abyss.

  Ah. There you are.

  The numbers around the figure shifted and pulsed. And started to flee from one another without being able to get free-in a kind of nightmarish entropy. But the figure became clearer. A man. Taller and broader than most men. Ezio was reminded of one of the statues of Greek gods Michelangelo had shown him when the Borgias’ collection had been seized by Pope Julius. An old god, though. Zeus or Poseidon. A full beard. Eyes that shone with an unearthly wisdom. Around him, the trailing digits and equations ceased to battle with one another and finally began to drift away, faster and faster, until they were gone, and the world was gone, and all that was left was this-man. What else was Ezio to call him?

  Jupiter. Jupiter is my name. I think you’ve met my sisters.

  Ezio looked at the creature but it was watching the very last trailing formulae as they scurried away through the ether.

  The voice when it next spoke seemed oddly human, a little unsure of itself.

  A strange place, this nexus of Time. I am not used to the… calculations. That has always been Minerva’s domain.

  He looked at Ezio quizzically. But there was something else-profound sadness, and a kind of
paternal pride.

  I see you still have many questions. Who were we? What became of us? What do we desire of you?

  Jupiter smiled.

  You will have your answers. Only listen and I will tell you.

  Light slowly drained from the entire room, and once again a ghostly, blue, revolving globe came into view directly behind Jupiter, and slowly grew in size until it occupied almost the entire chamber.

  Both before the end, and after, we sought to save the world.

  Small dots began appearing on the huge, revolving globe, one after another.

  These mark where we built vaults in which to work, each dedicated to a different manner of salvation.

  Ezio saw one of the dots among the many flash brightly. It was near the eastern seaboard of a vast continent he couldn’t imagine really existed, except that he knew that his friend Amerigo Vespucci had discovered a coastline there a decade earlier, and he had seen the Waldseemuller map depicting all the discovered world. But all that the map showed was farther south. Could there be more? A great land there? It seemed so unlikely.

  They were placed underground to avoid the war that raged above, and also as a precaution, should we fail in our efforts.

  And Ezio saw now that beams of light were beginning to stretch like lines across the slowing, spinning globe from all the other points marked on it to the one on the strange new continent, and went on until the entire world was crisscrossed with a filigree of lines of light.

  Each vault’s knowledge was transmitted to a single place…

  And then Ezio’s point of view seemed to change as he watched the great image of the world; and he seemed to plummet toward it, down through space, until it seemed as if he were about to crash into the ground, which rose to meet him, coming alarmingly close. But then-then it was as if he were lifted up, at the last moment, and was skimming along close to the ground, then down again, down through a shaft like a mineshaft until he emerged in an immense underground building, like a temple or a palace hall.