In Fragmented Memoriam

9th Dicembre, 1496;

The life of a monk is not one I thought I would live.

Here I sit, in my third year of isolation, and two since my dim-witted friend was called for the marriage hearse. I have spent it all in meditation, with only the memories of my family to keep me warm at night.

The time has served me well. I even thought I could bear to see my face in a reflection, and though I could not bring myself to look, it is the closest I have come to something near peace. I now think of my father – of Maestro Leonardo da Vinci, and how he has fared in my absence.

The terrible secrets he held, the confessions he had on his tongue during my childhood – has he found an outlet for them? Has my time in isolation brought him sadness, or has he too reflected on our lives? I hold a piece of Eden still; my uncle Ezio knows not, nor my grand-uncle and his confidant Mario, and if I were to appear now, after three years of absence, with it in my hand, is it not reasonable that they would be suspicious?

O, I mourn still those years wasted with the assassins. Is it not my curse never to be free of them? If I flee, the memories damn me – if I stay, the deeds. I yearn to see my father and ask him, ask him how I can cleanse myself and reverse time to a place more innocent, and he and I could count the stars and map the constellations once more.

The meditation has made me more melancholy. The conversations I had with my friend were my respite, and when he was called up it was lost. I have not spoken in two years. I have forgotten my voice.

Is my beautiful Isabella well? Has she and my dear Benvolio prospered since we were parted? I count, and I realise my boy is nearing his fourth birthday – and I cannot share it with him, cannot hold him, for he is not mine to hold. Is this my sentence, Lord? Is this your wrath, or are you even there? Men are doomed, praying to gods for love and happiness, and those same gods will see them burn for the slightest offence. I can recite Sodom, can tell you of Noah, but ask me how and why a God will justify the death of so many innocents and I will fall flat.

The piece. I must remember the piece. I will tell you why I have opened this journal, after so long leaving it to sit; I make my journey today. Sfortunato, ho paura, ma il mio viaggio ancora. There are satchels around me, in this little makeshift hut I have called home, that I have packed and prepared for the trip to Tuscany. It is necessary I take them all. For one, dear Journal, holds the piece of Eden.

It came to me when I was a child, sitting on the sill of my window one sleepless night. I heard Mario whispering to Niccolò, and he said that no Eden piece should be kept in chains – that the assassins would hold it and, if such a time came when people could be educated in their use, release them to the general population. Machiavelli demanded his word that it would be safe. Mario gave it to him.

It was my uncle who had brought my prozio the piece; he put it in a safe, warning the servants never to come near, and left it there. I was a fool to take it. I thought perhaps I could unlock its secrets and end this mad war. I hid it later in my cloak, then my safe in Venezia, and took it with me when I attended Ettore's dinner. How foolish I was! How stupid, how dangerous, how reckless! If that Templar dog had discovered what I held and taken it with my weapons, would I be responsible for the world's end? Would it be thousands of years of wasted bloodshed for one poor decision?

I had it with me when I escaped; it was one of my last possessions, save my blade and my clothes, and I vowed to study it. I came here to the mountains and researched, bartering with wanderers and the occasional merchant for materials, and hunting for my food. I met Marcuccio when he and I had a dispute over a goat. He was running – he was a farmer's son, destined to raise and rear cattle all his life, and he wanted more. How I envied the simplicity! He asked me if he could remain with me in trade for the goat, and I agreed.

Marcuccio was dim, but affable enough. He became my lone companion here, aiding me where he could, until the guilt caught up with him and he sent word to his mother. I imagine he is a father now. I do hope he finds happiness; he was such a pleasant man.

I digress. The piece. The piece I studied, and I discovered nothing. The makers were master craftsmen of an age lost to us – the engravings are mimicked in countless ancient monuments and structures, and yet there can be no doubt that this is the original. It is not the secrets it holds that have spurred this journey, though. It is the Templars.

It started a month ago, before I ever thought to open this journal. I had had a hard hunt – there are no animals in this thickest of winters – and resolved to come home. I found the door open. Never once have I left the door open, even with no neighbours or friends, in case that some wandering madre di orso came and claimed the place her own.

My entire study was ransacked, my bed overturned and my table broken, and all of this for a piece that was right before his eyes. He did not find it. I had it hidden on a shelf between my books, and because it looks so much like a piece of broken metal he must have thought it unimportant. He stole my cloak. My cloak! And he has all of my blades – I have only one left. I fear he intends to come and kill me in the night. I have bartered with my life by remaining for so long, but I am not known for my luck. I must leave.

I must return to Monteriggioni and find my uncle. I must return to him the piece of Eden, and I must warn him that the Templars are searching for it. I hope my father is not too furious to see me. O let him be well! It has been too long without him to find him suffering.

I must away, dear Journal, and load the satchels for my journey. I will update my adventure another time.

Distinti nella fede;

Fiorentino da Vinci.