Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Shouldn’t we move away from here? I managed to grab some papers of theirs and they might be back to collect.”

  “First, tell me if you got the letter back, and tell me quickly what else has happened to you. You look as if you have been well in the wars,” said Machiavelli.

  After Ezio had done so, his friend smiled. “I doubt if they will return tonight. We are two trained, armed men and it sounds as if you well and truly thrashed them. But that in itself will have incensed Cesare. You see, although there is little proof as yet, we believe that these creatures are in the Borgia’s employ. They are a band of false pagans who have been terrorizing the city for months.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Machiavelli spread his hands. “Political. Propaganda. The idea is that people will be encouraged to throw themselves under the protection of the Papacy—and in return, a certain loyalty is exacted from them.”

  “How convenient. But even so, shouldn’t we be getting out of here now?” Ezio was suddenly and unsurprisingly tired. His very soul ached.

  “They won’t be back tonight. No disparagement to your prowess, Ezio, but the wolfmen aren’t fighters or even killers. The Borgia use them as trusted go-betweens, but their main job is to frighten. They are poor, deluded souls whom the Borgia have brainwashed into working for them. They believe their new masters will help them rebuild ancient Rome—from its very beginnings. The founders of Rome were Romulus and Remus. They were suckled as babies by a she-wolf.”

  “I remember the legend.”

  “For the wolfmen, poor creatures, it is no legend. But they are a dangerous enough tool in the Borgia’s hands.” He paused briefly. “Now—the letter! And those papers you say you grabbed from the wolfmen’s lair. Well done, by the way.”

  “If they’re of any use.”

  “We’ll see. Give me the letter.”

  “Here it is.”

  Hastily, Machiavelli broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.“Cazzo,” he muttered. “It’s encrypted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This one was supposed to be in plain text. Vinicio is—was—one of my moles among the Borgia. He told me he had it on good authority. The fool! They are transmitting information in code. Without their code sheet, we have nothing.”

  “Perhaps the papers I got hold of will help.”

  Machiavelli smiled. “By heaven, Ezio—sometimes I thank God we are on the same side. Let’s have a look!”

  Quickly he sifted through the pages Ezio had seized, and his troubled face cleared.

  “Any good?”

  “I think…perhaps…” He read some more, his brow once more furrowed. “Yes! By God, yes! I think we have it!” He clapped Ezio on the shoulder and laughed.

  Ezio laughed, too. “You see? Sometimes logic is not the only way to win a war. Luck can play a part, too.Andiamo! You said we had allies in the city. Come on! Bring me to them!”

  “Follow me!”

  FIFTEEN

  “What about the horse?” Ezio asked.

  “Turn her loose. She’ll find her way back to her stable.”

  “I can’t abandon her.”

  “You must. We are going back to the city. If we let her go there, they’ll know you got back. If they find the horse out here, they’ll think—with luck—that you’re still wandering around this area and divert their search here.”

  Ezio reluctantly did as he was told, and Machiavelli led him to a concealed flight of stone steps leading underground. At the foot of them a torch was burning. This Machiavelli seized.

  “Where are we?” asked Ezio.

  “This leads to a system of ancient underground tunnels that crisscross the city. Your father discovered them and they have remained the Assassins’ secret ever since. We can use this route to avoid any guards who’ll be out looking for us, because you may be sure that the wolfmen who escaped will raise the alarm. They’re big, because they were used for transport and troops in ancient times, and well built, as everything was in those days. But many of the outlets within the city have collapsed now and are blocked. We must pick our way carefully. Stay close—it would be fatal for you to get lost down here.”

  For two hours they passed through a labyrinth that seemed never-ending. Ezio, as he passed, glimpsed side tunnels, blocked entranceways, strange carvings of forgotten gods over archways, and the occasional flight of steps leading upward, some leading into blackness, others, fewer, showing a glimmer of light at their heads. At last Machiavelli, who had kept up a steady but hurried pace all along, paused at one such flight.

  “We’re here,” he announced. “I’ll go first. It’s almost dawn. We must be careful.” He vanished up the steps.

  After what seemed an age, during which the thought crossed Ezio’s mind that he might have been abandoned, he heard a whispered “All clear” from Machiavelli.

  Despite his fatigue, he ran up the steps, glad to be back in the fresh air. He’d had enough of tunnels and caves to last a lifetime.

  He found himself emerging from a kind of big manhole into a large room, large enough to have been a warehouse of sorts once.

  “Where are we?”

  “On an island in the Tiber. It was used years ago as a depot. No one comes here now, except us.”

  “Us?”

  “Our Brotherhood. It is, if you like, our hideout in Rome.”

  A burly, confident young man rose from a stool by a table on which lay papers and the remains of a meal and came to greet them. His tone was open and friendly.

  “Niccolò!Ben trovato!” He turned to Ezio. “And you—you must be the famous Ezio! Welcome!” He took Ezio’s hand and shook it warmly. “Fabio Orsini—at your service. I’ve heard a lot about you from my cousin—and old friend of yours—Bartolomeo d’Alviano.”

  Ezio smiled at the name. “A fine warrior,” he said.

  “It was Fabio who discovered this place,” put in Machiavelli.

  “Every convenience here,” said Fabio. “And outside, so overgrown with ivy and whatnot, you wouldn’t even know it existed!”

  “It is good to have you on our side.”

  “My family has taken a few bad blows from the Borgia of late—and my one aim is to kick their stall in and restore our patrimony.” He looked around doubtfully. “Of course, this may all seem a bit shabby to you, after your accommodations in Toscana.”

  “This is perfect.”

  Fabio smiled. “Bene. Well, now that you have arrived, you must forgive me that I must leave you—immediately.”

  “What are your plans?” asked Machiavelli.

  Fabio’s face became more serious. “I am off to begin preparations for Romagna. Today, Cesare has control of my estate and my men; but soon, I hope, we will be free again.”

  “Buona fortuna!”

  “Grazie!”

  “Arrivederci!”

  “Arrivederci!”

  And, with a friendly wave, Fabio was gone.

  Machiavelli cleared a space on the table and spread out the encrypted letter, together with the wolfmen’s decoding page. “I have to get on with this,” he said. “Look—you must be exhausted—there’s food and wine there, and good, clear Roman water. Refresh yourself while I work, for there is still much to be done.”

  “Is Fabio one of the allies of whom you spoke?”

  “Indeed. And there are others. One very great indeed.”

  “And he is? Or is it a she?” Ezio asked, thinking, despite himself, of Caterina Sforza. He could not get her out of his mind. She was the Borgia’s prisoner still. His own private priority was to free her. But was she playing games with him? He could not rid his mind of a grain of doubt. But she was a free spirit. He did not own her. Only—he did not relish the thought of being played for a fool. And he did not want to be used.

  Machiavelli hesitated, as if he had already divulged too much, but then he spoke: “It is the cardinal Giuliano della Rovere. He was in competition with Rodrigo for the Papacy, and lost; but he is still a powerful
man—and has powerful friends. He has potentially strong connections with the French, but bides his time—he knows that King Louis is only using the Borgia for as long as it suits him. Above all, he hates the Borgia with a deep and enduring loathing. Do you know how many Spaniards the Borgia have placed in positions of power? We are in danger of having them control Italy.”

  “Then he’s the man for us. When can I meet him?”

  “The time is not yet ripe. Eat, while I work.”

  Ezio was glad of the hour’s respite, but found that hunger and even thirst—at least, for wine—had abandoned him. He drank some water gratefully, and toyed with a chicken leg, as he watched Machiavelli pore over the papers in front of him.

  “Is it working?” he asked at one point.

  “Shh!”

  The sun had reached the church towers of Rome when Machiavelli put down his quill and drew toward him the spare sheet of paper on which he’d been writing.

  “It’s done.”

  Ezio waited expectantly.

  “It’s a directive to the wolfmen,” said Machiavelli. “It states that the Borgia will provide their usual payment, and orders the wolfmen to attack—that is, to create terrifying diversions—in various parts of the city not yet under full Borgia control. The attacks are to be timed with the ‘fortuitous’ appearance of a Borgia priest, who will use the powers of the Church to ‘banish’ the attackers.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “If you agree, Ezio, I think we should begin planning our own assault on the Borgia. Carry on the good work you started at the stables.”

  Ezio hesitated. “You think we areready for such an attack?”

  “Sì.”

  “I’d like to know where the Borgia are holding Caterina Sforza first. She’d be a powerful ally.”

  Machiavelli looked nonplussed. “If she is their prisoner, she’ll be held at the Castel Sant’Angelo. They’ve turned it into a stronghold.” He paused. “It is too bad they have control of the Apple. Oh, Ezio, how could you have let that happen?”

  “You were not at Monteriggioni.” It was Ezio’s turn to pause, after an angry silence. “Do wereally know what goes on with our enemies? Do we at least have an underground network here to work with?”

  “Hardly. Most of our mercenaries, like Fabio, are tied up in battle with Cesare’s forces. And the French still back him.”

  Ezio remembered the French general at Monteriggioni—Octavien.

  “What have we got?” he asked.

  “One solid source. We have girls working at a brothel. High-class joint, frequented by cardinals and other important Roman citizens; but there’s a snag. The madam we have in place is lazy and seems rather to enjoy parties for their own sake than to further our cause by gathering information.”

  “What about the city’s thieves?” asked Ezio, thinking about the adroit robber who’d almost cost him his purse.

  “Well,sì; but they refuse to talk to us.”

  “Why?”

  Machiavelli shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Ezio rose. “You’d better tell me how to get out of here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To make some friends!”

  “May I ask what friends?”

  “I think for the moment you had better leave that to me.”

  SIXTEEN

  It was nightfall again by the time Ezio had found the headquarters of the Roman Thieves’ Guild. Another long day lay behind him, a day of asking questions discreetly in taverns, getting suspicious looks and misleading answers, until, finally, word must have got around that it was all right to let him know the secret location, and a ragamuffin of a boy had led him into a run-down district through a maze of alleys and left him at a door, only to disappear immediately the way he had come.

  It wasn’t much to look at: a large but broken-down-looking inn, whose sign, showing a fox, either asleep or dead, hung awry; whose windows were shrouded with tattered blinds; and whose woodwork was in need of repainting. This was the same Sleeping Fox Inn that he and Mario visited a week ago.

  Unusually for an inn, its door was shut fast. Ezio hammered on it. In vain.

  Then he was surprised by a voice coming from behind him, speaking softly. Ezio spun around. It wasn’t like him to allow himself to be approached noiselessly from behind like that. He must ensure that it didn’t happen again.

  Fortunately, the voice was friendly, if guarded.

  “Ezio!”

  The man who’d spoken stepped forward from the shelter of a tree. Ezio recognized him immediately. It was his old ally Gilberto—La Volpe, the Fox—who had led the thieves in Florence in alliance with the Assassins some time previously.

  “La Volpe! What are you doing here?”

  Gilberto grinned as they embraced. “Why am I not in Florence, do you mean? Well, that’s simply answered. The thieves’ leader here died, and they elected me. I felt like a change of air, and my old assistant, Corradin, was ready to take over back home. Besides”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“just at the moment, Rome presents me with a little bit more of a…challenge, shall we say?”

  “Seems a good enough reason to me. Shall we go in?”

  “Of course.” La Volpe knocked at the door himself—obviously a coded knock, for the door swung open almost immediately, to reveal a spacious courtyard, with tables and benches laid out, just as you’d expect at an inn—but all still very dingy. A handful of people, men and women, bustled about, in and out of doors that led from the courtyard into the inn itself, built around it.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” said La Volpe, ushering him to a seat and calling for wine.

  “Frankly—”

  “It suits our purposes. And I have plans. But what brings you here?” La Volpe held up a hand. “Wait! Don’t tell me. I think I know the answer.”

  “You usually do.”

  “You want to put my thieves to work as spies for you.”

  “Exactly!” Ezio said, leaning forward eagerly. “Will you join me?”

  La Volpe raised his beaker in a silent toast, and drank a little of the wine that had been brought, before replying, flatly: “No.”

  Ezio was taken aback. “What? Why not?”

  “Because that would only play into Niccolò Machiavelli’s hands. No, thank you. That man is a traitor to our Brotherhood.”

  This came as a little less of a surprise, though Ezio was very far from convinced of the truth of it. He said: “That’s a very serious allegation, coming from a thief. What proof do you have?”

  La Volpe looked sour. “He was an ambassador to the papal court, you know—and he traveled as a personal guest of Cesare himself.”

  “He did those things on our behalf!”

  “Did he? I also happen to know he abandoned you just before the attack on Monteriggioni.”

  Ezio made a gesture of disgust. “Pure coincidence! Look, Gilberto, Machiavelli may not please all tastes, but heis an Assassin, not a traitor.”

  La Volpe looked at him with a set face. “I am not convinced.”

  At that point in their conversation, a thief—Ezio, recognizing him as the one who had cut his purse, glared at him—scuttled up and whispered in La Volpe’s ear. La Volpe stood as the thief scuttled off. Ezio, sensing trouble, stood, too.

  “I apologize for Benito’s behavior the other day,” said La Volpe. “He did not then know who you were. But he did see you riding with Machiavelli.”

  “To hell with Benito. What’s going on?”

  “Ah. Benito brought news. Machiavelli is meeting someone in Trastevere very soon. I’m going to check out what’s going on. Care to accompany me?”

  “Lead on.”

  “We’ll use one of the old routes—the rooftops. It’s a bit tougher here than it was in Florence. Do you think you’re up to it?”

  “Just lead on!”

  It was hard going. The roofs of Rome were spaced farther apart than in Florence, and many were crumbling, making it h
arder to gain footing. More than once, Ezio sent a loose tile crashing to the ground. But there were few people about in the streets, and they moved so fast that by the time any Borgia guards could react, they were already out of sight of them. At last they reached a market square, its stalls closed up except for one or two brightly lit wine booths, where a number of people were gathered. Ezio and La Volpe paused on a roof overlooking it, concealing themselves behind chimney stacks, and watched.

  Soon afterward, Machiavelli himself walked into the square, first glancing around carefully. Ezio watched keenly as another man, wearing the Borgia crest on his cloak, approached Machiavelli and discreetly handed him what looked like a note before walking on, barely breaking his stride. Machiavelli similarly moved on, out of the square.

  “What do you make of that?” La Volpe asked Ezio.

  “I’ll follow Machiavelli; you follow the other guy,” snapped Ezio tersely.

  But at that moment a brawl broke out at one of the wine booths. They heard angry cries and saw the flash of weapons.

  “Oh,merda! That’s some of my men. They’ve picked a fight with a Borgia guard!” cried La Volpe.

  Ezio glimpsed Machiavelli’s retreating back as he fled down a street that led toward the Tiber, then he was gone. Too late to follow him now. He turned his attention back to the brawl. The Borgia guard lay prostrate on the ground. Most of the thieves had scattered, scrambling up the walls to the rooftops and safety, but one of them, a young man, scarcely more than a boy, lay groaning on the ground, his arm spurting blood from a flesh wound.

  “Help! Help! My son has been injured!” an anguished voice rang out.

  “I recognize that voice,” said La Volpe with a grimace. “It’s Trimalchio.” He looked keenly at the wounded thief. “And that’s Claudio—his younger son!”

  Meanwhile, Borgia guards armed with guns had appeared on the parapets of two roofs, on either side of the far wall of the market, and were taking aim.

  “They’re going to shoot him!” Ezio said urgently.

  “Quickly then! I’ll take the group to the left; you take the one to the right!”