Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  There were three guards on each side. Moving as unobtrusively as shadows but as swiftly as panthers, Ezio and La Volpe swept around the connecting sides of the square. Ezio saw his three gunmen raise their weapons and take aim at the fallen boy. He sprinted along the spine of the roof—his feet seemingly barely touching the tiles—and with one huge leap sprang toward the three gunmen. His jump had sufficient height that he was able to crumple the middle gunman with the heel of his foot—connecting with the nape of the man’s neck. In one movement, Ezio landed on his feet, crouched to absorb the impact of the landing, and then straightened his knees, arms outstretched on either side of him. The two remaining gunmen fell at that instant—a dagger piercing one man’s right eye from the side, the blade pushing deep into his skull. The other gunman was felled by the needlelike point of Ezio’s hidden-blade—it had punctured his ear, dark viscous liquid trickling down his neck. Ezio looked up to see that La Volpe had also felled his opponents with similar efficiency. After this minute of silent slaughter, all the guards with firearms were dead. But there was a fresh danger, as a platoon of halberdiers charged into the square—weapons lowered and rushing toward the unfortunate Claudio. The people in the wine booths shrank back.

  “Claudio! Get out!” La Volpe yelled.

  “I can’t! Too much…pain…”

  “Hang on!” Ezio, who was fractionally closer to where the boy lay, shouted. “I’m coming!”

  He leapt down from the rooftops, breaking his fall on the canvas roof of one of the market stalls, and was soon by the boy’s side. Quickly, he checked the wound. It looked more serious than it was.

  “Get up!” he ordered.

  “I can’t!” Claudio was clearly in a state of panic. “They’re going to kill me!”

  “Look. You can walk, can’t you?” The boy nodded. “Then you can also run. Pay attention. Follow me. Do exactly what I do. We’ve got to hide from the guards.”

  Ezio drew the boy to his feet and made his way to the nearest wine booth. Once there, he quickly melted into the crowd of by now very nervous drinkers and was surprised to see with what aptitude Claudio was able to do the same. They eased their way through the booth to the side nearest the wall, while on the other side some of the halberdiers started to push their way in. Just in time, they made it to an alleyway leading off the square and to safety. La Volpe and Trimalchio were waiting for them.

  “We guessed you’d come this way,” said La Volpe as the father hugged his son. “Get going!” he said to them. “We’ve no time to lose! Get back to headquarters fast and have Teresina dress that wound. Go!”

  “And you—keep out of sight for a while,intensi?” Ezio added to Claudio.

  “Molte grazie, Messere,” said the departing Trimalchio, his arm around the boy, guiding him, but also admonishing him: “Corri!”

  “You’re in trouble now,” said La Volpe, once they’d reached the safety of a quiet square. “Especially after this. I’ve already seen posters up for you, after that business at the stables.”

  “None for Machiavelli?”

  La Volpe shook his head. “No. But it’s quite possible they didn’t get a good look at him. Not many people know how handy he is with a sword.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  La Volpe shook his head.

  “What to do about the Wanted posters?”

  “Don’t worry. My people are already ripping them down.”

  “Glad some of them are more disciplined than to start picking fights for no reason with Borgia guards.”

  “Listen, Ezio—there’s a tension in this city you haven’t yet experienced.”

  “Really?” Ezio hadn’t yet told his friend about the episode with the wolfmen.

  “As for the heralds, a few ducats each should be enough to shut them up,” La Volpe continued.

  “Or…I could eliminate the witnesses.”

  “Needn’t come to that,” said La Volpe, more lightly. “You know how to ‘disappear.’ But be very careful, Ezio. The Borgia have many other enemies than you, but none quite so irritating. They won’t rest until they have you hanging from hooks at Castel Sant’Angelo.”

  “Have to catch me first.”

  “Keep your guard up.”

  They returned by a circuitous route to the Thieves’ Guild, where Claudio and his father had already arrived safely. Teresina was dressing the boy’s wound, but once the bleeding had been stanched, it turned out to be nothing more than a deep cut into an arm muscle, hurting like hell but doing no serious harm, and Claudio himself was already much more cheerful.

  “What a night,” said La Volpe tiredly as they sat over a glass of Trebbiano and a plate of coarse salami.

  “You’re telling me. I could do with a few less of them.”

  “You won’t get many while the fight goes on.”

  “Listen, Gilberto,” Ezio said, “I know what we saw, but I am sure you have nothing to fear from Machiavelli. You know his methods.”

  La Volpe looked at him evenly. “Yes. Very devious.” He paused. “But I have you to thank for saving Claudio’s life. If you believe Machiavelli remains loyal to the Brotherhood, then I am inclined to trust your judgment.”

  “So—how do I stand with your thieves? Will you help me?”

  “I told you I had plans to do something about this place,” La Volpe said thoughtfully. “Now that you and I seem to be working together again, I’d like to know what you think, too.”

  “Are we working together?”

  La Volpe smiled. “Looks like it. But I’m still keeping an eye on your black-suited friend.”

  “Well, it’ll do no harm. Just don’t do anything rash.”

  La Volpe ignored that. “So tell me—what do you think we should do with this place?”

  Ezio considered. “We need to make sure the Borgia stay away at all costs. Perhaps we could turn it into a proper, working inn.”

  “I like that idea!”

  “It’ll need a lot of work—repainting, reshingling, a new inn sign.”

  “I’ve got a lot of men. Under your direction…”

  “Then I will make it so.”

  A month followed of respite, or at least semi-respite, for Ezio, as he busied himself with the business of renovating the thieves’ headquarters, helped by many willing hands. Between them, the thieves represented a variety of skills, since many were tradesmen who’d been put out of work because they’d refused to kowtow to the Borgia. At the end of that time, the place had been transformed. The paintwork was bright; the windows were clean and carried new blinds. The roof was no longer rickety and the fresh inn sign showed a young male dog-fox, still sleeping but certainly not dead. He looked as if, the moment he awoke, he’d be capable of raiding fifty hen coops at a stroke. The double doors gleamed on new hinges and stood open, revealing an immaculate yard.

  Ezio, who’d had to go on a mission to Siena during the last week of work, was delighted at the finished product when he returned. It was already up and running when he arrived.

  “I’ve kept the name,” La Volpe said. “I like it. La Volpe Addormentata. Can’t think why.”

  “Let’s hope it lulls the enemy into a sense of false security.” Ezio grinned.

  “At least all this activity hasn’t drawn any undue attention to us. And we run it like a regular inn. We even have a casino. My own idea. And it’s turned out to be a great source of income, since we ensure that the Borgia guards who patronize us now always lose!”

  “And where—?” said Ezio, lowering his voice.

  “Ah. Through here.” La Volpe led the way to the west wing of the inn, through a door marked UFFIZI—PRIVATI, where two thieves stood guard without making it too obvious.

  They passed along a corridor that led to a suite of rooms behind heavy doors. The walls were hung with maps of Rome, the desks and tables covered with neatly stacked papers at which men and women were working already, though it was only just past dawn.

  “This is where our real busines
s is done,” said La Volpe.

  “Looks very efficient.”

  “One good thing about thieves—good ones, at least,” said La Volpe. “They’re independent thinkers and they like a bit of competition, even among themselves.”

  “I remember.”

  “You’d probably be able to show them a thing or two, if you took part yourself.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “But it wouldn’t be safe for you to stay here,” said La Volpe. “For you or for us. But visit me whenever you like—visit me often.”

  “I will.” Ezio thought of his own lonely lodgings—lonely, but comfortable and very discreet. He’d have been happy nowhere else. He turned his mind to the business at hand. “Now that we are organized—the most important thing is to locate the Apple. We have to get it back.”

  “Va bene.”

  “We know the Borgia have it, but despite our best efforts, we still haven’t been able to track it down. So far, at least, they seem to have made no use of it. I can only think they are still studying it, and getting nowhere.”

  “Have they sought…expert advice?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure they will have. But he may be pretending to be less intelligent than he is. Let’s hope so. Let’s hope the Borgia don’t become impatient with him.”

  La Volpe smiled. “I won’t pursue you on that. But in the meantime, rest assured that we already have people scouring Rome for its location.”

  “They’ll have hidden it well. Very well. Maybe even from one another. There’s an increasingly rebellious streak in young Cesare, and his father doesn’t like it.”

  “What are thieves for, but to sniff out well-hidden valuables?”

  “Molto bene. And now, I must go.”

  “A last glass, before you do?”

  “No. I have much to do now. But we will see each other again soon.”

  “And where shall I send my reports?”

  Ezio considered. Then he said: “To the rendezvous of the Assassin Brotherhood—on Tiber Island!”

  SEVENTEEN

  It was high time now, Ezio decided, to look up his old friend Bartolomeo d’Alviano, Fabio Orsini’s cousin. He’d fought shoulder to shoulder with the Orsini against the papal forces back in 1496 and had recently returned from mercenary service in Spain.

  Bartolomeo was one of the greatest of thecondottieri, and an old companion-in-arms of Ezio’s. He was also, despite his sometimes oafish manner and a tendency to alarming fits both of anger and depression, a man of unbending loyalty and integrity. Those qualities made him one of the mainstays of the Brotherhood—those, and his adamantine hatred of the Templar sect.

  But how would Ezio find him to be now? Well, he would soon know. He had learned that Bartolomeo had just returned from fighting and was at the barracks of his private army, on the outskirts of Rome. The barracks were well outside town, in the countryside to the northeast, but not far from one of the fortified watchtowers the Borgia had erected at various vantage points in and around the city; but the Borgia knew better than to tangle with Bartolomeo—at least, not until they felt powerful enough to crush him like the cockroach they considered him to be. And their power, Ezio knew, was growing daily.

  He arrived at his destination soon after the hour ofpranzo. The sun was past its peak and the day was too hot, the discomfort mitigated by a westerly breeze. Arriving at the huge gate in the high palisade that surrounded the barracks, he pounded it with his fist.

  A judas set in the gate opened and Ezio sensed an eye appraising him. Then it closed and he heard a muffled and brief conversation. The judas opened again. Then there was a joyous, baritone bellow, and after much drawing of bolts, the gate was flung open. A large man, slightly younger than Ezio, stood there, his rough army clothes in slightly less than their usual disarray, with his arms held wide.

  “Ezio Auditore! You old so-and-so! Come in! Come in! I’ll kill you if you don’t!”

  “Bartolomeo!”

  The two old friends embraced warmly, then walked across the barracks square toward Bartolomeo’s quarters.

  “Come on! Come on!” Bartolomeo said with his usual eagerness. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  They’d arrived inside a long, low room, well lit from large windows facing the inner square. It was a room that clearly served both for living and dining, and it was spacious and airy. But there was something very un-Bartolomeo-ish about it. There were clean blinds on the windows. There was an embroidered cloth spread on the table, from which the remains of any lunch had already been cleared. There were pictures on the walls. There was even a bookcase. Bianca, Bartolomeo’s beloved greatsword, was nowhere to be seen. Above all, the place was unbelievably tidy.

  “Wait here,” said Bartolomeo, snapping his fingers at an orderly for wine and clearly in a high state of excitement. “Now just guess whom I want you to meet!”

  Ezio glanced around the room again. “Well, I’ve met Bianca…”

  Bartolomeo made a gesture of impatience. “No, no! She’s in the map-room—it’s where she lives nowadays. Guess again!”

  “Well,” Ezio said slyly, “could it possibly be—your wife?”

  Bartolomeo looked so crestfallen that Ezio almost felt sorry for having made so accurate a deduction, not that it’d been hard, exactly. But the big man cheered up quickly and went on: “She’s such a treasure. You wouldn’t believe!” He turned and bellowed in the direction of the inner rooms: “Pantasilea! Pantasilea!” The orderly appeared again with a tray bearing sweetmeats, a decanter, and glasses. “Where is she?” Bartolomeo asked him.

  “Have you checked behind the table?” Ezio asked, tongue in cheek.

  Just then, Pantasilea herself appeared, descending a staircase that ran along the western wall of the room.

  “Here she is!”

  Ezio stood to greet her.

  He bowed. “Auditore, Ezio.”

  “Baglioni, Pantasilea—now Baglioni-d’Alviano.”

  She was still young—in her mid to late twenties, Ezio judged. Judging by her name she was from a noble family, and her dress, though modest, was pretty and tasteful. Her face, framed in fine blond hair, was oval, her nose tip-tilted like a flower, her lips generous and humorous, as were her intelligent eyes—a deep, dark brown, which were welcoming when she looked at you and yet seemed to withhold something of herself. She was tall, reaching Bartolomeo’s shoulders, and slender, with quite wide shoulders and rather narrow hips, long, slim arms, and shapely legs. Bartolomeo had clearly found a treasure. Ezio hoped he’d be able to hang on to her.

  “Lieta di conoscervi,” Pantasilea was saying.

  “Altrettanto a Lei.”

  She glanced from one man to the other. “We will have time to meet properly on another occasion,” she said to Ezio, with the air of a woman not leaving men to their business, but of having business of her own.

  “Stay a little,tesora mia.”

  “No, Barto, you know I have to see the clerk. He always manages to bungle the accounts somehow. And there is something wrong with the water supply. I must see to that, too.” To Ezio she said,“Ora, mi scusi, ma…”

  “Con piacere.”

  Smiling at both, she remounted the stairs and disappeared.

  “What do you think?” Bartolomeo asked.

  “Charmed, truly.” Ezio was sincere. And he’d also noticed how his friend reined himself in, in her presence. He imagined there’d be very little barrack-room swearing around Pantasilea. He did wonder what on earth she saw in her husband, but then, he didn’t know her at all.

  “I think she’d do anything for me.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “We’ll talk about that some other time.” Bartolomeo seized the decanter and two glasses and put his free arm around Ezio’s shoulders. “I am very glad you’ve come. I’ve just got back from campaigning, as you must know, and as soon as I heard you were in Rome I was going to send men out to locate you—I know you like to keep your lodgings secret, and I
don’t blame you, especially not in this nest of vipers. But luckily, you’ve beaten me to it. And that’s good, because I want to talk to you about the war. Let’s go to the map-room.”

  “I know Cesare has an alliance with the French,” Ezio said. “How goes the fight against them?”

  “Bene. The companies I’ve left out there, who’ll be campaigning under Fabio, are holding their own. And I’ve more men to train here.”

  Ezio considered this. “Machiavelli seemed to think things were…more difficult.”

  Bartolomeo shrugged. “Well, you know Machiavelli. He—”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of one of Bartolomeo’s sergeants. Pantasilea was at his side. The man was in a panic. She was calm.

  “Capitano!” said the sergeant urgently. “We need your help now. The Borgia have launched an attack.”

  “What? I hadn’t expected that so soon! Excuse me, Ezio.” To Pantasilea, Bartolomeo cried, “Throw me Bianca!”

  She immediately tossed the greatsword across the room to him, and, buckling it on, Bartolomeo hurled himself out of the room, following his sergeant. Ezio made to follow, but Pantasilea held him back, grasping his arm firmly.

  “Wait!” she said.

  “What is it?”

  She looked deeply concerned. “Ezio. Let me get straight to the point. The fight is not going well—either here or out in the Romagna. We’ve been attacked on both sides. The Borgia are on one flank, the French under General Valois on the other. But know this: The Borgia position is weak. If we can defeat them, we can concentrate our forces on the French front. Taking this tower would help. If someone could get around the back…”

  Ezio inclined his head. “Then I think I know a way I can help. Your information is invaluable.Mille grazie, Madonna d’Alviano.”

  She smiled. “It is the least a wife can do to help her husband.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The Borgia had launched a surprise attack on the barracks, choosing the hour of the siesta to do so. Bartolomeo’s men had fought them off, using traditional weapons, but as they drove them back toward the tower, Ezio could see Cesare’s gunmen massing on its battlement, all armed with their new wheel locks, which they were training on thecondottieri swarming below.