Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “We’ll find it.”

  “Leave them there with my sister, Claudia. May I?” Ezio took a sheet of paper and scribbled something on it. “Give this to her. I’ve sketched its location, as it’s hard to find. I’ll get the money to you as soon as possible.”

  “Five thousand ducats.”

  “How much?”

  “Not cheap, these things…”

  Ezio pursed his lips. “Fine.” He took back the note and wrote an additional line. “We have recently come into some new and…unexpected funds. My sister will pay you. And listen, Leo—I have to trust you. Not a word to anyone else.”

  “Even Salai?”

  “Salai, if you have to. But if the brothel’s location is discovered by the Borgia, I will kill Salai, and I will kill you, my friend.”

  Leonardo smiled. “I know these are very troubled times, my dear—but when—when—have Iever let you down?”

  Content with that, Ezio took leave of his friend and continued on his way to the Sleeping Fox. He was running late, but the meeting with Leonardo had been more than worth it.

  He went through the courtyard, pleased to see that business still seemed to be booming, and was about to announce himself to the thieves standing guard on either side of the door marked UFFIZI when La Volpe himself appeared, apparently out of nowhere—but he was good at that.

  “Buon giorno, Ezio!”

  “Ciao, Gilberto!”

  “I’m glad you’ve come. What is it you want?”

  “Let’s sit somewhere quiet.”

  “In theuffizi?”

  “Let’s stay here. What I have to say is for your ears alone.”

  “That’s good, for I have something to say to you, too, which should stay between us—for now.”

  They settled down at a table in an otherwise empty bar inside the inn, away from the gamblers and drinkers.

  “It’s time to pay a visit to Lucrezia’s lover, Pietro,” said Ezio.

  “Good. I’ve already got men out looking for him.”

  “Molto bene; but a working actor shouldn’t be that hard to find, and this one’s famous.”

  La Volpe shook his head. “He’s famous enough to have minders of his own. And we think he may have gone to ground because he’s frightened of Cesare.”

  “That makes sense. Well, do your best. Now, what is it you have on your mind?”

  La Volpe wrestled with himself for a moment, then said, “It’s delicate…Ezio, if I may…”

  “What is it?”

  “Someone has warned Rodrigo to stay away from the Castel Sant’Angelo.”

  “And you think that someone is…Machiavelli?”

  La Volpe was silent.

  “Do you have proof?” Ezio pressed him.

  “No, but—”

  “I know that Machiavelli is eating you up, but listen, Gilberto, we must not be split apart by mere suspicion.”

  At that moment, the door banged open and they were interrupted by the arrival of a wounded thief, who staggered into the room. “Bad news!” he cried. “The Borgia know the whereabouts of our spies!”

  “Who told them?” thundered La Volpe, rising.

  “Maestro Machiavelli was asking about our search for the actor, Pietro, earlier today.”

  La Volpe’s hand tightened into a fist. “Ezio?” he said quietly.

  “They’ve got four of our men under guard,” said the thief. “I was lucky to get away!”

  “Where?”

  “Not far from here—near Santa Maria del Orto.”

  “Come on!” La Volpe yelled to Ezio.

  Within minutes, La Volpe’s men had readied two horses, and the two Assassins rode out of the stables of the Sleeping Fox at breakneck speed.

  “I still do not believe Machiavelli has turned traitor,” insisted Ezio as they rode.

  “He went quiet for a bit, to allay our doubts,” La Volpe hurled back. “But look at the facts: first the attack on Monteriggioni, then the business at the Castel Sant’Angelo, and now this! He is behind it all!”

  “Just ride! Ride like the devil! We may still be in time to save them!”

  They galloped helter-skelter through the narrow streets, reining in and thrusting forward as they strove to avoid injuring people and smashing down market booths in their headlong career. Citizens and chickens alike scattered in their path, but when Borgia guards tried to block their way, halberds raised, they simply rode them down.

  They reached the place the wounded thief had indicated within seven minutes and saw the mulberry-and-yellow uniforms preparing to pack the four captured thieves onto a covered wagon, hitting them with the pommels of their swords and taunting them as they did so. In a moment, Ezio and La Volpe were upon them like avenging Furies. Swords drawn, they steered their mounts skillfully among the guards, cutting them off from their prisoners and dispersing them about the square in front of the church. Grasping his sword firmly in his right hand, La Volpe let go of his reins with his left, and, holding on with his thighs, wheeled toward the wagon, seized the driver’s whip from him, and struck hard at the flanks of the horses in the shafts. They reared and neighed and then stampeded off, as the wagoner strove in vain to control them. Hurling the whip aside and almost falling, La Volpe grabbed his reins again and swung his horse around to join Ezio, who was surrounded by five guards stabbing at his horse’s chest and quarters with their halberds. Flailing them with his sword, La Volpe gave Ezio enough time to break free of the trap and slice open the midriff of the closest guard. Turning the horse in a tight circle, he swiped with his sword again and neatly severed the head from the body of another. Meanwhile, La Volpe had dispatched the last of the guards with any fight left in them—the rest either lay wounded or had fled.

  “Run, you swine,” La Volpe yelled at his men. “Back to base! Now! We’ll join you there!”

  The four thieves pulled themselves together and darted down the main street out of the square, ducking and diving through the small crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. Ezio and La Volpe rode after them, shepherding them, making sure they all got back in one piece.

  They made their way into the Sleeping Fox by a secret side entrance and had soon all assembled in the bar, now with a Closed sign on its door. La Volpe ordered beer for his men but did not wait for it to arrive before he started his interrogation.

  “What were you able to find out?”

  “Boss, there’s a plan to kill the actor this evening. Cesare is sending his ‘butcher’ to see to it.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Ezio.

  “You’ve seen him,” replied La Volpe. “Micheletto Corella. No one could ever forget a face like that.”

  Indeed, Ezio’s inner eye flashed on the man he’d seen at Cesare’s right hand at Monteriggioni, and again in the stables of the Castel Sant’Angelo. A cruel, battered face, which looked much older than its owner’s age warranted, with hideous scars near his mouth that gave him the appearance of wearing a permanent, sardonic grin. Micheletto Corella. OriginallyMiguel de Corella.

  Corella—did that region of Navarre, which produced such good wine, really also produce this torturer and murderer?

  “Can kill a person one hundred and fifty different ways,” La Volpe was saying. “But his preferred method is strangulation.” He paused. “He’s certainly the most accomplished murderer in Rome. No one escapes him.”

  “Let’s hope tonight will be the first time,” said Ezio.

  “Where this evening? Do you know?” La Volpe was asking the thieves.

  “Pietro’s performing in a religious play this evening. He’s been rehearsing at a secret location.”

  “He must be scared. And?”

  “He’s playing Christ.” One of the other thieves snickered at this. La Volpe glared. “He’s to be suspended from a cross,” continued the man who’d been talking. “Micheletto will come at him with a spear—pierce his side—only it won’t be make-believe.”

  “Do you know where Pietro is?”

  The th
ief shook his head. “I cannot tell you that. We couldn’t find out. But we do know that Micheletto will wait at the old baths of the emperor Trajan.”

  “The Terme di Traiano?”

  “Yes. We think the plan is this: Micheletto intends to disguise his men in costumes, and he’ll make the killing look like an accident.”

  “But where’s the performance taking place?”

  “We don’t know. But it can’t be far from where Micheletto will be waiting for his men to gather.”

  “I’ll go there and shadow him,” Ezio decided. “He’ll lead me to Lucrezia’s lover.”

  “Anything else?” La Volpe asked his men.

  They shook their heads. A serving-man came in then, bringing a tray with beer, bread, and salami, and the thieves fell on it gratefully. La Volpe drew Ezio to one side.

  “Ezio, I am sorry, but I am convinced that Machiavelli has betrayed us.” He held up a hand. “Whatever you say will not convince me otherwise. I know we would both wish to deny it, but the truth is now clear. In my opinion, we should do…what needs to be done.” He paused. “And if you don’t, I will.”

  “I see.”

  “And there’s another thing, Ezio. God knows I’m loyal, but I also have the welfare of my men to consider. Until this thing is settled, I’m not putting them at risk—atunnecessary risk—anymore.”

  “You have your priorities, Gilberto, and I have mine.”

  Ezio left, to prepare himself for his evening’s work. Borrowing a horse from La Volpe, he made his way straight to the Rosa in Fiore. Claudia greeted him.

  “You’ve had a delivery,” she said.

  “Already?”

  “Two men, both very dapper. One quite young and a bit shifty looking, but handsome in a pretty sort of way. The other, maybe fifty—a few years older than you, anyway. Of course I remembered him—your old friend Leonardo—but he was quite formal. Gave me this note. And I paid him.”

  “That was quick.”

  Claudia smiled. “He said he thought you might appreciate anexpress delivery.”

  Ezio smiled back. It would be good to encounter tonight’s bunch—and he imagined Micheletto’s men would be trained to a very high standard of villainy—armed with a few of his old friends, the Codex weapons. But he’d need backup, too—from La Volpe’s attitude, he knew he couldn’t depend on the loan of a contingent of thieves.

  His thoughts turned to his own militia of new recruits. It was time to put a few of them through their paces.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Unknown to Ezio,Messer Corella had one other small piece of business to conclude for his boss, before the main event of the evening. But it was still quite early.

  He stood silently on a deserted dock by the Tiber. A few barges and two ships rode at anchor, gently moving with the river’s flow. The ships’ grubby furled sails rippled slightly in the wind. Several guards wearing Cesare’s insignia were coming toward them, half hauling, half carrying a blindfolded man between them. At their head was Cesare himself.

  Micheletto recognized the man, without surprise, as Francesco Troche.

  “Please,” Francesco was whimpering, “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Franceso, my dear friend,” said Cesare, “the facts are plain: Your told your brother about my plans in the Romagna, and he contacted the Venetian ambassador. Not can absterge the blame for that from you.”

  “It was an accident. I am still your servant and your ally.”

  “Are you demanding that I discount your actions and rely on mere friendship?”

  “I am asking…not demanding.”

  “My dear Francesco, in order to unite Italy I must have every institution under my control. You know what higher organization we serve—the Order of Templars, of which I am now head.”

  “I thought—your father…”

  “And if the Church does not fall into line,” continued Cesare firmly, “I will eliminate it entirely.”

  “But you know that I really work for you, not the Pope.”

  “Ah, but do I, Troche? There’s only one way I can be unconditionally sure of that now.”

  “Surely you can’t intend to kill me. Your most loyal friend?”

  Cesare smiled. “Of course not.”

  He snapped his fingers. Noiselessly, Micheletto approached from behind Francesco’s back.

  “You are—you are letting me go?” Relief flooded into Troche’s voice. “Thank you, Cesare. Thank you from my heart. You will not regret—”

  But his words were cut short as Micheletto, a thin cord twisted between his hands, leaned forward and bound it tightly around Troche’s neck. Cesare watched for a moment, but even before Francesco was fully killed, he turned to the captain of the guard and said, “Have you got the costumes for the play ready?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then give them to Micheletto—when he’s finished.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Lucrezia is mine, and mine alone. I didn’t think she was that important to me, but when I got that message in Urbino, from one of her own men, that that wretched toad of an actor had been pawing her, slobbering over her, I came back immediately! Can you understand a passion like that, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You’re a fool. Have you done, Micheletto?”

  “Messere, the man is dead.”

  “Then weigh him down with stones and dump him in the Tiber.”

  “I obey, Cesare.”

  The captain had given orders to his men, and four of them had gone to fetch two large wicker hampers, which they now carried between them.

  “Here are the costumes for your men. Make doubly sure the work is done correctly.”

  “Indeed,Messere.”

  Cesare stalked off, leaving his subordinate to make the arrangements. Motioning the guards to follow him, Micheletto led the way toward the Baths of Trajan.

  Ezio and his band of recruits were already there, hidden in the shelter of a ruined portico. He had noticed a number of men in black already foregathered, and he watched them closely as Micheletto appeared. The guards put the costume skips down and Micheletto motioned them to depart. The shadows were deep, and Ezio nodded to his own men to prepare themselves. He had strapped the bracer to his left forearm and the poison-blade to his right.

  Micheletto’s men formed a line, and as each man came up to his leader, he was handed a costume—uniforms copying those worn by Roman legionaries at the time of Christ. Ezio noticed that Micheletto himself wore the costume of a centurion.

  As each man stepped away to don his costume, Ezio stood ready. Silently, he extended the concealed poison-blade that Leonardo had just recrafted for him. The unsuspecting thugs went down without a whisper. Then his own recruits put on the theatrical clothes and pulled Micheletto’s henchmen’s bodies out of sight.

  Absorbed in his work, Micheletto was unaware, once it was complete, that the men he now commanded were not his own. He led them, with Ezio close behind, in the direction of the Colosseum.

  A stage had been erected in the ruins of the old Roman amphitheater where, since the time of the emperor Titus, gladiators had fought each other to the death,bestiarii had dispatched wild animals in the tens of thousands, and Christians had been thrown to the lions. It was a gloomy place, but the gloom was dispersed somewhat by the hundreds of flickering torches that illuminated the stage, and the audience, ranged on benches on a wooden grandstand, were absorbed in watching a play on the subject of Christ’s Passion.

  “I seek Pietro Benintendi,” Micheletto said to the doorkeeper, showing him a warrant.

  “He acts onstage,signore,” replied the doorkeeper. “But one of my men will take you to where you may wait for him.”

  Micheletto turned to his companions. “Don’t forget,” he told them. “I will be wearing this black cloak with the white star on its shoulder. Cover my back, and wait for your cue, which will be Pontius Pilate’s order to the Centurion to strike.”

  I must get to Pietro before
he does, thought Ezio, tagging along at the back of the group as the men followed their leader into the Colosseum.

  Onstage, three crosses had been erected. He watched as his recruits disposed themselves according to Micheletto’s orders and saw Micheletto himself take his place in the wings.

  The play was reaching its climax:

  “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” cried Pietro from the cross.

  “Hark,” said one of the actors playing the Pharisees. “How he crieth upon Elijah to deliver him!”

  One, dressed as a Roman legionary, dipped a sponge in vinegar and placed it on the tip of his spear. “Wait and see whether Elijah dare come here or not.”

  “My thirst is great; my thirst is great,” cried Pietro.

  The soldier raised the sponge to Pietro’s lips.

  “Yea, thou shalt drink no more,” said another Pharisee.

  Pietro raised his head. “Mighty God in Majesty,” he declaimed. “To work Thy Will I shall never cease. My spirit I betake to Thee; receive it, O Lord, into Thy hands.” Pietro gave a great sigh.“Consummatum est!”

  His head dropped. Christ had “died.”

  On his cue, Micheletto then strode onto the stage. His centurion’s uniform glittered under the thrown-back black cloak. Ezio, watching, wondered what had become of the actor originally playing the Centurion, but imagined that he’d met a fate similar to that of most of Micheletto’s victims.

  “Lords, I say unto you,” Micheletto recited boldly, “this was indeed the Son of God the Father Almighty. I know it must be so. I know by the manner of His cry that He has fulfilled the prophecy, and the godhead is revealed in Him!”

  “Centurion,” said the actor playing Caiaphas, “as God gives me speed, thy folly is great indeed. Thou dost not understand! When thou seest his heart bleed, then we shall see what thou wilt say. Longinus! Take this spear into thy hand.”

  Caiaphas handed a wooden spear to the actor playing the Roman legionary Longinus, a large man with flowing locks, clearly a favorite of the audience and doubtless, thought Ezio, a bitter rival of Pietro’s.