Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Bene!”

  “But we must be prepared for retaliation.”

  “We will strike first. Then they will have no opportunity for retaliation!” La Volpe, now more and more his old self, rubbed his hands in anticipation. “The main thing is to take out their leaders. They alone have direct contact with the Borgia. Remove them, and we will have as good as beheaded the Cento Occhi.”

  “And you really need my help for this?”

  “You broke the power of the wolfmen.”

  “Without your help.”

  “I know.”

  “The man who helped me break the wolfmen was—”

  “Iknow!”

  “Listen, Gilberto. We will combine forces and do this together—have no fear of that. Then, I presume your Guild will be the dominant cartel in Rome.”

  “That is true,” agreed La Volpe reluctantly.

  “If I help you in this,” said Ezio slowly, “there is a condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “That you shall not again threaten the unity of the Brotherhood. For that is what you almost did.”

  La Volpe bowed his head. “I am schooled,” he said meekly.

  “Whether we succeed in this venture of yours—or fail.”

  “Whether we succeed or fail,” agreed La Volpe. “But we won’t.”

  “Won’t what?”

  La Volpe gave his friend a Mephistophelean grin. “Fail,” he said.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Having detailed a group of his growing militia of new recruits to help La Volpe in his efforts against the Cento Occhi, Ezio made his way back to his lodgings. He was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.

  When he awoke, he refilled the poison-blade’s inner vial with the venom especially prepared by Leonardo and checked and cleaned the retractable pistol, the double-blade, and the new crossbow and poison darts.

  His work was interrupted by a messenger from Bartolomeo, bidding him come to the mercenaries’ barracks as quickly as possible. Sensing trouble, and worried about it, for he had hoped that Bartolomeo and hiscondottieri had the French well in check, Ezio packed the Codex weapons he judged he might need into a saddlebag and made his way with all speed to the stables, where he rented his favorite horse and set off. It was a fine day, and the road was more or less dry, since rain had held off for about a week. The countryside even seemed a little dusty as he rode through it, taking care to choose a route obscure enough not to be monitored by Borgia troops, and often taking shortcuts through woods and across fields where cows raised their heads idly from their grazing to watch him pass.

  It was afternoon by the time he reached the barracks, and all seemed quiet. He noticed that, since their renovation, the ramparts and walls had taken a slight bruising from French cannonades, but the damage wasn’t serious, and a handful of men were busy on scaffolding or slung in baskets from the battlements, repairing the gouges and cracks the cannonballs had made.

  He dismounted and handed the bridle to an ostler who came running up, wiping the little flecks of foam gently from his horse’s mouth—he hadn’t ridden her hard—and patting her muzzle before making his way, unannounced, across the parade ground in the direction of Bartolomeo’s quarters.

  His mind was on his next step, now that Cesare’s banker had been removed, and he was considering what counteraction his enemy might take to ensure that there was no cessation in his supply of funds, so he was surprised suddenly to find himself with his nose to the tip of Bianca, Bartolomeo’s greatsword.

  “Who goes there?” bellowed Bartolomeo.

  “Salve to you, too,” rejoined Ezio.

  Bartolomeo gave vent to a huge belly laugh. “Got you!”

  “Teach me to be on my toes.”

  “Actually”—Bartolomeo gave a theatrical wink—“I was expecting my wife!”

  “Well, well.”

  Bartolomeo lowered his sword and embraced Ezio. When he released him from the bear hug, his expression was more serious.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Ezio.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look!”

  Ezio followed his friend’s gaze to where a platoon of wounded mercenaries was entering the parade ground.

  “The Frenchputtane have got us under pressure again,” said Bartolomeo, answering Ezio’s unspoken question.

  “I thought you’d barked the shins of their general—what’s his name?”

  “Octavien de Valois. Thinks he’s some kind of descendant of the noble house of Valois. Some wretch’s spawn of a bastard, if you ask me.”

  Bartolomeo spat as another contingent of wounded men appeared.

  “Looks serious,” said Ezio.

  “King Louis must have sent reinforcements to back Cesare up. Since we gave Valois such a fuckin’ bashing.” Bartolomeo scratched his beard. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “They’ve got their fuckin’ tower back,” said Bartolomeo grumpily.

  “We’ll get it back. Where’s Valois now?”

  “You’re right!” Bartolomeo ignored the question. “Of course we’ll get it back! We’ll have the scoundrels in retreat before you could sayfottere! It’s only a matter of time.”

  Just then, a bullet whizzed past their ears and embedded itself in the wall behind them.

  “It was so quiet when I rode up,” said Ezio. He looked at the sky. The sun had gone behind large clouds that had suddenly rolled across the sky.

  “Seemed so quiet, you mean. They’re sneaky bastards, the French. But I’ll have Valois by the throat soon enough, mark my word.” He turned to yell an order to a sergeant who’d come running up. “Close the gates! Get those men off the outer walls! Move!”

  Men ran hither and thither, manning the battlements, priming the cannon.

  “Don’t worry, friend,” said the bigcondottiero. “I’ve got the situation well in hand.”

  At that moment, a larger cannonball crashed into the ramparts nearest the two men, sending dust and shards of stone flying in all directions.

  “They seem to be getting closer!” yelled Ezio.

  Bartolomeo’s men fired a salvo from the barracks’ main cannon by way of reply—the walls seemed to shake with the report from the great guns. But the response from the French artillery was just as ferocious—the thunder of twoscore guns tore at the air—this time the balls found their marks more cleanly. Bartolomeo’s men were still desperately trying to restore defensive order. Another huge salvo from the French rocked the walls of the barracks—but this time the French seemed to be focusing their fire on the main gate. Two of the gatekeepers fell dead—caught up in the bombardment.

  “Close the fuckin’ gates!” roared Bartolomeo.

  The well-trained soldiers under Bartolomeo’s command rushed forward to repel the sortie of French troops that, without any warning, had appeared at the main entrance of the barracks. It seemed that the calm was well and truly before the storm—the French had clearly been holding back for this surprise attack, and unfortunately, thought Ezio to himself, they had certainly managed to gain the upper hand on that front. Bartolomeo’s fortress had been caught unprepared for this attack.

  Bartolomeo jumped down from the battlements and ran toward the gate at full tilt. Whirling Bianca, he towered above the Frenchmen, and the great broadsword sliced viciously into their ranks. The French soldiers seemed to halt in trepidation at Bartolomeo’s arrival. Meanwhile, Ezio directed the musketeers to cover those men who strove to push the gates closed before the enemy could gain a surer foothold within the barracks. The Assassin troops rallied with the presence of their leader and succeeded in pushing the gates closed. But seconds later there was an almighty crash—and the wooden bar that held the great gates shut bowed ominously. The French had succeeded in maneuvering a battering ram to the main gates while the defenders’ attention was focused on those French soldiers who’d pushed through.

  “We should have built a fuckin’ moat!” yelled Bartolomeo.r />
  “There wasn’t time for that!”

  Ezio shouted at the musketeers to divert their fire outside the walls at the gathering French forces. Bartolomeo leapt up the ramparts and stood next to Ezio—he stopped at the scene unfolding—French troops had appeared as if from nowhere, and in great numbers.

  “We’re surrounded by them!” cursed Bartolomeo, without exaggeration.

  Behind them, one of the minor gates caved in with a crash and splintering of timber, and before any of the defenders could do anything to prevent it, a large unit of French infantry stormed in, swords drawn and seemingly willing to fight to the death. This sudden infiltration succeeded in cutting Bartolomeo’s quarters off from the Italians.

  “Oh, my God, what are they up to now?” shouted Bartolomeo. The Assassin soldiers were better trained than the French, and usually more resolved to their cause—but the sheer weight of numbers and the suddenness of the attack had caught them unawares. It was all they could do to hold the line—and slowly try to move the French squadron back. The air was thick with the chaos of close-quarter hand-to-hand combat. The space was so crowded that in places the battle seemed to have turned to a straightforward fistfight—where there was no longer room to wield weapons.

  The atmosphere was also hot and claustrophobic with the brewing storm—the gods seemed to be frowning on the scene, great storm clouds oppressing the sky overhead. The dust of the parade-ground floor rose up like a mist, and the day, which had been so fine, turned dark. Soon afterward, the rain began to fall in torrents. The pitched battle turned into a confused rout, in which the two opposing forces could barely see what they were doing. The ground turned to mud—the fighting turned more desperate and more chaotic.

  But then, as if the enemy had achieved some purpose, the French trumpets sounded a retreat, and Valois’ men withdrew as swiftly as they had arrived.

  It took a while to restore order, and Bartolomeo’s first concern was for the carpenters to replace the shattered gate with a new one. Naturally they had one ready-built, in case of just such an eventuality, but it would take an hour to install it. Meanwhile, he led Ezio in the direction of his quarters.

  “What the hell were they after?” he asked no one in particular. “My maps? They’re precious, those maps!”

  But he was interrupted by another French fanfare. With Ezio close behind, he ran up one of the stairways leading to a high rampart above the main gate. There, on the scrubby, cypress-scattered plain that confronted the barracks, a short distance away, sat the Général Duc Octavien de Valois himself, on horseback, surrounded by a knot of his officers and infantry. Two of the infantrymen were holding a prisoner, whose body was obscured by a sack thrown over the head.

  “Bonjour, Général d’Alviano,” the Frenchman called out smarmily, looking up at Bartolomeo. “ Êtes-vous prêt à vous rendre?—Are you ready to surrender?”

  “Why don’t you come a little closer and say that, you crummy little Frog?”

  “Tut, tut,mon général. You really ought to learn French. That might help mask your barbaric sensibilities, mais franchement, je m’en doute.” Smilingly, he looked around at his officers, who tittered appreciatively.

  “Perhaps youcould teach me,” Bartolomeo hollered back. “And I would instruct you in fighting, since you seem to do so little of it—at least, fair and square, like a gentleman should!”

  Valois smiled thinly. “Hm. Well,cher ami, as amusing as this little parley has been, I see I must repeat my request: I’d like your unconditional surrender by sunrise.”

  “Come and get it! My Lady Bianca will whisper it in your ear!”

  “Ah! I believe another lady might object to that.”

  He nodded to his infantrymen, who pulled the sack off their prisoner. It was Pantasilea!

  “Il mio marito vi ammazzerà tutti,” she spluttered defiantly, spitting out bits of hemp and dust. “My husband will murder you all!”

  It took Bartolomeo a moment to recover from the shock. Ezio grasped his arm, while his men looked at one another, aghast.

  “I’ll kill you,fotutto francese!” he screamed.

  “Dear me, calm down,” sneered Valois. “For your wife’s sake. And rest assured that no Frenchman would ever harm a woman—unnecessarily.” His tone became more businesslike. “But even a dunderhead like you can imagine, I think, what will happen if you do not accede to my terms.” He kicked his horse’s flanks and prepared to turn away. “Come to my headquarters at dawn. Unarmed. And bone up on a little French. Soon, all Italy will be speaking it!”

  He raised his hand. The infantrymen threw Pantasilea across the back of one of the officers’ horses and the whole party cantered off, the infantry trotting in its wake.

  “I’ll get you, youpezzo di merda figlio di puttana!” Bartolomeo shouted impotently after them. “That whoreson piece of shit,” he muttered to Ezio. Then he charged off.

  “Where are you going?” Ezio yelled after him.

  “To get her back!”

  “Bartolomeo! Wait!”

  But Bartolomeo plowed on, and by the time Ezio caught up with him, he was in the saddle, ordering the gates to be opened.

  “You can’t do this alone!” pleaded Ezio.

  “I’m not alone,” replied thecondottiero, patting Bianca, which hung at his side. “Come with me if you wish! But you’ll have to hurry!” He spurred his horse and headed for the now-open gates.

  Ezio didn’t even watch him go. He shouted brisk orders to Bartolomeo’s captain of cavalry. Within minutes, he, Ezio, and a mounted unit ofcondottieri were galloping out of the barracks in hot pursuit of their leader.

  FORTY

  General Valois’ headquarters was situated within the ruins of the fortified ancient Roman barracks of the old emperors’ personal brigade—the Praetorian Guard. It was located in the eighteenthrione, on the northeastern edge of Rome, now outside the shrunken city Rome had become, for in its heyday Rome had boasted one million inhabitants, a vast city, the greatest in the world by far, fifteen hundred years earlier.

  Ezio and his troops caught up with Bartolomeo on the road and now they were gathered together on a small rise near the French base camp. They’d attempted an attack, but their bullets had bounced uselessly off the strong modern walls Valois had had built on top of the old ones. Now they had moved out of range of the responding hail of gunfire that had been the French response to their foray. All Bartolomeo could do—and was doing—was hurl imprecations at his enemies.

  “You cowards! What, steal a man’s wife and then go and hide inside a fortress? Hah! Nothing hangs between your thighs—do you hear me?Nothing! Vous n’avez même pas une couille entre vous tous! There! That good enough French for you, you bastardi? In fact, I don’t think you have any balls at all.”

  The French fired a cannon. They were within range of that. The shot hammered into the ground a few feet from where they were standing.

  “Listen, Barto,” said Ezio. “Calm down. You’ll be no good to her dead. Look—let’s regroup, and then we’ll storm the gates, just like we did at the Arsenal that time in Venice when we were chasing down Silvio Barbarigo.”

  “Won’t work,” said Bartolomeo glumly. “The entrance is thicker with Frenchmen than the streets of Paris.”

  “Then we’ll climb the battlements.”

  “They can’t be scaled. And even ifyou could, you’d be so outnumbered, even you wouldn’t be able to hold out.” He brooded. “Pantasilea would know what to do.” He brooded some more, and Ezio could see that his friend was becoming positively despondent. “Maybe this is the end,” he continued gloomily. “I’ll just have to do what he says—enter their camp at dawn, bearing propitiatory gifts, and just hope the sod spares her life. Wretched coward!”

  But Ezio had been thinking. Now he snapped his fingers excitedly. “Perché non ci ho pensato prima?—Why didn’t I think of it before!”

  “What? Did I say something?”

  Ezio’s eyes were shining. “Back to your barracks!�
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  “What?”

  “Call your men back to barracks. I’ll explain there. Come on!”

  “This had better be good,” said Bartolomeo. To his men he gave the order: “Fall back!”

  It was nighttime by the time they got back. Once the horses had been stabled and the men stood down, Ezio and Bartolomeo went to the map-room and sat down in conference.

  “So, what’s this plan of yours?”

  Ezio unrolled a map that showed the Castra Praetoria and its surroundings in detail. He pointed inside the fortress.

  “Once inside, your men can overpower the camp’s patrols, am I correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Especially if they are taken completely by surprise?”

  “Ma certo. The element of surprise is always—”

  “Then we need to get hold of a lot of French uniforms. And their armor. Fast. At dawn, we’ll walk right in, bold as brass; but there’s no time to lose.”

  Comprehension dawned on Bartolomeo’s rugged face—comprehension, and hope: “Hah! You crafty old scoundrel! Ezio Auditore, you truly are a man after my own heart! And thinking worthy of my Pantasilea herself!Magnifico!”

  “Give me a few men. I’m going to make a sortie to their tower now, get in, and fetch what we need.”

  “I’ll give you all the men you need—they can strip the uniforms from the dead French troops.”

  “Good.”

  “And Ezio—”

  “Yes?”

  “Be sure to kill them as cleanly as possible. We don’t want uniforms covered in blood.”

  “They won’t feel a thing,” said Ezio, a steely look in his eyes. “Trust me.”

  As Bartolomeo was detailing men for the job at hand, Ezio collected his saddlebag, and from it he selected the poison-blade.

  They rode silently up to the Borgia Tower, which the French commanded, their horses’ hooves muffled with sacking. Dismounting a short way off, Ezio bade his men wait while he scaled the outer wall with the skill of a denizen of the distant Alps and the grace and cunning of a cat. A scratch from the poison-blade was enough to kill, and the overconfident French had not posted many guards—those that there were, he took completely unawares and they were dead before they even knew what had happened to them. Once the guards were out of the way, Ezio opened the main gate, which groaned on its hinges, making Ezio’s heart race. He paused to listen, but the garrison slept on. Without a sound, his men ran into the tower, entered the garrison, and overcame its inmates with barely a struggle. Collecting the uniforms took a little longer, but within an hour they were back at the barracks—mission accomplished!