Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Cesare!” she shrieked. “Be careful! He intends to poison you!”

  Cesare froze. He looked at the apple in his hand, spitting out the chunk he had just bitten out, his expression a mask. Rodrigo’s own expression changed from one of triumph to one of fear. He backed away from his son, putting the table between them.

  “Poison me?” said Cesare, his eyes boring into his father’s.

  “You would not listen to reason!” stammered the Pope.

  Cesare smiled as he advanced, very deliberately, on Rodrigo, saying, “Father. Dear Father. Do you not see? I control everything.All of it. If I want to live, despite your efforts, I shall live. And if there is anything— anything—I want, I take it!” He came close to the Pope and seized him by the collar, raising the poisoned apple in his hand. “For example, if I want you to die, you die!”

  Pulling his father close he shoved the apple into his open mouth before he had time to close it, and, grabbing him by the head and jaw, forced his lips together and held them shut. Rodrigo struggled and choked on the apple, unable to breathe. He fell to the floor in agony and his two children coldly watched him die.

  Cesare wasted no time; kneeling, he searched his dead father’s robes. There was nothing. He stood and bore down on his sister, who shrank from him.

  “You—you must seek help. The poison is in you, too,” she cried.

  “Not enough,” he barked hoarsely. “And do you think I am really such a fool as not to have taken a prophylactic antidote before coming here? I know what a devious old shit our father was, and how he’d react if he thought for a moment the real power was slipping away in my direction. Now, he said he had the Piece of Eden.”

  “He—he—was telling the truth.”

  Cesare slapped her. “Why was I not told?”

  “You were away…he had it moved…he feared the Assassins might…”

  Cesare slapped her again. “You plotted with him!”

  “No! No! I thought he had sent messengers to tell you—”

  “Liar!”

  “I am telling the truth. I really thought you knew, or at least had been informed, of what he’d done.”

  Cesare slapped her again, harder this time, so that she lost her balance and fell.

  “Cesare!” she said as she struggled for breath, panic and fear in her eyes now. “Are you mad? I am Lucrezia! Your sister! Your friend! Your lover! Your queen!” And, rising, she put her hands timidly to his cheeks, to stroke them. His response was to grab her around the throat and shake her, as a terrier shakes a ferret.

  “You’re nothing but a bitch!” He brought his face close to hers, thrusting it at her aggressively. “Now tell me,” he continued, his voice dangerously low. “Where. Is. It?”

  Disbelief showed in her voice when she replied, gagging as she struggled to speak at all, “You…never loved me?”

  His response was to let go of her throat and hit her again, this time close to the eye, with a closed fist.

  “Where is the Apple?The Apple!” he screamed. “Tell me!”

  She spat in his face and he grasped her arm and threw her to the floor, kicking her hard as he repeated his question, over and over again. Ezio tensed, forcing himself not to intervene though he was appalled at what he was witnessing. But he had to know the answer.

  “All right! All right!” she said at last in a broken voice.

  He pulled her to her feet and she placed her lips close to his ear, whispering, to Ezio’s fury.

  Satisfied, Cesare pushed her away. “Smart decision, little sister.” She tried to cling to him but he pushed her away with a gesture of disgust and strode from the room.

  As soon as he had gone, Ezio smashed through the window and landed close to Lucrezia, who, all the spirit apparently drained from her, slumped against the wall. Ezio quickly knelt by Rodrigo’s inert body and felt for his pulse.

  There was none.

  “Requiescat in pace,” whispered Ezio, rising again and confronting Lucrezia. Looking at him she smiled bitterly, a little of the fire back in her eyes at the sight of him.

  “You were there? All the time?”

  Ezio nodded.

  “Good,” she said. “I know where the bastard is going.”

  “Tell me.”

  “With pleasure. Saint Peter’s. The pavilion in the courtyard…”

  “Thank you, Madonna.”

  “Ezio—”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Ezio raced along the Passetto di Borgo, a passageway that ran through therione of Borgo and connected the Castel Sant’Angelo with the Vatican. He wished he’d been able to bring some of his men with him, or had had time to find a horse, but urgency lent his feet wings, and any guards he encountered were swiftly thrown aside in his headlong rush.

  Once in the Vatican itself, he made his way to the pavilion in the courtyard Lucrezia had indicated. With Rodrigo gone, there was a fair chance that there’d be a new Pope on whom the Borgia could have no influence, since the College of Cardinals, apart from those members who’d been well and truly bought, were fed up and disgusted at being pushed around by this foreign family.

  But he had to stop Cesare now, before he could get hold of the Apple and use its power, however dimly he might understand it, to regain all the ground he had lost.

  Now was the time to strike his enemy down for good—and it was now or never.

  Ezio reached the courtyard and found it deserted. He noticed that at its center, instead of a fountain, stood a large sandstone sculpture of a pinecone, in a stone cup, on a plinth. It stood perhaps ten feet high. He scanned the rest of the sunlit courtyard, but it was plain and bare, with a dusty white floor that burned his eyes with its brightness. There wasn’t even a colonnade, and the walls of the surrounding buildings had no decoration, though there were rows of narrow windows high up, and at ground level, one plain door on each side, all of which were closed. An unusually austere place.

  He looked again at the pinecone and approached it. Peering closely, he could just discern a narrow gap between the dome of the cone and its body, running around the whole circumference. Climbing up the plinth, he found he was able to steady himself by gripping with his toes, and, holding on with one hand, he ran the other around the rim of the cone where the gap was, feeling carefully for any imperfection, which might possibly disclose a hidden trigger or button.

  There! He’d found it. Gently he pressed it, and the top of the cone sprang open on hitherto hidden bronze hinges, firmly screwed into the soft stone and strengthened with cement. In the center of the hollow space that was now revealed, he saw a dark green leather bag. He fumbled at its drawstring with his hand, and the faint glow he saw within its depths confirmed his hopes: He had found the Apple!

  His heart was in his mouth as he carefully lifted the bag free—he knew the Borgia, and there was no guarantee that it might not be booby-trapped, but he had to take that risk.

  But where the hell was Cesare? The man had had a good few minutes’ start on him and had doubtless got here on horseback.

  “I’ll take that,” cried a cold, cruel voice behind him. Bag in hand, Ezio dropped lightly to the ground and turned to confront Cesare, who had just burst through the southern wall door, followed by a troop of his personal guardsmen, who fanned out around the courtyard, surrounding Ezio.

  Of course, Ezio thought, he didn’t reckon on competition. He had wasted time collecting backup.

  “Beat you to it,” he taunted Cesare.

  “It won’t do you any good, Ezio Auditore. You’ve been a thorn in my side too long. But it ends here. Now. My sword will take your life.”

  He drew a modern schiavona with a basket hilt and took a step toward Ezio. But then, suddenly, he turned grey and clasped his stomach, dropping his sword as his knees buckled. Not a strong enough antidote, evidently, thought Ezio, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Guards!” croaked Cesare, struggling to stay on his feet.

&n
bsp; There were ten of them, five armed with muskets. Ezio ducked and dived as they fired at him, the balls from their muskets cannoning into the floor and walls as Ezio skittered into cover behind a pillar. Whisking out the poison darts from his belt one by one, he sprang from his cover—close enough to the musketeers to hurl the darts. Cesare’s men weren’t expecting a ranged assault—they looked in bewildered surprise when Ezio launched the darts. The first three found their marks with polished ease—within seconds three guards were down—the poison was beautifully quick in its fatal effect. One of the musketeers, regaining a moment’s composure, hurled his weapon like a club—Ezio ducked, and the weapon went spiraling over his head. He quickly loosed the next two darts, and the musketeers were all down. Ezio had no time to retrieve his darts as Leonardo had advised. The five other guards, swordsmen, after recovering from their initial shock—for they’d assumed that their companions with the guns would have made short work of the Assassin—closed in quickly, wielding heavy falchions. Ezio, almost dancing among them as he avoided their clumsy blows—the swords were too heavy for fast work or much maneuverability—released the newly recrafted poison-blade and drew his own sword. Knowing he didn’t have much time to engage these men before Cesare made a move, Ezio’s fighting technique was more sparse and efficient than usual—he preferred to lock each opponent’s blade with his own sword and call into effect his poison-blade to finish the job. The first two fell without a whisper—at which point the remaining three decided their best attack was all at once. Ezio pulled back five quick paces, extending his sword up full and high, and charged forward at the nearest of the three oncoming guards. As he drew into range, Ezio skidded to his knees—sliding across the ground, under the blade of the baffled guard. The poison-blade nicked the man’s thigh—but only as Ezio was skidding past, barreling toward the remaining guards, his sword slashing at the tendons of their lower legs. Both men shrieked as Ezio’s blade tore through, and the men fell, their legs useless.

  Cesare had been watching all this in quiet disbelief; but as Ezio had careened across toward these last three guards, Cesare had decided not to wait for the rest of the fight. He recovered himself enough to turn and flee.

  Hemmed in by the guards and unable to follow, Ezio had watched him go out of the corner of his eye.

  But he still had the Apple. And he remembered enough of its power—how could he forget?—to use it, after the melee was over, to guide him back through the Vatican by a different route from that by which he’d come—reckoning as he did that Cesare would have wasted no time in securing the Passetto di Borgo. Glowing from within the leather bag, the Apple indicated on its surface a way through the high, painted halls and chambers of the offices of the Vatican toward the Sistine Chapel, and thence by a southward-leading corridor into Saint Peter’s itself. Its power was such that passing monks and priests within the Vatican turned away from Ezio, avoiding him, and papal guards remained rigidly at their posts.

  Ezio wondered how soon the news of the Pope’s death would filter down through the hierarchy of the Vatican to these people. The confusion that would follow in its wake would need a strong hand to control, and he prayed that Cesare would not have the opportunity to take advantage of any uncertainty to stake his own claim, if not to the Papacy itself, for that was out of even his reach, then at least by influencing the election in order to place a new Pope, friendly to his ambitions, on Saint Peter’s throne.

  Passing young Michelangelo’s brilliant new sculpture of the Pietà on his left, Ezio left the basilica and blended into the crowds milling about in the rather shabby old square that lay in front of the east entrance.

  FORTY-FIVE

  By the time he had reached the Assassins’ hideout on Tiber Island, church bells had begun to ring out all over Rome. They were sounding the death knell.

  He found his friends waiting for him.

  “Rodrigo is dead,” he announced.

  “We guessed as much from the bells,” said Machiavelli. “Magnificent work!”

  “It was not by my hand—but Cesare’s.”

  It took a moment for this to sink in. Then Machiavelli spoke again. “And what of Cesare?”

  “He lives—though the Pope tried to poison him.”

  “The serpent is biting its own tail,” said La Volpe.

  “Then the day is saved!” cried Claudia.

  “No!” said Machiavelli. “If he’s freed himself of the restraint of his father, Cesare may yet regain the ground he has lost. We must not allow him to assemble his remaining supporters. The coming weeks will be critical!”

  “With your aid I will hunt him down,” said Ezio firmly.

  “Niccolò is right—we must act fast,” La Volpe put in. “Do you hear those trumpets? They are a summons to the Borgia forces to gather.”

  “Do you also know where?” asked Bartolomeo.

  “It’s likely that they’ll rally their troops in the piazza in front of Cesare’s palace in Trastevere.”

  “My men will patrol the city,” said Bartolomeo, “but we’d need a full army to do it properly.”

  Ezio carefully produced the Apple from its bag. It glowed dully. “We have one,” he said. “Or at least, something as good.”

  “Do you know what to do?” asked Machiavelli.

  “I remember enough from when Leonardo experimented with it long ago in Venice,” replied Ezio. He held the strange artifact aloft and, concentrating, tried to project his thoughts at it.

  There was no response for several minutes, and he was about to give up, when, slowly at first, and then with increasing energy, the Apple began to glow more and more brightly, until the light emanating from it made them cover their eyes.

  “Stand back!” bawled Bartolomeo, as Claudia gasped in alarm, and even La Volpe started back.

  “No,” said Machiavelli. “Science—but something out of our reach.” He looked at Ezio. “If only Leonardo were here!”

  “As long as it serves our purpose,” said Ezio.

  “Look!” said La Volpe. “It’s showing us the campanile of Santa Maria in Trastevere! That’s where Cesare must be!”

  “You were right!” cried Bartolomeo. “But look at the number of troops he still seems to have!”

  “I’m going. Now,” said Ezio, as the projected scene faded and the Apple became inert.

  “We’re coming with you.”

  “No!” Ezio held up a hand. “Claudia—I want you to go back to the Rosa in Fiore. Get your girls to find out all they can about Cesare’s plans. And mobilize our recruits. Gilberto, please get your thieves to fan out all over the city and bring word of any Templar chapters that may be reorganizing. Our enemies are fighting for their very lives! Bartolomeo, organize your men and have them ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  He turned to Machiavelli. “Niccolò. Get over to the Vatican. The College of Cardinals will be going into conclave soon, to elect a new Pope.”

  “Indeed. And Cesare will certainly try to use what influence he has left to elevate a candidate favorable to him to the papal throne—or at least someone he can manipulate.”

  “But Cardinal della Rovere wields great authority now. And he is the Borgia’s implacable enemy, as you know. If only—”

  “I will go and talk to the cardinal camerlengo. The election may be long and drawn out.”

  “We must take every advantage we can of the interregnum. Thank you, Niccolò.”

  “How will you manage on your own, Ezio?”

  “I’m not on my own,” said Ezio, gently replacing the Apple in its bag. “I’m taking this with me.”

  “Just as long as you know how to keep it under control,” said Bartolomeo mistrustfully. “Ask me, it’s a creation straight out of Beelzebub’s workshop.”

  “In the wrong hands, perhaps. But as long as we have it—”

  “Then don’t let it out of your grasp, let alone your sight!”

  They broke up then, each hastening away to attend to the duties Ezio had assigned them
. Ezio himself crossed to the west bank of the river and sprinted the short distance to the church La Volpe had recognized in the vision accorded them by the Apple.

  The scene had changed by the time he reached it, though he saw units of soldiers in Cesare’s livery making their way out of the square in organized groups as if under orders. These were disciplined men who understood that failure would spell their ruin.

  There was no sign of Cesare, but Ezio knew that he must still be sick from the effects of the poison. His rallying call to the troops must have taken it out of him. There was only one place he’d think of retreating to—his own fortified palazzo, not far off. Ezio set off in its direction.

  He joined a group of Borgia attendants, whom he recognized from Cesare’s crest, which they wore on the shoulders of their cloaks, and blended in with them, though they were too agitated to have noticed him even if he hadn’t been using the secret skill that rendered him as good as invisible. Using them as cover, he slipped through the palazzo’s gates, which opened quickly for them and then, just as quickly, clanged shut again behind.

  He slipped into the shadows of the courtyard’s colonnade and glided along the perimeter of the inner walls, stopping to peer in at each unshuttered window. Then, ahead, he saw a door with two guards posted outside it. He looked around. The rest of the courtyard was deserted. He approached silently, releasing his hidden-blade, and fell upon the guards before they knew what was happening. One, he killed instantly. The other managed to get a blow in that would have severed his left hand from his arm had it not been for his bracer, and while the man was recovering from his astonishment at what looked like witchcraft, Ezio plunged the blade into the base of his throat, and he fell like a sack to the ground.

  The door was unlocked and its hinges, when Ezio warily tried them, well oiled. Noiselessly, he slid into the room.

  It was large and gloomy. Ezio took refuge behind an arras near the door, set there to exclude drafts, and watched the men seated around a large oak table at its center. The table was spread with papers and illuminated by candles in two iron candelabra. At its head sat Cesare, his personal doctor, Gaspar Torella, at his side. His face was grey, and he was sweating prodigiously. He was glaring at his officers.