Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “It’s not fair,” said Jacopo from the shallop. “I didn’t get a chance to use my blackjack once!”

  PART II

  Everything is permitted. Nothing is true.

  —DOGMA SICARII, I, I.

  FORTY-NINE

  It was late in the spring of the year of Our Lord 1504. The Pope tore open the letter a courier had just brought him, scanned it, and then banged a meaty fist down on his desk in triumph. The other hand held up the letter, from which heavy seals dangled.

  “God bless King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Aragon and Castile!” he cried.

  “Good news, Your Holiness?” asked Ezio, seated in a chair across from him.

  Julius II smiled darkly. “Yes! Cesare Borgia has been safely delivered into one of their strongest and most remoterocche!”

  “Where?”

  “Ah—that’s classified information—even to you. I can’t take any chances with Cesare.”

  Ezio bit his lip. Had Julius guessed what he’d do if he knew the location?

  Julius continued reassuringly, “Don’t look so downcast, dear Ezio. I can tell you this: It’s a massive fortress, lost in the plains of central northeastern Spain, and totally impregnable.”

  Ezio knew that Julius had had his reasons for not having Cesare burned at the stake—thus making a possible martyr of him—and he acknowledged that this was the next best thing. But still Cesare’s words haunted him—Chains will never hold me. Ezio felt in his heart that the only thing that would hold Cesare—and securely—was Death. But he smiled his congratulations.

  “They’ve got him in a cell at the top of the central keep, in a tower one hundred forty feet high,” Julius continued. “We don’t have anything more to worry about, as far as he’s concerned.” The Pope looked at Ezio keenly. “What I’ve just told you isalso classified information, by the way, so don’t go getting any ideas. In any event, at a word from me, they’ll switch the location, just in case anyone goes looking for him, and I get wind of it.”

  Ezio let it go and changed tack. “And Lucrezia? Do we have any news from Ferrara?”

  “Well, her third marriage seems to be doing her good, though I must admit I was worried at first. The d’Este family are such a bunch of snobs that I thought the old duke would never accept her as a suitable wife for his son. Marrying a Borgia! Talk about marrying beneath you! To them, it’d be a bit like you getting hitched to your scullery maid!” The Pope laughed heartily. “But she’s settled down. Not a peep out of her. Taken to exchanging love letters and even poems with her old friend Pietro Bembo—all aboveboard, of course.” Here Julius winked broadly. “But basically a good and faithful wife—she even goes to church and embroiders tapestries. And of course there’s no question of her coming back to Rome—ever! She’ll end her days in Ferrara, and she should be thankful she’s got away with her head still on her shoulders. So, all in all, I think it’s safe to say that we’ve got that flock of Catalan perverts out of our hair for good.”

  Ezio wondered if the Vatican spy ring was as well-informed about the Templars as it was about the Borgia. Cesare had been their leader and continued to be so, even in prison. But he kept his counsel.

  He had to admit that the affairs of Italy had seen worse days than these. A strong Pope, who’d had the sense to retain Agostino Chigi as his banker; and the French on the back foot. King Louis hadn’t left Italy, but he had at least withdrawn to the north, and seemed content to dig in there. In addition, the French king had ceded Naples to King Ferdinand of Aragon.

  “I hope so, Your Holiness.”

  Julius looked at Ezio keenly. “Listen, Ezio, I’m not a fool, so don’t take me for one! Why do you think I brought you in as my counselor? I know there are still Borgia loyalist pockets in the countryside, and even a few diehards left in the city. But I haveother enemies than the Borgia to worry about these days.”

  “The Borgia could still pose a threat.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And what are you doing about your other enemies?”

  “I’m reforming the Papal Guard. Have you seen what good soldiers the Swiss are? Best mercenaries of the lot! And since they got independence from the Holy Roman Empire and Maximilian five or six years ago, they’ve been putting themselves out to hire. They’re totally loyal and not very emotional—such a change from our own dear fellow countrymen. I’m thinking of getting a brigade of them put together as my personal bodyguard. I’ll arm them with the usual halberds and stuff, but I’m also issuing them Leonardo’s muskets.” He paused. “All I need is a name for them.” He looked at Ezio quizzically. “Any ideas?”

  “How about the Swiss Guard?” suggested Ezio, who was a little tired.

  The Pope considered this. “Well, it’s not startlingly original, Ezio. Frankly, I rather favored the Julian Guard—but one doesn’t like to sound too egotistical.” He grinned. “All right! I’ll use what you propose! It’ll do for the time being, at any rate.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of hammering and other building works, coming from above their heads, and in other parts of the Vatican.

  “Wretched builders!” commented the Pope. “Still, it has to be done.” He crossed the room to a bellpull. “I’ll get someone to go and shut them up until we’ve finished. Sometimes I think builders are the greatest destructive force Man has yet invented.”

  An attendant arrived at once and the Pope gave him his orders. Minutes later, amid muffled swearing, tools were downed, noisily.

  “What are you having done?” asked Ezio, knowing that architecture vied with warfare as the Pope’s greatest passion.

  “I’m having all the Borgia apartments and offices boarded up,” replied Julius. “Far too sumptuous. More worthy of a Nero than the leader of the Church. And I’m razing all their buildings on the roof of the Castel Sant’Angelo. Turning it into one big garden. Might stick a little summerhouse up there, though.”

  “Good idea,” said Ezio, smiling to himself. The summerhouse would doubtless be a real pleasure dome, fit, if not for a king, at least for trysts with one or another of the Pope’s lovers—female or male. But the Pope’s private life didn’t concern Ezio. What mattered was that he was a good man and a staunch ally. And compared with Rodrigo, his corruptions were about as significant as a child’s tantrum. Furthermore, he’d steadily continued the moral reforms of Pius III, his predecessor.

  “I’m having the Sistine Chapel done up as well,” continued the Pope. “It’s sodull! So I’ve commissioned that bright young artist from Florence, Michelangelo what’s-his-name, to paint some frescoes on the ceiling. Lots of religious scenes, you know the kind of thing. I’d thought of asking Leonardo, but his head’s so full of ideas that he scarcely ever finishes a big painting. Pity. I rather liked that portrait he did of Francesco del Giocondo’s wife…”

  Julius interrupted himself and looked at Ezio. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my interest in modern art.”

  “No.”

  “Are yousure you’re not taking the threat of a Borgia revival too seriously?”

  “I think weshould take it seriously.”

  “Look—my army has regained most of the Romagna for the Vatican. There’s no army left for the Borgia to fight with.”

  “Cesare is still alive! With him as a figurehead—”

  “I hope you’re not questioning my judgment, Ezio! You know my reasons for sparing his life. In any case, where he is now, he’s as good as buried alive.”

  “Micheletto is still at large.”

  “Pah! Without Cesare, Micheletto is nothing.”

  “Micheletto knows Spain well.”

  “He’s nothing, I tell you.”

  “He knows Spain. He was born in Valencia. He’s a bastard nephew of Rodrigo!”

  The Pope, who, despite his years, was a large and vigorous man still in the prime of life, had been pacing the room during this last exchange. Now he returned to the desk, placed his large hands on it, and leaned threateningly o
ver Ezio. His manner was convincing.

  “You are letting your worst fears run away with you,” he said. “We don’t even know whether Micheletto is still alive or not.”

  “I think we should find out, once and for all.”

  The Pope pondered Ezio’s point and relaxed slightly, sitting down again. He tapped the heavy signet ring on his left hand with the index finger of his right.

  “What do you want to do?” he asked heavily. “Don’t expect any resources from me. The budget’s over-stretched as it is.”

  “The first thing is to locate and destroy any last diehards in the city of Rome itself. We may find someone who knows something about Micheletto—his whereabouts or his fate. Then—”

  “Then?”

  “Then, if he is still alive—”

  “You’ll destroy him?”

  “Yes.” But Ezio thought:Unless he turns out to be more useful to me alive.

  Julius sat back. “I am impressed by your determination, Ezio. It almost frightens me. And I am glad I am not myself an enemy of the Assassins.”

  Ezio looked up sharply. “You know about the Brotherhood?”

  The Pope made a tent of his fingers. “I always needed to know who the enemies of my enemy were. But your secret is safe with me. As I told you, I am not a fool.”

  FIFTY

  “Your instinct is right. I will guide you and guard you. But I do not belong to you and soon you must let me go. And I have no power over he who controls me. I must obey the will of the Master of the Apple.”

  Ezio, alone in his secret lodgings, was holding the Apple in his hands as he tried to use it to help him locate his quarry in Rome, when the mysterious voice had come to him again. This time he could not tell if the voice was male or female, and he could not even tell whether it came from the Apple or from somewhere in his own mind.

  Your instinct is right. But also: I have no power over he who controls me. Why then had the Apple only shown him hazy images of Micheletto—just enough to tell him that Cesare’s henchman was still alive? And it could not—or would not—pinpoint Cesare’s location. At least for now.

  He suddenly realized something his inner self had always known: that he should not abuse the object’s power by overusing it, that he should not become dependent on the Apple. Ezio knew that it was his own will that had blurred the answers he sought. He must not be slothful. He must fend for himself. One day he would have to again, anyway.

  He thought of Leonardo. What could that man not do, if he had the Apple? And Leonardo, the best of men, nevertheless invented weapons of destruction as easily as he produced sublime paintings. Might the Apple have the power not only to help mankind, but to corrupt it? In Rodrigo’s or Cesare’s hands, had either of those two ever been able to master it, it could have become the instrument not of salvation, but destruction!

  Power is a potent drug. Ezio did not want to fall victim to it.

  He looked at the Apple again. It seemed inert in his hands now. But as he placed it back in its box, he found he could hardly bear to close the lid. What paths could it not open up for him?!

  No! He must bury it. He must learn to live by the code without it. But not yet!

  He had always sensed in his heart that Micheletto lived. Now he knew it for a fact. And while he lived, he would do his utmost to free his evil master—Cesare!

  Ezio had not told Pope Julius his full plan. He intended to seek out Cesare and kill him, or die in the attempt.

  It was the only way.

  He would use the Apple next only when he had to. He had to keep his own instincts and powers of deduction sharp, against the day when the Apple would no longer be in his possession. He would hunt down the Borgia diehards in Rome without it. Only if he failed—within three days—to unearth them, would he resort to its power again. He still had his friends—the girls of the Rosa in Fiore, La Volpe’s thieves, his fellow Assassins—and with their help, how could he fail?

  And he knew that the Apple would—in ways he could not fully comprehend—help him, as long as he respected its potential. Perhaps that was its secret. Perhaps no one could ever fully master it—except a member of the race of ancient Adepts who had left the world in trust to humanity, to make or break it, as their will elected.

  He closed the lid and locked the box.

  Ezio summoned a meeting of the Brotherhood on Tiber Island that night.

  “My friends,” he started, “I know how hard we have striven, and I believe that victory may be in sight, but there is still work to do.”

  The others, all except Machiavelli, looked at each other in surprise.

  “But Cesare is muzzled!” cried La Volpe. “For good!”

  “And we have a new Pope who has always been an enemy of the Borgia,” added Claudia.

  “And the French are driven back!” put in Bartolomeo. “The countryside is secure. And the Romagna is back in papal hands!”

  Ezio held out a hand to quiet them. “We all know that a victory is not a victory until it is absolute.”

  “And Cesare may indeed be muzzled, but he lives,” said Machiavelli quietly. “And Micheletto—”

  “Exactly!” Ezio said. “And as long as there are pockets of Borgia diehards, both here and in the Papal States, there is still seed from which a Borgia revival may grow.”

  “You are too cautious, Ezio! We have won!” cried Bartolomeo.

  “Barto, you know as well as I do that a handful of city-states in the Romagna remain loyal to Cesare. They are strongly fortified.”

  “Then I’ll go and sort them out!”

  “They will keep. Caterina Sforza’s army is not strong enough to attack them from Forlì, but I have sent messengers requesting her to keep a close watch on them. I have a more pressing job for you.”Oh, God, thought Ezio, why does my heart still skip a beat when I mention her name?

  “Which is…?”

  “I want you to take a force to Ostia and keep a sharp eye on the port. I want to know about any suspicious ships coming into, and, especially, leaving the harbor. I want you to have messengers on horseback ready to bring news to me here the instant you have anything to report.”

  Bartolomeo snorted. “Sentry duty! Hardly the sort of work for a man of action like me!”

  “You will get as much action as you need when the time is ripe to move against the rebel city-states I’ve mentioned. In the meantime, they live in hope, waiting for a signal. Let them live in hope; it’ll keep them quiet. Our job is to snuff that hope out! Forever! Then, if they don’t listen to reason, they still won’t put up half the fight they would now.”

  Machiavelli smiled. “I agree with Ezio,” he said.

  “Well, all right. If you insist,” Bartolomeo replied grumpily.

  “Pantasilea will enjoy the sea air, after her ordeal.”

  Bartolomeo brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

  “Good.” Ezio turned to his sister. “Claudia. I imagine the change of regime hasn’t affected business at the Rosa in Fiore too badly, has it?”

  Claudia grinned. “It’s funny how even princes of the Church find it so hard to keep the devil between their loins in abeyance. However many cold baths they say they take!”

  “Tell your girls to keep their ears to the ground. Julius has the College of Cardinals firmly under his control, but he still has plenty of enemies with ambitions of their own, and some of them might just be mad enough to think that if they could set Cesare at liberty again, they could use him as a means of furthering their own ends. And keep an eye on Johann Burchard.”

  “What—Rodrigo’s master of ceremonies? Surely he’s harmless enough. He hated having to organize all those orgies! Isn’t he just a functionary?”

  “Nevertheless—anything you hear—especially if it leads to diehard factions still at large here—let me know.”

  “It’ll be easier, now that we no longer have Borgia guards breathing down our necks every minute of the day.”

  Ezio smiled a little absently. “I have ano
ther question to ask. I have been too busy to visit, and it troubles me, but—how is Mother?”

  Claudia’s face clouded. “She keeps the accounts, but, Ezio, I fear she is failing. She seldom goes out. She speaks more and more often of Father, and of Federico and Petruccio.”

  Ezio fell silent for a moment, thinking of his lost father, Giovanni, and his brothers. “I will come when I can,” he said. “Give her my love; ask her to forgive my neglect.”

  “She understands the work you have to do. She knows that you do it not only for the good of us all, but for the sake of our departed kinsmen.”

  “The destruction of those who killed them shall be their monument,” said Ezio, his voice hard.

  “And what of my people?” asked La Volpe.

  “Gilberto, your people are vital to me. All my recruits remain loyal, but they see that life returns to normal, and most of them long to return also to the lives they led before we persuaded them to join us in the struggle to throw off the Borgia yoke. They retain their skills, but they are not sworn members of our Brotherhood, and I cannot expect them to bear that other yoke we bear—for it is a yoke that only Death will relieve us of.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know the men and women under your command are city bred. Some country air will make a change.”

  “How do you mean?” asked La Volpe suspiciously.

  “Send your best people into the towns and villages around Rome. There will be no need to go further out than Viterbo, Terni, L’Aquila, Avezzano, and Nettuno. I doubt if, beyond the rough circle around Rome that those towns define, we’d find much. There can’t be many diehards left, and those there are will want to be within striking distance of Rome.”

  “They’ll be hard to find.”

  “You must try. You know yourself how even a small force in the right place can do untold damage.”

  “I’ll send out my best thieves. Disguise them as peddlers.”

  “Report anything you find back to me—especially news of Micheletto.”