Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Happy birthday,” said Leonardo to Ezio.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Fates were against them. Their ship sailed well, but the sea remained rough and they encountered squalls that took the sails aback. The hoped-for chance of catching up with Micheletto at sea was long gone when, five days later, their battered caravel put into port at Valencia.

  It was a prosperous and booming place, but none of the three—Ezio, Leonardo, or Machiavelli—was familiar with it. The recently built Silk Exchange vied in grandeur with the bell tower, the Torres de Quart, and the Palau de la Generalitat. It was a powerful Catalan city, one of the most important trading cities in the Mediterranean Sea.

  But it was also confusing, and teeming with Valencianos, who mingled in the busy streets with Italians, Dutch, English, and Arabs—the languages heard in the streets created a very Babel.

  Fortunately theMarea di Alba was still moored near to where the caravel docked, and the two captains were friends.

  “Ciao, Alberto!”

  “Ciao, Filin!”

  “Bad voyage?” said Alberto, a stout man of thirty, as he stood on the poop deck of his vessel supervising the loading of a mixed cargo of silk, and rare and expensive coffee for the return journey.

  “Brutissimo.”

  “So I see from the state of your ship. But there’ll be a good sea and a fair wind for the next week, so I’m hurrying back as soon as I can.”

  “I won’t be so lucky. When did you get in?”

  “Two days ago.”

  Ezio stepped up. “And your passenger?”

  Alberto spat. “Che tipo brutto—but he paid well.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Gone! I know he was in the town, asking questions, but he’s well-known here, and he has many friends, believe it or not.” Alberto spat again. “Not of the best sort, either.”

  “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come,” whispered Leonardo. “One thing I am not is a man of violence.”

  “Where has he gone, do you know?”

  “He was staying at the Lobo Solitario; you could ask there.”

  They disembarked and made straight for the Lone Wolf Inn, after Alberto had given them directions and added darkly, “But it is not a place for gentlemen.”

  “What makes you think we are gentlemen?” said Machiavelli.

  Alberto shrugged.

  Ezio scanned the busy quay. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three or four shady characters eyeing them. He checked his bracer and his hidden-blade. The pistol and the poison-blade were in his satchel. He slung his bag over his shoulder, leaving his arms free for his sword and dagger. Noticing this, Machiavelli did the same. Leonardo looked askance.

  They made their way into the town, remaining on the alert. But the shady characters had disappeared.

  “Shall we stay at the same place as our quarry?” suggested Ezio. “It’s the best place to be to find out where he is.”

  The inn was located in a narrow street of tall tenements that twisted away from one of the main thoroughfares. It was a low, dark building, in contrast to the sparkling newness of most of the rest of the town. The dark wooden door was open, giving on to a dark interior. Ezio entered first, Leonardo, reluctantly, last.

  They had reached the center of the vestibule, in which furniture and a long, low counter could only just be made out, when the door behind them banged shut. Ten men who had been lurking in the shadows, their eyes already accustomed to the dark, now pounced, flinging themselves on their victims with guttural cries. Ezio and Machiavelli immediately threw down their bags and in one movement Machiavelli drew his sword and dagger and closed with his first assailant. The glint of blades flashed in the semidarkness of the room. It was big enough for there to be plenty of space to move, and this helped both sides.

  “Leonardo!” shouted Ezio. “Get behind the counter! And catch this!”

  He threw his sword to Leonardo, who caught it, dropped it, and picked it up again in the space of a second. Ezio unleashed the hidden-blade as one of the men fell on him, stabbing him with it in the side and penetrating his guts. The man stumbled, clutching his belly, blood bubbling between his hands. Meanwhile, Machiavelli strode forward, holding his sword aloft. Quick as a flash he had thrust his sword into the throat of his first man, while simultaneously slicing into the groin of a second man with his other blade. The man fell to the floor with an anguished roar and fumbled vainly at his wound, twitching with agony. Machiavelli closed in and, glancing briefly at his victim, kicked out viciously, silencing the man in an instant.

  The other men drew back for a moment, surprised that their ambush had not already achieved its purpose, and at the alacrity of their intended victims. But then they renewed their attack with redoubled vigor. There was a cry from Machiavelli as he was cut in his sword arm from behind, but in a moment Ezio was upon his friend’s assailant, plunging his dagger straight into the man’s face.

  The next thing Ezio knew was that a big man, who smelled of prison straw and stale sweat, had crept up behind him and thrown a garrote over his head and around his neck. He choked and dropped his dagger, raising his hand to tear at the rope being tightened on his windpipe. Machiavelli leapt over and stabbed at the big man, cutting into him and causing him to cry out in sudden pain, but Machiavelli had missed his true aim and the man thrust him away. But he had lost his grip on the garrote, and Ezio was able to spring free.

  The light was too dim to make out the black-cloaked forms of the surviving attackers but the failure of their immediate assault seemed temporarily to have unnerved them.

  “Get them!” an unpleasant, guttural voice said. “We are still five against three!”

  “Sancho dieron en el pecho!” shouted another, as Ezio smashed his heavy dagger into the sternum of a flabby creature who had tried to close with him, splitting it as neatly as he would have split a chicken breast. “We are four against three. Nos replegamos!”

  “No!” ordered the first man who had spoken. “Aguantels mentres que m’escapi!”

  The man had spoken in Catalan. The big man who had tried to strangle him. The man who still had the stink of prison clinging to him. Micheletto!

  Moments later, the door to the street was flung open and slammed shut again as Micheletto made his escape, momentarily silhouetted in the streetlight. Ezio rushed after him, but he was confronted by one of the three surviving attackers, who blocked his path, holding a scimitar aloft to bring down on him to split his head in two. He was too close to the man to wield either of his weapons in time, so he threw himself to the side, out of the way. As he rolled to momentary safety, the scimitar came swinging down, but the man had struck so violently, expecting the sword’s path to be interrupted by its victim’s body, that it continued its path and buried itself in the man’s own genitals. With a howl, he dropped the sword and fell to the ground, clutching his smashed manhood in an attempt to stop the fountaining blood and writhing in agony.

  The last two men almost struggled with each other to reach the door in order to escape, and one succeeded; but the second, somehow already wounded in the fight, was tripped by Machiavelli and crashed to the ground as Leonardo threw himself across his body to prevent his rising. When it was clear he would not, Leonardo stood clear and Ezio knelt and turned him over, pressing the point of the hidden-blade into his nostril.

  “I am Ezio Auditore, Mentor of the Assassins,” he said. “Tell me where your master is bound and I will show you mercy.”

  “Never!” croaked the man.

  Ezio pressed the point of the blade in farther. Its razor-sharp edges began slowly to slit the man’s nose.

  “Tell me!”

  “All right! He is going to the Castillo de La Mota.”

  “What is there?”

  “That is where Cesare is held prisoner.”

  Ezio pushed the blade.

  “Have mercy! I speak the truth! But you will never succeed in thwarting us! The Borgia will still return to power and rule all Italy
with an iron fist! They will swarm into the south and throw the filthy Spanish monarchy out! And then they will destroy the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile and rule them, too!”

  “How do you know where Cesare is? It is a dark secret known only to Pope Julius and his council, and to King Ferdinand and his!”

  “Do you not think we have spies of our own? Even in the Vatican? They are good, these spies. This time, better than yours!”

  With a sudden movement, the man brought up his right arm. In it was a small knife, which he aimed at Ezio’s heart. Ezio just had time to block the blow with his left arm, and the knife skittered harmlessly off the bracer and away onto the floor.

  “Long live the Royal House of Borgia!” the man cried.

  “Requiescat in pace,” said Ezio.

  “Welcome to Valencia,” Leonardo muttered.

  FIFTY-NINE

  The Lone Wolf Inn was deserted but there were beds of a sort and as it was late by the time Ezio and his companions had recovered from the bloody tussle with Micheletto’s diehards, they had no choice but to spend the night there. They did find wine, water, and food—bread, onions, and some salami—and even Leonardo was too hungry to refuse it.

  The following morning, Ezio rose early, eager to find horses for the journey ahead of them. Their ship’s captain, Filin, was at the docks seeing to the refitting of his battered ship, and he knew of the remote Castle of La Mota and gave them directions, as far as he could, as to how to find it. But it would be a long and arduous journey of many days. Filin also helped organize their horses but preparations still took another forty-eight hours, since they had to provision themselves as well. The journey would take them northwest across the brown sierras of central Spain. There were no maps, so they traveled from one town or village to another, using the list of names Filin had given them.

  They passed out of Valencia and after several days’ hard riding on their first set of horses—Leonardo complaining bitterly—passed into the beautiful mountain country around the tiny hill town of Cuenca. Then down again onto the flat plain of Madrid, and through the royal city itself, where the bandits who tried to rob them soon found themselves dead on the road, and so north to Segovia on its hill, dominated by its Alcazar, where they spent the night as the guests of the seneschal of Queen Isabella of Castile.

  Then on again through open country—attacked and almost robbed by a gang of Moorish highwaymen who had somehow slipped through the fingers of King Ferdinand and survived in the open country for twelve years. Ferdinand, king of Aragon, Sicily, Naples, and Valencia, founder of the Spanish Inquisition and scourge of the Jews—to dire effect on his nation’s economy—through his Grand Inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada; but who through marriage to his equally ugly wife, Isabella, united Aragon and Castile and started to make Spain a single nation.

  Ferdinand had ambitions on Navarre. Ezio wondered how far the bigoted king’s designs would have an impact on that country, where Cesare had such close family ties, being the brother-in-law of its French king.

  Fighting weariness, they rode on, praying that they would be in time to thwart Micheletto’s plan.

  But, despite all the haste they made, he had had a good start on them.

  SIXTY

  Micheletto and his small band of diehards reined in their horses and stood up in their stirrups to look at the Castle of La Mota. It dominated the small town of Medina del Campo, and had been built to protect it from the Moors.

  Micheletto had good eyesight, and even from that distance he could see the red scarf that Cesare had hung from his cell window. The window was high, high in the central tower, the topmost window, in fact. No need for bars on such a window—that was something to be thankful for, at least—because no one had ever escaped from this place. You could see why. The walls had been made by the skilled masons of the eleventh century and the stone blocks were so skillfully laid that the surface was as smooth as glass.

  Good that they had devised this plan of the red scarf; otherwise it might have hard to find his master Cesare. The go-between, a La Mota sergeant of the guard, who’d been recruited to the Borgia cause in Valencia some time earlier, was perfect: once bribed, perfectly dependable.

  But getting Cesare out was going to be difficult. His cell door was permanently watched by two of a troop of Swiss Guards on loan from Pope Julius, all totally inflexible and incorruptible. So getting Cesare out the easy way was impossible.

  Micheletto measured the height of the central tower with his eyes. Once inside the place, they’d have to scale an impossible wall to a cell about 140 feet up. So, that was out.

  Micheletto considered the problem. He was a practical man, but his specialty was killing, not solving problems by any other means. His thoughts led him to reflect on the main tool of his trade: rope.

  “Let’s ride a little closer,” he said to his companions. They’d all dressed not in their customary black, but in hunting outfits, so as to arouse little or no suspicion. He had ten men with him. Each of them carried, as part of their standard equipment, a length of rope.

  “We don’t want to get too close,” said his lieutenant. “The guards on the ramparts will see us.”

  “And what will they see? A hunting party coming to Medina to revictual. Don’t worry, Giacomo.”

  That remark had given Micheletto the germ of an idea. He went on, “We’ll ride right up to the town.”

  It was about half an hour’s ride. During it, Micheletto was more than usually silent, his battered brow deeply furrowed. Then, as they approached the walls of the city, his face cleared.

  “Rein in,” he said.

  They did so. Micheletto looked them over. The youngest, a man of eighteen, Luca, had no hair on his chin, and a tip-tilted nose. He was already a hardened killer, but his face had the innocence of a cherub.

  “Get out your ropes and measure them.”

  They obeyed. Each rope measured twelve feet. One hundred twenty feet, tied securely together. Add Micheletto’s own and you had 130 feet. Cesare would have to drop the last ten feet or so, but that would be nothing to him.

  Next problem: getting the rope to Cesare. For that they’d have to contact their recruit, the sergeant of the guard, Juan. That wouldn’t be too hard. They knew Juan’s movements and hours of duty. That would be Luca’s job, since, as an innocent-looking young man, he’d attract little attention. The rest of his band, though dressed like hunters, looked like the men they were: hardened thugs. As for himself…And Juan’s palm would have to be greased, but Micheletto always carried a contingency fund of 250 ducats. A tenth of that should do it. For the whole job.

  Juan could gain access to Cesare’s cell and deliver the rope. The Swiss guards wouldn’t suspect him. Micheletto might even fake a letter with an official-looking seal on it, to be delivered to Cesare, as cover.

  But the outer barbican was massive. Once Cesare was at the foot of the central tower, he’d still have to cross the inner courtyards and get out—somehow—through the only gate.

  One good thing. La Mota’s main function these days was to guard its single prisoner. Its original purpose had been to ward off attacks from the Moors, but that threat had been removed long since. The massive place was, in every sense other than guarding Cesare, redundant, and he knew from Juan that it was a fairly cushy posting.

  If Juan could…They must take changes of clothes to Cesare from time to time…If Juan could organize delivery of a change of clothes and fix up a rendezvous once Cesare was out…

  It might work. He could think of no other way, apart from fighting their way in and getting Cesare out by force.

  “Luca,” he said finally, “I have a job for you.”

  It turned out that Juan wanted fifty ducats for the whole job, and Micheletto beat him down to forty, but didn’t waste time with too much bartering. It took Luca three trips to and fro to set the whole thing up, but finally he reported back:

  “It’s arranged. He’s going to take the rope and a guardsman’s uniform to C
esare, accompanying the man who takes him his evening meal at six o’clock. The postern gate will be guarded by Juan, who’s going to take the midnight-to-six gate-watch. It’s a five-minute walk from the castle to the town…”

  Cesare Borgia’s left leg hurt from the lesions of the New Disease, but not much, a dull ache, making him limp slightly. At two o’clock in the morning, already changed into the uniform, he tied one end of the rope firmly to the central mullion of the window of his cell and carefully let the length of the rest of it out into the night. When it was all paid out, he slung his good leg over the windowsill, hauled the other one after it, and took a firm grip on the rope. Sweating despite the coolness of the night, he descended hand over hand until his ankles felt the end of the rope. He dropped the last ten feet, and felt the pain in his left leg when he landed, but he shook it off and limped across the deserted inner courtyard and through the outer one, where there were guards who were sleepy and paid him no attention, recognizing him as one of their own.

  At the gate he was challenged. His heart went to his mouth. But then Juan came up.

  “It’s all right. I’ll take him to the guardhouse.”

  What was going on? So near and yet so far!

  “Don’t worry,” said Juan under his breath.

  The guardhouse was occupied by two sleeping guards. Juan kicked one of them into life.

  “Wake up, Domingo. This man has a warrant for town. They forgot to order more straw for the stables and they need it before they ride out for the dawn patrol. Take him back to the gate, explain to the guards there, and let him out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Out he went through the postern, which was then firmly locked behind him, and limped through the moonlight and the sweet night air to the town. What joy to feel the night around him, and the air, after so long. He’d been confined in this dump for more than a year. But he was free now; he was still only thirty; he’d get it all back. And he’d take such vengeance on his enemies, especially the Assassin Brotherhood, that Caterina Sforza’s purges at Forlì would make her look like a nursemaid.