Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  His hood pulled up over his head, he melted into the crowd but stayed close as he saw the figure of Carlo Grimaldi approaching with another man, ascetic-looking, whose bushy auburn hair and beard were ill-sorted with his bluish, pallid skin, and who wore the red robes of a State Inquisitor. This, Ezio knew, was Silvio Barbarigo, Emilio’s cousin, whose soubriquet was ‘Il Rosso’. He did not look in a particularly good mood.

  ‘Where is Emilio?’ he asked impatiently.

  Grimaldi shrugged. ‘I told him to be here.’

  ‘You told him yourself? In person?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grimaldi snapped back. ‘Myself! In person! I’m concerned that you don’t trust me.’

  ‘As am I,’ muttered Silvio. Grimaldi gritted his teeth at that, but Silvio merely looked around, abstractedly. ‘Well, perhaps he’ll arrive with the others. Let’s walk a while.’

  They proceeded to stroll around the large, rectangular campo, past the church of San Vidal and the palaces at the Grand Canal end, up to San Stefano at the other, pausing from time to time to look at the wares the stallholders were setting out at the beginning of the day’s trading. Ezio shadowed them, but it was difficult. Grimaldi was on edge, and kept turning round suspiciously. At times it was all Ezio could do to keep his quarry within earshot.

  ‘While we’re waiting, you can bring me up to date with how things are at the Doge’s Palace,’ said Silvio.

  Grimaldi spread his hands. ‘Well, to be honest with you, it’s not easy. Mocenigo keeps his circle close. I have tried to lay the groundwork, as you asked, making suggestions in the interest of our Cause, but of course I am not the only one vying for his attention, and old though he is, he’s a canny bugger.’

  Silvio picked up a complicated-looking glass figurine from a stall, inspected it, and put it back. ‘Then you must work harder, Grimaldi. You must become part of his inner circle.’

  ‘I am already one of his closest and most trusted associates. It has taken me years to establish myself. Years of patient planning, of waiting, of accepting humiliations.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Silvio impatiently. ‘But what have you to show for it?’

  ‘It’s harder than I expected.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  Grimaldi made a gesture of frustration. ‘I don’t know. I do my utmost for the State, I work hard… But the fact is, Mocenigo doesn’t like me.’

  ‘I wonder why not,’ said Silvio coolly.

  Grimaldi was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the snub. ‘It’s not my fault! I keep trying to please the bastard! I find out what he most desires and lay it on for him – the finest jams from Sardinia, the latest fashions from Milan –’

  ‘Maybe the Doge just doesn’t like sycophants.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what I am?’

  ‘Yes. A doormat, flatterer, a bootlicker – need I go on?’

  Grimaldi looked at him. ‘Don’t you insult me, Inquisitore. You haven’t a clue what it’s like. You don’t understand the pressure in the –’

  ‘Oh, I don’t understand pressure?’

  ‘No! You have no idea. You may be a state official but I am two steps from the Doge almost every waking hour of the day. You wish you could be in my shoes, because you think you could do better, but –’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘No! Just listen. I am close to the man. I have dedicated my life to establishing myself in this position, and I tell you I am convinced I can recruit Mocenigo to our Cause.’ Grimaldi paused. ‘I just need a little more time.’

  ‘It seems to me that you’ve had more than enough time already.’ Silvio broke off, and Ezio watched as he raised a hand to attract the attention of an expensively dressed elderly man with a flowing white beard, accompanied by a bodyguard who was the largest person Ezio had ever seen.

  ‘Good morning, Cousin,’ the newcomer greeted Silvio. ‘Grimaldi.’

  ‘Greetings, Cousin Marco,’ replied Silvio. He looked around. ‘Where is Emilio? Did he not come with you?’

  Marco Barbarigo looked surprised, then grave. ‘Ah. Then you have not yet heard the news.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Emilio is dead!’

  ‘What?’ Silvio, as always, was irritated that his older and more powerful cousin should be better informed than he was. ‘How?’

  ‘I can guess,’ said Grimaldi, bitterly. ‘The Assassino.’

  Marco looked at him sharply. ‘It is so. They pulled his body out of one of the canals late last night. It must have been in there for – well, for long enough. They say he’d swollen up to twice his usual size. That’s why he floated to the surface.’

  ‘Where can the Assassin be hiding?’ Grimaldi said. ‘We must find him and kill him before he does any more damage.’

  ‘He could be anywhere,’ said Marco. ‘That is why I take Dante here everywhere with me. I wouldn’t feel safe without him.’ He broke off. ‘Why, he could be here, even now, for all we know.’

  ‘We must act fast,’ said Silvio.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Marco.

  ‘But Marco, I’m so close. I feel it. Just give me a few more days,’ Grimaldi pleaded.

  ‘No, Carlo, you’ve had quite enough time. We no longer have the leisure for subtlety. If Mocenigo will not join us, we must remove him and replace him with one of our own, and we must do it this very week!’

  The giant bodyguard, Dante, whose eyes had not ceased to scan the crowd from the moment he and Marco Barbarigo had arrived, now spoke. ‘We should keep moving, signori.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Marco. ‘And the Master will be waiting. Come!’

  Ezio moved like a shade among the crowds and the stalls, striving to keep the men within earshot as they crossed the square and made off down the street which led in the general direction of Saint Mark’s Square.

  ‘Will the Master agree to our new strategy?’ asked Silvio.

  ‘He’d be a fool not to.’

  ‘You’re right, we have no choice,’ Silvio agreed, then looked at Grimaldi. ‘Which kind of makes you redundant,’ he added unpleasantly.

  ‘That is a matter for the Master to decide,’ retorted Grimaldi. ‘Just as he will decide whom to place in Mocenigo’s shoes – you, or your cousin Marco here. And the best person to advise him on that is me!’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that there was a decision to be made,’ said Marco. ‘Surely the choice is obvious to all.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Silvio, edgily. ‘The choice should fall on the person who organized the entire operation, the one who came up with the idea of how to save this city!’

  Marco was quick to reply. ‘I would be the last to undervalue tactical intelligence, my good Silvio; but in the end it is wisdom which one needs in order to rule. Do not think otherwise.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Grimaldi. ‘The Master may be able to advise the Committee of Forty-One when they meet to elect the new Doge, but he cannot sway them. And for all we know, the Master may be thinking of someone quite other than either of you…’

  ‘You mean yourself?’ said Silvio incredulously, while Marco merely gave vent to a sneering laugh.

  ‘And why not? I’m the one who’s put in all the real graft!’

  ‘Signori, please, keep moving,’ put in Dante. ‘It’ll be safer for you all when we get back inside.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Marco, quickening his pace. The others followed suit.

  ‘He’s a good man, your Dante,’ said Silvio. ‘How much did you pay for him?’

  ‘Less than he is worth,’ replied Marco. ‘He’s loyal and he’s trustworthy – he’s saved my life on two occasions. But I wouldn’t say he was exactly loquacious.’

  ‘Who needs conversation from a bodyguard?’

  ‘We’re here,’ said Grimaldi, as they arrived at a discreet door in the side of a building off the Campo Santa Maria Zobenigo. Ezio, keeping a safe distance between them and himself, aware as he was of Dante’s extreme vigilance, rounded the corner of the square just in ti
me to see them enter. Looking round to ensure that the coast was clear, he climbed the side of the building and positioned himself on the balcony above the door. The windows to the room beyond were open, and within it, seated in a heavy oak chair behind a refectory table covered with papers, and dressed in purple velvet, sat the Spaniard. Ezio dissolved into the shadows, and waited, ready to listen to all that transpired.

  Rodrigo Borgia was in a filthy mood. Already the Assassin had frustrated him in several major enterprises and escaped every attempt to kill him. Now he was in Venice and had eliminated one of the cardinal’s principal allies there. And as if that wasn’t enough, Rodrigo had had to spend the first fifteen minutes of this meeting listening to the parcel of fools left in his service bickering about which of them should be the next Doge. The fact that he had already made his choice and greased the palms of all the key members of the Council of Forty-One seemed to have passed these idiots by. And his choice had fallen on the oldest, vainest and most pliable of the three.

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you,’ he finally spat out. ‘What I need from you is discipline and unwavering dedication to the Cause, not this pusillanimous quest for self-advancement. This is my decision and it will be carried out. Marco Barbarigo will be the next Doge and he will be elected next week following the death of Giovanni Mocenigo, which, given that the man is seventy-six years old, will hardly raise an eyebrow but which nevertheless must look natural. Do you think you are capable of arranging that, Grimaldi?’

  Grimaldi cast a glance at the Barbarigo cousins. Marco was preening and Silvio was trying to look dignified in his disappointment. What fools they were, he thought. Doge or no Doge, they were still the puppets of the Master, and the Master was now conferring the real responsibility on him. Grimaldi allowed himself to dream of better things as he replied, ‘Of course, Master.’

  ‘When are you closest to him?’

  Grimaldi reflected. ‘I have the run of the Palazzo Ducale. Mocenigo may not like me much but I do have his full confidence, and I’m at his beck and call most of the time.’

  ‘Good. Poison him. At the first opportunity.’

  ‘He has food tasters.’

  ‘Good God, man, do you think I don’t know that? You Venetians are supposed to be good at poisoning. Get something into his meat after they’ve tasted it. Or stick something into that Sardinian jam they tell me he’s so fond of. But think of something or it’ll be the worse for you!’

  ‘Leave it to me, su altezza.’

  Rodrigo turned his irritable gaze on Marco. ‘I take it you can lay your hands on a suitable product for our purpose?’

  Marco smiled deprecatingly. ‘That is rather my cousin’s area of expertise.’

  ‘I should be able to lay my hands on enough cantarella for our purposes,’ said Silvio.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘It’s a most effective form of arsenic and it is very difficult to trace.’

  ‘Good! See to it!’

  ‘I must say, Maestro,’ said Marco, ‘we are lost in admiration that you should associate yourself personally so closely with this enterprise. Is that not dangerous for you?’

  ‘The Assassin will not dare come after me. He is clever, but he will never outwit me. In any case, I feel inclined to involve myself more directly. The Pazzi disappointed us in Florence. I hope sincerely that the Barbarigi will not do the same…’ He glowered at them.

  Silvio snickered. ‘The Pazzi were a bunch of amateur –’

  ‘The Pazzi,’ Rodrigo interrupted him, ‘were a potent and venerable family, and they were brought to their knees by one young Assassin. Do not underestimate this troublesome foe, or he will bring the Barbarigi down too.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘Now go, and get this done. We cannot afford another failure!’

  ‘What are your own plans, Master?’

  ‘I return to Rome. Time is of the essence!’

  Rodrigo rose abruptly and left the room. From his vantage-point hidden on the balcony, Ezio watched him leave alone and cross the square, causing a flock of pigeons to scatter as he strode in the direction of the Molo. The other men soon followed him, separating and taking their own paths out of the square. When all was silent, he leapt down to the flagstones beneath and hurried off in the direction of Antonio’s headquarters.

  Once there, he was met by Rosa, who greeted him with a lingering kiss. ‘Put your dagger back in its sheath,’ she smiled as their bodies pressed together.

  ‘You’re the one who made me draw it. And you’re the one,’ he added knowingly, ‘with its sheath.’

  She took his hand. ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘No, Rosa, mi dispiace veramente but I can’t.’

  ‘So – you tire of me already!’

  ‘You know it isn’t that! But I have to see Antonio. It’s urgent.’

  Rosa looked at him and saw the intense expression on his face, in his cold blue-grey eyes. ‘OK. For this once I forgive you. He’s in his office. I think he misses that model of the Palazzo Seta now that he’s got the real thing! Come!’

  ‘Ezio!’ said Antonio as soon as he saw him. ‘I don’t like that look. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I wish it was. I’ve just discovered that Carlo Grimaldi and the two Barbarigi cousins Silvio and Marco are in league with… a man I know too well, whom people call the Spaniard. They plan to murder Doge Mocenigo and replace him with one of their own.’

  ‘That is terrible news. With their own man as Doge they’ll have the entire Venetian fleet and trade empire in their grasp.’ He paused. ‘And they call me a criminal!’

  ‘So – you’ll help me stop them?’

  Antonio extended his hand. ‘You have my word, little brother. And the support of all my men.’

  ‘And women,’ put in Rosa.

  Ezio smiled. ‘Grazie, amici.’

  Antonio looked thoughtful. ‘But Ezio, this will take some planning. The Palazzo Ducale is so strongly defended that it makes the Palazzo Seta look like an open park. And we don’t have time for me to have a scale model built so we can plan –’

  Ezio held up his hand and said firmly, ‘Nothing is impenetrable.’

  The two of them looked at him. Then Antonio laughed, and Rosa smiled naughtily. ‘Nothing is impenetrable! – No wonder we like you, Ezio!’

  *

  Late in the day, when there were fewer people about, Antonio and Ezio made their way to the Doge’s Palace. ‘Treachery like this no longer surprises me,’ Antonio was saying as they went. ‘Doge Mocenigo is a good man and I’m surprised he’s lasted so long. As for me, when I was a child, we were taught that the nobles were just and kind. I believed it, too. And though my father was a cobbler and my mother a scullery-maid, I aspired to be much more. I studied hard, I persevered, but I could never make myself one of the ruling class. If you aren’t born into it, acceptance is impossible. So – I ask you, Ezio, who are the true nobles of Venice? Men like Grimaldi or Marco and Silvio Barbarigo? No! We are! The thieves and the mercenaries and the whores. We keep this place going and each one of us has more honour in his little finger than the whole pack of our so-called rulers! We love Venice. The others merely see it as a means of enriching themselves.’

  Ezio kept his counsel, for he could not see Antonio, good as the man was, ever wearing the corno ducale. In due course they arrived at St Mark’s Square, making their way round it to the pink palace. It was quite clearly heavily guarded, and although the two of them managed to clamber undetected up scaffolding which had been erected on the side wall of the cathedral which adjoined the palace, when they looked over from their vantage-point they could see that even though they could – and did – leap across on to the palace roof, access to the courtyard, even from there, was barred by a high grille whose spiked top curved outwards and downwards. Below them in the courtyard they could see the Doge himself, Giovanni Mocenigo, a dignified old man who nevertheless seemed like a shrivelled husk inhabiting the gorgeous robes and corno of the leader of the city and the state, in con
versation with his appointed murderer, Carlo Grimaldi.

  Ezio listened intently.

  ‘Don’t you understand what I’m offering you, Altezza?’ Carlo was saying. ‘Listen to me, please, for this is your last chance!’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you threaten me!’ retorted the Doge.

  Carlo was immediately apologetic. ‘Forgive me, sir. I meant nothing by it. But please believe that your safety is my principal concern…’

  With that, the pair moved into the building and out of sight.

  ‘We have very little time,’ said Antonio, reading Ezio’s thoughts. ‘And there’s no way through this grille. Even if there were, look at the number of guards around. Diavolo!’ He swiped the air in frustration, causing a cluster of pigeons to take to the air. ‘Look at them! The birds! How easy it might be for us if we could only fly!’

  Suddenly, Ezio grinned to himself. It was high time he looked up his friend Leonardo da Vinci.

  17

  ‘Ezio! How long has it been?’ Leonardo greeted him like a long-lost brother. His workshop in Venice had taken on all the look of his workshop in Florence, but dominating it was a full-scale version of the bat-like machine whose purpose, Ezio now knew, was one which he had to take seriously. But first things first, for Leonardo.

  ‘Listen, Ezio, you sent me via a very nice man called Ugo another Codex page, but you never followed up on it. Have you been that busy?’

  ‘I have rather had my hands full,’ replied Ezio, remembering the page he had taken from Emilio Barbarigo’s effects.

  ‘Well, here it is.’ Leonardo rummaged in the apparent chaos of his room, but quickly came up with the neatly rolled Codex page, its seal restored. ‘There’s no new weapon-design on this one, but from the look of the symbols and the manuscript writing on it, which I believe to be Aramaic or even Babylonian, it will be a significant page in whatever jigsaw puzzle you are assembling. I think I recognize traces of a map.’ He held up his hand. ‘But tell me nothing! I am only interested in the inventions these pages you bring me reveal. More than that, I do not care to know. A man like me is only immune from danger according to his usefulness; but if it were discovered that he knew too much –’ And Leonardo expressively slit his throat with his finger. ‘Well, that’s that,’ he continued. ‘I know you by now, Ezio, your visits are never simply social. Have a glass of this rather awful Veneto – give me Chianti any day – and there are some fishcakes somewhere or other, if you’re hungry.’