Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

‘You’re telling me. I could do with a few less of them.’

  ‘You won’t get many while the fight goes on.’

  ‘Listen, Gilberto,’ Ezio said. ‘I know what we saw, but I am sure you have nothing to fear from Machiavelli. You know his methods.’

  La Volpe looked at him evenly. ‘Yes. Very devious.’ He paused. ‘But I have you to thank for saving Claudio’s life. If you believe Machiavelli remains loyal to the Brotherhood, then I am inclined to trust your judgment.’

  ‘So, how do I stand with your thieves? Will you help me?’

  ‘I told you I had plans to do something about this place,’ La Volpe said thoughtfully. ‘Now that you and I seem to be working together again, I’d like to know what you think, too.’

  ‘Are we working together?’

  La Volpe smiled. ‘Looks like it. But I’m still keeping an eye on your black-suited friend.’

  ‘Well, it’ll do no harm. Just don’t do anything rash.’

  La Volpe ignored that. ‘So tell me, what do you think we should do with this place?’

  Ezio considered. ‘We need to make sure the Borgia stay away at all costs. Perhaps we could turn it into a proper working inn.’

  ‘I like that idea.’

  ‘It’ll need a lot of work – repainting, re-shingling, a new sign.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of men. Under your direction …’

  ‘Then I will make it so.’

  *

  A month of respite, or at least semi-respite, followed for Ezio as he busied himself with the business of renovating the Thieves’ Guild headquarters, helped by many willing hands. Between them, the thieves represented a variety of skills, since many were tradesmen who’d been put out of work when they’d refused to kowtow to the Borgia. At the end of that time, the place had been transformed. The paintwork was bright, the windows clean and with new blinds. The roof was no longer rickety and the new sign showed a young male fox, still sleeping but certainly not dead. He looked as if, the moment he awoke, he’d be capable of raiding fifty hen coops at a stroke. The double doors gleamed on new hinges and stood open to reveal an immaculate yard.

  Ezio, who’d had to go on a mission to Siena during the last week of work, was delighted by the end product when he returned. It was already up and running when he arrived.

  ‘I’ve kept the name,’ La Volpe said. ‘I like it. La Volpe Addormentata. Can’t think why.’

  ‘Let’s hope it lulls the enemy into a false sense of security,’ grinned Ezio.

  ‘At least all this activity hasn’t drawn any undue attention to us. And we run it like a regular inn. We even have a casino. My own idea. And it’s turned out to be a great source of income, since we ensure that the Borgia guards who patronize us always lose!’

  ‘And where—?’ said Ezio, lowering his voice.

  ‘Ah. Through here.’ La Volpe led the way to the west wing of the inn, through a door marked Uffizi – Privato, where two thieves stood guard without making it too obvious.

  They passed along a corridor, which led to a suite of rooms behind heavy doors. The walls were hung with maps of Rome, the desks and tables covered with neatly stacked papers at which men and women were already working, even though it was only just past dawn.

  ‘This is where our real business is done,’ said La Volpe.

  ‘It looks very efficient.’

  ‘One good thing about thieves – good ones, at least,’ said La Volpe – ‘they’re independent thinkers and they like a bit of competition, even amongst themselves.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘You’d probably be able to show them a thing or two, if you took part yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be safe for you to stay here,’ said La Volpe. ‘For you or for us. But visit me whenever you like – visit me often.’

  ‘I will.’ Ezio thought of his own lonely lodgings – lonely, but comfortable and very discreet. He’d have been happy nowhere else. He turned his mind to the business in hand. ‘Now that we are organized, the most important thing is to locate the Apple. We have to get it back.’

  ‘Va bene.’

  ‘We know the Borgia have it, but despite our best efforts we still haven’t been able to track it down. So far, at least, they seem to have made no use of it. I can only think they are still studying it and getting nowhere.’

  ‘Have they sought … expert advice?’

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty sure they will have, but he may be pretending to be less intelligent than he is. Let’s hope so. And let’s hope the Borgia don’t become impatient with him.’

  La Volpe smiled. ‘I won’t pursue you on that. But in the meantime, rest assured we already have people scouring Rome for its location.’

  ‘They’ll have hidden it well. Very well. Maybe even from one another. There’s an increasingly rebellious streak in young Cesare, and his father doesn’t like it.’

  ‘What are thieves for but to sniff out well-hidden valuables?’

  ‘Molto bene. And now I must go.’

  ‘A last glass before you do?’

  ‘No. I have much to do now. But we will see each other again soon.’

  ‘And where shall I send my reports?’

  Ezio considered and replied, ‘To the rendezvous of the Assassin Brotherhood on Tiber Island.’

  17

  It was high time now, Ezio decided, to look up his old friend Bartolomeo d’Alviano, Fabio Orsini’s cousin. He’d fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the Orsini against the papal forces back in 1496 and had recently returned from mercenary service in Spain.

  Bartolomeo was one of the greatest of the condotierri, and an old companion-in-arms of Ezio’s. He was also, despite his sometimes oafish manner and a tendency to alarming fits both of anger and depression, a man of unbending loyalty and integrity. Those qualities made him one of the mainstays of the Brotherhood, those and his adamantine hatred of the Templar Sect.

  But how would Ezio find him now? He would soon know. He had learned that Bartolomeo had just returned from fighting, to the barracks of his private army, on the outskirts of Rome. The barracks were well outside town, in the countryside to the north-east, but not far from one of the fortified watchtowers the Borgia had erected at various vantage points in and around the city. The Borgia knew better than to tangle with Bartolomeo – at least, not until they felt powerful enough to crush him like the cockroach they considered him to be. And their power, Ezio knew, was growing daily.

  He arrived at his destination soon after the hour of pranzo. The sun was past its peak and the day was too hot, the discomfort mitigated by a westerly breeze. Arriving at the huge gate in the high palisade that surrounded the barracks, he pounded it with his fist.

  A judas set in the gate opened and Ezio sensed an eye appraising him. Then it closed and he heard a brief, muffled conversation. The judas opened again. Then there was a joyous, baritone bellow, and after much drawing of bolts, the gate was flung open. A large man, slightly younger than Ezio, stood there, his rough army clothes in slightly less than usual disarray, with his arms held wide.

  ‘Ezio Auditore, you old so-and-so! Come in. Come in. I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

  ‘Bartolomeo.’

  The two old friends embraced warmly, then walked across the barracks square towards Bartolomeo’s quarters.

  ‘Come on. Come on,’ Bartolomeo said with his usual eagerness. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  They’d arrived inside a long, low room, well lit from large windows facing the inner square. It was a room that clearly served both for living and for dining, and it was spacious and airy. But there was something very unlike Bartolomeo about it. There were clean blinds on the windows. There was an embroidered cloth spread on the table, from which the remains of lunch had already been cleared. There were pictures on the walls. There was even a bookcase. Bianca, Bartolomeo’s beloved great sword, was nowhere to be seen. Above all, the place was unbelievably tidy.

  ‘Wait her
e,’ said Bartolomeo, snapping his fingers at an orderly for wine, and clearly in a state of high excitement. ‘Now just guess who I want you to meet?’

  Ezio glanced around the room again. ‘Well, I’ve met Bianca …’

  Bartolomeo made a gesture of impatience. ‘No, no! She’s in the map room – it’s where she lives nowadays. Guess again.’

  ‘Well,’ Ezio said slyly, ‘could it possibly be … your wife?’

  Bartolomeo looked so crestfallen that Ezio almost felt sorry for having made so accurate a deduction, not that it had been hard, exactly. But the big man cheered up quickly and continued, ‘She’s such a treasure. You wouldn’t believe it.’ He turned and bellowed in the direction of the inner rooms, ‘Pantasilea! Pantasilea!’ The orderly appeared again with a tray bearing sweetmeats, a decanter and glasses. ‘Where is she?’ Bartolomeo said.

  ‘Have you checked under the table?’ Ezio asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  Just then, Pantasilea appeared, descending a staircase that ran along the western wall of the room.

  ‘Here she is!’

  Ezio stood to greet her.

  He bowed. ‘Auditore, Ezio.’

  ‘Baglioni, Pantasilea – now Baglioni-d’Alviano.’

  She was still young – in her mid- to late twenties, Ezio judged. By her name she was from a noble family, and her dress, though modest, was pretty and tasteful. Her face, framed by fine blonde hair, was oval; her nose tip-tilted like a flower; her lips generous and humorous, as were her intelligent eyes – a deep, dark brown – which were welcoming when she looked at you, and yet seemed to withhold something of herself. She was tall, reaching Bartolomeo’s shoulders, and slender, with wide shoulders and narrow hips; long, slim arms and shapely legs. Bartolomeo had clearly found a treasure. Ezio hoped he’d be able to hang onto her.

  ‘Lieta di conoscervi,’ Pantasilea was saying.

  ‘Altrettanto a lei.’

  She glanced from one man to the other. ‘We will have time to meet properly on another occasion,’ she said to Ezio, with the air of a woman not leaving men to their business, but of having business of her own.

  ‘Stay a little, tesora mia.’

  ‘No, Barto, you know I have to see the clerk. He always manages to bungle the accounts, somehow. And there is something wrong with the water supply. I must see to that, too.’ To Ezio she said, ‘Ora, mi scusi, ma …’

  ‘Con piacere.’

  Smiling at both, she remounted the stairs and disappeared.

  ‘What do you think?’ Bartolomeo asked.

  ‘Charmed, truly.’ Ezio was sincere. He’d also noticed how his friend reined himself in in her presence. He imagined there’d be very little barrack-room swearing around Pantasilea. He did wonder what on earth she saw in her husband, but then, he didn’t know her at all.

  ‘I think she’d do anything for me.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that some other time.’ Bartolomeo seized the decanter and two glasses and put his free arm round Ezio’s shoulders. ‘I am very glad you’ve come. I’ve just got back from campaigning as you must know, and as soon as I heard you were in Rome I was going to send men out to locate you. I know you like to keep your lodgings secret and I don’t blame you, especially in this nest of vipers, but luckily you’ve beaten me to it. And that’s good, because I want to talk to you about the war. Let’s go to the map room.’

  ‘I know Cesare has an alliance with the French,’ Ezio said. ‘How goes the fight against them?’

  ‘Bene. The companies I’ve left out there, who’ll be campaigning under Fabio, are holding their own. And I’ve more men to train here.’

  Ezio considered this. ‘Machiavelli seemed to think things were … more difficult.’

  Bartolomeo shrugged. ‘Well, you know Machiavelli. He—’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of one of Bartolomeo’s sergeants. Pantasilea was at his side. The man was in a panic While she was calm.

  ‘Capitano,’ said the sergeant urgently. ‘We need your help now. The Borgia have launched an attack.’

  ‘What? I hadn’t expected that so soon. Excuse me, Ezio.’ To Pantasilea, Bartolomeo cried, ‘Throw me Bianca.’

  She immediately tossed the great sword across the room to him and, buckling it on, Bartolomeo ran out of the room, following his sergeant. Ezio made to follow, but Pantasilea held him back, grasping his arm firmly.

  ‘Wait!’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  She looked deeply concerned. ‘Ezio, let me get straight to the point. The fight is not going well – either here or out in the Romagna – we’ve been attacked on both sides. The Borgia are on one flank, the French under General Octavien on the other. But know this: the Borgia position is weak. If we can defeat them, we can concentrate our forces on the French front. Taking this tower would help. If someone could get round the back …’

  Ezio inclined his head. ‘Then I think I know a way I can help. Your information is invaluable. Mille grazie, Madonna d’Alviano.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s the least a wife can do to help her husband.’

  18

  The Borgia had launched a surprise attack on the barracks, choosing the hour of the siesta to do so. Bartolomeo’s men had fought them off using traditional weapons, but as they drove them back towards the tower, Ezio could see Cesare’s gunmen massing on its battlements, all armed with their new wheel-locks, which they were training on the condottieri swarming below.

  He skirted the melee, managing to avoid any confrontation with the Borgia troops. He circled and made his way around to the back of the tower. As he’d expected, everyone’s attention was focused on the battle going on at the front. He clambered up the outer walls, easily finding footholds in the rough-hewn stones from which it had been built. Bartolomeo’s men were armed with crossbows, and some had matchlocks, for long-range work, but they would not be able to withstand the deadly fire of the sophisticated new wheel-lock guns.

  Ezio arrived at the top, some forty feet above the ground, in less than three minutes. He heaved himself over the rear parapet, sinews straining, and silently lowered himself onto the roof of the tower. He stalked behind the musketeers, moving one quiet step after another closer to the enemy. He silently drew his dagger and unleashed his Hidden Blade. He stole up behind the men, and in a sudden frenzy of killing, dispatched four gunmen with the two blades. It was only then that the Borgia sharpshooters realized the enemy was amongst them. Ezio saw a man turn his wheel-lock towards him; he was still some 15 feet away, so Ezio simply launched his dagger through the air. It pirouetted three times before embedding itself between the man’s eyes with a sickening thud. The man fell, but not before he’d squeezed the trigger of his musket – luckily for Ezio the barrel had slipped away from its intended aim, and the ball shot to the man’s right, hitting his nearest colleague and passing clean through his Adam’s apple before embedding itself in the shoulder of the man behind him. Both men fell, leaving only three Borgia gunmen on the tower roof. Without pausing, Ezio leapt sideways, and with the flat of his hand slapped the nearest man across the face with such force he toppled backwards over the battlements. Ezio grabbed his weapon by the barrel as the man fell and swung the gun butt into the next soldier’s face. He followed his colleague over the wall with an agonized yell. The last man raised his hands in surrender, but it was too late – Ezio’s Hidden Blade had already found its way between his ribs.

  Ezio grabbed another rifle and bounded down the stairs to the floor below. There were four men here, firing through narrow slits in the thick stone walls. Ezio squeezed the trigger, holding the musket at waist height. The furthest went down with the impact of the shot, his chest exploding with red gore. Taking two strides forward, Ezio swung the gun like a club, barrel first this time, connecting with another man’s knee so that he crumpled. One of the remaining men had turned sufficiently to take a shot. Ezio rolled forwards instinctively and felt the air searing as the ball missed his ch
eek by a matter of inches and embedded itself in the wall behind. Ezio’s momentum sent him crashing into the gunman and the man lurched backwards, his head crunching into the thick stone battlement. The last soldier had also swivelled round to tackle the unexpected threat. He looked down as Ezio sprang up from the floor, but only for an instant, as the Hidden Blade skewered the man’s jaw.

  The man who’s knee Ezio had shattered stirred and tried to reach his dagger, but Ezio simply kicked the man’s temple and turned, unbothered, to watch the battle unfolding down below. It was resolving itself into a rout. With no overwhelming firepower on their side any more, the Borgia soldiers fell back fast, and soon turned tail and fled, abandoning the tower to the condottieri.

  Ezio descended the staircase to the tower’s main gate, encountering a handful of guards who put up fierce resistance before succumbing to his sword. Ensuring that the tower was clear of Borgia men, he flung open the gate and went out to join Bartolomeo. The battle was over and Pantasilea had joined her husband.

  ‘Ezio, Well done! Together, we sent those luridi codardi running for the hills.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’ Ezio exchanged a secret, conspiratorial smile with Pantasilea. Her sound advice had won the fight as much as anything.

  ‘Those new-fangled guns,’ said Bartolomeo. ‘We’ve managed to capture a few, but we’re still working out how to use them.’ He beamed. ‘Anyway, now that the Pope’s dogs have fled, I’ll be able to draw more men to the fight on our side. But first, and especially after this business, I want to reinforce our barracks.’

  ‘Good idea. But who’s going to do it?’

  Bartolomeo shook his head. ‘I’m not much good with these things. You’re the one with an education, why don’t you approve the plans?’

  ‘You got some drawn up?’

  ‘Yes. I engaged the services of a brilliant young man. A Florentine like you by the name of Michelangelo Buonarotti.’

  ‘Never heard of him, but, va bene. In return I need to know Cesare’s and Rodrigo’s every move. Can some of your men shadow them for me?’