Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘What were you able to find out?’

  ‘Boss, there’s a plan to kill the actor this evening. Cesare is sending his “butcher” to see to it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Ezio.

  ‘You’ve seen him,’ replied La Volpe. ‘Micheletto Corella. No one could ever forget a face like that.’

  Indeed, Ezio’s inner eye flashed on the man he’d seen at Cesare’s right hand at Monteriggioni, and again in the stables of the Castel Sant’Angelo. A cruel, battered face that looked much older than its owner’s age warranted, with hideous scars near his mouth, giving him the appearance of wearing a permanent, sardonic grin. Micheletto Corella. Originally Miguel de Corella. Corella – did that region of Navarre, which produced such good wine, really also produce this torturer and murderer?

  ‘He can kill a person one hundred and fifty different ways,’ La Volpe was saying, ‘but his preferred method is strangulation.’ He paused. ‘He’s certainly the most accomplished murderer in Rome. No one escapes him.’

  ‘Let’s hope tonight will be the first time,’ said Ezio.

  ‘Where this evening? Do you know?’ La Volpe asked the thieves.

  ‘Pietro’s performing in a religious play this evening. He’s been rehearsing at a secret location.’

  ‘He must be scared. And?’

  ‘He’s playing Christ.’ One of the thieves snickered at this. La Volpe glared. ‘He’s to be suspended from a cross,’ continued the man who’d been talking. ‘Micheletto will come at him with a spear and pierce his side – only it won’t be make-believe.’

  ‘Do you know where Pietro is?’

  The thief shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you that. We couldn’t find out. But we do know that Micheletto will wait at the old Baths of the Emperor Trajan.’

  ‘The Terme di Traiano?’

  ‘Yes. We think the plan is this: Micheletto intends to disguise his men in costumes, and make the killing look like an accident.’

  ‘But where’s the performance taking place?’

  ‘We don’t know, but it can’t be far from where Micheletto will be waiting for his men to gather.’

  ‘I’ll go there and shadow him,’ Ezio decided. ‘He’ll lead me to Lucrezia’s lover.’

  ‘Anything else?’ La Volpe asked his men.

  They shook their heads. A serving man came in then, bringing a tray containing beer, bread and salami, which the thieves fell on gratefully. La Volpe drew Ezio to one side.

  ‘Ezio, I am sorry, but I am convinced that Machiavelli has betrayed us.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whatever you say will not convince me otherwise. I know we would both wish to deny it, but the truth is now clear. In my opinion, we should … do what needs to be done.’ He paused. ‘And if you don’t, I will.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And there’s another thing, Ezio. God knows I’m loyal, but I also have the welfare of my men to consider. Until this thing is settled, I’m not putting them at unnecessary risk any more.’

  ‘You have your priorities, Gilberto, and I have mine.’

  Ezio left, to prepare himself for his evening’s work. Borrowing a horse from La Volpe, he made his way straight to The Rosa in Fiore, where Claudia greeted him.

  ‘You’ve had a delivery,’ she said.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Two men, both very dapper. One quite young and a bit shifty-looking, but handsome in a pretty sort of way. The other, maybe fifty – a few years older than you, anyway. Of course, I remembered him – your old friend Leonardo – but he was quite formal. He gave me this note and I paid him.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  Claudia smiled. ‘He said he thought you might appreciate an express delivery.’

  Ezio smiled back. It would be good to encounter tonight’s villains – he imagined Micheletto’s men would be trained to a very high standard – armed with a few of his old friends, the Codex weapons. But he’d need backup, too, and from La Volpe’s attitude, he knew he couldn’t depend on the loan of a contingent of thieves.

  His thoughts turned to his own militia of new recruits. It was time to put a few of them through their paces.

  36

  Unknown to Ezio, Messer Corella had one other small piece of business to conclude for his boss before the main event of the evening. But it was still quite early.

  He stood silently on a deserted dock by the Tiber. A few barges and two ships rode at anchor, gently moving with the river’s flow. The ships’ grubby furled sails rippled slightly in the wind. A group of guards wearing Cesare’s insignia were coming towards them, half hauling, half carrying a blindfolded man between them. At their head was Cesare himself.

  Micheletto recognized the man, without surprise, as Francesco Troche.

  ‘Please,’ Francesco was whimpering, ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Francesco, my dear friend,’ said Cesare. ‘The facts are plain. You told your brother about my plans in the Romagna, and he contacted the Venetian ambassador.’

  ‘It was an accident. I am still your servant and your ally.’

  ‘Are you demanding that I discount your actions and rely on mere friendship?’

  ‘I am … asking, not demanding.’

  ‘My dear Francesco, in order to unite Italy I must have every institution under my control. You know what higher organization we serve – the Order of Templars, of which I am now head.’

  ‘I thought your father …’

  ‘And if the Church does not fall in line,’ continued Cesare firmly, ‘I will eliminate it entirely.’

  ‘But you know that I really work for you, not the Pope.’

  ‘Ah, but do I, Troche? There’s only one way I can be unconditionally sure of that now.’

  ‘Surely you can’t intend to kill me, your most loyal friend?’

  Cesare smiled. ‘Of course not.’

  He snapped his fingers. Noiselessly, Micheletto approached from behind Francesco’s back.

  ‘You are … you are letting me go?’ Relief flooded into Troche’s voice. ‘Thank you, Cesare. Thank you from my heart. You will not regret—’

  But his words were cut short as Micheletto, a thin cord twisted between his hands, leant forward and bound it tightly round his neck. Cesare watched for a moment, but even before Francesco was completely dead, he turned to the captain of the guard and said, ‘Have you got the costumes for the play ready?’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Then give them to Micheletto when he’s finished.’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Lucrezia is mine and mine alone. I didn’t think she was that important to me, but when I got that message in Urbino, from one of her own men, that that wretched toad of an actor had been pawing her, slobbering over her, I came back immediately. Can you understand a passion like that, captain?’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘You’re a fool. Have you done, Micheletto?’

  ‘Messere, the man is dead.’

  ‘Then weigh him down with stones and dump him in the Tiber.’

  ‘I obey, Cesare.’

  The captain had given orders to his men, and four of them had gone to fetch two large wicker hampers, which they now carried between them.

  ‘Here are the costumes for your men. Make doubly sure the work is done correctly.’

  ‘Indeed, Messere.’

  Cesare stalked off, leaving his subordinate to make his arrangements. Motioning to the guards to follow him, Micheletto led the way towards the Baths of Trajan.

  Ezio and his band of recruits were already at the baths, hidden in the shelter of a ruined portico. He had noticed a number of men in black already gathered, and he watched them closely as Micheletto appeared. The guards put the baskets of costumes down and Micheletto motioned them to depart. The shadows were deep, and Ezio nodded to his men to prepare themselves. He had strapped the Bracer to his left forearm, and the Poison Blade to his right.

  Micheletto’s men formed a line, and as each man came up to his leader, he was handed a costume – t
hey were uniforms in the style of those worn by Roman legionaries at the time of Christ. Ezio noticed that Micheletto himself wore the costume of a centurion.

  As each man stepped away to don his costume, Ezio stood ready. Silently, he extended the concealed Poison Blade that Leonardo had re-crafted for him. The unsuspecting thugs went down without a whisper, then his own recruits put on the theatrical clothes, and pulled Micheletto’s henchmen’s bodies out of sight.

  Absorbed in his work, Micheletto was unaware, once everyone was in costume, that the men he now commanded were not his own. He led them, with Ezio close behind, in the direction of the Colosseum.

  A stage had been erected in the ruins of the old Roman amphitheatre where, since the time of the Emperor Titus, gladiators had fought each other to the death, bestiarii had dispatched wild animals in their tens of thousands, and Christians had been thrown to the lions. It was a gloomy place, but the gloom was dispersed somewhat by the hundreds of flickering torches that illuminated the stage, while the audience, ranged on benches on a wooden grandstand, were absorbed in watching a play on the subject of Christ’s Passion.

  ‘I seek Pietro Benintendi,’ Micheletto said to the doorkeeper, showing him a warrant.

  ‘He acts onstage, signore,’ replied the doorkeeper. ‘But one of my men will take you to where you may wait for him.’

  Micheletto turned to his ‘companions’. ‘Don’t forget,’ he told them. ‘I will be wearing this black cloak with the white star on its shoulder. Cover my back and wait for your cue, which will be Pontius Pilate’s order to the centurion to strike.’

  I must get to Pietro before he does, thought Ezio, tagging along at the back of the group as they followed their leader into the Colosseum.

  Onstage, three crosses had been erected. He watched as his recruits disposed themselves according to Micheletto’s orders and Micheletto himself took his place in the wings.

  The play was reaching its climax:

  ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ cried Pietro from the cross.

  ‘Hark,’ said one of the actors playing the Pharisees. ‘How he crieth upon Elijah to deliver him!’

  One, dressed as a Roman legionary, dipped a sponge in vinegar and placed it on the tip of his spear. ‘Wait and see whether Elijah dare come here or not.’

  ‘My thirst is great; my thirst is great,’ cried Pietro.

  The soldier raised the sponge to Pietro’s lips.

  ‘Yea, thou shalt drink no more,’ said another Pharisee.

  Pietro raised his head. ‘Mighty God in Majesty,’ he declaimed. ‘To work Thy Will I shall never cease. My spirit I betake to Thee; receive it, O Lord, into Thy hands.’ Pietro gave a great sigh. ‘Consummatum est!’

  His head dropped. Christ had ‘died’.

  On cue, Micheletto strode onto the stage, his centurion’s uniform glittering under the thrown-back black cloak. Ezio, watching, wondered what had become of the actor originally playing the centurion, but imagined that he had met a fate similar to that of most of Micheletto’s victims.

  ‘Lords, I say unto you,’ recited Micheletto boldly, ‘this was indeed the Son of God the Father Almighty. I know it must be so. I know by the manner of his cry that He has fulfilled the prophecy, and the godhead is revealed in Him!’

  ‘Centurion,’ said the actor playing Caiaphas, ‘as God gives me speed, thy folly is great indeed. Thou dost not understand! When thou seest His heart bleed, then we shall see what thou wilt say. Longinus, take this spear into thy hand.’

  Caiaphas handed a wooden spear to the actor playing the Roman legionary, Longinus, a large man with flowing locks – clearly a favourite of the audience and doubtless, thought Ezio, a bitter rival of Pietro’s.

  ‘Take this spear and take good heed,’ added one of the Pharisees for good measure. ‘Thou must pierce the side of Jesus Nazarenus that we shall know He is truly dead.’

  ‘I will do as thou biddest me,’ declaimed Longinus, ‘but on your heads be it. Whatever the consequence, I wash my hands of it.’

  He then made a great show of stabbing Jesus’ side with the prop spear and, as the blood and water spilled forth from a hidden sac concealed in Pietro’s loincloth, so Longinus began his big speech. Ezio could see the beady glint in the ‘dead’ Jesus’ eyes as Pietro watched him jealously.

  ‘High King of Heaven, I see Thee here. Let water be thrown onto my hands and onto my spear, and let my eyes be bathed, too, that I may see thee more clearly.’ He made a dramatic pause. ‘Alas, alack and woe is me! What is this deed that I have done? I think that I have slain a man, sooth to say, but what manner of man I know not. Lord God in Heaven, I cry you mercy, for it was my body which guided my hand, not my soul.’ Allowing himself another pause for a round of applause, he ploughed on. ‘Lord Jesus, much have I heard spoken of Thee – that Thou hast healed, through Thy pity, both the sick and the blind. And, let Thy Name be praised! – Thou hast healed me this day of my own blindness – my blindness of spirit. Henceforward, Lord, Thy follower will I be. And in three days Thou shalt rise again to rule and judge us all.’

  The actor who was playing Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthy Jewish leader who donated his own tomb – which had already been built – for the housing of Christ’s body, then spoke: ‘Ah, Lord God, what heart had You to allow them to slay this man that I see here dead and hanging from a cross, a man who ne’er did aught amiss? For surely, God’s own Son is He. Therefore, in the tomb that is made for me, therein shall His body buried be – for He is King of Bliss.’

  Nicodemus, Joseph’s colleague in the Sanhedrin and a fellow sympathizer, added his voice: ‘Ser Joseph, I say surely, this is God’s Son Almighty. Let us request His body of Pontius Pilate, and nobly buried He shall be. And I will help thee to take Him down devotedly.’

  Joseph then turned to the actor playing Pilate and spoke again: ‘Ser Pilate, I ask of thee a special boon to grant me as thou may. This prophet that is dead today – allow me of his body custody.’

  While Micheletto took up position very near the central cross, Ezio slipped backstage. There, he rummaged swiftly through a costume skip and found a rabbinical robe, which he hurriedly put on. He returned to the stage from backstage left, managing to slip in just behind Micheletto without anyone noticing or the action skipping a beat.

  ‘Joseph, if indeed Jesus Nazarenus is dead, as the centurion must confirm, I will not deny you custody.’ Turning to Micheletto, Pilate spoke again: ‘Centurion! Is Jesus dead?’

  ‘Ay, Ser Governor,’ said Micheletto flatly, and Ezio noticed him draw a stiletto from under his cloak. Ezio had replaced his Poison Blade, now exhausted of venom, with his trusty Hidden Blade, and with it he now pierced Micheletto’s side, holding him upright and manoeuvring him offstage, in the direction he had come. Once backstage, he laid the man down.

  Micheletto fixed him with a glittering look. ‘Hah!’ he said. ‘You cannot save Pietro. The vinegar on the sponge was poisoned. As I promised Cesare, I made doubly sure.’ He fought for breath. ‘You had better finish me.’

  ‘I did not come here to kill you. You helped your master rise and you will fall with him. You don’t need me; you are the agent of your own destruction. If you live, well, a dog always returns to its master, and you will lead me to my real quarry.’

  Ezio had no time for more; he had to save Pietro.

  As he rushed back onstage, he was greeted by a scene of chaos. Pietro was writhing on the cross and vomiting as he turned the colour of a peeled almond. The audience was in uproar.

  ‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ cried Longinus, as the other actors scattered.

  ‘Cut him down!’ Ezio yelled to his recruits. Some threw keenly aimed daggers to slice through the ropes that bound Pietro to the cross, while others stood ready to catch him. Still more were fighting back the Borgia guards who had appeared from nowhere and were storming the stage.

  ‘This wasn’t in the script!’ gurgled Pietro as he fell into the arms of the recruits.

>   ‘Will he die?’ asked Longinus hopefully. One rival less is always good news in a tough profession.

  ‘Hold off the guards!’ shouted Ezio, leading the recruits off stage and carrying Pietro in his arms across a shallow pool of water in the middle of the Colosseum, disturbing dozens of drinking pigeons, which flew up and away in alarm. The very last glimmer from the setting sun bathed Ezio and Pietro in a dull red light.

  Ezio had trained his recruits well, and those bringing up the rearguard successfully fought off the pursuing Borgia guards as the rest made their way out of the Colosseum and into the network of streets to the north. Ezio led the way to the house of a doctor of his acquaintance. He hammered on the door and, having been granted reluctant admission, had Pietro laid on a table covered with a palliasse in the doctor’s consulting room, from whose beams a baffling number of dried herbs hung in organized bunches, giving the room a pungent smell. On shelves, unidentifiable or unmentionable objects, creatures and parts of creatures floated in glass bottles filled with cloudy liquid.

  Ezio ordered his men outside to keep watch. He wondered what any passers-by might think if they saw a bunch of Roman soldiers. They’d probably think they were seeing ghosts and run a mile. He himself had shed his Pharisee outfit at the first opportunity.

  ‘Who are you?’ murmured Pietro. Ezio was concerned to see that the actor’s lips had turned blue.

  ‘Your saviour,’ said Ezio. To the doctor he said, ‘He’s been poisoned, Dottore Brunelleschi.’

  Brunelleschi examined the actor quickly, shining a light into his eyes. ‘From the pallor, it looks like they used cantarella. The poison of choice for our dear masters, the Borgia.’ To Pietro, he said, ‘Lie still.’

  ‘Feel sleepy,’ said Pietro.

  ‘Lie still! Has he been sick?’ Brunelleschi asked Ezio.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ The doctor bustled about, mixing fluids from the different-coloured glass bottles with practised ease and pouring the mixture into a phial. This he handed to Pietro, propping his head up.

  ‘Drink this.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ said Ezio urgently.