‘Je suis le lieutenant Guillemot, et j’emmène le général d’Alviano ici présent à Son Excellence le Duc-Général Monsieur de Valois. Le général d’Alviano s’est rendu, seul et sans armes, selon les exigences de Monsieur le Duc,’ said Ezio fluently, causing Bartolomeo to raise an eyebrow.
‘Well, Lieutenant Guillemot, the general will be pleased to see that General d’Alviano has come to his senses,’ said the Captain of the Guard, who had hurried up to take charge. ‘But there’s something – just a trace – about your accent, which I cannot place. Tell me, what part of France are you from?’
Ezio drew a breath. ‘Montréal,’ he replied firmly.
‘Open the gates,’ the Captain of the Guard said to his sergeant.
‘Open the gates!’ shouted the sergeant.
Within seconds, Ezio was leading his men into the heart of the French headquarters. He fell back a step so as to have Bartolomeo, and the ‘prisoner’s’ escort, at his side.
‘I’ll kill the lot of them,’ muttered Bartolomeo, ‘and eat their kidneys fried for breakfast. By the way, I didn’t know you spoke French.’
‘Picked it up in Florence,’ Ezio replied casually. ‘Couple of girls there I knew.’ He was quietly glad his accent had passed muster.
‘You rogue! Still, they say that’s the best place to learn a language.’
‘What, Florence?’
‘No, you fool – bed!’
‘Shut up.’
‘You sure these manacles are fakes?’
‘Not yet, Barto. Be patient, and shut up!’
‘It’s taking all my patience. What are they saying?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
It was just as well that Bartolomeo’s French was limited to a few words, thought Ezio, as he listened to the jibes being hurled at his friend: ‘Chien d’Italien’ – ‘Italian dog’; ‘Prosterne-toi devant tes supérieurs’ – ‘Bow down before your betters’; ‘Regarde-le, comme il a honte de ce qu’il est devenu!’ – ‘Look at him, how ashamed of himself he is at his own downfall!’
The ordeal was soon over, though, as they arrived at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the entrance of the French general’s quarters. De Valois himself stood at the head of a group of officers, his prisoner Pantasilea at his side. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she wore loose manacles on her ankles, which allowed her to walk, but only in small steps. At the sight of her, Bartolomeo could not resist an angry growl. Ezio kicked him.
De Valois held up his hand. ‘No need for violence, Lieutenant, though I do congratulate you on your zeal.’ He turned his attention to Bartolomeo. ‘My dear general, it seems that you have seen the light.’
‘Enough of your crap!’ snarled Bartolomeo. ‘Release my wife, and get these cuffs off me.’
‘Oh dear,’ said de Valois. ‘Such high-handedness, and from someone born with absolutely nothing to his name.’
Ezio was about to give the signal, when Bartolomeo retorted to Valois, raising his voice, ‘My name is worth its currency. Unlike yours, which is counterfeit!’
The surrounding troops fell silent.
‘How dare you?’ said de Valois, white with rage.
‘You think that commanding an army in itself grants you status and nobility? True nobility of spirit comes from fighting alongside your men, not by kidnapping a woman to cheat your way out of a battle.’
‘You savages never learn,’ said de Valois malevolently and, producing a pistol, he cocked it and pointed it at Pantasilea’s head.
Ezio knew he had to act fast, so he took out a pistol and fired one shot into the air. At the same time, Bartolomeo, who’d been dying for this moment, bunched his fists so the manacles flew off.
Pandemonium followed. The disguised condottieri accompanying Ezio immediately attacked the startled French soldiers, and Bartolomeo, seizing Bianca from the ‘guard’ still on his left, bounded up the stairway. De Valois was too quick for him, though. Keeping a tight hold on Pantasilea, he backed into his quarters and slammed the door behind him.
‘Ezio!’ implored Bartolomeo. ‘You have to save my wife. Only you can do it. That place is built like a strongbox.’
Ezio nodded and tried to give his friend a reassuring smile. He scanned the building from where he stood. It wasn’t large, but it was a strong new structure, built by French military architects and designed to be impregnable. There was nothing for it but to try to gain entry from the rooftops, where no one would be expecting an assault, and where, therefore, the weak points might be.
Ezio leapt up the stairs and, taking advantage of the melee below, which was diverting everyone else’s attention, he looked for a place to climb. Suddenly, a dozen Frenchmen started after him, keen swords flashing in the early morning sun, but in a flash Bartolomeo was standing between Ezio and them, flourishing Bianca menacingly.
The walls of de Valois’s quarters might have been designed to be unassailable, but there were enough nooks and crannies in them for Ezio to be able to plot a route with his eyes, and within a couple of moments he was on the roof. It was flat and made of wood overlaid with tile, and there were five French sentries stationed there, who challenged him as he sprang over the parapet, demanding a password. When he could not give one, they ran towards him, halberds lowered. It was lucky they weren’t armed with muskets or pistols! Ezio shot the first one, then drew his sword and gave battle to the other four; they put up a desperate struggle, surrounding and jabbing him mercilessly with the points of their weapons. One slashed his sleeve open, nicking his elbow and drawing blood, but the blade slid harmlessly off the metal Bracer on his left forearm.
Using the Bracer and his sword, he was able to defend himself against the increasingly frenetic blows. Ezio’s skill with his blade was offset by having to tackle four opponents at once, but thoughts of Bartolomeo’s beloved wife spurred him on – he knew that he could not fail; he must not fail. Eventually the tide of the fight turned in his favour; he ducked under two swords that were slashing towards his head, and engaged another with his Bracer, leaving him free to smash aside the fourth man’s blade. The manoeuvre gave him the opening he needed, and a lethal slash across the man’s jaw felled him. Three to go. Ezio stepped close to the nearest Frenchman, inside his guard, which threw the man, giving him no room to wield his sword. He then flicked his Hidden Blade forward into the man’s abdomen. Two left – both of whom were looking nervous. It took just a couple of minutes to defeat the remaining two French guards, who no longer had the advantage of numbers. Their swordplay was simply no competition for Ezio’s mastery of the blade. Breathing heavily and leaning on his sword for a moment, Ezio stood in the midst of his five vanquished foes.
The roof gave way in its centre to a large square opening. After reloading his pistol, Ezio approached it cautiously. As he’d expected, he found himself looking down into a courtyard, undecorated and bare of any plants, chairs or tables, though there were two or three stone benches arranged around a dry fountain and pool.
As he looked over the edge, a shot cracked and a bullet zinged past his left ear, causing him to draw back. He didn’t know how many pistols de Valois had. If only one, he calculated that it would take the General perhaps ten seconds to reload. He regretted the crossbow, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tucked into the back of his belt were five of the poison darts. But he’d have to be fairly close range to use them, and he didn’t want to do anything to endanger Pantasilea.
‘Don’t come any nearer!’ yelled de Valois from below. ‘I’ll kill her if you do.’
Ezio hovered near the edge, looking down into the courtyard, but his line of vision was limited by the rim of the roof. He could see no one down there, but he could sense the panic in de Valois’s voice.
‘Who are you?’ the General called. ‘Who sent you? Rodrigo? Tell him it was all Cesare’s plan.’
‘You’d better tell me all you know, if you want to get back to Burgundy in one piece.’
‘If I tell you, wi
ll you let me go?’
We’ll see. The woman must not be harmed. Come out where I can see you,’ commanded Ezio.
Below him, de Valois stepped warily out from the colonnade that surrounded the courtyard and took up position near the dry fountain. Pantasilea’s hands were tied behind her back, and he held her by a bridle which was attached to a halter round her neck. She had been crying, Ezio could see, but she was silent now and tried to keep her head held high. The look she gave de Valois was so withering that, had it been a weapon, it would have eclipsed all the Codex armaments combined.
How many men were hidden down there with him, Ezio wondered? Though the fearful tone of his voice suggested that the general had run out of options and was feeling cornered.
‘Cesare has been bribing the cardinals to get them away from the Pope and onto his side. Once he had subdued the rest of the country for Rome, I was supposed to march on the capital and seize the Vatican, together with anyone else who opposed the Captain-General’s will.’
De Valois waved his pistol around wildly and, as he turned, Ezio saw that he had two more stuck in his belt.
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ continued de Valois. ‘I am above such scheming.’ A trace of the old vanity was creeping back into his voice. Ezio wondered if he’d allowed the man too much latitude. He moved into view and boldly leapt down into the courtyard, landing in a panther-like crouch.
‘Stay back!’ screamed de Valois. ‘Or I’ll—’
‘Harm one hair of her head and my archers above will fill you fuller of arrows than Santo Sebastiano,’ Ezio hissed. ‘So, you noble little soul, what was in it for you?’
‘As I am of the House of Valois, Cesare will give me Italy. I will rule here, as befits my birthright.’
Ezio almost laughed. Bartolomeo had not been exaggerating – quite the opposite – when he’d called this popinjay a chicken brain! But he still had Pantasilea, so he was still dangerous.
‘Good. Now, let the woman go.’
‘Get me out first. Then I’ll let her go.’
‘No.’
‘I have King Louis’s ear. Ask for what you want in France and it shall be yours. An estate, perhaps? A title?’
‘Those things I already have. Here. And you are never going to rule over them.’
‘The Borgia have tried to overturn the natural order,’ wheedled de Valois, changing tack. ‘I intend to set it right again. Royal blood should rule, not the foul, tainted stuff that runs in their veins.’ He paused. ‘I know you are not a barbarian, like them.’
‘Neither you, nor Cesare, nor the Pope, nor anyone who does not have peace and justice on his side will ever rule Italy while I have life in my body,’ said Ezio, moving slowly forward.
Fear seemed to have frozen the French General to the spot. The hand that now held the pistol to Pantasilea’s temple, trembled, and he did not retreat. Evidently they were alone in his quarters, unless the only other occupants were servants who’d had the sense to hide. They could hear a steady, heavy noise, as of deliberate, slow blows being struck, and the outer doors of the quarters vibrated. Bartolomeo must have routed the French and brought up battering rams.
‘Please …’ quavered the General, all his urbanity gone. ‘I will kill her.’ He glanced up at the opening in the roof, trying to catch a glimpse of Ezio’s imaginary archers, not even reflecting, as Ezio had feared he might when he’d first mentioned them, that such soldiery had been all but superseded in modern warfare, though the bow was still far quicker to reload than the pistol or musket.
Ezio took another step forward.
‘I’ll give you anything you want. There’s money here, plenty of it; it’s to pay my men with, but you may have it all. And I … I … I will do anything you want of me.’ His voice was pleading now, and he cut such a pathetic figure that Ezio could barely bridle his contempt. This man actually saw himself as King of Italy!?
It hardly seemed worth killing him.
Ezio was close to him now and the two men looked each other in the eye. Ezio slowly took first the pistol, and then the bridle, out of the General’s nerveless hands. With a whimper of relief, Pantasilea hobbled back out of the way, watching the scene with wide eyes.
‘I … I only wanted respect,’ said the General, faintly.
‘But real respect is earned,’ said Ezio, ‘not inherited, or purchased. And it cannot be gained by force. “Oderint dum Metuant” must be one of the stupidest sayings ever coined. No wonder Caligula adopted it: “Let them hate, as long as they fear.” No wonder our modern Caligula lives by the same saying. And you serve him!’
‘I serve my King, Louis XII.’ De Valois looked crestfallen. ‘But perhaps you are right. I see that now.’ Hope sparked in his eyes. ‘I need more time …’
Ezio sighed. ‘Alas, friend. You have run out of that.’ He drew his sword as de Valois, understanding, and acting with dignity at last, knelt and lowered his head.
‘Requiescat in Pace,’ said Ezio.
With a mighty crash, the outer doors of de Valois’s quarters splintered and fell open, revealing Bartolomeo, dusty and bloody but uninjured, standing at the head of a troop of his men. He rushed up to his wife and hugged her so tightly he knocked the breath out of her, before busying himself about getting the halter off her neck; his fingers were so nervous and clumsy that Ezio had to do it for him. He cut the manacles from her feet with two mighty blows of Bianca, and, calmer now, untied the cords that bound her wrists.
‘Oh, Pantasilea, my love, my heart, my own. Don’t you ever dare disappear like that again. I was lost without you.’
‘No you weren’t. You rescued me.’
‘Ah,’ Bartolomeo looked embarrassed. ‘No. Not I – it was Ezio! He came up with a—’
‘Madonna, I am glad you are safe,’ interrupted Ezio.
‘My dear Ezio, how can I thank you? You saved me.’
‘I was but an instrument, just a part of your husband’s brilliant plan.’
Bartolomeo looked at Ezio with an expression of confusion and gratitude on his face.
‘My prince!’ said Pantasilea, embracing her husband. ‘My hero!’
Bartolomeo blushed and winked at Ezio, saying, ‘Well, if I’m your prince, I’d better earn that title. Mind you, it wasn’t all my idea, you know.’
As they turned to go, Pantasilea brushed by Ezio and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
41
A few days later, after Bartolomeo had rounded up the remains of de Valois’s dispirited army, Ezio fell in with La Volpe, both on their way to a convocation Ezio had ordered of the Brotherhood at the Assassin hideaway on Tiber Island.
‘How do things stand now here in Rome?’ was Ezio’s first question.
‘Very good, Ezio. With the French army in disarray, Cesare has lost important support. Your sister Claudia tells us that the Spanish and the Holy Roman ambassadors have left hurriedly for home, and my men have routed the Cento Occhi.’
‘There is still much to do.’
They arrived at their destination and found the rest of their companions already gathered in the inner room of the hideout, where a fire blazed on a hearth in the middle of the floor.
After they had greeted each other and taken their places, Machiavelli stood and intoned in Arabic, ‘Laa shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine’ – the Wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words – ‘We work in the Dark, to serve the Light. We are Assassins.’
Then Ezio stood and turned to his sister: ‘Claudia. We dedicate our lives to protecting the freedom of Humanity. Mario Auditore, and our father Giovanni, his brother, once stood at a similar fire to this one, engaged in the same task. Now, I offer the choice to you: of joining us.’
He extended his hand and she placed hers in his. Machiavelli withdrew from the fire the familiar branding iron ending in two small semicircles like the letter ‘C’, which could be brought together by means of a lever in the handle.
‘Everything is permitted. Nothing is true,’ he said grave
ly. The others – Bartolomeo, La Volpe and Ezio – repeated the words after him.
Just as Antonio de Magianis had once done to Ezio, so Machiavelli now solemnly applied the branding iron to Claudia’s ring finger and closed the clamp, so that the mark of a ring was burnt there forever.
Claudia winced, but did not cry out. Machiavelli removed the iron and put it safely to one side.
‘Welcome to our Order – our Brotherhood,’ he told Claudia formally.
‘Sisterhood too?’ she asked, rubbing a soothing ointment onto her branded finger from a little phial Bartolomeo had proffered her.
Machiavelli smiled. ‘If you like.’
All eyes were on him now as he turned to Ezio.
‘We have not seen eye to eye on many issues—’
‘Niccolò—’ Ezio interrupted, but Machiavelli held up a hand to stay him.
‘But ever since the epiphany in the vault under the Sistine Chapel, and even before then, you have proved again and again that you were exactly what our order needed. You have led the charge against the Templars, carried our gonfalon proud and high, and steadily rebuilt our Brotherhood after the debacle at Monteriggioni.’ He looked around. ‘The moment has come, my friends, to appoint formally Ezio to the position he already occupies by common consent: that of our Leader. I present to you Ezio Auditore di Firenze, the Grand Master of our order.’ He turned to Ezio. ‘My friend, from henceforth you will be known as il Mentore, the guardian of our Brotherhood and of our secrets.’
Ezio’s head swam with emotion, though a part of him still wanted to wrench itself away from this life which demanded every waking hour and allowed few even for sleep. Still, he stepped forward and austerely repeated the words central to the Creed: ‘Where other men are limited by morality and law, we must, in quest of our sacred goals, always remember: Everything is permitted. Nothing is true. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.’
The others repeated the formula after him.
‘And now it is time,’ said Machiavelli, ‘for our newest member to take her leap of faith.’
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