Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  Even if she’d been able to, the woman couldn’t climb vertical walls in a long skirt, but Ezio saw that her dress had a carefully disguised slit to the thigh on one side, enabling her to run, and she was tearing through the streets after them, thrusting aside anyone who got in her way. Whoever she was, she was well-trained.

  At last they lost her. Breathing hard, they came to a halt on the roof of Sant Niccolò de Portiis, and lay down flat, keenly scanning the streets below. There seemed to be no one unduly suspicious amongst the citizens in the streets, though Ezio thought he recognized two of La Volpe’s thieves working the crowd, using sharp little knives to cut purses. Presumably they were two who hadn’t been selected to go out into the surrounding countryside, but he’d have to ask Gilberto about that later.

  ‘Let’s go down,’ suggested Machiavelli.

  ‘No, it’s easier to stay out of sight up here and we haven’t far to go.’

  ‘She didn’t seem to have much trouble following us. Lucky for us there was that roof with a high wall round it, where we could change direction without her noticing.’

  Ezio nodded. Whoever she was, she’ll be reporting back by now. He wished she were on their side. As things stood, they’d have to get to the large apartment Giulia kept in Rome, and then get out of the Quirinale district fast. Maybe he should detail a couple of his recruits to watch their backs on any future forays. The Borgia diehards were lying low under the new Pope’s tough regime, but only to lull the authorities into a false sense of security.

  Giulia’s first husband, Orsino Orsini, had been happy to turn a blind eye to the affair his nineteen-year-old wife had embarked on with the sixty-two-year-old Rodrigo Borgia. She had a daughter, Laura, but no one knew if she was the child of Orsino or Rodrigo. Rodrigo, despite being a Valencian by birth, had risen through the Church until he controlled the Vatican’s purse strings, and he had shown his gratitude to his delicious young mistress by installing her in a brand-new house (which she’d long since been obliged to quit) conveniently close to the Vatican, and by making her brother Alessandro a cardinal. The other cardinals called him ‘the Cardinal of the Skirts’ behind his back, though of course never in Rodrigo’s presence. Giulia they called ‘the Bride of Christ’.

  Ezio and Machiavelli dropped to the ground in the piazza onto which the princess’s apartment block fronted. A couple of Papal Guards stood nearby, but otherwise the square was deserted. The guards’ tunics bore, on their shoulders, the crest of the della Rovere family: a massive oak tree, root and branch, now surmounted by the Triple Tiara and the keys of Saint Peter. Ezio recognized the men – six months earlier they’d been in Borgia livery. How times had changed, as now they saluted him and he acknowledged them.

  ‘Fuckers,’ said Machiavelli under his breath.

  ‘A man’s got to work,’ said Ezio. ‘I’m surprised that you, of all people, can take issue with such a bagatelle.’

  ‘Come on.’

  They’d arrived without due notice and it took some trouble to convince the Farnese attendants – six blue fleurs-de-lys ranged on a yellow background on their capes – to admit them, but, as Ezio knew, signora Farnese was at home. She received them in a room that was half as gaudy but twice as tasteful as La Vannozza’s. At thirty, she had more than retained the beauty of her youth and the intelligence that informed it. Despite them being unexpected guests, the signora had Moscato and panpetati e mielati served for them immediately.

  It soon became clear that she knew nothing and was innocent of any Borgia taint, despite her previous closeness to that execrable family (as Machiavelli called them). Machiavelli saw that she had moved on, and when he and Ezio asked her about her once close friendship with Lucrezia, all she said was, ‘What I saw of her was her good side. I think she fell too much under the bullying sway of her father and brother. I thank God she is rid of them.’ She paused. ‘If only she had met Pietro Bembo earlier. Those two were soul mates. He might have taken her to Venice and saved her from her dark side.’

  ‘Do you see her still?’

  ‘Alas, Ferrara is so far to the north, and I have my hands full, running Carbognano. Even friendships die, Ezio Auditore.’

  An image of Caterina Sforza blew into his mind before he had a chance to extinguish it. Ah, God, how the thought of her caught at his heart still.

  It was late afternoon by the time they left. They kept a close eye out for anyone shadowing them, but there was nobody.

  ‘We must use the Apple,’ said Machiavelli again.

  ‘This is but the first day of three. We must learn to trust ourselves and our own intelligence, and not lean on what has been vouchsafed us.’

  ‘The matter is pressing.’

  ‘One more appointment today, Niccolò. Then, perhaps, we shall see.’

  The Princesse d’Albret, Dâme de Chalus, Duchess of Valentinois’ was, according to the gatekeepers of her opulent villa in the Pinciano district, not at home. But Ezio and Machiavelli, impatient and tired, pushed past anyway, and encountered Charlotte in her piano nobile, engrossed in packing. Huge chests full of costly linen and books and jewellery stood about the half-empty room, and in a corner, the confused little four-year-old Louise, Cesare’s only legitimate heir, played with a wooden doll.

  ‘You are damned impertinent,’ said the cold-looking blonde who confronted them, her dark brown eyes flashing fire.

  ‘We have the imprimatur of the Pope himself,’ lied Ezio. ‘Here is his warrant.’ He held up a blank parchment, from which impressive-looking seals hung.

  ‘Bastards,’ said the woman coolly. ‘If you think I know where Cesare is imprisoned, you are fools. I never want to see him again, and I pray that none of his sang maudit has passed into the veins of my innocent little daughter.’

  ‘We also seek Micheletto,’ said Machiavelli implacably.

  ‘That Catalan peasant,’ she spat. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Your husband told you how he might escape, if taken,’ suggested Machiavelli. ‘He depended on you.’

  ‘Do you think so? I don’t! Perhaps Cesare confided in one of his dozens of mistresses. Perhaps the one that gave him the malattia venerea?’

  ‘Do you—?’

  ‘I never touched him after the first pustules appeared, and he at least had the decency to keep away from me and wallow in the gutter with his whores from then on. And father eleven brats by them. At least I am clean, and my daughter, too. As you see, I am getting out of here. France is a far better country than this wretched hellhole. I’m going back to La Motte-Feuilly.’

  ‘Not to Navarre?’ asked Machiavelli slyly.

  ‘I see you are trying to trick me.’ She turned her cold, bony face towards them and Ezio noticed that her beauty was marred – or enhanced – by a dimple in the middle of her chin. ‘I do not choose to go to that province merely because my brother married the heiress to the throne and thereby became king.’

  ‘Does your brother remain faithful to Cesare?’ asked Ezio.

  ‘I doubt it. Why don’t you stop wasting my time and go and ask him?’

  ‘Navarre is far away.’

  ‘Exactly. Which is why I wish you and your saturnine friend were on your way there. And now it is late and I have work to do. Please leave.’

  ‘A wasted day,’ commented Machiavelli as they took to the streets again, the shadows lengthening.

  ‘I don’t think so. We know that none of those closest to Cesare are harbouring or protecting him.’ Ezio paused. ‘All the most important women in his life hated him, and even Giulia had no time for Rodrigo.’

  Machiavelli grimaced. ‘Imagine being fucked by a man old enough to be your grandfather.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t do too badly out of it.’

  ‘We still don’t know where Cesare is. Use the Apple.’

  ‘No, not yet. We must stand on our own feet.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Machiavelli. ‘At least God gave us good minds.’

  At that moment, one of Machiavelli’s spies came
running up out of breath. He was a small, bald man with alert eyes and a wild face.

  ‘Bruno?’ said Machiavelli, surprised and concerned.

  ‘Maestro,’ panted the man. ‘Thank God I’ve found you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Borgia diehards! They sent someone to follow you and Maestro Ezio—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sure that you were out of the way, they have taken Claudia!’

  ‘My sister! Sweet Jesus – how?’ gasped Ezio.

  ‘She was in the square outside Saint Peter’s – you know those rickety wooden colonnades the Pope wants to tear down?’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘They took her – she was organizing her girls, getting them to infiltrate …’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘They have a hideout in the Prati – just to the east of the Vatican. That’s where they’ve taken her.’ Bruno quickly gave them the details of where Claudia was being held prisoner.

  Ezio looked at Machiavelli.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he said.

  ‘At least we’ve found out where they are,’ said Machiavelli, drily as ever, as the two of them bounded up to the rooftops again, running and leaping across Rome until they came to the Tiber, where they crossed the ponte della Rovere and made haste again towards their goal.

  The place Machiavelli’s spy, Bruno, had indicated was a ramshackle villa just north of the Prati district market. But its crumbling stucco belied a brand-new iron-bound front door, and the grilles on the windows were new and freshly painted.

  Before Machiavelli could stop him, Ezio had gone up to the door and hammered on it.

  The judas set into it opened and a beady eye regarded them, then, to their amazement, the door swung smoothly back on well-oiled hinges.

  They found themselves in a nondescript courtyard where there was no one about. Whoever had opened the door – and closed it firmly behind them – had disappeared. There were doors on three sides of the yard. The one opposite the entrance was open And above it was a tattered banner bearing a black bull in a golden field.

  ‘Trapped,’ said Machiavelli succinctly. ‘What weapons do you have?’

  Ezio had his trusty Hidden Blade, his sword and his dagger. Machiavelli carried a light sword and a stiletto.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, you are most welcome,’ said a disembodied voice from a window overlooking the courtyard somewhere high up in the wall above the open door. ‘I think we have something to trade with.’

  ‘The Pope knows where we are,’ retorted Machiavelli loudly. ‘You are lost. Give yourselves up. The cause you serve is dead.’

  A hollow laugh was his rejoinder. ‘Is it indeed? I think not. But come in. We knew you’d take the bait. Bruno has been working for us for a year now.’

  ‘Bruno?’

  ‘Treachery runs in families, and dear Bruno’s is no exception. All Bruno wanted was a little more cash than you were giving him. He’s worth it. He managed to inveigle Claudia here, in the hope of meeting one of the English cardinals. They sit on the fence, as the English always do, and Claudia hoped to swing him to your side and get a little information out of him. Unfortunately, Cardinal Shakeshaft met with a terrible accident – he was run over by a carriage and died on the spot – but your sister, Ezio, is still alive – just – and I am sure she is longing to see you.’

  ‘Calma,’ said Machiavelli as the two men looked at each other. Ezio’s blood boiled. He’d spent a day trying to trace the diehards only to be led straight to them.

  He dug his fingernails into his palms.

  ‘Where is she, bastardi ?’ he yelled.

  ‘Come in.’

  Cautiously, the two Assassins approached the dark entrance.

  There was a dimly lit hall, in whose centre, on a plinth, was a bust of Pope Alexander VI by Adkingnono (as Machiavelli guessed), the coarse features – the hooked nose, the weak chin, the fat lips – done to the life. There was no other furniture, and again there were three doors leading off the three walls facing the entrance; only that facing the entrance was open. Ezio and Machiavelli made for it and, passing through the door, found themselves in another bleak room. There was a table, on which various rusty surgical instruments were arrayed on a stained cloth, glittering under the light of a single candle. Next to it was a chair, and on it Claudia was seated, half undressed and bound, her hands in her lap, her face and breasts bruised, a gag in her mouth.

  Three men detached themselves from the shadows that obscured the back wall. Ezio and Machiavelli were aware of others, too, men and women, behind them and on either side. Those they could see in the dim light wore the now grubby colours of the Borgia and all were heavily armed.

  Claudia’s eyes spoke to Ezio’s. She managed to wrestle her branded finger free enough to show him: she had not given in, despite the torture. She was a true Assassin. Why had he ever doubted her?

  ‘We know how you feel about your family,’ said the chief diehard, a gaunt man of perhaps fifty summers whom Ezio did not recognize. ‘You let your father and brothers die. Your mother we need not bother about as she is dying anyway. But you can still save your sister. If you wish. She’s already well struck in years and doesn’t even have any children, so perhaps you won’t bother.’

  Ezio controlled himself. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘In exchange? I want you to leave Rome. Why don’t you go back to Monteriggioni and build the place up again? Do some farming. Leave the power game to those who understand it.’

  Ezio spat.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the thin man. He seized Claudia by the hair and, producing a small knife, cut her left breast.

  Claudia screamed.

  ‘She’s damaged goods at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll recover under your tender care.’

  ‘I’ll take her back and then I’ll kill you. Slowly.’

  ‘Ezio Auditore! I gave you a chance, but you threaten me – and you are in no position to threaten. If there’s any killing to be done, it will be by me. Forget Monteriggioni – a sophisticated lady like Madonna Claudia would doubtless hate it there anyway – your destiny is here: to die in this room.’

  The men and women on each side closed in, drawing swords.

  ‘I told you – we’re trapped,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘At least we’ve found the bastards,’ replied Ezio, as each man looked the other in the eye. ‘Here!’ He flung a handful of poison darts to his companion. ‘Make them work.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you came prepared.’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Ezio fell into a crouch as the diehards advanced. Their leader held the thin knife to Claudia’s throat.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  As one, they drew their swords. And with their other hands they threw the poison darts with deathly aim.

  The Borgia supporters toppled on either side, as Machiavelli closed in, slicing and slashing with his sword and dagger, pushing against the diehards who tried to crush him – in vain – by force of numbers.

  Ezio had one goal – to kill the thin man before he could rip open Claudia’s throat. He leapt forward, seizing the man by the gizzard, but his adversary was as slippery as an eel and wrenched himself to one side without letting go of his victim.

  Ezio finally managed to wrestle him to the floor and, grasping his right hand in his left, forced the point of the thin knife the man was holding close to his own throat. Its point touched the jugular artery.

  ‘Have mercy,’ babbled the diehard leader. ‘I served a cause I thought was true.’

  ‘How much mercy would you have shown my sister?’ asked Ezio. ‘You filth! You are finished.’

  There was no need to release the Hidden Blade. ‘I told you it would be a slow death,’ said Ezio, drawing the knife down to the man’s groin, ‘but I am going to be merciful.’ He slid the knife back up and sliced the man’s throat open. Blood bubbled in the man’s mouth. �
��Bastardo! ’ he gurgled. ‘You will die by Micheletto’s hand!’

  ‘Requiescat in Pace,’ said Ezio, letting the man’s head fall, though for once he spoke the words without much conviction.

  The other diehards lay dead or dying about them as Machiavelli and Ezio hastened to untie the harsh cords that bound Claudia.

  She had been badly beaten, but the diehards had at least drawn a line at leaving her honour intact.

  ‘Oh, Ezio.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Come on. We must get out of here.’

  ‘Gently.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ezio took his sister in his arms and, followed by a sombre Machiavelli, walked out into the dying light of day.

  ‘Well,’ said Machiavelli, ‘at least we know for sure that Micheletto is still alive.’

  51

  ‘We’ve found Micheletto,’ said La Volpe.

  ‘Where?’ Ezio’s voice was urgent.

  ‘He’s holed up in Zagarolo, just to the east of here.’

  ‘Let’s get him then.’

  ‘Not so fast. He’s got contingents from the Romagna towns still loyal to Cesare. He’ll put up a fight,’ La Volpe warned.

  ‘Let him.’

  ‘We’ll have to organize.’

  ‘Then let’s do it. Now!’

  Ezio, with Machiavelli and La Volpe, summoned a meeting on Tiber Island that night. Bartolomeo was still in Ostia, watching the port, and Claudia was resting up at The Rosa in Fiore, tended by her ailing mother after her terrible ordeal. There were enough thieves and recruits to muster a force of one hundred men and women able to bear arms, and there was no need of other condottieri to back them up.

  ‘He’s encamped in the old gladiatorial school, Ludus Magnus, and he’s got maybe two hundred and fifty men with him.’

  ‘What does he intend to do?’ Ezio wondered.

  ‘No idea. Break out, head for safety in the north with the French, who knows?’