Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  56

  Everyone was in place. Couriers rode daily between the points where the Brotherhood had set up bases. Bartolomeo was beginning to enjoy Ostia, and Pantasilea loved it. Antonio de Magianis still held the fort in Venice. Claudia had returned, for the time being, to Florence to stay with her old friend Paola, who kept an expensive house of pleasure on which The Rosa in Fiore had been modelled, and La Volpe and Rosa watched over Rome.

  It was time for Machiavelli and Ezio to go hunting.

  57

  Leonardo was reluctant to let Ezio and Machiavelli enter his studio, but eventually he allowed them in. ‘Leo, we need your help,’ Ezio said, coming straight to the point.

  ‘You weren’t very pleased with me last time we met.’

  ‘Salai shouldn’t have told anyone about the Apple.’

  ‘He got drunk in a wine booth and blurted it out to impress. Most of the people around him didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was an agent of Pope Julius within earshot. He is very contrite.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Ezio

  Leonardo squared his shoulders. ‘If you want my help, I want payment.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What kind of payment?’

  ‘I want you to leave him alone. He means a lot to me, he is young, with time he will improve.’

  ‘He’s a little sewer rat,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘Do you want my help or don’t you?’

  Ezio and Machivelli looked at each other.

  ‘All right, Leo, but keep him on a very close rein, or by God we’ll show no mercy next time.’

  ‘All right. Now, what do you want me to do?

  ‘We’re having problems with the Apple. It isn’t as acute as it was. Could there be something wrong with it mechanically?’ asked Machiavelli.

  Leonardo stroked his beard. ‘You have it with you?’

  Ezio produced the box. ‘Here.’ He took it out and placed it carefully on Leonardo’s work table.

  Leonardo examined it with equal care. ‘I don’t really know what this thing is,’ he conceded finally. ‘It’s dangerous, it’s a mystery and it’s very, very powerful, and yet only Ezio seems able to control it. God knows, when it was in my power in the old days under Cesare, I tried, but I only partially succeeded.’ He paused. ‘No, I don’t think the word “mechanical” describes this thing. If I weren’t more of a scientist than an artist, I’d say it had a mind of its own.’

  Ezio remembered the voice that had come from the Apple. What if Leonardo were right?

  ‘Micheletto is on the run,’ said Ezio urgently. ‘We need to locate him, and fast. We need to pick up his trail before it’s too late.’

  ‘What do you think he’s planning?’

  ‘We are almost certain that Micheletto has decided to go to Spain to locate and liberate his master Cesare, and they will then attempt to return to power. We need to stop them,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘And the Apple?’

  ‘Shows an image of a castle. It must be somewhere in Spain because it flies the Spanish flag, but the Apple doesn’t – or won’t, or can’t – give its location. We also saw an image of a town flying the Navarrese flag, and a seaport with an army gathering to embark there, but the Apple gave us nothing on Micheletto at all,’ said Ezio.

  ‘Well,’ said Leonardo. ‘Cesare can’t have jinxed it because no one’s that clever, so it must – how can I put this? – have decided not to be helpful.’

  ‘But why would it do that?’

  ‘Why don’t we ask it?’

  Ezio once again concentrated, and this time a most divine music, sweet and high, came to his ears. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked.

  ‘Hear what?’ replied the others.

  Through the music came the voice he had heard before: ‘Ezio Auditore, you have done well, but I have more than played my part in your career and you must now return me. Take me to a vault you will find under the Capitoline, and leave me there to be found by future members of your Brotherhood. But be quick! You must then ride post-haste to Naples, where Micheletto is embarking for Valencia. This knowledge is my last gift to you. You have more than enough power of your own to have no further need of me. I will lie in the ground until future generations have need of me, so you must leave a sign to indicate my burial place. Farewell, Mentor of the Brotherhood! Farewell! Farewell!’

  The Apple ceased to glow and looked dead, like an old leather-bound ball.

  Swiftly, Ezio told his friends what had been imparted to him.

  ‘Naples? Why Naples?’ Leonardo asked.

  ‘Because it’s in Spanish territory and we have no jurisdiction there.’

  ‘And because he knows – somehow – that Bartolomeo is policing Ostia,’ said Ezio. ‘We must make all speed. Come!’

  Dusk was falling as Machiavelli and Ezio carried the Apple in its box down into the catacombs below the Colosseum, and, passing through the dreadful gloomy rooms of the remains of Nero’s Golden House, carried torches before them as they made their way through a maze of tunnels under the old Roman Forum to a spot near the church of San Nicola in Carcere. There they found a secret door within the crypt, and behind it was a small vaulted room, in the centre of which stood a plinth. On this they placed the Apple in its box and withdrew. Once closed, as if by magic the door ceased to be visible, even to them, but they knew where it was and near it they drew the sacred, secret symbols that only a member of the Brotherhood would understand. The same symbols they inscribed at regular intervals along their way back, and again at the mouth of the entrance near the Colosseum from which they emerged.

  After meeting Leonardo again, who had insisted on joining them, they rode hard to Ostia, where they took a ship for the long coastal journey south to Naples. They arrived on Midsummer’s Day, 1505 – Ezio’s forty-sixth birthday.

  They didn’t go into the teeming, hilly town, but remained among the fortified docks, splitting up to search among the sailors, tradesmen and travellers busy about their fishing smacks, their shallops and their caravels, carracks and cogs, visiting the taverns and brothels, and all in frantic haste, for no one, Spanish, Italian or Arab, seemed to have an answer to their question: ‘Have you seen a tall, thin man, with huge hands and scars on his face, seeking passage to Valencia?’

  After an hour of this, they regrouped on the main quay.

  ‘He’s going to Valencia. He must be,’ said Ezio through gritted teeth.

  ‘But if he isn’t?’ put in Leonardo. ‘And we charter a ship and sail to Valencia anyway, we might lose days and even weeks, and so lose Micheletto altogether.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  The Apple didn’t lie to you. He was – or, if we’re lucky – is here. We just have to find somebody who knows for sure.’

  A whore sidled up, grinning. ‘We’re not interested,’ snapped Machiavelli.

  She was a pretty blonde woman of about forty years of age – tall and slim, with dark brown eyes; long, shapely legs; small breasts; broad shoulders; and narrow hips. ‘But you are interested in Micheletto da Corella.’

  Ezio swung round on her. She looked so like Caterina that for a moment his head swam. ‘What do you know?’

  She snapped back with all the hardness of a whore, ‘What’s it worth to you?’ Then came the professional smile again. ‘I’m Camilla, by the way.’

  ‘Ten ducats.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Twenty! You’d earn less than that in a week on your back!’ snarled Machiavelli.

  ‘Charmer. Do you want the information or not? I can see you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Fifteen then,’ said Ezio, pulling out his purse.

  ‘That’s better, tesoro.’

  ‘Information first,’ said Machiavelli as Camilla held out her hand for the money.

  ‘Half first.’

  Ezio handed over eight ducats.

  ‘Generous with it,’ said the woman. ‘All right. Micheletto was here last night. He spent it with me and I’ve never earned my
money harder. He was drunk, he abused me and he ran off at dawn without paying. Pistol in his belt, sword, ugly-looking dagger. Smelt pretty bad, too, but I know he had money because I guessed what he’d do and took my fee out of his purse when he finally fell asleep. Of course, the bouncers from the brothel followed him, though I think they were a little scared, so they kept their distance a bit.’

  ‘And?’ said Machiavelli. ‘None of this is of any use to us so far.’

  ‘But they kept him in sight. He must have chartered a ship the night before because he went straight to a carrack called the Marea di Alba, and sailed on the dawn tide.’

  ‘Describe him,’ said Ezio.

  ‘Big, huge hands – I had them round my neck so I should know – broken nose, scarred face, some of the scars seemed to make him look like he had a permanent grin. He didn’t talk much.’

  ‘How d’you know his name?’

  ‘I asked, just to make conversation, and he told me,’ she answered simply.

  ‘And where was he going?’

  ‘One of the bouncers knew one of the seamen and asked him as they were casting off.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Valencia.’

  Valencia. Micheletto was going back to his birthplace – which was also the home town of a family called Borgia.

  Ezio handed her seven more ducats. ‘I’ll remember you,’ he said. ‘If we find you’re lying, you’ll regret it.’

  It was already midday. It took them another hour to find a fast caravel available for charter and agree the price. Another two hours were needed to victual and prepare the ship, then they had to wait for the next tide. A caravel is faster than a carrack, but, even so, it was early evening before the sails were raised. And the sea was choppy and the wind against them.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said Leonardo to Ezio.

  58

  The Fates were against them, too. Their ship sailed well, but the sea remained rough and they encountered squalls that took the sails aback. The hoped-for chance of catching up with Micheletto at sea was long gone when, five days later, their battered caravel put into port at Valencia.

  It was a prosperous and booming place, but none of the three – Ezio, Leonardo or Machiavelli – were familiar with it. The recently built Silk Exchange vied in grandeur with the Bell Tower, the Torres de Quart and the Palau de la Generalitat. It was then a powerful Catalan city, one of the most important trading ports in the Mediterranean Sea, but it was also confusing and teeming with Valencianos, who mingled in the busy streets with Italians, Dutch, English and Arabs, creating a babel of languages in the streets.

  Fortunately the Marea di Alba was moored near to where the caravel docked, and the two captains were friends.

  ‘Ciao, Alberto!’

  ‘Ciao, Filin!’

  ‘Bad voyage?’ said Alberto, a stout man of thirty, as he stood on the poop deck of his vessel, supervising the loading of a mixed cargo of silk, and rare, expensive coffee, for the return journey.

  ‘Brutissimo.’

  ‘So I see from the state of your ship. But there’ll be a good sea and a fair wind for the next week, so I’m hurrying back as soon as I can.’

  ‘I won’t be so lucky. When did you get in?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  Ezio stepped up. ‘And your passenger?’

  Alberto spat. ‘Che tipo brutto – but he paid well.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Gone. I know he was in the town, asking questions, but he’s well-known here and he has many friends, believe it or not.’ Alberto spat again. ‘Not of the best sort, either.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come,’ whispered Leonardo. ‘One thing I am not is a man of violence.’

  ‘Where has he gone, do you know?’

  ‘He was staying at the Lobo Solitario, you could ask there.’

  They disembarked and made straight for the Lone Wolf Inn, after Alberto had given them directions and added, darkly, ‘It is not a place for gentlemen.’

  ‘What makes you think we are gentlemen?’ said Machiavelli.

  Alberto shrugged.

  Ezio scanned the busy quay. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three or four shady characters watching them, causing him to check his Bracer and Hidden Blades. He slung his bag over his shoulder, leaving his arms free for his sword and dagger. Noticing this, Machiavelli did the same while Leonardo looked askance.

  Together they made their way into the town, remaining on the alert even though the shady characters had disappeared.

  ‘Shall we stay at the same place as our quarry?’ suggested Ezio. ‘It’ll be the best place to be to find out where he is.’

  The inn was located in a narrow street of tall tenements, which twisted away from one of the main thoroughfares. It was a low, dark building, in contrast to the sparkling newness of most of the rest of the town. The dark wooden door was open, giving onto a dark interior. Ezio entered first; Leonardo, reluctantly, last.

  They had reached the centre of the vestibule in which furniture and a long, low counter could only just be made out, when the door behind them banged shut. The ten men who had been lurking in the shadows, their eyes already accustomed to the dark, now pounced, flinging themselves on their victims with guttural cries. Ezio and Machiavelli immediately threw down their bags and, in one movement, Machiavelli drew his sword and dagger and closed on his first assailant. The glint of blades flashed in the semi-darkness of the room, which was big enough for there to be plenty of space to move, helping both sides.

  ‘Leonardo!’ shouted Ezio. ‘Get behind the counter, and catch this.’

  He threw his sword to Leonardo, who caught it, dropped it and picked it up again in the space of a second. Ezio unleashed the Hidden Blade as one of the men fell on him, stabbing him with it in the side and penetrating his guts. The man stumbled, clutching his belly, blood bubbling between his hands. Meanwhile, Machiavelli strode forward, holding his sword aloft. Quick as a flash he thrust his sword into the throat of his first opponent, while simultaneously slicing into the groin of a second with his other blade. The man fell to the floor with an anguished roar, fumbling vainly at his wound, while twitching with agony. Machiavelli closed in and glanced briefly at his victim, kicking out viciously and silencing the man in an instant.

  The assailants drew back for a moment, surprised that their ambush had not achieved its purpose, and at the alacrity of their intended victims, then they renewed their attack with redoubled vigour. There was a cry from Machiavelli as he was cut in his sword arm from behind, but in a moment Ezio was upon his friend’s assailant, plugging his dagger straight into the man’s face.

  The next thing Ezio knew, a big man, who smelt of prison straw and stale sweat, crept up behind him and threw a garrotte around his neck. Ezio choked and dropped his dagger, raising his hand to tear at the rope being tightened on his windpipe. Machiavelli leapt over and stabbed at the big man, cutting into him and causing him to cry out in sudden pain, but Machiavelli had missed his mark and the man was able to thrust him away. It was enough to make him lose his grip on the garrotte, though, so that Ezio was able to spring free.

  The light was too dim to make out the black-cloaked forms of the surviving attackers, but the failure of their immediate assault seemed to have unnerved them.

  ‘Get them!’ an unpleasant, guttural voice said. ‘We are still five against three.’

  ‘Sancho dieron en el pecho!’ shouted another as Ezio smashed his heavy dagger into the sternum of one flabby creature, splitting it as neatly as if it were a chicken breast. ‘We are four against three. Nos replegamos!’

  ‘No!’ ordered the first man who had spoken. ‘Aguantels mentres que m’escapi!’

  The man spoke in Catalan. The big man who had tried to strangle him. The man who still had the stink of prison clinging to him. Micheletto!

  Moments later the door to the street was flung open and slammed shut again as Micheletto made his escape, momentarily silhouetted in the streetlight. E
zio rushed after him, but his path was blocked by one of the three surviving attackers, who was holding a scimitar aloft ready to bring it down on his head. Ezio was too close to wield either of his weapons effectively, so he threw himself to the side, out of the way. As he rolled to safety, the scimitar came swinging down, but the man had struck so violently, expecting the sword’s path to be interrupted by a body, that it continued its trajectory, burying itself in the man’s genitals. With a howl, he dropped the sword and fell to the ground, clutching his manhood in an attempt to stop the fountaining blood, and writhing in agony.

  The last two men struggled with each other to reach the door in order to escape, and one succeeded; but the second, already wounded in the fight, was tripped by Machiavelli and crashed to the ground as Leonardo threw himself across him to prevent his rising. When it became clear he would not, Leonardo stood clear and Ezio knelt and turned him over, pressing the point of the Hidden Blade into his nostril.

  ‘I am Ezio Auditore, Mentor of the Assassins,’ he said. ‘Tell me where your master is bound and I will show you mercy.’

  ‘Never!’ croaked the man.

  Ezio pressed the point of the Blade in further. Its razor-sharp edges slowly beginning to slit the man’s nose.

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘All right! He is going to the Castillo de la Mota.’

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘That is where Cesare is held prisoner.’

  Ezio pushed the Blade.

  ‘Have mercy! I speak the truth, but you will never succeed in thwarting us. The Borgia will return to power and rule all Italy with an iron fist. They will swarm into the south and throw the filthy Spanish monarchy out, and then they will destroy the Kingdoms of Aragon and Castile and rule them too.’

  ‘How do you know where Cesare is? It is a dark secret known only to Pope Julius and his Council, and to King Ferdinand and his.’