‘Do you not think we have spies of our own? Even in the Vatican? They are good, these spies. This time, better than yours.’
With a sudden movement, the man brought up his right arm. In it was a small knife, which he aimed at Ezio’s heart. Ezio just had time to block the blow with his left arm, and the knife skeetered harmlessly off his Bracer and onto the floor.
‘Long Live the Royal House of Borgia!’ the man cried.
‘Requiescat in Pace,’ said Ezio.
‘Welcome to Valencia,’ Leonardo muttered.
59
The Lone Wolf Inn was deserted but there were beds of a sort, and as it was late by the time Ezio and his companions had recovered from the bloody tussle with Micheletto’s diehards, they had no choice but to spend the night there. They found wine, water and food – bread, onions and some salami – and even Leonardo was too hungry to refuse it.
The following morning, Ezio rose early, eager to find horses for the journey ahead. Their ship’s captain, Filin, was at the docks seeing to the refitting of his battered ship. He knew of the remote Castle of La Mota, and gave them directions, as far as he could, as to how to find it, but it would be a long and arduous journey of many days. Filin also helped organize their horses, but preparations still took another forty-eight hours, since they had to provision themselves as well. The journey would take them north-west across the brown sierras of central Spain. There were no maps, so they travelled from one town or village to another, using the list of names Filin had given them.
They passed out of Valencia, and after several days’ hard riding on their first set of horses – Leonardo complaining bitterly – they entered the beautiful mountain country around the tiny hill town of Cuenca. Then down again onto the flat plain of Madrid, and through the royal city itself, where the bandits who tried to rob them soon found themselves dead on the road. From there they went north to Segovia, which is dominated by its Alcázar, where they spent the night as the guests of the seneschal of Queen Isabella of Castile.
They continued on through open country where they were attacked and almost robbed by a gang of Moorish highwaymen, who had somehow slipped through the fingers of King Ferdinand and survived in open country for twelve years. Ferdinand, King of Aragon, Sicily, Naples and Valencia, was founder of the Spanish Inquisition and scourge of the Jews – with dire consequences for his nation’s economy – through his Grand Inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada; but through marriage to his equally ugly wife, Isabella, he had united Aragon and Castile and begun the road to making Spain a single nation. Ferdinand had ambitions on Navarre, too, though Ezio wondered how far the bigoted king’s designs would have an impact on that country, where Cesare had such close family ties, being the brother-in-law of its French king.
Fighting weariness, they rode on, praying that they would be in time to thwart Micheletto’s plan. But despite all the haste they had made, he had had a good start on them.
60
Micheletto and his small band of diehards reined in their horses and stood up in their stirrups to look at the castle of La Mota. It dominated the small town of Medina del Campo, and had been built to protect it from the Moors.
Micheletto had good eyesight, and even from that distance he could see the red scarf that Cesare had hung from his cell window. It was the topmost window in the central tower and there was no need for bars because no one had ever escaped from La Mota. You could see why. The walls had been crafted by skilled eleventh-century masons and the stone blocks were so skilfully laid that the surface was as smooth as glass.
It was good that they had devised this plan using the red scarf, otherwise it might have been hard for Micheletto to find his master. The go-between, a La Mota sergeant-of-the-guard, who’d been recruited to the Borgia cause in Valencia some time earlier, was perfect, and, once bribed, he had proved totally dependable.
Getting Cesare out was going to be difficult, though. His cell door was permanently watched by two Swiss Guards from a troop on loan from Pope Julius, all of whom were totally inflexible and incorruptible. So getting Cesare out the easy way was impossible.
Micheletto measured the height of the central tower with his eyes. Once inside the place, they’d have to scale an impossible wall to a cell 140 feet up. So, that was out. Micheletto considered the problem. He was a practical man, but his speciality was killing, not problem solving, and his thoughts led him to reflect on the main tool of his trade: rope.
‘Let’s ride a little closer,’ he said to his companions. They’d all dressed in hunting outfits, rather than their customary black, in order to arouse little or no suspicion. He had ten men with him, and each of them carried, as part of their standard equipment, a length of rope.
‘We don’t want to get too close,’ said his lieutenant, ‘or the guards on the ramparts will see us.’
‘And what will they see? A hunting party coming to Medina to revictual. Don’t worry, Girolamo.’
The remark gave Micheletto the germ of an idea and he continued, ‘We’ll ride right up to the town.’
It was about half an hour’s ride, during which Micheletto was more than usually silent, his battered brow deeply furrowed. Then, as they approached the walls of the city, his face cleared.
‘Rein in,’ he said.
They did so and Micheletto looked them over. The youngest, a man of eighteen called Luca, had no hair on his chin and a tip-tilted nose. He was already a hardened killer, but his face had the innocence of a cherub.
‘Get out your ropes and measure them.’
They obeyed. Each rope measured twelve feet – 120 feet when tied securely together. Add Micheletto’s own and you had 130 feet. Cesare would have to drop the last ten feet or so, but that would be nothing to him.
The next problem was getting the rope to Cesare. For that they’d have to contact their recruit, the sergeant-of-the-guard, Juan, which wouldn’t be too hard as they knew Juan’s movements and hours of duty. That would be Luca’s job, since, as an innocent-looking young man, he’d attract the least attention – the rest of his band, though dressed like hunters, looked like the men they were: hardened thugs. Juan’s palm would have to be greased, but Micheletto always carried a contingency fund of 250 ducats, and a tenth of that should do it. For the whole job.
Juan could gain access to Cesare’s cell and deliver the rope – the Swiss Guards wouldn’t suspect him. Micheletto might even fake a letter with an official-looking seal on it, to be delivered to Cesare as cover.
The outer barbican was massive, though, and once Cesare was at the foot of the central tower, he’d have to cross the inner courtyards and get out – somehow – through the only gate.
The one good thing was that La Mota’s main function these days was to guard its single prisoner. Its original purpose had been to ward off attacks from the Moors, but that threat had long since been removed and the massive place was, in every sense other than guarding Cesare, redundant, so he knew from Juan that it was a fairly cushy posting.
They’d have to take a change of clothes to Cesare from time to time, so Micheletto thought through the possibilities of Juan organizing delivery of a ‘change of clothes’ for Cesare – a disguise to fool the guards – then maybe it might work. He could think of no other way, apart from fighting their way in, and getting Cesare out by force.
‘Luca,’ he said finally. ‘I have a job for you.’
It turned out that Juan wanted fifty ducats for the whole job, and Micheletto beat him down to forty, though he didn’t waste time with too much bartering. It took Luca three trips to and fro to set the whole thing up, but finally he reported back: ‘It’s arranged. He’s going to take the rope and a guard’s uniform to Cesare when he accompanies the man who takes him his evening meal at six o’clock. The postern gate will be guarded by Juan, who’s going to take the midnight-to-six gate-watch. It’s a five-minute walk from the castle to the town …’
Cesare Borgia’s left leg hurt from the lesions of the New Disease, but not much, j
ust a dull ache that made him limp slightly. At 2 a.m., once he had changed into the guard’s uniform, he tied one end of the rope firmly to the central mullion of the window of his cell and carefully lowered the rest out into the night. When it was all paid out, he slung his good leg over the windowsill, hauled the other one after it and took a firm grip on the rope. Sweating, despite the coolness of the night, he descended hand over hand until his ankles felt the end of the rope. He dropped the last ten feet, feeling the pain in his left leg when he landed, but he shook it off and limped across the deserted inner courtyard and through the outer one, where the sleepy guards paid him no attention, thinking him one of their own.
At the gate he was challenged, at which point his heart went to his mouth. But then Juan came to his rescue.
‘It’s all right. I’ll take him to the guardhouse.’
What was going on? So near and yet so far.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Juan under his breath.
The guardhouse was occupied by two sleeping guards. Juan kicked one of them into life.
‘Wake up, Domingo. This man has a warrant for town. They forgot to order more straw for the stables and they need some before they ride out on the dawn patrol. Take him back to the gate, explain to the guards there and let him out.’
‘Yessir!’
Cesare followed the guard out through the postern, which was then firmly locked behind him, and limped through the moonlight into the town. What joy to feel the cool night air around him after so long. He’d been confined in this dump since 1504, but he was free now. He was still only thirty; he’d get it all back, and he’d take such vengeance on his enemies, especially the Assassin Brotherhood, that he’d make Caterina Sforza’s purges at Forlì make her look like a nursemaid.
He heard and smelt the horses at the appointed rendezvous. Thank God for Micheletto. Then he saw them; they were all there, in the shadows of the church wall. They had a fine black beast ready for him. Micheletto dismounted and helped him into the saddle.
‘Welcome back, Excellenza,’ he said. ‘And now we must hurry. That bastard Assassino, Ezio Auditore, is on our heels.’
Cesare was silent. He was thinking about the slowest death he could devise for the Assassin.
‘I’ve put matters in hand already at Valencia,’ continued Micheletto.
‘Good.’
They rode off into the night, heading south-east.
61
‘He’s escaped!?’ Ezio had ridden the last miles to La Mota without sparing himself, his companions or their horses, but with an ever-deepening sense of apprehension. ‘After more than two years?’ How? ’
‘It was carefully planned, signore,’ said the hapless lieutenant of the castle, a plumpish man of sixty with a very red nose. ‘We are holding an official enquiry.’
‘And what have you come up with?’
‘As yet …’
But Ezio wasn’t listening. He was looking around at the Castle of la Mota. It was exactly as the Apple had depicted it. And the thought led him to remember another vision it had vouchsafed him: the gathering army at a seaport … The seaport had been Valencia!
His mind raced frantically.
He could think only of getting back to the coast as fast as possible.
‘Get me fresh horses!’ he yelled.
‘But, signore …’
Machiavelli and Leonardo looked at each other.
‘Ezio, whatever the urgency, we must rest, at least for a day,’ said Machiavelli.
‘A week,’ groaned Leonardo.
As matters turned out, they were delayed because Leonardo fell ill. He was exhausted and missed Italy badly. Ezio was almost tempted to abandon him, but Machiavelli counselled restraint.
‘He is your old friend, and they cannot gather an army and a fleet in under two months.’
Ezio relented.
Events were to prove him right – and to prove Leonardo invaluable.
62
Ezio and his companions were back in Valencia within a month, where they found the city in a state of uproar. Machiavelli had underestimated the speed with which things could happen in such a wealthy town.
Men had been secretly mustering and now, just outside Valencia, there was a huge camp of soldiers, maybe a thousand men. The Borgia were offering mercenaries good wages, and word had got round fast. Budding soldiers were coming in from as far away as Barcelona and Madrid, and from all over the provinces of Murcia and La Mancha. Borgia money ensured that a fleet of perhaps fifteen ships – quickly run-up troop ships with half a dozen small warships to protect them – was in the process of being built.
‘Well, we don’t need the Apple to tell us what our old friend Cesare is planning,’ said Machiavelli.
‘That’s true.’ He doesn’t need a vast army to take Naples, and once he’s established a bridgehead there, he’ll recruit many more men to his cause. His plan is to conquer the kingdom of Naples, and then all Italy.’
‘What are Ferdinand and Isabella doing about this?’ asked Machiavelli.
‘They’ll be getting a force together to crush it. So we’ll enlist their aid.’
‘It will take too long. Their army has to march from Madrid. The garrison here must have been put out of action. But you can see that Cesare’s in a hurry,’ rejoined Machiavelli.
‘It might not even be necessary,’ mused Leonardo.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bombs.’
‘Bombs?’ asked Machiavelli.
‘Quite little bombs, but effective enough to, say, wreck ships or disperse a camp.’
‘Well, if they’ll do that for us …’ said Ezio. ‘What do you need to make them?’
‘Sulphur, charcoal and potassium nitrate. And steel. Thinnish steel. Flexible. And I’ll need a small studio and a furnace.’
It took them a while, but, fortunately for them, Captain Alberto’s ship, the Marea di Alba, was tied up at its usual quay. He greeted them with a friendly wave.
‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Those people I told you about … the ones who aren’t gentlemen. I don’t suppose you heard about the fracas at the Lone Wolf shortly after you arrived?’
Ezio smiled and told him what they needed.
‘Hmm. I know a man here who might be able to help you.’
‘When do you return to Italy?’ asked Leonardo.
‘I’ve brought over a cargo of grappa, and I’m taking back silk again. Maybe two, three days. Why?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Can you get what we need arranged quickly?’ asked Ezio, who had a sudden sense of foreboding, though he couldn’t blame Leonardo for wanting to leave.
‘Certainly!’
Alberto was as good as his word, and within a few hours everything had been arranged and Leonardo settled down to work.
‘How long will it take you?’ asked Machiavelli.
‘Two days, since I don’t have any assistants. I’ve enough material here to make twenty, maybe twenty-one, bombs. That’s ten each.’
‘Seven each,’ said Ezio.
‘No my friend, ten each – one lot for you, and one for Niccolò here. You can count me out.’
Two days later, the bombs were ready. They were about the shape and size of a grapefruit, encased in steel and fitted with a catch at the top.
‘How do they work?’
Leonardo smiled proudly. ‘You flip this little catch – actually, it’s more of a lever – you count to three, then you throw them at your target. Each of these is enough to kill twenty men and, if you hit a ship in the right place, to disable it completely, perhaps even sink it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s a pity there isn’t time to build a submarine.’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind. Just throw it after a count of three. Don’t hold on to it any longer or you’ll be blown to pieces yourself!’ He rose. ‘And now, goodbye and good luck.’
‘What?’
Leonardo smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve had quite enough of Spain
, so I’ve booked a passage with Alberto. He sails on this afternoon’s tide. I’ll see you back in Rome – if you make it.’
Ezio and Machiavelli looked at one another, then solemnly embraced Leonardo.
‘Thank you, my dear friend,’ said Ezio.
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Thank God you didn’t build these things for Cesare,’ said Machiavelli.
After Leonardo had gone, they carefully packed the bombs – there were exactly ten each – into linen bags, which they slung over their shoulders.
‘You take the mercenaries’ encampment, I’ll take the port,’ said Ezio.
Machiavelli nodded grimly.
‘When we’ve done the job, we’ll meet at the corner of the street where the Lone Wolf is,’ said Ezio. ‘I reckon the Lone Wolf is where Cesare will have his centre of operations. Once the chaos has started, he’ll go there to regroup with his inner circle. We’ll try to corner them before they can make their escape – again.’
‘For once I’ll back your hunch,’ grinned Machiavelli. ‘Cesare is so vainglorious he won’t have thought to change the Borgia diehards’ hideout. And it’s more discreet than a palazzo.’
‘Good luck, friend.’
‘We’ll both need it.’
They shook hands and parted to go on their separate missions.
Ezio decided to head for the troop ships first. Blending in with the crowd, he made his way down to the port and, once on the quay, selected his first target. He took out the first bomb, fighting down the insidious doubt that it might not work, and, aware that he’d have to be fast, flipped its catch, counted to three and flung it.
He was working at close range and his aim had deadly accuracy. The bomb landed with a clatter in the belly of the ship. For a few moments nothing happened, and Ezio cursed inwardly – what if the plan failed? – but then there was an almighty explosion, the ship’s mast cracked and fell, and splintered wood was tossed high in the air.
Amid the chaos that followed, Ezio darted along the quay, selecting another ship and throwing the next bomb. In several cases, the first explosion was followed by a mightier one, as some of the troop ships had already been laden with casks of gunpowder. In one case, an exploding ship carrying gunpowder destroyed its two neighbours.
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