Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘Follow me.’

  Back in the studio, Ezio unwrapped the slip of paper Mario had given him and handed it to Leonardo. ‘This is the person my uncle told me to meet. He told me it’d be no good to try to find him directly –’

  But Leonardo was staring at the name on the paper. When he looked up, his face was filled with anxiety. ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘I read the name – La Volpe. I guess it’s a nickname.’

  ‘The Fox! Yes! But do not speak it aloud, or in public. He is a man whose eyes are everywhere, but who himself is never seen.’

  ‘Where might I find him?’

  ‘It is impossible to say, but if you wanted to make a start – and be very careful – you should try the district of the Mercato Vecchio –’

  ‘But every thief who isn’t either in gaol or on the gallows hangs out there.’

  ‘I told you you’d need to be careful.’ Leonardo looked round as if he were being overheard. ‘I… might be able to get word to him… Go and look for him tomorrow after Vespers… Perhaps you will be fortunate… perhaps not.’

  Despite his uncle’s warning, there was one person in Florence whom Ezio was determined to see again. In all the time of his absence, she had never been far from his heart, and now the pangs of love had increased with the knowledge that she was not far away. He could not take too many risks in the city. His face had changed, become more angular, as he had grown both in experience and years, but he was still recognizable as Ezio. His hood helped, allowing him to ‘disappear’ in a crowd, and he wore it low; but he knew that, although the Medici now held sway, the Pazzi had not had all their teeth drawn. They were biding their time, and they would remain vigilant: of those two things he was certain, just as he was certain that if they caught him unawares, they would kill him, Medici or no Medici. Nevertheless, the following morning he could no more prevent his feet taking the way to the Calfucci mansion than he could have flown to the moon.

  The main street doors stood open, revealing the sunlit courtyard beyond, and there she was, slimmer, possibly taller, her hair up, no longer a girl but a woman. He called her name.

  When she saw him she turned so pale he thought she was going to faint, but she rallied, said something to her attendant to make her go away, and came out to him, her hands outstretched. He drew her quickly out of the street into the secluded shelter of an archway nearby, whose yellow stones were festooned with ivy. He stroked her neck, and noticed that the thin chain to which his pendant was attached was still around her neck, though the pendant itself was hidden in her bosom.

  ‘Ezio!’ she cried.

  ‘Cristina!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am here on my father’s business.’

  ‘Where have you been? I have had no word of you for two years.’

  ‘I have been… away. Also on my father’s business.’

  ‘They said you must be dead – and your mother and sister.’

  ‘Fate dealt with us differently.’ He paused. ‘I could not write, but you have never left my thoughts.’

  Her eyes, which had been dancing, suddenly clouded and looked troubled.

  ‘What is it, carissima?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ She tried to break free. He would not let her.

  ‘Clearly it’s something. Tell me!’

  She met his eyes, and her own filled with tears. ‘Oh, Ezio! I’m engaged to be married!’

  Ezio was too taken aback to answer. He let go of her arms, realizing that he was holding her too tightly, hurting her. He saw the lonely furrow he had to plough, stretching ahead of him.

  ‘It was my father,’ she said. ‘He kept on and on at me to choose. You were gone. I thought you were dead. Then my parents began to entertain visits from Manfredo d’Arzenta – you know, the son of the bullion people. They moved here from Lucca soon after you left Florence. Oh, God, Ezio, they kept asking me not to let the family down, to make a good match while I still could. I thought I’d never see you again. And now –’

  She was interrupted by a girl’s voice, crying out in panic at the end of the street, where there was a little square.

  Cristina became instantly tense. ‘That’s Gianetta – do you remember her?’

  They could hear more screams and yells now, and Gianetta called out a name – ‘Manfredo!’

  ‘We’d better see what’s going on,’ said Ezio, making his way down the street in the direction of the fracas. In the square, they found Cristina’s friend Gianetta, another girl whom Ezio did not recognize, and an elderly man who, he remembered, had worked as Cristina’s father’s head clerk.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Ezio.

  ‘It’s Manfredo!’ cried Gianetta. ‘Gambling debts again! This time, they’re going to kill him for sure!’

  ‘What?’ cried Cristina.

  ‘I am so sorry, signorina,’ said the clerk. ‘Two men to whom he owes money. They’ve dragged him off to the foot of the New Bridge. They said they were going to beat the debt out of him. I am so sorry, signorina. I could do nothing.’

  ‘That’s all right, Sandeo. Go and call the house guards. I’d better go and –’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ put in Ezio. ‘Who the devil is Manfredo?’

  Cristina looked at him as if from the inner side of prison bars. ‘My fidanzato,’ she said.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ said Ezio, and rushed away down the street that led in the direction of the bridge. A minute later, he stood at the top of the embankment looking down at the narrow strip of land near the first arch of the bridge, close to the heavy, slow-moving, yellow waters of the Arno. There, a young man clad in elegant black and silver was on his knees. Two more young men were sweating and grunting as they kicked him hard, or bent down to pummel him with their fists.

  ‘I’ll pay it back, I swear!’ groaned the young man in black and silver.

  ‘We’ve had enough of your excuses,’ said one of his tormentors. ‘You’ve made us look very foolish. So now we’re going to make an example of you.’ And he raised his boot to the young man’s neck, pushing him face down in the mud, while his companion kicked him in the ribs.

  The first attacker was about to stamp on the young man’s kidneys when he felt himself grabbed by the scruff of the neck and his coat-tails. Someone was lifting him high up – and the next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, landing seconds later in the water among the sewage and debris that had washed up around the foot of the first pier of the bridge. He was too busy choking on the disgusting water that had poured into his mouth to notice that his companion had by now suffered the same fate.

  Ezio reached a hand down to the mud-spattered young man and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Grazie, signore. I think they really would have killed me this time. But they’d have been fools if they had. I could have paid them – honestly!’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid they’ll come after you again?’

  ‘Not now they think I’ve got a bodyguard like you.’

  ‘I haven’t introduced myself: Ezio – de Castronovo.’

  ‘Manfredo d’Arzenta, at your service.’

  ‘I’m not your bodyguard, Manfredo.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You got those clowns off my back, and I’m grateful. You don’t know how much. In fact, you must let me reward you. But first, let me get cleaned up and take you for a drink. There’s a little gaming-house just off the Via Fiordaliso –’

  ‘Now, just a minute,’ said Ezio, aware that Cristina and her companions were approaching.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you do a lot of gambling?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the best way I know of passing the time.’

  ‘Do you love her?’ Ezio cut in.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your fidanzata – Cristina – do you love her?’

  Manfredo looked alarmed at his rescuer’s sudden vehemence. ‘Of course I do – if it’s any of your business. Kill me here and I
’d die still loving her.’

  Ezio hesitated. It sounded as though the man was telling the truth. ‘Then listen: you are never going to gamble again. Do you hear?’

  ‘Yes!’ Manfredo was frightened.

  ‘Swear!’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘You do not know how lucky a man you are. I want you to promise me to be a good husband to her. If I hear that you are not, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.’

  Manfredo could see that his rescuer meant every word he had said. He looked into the cold grey eyes, and something in his memory stirred. ‘Do I not know you?’ he said. ‘There’s something about you. You seem familiar.’

  ‘We have never met before,’ said Ezio. ‘And we need never meet again, unless…’ he broke off. Cristina was waiting at the end of the bridge, looking down. ‘Go to her, and keep your promise.’

  ‘I will.’ Manfredo hesitated. ‘I really do love her, you know. Perhaps I really have learned something today. And I will do everything in my power to make her happy. I need no threat to my life to make me promise that.’

  ‘I hope so. Now, go!’

  Ezio watched Manfredo climb the embankment for a moment, feeling his eyes irresistibly drawn to Cristina’s. Their gaze met for a moment and he half-raised a hand in farewell. Then he turned and walked away. Not since the deaths of his kinsmen had his heart been so heavy.

  Saturday evening found him still cast in deep gloom. At the darkest moments it seemed to him that he had lost everything – father, brothers, home, status, career – and now, wife! But then he reminded himself of the kindness and protection Mario had afforded him, and of his mother and sister, whom he had been able to save and protect. As for future and career – he still had both, except that they were running in a very different direction from that in which he had hitherto imagined they would run. He had a job to do, and no pining over Cristina would help him finish it. It would be impossible for him ever to cut her out of his heart, but he would have to accept the lonely destiny Fate had accorded him. Perhaps that was the way of the Assassin? Perhaps that was what adherence to the Creed involved?

  He made his way to the Mercato Vecchio in a sombre mood. The district was shunned by most people he knew, and he himself had only once visited it before. The old market square was dingy and neglected, as were the buildings and streets that surrounded it. A number of people were passing to and fro, but this was no passeggiata. These people walked with a purpose, wasting no time, and kept their heads down. Ezio had taken care to dress simply, and had not worn a sword, though he had buckled on his new wristplate and his original spring-blade dagger too, in case of need. Still, he knew that he must stand out from the crowd around him, and he was on the alert.

  He was wondering what course to take next, and was thinking of going into a low alehouse on the corner of the square to see if he could find out obliquely by what means he could make contact with the Fox, when a slim young man suddenly appeared from nowhere and jostled him.

  ‘Scusi, signore,’ said the young man politely, smiling, and moved swiftly past him. Instinctively, Ezio’s hand went to his belt. His precious belongings he had left safely stowed at his lodgings, but he had brought a few florins with him in his belt-purse, and now it was gone. He spun round to see the young man heading towards one of the narrow streets that led off the square, and gave chase. Seeing him, the thief doubled his pace, but Ezio managed to keep him in sight and ran after him, catching up with him at last and collaring him as he was about to enter a tall, nondescript tenement on Via Sant’ Angelo.

  ‘Give it back,’ he snarled.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ retorted the thief, but his eyes were scared.

  Ezio, who had been on the point of releasing his dagger, reined in his anger. The man, it suddenly occurred to him, might be able to give him the information he sought. ‘I have no interest in hurting you, friend,’ he said. ‘Just give me back my purse and we’ll say no more.’

  After hesitating, ‘You win,’ said the young man, ruefully, reaching for the satchel at his side.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ Ezio said.

  The man was instantly wary. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know where I might find a man who calls himself La Volpe?’

  Now the man looked seriously frightened. ‘Never heard of him. Here, take your money, signore, and let me go!’

  ‘Not until you’ve told me.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said a deep, throaty voice behind him. ‘I may be able to help you.’

  Ezio turned to see a broad-shouldered man of similar height to his own but perhaps ten or fifteen years older than he was. Over his head he wore a hood not unlike Ezio’s, which partly obscured his face, but under it Ezio could make out two piercing violet eyes which shone with a strange power, boring into him.

  ‘Please let my colleague go,’ said the man. ‘I’ll answer for him.’ To the young thief he said, ‘Give the gentleman his money, Corradin, and make yourself scarce. We’ll talk of this later.’ He spoke with such authority that Ezio released his grasp. In a second Corradin had placed Ezio’s purse in his hand and vanished into the building.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ezio asked.

  The man smiled slowly. ‘My name is Gilberto, but they call me many things: murderer, for example, and tagliagole; but to my friends I am simply known as the Fox.’ He bowed slightly, still holding Ezio with those penetrating eyes of his. ‘And I am at your service, Messer Auditore. Indeed, I have been expecting you.’

  ‘How – how do you know my name?’

  ‘It is my business to know everything in this city. And I know, I think, why you believe I can help you.’

  ‘My uncle gave me your name –’

  The Fox smiled again, but said nothing.

  ‘I need to find someone – to be one step ahead of him as well, if I can.’

  ‘Who is it you seek?’

  ‘Francesco de’ Pazzi.’

  ‘Big game, I see.’ The Fox looked serious. ‘It may be that I can help you.’ He paused, considering. ‘I have had word that some people from Rome recently disembarked at the docks. They are here to attend a meeting which no one else is supposed to know about, but they do not know about me, still less that I am the eyes and ears of this city. The host of this meeting is the man you want.’

  ‘When is it to take place?’

  ‘Tonight!’ The Fox smiled again. ‘Don’t worry, Ezio – it isn’t Fate. I would have sent someone to fetch you to me if you hadn’t found me yourself, but it amused me to test you. Very few who seek me succeed.’

  ‘You mean, you set me up with Corradin?’

  ‘Forgive me my sense of the theatrical; but I also had to be sure you were not followed. He’s a young man, and it was also a kind of test for him. You see, I may have set you up with him, but he had no real idea of the service he was doing me. He just thought I’d singled out a victim for him!’ His tone became harder, more practical. ‘Now, you must find a way to spy on this meeting, but it won’t be easy.’ He looked at the sky. ‘It is sunset. We must hurry, and the quickest way is over the rooftops. Follow me!’

  Without another word he turned and scaled the wall behind him at such a speed that Ezio was hard put to keep up. They raced over the red-tiled roofs, leaping the chasms of the streets in the last afterglow of the sun, silent as cats, soft-footed as running foxes, heading north-west across the city, until they arrived in sight of the façade of the great church of Santa Maria Novella. Here the Fox came to a halt. Ezio had caught him up in seconds, but he noticed that he was more breathless than the older man.

  ‘You’ve had a good teacher,’ said the Fox; but Ezio had the distinct impression that if he had so chosen, his new friend could have outrun him with ease; and that increased his determination to hone his skills further. But now wasn’t the time for contests or games.

  ‘That is where Messer Francesco is holding his meeting,’ said the Fox, pointing downwards.

  ‘In the church?’

/>   ‘Under it. Come on!’

  At that hour, the piazza in front of the church was all but deserted. The Fox leapt down from the roof they were on, landing gracefully in a crouch, and Ezio followed suit. They skirted the square and the side of the church until they came to a postern-gate set into its wall. The Fox ushered Ezio through it and they found themselves in the Rucellai Chapel. Near the bronze tomb at its centre, the Fox paused. ‘There is a network of catacombs which crisscross the city far and wide. I find them very useful in my line of work, but unfortunately they are not exclusive to me. Not many know about them, however, or how to find their way about in them, but Francesco de’ Pazzi is one. It is down there that he is holding his meeting with the people from Rome. This is the closest entrance to where they will be, but you will have to make your own way to them. There’s a chapel, part of an abandoned crypt, fifty yards to your right once you have descended, and be very careful, for sound travels very acutely down there. It will be dark, too, so allow your vision to become accustomed to the gloom – soon you will be guided by the lights in the chapel.’

  He placed his hand over a stone boss on the pedestal that supported the tomb, and pressed it. At his feet, an apparently solid flagstone swung down on invisible hinges to reveal a flight of stone steps. He stood aside. ‘Buona fortuna, Ezio.’

  ‘You are not coming?’

  ‘It is not necessary. And even with all my skills, two people make more noise than one. I will wait for you here. Va, go!’

  Once below ground, Ezio groped his way along the damp stone corridor that ran away to his right. He was able to feel his way along, for the walls were close enough here for him to touch either side with each hand, and he was relieved that his feet made no sound on the wet earthen floor. Occasionally, other tunnels branched off and he could feel them rather than see them as his guiding hands touched nothing but a black void. Getting lost down here would be a nightmare, for one would never find one’s way out again. Little sounds startled him at first, until he realized that they were nothing but the scuttling of rats, though once, when one ran over his feet, he could barely stifle a cry. In niches carved into the walls, he caught glimpses of the corpses from timeworn burials, their skulls shrouded in cobwebs – there was something primordial and terrifying about the catacombs, and Ezio had to bite back a rising sense of panic.