‘Take the reins and keep them going,’ Ezio cried to Leonardo. ‘It’s me they’re after, not you. Just keep going, whatever happens!’
Leonardo hastened to obey as Ezio rode back to meet the horsemen. His sword, one of Mario’s, was well balanced by its pommel, and his horse was lighter and more manoeuvrable than those of his adversaries. But they were well armoured, and there would be no chance to use his Codex blades. Ezio dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, spurring it on into the thick of the enemy. Ducking low in the saddle, Ezio smashed into the group, the force of his charge causing two of their horses to rear violently. Then the swordplay began in earnest. The protective brace he wore on his left forearm deflected many blows, however, and he was able to take advantage of the surprise of a foeman when he saw that his blow did not land, to get in a meaningful blow of his own.
It was not long before he had unseated four of the men, leaving the two survivors to wheel round and gallop back the way they had come. This time, however, he knew that he must allow no one even the chance of getting back to Rodrigo. He galloped after them, cutting first one, and then the other, down off his horse as he caught up with them.
He searched the bodies swiftly, but neither yielded anything of note; then he dragged them to the roadside and covered them with rocks and stones. He remounted and rode back, pausing only to clear the road of the other corpses and give them a rudimentary burial, at least enough to conceal them, with the stones and brushwood he had at hand. There was nothing he could do about their horses, which by now had run away.
Ezio had escaped Rodrigo’s vengeance once more, but he knew the Borgia cardinal would not give up until he was assured of his death. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode to rejoin Leonardo. When he caught up, they looked for the wagoners and called their names in vain.
‘I paid them a huge deposit on this wagon and oxen,’ grumbled Leonardo. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.’
‘Sell them in Venice.’
‘Don’t they use gondolas there?’
‘Plenty of farms on the mainland.’
Leonardo looked at him. ‘By God, Ezio, I like a practical man!’
Their long cross-country journey continued, past the ancient town of Forlì, now a small city-state in its own right, and on to Ravenna and its port on the coast a few miles beyond. There they took ship, a coastal galley on its way from Ancona to Venice, and once he had ascertained that no one else on board presented any danger, Ezio managed to relax a little. But he was aware that, even on a relatively small ship like this, it would not be too difficult to slit someone’s throat at night and cast their body into the blue-black waters, and he watched alertly the comings and goings at every little harbour they put into.
However, they arrived several days later at the Venice dockyards without incident. Only here did Ezio encounter his next setback, and that was from an unexpected source.
They had disembarked and were waiting now for the local ferry, which would take them to the island city. It duly arrived, and sailors helped Leonardo move his wagon on to the boat, which wallowed alarmingly under its weight. The ferry captain told Leonardo that some of the Conte da Pexaro’s staff would be waiting on the quay to conduct him to his new quarters, and with a bow and a smile handed him on board. ‘You have your pass, of course, signore?’
‘Of course,’ said Leonardo, handing the man a paper.
‘And you, sir?’ inquired the captain politely, turning to Ezio.
Ezio was taken aback. He had arrived without an invitation, unaware of this local law. ‘But – I have no pass,’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ put in Leonardo, speaking to the captain. ‘He is with me. I can vouch for him and I am sure that the Conte –’
But the captain held up a hand. ‘I regret, signore. The rules of the Council are explicit. No one may enter the city of Venice without a pass.’
Leonardo was about to remonstrate, but Ezio stopped him. ‘Don’t worry, Leonardo. I’ll find a way round this.’
‘I wish I could help you, sir,’ said the captain. ‘But I have my orders.’ In a louder voice directed at the crowd of passengers in general, he announced: ‘Attention please! Attention please! The ferry will depart at the stroke of ten!’ Ezio knew that gave him a little time.
His attention was caught by an extremely well-dressed couple whom he had noticed joining the galley at the same time as he had, who had taken the best cabin, and who had kept very much to themselves. Now they were alone at the foot of one of the piers, where several private gondolas were moored, and clearly in the middle of a very acrimonious row.
‘My beloved, please –’ the man was saying. A weak-looking type, and twenty years older than his companion, a spirited redhead with fiery eyes.
‘Girolamo – you are nothing but a fool! God knows why I ever married you but He also knows how much I’ve suffered as a result! You never cease to find fault, you keep me cooped up like a chicken in your horrible little provincial town, and now – now! You can’t even organize a gondola to get us to Venice! And when I think your uncle’s the bloody Pope, no less! You’d think you’d be able to exert some influence. But look at you – you’ve got about as much backbone as a slug!’
‘Caterina –’
‘Don’t you “Caterina” me, you toad! Just get the men to deal with the luggage and for God’s sake get me to Venice. I need a bath and I need wine!’
Girolamo bridled. ‘I’ve a good mind to leave you here and go on to Pordenone without you.’
‘We should have gone by land in any case.’
‘It’s too dangerous, travelling by road.’
‘Yes! For a spineless creature like you!’
Girolamo was silent as Ezio continued to watch. Then he said cunningly, ‘Why don’t you step into this gondola here –’ he indicated one, ‘and I will find a pair of gondoliers immediately.’
‘Hmmn! Talking sense at last!’ she growled and allowed him to hand her into the boat. But once she was settled, Girolamo quickly cast off its painter and gave the prow a mighty shove, sending the gondola off into the lagoon.
‘Buon viaggio!’ he shouted nastily.
‘Bastardo!’ she flung back. Then, realizing her predicament, she began to shout, ‘Aiuto! Aiuto!’ But Girolamo was walking back to where a knot of servants hovered uncertainly round a stack of luggage, and started giving them orders. Presently he moved off with them and the baggage to another part of the dock, where he started organizing a private ferry for himself.
Meanwhile Ezio had watched the plight of the woman Caterina, half-amused, certainly, but also half-concerned. She fixed him with her eye.
‘Hey, you! Don’t just stand there! I need help!’
Ezio unbuckled his sword, slipped off his shoes and doublet, and dived in.
Back on the quay, a smiling Caterina gave a dripping Ezio her hand. ‘My hero,’ she said.
‘It was nothing.’
‘I might have drowned! For all that porco cares!’ She looked at Ezio appreciatively. ‘But you! My goodness, you must be strong. I couldn’t believe how you managed to swim back pulling the gondola by its rope with me in it.’
‘As light as a feather,’ said Ezio.
‘Flatterer!’
‘I mean, those boats are so well balanced –’
Caterina frowned.
‘It was an honour to serve you, signora,’ Ezio finished, lamely.
‘I must return the favour some day,’ she said, her eyes full of the meaning behind her words. ‘What is your name?’
‘Auditore, Ezio.’
‘I’m Caterina.’ She paused. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘I was going to Venice, but I have no pass, so the ferry –’
‘Basta!’ She interrupted him. ‘So this little official wouldn’t let you on, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll see about that!’ She stormed off down the jetty without waiting for Ezio to put on his shoes and double
t. By the time he caught up with her she had reached the ferry and was already, from what he could gather, giving the quaking man an earful. All he could hear as he arrived was the captain burbling in the most servile way: ‘Yes, Altezza; of course, Altezza; whatever you say, Altezza.’
‘It had better be as I say! Unless you want your head on a spike! Here he is! Go and fetch his horse and his things yourself! Go on! And treat him well! I’ll know about it if you don’t!’ The captain hurried away. Caterina turned to Ezio. ‘There, you see? Settled!’
‘Thank you, Madonna.’
‘One good turn –’ She looked at him. ‘But I hope our paths cross again.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am from Forlì. Come there one day. It would be my pleasure to welcome you.’ She gave him her hand, and was about to depart.
‘Don’t you want to get to Venice too?’
She looked at him again, and at the ferry. ‘On this scrapheap? Don’t jest with me!’ And she was gone, sailing along the quay in the direction of her husband, who was just seeing the last of their luggage loaded.
The captain scuttled up, leading Ezio’s horse. ‘Here you are sir. My most humble apologies, sir. Had I but known, sir…’
‘I’ll need my horse stabled when we arrive.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, sir.’
As the ferry pulled away and set off across the lead-coloured water of the lagoon, Leonardo, who’d watched the whole episode, said wryly, ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t mind if she were my next conquest,’ smiled Ezio.
‘Then watch your step! That’s Caterina Sforza, the daughter of the Duke of Milan. And her husband’s the Duke of Forlì, and a nephew of the Pope.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Girolamo Riario.’
Ezio was silent. The surname rang a bell. Then he said, ‘Well, he married a fireball.’
‘As I say,’ replied Leonardo. ‘Watch your step.’
12
Venice in 1481, under the steady rule of Doge Giovanni Mocenigo, was, on the whole, a good place to be. There was peace with the Turks, the city prospered, the trade routes by sea and land were secure, interest rates were admittedly high, but investors were bullish, and savers content. The Church was wealthy too, and artists flourished under the dual patronage of their spiritual and temporal patrons. The city, rich from the wholesale looting of Constantinople after the Fourth Crusade, diverted by Doge Dandolo from its true object, had brought Byzantium to its knees, displayed the booty unashamedly: the four bronze horses ranged along the upper façade of St Mark’s Basilica being the most obvious.
But Leonardo and Ezio, arriving at the Molo on that early summer morning, had no idea of the city’s debased, treacherous and pilfering past. They only saw the glory of the pink marble and brickwork of the Palazzo Ducale, the broad square reaching forwards and to the left, the brick campanile of astonishing height, and the slightly built Venetians themselves, in their dark clothes, flitting like shadows along the terra ferma, or navigating their labyrinthine, malodorous canals in a variety of boats, from elegant gondolas to ungainly barges, the latter laden with all sorts of produce, from fruit to bricks.
The Conte da Pexaro’s servants took charge of Leonardo’s effects and, at his suggestion, also took charge of Ezio’s horse, and further promised to arrange suitable lodgings for the young banker’s son from Florence. They then dispersed, leaving one behind, a fat, sallow young man with bulging eyes, whose shirt was damp with sweat, and whose smile would have made syrup hang its head in shame.
‘Altezze,’ he simpered, approaching them. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Nero, the Conte’s personal funzionario da accoglienza. It will be my duty and my pleasure to offer you a short guided introduction to our proud city before the Conte receives you…’ here Nero looked nervously between Leonardo and Ezio, trying to decide which of the two was the commissioned artist, and luckily for him settled on Leonardo, the one who looked less like a man of action, ‘… Messer Leonardo, for a glass of Veneto before dinner, which meal Messer will be pleased to take in the upper servants’ hall.’ He bowed and scraped a little more, for good measure. ‘Our gondola awaits…’
For the next half-hour, Ezio and Leonardo were able – indeed, obliged – to enjoy the beauties of La Serenissima from the best place that it is possible to enjoy them – a gondola, expertly managed by its fore-and-aft gondoliers. But the enjoyment was marred by Nero’s oily spiel. Ezio, despite his interest in the unique beauty and architecture of this place, still wet from his rescue of Madonna Caterina, and tired, tried to find refuge in sleep from Nero’s dreary monologuing, but suddenly he snapped awake. Something had caught his attention.
From the canal bank, not far from the palace of the Marchese de Ferrara, Ezio heard raised voices. Two armed guards were harassing a businessman.
‘You were told to stay at home, sir,’ said one of the uniforms.
‘But the rent is paid. I have every right to sell my wares here.’
‘Sorry, sir, but it’s in contravention of Messer Emilio’s new rules. I’m afraid you’re in rather a serious situation, sir.’
‘I’ll appeal to the Council of Ten!’
‘No time for that, sir,’ said the second uniform, kicking down the awning of the businessman’s stall. The man was selling leather goods, and the uniforms, between them, while pocketing the best, threw most of his wares into the canal.
‘Now, let’s not have any more of this nonsense, sir,’ said one of the uniforms, as they swaggered off, unhurriedly.
‘What’s going on?’ Ezio asked Nero.
‘Nothing, Altezza. A little local difficulty. I beg you to ignore. And now we are about to pass under the famous wooden bridge of the Rialto, the only bridge over the Grand Canal, famed in all history for…’
Ezio was happy to let the poor bugger ramble on, but what he had seen had disturbed him, and he had heard the name Emilio. A common enough Christian name – but: Emilio Barbarigo?
Not long afterwards, Leonardo insisted that they stop so that he could look at a market with stands selling children’s toys. He went up to the one that had caught his eye immediately. ‘Look, Ezio,’ he cried.
‘What have you found?’
‘It’s a lay figure. A little articulated manikin we artists use as models. I could do with a couple. Would you be so kind – ? I seem to have sent my purse with my bags to my new workshop.’
But as Ezio was reaching for his own purse, a bunch of young people pushed past them, and one of them tried to cut his purse from his belt.
‘Hey!’ yelled Ezio. ‘Coglione! Stop!’ And he raced after them. The one he’d marked as his attacker turned for an instant, pushing a tress of auburn hair clear of the face. A woman’s face! But then she was gone, vanishing into the crowd with her companions.
They resumed their tour in silence, Leonardo, however, now contentedly clutching his two lay figures. Ezio was impatient to be rid of the buffoon who was their guide, and even of Leonardo. He needed time alone, time to think.
‘And now we approach the famous Palazzo Seta,’ Nero droned on. ‘Home of Su Altezza Emilio Barbarigo. Messer Barbarigo is famous at present for his attempts to unify the merchants of the city under his guiding control. A laudable undertaking which has, alas, encountered some resistance from the more radical elements in the city…’
A grim fortified building stood back from the canal, allowing for a flagstoned space in front of it, at whose quay three gondolas were moored. As their own gondola passed, Ezio noticed the same businessman he had seen harassed earlier try to enter the building. He was being held back by two more guards, and Ezio noticed on their shoulders a yellow blazon crossed with a red chevron, below it a black horse, above it a dolphin, star and grenade. Barbarigo men, of course!
‘My stall has been destroyed, my goods ruined. I demand compensation!’ the businessman was saying in an angry tone.
‘Sorry sir, we’re closed,’ said one of the uniforms, poking t
he poor man with his halberd.
‘I haven’t finished with you. I’ll report you to the Council!’
‘Much good may it do you,’ snapped the older, second uniform. But now an officer and three more men appeared.
‘Causing an affray, are we?’ said the officer.
‘No, I –’
‘Arrest this man!’ barked the officer.
‘What are you doing?’ said the businessman, frightened. Ezio watched powerless and in growing anger, but he had marked the place in his mind. The businessman was dragged off in the direction of the building, where a small ironclad door opened to admit him, and immediately closed behind him.
‘You haven’t chosen the best of places, though it may be the prettiest,’ Ezio told Leonardo.
‘I am beginning to wish that I’d plumped for Milan after all,’ replied Leonardo. ‘But a job is a job.’
13
After Ezio had taken leave of Leonardo and settled into his own lodgings, he wasted no time in making his way back to the Palazzo Seta, not an easy task in this city of alleyways, twisting canals, low arches, little squares and dead-ends. But everyone knew the palazzo, and locals willingly gave him directions when he got lost – though they all seemed at a loss as to why anybody should wish to go there of their own free will. One or two suggested that it would be simplest for him to take a gondola, but Ezio wanted to familiarize himself with the city, as well as to arrive at his goal unnoticed.
It was late afternoon as he approached the palazzo, though it was less of a palace than a fortress, or a prison, since the main building complex had been erected within the battlemented walls. On either side it was hemmed in by other buildings which were separated from it by narrow streets, but to its rear was what looked like a sizeable garden surrounded by another high wall, and at the front, facing the canal, was the wide, open area Ezio had seen earlier. Here now, though, a pitched battle seemed to be taking place between a bunch of Barbarigo guardsmen and a motley group of young people who were taunting them and then skipping lightly out of reach of their swinging halberds and stabbing pikes, throwing bricks, stones, and rotten eggs and fruit at the infuriated uniforms. Perhaps they were just creating a diversion, for Ezio, looking beyond them, could see a figure scaling the wall of the palazzo beyond the scene of the mêlée. Ezio was impressed – the wall was so sheer that even he would have thought twice about tackling it. But whoever it was reached the battlements without detection or difficulty, and then, astoundingly, leapt up from them to land on the roof of one of the watchtowers. Ezio could see that the person was planning to jump again from there to the roof of the palace itself and try to gain access to the interior from there, and he made a note of the tactic should he ever need – or be able – to use it himself. But the guards in the watchtower had heard the person land, and called a warning to their fellows on guard in the palace proper. A bowman appeared at a window in the eaves of the palace roof and fired. The figure jumped gracefully and the arrow went wide, clattering off the tiles, but the second time the archer fired his aim was true, and, with a faint cry, the figure staggered, clutching a wounded thigh.
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