Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  At the third attempt, screaming inwardly with pain, and thinking the muscles of his wounded right arm would tear through the skin, he pushed again, as if his very life depended on it, and, finally, the slab rolled over on to the ground.

  Gingerly, he sat up. His left arm was sore, but nothing was broken.

  Why the monk had not killed him as he slept, he had no idea. Perhaps murder was not part of the Man of God’s plan. But one thing was certain – the Dominican, and the Apple, were gone.

  Dragging himself to his feet, he found his way to a nearby stream and drank thirstily before bathing his wound and redressing it. Then he set off eastwards, back over the mountains towards Forlì.

  At last, after a journey of many days, he saw the towers of the town in the distance. But he was tired, drained by his unremitting task, by his failure, by his loneliness. On the journey back he had had plenty of time to think about Cristina and what might have been, had he not been given this Cross to bear. But since he had, he could not change his life; nor, as he realized, would he.

  He had reached the far end of the bridge to the southern gate and was close enough to see people on the battlements when exhaustion finally overcame him, and he passed out.

  When he next awoke, it was to find himself lying in a bed, covered in pristine linen sheets, out on a sunny terrace shaded by vines. A cool hand stroked his forehead, and pressed a beaker of water to his lips.

  ‘Ezio! Thank God you are back with us. Are you all right? What happened to you?’ The questions flowed from Caterina’s mouth with all her usual impetuosity.

  ‘I… I don’t know…’

  ‘They saw you from the ramparts. I came out personally. You had been travelling for I don’t know how long, and you have a horrific wound.’

  Ezio struggled with his memory. ‘Something is coming back to me now… I had retrieved the Apple from Checco… but there was another man who came soon afterwards – he took the Apple!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He wore a black hood, like a monk – and I think… had a finger missing!’ Ezio struggled to sit up. ‘How long have I been lying here? I have to go – right away!’ he started to rise, but it was as if his limbs were made of lead, and as he moved, a terrible dizziness overcame him, so he was obliged to lie back again.

  ‘Whoa! What did that monk do to me?’

  Caterina leaned over him. ‘You can’t go anywhere yet, Ezio. Even you need time to recover if you are to fight the battles well which lie ahead; and I can see a long and arduous journey in front of you. But cheer up! Niccolò has returned to Florence. He will look after matters there. And your other fellow Assassins are vigilant. So stay a while…’ She kissed his forehead, then, tentatively at first, his lips. ‘And if there is anything I can do to… hasten your recovery, you have only to say the word.’ Her hand began very gently to wander downwards beneath the sheets until she found her objective. ‘Wow,’ she smiled. ‘I think I am already succeeding – a little.’

  ‘You are quite a woman, Caterina Sforza.’

  She laughed. ‘Tesoro, if ever I were to write the story of my life, I would shock the world.’

  *

  Ezio was strong and still, at thirty years old, a young man in his prime. Moreover, he had undergone some of the toughest training known to man, so it was really no wonder that he was up and about again sooner than most would have been. But his right arm had been severely weakened by Checco’s blow, and he knew he needed to work hard to recover the full strength he required to resume his quest. He made himself be patient, and under Caterina’s strict but understanding guidance, spent his enforced time at Forlì in quiet contemplation, when he could often be found sitting under the vines lost in one of Poliziano’s books, or, more frequently, in vigorous exercise of every kind.

  And then a morning came when Caterina arrived in his chamber to find him dressed for travel, and a page helping him pull on his riding boots. She sat on the bed beside him.

  ‘So the time has come?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I can delay no longer.’

  She looked sad and left the room, to return not long afterwards with a scroll. ‘Well, the time had to come,’ she said, ‘and God knows your task is more important than our enjoyment – for which I hope another time will come round again soon!’ She showed him the scroll. ‘Here – I have brought you a leaving-present.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something you will need.’

  She unrolled it and Ezio saw that it was a map of the entire peninsula, from Lombardy to Calabria, and all across it, as well as the roads and towns, a number of crosses were marked on it, in red ink.

  Ezio looked up at her. ‘It’s the map Machiavelli spoke of. Your husband’s –’

  ‘My late husband’s, mio caro. Niccolò and I made a couple of important discoveries while you were on your travels. The first is that we timed our… removal of dear Girolamo rather well, for he’d just about completed his work on this. The second is that it is of inestimable value, for even if the Templars have the Apple, they cannot hope to find the Vault without the Map.’

  ‘You know about the Vault?’

  ‘Darling, you can be just a tad naïve at times. Of course I do.’ She became more businesslike. ‘But fully to disarm our enemies, you must recover the Apple. This map will help you bring your full great task to an end.’

  As she handed him the Map, their fingers touched, lingered and entwined. And their eyes would not leave each other’s.

  ‘There is an abbey in the Wetlands near here,’ Caterina said at last. ‘Dominicans. Their Order wears black hoods. I’d start there.’ Her eyes were shining and she looked away. ‘Now go! Find us that troublesome monk!’

  Ezio smiled. ‘I think I’m going to miss you, Caterina.’

  She smiled back, a bit too brightly. For once in her life she was finding it hard to be brave. ‘Oh, I know you will.’

  24

  The monk who welcomed Ezio at the Wetlands Abbey was as monks should be – plump and rubicund, but he had flaming red hair and puckish, shrewd eyes, and spoke with an accent Ezio recognized from some of the condottieri he’d encountered in Mario’s service – the man was from Ireland.

  ‘Blessings on you, brother.’

  ‘Grazie, Padre –’

  ‘I am Brother O’Callahan –’

  ‘I wonder if you can help me?’

  ‘That’s why we are here, brother. Of course, we live in troubled times. It’s hard to think straight without something in our stomachs.’

  ‘You mean something in your coin-purse.’

  ‘You take me wrong. I’m not asking you for anything.’ The monk spread his hands. ‘But the Lord helps the generous.’

  Ezio shook out some florins and passed them across. ‘If it’s not enough…’

  The monk looked reflective. ‘Ah, well, the thought is there. But the truth is that the Lord actually helps the slightly more generous.’

  Ezio continued shaking out coins until Brother O’Callahan’s expression cleared. ‘The Order appreciates your open-handedness, brother.’ He folded his hands on his belly. ‘What do you seek?’

  ‘A black-hooded monk – who lacks one of his ten fingers.’

  ‘Hmmn. Brother Guido has only nine toes. Are you sure it wasn’t a toe?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘And then there’s Brother Domenico, but it’s his entire left arm he’s lacking.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, but I’m quite sure it was a finger.’

  ‘Hmmn.’ The monk paused, deep in thought. ‘Now, wait a moment! I do recall a black-cowled monk with only nine fingers… Yes! Of course! It was when we had our last San Vicenzo’s Feast at our abbey in Tuscany.’

  Ezio smiled. ‘Yes, I know the place. I’ll try there. Grazie.’

  ‘Go in peace, brother.’

  ‘I always do.’

  Ezio crossed the mountains westwards into Tuscany, and though the journey was a long and difficult one, as autumn approached and the days b
ecame unkinder, he felt his greatest trepidation when he approached the abbey – for it was the place where one of those implicated in the plot to assassinate Lorenzo de’ Medici – Jacopo de’ Pazzi’s secretary, Stefano de Bagnone – had met his end at Ezio’s hands long ago.

  It was unfortunate that the abbot who greeted him here was one who had been a witness to that killing.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ezio said to him first. ‘I wonder if you can –’

  But the abbot, recognizing him, drew back in horror, and cried, ‘May all the Archangels – Uriel, Raphael, Michael, Saraquêl, Gabriel, Remiel and Raguel – may they all in their Mightiness protect us!’ He turned his blazing eyes from heaven to Ezio. ‘Unholy Demon! Begone!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Ezio, in consternation.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter? You are the one who murdered Brother Stefano. On this Holy Ground!’ A nervous group of brothers had gathered at a safe distance, and the abbot now turned to them. ‘He has returned! The killer of monks and priests has returned!’ he pronounced in a voice of thunder, and then took flight, followed by his flock.

  The man was clearly in a state of high panic. Ezio had no choice but to give chase. The abbey was not as familiar to him as to the Abbot and his troop of monks. At last he tired of hurtling round unfamiliar stone corridors and cloisters, and leapt to the rooftops to get a better view of where the monks were headed, but this only threw them into a greater panic, and they started to scream, ‘He’s come! He’s come! Beëlzebub is come!’ and so he desisted and stuck to conventional means of pursuit.

  Finally, he caught up with them. Panting, the Abbot rounded on him and croaked: ‘Begone, demon! Leave us alone! We have done no sin so great as thine!’

  ‘No, wait, listen,’ panted Ezio, almost equally out of breath. ‘I just want to ask you a question.’

  ‘We have called down no demons upon us! We seek no journey to the Afterlife just yet!’

  Ezio placed his palms downwards. ‘Please. Calma! I wish you no harm!’

  But the Abbot wasn’t listening. He rolled his eyes. ‘My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? I’m not yet ready to join your angels!’

  And he took to his heels again.

  Ezio was obliged to bring him down in an arms-to-feet tackle. They both got up, dusting themselves down in the middle of a circle of goggling monks.

  ‘Stop running away, please!’ pleaded Ezio.

  The Abbot cowered. ‘No! Have mercy! I don’t want to die!’ he burbled.

  Ezio, conscious that he was sounding prim, said: ‘Look, Father Abbot, I only kill those who kill others. And your Brother Stefano was a killer. He tried to murder Duke Lorenzo in 1478.’ He paused, breathing heavily. ‘Be reassured, Messer Abate, I’m certain you are no such thing as a murderer.’

  The Abbot’s look became a trace calmer, but there was still suspicion in his eyes.

  ‘What do you want, then?’ he said.

  ‘All right, now, listen to me. I’m looking for a monk dressed like you are – a Dominican – who is missing a finger.’

  The Abbot looked wary. ‘Missing a finger, do you say? Like Fra’ Savonarola?’

  Ezio seized on the name. ‘Savonarola? Who is he? Do you know him?’

  ‘I did, Messer. He was one of us… for a time.’

  ‘And then?’

  The Abbot shrugged. ‘We suggested he take a nice long rest at a hermitage in the mountains. He didn’t quite… fit in here…’

  ‘It seems to me, Abate, that his time as a hermit may be over. Do you know where he may have gone now?’

  ‘Oh dear me…’ The Abbot searched his mind. ‘If he’s left the hermitage, it may be that he has returned to Santa Maria del Carmine, in Florence. It’s where he studied. Perhaps that’s where he’d go back to.’

  Ezio breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Abbot. Go with God.’

  It was strange for Ezio to be in his home town again, after so long. There were many memories to deal with. But circumstances dictated that he work alone. He could not contact even old friends or allies, lest the enemy were alerted.

  It was also clear that even if the city remained stable, the church, at least, which he sought, was in turmoil. A monk came running from it in fear.

  He accosted the monk. ‘Whoa, there, Brother. It’s all right!’

  The monk looked at him, wild-eyed. ‘Stay away, my friend. If you value your life!’

  ‘What’s happened here?’

  ‘Soldiers from Rome have seized our church! They’ve scattered my brothers, asking questions that make no sense. They keep demanding that we give them fruit!’

  ‘What kind of fruit?’

  ‘Apples!’

  ‘Apples? Diavolo! Rodrigo has got here before me!’ hissed Ezio to himself.

  ‘They’ve dragged one of my fellow Carmelites behind the church! I’m sure they’re going to kill him!’

  ‘Carmelites? You are not Dominicans?’ Ezio left the man, and made his way carefully round the outer walls of Santa Maria, hugging them. He moved as stealthily as a mongoose confronting a cobra. When he reached the walls of the church’s garden, he skimmed to the roof. What he saw below him took even his experienced breath away. Several Borgia guards were beating the shit out of a tall young monk. He looked about thirty-five years old.

  ‘Tell us!’ cried the leader of the guards. ‘Tell us, or I will make you hurt so badly you’ll wish you’d never been born. Where is the Apple?’

  ‘Please! I don’t know! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  The lead guard leaned in close. ‘Confess! Your name is Savonarola!’

  ‘Yes! I told you! But you beat the name out of me!’

  ‘Then tell us and your suffering will cease. Where the fuck is the Apple?’ The interrogator kicked the monk savagely in the crotch. The monk howled in pain. ‘Not that that’ll make much difference to a man in your missionary position,’ jeered the guard.

  Ezio watched, deeply concerned. If this monk was indeed Savonarola, the Borgia thugs might kill him before he himself got the truth out of the man.

  ‘Why do you keep lying to me?’ sneered the guard. ‘My Master will not be pleased to hear you made me torture you to death! Do you want to get me into trouble?’

  ‘I don’t have any apple,’ sobbed the monk. ‘I’m just a simple friar. Please let me go!’

  ‘In a pig’s eye!’

  ‘I know nothing!’ the monk cried piteously.

  ‘If you want me to stop,’ shouted the guard, kicking him again in the same place, ‘then tell me the truth, Brother Girolamo – Savonarola!’

  The monk bit his lip, but stubbornly replied, ‘I’ve told you everything I know!’

  The guard kicked him again, and had his henchmen grab his ankles and drag the man mercilessly along the cobbled ground, his head bouncing painfully on the hard stone. The monk screamed, and struggled in vain.

  ‘Had enough, you abominato?’ The lead guard held his face close again. ‘Are you so ready to meet your Maker, that you would lie again and again, just to see Him?’

  ‘I am a plain monk,’ wept the Carmelite, whose robes were dangerously similar in cut and colour to that of the Dominicans. ‘I have no fruit of any kind! Please…’

  The guard kicked him. In the same place. Again. The monk’s body twisted in an agony beyond tears.

  Ezio had had enough. He sprang down, a phantom of vengeance, slicing for once in pure rage with poison-dagger and double-blade. Within a minute of sheer slaughter, the Borgia thugs, all of them, lay either dead or groaning in the same agony they’d inflicted, on the flagstones of the courtyard.

  The monk, weeping, clung to Ezio’s knees: ‘Grazie, grazie, Salvatore.’

  Ezio stroked his head. ‘Calma, calma. It will be all right now, my Brother.’ But Ezio also looked at the monk’s fingers.

  All ten were intact.

  ‘You have ten fingers,’ he murmured, disappointed despite himself.

  ‘Yes,�
� cried the monk. ‘I have ten fingers. And I don’t have any other apples than those that come to the monastery from the market every Thursday!’ He stood up, shook himself down, tenderly readjusted himself, and swore. ‘In the name of God! Has the whole world stopped making sense?’

  ‘Who are you? Why did they take you?’ asked Ezio.

  ‘Because they found out that indeed my family name is Savonarola! But why should I betray my cousin to those thugs?’

  ‘Do you know what he’s done?’

  ‘I know nothing! He is a monk, like me. He chose the harsher Order of the Dominicans, it is true, but –’

  ‘He has lost a finger?’

  ‘Yes, but how could anyone – ?’ A kind of light was dawning in the monk’s eyes.

  ‘Who is Girolamo Savonarola?’ persisted Ezio.

  ‘My cousin, and a devoted man of God. And who, may I ask, are you, though I thank you humbly for my rescue, and owe you whatever favour you may ask?’

  ‘I am… nameless,’ said Ezio. ‘But do me the favour of telling your name.’

  ‘Fra’ Marcello Savonarola,’ the monk replied meekly.

  Ezio took that in. His mind raced. ‘Where is your cousin Girolamo?’

  Fra’ Marcello thought, struggling with his conscience. ‘It is true that my cousin… has a singular view of how to serve God… He is spreading a doctrine of his own… You may find him now in Venice.’

  ‘And what does he do there?’

  Marcello straightened his shoulders. ‘I think he has set off on the wrong path. He preaches fire and brimstone. He claims to see the future.’ Marcello looked at Ezio through red-rimmed eyes, eyes full of agony. ‘If you really want my opinion, he spews madness!’

  25

  Ezio felt that he had spent too long on what seemed to be a fruitless quest. Chasing Savonarola seemed like chasing a will o’ the wisp, or a chimera, or your own tail. But the search had to continue, remorselessly, for the nine-fingered man of God held the Apple – the key to more than he could imagine possible, and he was a dangerous religious maniac, a loose cannon potentially less controllable than the Master, Rodrigo Borgia, himself.