Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  Of course the Revolution wasn’t having that, so on 10 August the Assembly had decided to march on the Palace at Tuileries, where the king and Marie Antoinette had been staying ever since their undignified exile from Versailles almost three years before.

  Six hundred of the king’s Swiss Guard lost their lives in the battle, the final stand of the king. Six weeks later the monarchy was abolished.

  Meanwhile, there were uprisings against the revolution in Brittany and Vendée, and on 2 September, the Prussians took Verdun, causing panic in Paris when stories began to circulate that the Royalist prisoners would be released from prison and take bloody revenge on members of the Revolution. I suppose you’d have to say that the massacres that followed were an attempt at preemption, but massacres they were, and thousands of prisoners were slaughtered.

  And then, the king went on trial, and today it had been announced that he should die by the guillotine tomorrow.

  “If Germain is there, then I shall be there, too,” I told Mr. Weatherall now.

  “Why is that, then?”

  “To kill him.”

  Mr. Weatherall squinted. “I don’t think this is the way, Élise,” he said.

  “I know,” I said tenderly, “but you realize I have no other choice.”

  “What’s more important to you?” he asked, testily. “Revenge or the Order?”

  I shrugged. “When I achieve the first, the second will fall into place.”

  “Will it? You think so, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “Why? All you’ll be doing is killing the current Grand Master. You’re as likely to be tried for treachery as welcomed back into the fold. I’ve sent appeals all over. To Spain, Italy, even America. I’ve had murmurs of sympathy but not a single pledge of support in return, and do you know why that is? It’s because to them the fact that the French Order is running smoothly makes your dismissal of marginal interest.

  “Besides, we can be sure that Germain has used his own networks. He’ll have assured our brothers overseas that the overthrow was necessary and that the French Order is in good hands.

  “We can assume also that the Carrolls will be poisoning the well wherever their name bears standing. You cannot do this without support, Élise, and the fact is you have no support, yet even knowing that, you plan to carry on regardless. Which tells me that this isn’t about the Order, it’s about revenge. Which tells me I’m sitting next to a suicidal fool.”

  “I will have support,” I insisted.

  “And where will that come from, Élise, do you think?”

  “I had hoped to form an alliance with the Assassins,” I said.

  He gave a start, then shook his head sadly. “Making peace with the Assassins is fanciful stuff, child. It’ll never happen, no matter what your friend Haytham Kenway says in his letters. Mr. Carroll was right about that. You might as well ask a mongoose and a snake to take afternoon tea.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “I don’t just believe it, I know it, child. I love you for thinking otherwise, but you’re wrong.”

  “My father thought otherwise.”

  He sighed. “Any truce your father brokered was a temporary one. He knew it, like we all do. There never will be peace.”

  21 JANUARY 1793

  i

  It was cold. Biting cold. And our dragon breath hung in the air in front of us as we stood on the Place de la Concorde, which was to be the site of the king’s execution.

  The square was full. It felt as though the whole of Paris, if not the whole of France, had gathered to watch the king die. As far as the eye could see were people who just a year ago would have sworn fealty to the monarch but were now readying their handkerchiefs to dip in his blood. They clambered onto carts to get a better view, children teetering on their fathers’ shoulders, young women doing the same as they sat astride husbands or lovers.

  Around the edges of the square merchants had set up stalls and were not shy about calling out to advertise them, every one an “execution special.” In the air was an atmosphere I could only describe as one of celebratory lust for blood. You wondered whether they wouldn’t have had enough of blood by now, these people, the people of France. Looking around, obviously not.

  Meanwhile, the executioner was calling up prisoners to be beheaded. They cried and protested as they were dragged to the scaffold of the guillotine. The crowd called for their blood. They hushed in the moment before it was spilled and they cheered when it came spurting forth into a crisp January day.

  ii

  “Are you sure Germain will be here?” I’d said to Arno when we arrived.

  “I’m sure,” he’d said, and we went our separate ways, and though the plan had been for us to locate Germain, in the end the treacherous ex-lieutenant had made his presence felt, clambering onto a viewing platform, surrounded by his men.

  This was him, I thought, looking at him, the crowd seeming to fall away for a moment or so.

  This was François Thomas Germain.

  I knew it was him. He wore the robes of the Grand Master. And I wondered what bystanders thought, seeing this robed man take such an exalted viewing position? Did they see an enemy of the Revolution? Or a friend?

  Or, as their faces were turned quickly away, as though not wanting to catch Germain’s eye, did they just see a man to fear? Certainly he looked fearsome. He had a cruel, turned-down mouth and eyes that even from this distance I could see were dark and penetrating. There was something about his stare that was disquieting. His graying hair was tied back in a black bow and he was clad in the dark robes of a Templar Grand Master.

  I seethed. These were robes I was used to seeing on my father. They had no place adorning the back of this imposter.

  Arno had seen him, too, of course, and managed to come much closer to the platform. I watched as he approached the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs, whose job involved keeping the surge of people away from the platform. He spoke to one of them. There were shouts. My eyes went to Germain, who leaned over to see Arno, then indicated to the guards to let him up.

  Meanwhile, I came as close to the platform as I dared. Whether Germain would recognize me I had no idea, but there were other familiar faces around. I couldn’t afford to be seen.

  Arno had reached the platform, joining Germain and standing by his side, the two of them looking out over the crowd toward the guillotine, which rose and fell, rose and fell . . .

  “Hello, Arno,” I heard Germain say, but only just, and I risked raising my face to stare up at the platform, hoping that with a mix of reading the lips of the speakers and the wind in the right direction I could make out what they were saying.

  “Germain,” Arno said.

  Germain indicated to him. “It’s fitting you’re here to see the rebirth of the Templar Order. After all, you were there for its conception.”

  Arno nodded. “Mr. de la Serre,” he said simply.

  “I tried to make him see.” Germain shrugged. “The Order had become corrupt, clutching at power and privilege for their own sake. We forgot de Molay’s teachings, that our purpose is to lead humanity into an age of order and peace.”

  On the stage the king had been brought up. And to give him his due, he faced his tormentors with his shoulders thrown back and his chin held high, proud to the very last. He began to give a speech he had no doubt rehearsed in whatever rough surrounds he had been kept prior to his journey to the guillotine. But just as it came to delivering his final words, the drums started up, drowning them out. Brave, yes. But ineffectual to the very last.

  Above me Arno and Germain continued to talk, Arno, I could see, trying to make sense of things.

  “But you could set it right, is that it? All by killing the man in charge?”

  The “man in charge”—my father. The surge of hatred I had experienced on first seeing Germain intensified. I longed to slide the blade of my sword between his ribs and watch him die on the cold stone, just as my father had done.


  “The death of de la Serre was only the first stage,” Germain said. “This is the culmination. The fall of a Church, the end of a regime . . . the death of a king.”

  “And what did the king do to you?” sneered Arno. “Cost you your job? Take your wife as a mistress?”

  Germain was shaking his head as though disappointed with a pupil. “The king is merely a symbol. A symbol can inspire fear, and fear can inspire control—but men inevitably lose their fear of symbols. As you can see.”

  He was gesturing toward the scaffold, where the king, denied his final chance to recover some of his regal pride, had been forced down to his knees. His chin was fitted into the notched block, the skin of his neck was exposed for the waiting guillotine.

  Germain said, “This was the truth de Molay died for: the Divine Right of Kings is nothing but the reflection of sunlight upon gold. And when Crown and Church are ground to dust, we who control the gold will decide the future.”

  There was a ripple of excitement around the crowd, which then fell to a hush. This was it. This was the moment. Looking over, I saw the guillotine blade shimmer, then drop with a soft thunk, followed by the sound of the king’s head falling into the basket below the block.

  There was a moment of silence in the courtyard, which was followed by a sound I would find difficult to identify at first, until, later, I recognized it for what it was. I recognized it from the Maison Royale. It was the sound a classroom full of pupils makes when they realize they’ve gone too far, when a collective intake of breath says there’s no going back. “That’s torn it, there’s going to be trouble now.”

  Speaking almost under his breath, Germain said, “Jacques de Molay, you are avenged,” and I knew I was dealing with an extremist, fanatic, a madman. A man to whom human life had no cost other than its worth in the promotion of his own ideals, which, as the man in charge of the Templar Order, made him perhaps the most dangerous man in France.

  A man who had to be stopped.

  On the scaffold, Germain was turning to Arno.

  “And now, I must take my leave,” he was saying. “A good day to you.”

  He looked at his guards and with an imperious wave of the hand, ordered them after Arno, with the simple, chilling words: “Kill him.”

  Two guards were moving forward on Arno, who swung his upper body to meet them, his sword hand reaching across his front.

  His blade never cleared leather; my sword spoke once, twice: two fatal arterial slashes that had the guards pitching forward, eyes rolling up in their sockets even as their foreheads made contact with the bloody boards of the platform.

  It was quick; it achieved the objective of killing the two guards. But it was bloody and not at all discreet.

  Sure enough, from nearby came a scream. In all the commotion of the execution it wasn’t quite urgent or loud enough to panic the crowd, but it was sufficient to alert more guards, who came running, mounting the steps of the platform to where Arno and I stood ready to meet them.

  I surged forward, desperate to get to Germain, running the first of our assailants through with my blade, withdrawing and spinning at the same time in order to slash backhanded at a second guard. It was the kind of move Mr. Weatherall would have hated, an attack born more of the desire for a speedy kill than the need to maintain a defensive stance, the kind that left me vulnerable to a counter. And there was nothing Mr. Weatherall despised more than a showy, incautious attack.

  But then again, I had Arno on my flank, who dealt with a third guard, and just maybe Mr. Weatherall might have forgiven me.

  In the space of just a few seconds we had three bodies piled at our feet. But more guards were arriving and a few yards away I caught sight of Germain. He had seen the tide of battle turn and was making a run for it—racing toward a carriage on the thoroughfare at the perimeter of the square.

  I was cut off from reaching him, but Arno . . .

  “What are you doing?” I screamed at him, urging him to go after Germain.

  Deflecting the first of my attackers. Seeing Germain getting away.

  “I’m not leaving you to die,” called Arno, and turned his attention to where more guards had appeared on the steps.

  But I wasn’t going to die. I had a way out. I glanced up to the thoroughfare, saw the carriage door gaping open, Germain about to climb aboard. Thrashing wildly with my sword I vaulted the barrier, landing badly in the dirt but not quite badly enough to die at the hands of a guard who thought he’d seen his chance to kill me and paid for the assumption with steel in his gut.

  From somewhere I heard Arno shout, telling me to stop—“It’s not worth it!”—seeing what he’d seen—a phalanx of guards who rounded the platform, creating a barrier between me and . . .

  Germain. Who had reached the carriage, clambered in and slammed the door shut behind him. I saw as the coachman shook the reins and the horse’s crests were whipped by a wind as their muzzles rose and their hocks tightened, and the carriage set off at a lick.

  Damn.

  I braced myself, about to take on the guards, when I felt Arno by my side, grabbing my arm. “No, Élise.”

  With a cry of frustration I shook him off. The squad was advancing on us, blades drawn, shoulders dropped and forward. In their eyes was the confidence of strength in numbers. I bared my teeth.

  Blast him. Blast Arno.

  But then he grabbed me by the hand, pulled me into the safety and anonymity of the crowd and began pushing his way through startled onlookers at the periphery and into the heart of the mob, the guards behind us at last.

  It wasn’t until we had left the scene of the execution behind—until there were no more people around—that we stopped.

  I rounded on him. “He’s gone, damn it, our one chance . . .”

  “It’s not over,” he insisted, seeing I needed cooling down. “We’ll find him again . . .”

  I felt my blood rising. “No, we won’t. You think he’ll be so careless now, knowing how close at heel we are? You were given a golden opportunity to end his life, and you refused to take it.”

  He shook his head, not seeing it that way at all. “To save your life,” he insisted.

  “It isn’t yours to save.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m willing to die to put Germain down. If you don’t have the stomach for revenge . . . then I don’t need your help.”

  And I meant it, dear journal. As I sit and write this, and mull over the angry words we exchanged, I remain certain that I meant it then and mean it now.

  Perhaps his loyalty to my father was not as great as he had professed it to be.

  No, I didn’t need his help.

  10 NOVEMBER 1793

  They called it the Terror.

  “Enemies of the Revolution” were being sent to the guillotine by the dozens—for opposing the Revolution, for hoarding grain, for helping foreign armies. They called the guillotine “the national razor” and it worked hard, claiming two or three heads a day in the Place de Revolution alone. France cowered beneath the threat of its dropping blade.

  Meanwhile, in events even closer to my own heart, I heard that Arno had been laid low by his Order.

  “He’s been banished,” Mr. Weatherall read from his correspondence, holding a letter, the last vestiges of his once-proud network having got in touch at last.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Arno.”

  “I see.”

  He smiled. “You pretending not to care, are you?”

  “There’s no pretense about it, Mr. Weatherall.”

  “Still not forgiven him, eh?”

  “He once pledged to me that if he had his chance to take a shot, then he would take it. He had his chance and didn’t take it.”

  “He was right,” said Mr. Weatherall one day. He spat it out, as though it was something that had been on his mind.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said.

  Actually, I didn’t “say” it. I “snapped” it. The truth was that Mr
. Weatherall and I had been irate with one another for weeks, maybe even months. Life had been reduced to this one thing: lying low. And it made me howl with frustration. Each day spent worrying about finding Germain before he found us; each day spent waiting for letters to arrive from an ever-changing series of drops. Knowing that we were fighting a losing battle.

  And yes, I seethed, knowing that Germain had been so close to feeling my sword. Mr. Weatherall seethed, too, but for slightly different reasons. What went left unsaid was that Mr. Weatherall believed me to be too rash and hotheaded; that I should have waited and bided my time to plot against Germain, just as Germain had done in his takeover of our Order. Mr. Weatherall said I was thinking with my sword. He tried to tell me that my parents would not have acted with such incautious haste. He used every trick he knew, and now he used Arno.

  “Arno was right,” he said. “You would have been cut down. You might as well have slit your own throat for all the good it would have done you.”

  I made an exasperated sound, shooting a resentful look around the room of the lodge in which we sat. It was warm, homely and I should have loved it here but instead it felt small and crowded. This room and the lodge as a whole had come to symbolize my own inaction.

  “What would you have me do, then?” I asked.

  “If you truly loved the Order, the best thing you can is offer to make peace. Offer to serve the Order.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Yield?”

  “No, not yield, make peace. Negotiate.”

  “But they are my enemies. I cannot negotiate with my enemies.”

  “Try looking at it from another point of view, Élise,” Mr. Weatherall pressed, trying to get through to me. “You’re making peace with the Assassins but you don’t negotiate with your own people. That’s what it looks like.”

  “It wasn’t the Assassins who killed my father,” I hissed. “You think I can truce with my father’s murderers?”

  He threw up his hands. “Christ, and she thinks that Templars and Assassins can just make up. What if they’re all like you, eh? ‘I want revenge, bugger the consequences.’”