“Stay with it, Cal,” came the angel’s voice, and Cal fell back into the place of pain and heat.
***
Ahead of the group of prisoners strode a cluster of churchmen, clad in white vestments, their miters perched atop their heads as they bore their croziers in front of them. They waved blessings at the throngs, whose cheers were muffled at first, growing increasingly louder until the Assassins were buffeted by the noise. Drums thundered in their ears, adding to the cacophony and the sense of disorientation.
Blinking in the bright light, Aguilar beheld bizarre costumes, people who had painted their faces strange colors, and row after row of spectators shouting hate-filled epithets at them. He wasn’t sure of the purpose of it. Maybe those who capered about, dressed as demons, were performing a sort of passion play, or were trying to ward off evil spirits summoned by the death of so many sinners. Or perhaps it was to frighten the sinners themselves, to give them a foretaste of what surely must await them in hell.
Indeed, the red-cloaks were placed in the unusual role of being the Assassins’ protectors, as a wild crowd struggled to reach the prisoners, wanting to tear them to pieces with their own hands.
Aguilar only pitied them. If you only knew, he thought, that you are cheering for the deaths of those who would defend you. They, too, were prisoners of the Templars, but they wore their invisible chains unknowingly.
Walking in front of Maria and Aguilar, Benedicto twisted around to look at them. His face was calm; peaceful.
“We die today,” he assured them, “but the Creed lives.”
Aguilar envied him his tranquility—and his certainty.
The three of them continued to be shoved forward, stumbling up steps to an enormous, open platform to be confronted with the true reality of their approaching, agonizing deaths. Stakes were affixed to the platform, and at their bases were piled huge bundles of twigs. Elsewhere were large barrels of oil, beside which one of the costumed tormenters stood at attention.
The arena had been constructed for a solitary purpose—the torture and execution of heretics—and was much larger than Aguilar had expected it to be. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of spectators crowded and overflowed three levels of seats on all four sides.
Yet despite the other “heretics” that had kept them company in the prison belowground, only the three Assassins had been brought up. Clearly their deaths were meant to be the highlight of the event.
Gazing down from a high scaffold above them were the Inquisitors, crosses around their necks. With a pang of guilt, Aguilar noticed that, standing to one side, was the young Prince Ahmed the Assassins had tried so hard to rescue.
In the center, on what could only be called thrones, sat three imposing figures, all with stern, judgmental expressions. Aguilar recognized them all—King Ferdinand and his wife Isabella, the former Queen of Castile, and Tomás de Torquemada… the Grand Inquisitor. For all the power he wielded, and all the terror he inspired, he was a small man, almost dwarfed by the regal king and queen as he sat in a chair between them.
If Ojeda had been the man who had captured Aguilar’s parents and brought them to a place such as this, then it was Torquemada who had issued the orders for—and presided over—their deaths. Pure, undiluted hatred rose in Aguilar at the sight of the man.
Aguilar had made it his business to learn everything he could about the Dominican friar. Torquemada had advanced swiftly through the ranks at a young age, becoming a prior at the monastery of Santa Cruz in Segovia. It was there he met the woman who now sat on her throne, staring with loathing she did not attempt to disguise at the Assassins now ascending to the platform. Torquemada had been advising Queen Isabella most of her young life, becoming her confessor. He had even convinced her to marry King Ferdinand in order to consolidate a power base that Torquemada—and the Templars—could draw upon and manipulate for their own purposes.
His adoring chronicler, Sebastián de Olmedo, enthused that Torquemada was “the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the savior of his country,” and “the honor of his order.” Aguilar wondered which “order” de Olmedo meant—the Dominican, or the Templar.
Now the Grand Inquisitor rose, his tonsured pate gleaming in the sun, his tiny eyes and harsh mouth radiating his disdain. He looked over the three Assassins as his queen did: with contempt, not seeing human beings, only enemies. Not enemies of God, as the Templars so wanted the populace to believe, but enemies of the Templars and their quest for absolute domination of the human race.
He stepped forward, standing remarkably straight for a man of seventy years, and lifted his hands for quiet. His voice had grown no weaker with age, it seemed; it was strong and thrummed with certainty.
“‘Do not think that I have come to bring peace upon the earth: I have not come to bring peace, but a sword,’” Torquemada quoted from the Bible. “‘I will make mine arrows drunk with blood, and my sword shall devour flesh.’ ‘They shall die grievous deaths: they shall not be lamented.’”
As he spoke, the three Assassins were taken to the stakes and roughly shackled to them. Benedicto, as the Mentor, stood unaccompanied at his stake. Aguilar and Maria were led to a single one, the chains that bound their hands looped up and held in place by a spike at the top, their throats still encircled by links of iron.
One of the costumed demons scooped up a bucketful of oil, grinning in anticipation, and emptied it at Aguilar and Maria’s feet.
“‘They shall be consumed by the sword, and by famine; and their carcasses shall be meat for the fowls of heaven, and for the beasts of the earth,’” continued Torquemada. He was relishing every moment of this. Another grotesquely costumed man, looking like an enormous red bird with hands for claws, emptied a bucket of oil on Benedicto’s pile.
Torquemada lowered his hands. “For decades,” he continued “you have lived in a land torn apart by religious discord. By heretic vermin who think freedom of belief is more important than the peace of a nation. But soon, thanks to God and the Inquisition, we will purge this disease. And God will smile on you again, for only in obedience can there be peace!”
The crowd went wild, cheering and flailing in their excitement. How comforting it must be, to think it is this simple to end discord, Aguilar thought.
His gaze traveled from the deluded crowd and Torquemada’s posturing to land on Ojeda. The other man stared at him, expressionless and cold.
Do you recognize me, you son of a dog? Aguilar thought. Do you remember what you did? Are you pleased to be here so that you can complete your twisted task?
Ojeda’s ugly face contorted even further into a deep scowl. He swung himself off his horse and accompanied one of the bare-chested, black-hooded executioners as he went up to the platform toward Aguilar and Maria.
Torquemada smiled benevolently, sharing the crowd’s joy. “The sinners before you sought to defend the heretic prince of Granada—the last heathen stronghold in our holy war. And so today, before our king and queen, Ferdinand and Isabella,” and he turned and bowed, just deep enough to be respectful without being obsequious, “I, Torquemada, swear that we shall wash ourselves clean in the holy fire of God!”
The executioner had reached Aguilar and Maria’s pyre. He bent to shove a spike through a link their lower chains, securing them to the platform. Aguilar was having none of it. His Mentor and even his Maria might be resigned to death today, but he would resist it to the last moment, and he kicked savagely at the executioner.
The man reeled back, but recovered quickly. He was angry now, and drew a dagger, intending to impale the Assassin’s foot to the platform instead. But Aguilar was too nimble, jerking his feet out of the way at the last minute, and the dagger embedded itself solidly in the footrest, resisting the executioner’s frustrated attempts to pull it loose.
Ojeda tried nothing so elaborate, instead stepping in and almost casually landing a solid blow to Aguilar’s stomach. Aguilar doubled over, prevented from curling into a fetal position only by his restrained, still-rais
ed arms. He was glad now that the Templars had given them nothing, not even water. He did not want to give his enemies and the ecstatic crowd the pleasure of seeing him vomit.
“You will watch your Mentor burn,” Ojeda promised, looking from Aguilar to Maria and then back. “And then you will die the slowest.” He smiled cruelly, and added, “Just as your parents did.”
Aguilar tensed. So. The black knight had recognized him after all.
“They suffered, and they screamed,” Ojeda continued. “I watched them turn to ash then, and I will watch you do the same now. Your filthy lineage dies with you.”
As Ojeda picked up a torch and strode to Benedicto’s stake, waiting while a bucket full of oil drenched the Mentor’s pyre, Torquemada cried, “Behold God’s will! I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end! I will give unto him that is thirsty a fountain of the water of life!”
Unable to hide a smirk of satisfaction, Torquemada, his eyes on the Mentor of the Assassins, made the sign of the cross.
***
Standing, barely breathing, Sofia’s entire being was focused on the holographic images of Ojeda, Maria, and Torquemada reenacting a scene from over five centuries ago. Incredible, what the Assassins were capable of enduring. Admirable, the lightning speed with which they could assess a situation and figure a way out of it….
***
With the attention now on Benedicto and Ojeda, Aguilar acted, kicking with all his strength at the hilt of the dagger impaled through the chains at his feet. Trapped between his ankle manacle and the sole of Aguilar’s boot, the hilt came off. The blade, and the metal core around which the hilt had been crafted, remained embedded in the wooden footrest.
Maria was chained with her back to him, but she gasped and he knew that she had seen—and she knew what it meant. So many times they had worked together so smoothly, as a single entity, knowing what the other was thinking. Now he could feel her tension, her readiness. He was so grateful to have her. They were the perfect team, in all things.
Again and again, Aguilar brought his ankle shackle down, using the slender core of the dagger to push at the shackle’s pin. With each blow, he shoved the pin up just a little further.
Come on. Come on….
The crowd was almost frenzied now, whipped to a fervor by the Inquisitor’s words and Ojeda’s actions. Some of the strangely costumed onlookers were dancing among the crowd, and the roar was almost deafening.
Ojeda peered up at Benedicto, who lifted his head defiantly. Assassin and Templar regarded one another with utter loathing.
“Not to ourselves, but to the future, give glory,” he told the Assassin Mentor.
Benedicto closed his eyes tightly, steeling himself for what was to come.
Ojeda touched the flaming torch to the oil-saturated wood. And orange flame sheeted up around the Assassin Mentor.
CHAPTER 14
Aguilar had wrested free and spun himself around, but he froze, transfixed with horror and unable to tear his sickened gaze away from the spectacle. He saw not only his Mentor, but his parents, standing at their own stakes just like this, “blessed” by a man who served no God, but only himself.
Padre… Madre….
Benedicto screamed in agony, his body engulfed by hungry orange-yellow flames, and the stench of burning flesh—
***
Cal gagged, sickened by a smell that was not present, his mind galloping back again to the art he had plastered on the walls of his cell: The image of a dark shape, unrecognizable, surrounded by a nimbus of fire that consumed and enfolded him. His mother, staring, her life blood drip-dripping on the linoleum.
He shut his eyes, turning away from all of it, seeking reprieve—
“Cal! Don’t! You must stay with Aguilar!”
The voice of the angel, sweet, and cruel, and commanding. He was Cal, and he was Aguilar, and someone he loved was dying the worst death conceivable.
But someone else was still alive—
“Maria,” Cal shouted, and hurtled back into the memory.
***
Aguilar shook off the paralyzing moment of fear, where past and present converged in a grotesque conflagration. His parents and Benedicto would want him and Maria to live, to complete their mission, and his Mentor would be honored to know that his death had given them the chance to do so.
Aguilar hoped that, somehow, Benedicto knew.
There was nothing he could do for his Mentor now. Like a fish leaping from the water, Aguilar hurled himself forward and around so he faced the stake, then placed his feet against it, climbing it and somersaulting so that the chains fastened to his wrists unlooped and he had room to maneuver. He and Maria were still linked together by the chains around their neck, and his movement away from the stake yanked her closer to it, choking her.
Aguilar seized a sword from one of the guards, pulling it from its hilt and bringing it sweeping across its owner’s throat. He continued the sweep all the way around, slamming the sword into the chains that bound Maria’s feet.
Though still linked at their throats, they fought together, in harmony; he with the sword, she, hands still chained to the stake, with booted feet and powerful legs.
***
Sofia stared, watching Cal with wide eyes. He was no longer simply being moved by the Animus; he himself was moving, the blows that turned holographic Templars into ghostly black nothingness coming smoothly, easily. Naturally. He was an active participant in the regression now, not a helpless puppet manipulated by a machine.
She had been concerned earlier, as she watched Cal twice appear about to slip out of the simulation—something that could easily mean the death of Sofia’s attempt to locate the Apple—and the death of Cal Lynch. She wasn’t sure what had upset him so greatly. She could only see his actions and their effects; she could not read his mind. Only he had known what he saw.
But it seemed that he had crossed some sort of threshold that would forever be hidden from her, and she was so very grateful.
“He’s synchronizing,” she whispered, and her lips curved in a tremulous smile.
This was going to work….
***
One of the guards recovered enough to seize a torch and hurl it onto Maria’s pyre. He paid for the move with his life, as Aguilar hurled his sword across the distance straight into the guard’s chest.
The wood had not yet been saturated with oil, so flames did not leap wildly, but the dry tinder caught nonetheless. Maria spun on the stake, keeping her body as far away from the fire below her as possible.
The bloodthirsty cries from the crowd had turned into shrieks of panic. Torquemada, his beautiful ceremony thrown into chaos, was shouting orders to his followers. The flames were starting to climb now, and with a fierce growl Aguilar ran toward Maria’s stake at top speed, slamming his shoulder into it with all his strength. The wood groaned in protest as the stake cracked free and toppled. Maria twisted, hitting the platform hard.
Aguilar reached down to her. Maria’s eyes flew wide at something behind him, and she pulled him down instead. He rolled to see one of the executioners raising his axe, and realized Maria had saved his life. Grabbing her leg, Aguilar pulled her backward. The executioner could not halt the blow already in motion, and so the axe, meant to sever Maria’s neck, severed her chains instead.
Liberated, she flipped forward and landed on her feet. Aguilar charged the executioner, who was strong but slow. As always, Maria knew what he was thinking. Together, they wrapped the chain that connected their necks, pulling it tight around the man’s thick one to throttle him. A quick tug and it was over, and the executioner sagged and slumped toward the planks.
Aguilar seized the dead man’s axe and hurled it toward one of the barrels, then he and Maria raced toward a set of stairs leading up into the stands. Oil began to spill across the stage, flowing seemingly like a living thing into Benedicto’s pyre.
The stage exploded with a deafening boom, birthing an inferno.
As the pair of Assa
ssins leaped up the stairs, Templars were burning to death in their stead, screaming in torment. It would seem that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada had been overeager for his fiery entertainment, as there was scaffolding that had not yet been cleared away. Aguilar made straight for it, with Maria right at his heels. They launched themselves at it, climbing furiously.
When they reached the top, Aguilar and Maria paused for a moment, catching their breaths and assessing the situation. Below them, the white smudge of Torquemada’s face, contorted in anger, stared up at them. He was shouting and gesticulating, and Aguilar saw that his enemy had somehow eluded the flames: Ojeda, cape flapping behind him, had mounted his black warhorse and was giving chase.
Wordlessly, the pair flipped up their hoods, reclaiming their identities as Assassins with the gesture, then headed for the roofs of Seville .
Black, oily smoke mixed with the near-omnipresent dust as they ran. They were not unchallenged; Torquemada, or perhaps King Ferdinand, had anticipated that there might be an escape attempt, and archers had been positioned on the rooftops. Now they flung aside their crossbows and drew their swords, charging the two. But skilled though the soldiers might have been with their weapons, they lacked the agility and grace of the Assassins, who found fighting and running on rooftops as easy as breathing.
Mindful of what had worked so well before, Aguilar wrapped his wrist chains around an enemy’s sword, twisting and snapping one of the links. The guards were easily knocked off balance, toppling down into the maddened crowd below who were seeking an escape from the flames.
Others arrived to take their places, though, and it was immediately apparent that these were not ordinary guards. Torquemada had sent Templars after them; too many for two Assassins to defeat. Still attached by their neck chain, Maria and Aguilar raced to the edge of the roof and leaped off, sailing over a gap to land on a sloping, brick-tiled roof.
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