Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Did he leave me any message?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re to meet him as soon as you’re fit at the Mausoleum of Augustus. Know where that is?”

  “One of the ruins, isn’t it?”

  “Dead right. Not that it’s much more of a ruin than most of this awful city is nowadays. To think it was once the center of the world! Look at it now—smaller than Florence, half the size of Venice. But we do have one boast.” She cackled.

  “And that is?”

  “Only fifty thousand poor souls live in this shanty-town of a city that once was proud to call itself Rome; andseven thousand of them are prostitutes! That’s got to be a record!” She cackled some more. “No wonder everyone’s riddled with the New Disease. Don’t sleep with anyone here,” she added, “if you don’t want to fall apart with the pox. Even cardinals have got it—and they say the Pope himself, and his son, are sufferers.”

  Ezio remembered Rome as if in a dream. A bizarre place now, whose ancient, rotting walls had been designed to encompass a population of one million. Now most of the area was given over to peasant farming.

  He remembered, too, the ruined wasteland of what had once been the Great Forum in ancient times, where sheep and goats grazed now. People stole the ancient carved marble and porphyry stones, which lay higgledy-piggledy in the grass, to build pigsties with or to grind down for lime. And out of the desolation of slums and crooked, filthy streets, the great new buildings of Pope Sixtus IV and Pope Alexander VI rose obscenely, like wedding cakes on a table where there was nothing else to eat but stale bread.

  The aggrandizement of the Church was confirmed, back at last from the papal exile at Avignon; and above all the Pope—the leading figure in the international world, outclassing not only kings, but the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian himself—had his seat in Rome again.

  And hadn’t it been Pope Alexander VI who’d divided, in his great judgment, the southern continent of the New Americas, through a vertical line, between the colonizing countries of Portugal and Spain by the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494, the same year the New Disease broke out—for the first time in Italy—so badly in Naples? They called it the French disease—morbus gallicus. But everyone knew it’d come back from the New World with Columbus’s bunch of Genoese sailors. It was an unpleasant affliction. People’s faces and bodies bubbled morphews and boils, and in the last stages their faces were often pressed out of all recognizable shape.

  And in Rome, the poor made do on barley and bacon—when they could get bacon. And the dirty streets harbored typhus, cholera, and the Black Death. As for the citizens—there were the ostentatiously rich, to be sure; but as for the rest, they looked like cowherds and lived as badly.

  What a contrast to the gilded opulence of the Vatican! Rome, that great city, had become a rubbish heap of history. Along the filthy alleys that passed for streets, in which feral dogs and wolves now roamed, Ezio remembered churches, which today were falling apart, rotting refuse, deserted palaces that reminded him of the probable wreck (as his prophetic soul told him) of his own family seat in Florence.

  “I must get up. I must findMesser Machiavelli!” said Ezio urgently, flinging the visions from his mind.

  “All in good time,” replied his nurse. “He left you a new suit of clothes. Put them on when you are ready.”

  Ezio stood, and as he did so his head swam; but he shook himself to clear it. Then he donned the suit Machiavelli had left him—new linen, and a hood of soft wool with a peak like an eagle’s beak. Strong, soft gloves and boots made of Spanish leather. He dressed himself, fighting the pain the effort caused him. When he was done, the woman guided him to a balcony. Ezio realized then that he had not been in some shrunken hovel, but in the remains of what had once been a great palace. They must have been on thepiano nobile. He drew in his breath as he looked at the desolate wreck of a city spread out below him. A rat scuttled boldly over his feet. He kicked it away.

  “Ah, Roma,” he said ironically.

  “What’s left of it,” the woman repeated, cackling again.

  “Thank you, Madonna. To whom do I owe…?”

  “I am theContessa Margherita degli Campi,” she said, and in the dim light Ezio could see at last the fine lines of a face once beautiful. “Or what’s left of her.”

  “Contessa,” Ezio said, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice, and bowed.

  “Themausoleo is over there,” she replied, smiling and pointing. “That is where you are to meet.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “In that direction. Unfortunately, you cannot see it from mypalazzo.”

  Ezio squinted into the dark. “What about from the tower of that church?”

  She looked at him. “Santo Stefano’s? Yes. But it’s a ruin. The stairs to the tower have collapsed.”

  Ezio braced himself. He needed to get to his meeting place as safely and as quickly as possible. He did not want to be delayed by the beggars, tarts, and muggers who infested the streets by day and even more by night.

  “That should not be a problem,” he told the woman.“Vi ringrazio di tutto quello che avete fatto per me, buona Contessa. Addio.”

  “You are more than welcome,” she replied with a wry smile. “But are you sure you are fit enough to go so soon? I think you should see a doctor. I’d recommend one, but I can’t afford them anymore. I have cleaned and dressed your wound, but I am no expert.”

  “The Templars don’t wait, and nor can I,” he replied. “Thank you again, and goodbye.”

  “Go with God.”

  He leapt from the balcony down to the street, wincing at the impact, and darted across the square dominated by the disintegrating palace in the direction of the church. Twice he lost sight of the tower and had to double back. Three times he was accosted by leprous beggars and once confronted a wolf, which slunk away down an alley with what may have been a dead child between its jaws, but at last he was in the open space before the church. It was boarded up, and the limestone saints that adorned its portal were deformed by neglect. He didn’t know whether he could trust the rotten stonework, but there was nothing for it—he had to climb.

  He managed it—though he lost his footing on several occasions and once his feet fell free over an embrasure that collapsed under them, leaving him hanging by the tips of his fingers. But he was still a very strong man, and he managed to haul himself up, out of danger—and at last he was on the top of the tower, perched on its lead roof. The dome of the mausoleum glinted dully in the moonlight several blocks away. He’d go there now and wait for Machiavelli to arrive.

  He adjusted his hidden-blade and his sword and dagger, and was about to make a leap of faith down to a hay wain parked in the square below when his wound shrieked and he doubled up in pain.

  “Thecontessa dressed my shoulder well, but she was right—I must see a doctor,” he said to himself.

  Painfully he clambered down the tower to the street. He had no idea where to find amedico, so he first made his way to an inn, where he obtained directions in exchange for a couple of ducats; the money also bought him a beaker of filthy Sanguineus, which nevertheless assuaged his pain somewhat.

  It was late by the time he reached the doctor’s surgery. He had to knock several times, and hard, before there was a muffled response from within. Then the door opened a crack to reveal a fat, bearded man of about sixty, wearing thick eyeglasses. He looked the worse for wear and Ezio could smell drink on his breath. One eye seemed larger than the other.

  “What do you want?” said the man.

  “Are youDottor Antonio?”

  “And if I am…?”

  “I need your help.”

  “It’s late,” said the doctor, but his eyes had wandered to the wound on Ezio’s shoulder, and his eyes became—cautiously—more sympathetic. “It’ll cost extra.”

  “I am not in a position to argue.”

  “Good. Come in.”

  The doctor unchained his door and stood aside. Ezio staggered gratefully into a ha
llway whose beams were hung with a collection of copper pots and glass vials, dried bats and lizards, mice and snakes.

  The doctor ushered him through into an inner room with a huge desk untidily covered with papers, a narrow bed in one corner, a cupboard whose open doors revealed more vials, and a leather case, also open, containing a selection of scalpels and miniature saws.

  The doctor followed Ezio’s eyes and barked out a short laugh. “Wemedici are just jumped-up mechanics,” he said. “Lie down on the bed and I’ll have a look. Before you do, it’s three ducats—in advance.”

  Ezio handed over the money.

  The doctor undressed the wound and pushed and shoved so that Ezio virtually passed out with the pain.

  “Hold still!” the doctor grumbled. He poked around some more, poured some stinging liquid from a flask over the wound, dabbed at it with a cotton wad, then produced some clean bandages and bound it back firmly.

  “Someone your age cannot recover from a wound like this with medicine.” The doctor rummaged about in his cupboard and produced a vial of treacly looking stuff. “But here’s something to dull the pain. Don’t drink it all at once. It’s another three ducats, by the way. And don’t worry. You’ll heal over time.”

  “Grazie, Dottore.”

  “Four out of five doctors would have suggested leeches, but they haven’t proven effective against this sort of wound. What is it? If they weren’t so rare, I’d say it was from a gunshot. Come back if you need to. Or I can recommend several good colleagues around the city.”

  “Do they cost as much as you do?”

  Dr. Antonio sneered. “My good sir, you’ve got off lightly.”

  Ezio stomped out into the street. A light rain had begun to fall, and the streets were already turning sticky and muddy.

  “‘Someone your age,’” grumbled Ezio.“Che sobbalzo!”

  He made his way back to the inn. He’d seen they had rooms for rent. He’d stay there, eat something, and make his way to the mausoleum in the morning. Then he’d just have to wait for his fellow Assassin to show up. Machiavelli might at least have left some kind of rendezvous time with thecontessa. But Ezio was aware of Machiavelli’s passion for security. He’d no doubt turn up at the appointed spot every day at regular intervals. Ezio shouldn’t have too long to wait.

  Ezio picked his way through the wretched streets and alleys, darting back into the darkness of doorways whenever a Borgia patrol, easily recognized by the charging black bull device on their breastplates, passed clatteringly by.

  It was midnight by the time he reached the inn again. He took a swig from the vial of dark liquid. It was good. He hammered on the inn door with the pommel of his sword.

  FOURTEEN

  The following day, Ezio left the inn early. His wound felt stiff but the pain was duller and he was far better able to use his arm now. Before leaving, he practiced a few strokes with the hidden-blade and found he could use it without difficulty, as well as more conventional sword-and-dagger work. It was just as well he hadn’t been shot in the shoulder of his sword arm.

  Not being sure whether the Borgia and their Templar associates knew he had escaped the battle of Monteriggioni with his life, and noting the high number of soldiers armed with guns and dressed in the dark mulberry red and yellow livery of the Borgia, he took a roundabout route to the Mausoleum of Augustus. The sun was high by the time he reached it.

  There were fewer people here, and after having scouted around, assuring himself that no guards were watching the place, Ezio cautiously approached it, slipping through a ruined doorway into the gloomy interior.

  As his eyes quickly accustomed themselves to the darkness, he made out a figure dressed in black, leaning against a stone outcrop, and still as a statue. He glanced to each side to ascertain that there was somewhere to duck behind before the figure noticed him, but apart from tussocks of grass among the fallen stones of the ancient Roman ruin, there was nothing. He decided on the next best thing and swiftly but silently started to move toward the deeper darkness of the mausoleum’s walls.

  But he was too late. Whoever it was had seen him, probably as soon as he’d entered, framed by the light from the doorway, and moved toward him. As it approached, he recognized the black-suited figure of Machiavelli, who placed a finger to his lips as he came. Beckoning him discreetly to follow, Machiavelli made his way into a deeper, darker area of the ancient Roman emperor’s tomb, built almost one and a half millennia previously.

  At last he stopped and turned.

  “Shh,” he said and, waiting, listened keenly.

  “Wha—?”

  “Voice down. Voice very low,” admonished Machiavelli, listening still.

  At last he relaxed. “All right,” he continued. “There’s no one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cesare Borgia has eyes everywhere.” Machiavelli’s look softened a little. “I am glad to see you here.”

  “But you left me clothes at thecontessa’s…”

  “She had word to watch for your arrival in Rome.” Machiavelli grinned. “Oh, I knew you’d come here. Once you’d assured yourself of the safety of your mother and sister. After all, they are the last of the Auditore family.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” said Ezio, bridling slightly.

  Machiavelli allowed himself a thin smile. “This is no time for tact, my dear colleague. I know the guilt you feel about your lost family, even though you are not remotely to blame for that great betrayal.” He paused. “News of the attack on Monteriggioni has spread across this city. Some of us were sure that you had died there. I left the clothes with our trusted friend because I knew you better than to go and die on us at such a crucial time! Or at any rate, just in case!”

  “You still have faith in me, then?”

  Machiavelli shrugged. “You blundered. Once. Because fundamentally your instinct is to show mercy and trust. Those are good instincts. But now we must strike, and strike hard. Let’s hope that the Templars never know that you are still alive.”

  “But they must already know!”

  “Not necessarily. My spies tell me there was a lot of confusion.”

  Ezio paused for thought. “Our enemies will know soon enough that I am alive—and very much so! How many do we fight?”

  “Oh, Ezio—the good news is that we have narrowed the field. We have wiped out many Templars across Italy and across many of the lands beyond its boundaries. The bad news is that the Templars and the Borgia family are now one and the same thing. And they are going to fight like a cornered lion.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “We are too isolated here. We need to lose ourselves in the crowds in the center of town. We will go to the bullfight.”

  “The bullfight?”

  “Cesare excels as a bullfighter. After all, he is a Spaniard. In fact he’s not a Spaniard, but a Catalan, and that may one day prove to be to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  “The king and queen of Spain want to unify their country. They are from Aragon and Castile. The Catalans are a thorn in their side, though they are still a powerful nation. Come, and be cautious. We must both use the skills of blending in that Paola taught you so long ago in Venice. I hope you have not forgotten them!”

  “Try me!”

  They walked together through the half-ruined, once-imperial city, keeping to shadows where there was shadow, otherwise slipping in and out of crowds as fish hide in rushes. At last they reached the bullring, took seats in the more expensive and crowded shady side of it, and watched for an hour as Cesare and his many backup men dispatched three fearsome bulls. Ezio watched Cesare’s fighting technique: He used the banderilleros and the picadors to break the animal down before he himself delivered the coup de grâce, after a good deal of showing off. But there was no doubting his courage and his prowess during the grim ritual of death, despite the fact that he still had four junior matadors to support him. Ezio looked over his shoulder at the box of thepresidente of the fight: t
here he recognized the harsh but compellingly beautiful face of Cesare’s sister, Lucrezia. Was it his imagination or had he seen her bite her lip until it bled?

  At any rate, he had learned something of how Cesare would behave in the field of battle—and how far he could be trusted in any other kind of combat.

  Everywhere there were Borgia guards, watching the throng, just as there had been in the streets before. And armed with those lethal-looking new guns.

  “Leonardo…” he said involuntarily, thinking of his old friend.

  Machiavelli looked at him. “Leonardo was forced to work for Cesare on pain of death—and a most painful death it would have been. It’s a detail—a terrible detail, but a detail nonetheless. The point is, his heart is not with his new master, who will never have the intelligence or the facility fully to control the Apple. Or at least I hope it isn’t. We must be patient. We will get it back—and we will get Leonardo back with it.”

  “I wish I could be so sure.”

  Machiavelli sighed. “Perhaps you are wise to be doubtful,” he said at last.

  “Spain has taken over Italy,” said Ezio.

  “Valencia has taken over the Vatican,” Machiavelli replied. “And we can change that. We have allies in the College of Cardinals, some powerful. They aren’t all lap-dogs. And Cesare, for all his vaunting, depends on his father, Rodrigo, for funds.” He gave Ezio a keen look. “That is why you should have made sure of this interloping Pope.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m as much to blame as you are. I should have told you. But as you said yourself, it’s the present we have to deal with, not the past.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Amen.”

  “But how do they afford all this?” Ezio asked, as another bull foundered and fell under Cesare’s unerring and pitiless sword.

  “Papa Alexander is a strange mixture,” Machiavelli replied. “He’s a great administrator and he has even done the Church some good. But the evil part of him always defeats the good. He was the Vatican’s treasurer for years and found ways of amassing money—the experience has stood him in good stead. He sells cardinal’s hats, creating dozens of cardinals virtually guaranteed to be on his side. He has even pardoned murderers—provided they have enough money to buy their way off the gallows.”