Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Take this spear and take good heed,” added one of the Pharisees for good measure. “Thou must pierce the side of Jesus Nazarenus that we shall know he is truly dead.”

  “I will do as thou biddest me,” declaimed Longinus, out front. “But on your heads be it. Whatever the consequence, I wash my hands of it.”

  He then made a great show of stabbing Jesus’ side with the prop spear, and, as the blood and water spilled forth from a hidden sac concealed in Pietro’s loincloth, so Longinus began his big speech. Ezio could see the beady glint in the “dead” Jesus’ eyes as Pietro watched him jealously.

  “High King of Heaven, I see Thee here. Let water be thrown onto my hands and onto my spear, and let my eyes be bathed, too, that I may see Thee more clearly!” He made a dramatic pause. “Alas, alack, and woe is me! What is this deed that I have done? I think that I have slain a man, sooth to say; but what manner of man I know not. Lord God in Heaven, I cry Thee mercy—for it was my body which guided my hand, not my soul.” Allowing himself another pause for a round of applause, he plowed on: “Lord Jesus, much have I heard spoken of Thee—that Thou hast healed, through Thy pity, both the sick and the blind. And let Thy Name be praised!—Thou hast healed me this day of my own blindness—my blindness of spirit. Henceforward, Lord, Thy follower will I be. And in three days Thou shalt rise again to rule and judge us all!”

  The actor who was playing Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthy Jewish leader who donated his own tomb—which had already been built—for the housing of Christ’s body, then spoke: “Ah, Lord God, what heart had Thou to allow them to slay this man that I see here dead, and hanging from a cross—a man who ne’er did aught amiss? For surely, God’s own Son is He. Therefore, in the tomb that is made for me, therein shall His body buried be—for He is King of Bliss!”

  Nicodemus, Joseph’s colleague in the Sanhedrin and a fellow sympathizer, added his voice. “Ser Joseph, I say surely, this is God’s Son Almighty. Let us request His body of Pontius Pilate, and nobly buried He shall be. And I will help thee to take Him down devotedly.”

  Joseph then turned to the actor playing Pilate and spoke again. “Ser Pilate, I ask of thee a special boon to grant me as thou may. This prophet that is dead today—allow me of His body custody!”

  During this, Ezio had slipped backstage. Micheletto has taken up a position very near the central cross. He rummaged swiftly through a costume skip and found a rabbinical robe, which he hurriedly put on. He’d have to get onstage himself. Entering from backstage left, he managed to slip close to, and behind, Micheletto, without anyone’s noticing or the action skipping a beat.

  “Joseph, if indeed Jesus Nazarenus is dead, as the Centurion must confirm, I will not deny you custody.” Turning to Micheletto, Pilate spoke again. “Centurion! Is Jesus dead?”

  “Ay,Ser Governor,” said Micheletto flatly, and Ezio noticed him draw a stiletto from under his cloak. Ezio had replaced his poison-blade, now exhausted of venom, with his trusty hidden-blade, and with it he now pierced Micheletto’s side, holding him upright and maneuvering him offstage, in the direction he had come. Once backstage, he laid the man down.

  Micheletto fixed him with a glittering look. “Hah!” he said. “You cannot save Pietro. The vinegar on the sponge was poisoned. As I promised Cesare, I made doubly sure.” He fought for breath. “You had better finish me.”

  “I did not come here to kill you—you helped your master rise and you will fall with him—you don’t need me—you are the agent of your own destruction! If you live, well, a dog always returns to its master, and you will lead me to my real quarry.”

  Ezio had no time for more. He had to save Pietro!

  As he rushed back onstage, he saw a scene of chaos. Pietro was writhing on the cross and vomiting. He’d turned the color of a peeled almond. The audience was in uproar.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?” cried Longinus, as the other actors scattered.

  “Cut him down!” Ezio yelled to his recruits. Some threw keenly aimed daggers to slice through the ropes that bound Pietro to the cross, while others stood ready to catch him. Yet others were fighting back the Borgia guards who had appeared from nowhere and were now storming the stage.

  “This wasn’t in the script!” gurgled Pietro as he fell into the arms of the recruits.

  “Will he die?” asked Longinus hopefully. One rival less is always good news in a tough profession.

  “Hold off the guards!” shouted Ezio, leading the recruits off the stage and carrying Pietro in his arms across a shallow pool of water in the middle of the Colosseum, disturbing dozens of drinking pigeons, which flew up and away in alarm. The very last glimmer from the setting sun bathed Ezio and Pietro in a dull red light.

  Ezio had trained his recruits well, and those bringing up the rear guard successfully fought off the pursuing Borgia guards as the rest made their way out of the Colosseum and into the network of streets to the north of it. Ezio led the way to the house of a doctor of his acquaintance. He hammered on the door and, having been granted reluctant admission, had Pietro laid on a table covered with a palliasse in the doctor’s consulting room, from whose beams a baffling number of different dried herbs hung in organized bunches, giving the room a pungent smell. On shelves, unidentifiable or unmentionable objects and creatures and parts of creatures floated in glass bottles filled with cloudy liquid.

  Ezio ordered his men outside, to keep watch. He wondered what any passersby might think if they saw a bunch of Roman soldiers. They’d probably think they were seeing ghosts, and run a mile. He himself had shed his Pharisee outfit at the first opportunity.

  “Who are you?” murmured Pietro. Ezio was concerned to see that the actor’s lips had turned blue.

  “Your savior,” said Ezio. To the doctor he said, “He’s been poisoned,Dottor Brunelleschi.”

  The doctor examined the actor quickly, shining a light into his eyes. “From the pallor, it looks like they used canterella. Poison of choice for our dear masters, the Borgia.” To Pietro, he said, “Lie still.”

  “Feel sleepy,” said Pietro.

  “Lie still! Has he been sick?” Brunelleschi asked Ezio.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The doctor bustled about, mixing a number of fluids from bottles of variously colored glass with practiced ease and pouring the mixture into a vial. This he handed to Pietro, propping his head up.

  “Drink this.”

  “Hurry up,” said Ezio urgently.

  “Just give him a moment.”

  Ezio watched anxiously. After what seemed an age, the actor sat up.

  “I think I feel slightly better,” he said.

  “Miracolo!” said Ezio in relief.

  “Not really,” said the doctor. “He can’t have had much, and for my sins I’ve had quite a bit of experience with canterella victims—it’s enabled me to develop this pretty effective antidote. Now,” he continued judiciously, “I’ll apply some leeches. They will lead to a full recovery. You can rest here, my boy, and very soon you’ll be as right as rain.” He bustled some more and produced a glass jar full of black, wriggling creatures. He scooped out a handful.

  “I cannot thank you enough,” said Pietro to Ezio. “I—”

  “Youcan thank me enough,” replied Ezio briskly. “The key to the little gate you use for your trysts at the Castel Sant’Angelo with Lucrezia. Give it to me. Now!”

  Misgiving appeared on Pietro’s face. “What are you talking about? I’m simply a poor actor, a victim of circumstance—I—”

  “Listen, Pietro: Cesare knows about you and Lucrezia.”

  Now misgiving was replaced by fear. “Oh, God!”

  “But I can help you. If you give me the key.”

  Mutely, Pietro delved into his loincloth and handed it over. “I always keep it with me,” he said.

  “Wise of you,” said Ezio, pocketing the key. It was reassuring to have it, for it would guarantee him access to the Castel whenever he had need of it. “My men will fetch yo
ur clothes and get you to a place of safety. I’ll detail a couple to keep watch over you. Just keep out of sight for a while.”

  “But…my public!” wailed the actor.

  “They’ll have to make do with Longinus until it’s safe for you to put your head above the parapet again.” Ezio grinned. “I shouldn’t worry. He isn’t a patch on you.”

  “Oh, do you really think so?”

  “No question.”

  “Ouch!” said Pietro, as the first leech went on.

  In the wink of an eye, Ezio had disappeared outside, and there gave the necessary orders to his men. “Get out of those costumes as soon as you can,” he added. “The Baths of Trajan aren’t far. With any luck, your street clothes will still be where you left them.”

  He departed on his own, but he hadn’t gone far when he noticed a figure skulking in the shadows. As soon as the man felt Ezio’s eyes on him, he cut and ran. But not before Ezio had recognized Paganino, the thief who’d been determined to stay behind at the sack of Monteriggioni.

  “Hey!” Ezio shouted, giving chase.“Un momento!”

  The thief certainly knew his way around these streets. Ducking and diving, he was so adroit that Ezio all but lost him in the pursuit and more than once had to leap to the rooftops to scan the streets below in order to locate the man again. Leonardo’s magical glove came in surprisingly handy at such times, he found.

  At last he managed to get ahead of his prey and cut off his line of escape. The thief went for his dagger, an ugly-lookingcinquedea, but Ezio quickly wrested it out of his hand and it clattered harmlessly to the pavement.

  “Why did you run?” asked Ezio, pinioning the man. Then he noticed a letter protruding from the man’s leather belt pouch. The seal was unmistakable: It was that of Pope Alexander VI—Rodrigo—the Spaniard!

  Ezio let out a long breath as a series of suspicions fell into place. Paganino had long ago been with Antonio de Magianis’s Thieves’ Guild in Venice. He must have been offered enough money by the Borgia to persuade him to switch sides and had infiltrated La Volpe’s group here—the Borgia had had a mole at the heart of the Assassins’ organization all along.

  Here was the traitor—not Machiavelli at all!

  But while Ezio’s attention was distracted, the thief wrenched himself free and, in a flash, seized his fallen weapon. His desperate eyes met Ezio’s.

  “Long live the Borgia!” he cried and thrust thecinquedea firmly into his own breast.

  Ezio looked down at the fallen man as he thrashed about in his death agonies.Well, better this death than a slow one at the hands of his masters—Ezio well knew the price exacted by the Borgia for failure. He stuffed the letter into his doublet and made off. Merda, he thought to himself, I was right! And now I have to stop La Volpe before he gets to Machiavelli!

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As Ezio made his way across the city, he was accosted by Saraghina, one of the girls from the Rosa in Fiore.

  “You must come quickly,” she said. “Your mother wants to see you urgently.”

  Ezio bit his lip. There should be time. “Hurry,” he said.

  Once at the bordello, he found Maria waiting for him. Her face betrayed her anxiety.

  “Ezio,” she said, “thank you for coming to see me.”

  “I have to be quick, Mother.”

  “There’s something amiss.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The old proprietor of this establishment—”

  “Madonna Solari?”

  “Yes.” Maria collected herself. “It turns out that she was a cheat and a liar. We’ve discovered that she was playingil doppio gioco. She had close ties with the Vatican. Worse—several of those still employed here may still be—”

  “Don’t worry,Madre. I’ll root them out. I’ll send my most trusted recruits to interview the girls. Under Claudia’s direction, they will soon get at the truth.”

  “Thank you, Ezio.”

  “We will ensure that only girls loyal to us remain here. As for the rest—” The expression on Ezio’s face was harsh.

  “I have other news.”

  “Yes?”

  “We have word that ambassadors from King Ferdinand of Spain and from the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian, have arrived in Rome. It seems they seek an alliance with Cesare.”

  “Are you sure, Mother? What need have they of him?”

  “I don’t know,figlio mio.”

  Ezio’s jaw was set. “We had better be safe rather than sorry. Ask Claudia to investigate for me. I give her a full mandate to give orders to the recruits I will send.”

  “You trust her for this?”

  “Mother, after the business with the Banker, I would trust the two of you with my life. I am ashamed not to have done so before—but it was only my anxiety for your safety that—”

  Maria held up a hand. “You do not need to explain. And there is nothing to forgive. We are all friends again now. That is what matters.”

  “And Cesare’s days are numbered. Even if the ambassadors gain his support, they will soon find it is worthless.”

  “I hope your confidence is well-founded.”

  “Believe me, Mother, it is. Or will be—if I can save Machiavelli from La Volpe’s misguided suspicion!”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Borrowing a horse from the stables he had liberated, Ezio rode posthaste to the Sleeping Fox. It was crucial that he get there before anything happened to Machiavelli. Lose him, and he’d lose the best brains in the Brotherhood.

  Although the hour was not that late, he was alarmed to see that the inn was closed. He had his own key and let himself in through the wicket gate.

  The scene that met his eyes told him that he had arrived not a moment too soon. The members of the Thieves’ Guild were all present. La Volpe and his principal lieutenants stood together, busily discussing something that appeared to be of great importance and it looked as though judgment had been reached, since La Volpe, a baleful look on his face, was approaching Machiavelli with a businesslike basilard in his right hand. Machiavelli, for his part, looked unconcerned, seemingly without any idea about what was happening.

  “Stop!” shouted Ezio, bursting in on the scene and catching his breath after his headlong ride.

  All eyes turned to him, while La Volpe stood rooted to the spot.

  “Stay your hand, Gilberto!” commanded Ezio. “I have discovered the real traitor!”

  “What?” said La Volpe, shocked, against a background of excited murmuring from his people.

  “He is—was—none other than one of your own men—Paganino! He was present at the attack on Monteriggioni, and now I see his mischief in many of our recent misfortunes.”

  “Are you sure of this?”

  “He himself revealed his guilt.”

  La Volpe’s brow darkened. He sheathed his dagger. “Where is he now?” he growled.

  “Where no one can touch him anymore.”

  “Dead?”

  “By his own hand. He was carrying this letter.” Ezio held the sealed parchment aloft.

  Ezio passed the letter to La Volpe, and Machiavelli came up as the thieves’ leader broke the seal and opened the paper.

  “My God!” said La Volpe, scanning the words.

  “Let me see,” said Machiavelli.

  “Of course,” La Volpe said, crestfallen.

  But Machiavelli was scanning the letter. “It’s from Rodrigo to Cesare. Details of our plans for the French general, Octavien—among other things.”

  “One of my own men!”

  “This is good news,” Machiavelli said to Ezio. “We can substitute this letter with another. Containing false information—put them off the scent…”

  “Good news indeed,” replied Ezio, but his tone was cold. “Gilberto, you should have listened to me.”

  “I am once again in your debt, Ezio,” said La Volpe, humbly.

  Ezio allowed himself a smile. “What debt can there be amongst friends who trust—who must trust—one another?’


  Before La Volpe could reply, Machiavelli put in, “And congratulations, by the way. I gather you resurrected Christ three days early!”

  Ezio laughed, thinking of his rescue of Pietro. How did Machiavelli find out about things sofast?

  La Volpe looked around at the men and women of the Guild gathered around them. “Well, what are you staring at?” he said. “We’re losing business here!”

  Later, after Machiavelli had left to deal with the intercepted letter, La Volpe drew Ezio aside. “I am glad you are here,” he said, “and not just for preventing me from making a total fool of myself.”

  “More than that,” said Ezio lightly. “Do you know what I would have done to you, if you had killed Niccolò?”

  La Volpe grunted. “Ezio…” he said.

  Ezio clapped him on the back. “But all’s well. No more quarrels. Within the Brotherhood, we cannot afford them! Now—what is it you wanted to say to me? Do you have need of my assistance?”

  “I do. The Guild is strong, but many of my men are young and untried in any real test. Look at that kid who nicked your purse. Look at young Claudio.”

  “And your point is…?”

  “I was coming to that. The thieves in Rome generally are also young men and women. Skilled in their trade, sure, butyoung. Prone to rivalries. Damaging rivalries.”

  “Are you speaking of another gang?”

  “Yes. One in particular that may pose a threat. I need reinforcements to deal with them.”

  “My recruits?”

  La Volpe was silent, then said, “I know I refused you help when my suspicions of Niccolò were at their height, but now…”

  “Who are they?”

  “They call themselves the Cento Occhi—the One Hundred Eyes. They are creatures of Cesare Borgia, and they cause us significant trouble.”

  “Where is their base?”

  “My spies have located it.”

  “Where?”

  “Just a moment. They are angry, and they are spoiling for a fight.”

  “Then we must surprise them.”