Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

by Oliver Bowden

  “Please…” quavered the general, all his urbanity gone. “I will kill her.” He glanced up to the opening in the roof, trying to catch a glimpse of Ezio’s imaginary archers, not even reflecting, as Ezio had feared he might when he’d first mentioned them—the first thing that’d come into his head—that such soldiery had been all but superseded in modern warfare, though the bow was still far quicker to reload than the pistol or musket.

  Ezio took another step forward.

  “I’ll give you anything you want—there’s money here, plenty of it, it’s to pay my men with, but you may have it all! And I—I—I will do anything you want of me!” His voice was pleading now, and the man himself cut such a pathetic figure that Ezio could hardly bridle his contempt. This man actually saw himself as king of Italy!

  It hardly seemed worth killing him.

  Ezio was close to him now. The two men looked each other in the eye. Ezio slowly took first the pistol and then the bridle out of the general’s nerveless hands. With a whimper of relief, Pantasilea hobbled back out of the way, watching the scene with wide eyes.

  “I—I only wanted respect,” said the general faintly.

  “But real respect is earned,” said Ezio. “Not inherited, or purchased. And it cannot be gained by force.Oderint dum metuant must be one of the stupidest sayings ever coined. No wonder Caligula adopted it: ‘Let them hate, as long as they fear.’ And no wonder our modern Caligula lives by it. And you serve him.”

  “I serve my king, Louis XII!” Valois looked crestfallen. “But perhaps you are right. I see that now.” Hope sparked in his eyes. “I need more time…”

  Ezio sighed. “Alas, friend. You have run out of that.” He drew his sword as Valois, understanding, and acting with dignity at last, knelt and lowered his head.

  “Requiescat in pace,” said Ezio.

  With a mighty crash, the outer doors of the quarters splintered and fell open, revealing Bartolomeo, dusty and bloody but uninjured, standing at the head of a troop of his men. He rushed up to his wife and hugged her so tightly that he knocked the breath out of her, before busying himself about getting the halter off her neck, but his fingers were so nervous and clumsy that Ezio had to do it for him. He cut the manacles from her feet with two mighty blows of Bianca and, calmer, fiddled free the cords that bound her wrists.

  “Oh, Pantasilea, my dove, my heart, my own! Don’t you ever dare disappear like that again! I was lost without you!”

  “No, you weren’t! You rescued me!”

  “Ah.” Bartolomeo looked embarrassed. “No. Not I—it was Ezio! He came up with a—”

  “Madonna, I am glad you are safe,” interrupted Ezio.

  “My dear Ezio, how can I thank you? You saved me!”

  “I was but an instrument—just a part of your husband’s brilliant plan.”

  Bartolomeo looked at Ezio with an expression of confusion and gratitude on his face.

  “My prince!” said Pantasilea, embracing her husband. “My hero!”

  Bartolomeo blushed and, winking at Ezio, said, “Well, if I’m your prince, I’d better earn that title. Mind you, it wasn’tall my idea, you know—”

  As they turned to go, Pantasilea brushed by Ezio and whispered, “Thank you.”

  FORTY-ONE

  A few days later, after Bartolomeo had rounded up the remains of Valois’ dispirited army, Ezio fell in with La Volpe, both on their way to a convocation Ezio had ordered of the Brotherhood at the Assassins’ hideaway on Tiber Island.

  “How do things stand here in Rome now?” was Ezio’s first question.

  “Very good, Ezio. With the French army in disarray, Cesare has lost important support. Your sister, Claudia, tells us that the Spanish and the Holy Roman ambassadors have left hurriedly for home, and my men have routed the Cento Occhi.”

  “There is still much to do.”

  They arrived at their destination and found the rest of their companions already gathered in the inner room of the hideout. A fire blazed on a hearth in the middle of the floor.

  After they had greeted each other and taken their places, Machiavelli stood and intoned in Arabic:

  “Laa shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine: The Wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words. We work in the Dark, to serve the Light. We are Assassins.”

  Ezio stood in turn and addressed his sister. “Claudia. We dedicate our lives to protecting the freedom of humanity. Mario Auditore and our father, Giovanni, his brother, once stood at a fire similar to this one, engaged in the same task. Now, I offer the choice to you: of joining us.”

  He extended his hand and she placed hers in his. Machiavelli withdrew from the fire the familiar branding iron ending in two small semicircles like the letterC, which could be brought together by means of a lever in the handle.

  “Everything is permitted. Nothing is true,” he said gravely. And the others—Bartolomeo, La Volpe, and Ezio—repeated the words after him.

  Just as Antonio de Magianis had once done to Ezio, so Machiavelli now solemnly applied the branding iron to Claudia’s ring finger and closed the clamp, so that the mark of a ring was burned there forever.

  Claudia winced, but did not cry out. Machiavelli removed the iron and put it safely to one side.

  “Welcome to our Order—our Brotherhood,” he told Claudia formally.

  “Sisterhood, too?” she asked, rubbing a soothing ointment onto her branded finger from a little vial Bartolomeo had proffered her.

  Machiavelli smiled. “If you like.”

  All eyes were on him as he now turned to Ezio.

  “We have not seen eye to eye on many issues,” he began.

  “Niccolò—” Ezio interrupted, but Machiavelli held up a hand to stay him.

  “But ever since the epiphany in the Vault under the Sistine Chapel, and even before then, you have proven again and again that you were exactly what our Order needed. You have led the charge against the Templars, carried ourgonfalon proud and high, and steadily rebuilt our Brotherhood after what it suffered after the debacle at Monteriggioni.” He looked around. “The moment has come, my friends, to appoint Ezio formally to the position he already occupies by common consent—that of our leader. I present to you Ezio Auditore di Firenze—the Grand Master of our Order.” He turned to Ezio. “My friend, from henceforth you will be known as il Mentore—the guardian of our Brotherhood and of our secrets.”

  Ezio’s head swam with emotion, though still a part of him wanted to wrench itself away from this life in which the great task demanded every waking hour and allowed few even for sleep. Still, he stepped forward and austerely repeated the words central to the Creed:

  “Where other men are limited by morality and law, we must, in quest of our sacred goals, always remember: Everything is permitted. Nothing is true. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.”

  The others repeated the formula after him.

  “And now it is time,” said Machiavelli, “for our newest member to take her Leap of Faith.”

  They made their way to the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin and climbed its bell tower. Carefully guided by Bartolomeo and La Volpe, Claudia fearlessly threw herself into the void just as the golden orb of the sun broke free of the eastern horizon and caught the folds of her silver dress in its light and turned them golden, too. Ezio watched her land safely and walk with Bartolomeo and La Volpe in the direction of a nearby colonnade. Now, Machiavelli and Ezio were left alone. Just as Machiavelli was about to make his Leap, Ezio stopped him.

  “Why the sudden change of heart, Niccolò?”

  Machiavelli smiled. “What change of heart? I have always stood by you. I have always been loyal to the cause. My fault is independent thinking. That is what caused the doubts in your mind—and Gilberto’s. Now we are free of all that unpleasantness. I never sought the leadership. I am…more of an observer. Now, let us take our Leap of Faith together, as friends and as fellow warriors of the Creed!”

  He held out his hand and, also smiling, Ezio
took it in a firm grasp. Then they threw themselves off the roof of the campanile together.

  Scarcely had they landed and rejoined their companions than a courier rode up. Breathless, he announced, “Maestro Machiavelli, Cesare has returned to Rome alone from his latest foray in the Romagna. He rides for the Castel Sant’Angelo.”

  “Grazie, Alberto,” said Machiavelli, as the courier wheeled his horse around and sped back the way he had come.

  “Well?” Ezio asked him.

  Machiavelli showed his palms. “The decision is now yours, not mine.”

  “Niccolò, you had better not stop telling me what you think. I now seek the opinion of my most trusted adviser.”

  Machiavelli smiled. “In this case you know my opinion already. It hasn’t changed. The Borgia must be eradicated. Go and kill them,Mentore. Finish the job you have started.”

  “Good advice.”

  “I know.” Machiavelli looked at him appraisingly.

  “What is it?” Ezio asked.

  “I had been thinking of writing a book about Cesare’s methods. Now I think I will balance it with an examination of yours.”

  “If you’re writing a book about me,” said Ezio, “better make it a short one!”

  FORTY-TWO

  Ezio arrived at the Castel Sant’Angelo to find that a crowd had gathered on the opposite bank of the Tiber. Blending in with the gathered masses, he made his way to the front and saw that the French troops guarding the bridge that led to the Castel, and the Castel itself, were in total disarray. Some soldiers were already packing up their equipment, while officers and others moved frantically among them, issuing orders to unpack again. Some of the orders were contradictory, and here and there fights had broken out as a result. The Italian crowd was watching, Ezio noted, with quiet pleasure. Though he carried his own clothes in a satchel slung over his shoulder, he had taken the precaution of once again donning the French uniform he had saved from the attack on the Castra Praetoria, and he now shed the cloak he’d been wearing to cover it and walked quickly onto the bridge. No one paid him any attention, but as he passed among the French troops, he gleaned useful snippets of conversation.

  “When are we expecting the attack from d’Alviano and his mercenaries?”

  “They say he’s on his way now.”

  “Then why are we packing? Are we retreating?”

  “I hope so!Tout cela, c’est rien qu’un tas de merde.”

  A private spotted Ezio. “Sir! Sir! What are our orders?”

  “I’m on my way to see,” replied Ezio.

  “Sir!”

  “What is it?”

  “Who’s in charge now, sir? Now that General Valois is dead?”

  “No doubt the king is sending a replacement.”

  “Is it true, sir—that he died valorously in battle?”

  Ezio smiled to himself. “Of course it’s true. At the head of his men.”

  He moved on, toward the Castel itself.

  Once within, he found his way up to the ramparts and from this vantage point looked down to the courtyard, where he spotted Cesare himself, talking to a captain of the Papal Guard posted at the door of the inner citadel.

  “I need to see the Pope!” Cesare was saying, urgently. “I need to see my fathernow!”

  “Of course, Your Grace. You will find His Holiness in his private apartments at the top of the Castel.”

  “Then get out of my way, you fool!” Cesare thrust past the hapless captain as the latter gave hasty orders for a wicket gate in the main door to be opened to admit him. Ezio watched for a moment, then made his way around the circumference of the Castel until he came to the place where the secret gate was located. He dropped to the ground and let himself through the gate with Pietro’s key.

  Once inside, he looked around warily, then, seeing no one, he dived down a stairway in the direction of the cells from which, an age ago, it seemed, he’d rescued Caterina Sforza. Finding a quiet spot, he swiftly shed the French lieutenant’s uniform and changed back into his own clothes, which were designed for the work he had to do. He checked his weapons quickly, strapping on the bracer and the poison-blade and confirming that he had a supply of poison darts safely stowed in his belt. Then, hugging the walls, he made off in the direction of the stairway that led to the top of the Castel. But these were guarded and he had to send three guards to their Maker before he could proceed.

  At last he arrived at the garden where he had watched Lucrezia and her lover keep their tryst. In daylight he could see that her apartments were part of a complex. Larger and even grander ones stood beyond, and he guessed these to be the Pope’s. But as he was making in that direction he was interrupted by a conversation coming from within Lucrezia’s rooms. He made his way stealthily to the open window where the voices were coming from and listened. He could just see Lucrezia, apparently none the worse for wear after her ordeal in the cells, talking to the same attendant he’d seen her entrust with the information about her affair with Pietro, which he had passed on to her jealous brother—with evident success, to judge by Cesare’s fast return to Rome.

  “I don’t understand it,” Lucrezia was saying irritably. “I ordered a fresh batch of cantarella only last night. Toffana was to have delivered it to me personally by noon. Did you see her? What’s going on?”

  “I’m terribly sorry,mia signora, but I’ve just heard that the Pope intercepted the delivery. He’s taken it all for himself.”

  “That old bastard. Where is he?”

  “In his rooms. Madonna. There’s a meeting—”

  “A meeting? With whom?”

  The attendant hesitated. “With Cesare, Madonna.”

  Lucrezia took this in, then said, half to herself: “That’s strange. My father didn’t tell me Cesare was back here again.”

  Deep in thought, she left the room.

  Alone, the attendant started to tidy up, rearranging tables and chairs while muttering under his breath.

  Ezio waited a moment to see if there would be any more information useful to him, but all the attendant said was, “That woman gives me so much trouble…Why didn’t I stay in the stables, where I was well off? Call this a promotion?! I put my head on the block every time I run an errand.And I have to taste her food before she does, every time she sits down to a bloody meal.” He paused for a moment.

  “What a family!” he added.

  FORTY-THREE

  But Ezio had left before he could hear those last words. He slipped through the garden toward the Pope’s apartments and, since the single entrance was heavily guarded and he did not want to draw attention to himself—it wouldn’t be long before the bodies of the guards he’d killed downstairs were discovered—he found a place where he could climb to one of the principal windows of the building unobtrusively. His hunch that this would be a window giving on to the Pope’s principal chamber paid off, and it had a broad external sill on one end of which he could perch out of sight. Using the blade of his dagger, he was able to pry a sidelight open a fraction, so that he could hear anything that might be said.

  Rodrigo—Pope Alexander VI—was alone in the room, standing by a table on which sat a large silver bowl full of red and yellow apples, whose position he adjusted nervously just as the door opened and Cesare entered, unannounced. He was clearly angry, and without any preamble he launched into a bitter diatribe.

  “What the hell is going on?” he began.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” replied his father, with reserve.

  “Oh, yes, you do! My funds have been cut off, and my troops dispersed.”

  “Ah. Well, you know that after your banker’s tragic…demise, Agostino Chigi took over all his affairs…”

  Cesare laughed mirthlessly. “Your banker! I might have known! And my men?”

  “Financial difficulties strike all of us from time to time, my boy, even those of us with armies and overweening ambition.”

  “Are you going to get Chigi to release money for me or not?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Angrily, Cesare snatched an apple from the bowl. Ezio saw that the Pope was watching his son carefully.

  “Chigi won’t help you,” said the Pope levelly. “And he’s too powerful for even you to bend to your will.”

  “In that case,” said Cesare, sneering, “I’ll use the Piece of Eden to get what I want. It will render your help unnecessary.” He bit into the apple with a mean smile.

  “That has been made abundantly clear to me already,” said the Pope drily. “By the way, I suppose you are aware that General Valois is dead?”

  Cesare’s smile disappeared in a flash. “No. I have only just returned to Rome.” His tone became threatening. “Did you—?”

  The Pope spread his hands. “What possible reason could I have had to kill him? Or was he plotting against me, perhaps, with my own, dear, brilliant,treacherous captain-general?”

  Cesare took another bite of the apple. “I do not have to stand for this!” he snarled as he chewed.

  “If you must know, the Assassins murdered him.”

  Cesare swallowed, his eyes wide. Then his face went dark with fury. “Why did you not stop them?”

  “As if I could! It was your decision to attack Monteriggioni, not mine. It’s high time you took responsibility for your misdeeds—if it’s not too late.”

  “Myactions, you mean,” replied Cesare proudly. “Despite the constant interference of failures like you!”

  The younger man turned to go, but the Pope hurried around the table to block his way to the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Rodrigo growled. “And you are deluded.I have the Piece of Eden.”

  “Liar! Get out of my way, you old fool!”

  The Pope shook his head sadly. “I gave you everything I could—and yet it was never enough.”

  At that instant, Ezio saw Lucrezia burst into the room, her eyes wild.