Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  He skirted the square away from the palazzo and found his way to the narrow street which led off the piazza, along the palazzo’s north side. Fortunately, there were still a reasonable number of people about, strolling and enjoying the evening air. It seemed to Ezio that he suddenly existed in another world from theirs, that he had been cut off from the society he had swum in like a fish until only three or four short hours ago. He bristled at the thought that life could still continue in its even routine for all these people, while that of his own family had been shattered. Again, he felt his heart swell with an almost overwhelming rush of anger and fear. But then he turned his mind firmly back to the work in hand, and a look of steel crossed his face.

  The wall rising above him was sheer and giddyingly high, but it was in darkness and that would be to his advantage. Moreover, the stones of which the palazzo was constructed were rough-hewn, so he would have plenty of handholds and footholds to aid him in his ascent. One problem would be any guards posted on the north-side battlements, but he’d have to deal with that when he came to it. He hoped that most would be grouped along the west-facing main façade of the building.

  Taking a breath and glancing round – there was no one else in this dark street – he gave a leap, took a firm hold of the wall, gripped with his toes in their soft leather boots, and began to scale upwards.

  Once he’d reached the battlements he dropped to a crouch, the tendons in his calves straining with tension. There were two guards here, but they had their backs to him, looking towards the lighted square beneath. Ezio stayed motionless for a moment, until it became clear that any sound he’d made had not alerted them to his presence. Staying low, he darted towards them and then struck, drawing them back, one hand around each of their necks, using their own weight and the element of surprise to bring them down on their backs. In barely a heartbeat, he had their helmets off and smashed their heads together violently – they were unconscious before they could register any surprise on their faces. If that hadn’t worked, Ezio knew he would have cut their throats without a second’s hesitation.

  He paused again, breathing hard. Now for the tower. This was of more smoothly trimmed stone, and the going was hard. What’s more, he had to climb round from the north to the west side of it, where the cell window was. He prayed that no one in the square or on the battlements would look up. He didn’t fancy being brought down by a crossbow bolt after having got so far.

  The corner where the north and west walls met was hard and unpromising, and for a moment Ezio clung there, frozen, looking for a handhold that didn’t seem to exist. He looked down, and saw far beneath him one of the guards on the battlements looking up. He could see the pale face clearly. He could see the man’s eyes. He pressed himself to the wall. In his dark clothing he’d be as conspicuous as a cockroach on a white tablecloth. But, inexplicably, the man lowered his gaze and continued his patrol. Had he seen him? Had he not been able to believe what he’d seen? Ezio’s throat thumped with the strain. Only able to relax after a long minute had passed, he breathed once more.

  After a monumental effort he arrived at his goal, grateful for the narrow ledge on which he could just perch as he peered into the narrow cell beyond the window. God is merciful, he thought, as he recognized the figure of his father, his back turned towards him, apparently reading by the thin light of a taper.

  ‘Father!’ he called softly.

  Giovanni spun round. ‘Ezio! In God’s name, how did you –’

  ‘Never mind, Father.’ As Giovanni approached, Ezio could see that his hands were bloody and bruised, and his face pale and drawn. ‘My God, Father, what have they done to you?’

  ‘I took a bit of a beating, but I’m all right. More importantly, what of your mother and sister?’

  ‘Safe now.’

  ‘With Annetta?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God be praised.’

  ‘What happened, Father? Were you expecting this?’

  ‘Not as quickly as this. They arrested Federico and Petruccio too – I think they’re in the cell behind this one. If Lorenzo had been here things would have been different. I should have taken precautions.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s no time for that now!’ Giovanni almost shouted. ‘Now, listen to me: you must get back to our house. There’s a hidden door in my office. There’s a chest concealed in a chamber beyond it. Take everything you find inside it. Do you hear? Everything! Much of it will seem strange to you, but all of it is important.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Ezio shifted his weight slightly, still clinging for dear life to the bars that crossed the window. He didn’t dare look down now, and he didn’t know how much longer he could remain motionless.

  ‘Among the contents you’ll find a letter and with it some documents. You must take them without delay – tonight! – to Messer Alberti –’

  ‘The Gonfalionere?’

  ‘Exactly. Now, go!’

  ‘But, Father…’ Ezio struggled to get the words out, and, wishing that he could do more than just ferry documents, he stammered, ‘Are the Pazzi behind this? I read the note from the carrier pigeon. It said –’

  But then Giovanni hushed him. Ezio could hear the key turning in the lock of the cell door.

  ‘They’re taking me for interrogation,’ said Giovanni grimly. ‘Get away before they discover you. My God, you’re a brave boy. You’ll be worthy of your destiny. Now, for the last time – go!’

  Ezio edged himself off the ledge and clung to the wall out of sight as he heard his father being led away. He almost couldn’t bear to listen. Then he steeled himself for the climb down. He knew that descents are almost always harder than ascents, but even in the last forty-eight hours he’d gained plenty of experience of scaling up and down buildings. And now he clambered down the tower, slipping once or twice, but regaining his hold, until he had reached the battlements again, where the two guardsmen still lay where he had left them. Another stroke of luck! He’d knocked their heads together as hard as he could, but if they’d chanced to regain consciousness while he was up on the tower and raised the alarm… well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

  Indeed, there was no time to think of such things. He swung himself over the battlements and peered down. Time was of the essence. If he could see something down below which might break his fall, he might dare to leap. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the awning of a deserted stall attached to the wall, far below. Should he risk it? If he succeeded, he’d gain a few precious minutes. If he failed, a broken leg would be the least of his problems. He would have to have faith in himself.

  He took a deep breath and dived into the darkness.

  From such a height the awning collapsed under his weight, but it had been firmly secured and gave just enough resistance to break his fall. He was winded, and he’d have a few bruised ribs in the morning, but he was down! And no alarm had been raised.

  He shook himself and sped off in the direction of what only hours ago had been his home. When he reached it, he realized that in his haste his father had neglected to tell him how to locate the secret door. Giulio would know, but where was Giulio now?

  Luckily there had been no guards lurking in the vicinity of the house, and he’d been able to gain access unchallenged. He had stopped for a minute, outside the house, almost unable to propel himself in through the darkness of the doorway – it seemed that the house had changed, its sanctity defiled. Again, Ezio had to collect his thoughts, knowing that his actions were critical. His family depended on him now. He pressed on into his family home, into the dark. Shortly afterwards he stood in the centre of the office, eerily lit by a single candle, and looked about him.

  The place had been turned over by the guards, who had clearly confiscated a large number of bank documents, and the general chaos of fallen bookcases, overturned chairs, drawers cast to the ground and scattered papers and books everywhere didn’t make Ezio’s task any easier. But he knew the off
ice, his eyesight was keen, and he used his wits. The walls were thick, any could have a chamber concealed within them, but he made for the wall into which the large fireplace was set and started his search there, where the walls would be thickest, to contain the chimneypiece. Holding the candle close, and looking searchingly, while keeping an ear cocked for any sound of returning guards, finally, on the left-hand side of the great moulded mantel he thought he could discern the faint outline of a door set into the panelling. There had to be a means of opening it nearby. He looked carefully at the carved colossi which held the marble mantelpiece on their shoulders. The nose of the one on the left-hand side looked as if it had once been broken, and repaired, for there was a fine crack around its base. He touched the nose and found it to be slightly loose. Heart in mouth, he moved it gently, and the door swung inwards on silent spring-mounted hinges, revealing a stone-floored corridor which led to the left.

  As he entered, his right foot encountered a flagstone which moved beneath it, and as it did so, oil-lamps set into the passageway’s walls suddenly flared into life. It ran a short way, sloping slightly downwards, and termin ated in a circular chamber decorated more in the style of Syria than Italy. Ezio’s mind flashed on a picture which hung in his father’s private study of the castle of Masyaf, once the seat of the ancient Order of Assassins. But he had no time to ponder whether or not this curious decor could be of any special significance. The room was unfurnished, and in its centre stood a large, iron-bound chest, securely sealed with two heavy locks. He looked around the room to see if a key might be anywhere, but aside from its ornamentation it was bare. Ezio was wondering if he’d have to return to the office, or make his way to his father’s study, to search for one there, and if he’d have time to do so, when by chance his hand brushed against one of the locks, and at that, it sprang open. The other one opened as easily. Had his father given him some power he did not know of? Were the locks in some way programmed to respond to a certain person’s touch? Mystery was piling on mystery, but there was no time to dwell on them now.

  He opened the chest and saw that it contained a white hood, evidently old, and made of some perhaps woollen material which he didn’t recognize. Something compelled him to put it on, and at once a strange power surged through him. He lowered the hood, but did not take it off.

  The chest contained a leather bracer, a cracked dagger blade connected, instead of to a hilt, to a strange mechanism whose workings were beyond him, a sword, a page of vellum covered with symbols and letters and what looked like part of a plan, and the letter and documents his father had told him to take to Uberto Alberti. He gathered them all up, closed the chest, and retreated to his father’s office, closing the secret door carefully behind him. In the office, he found a discarded document pouch of Giulio’s and stashed the contents of the chest in it, slinging the pouch across his chest. He buckled on the sword. Not knowing what to make of this strange collection of objects, and not having time to reflect on why his father would keep such things in a secret chamber, he made his way cautiously back towards the main doors of the palazzo.

  But, just as he entered the fore-courtyard, he saw two city guards on their way in. It was too late to hide. They had seen him.

  ‘Halt!’ one of them cried, and they both began advancing quickly towards him. There was no retreat. Ezio saw that they had already drawn their swords.

  ‘What are you here for? To arrest me?’

  ‘No,’ said the one who had spoken first. ‘Our orders are to kill you.’ At that, the second guard rushed him.

  Ezio drew his own sword as they closed in on him. It was a weapon he was unfamiliar with, but it felt light and capable in his hand, and it was as if he had used it all his life. He parried the first thrusts, right and left, both guards lunging at him at the same time. Sparks flew from all three swords, but Ezio felt his new blade hold firm, the edge biting and keen. Just as the second guard was bringing his sword down to sever Ezio’s arm from his shoulder, Ezio feinted right, under the incoming blade. He shifted his balance from back to front foot, and lunged. The guard was caught off balance as his sword arm thudded harmlessly against Ezio’s shoulder. Ezio used his own momentum to thrust his new sword up, piercing the man directly through the heart. Standing tall, Ezio rocked on the balls of his feet, raised his left foot and pushed the dead guard off his blade in time to swivel round to confront his companion. The other guard came forward with a roar, wielding a heavy sword. ‘Prepare to die, traditore!’

  ‘I am no traitor, nor is any member of my family.’

  The guard swung at him, tearing at his left sleeve and drawing blood. Ezio winced, but only for a second. The guard pressed forward, seeing an advantage, and Ezio allowed him to lunge once more, then, stepping back, tripped him, swinging his own sword unflinchingly and very hard at the man’s neck as he fell, and severing his head from his shoulders before he hit the ground.

  For a moment Ezio stood trembling in the sudden silence that followed the mêlée, breathing hard. These were the first killings of his life – or were they? – for he felt another, older life within him, a life which seemed to have years of experience in death-dealing.

  The sensation frightened him. This night had seen him age far beyond his years – but this new sensation seemed to be the awakening of some darker force deep within him. It was something more than simply the effects of the harrowing experiences of the last few hours. His shoulders sagged as he made his way through the darkened streets to Alberti’s mansion, starting at every sound, and looking behind him frequently. At last, on the edge of exhaustion but able somehow to bear up, he arrived at the Gonfaloniere’s home. He looked up at the façade, and saw a dim light in one of the front windows. He knocked hard on the door with the pommel of his sword.

  Receiving no answer, nervous and impatient, he knocked again, harder and louder. Still nothing.

  But, at the third time of trying, a hatch in the door opened briefly, then closed. The door swung open almost immediately thereafter, and a suspicious armed servant admitted him. He blurted out his business and was conducted to a first-floor room where Alberti sat at a desk covered with papers. Beyond him, half-turned away and sitting in a chair by a dying fire, Ezio thought he could see another man, tall and powerful, but only part of his profile was visible, and that indistinctly.

  ‘Ezio?’ Alberti stood up, surprised. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘I… I don’t…’

  Alberti approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait, child. Take a breath. Collect your thoughts.’

  Ezio nodded. Now he felt safer, he also felt more vulnerable. The events of the evening and night since he had set out to deliver Giovanni’s letters were catching up with him. From the brass pedestal clock on the desk he could see that it was close to midnight. Could it really only be twelve hours since Ezio the boy had gone with his mother to collect paintings from an artist’s studio? Despite himself he felt close to tears. But he collected himself, and it was Ezio the man who spoke. ‘My father and brothers have been imprisoned – I do not know on whose authority – my mother and sister are in hiding and our family seat is ransacked. My father enjoined me to deliver this letter and these papers to you…’ Ezio drew the documents from his pouch.

  ‘Thank you.’ Alberti put on a pair of eyeglasses and took Giovanni’s letter to the light of the candle burning on his desk. There was no sound in the room apart from the ticking of the clock and the occasional soft crash as the embers of the fire collapsed on themselves. If there was another presence in the room, Ezio had forgotten it.

  Alberti now turned his attention to the documents. He took some time over them, and finally placed one of them discreetly inside his black doublet. The others he put carefully to one side, apart from the other papers on his desk.

  ‘There’s been a terrible misunderstanding, my dear Ezio,’ he said, taking off his spectacles. ‘It’s true that allegations were laid – serious allegations – and that a trial has been
scheduled for tomorrow morning. But it seems that someone may have been, perhaps for reasons of their own, overly zealous. But don’t worry. I’ll clear everything up.’

  Ezio hardly dared to believe him. ‘How?’

  ‘The documents you’ve given me contain evidence of a conspiracy against your father and against the city. I’ll present these papers at the hearing in the morning, and Giovanni and your brothers will be released. I guarantee it.’

  Relief flooded through the young man. He clasped the Gonfaloniere’s hand. ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘The administration of justice is my job, Ezio. I take it very seriously, and –’ for a fraction of a second he hesitated, ‘– your father is one of my dearest friends.’ Alberti smiled. ‘But where are my manners? I haven’t even offered you a glass of wine.’ He paused. ‘And where will you spend the night? I still have some urgent business to attend to, but my servants will see that you have food and drink and a warm bed.’

  At the time, Ezio didn’t know why he refused so kind an offer.

  It was well after midnight by the time he left the Gonfaloniere’s mansion. Pulling up his hood again, he prowled through the streets trying to arrange his thoughts. Presently, he knew where his feet were taking him.

  Once there, he climbed to the balcony with greater ease than he’d imagined possible – perhaps urgency lent strength to his muscles – and knocked gently on her shutters, calling quietly, ‘Cristina! Amore! Wake up! It’s me.’ He waited, silent as a cat, and listened. He could hear her stirring, rising. And then her voice, scared, on the other side of the shutters.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Ezio.’

  She opened the shutters swiftly. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Let me come in. Please.’