Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  Back at San Pietro at dusk, they found that a handful of Bartolomeo’s condottieri had survived the attack and had now emerged from their hiding-places, moving among the already fly-blown dead and attempting to bury them and put matters in order. They were elated to see their Captain again, but he was distracted, running here and there in his encampment, calling mournfully, ‘Bianca! Bianca! Where are you?’

  ‘Who’s he after?’ Ezio asked a sergeant-at-arms. ‘She must be worth a lot to him.’

  ‘She is, Signore,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘And far more reliable than most of her sex.’

  Ezio ran to catch up with his new ally. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘What do you think? Look at the state of this place! And poor Bianca! If something’s happened to her…’

  The big man shouldered a door, already half off its hinges, on to the ground and entered a bunker which, from the look of it, must have been a map-room before the attack. The valuable maps had been mutilated or stolen, but Bartolomeo sifted through the wreckage until, with a cry of triumph –

  ‘Bianca! Oh, my darling! Thank God you’re all right!’

  He had pulled a massive greatsword clear of the rubble and brandished it, roaring, ‘Aha! You are safe! I never doubted it! Bianca! Meet… What’s your name again?’

  ‘Auditore, Ezio.’

  Bartolomeo looked thoughtful. ‘Of course. Your reputation goes before you, Ezio.’

  ‘I am glad of it.’

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I too have business with Silvio Barbarigo. I think he’s outstayed his welcome in Venice.’

  ‘Silvio! That turd! He needs flushing down a fucking latrine!’

  ‘I thought I might be able to rely on your help.’

  ‘After that rescue? I owe you my life, let alone my help.’

  ‘How many men do you have?’

  ‘How many survivors here, Sergeant-at-Arms?’

  The sergeant-at-arms Ezio had spoken to earlier came running up and saluted. ‘Twelve, Capitano, including you and me, and this gentleman here.’

  ‘Thirteen!’ shouted Bartolomeo, waving Bianca.

  ‘Against a good two hundred,’ said Ezio. He turned to the sergeant-at-arms. ‘And how many of your men did they take prisoner?’

  ‘Most of them,’ the man replied. ‘The attack took us completely by surprise. Some fled, but Silvio’s men took far more away with them in chains.’

  ‘Look, Ezio,’ said Bartolomeo. ‘I’m going to supervise rounding up the rest of my men who are at liberty. I’ll get this place cleaned up and bury my dead and we’ll regroup here. Do you think in the meantime you can see to the business of liberating the men Silvio’s taken prisoner? Since that’s a thing you seem to be very good at?’

  ‘Intensi.’

  ‘Get back here with them as soon as you can. Good luck!’

  Ezio, his Codex weapons buckled on, headed westward again towards the Arsenal but wondered if Silvio would have kept all Bartolomeo’s men prisoner there. He hadn’t seen any of them when he had gone to rescue their Captain. At the Arsenal itself he stuck to the shadows of the falling night and tried to listen to the conversations of the guards stationed along the perimeter walls.

  ‘Have you ever seen bigger cages?’ said one.

  ‘No. And the poor bastards are crammed into them like sardines. I don’t think Captain Barto would have treated us like that, if he’d been the victor,’ said his comrade.

  ‘Of course he would. And keep your noble thoughts to yourself, if you want to keep your head on your shoulders. I say finish them off. Why don’t we just lower the cages into the basins, and drown the lot of them?’

  At that, Ezio tensed. There were three huge rectangular basins inside the Arsenal, each designed to hold thirty galleys. They were on the north side of the complex, surrounded by thick brick walls and covered by heavy wooden roofs. Doubtless the cages – larger versions of the one which had imprisoned Bartolomeo – were suspended by chains over the water in one or more of the bacini.

  ‘One hundred and fifty trained men? That’d be a waste. For my money, Silvio’s hoping to turn them to our cause,’ said the second uniform.

  ‘Well, they’re mercenaries like us. So why not?’

  ‘Right! They just need to be softened up a little first. Show them who’s boss.’

  ‘Spero di sì.’

  ‘Thank God they don’t know their boss has escaped.’

  The first guard spat. ‘He won’t last long.’

  Ezio left them and made his way to the wicket gate he’d discovered earlier. There was no time to wait for any changing of the guard, but he could judge the time by the distance of the moon from the horizon and he knew he had a couple of hours. He flicked the spring-blade out – his original Codex weapon and still his favourite – and slashed open the throat of the fat old guard Silvio had seen fit to put on duty alone there, pushing him clear before any of the man’s blood could get on to his clothes. Quickly he wiped the blade clean on the grass and exchanged it for his poison-blade. He made the sign of the Cross over the body.

  The compound within the walls of the Arsenal looked different by the light of a sickle moon and a few stars, but Ezio knew where the basins were located and went, skirting the walls and keeping an ever-watchful eye out for Silvio’s men, to the first one. He peered through the great open arches into the watery gloom beyond, but could see nothing but galleys bobbing gently in the half-light of the stars. The second bore the same fruit, but as he approached the third he heard voices.

  ‘It’s not too late for you to pledge yourselves to our cause. Only say the word and you’ll be spared,’ one of the Inquisitor’s sergeants was calling in a mocking tone.

  Ezio, pressing himself against the wall, saw a dozen troops, weapons laid down, bottles in their hands, gazing up into the gloom of the roof, where three massive iron cages were suspended. He saw that an invisible mechanism was slowly lowering the cages towards the water beneath. And there were no galleys in this basin. Only black, oily water, in which something unseen but frightful teemed.

  The Inquisitor’s guards included one man who wasn’t drinking, a man who seemed constantly on the alert, a huge, terrible man. Ezio instantly recognized Dante Moro! So, with the death of his master Marco, the man-mountain had transferred his allegiance to the cousin, Silvio, the Inquisitor, who had already professed his admiration for the massive bodyguard.

  Ezio made his way cautiously round the walls until he came to a large open-frame box containing an arrangement of cog-wheels, pulleys and ropes that might have been designed by Leonardo. This was the mechanism, driven by a water-clock, which was lowering the cages. Ezio drew his ordinary dagger from its sheath on the left-hand side of his belt and jammed it between two of the cogwheels. The mechanism stopped, and not before time, for the cages were now inches from the water’s surface. But the guards instantly noticed that the cages’ descent had ceased, and some came running towards the machinery that controlled it. Ezio sprang out his poison-blade and hacked at them as they came. Two fell into the water from the jetty and screamed, briefly, sinking into the oily black water. Meanwhile, Ezio raced along the perimeter of the basin towards the others, all of whom fled in alarm save Dante, who stood his ground and loomed like a tower over Ezio.

  ‘Silvio’s dog now, are you?’ said Ezio.

  ‘Better a live dog than a dead lion,’ said Dante, reaching out to cuff Ezio into the water.

  ‘Stand down!’ said Ezio, ducking the blow. ‘I have no quarrel with you!’

  ‘Oh, shut your face,’ said Dante, picking Ezio up by the scruff of the neck and bashing him against the wall of the basin. ‘I have no serious quarrel with you, either.’ He could see that Ezio was stunned. ‘Just stay there. I must go and warn my master, but I’ll be back to feed you to the fishes if you give me any more trouble!’

  And he was gone. Ezio shook his head to clear it, and stood up, groggily. The men in the cages were shouting and Ezio saw that one
of Silvio’s guards had crept back in and was about to dislodge the dagger he’d jammed in the cage-lowering mechanism. He thanked God he had not forgotten his old knife-throwing skills learned at Monteriggioni, produced a knife from his belt, and hurled it with deadly accuracy. The guard stumbled over, groaning, snatching helplessly at the blade which was buried between his eyes.

  Ezio snatched a gaff from a rack on the wall behind him, and, leaning over the water dangerously, deftly hauled the nearest cage towards him. Its door was closed by a simple bolt and he shot it back, releasing the men inside, who tumbled out on to the wharf. With their help, he was able to haul in the remaining cages and release their prisoners in turn.

  Exhausted though they were by their ordeal, they cheered him.

  ‘Come on!’ he cried. ‘I’ve got to get you back to your Captain!’

  Once they had overwhelmed the men guarding the basins, they returned unopposed to San Pietro, where Bartolomeo and his men had an emotional reunion. In Ezio’s absence all the mercenaries who’d escaped Silvio’s initial onslaught had returned, and the encampment was once again in perfetto ordine.

  ‘Salute, Ezio!’ said Bartolomeo. ‘Welcome back! And well done, by God! I knew I could depend on you!’ He took Ezio’s hands between his. ‘You are indeed the mightiest of allies. One might almost think –’ but then he stopped himself, and said instead, ‘Thanks to you my army is restored to its former glory. Now our friend Silvio will see just how grave a mistake he’s made!’

  ‘So, what should we do? Make a direct assault on the Arsenal?’

  ‘No. A head-on assault would mean we’d be massacred at the gates. I think we should plant my men throughout the district and get them to cause enough trouble locally to tie most of Silvio’s men up.’

  ‘So – if the Arsenal is almost empty –’

  ‘You can take it with a hand-picked team.’

  ‘Let’s hope he takes the bait.’

  ‘He’s an Inquisitor. He knows how to bully people who are already at his mercy. He’s not a soldier. Hell, he doesn’t even have the wit to be a halfway decent chess-player!’

  It took a few days to deploy Bartolomeo’s condottieri about Castello and the Arsenal district. When all was ready, Bartolomeo and Ezio gathered the small group of hand-picked mercenaries they’d kept back for the assault on Silvio’s bastion. Ezio himself had selected the men for their agility and skill at arms.

  They’d planned the assault on the Arsenal with care. The following Friday night, all was in readiness. A mercenary was sent to the top of the tower of San Martino and, when the moon was at its height, he set off a massive Roman candle designed and provided by Leonardo’s workshop. This was the signal for the attack. Dressed in dark leather gear, the condottieri of the task-force scaled the walls of the Arsenal on all four sides. Once over the battlements, the men moved like spectres through the quiet and undermanned fortress and quickly contained the skeleton guard within. It wasn’t long before Ezio and Bartolomeo found themselves confronting their deadliest foes – Silvio and Dante.

  Dante, wearing iron knuckle-dusters, was swinging a massive chain-mace around, protecting his master. It was hard for either Ezio or Bartolomeo to come within range, as their own men engaged the enemy.

  ‘A fine specimen, isn’t he?’ crowed Silvio from the safety of the ramparts. ‘You should be honoured to die by his hand!’

  ‘Suck my balls, you fuck!’ Bartolomeo yelled back. He’d managed to snag the mace in his battle-staff, and Dante, his weapon torn from his hand, retreated. ‘Come on, Ezio! We need to catch that grassone bastardo!’

  Dante turned, having reached his objective, an iron club pierced with twisted nails, and faced them again. He swung it at Bartolomeo and one of the nails tore a furrow in his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll have you for that, you pig-eyed sack of shit!’ bellowed Bartolomeo.

  Meanwhile Ezio had loaded and fired his pistol at Silvio, and missed. His shot ricocheted off the brick walls in a shower of sparks and splinters.

  ‘Do you think I don’t know why you’re really here, Auditore?’ Silvio barked, though clearly frightened by the gunshot. ‘But you’re too late! There’s nothing you can do to stop us now!’

  Ezio had reloaded, and fired again. But he was angry, and confused at Silvio’s words, and once again the shot went wide.

  ‘Hah!’ spat Silvio from the ramparts as Dante and Bartolomeo slogged it out. ‘You pretend you don’t know! Though once Dante’s done with you and your muscle-bound friend, it’ll hardly matter either way. You’ll just follow your fool of a father! Do you know what my greatest regret is? That I couldn’t have been Giovanni’s hangman myself. How I would have loved to pull that lever and watch your miserable dad kick and gasp and dangle! And then of course there would have been plenty of time for that winesack of an uncle of yours, ciccione Mario, and your not-quite-past-it mother, droopy-dugs Maria, and that luscious little strawberry Claudia, your sister. How long it’s been since I fucked anything under twenty-five! Mind you, I’d keep the last two for the voyage – it can get quite lonely out at sea!’

  Through the red mist of his fury, Ezio concentrated on the information the spittle-strewn lips of the Inquisitor were madly spewing forth along with the insults.

  By now, Silvio’s guards, at superior odds, were beginning to rally against Bartolomeo’s commandos. Dante dealt another swingeing blow at Bartolomeo, thumping him in the ribcage with his knuckle-dusters and causing him to falter. Ezio fired a third bullet at Silvio and this time it ripped through the Inquisitor’s robes close to his neck, but though the man staggered, and Ezio saw a thin line of blood, he did not fall. He shouted a command to Dante, who fell back, swarming up to the rampart to join his master, and with him disappearing over the other side of the wall. Ezio knew there’d be a ladder on the other side to take them down to the jetty, and, yelling to Bartolomeo to follow him, he dashed out of the arena of battle to cut his foes off.

  He saw them clambering into a large boat, but noticed the anger and despair on their faces. Following their gaze, he saw a huge black galley disappearing across the lagoon southwards.

  ‘We’ve been betrayed!’ Ezio heard Silvio say to Dante. ‘The ship has sailed without us! God damn them! I’ve been nothing but loyal and yet this – this! – is how they repay me!’

  ‘Let’s use this boat to catch them up,’ said Dante.

  ‘It’s too late for that – and we’d never get to the Island in a craft this size; but at least we can use it to get away from this catastrophe!’

  ‘Then let us cast off, Altezza.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Dante turned to the trembling crew. ‘Cast off! Raise the sails! Look lively!’

  At that moment Ezio sprang from the shadows across the wharf and on to the boat. The frightened sailors made themselves scarce, diving into the murky lagoon.

  ‘Get away from me, murderer!’ shrieked Silvio.

  ‘You’ve delivered your last insult,’ said Ezio, stabbing him in the gut and drawing the blades of his double-dagger slowly across his belly. ‘And for what you said about my kinswomen I’d cut your balls off with this if I thought it was worth it.’

  Dante stood rooted to the spot. Ezio fixed him with his eye. The big man looked tired.

  ‘It’s over,’ Ezio told him. ‘You backed the wrong horse.’

  ‘Maybe I did,’ said Dante. ‘I’m going to kill you anyway. You filthy assassin. You make me tired.’

  Ezio snapped out his pistola and fired. The slug hit Dante full in the face. He fell.

  Ezio knelt by Silvio to give him absolution. He was nothing if not conscientious, and always remembered that killing should only happen if there were no alternative; and that the dying, who very soon would have no rights at all, should at least be accorded the last rites.

  ‘Where were you going, Silvio? What is that galley? I thought you sought the Doge’s seat?’

  Silvio smiled thinly. ‘That was just a distraction… We were meant to sail…
’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Too late,’ smiled Silvio, and died.

  Ezio turned to Dante and cradled the massive leonine head in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Cyprus is their destination, Auditore,’ croaked Dante. ‘I can perhaps redeem my soul at the last by telling you the truth. They want… They want…’ But choking on his own blood, the big man passed on.

  Ezio searched both men’s wallets but found nothing except a letter to Dante from his wife. Shamefacedly, he read it.

  Amore mio

  I wonder if ever the day will come when these words might make sense to you once more. I am sorry for what I have done – for allowing Marco to take me from you, divorce you, and make me his wife. But now that he has died, I may yet find a way for us to be joined again. I wonder, though, if you will even remember me? Or were the wounds you suff ered in battle too grave? Do my words stir, if not your memory, then your heart? But perhaps it doesn’t matter what they say, because I know you’re still in my heart, somewhere. I will find a way, my love. To remind you. To restore you…

  Forever yours

  Gloria

  There was no address. Ezio folded the letter carefully and put it in his wallet. He would ask Teodora if she knew of this strange history, and if she could return the letter to its sender, with news of the death of this faithless creature’s true husband.

  He looked at the corpses and made the sign of the Cross over them ‘Requiescant in pace,’ he said, sadly.

  Ezio was still standing over the dead men when Bartolomeo came up, panting. ‘See you didn’t need my help, as usual,’ he said.

  ‘Have you taken back the Arsenal?’

  ‘Do you think I’d be here if we hadn’t?’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Evviva!’

  But Ezio was watching the sea. ‘We’ve got Venice back, my friend,’ he said. ‘And Agostino can rule it without further fear of the Templars. But I think there’ll be little rest for me. Do you see that galley on the horizon?’