Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  Ezio and his fellow Assassins followed as the mob bore the Monk away, still crying out his mixture of pleas and threats: ‘The sword of God will fall upon the Earth swiftly and suddenly. Release me, for only I can save you from His wrath! My children, heed me before it is too late! There is but one true salvation, and you forsake the path to it for mere material gain! If you do not bow again to me, all Florence shall know the anger of the Lord – and this city will fall like Sodom and Gomorrah, for He will know the depth of your betrayal. Aiutami, Dio! I am brought down by ten thousand Judases!’

  Ezio was close enough to hear one of the citizens carrying the Monk say, ‘Oh, enough of your lies. You’ve been pouring out nothing but misery and hatred since you first walked among us!’

  ‘God may be in your head, Monk,’ said another, ‘but he is far from your heart.’

  They were approached the Piazza della Signoria now, and others in the crowd took up the triumphant cry.

  ‘We have suffered enough! We shall be free people once more!’

  ‘Soon, the light of life will return to our city!’

  ‘We must punish the traitor! He is the true heretic! He twisted the Word of God to suit himself!’ a woman shouted.

  ‘The yoke of religious tyranny is broken at last,’ another exclaimed. ‘Savonarola will at last be punished.’

  ‘The truth illuminates us and fear has fled!’ yelled a third. ‘Your words hold sway here no more, Monk!’

  ‘You claimed to be His prophet, but your words were dark and cruel. You called us puppets of the devil – I think, perhaps, the true puppet was you!’

  Ezio and his friends had no need to intercede further – the machinery they had set in motion would do the rest of their work for them. The leaders of the city, as eager to save their own skins as to claw back power for themselves, streamed out of the Signoria to show their support. A stage was erected and on it a huge stack of kindling and wood was raised around three stakes, while Savonarola and his two most ardent lieutenants were dragged into the Signoria for a brief and savage trial. As he had shown no mercy, no mercy would be shown to him. Soon they reappeared in shackles, were led to the stakes, and bound to them.

  ‘Oh Lord my God, pity me,’ Savonarola was heard to plead. ‘Deliver me from evil’s embrace! Surrounded as I am by sin, I cry out to you for salvation!’

  ‘You wanted to burn me,’ a man jeered. ‘Now the tables are turned!’

  The executioners put torches into the wood around the stakes. Ezio watched, his mind on his kinsmen who had met their ends so many years ago at this selfsame place.

  ‘Infelix ego,’ prayed Savonarola in a loud voice filled with pain as the fire began to take. ‘Omnium auxilio destitutus… I have broken the laws of heaven and earth. Which way can I turn? Whom can I run to? Who will take pity on me? I dare not look up to Heaven as I have sinned grievously against it. I can find no refuge on Earth as I have been a scandal to it also…’

  Ezio approached, getting as close as he could. Despite the grief he has occasioned me, no man, even this one, deserves to die in such pain, he thought. He extracted his loaded pistola from his satchel and attached it to his right-arm mechanism. At that moment, Savonarola noticed him and stared, half in fear and half in hope.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said, raising his voice above the roar of the fire, but in essence the two communicated by an interconnection of their minds. ‘I knew this day would come. Brother, please show me the pity I did not show you. I left you to the mercy of wolves and dogs.’

  Ezio raised his arm. ‘Fare well, padre,’ he said, and fired. In the pandemonium around the blaze his movement and the noise the gun made went unnoticed. Savonarola’s head sank on to his chest. ‘Go now in peace, that you may be judged by your God,’ said Ezio quietly. ‘Requiescat in pace.’ He glanced at the two lieutenant monks, Domenico and Silvestro, but they were already dead, their burst guts spewed out on the hissing fire. The stench of burnt meat was heavy in everyone’s nostrils. The crowd was beginning to calm down. Soon, there was little noise other than the crackling of the flames as they finished their work.

  Ezio stepped away from the pyres. Standing at a short distance, he saw Machiavelli, Paola and La Volpe watching him. Machiavelli caught his eye and made a small gesture of encouragement. Ezio knew what he had to do. He mounted the stage at the far end from the bonfires and all eyes turned to him.

  ‘Citizens of Florence!’ he said in a clarion voice. ‘Twenty-two years ago, I stood where I stand now, and watched my loved ones die, betrayed by those I had counted friends. Vengeance clouded my mind. It would have consumed me, had it not been for the wisdom of a few strangers, who taught me to look beyond my instincts. They never preached answers, but guided me to learn from myself.’ Ezio saw that his fellow Assassins had now been joined by Uncle Mario, who smiled and raised a hand in salute. ‘My friends,’ he continued, ‘we don’t need anyone to tell us what to do. Not Savonarola, not the Pazzi, not even the Medici. We are free to follow our own path.’ He paused. ‘There are those who would take that freedom from us, and too many of you – too many of us – alas – gladly give it. But we have it within our power to choose – to choose whatever we deem true – and it is the exercise of that power which makes us human. There is no book or teacher to give us the answers, to show us a path. So – choose your own way! Do not follow me, or anyone else!’

  With an inward smile he noticed how disquieted some of the members of the Signoria were looking. Perhaps mankind would never change, but it didn’t hurt to give it a nudge. He jumped down, pulled his hood over his head, and walked out of the square, down the street running along the north wall of the Signoria which he had memorably walked down twice before, and vanished from sight.

  And there then began for Ezio the last long hard quest of his life before the final confrontation he knew was inevitable. With Machiavelli at his side, he organized his fellows of the Order of the Assassins from Florence and Venice to roam throughout the Italian peninsula, travelling far and wide, armed with copies of Girolamo’s map, painstakingly gathering the remaining missing pages of the Great Codex; scouring the provinces of Piedmont, of Trent, of Liguria, Umbria, Veneto, Friuli, Lombardy; of Emilia-Romagna, the Marche, Tuscany, Lazio, Abruzzo; of Molise, Apulia, Campania and Basilicata; and of dangerous Calabria. They spent perhaps too much time in Capri, and crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea to the land of kidnappers, Sardinia, and wicked, gangsterized Sicily. They visited kings and courted dukes, they battled those Templars they encountered on the same mission; but in the end they triumphed.

  They reassembled at Monteriggioni. It had taken five long years, and Alexander VI, Rodrigo Borgia, old now, but still strong, remained Pope in Rome. The power of the Templars, though diminished, still posed a grave threat.

  Much remained to be done.

  28

  One morning early in August 1503, Ezio, a man now of forty-four, his temples streaked with grey but his beard still dark chestnut, was bidden by his uncle to join him and the rest of the Company of Assassins there assembled, in his study at his castle of Monteriggioni. Paola, Machiavelli and La Volpe had been joined by Teodora, Antonio and Bartolomeo.

  ‘It is time, Ezio,’ said Mario solemnly. ‘We hold the Apple and now all the missing Codex pages are collected here together. Let us now finish what you and my brother, your father, started so long ago… Perhaps we can at long last make sense of the prophecy buried within the Codex, and finally break the inexorable power of the Templars for ever.’

  ‘Then, Uncle, we should begin by locating the Vault. The Codex pages you have reassembled should lead us to it.’

  Mario swung back the bookcase to reveal the wall on which the Codex – now in its entirety – hung. Near it, on a pedestal, stood the Apple.

  ‘This is how the pages relate to one another,’ said Mario as they all took in the complex design. ‘It appears to show a map of the world, but a world bigger than we know, with continents to the west and south which we are unaware of. Yet I a
m convinced they exist.’

  ‘There are other elements,’ said Machiavelli. ‘Here, on the left, you can see the traced outline of what can only be a crozier, indeed what may be a Papal staff. On the right is clearly a depiction of the Apple. In the middle of the pages we can now see a dozen dots marked in a pattern whose significance is as yet mysterious.’

  As he spoke, the Apple began to glow of its own accord, and finally flashed blindingly, illuminating the Codex pages and seeming to embrace them. Then it resumed its dull, neutral state.

  ‘Why did it do that – at that precise moment?’ asked Ezio, wishing Leonardo had been there to explain, or at least deduce. He was trying to remember what his friend had said about the singular properties of this curious machine, though Ezio didn’t know what it was – it seemed to be as much living thing as mechanism. But some instinct told him to trust in it.

  ‘Another mystery to unravel,’ said La Volpe.

  ‘How can this map be possible?’ asked Paola. ‘Undiscovered continents…!’

  ‘Perhaps continents waiting to be rediscovered,’ suggested Ezio, but his tone was one of awe.

  ‘How can this be?’ said Teodora.

  Machiavelli replied, ‘Perhaps the Vault holds the answer.’

  ‘Can we see where it is located, now?’ asked the ever-practical Antonio.

  ‘Let’s look…’ said Ezio, examining the Codex. ‘If we trace lines between these dots…’ He did so. ‘They converge, see! On a single location.’ He stepped back. ‘No! It cannot be! The Vault! It looks as if the Vault is in Rome!’ He looked round the assembled company, and they read his next thought.

  ‘It explains why Rodrigo was so anxious to become Pope,’ said Mario. ‘Eleven years he’s ruled the Holy See, but he still lacks the means to crack its darkest secret, though he clearly must know he’s at the spot itself.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Machiavelli. ‘In a sense you have to admire him. He’s not only managed to locate the Vault, but by becoming Pope he has control of the Staff!’

  ‘The Staff?’ said Teodora.

  Mario spoke: ‘The Codex always mentioned two “Pieces of Eden” – that is, two keys – it can mean nothing else. One –’ he turned his eyes to it, ‘– is the Apple.’

  ‘And the other is the Papal staff!’ cried Ezio, in realization. ‘The Papal staff is the second “Piece of Eden”!’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘My God, you are right!’ Uncle Mario barked. He suddenly became grave. ‘For years, for decades, we have sought these answers.’

  ‘And now we have them,’ added Paola.

  ‘But so, too, might the Spaniard,’ put in Antonio. ‘We don’t know that there aren’t copies of the Codex – we don’t know that, even if his own collection is incomplete, he nevertheless has enough information to…’ He broke off. ‘And if he does, if he finds a way into the Vault…’ He dropped his voice. ‘Its contents will make the Apple seem a trifling thing.’

  ‘Two keys,’ Mario reminded them. ‘The Vault needs two keys to open it.’

  ‘But we can’t take any risks,’ said Ezio urgently. ‘I must ride now to Rome and find the Vault!’ No one disagreed. Ezio looked at each of their faces in turn. ‘And what of the rest of you?’

  Bartolomeo, who had hitherto remained silent, now spoke, with less than his usual bluffness: ‘I’ll do what I do best – cause some trouble in the Eternal City, some uproar – cause a diversion so you can get on undisturbed.’

  ‘We’ll all help make the way as clear as possible for you, friend,’ said Machiavelli.

  ‘Just let me know when you’re ready, nipote, and we’ll all be behind you,’ said Mario. ‘Tutti per uno e uno per tutti!’

  ‘Grazie, amici,’ said Ezio. ‘I know you’ll be there when I need you. But let me carry the burden of this last quest – a lone fish can slip through a net that catches a shoal, and the Templars will be on their guard.’

  They made their preparations fast, and soon after halfway through the month, Ezio, the precious Apple in his custody, arrived by boat on the Tiber at the wharfs near the Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome. He had taken every precaution, but by some devilry or the astuteness of Rodrigo’s ubiquitous spies, his arrival did not pass unnoticed, and he was challenged by a squad of Borgia guards at the gates to the wharfs. He would have to fight his way to the Passetto di Borgo, the half-mile-long elevated passage that linked the Castel with the Vatican. Knowing that time was against them, now that Rodrigo must know of his arrival, Ezio decided that a quick, precise attack was his only option. He sprang like a lynx on to the mantle of an ox-drawn cart that was taking barrels from the docks, and skipping on to the higher-most barrel he leapt up to an overhanging gantry. The guards watched open-mouthed as the Assassin launched himself from the gantry – cloak billowing out behind him. Dagger drawn, he slew the Borgia sergeant atop his horse, and relieved him of his mount. The whole manoeuvre had unfolded in less time than it had taken for the remaining guards to draw their swords. Ezio, without looking back, rode off down the Passetto far faster than the Borgia uniforms could pursue him.

  As he arrived at his destination, Ezio found that the gate through which he had to enter was too low and narrow for a horseman, so he dismounted and continued through it on foot, dispatching the two men who guarded it with a single deft movement of his blades. Despite his gathering years, Ezio had intensified his training, and was now at the peak of his powers – the pinnacle of his Order, the supreme Assassin.

  Beyond the gate he found himself in a narrow courtyard, at the other side of which was yet another gate. It seemed to be unguarded, but as he approached the lever at its side which he assumed would open it, a cry went up from the ramparts above: ‘Stop the intruder!’ Glancing behind him, he saw the gate through which he had entered slamming shut. He was caught in that cramped enclave!

  He threw himself on the lever controlling the second gate as the archers ranging themselves above him prepared to fire, and just managed to dash through it as the arrows clattered to the ground behind him.

  Now he was inside the Vatican. Moving catlike through its labyrinthine corridors, and melting into the shadows at the merest hint of now alerted guards passing, for he could not afford confrontation which might give his position away, he found himself at last in the vast cave of the Sistine Chapel.

  Baccio Pontelli’s masterpiece, built for the Assassins’ old enemy Pope Sixtus IV and completed twenty years earlier, loomed around and above him, the many candles lit at this time just penetrating the gloom. Ezio could make out wall paintings by Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, Perugino and Rosselli, but the great vault of the ceiling had as yet to be decorated.

  He had entered by a stained-glass window which was undergoing repair, and he balanced on an interior embrasure overlooking the vast hall. Below him, Alexander VI, in full golden regalia, was conducting the Mass, reading from the Gospel of San Giovanni.

  ‘In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Hoc erat in pricipio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum fact sunt, et sine ipso factum est nihil quid factum est… In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehendeth it not. There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth…’

  Ezio watched until the service came to its conclusion and the con
gregation began filing out, leaving the Pope alone with his cardinals and attendant priests. Did the Spaniard know Ezio was there? Did he plan some kind of confrontation? Ezio did not know, but he could see that here was a golden opportunity to rid the world of this most menacing Templar. Bracing himself, he threw himself outwards and downwards off the embrasure to land close to the Pope in a perfect crouch, springing up immediately, before the man or his attendants could have time to react or call out, and driving his spring-blade hard and deep into Alexander’s swollen body. The Pope sank soundlessly to the ground at Ezio’s feet and lay still.

  Ezio stood over him, breathing hard. ‘I thought… I thought I was beyond this. I thought I could rise above vengeance. But I can’t. I’m just a man. I’ve waited too long, lost too much… and you are a canker in the world that should be cut out for everyone’s good – Requiescat in pace, sfortunato.’

  He turned to go, but then a peculiar thing happened. The Spaniard’s hand curled round the Staff he had been holding. Immediately, it began to glow with a brilliant white light, and as it did so the whole great cavern of a chapel seem to whirl round and round. And the Spaniard’s cold cobalt eyes snapped open.

  ‘I’m not quite ready to rest in peace, you pitiful wretch,’ said the Spaniard. There was a mighty flash of light and the attendant priests and cardinals, together with those members of the congregation who were still inside the chapel, collapsed, crying out in pain, as curious thin beams of translucent light, smoke-like in the way they curled, emerged from their bodies and travelled into the glowing Staff which the Pope, now standing, held in a grip of steel.

  Ezio ran at him, but the Spaniard shouted, ‘No you don’t, Assassin!’ and swung the Staff at him. It crackled in a strange way, like lightning, and Ezio felt himself thrown across the chapel, over the bodies of the moaning and writhing priests and people. Rodrigo Borgia rapped his Staff briskly on the floor by the altar and more smoke-like energy flowed into it – and him – from their hapless bodies.