Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (11 page)

Ezio was about to reply, but at that instant a young thief ran alongside them and, with his knife, swiftly and surely cut through the leather strings that attached Ezio’s money pouch to his belt.

“What the—!” Ezio shouted.

Machiavelli laughed. “He must be from your inner circle! Look at him run! You might have trained him yourself! Go! Get back what he’s stolen. We need that money! I’ll meet you at the Campidoglio on the Capitoline!”

Ezio wheeled his horse around and galloped off in pursuit of the thief. The man ran down alleys too narrow for the horse and Ezio had to go around, worried that he might lose his quarry but at the same time knowing—to his chagrin—that on foot the younger man could surely outrun him. It was almost as if the man had indeed had some Assassin training. But how could that be?

At last he cornered the man in a blind alley and pushed him up against the wall of the dead end with the body of his horse, pinning him there.

“Give it back,” he said evenly, drawing his sword.

The man still seemed bent on escape, but when he saw how hopeless his situation was, his body slumped and, mutely, he raised the hand that held the pouch. Ezio snatched it and stowed it away safely. But in doing so he let his horse move back a fraction, and in the wink of an eye the man had scrambled up the wall with almost extraordinary speed and disappeared on the other side.

“Hey! Come back! I haven’t finished with you yet!” Ezio yelled, but all he got in reply was the receding sound of running feet. Sighing, and ignoring the small crowd that had gathered, he steered the horse in the direction of the Capitoline Hill.

Dusk was falling as he rejoined Machiavelli there.

“Did you liberate your money from our friend?”

“I did.”

“A small victory.”

“They add up,” said Ezio. “And in time, with work, we’ll have a few more.”

“Let’s hope we make it before Cesare’s gaze falls on us again and we’re broken again. He damned nearly succeeded at Monteriggioni. Now, let’s get on with things.” He spurred his horse.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Colosseum. We have a rendezvous with a contact of mine, Vinicio.”

“And?”

“I’m expecting him to have something for me. Come on!”

As they rode through the city toward the Colosseum, Machiavelli commented drily on the various new buildings erected by Pope Alexander VI during his administration.

“Look at all these façades, masquerading as government. Rodrigo is very clever in the way he keeps this place in business. It fools your friends ‘the people’ quite easily.”

“When did you become so cynical?”

Machiavelli smiled. “I’m not being cynical at all. I’m just describing Roma as she is today! But don’t worry, Ezio—perhaps I am a little too bitter, a little too negative, sometimes. All may not be lost. The good news is that we do have allies in the city. You will meet them. And the College of Cardinals is not completely under Rodrigo’s thumb, much as he’d like it to be. But it is touch-and-go…”

“What is touch-and-go?”

“Our ultimate success.”

“We can only try. Giving up is a sure way to failure.”

“Who said anything about giving up?”

They rode on in silence and reached the gloomy hulk of the ruined Colosseum, a building over which, for Ezio, the remembered horrors of the games that had taken place here a thousand years ago still hung. But his attention was immediately caught by a group of Borgia guards with a papal courier. Their swords drawn, halberds pointing threateningly, and bearing flickering red torches, they were jostling a small, harassed-looking man.

“Merda!”
said Machiavelli softly. “It’s Vinicio. They’ve got to him first.”

Silently, the two men slowed their horses, approaching the group quietly and with as much caution as they could, in order to gain the maximum element of surprise. As they neared, they picked up snatches of conversation.

“What you got there?” one guard was asking.

“Nothing.”

“Attempting to steal official Vatican correspondence, eh?”

“
Perdonatemi, signore
. You must be mistaken.”

“No mistake, you little thief,” said another guard, prodding the man with his halberd.

“Who are you working for,
ladro
?”

“No one!”

“Good! Then no one will care what happens to you.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Machiavelli. “We’ve got to save him, and get the letter he carries.”

“Letter?”

“Come
on!
”

Machiavelli dug his heels into his mount’s flanks—the surprised horse bolted forward, as Machiavelli tugged hard on the reins. The beast reared, forelegs kicking wildly and slamming into the temple of the nearest Borgia guard, caving his helmet into his skull. The man fell like a stone. Meanwhile, Machiavelli had swiveled himself to his right, leaning low out of his saddle—reaching down, he slashed viciously at the shoulder of the guard threatening Vinicio. The man dropped his halberd instantly and collapsed with the pain flaming through his shoulder. Ezio spurred his own steed forward—careening past two other guards and using the pommel of his sword to strike hard, fatally hard, down on the first man’s head and slapping the second across the eyes with the flat of his blade. One more guard was left—distracted by the sudden attack, he didn’t notice Vinicio grabbing the shaft of his halberd and suddenly felt himself yanked forward. Vinicio’s dagger was waiting and pierced the man’s throat. He fell with a sickly gargling sound as blood flooded into his lungs. Once again, the element of surprise gave the Assassins the edge; the Borgia soldiers were clearly not used to such effective resistance to their bullying. Vinicio wasted no time and gestured to the main thoroughfare leading from the central plaza. A courier’s horse could be seen clattering from the plaza—the man standing hard in the stirrups urging his ride on.

“Give me the letter. Be quick about it!” ordered Machiavelli.

“But I haven’t got it—he has,” Vinicio cried, pointing toward the fleeing horse. “They got it back from me!”

“Get after him!” Machiavelli shouted to Ezio. “Whatever it costs, get that letter and bring it to me at the Terme di Diocleziano by midnight! I’ll be waiting.”

Ezio rode off in pursuit.

It was easier than catching the thief, this time. Ezio’s horse was better than the courier’s, and the man was no fighter. Ezio pulled him from the horse with ease. Ezio didn’t like to kill the man, but he couldn’t afford to let him go and raise the alarm.
“Requiescat in pace,”
he said softly, as he slit his throat. He put the letter, unopened, in his belt pouch and slapped the courier’s horse on its rear, hoping it would find its way back to its stable. He turned his own mount and made for the ruins of the Baths of Diocletian.

It was now almost pitch-dark, except for where the occasional torch guttered in a wall-mounted sconce. To reach the baths, Ezio had to cross a sizable stretch of wasteland, and halfway across, his horse reared and neighed in fear. But then a bloodcurdling sound came to his ears, like the howling of wolves. And yet not quite the same. Possibly worse. It sounded more like human voices imitating the animals. He spun his horse around in the dark.

But he didn’t have much time to reflect on that as he reached the deserted baths. Machiavelli had not yet arrived—no doubt off again on one of his mysterious private missions in the city—but then—

From among the hillocks and tussocks of grass that had grown over remains of the ancient Roman city, figures appeared, surrounding him. Feral-looking humans, but hardly human in appearance at all. They stood upright, but they had long ears, snouts, claws, and tails, and they were covered in rough grey hair. Their eyes seemed to glint red. Ezio drew a sharp breath—what on earth were these devilish creatures? His eyes darted around the ruins—he was encircled by at least a dozen of these wolfmen. Ezio unsheathed his sword once more. This was not turning out to be the best of days.

With wolflike snarls and howls, the creatures fell upon him. As they came close, Ezio could see that these were indeed men like him, but seemingly mad, like creatures in some kind of holy trance. Their weapons were long, sharp steel talons sewn firmly into the tips of heavy gloves, and with these they slashed at his legs and at the horse’s flanks, trying to bring him down.

He was able to keep them at bay with his sword, and, as their disguises seemed to have no chain mail or other protection under the wolfskins, he was able to damage them effectively with the keen edge of his sword. He cut one creature’s arm off at the elbow and it slunk away, wailing horribly in the darkness. The strange creatures seemed to be more aggressive than skillful—their weapons no match for the point of Ezio’s flashing blade. He quickly pressed forward—splitting the skull of another and piercing the left eye of a third. Both wolfmen fell on the spot—mortally injured by Ezio’s blows. By then the other wolfmen seemed to be having second thoughts about continuing their attack, some melting into the darkness or into hollows and caves formed by the overgrown ruins surrounding the baths. Ezio gave chase, gouging the thigh of one of his would-be assailants, while another fell under the hooves of the horse only to have his back broken by them. Overtaking a sixth, Ezio leaned down and, turning backward, ripped the man’s stomach open so that his guts spilled onto the ground, and he stumbled over them as he fell and died.

Then all was silent.

Ezio calmed his horse and stood up in his stirrups, willing his keen eyes to penetrate the darkness and his ears to pick up signals his eyes could not see. Presently he thought he could make out the sound of labored breathing not far off, though nothing was visible. He urged his horse into a walk and softly made his way in the direction it was coming from.

It seemed to be coming from the blackness of a shallow cave, formed by the overhang of a fallen archway and festooned with creepers and weeds. Dismounting and tying his horse firmly to a tree stump, and rubbing the blade of his sword with dirt so that it would not glint and give his location away, gingerly he made his way forward. He had thought that for a brief second he had seen the flickering of a flame in the bowels of the cave.

As he inched his way forward, bats swooped over his head and out into the night. The place stank of their droppings. Unseen insects and doubtless other creatures clattered and scuttled away from him. He cursed them for the noise they made, as it seemed as loud as thunder to him, but the ambush—if there was one—still did not come.

Then he saw the flame again and heard what he could have sworn was a faint whimpering. He saw that the cave was less shallow than the fallen arch suggested, and that its corridor curved gently, and at the same time narrowed, leading into a deeper darkness. As he followed the curve, the flickers of flame he had glimpsed earlier resolved themselves into a small fire, in the light of which he could make out a hunched figure.

The air was slightly fresher here. There must be some airway in the roof that he could not see. That would be why the fire could breathe. Ezio stood stock-still and watched.

Whimpering, the creature reached out a skinny left hand, grubby and bony, and plucked at the end of an iron bar that was stuck in the fire. Its other end was red-hot, and, tremblingly, the creature drew it out and, bracing itself, applied the end to the bloody stump of its other arm, stifling a shriek as it did so, in an attempt to cauterize the wound.

The wolfman Ezio had maimed!

In the second when the wolfman’s attention was exclusively bound up in his pain and the job at hand, Ezio surged forward. He was almost too late, for the creature was fast and almost got away, but Ezio’s fist closed hard around its good arm. It was difficult, for the limb was slippery with grease, and the stench the creature released as it moved was all but overpowering, but Ezio held on firmly. Catching his breath, and kicking the iron bar away, Ezio said: “What the fuck are you?”

“Uurrgh,”
was all the reply he got. Ezio slapped the man hard on the head with his other fist, still sheathed in a mailed glove. Blood spurted close to the man’s left eye and he moaned in additional pain.

“What are you? Speak!”

“Errrgh.”
The open mouth displayed a broken, greyish set of teeth and the smell that came from it made that of a drunken whore seem sweet.

“Speak!” Ezio drove the point of his sword into the stump and twisted it. He hadn’t time to mess about with this wreck of a person. He was worried about his horse.

“Aaarrgh!”
This time a cry of pain. Then a rough, almost incomprehensible voice emerged from the inarticulate grunting—speaking good Italian. “I am a follower of the Secta Luporum.”

“The Sect of the Wolves? What the hell is that?”

“You will find out. What you did tonight—”

“Oh, shut up.” Tightening his grip, Ezio stirred up the fire to gain more light and glanced around. He now saw that he was in a kind of domed chamber, possibly hollowed out deliberately. There was little in it but a couple of chairs and a rough table with a handful of papers on it, weighted down with a stone.

“My brothers will return soon—and then—”

Ezio dragged him to the table, pointing with his sword at the papers. “And these? What are these?”

The man looked at him and spat. Ezio placed his swordpoint close to the bloody stump again.

“No!” wailed the man. “Not again!”

“Then tell me.” Ezio looked at the papers. The moment would come when he would have to put his sword down, however briefly, to pick them up. Some of the writing was in Italian, some in Latin, but there were other symbols, which looked like writing, but which he could not decipher.

Then he heard a rustling, coming from the direction he had entered from. The wolfman’s eyes gleamed. “Our secrets,” he said.

At the same moment two more of the creatures bounded into the room, roaring and clawing at the air with their steel claws. Ezio’s prisoner wrenched himself free and would have joined them if Ezio had not slashed his head from his shoulders and sent it rolling toward his friends. He tore around to the other side of the table, seizing the papers, and hurled the table over toward his enemies.