Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (12 page)

The firelight dimmed. The fire needed stirring again. Needed more fuel. Ezio’s eyes strained to pick out the two remaining wolfmen. They were like grey shadows in the room. Ezio dropped back into the darkness, stashed the papers in his tunic, and waited.

The wolfmen may have had the strength of the insane, but they couldn’t have been very skilled, except in the art, perhaps, of scaring people to death. They certainly couldn’t keep quiet or move silently. Using his ears more than his eyes, Ezio managed to circle, skirting the walls, until he knew he was behind them when they thought he was still somewhere in the darkness ahead of them.

There was no time to lose. He sheathed his sword, unleashed his hidden-blade, came up as stealthily as a real wolf behind one of them, and, holding him firmly from behind, cut his throat. He died instantly and silently, and Ezio eased the body just as silently to the floor. He considered trying to capture the other, but there was no time for interrogation. There might be more of them, and Ezio wasn’t sure he had enough strength left to fight anymore. Ezio could sense the other man’s panic, and it was confirmed when he left off his wolf impersonation and called anxiously into the silent darkness, “Sandro?”

It was a simple matter then to locate him, and again the exposed throat was Ezio’s hoped-for target. But this time the man spun around, tearing at the air in front of him frantically with his claws. He could see Ezio, but Ezio remembered that these creatures wore no mail under their fancy dress. He withdrew the hidden-blade and with his larger and less subtle dagger, which had the advantage of a serrated edge, opened the man’s chest. The exposed heart and lungs glistened in the dying firelight as the last wolfman fell forward, his face in the fire. The smell of burning hair and burning flesh threatened to overcome Ezio almost immediately, but he sprang back and made his way as fast as he could, fighting down panic, to the kindly air and the night again.

Once outside, he could see that the wolfmen had not touched his horse. Perhaps they had been too sure of trapping him to bother to kill it or drive it away. He untied it and realized he was trembling too much to mount. Instead he took its bridle and led it back to the Baths of Diocletian. Machiavelli had better be there and he had better be well armed. By God, if only he still had his Codex gun! Or one of those things Leonardo had fashioned for his new master. But Ezio did have the satisfaction of knowing he could still win fights by using his wits and his training—two things they couldn’t deprive him of until the day they caught him and tortured him to death.

He remained fully alert on the short journey back to the baths and found himself—something that would not have happened to him as a younger man—occasionally starting at shadows. The thought of a safe arrival back at the baths brought him no comfort. What if there was another ambush awaiting him there? And what if these creatures had surprised Machiavelli? Was Machiavelli himself aware of the Secta Luporum?

Where were Machiavelli’s loyalties anyway?

But he reached the dim, vast ruin, a memorial to the lost age when Italy had ruled the world, in safety. There was no sign of life that he could see, but then Machiavelli himself emerged from behind an olive tree and greeted him soberly.

“What kept you?”

“I was here before you. But then I was…distracted.” Ezio looked at his colleague evenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Some jokers in fancy dress. Sound familiar?”

Machiavelli’s gaze was keen. “Dressed as wolves?”

“So you do know about them.”

“Yes.”

“Then why suggest here as a meeting place?”

“Are you suggesting that I—?”

“What else am I to think?”

“Dear Ezio—” Machiavelli took a step forward. “I assure you, by the sanctity of our Creed, that I had no idea they would be here.” He paused. “But you are right. I sought a meeting place remote from men, little realizing that they, too, might choose such a place.”

“If they’d been tipped off.”

“If you are impugning my honor—”

Ezio made an impatient gesture. “Oh, skip it,” he said. “We’ve enough to do without quarreling with each other.” In truth, Ezio knew that for the moment he would have to trust Machiavelli. And so far, he had had no reason not to. But he would play his cards closer to his chest in future. “Who are they? What are they?”

“The Sect of the Wolves. Sometimes they call themselves the Followers of Romulus.”

“Shouldn’t we move away from here? I managed to grab some papers of theirs and they might be back to collect.”

“First, tell me if you got the letter back, and tell me quickly what else has happened to you. You look as if you have been well in the wars,” said Machiavelli.

After Ezio had done so, his friend smiled. “I doubt if they will return tonight. We are two trained, armed men and it sounds as if you well and truly thrashed them. But that in itself will have incensed Cesare. You see, although there is little proof as yet, we believe that these creatures are in the Borgia’s employ. They are a band of false pagans who have been terrorizing the city for months.”

“To what purpose?”

Machiavelli spread his hands. “Political. Propaganda. The idea is that people will be encouraged to throw themselves under the protection of the Papacy—and in return, a certain loyalty is exacted from them.”

“How convenient. But even so, shouldn’t we be getting out of here now?” Ezio was suddenly and unsurprisingly tired. His very soul ached.

“They won’t be back tonight. No disparagement to your prowess, Ezio, but the wolfmen aren’t fighters or even killers. The Borgia use them as trusted go-betweens, but their main job is to frighten. They are poor, deluded souls whom the Borgia have brainwashed into working for them. They believe their new masters will help them rebuild ancient Rome—from its very beginnings. The founders of Rome were Romulus and Remus. They were suckled as babies by a she-wolf.”

“I remember the legend.”

“For the wolfmen, poor creatures, it is no legend. But they are a dangerous enough tool in the Borgia’s hands.” He paused briefly. “Now—the letter! And those papers you say you grabbed from the wolfmen’s lair. Well done, by the way.”

“If they’re of any use.”

“We’ll see. Give me the letter.”

“Here it is.”

Hastily, Machiavelli broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
“Cazzo,”
he muttered. “It’s encrypted.”

“What do you mean?”

“This one was supposed to be in plain text. Vinicio is—was—one of my moles among the Borgia. He told me he had it on good authority. The fool! They are transmitting information in code. Without their code sheet, we have nothing.”

“Perhaps the papers I got hold of will help.”

Machiavelli smiled. “By heaven, Ezio—sometimes I thank God we are on the same side. Let’s have a look!”

Quickly he sifted through the pages Ezio had seized, and his troubled face cleared.

“Any good?”

“I think…perhaps…” He read some more, his brow once more furrowed. “Yes! By God, yes! I think we have it!” He clapped Ezio on the shoulder and laughed.

Ezio laughed, too. “You see? Sometimes logic is not the only way to win a war. Luck can play a part, too.
Andiamo!
You said we had allies in the city. Come on! Bring me to them!”

“Follow me!”

“What about the horse?” Ezio asked.

“Turn her loose. She’ll find her way back to her stable.”

“I can’t abandon her.”

“You must. We are going back to the city. If we let her go there, they’ll know you got back. If they find the horse out here, they’ll think—with luck—that you’re still wandering around this area and divert their search here.”

Ezio reluctantly did as he was told, and Machiavelli led him to a concealed flight of stone steps leading underground. At the foot of them a torch was burning. This Machiavelli seized.

“Where are we?” asked Ezio.

“This leads to a system of ancient underground tunnels that crisscross the city. Your father discovered them and they have remained the Assassins’ secret ever since. We can use this route to avoid any guards who’ll be out looking for us, because you may be sure that the wolfmen who escaped will raise the alarm. They’re big, because they were used for transport and troops in ancient times, and well built, as everything was in those days. But many of the outlets within the city have collapsed now and are blocked. We must pick our way carefully. Stay close—it would be fatal for you to get lost down here.”

For two hours they passed through a labyrinth that seemed never-ending. Ezio, as he passed, glimpsed side tunnels, blocked entranceways, strange carvings of forgotten gods over archways, and the occasional flight of steps leading upward, some leading into blackness, others, fewer, showing a glimmer of light at their heads. At last Machiavelli, who had kept up a steady but hurried pace all along, paused at one such flight.

“We’re here,” he announced. “I’ll go first. It’s almost dawn. We must be careful.” He vanished up the steps.

After what seemed an age, during which the thought crossed Ezio’s mind that he might have been abandoned, he heard a whispered “All clear” from Machiavelli.

Despite his fatigue, he ran up the steps, glad to be back in the fresh air. He’d had enough of tunnels and caves to last a lifetime.

He found himself emerging from a kind of big manhole into a large room, large enough to have been a warehouse of sorts once.

“Where are we?”

“On an island in the Tiber. It was used years ago as a depot. No one comes here now, except us.”

“Us?”

“Our Brotherhood. It is, if you like, our hideout in Rome.”

A burly, confident young man rose from a stool by a table on which lay papers and the remains of a meal and came to greet them. His tone was open and friendly.

“Niccolò!
Ben trovato!
” He turned to Ezio. “And you—you must be the famous Ezio! Welcome!” He took Ezio’s hand and shook it warmly. “Fabio Orsini—at your service. I’ve heard a lot about you from my cousin—and old friend of yours—Bartolomeo d’Alviano.”

Ezio smiled at the name. “A fine warrior,” he said.

“It was Fabio who discovered this place,” put in Machiavelli.

“Every convenience here,” said Fabio. “And outside, so overgrown with ivy and whatnot, you wouldn’t even know it existed!”

“It is good to have you on our side.”

“My family has taken a few bad blows from the Borgia of late—and my one aim is to kick their stall in and restore our patrimony.” He looked around doubtfully. “Of course, this may all seem a bit shabby to you, after your accommodations in Toscana.”

“This is perfect.”

Fabio smiled. “
Bene
. Well, now that you have arrived, you must forgive me that I must leave you—immediately.”

“What are your plans?” asked Machiavelli.

Fabio’s face became more serious. “I am off to begin preparations for Romagna. Today, Cesare has control of my estate and my men; but soon, I hope, we will be free again.”

“Buona fortuna!”

“Grazie!”

“Arrivederci!”

“Arrivederci!”

And, with a friendly wave, Fabio was gone.

Machiavelli cleared a space on the table and spread out the encrypted letter, together with the wolfmen’s decoding page. “I have to get on with this,” he said. “Look—you must be exhausted—there’s food and wine there, and good, clear Roman water. Refresh yourself while I work, for there is still much to be done.”

“Is Fabio one of the allies of whom you spoke?”

“Indeed. And there are others. One very great indeed.”

“And he is? Or is it a she?” Ezio asked, thinking, despite himself, of Caterina Sforza. He could not get her out of his mind. She was the Borgia’s prisoner still. His own private priority was to free her. But was she playing games with him? He could not rid his mind of a grain of doubt. But she was a free spirit. He did not own her. Only—he did not relish the thought of being played for a fool. And he did not want to be used.

Machiavelli hesitated, as if he had already divulged too much, but then he spoke: “It is the cardinal Giuliano della Rovere. He was in competition with Rodrigo for the Papacy, and lost; but he is still a powerful man—and has powerful friends. He has potentially strong connections with the French, but bides his time—he knows that King Louis is only using the Borgia for as long as it suits him. Above all, he hates the Borgia with a deep and enduring loathing. Do you know how many Spaniards the Borgia have placed in positions of power? We are in danger of having them control Italy.”

“Then he’s the man for us. When can I meet him?”

“The time is not yet ripe. Eat, while I work.”

Ezio was glad of the hour’s respite, but found that hunger and even thirst—at least, for wine—had abandoned him. He drank some water gratefully, and toyed with a chicken leg, as he watched Machiavelli pore over the papers in front of him.

“Is it working?” he asked at one point.

“Shh!”

The sun had reached the church towers of Rome when Machiavelli put down his quill and drew toward him the spare sheet of paper on which he’d been writing.

“It’s done.”

Ezio waited expectantly.

“It’s a directive to the wolfmen,” said Machiavelli. “It states that the Borgia will provide their usual payment, and orders the wolfmen to attack—that is, to create terrifying diversions—in various parts of the city not yet under full Borgia control. The attacks are to be timed with the ‘fortuitous’ appearance of a Borgia priest, who will use the powers of the Church to ‘banish’ the attackers.”

“What do you propose?”

“If you agree, Ezio, I think we should begin planning our own assault on the Borgia. Carry on the good work you started at the stables.”

Ezio hesitated. “You think we are
ready
for such an attack?”

“Sì.”

“I’d like to know where the Borgia are holding Caterina Sforza first. She’d be a powerful ally.”

Machiavelli looked nonplussed. “If she is their prisoner, she’ll be held at the Castel Sant’Angelo. They’ve turned it into a stronghold.” He paused. “It is too bad they have control of the Apple. Oh, Ezio, how could you have let that happen?”