Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (14 page)

Ezio, who’d had to go on a mission to Siena during the last week of work, was delighted at the finished product when he returned. It was already up and running when he arrived.

“I’ve kept the name,” La Volpe said. “I like it. La Volpe Addormentata. Can’t think why.”

“Let’s hope it lulls the enemy into a sense of false security.” Ezio grinned.

“At least all this activity hasn’t drawn any undue attention to us. And we run it like a regular inn. We even have a casino. My own idea. And it’s turned out to be a great source of income, since we ensure that the Borgia guards who patronize us now always lose!”

“And where—?” said Ezio, lowering his voice.

“Ah. Through here.” La Volpe led the way to the west wing of the inn, through a door marked
UFFIZI—PRIVATI
, where two thieves stood guard without making it too obvious.

They passed along a corridor that led to a suite of rooms behind heavy doors. The walls were hung with maps of Rome, the desks and tables covered with neatly stacked papers at which men and women were working already, though it was only just past dawn.

“This is where our real business is done,” said La Volpe.

“Looks very efficient.”

“One good thing about thieves—good ones, at least,” said La Volpe. “They’re independent thinkers and they like a bit of competition, even among themselves.”

“I remember.”

“You’d probably be able to show them a thing or two, if you took part yourself.”

“Oh, I will.”

“But it wouldn’t be safe for you to stay here,” said La Volpe. “For you or for us. But visit me whenever you like—visit me often.”

“I will.” Ezio thought of his own lonely lodgings—lonely, but comfortable and very discreet. He’d have been happy nowhere else. He turned his mind to the business at hand. “Now that we are organized—the most important thing is to locate the Apple. We have to get it back.”

“Va bene.”

“We know the Borgia have it, but despite our best efforts, we still haven’t been able to track it down. So far, at least, they seem to have made no use of it. I can only think they are still studying it, and getting nowhere.”

“Have they sought…expert advice?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure they will have. But he may be pretending to be less intelligent than he is. Let’s hope so. Let’s hope the Borgia don’t become impatient with him.”

La Volpe smiled. “I won’t pursue you on that. But in the meantime, rest assured that we already have people scouring Rome for its location.”

“They’ll have hidden it well. Very well. Maybe even from one another. There’s an increasingly rebellious streak in young Cesare, and his father doesn’t like it.”

“What are thieves for, but to sniff out well-hidden valuables?”

“
Molto bene
. And now, I must go.”

“A last glass, before you do?”

“No. I have much to do now. But we will see each other again soon.”

“And where shall I send my reports?”

Ezio considered. Then he said: “To the rendezvous of the Assassin Brotherhood—on Tiber Island!”

It was high time now, Ezio decided, to look up his old friend Bartolomeo d’Alviano, Fabio Orsini’s cousin. He’d fought shoulder to shoulder with the Orsini against the papal forces back in 1496 and had recently returned from mercenary service in Spain.

Bartolomeo was one of the greatest of the
condottieri
, and an old companion-in-arms of Ezio’s. He was also, despite his sometimes oafish manner and a tendency to alarming fits both of anger and depression, a man of unbending loyalty and integrity. Those qualities made him one of the mainstays of the Brotherhood—those, and his adamantine hatred of the Templar sect.

But how would Ezio find him to be now? Well, he would soon know. He had learned that Bartolomeo had just returned from fighting and was at the barracks of his private army, on the outskirts of Rome. The barracks were well outside town, in the countryside to the northeast, but not far from one of the fortified watchtowers the Borgia had erected at various vantage points in and around the city; but the Borgia knew better than to tangle with Bartolomeo—at least, not until they felt powerful enough to crush him like the cockroach they considered him to be. And their power, Ezio knew, was growing daily.

He arrived at his destination soon after the hour of
pranzo
. The sun was past its peak and the day was too hot, the discomfort mitigated by a westerly breeze. Arriving at the huge gate in the high palisade that surrounded the barracks, he pounded it with his fist.

A judas set in the gate opened and Ezio sensed an eye appraising him. Then it closed and he heard a muffled and brief conversation. The judas opened again. Then there was a joyous, baritone bellow, and after much drawing of bolts, the gate was flung open. A large man, slightly younger than Ezio, stood there, his rough army clothes in slightly less than their usual disarray, with his arms held wide.

“Ezio Auditore! You old so-and-so! Come in! Come in! I’ll kill you if you don’t!”

“Bartolomeo!”

The two old friends embraced warmly, then walked across the barracks square toward Bartolomeo’s quarters.

“Come on! Come on!” Bartolomeo said with his usual eagerness. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

They’d arrived inside a long, low room, well lit from large windows facing the inner square. It was a room that clearly served both for living and dining, and it was spacious and airy. But there was something very un-Bartolomeo-ish about it. There were clean blinds on the windows. There was an embroidered cloth spread on the table, from which the remains of any lunch had already been cleared. There were pictures on the walls. There was even a bookcase. Bianca, Bartolomeo’s beloved greatsword, was nowhere to be seen. Above all, the place was unbelievably tidy.

“Wait here,” said Bartolomeo, snapping his fingers at an orderly for wine and clearly in a high state of excitement. “Now just guess whom I want you to meet!”

Ezio glanced around the room again. “Well, I’ve met Bianca…”

Bartolomeo made a gesture of impatience. “No, no! She’s in the map-room—it’s where she lives nowadays. Guess again!”

“Well,” Ezio said slyly, “could it possibly be—your wife?”

Bartolomeo looked so crestfallen that Ezio almost felt sorry for having made so accurate a deduction, not that it’d been hard, exactly. But the big man cheered up quickly and went on: “She’s such a treasure. You wouldn’t believe!” He turned and bellowed in the direction of the inner rooms: “Pantasilea! Pantasilea!” The orderly appeared again with a tray bearing sweetmeats, a decanter, and glasses. “Where is she?” Bartolomeo asked him.

“Have you checked behind the table?” Ezio asked, tongue in cheek.

Just then, Pantasilea herself appeared, descending a staircase that ran along the western wall of the room.

“Here she is!”

Ezio stood to greet her.

He bowed. “Auditore, Ezio.”

“Baglioni, Pantasilea—now Baglioni-d’Alviano.”

She was still young—in her mid to late twenties, Ezio judged. Judging by her name she was from a noble family, and her dress, though modest, was pretty and tasteful. Her face, framed in fine blond hair, was oval, her nose tip-tilted like a flower, her lips generous and humorous, as were her intelligent eyes—a deep, dark brown, which were welcoming when she looked at you and yet seemed to withhold something of herself. She was tall, reaching Bartolomeo’s shoulders, and slender, with quite wide shoulders and rather narrow hips, long, slim arms, and shapely legs. Bartolomeo had clearly found a treasure. Ezio hoped he’d be able to hang on to her.

“Lieta di conoscervi,”
Pantasilea was saying.

“Altrettanto a Lei.”

She glanced from one man to the other. “We will have time to meet properly on another occasion,” she said to Ezio, with the air of a woman not leaving men to their business, but of having business of her own.

“Stay a little,
tesora mia
.”

“No, Barto, you know I have to see the clerk. He always manages to bungle the accounts somehow. And there is something wrong with the water supply. I must see to that, too.” To Ezio she said,
“Ora, mi scusi, ma…”

“Con piacere.”

Smiling at both, she remounted the stairs and disappeared.

“What do you think?” Bartolomeo asked.

“Charmed, truly.” Ezio was sincere. And he’d also noticed how his friend reined himself in, in her presence. He imagined there’d be very little barrack-room swearing around Pantasilea. He did wonder what on earth she saw in her husband, but then, he didn’t know her at all.

“I think she’d do anything for me.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“We’ll talk about that some other time.” Bartolomeo seized the decanter and two glasses and put his free arm around Ezio’s shoulders. “I am very glad you’ve come. I’ve just got back from campaigning, as you must know, and as soon as I heard you were in Rome I was going to send men out to locate you—I know you like to keep your lodgings secret, and I don’t blame you, especially not in this nest of vipers. But luckily, you’ve beaten me to it. And that’s good, because I want to talk to you about the war. Let’s go to the map-room.”

“I know Cesare has an alliance with the French,” Ezio said. “How goes the fight against them?”

“
Bene
. The companies I’ve left out there, who’ll be campaigning under Fabio, are holding their own. And I’ve more men to train here.”

Ezio considered this. “Machiavelli seemed to think things were…more difficult.”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Well, you know Machiavelli. He—”

They were interrupted by the arrival of one of Bartolomeo’s sergeants. Pantasilea was at his side. The man was in a panic. She was calm.

“Capitano!”
said the sergeant urgently. “We need your help now. The Borgia have launched an attack.”

“What? I hadn’t expected that so soon! Excuse me, Ezio.” To Pantasilea, Bartolomeo cried, “Throw me Bianca!”

She immediately tossed the greatsword across the room to him, and, buckling it on, Bartolomeo hurled himself out of the room, following his sergeant. Ezio made to follow, but Pantasilea held him back, grasping his arm firmly.

“Wait!” she said.

“What is it?”

She looked deeply concerned. “Ezio. Let me get straight to the point. The fight is not going well—either here or out in the Romagna. We’ve been attacked on both sides. The Borgia are on one flank, the French under General Valois on the other. But know this: The Borgia position is weak. If we can defeat them, we can concentrate our forces on the French front. Taking this tower would help. If someone could get around the back…”

Ezio inclined his head. “Then I think I know a way I can help. Your information is invaluable.
Mille grazie, Madonna d’Alviano
.”

She smiled. “It is the least a wife can do to help her husband.”

The Borgia had launched a surprise attack on the barracks, choosing the hour of the siesta to do so. Bartolomeo’s men had fought them off, using traditional weapons, but as they drove them back toward the tower, Ezio could see Cesare’s gunmen massing on its battlement, all armed with their new wheel locks, which they were training on the
condottieri
swarming below.

He skirted the melee, managing to avoid any confrontation with the Borgia troops. He circled and made his way around to the back of the tower. As he’d expected, everyone’s attention was focused on the battle going on at the front. He clambered up the outer walls, easily finding footholds in the rough-hewn stones of which it had been built. Bartolomeo’s men were armed with crossbows, and some had matchlocks, for long-range work, but they would not be able to withstand the deadly fire of the sophisticated new guns.

Ezio arrived at the top, some forty feet above the ground, in less than half a minute. He heaved himself over the rear parapet, sinews straining, and silently lowered himself to the roof of the tower. He stalked behind the musketeers, moving one quiet step after another closer to the enemy. He silently drew his dagger and also unleashed his hidden-blade. He stole up on the backs of the men and, in a sudden frenzy of movement, dispatched four gunmen with the two blades. It was only then that the Borgia sharpshooters realized that the enemy was among them. Ezio saw a man turn his loaded wheel lock toward him—the man was still some fifteen feet away, so Ezio simply launched his dagger through the air. It pirouetted three times before embedding between the man’s eyes with a sickening thud. The man fell, but in doing so squeezed the trigger of his musket—luckily for Ezio the barrel had slipped away from its intended aim. The ball shot to the man’s right—hitting his nearest colleague—but passing clean through his Adam’s apple and embedding in the shoulder of the man behind him. Both men fell—leaving only three Borgia gunmen on the tower roof. Without pausing, Ezio leapt sideways—and with the flat of his hand slapped the nearest man across the face with such force that he toppled backward over the battlements. Ezio grabbed his weapon by the barrel as the man fell and swung the gun, butt first, into the next soldier’s face. He followed his colleague over the wall with an agonized yell. The last man raised his hands in surrender—but too late—Ezio’s hidden-blade had already found its way between his ribs.

Ezio grabbed another rifle and bounded down the stairs to the floor below. There were four men down here, firing through narrow slits in the thick stone walls. Ezio squeezed the trigger, holding the musket at waist height. The farthest went down with the impact of the shot—his chest exploding with red gore. Taking two strides forward, again, Ezio swung the gun like a club, barrel first this time, connecting with another man’s knee. He crumpled. One of the remaining men had turned sufficiently to take a shot. Ezio rolled forward instinctively—he felt the air searing as the ball missed his cheek by only a matter of inches and embedded in the wall behind. Ezio’s momentum sent him crashing into the gunman—the man lurched backward, his head crunching into the thick stone battlement. The last man had also swiveled around to tackle the unexpected threat. He looked down as Ezio was springing up from the floor, but only for an instant, as the hidden-blade skewered under the man’s jaw.