Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (15 page)

The man whose knee Ezio had shattered stirred to reach for his own dagger. Ezio simply kicked the man’s temple and turned, unbothered, to watch the battle unfolding down below. It was resolving itself into a rout. With no overwhelming firepower on their side anymore, the Borgia soldiers fell back fast and soon turned tail and fled, abandoning the tower to the
condottieri
.

Ezio descended the staircase to the tower’s main gate, encountering a handful of guards, who put up fierce resistance before succumbing to his sword, but no one else. Ensuring that the tower was now clear of Borgia men, he flung open the gate and went out to join Bartolomeo. The battle was over, and Pantasilea had joined her husband.

“Ezio! Well done! Together, we sent those
luridi codardi
running for the hills!”

“Yes, we did.” Ezio exchanged a secret, conspiratorial smile with Pantasilea. Her sound advice had won the fight as much as anything.

“Those newfangled guns,” said Bartolomeo. “We managed to capture a few, but we’re still working out how to use them.” He beamed. “Anyway, now that the Pope’s dogs have fled, I’ll be able to draw more men to the fight on our side. But first, and especially after this business, I want to reinforce our barracks.”

“Good idea. But who’s going to do it?”

Bartolomeo shook his head. “I’m not much good with these things. You’re the one with an education, why don’t you approve the plans?”

“You got some drawn up?”

“Yes! Engaged the services of a pretty brilliant young man. Florentine like you. Name of Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know him. Either way,
va bene
. In return I need to know Cesare’s and Rodrigo’s every move. Can some of your men shadow them for me?”

“One thing I’ll soon have no shortage of is men. At least, I’ve enough to give you a decent workforce for the rebuilding work and a handful of skilled scouts to cover the Borgia for you.”

“Excellent!” Ezio well knew that Machiavelli had spies in place, but Machiavelli tended to play his cards close to his chest, and Bartolomeo didn’t. Machiavelli was a closed room; Bartolomeo was the open sky. And while Ezio didn’t share La Volpe’s suspicions—which he hoped he’d now allayed—there was still no harm at all in having a second string to his bow.

He spent the next month supervising the strengthening of the barracks, repairing the damage done in the attack, building taller and stronger watchtowers, and replacing the palisades with stone walls. When the work was complete, he and Bartolomeo took a tour of inspection.

“Isn’t she a thing of beauty?” Bartolomeo beamed.

“Very impressive, I think.”

“And the even better news is, more and more men are joining us every day. Of course, I encourage great competition between them—it’s good for morale, and it’s good training, too, for when they go out and fight for real.” He showed Ezio a large wooden board with his crest at the top, mounted on an easel. “As you can see, this board shows the ranking of our top warriors. The better they become, the higher they move up the board.”

“And where am I?”

Bartolomeo gave him a look and waved at the air above the board. “Somewhere up here, I should think!”

A
condottiero
came up to tell him that one of his best men, Gian, had begun his fight down in the parade ground.

“If you want to show off, we have sparring matches, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got money on this boy!” Laughing, he took his leave.

Ezio made his way to the new, improved map-room. The natural light was better, and the room had been enlarged to accommodate broader map tables and easels. He was poring over a map of the Romagna when Pantasilea joined him.

“Where is Bartolomeo?” she asked.

“At the fight.”

Pantasilea sighed. “He has such an aggressive view of the world. However, I think strategy is just as important. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.”

“Let me show you something.”

She led the way from the room to a wide balcony overlooking an inner courtyard of the barracks. On one side of it was a sizable new dovecote, alive with birds.

“These are carrier pigeons,” Pantasilea explained. “Each one, sent from Niccolò Machiavelli in the city, now brings me the name of a Borgia agent in Rome. The Borgia grew fat on the Jubilee of 1500. All that money from eager pilgrims, willing to buy themselves absolution. And those who would not pay were robbed.”

Ezio looked grim.

“But your various attacks have unsettled the Borgia badly,” Pantasilea continued. “Their spies comb the city, seeking out our people and exposing them where they can. Machiavelli has uncovered some of their names as well, and these, too, he is often able to send me by pigeon post. Meanwhile, Rodrigo has added even more new members to the Curia, in an attempt to maintain his balance of power among the cardinals. As you know, he has decades of experience in Vatican politics.”

“Indeed he has.”

“You must take these names with you when you return to the city. They will be useful to you.”

“I am lost in admiration, Madonna.”

“Hunt these people down, eliminate them if you can, and we will all breathe more easily for it.”

“I must return to Rome without delay. And I will tell you something that makes
me
breathe more easily.”

“Yes?”

“What you have just disclosed proves that Machiavelli is undoubtedly one of us.” But then Ezio hesitated. “Even so…”

“Yes?”

“I have a similar arrangement with Bartolomeo. Give it a week, and then ask him to come to the island in the Tiber—he knows the place and I daresay you do, too—bringing me what he has gleaned about Rodrigo and Cesare.”

“Do you doubt Machiavelli still?”

“No—but I am sure you’ll agree that it is good to double-check
all
the information one gets, especially in times like these.”

A shadow seemed to pass across her face, but then she smiled and said, “He will be there.”

Back in Rome, Ezio made his first port of call the brothel Machiavelli had mentioned as being another source of information—perhaps some of the names he was sending Pantasilea by carrier pigeon came from there. He needed to check on how the girls collected their information, but he’d decided to go there incognito. If they knew who he was, they might just give him the information they thought he wanted.

He arrived at the address and checked the sign: the Rosa in Fiore. There was no doubt of it, and yet it didn’t look like the kind of place the Borgia
nomenclatura
might normally frequent. Unless they went in for slumming. It certainly wasn’t a patch on Paola’s establishment in Florence, at least from the outside. But then, Paola’s place had kept a pretty discreet shopfront. He knocked, dubiously, on the door.

It was opened immediately by an attractive, plump girl of about eighteen. She was wearing a tired-looking silk dress.

She flashed him a professional smile. “Welcome, stranger! Welcome to the Rosa in Fiore.”

“Salve,”
he said, as she let him pass. The entrance hall certainly was a step up, but even so, there seemed to be an air of neglect about the place.

“And what did you have in mind for today?” the girl asked.

“Would you be kind enough to get your boss for me?”

The girl’s eyes became slits. “Madonna Solari isn’t in.”

“I see.” He paused, uncertain what to do. “Do you know where she is?”

“Out.” The girl was distinctly less friendly now.

Ezio gave her his most charming smile, but he wasn’t a young man anymore and he could see that it cut no ice with the girl. She thought he was an official of some sort. Damn! Well, if he wanted to get any farther in, he’d have to pretend to be a client. And if pretending to be one meant actually becoming one, well, so be it.

He’d decided on this course of action when the street door suddenly burst open and another girl burst in, her hair awry, her dress disarranged. She was distraught.

“Aiuto! Aiuto!”
she cried urgently. “Madonna Solari—” She sobbed, unable to continue.

“What is it, Lucia? Pull yourself together. And what are you doing back so soon? I thought you’d gone off with Madonna and some clients.”

“Those men weren’t clients, Agnella! They—they said they were taking us to a place they knew down by the Tiber but there was a boat there and they started to slap us about and drew knives. They took Madonna Solari on board and chained her up.”

“Lucia!
Dio mio!
How did you get away?” Agnella put an arm around her friend and guided her to a couch set along one wall. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at a red weal that was starting to rise on Lucia’s cheek.

“They let me go—sent me back with a message—they’re slave traders, Agnella! They say they’ll only let her go if we buy her back! Otherwise they’ll kill her!”

“How much do they want?” Ezio asked.

“A thousand ducats.”

“How much time do we have?”

“They’ll wait an hour.”

“Then we have time. Wait here! I’ll get her back for you.”
Cazzo,
Ezio thought.
This looks bad. I need to talk to that woman.
“Where are they?”

“There’s a jetty,
Messere
. Near Isola Tiberina. Do you know the place?”

“Very well.”

Ezio made haste. There was no time to get to Chigi’s bank and none of its three branches was on his route, so he resorted to a moneylender, who drove a hard bargain, but made up the sum Ezio already carried to the one thousand required. Armed with this, but determined not to part with a penny of it if he could possibly avoid it, and swearing to exact the interest he’d have to pay from the bastards who’d taken the one person he most needed to talk to, he hired a horse and rode recklessly through the streets toward the Tiber, scattering the people, chickens, and dogs that cluttered the street as he did so.

He found the boat—a large one, more of a small ship—without difficulty, thank God, and, dismounting, ran to the end of the jetty at which it was moored, yelling Madonna Solari’s name.

But they were prepared for him. There were two men already on deck, and they trained pistols on him. Ezio’s eyes narrowed. Pistols? In the hands of cheap little villains like these?

“Don’t come any closer.”

Ezio backed off, but kept his finger on the release trigger of his hidden-blade.

“Brought the fuckin’ money, have you?”

Ezio slowly produced the pouch that contained the thousand ducats with his other hand.

“Good. Now we’ll see if the captain’s in a good enough mood
not
to slit her fuckin’ throat.”

“The captain! Who the hell do you think you are? Bring her out! Bring her out
now!
”

The rage in Ezio’s voice subdued the slave trader who’d spoken. He turned slightly and called to someone belowdecks, who must have heard the interchange anyway, since two men started to come up the companionway from below, manhandling a woman of perhaps thirty-five. The makeup she was wearing was badly smeared, by both tears and rough treatment. There were ugly bruises on her face, shoulders, and breasts, exposed where her lilac dress had been ripped apart, revealing the bodice beneath. There was blood on her dress, lower down, and she was manacled hand and foot.

“Here’s the little treasure now,” sneered the trader who’d first spoken.

Ezio breathed hard. This was a lonely bend of the river, but he could see Tiber Island only fifty yards distant. If only he could get word to his friends. But if they’d heard anything, they’d assume it was just a bunch of drunken sailors—God knows, there were enough of them along the riverbank. And if Ezio raised his voice or called for help, La Solari would be dead in an instant, and himself, too, unless the gunmen were bad shots, for the range was negligible.

As the woman’s desperate eyes caught Ezio’s, a third man, sloppily dressed in the sad remains of a naval captain’s jacket, came up the ladder. He looked at Ezio, then at the bag of money.

“Throw it over,” he said in a rough voice.

“Hand her over first. And take off those manacles.”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Throw. Over. The. Fuckin’. Money!”

Involuntarily, Ezio moved forward. Immediately the guns were raised threateningly, the captain drew a falchion, and the two others took a tighter grip on the woman, making her moan and wince with pain.

“Don’t come any closer! We’ll finish her if you do!”

Ezio stopped, but he did not retreat. He measured the distance between where he stood and the deck with his eyes. His finger trembled over the trigger of the hidden-blade.

“I have the money—it’s all here,” he said, waving the bag and edging one step closer while their eyes were on it.

“Stay where you are! Don’t test me. If you take one step more, she dies!”

“You won’t get your money then.”

“Oh, won’t we? There’s five of us and one of you, and I don’t think you’d get a fuckin’ toe on board before my friends here had shot you in the gob and in the balls.”

“Hand her over first!”

“Look, you thick or what? Nobody gets near this fuckin’ boat unless you want this
puttana
dead!”

“Messere! Aiutateme!”
whimpered the wretched woman.

“Shut the fuck up, you bitch!” snarled one of the men holding her, hitting her across the eyes with the pommel of his dagger.

“All right!” yelled Ezio, as he saw fresh blood spurt from the woman’s face. “That’s enough. Let her go. Now!”

And he threw the bag of money over to the “captain.” It landed at his feet.

“That’s better,” said the slave trader. “Now, let’s just finish this business.”

Before Ezio could react, he placed the blade of his sword against the side of the woman’s throat and drew it across, down and deep, half severing her head from her body.

“Any objections, take it up with
Messer
Cesare,” sneered the captain as the body slumped to the deck under a fountain of blood. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded to the two men with pistols.

Ezio knew what was coming next, and he was ready. With lightning speed he dodged both the bullets, and in the same instant that he threw himself into the air, he released the hidden-blade. With it he stabbed the first of the men who’d been holding the prisoner, deep in the left eye, penetrating the brain. Before the man had even fallen to the deck, Ezio, dodging a swinging blow from the captain’s falchion and coming up from under, plunged the blade into the other man’s belly, low down and ripping as he thrust. The blade wasn’t designed for slicing, and it bent a little, tearing rather than cutting. But no matter.