Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (17 page)

And Caterina preyed on his mind.

He had left Claudia to oversee the renovation of the Rosa in Fiore without any supervision or interference. Let her sink or swim in her own overweening confidence! It’d be no fault of his if she sank. But the brothel was an important link in his network, and he admitted to himself that if he really had had absolutely no faith in her, he might have leaned on her harder in the first place. Now was the time to put her work—what she had achieved—to the test.

When he returned to the Rosa in Fiore, he was as surprised as he was pleased. Just as successful, he hoped, as his own previous transformations in the city, and at Bartolomeo’s barracks, had been (though even for those he was modest and realistic enough not to take all the credit). But he hid his delight as he took in the sumptuous rooms hung with costly tapestries, the wide sofas, the soft silk cushions, and the white wines chilled with ice—an expensive luxury.

The girls looked like ladies, not whores, and judging from their manner someone had evidently taught them to be much more refined. And as for the clientele—the least he could infer was that business was booming, and though he had had his reservations about the nature of their standing before, there could be no doubt now. Looking around the central salon, he could see at least a dozen assorted cardinals and senators, as well as members of the Apostolic Camera and other officers of the Curia.

All enjoying themselves, all relaxed, and all—he hoped—unsuspecting. But the proof of the pudding would lie in the value of the information Claudia’s courtesans were able to extract from this venal bunch of slobs.

He caught sight of his sister—modestly dressed, he was glad to see—talking rather (to his mind) too affectionately to Ascanio Sforza, the former vice-chancellor of the Curia and now in Rome again after his brief disgrace, trying to wheedle his way back into papal favor. When Claudia caught sight of Ezio, her expression changed. She excused herself from the cardinal and came toward him, a brittle smile on her face.

“Welcome to the Rosa in Fiore, Brother,” she said.

“Indeed.” He did not smile.

“As you can see, it is the most popular brothel in Rome.”

“Corruption is still corruption, however well dressed it is.”

She bit her lip. “We have done well. And don’t forget why this place
really
exists.”

“Yes,” he replied. “The Brotherhood’s money seems to have been well invested.”

“That’s not all. Come to the office.”

To Ezio’s surprise, he found Maria there, doing some paperwork with an accountant. Mother and son greeted each other guardedly.

“I want to show you this,” said Claudia, producing a book. “Here is where I keep a list of all the skills taught to my girls.”

“
Your
girls?” Ezio could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. His sister was taking to this like a duck to water.

“Why not? Take a look.” Her own manner had tightened.

Ezio leafed through the proffered book. “You are not teaching them much.”

“Think you could do better?” she answered sarcastically.

“Nessun problema,”
Ezio said unpleasantly.

Sensing trouble, Maria abandoned her accounts and came up to them. “Ezio,” she said, “the Borgia make it difficult for Claudia’s girls. They keep out of trouble, but it’s hard to avoid suspicion. There are several things you could do to aid them…”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You must let me have a note of them.” Ezio turned his attention back to Claudia. “Anything else?”

“No.” She paused, then said: “Ezio—”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ezio turned as if to go. Then he said: “Have you found Caterina?”

“We are working on it,” she replied coldly.

“I’m glad to hear it.
Bene
. Come to see me at Isola Tiberina the minute you have found out
exactly
where they are holding her.” He inclined his head toward the sounds of merriment coming from the central salon. “With this lot to milk, you shouldn’t find it all
that
difficult.”

He left them to it.

Outside in the street, he felt like a heel about the way he’d behaved. They seemed to be doing a great job. But would Claudia be able to hold her own?

Inwardly, he shrugged. He acknowledged once again that the true source of his anger was his own anxiety about his ability to protect those whom he held most dear. He needed them, he knew, but he was aware that his fear for their safety threatened to cramp his style.

Ezio’s long-awaited reunion with Machiavelli finally took place on Tiber Island, soon after the encounter at the brothel. Ezio was reserved at first—he didn’t like any of the Brotherhood disappearing without his knowledge of where they’d gone, but he recognized in his heart that, for Machiavelli, he must make an exception. And indeed, the Brotherhood itself was an association of free-minded, free-spirited souls acting together not from coercion or obedience, but from a common concern and interest. He didn’t own, or have any right to control, any of them.

Serious and determined, he shook hands with his old colleague—Machiavelli shunned the warmth of an embrace. “We must talk,” he said.

“We certainly must.” Machiavelli looked at him. “I gather you know about my little arrangement with Pantasilea?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That woman has more sense of tactics in her little finger than her husband has in his whole body—not that he isn’t the best man possible in his own field.” He paused. “I’ve been able to secure something of great worth from one of my contacts. We now have the names of nine key Templar agents whom Cesare has recruited to terrorize Rome.”

“Just tell me how I may find them.”

Machiavelli considered. “I suggest looking for signs of distress within any given city district. Visit the people there. Perhaps you’ll uncover citizens who can point you in the right direction.”

“Did you get this information from a Borgia official?”

“Yes,” said Machiavelli carefully, after a pause. “How do you know?”

Ezio, thinking of the encounter he had witnessed with La Volpe in the market square, wondered if that might not have been the initial contact. Machiavelli must have been following it up ever since.

“Lucky guess,” he said.
“Grazie.”

“Look—Claudia, Bartolomeo, and La Volpe are waiting for you in the inner room here.” He paused. “That
was
a lucky guess.”

“
Virtù
, dear Niccolò, that’s all,” said Ezio, leading the way.

“Virtue?” said Machiavelli to himself, as he followed.

His companions in the Brotherhood stood as he entered the hideout’s inner sanctum. Their faces were somber.

“Buona sera,”
Ezio said and got straight down to business. “What have you discovered?”

Bartolomeo spoke first. “We’ve ascertained that that
bastardo
Cesare is now at the Castel Sant’Angelo—with the Pope!”

La Volpe added, “And my spies have confirmed that the Apple has indeed been given to someone for secret study. I am working on determining his identity.”

“We can’t guess it?”

“Guesswork’s no good. We need to know
for sure
.”

“I have news of Caterina Sforza,” Claudia put in. “She will be moved to the prison within the Castel next week, on Thursday toward dusk.”

Ezio’s heart involuntarily skipped a beat at this. But it was all good news.

“Bene,”
said Machiavelli. “So—the Castel it is. Rome will heal quickly once Cesare and Rodrigo have gone.”

Ezio held up a hand. “Only if the right opportunity to assassinate them arises will I take it.”

Machiavelli looked irritated. “Do not repeat your mistake in the Vault. You must kill them now.”

“I’m with Niccolò,” said Bartolomeo. “We shouldn’t wait.”

“Bartolomeo is right,” agreed La Volpe.

“They must pay for Mario’s death,” said Claudia.

Ezio calmed them, saying, “Do not worry, my friends: they will die. You have my word.”

On the day appointed for Caterina’s transfer to Castel Sant’Angelo, Ezio and Machiavelli joined the crowd that had gathered in front of a fine carriage, its windows closed with blinds, whose doors bore the Borgia crest. Guards surrounding the carriage kept the people back, and it was no wonder, because the mood of the people was not unanimously enthusiastic. One of the coachmen leapt down from his box and hastened around to open the nearside carriage door, pulled down the steps, and stood ready to assist the occupants down.

After a moment, the first figure emerged, in a dark blue gown with a white bodice. Ezio recognized the beautiful blonde with the cruel lips. He had last seen her at the sack of Monteriggioni, but it was a face he could never forget. Lucrezia Borgia. She stepped down to the ground, all dignity, but this was lost as she reached back into the carriage, seized hold of something—or someone—and pulled hard.

She dragged Caterina Sforza out by her hair and flung her to the ground in front of her. Bedraggled and in chains, wearing a coarse brown dress, Caterina in defeat still had greater presence and spirit than her captor would ever know. Machiavelli had to put a restraining hand on Ezio’s arm as he automatically started forward. Ezio had seen enough loved ones maltreated; but this was the time for restraint. A rescue now would be doomed to failure.

Lucrezia, one foot on her prostrate victim, started to speak: “
Salve, cittadini de Roma!
Hail, citizens of Rome! Behold a sight most splendid. Caterina Sforza, the she-whore of Forlì! Too long has she defied us! Now she has, at last, been brought to heel!”

There was little reaction from the crowd at this, and in the silence Caterina raised her head and cried: “Ha! No one stoops as low as Lucrezia Borgia! Who put you up to this? Was it your brother? Or your father? Perhaps a bit of both? Perhaps at the same time, eh? After all, you all pen in the same sty!”

“
Chiudi la bocca!
Shut your mouth!” screamed Lucrezia, kicking her. “No one speaks ill of the Borgia!” She bent down, dragging Caterina up to her knees, and slapped her hard, so that she fell into the mud again. She raised her head proudly. “The same will happen to any—
any
—who dare to defy us!”

She motioned to the guards, who seized the hapless Caterina, dragged her to her feet, and manhandled her in the direction of the Castel gates. Still, Caterina managed to cry out: “Good people of Rome! Stay strong! Your time will come! You will be free of this yoke, I swear it!”

As she disappeared, and Lucrezia got back into her carriage to follow, Machiavelli turned to Ezio. “Well, the
contessa
hasn’t lost any of her spirit.”

Ezio felt drained. “They are going to torture her.”

“It is unfortunate that Forlì has fallen. But we will get it back. We will get Caterina back, too. But we must concentrate. You are here, now, for Cesare and Rodrigo.”

“Caterina is a powerful ally, one of us, indeed. If we help her now, while she is weak, she will aid us in return.”

“Perhaps. But kill Cesare and Rodrigo first.”

The crowd was beginning to disperse, and, apart from the sentries at the gate, the Borgia guards withdrew into the Castel. Soon only Machiavelli and Ezio were left, standing in the shadows.

“Leave me, Niccolò,” said Ezio as the shadows lengthened. “I have work to do.”

He looked up at the sheer walls of the ancient, circular structure, the mausoleum of the emperor Hadrian over a thousand years earlier, now an unassailable fortress. Its few windows were high up, and its walls sheer. Connected to Saint Peter’s Basilica by a fortified stone corridor, it had been the great stronghold of the popes for nearly two hundred years.

Ezio studied the walls. Nothing was completely impregnable. By the light of the torches flickering in their sconces, as night fell, his eyes began to trace the slight ridges, fissures, and imperfections that, however small, would enable him to climb. Once he’d planned his route, he leapt like a cat up to the first hand-and footholds, digging fingers and toes in, steadying his breath, and then, deliberately, unhurriedly, started to scale the wall, keeping wherever possible away from the light cast by the torches.

Halfway up, he came to an opening—an unglazed window in a stone frame—beneath which, on the inner side of the wall, was a walkway for guardsmen. He looked each way along it, but it was deserted. Silently, he swung himself over and looked down, on the other side of the walkway, over a railing into what he quickly saw was the stable yard. Four men were walking there, and he recognized every one of them. Cesare was holding some kind of conference with three of his chief lieutenants: the French general Octavien de Valois; Cesare’s close associate Juan de Borgia Lanzol de Romaní and a lean man in black—a lean man with a cruel, scarred face: Micheletto Corella—Cesare’s right-hand man and most trusted killer.

“Forget the Pope,” Cesare was saying. “You answer only to me. Rome is the pillar that holds our entire enterprise aloft. She cannot waver. Which means—neither can you!”

“What of the Vatican?” asked Octavien.

“What? That tired old men’s club?” answered Cesare contemptuously. “Play along with the cardinals for now, but soon we shall have no more need of them.”

With that, he went through a door leading from the stable yard, leaving the other three alone.

“Well, it looks as if he’s left Rome for us to manage,” said Juan after a pause.

“Then the city will be in good hands,” said Micheletto evenly.

Ezio listened for a while longer but nothing more was said that he reckoned useful—nothing that he didn’t already know—so he continued his climb around the outer wall, in his quest to locate Caterina’s whereabouts. He saw light coming from another window, glazed this time, but open to the night air, and with an outer sill on which he could partially support himself. Doing so, he looked cautiously through the window into a candlelit corridor with plain wooden walls. Lucrezia was there, sitting on an upholstered bench, writing in a notebook; but every so often she looked up, as if she were expecting someone.