Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (33 page)

Cesare had been watching all this in quiet disbelief; but as Ezio had careened across toward these last three guards, Cesare had decided not to wait for the rest of the fight. He recovered himself enough to turn and flee.

Hemmed in by the guards and unable to follow, Ezio had watched him go out of the corner of his eye.

But he still had the Apple. And he remembered enough of its power—how could he forget?—to use it, after the melee was over, to guide him back through the Vatican by a different route from that by which he’d come—reckoning as he did that Cesare would have wasted no time in securing the Passetto di Borgo. Glowing from within the leather bag, the Apple indicated on its surface a way through the high, painted halls and chambers of the offices of the Vatican toward the Sistine Chapel, and thence by a southward-leading corridor into Saint Peter’s itself. Its power was such that passing monks and priests within the Vatican turned away from Ezio, avoiding him, and papal guards remained rigidly at their posts.

Ezio wondered how soon the news of the Pope’s death would filter down through the hierarchy of the Vatican to these people. The confusion that would follow in its wake would need a strong hand to control, and he prayed that Cesare would not have the opportunity to take advantage of any uncertainty to stake his own claim, if not to the Papacy itself, for that was out of even his reach, then at least by influencing the election in order to place a new Pope, friendly to his ambitions, on Saint Peter’s throne.

Passing young Michelangelo’s brilliant new sculpture of the Pietà on his left, Ezio left the basilica and blended into the crowds milling about in the rather shabby old square that lay in front of the east entrance.

By the time he had reached the Assassins’ hideout on Tiber Island, church bells had begun to ring out all over Rome. They were sounding the death knell.

He found his friends waiting for him.

“Rodrigo is dead,” he announced.

“We guessed as much from the bells,” said Machiavelli. “Magnificent work!”

“It was not by my hand—but Cesare’s.”

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then Machiavelli spoke again. “And what of Cesare?”

“He lives—though the Pope tried to poison him.”

“The serpent is biting its own tail,” said La Volpe.

“Then the day is saved!” cried Claudia.

“No!” said Machiavelli. “If he’s freed himself of the restraint of his father, Cesare may yet regain the ground he has lost. We must not allow him to assemble his remaining supporters. The coming weeks will be critical!”

“With your aid I will hunt him down,” said Ezio firmly.

“Niccolò is right—we must act fast,” La Volpe put in. “Do you hear those trumpets? They are a summons to the Borgia forces to gather.”

“Do you also know where?” asked Bartolomeo.

“It’s likely that they’ll rally their troops in the piazza in front of Cesare’s palace in Trastevere.”

“My men will patrol the city,” said Bartolomeo, “but we’d need a full army to do it properly.”

Ezio carefully produced the Apple from its bag. It glowed dully. “We have one,” he said. “Or at least, something as good.”

“Do you know what to do?” asked Machiavelli.

“I remember enough from when Leonardo experimented with it long ago in Venice,” replied Ezio. He held the strange artifact aloft and, concentrating, tried to project his thoughts at it.

There was no response for several minutes, and he was about to give up, when, slowly at first, and then with increasing energy, the Apple began to glow more and more brightly, until the light emanating from it made them cover their eyes.

“Stand back!” bawled Bartolomeo, as Claudia gasped in alarm, and even La Volpe started back.

“No,” said Machiavelli. “Science—but something out of our reach.” He looked at Ezio. “If only Leonardo were here!”

“As long as it serves our purpose,” said Ezio.

“Look!” said La Volpe. “It’s showing us the campanile of Santa Maria in Trastevere! That’s where Cesare must be!”

“You were right!” cried Bartolomeo. “But look at the number of troops he still seems to have!”

“I’m going. Now,” said Ezio, as the projected scene faded and the Apple became inert.

“We’re coming with you.”

“No!” Ezio held up a hand. “Claudia—I want you to go back to the Rosa in Fiore. Get your girls to find out all they can about Cesare’s plans. And mobilize our recruits. Gilberto, please get your thieves to fan out all over the city and bring word of any Templar chapters that may be reorganizing. Our enemies are fighting for their very lives! Bartolomeo, organize your men and have them ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

He turned to Machiavelli. “Niccolò. Get over to the Vatican. The College of Cardinals will be going into conclave soon, to elect a new Pope.”

“Indeed. And Cesare will certainly try to use what influence he has left to elevate a candidate favorable to him to the papal throne—or at least someone he can manipulate.”

“But Cardinal della Rovere wields great authority now. And he is the Borgia’s implacable enemy, as you know. If only—”

“I will go and talk to the cardinal camerlengo. The election may be long and drawn out.”

“We must take every advantage we can of the interregnum. Thank you, Niccolò.”

“How will you manage on your own, Ezio?”

“I’m not on my own,” said Ezio, gently replacing the Apple in its bag. “I’m taking this with me.”

“Just as long as you know how to keep it under control,” said Bartolomeo mistrustfully. “Ask me, it’s a creation straight out of Beelzebub’s workshop.”

“In the wrong hands, perhaps. But as long as we have it—”

“Then don’t let it out of your grasp, let alone your sight!”

They broke up then, each hastening away to attend to the duties Ezio had assigned them. Ezio himself crossed to the west bank of the river and sprinted the short distance to the church La Volpe had recognized in the vision accorded them by the Apple.

The scene had changed by the time he reached it, though he saw units of soldiers in Cesare’s livery making their way out of the square in organized groups as if under orders. These were disciplined men who understood that failure would spell their ruin.

There was no sign of Cesare, but Ezio knew that he must still be sick from the effects of the poison. His rallying call to the troops must have taken it out of him. There was only one place he’d think of retreating to—his own fortified palazzo, not far off. Ezio set off in its direction.

He joined a group of Borgia attendants, whom he recognized from Cesare’s crest, which they wore on the shoulders of their cloaks, and blended in with them, though they were too agitated to have noticed him even if he hadn’t been using the secret skill that rendered him as good as invisible. Using them as cover, he slipped through the palazzo’s gates, which opened quickly for them and then, just as quickly, clanged shut again behind.

He slipped into the shadows of the courtyard’s colonnade and glided along the perimeter of the inner walls, stopping to peer in at each unshuttered window. Then, ahead, he saw a door with two guards posted outside it. He looked around. The rest of the courtyard was deserted. He approached silently, releasing his hidden-blade, and fell upon the guards before they knew what was happening. One, he killed instantly. The other managed to get a blow in that would have severed his left hand from his arm had it not been for his bracer, and while the man was recovering from his astonishment at what looked like witchcraft, Ezio plunged the blade into the base of his throat, and he fell like a sack to the ground.

The door was unlocked and its hinges, when Ezio warily tried them, well oiled. Noiselessly, he slid into the room.

It was large and gloomy. Ezio took refuge behind an arras near the door, set there to exclude drafts, and watched the men seated around a large oak table at its center. The table was spread with papers and illuminated by candles in two iron candelabra. At its head sat Cesare, his personal doctor, Gaspar Torella, at his side. His face was grey, and he was sweating prodigiously. He was glaring at his officers.

“You must hunt them down!” he was saying, grasping the arms of his chair tightly in an effort to stay upright.

“They are everywhere and nowhere at once!” declared one, bolder than the rest, helplessly.

“I don’t care how you do it—just do it!”

“We cannot,
signore
—without your guidance. The Assassins have regrouped. With the French gone, or in disarray, our own forces are scarcely able to match them. They have spies everywhere—our own network is no longer able to root them out! And Ezio Auditore has turned vast numbers of the citizenry to his cause.”

“I am ill,
idioti!
I depend on your initiative!” Cesare sighed, falling back in his chair. “I was damned nearly killed! But I still have teeth!”

“Sir—”

“Just hold them at bay, if that’s the best you can do!” Cesare paused to catch his breath, and Dr. Torella mopped the man’s brow with a lint cloth soaked in vinegar or some other strong-smelling astringent, muttering soothingly to his patient as he did so. “Soon,” Cesare continued. “Soon, Micheletto will reach Rome with my own forces from Romagna and the north, and then you will see how quickly the Assassins will crumble into dust!”

Ezio stepped forth and revealed the bag containing the Apple. “You delude yourself, Cesare!” he said in a loud voice. A voice of true authority.

Cesare started from his chair, fear in his eyes. “You! How many lives do you have, Ezio? But this time you will surely die! Call the guard! Now!” he bellowed at his officers as he allowed his doctor to hurry him from the room to safety through an inner door.

Lightning fast, one of the officers made for the door to raise the alarm. The others drew pistols and leveled them at Ezio, who just as swiftly withdrew the Apple from its bag and held it aloft, concentrating hard and pulling the hood of his tunic down low to shield his eyes.

The Apple began to pulsate and glow, and the glow turned to an incandescence that gave out no heat but was as bright as the sun. The room turned white.

“What sorcery is this?” shouted one of the officers, firing wildly. By chance his ball hit the Apple, but it had no more effect on it than a handful of dust.

“Truly, this man has God Himself on his side!” another bawled, vainly trying to shield his eyes and staggering blindly in what he thought was the direction of the door.

The light increased. The officers blundered up against the table, covering their eyes with their hands.

“What’s happening?”

“How is this possible?”

“Do not smite me, Lord!”

“I cannot
see!
”

His lips pressed together in concentration, Ezio continued to project his will through the Apple, but even he dared not look up from under the protecting peak of his cowl. He had to judge the moment to cease. When he did so, a wave of exhaustion hit him as the Apple, invisible within its own light, suddenly, with no afterglow, went dead. There was no sound in the room. Cautiously, Ezio lifted his hood and saw that the room was as before. The candles on the table cast a pool of light at the center of the gloom. They burned on, almost reassuringly, as if nothing had happened. Their flames were steady, as there was not the hint of a breeze.

The tapestry on the arras was bleached of all its color.

All the officers lay dead around the table, save the one who had first been making for the door, and he was slumped against it, his hand still on the latch. Ezio went over to him. He had to move him aside in order to leave.

As he rolled the man over, he inadvertently looked into his eyes.

He wished he hadn’t—it was a sight he would never forget.

“Requiescat in pace,”
said Ezio, acknowledging the chill realization that the Apple indeed had powers that, if unleashed beyond check, could control the minds of men; could open up undreamed-of possibilities, and worlds.

And wreak destruction so terrible as to be beyond the power of imagination itself.

The conclave was undecided. Despite the efforts of Cardinal della Rovere to outwit him, Cesare clearly still had enough clout to hold him in check. Fear, or self-interest, kept the cardinals wavering. Machiavelli guessed what they were trying to do—they would find a candidate to elect who would, perhaps, not last long, but who would be acceptable to all parties. An interim Pope—a caretaker, until the balance of power resolved itself.

Bearing this in mind, Ezio was pleased when, after weeks of deadlock, Claudia brought news to Tiber Island.

“The Cardinal of Rouen, a Frenchman, Georges d’Amboise, has revealed under…duress…that Cesare has planned a meeting with Templar loyalists in the countryside, outside Rome. The cardinal himself attends.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“Where?”

“The location is to be kept secret until the last minute.”

“Then I will go to the cardinal’s residence and follow him when he leaves.”

“They have elected a new Pope,” said Machiavelli, coming in hurriedly. “Your pet French cardinal, Claudia, will take the news to Cesare tonight. In fact, a small delegation of them, still friendly to the Borgia, is going with him.”

“Who is the new Pope?” asked Ezio.

Machiavelli smiled. “It is as I thought,” he said. “Cardinal Piccolomini. Not an old man, he’s sixty-four, but he’s in poor health. He’s chosen to be known as Pius
III
.”

“Whom does he support?”

“We don’t know yet, but all the foreign ambassadors put pressure on Cesare to leave Rome during the election. Della Rovere is furious, but he knows how to wait.”

Ezio spent the rest of the day in consultation with Bartolomeo, and between them they put together a combined force of recruits and
condottieri
strong enough for any battle that might ensue with Cesare.

“Turns out just as well you didn’t kill Cesare back at his palazzo,” said Bartolomeo. “This way, he’ll draw all his supporters to him and we can smash the fuckin’ guts out of ’em.” He looked at Ezio. “Got to hand it to you, my friend. You might almost have planned it this way.”