Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (36 page)

The master, seeing his men routed, pulled a pistol himself and fired it at Ezio, but the caravel lurched in the current at the crucial moment and the shot went wide, though not wide enough, as the ball sliced a nick in Ezio’s right ear, which bled heavily. Shaking his head, Ezio leveled his gun at the master and shot him through the forehead.

“Quick!” he said to Claudio. “You take the wheel of this thing and I’ll deal with our friend here.”

Claudio nodded and ran to bring the caravel under control. Feeling the blood from his ear soak his collar, he twisted his opponent’s wrist fiercely to make him lose his grip on the crowbar. Then he brought his knee hard into the man’s groin, seized his collar, and half dragged, half kicked him to the gunwale, where he tossed him overboard.

In the silence that followed the fight, furious and confused shouts and imprecations could be heard coming from the crate.

“I will kill you for this. I will twist my sword in your gut and give you more pain than you could ever dream was possible.”

“I hope you’re comfortable, Cesare,” said Ezio. “But if you’re not, don’t worry. Once we get to Ostia, we’ll arrange something a little more civilized for your return trip.”

“It’s not fair,” said Jacopo from the shallop. “I didn’t get a chance to use my blackjack once!”

Nothing is true.

—
DOGMA
SICARII
, I, I.

It was late in the spring of the year of Our Lord 1504. The Pope tore open the letter a courier had just brought him, scanned it, and then banged a meaty fist down on his desk in triumph. The other hand held up the letter, from which heavy seals dangled.

“God bless King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Aragon and Castile!” he cried.

“Good news, Your Holiness?” asked Ezio, seated in a chair across from him.

Julius II smiled darkly. “Yes! Cesare Borgia has been safely delivered into one of their strongest and most remote
rocche!
”

“Where?”

“Ah—that’s classified information—even to you. I can’t take any chances with Cesare.”

Ezio bit his lip. Had Julius guessed what he’d do if he knew the location?

Julius continued reassuringly, “Don’t look so downcast, dear Ezio. I can tell you this: It’s a massive fortress, lost in the plains of central northeastern Spain, and totally impregnable.”

Ezio knew that Julius had had his reasons for not having Cesare burned at the stake—thus making a possible martyr of him—and he acknowledged that this was the next best thing. But still Cesare’s words haunted him—
Chains will never hold me
. Ezio felt in his heart that the only thing that would hold Cesare—and securely—was Death. But he smiled his congratulations.

“They’ve got him in a cell at the top of the central keep, in a tower one hundred forty feet high,” Julius continued. “We don’t have anything more to worry about, as far as he’s concerned.” The Pope looked at Ezio keenly. “What I’ve just told you is
also
classified information, by the way, so don’t go getting any ideas. In any event, at a word from me, they’ll switch the location, just in case anyone goes looking for him, and I get wind of it.”

Ezio let it go and changed tack. “And Lucrezia? Do we have any news from Ferrara?”

“Well, her third marriage seems to be doing her good, though I must admit I was worried at first. The d’Este family are such a bunch of snobs that I thought the old duke would never accept her as a suitable wife for his son. Marrying a Borgia! Talk about marrying beneath you! To them, it’d be a bit like you getting hitched to your scullery maid!” The Pope laughed heartily. “But she’s settled down. Not a peep out of her. Taken to exchanging love letters and even poems with her old friend Pietro Bembo—all aboveboard, of course.” Here Julius winked broadly. “But basically a good and faithful wife—she even goes to church and embroiders tapestries. And of course there’s no question of her coming back to Rome—
ever!
She’ll end her days in Ferrara, and she should be thankful she’s got away with her head still on her shoulders. So, all in all, I think it’s safe to say that we’ve got that flock of Catalan perverts out of our hair for good.”

Ezio wondered if the Vatican spy ring was as well-informed about the Templars as it was about the Borgia. Cesare had been their leader and continued to be so, even in prison. But he kept his counsel.

He had to admit that the affairs of Italy had seen worse days than these. A strong Pope, who’d had the sense to retain Agostino Chigi as his banker; and the French on the back foot. King Louis hadn’t left Italy, but he had at least withdrawn to the north, and seemed content to dig in there. In addition, the French king had ceded Naples to King Ferdinand of Aragon.

“I hope so, Your Holiness.”

Julius looked at Ezio keenly. “Listen, Ezio, I’m not a fool, so don’t take me for one! Why do you think I brought you in as my counselor? I know there are still Borgia loyalist pockets in the countryside, and even a few diehards left in the city. But I have
other
enemies than the Borgia to worry about these days.”

“The Borgia could still pose a threat.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And what are you doing about your other enemies?”

“I’m reforming the Papal Guard. Have you seen what good soldiers the Swiss are? Best mercenaries of the lot! And since they got independence from the Holy Roman Empire and Maximilian five or six years ago, they’ve been putting themselves out to hire. They’re totally loyal and not very emotional—such a change from our own dear fellow countrymen. I’m thinking of getting a brigade of them put together as my personal bodyguard. I’ll arm them with the usual halberds and stuff, but I’m also issuing them Leonardo’s muskets.” He paused. “All I need is a name for them.” He looked at Ezio quizzically. “Any ideas?”

“How about the Swiss Guard?” suggested Ezio, who was a little tired.

The Pope considered this. “Well, it’s not startlingly original, Ezio. Frankly, I rather favored the Julian Guard—but one doesn’t like to sound too egotistical.” He grinned. “All right! I’ll use what you propose! It’ll do for the time being, at any rate.”

They were interrupted by the sound of hammering and other building works, coming from above their heads, and in other parts of the Vatican.

“Wretched builders!” commented the Pope. “Still, it has to be done.” He crossed the room to a bellpull. “I’ll get someone to go and shut them up until we’ve finished. Sometimes I think builders are the greatest destructive force Man has yet invented.”

An attendant arrived at once and the Pope gave him his orders. Minutes later, amid muffled swearing, tools were downed, noisily.

“What are you having done?” asked Ezio, knowing that architecture vied with warfare as the Pope’s greatest passion.

“I’m having all the Borgia apartments and offices boarded up,” replied Julius. “Far too sumptuous. More worthy of a Nero than the leader of the Church. And I’m razing all their buildings on the roof of the Castel Sant’Angelo. Turning it into one big garden. Might stick a little summerhouse up there, though.”

“Good idea,” said Ezio, smiling to himself. The summerhouse would doubtless be a real pleasure dome, fit, if not for a king, at least for trysts with one or another of the Pope’s lovers—female or male. But the Pope’s private life didn’t concern Ezio. What mattered was that he was a good man and a staunch ally. And compared with Rodrigo, his corruptions were about as significant as a child’s tantrum. Furthermore, he’d steadily continued the moral reforms of Pius
III
, his predecessor.

“I’m having the Sistine Chapel done up as well,” continued the Pope. “It’s so
dull!
So I’ve commissioned that bright young artist from Florence, Michelangelo what’s-his-name, to paint some frescoes on the ceiling. Lots of religious scenes, you know the kind of thing. I’d thought of asking Leonardo, but his head’s so full of ideas that he scarcely ever finishes a big painting. Pity. I rather liked that portrait he did of Francesco del Giocondo’s wife…”

Julius interrupted himself and looked at Ezio. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my interest in modern art.”

“No.”

“Are you
sure
you’re not taking the threat of a Borgia revival too seriously?”

“I think we
should
take it seriously.”

“Look—my army has regained most of the Romagna for the Vatican. There’s no army left for the Borgia to fight with.”

“Cesare is still alive! With him as a figurehead—”

“I hope you’re not questioning my judgment, Ezio! You know my reasons for sparing his life. In any case, where he is now, he’s as good as buried alive.”

“Micheletto is still at large.”

“
Pah!
Without Cesare, Micheletto is nothing.”

“Micheletto knows Spain well.”

“He’s nothing, I tell you.”

“He knows Spain. He was born in Valencia. He’s a bastard nephew of Rodrigo!”

The Pope, who, despite his years, was a large and vigorous man still in the prime of life, had been pacing the room during this last exchange. Now he returned to the desk, placed his large hands on it, and leaned threateningly over Ezio. His manner was convincing.

“You are letting your worst fears run away with you,” he said. “We don’t even know whether Micheletto is still alive or not.”

“I think we should find out, once and for all.”

The Pope pondered Ezio’s point and relaxed slightly, sitting down again. He tapped the heavy signet ring on his left hand with the index finger of his right.

“What do you want to do?” he asked heavily. “Don’t expect any resources from me. The budget’s over-stretched as it is.”

“The first thing is to locate and destroy any last diehards in the city of Rome itself. We may find someone who knows something about Micheletto—his whereabouts or his fate. Then—”

“Then?”

“Then, if he is still alive—”

“You’ll destroy him?”

“Yes.” But Ezio thought:
Unless he turns out to be more useful to me alive
.

Julius sat back. “I am impressed by your determination, Ezio. It almost frightens me. And I am glad I am not myself an enemy of the Assassins.”

Ezio looked up sharply. “You know about the Brotherhood?”

The Pope made a tent of his fingers. “I always needed to know who the enemies of my enemy were. But your secret is safe with me. As I told you, I am not a fool.”

“Your instinct is right. I will guide you and guard you. But I do not belong to you and soon you must let me go. And I have no power over he who controls me. I must obey the will of the Master of the Apple.”

Ezio, alone in his secret lodgings, was holding the Apple in his hands as he tried to use it to help him locate his quarry in Rome, when the mysterious voice had come to him again. This time he could not tell if the voice was male or female, and he could not even tell whether it came from the Apple or from somewhere in his own mind.

Your instinct is right
. But also:
I have no power over he who controls me.
Why then had the Apple only shown him hazy images of Micheletto—just enough to tell him that Cesare’s henchman was still alive? And it could not—or would not—pinpoint Cesare’s location. At least for now.

He suddenly realized something his inner self had always known: that he should not abuse the object’s power by overusing it, that he should not become dependent on the Apple. Ezio knew that it was his own will that had blurred the answers he sought. He must not be slothful. He must fend for himself. One day he would have to again, anyway.

He thought of Leonardo. What could that man not do, if he had the Apple? And Leonardo, the best of men, nevertheless invented weapons of destruction as easily as he produced sublime paintings. Might the Apple have the power not only to help mankind, but to corrupt it? In Rodrigo’s or Cesare’s hands, had either of those two ever been able to master it, it could have become the instrument not of salvation, but destruction!

Power is a potent drug. Ezio did not want to fall victim to it.

He looked at the Apple again. It seemed inert in his hands now. But as he placed it back in its box, he found he could hardly bear to close the lid. What paths could it not open up for him?!

No! He must bury it. He must learn to live by the code without it. But not yet!

He had always sensed in his heart that Micheletto lived. Now he knew it for a fact. And while he lived, he would do his utmost to free his evil master—Cesare!

Ezio had not told Pope Julius his full plan. He intended to seek out Cesare and kill him, or die in the attempt.

It was the only way.

He would use the Apple next only when he had to. He had to keep his own instincts and powers of deduction sharp, against the day when the Apple would no longer be in his possession. He would hunt down the Borgia diehards in Rome without it. Only if he failed—within three days—to unearth them, would he resort to its power again. He still had his friends—the girls of the Rosa in Fiore, La Volpe’s thieves, his fellow Assassins—and with their help, how could he fail?

And he knew that the Apple would—in ways he could not fully comprehend—help him, as long as he respected its potential. Perhaps that was its secret. Perhaps no one could ever fully master it—except a member of the race of ancient Adepts who had left the world in trust to humanity, to make or break it, as their will elected.

He closed the lid and locked the box.

Ezio summoned a meeting of the Brotherhood on Tiber Island that night.

“My friends,” he started, “I know how hard we have striven, and I believe that victory may be in sight, but there is still work to do.”

The others, all except Machiavelli, looked at each other in surprise.

“But Cesare is muzzled!” cried La Volpe. “For good!”

“And we have a new Pope who has always been an enemy of the Borgia,” added Claudia.

“And the French are driven back!” put in Bartolomeo. “The countryside is secure. And the Romagna is back in papal hands!”