Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (38 page)

Giulia’s first husband, Orsino Orsini, had been happy to wink at the affair his nineteen-year-old wife had embarked on with the sixty-two-year-old Rodrigo Borgia. She had a daughter, Laura, but no one knew if she was the child of Orsino or Rodrigo. Rodrigo, despite being a Valencian by birth, had risen through the Church until he came to control the Vatican’s purse strings, and he had shown his gratitude to his delicious young mistress by installing her in a brand-new house (which she’d long since been obliged to quit) conveniently close to the Vatican, and by making her brother, Alessandro, a cardinal. The other cardinals called him “the Cardinal of the Skirts” behind his back, and of course never in Rodrigo’s presence. Giulia they called “the Bride of Christ.”

Ezio and Machiavelli dropped to the ground in the piazza that Giulia’s apartment block fronted. A couple of papal guards stood nearby. Otherwise the square was deserted. The guards’ tunics bore, on their shoulders, the crest of the della Rovere family—a massive oak tree, root and branch, now surmounted by the papal triple tiara and the keys of Saint Peter. But Ezio recognized the men. Six months earlier, they’d been in mulberry-and-yellow livery. Now, times had changed. They saluted him. He acknowledged them.

“Fuckers,” said Machiavelli under his breath.

“A man’s got to work,” said Ezio. “I’m surprised that you, of all people, can take issue with such a bagatelle.”

“Come on!”

They’d arrived without due notice and it took some trouble to convince the Farnese attendants—six blue fleurs-de-lis ranged on a yellow background on their capes—to admit them, but, as Ezio knew, Signora Farnese was at home. She received them in a room that was half as gaudy but twice as tasteful as La Vannozza’s. At thirty, she had more than retained the beauty of her youth and the intelligence that informed it. Immediately, though they were unexpected guests, she had Moscato and
panpepati e mielati
served for them.

But she knew nothing, and it was clear that she was innocent of any Borgia taint, despite her previous closeness to that execrable family (as Machiavelli called them). Machiavelli saw that she had moved on, and when he and Ezio asked her about her once-close friendship with Lucrezia, all she could say was, “What I saw of her was her good side. I think she fell too much under the bullying sway of her father and her brother. I thank God she is rid of them.” She paused. “If only she had met Pietro Bembo earlier. Those two were soul mates. He might have taken her to Venice and saved her from her dark side.”

“Do you see her still?”

“Alas, Ferrara is so far to the north, and I have my hands full, running Carbognano. Even friendships die, Ezio Auditore.”

An image of Caterina Sforza blew into his mind before he had a chance to extinguish it. Ah, God! How the thought of her caught at his heart still!

It was late afternoon by the time they left. They kept a close eye out for anyone shadowing them, but there was nobody.

“We must use the Apple,” said Machiavelli again.

“This is but the first day of three. We must learn to trust ourselves, and our own intelligence, and not lean on what has been vouchsafed us.”

“The matter is pressing.”

“One more appointment today, Niccolò. Then, perhaps, we shall see.”

The
Princesse
d’Albret,
Dâme
de Châlus, Duchess of Valence, was, according to the gatekeepers of her opulent villa in the Pinciano district, not at home. But Ezio and Machiavelli, impatient and tired, pushed past anyway and encountered Charlotte in her
piano nobile
, engrossed in packing. Huge chests full of costly linen and books and jewelry stood about the half-empty room. In a corner, the confused little four-year-old Louise, Cesare’s only legitimate heir, played with a wooden doll.

“You are damned impertinent,” said the cold-looking blonde who confronted them, her dark brown eyes flashing fire.

“We have the imprimatur of the Pope himself,” lied Ezio. “Here is his warrant.” He held up a blank parchment, from which impressive-looking seals hung.

“Bastards,” said the woman coolly. “If you think I know where Cesare is imprisoned, you are fools. I never want to see him again, and I pray that none of his
sang maudit
has passed into the veins of my innocent little daughter.”

“We also seek Micheletto,” said Machiavelli implacably.

“That Catalan peasant,” she spat. “How should I know?”

“Your husband told you how he might escape, if taken,” suggested Machiavelli. “He depended on you.”

“Do you think so? I don’t! Perhaps Cesare confided in one of his dozens of mistresses. Perhaps the one that gave him the
malattia venerea
?”

“Do you—?”

“I never touched him, since the first pustules appeared, and he at least had the decency to keep away from me and wallow in the gutter with his whores afterward. And father eleven brats by them. At least I am clean, and my daughter, too. As you see, I am getting out of here. France is a far better country than this wretched hellhole. I’m going back to La Motte-Feuilly.”

“Not to Navarre?” asked Machiavelli slyly.

“I see you are trying to trick me!” She turned her cold, bony face toward them. Ezio noticed that her beauty was marred—or enhanced—by a dimple in the middle of her chin. “I do not choose to go to that province merely because my brother married the heiress to the throne and thereby became king.”

“Does your brother remain faithful to Cesare?” asked Ezio.

“I doubt it. Why don’t you stop wasting my time, and go and ask him?”

“Navarre is far away.”

“Exactly. Which is why I wish you and your saturnine friend were on your way there. And now, it is late and I have work to do. Please leave.”

“A wasted day,” commented Machiavelli as they took to the streets again, the shadows lengthening.

“I don’t think so. We know that none of those closest to Cesare are harboring or protecting him.” Ezio paused. “All the most important women in his life hated him, and even Giulia had no time for Rodrigo.”

Machiavelli grimaced. “Imagine being fucked by a man old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Well, she didn’t do too badly out of it.”

“We still don’t know where Cesare
is
. Use the Apple!”

“No. Not yet. We must stand on our own feet.”

“Well,” sighed Machiavelli, “at least God gave us good minds.”

At that moment, one of Machiavelli’s spies came running up, a small, bald man with alert eyes, out of breath, his face wild.

“Bruno?” said Machiavelli, surprised and concerned.

“Maestro,” panted the man. “Thank God I’ve found you.”

“What is it?”

“The Borgia diehards! They sent someone to follow you and Maestro Ezio—”

“And?”

“Sure that you were out of the way, they have taken Claudia!”

“My sister! Sweet Jesus—how?” gasped Ezio.

“She was in the square outside Saint Peter’s—you know those rickety wooden colonnades the Pope wants to tear down?”

“Get on with it!”

“They took her—she was organizing her girls, getting them to infiltrate—”

“Where is she now?”

“They have a hideout in the Prati—just to the east of the Vatican. That’s where they’ve taken her.” Bruno quickly gave them the details of where Claudia was being held prisoner.

Ezio looked at Machiavelli.

“Let’s go!” he said.

“At least we’ve found out where they are,” said Machiavelli, drily as ever, as the two of them bounded up to the rooftops again; from there they ran and leapt across Rome, until they came to the Tiber, where they crossed on the Ponte della Rovere, and made haste again toward their goal.

The place Machiavelli’s spy, Bruno, had indicated was a ramshackle villa just north of the Prati district market. But its crumbling stucco belied a brand-new ironbound front door, and the grilles on the windows were new, too, and freshly painted.

Before Machiavelli could stop him, Ezio had gone up to the door and hammered on it.

The judas set into it opened and a beady eye regarded them. And, to their amazement, the door swung smoothly back on well-oiled hinges.

They found themselves in a nondescript courtyard. There was no one about. Whoever had opened the door—and closed it firmly behind them—had disappeared. There were doors on three sides of the yard. The one opposite the entrance was open. Above it was a tattered banner—bearing a black bull in a golden field.

“Trapped,” said Machiavelli succinctly. “What weapons do you have?”

Ezio had his trusty hidden-blade, his sword, and his dagger. Machiavelli carried a light sword and a stiletto.

“Come in, gentlemen—you are most welcome,” said a disembodied voice from a window overlooking the courtyard somewhere high up in the wall above the open door. “I think we have something to trade with.”

“The Pope knows where we are,” retorted Machiavelli loudly. “You are lost. Give yourselves up! The cause you serve is dead!”

A hollow laugh was his rejoinder. “Is it indeed? I think not. But come in. We knew you’d take the bait. Bruno has been working for us for a year now.”

“Bruno?”

“Treachery runs in families, and dear Bruno’s is no exception. All Bruno wanted was a little more cash than you were giving him. He’s worth it. He managed to inveigle Claudia here, in the hope of meeting one of the English cardinals—they sit on the fence, as the English always do, and Claudia hoped to swing him to your side, and get a little information out of him. Unfortunately, Cardinal Shakeshaft met with a terrible accident—he was run over by a carriage and died on the spot. But your sister, Ezio, is still alive, just, and I am sure she is longing to see you.”

“Calma,”
said Machiavelli as the two men looked at each other. Ezio’s blood boiled. He’d spent a day trying to trace the diehards only to find himself led straight to them.

He dug his fingernails into his palms.

“Where is she,
bastardi
?” he yelled.

“Come in.”

Cautiously, the two Assassins approached the dark entrance.

There was a dimly lit hall, in whose center, on a plinth, was a bust of Pope Alexander VI, the coarse features—the hooked nose, the weak chin, the fat lips—done to the life. There was no other furniture, and again there were three doors leading off the three walls facing the entrance, only that facing the entrance open. Ezio and Machiavelli made for it and, passing the door, found themselves in another bleak room. There was a table, on which various rusty surgical instruments were arrayed, glittering under the light of a single candle, on a stained cloth. Next to it was a chair, and on it Claudia was seated, half undressed and bound, her hands in her lap, her face and breasts bruised, a gag in her mouth.

Three men detached themselves from the shadows that obscured the back wall. Ezio and Machiavelli were aware of others, too, men and women, behind them and on either side. Those they could see in the darkling light wore the now-grubby mulberry-and-yellow of the former holders of power.

All were heavily armed.

Claudia’s eyes spoke to Ezio’s. She managed to wrestle her branded finger free enough to show him. She had not given in, despite the torture. She was a true Assassin. Why had he ever doubted her?

“We know how you feel about your family,” said a gaunt man of perhaps fifty summers whom Ezio did not recognize. He seemed to be the leader of these Borgia supporters. “You let your father and brothers die. Your mother we need not bother about; she is dying anyway. But you can still save your sister. If you wish. She’s already well struck in years and doesn’t even have any children, so perhaps you won’t bother.”

Ezio controlled himself. “What do you want?”

“In exchange? I want you to leave Rome. Why don’t you go back to Monteriggioni and build the place up again? Do some farming. Leave the power game to those who understand it.”

Ezio spat.

“Oh, dear,” said the thin man. He seized Claudia by the hair and, producing a small knife, cut her left breast.

Claudia screamed.

“She’s damaged goods at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll recover under your tender care.”

“I’ll take her back and then I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

“Ezio Auditore! I gave you a chance. But you threaten me—and you are in no position to threaten. If there’s any killing to be done, it’ll be by me. Forget Monteriggioni—a sophisticated lady like Madonna Claudia would doubtless hate it there anyway—your destiny is here—to die in this room.”

The men and women on each side closed in, drawing swords.

“Told you—trapped,” said Machiavelli.

“At least we’ve found the bastards,” replied Ezio, as each man looked the other in the eye. “Here!” He passed a handful of poison darts to his companion. “Make them work!”

“You didn’t tell me you came prepared.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I did.”

“Shut up.”

Ezio fell into a crouch as the diehards advanced. Their leader held the thin knife to Claudia’s throat.

“Let’s go!”

As one, they drew their swords. And with their free hand they threw the poison darts with deadly aim.

The Borgia supporters toppled on either side, as Machiavelli closed in and sliced and slashed with his sword and dagger, pushing against the diehards who tried to crush him—in vain—by force of numbers.

Ezio had one goal—to kill the thin man before he could rip open Claudia’s throat. He leapt forward and seized the man by the throat, but his adversary was as slippery as an eel and wrenched himself to one side, without letting go of his victim.

Ezio wrestled him to the floor at last and, grasping the man’s right hand with his left, forced the point of the thin knife the man was holding close to his throat. Its point touched the jugular vein.

“Have mercy,” babbled the diehard leader. “I served a cause I thought was true.”

“How much mercy would you have shown my sister?” asked Ezio. “You filth! You are finished.”

There was no need to release the hidden-blade. “I told you it would be a slow death,” said Ezio, drawing the knife down to the man’s groin. “But I am going to be merciful.” He slid the knife back up and sliced the man’s throat open. Blood bubbled in the man’s mouth.
“Bastardo!”
he gurgled. “You will die by Micheletto’s hand!”