Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (43 page)

“May God reward Leonardo da Vinci,” he said.

“Success?”

“I have never seen such pandemonium,” replied Machiavelli. “The survivors are running away out of town as fast as they can. I think most of them will prefer the plow to the sword after this.”

“Good! But we still have work to do.”

They made their way down the narrow street and arrived at the door of the Lone Wolf. It was closed. Silently as cats, they climbed to the roof. It was a one-story building, bigger than it appeared from the front, and near the top of the slant of the roof there was a skylight. It was open. They approached it and cautiously looked over the edge.

It was a different room from the one in which they had been ambushed. Two men were down below. Micheletto stood at a table. Facing him, seated, was Cesare Borgia. His once-handsome face, now lacerated by the New Disease, was white with fury.

“They have destroyed my plans! Those damned Assassins! Why did you not destroy them? Why did you fail me?”

“
Eccellenza
, I—” Micheletto looked like a whipped dog.

“I must make good my escape. I’ll go to Viana. Once I’m there, I’ll be in Navarre, just across the border. Let them try to recapture me then! I’m not waiting here for Ferdinand’s men to come and haul me back to La Mota. My brother-in-law is king of Navarre and he will surely help me.”

“
I
will help you, as I have always helped you. Only let me come with you.”

Cesare’s cruel lips curled. “You got me out of La Mota, sure. You built up my hopes. But now look where you have got me!”

“Master, all my men are dead—I have done what I could.”

“And failed!”

Micheletto went white. “Is this my reward? For all my years of faithful service?”

“You dog, get out of my sight. I discard you! Go and find some gutter to die in.”

With a cry of rage, Micheletto hurled himself at Cesare, his huge strangler’s hands flexed to close on his former master’s throat. But they never got there. With lightning speed, Cesare had whipped out one of the two pistols he had in his belt and fired, at point-blank range.

Micheletto’s face was destroyed beyond all recognition. The rest of the body crashed over the table. Cesare sprang back, out of his chair, to avoid being covered in blood.

Ezio had drawn back, to be invisible but not out of earshot. He was preparing to leap from the roof and grab Cesare as he came out through the front door of the inn. But Machiavelli had craned forward the better to witness this dreadful showdown. Now, he inadvertently kicked a tile loose, and the noise alerted Cesare.

Cesare looked up swiftly, drawing his second pistol at the same time. Machiavelli didn’t have time to draw back before Cesare fired, shooting Machiavelli through the shoulder and smashing his collarbone. Then Cesare fled.

Ezio thought of pursuit, but only for an instant, and he had heard that Cesare intended to go to Viana. Well, he would follow him there. But not before he had seen to his wounded friend.

Machiavelli was groaning, apologies of all things, as Ezio managed to haul him off the roof. At least he could walk, but the wound was bad.

Once they had got to the main thoroughfare, Ezio accosted a passerby, having to stop the man by force since the chaos was still raging around them.

“I need a doctor,” he said urgently. “Where can I find one?”

“Many people need a doctor!” replied the man.

Ezio shook him. “My friend is badly wounded. Where can I find a doctor? Now!”

“Let go of me! You could try
el médico
Acosta. His rooms are just down the street. There’s a sign outside.”

Ezio grabbed the near-fainting Machiavelli and supported him. He took his scarf from his tunic and with it stanched the wound as best he could. Niccolò was losing a lot of blood.

The minute he saw the wound, Acosta had Machiavelli sit in a chair. He took a bottle of alcohol and some swabs and carefully dressed it.

“The ball went right through the shoulder,” he explained in broken Italian. “So at least I won’t have to dig it out. And it’s a clean wound. But as for the collarbone, I’ll have to reset it. I hope you’re not planning on traveling any time soon.”

Ezio and Machiavelli exchanged a glance.

“I have been a fool again,” said Machiavelli, forcing a grin.

“Shut up, Niccolò.”

“Go on. Get after him. I’ll manage.”

“He can stay here with me. I have a small annex that needs a patient,” said Acosta. “And when he’s healed, I’ll send him after you.”

“How long?”

“Perhaps two weeks, maybe more.”

“I’ll see you in Rome,” said Machiavelli.

“All right,” replied Ezio. “Take care of yourself, my friend.”

“Kill him for me,” said Machiavelli. “Though at least he spared us the trouble of Micheletto.”

The Firstborn of the New Age is already on his way from high heaven down to earth.

—
VIRGIL
,
ECLOGUES
, IV

Ezio once again traveled across Spain on a long, lonely journey, almost due north to Viana. He arrived there in the month of March. The city that he saw, a mile or so distant, looked exactly like the one in the vision accorded him by the Apple, with strong walls and a well-fortified citadel at its center, but there was a difference.

Even before he crossed the border into Navarre, Ezio’s practiced eye told him that the city was under siege. When he came to a village, most of the locals just shook their heads dumbly when he questioned them, but when he sought out the priest, with whom he was able to converse in Latin, he learned the whole picture.

“You may know that our king and queen have designs on Navarre. It’s a rich land, and they want to incorporate it into ours.”

“So they want to take Viana?”

“They’ve already taken it! It’s occupied by the Count of Lerin on their behalf.”

“And the besiegers?”

“They are Navarrese forces. I think they will be the victors.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because they are under the command of the brother-in-law of the king of Navarre, and he is an experienced general.”

Ezio’s heart beat faster, but he still needed confirmation: “His name?”

“He’s very famous, apparently. The Duke of Valence, Cesare Borgia. They say he once commanded the army of the Pope himself. But the Spanish troops are brave. They have taken the fight out to the enemy, and there have been bloody battles in the fields outside the town. I would not go any farther in that direction, my son; there lies only devastation and blood.”

Ezio thanked him and spurred his horse forward.

He arrived at the scene to find a pitched battle going on right in front of him, as a fog grew around them. In its midst Cesare Borgia was taking a stand, hacking down any foe who came at him. And suddenly Ezio him -self had to fight another horseman--a Navarrese, with his crest of a red shield crisscrossed with yellow chains. They cut and slashed at each other with their swords until finally Ezio was able to split the man’s right shoulder down to the chest, and he fell, without a cry, to be finished off by Spanish infantrymen.

Cesare was on foot, and Ezio decided that it would be easier to get close to him undetected if he were also on foot, so he dismounted and ran through the fray toward him.

At last he stood face-to-face with his deadly foe. Cesare’s face was streaked with blood and dust, and strained with exertion, but when he saw Ezio his expression took on a new determination.

“Assassin! How did you find me?”

“My thirst to avenge Mario Auditore led me to you.”

They sliced at each other with their swords until Ezio managed to knock Cesare’s out of his hand. Then, sheathing his own, he flung himself on the Borgia, putting his hands around his throat. But Cesare had learned a few things from Micheletto about the art of strangling and managed to free himself by thrusting Ezio’s arms away. Ezio unleashed the hidden-blade, but once again Cesare managed to defend himself successfully, as the battle raged about them.

But then the Spanish trumpets sounded the retreat. Triumphant, Cesare yelled to the nearest Navarrese troops: “Kill him! Kill the Assassin! Tear the
maldito bastardo
into pieces!”

But the fog had increased, and Cesare melted into it. The Navarrese soldiers closed in on Ezio. He fought them off hard and long. They left him for dead.

Later, Ezio came to, to find himself in the middle of the battlefield. He was lying on his back. He had to push a corpse off him before he could sit up.

The battlefield lay under a cloudy, bloodred sky. In the distance the sun burned angrily. Dust hung in the air over a wide, unmade road, littered with the dead.

Ezio saw a crow standing on a corpse’s chin, pecking hungrily at his eye. A riderless horse stampeded by, driven mad by the smell of blood. Broken banners snapped in the breeze.

Groaning with the effort, he stood up and, painfully at first, walked through the field of the dead. He found that he had lost his sword and dagger, though the hidden-blade and the bracer had not been found and looted.

His first job was to replace his weapons. Near him, he noticed a peasant sifting through the battlefield, looting. The peasant looked at him.

“Help yourself,” he said. “There’s more than enough to go around.”

Ezio looked for fallen officers and knights, as they would be better armed, but in every case someone had got there before him. At last he found a dead captain with a fine sword and a dagger similar to his own. These he took gratefully.

He made his way off the battlefield. He had to find a horse. It would be quicker to get around that way.

He was in luck. Not half a mile from the edge of the battlefield, well away from the Navarrese camp, he came across a warhorse, its back bloodstained, but not with its own blood, and fully saddled and bridled, grazing in a green field. Talking to it gently, he mounted it. It kicked a little at first, but he soothed it quickly and, turning it, rode back the way he had come.

Back at the battlefield, he encountered more peasants gleaning what they could from the bodies. He passed them, galloping up a hill toward the sound of a renewed fight. As the crest of the hill revealed a level plain below it, Ezio saw that he was now much closer to the town. Battle had been rejoined and it was taking place on the plain, close to the battlemented walls of the town, from where cannon fire issued.

Ezio steered his horse to one side of the battle, through some olive groves, but there he encountered a patrol of Navarrese troops. Before he had time to wheel around, they had fired their muskets at him, missing him, but cutting his horse down from under him.

He managed to escape among the trees, and, continuing on foot, taking care to avoid the Spanish troops who seemed to be prowling all around, he suddenly overheard snatches of conversation. Creeping closer, he came to a clearing in which he saw one Spanish soldier lying wounded on the ground while another did his best to comfort him.

“Por favor,”
said the wounded man. “My legs. Why won’t the bleeding stop?”

“
Compadre
, I have done all I can for you. Now you must trust in God.”

“Oh, Pablo, I’m afraid!
Mis piernas! Mis piernas!
”

“Quiet now, Miguel. Think of all the money we’ll get when we’ve won the battle. And the booty!”

“Who is this old man we are fighting for?”

“Who?
El Conde de Lerin
?”

“Yes. We are fighting for him, aren’t we?”

“Yes, my friend. He serves our king and queen, and we serve him. So we fight.”

“Pablo, the only thing I think I’m fighting for now is my life.”

A patrol arrived on the other side of the clearing.

“Keep moving,” said its sergeant. “We must outflank them.”

“My friend is wounded,” said Pablo. “He cannot move.”

“Then leave him. Come on.”

“Give me a few more minutes.”

“Very well. We head north. Follow us. And be sure no Navarrese sees you.”

“Will we know when we have outflanked them?”

“There will be gunfire. We’ll cut them down where they least expect it. Use the trees for cover.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

“What is it?”

“I will follow now.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes, sir. My comrade, Miguel, is dead.”

Once they had gone, Ezio waited for a few minutes, then made his way north, before veering east, in the direction he knew Viana lay. He left the olive groves and saw that he had passed the field of battle and was now skirting it on its northern side. He wondered what had become of the Spanish soldiers, for there was no sign of any successful outflanking movement. And the battle seemed to be going to the Navarrese.

On his way lay a shattered village. He avoided it, as he could see Spanish snipers concealed behind some of the charred and broken walls, using long-muzzled wheel locks to fire on any Navarrese troops at the edge of the battle.

He came across a soldier, his tunic so bloodstained that Ezio could not tell what side he was on, sitting with his back to a stray olive tree and hugging himself in agony, his whole body shaking, his gun abandoned on the ground.

Reaching the outskirts of the town, among the settlements crouched beneath its bastions, Ezio saw, just ahead of him, his quarry. Cesare was with a Navarrese sergeant and he was clearly assessing the best way of breaching or undermining Viana’s massive walls.

The Spanish who had taken Viana had been confident enough to allow some of their camp followers to settle in the houses here. But they were evidently not now powerful enough to protect them.

Suddenly, a woman came out of one of the cottages and ran toward them, screaming and blocking their path.

“Ayúdenme!”
she cried. “Help me! My son! My son is wounded!”

The sergeant went up to the woman and, seizing her by the hair, dragged her out of Cesare’s way.