Brotherhood

FORTY

General Valois’ headquarters was situated within the ruins of the fortified ancient Roman barracks of the old emperors’ personal brigade—the Praetorian Guard. It was located in the eighteenthrione, on the northeastern edge of Rome, now outside the shrunken city Rome had become, for in its heyday Rome had boasted one million inhabitants, a vast city, the greatest in the world by far, fifteen hundred years earlier.

Ezio and his troops caught up with Bartolomeo on the road and now they were gathered together on a small rise near the French base camp. They’d attempted an attack, but their bullets had bounced uselessly off the strong modern walls Valois had had built on top of the old ones. Now they had moved out of range of the responding hail of gunfire that had been the French response to their foray. All Bartolomeo could do—and was doing—was hurl imprecations at his enemies.

“You cowards! What, steal a man’s wife and then go and hide inside a fortress? Hah! Nothing hangs between your thighs—do you hear me?Nothing! Vous n’avez même pas une couille entre vous tous! There! That good enough French for you, you bastardi? In fact, I don’t think you have any balls at all.”

The French fired a cannon. They were within range of that. The shot hammered into the ground a few feet from where they were standing.

“Listen, Barto,” said Ezio. “Calm down. You’ll be no good to her dead. Look—let’s regroup, and then we’ll storm the gates, just like we did at the Arsenal that time in Venice when we were chasing down Silvio Barbarigo.”

“Won’t work,” said Bartolomeo glumly. “The entrance is thicker with Frenchmen than the streets of Paris.”

“Then we’ll climb the battlements.”

“They can’t be scaled. And even ifyou could, you’d be so outnumbered, even you wouldn’t be able to hold out.” He brooded. “Pantasilea would know what to do.” He brooded some more, and Ezio could see that his friend was becoming positively despondent. “Maybe this is the end,” he continued gloomily. “I’ll just have to do what he says—enter their camp at dawn, bearing propitiatory gifts, and just hope the sod spares her life. Wretched coward!”

But Ezio had been thinking. Now he snapped his fingers excitedly. “Perché non ci ho pensato prima?—Why didn’t I think of it before!”

“What? Did I say something?”

Ezio’s eyes were shining. “Back to your barracks!”

“What?”

“Call your men back to barracks. I’ll explain there. Come on!”

“This had better be good,” said Bartolomeo. To his men he gave the order: “Fall back!”

It was nighttime by the time they got back. Once the horses had been stabled and the men stood down, Ezio and Bartolomeo went to the map-room and sat down in conference.

“So, what’s this plan of yours?”

Ezio unrolled a map that showed the Castra Praetoria and its surroundings in detail. He pointed inside the fortress.

“Once inside, your men can overpower the camp’s patrols, am I correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Especially if they are taken completely by surprise?”

“Ma certo. The element of surprise is always—”

“Then we need to get hold of a lot of French uniforms. And their armor. Fast. At dawn, we’ll walk right in, bold as brass; but there’s no time to lose.”

Comprehension dawned on Bartolomeo’s rugged face—comprehension, and hope: “Hah! You crafty old scoundrel! Ezio Auditore, you truly are a man after my own heart! And thinking worthy of my Pantasilea herself!Magnifico!”

“Give me a few men. I’m going to make a sortie to their tower now, get in, and fetch what we need.”

“I’ll give you all the men you need—they can strip the uniforms from the dead French troops.”

“Good.”

“And Ezio—”

“Yes?”

“Be sure to kill them as cleanly as possible. We don’t want uniforms covered in blood.”

“They won’t feel a thing,” said Ezio, a steely look in his eyes. “Trust me.”

As Bartolomeo was detailing men for the job at hand, Ezio collected his saddlebag, and from it he selected the poison-blade.

They rode silently up to the Borgia Tower, which the French commanded, their horses’ hooves muffled with sacking. Dismounting a short way off, Ezio bade his men wait while he scaled the outer wall with the skill of a denizen of the distant Alps and the grace and cunning of a cat. A scratch from the poison-blade was enough to kill, and the overconfident French had not posted many guards—those that there were, he took completely unawares and they were dead before they even knew what had happened to them. Once the guards were out of the way, Ezio opened the main gate, which groaned on its hinges, making Ezio’s heart race. He paused to listen, but the garrison slept on. Without a sound, his men ran into the tower, entered the garrison, and overcame its inmates with barely a struggle. Collecting the uniforms took a little longer, but within an hour they were back at the barracks—mission accomplished!

“Bit of blood on this one,” grumbled Bartolomeo, sifting through their booty.

“Exception. The only man who was truly on his toes. Had to finish him the conventional way, with my sword,” said Ezio as the men detailed for the operation they had at hand changed into the French gear.

Bartolomeo said, “Well, you’d better bring me a suit of their perverted mail, too.”

“You’re not wearing one,” said Ezio as he put on a French lieutenant’s uniform himself.

“What?”

“Of course you aren’t! The plan is that you gave yourself up to us. We are a French patrol, bringing you to the Général Duc de Valois.”

“Of course.” Bartolomeo thought hard. “Then what?”

“Barto, you can’t have been paying attention.Then your men attack—on my signal.”

“Bene!” Bartolomeo beamed. “Get a move on!” he said to those of his men who hadn’t yet completed dressing. “I can smell the dawn already, and it’s a long ride.”

The men formed up. They rode hard through the night, but left their horses at a little distance from the French base camp, in the charge of their squires. Before leaving them, Ezio first checked Leonardo’s little Codex pistol, its design now improved in order to enable him to fire more than one shot before reloading, and discreetly strapped it to his arm. He and his group of “French” soldiers then proceeded on foot in the direction of the Castra Praetoria.

“Valois thinks Cesare will allow the French to rule Italy,” explained Bartolomeo as he and Ezio marched side by side. Ezio was playing the part of the senior officer of the patrol and would hand Bartolomeo over himself. “Silly fool! He’s so blinded by the trickle of royalty in his blood that he can’t see the plan of the battlefield—blasted little inbred runt that he is!” He paused. “But you know and I know that, whatever the French may think, Cesare intends to be the first king of a united Italy himself!”

“Unless we stop him.”

“Yes,” Bartolomeo reflected. “You know, brilliant though your plan is, personally I don’t like using this kind of trick. I believe in a fair fight—and may the best man win!”

“Cesare and Valois may have different styles, Barto, but they both fight dirty, and we have no choice but to fight fire with fire.”

“Hmph! ‘There will come a day when men no longer cheat each other. And on that day we shall see what mankind is truly capable of,’” he quoted.

“I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“You should have! It’s something your father once wrote.”

“Psst!”

They had drawn close to the French encampment, and up ahead Ezio could see figures moving about—French perimeter guards.

“What’ll we do?” asked Bartolomeo, sotto voce.

“I’ll kill them. There aren’t many of them. But we must do this noiselessly and without fuss.”

“Got enough poison left in that gadget of yours?”

“This lot are alert and they’re quite widely spaced apart. If I kill one and I’m noticed, I may not be able to prevent some getting back and raising the alarm.”

“Why kill them at all? We’re in French uniforms. Well, you lot are.”

“They ask questions. If we make an entrance with you in chains…”

“Chains?!”

“Shh! If we make an entrance, Valois will be so tickled it won’t occur to him to ask where we sprang from. At least, I hope it won’t.”

“That chicken-brain? No worries! But how are we going to get rid of them? We can hardly shoot them. The gunfire would be as good as a fanfare.”

“I’m going to shoot them with this,” said Ezio, producing Leonardo’s adapted compact, quick-load crossbow. “I’ve counted. There are five of them. I have six bolts. The light’s still a bit dim for me to aim properly from here. I’ll have to get a bit closer. Just you hang on here with the rest.”

Ezio slipped forward until he was within twenty paces or so of the nearest French sentry. Cranking back the string, he placed the first bolt in the groove and, lifting the tiller to his shoulder, took a quick bead on the man’s breast and fired. There was a muted snap and a hiss, and the man crumpled to the ground instantly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. But Ezio was already on his way through the bracken to his next victim—the twang of the crossbow was barely audible. The small bolt hit the man’s throat and he made a small, strangulated, gargling sound before his knees gave way under him. Five minutes later, it was all over. He’d used all six bolts, since he’d missed on the first shot at his last man, making him lose his resolve momentarily, but he’d reloaded and fired successfully before the soldier had had time to react to the strange, dull noise he’d heard.

He had no more ammunition for the bow now, but he gave a silent thanks to Leonardo. He knew this weapon would prove more than useful on another occasion. Ezio quietly hauled the fallen French soldiers to some sparse cover—hoping it’d be enough to hide them from anyone who happened to pass by. As he did so, he retrieved the bolts he could—recalling Leonardo’s advice. Stowing the crossbow, he made his way back to Bartolomeo.

“All done?” the big man asked him.

“All done.”

“Valois next,” Bartolomeo vowed. “I’ll make him squeal like a stuck pig.”

The sky was lightening, and dawn, clad in a russet mantle, was walking over the dew on the distant hills to the east.

“We’d better get going,” said Bartolomeo.

“Come on, then,” replied Ezio, clapping manacles on his friend’s wrists before he could object. “Don’t worry—they’re fakes. Spring-loaded. Just make a sudden tight fist and they’ll drop off. But for God’s sake, wait for my signal. And by the way, the ‘guard’ just to your left will stay close to you. He’s got Bianca under his cloak. All you have to do is reach across and…” Ezio’s voice took on a warning note, “Butat my signal!”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bartolomeo smiled.

At the head of his men, Bartolomeo two paces behind him with a special escort of four, Ezio marched boldly in the direction of the main gate of the French headquarters. The rising sun glittered on their chain mail and breastplates.

“Halte-la!” ordered a sergeant-commander at the gate. He was backed up by a dozen heavily armed sentries, but his eyes had already taken in the uniforms of his fellow soldiers. “Déclarez-vous!”

“Je suis le Lieutenant Guillemot, et j’emmène le Général d’Alviano ici présent à Son Excellence le Général Duc Monsieur de Valois. Le Général d’Alviano s’est rendu, seul et sans armes, selon les exigences de Monsieur le Duc,” said Ezio fluently, causing Bartolomeo behind him to raise an eyebrow.

“Well, Lieutenant Guillemot, the general will be pleased to see General d’Alviano, and that he’s come to his senses,” said the captain of the guard, who had hurried up to take charge. “But there’s something—just a trace—about your accent that I cannot place. Tell me, what part of France are you from?”

Ezio drew a breath. “Montréal,” he replied firmly.

“Open the gates,” the captain of the guard said to his sergeant.

“Open the gates!” shouted the sergeant.

Within seconds, Ezio was leading his men into the heart of the French headquarters. He fell back a step so as to have Bartolomeo, and the “prisoner’s” escort, at his side.

“I’ll kill the lot of them,” muttered Bartolomeo. “And eat their kidneys fried for breakfast. By the way, I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“Picked it up in Florence,” Ezio replied casually. “Couple of girls there I knew.” He was quietly glad his accent had passed muster.

“You rogue! Still, that’s where they say the best place is to learn a language.”

“What—Florence?”

“No, you fool—bed!”

“Shut up.”

“You sure these manacles are fakes?”

“Notyet, Barto. Be patient! And shut up!”

“It’s taking all my patience. What are they saying?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

And it was just as well that Bartolomeo’s French was limited to a few words, thought Ezio, as he listened to the jibes being hurled at his friend:“Chien d’Italien”—Italian dog; “Prosterne-toi devant tes supérieurs”—Bow down before your betters; “Regarde-le, comme il a honte de ce qu’il est devenu!”—Look at him, how ashamed of himself he is at his own downfall!

But the ordeal was soon over. They had arrived at the foot of the broad stairway that led up to the entrance of the French general’s quarters. Valois himself stood at the head of a bunch of officers, his prisoner, Pantasilea, at his side. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she wore loose manacles on her ankles, which would allow her to walk, but only in small steps. At the sight of her, Bartolomeo could not resist an angry growl. Ezio kicked him.

Valois held up his hand. “No need for violence, Lieutenant, though I do congratulate you on your zeal.” He turned his attention to Bartolomeo. “My dear general, it seems that you have seen the light.”

“Enough of your crap!” snarled Bartolomeo. “Release my wife! And get these cuffs off me!”

“Oh, dear,” said Valois. “Such high-handedness, and from someone born with absolutely nothing to his name.”

Ezio was about to give the signal when Bartolomeo retorted to Valois, raising his voice: “My name is worth its currency. Unlike yours, which is counterfeit!”

The surrounding troops fell silent.

“How dare you?” said Valois, white with rage.

“You think that commanding an army in itself grants you status—nobility? True nobility of spirit comes from fighting alongside your men, not by kidnapping a woman to cheat your way out of a battle. Why don’t you release my wife?!”

“You savages never learn,” said Valois malevolently, and producing a pistol, he cocked it and pointed it at Pantasilea’s head.

Ezio knew he had to act fast. He took out a pistol and fired one shot into the air. At the same time, Bartolomeo, who’d been dying for the moment, bunched his fists and the manacles flew off.

Pandemonium followed. The disguisedcondottieri with Ezio immediately attacked the startled French soldiers, and Bartolomeo, seizing Bianca from the “guard” still on his left, bounded up the stairway. But Valois was too quick for him. Keeping a tight hold on Pantasilea, he backed into his quarters, slamming the door behind him.

“Ezio!” implored Bartolomeo. “You have to save my wife! Only you can! That place is built like a strongbox!”

Ezio nodded and tried to give his friend a reassuring smile. He scanned the building from where he stood. It was not large, but it was a massive new structure, built by French military architects and designed to be impregnable. There was nothing for it but to try to gain entry from the rooftops, where no one would be expecting an assault, and where, therefore, the weak points might be.Might be.

Well, there was nothing for it but to try. Ezio leapt up the stairs and, taking advantage of the melee, which was taking up everyone else’s attention, he looked for a place where he might best climb. Suddenly, a dozen Frenchmen started after him, keen swords flashing in the early morning sun, but in a flash Bartolomeo was standing between him and them, flourishing Bianca menacingly.

The walls were designed to be unassailable, but there were enough nooks and crannies in them for Ezio to be able to plot a route with his eyes, and within a couple of moments he was on the roof. It was flat and made of wood overlaid with tile. There were five French sentries stationed up there. They challenged him, as he sprang over the parapet, demanding a password. He could not give one, and they ran toward him, halberds lowered. It was lucky they were not armed with muskets or pistols. Ezio shot the first one, then drew his sword and gave battle to the other four, who put up a desperate struggle, surrounding him and jabbing mercilessly with the points of their weapons. One slashed his sleeve open, nicking his elbow and drawing blood, but then the blade slid harmlessly off the metal bracer on his left forearm.

Using the bracer and his sword, he was able to defend himself against the increasingly frenetic blows. Ezio’s skill with his blade was offset by having to tackle four opponents at once. But thoughts of Bartolomeo’s beloved wife spurred him on—he knew, simply, that he could not fail, he must not fail. The tide of the fight turned in his favor—he ducked under two swords that were slashing toward his head, and engaged another with his bracer—leaving him free to smash aside the fourth man’s blade. The maneuver gave him the opening—and a lethal slash across the man’s jaw felled him. Three to go. Ezio stepped forward toward the nearest Frenchman, inside his guard—it threw the man, giving him no room to wield his sword. Ezio flicked his hidden-blade forward and into the man’s abdomen. Two left—both looking more nervous. It took just a couple of minutes to defeat the two French guards—who no longer had the advantage of numbers. Their swordplay was simply not up to challenging Ezio’s mastery of the blade. Breathing heavily and leaning on his sword for a moment, Ezio stood in the midst of another five vanquished foes.

The roof gave way in its center to a large square opening. After reloading his pistol, Ezio approached this cautiously. As he’d expected, he found himself looking down into a courtyard, undecorated and bare of any plants or chairs and tables, though there were two or three stone benches arranged around a dry fountain and pool.

As he looked over the edge a shot cracked out and a bullet zinged past his left ear. He drew back a little. He didn’t know how many pistols Valois had. If only one, he calculated that it would take his man perhaps ten seconds to reload. He regretted the crossbow, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tucked into the back of his belt were five of the poison darts. But he’d have to be at fairly close range to use them, and he didn’t want to do anything that might endanger Pantasilea.

“Don’t come any nearer!” yelled Valois from below. “I’ll kill her if you do!”

Ezio hovered near the edge of the roof, looking down into the courtyard; but his line of vision was limited by the rim of the roof, and he could see no one down there. But he could sense the panic in Valois’ voice.

“Who are you?” the general called. “Who sent you? Rodrigo? Tell him it was all Cesare’s plan!”

“You’d better tell me all you know, if you want to get back to Burgundy in one piece!”

“If I tell you, will you let me go?”

“We’ll see. The woman must not be harmed. Come out where I can see you,” commanded Ezio.

Below him, Valois stepped warily out from the colonnade that surrounded the courtyard and took up a position near the dead fountain. He had tied Pantasilea’s hands behind her back, and he held her by a bridle attached to a halter around her neck. She had been crying, Ezio could see, but was silent now, and trying to keep her head held high. The look she was giving Valois was so withering that, had it been a weapon, it would have eclipsed all the Codex armaments put together.

How many men had he down there with him, kept hidden? But the sound of his voice was fearful. It suggested to Ezio that the general had run out of options, and that he was cornered.

“Cesare has been bribing the cardinals, to get them away from the Pope and onto his side. Once he had subdued the rest of the country for Rome, I was supposed to march on the capital and seize the Vatican, with anyone else who opposed the captain-general’s will.”

Valois was waving his pistol around wildly. As he turned, Ezio saw that he had two more stuck in his belt.

“It wasn’t my idea,” continued Valois. “I am above such scheming.” A trace of his old vanity was creeping back into his voice. Ezio wondered if he’d allowed the man too much latitude. He moved into view and leapt boldly down into the courtyard, landing in a pantherlike crouch.

“Stay back!” screamed Valois. “Or I’ll—”

“Harm one hair of her head and my archers above will fill you fuller of arrows than San Sebastiano,” Ezio hissed. “So—you noble little soul—what was in it for you?”

“As I am of the House of Valois, Cesare will give me Italy. I will rule here, as befits my birthright.”

Ezio almost laughed. Bartolomeo had not been exaggerating—rather, the opposite—when he’d called this popinjay a chicken-brain! But he still had Pantasilea; and he was still dangerous.

“Good. Now, let the woman go.”

“Get me out first. Then I’ll let her go.”

“No.”

“I have King Louis’s ear. Ask for what you want in France and it shall be yours. An estate, perhaps? A title?”

“Those things I already have. Here. And you are never going to rule over them.”

“The Borgia try to overturn the natural order,” wheedled Valois, changing tack. “I intend to set it right again. Royal blood should rule—not the foul, tainted stuff that runs in their veins.” He paused. “I know you are not a barbarian, like them.”

“Neither you, nor Cesare, nor the Pope, nor anyone who does not have peace and justice on his side, will ever rule Italy while I have life in my body,” said Ezio, moving slowly forward.

Fear seemed to have frozen the French general to the spot. The hand that again now held the pistol to Pantasilea’s temple trembled, and he did not retreat. Evidently they were alone in his quarters, unless the only other occupants were servants who’d had the sense to hide. They could hear a steady, heavy noise, as of deliberate, slow blows being struck, and the outer doors of the quarters vibrated. Bartolomeo must have routed the French and brought up battering rams.

“Please…” quavered the general, all his urbanity gone. “I will kill her.” He glanced up to the opening in the roof, trying to catch a glimpse of Ezio’s imaginary archers, not even reflecting, as Ezio had feared he might when he’d first mentioned them—the first thing that’d come into his head—that such soldiery had been all but superseded in modern warfare, though the bow was still far quicker to reload than the pistol or musket.

Ezio took another step forward.

“I’ll give you anything you want—there’s money here, plenty of it, it’s to pay my men with, but you may have it all! And I—I—I will do anything you want of me!” His voice was pleading now, and the man himself cut such a pathetic figure that Ezio could hardly bridle his contempt. This man actually saw himself as king of Italy!

It hardly seemed worth killing him.

Ezio was close to him now. The two men looked each other in the eye. Ezio slowly took first the pistol and then the bridle out of the general’s nerveless hands. With a whimper of relief, Pantasilea hobbled back out of the way, watching the scene with wide eyes.

“I—I only wanted respect,” said the general faintly.

“But real respect is earned,” said Ezio. “Not inherited, or purchased. And it cannot be gained by force.Oderint dum metuant must be one of the stupidest sayings ever coined. No wonder Caligula adopted it: ‘Let them hate, as long as they fear.’ And no wonder our modern Caligula lives by it. And you serve him.”

“I serve my king, Louis XII!” Valois looked crestfallen. “But perhaps you are right. I see that now.” Hope sparked in his eyes. “I need more time…”

Ezio sighed. “Alas, friend. You have run out of that.” He drew his sword as Valois, understanding, and acting with dignity at last, knelt and lowered his head.

“Requiescat in pace,” said Ezio.

With a mighty crash, the outer doors of the quarters splintered and fell open, revealing Bartolomeo, dusty and bloody but uninjured, standing at the head of a troop of his men. He rushed up to his wife and hugged her so tightly that he knocked the breath out of her, before busying himself about getting the halter off her neck, but his fingers were so nervous and clumsy that Ezio had to do it for him. He cut the manacles from her feet with two mighty blows of Bianca and, calmer, fiddled free the cords that bound her wrists.

“Oh, Pantasilea, my dove, my heart, my own! Don’t you ever dare disappear like that again! I was lost without you!”

“No, you weren’t! You rescued me!”

“Ah.” Bartolomeo looked embarrassed. “No. Not I—it was Ezio! He came up with a—”

“Madonna, I am glad you are safe,” interrupted Ezio.

“My dear Ezio, how can I thank you? You saved me!”

“I was but an instrument—just a part of your husband’s brilliant plan.”

Bartolomeo looked at Ezio with an expression of confusion and gratitude on his face.

“My prince!” said Pantasilea, embracing her husband. “My hero!”

Bartolomeo blushed and, winking at Ezio, said, “Well, if I’m your prince, I’d better earn that title. Mind you, it wasn’tall my idea, you know—”

As they turned to go, Pantasilea brushed by Ezio and whispered, “Thank you.”