Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood (42 page)

“Let’s ride a little closer,” he said to his companions. They’d all dressed not in their customary black, but in hunting outfits, so as to arouse little or no suspicion. He had ten men with him. Each of them carried, as part of their standard equipment, a length of rope.

“We don’t want to get too close,” said his lieutenant. “The guards on the ramparts will see us.”

“And what will they see? A hunting party coming to Medina to revictual. Don’t worry, Giacomo.”

That remark had given Micheletto the germ of an idea. He went on, “We’ll ride right up to the town.”

It was about half an hour’s ride. During it, Micheletto was more than usually silent, his battered brow deeply furrowed. Then, as they approached the walls of the city, his face cleared.

“Rein in,” he said.

They did so. Micheletto looked them over. The youngest, a man of eighteen, Luca, had no hair on his chin, and a tip-tilted nose. He was already a hardened killer, but his face had the innocence of a cherub.

“Get out your ropes and measure them.”

They obeyed. Each rope measured twelve feet. One hundred twenty feet, tied securely together. Add Micheletto’s own and you had 130 feet. Cesare would have to drop the last ten feet or so, but that would be nothing to him.

Next problem: getting the rope to Cesare. For that they’d have to contact their recruit, the sergeant of the guard, Juan. That wouldn’t be too hard. They knew Juan’s movements and hours of duty. That would be Luca’s job, since, as an innocent-looking young man, he’d attract little attention. The rest of his band, though dressed like hunters, looked like the men they were: hardened thugs. As for himself…And Juan’s palm would have to be greased, but Micheletto always carried a contingency fund of 250 ducats. A tenth of that should do it. For the whole job.

Juan could gain access to Cesare’s cell and deliver the rope. The Swiss guards wouldn’t suspect him. Micheletto might even fake a letter with an official-looking seal on it, to be delivered to Cesare, as cover.

But the outer barbican was massive. Once Cesare was at the foot of the central tower, he’d still have to cross the inner courtyards and get out—somehow—through the only gate.

One good thing. La Mota’s main function these days was to guard its single prisoner. Its original purpose had been to ward off attacks from the Moors, but that threat had been removed long since. The massive place was, in every sense other than guarding Cesare, redundant, and he knew from Juan that it was a fairly cushy posting.

If Juan could…They must take changes of clothes to Cesare from time to time…If Juan could organize delivery of a change of clothes and fix up a rendezvous once Cesare was out…

It might work. He could think of no other way, apart from fighting their way in and getting Cesare out by force.

“Luca,” he said finally, “I have a job for you.”

It turned out that Juan wanted fifty ducats for the whole job, and Micheletto beat him down to forty, but didn’t waste time with too much bartering. It took Luca three trips to and fro to set the whole thing up, but finally he reported back:

“It’s arranged. He’s going to take the rope and a guardsman’s uniform to Cesare, accompanying the man who takes him his evening meal at six o’clock. The postern gate will be guarded by Juan, who’s going to take the midnight-to-six gate-watch. It’s a five-minute walk from the castle to the town…”

Cesare Borgia’s left leg hurt from the lesions of the New Disease, but not much, a dull ache, making him limp slightly. At two o’clock in the morning, already changed into the uniform, he tied one end of the rope firmly to the central mullion of the window of his cell and carefully let the length of the rest of it out into the night. When it was all paid out, he slung his good leg over the windowsill, hauled the other one after it, and took a firm grip on the rope. Sweating despite the coolness of the night, he descended hand over hand until his ankles felt the end of the rope. He dropped the last ten feet, and felt the pain in his left leg when he landed, but he shook it off and limped across the deserted inner courtyard and through the outer one, where there were guards who were sleepy and paid him no attention, recognizing him as one of their own.

At the gate he was challenged. His heart went to his mouth. But then Juan came up.

“It’s all right. I’ll take him to the guardhouse.”

What was going on? So near and yet so far!

“Don’t worry,” said Juan under his breath.

The guardhouse was occupied by two sleeping guards. Juan kicked one of them into life.

“Wake up, Domingo. This man has a warrant for town. They forgot to order more straw for the stables and they need it before they ride out for the dawn patrol. Take him back to the gate, explain to the guards there, and let him out.”

“Yes, sir!”

Out he went through the postern, which was then firmly locked behind him, and limped through the moonlight and the sweet night air to the town. What joy to feel the night around him, and the air, after so long. He’d been confined in this dump for more than a year. But he was free now; he was still only thirty; he’d get it all back. And he’d take such vengeance on his enemies, especially the Assassin Brotherhood, that Caterina Sforza’s purges at Forlì would make her look like a nursemaid.

He heard and smelled the horses at the appointed rendezvous. Thank God for Micheletto. Then he saw them. They were all there, in the shadows of the church wall. They had a fine black beast ready for him. Micheletto dismounted and helped him to the saddle.

“Welcome back,
Eccellenza
,” he said. “And now, we must hurry. That bastard
Assassino
, Ezio Auditore, is on our heels.”

Cesare was silent. He was thinking about the slowest death he could devise for the Assassin.

“I’ve put matters in hand already at Valencia,” continued Micheletto.

“Good.”

They rode off into the night, heading southeast.

“He’s
escaped
?” Ezio had ridden the last miles to La Mota without sparing himself, his companions, or their horses, with an ever-deepening sense of apprehension. “
How
?”

“It was carefully planned,
signore
,” said the hapless lieutenant of the castle, a plumpish man of sixty with a very red nose. “We are holding an official inquiry.”

“And what have you come up with?”

“As yet…”

But Ezio wasn’t listening. He was looking around at the Castle of La Mota. It was exactly as the Apple had depicted it. And the thought led him to remember another vision it had vouchsafed him: the gathering army at a seaport…The seaport had been Valencia!

His mind raced frantically.

He could only think of getting back to the coast as fast as possible!

“Get me fresh horses!” he yelled.

“But,
signore…
”

Machiavelli and Leonardo looked at each other.

“Ezio! Whatever the urgency, we must rest, at least for a day,” said Machiavelli.

“A week.” Leonardo groaned.

As matters turned out, they were delayed, since Leonardo fell ill. He was exhausted, and he missed Italy badly. Ezio was almost tempted to abandon him, but Machiavelli counseled restraint:

“He is your old friend. And they cannot gather an army and a fleet in less than two months.”

Ezio relented.

Events were to prove him right.

And to prove Leonardo invaluable.

Ezio and his companions were back in Valencia within a month. They found the city in a state of uproar. Machiavelli had underestimated the speed with which things could happen in such a wealthy town.

Men had been secretly mustering and now, just outside Valencia, there was a huge camp of soldiers, maybe one thousand men. The Borgia were offering mercenaries good wages, and word had got around fast. Budding soldiers were coming in from as far away as Barcelona and Madrid, and from all over the provinces of Murcia and La Mancha. And Borgia money ensured that a fleet of perhaps fifteen ships, quickly run-up troopships with half a dozen small warships to protect them, was in the process of being built.

“Well, we don’t need the Apple to tell us what our old friend Cesare is planning,” said Machiavelli.

“That’s true. He doesn’t need a vast army to take Naples, and once he’s established a bridgehead there, he’ll recruit many more men to his cause. His plan is to conquer the Kingdom of Naples, and all Italy.”

“What are Ferdinand and Isabella doing about this?” asked Machiavelli.

“They’ll be getting a force together to crush it. We’ll enlist their aid.”

“Take too long. Their army has to march from Madrid. The garrison here must have been put out of action. But you can see that Cesare’s in a hurry,” rejoined Machiavelli.

“Might not even be necessary,” put in Leonardo musingly.

“What do you mean?”

“Bombs.”

“Bombs?” asked Machiavelli.

“Quite little bombs—but effective enough to, say, wreck ships or disperse a camp.”

“Well, if they’ll do that for us…” said Ezio. “What do you need to make them?”

“Sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. And steel. Thinnish steel. Flexible. And I’ll need a small studio and a furnace.”

It took them a while, but fortunately for them, Captain Alberto’s ship, the
Marea di Alba
, was tied up at its usual quay. He greeted them with a friendly wave.

“Hello again!” he said. “The people who aren’t gentlemen. I don’t suppose you heard about the fracas at the Lone Wolf shortly after you arrived?”

Ezio told him what they needed.

“Hm. I do know a man here who has the facilities, and he might be able to put ticks on your shopping list.”

“When do you return to Italy?” asked Leonardo.

“I’ve brought over a cargo of grappa, and I’m taking back silk again. Maybe two, three days. Why?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Can you get what we need arranged quickly?” asked Ezio, who suddenly had a sense of foreboding. But he couldn’t blame Leonardo for wanting to leave.

“Certainly!”

Alberto was as good as his word, and within a few hours everything had been arranged and Leonardo settled down to work.

“How long will it take you?” asked Machiavelli.

“Two days, since I don’t have any assistants. I’ve enough material here to make twenty, maybe twenty-one, bombs. That’s ten each.”

“
Seven
each,” said Ezio.

“No, my friend, ten each—one lot for you, and one for Niccolò here. You can count me out.”

Two days later, the bombs were ready. Each was about the shape and size of a grapefruit, encased in steel and fitted with a catch at the top.

“How do they work?”

Leonardo smiled proudly. “You flip this little catch—actually, it’s more of a lever—you count to three, and you throw it at your target. Each of these is enough to kill twenty men and, if you hit it in the right place, to disable a ship completely, even sink it.” He mused. “It’s a pity there isn’t time to build a submarine.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. Just throw it after a count of three. Don’t hold on to it any longer, or you’ll be blown to pieces yourself!” He rose. “And now, goodbye, and good luck.”

“What?”

Leonardo smiled ruefully. “I’ve had quite enough of Spain and I’ve booked a passage with Alberto. He sails on this afternoon’s tide. I’ll see you back in Rome—if you make it.”

Ezio and Machiavelli looked at each other. Then each solemnly embraced Leonardo.

“Thank you, my dear friend,” said Ezio.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Thank God you didn’t build these things for Cesare,” said Machiavelli.

After Leonardo had gone, they carefully packed the bombs, of which there were exactly ten each, into linen bags, which they slung around their shoulders.

“You take the mercenaries’ encampment; I’ll take the port,” said Ezio.

Machiavelli nodded grimly.

“When we’ve done the job, we’ll meet at the corner of the street where the Lone Wolf is,” said Ezio. “I reckon the Lone Wolf is where Cesare will have his center of operations. There’ll be chaos and he’ll go there to regroup with his inner circle. We’ll try to corner them before they can make their escape—again.”

“For once I’ll back your hunch.” Machiavelli grinned. “Cesare is so vainglorious he won’t have thought to change the Borgia diehards’ hideout. And it’s more discreet than a palazzo.”

“Good luck, friend.”

“We’ll both need it.”

They shook hands and parted on their separate missions.

Ezio decided to go for the troopships first. Blending in with the crowd, he made his way down to the port and, once on the quay, selected his first target. He took out the first bomb, fighting down the insidious doubt that it might not work, and, aware that he’d have to work very fast, flipped its catch, counted to three, and flung it.

He was working at close range and his aim had a deadly accuracy. The bomb landed with a clatter in the belly of the ship. For a few moments, nothing happened, and Ezio cursed inwardly. What if the plan had failed?

But then there was an almighty explosion, the ship’s mast cracked and fell, and splintered wood was tossed high in the air everywhere.

Amid the chaos that followed, Ezio darted along the quay, selecting likely ships and throwing his bombs. In several cases, the first explosion was followed by a mightier one—some of the troopships were evidently already laden with casks of gunpowder. In one case, an exploding ship carrying gunpowder destroyed its two neighbors.

One by one, Ezio wrecked twelve ships, but the chaos and panic were of great value. And in the distance he could hear explosions, and the shouts and screams that followed them, as Machiavelli did his work.

As he made his way to their rendezvous, he hoped his friend had survived.

All Valencia was in uproar, but pushing his way against the flow of the crowd, Ezio made the appointed spot in ten minutes. Machiavelli wasn’t there, but Ezio didn’t have long to wait. Looking a bit shabby, and with a blackened face, his fellow Assassin soon came running up.