Brotherhood

THIRTY-SIX

Unknown to Ezio,Messer Corella had one other small piece of business to conclude for his boss, before the main event of the evening. But it was still quite early.

He stood silently on a deserted dock by the Tiber. A few barges and two ships rode at anchor, gently moving with the river’s flow. The ships’ grubby furled sails rippled slightly in the wind. Several guards wearing Cesare’s insignia were coming toward them, half hauling, half carrying a blindfolded man between them. At their head was Cesare himself.

Micheletto recognized the man, without surprise, as Francesco Troche.

“Please,” Francesco was whimpering, “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Franceso, my dear friend,” said Cesare, “the facts are plain: Your told your brother about my plans in the Romagna, and he contacted the Venetian ambassador. Not can absterge the blame for that from you.”

“It was an accident. I am still your servant and your ally.”

“Are you demanding that I discount your actions and rely on mere friendship?”

“I am asking…not demanding.”

“My dear Francesco, in order to unite Italy I must have every institution under my control. You know what higher organization we serve—the Order of Templars, of which I am now head.”

“I thought—your father…”

“And if the Church does not fall into line,” continued Cesare firmly, “I will eliminate it entirely.”

“But you know that I really work for you, not the Pope.”

“Ah, but do I, Troche? There’s only one way I can be unconditionally sure of that now.”

“Surely you can’t intend to kill me. Your most loyal friend?”

Cesare smiled. “Of course not.”

He snapped his fingers. Noiselessly, Micheletto approached from behind Francesco’s back.

“You are—you are letting me go?” Relief flooded into Troche’s voice. “Thank you, Cesare. Thank you from my heart. You will not regret—”

But his words were cut short as Micheletto, a thin cord twisted between his hands, leaned forward and bound it tightly around Troche’s neck. Cesare watched for a moment, but even before Francesco was fully killed, he turned to the captain of the guard and said, “Have you got the costumes for the play ready?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then give them to Micheletto—when he’s finished.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Lucrezia is mine, and mine alone. I didn’t think she was that important to me, but when I got that message in Urbino, from one of her own men, that that wretched toad of an actor had been pawing her, slobbering over her, I came back immediately! Can you understand a passion like that, Captain?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’re a fool. Have you done, Micheletto?”

“Messere, the man is dead.”

“Then weigh him down with stones and dump him in the Tiber.”

“I obey, Cesare.”

The captain had given orders to his men, and four of them had gone to fetch two large wicker hampers, which they now carried between them.

“Here are the costumes for your men. Make doubly sure the work is done correctly.”

“Indeed,Messere.”

Cesare stalked off, leaving his subordinate to make the arrangements. Motioning the guards to follow him, Micheletto led the way toward the Baths of Trajan.

Ezio and his band of recruits were already there, hidden in the shelter of a ruined portico. He had noticed a number of men in black already foregathered, and he watched them closely as Micheletto appeared. The guards put the costume skips down and Micheletto motioned them to depart. The shadows were deep, and Ezio nodded to his own men to prepare themselves. He had strapped the bracer to his left forearm and the poison-blade to his right.

Micheletto’s men formed a line, and as each man came up to his leader, he was handed a costume—uniforms copying those worn by Roman legionaries at the time of Christ. Ezio noticed that Micheletto himself wore the costume of a centurion.

As each man stepped away to don his costume, Ezio stood ready. Silently, he extended the concealed poison-blade that Leonardo had just recrafted for him. The unsuspecting thugs went down without a whisper. Then his own recruits put on the theatrical clothes and pulled Micheletto’s henchmen’s bodies out of sight.

Absorbed in his work, Micheletto was unaware, once it was complete, that the men he now commanded were not his own. He led them, with Ezio close behind, in the direction of the Colosseum.

A stage had been erected in the ruins of the old Roman amphitheater where, since the time of the emperor Titus, gladiators had fought each other to the death,bestiarii had dispatched wild animals in the tens of thousands, and Christians had been thrown to the lions. It was a gloomy place, but the gloom was dispersed somewhat by the hundreds of flickering torches that illuminated the stage, and the audience, ranged on benches on a wooden grandstand, were absorbed in watching a play on the subject of Christ’s Passion.

“I seek Pietro Benintendi,” Micheletto said to the doorkeeper, showing him a warrant.

“He acts onstage,signore,” replied the doorkeeper. “But one of my men will take you to where you may wait for him.”

Micheletto turned to his companions. “Don’t forget,” he told them. “I will be wearing this black cloak with the white star on its shoulder. Cover my back, and wait for your cue, which will be Pontius Pilate’s order to the Centurion to strike.”

I must get to Pietro before he does, thought Ezio, tagging along at the back of the group as the men followed their leader into the Colosseum.

Onstage, three crosses had been erected. He watched as his recruits disposed themselves according to Micheletto’s orders and saw Micheletto himself take his place in the wings.

The play was reaching its climax:

“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” cried Pietro from the cross.

“Hark,” said one of the actors playing the Pharisees. “How he crieth upon Elijah to deliver him!”

One, dressed as a Roman legionary, dipped a sponge in vinegar and placed it on the tip of his spear. “Wait and see whether Elijah dare come here or not.”

“My thirst is great; my thirst is great,” cried Pietro.

The soldier raised the sponge to Pietro’s lips.

“Yea, thou shalt drink no more,” said another Pharisee.

Pietro raised his head. “Mighty God in Majesty,” he declaimed. “To work Thy Will I shall never cease. My spirit I betake to Thee; receive it, O Lord, into Thy hands.” Pietro gave a great sigh.“Consummatum est!”

His head dropped. Christ had “died.”

On his cue, Micheletto then strode onto the stage. His centurion’s uniform glittered under the thrown-back black cloak. Ezio, watching, wondered what had become of the actor originally playing the Centurion, but imagined that he’d met a fate similar to that of most of Micheletto’s victims.

“Lords, I say unto you,” Micheletto recited boldly, “this was indeed the Son of God the Father Almighty. I know it must be so. I know by the manner of His cry that He has fulfilled the prophecy, and the godhead is revealed in Him!”

“Centurion,” said the actor playing Caiaphas, “as God gives me speed, thy folly is great indeed. Thou dost not understand! When thou seest his heart bleed, then we shall see what thou wilt say. Longinus! Take this spear into thy hand.”

Caiaphas handed a wooden spear to the actor playing the Roman legionary Longinus, a large man with flowing locks, clearly a favorite of the audience and doubtless, thought Ezio, a bitter rival of Pietro’s.

“Take this spear and take good heed,” added one of the Pharisees for good measure. “Thou must pierce the side of Jesus Nazarenus that we shall know he is truly dead.”

“I will do as thou biddest me,” declaimed Longinus, out front. “But on your heads be it. Whatever the consequence, I wash my hands of it.”

He then made a great show of stabbing Jesus’ side with the prop spear, and, as the blood and water spilled forth from a hidden sac concealed in Pietro’s loincloth, so Longinus began his big speech. Ezio could see the beady glint in the “dead” Jesus’ eyes as Pietro watched him jealously.

“High King of Heaven, I see Thee here. Let water be thrown onto my hands and onto my spear, and let my eyes be bathed, too, that I may see Thee more clearly!” He made a dramatic pause. “Alas, alack, and woe is me! What is this deed that I have done? I think that I have slain a man, sooth to say; but what manner of man I know not. Lord God in Heaven, I cry Thee mercy—for it was my body which guided my hand, not my soul.” Allowing himself another pause for a round of applause, he plowed on: “Lord Jesus, much have I heard spoken of Thee—that Thou hast healed, through Thy pity, both the sick and the blind. And let Thy Name be praised!—Thou hast healed me this day of my own blindness—my blindness of spirit. Henceforward, Lord, Thy follower will I be. And in three days Thou shalt rise again to rule and judge us all!”

The actor who was playing Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthy Jewish leader who donated his own tomb—which had already been built—for the housing of Christ’s body, then spoke: “Ah, Lord God, what heart had Thou to allow them to slay this man that I see here dead, and hanging from a cross—a man who ne’er did aught amiss? For surely, God’s own Son is He. Therefore, in the tomb that is made for me, therein shall His body buried be—for He is King of Bliss!”

Nicodemus, Joseph’s colleague in the Sanhedrin and a fellow sympathizer, added his voice. “Ser Joseph, I say surely, this is God’s Son Almighty. Let us request His body of Pontius Pilate, and nobly buried He shall be. And I will help thee to take Him down devotedly.”

Joseph then turned to the actor playing Pilate and spoke again. “Ser Pilate, I ask of thee a special boon to grant me as thou may. This prophet that is dead today—allow me of His body custody!”

During this, Ezio had slipped backstage. Micheletto has taken up a position very near the central cross. He rummaged swiftly through a costume skip and found a rabbinical robe, which he hurriedly put on. He’d have to get onstage himself. Entering from backstage left, he managed to slip close to, and behind, Micheletto, without anyone’s noticing or the action skipping a beat.

“Joseph, if indeed Jesus Nazarenus is dead, as the Centurion must confirm, I will not deny you custody.” Turning to Micheletto, Pilate spoke again. “Centurion! Is Jesus dead?”

“Ay,Ser Governor,” said Micheletto flatly, and Ezio noticed him draw a stiletto from under his cloak. Ezio had replaced his poison-blade, now exhausted of venom, with his trusty hidden-blade, and with it he now pierced Micheletto’s side, holding him upright and maneuvering him offstage, in the direction he had come. Once backstage, he laid the man down.

Micheletto fixed him with a glittering look. “Hah!” he said. “You cannot save Pietro. The vinegar on the sponge was poisoned. As I promised Cesare, I made doubly sure.” He fought for breath. “You had better finish me.”

“I did not come here to kill you—you helped your master rise and you will fall with him—you don’t need me—you are the agent of your own destruction! If you live, well, a dog always returns to its master, and you will lead me to my real quarry.”

Ezio had no time for more. He had to save Pietro!

As he rushed back onstage, he saw a scene of chaos. Pietro was writhing on the cross and vomiting. He’d turned the color of a peeled almond. The audience was in uproar.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” cried Longinus, as the other actors scattered.

“Cut him down!” Ezio yelled to his recruits. Some threw keenly aimed daggers to slice through the ropes that bound Pietro to the cross, while others stood ready to catch him. Yet others were fighting back the Borgia guards who had appeared from nowhere and were now storming the stage.

“This wasn’t in the script!” gurgled Pietro as he fell into the arms of the recruits.

“Will he die?” asked Longinus hopefully. One rival less is always good news in a tough profession.

“Hold off the guards!” shouted Ezio, leading the recruits off the stage and carrying Pietro in his arms across a shallow pool of water in the middle of the Colosseum, disturbing dozens of drinking pigeons, which flew up and away in alarm. The very last glimmer from the setting sun bathed Ezio and Pietro in a dull red light.

Ezio had trained his recruits well, and those bringing up the rear guard successfully fought off the pursuing Borgia guards as the rest made their way out of the Colosseum and into the network of streets to the north of it. Ezio led the way to the house of a doctor of his acquaintance. He hammered on the door and, having been granted reluctant admission, had Pietro laid on a table covered with a palliasse in the doctor’s consulting room, from whose beams a baffling number of different dried herbs hung in organized bunches, giving the room a pungent smell. On shelves, unidentifiable or unmentionable objects and creatures and parts of creatures floated in glass bottles filled with cloudy liquid.

Ezio ordered his men outside, to keep watch. He wondered what any passersby might think if they saw a bunch of Roman soldiers. They’d probably think they were seeing ghosts, and run a mile. He himself had shed his Pharisee outfit at the first opportunity.

“Who are you?” murmured Pietro. Ezio was concerned to see that the actor’s lips had turned blue.

“Your savior,” said Ezio. To the doctor he said, “He’s been poisoned,Dottor Brunelleschi.”

The doctor examined the actor quickly, shining a light into his eyes. “From the pallor, it looks like they used canterella. Poison of choice for our dear masters, the Borgia.” To Pietro, he said, “Lie still.”

“Feel sleepy,” said Pietro.

“Lie still! Has he been sick?” Brunelleschi asked Ezio.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The doctor bustled about, mixing a number of fluids from bottles of variously colored glass with practiced ease and pouring the mixture into a vial. This he handed to Pietro, propping his head up.

“Drink this.”

“Hurry up,” said Ezio urgently.

“Just give him a moment.”

Ezio watched anxiously. After what seemed an age, the actor sat up.

“I think I feel slightly better,” he said.

“Miracolo!” said Ezio in relief.

“Not really,” said the doctor. “He can’t have had much, and for my sins I’ve had quite a bit of experience with canterella victims—it’s enabled me to develop this pretty effective antidote. Now,” he continued judiciously, “I’ll apply some leeches. They will lead to a full recovery. You can rest here, my boy, and very soon you’ll be as right as rain.” He bustled some more and produced a glass jar full of black, wriggling creatures. He scooped out a handful.

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Pietro to Ezio. “I—”

“Youcan thank me enough,” replied Ezio briskly. “The key to the little gate you use for your trysts at the Castel Sant’Angelo with Lucrezia. Give it to me. Now!”

Misgiving appeared on Pietro’s face. “What are you talking about? I’m simply a poor actor, a victim of circumstance—I—”

“Listen, Pietro: Cesare knows about you and Lucrezia.”

Now misgiving was replaced by fear. “Oh, God!”

“But I can help you. If you give me the key.”

Mutely, Pietro delved into his loincloth and handed it over. “I always keep it with me,” he said.

“Wise of you,” said Ezio, pocketing the key. It was reassuring to have it, for it would guarantee him access to the Castel whenever he had need of it. “My men will fetch your clothes and get you to a place of safety. I’ll detail a couple to keep watch over you. Just keep out of sight for a while.”

“But…my public!” wailed the actor.

“They’ll have to make do with Longinus until it’s safe for you to put your head above the parapet again.” Ezio grinned. “I shouldn’t worry. He isn’t a patch on you.”

“Oh, do you really think so?”

“No question.”

“Ouch!” said Pietro, as the first leech went on.

In the wink of an eye, Ezio had disappeared outside, and there gave the necessary orders to his men. “Get out of those costumes as soon as you can,” he added. “The Baths of Trajan aren’t far. With any luck, your street clothes will still be where you left them.”

He departed on his own, but he hadn’t gone far when he noticed a figure skulking in the shadows. As soon as the man felt Ezio’s eyes on him, he cut and ran. But not before Ezio had recognized Paganino, the thief who’d been determined to stay behind at the sack of Monteriggioni.

“Hey!” Ezio shouted, giving chase.“Un momento!”

The thief certainly knew his way around these streets. Ducking and diving, he was so adroit that Ezio all but lost him in the pursuit and more than once had to leap to the rooftops to scan the streets below in order to locate the man again. Leonardo’s magical glove came in surprisingly handy at such times, he found.

At last he managed to get ahead of his prey and cut off his line of escape. The thief went for his dagger, an ugly-lookingcinquedea, but Ezio quickly wrested it out of his hand and it clattered harmlessly to the pavement.

“Why did you run?” asked Ezio, pinioning the man. Then he noticed a letter protruding from the man’s leather belt pouch. The seal was unmistakable: It was that of Pope Alexander VI—Rodrigo—the Spaniard!

Ezio let out a long breath as a series of suspicions fell into place. Paganino had long ago been with Antonio de Magianis’s Thieves’ Guild in Venice. He must have been offered enough money by the Borgia to persuade him to switch sides and had infiltrated La Volpe’s group here—the Borgia had had a mole at the heart of the Assassins’ organization all along.

Here was the traitor—not Machiavelli at all!

But while Ezio’s attention was distracted, the thief wrenched himself free and, in a flash, seized his fallen weapon. His desperate eyes met Ezio’s.

“Long live the Borgia!” he cried and thrust thecinquedea firmly into his own breast.

Ezio looked down at the fallen man as he thrashed about in his death agonies.Well, better this death than a slow one at the hands of his masters—Ezio well knew the price exacted by the Borgia for failure. He stuffed the letter into his doublet and made off. Merda, he thought to himself, I was right! And now I have to stop La Volpe before he gets to Machiavelli!