Brotherhood

FORTY-EIGHT

“I was wondering what had happened to you,” Ezio said. “Then I saw the chalked drawing of the pointing hand. So I knew you were signaling me, which is why I sent you a message. And now—here you are! I thought you might have slipped away to France.”

“Not me—not yet!” said Leonardo, brushing some dust off a chair at the Assassins’ Tiber Island hideaway before he sat down. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows.

“I’m glad of it. Even gladder that you didn’t get caught in the dragnet for any last Borgia supporters that the new Pope’s organized.”

“Well, you can’t keep a good man down,” replied Leonardo. He was as finely dressed as ever and didn’t appear to have been affected by recent events at all. “Pope Julius isn’t a fool—he knows who’d be useful to him and who wouldn’t, never mind what they’d done in the past.”

“As long as they were truly repentant.”

“As you say,” Leonardo answered drily.

“And are you prepared to be useful to me?”

“Haven’t I always been?” Leonardo smiled. “But is there anything to worry about, now that Cesare’s under lock and key? Only a matter of time before they take him out and burn him at the stake. Look at the list of arraignments! It’s as long as your arm!”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course, the world wouldn’tbe the world, without trouble,” said Leonardo, going off on another tack. “It’s all very well that Cesare’s been brought down, but I’ve lost a valuable patron, and I see they’re thinking of bringing that young whippersnapper Michelangelo here from Florence. I ask you! All he can do is knock out sculptures.”

“Pretty good architect, too, from what I hear. And not a bad painter.”

Leonardo gave him a black look. “You know that pointing finger I drew? One day, soon I hope, it’s going to be at the center of a portrait. Of a man. John the Baptist. Pointing toward heaven. Nowthat will be a painting!”

“I didn’t say he was as good a painter as you,” added Ezio quickly. “And as for being an inventor…”

“He should stick to what he knows best, if you ask me.”

“Leo—are you jealous?”

“Me? Never!”

It was time to bring Leonardo back to the problem that was bothering Ezio, the reason he’d responded to the signal by seeking out his old friend and getting him to come over. He just hoped he could trust him, but he knew Leonardo well enough to know what made him tick.

“Your former employer…” he began.

“Cesare?”

“Yes. I didn’t like the way he said, ‘Chains will not hold me.’”

“Come on, Ezio. He’s in the deepest dungeon of the Castel Sant’Angelo. How the mighty are fallen, eh?”

“He still has friends.”

“A few misguided creatures may still think he has a future, but since Micheletto and his armies don’t seem to have materialized, I can’t see that there’s any real danger.”

“Even if Micheletto failed to keep the remains of Cesare’s forces together, and I admit that seems likely, since none of our spies out in the countryside have reported any troop movements at all—”

“Look, Ezio, when the news reached them of della Rovere’s elevation to the Papacy and then, on top of that, Cesare’s arrest, the old Borgia army probably scattered like ants from a nest when you pour boiling water into it.”

“I won’t rest easy until I know Cesare is dead.”

“Well, there is a way to find out.”

Ezio looked at Leonardo. “The Apple, do you mean?”

“Where is it?”

“Here.”

“Then get it, let’s consult it.”

Ezio hesitated. “No. It’s too powerful. I must hide it forever from mankind.”

“What, a valuable thing like that?” Leonardo shook his head.

“You said yourself, many years ago, that it should never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Well, then, all we have to do is keep it out of the wrong hands.”

“There is no guarantee that we can always do that.”

Leonardo looked serious. “Look, Ezio—if you ever do decide to bury it somewhere, promise me one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Well, two things. First, hang on to it for as long as you need it. You need to have all you can on your side if your goal is finally to eradicate the Borgia and the Templars forever. But when you’ve done, and you do hide it from the world, then think of it as a seed that you plant. Leave some kind of clue as to its whereabouts for such as may be able to find it. Future generations—perhaps future Assassins—may have need of the Apple’s power—to use it on the side of Good.”

“And if it fell into the hands of another Cesare?”

“Back on Cesare, I see. Listen, why not put yourself out of your misery and see if the Apple can offer you any guidance?”

Ezio wrestled with himself for a few moments longer, then said, “All right. I agree.”

He disappeared for a moment and then returned, holding a square box, lead-covered and closed with a massive lock. He took a key, tied to a silver chain around his neck, from within his tunic and opened the box. There, on a bed of green velvet, lay the Apple. It looked drab and grey, as it always did when inert, the size of a small melon and a texture that was curiously soft and pliant, like human skin.

“Ask it,” urged Leonardo, his eyes keen as he saw the Apple again. Ezio knew his friend was fighting down a desire to grab the thing and run, and he understood how great the temptation was for the polymath, whose thirst for knowledge at times almost overwhelmed him and never let him rest.

He held the thing up and closed his eyes, concentrating his thoughts, formulating the questions. The Apple began to glow almost at once. Then it began to throw images onto the wall.

They came fast and did not last long, but Ezio—and Ezio alone—saw Cesare break from his prison and make his escape from Rome. That was all, until the inchoate images on the wall coalesced to show a busy seaport, the water shining and glittering beneath a southern sun, and a fleet in the harbor. The vision dissolved, and then there was a view of a distant castle, or perhaps a fortified hill town, far away, as Ezio somehow knew, and, judging from the landscape and the heat of the sun, certainly not in the Papal States of Italy. The architecture, too, looked foreign, but neither Ezio nor Leonardo could place it. Then Ezio saw Mario’s citadel at Monteriggioni, and the picture moved and shifted to take him to Mario’s private, secret study—the Sanctuary—where the Codex pages had been assembled. The concealed door to it was closed, and on the outside of it Ezio could see arcane figures and letters written. Then it was as if he were an eagle flying, flying over the ruins of the Assassins’ former stronghold. Then, abruptly, the Apple went dead, and the only light in the room was once again provided by the calm sunlight.

“He will escape! I have to go!” Ezio dropped the Apple back into its box and stood so abruptly that he knocked his chair over.

“What about your friends?”

“The Brotherhood must stand, with or without me. That is how I have built it.” Taking it from its box again, Ezio placed the Apple in its leather bag. “Forgive me, Leo—I have no time to waste.” He already had his hidden-blade and his bracer strapped on. He packed the pistol and some ammunition in his belt wallet.

“Stop. You must think. You must plan.”

“My plan is to finish Cesare. I should have done it long ago.”

Leonardo spread his hands. “I see that I cannot stop you. But I have no plans to leave Rome, and you know where my studio is.”

“I have a gift for you,” said Ezio. There was a small strongbox on the table between them. Ezio laid a hand on it. “Here.”

Leonardo rose. “If this is goodbye, then keep your money. I do not want it.”

Ezio smiled. “Of course it isn’t goodbye, and of course you want it. You need it, for your work. Take it. Think ofme as your patron, if you like, until you find a better one.”

The two men hugged each other.

“We will see each other again,” said Ezio. “You have my word.Buona fortuna, my oldest friend.”

What the Apple had predicted could not be emended, for the Apple showed the future as it would be, and no man or woman could alter that, any more than he or she could change the past.

As Ezio approached the Castel Sant’Angelo, he could see papal guards, the new ones who wore the livery of Julius II, running out of the ancient fortress and dispersing in organized bands across the river and down the surrounding streets. Bells and trumpets rang out a warning. Ezio knew what had happened, even before a breathless captain he stopped told him:

“Cesare’s escaped!”

“When?”

“The guards were being changed. About half an hour ago.” Half an hour! Exactly the time when the Apple had shown it happening!

“Do you know how?”

“Unless he can walk through walls, we have no idea. But it looks as if he had friends on the inside.”

“Who? Lucrezia?”

“No. She hasn’t stirred from her apartments since all this blew up. But the Pope’s had her under house arrest since he took power. We’ve arrested two guards who used to work for the Borgia. One’s a former blacksmith. He might have been able to jimmy the lock, though there’s no sign of damage to the cell door, so they probably just used the key. If they’re guilty.”

“Is Lucrezia giving any trouble?”

“Strangely, not. She seems…resigned to her fate.”

“Don’t trust her! Whatever you do, don’t be lulled into a sense of false security by her manner. When she’s quiet, she’s at her most dangerous.”

“She’s being guarded by Swiss mercenaries. They’re hard as rocks.”

“Good.”

Ezio thought hard. If Cesare had any friends left in Rome, and evidently he had, they’d get him out of the city as fast as they could. But the gates would already have been sealed, and from what he had already seen, Cesare, bereft of the Apple and unskilled in the Assassins’ techniques, would not be able to escape the dragnets and cordons being set up all over Rome.

That left one possibility.

The river!

The Tiber flowed into Rome from the north and left it to the west, where it flowed into the sea only a few miles away, at Ostia. Ezio remembered the slave traders he had killed: they had been in Cesare’s pay. They would not have been the only ones! Get him on a boat, or a small seagoing ship, disguised as a mariner or simply concealed under a tarpaulin among the cargo. It wouldn’t take long for a ship under sail or oars, going with the current, to reach the Tyrrhenian Sea, and from there—well, that depended on what Cesare’s plans were. The thing was to catch him before he could put them into effect!

He made his way by the quickest route down to the midtown docks, those closest to the Castel. The quays were chockablock with boats and ships of all shapes and sizes. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Half an hour. He’d barely have had time to cast off yet, and the tide was only just rising.

Ezio had the Apple with him. Finding a quiet spot, he crouched down and, without hesitation this time, drew it out. There was nowhere here for it to project its images, but he felt that, if he trusted it, it would find another way of communicating with him. He held it as close to him as he dared and closed his eyes, willing it to respond to his question.

It did not glow, but he could feel it grow warm through his gloves, and it began to pulse. As it did, strange sounds came from it—or they were sounds within his head, he wasn’t sure which. Then a woman’s voice, oddly familiar though he could not place it, and seemingly far distant, said softly but clearly, “The small caravel with red sails at Pier Six.”

Ezio ran down to the quay. It took him a little time, pushing his way through a throng of busy, cursing mariners, to locate Pier Six, and when he did so, the boat that answered the Apple’s description was just casting off. It, too, seemed familiar. Its decks were stacked with several sacks and boxes of cargo—boxes large enough to conceal a man, and on deck Ezio recognized, with a shock, the seaman he had left virtually for dead after his abortive rescue of Madonna Solari. The man was limping badly as he approached one of the boxes and, with a mate, shifted its position. Ezio noticed that the box had holes bored along each side near the top. He ducked behind a rowboat, raised on trestles for repainting, to keep out of sight, as the sailor he had lamed turned to look back toward the quay, scanning it, perhaps to check for pursuers.

He watched helplessly for a moment as the caravel pushed out into midstream, raising one of its sails to catch the stiff breeze out there. Even on horseback, he couldn’t follow the little ship along the river’s bank, since the path was often blocked or interrupted by buildings that came right up to the water. He had to find a boat for himself.

He made his way back to the quay and walked hastily along it. The crew of a shallop had just finished unloading, and the boat itself was still rigged. Ezio approached the men.

“I need to hire your boat,” he said urgently.

“We’ve just put in.”

“I’ll pay handsomely.” Ezio delved into his purse and showed a handful of gold ducats.

“We’ve got to get the cargo seen to first,” said one crew member.

“Where d’you want to go?” asked another.

“Downstream,” said Ezio. “And I need to go now.”

“See to the cargo,” said a newcomer, approaching. “I’ll take thesignore. Jacopo, you come with me. Won’t take more than the two of us to sail it.”

Ezio turned to thank the newcomer and recognized, with a shock, Claudio, the young thief he’d rescued from the Borgia guards.

Claudio smiled at him. “One way of thanking you,Messere, for saving my life. And keep your money, by the way.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wasn’t cut out for thievery,” said Claudio. “La Volpe saw that. I’ve always been a good sailor, so he lent me the money to buy this boat. I’m the master. Do a good trade, between here and Ostia.”

“We need to hurry. Cesare Borgia’s escaped!”

Claudio turned and barked out an order to his mate. Jacopo sprang aboard and began to prepare the sails. Then he and Ezio embarked, and the rest of the crew cast them off.

The shallop, free of its cargo, felt light in the water. Once they reached midstream, Claudio put on as much sail as he could. Soon, the caravel, more heavily laden, ceased to be a speck in the distance.

“That what we’re after?” asked Claudio.

“Yes, please God,” replied Ezio.

“Better get your head down,” said Claudio. “We’re well-known on this stretch, but if they see you, they’ll know what’s up. I know that craft. Run by an odd bunch. Don’t socialize.”

“Do you know how many crew?”

“Five, usually. Maybe fewer. But don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten what La Volpe taught me—still comes in handy, sometimes—and Jacopo here knows how to use a blackjack.”

Ezio sank beneath the low gunwale, raising his head from time to time just enough to check the closing distance between them and their objective.

But the caravel was a faster vessel than the shallop, and Ostia was in sight before Claudio could draw alongside. He boldly hailed the caravel.

“You look pretty heavily laden,” he called. “What you got on board—gold bullion?”

“None of your business,” the master of the caravel snarled back from his place near the wheel. “And back off. You’re crowding my water.”

“Sorry, mate,” said Claudio, as Jacopo brought the shallop right alongside, bumping the caravel’s fenders. Then he cried to Ezio,“Now!”

Ezio leapt from his hiding place across the narrow gap dividing the two ships. Recognizing him, the lame sailor, with a strangled roar, lunged at him with a bill-hook, but it caught on Ezio’s bracer, and Ezio was able to pull him close enough to finish him with a deep thrust of the hidden-blade into his side. But while he was so engaged, he failed to notice another crewman stealing up on him from behind, brandishing a cutlass. He turned in momentary alarm, unable to avoid the descending blade, when a shot rang out and the man arched his back, letting his cutlass fall to the deck before crashing overboard himself.

“Look out!” yelled Jacopo, who was holding the shallop close alongside the caravel as the master of the other boat strove to get clear. A third seaman had emerged from below and was using a crowbar to pry open the upright crate with the holes along its top sides, while a fourth was crouching at his side, covering him with a wheel-lock pistol. No ordinary sailor would have access to such a gun, thought Ezio, remembering the battle with the slave traders. Claudio leapt from the shallop onto the caravel’s deck and threw himself on the man with the crowbar, while Ezio darted forward and skewered the wrist of the hand holding the gun with his hidden-blade. It fired harmlessly into the deck and the man retreated, whimpering, holding his wrist, trying to stop the blood pulsing out of the antibrachial vein.

The master, seeing his men routed, pulled a pistol himself and fired it at Ezio, but the caravel lurched in the current at the crucial moment and the shot went wide, though not wide enough, as the ball sliced a nick in Ezio’s right ear, which bled heavily. Shaking his head, Ezio leveled his gun at the master and shot him through the forehead.

“Quick!” he said to Claudio. “You take the wheel of this thing and I’ll deal with our friend here.”

Claudio nodded and ran to bring the caravel under control. Feeling the blood from his ear soak his collar, he twisted his opponent’s wrist fiercely to make him lose his grip on the crowbar. Then he brought his knee hard into the man’s groin, seized his collar, and half dragged, half kicked him to the gunwale, where he tossed him overboard.

In the silence that followed the fight, furious and confused shouts and imprecations could be heard coming from the crate.

“I will kill you for this. I will twist my sword in your gut and give you more pain than you could ever dream was possible.”

“I hope you’re comfortable, Cesare,” said Ezio. “But if you’re not, don’t worry. Once we get to Ostia, we’ll arrange something a little more civilized for your return trip.”

“It’s not fair,” said Jacopo from the shallop. “I didn’t get a chance to use my blackjack once!”