Brotherhood

SIXTY-FOUR

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.

“Ayúdenme!” she yelled.

“Shut her up, will you?” said Cesare, surveying her coldly.

The sergeant drew his dagger and slit the woman’s throat.