They dusted themselves down, thanking the gods that they had survived this far, and made their way along the final stretch of the escape passage. At last they broke out into the open air. Never had grass, and the earth itself, smelled sweeter.
The mouth of the tunnel was separated from the countryside by a series of rope bridges swung across ravines. It had been designed like this by Mario as part of a master escape plan. Monteriggioni itself would survive the Borgia desecration—once the Borgia had razed it, it would be of no further interest to them. Ezio would return in time and rebuild it. Once again it would be the proud stronghold of the Assassins. Of that Ezio was certain. And it would be more than that. It would be a monument to his noble uncle, so pitilessly slain, Ezio promised himself.
He had had enough of the depredations wrought on his family by pointless villainy.
Ezio planned to cut the bridges down behind them as they fled, but they were shepherding elderly and wounded stragglers, and at his back he heard the yells and footsteps of their pursuers approaching rapidly. He was scarcely able to carry anyone on his back, but he managed to haul a woman whose leg had given out onto his good shoulder and staggered forward across the first rope bridge. It swung dangerously under their weight.
“Come on!” he yelled, encouraging his rear guard, who were already engaging with the Borgia soldiers. He waited on the far side until the last of his own men had reached the safety of the rocks. His men ran from the bridge—but a couple of Borgia soldiers had also made it across. Ezio stepped across their path and, using his good arm to wield his sword, engaged the enemy. Even hampered by his wound, Ezio was more than a match for the Borgia men—his sword parried their attacks with a blur of steel, taking on both blades at once. Stepping to one side, he crouched low under a wild swing from one of the men and used his own weapon to slice at the knee joint of the man’s leg armor. The man toppled—his left leg useless. The other attacker lunged down, thinking Ezio off balance, but Ezio rolled aside and the blade clanged off the rocks, sending shards of rock skittering into the ravine. The man winced as the blow vibrated along his sword, jarring the bones of his hand and arm. Ezio saw his chance and, heaving himself upright, brought his sword above his foe’s lowered arm and across the man’s face. The man went down—and in a single fluid movement Ezio brought his blade to bear on the ropes supporting the bridge. They severed instantly, the tension sending the ropes pinging violently backward across the ravine. The bridge concertinaed away from the rocks, and the Borgia men who had begun to cross fell screaming into the abyss below.
Turning back, on the other side Ezio saw Cesare. Next to him was Caterina, still in chains, and held by a vicious-looking Lucrezia. Juan Borgia, the deathly pale Micheletto, and the sweaty Frenchman, General Valois, stood by them. Leonardo was nowhere to be seen—but how could he have sided with such scum? Surely there must be a threat hanging over him. Ezio couldn’t believe that Leo would voluntarily stoop so low.
Cesare was waving something at Ezio.
“Yours next!” he screamed in fury.
Ezio could see that it was his uncle’s head.
TWELVE
There was only one place for Ezio to go now. The way forward for Cesare’s troops was cut off—it’d take them days to work around the ravines and catch up with Ezio’s survivors. He directed them to towns out of Borgia control, at least for the moment—to Siena, to San Gimignano, to Pisa, Lucca, Pistoia, and Florence. They’d find sanctuary there, and he had tried to impress upon his mother and sister the wisdom of returning to the safety of Florence themselves, whatever had happened to the Villa Auditore—despite the sad memories the city held, and despite the fact that both were seized with a compulsive desire to avenge Mario’s death.
But Ezio was bound for Rome. Rome, he knew, would be where Cesare would go now, to regroup. It might even be that Cesare in his arrogance would think Ezio beaten, even dead on the road, like carrion. If so, then that could only be to the Assassin’s advantage. But something else was haunting Ezio. With Mario dead, the Brotherhood was leaderless. Machiavelli was a powerful force within it, and at present Machiavelli did not seem to be Ezio’s friend.
This was something that had to be resolved.
Along with the human survivors of the town, they had managed to bring livestock with them, and among the animals was the great chestnut warhorse Mario had loved so much.
He now mounted the steed, held for him by the old stable-master, who had managed to get out, too—though, alas, most of his horses had been captured by the Borgia.
As he reined the horse in, he took his leave of his mother and sister.
“Must you really go to Rome?” asked Maria.
“Mother, the only way to win this war is to take it to the enemy.”
“But how can you possibly succeed against the forces of the Borgia?”
“I am not their only enemy. And besides, Machiavelli is already there. I must make my peace with him, and work with him.”
“Cesare has the Apple,” Claudia said soberly.
“We must pray that he does not master its powers,” Ezio replied, though privately he felt great misgivings. Leonardo was in Cesare’s pay and Cesare’s power now, and Ezio was well aware of the intelligence of his former friend. If Leonardo taught Cesare the mysteries of the Apple—worse still, if Rodrigo got hold of it again…
He shook his head to rid himself of these thoughts. Time enough to confront the threat of the Apple when it presented itself.
“You shouldn’t be riding now. Rome is miles to the south. Can’t you at least give it a day or two?” asked Claudia.
“The Borgia will not rest and the evil spirit of the Templars rides within them,” rejoined Ezio drily. “No one will be able to sleep easily until their power is broken.”
“What if it never is?”
“We must never give up the fight. The minute we do that, we have lost.”
“Until death,” said Ezio.
“Until death.”
“Take care on the road.”
“Take care on the road.”
Ezio leaned down from the saddle to kiss his mother and his sister before wheeling the horse around and onto the road south. His head was pounding with the pain of his wound and the exertions of battle. More than this was the aching of his heart and soul at the loss of Mario and the capture of Caterina. He shuddered at the thought of her in the clutches of the evil Borgia family—he knew all too well what fate might befall her in their hands. But Ezio also knew that if ever a person would go down fighting, she was that person. He’d have to skirt the Borgia troops but his heart told him that, now that his main objective had been achieved, to break the Assassins’ stronghold, Cesare would head home.
But the most important thing was to lance the boil that was infecting Italy, and lance it soon, before it could infect the whole body of the land.
He dug his heels hard into the horse’s flanks and galloped south down the dusty road.
His head was swimming with exhaustion but he willed himself to keep awake. He vowed he would not rest until he arrived in the broken-down capital of his beleaguered country. But he had miles to go before he would be able to sleep.
THIRTEEN
