Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

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