Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

“Listen, Gilberto. We will combine forces and do this together—have no fear of that. Then, I presume your Guild will be the dominant cartel in Rome.”

“That is true,” agreed La Volpe reluctantly.

“If I help you in this,” said Ezio slowly, “there is a condition.”

“Yes?”

“That you shall not again threaten the unity of the Brotherhood. For that is what you almost did.”

La Volpe bowed his head. “I am schooled,” he said meekly.

“Whether we succeed in this venture of yours—or fail.”

“Whether we succeed or fail,” agreed La Volpe. “But we won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

La Volpe gave his friend a Mephistophelean grin. “Fail,” he said.

THIRTY-NINE

Having detailed a group of his growing militia of new recruits to help La Volpe in his efforts against the Cento Occhi, Ezio made his way back to his lodgings. He was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, he refilled the poison-blade’s inner vial with the venom especially prepared by Leonardo and checked and cleaned the retractable pistol, the double-blade, and the new crossbow and poison darts.

His work was interrupted by a messenger from Bartolomeo, bidding him come to the mercenaries’ barracks as quickly as possible. Sensing trouble, and worried about it, for he had hoped that Bartolomeo and hiscondottieri had the French well in check, Ezio packed the Codex weapons he judged he might need into a saddlebag and made his way with all speed to the stables, where he rented his favorite horse and set off. It was a fine day, and the road was more or less dry, since rain had held off for about a week. The countryside even seemed a little dusty as he rode through it, taking care to choose a route obscure enough not to be monitored by Borgia troops, and often taking shortcuts through woods and across fields where cows raised their heads idly from their grazing to watch him pass.

It was afternoon by the time he reached the barracks, and all seemed quiet. He noticed that, since their renovation, the ramparts and walls had taken a slight bruising from French cannonades, but the damage wasn’t serious, and a handful of men were busy on scaffolding or slung in baskets from the battlements, repairing the gouges and cracks the cannonballs had made.

He dismounted and handed the bridle to an ostler who came running up, wiping the little flecks of foam gently from his horse’s mouth—he hadn’t ridden her hard—and patting her muzzle before making his way, unannounced, across the parade ground in the direction of Bartolomeo’s quarters.

His mind was on his next step, now that Cesare’s banker had been removed, and he was considering what counteraction his enemy might take to ensure that there was no cessation in his supply of funds, so he was surprised suddenly to find himself with his nose to the tip of Bianca, Bartolomeo’s greatsword.

“Who goes there?” bellowed Bartolomeo.

“Salve to you, too,” rejoined Ezio.

Bartolomeo gave vent to a huge belly laugh. “Got you!”

“Teach me to be on my toes.”

“Actually”—Bartolomeo gave a theatrical wink—“I was expecting my wife!”

“Well, well.”

Bartolomeo lowered his sword and embraced Ezio. When he released him from the bear hug, his expression was more serious.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Ezio.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look!”

Ezio followed his friend’s gaze to where a platoon of wounded mercenaries was entering the parade ground.

“The Frenchputtane have got us under pressure again,” said Bartolomeo, answering Ezio’s unspoken question.

“I thought you’d barked the shins of their general—what’s his name?”

“Octavien de Valois. Thinks he’s some kind of descendant of the noble house of Valois. Some wretch’s spawn of a bastard, if you ask me.”

Bartolomeo spat as another contingent of wounded men appeared.

“Looks serious,” said Ezio.

“King Louis must have sent reinforcements to back Cesare up. Since we gave Valois such a fuckin’ bashing.” Bartolomeo scratched his beard. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“How bad is it?”

“They’ve got their fuckin’ tower back,” said Bartolomeo grumpily.

“We’ll get it back. Where’s Valois now?”

“You’re right!” Bartolomeo ignored the question. “Of course we’ll get it back! We’ll have the scoundrels in retreat before you could sayfottere! It’s only a matter of time.”

Just then, a bullet whizzed past their ears and embedded itself in the wall behind them.

“It was so quiet when I rode up,” said Ezio. He looked at the sky. The sun had gone behind large clouds that had suddenly rolled across the sky.

“Seemed so quiet, you mean. They’re sneaky bastards, the French. But I’ll have Valois by the throat soon enough, mark my word.” He turned to yell an order to a sergeant who’d come running up. “Close the gates! Get those men off the outer walls! Move!”

Men ran hither and thither, manning the battlements, priming the cannon.

“Don’t worry, friend,” said the bigcondottiero. “I’ve got the situation well in hand.”

At that moment, a larger cannonball crashed into the ramparts nearest the two men, sending dust and shards of stone flying in all directions.

“They seem to be getting closer!” yelled Ezio.

Bartolomeo’s men fired a salvo from the barracks’ main cannon by way of reply—the walls seemed to shake with the report from the great guns. But the response from the French artillery was just as ferocious—the thunder of twoscore guns tore at the air—this time the balls found their marks more cleanly. Bartolomeo’s men were still desperately trying to restore defensive order. Another huge salvo from the French rocked the walls of the barracks—but this time the French seemed to be focusing their fire on the main gate. Two of the gatekeepers fell dead—caught up in the bombardment.

“Close the fuckin’ gates!” roared Bartolomeo.

The well-trained soldiers under Bartolomeo’s command rushed forward to repel the sortie of French troops that, without any warning, had appeared at the main entrance of the barracks. It seemed that the calm was well and truly before the storm—the French had clearly been holding back for this surprise attack, and unfortunately, thought Ezio to himself, they had certainly managed to gain the upper hand on that front. Bartolomeo’s fortress had been caught unprepared for this attack.

Bartolomeo jumped down from the battlements and ran toward the gate at full tilt. Whirling Bianca, he towered above the Frenchmen, and the great broadsword sliced viciously into their ranks. The French soldiers seemed to halt in trepidation at Bartolomeo’s arrival. Meanwhile, Ezio directed the musketeers to cover those men who strove to push the gates closed before the enemy could gain a surer foothold within the barracks. The Assassin troops rallied with the presence of their leader and succeeded in pushing the gates closed. But seconds later there was an almighty crash—and the wooden bar that held the great gates shut bowed ominously. The French had succeeded in maneuvering a battering ram to the main gates while the defenders’ attention was focused on those