“What is it?”
“The Borgia diehards! They sent someone to follow you and Maestro Ezio—”
“And?”
“Sure that you were out of the way, they have taken Claudia!”
“My sister! Sweet Jesus—how?” gasped Ezio.
“She was in the square outside Saint Peter’s—you know those rickety wooden colonnades the Pope wants to tear down?”
“Get on with it!”
“They took her—she was organizing her girls, getting them to infiltrate—”
“Where is she now?”
“They have a hideout in the Prati—just to the east of the Vatican. That’s where they’ve taken her.” Bruno quickly gave them the details of where Claudia was being held prisoner.
Ezio looked at Machiavelli.
“Let’s go!” he said.
“At least we’ve found out where they are,” said Machiavelli, drily as ever, as the two of them bounded up to the rooftops again; from there they ran and leapt across Rome, until they came to the Tiber, where they crossed on the Ponte della Rovere, and made haste again toward their goal.
The place Machiavelli’s spy, Bruno, had indicated was a ramshackle villa just north of the Prati district market. But its crumbling stucco belied a brand-new ironbound front door, and the grilles on the windows were new, too, and freshly painted.
Before Machiavelli could stop him, Ezio had gone up to the door and hammered on it.
The judas set into it opened and a beady eye regarded them. And, to their amazement, the door swung smoothly back on well-oiled hinges.
They found themselves in a nondescript courtyard. There was no one about. Whoever had opened the door —and closed it firmly behind them—had disappeared. There were doors on three sides of the yard. The one opposite the entrance was open. Above it was a tattered banner—bearing a black bull in a golden field.
“Trapped,” said Machiavelli succinctly. “What weapons do you have?”
Ezio had his trusty hidden-blade, his sword, and his dagger. Machiavelli carried a light sword and a stiletto.
“Come in, gentlemen—you are most welcome,” said a disembodied voice from a window overlooking the courtyard somewhere high up in the wall above the open door. “I think we have something to trade with.”
“The Pope knows where we are,” retorted Machiavelli loudly. “You are lost. Give yourselves up! The cause you serve is dead!”
A hollow laugh was his rejoinder. “Is it indeed? I think not. But come in. We knew you’d take the bait. Bruno has been working for us for a year now.”
“Bruno?”
“Treachery runs in families, and dear Bruno’s is no exception. All Bruno wanted was a little more cash than you were giving him. He’s worth it. He managed to inveigle Claudia here, in the hope of meeting one of the English cardinals—they sit on the fence, as the English always do, and Claudia hoped to swing him to your side, and get a little information out of him. Unfortunately, Cardinal Shakeshaft met with a terrible accident—he was run over by a carriage and died on the spot. But your sister, Ezio, is still alive, just, and I am sure she is longing to see you.”
He dug his fingernails into his palms.
“Where is she,
“Come in.”
Cautiously, the two Assassins approached the dark entrance.
There was a dimly lit hall, in whose center, on a plinth, was a bust of Pope Alexander VI, the coarse features—the hooked nose, the weak chin, the fat lips—done to the life. There was no other furniture, and again there were three doors leading off the three walls facing the entrance, only that facing the entrance open. Ezio and Machiavelli made for it and, passing the door, found themselves in another bleak room. There was a table, on which various rusty surgical instruments were arrayed, glittering under the light of a single candle, on a stained cloth. Next to it was a chair, and on it Claudia was seated, half undressed and bound, her hands in her lap, her face and breasts bruised, a gag in her mouth.
Three men detached themselves from the shadows that obscured the back wall. Ezio and Machiavelli were aware of others, too, men and women, behind them and on either side. Those they could see in the darkling light wore the now-grubby mulberry-and-yellow of the former holders of power.
All were heavily armed.
Claudia’s eyes spoke to Ezio’s. She managed to wrestle her branded finger free enough to show him. She had not given in, despite the torture. She was a true Assassin. Why had he ever doubted her?
“We know how you feel about your family,” said a gaunt man of perhaps fifty summers whom Ezio did not recognize. He seemed to be the leader of these Borgia supporters. “You let your father and brothers die. Your mother we need not bother about; she is dying anyway. But you can still save your sister. If you wish. She’s already well struck in years and doesn’t even have any children, so perhaps you won’t bother.”
Ezio controlled himself. “What do you want?”
“In exchange? I want you to leave Rome. Why don’t you go back to Monteriggioni and build the place up again? Do some farming. Leave the power game to those who understand it.”
Ezio spat.
“Oh, dear,” said the thin man. He seized Claudia by the hair and, producing a small knife, cut her left breast.
Claudia screamed.
“She’s damaged goods at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll recover under your tender care.”
“I’ll take her back and then I’ll kill you. Slowly.”
“Ezio Auditore! I gave you a chance. But you threaten me—and you are in no position to threaten. If there’s any killing to be done, it’ll be by me. Forget Monteriggioni—a sophisticated lady like Madonna Claudia would doubtless hate it there anyway—your destiny is here—to die in this room.”
The men and women on each side closed in, drawing swords.
“Told you—trapped,” said Machiavelli.
“At least we’ve found the bastards,” replied Ezio, as each man looked the other in the eye. “Here!” He passed a handful of poison darts to his companion. “Make them work!”
“You didn’t tell me you came prepared.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I did.”
“Shut up.”
Ezio fell into a crouch as the diehards advanced. Their leader held the thin knife to Claudia’s throat.
“Let’s go!”
As one, they drew their swords. And with their free hand they threw the poison darts with deadly aim.
The Borgia supporters toppled on either side, as Machiavelli closed in and sliced and slashed with his sword and dagger, pushing against the diehards who tried to crush him—in vain—by force of numbers.
Ezio had one goal—to kill the thin man before he could rip open Claudia’s throat. He leapt forward and seized the man by the throat, but his adversary was as slippery as an eel and wrenched himself to one side, without letting go of his victim.
Ezio wrestled him to the floor at last and, grasping the man’s right hand with his left, forced the point of the thin knife the man was holding close to his throat. Its point touched the jugular vein.
“Have mercy,” babbled the diehard leader. “I served a cause I thought was true.”
“How much mercy would you have shown my sister?” asked Ezio. “You filth! You are finished.”
There was no need to release the hidden-blade. “I told you it would be a slow death,” said Ezio, drawing the knife down to the man’s groin. “But I am going to be merciful.” He slid the knife back up and sliced the man’s throat open. Blood bubbled in the man’s mouth.
