fortuna, Ezio.'
'You are not coming?'
'It is not necessary. And even with all my skills, two people make more noise than one. I will wait for you here. Va, go!'
Once below ground, Ezio groped his way along the damp stone corridor that ran away to his right. He was able to feel his way along, for the walls were close enough here for him to touch either side with each hand, and he was relieved that his feet made no sound on the wet earthen floor. Occasionally, other tunnels branched off and he could feel them rather than see them as his guiding hands touched nothing but a black void. Getting lost down here would be a nightmare, for one would never find one's way out again. Little sounds startled him at first, until he realized that they were nothing but the scuttling of rats, though once, when one ran over his feet, he could barely stifle a cry. In niches carved into the walls, he caught glimpses of the corpses from timeworn burials, their skulls shrouded in cobwebs - there was something primordial and terrifying about the catacombs, and Ezio had to bite back a rising sense of panic.
At last he saw a dim light ahead, and, moving more slowly now, advanced towards it. He stayed in the shadows as he came within earshot of the five men he could see ahead, silhouetted in the lamplight of a cramped, and very ancient, chapel.
He recognized Francesco immediately - a small, wiry, intense creature who, as Ezio arrived, was bowed before two tonsured priests he did not recognize. The older of the two was giving the blessing in a clear, nasal voice: 'Et benedictio Dei Omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritu Sancti descendat super vos et maneat semper.' As his face caught the light, Ezio recognized him; he was Stefano da Bagnone, secretary to Francesco's uncle Jacopo. Jacopo himself stood near him.
'Thank you, padre,' said Francesco when the blessing was concluded. He straightened himself and addressed a fourth man, who was standing beside the priests. 'Bernardo, give us your report.'
'Everything is in readiness. We have a full armoury of swords, staves, axes, bows and crossbows.'
'A simple dagger would be best for the job,' put in the younger of the two priests.
'It depends on the circumstances, Antonio,' said Francesco.
'Or poison,' continued the younger priest. 'But it doesn't matter, as long as he dies. I will not easily forgive him for bringing down Volterra, my birthplace and my only true home.'
'Calm yourself,' said the man called Bernardo. We all have motive enough. Now, thanks to Pope Sixtus, we also have the means.'
'Indeed, Messer Baroncelli,' replied Antonio. 'But do we have his blessing?'
A voice came from the deep shadows beyond the lamplight at the rear of the chapel, 'He gives his blessing to our operation, 'provided that nobody is killed'.'
The owner of the voice emerged into the lamplight and Ezio drew in his breath as he recognized the cowled figure in crimson, though all of his face but the sneer on his lips was covered by the shadow of his hood. So this was the principal visitor from Rome: Rodrigo Borgia, il Spagnolo!
The conspirators all shared his knowing smile. They all knew where the Pope's loyalty lay, and that it was the cardinal who stood before them who controlled him. But naturally, the Supreme Pontiff could not openly condone the spilling of blood.
'It's good that the job can be done at last,' said Francesco. 'We've had enough setbacks. As it is, killing them in the cathedral will draw heavy criticism on us.'
'It is our last and only option,' said Rodrigo, with authority. 'And as we are doing God's work in ridding Florence of such scum, the setting is appropriate. Besides, once we control the city, let the people murmur against us - if they dare!'
'Still, they keep changing their plans,' said Bernardo Baroncelli. 'I'm even going to have to have someone call on his younger brother Giuliano to make sure he's up in time for High Mass.'
All the men laughed at that, except Jacopo and the Spaniard, who had noticed his sober expression.
'What is it, Jacopo?' Rodrigo asked the older Pazzi. 'Do you think they suspect something?'
Before Jacopo could speak, his nephew waded in impatiently. 'It's impossible! The Medici are too arrogant or too stupid even to notice!'
'Do not underestimate our enemies,' Jacopo chided him. 'Don't you see that it was Medici money that funded the campaign against us at San Gimignano?'
'There will be no such problems this time,' snarled his nephew, bridling at having been corrected in front of his peers, and with the memory of his son Vieri's death still green in his mind.
In the silence that followed, Bernardo turned to Stefano de Bagnone. 'I'll need to borrow a set of your priestly robes for tomorrow morning, padre. The more they think they're surrounded by clerics, the safer they'll feel.'
'Who will strike?' asked Rodrigo.
'I!' said Francesco.
'And I!' chimed in Stefano, Antonio and Bernardo.
'Good.' Rodrigo paused. 'I think on the whole daggers would be best. So much easier to conceal, and very handy when close work is involved. But it's still good to have the Pope's armoury as well - I don't doubt but there'll be a few loose ends to clear up once the Medici brothers are no more.' He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over his fellow conspirators. 'Dominus vobiscum, gentlemen,' he said. 'And may the Father of Understanding guide us.' He looked around. 'Well, I think that concludes our business. You must forgive me if I take my leave of you now. There are several things I need to do before I return to Rome, and I must be on my way before dawn. It wouldn't do at all for me to be seen in Florence on the day the House of Medici crumbled to dust.'
Ezio waited, pressed against a wall in the shadows, until the six men had departed, leaving him in darkness. Only when he was quite sure that he was fully alone did he produce his own lamp and strike a tinder to its wick.
He made his way back the way he had come. The Fox was waiting in the shadowy Rucellai chapel. Ezio, with a full heart, told him what he had heard.
'... To murder Lorenzo and Giuliano de' Medici in the cathedral at High Mass tomorrow morning?' said the Fox when Ezio had finished, and Ezio could see that for once the man was almost at a loss for words. 'It is sacrilege! And it is worse than that - if Florence should fall to the Pazzi, then God help us all.'
Ezio was lost in thought. 'Can you get me a seat in the cathedral tomorrow?' he asked. 'Close to the altar. Near the Medici?'
The Fox looked grave. 'Hard, but perhaps not impossible.' He looked at the young man. 'I know what you're thinking, Ezio, but this is something you cannot possibly pull off alone.'
'I can try, and I have the element of surprise. And more than one stranger's face among the aristocrazia near the front might arouse the Pazzis' suspicions. But you must get me in there, Gilberto.'
'Call me the Fox,' Gilberto answered him, then grinning, 'Only foxes can match me for cunning.' He paused. 'Meet me in front of the Duomo half an hour before High Mass.' He looked Ezio in the eye with new respect. 'I will help if I can, Messer Ezio. Your father would have been proud of you.'
9
Ezio arose before dawn the following day, Sunday 26 April, and made his way to the cathedral. Very few people were about, though a handful of monks and nuns were making their way to perform the rite of Lauds. Aware that he should avoid notice, he climbed arduously to the very top of the campanile and watched the sun rise over the city. Gradually, beneath him, the square began to fill with citizens of every description, families and couples, merchants and nobles, eager to attend the main service of the day, graced as it would be by the presence of the Duke and his younger brother and co-ruler. Ezio surveyed the people keenly, and when he saw the Fox arrive on the cathedral steps, he made his way to the side of the tower least in view and clambered down, agile as a monkey, to join him, remembering to keep his head low and to blend in as far as was possible with the crowd, using his fellow-citizens as cover. He had put on his best clothes for the occasion, and wore no weapon openly, though many
