Assassin's Creed: Renaissance (17 page)

‘How – how do you know my name?’

‘It is my business to know everything in this city. And I know, I think, why you believe I can help you.’

‘My uncle gave me your name -‘

The Fox smiled again, but said nothing.

‘I need to find someone – to be one step ahead of him as well, if I can.’

‘Who is it you seek?’

‘Francesco de’ Pazzi.’

‘Big game, I see.’ The Fox looked serious. ‘It may be that I
can
help you.’ He paused, considering. ‘I have had word that some people from Rome recently disembarked at the docks. They are here to attend a meeting which no one else is supposed to know about, but they do not know about me, still less that I am the eyes and ears of this city. The host of this meeting is the man you want.’

‘When is it to take place?’

‘Tonight!’ The Fox smiled again. ‘Don’t worry, Ezio – it isn’t Fate. I would have sent someone to fetch you to me if you hadn’t found me yourself, but it amused me to test you. Very few who seek me succeed.’

‘You mean, you set me up with Corradin?’

‘Forgive me my sense of the theatrical; but I also had to be sure
you
were not followed. He’s a young man, and it was also a kind of test for him. You see, I may have set you up with him, but he had no real idea of the service he was doing me. He just thought I’d singled out a victim for him!’ His tone became harder, more practical. ‘Now, you must find a way to spy on this meeting, but it won’t be easy.’ He looked at the sky. ‘It is sunset. We must hurry, and the quickest way is over the rooftops. Follow me!’

Without another word he turned and scaled the wall behind him at such a speed that Ezio was hard put to keep up. They raced over the red-tiled roofs, leaping the chasms of the streets in the last afterglow of the sun, silent as cats, soft-footed as running foxes, heading north-west across the city, until they arrived in sight of the façade of the great church of Santa Maria Novella. Here the Fox came to a halt. Ezio had caught him up in seconds, but he noticed that he was more breathless than the older man.

‘You’ve had a good teacher,’ said the Fox; but Ezio had the distinct impression that if he had so chosen, his new friend could have outrun him with ease; and that increased his determination to hone his skills further. But now wasn’t the time for contests or games.

‘That is where
Messer
Francesco is holding his meeting,’ said the Fox, pointing downwards.

‘In the church?’

‘Under it. Come on!’

At that hour, the piazza in front of the church was all but deserted. The Fox leapt down from the roof they were on, landing gracefully in a crouch, and Ezio followed suit. They skirted the square and the side of the church until they came to a postern-gate set into its wall. The Fox ushered Ezio through it and they found themselves in the Rucellai Chapel. Near the bronze tomb at its centre, the Fox paused. ‘There is a network of catacombs which crisscross the city far and wide. I find them very useful in my line of work, but unfortunately they are not exclusive to me. Not many know about them, however, or how to find their way about in them, but Francesco de’ Pazzi is one. It is down there that he is holding his meeting with the people from Rome. This is the closest entrance to where they will be, but you will have to make your own way to them. There’s a chapel, part of an abandoned crypt, fifty yards to your right once you have descended, and be very careful, for sound travels very acutely down there. It will be dark, too, so allow your vision to become accustomed to the gloom – soon you will be guided by the lights in the chapel.’

He placed his hand over a stone boss on the pedestal that supported the tomb, and pressed it. At his feet, an apparently solid flagstone swung down on invisible hinges to reveal a flight of stone steps. He stood aside. ‘
Buona 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.’

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 of his male fellow citizens, of the wealthy merchant and banking class, had ceremonial swords at their waistbands. He could not resist keeping an eye out for Cristina, but he did not see her.

‘Here you are,’ said the Fox, as Ezio joined him. ‘All the arrangements have been made, and a place reserved for you on the aisle in the third row.’ As he spoke, the crowd on the steps parted, and a row of heralds raised trumpets to their lips and blew a fanfare. ‘They’re coming,’ he added.

Entering the square from the Baptistry side, Lorenzo de’ Medici appeared first with his wife Clarice at his side. She held little Lucrezia, their oldest, by the hand, and five-year-old Piero marched proudly on his father’s right. Behind them, accompanied by her nurse, came three-year-old Maddalena, while baby Leo, swaddled in white satin, was carried by his. They were followed by Giuliano and his heavily pregnant mistress, Fioretta. The mass of people in the square bowed low as they passed, to be met at the entrance to the Duomo by two of the attendant priests, whom Ezio recognized with a thrill of horror – Stefano da Bagnone and the one from Volterra, whose full name, as the Fox told him, was Antonio Maffei.

The Medici family entered the cathedral, followed by the priests, and they were followed by the citizens of Florence, in order of rank. The Fox nudged Ezio and pointed. Among the throng he had spotted Francesco de’ Pazzi and his fellow conspirator, Bernardo Baroncelli, disguised as a deacon. ‘Go now,’ he hissed urgently to Ezio. ‘Keep close to them.’

More and more people crowded into the cathedral until it could hold no more, so that those who had hoped for a place had to be content to remain outside. Ten thousand people had gathered in all, and the Fox had never seen such a great assembly in Florence in all his life. He prayed silently for Ezio’s success.

Inside, the crowd settled in the stifling heat. Ezio had not been able to get as close to Francesco and the others as he had wished, but kept them under close eye, calculating what he would have to do to reach them as soon as they started their attack. The Bishop of Florence, meanwhile, had taken his place before the high altar, and the Mass began.