Assassins Creed: Renaissance

AVENGED

Verrocchio’s speech had ground to a halt as the guests began to turn and stare, not yet comprehending what had happened. Ezio stood and faced them.

“Yes! What you see is real! What you see is vengeance! The Auditore family still lives. I am still here! Ezio Auditore!”

He caught his breath at the same moment as a woman’s voice rang out, “Assassino!”

Now chaos reigned. Lorenzo’s bodyguard quickly formed up round him, swords drawn. The guests ran hither and yon, some trying to escape, the braver ones going through the motions at least of trying to seize Ezio, though none quite dared make a real attempt. Ezio noticed the cowled figure slipping away into the shadows. Verrocchio stood protectively by his statue. Women screamed, men shouted, and city guards streamed into the cloisters, unsure of whom to pursue. Ezio took advantage of this, climbing up to the roof of the cloister colonnade and vaulting over it into a courtyard beyond, whose open gate led into the square in front of the church, where a curious crowd was already gathering, attracted by the sound of the commotion within.

“What’s happening?” someone asked Ezio.

“Justice has been done ...”

"While I thought that I was learning how to live,

I have been learning how to die".

—LEONARDO DA VINCI

Renaissance Italy,

ONE

Torches gleamed and flickered high on the towers of the Palazzo Vecchio and the Bargello, and just a few lanterns shimmered in the cathedral square a little way to the north. Some also illuminated the quays along the banks of the River Arno, where, late as it was for a city where most people retired indoors with the coming of night, a few sailors and stevedores could be seen through the gloom. Some of the sailors, still attending to their ships and boats, hastened to make final repairs to rigging and to coil rope neatly on the dark, scrubbed decks, while the stevedores hurried to haul or carry cargo to the safety of the nearby warehouses.

Lights also glimmered in the winehouses and the brothels, but very few people walked the streets. It had been seven years since the then twenty-year-old Lorenzo de’ Medici had been elected to the leadership of the city, bringing with him at least a sense of order and calm to the intense rivalry between the leading international banking and merchant families who had made Florence one of the wealthiest cities in the world. Despite this, the city had never ceased to simmer, and occasionally boil over, as each faction strove for control, some of them shifting alliances, some remaining permanent and implacable enemies.

Florence, in the Year of Our Lord 1476, even on a jasmine-sweet evening in spring, when you could almost forget the stench from the Arno if the wind was in the right direction, wasn’t the safest place to be out in the open, after the sun had gone down.

The moon had risen in a now-cobalt sky, lording it over a host of attendant stars. Its light fell on the open square where the Ponte Vecchio, its crowded shops dark and silent now, joined the north bank of the river. Its light also found out a figure clad in black, standing on the roof of the church of Santo Stefano al Ponte. A young man, only seventeen years old, but tall and proud. Surveying the neighbourhood below keenly, he put a hand to his lips and whistled, a low but penetrating sound. In response, as he watched, first one, then three, then a dozen, and at last twenty men, young like himself, most clad in black, some with blood-red, green, or azure cowls or hats, all with swords and daggers at their belts, emerged from dark streets and archways into the square. The gang of dangerous-looking youths fanned out, a cocky assuredness in their movements.

The young man looked down at the eager faces, pale in the moonlight, gazing up at him. He raised his fist above his head in a defiant salute.

“We stand together!” he cried, as they too raised their fists, some drawing their weapons and brandishing them, and cheered: “Together!”

The young man quickly climbed, catlike, down the unfinished façade from the roof to the church’s portico, and from it leapt, cloak flying, to land in a crouch, safely in their midst. They gathered round, expectantly.

“Silence, my friends!” He held up a hand to arrest a last, lone shout. He smiled grimly. “Do you know why I called you, my closest allies, here tonight? To ask your aid. For too long I have been silent while our enemy, you know who I mean, Vieri de’ Pazzi, has gone about this town slandering my family, dragging our name in the mud, and trying in his pathetic way to demean us. Normally I would not stoop to kicking such a mangy cur, but—”

He was interrupted as a large, jagged rock, hurled from the direction of the bridge, landed at his feet.

“Enough of your nonsense, grullo,” a voice called.

The young man turned as one with his group in the direction of the voice. Already he knew whom it belonged to. Crossing the bridge from the south side another gang of young men was approaching. Its leader swaggered at its head, a red cloak, held by a clasp bearing a device of golden dolphins and crosses on a blue ground, over his dark velvet suit, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He was a passably handsome man, his looks marred by a cruel mouth and a weak chin, and though he was a little fat, there was no doubting the power in his arms and legs.

“Buona sera, Vieri,” the young man said evenly. “We were just talking about you.” And he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, while assuming a look of surprise. “But you must forgive me. We were not expecting you personally. I thought the Pazzi always hired others to do their dirty work.”

Vieri, coming close, drew himself up as he and his troop came to a halt a few yards away. “Ezio Auditore! You pampered little whelp! I’d say it was rather your family of penpushers and accountants that goes running to the guards whenever there’s the faintest sign of trouble. Codardo!” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “Afraid to handle things yourself, I’d say.”

“Well, what can I say, Vieri, ciccione. Last time I saw her, your sister Viola seemed quite satisfied with the handling I gave her.” Ezio Auditore gave his enemy a broad grin, content to hear his companions snigger and cheer behind him.

But he knew he’d gone too far. Vieri had already turned purple with rage. “That’s quite enough from you, Ezio, you little prick! Let’s see if you fight as well as you gabble!” He turned his head back to his men, raising his sword. “Kill the bastards!” he bellowed.

At once another rock whirled through the air, but this time it wasn’t thrown as a challenge. It caught Ezio a glancing blow on the forehead, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Ezio staggered back momentarily, as a hail of rocks flew from the hands of Vieri’s followers. His own men barely had time to rally before the Pazzi gang was upon them, rushing over the bridge to Ezio and his men. All at once, the fighting was so close and so fast that there was hardly time at first to draw swords or even daggers, so the two gangs just went at each other with their fists.

The battle was hard and grim—brutal kicks and punches connected with the sickening sound of crunching bone. For a while it could have gone either way, then Ezio, his vision slightly impaired by the flow of blood from his forehead, saw two of his best men stumble and go down, to be trampled on by Pazzi thugs. Vieri laughed, and, close to Ezio, swung another blow at his head, his hand grasping a heavy stone. Ezio dropped to his haunches and the blow went wide, but it had been too close for comfort, and now the Auditore faction was getting the worst of it. Ezio did manage, before he could rise to his feet, to wrestle his dagger free and slice wildly but successfully at the thigh of a heavily built Pazzi thug who was bearing down at him with sword and dagger unsheathed. Ezio’s dagger tore through fabric and into muscle and sinew, and the man let loose an agonized howl and went over, dropping his weapons and clutching at his wound with both hands as the blood belched forth.

Scrambling desperately to his feet, Ezio looked round. He could see that the Pazzi had all but surrounded his own men, penning them in against one wall of the church. Feeling some of the strength returning to his legs, he made his way towards his fellows. Ducking under the scything blade of another Pazzi henchman, he managed to connect his fist to the man’s stubbly jaw and had the satisfaction of seeing teeth fly and his would-be assailant fall to his knees, stunned by the blow. He yelled to his own men to encourage them, but in truth his thoughts were turning to ways of beating a retreat with as much dignity as possible, when above the noise of the fight he heard a loud, jovial, and very familiar voice calling to him from behind the Pazzi mob.

“Hey, fratellino, what the hell are you up to?”

Ezio’s heart pounded with relief, and he managed to gasp, “Hey, Federico! What are you doing here? I thought you’d be out on the tiles as usual!”

“Nonsense! I knew you had something planned, and I thought I’d come along to see if my little brother had finally learned how to look after himself. But maybe you need another lesson or two!”

Federico Auditore, a few years Ezio’s senior and the oldest of the Auditore siblings, was a big man with a big appetite—for drink, for love, and for battle. He waded in even as he was speaking, knocking two Pazzi heads together and bringing his foot up to connect with the jaw of a third as he strode through the throng to stand side by side with his brother, seeming impervious to the violence that surrounded him. Around them their own men, encouraged, redoubled their efforts. The Pazzi, on the other hand, were discomfited. A few of the dockyard hands had gathered at a safe distance to watch, and in the half-light the Pazzi mistook them for Auditore reinforcements. That and Federico’s roars and flying fists, his actions quickly emulated by Ezio, who learnt fast, very quickly panicked them.

Vieri de’ Pazzi’s furious voice rose above the general tumult. “Fall back!” he called to his men, his voice broken with exertion and anger. He caught Ezio’s eye and snarled some inaudible threat before disappearing into the darkness, back across the Ponte Vecchio, followed by those of his men who could still walk, and hotly pursued by Ezio’s now-triumphant allies.

Ezio was about to follow suit, but his brother’s meaty hand restrained him. “Just a minute,” he said.

“What do you mean? We’ve got them on the run!”

“Steady on.” Federico was frowning, gently touching the wound on Ezio’s brow.

“It’s just a scratch.”“It’s more than that,” his brother decided, a grave expression on his face. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”

Ezio spat. “I haven’t got time to waste running to doctors. Besides ...” He paused ruefully. “I haven’t any money.”

“Hah! Wasted it on women and wine, I suppose.” Federico grinned, and slapped his younger brother warmly on the shoulder.

“Not wasted exactly, I’d say. And look at the example you set me.” Ezio grinned but then hesitated. He suddenly became aware that his head was thumping. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get it checked out. I suppose you couldn’t see your way to lending me a few fiorini?”

Federico patted his purse. It didn’t jingle. “Fact is, I’m a bit short myself just now,” he said.

Ezio grinned at his brother’s sheepishness. “And what have you wasted yours on? Masses and Indulgences, I suppose?”

Federico laughed. “All right. I take your point.” He looked around. In the end, only three or four of their own people had been hurt badly enough to remain on the field of battle, and they were sitting up, groaning a bit, but grinning too. It had been a tough set-to, but no one had broken any bones. On the other hand, a good half-dozen Pazzi henchmen lay completely out for the count, and one or two of them at least were expensively dressed.

“Let’s see if our fallen enemies have any riches to share,” Federico suggested. “After all, our need is greater than theirs, and I’ll bet you can’t lighten their load without waking them up!”

“We’ll see about that,” said Ezio, and set about it with some success. Before a few minutes had elapsed, he’d harvested enough gold coins to fill both their own purses. Ezio looked over to his brother triumphantly and jingled his newly claimed wealth to emphasize the point.

“Enough!” cried Federico. “Better leave them a bit to limp home on. After all, we’re not thieves—this is just the spoils of war. And I still don’t like the look of that wound. We must get it seen to double quick.”

Ezio nodded, and turned to survey the field of the Auditore victory one last time. Losing patience, Federico rested a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and without more ado he set off at such a pace that the battle-weary Ezio found it hard to keep up, though when he fell too far behind, or took a wrong turn down an alley, Federico would hold up, or hurry back to put him right. “I’m sorry, Ezio. I just want us to get to the medico as soon as we can.”

And indeed it wasn’t far, but Ezio was tiring by the minute. Finally they reached the shadowy room, festooned with mysterious instruments and phials of brass and glass, ranged along dark oak tables and hanging from the ceiling along with clusters of dried herbs, where their family doctor had his surgery. It was all Ezio could do to remain on his feet.

Dottore Ceresa was not best pleased at being roused in the middle of the night, but his manner changed to one of concern as soon as he had brought a candle close enough to inspect Ezio’s wound in detail. “Hmmn,” he said gravely. “You’ve made quite a mess of yourself this time, young man. Can’t you people think of anything better to do than go around beating each other up?”

“It was a question of honour, good doctor,” put in Federico. “It’s more than that,” his brother decided, a grave expression on his face. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”

Ezio spat. “I haven’t got time to waste running to doctors. Besides ...” He paused ruefully. “I haven’t any money.”

“Hah! Wasted it on women and wine, I suppose.” Federico grinned, and slapped his younger brother warmly on the shoulder.

“Not wasted exactly, I’d say. And look at the example you set me.” Ezio grinned but then hesitated. He suddenly became aware that his head was thumping. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get it checked out. I suppose you couldn’t see your way to lending me a few fiorini?”

Federico patted his purse. It didn’t jingle. “Fact is, I’m a bit short myself just now,” he said.

Ezio grinned at his brother’s sheepishness. “And what have you wasted yours on? Masses and Indulgences, I suppose?”

Federico laughed. “All right. I take your point.” He looked around. In the end, only three or four of their own people had been hurt badly enough to remain on the field of battle, and they were sitting up, groaning a bit, but grinning too. It had been a tough set-to, but no one had broken any bones. On the other hand, a good half-dozen Pazzi henchmen lay completely out for the count, and one or two of them at least were expensively dressed.

“Let’s see if our fallen enemies have any riches to share,” Federico suggested. “After all, our need is greater than theirs, and I’ll bet you can’t lighten their load without waking them up!”

“We’ll see about that,” said Ezio, and set about it with some success. Before a few minutes had elapsed, he’d harvested enough gold coins to fill both their own purses. Ezio looked over to his brother triumphantly and jingled his newly claimed wealth to emphasize the point.

“Enough!” cried Federico. “Better leave them a bit to limp home on. After all, we’re not thieves—this is just the spoils of war. And I still don’t like the look of that wound. We must get it seen to double quick.”

Ezio nodded, and turned to survey the field of the Auditore victory one last time. Losing patience, Federico rested a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and without more ado he set off at such a pace that the battle-weary Ezio found it hard to keep up, though when he fell too far behind, or took a wrong turn down an alley, Federico would hold up, or hurry back to put him right. “I’m sorry, Ezio. I just want us to get to the medico as soon as we can.”

And indeed it wasn’t far, but Ezio was tiring by the minute. Finally they reached the shadowy room, festooned with mysterious instruments and phials of brass and glass, ranged along dark oak tables and hanging from the ceiling along with clusters of dried herbs, where their family doctor had his surgery. It was all Ezio could do to remain on his feet.

Dottore Ceresa was not best pleased at being roused in the middle of the night, but his manner changed to one of concern as soon as he had brought a candle close enough to inspect Ezio’s wound in detail. “Hmmn,” he said gravely. “You’ve made quite a mess of yourself this time, young man. Can’t you people think of anything better to do than go around beating each other up?”

“It was a question of honour, good doctor,” put in Federico.

ONE

Torches gleamed and flickered high on the towers of the Palazzo Vecchio and the Bargello, and just a few lanterns shimmered in the cathedral square a little way to the north. Some also illuminated the quays along the banks of the River Arno, where, late as it was for a city where most people retired indoors with the coming of night, a few sailors and stevedores could be seen through the gloom. Some of the sailors, still attending to their ships and boats, hastened to make final repairs to rigging and to coil rope neatly on the dark, scrubbed decks, while the stevedores hurried to haul or carry cargo to the safety of the nearby warehouses.

Lights also glimmered in the winehouses and the brothels, but very few people walked the streets. It had been seven years since the then twenty-year-old Lorenzo de’ Medici had been elected to the leadership of the city, bringing with him at least a sense of order and calm to the intense rivalry between the leading international banking and merchant families who had made Florence one of the wealthiest cities in the world. Despite this, the city had never ceased to simmer, and occasionally boil over, as each faction strove for control, some of them shifting alliances, some remaining permanent and implacable enemies.

Florence, in the Year of Our Lord 1476, even on a jasmine-sweet evening in spring, when you could almost forget the stench from the Arno if the wind was in the right direction, wasn’t the safest place to be out in the open, after the sun had gone down.

The moon had risen in a now-cobalt sky, lording it over a host of attendant stars. Its light fell on the open square where the Ponte Vecchio, its crowded shops dark and silent now, joined the north bank of the river. Its light also found out a figure clad in black, standing on the roof of the church of Santo Stefano al Ponte. A young man, only seventeen years old, but tall and proud. Surveying the neighbourhood below keenly, he put a hand to his lips and whistled, a low but penetrating sound. In response, as he watched, first one, then three, then a dozen, and at last twenty men, young like himself, most clad in black, some with blood-red, green, or azure cowls or hats, all with swords and daggers at their belts, emerged from dark streets and archways into the square. The gang of dangerous-looking youths fanned out, a cocky assuredness in their movements.

The young man looked down at the eager faces, pale in the moonlight, gazing up at him. He raised his fist above his head in a defiant salute.

“We stand together!” he cried, as they too raised their fists, some drawing their weapons and brandishing them, and cheered: “Together!”

The young man quickly climbed, catlike, down the unfinished façade from the roof to the church’s portico, and from it leapt, cloak flying, to land in a crouch, safely in their midst. They gathered round, expectantly.

“Silence, my friends!” He held up a hand to arrest a last, lone shout. He smiled grimly. “Do you know why I called you, my closest allies, here tonight? To ask your aid. For too long I have been silent while our enemy, you know who I mean, Vieri de’ Pazzi, has gone about this town slandering my family, dragging our name in the mud, and trying in his pathetic way to demean us. Normally I would not stoop to kicking such a mangy cur, but—”

He was interrupted as a large, jagged rock, hurled from the direction of the bridge, landed at his feet.

“Enough of your nonsense, grullo,” a voice called.

The young man turned as one with his group in the direction of the voice. Already he knew whom it belonged to. Crossing the bridge from the south side another gang of young men was approaching. Its leader swaggered at its head, a red cloak, held by a clasp bearing a device of golden dolphins and crosses on a blue ground, over his dark velvet suit, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He was a passably handsome man, his looks marred by a cruel mouth and a weak chin, and though he was a little fat, there was no doubting the power in his arms and legs.

“Buona sera, Vieri,” the young man said evenly. “We were just talking about you.” And he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, while assuming a look of surprise. “But you must forgive me. We were not expecting you personally. I thought the Pazzi always hired others to do their dirty work.”

Vieri, coming close, drew himself up as he and his troop came to a halt a few yards away. “Ezio Auditore! You pampered little whelp! I’d say it was rather your family of penpushers and accountants that goes running to the guards whenever there’s the faintest sign of trouble. Codardo!” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “Afraid to handle things yourself, I’d say.”

“Well, what can I say, Vieri, ciccione. Last time I saw her, your sister Viola seemed quite satisfied with the handling I gave her.” Ezio Auditore gave his enemy a broad grin, content to hear his companions snigger and cheer behind him.

But he knew he’d gone too far. Vieri had already turned purple with rage. “That’s quite enough from you, Ezio, you little prick! Let’s see if you fight as well as you gabble!” He turned his head back to his men, raising his sword. “Kill the bastards!” he bellowed.

At once another rock whirled through the air, but this time it wasn’t thrown as a challenge. It caught Ezio a glancing blow on the forehead, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Ezio staggered back momentarily, as a hail of rocks flew from the hands of Vieri’s followers. His own men barely had time to rally before the Pazzi gang was upon them, rushing over the bridge to Ezio and his men. All at once, the fighting was so close and so fast that there was hardly time at first to draw swords or even daggers, so the two gangs just went at each other with their fists.

The battle was hard and grim—brutal kicks and punches connected with the sickening sound of crunching bone. For a while it could have gone either way, then Ezio, his vision slightly impaired by the flow of blood from his forehead, saw two of his best men stumble and go down, to be trampled on by Pazzi thugs. Vieri laughed, and, close to Ezio, swung another blow at his head, his hand grasping a heavy stone. Ezio dropped to his haunches and the blow went wide, but it had been too close for comfort, and now the Auditore faction was getting the worst of it. Ezio did manage, before he could rise to his feet, to wrestle his dagger free and slice wildly but successfully at the thigh of a heavily built Pazzi thug who was bearing down at him with sword and dagger unsheathed. Ezio’s dagger tore through fabric and into muscle and sinew, and the man let loose an agonized howl and went over, dropping his weapons and clutching at his wound with both hands as the blood belched forth.''

Scrambling desperately to his feet, Ezio looked round. He could see that the Pazzi had all but surrounded his own men, penning them in against one wall of the church. Feeling some of the strength returning to his legs, he made his way towards his fellows. Ducking under the scything blade of another Pazzi henchman, he managed to connect his fist to the man’s stubbly jaw and had the satisfaction of seeing teeth fly and his would-be assailant fall to his knees, stunned by the blow. He yelled to his own men to encourage them, but in truth his thoughts were turning to ways of beating a retreat with as much dignity as possible, when above the noise of the fight he heard a loud, jovial, and very familiar voice calling to him from behind the Pazzi mob.

“Hey, fratellino, what the hell are you up to?”

Ezio’s heart pounded with relief, and he managed to gasp, “Hey, Federico! What are you doing here? I thought you’d be out on the tiles as usual!”

“Nonsense! I knew you had something planned, and I thought I’d come along to see if my little brother had finally learned how to look after himself. But maybe you need another lesson or two!”

Federico Auditore, a few years Ezio’s senior and the oldest of the Auditore siblings, was a big man with a big appetite—for drink, for love, and for battle. He waded in even as he was speaking, knocking two Pazzi heads together and bringing his foot up to connect with the jaw of a third as he strode through the throng to stand side by side with his brother, seeming impervious to the violence that surrounded him. Around them their own men, encouraged, redoubled their efforts. The Pazzi, on the other hand, were discomfited. A few of the dockyard hands had gathered at a safe distance to watch, and in the half-light the Pazzi mistook them for Auditore reinforcements. That and Federico’s roars and flying fists, his actions quickly emulated by Ezio, who learnt fast, very quickly panicked them.

Vieri de’ Pazzi’s furious voice rose above the general tumult. “Fall back!” he called to his men, his voice broken with exertion and anger. He caught Ezio’s eye and snarled some inaudible threat before disappearing into the darkness, back across the Ponte Vecchio, followed by those of his men who could still walk, and hotly pursued by Ezio’s now-triumphant allies.

Ezio was about to follow suit, but his brother’s meaty hand restrained him. “Just a minute,” he said.

“What do you mean? We’ve got them on the run!”

“Steady on.” Federico was frowning, gently touching the wound on Ezio’s brow.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s more than that,” his brother decided, a grave expression on his face. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”

Ezio spat. “I haven’t got time to waste running to doctors. Besides ...” He paused ruefully. “I haven’t any money.”

“Hah! Wasted it on women and wine, I suppose.” Federico grinned, and slapped his younger brother warmly on the shoulder.

“Not wasted exactly, I’d say. And look at the example you set me.” Ezio grinned but then hesitated. He suddenly became aware that his head was thumping. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get it checked out. I suppose you couldn’t see your way to lending me a few fiorini?”

Federico patted his purse. It didn’t jingle. “Fact is, I’m a bit short myself just now,” he said.

Ezio grinned at his brother’s sheepishness. “And what have you wasted yours on? Masses and Indulgences, I suppose?”

Federico laughed. “All right. I take your point.” He looked around. In the end, only three or four of their own people had been hurt badly enough to remain on the field of battle, and they were sitting up, groaning a bit, but grinning too. It had been a tough set-to, but no one had broken any bones. On the other hand, a good half-dozen Pazzi henchmen lay completely out for the count, and one or two of them at least were expensively dressed.

“Let’s see if our fallen enemies have any riches to share,” Federico suggested. “After all, our need is greater than theirs, and I’ll bet you can’t lighten their load without waking them up!”

“We’ll see about that,” said Ezio, and set about it with some success. Before a few minutes had elapsed, he’d harvested enough gold coins to fill both their own purses. Ezio looked over to his brother triumphantly and jingled his newly claimed wealth to emphasize the point.

“Enough!” cried Federico. “Better leave them a bit to limp home on. After all, we’re not thieves—this is just the spoils of war. And I still don’t like the look of that wound. We must get it seen to double quick.”

Ezio nodded, and turned to survey the field of the Auditore victory one last time. Losing patience, Federico rested a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and without more ado he set off at such a pace that the battle-weary Ezio found it hard to keep up, though when he fell too far behind, or took a wrong turn down an alley, Federico would hold up, or hurry back to put him right. “I’m sorry, Ezio. I just want us to get to the medico as soon as we can.”

And indeed it wasn’t far, but Ezio was tiring by the minute. Finally they reached the shadowy room, festooned with mysterious instruments and phials of brass and glass, ranged along dark oak tables and hanging from the ceiling along with clusters of dried herbs, where their family doctor had his surgery. It was all Ezio could do to remain on his feet.

Dottore Ceresa was not best pleased at being roused in the middle of the night, but his manner changed to one of concern as soon as he had brought a candle close enough to inspect Ezio’s wound in detail. “Hmmn,” he said gravely. “You’ve made quite a mess of yourself this time, young man. Can’t you people think of anything better to do than go around beating each other up?”

“It was a question of honour, good doctor,” put in Federico.

“I see,” said the doctor, evenly.

“It’s really nothing,” said Ezio, though he felt faint.

Federico, as usual hiding concern behind humour, said, “Do patch him up as best you can, friend. That pretty little face of his is his only asset.”

“Hey, fottiti!” Ezio hit back, giving his brother the finger.

The doctor ignored them, washed his hands, probed the wound gently, and poured some clear fluid from one of his many bottles on to a piece of linen. He dabbed the wound with this and it stung so much that Ezio almost sprang from his chair, his face screwed up with the pain. Then, satisfied that the wound was clean, the doctor took a needle and threaded it with fine catgut.

“Now,” he said. “This really will hurt, a little.”

Once the stitches were in and the wound bandaged so that Ezio looked like a turbaned Turk, the doctor smiled encouragement. “That’ll be three fiorini, for now. I’ll come to your palazzo in a few days and remove the stitches. That’ll be another three fiorini to pay then. You’ll have a terrible headache, but it’ll pass. Just try to rest—if it’s in your nature! And don’t worry: the wound looks worse than it is, and there’s even a bonus: there shouldn’t be much of a scar, so you won’t be disappointing the ladies too greatly in future!”

Once they were back in the street, Federico put his arm round his younger brother. He pulled out a flask and offered it to Ezio. “Don’t worry,” he said, noticing the expression on Ezio’s face. “It’s our father’s best grappa. Better than mother’s milk for a man in your condition.”

They both drank, feeling the fiery liquid warm them. “Quite a night,” said Federico.

“Indeed. I only wish they were all as much fun as—” But Ezio interrupted himself as he saw that his brother was beginning to grin from ear to ear. “Oh, wait!” he corrected himself, laughing: “They are!”

“Even so, I think a little food and drink wouldn’t be a bad thing to set you up before we go home,” said Federico. “It’s late, I know, but there’s a taverna nearby where they don’t close until breakfast time and—”

“You and the oste are amici intimi?”

“How did you guess?”

An hour or so later, after a meal of ribollita and bistecca washed down with a bottle of Brunello, Ezio felt as if he’d never been wounded at all. He was young and fit, and felt that all his lost energy had flowed back into him. The adrenaline of the victory over the Pazzi mob certainly contributed to the swiftness of his recovery.

“Time to go home, little brother,” said Federico. “Father’s sure to be wondering where we are, and you’re the one he looks to to help him with the bank. Luckily for me, I’ve no head for figures, which is why I suppose he can’t wait to get me into politics!”

“Politics or the circus—the way you carry on.”

“What’s the difference?”

Ezio knew that Federico bore him no ill will over the fact that their father confided more of the family business in him than in his elder brother. Federico would die of boredom if confronted by a life in banking. The problem was, Ezio had a feeling that he might be the same. But for the moment, the day when he donned the black velvet suit and the gold chain of a Florentine banker was still some way off, and he was determined to enjoy his days of freedom and irresponsibility to the full. Little did he realize just how short-lived those days would be.

“We’d better hurry, too,” Federico was saying, “if we want to avoid a bollocking.”

“He may be worried.”

“No—he knows we can take care of ourselves.” Federico was looking at Ezio speculatively. “But we had better get a move on.” He paused. “You don’t feel up to a little wager at all, do you? A race perhaps?”

“Where to?”

“Let’s say”—Federico looked across the moonlit city towards a tower not far away—“the roof of Santa Trinità. If it’s not going to take too much out of you—and it’s not far from home. But there’s just one thing more.”

“Yes?”

“We’re not racing along the streets, but across the rooftops.”

Ezio took a deep breath. “OK. Try me,” he said.

“All right, little tartaruga—go!”

Without another word, Federico was off, scaling a nearby roughcast wall as easily as a lizard would. He paused at the top, seeming almost to teeter among the rounded red tiles, laughed, and was off again. By the time Ezio had reached the rooftops, his brother was twenty yards ahead. He set off in pursuit, his pain forgotten in the adrenaline-fuelled excitement of the chase. Then he saw Federico take an almighty leap across a pitch-black void, to land lightly on the flat roof of a grey palazzo slightly below the level of the one he had jumped from. He ran a little way farther, and waited. Ezio felt a glimmer of fear as the chasm of the street eight storeys below loomed before him, but he knew that he would die rather than hesitate in front of his brother, and so, summoning up his courage, he took a massive leap of faith, seeing, as he soared across, the hard granite cobbles in the moonlight far beneath his feet as they flailed the air. For a split second he wondered if he’d judged it right, as the hard grey wall of the palazzo seemed to rise up to meet him, but then, somehow, it sank below him and he was on the new roof, sprawling slightly, it was true, but still on his feet, and elated, though breathing hard.

“Baby brother still has much to learn,” taunted Federico, setting off again, a darting shadow among the chimney-stacks under the scattering of clouds. Ezio hurled himself forward, lost in the wildness of the moment. Other abysses yawned beneath him, some defining mere alleyways, others broad thoroughfares. Federico was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly the tower of Santa Trinità rose before him, rising from the red sweep of the church’s gently sloping roof. But as he approached he remembered that the church stood in the centre of a square, and that the distance between its roof and those of the surrounding buildings was far greater than any he had yet leapt. He dared not hesitate or lose speed now—his only hope was that the church roof was lower than the one he would have to jump from. If he could throw himself forward with enough force, and truly launch himself into the air, gravity would do the rest. For one or two seconds he would fly like a bird. He forced any thought of the consequences of failure out of his mind.

The edge of the roof he was on approached fast, and then—nothing. He soared, listening to the air whistle in his ears, bringing tears into his eyes. The church roof seemed an infinite distance away—he would never reach it; he would never laugh or fight or hold a woman in his arms again. He couldn’t breathe. He shut his eyes, and then ...

His body bent double, he was steadying himself with his hands and feet, but they were supported again—he had made it, within inches of the edge, but he had made it on to the church roof!

But where was Federico? Ezio clambered up to the base of the tower and turned to look back the way he had come, just in time to see his brother flying through the air himself. Federico landed firmly, but his weight sent one or two of the red clay tiles slithering out of place and he almost lost his footing as the tiles slid down the roof and off the edge, shattering a few seconds later on the hard cobbles far below. But Federico had found his balance again, and he stood up, panting for sure, but with a broad, proud smile on his face.

“Not such a tartaruga after all,” he said, as he came up and clapped Ezio on the shoulder. “You went past me like greased lightning.”

“I didn’t even know that I had,” said Ezio briefly, trying to catch his breath.

“Well, you won’t beat me up to the top of the tower,” retorted Federico, pushing Ezio to the side, and he started to clamber up the squat tower which the city fathers were thinking of replacing with something of a more modern design. This time Federico made it first, and even had to give a hand up to his wounded brother, who was beginning to feel that bed would be no bad thing. They were both out of breath, and stood while they recovered to look out over their city, serene and silent in the oyster-light of dawn.

“It is a good life we lead, brother,” said Federico with uncharacteristic solemnity.

“The best,” Ezio agreed. “And may it never change.”

They both paused—neither wishing to break the perfection of the moment—but after a while Federico quietly spoke. “May it never change us either, fratellino. Come, we must get back. There is the roof of our palazzo. Pray God Father hasn’t stayed up all night, or we really will be for it. Let’s go.”

He made for the edge of the tower in order to climb back down to the roof, but stopped when he saw that Ezio had remained where he was. “What is it?”

“Wait a minute.”

“What are you looking at?” asked Federico, rejoining him. He followed Ezio’s gaze and then his face broke out into a grin. “You sly devil! You’re not thinking of going there now, are you? Let the poor girl sleep!”

“No—I think it’s time Cristina woke up.”

Ezio had met Cristina Calfucci only a short time before, but already they seemed inseparable, despite the fact that their parents still deemed them too young to form a serious alliance. Ezio disagreed, but Cristina was only seventeen and her parents expected Ezio to rein in his wild habits before they would even begin to look more kindly on him. Of course, this only served to make him more impetuous.

Federico and he had been lounging in the main market after buying some trinkets for their sister’s Saint’s Day, watching the pretty girls of the town with their accompagnatrice as they flitted from stall to stall, examining lace here, ribbons and bolts of silk there. But one girl had stood out from her companions, more beautiful and graceful than anyone Ezio had ever seen before. Ezio would never forget that day, the day on which he had first set eyes on her.

“Oh,” he had gasped involuntarily. “Look! She’s so beautiful.”

“Well,” said his ever-practical brother. “Why don’t you go over and say hello?”

“What?” Ezio was shocked. “And after I’ve said hello—what then?”

“Well, you could try talking to her. What you’ve bought, what she’s bought—it doesn’t matter. You see, little brother, most men are so afraid of beautiful girls that anyone who actually plucks up the courage to have a chat stands at an immediate advantage. What? You think they don’t want to be noticed, they don’t want to enjoy a little conversation with a man? Of course they do! Anyway, you’re not bad-looking, and you are an Auditore. So go for it—and I’ll distract the chaperone. Come to think of it, she’s not so bad-looking herself.”

Ezio remembered how, left alone with Cristina, rooted to the spot, at a loss for words, drinking in the beauty of her dark eyes, her long, soft auburn hair, her tip-tilted nose ...

She stared at him. “What is it?” she asked.

“What d’you mean?” he blurted out.

“Why are you just standing there?”

“Oh ... erhm ... because I wanted to ask you something.”

“And what might that be?”

“What’s your name?”

She rolled her eyes. Damn, he thought, she’s heard it all before. “Not one you’ll ever need to make use of,” she said. And off she went. Ezio stared after her for a moment, then set off after her.

“Wait!” he said, catching up, more breathless than if he’d run a mile. “I wasn’t ready. I was planning on being really charming. And suave! And witty! Won’t you give me a second chance?”

She looked back at him without breaking her stride, but she did give him the faintest trace of a smile. Ezio had been in despair, but Federico had been watching and called to him softly: “Don’t give up now! I saw her smile at you! She’ll remember you.”

Taking heart, Ezio had followed her—discreetly, taking care she wouldn’t notice. Three or four times he had to dart behind a market stall, or, after she had left the square, duck into a doorway, but he’d managed to tail her pretty successfully right up to the door of her family mansion, where a man he recognized had blocked her path. Ezio had drawn back.

Cristina looked at the man angrily. “I’ve told you before, Vieri, I’m not interested in you. Now, let me pass.”

Ezio, concealed, drew in a breath. Vieri de’ Pazzi! Of course!

“But signorina, I am interested. Very interested indeed,” said Vieri.

“Then join the queue.”

She tried to get past him, but he moved in front of her. “I don’t think so, amore mio. I’ve decided that I’m tired of waiting for you to open your legs of your own volition.” And he seized her roughly by the arm, drawing her close, putting his other arm round her as she struggled to get free.

“I’m not sure you’re getting the message,” said Ezio suddenly, stepping forward and looking Vieri in the eye.

“Ah, the little Auditore whelp. Cane rognoso! What the hell do you have to do with this? To the devil with you.”

“And buon’ giorno to you too, Vieri. I’m so sorry to intrude, but I have the distinct impression that you’re spoiling this young lady’s day.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Excuse me, my dearest, while I kick the stuffing out of this parvenu.” With that, Vieri had thrust Cristina aside and lunged at Ezio with his right fist. Ezio parried easily and stepped aside, tripping Vieri as the momentum of his attack carried him forward, sending him sprawling in the dust.

“Had enough, friend?” said Ezio mockingly. But Vieri was on his feet in an instant, and came towards him in a rage, fists flailing. He’d got one hard blow in to the side of Ezio’s jaw, but Ezio warded off a left hook and got two of his own in, one to the stomach and, as Vieri bent double, another to his jaw. Ezio had turned to Cristina to check that she was all right. Winded, Vieri backed off, but his hand flew to his dagger. Cristina saw the movement and gave an involuntary cry of alarm as Vieri brought the dagger plunging down towards Ezio’s back, but, warned by the cry, Ezio had turned in the nick of time and seized Vieri firmly by the wrist, wrenching the dagger away from him. It fell to the ground. The two young men stood face to face, breathing hard.

“Is that the best you can do?” Ezio said through gritted teeth.

“Shut your mouth or by God I’ll kill you!”

Ezio laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you trying to force yourself on a nice girl who clearly thinks you’re a complete ball of dung—given the way your pappa tries to force his banking interests on Florence!”

“You fool! It’s your father who needs to be taught a lesson in humility!”

“It’s time you Pazzi stopped slandering us. But then, you’re all mouth and no fist.”

Vieri’s lip was bleeding badly. He wiped it with his sleeve. “You’ll pay for this—you and your whole breed. I won’t forget this, Auditore!” He spat at Ezio’s feet, stooped to retrieve his dagger, then turned, and ran. Ezio had watched him go.

He remembered all this, standing there on the church tower and looking across at Cristina’s house. He remembered the elation he’d felt as he’d turned back to Cristina and seen a new warmth in her eyes as she’d thanked him.

“Are you all right, signorina?” he’d said.

“I am now—thanks to you.” She’d hesitated, her voice still trembling with fear. “You asked me my name—well, it’s Cristina. Cristina Calfucci.”

Ezio bowed. “I am honoured to meet you, Signorina Cristina. Ezio Auditore.”

“Do you know that man?”

“Vieri? Our paths have crossed now and then. But our families have no reason to like one another.”

“I never want to see him again.”

“If I can help it, you won’t.”

She smiled shyly, then said, “Ezio, you have my gratitude—and because of that, I am prepared to give you a second chance, after your bad start!” She laughed gently, then kissed him on the cheek before disappearing into her mansion.

The small crowd that had inevitably gathered had given Ezio a round of applause. He had bowed, smilingly, but as he’d turned away he’d known that he might have made a new friend, but he had also made an implacable enemy.

“Let Cristina sleep,” Federico said again, drawing Ezio back from his reverie.

“Time enough for that—later,” he replied. “I must see her.”

“All right, if you must—I’ll try to cover for you with Father. But watch yourself—Vieri’s men may still be about.” With that, Federico shinned down the tower to the roof, and bounded off that into a hay-wagon parked in the street which led home.

Ezio watched him go, then decided to emulate his brother. The hay-wain looked very far below him, but he remembered what he’d been taught, controlled his breathing, calmed himself, and concentrated.

Then he flew into the air, taking the greatest leap of his life so far. For an instant he thought he might have misjudged his aim, but he calmed his own momentary panic and landed safely in the hay. A true leap of faith! A little breathless, but exhilarated at his success, Ezio swung himself into the street.

The sun was just appearing over the eastern hills but there were still very few people about. Ezio was just about to start off in the direction of Cristina’s mansion when he heard echoing footsteps and, desperately trying to conceal himself, he shrank into the shadows of the church porch and held his breath. It was none other than Vieri and two of the Pazzi guards who rounded the corner.

“We’d better give up, chief,” said the senior guard. “They’ve long gone by now.”

“I know they’re here somewhere,” snapped Vieri. “I can practically smell them.” He and his men made a circuit of the church square but showed no sign of moving on. The sunlight was shrinking the shadows. Ezio cautiously crept into the shelter of the hay again and lay there for what seemed an age, impatient to be on his way. Once, Vieri passed so close that Ezio could practically smell him, but at last he motioned his men with an angry gesture to move on. Ezio lay still for a while longer, then climbed down and let out a long sigh of relief. He dusted himself off, and quickly covered the short distance that separated him from Cristina, praying that no one in her household would yet be stirring.

The mansion was still silent, though Ezio guessed that servants would be preparing the kitchen fires at the back. He knew which Cristina’s window was, and threw a handful of gravel up at her shutters. The noise seemed deafening and he waited, heart in mouth. Then the shutters opened and she appeared on the balcony. Her night-dress revealed the delicious contours of her body as he gazed up at her. He was at once lost in desire.

“Who is it?” she called softly.

He stood back so she could see him. “Me!”

Cristina sighed, though in a not unfriendly way. “Ezio! I might have known.”

“May I come up, mia colomba?”

She glanced over her shoulder before answering in a whisper. “All right. But just for a minute.”

“That’s all I need.”

She grinned. “Indeed?”

He was confused. “No—sorry—I didn’t mean it quite like that! Let me show you ...” Looking round himself to make sure the street was still deserted, he gained a foothold in one of the large iron rings set into the grey stonework of the house for tethering horses, and hoisted himself up, finding relatively easy handholds and footholds in the rusticated masonry. In two winks of an eye he had hoisted himself over the balustrade and she was in his arms.

“Oh, Ezio!” she sighed as they kissed. “Look at your head. What have you been doing this time?”

“It’s nothing. A scratch.” Ezio paused, smiling. “Perhaps now I’m up, I could also come in?” he said gently.

“Where?”

He was all innocence. “To your bedchamber, of course.”

“Well, perhaps—if you’re sure a minute is all you need ...”

Their arms around each other, they went through the double doors into the warm light of Cristina’s room.

An hour later, they were awakened by the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the bustling noises of carts and people in the street, and—worst of all—the sound of Cristina’s father’s voice as he opened the bedroom door.

“Cristina,” he was saying. “Time to get up, girl! Your tutor will be here at any—What the devil? Son of a bitch!”

Ezio kissed Cristina, quickly but hard. “Time to go, I think,” he said, seizing his clothes and darting to the window. He shinned down the wall and was already pulling on his suit when Antonio Calfucci appeared on the balcony above. He was in a white rage.

“Perdonate, Messere,” Ezio offered.

“I’ll give you perdonate, Messere,” yelled Calfucci. “Guards! Guards! Get after that cimice! Bring me his head! And I want his coglioni as well!”

“I’ve said I’m sorry—” Ezio began, but already the gates of the mansion were opening and the Calfucci bodyguards came rushing out, swords drawn. Now more or less dressed, Ezio set off at a run down the street, dodging wagons and pushing past citizens on his way, wealthy businessmen in solemn black, merchants in browns and reds, humbler folk in homespun tunics and, once, a church procession which he collided with so unexpectedly that he all but tipped over the statue of the Virgin the black-cowled monks were carrying. At last, after ducking down alleys and leaping over walls, he stopped and listened. Silence. Not even the shouts and curses that had followed him from the general population could be heard any more. As for the guards, he’d shaken them off, he was sure of that.

He only hoped Signor Calfucci hadn’t recognized him. Cristina wouldn’t betray him, he could be sure of that. Besides, she could run rings round her father, who adored her. And even if he did find out, Ezio reflected, he wouldn’t be a bad match. His father ran one of the biggest banking houses in town, and one day it might be bigger than that of the Pazzi or even—who knew?—of the Medici.

Using back streets, he made his way home. The first to meet him was Federico, who looked at him gravely and shook his head ominously. “You’re in for it now,” he said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

TWO

The office of Giovanni Auditore was on the first floor, and overlooked the gardens behind the palazzo through two sets of double windows which opened on to one broad balcony. The room was panelled in dark, scrolled oak, whose severity was scarcely mitigated by the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. Two desks faced each other in the room, the larger of which belonged to Giovanni, and the walls were lined with bookcases stuffed with ledgers and parchment scrolls from which heavy red seals dangled. The room was designed to say to any visitor: here you will find opulence, respectability, and trust. As head of the Auditore International Bank, which specialized in loans to the kingdoms of Germania within what was notionally at least a Holy Roman Empire, Giovanni Auditore was well aware of the weighty and responsible position he held. He hoped his two older sons would make haste to come to their senses and help him shoulder the burdens he had inherited from his own father, but he could see no sign of that yet. Nevertheless ...

He glowered across the room at his middle son from his seat at his desk. Ezio stood near the other desk, vacated by Giovanni’s secretary to give father and son the privacy they required for what Ezio feared would be a very painful interview. It was now early afternoon. He’d been dreading the summons all morning, though he’d also used the time to snatch a couple of hours of necessary sleep and smarten himself up. He guessed his father had wanted to give him those opportunities before carpeting him.

“Do you think me blind and deaf, my son?” Giovanni was thundering. “Do you think I haven’t heard all about the fight with Vieri de’ Pazzi and his lot down by the bridge last night? Sometimes, Ezio, I think you’re not much better than he is, and the Pazzi make for dangerous enemies.” Ezio was about to speak, but his father held up a cautionary hand. “Kindly allow me to finish!” He took a breath. “And as if that weren’t bad enough, you take it upon yourself to chase after Cristina Calfucci, the daughter of one of the most successful merchants in all Tuscany, and, not content with that, to tumble her in her own bed! It’s intolerable! Don’t you consider our family’s reputation at all?” He paused, and Ezio was surprised to see the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. “You do realize what all this means, don’t you?” continued Giovanni. “You do realize who you remind me of, don’t you?”

Ezio bowed his head, but then he was surprised when his father got up, crossed the room to him, and put an arm round his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“You little devil! You remind me of myself when I was your age!” But Giovanni immediately became grave again. “Don’t think, however, that I wouldn’t punish you without mercy if I didn’t have sore need of you here. If I didn’t, mark my words, I’d send you off to your uncle Mario and get him to recruit you into his condottieri squadron. That’d knock some sense into you! But I have to count on you, and although you don’t seem to have the brains to see it, we’re passing through a crucial time in our city. How’s your head feeling? I see you’ve taken the bandage off.”

“Much better, Father.”

“So I assume nothing’s going to interfere with the work I have lined up for you for the rest of the day?”

“I promise you, Father.”

“It’s a promise you’d better keep.” Giovanni returned to his desk and, from a compartment, drew a letter bearing his own seal and passed it to his son, together with two parchment documents in a leather case. “I want you to deliver these to Lorenzo de’ Medici at his bank without any delay.”

“May I ask what it concerns, Father?”

“As for the documents, you may not. But it’d be as well for you to know that the letter brings Lorenzo up to date on our dealings with Milan. I spent all this morning preparing it. This must go no further, but if I don’t give you my trust, you’ll never learn responsibility. There’s a rumour of a plot against Duke Galeazzo—a nasty piece of work, I grant you, but Florence can’t afford to have Milan destabilized.”

“Who’s involved?”

Giovanni looked at his son narrowly: “They say the principal conspirators are Giovanni Lampugnani, Gerolamo Olgiati and Carlo Visconti; but it looks as if our own dear Francesco de’ Pazzi is involved as well, and above all, there’s a plan afoot which seems to encompass more than just the politics of two city-states. The Gonfaloniere here has taken Francesco into custody for the moment but the Pazzi won’t like that at all.” Giovanni stopped himself. “There. I’ve already told you far too much. Make sure this gets to Lorenzo quickly—I’ve heard he’s leaving for Careggi very soon to take some country air, and while the cat’s away ...”

“I’ll get it there as fast as possible.”

“Good boy. Go now!”

Ezio set off on his own, using the back streets as far as possible, never thinking that Vieri might still be out looking for him. But suddenly, in a quiet street within minutes of the Medici Bank, there he stood, blocking Ezio’s path. Trying to double back, Ezio found more of Vieri’s men blocking his retreat. He turned again. “Sorry, my little piglet,” he shouted at Vieri, “but I simply don’t have time to give you another drubbing now.”

“It’s not me that’s going to get a drubbing,” Vieri shouted back. “You’re cornered; but don’t worry—I’ll send a nice wreath for your funeral.”

The Pazzi men were closing in. No doubt Vieri knew of his father’s imprisonment by now. Ezio looked around desperately. The street’s tall houses and walls hemmed him in. Slinging the satchel containing the precious documents securely round his body, he selected the most likely house within his reach and sprang at its wall, gripping the rough-hewn stone with both hands and feet before scaling up to the roof. Once there, he paused a moment to look down at Vieri’s irate face. “I haven’t even got time to piss on you,” he said, and scampered away along the rooftop as fast as he could, dropping to the ground with new-found agility as soon as he was clear of his pursuers.

A few moments later, he was at the doors of the bank. He entered and recognized Boetio, one of Lorenzo’s most trusted servants. Here was a stroke of luck. Ezio hurried up to him.

“Hey, Ezio! What brings you here in such a hurry?”

“Boetio, there is no time to waste. I have letters here from my father for Lorenzo.”

Boetio looked serious, and spread his hands. “Ahimè, Ezio! You’re too late. He’s gone to Careggi.”

“Then you must make sure he gets these as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t gone for more than a day or so. In these times ...”

“I’m beginning to find out about these times! Make sure he gets them, Boetio, and in confidence! As soon as possible!”

When he had returned to his own palazzo, he made his way quickly to his father’s office, ignoring both the amiable backchat from Federico, who was lazing under a tree in the garden, and the attempts of his father’s secretary, Giulio, to prevent him from passing the closed door of Giovanni’s inner sanctum. There, he discovered his father in deep conversation with the Chief Justice of Florence, the Gonfaloniere Uberto Alberti. No surprise there, for the two men were old friends, and Ezio treated Alberti as he would an uncle. But he’d caught expressions of deep seriousness on their faces.

“Ezio, my boy!” said Uberto, genially. “How are you? Out of breath as usual, I see.”

Ezio looked urgently at his father.

“I’ve been trying to calm your father down,” continued Uberto. “There’s been a lot of trouble, you know; but”—he turned to Giovanni and his tone became more earnest—“the threat is ended.”

“Have you delivered the documents?” Giovanni asked, crisply.

“Yes, Father. But Duke Lorenzo had already left.”

Giovanni frowned. “I hadn’t anticipated his leaving so soon.”

“I left them with Boetio,” said Ezio. “He’ll get them to him as soon as possible.”

“That may not be soon enough,” said Giovanni, darkly.

Uberto patted him on the back. “Look,” he said. “It can only mean a day or two. We have Francesco under lock and key. What could possibly happen in such a short time?”

Giovanni seemed partially reassured, but it was clear that the two men had more to discuss, and that Ezio’s presence wasn’t desired.

“Go and find your mother and your sister,” said Giovanni. “You should spend time with some of the rest of the family other than Federico, you know! And rest that head of yours—I’ll have need of you again later.” And with a wave of his father’s hand, Ezio was dismissed.

He wandered through the house, nodding greetings to one or two of the family’s servants, and to Giulio, who was hurrying back to the bank office from somewhere, a sheaf of papers in his hand and looking, as usual, haunted by all the business he carried in his head. Ezio waved to his brother, still lounging in the garden, but felt no desire to join him. Besides, he’d been told to keep his mother and sister company, and he knew better than to disobey his father, especially after their discussion earlier in the day.

He found his sister sitting alone in the loggia, a neglected book of Petrarch in her hands. That figured. He knew she was in love.

“Ciao, Claudia,” he said.

“Ciao, Ezio. Where have you been?”

Ezio spread his hands. “I’ve been running a business errand for Father.”

“That’s not all, I hear,” she retorted, but her smile was faint and automatic.

“Where’s Mother?”

Claudia sighed. “She’s gone to see that young painter they’re all talking about. You know, the one who’s just finished his apprenticeship with Verrocchio.”

“Really?”

“Don’t you pay attention to anything that goes on in this house? She’s commissioned some paintings from him. She believes that they’ll be a good investment in time.”

“That’s our mother for you!”

But Claudia didn’t respond, and for the first time Ezio became fully aware of the sadness in her face. It made her look much older than her sixteen years.

“What’s the matter, sorellina?” he asked, sitting on the stone bench beside her.

She sighed, and looked at him with a rueful smile. “It’s Duccio,” she said at last.

“What about him?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve found out that he’s being unfaithful to me.”

Ezio frowned. Duccio was practically engaged to Claudia, and even though there hadn’t yet been any formal announcement ...

“Who told you that?” he asked, putting an arm round her.

“The other girls.” She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “I thought they were my friends, but I think they enjoyed telling me.”

Ezio stood up angrily. “Then they’re little better than harpies! You’re better off without them.”

“But I loved him!”

Ezio took a moment before replying. “Are you sure? Maybe you only thought you did. How do you feel now?”

Claudia’s eyes were dry. “I’d like to see him suffer, even if only a little. He’s really hurt me, Ezio.”

Ezio looked at his sister, looked at the sadness in her eyes, a sadness suffused with not a little flare of anger. His heart steeled.

“I think I’ll pay him a visit.”

Duccio Dovizi wasn’t at home, but the housekeeper told Ezio where to find him. Ezio made his way across the Ponte Vecchio and westward along the south bank of the Arno to the church of San Jacopo Soprano. There were some secluded gardens nearby, where lovers occasionally kept their trysts. Ezio, whose blood was boiling on behalf of his sister, yet needed more proof of Duccio’s infidelity than hearsay, began to think that he was about to get it.

Sure enough, he soon caught sight of the blond young man, dressed to kill, sitting on a bench overlooking the river, his arm round a dark-haired girl he didn’t recognize. He made his way forward cautiously.

“Darling, it’s beautiful,” the girl was saying, holding out her hand. Ezio saw the flash of a diamond ring.

“Nothing but the best for you, amore,” Duccio purred, pulling her towards him for a kiss.

But the girl pulled back. “Not so fast. You can’t just buy me. We haven’t been seeing each other that long, and I’ve heard you’ve been promised to Claudia Auditore.”

Duccio spat. “It’s over. Anyway, Father says I can do better than an Auditore.” He clamped her bottom in his hand. “You, for example!”

“Birbante! Let’s walk a bit.”

“I can think of something that’d be much more fun,” said Duccio, putting his hand between her legs.

That was enough for Ezio. “Hey, lurido porco,” he snapped.

Duccio was taken completely by surprise, and spun round, releasing his hold on the girl. “Hey, Ezio, my friend,” he cried, but there was nervousness in his voice. How much had Ezio seen? “I don’t think you’ve met my ... cousin?”

Ezio, enraged at the treachery, stepped forward and punched his former friend full in the face. “Duccio, you should be ashamed of yourself! You insult my sister, parading around with this ... this puttana!”

“Who are you calling a puttana?” the girl snarled, but she got to her feet and backed off.

“I should have thought even a girl like you could do better than this arsehole,” Ezio told her. “Do you really think he’s going to make you into a lady?”

“Don’t you talk to her like that,” Duccio hissed. “At least she’s more generous with her favours than your tight-assed little sister. But I guess she’s got a hole as dry as a nun’s. Pity, I could have taught her a thing or two. But there again—”

Ezio interrupted him coldly. “You’ve broken her heart, Duccio—”

“Have I? What a shame.”

“Which is why I am going to break your arm.”

The girl screamed at this, and fled. Ezio seized the whining Duccio and forced the young gallant’s right arm over the edge of the stone bench on which he’d been sitting with a hard-on only moments before. He pushed the forearm against the stone until Duccio’s whining turned to tears.

“Stop it, Ezio! I beg you! I’m my father’s only son!”

Ezio looked at him with contempt, and released him. Duccio fell to the ground and rolled over, nursing his bruised arm and whimpering, his fine clothes torn and besmirched.

“You’re not worth the effort,” Ezio told him. “But if you don’t want me to change my mind about that arm of yours, stay away from Claudia. And stay away from me.”

After the incident, Ezio walked a long way home, wandering along the riverbank until he’d almost reached the fields. When he turned back, the shadows were lengthening, but his mind was calmer. It would never become him as a man, he told himself, to allow his anger ever fully to rule him.

Close to his house, he caught sight of his younger brother, whom he hadn’t seen since the morning of the previous day. He greeted the lad warmly. “Ciao, Petruccio. What are you up to? Have you given your tutor the slip? And anyway, isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m practically grown-up. In a few years’ time, I’ll be able to knock the stuffing out of you!” The brothers grinned at each other. Petruccio was holding a carved pearwood box close to his chest. It was open, and Ezio noticed a handful of white and brown feathers in it. “They’re eagle’s feathers,” explained the boy. He pointed to the top of the tower of a nearby building. “There’s an old nest up there. The young must have fledged and gone. I can see plenty more feathers caught in the stonework.” Petruccio looked at his brother pleadingly. “Ezio, would you mind getting a few more for me?”

“Well, what do you want them for?”

Petruccio looked down. “It’s a secret,” he said.

“If I get them for you, will you go in? It’s late.”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“All right, then.” Ezio thought, Well, I’ve done Claudia a favour today; no reason why I shouldn’t do one for Petruccio as well.

Climbing the tower was tricky, as its stone was smooth and he had to concentrate to find grips and toeholds in the joints between its stones. Higher up, ornamental mouldings helped as well. In the end, it took him half an hour, but he managed to gather fifteen more feathers—all that he could see—and brought them back to Petruccio.

“You missed one,” said Petruccio, pointing up.

“Bed!” growled his brother.

Petruccio fled.

Ezio hoped their mother would be pleased with the gift. It didn’t take much to fathom Petruccio’s secrets.

He smiled as he entered the house himself.

THREE

The following morning Ezio woke late, but found to his relief that his father had no immediate business for him to see to. He wandered into the garden, where he found his mother overseeing work on her cherry trees, from which the blossom was just beginning to fade. She smiled when she saw him, and beckoned him over. Maria Auditore was a tall, dignified woman in her early forties, her long black hair braided under a pure white muslin cap edged with the black and gold colours of the family.

“Ezio! Buon’ giorno.”

“Madre.”

“How are you? Better, I hope.” Gently, she touched the wound on his head.

“I’m fine.”

“Your father said you should rest as long as you could.”

“I have no need of rest, Mamma!”

“Well, at any rate there will be no excitement for you this morning. Your father has asked that I take care of you. I know what you’ve been up to.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play games with me, Ezio. I know about your fight with Vieri.”

“He has been spreading foul stories about our family. I could not let that go unpunished.”

“Vieri’s under pressure, the more so since his father was arrested.” She paused thoughtfully. “Francesco de’ Pazzi may be many things, but I never would have imagined him capable of joining a plot to murder a duke.”

“What will happen to him?”

“There’ll be a trial. I imagine your father may be a key witness, when our own Duke Lorenzo returns.”

Ezio looked restless.

“Don’t worry. You’ve nothing to fear. And I’m not going to ask you to do anything you wouldn’t like—in fact, I want you to accompany me on an errand I have to run. It won’t take long, and I think you may even find it enjoyable.”

“I’ll be happy to help you, Mamma.”

“Come, then. It’s not far.”

They left the palazzo on foot together, arm in arm, and walked in the direction of the cathedral, to the small quarter near it where many of the artists of Florence had their workshops and studios. Some, like those of Verrocchio and the rising star Alessandro di Moriano Filipepi, who’d already acquired the nickname Botticelli, were large, busy places, where assistants and apprentices were busy grinding colours and mixing pigments, others, humbler. It was at the door of one of these that Maria halted and knocked. It was opened immediately by a handsome, well-dressed young man, almost dandified but athletic-looking, with a shock of dark brown hair and a luxuriant beard. He might have been six or seven years older than Ezio.

“Madonna Auditore! Welcome! I’ve been expecting you.”

“Leonardo, buon’ giorno.” The two exchanged formal kisses. This artist must be well in with my mother, thought Ezio, but already he liked the look of the man. “This is my son Ezio,” continued Maria.

The artist bowed. “Leonardo da Vinci,” he said. “Molto onorato, signore.”

“Maestro.”

“Not quite that—yet,” smiled Leonardo. “But what am I thinking of? Come in, come in! Wait here. I’ll see if my assistant can find some wine for you while I go and get your paintings.”

The studio was not large, but the clutter in it made it look even smaller than it was. Tables were heaped with the skeletons of birds and small mammals, while jars filled with colourless fluid contained organic objects of one kind or another, though Ezio was hard put to it to recognize any of them. A broad workbench at the back held some curious structures painstakingly crafted in wood, and two easels bore unfinished paintings whose tones were darker than usual, and whose outlines were less clearly defined. Ezio and Maria made themselves comfortable, and, emerging from an inner room, a handsome youth appeared with a tray bearing wine and small cakes. He served them, smiled shyly, and withdrew.

“Leonardo’s very talented.”

“If you say so, Madre. I know little of art.” Ezio thought that his life would consist of following in his father’s footsteps, even though, deep within him, there was a rebellious and adventurous streak which he knew would sit ill in the character of a Florentine banker. In any case, like his older brother, he saw himself as a man of action, not as an artist or a connoisseur.

“You know, self-expression is a vital part of understanding life, and enjoying it to the full.” She looked at him. “You should find an outlet yourself, my dear.”

Ezio was piqued. “I have plenty of outlets.”

“I meant apart from tarts,” retorted his mother matter-of-factly.

“Mother!” But Maria’s only answer to that was a shrug and a pursing of her lips. “It would be good if you could cultivate a man like Leonardo as a friend. I think he has a promising future ahead of him.”

“From the look of this place, I’m inclined to disagree with you.”

“Don’t be cheeky!”

They were interrupted by Leonardo’s return from his inner room, carrying two boxes. He set one down on the ground. “Do you mind carrying that one?” he asked Ezio. “I’d ask Agniolo, but he has to stay and guard the shop. Also, I don’t think he’s strong enough for this kind of work, poor dear.”

Ezio stooped to pick up the box, and was surprised at how heavy it was. He almost dropped it.

“Careful!” warned Leonardo. “The paintings in there are delicate, and your mother’s just paid me good money for them!”

“Shall we go?” said Maria. “I can’t wait to hang them. I’ve selected places which I hope you’ll approve of,” she added to Leonardo. Ezio baulked at this a little: was a fledgling artist really worth such deference?

As they walked, Leonardo chatted amiably, and Ezio found that despite himself he was won over by the other man’s charm. And yet there was something about him that he instinctively found disquieting, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A coolness? A sense of detachment from his fellow beings? Perhaps it was just that he had his head in the clouds, like so many other artists, or so Ezio was told. But Ezio felt an instant, instinctive respect for the man.

“So, Ezio, what do you do?” Leonardo asked him.

“He works for his father,” Maria replied.

“Ah. A financier! Well, you were born in the right city for that!”

“It’s a good city for artists too,” said Ezio. “All those rich patrons.”

“There are so many of us, though,” grumbled Leonardo. “It’s hard to attract attention. That’s why I am so indebted to your mother. Mind you, she has a very discerning eye!”

“Do you concentrate on painting?” asked Ezio, thinking of the diversity he’d seen in the studio.

Leonardo looked thoughtful. “That’s a hard question. To tell the truth, I’m finding it difficult to settle down to anything, now I’m on my own. I adore painting, and I know I can do it, but ... somehow I can see the end before I get there, and that makes it hard to finish things sometimes. I have to be pushed! But that’s not all. I often feel that my work lacks ... I don’t know ... purpose. Does that make any sense?”

“You should have more faith in yourself, Leonardo,” said Maria.

“Thank you, but there are moments when I think I’d rather do more practical work, work that has a direct bearing on life. I want to understand life—how it works, how everything works.”

“Then you’d have to be one hundred men in one,” said Ezio.

“If only I could be! I know what I want to explore: architecture, anatomy, engineering even. I don’t want to capture the world with my brush; I want to change it!”

He was so impassioned that Ezio was more impressed than irritated—the man clearly wasn’t boasting; if anything, he seemed almost tormented by the ideas that simmered within him. Next thing, thought Ezio, is that he’ll tell us he’s involved with music and poetry as well!

“Do you want to put that down and rest for a moment, Ezio?” Leonardo asked. “It might be a bit too heavy for you.”

Ezio gritted his teeth. “No, grazie. Anyway, we’re almost there.”

When they arrived at the Palazzo Auditore, he carried his box into the entrance hall and set it down as slowly and as carefully as his aching muscles would let him, and he was more relieved than he’d ever admit, even to himself.

“Thank you, Ezio,” said his mother. “I think we can manage very well without you now, though of course if you wish to come and help with the hanging of the pictures—”

“Thank you, Mother—I think that’s a job best left to the two of you.”

Leonardo held out his hand. “It was very good to meet you, Ezio. I hope our paths cross again soon.”

“Anch’io.”

“You might just call one of the servants to give Leonardo a hand,” Maria told him.

“No,” said Leonardo. “I prefer to take care of this myself. Imagine if someone dropped one of the boxes!” And bending his knees, he hoisted the box Ezio had put down into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?” he said to Maria.

“This way,” said Maria. “Goodbye, Ezio, I’ll see you at dinner this evening. Come, Leonardo.”

Ezio watched as they left the hall. This Leonardo was obviously one to respect.

After lunch, late in the afternoon, Giulio came hurrying (as he always did) to tell him that his father required his presence in the office. Ezio hastened to follow the secretary down the long oak-lined corridor that led to the back of the mansion.

“Ah, Ezio! Come in, my boy.” Giovanni’s tone was serious and businesslike. He stood up behind his desk, on which two bulky letters lay, wrapped in vellum and sealed.

“They say Duke Lorenzo will return tomorrow or the day after at the latest,” said Ezio.

“I know. But there is no time to waste. I want you to deliver these to certain associates of mine, here in the city.” He pushed the letters across the desk.

“Yes, Father.”

“I also need you to retrieve a message which a carrier pigeon should have brought to the coop in the piazza at the end of the street. Try to make sure no one sees you fetch it.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Good. Come back here immediately you’ve finished. I have some important things I need to discuss with you.”

“Sir.”

“So, this time, behave. No scrapping this time.”

Ezio decided to tackle the pigeon coop first. Dusk was approaching, and he knew there’d be few people out at that time—a little later the square would be thronged with Florentines making their passeggiatta. When he reached his goal, he noticed some graffiti on the wall behind and above the coop. He was puzzled: was it recent or had he just never been aware of it before? Carefully inscribed was a line he recognized from the Book of Ecclesiastes: HE THAT INCREASETH KNOWLEDGE INCREASETH SORROW. A little below this, someone had added in a ruder script: WHERE IS THE PROPHET?

But his mind soon returned to his task. He recognized the pigeon he was after instantly—it was the only one with a note attached to its leg. He detached it quickly and gently placed the bird back on its ledge, then he hesitated. Should he read the note? It wasn’t sealed. Quickly he unrolled the little scroll and found it contained nothing but a name—that of Francesco de’ Pazzi. Ezio shrugged. He supposed that would mean something more to his father than it did to him. Why the name of Vieri’s father and one of the possible conspirators in a plot to topple the Duke of Milan—facts already known to Giovanni—should be of further significance was beyond him. Unless it signified some kind of confirmation.

But he had to hurry on with his work. Stashing the note in his belt-pouch, he made his way to the address on the first envelope. Its location surprised him, for it was in the red-light district. He’d been there often with Federico—before he had met Cristina, that is—but he had never felt comfortable there. He placed a hand on his dagger-hilt to reassure himself as he approached the dingy alley his father had indicated. The address turned out to be a low tavern, ill-lit and serving cheap Chianti in clay beakers.

At a loss about what to do next, for there seemed to be no one about, he was surprised by a voice at his side.

“You Giovanni’s boy?”

He turned to confront a rough-looking man whose breath smelled of onions. He was accompanied by a woman who might once have been pretty, but it looked as if ten years on her back had rubbed most of any loveliness away. If it was left anywhere, it was in her clear, intelligent eyes.

“No, you idiot,” she said to the man. “He just happens to look exactly like his dad.”

“You got something for us,” said the man, ignoring her. “Give it here.”

Ezio hesitated. He checked the address. It was the right one.

“Hand it over, friend,” said the man, leaning closer. Ezio got a full blast of his breath. Did the man live on onions and garlic?

He placed the letter in the man’s open hand, which closed round it immediately and transferred it to a leather pouch at his side.

“Good boy,” he said, and then smiled. Ezio was surprised to see that the smile gave his face a certain—surprising—nobility. But not his words. “And don’t worry,” he added. “We ain’t contagious.” He paused to glance at the woman. “At least, I ain’t!”

The woman laughed and punched his arm. Then they were gone.

Ezio made his way out of the alley with relief. The address on the second letter directed him to a street just west of the Baptistry. A much better district, but a quiet one at this time of day. He hastened across town.

Waiting for him under an arch which spanned the street was a burly man who looked like a soldier. He was dressed in what looked like leather country clothes, but he smelled clean and fresh, and he was cleanshaven.

“Over here,” he beckoned.

“I have something for you,” said Ezio. “From—”

“Giovanni Auditore?” The man spoke little above a whisper.

“Sì.”

The man glanced around, up and down the street. Only a lamplighter was visible, some distance away. “Were you followed?”

“No—why should I have been?”

“Never mind. Give me the letter. Quickly.”

Ezio handed it over.

“Things are hotting up,” said the man. “Tell your father they’re making a move tonight. He should make plans to get to safety.”

Ezio was taken aback. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve already said too much. Hurry home.” And the man melted into the shadows.

“Wait!” Ezio called after him. “What do you mean? Come back!”

But the man had gone.

Ezio walked quickly up the street to the lamplighter. “What time is it?” he asked. The man screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. “Must be an hour since I came on duty,” he said. “Makes it about the twentieth hour.”

Ezio made a quick calculation. He must have left his palazzo two hours earlier, and it would take him perhaps twenty minutes to reach home again. He took off at a run. Some awful premonition caught at his soul.

As soon as he came within sight of the Auditore mansion, he knew something was wrong. There were no lights anywhere, and the great front doors stood open. He quickened his pace, calling as he ran: “Father! Federico!”

The great hall of the palazzo stood dark and empty, but there was enough light for Ezio to see tables overturned, chairs smashed, broken crockery and glassware. Someone had torn Leonardo’s paintings from the walls and slashed them with a knife. From the darkness beyond, he could hear the sound of sobbing—a woman sobbing: his mother!

He started to make his way towards the sound when a shadow moved behind him, something raised above its head. Ezio twisted round and seized a heavy silver candlestick which someone was bringing down on his head. He gave a savage wrench and his attacker let go of the candlestick with a cry of alarm. He tossed the candlestick away, out of reach, grabbed the arm of his assailant, and pulled the person towards what light there was. There was murder in his heart, and already his dagger was out.

“Oh! Ser Ezio! It’s you! Thank God!”

Ezio recognized the voice, and now the face, of the family housekeeper, Annetta, a feisty countrywoman who’d been with the family for years.

“What has happened?” he asked Annetta, taking both her wrists in his hands and almost shaking her in his anguish and panic.

“They came—the city guards. They’ve arrested your father and Federico—they even took little Petruccio; they tore him from your mother’s arms!”

“Where is my mother? Where is Claudia?”

“Here we are,” came a shaky voice from the shadows. Claudia emerged, her mother leaning on her arm. Ezio righted a chair for his mother to sit on. In the dim light, he could see that Claudia was bleeding, her clothes dirty and torn. Maria did not acknowledge him. She sat on the chair, keening and rocking. In her hands she clutched the little pearwood box of feathers Petruccio had given her not two days—a lifetime—before.

“My God, Claudia! Are you all right?” He looked at her and anger flooded through him. “Did they—?”

“No—I’m all right. They roughed me up a little because they thought I could tell them where you were. But Mother ... Oh, Ezio, they’ve taken Father and Federico and Petruccio to the Palazzo Vecchio!”

“Your mother’s in shock,” said Annetta. “When she resisted them, they—” She broke off. “Bastardi!”

Ezio thought quickly. “It’s not safe here. Is there somewhere you can take them, Annetta?”

“Yes, yes ... to my sister’s. They’ll be safe there.” Annetta barely managed to get the words out, the fear and anguish choking her voice.

“We must move fast. The guards will almost certainly come back for me. Claudia, Mother—there’s no time to waste. Don’t take anything, just go with Annetta. Now! Claudia, let Mamma lean on you.”

He escorted them out of their stricken home, still in shock himself, and helped them on their way before leaving them in the capable hands of the loyal Annetta, who had begun to regain her composure. Ezio’s mind raced with all the implications, his world rocked by the terrible turn of events. Desperately, he tried to assess all that had happened, and just what he must do now, what he must do to save his father and brothers ... Straight away, he knew that he had to find some way of seeing his father, finding out what had brought on this attack, this outrage to his family. But the Palazzo Vecchio! They’d have put his kinsmen in the two small cells in the tower, of that he was sure. Maybe there’d be a chance ... But the place was fortified like a castle keep; and there’d be a redoubtable guard placed on it, tonight of all nights.

Forcing himself to be calm and to think clearly, he slipped through the streets to the Piazza della Signoria, hugging its walls, and looking up. Torches burned from the battlements and from the top of the tower, illuminating the giant red fleur-de-lys that was the city’s emblem, and the great clock at the tower’s base. Higher up, squinting to see more clearly, Ezio thought he could discern the dim light of a taper in the small barred window near the top. There were guards posted outside the palazzo’s great double doors, and more on the battlements. But there was none that Ezio could see at the top of the tower, whose battlements anyway were above the window he needed to reach.

He skirted the square away from the palazzo and found his way to the narrow street which led off the piazza, along the palazzo’s north side. Fortunately, there were still a reasonable number of people about, strolling and enjoying the evening air. It seemed to Ezio that he suddenly existed in another world from theirs, that he had been cut off from the society he had swum in like a fish until only three or four short hours ago. He bristled at the thought that life could still continue in its even routine for all these people, while that of his own family had been shattered. Again, he felt his heart swell with an almost overwhelming rush of anger and fear. But then he turned his mind firmly back to the work in hand, and a look of steel crossed his face.

The wall rising above him was sheer and giddyingly high, but it was in darkness and that would be to his advantage. Moreover, the stones of which the palazzo was constructed were rough-hewn, so he would have plenty of handholds and footholds to aid him in his ascent. One problem would be any guards posted on the north-side battlements, but he’d have to deal with that when he came to it. He hoped that most would be grouped along the west-facing main facade of the building.

Taking a breath and glancing round—there was no one else in this dark street—he gave a leap, took a firm hold of the wall, gripped with his toes in their soft leather boots, and began to scale upwards.

Once he’d reached the battlements, he dropped to a crouch, the tendons in his calves straining with tension. There were two guards here, but they had their backs to him, looking towards the lighted square beneath. Ezio stayed motionless for a moment, until it became clear that any sound he’d made had not alerted them to his presence. Staying low, he darted towards them and then struck, drawing them back, one hand around each of their necks, using their own weight and the element of surprise to bring them down on their backs. In barely a heartbeat, he had their helmets off and smashed their heads together violently—they were unconscious before they could register any surprise on their faces. If that hadn’t worked, Ezio knew he would have cut their throats without a second’s hesitation.

He paused again, breathing hard. Now for the tower. This was of more smoothly trimmed stone, and the going was hard. What was more, he had to climb round from the north to the west side of it, where the cell window was. He prayed that no one in the square or on the battlements would look up. He didn’t fancy being brought down by a crossbow bolt after having got so far.

The corner where the north and west walls met was hard and unpromising, and for a moment Ezio clung there, frozen, looking for a handhold that didn’t seem to exist. He looked down, and saw far beneath him one of the guards on the battlements looking up. He could see the pale face clearly. He could see the man’s eyes. He pressed himself to the wall. In his dark clothing he’d be as conspicuous as a cockroach on a white tablecloth. But, inexplicably, the man lowered his gaze and continued his patrol. Had he seen him? Had he not been able to believe what he’d seen? Ezio’s throat thumped with the strain. Only able to relax after a long minute had passed, he breathed once more.

After a monumental effort he arrived at his goal, grateful for the narrow ledge on which he could just perch as he peered into the narrow cell beyond the window. God is merciful, he thought, as he recognized the figure of his father, his back turned towards him, apparently reading by the thin light of a taper.

“Father!” he called softly.

Giovanni spun round. “Ezio! In God’s name, how did you—”

“Never mind, Father.” As Giovanni approached, Ezio could see that his hands were bloody and bruised, and his face pale and drawn. “My God, Father, what have they done to you?”

“I took a bit of a beating, but I’m all right. More importantly, what of your mother and sister?”

“Safe now.”

“With Annetta?”

“Yes.”

“God be praised.”

“What happened, Father? Were you expecting this?”

“Not as quickly as this. They arrested Federico and Petruccio too—I think they’re in the cell behind this one. If Lorenzo had been here, things would have been different. I should have taken precautions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s no time for that now!” Giovanni almost shouted. “Now, listen to me: you must get back to our house. There’s a hidden door in my office. There’s a chest concealed in a chamber beyond it. Take everything you find inside it. Do you hear? Everything! Much of it will seem strange to you, but all of it is important.”

“Yes, Father.” Ezio shifted his weight slightly, still clinging for dear life to the bars that crossed the window. He didn’t dare look down now, and he didn’t know how much longer he could remain motionless.

“Among the contents you’ll find a letter and with it some documents. You must take them without delay—tonight!—to Messer Albert!—”

“The Gonfalionere?”

“Exactly. Now, go!”

“But, Father ...” Ezio struggled to get the words out, and, wishing that he could do more than just ferry documents, he stammered, “Are the Pazzi behind this? I read the note from the carrier pigeon. It said—”

But then Giovanni hushed him. Ezio could hear the key turning in the lock of the cell door.

“They’re taking me for interrogation,” said Giovanni grimly. “Get away before they discover you. My God, you’re a brave boy. You’ll be worthy of your destiny. Now, for the last time—go!”

Ezio edged himself off the ledge and clung to the wall out of sight as he heard his father being led away. He almost couldn’t bear to listen. Then he steeled himself for the climb down. He knew that descents were almost always harder than ascents, but even in the last forty-eight hours he’d gained plenty of experience of scaling up and down buildings. And now he clambered down the tower, slipping once or twice, but regaining his hold, until he had reached the battlements again, where the two guardsmen still lay where he had left them. Another stroke of luck! He’d knocked their heads together as hard as he could, but if they’d chanced to regain consciousness while he was up on the tower and raised the alarm ... Well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

Indeed, there was no time to think of such things. He swung himself over the battlements and peered down. Time was of the essence. If he could see something down below which might break his fall, he might dare to leap. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the awning of a deserted stall attached to the wall, far below. Should he risk it? If he succeeded, he’d gain a few precious minutes. If he failed, a broken leg would be the least of his problems. He would have to have faith in himself.

He took a deep breath and dived into the darkness.

From such a height the awning collapsed under his weight, but it had been firmly secured and gave just enough resistance to break his fall. He was winded, and he’d have a few bruised ribs in the morning, but he was down! And no alarm had been raised.

He shook himself and sped off in the direction of what only hours ago had been his home. When he reached it, he realized that in his haste his father had neglected to tell him how to locate the secret door. Giulio would know, but where was Giulio now?

Luckily there had been no guards lurking in the vicinity of the house, and he’d been able to gain access unchallenged. He had stopped for a minute, outside the house, almost unable to propel himself in through the darkness of the doorway—it seemed that the house had changed, its sanctity defiled. Again, Ezio had to collect his thoughts, knowing that his actions were critical. His family depended on him now. He pressed on into his family home, into the dark. Shortly afterwards he stood in the centre of the office, eerily lit by a single candle, and looked about him.

The place had been turned over by the guards, who had clearly confiscated a large number of bank documents, and the general chaos of fallen bookcases, overturned chairs, drawers cast to the ground, and scattered papers and books everywhere didn’t make Ezio’s task any easier. But he knew the office, his eyesight was keen, and he used his wits. The walls were thick, any could have a chamber concealed within them, but he made for the wall into which the large fireplace was set and started his search there, where the walls would be thickest, to contain the chimneypiece. Holding the candle close, and looking searchingly, while keeping an ear cocked for any sound of returning guards, finally, on the left-hand side of the great moulded mantel he thought he could discern the faint outline of a door set into the panelling. There had to be a means of opening it nearby. He looked carefully at the carved colossi which held the marble mantelpiece on their shoulders. The nose of the one on the left-hand side looked as if it had once been broken, and repaired, for there was a fine crack around its base. He touched the nose and found it to be slightly loose. Heart in mouth, he moved it gently, and the door swung inwards on silent spring-mounted hinges, revealing a stone-floored corridor which led to the left.

As he entered, his right foot encountered a flagstone which moved beneath it, and as it did so, oil-lamps set into the passageway’s walls suddenly flared into life. It ran a short way, sloping slightly downwards, and terminated in a circular chamber decorated more in the style of Syria than Italy. Ezio’s mind flashed on a picture which hung in his father’s private study of the castle of Masyaf, once the seat of the ancient Order of Assassins. But he had no time to ponder whether or not this curious decor could be of any special significance. The room was unfurnished, and in its centre stood a large, iron-bound chest, securely sealed with two heavy locks. He looked around the room to see if a key might be anywhere, but aside from its ornamentation it was bare. Ezio was wondering if he’d have to return to the office, or make his way to his father’s study, to search for one there, and if he’d have time to do so, when by chance his hand brushed against one of the locks, and at that, it sprang open. The other one opened as easily. Had his father given him some power he did not know of? Were the locks in some way programmed to respond to a certain person’s touch? Mystery was piling on mystery, but there was no time to dwell on them now.

He opened the chest and saw that it contained a white hood, evidently old, and made of some perhaps woollen material which he didn’t recognize. Something compelled him to put it on, and at once a strange power surged through him. He lowered the hood, but did not take it off.

The chest contained a leather bracer, a cracked dagger blade connected, instead of to a hilt, to a strange mechanism whose workings were beyond him, a sword, a page of vellum covered with symbols and letters and what looked like part of a plan, and the letter and documents his father had told him to take to Uberto Alberti. He gathered them all up, closed the chest, and retreated to his father’s office, closing the secret door carefully behind him. In the office, he found a discarded document pouch of Giulio’s and stashed the contents of the chest in it, slinging the pouch across his chest. He buckled on the sword. Not knowing what to make of this strange collection of objects, and not having time to reflect on why his father would keep such things in a secret chamber, he made his way cautiously back towards the main doors of the palazzo.

But, just as he entered the fore-courtyard, he saw two city guards on their way in. It was too late to hide. They had seen him.

“Halt!” one of them cried, and they both began advancing quickly towards him. There was no retreat. Ezio saw that they had already drawn their swords.

“What are you here for? To arrest me?”

“No,” said the one who had spoken first. “Our orders are to kill you.” At that, the second guard rushed him.

Ezio drew his own sword as they closed in on him. It was a weapon he was unfamiliar with, but it felt light and capable in his hand, and it was as if he had used it all his life. He parried the first thrusts, right and left, both guards lunging at him at the same time. Sparks flew from all three swords, but Ezio felt his new blade hold firm, the edge biting and keen. Just as the second guard was bringing his sword down to sever Ezio’s arm from his shoulder, Ezio feinted right, under the incoming blade. He shifted his balance from back to front foot, and lunged. The guard was caught off balance as his sword arm thudded harmlessly against Ezio’s shoulder. Ezio used his own momentum to thrust his new sword up, piercing the man directly through the heart. Standing tall, Ezio rocked on the balls of his feet, raised his left foot, and pushed the dead guard off his blade in time to swivel round to confront his companion. The other guard came forward with a roar, wielding a heavy sword. “Prepare to die, traditore!”

“I am no traitor, nor is any member of my family.”

The guard swung at him, tearing at his left sleeve and drawing blood. Ezio winced, but only for a second. The guard pressed forward, seeing an advantage, and Ezio allowed him to lunge once more, then, stepping back, tripped him, swinging his own sword unflinchingly and very hard at the man’s neck as he fell, and severing his head from his shoulders before he hit the ground.

For a moment Ezio stood trembling in the sudden silence that followed the mêlée, breathing hard. These were the first killings of his life—or were they?—for he felt another, older life within him, a life which seemed to have years of experience in death-dealing.

The sensation frightened him. This night had seen him age far beyond his years—but this new sensation seemed to be the awakening of some darker force deep within him. It was something more than simply the effects of the harrowing experiences of the last few hours. His shoulders sagged as he made his way through the darkened streets to Alberti’s mansion, starting at every sound, and looking behind him frequently. At last, on the edge of exhaustion but able somehow to bear up, he arrived at the Gonfaloniere’s home. He looked up at the façade, and saw a dim light in one of the front windows. He knocked hard on the door with the pommel of his sword.

Receiving no answer, nervous and impatient, he knocked again, harder and louder. Still nothing.

But, at the third time of trying, a hatch in the door opened briefly, then closed. The door swung open almost immediately thereafter, and a suspicious armed servant admitted him. He blurted out his business and was conducted to a first-floor room where Alberti sat at a desk covered with papers. Beyond him, half-turned away and sitting in a chair by a dying fire, Ezio thought he could see another man, tall and powerful, but only part of his profile was visible, and that indistinctly.

“Ezio?” Alberti stood up, surprised. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I ... I don’t ...”

Alberti approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, child. Take a breath. Collect your thoughts.”

Ezio nodded. Now he felt safer, he also felt more vulnerable. The events of the evening and night since he had set out to deliver Giovanni’s letters were catching up with him. From the brass pedestal clock on the desk he could see that it was close to midnight. Could it really only be twelve hours since Ezio the boy had gone with his mother to collect paintings from an artist’s studio? Despite himself he felt close to tears. But he collected himself, and it was Ezio the man who spoke. “My father and brothers have been imprisoned—I do not know on whose authority—my mother and sister are in hiding and our family seat is ransacked. My father enjoined me to deliver this letter and these papers to you ...” Ezio drew the documents from his pouch.

“Thank you.” Alberti put on a pair of eyeglasses and took Giovanni’s letter to the light of the candle burning on his desk. There was no sound in the room apart from the ticking of the clock and the occasional soft crash as the embers of the fire collapsed on themselves. If there was another presence in the room, Ezio had forgotten it.

Alberti now turned his attention to the documents. He took some time over them, and finally placed one of them discreetly inside his black doublet. The others he put carefully to one side, apart from the other papers on his desk.

“There’s been a terrible misunderstanding, my dear Ezio,” he said, taking off his spectacles. “It’s true that allegations were laid—serious allegations—and that a trial has been scheduled for tomorrow morning. But it seems that someone may have been, perhaps for reasons of their own, overly zealous. But don’t worry. I’ll clear everything up.”

Ezio hardly dared to believe him. “How?”

“The documents you’ve given me contain evidence of a conspiracy against your father and against the city. I’ll present these papers at the hearing in the morning, and Giovanni and your brothers will be released. I guarantee it.”

Relief flooded through the young man. He clasped the Gonfaloniere’s hand. “How can I thank you?”

“The administration of justice is my job, Ezio. I take it very seriously, and”—for a fraction of a second he hesitated—“your father is one of my dearest friends.” Alberti smiled. “But where are my manners? I haven’t even offered you a glass of wine.” He paused. “And where will you spend the night? I still have some urgent business to attend to, but my servants will see that you have food and drink and a warm bed.”

At the time, Ezio didn’t know why he refused so kind an offer.

It was well after midnight by the time he left the Gonfaloniere’s mansion. Pulling up his hood again, he prowled through the streets trying to arrange his thoughts. Presently, he knew where his feet were taking him.

Once there, he climbed to the balcony with greater ease than he’d imagined possible—perhaps urgency lent strength to his muscles—and knocked gently on her shutters, calling quietly, “Cristina! Amore! Wake up! It’s me.” He waited, silent as a cat, and listened. He could hear her stirring, rising. And then her voice, scared, on the other side of the shutters.

“Who is it?”

“Ezio.”

She opened the shutters swiftly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Let me come in. Please.”

Sitting on her bed, he told her the whole story.

“I knew something was amiss,” she said. “My father seemed troubled this evening. But it does sound as if all will be well.”

“I need you to let me stay here tonight—don’t worry, I’ll be gone long before dawn—and I need to leave something with you for safekeeping.” He unslung his pouch and placed it between them. “I must trust you.”

“Oh, Ezio, of course you can.”

He fell into a troubled sleep, in her arms.

FOUR

It was a grey and overcast morning—and the city felt oppressed with the muggy heat that was trapped by the overhanging cloud. Ezio arrived at the Piazza della Signoria and saw, to his intense surprise, that a dense crowd had gathered already. A platform had been erected, and on it was placed a table covered with a heavy brocade cloth bearing the arms of the city. Standing behind it were Uberto Alberti and a tall, powerfully built man with a beaky nose and careful, calculating eyes, dressed in robes of rich crimson—a stranger to Ezio, at least. But his attention was caught by the sight of the other occupants of the platform—his father, and his brothers, all in chains; and just beyond them stood a tall construction with a heavy crossbeam from which three nooses were suspended.

Ezio had arrived at the piazza in a mood of anxious optimism—had not the Gonfaloniere told him that all would be resolved this day? Now his feelings changed. Something was wrong—badly wrong. He tried to push his way forward, but could not press through the mob—he felt the claustrophobia threaten to overwhelm him. Desperately trying to calm down, to rationalise his actions, he paused, drew his hood close over his head, and adjusted the sword at his belt. Surely Alberti would not let him down? And all the time he noticed that the tall man, a Spaniard by his dress, his face, and his complexion, was ranging the mass of people with those piercing eyes. Who was he? Why did he stir something in Ezio’s memory? Had he seen him somewhere before?

The Gonfaloniere, resplendent in his robes of office, raised his arms to quieten the people, and instantly a hush fell over them.

“Giovanni Auditore,” said Alberti in a commanding tone which failed, to Ezio’s acute ear, to conceal a note of fear. “You and your accomplices stand accused of the crime of treason. Have you any evidence to counter this charge?”

Giovanni looked at once surprised and uneasy. “Yes, you have it all in the documents that were delivered to you last night.”

But Alberti said, “I know of no such documents, Auditore.”

Ezio saw at once that this was a show-trial, but he couldn’t understand what looked like deep treachery on Alberti’s part. He shouted, “It’s a lie!” But his voice was drowned by the roar of the crowd. He struggled to get closer, shoving angry citizens aside, but there were too many of them, and he was trapped in their midst.

Alberti was speaking again: “The evidence against you has been amassed and examined. It is irrefutable. In the absence of any proof to the contrary, I am bound by my office to pronounce you and your accomplices, Federico and Petruccio, and—in absentia—your son Ezio—guilty of the crime you stand accused of.” He paused as the crowd once more fell silent. “I hereby sentence you all to death, the sentence to be carried out immediately!”

The crowd roared again. At a signal from Alberti, the hangman prepared the nooses, while two of his assistants took first little Petruccio, who was fighting back tears, to the gallows. The rope was placed round his neck as he prayed rapidly and the attendant priest shook Holy Water on to his head. Then the executioner pulled a lever set into the scaffold, and the boy dangled, kicking the air until he was still. “No!” mouthed Ezio, barely able to believe what he was seeing. “No, God, please no!” But his words were choked in his throat, his loss overcoming all.

Federico was next, bellowing his innocence and that of his family, struggling in vain to break loose from the guards who wrestled him towards the gallows. Ezio, now beside himself, striving desperately forward again, saw a solitary tear roll down his father’s ashen cheek. Aghast, Ezio watched as his older brother and greatest friend jolted at the rope’s end—it took longer for him to leave the world than it had taken Petruccio, but at last he, too, was still, swaying from the gallows—you could hear the wooden crossbeam creak in the silence. Ezio fought with the disbelief within him—could this really be happening?

The crowd began to murmur, but then a firm voice stilled it. Giovanni Auditore was speaking. “It is you who are the traitor, Uberto. You, one of my closest associates and friends, in whom I entrusted my life! And I am a fool. I did not see that you are one of them!” Here he raised his voice to a great cry of anguish and of rage. “You may take our lives this day, but mark this—we will have yours in return!”

He bowed his head and fell silent. A deep silence, interrupted only by the murmured prayers of the priest, followed as Giovanni Auditore walked with dignity to the gallows and commended his soul to the last great adventure it would travel on.

Ezio was too shocked to feel grief at first. It was as if a great iron fist had slammed into him. But as the trap opened below Giovanni, he couldn’t help himself. “Father!” he cried, his voice cracking.

Instantly the Spaniard’s eyes were on him. Was there something supernatural about the man’s vision, to pick him out in such a throng? As if in slow motion, Ezio saw the Spaniard lean towards Alberti, whisper something, and point.

“Guards!” shouted Alberti, pointing as well. “There! That’s another one of them! Seize him!”

Before the crowd could react and restrain him, Ezio muscled through it to its edge, smashing his fists into anyone who stood barring his way. A guard was already waiting for him. He snatched at Ezio, pulling back his hood. Acting now on some instinctive drive within him, Ezio wrenched free and drew his sword with one hand, grabbing the guard by the throat with the other. Ezio’s reaction had been far faster than the guard had anticipated, and before he could bring his arms up to defend himself Ezio tightened his grip on both throat and sword, and in one swift punching movement ran the guard through, slicing the sword in the body as he drew it out so that the man’s intestines spilled from under his tunic on to the cobblestones. He threw the body aside and turned to the rostrum, fixing Alberti with his eye. “I will kill you for this!” he screamed, his voice straining with hatred and rage.

But other guards were closing in. Ezio, his instinct for survival taking over, sped away from them, towards the comparative safety of the narrow streets beyond the square. To his dismay, he saw two more guards, swift of foot, rushing to cut him off.

They confronted each other at the edge of the square. The two guards faced him, blocking his retreat, the others closing in behind. Ezio fought them both frantically. Then an unlucky parry from one of them knocked his sword out of his hand. Fearing that this was the end, Ezio turned to flee from his attackers—but before he could find his feet, something astonishing happened. From the narrow street he was making for, and was within a few feet of, a roughly dressed man appeared. With lightning speed he came up on the two guards from behind, and, with a long dagger, cut deep under the pits of their sword arms, tearing through tendons and rendering them useless. He moved so fast that Ezio could scarcely follow his movements as he retrieved the young man’s fallen sword and threw it to him. Ezio suddenly recognized him, and smelled once more the stench of onions and garlic. At that moment, damask roses couldn’t have smelled sweeter.

“Get out of here,” said the man; and then he, too, was gone. Ezio plunged down the street, and ducked off it down alleys and lanes he knew intimately from his nightly forays with Federico. The hue and cry behind him faded. He made his way down to the river, and found refuge in a disused watchman’s shack behind one of the warehouses belonging to Cristina’s father.

In that hour Ezio ceased to be a boy and became a man. The weight of the responsibility he now felt he carried to avenge and correct this hideous wrong fell on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Slumping down on a pile of discarded sacks, he felt his whole body begin to shake. His world had just been torn apart. His father ... Federico ... and, God, no, little Petruccio ... all gone, all dead, all murdered. Holding his head in his hands, he broke down—unable to control the pouring out of sorrow, fear, and hatred. Only after several hours was he able to uncover his face—his eyes blood-shot and run through with an unbending vengeance. At that moment, Ezio knew his former life was over—Ezio the boy was gone forever. From now, his life was forged for one purpose and one purpose alone—revenge.

003

Much later in the day, knowing full well that the watch would still be out looking for him relentlessly, he made his way via back alleys to Cristina’s family mansion. He didn’t want to put her in any danger, but he needed to collect his pouch with its precious contents. He waited in a dark alcove that stank of urine, not moving even when rats scuttled at his feet, until a light in her window told him that she had retired for the night.

“Ezio!” she cried as she saw him on her balcony. “Thank God you’re alive.” Her face flooded with relief—but that was short-lived, grief taking over. “Your father, and brothers ...” She couldn’t finish the sentence, and her head bowed.

Ezio took her in his arms, and for several minutes they just stood holding each other.

Finally, she broke away. “You’re mad! What are you still doing in Florence?”

“I still have matters to attend to,” he said grimly. “But I cannot stay here long; it’s too big a risk for your family. If they thought you were harbouring me—”

Cristina was silent.

“Give me my satchel and I’ll be gone.”

She fetched it for him, but before she gave it to him said, “What about your family?”

“That is my first duty. To bury my dead. I can’t see them thrown into a lime-pit like common criminals.”

“I know where they have taken them.”

“How?”

“The town’s been talking all day. But no one will be there now. They’re down near the Porta San Niccolo, with the bodies of paupers. There’s a pit prepared, and they’re waiting for the lime-carts to come in the morning. Oh, Ezio—!”

Ezio spoke calmly but grimly. “I must see to it that my father and my brothers have a fitting departure from this earth. I cannot offer them a Requiem Mass, but I can spare their bodies indignity.”

“I’ll come with you!”

“No! Do you realize what it would mean if you were caught with me?”

Cristina lowered her eyes.

“I must see that my mother and sister are safe too, and I owe my family one more death.” He hesitated. “Then I will leave. Perhaps forever. The question is—will you come with me?”

She drew back, and he could see a host of conflicting emotions in her eyes. Love was there, deep and lasting, but he had grown so much older than she since they had first held each other in their arms. She was still a girl. How could he expect her to make such a sacrifice? “I want to, Ezio, you don’t know how much—but my family—it would kill my parents—”

Ezio looked at her gently. Though they were the same age, his recent experience had made him suddenly far more mature than she was. He had no family to depend on any more, just responsibility and duty, and it was hard. “I was wrong to ask. And who knows? Perhaps, some day, when all this is behind us—” He put his hands to his neck and from the folds of his collar withdrew a heavy silver pendant on a fine chain of gold. He took it off. The pendant bore a simple design—just the initial letter “A” of his family name. “I want you to have this. Take it, please.”

With trembling hands she accepted it, crying softly. She looked down at it, then up at him, to thank him, to make some further excuse.

But he was gone.

On the south bank of the Arno, near the Porta San Niccolò, Ezio found the bleak place where the bodies were arranged next to a huge gaping pit. Two sorry-looking guards, raw recruits by the look of them, patrolled nearby, dragging their halberds as much as carrying them. The sight of their uniforms aroused Ezio’s anger, and his first instinct was to kill them, but he had seen enough of death that day, and these were just country boys who’d stumbled into uniforms for want of anything better. It caught at his heart when he saw his father’s and his brothers’ bodies lying near the edge of the pit, still with their nooses round their scorched necks, but he could see that, once the guards fell asleep, as they surely soon would, he could carry the corpses to the river’s edge, where he had prepared an open boat which he’d loaded with brushwood.

It was about the third hour, and the first faint light of dawn was already bleaching the eastern sky by the time he had completed his task. He stood alone on the riverbank, watching as the boat bearing his kinsmen’s bodies, all aflame, drifted slowly with the current towards the sea. He watched until the light of the fire flickered away into the distance ...

He made his way back to the city. A hard resolve had overcome his grief. There was still much to do. But first, he must rest. He returned to the watchman’s shack, and made himself as comfortable as he could. Some little sleep would not be denied; but even as he slept, Cristina would not leave his thoughts, or dreams.

He knew the approximate whereabouts of the house of Annetta’s sister, though he had never been there, or indeed met Paola; but Annetta had been his wet-nurse, and he knew that if he could trust no one else, he could trust her. He wondered if she knew, as she must, of the fate that had befallen his father and brothers, and if so, whether she had told his mother and sister.

He approached the house with great care, using an indirect route, and covering the distance where he could by running at a crouch over rooftops in order to avoid the busy streets where, he was sure, Uberto Alberti would have his men searching. Ezio could not rid himself of the thought of Alberti’s treachery. What faction had his father referred to on the gallows? What could induce Alberti to bring about the death of one of his closest allies?

Paola’s house lay in a street just north of the cathedral, Ezio knew. But when he got there, he didn’t know which it was. There were few signs hanging from the fronts of the buildings here to identify them, and he could not afford to loiter in case he was recognized. He was about to depart when he saw Annetta herself, coming from the direction of the Piazza San Lorenzo.

Pulling his hood down so that his face was shadowed, he made his way to meet her, making himself walk at a normal pace, trying as best he could to blend in with his fellow citizens as they went about their business. He passed Annetta herself, and was gratified that she did not give any sign that she had noticed him. A few yards on, he doubled back and fell into step just behind her.

“Annetta—”

She had the wit not to turn round. “Ezio. You’re safe.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Are my mother and sister ... ?”

“They are protected. Oh, Ezio, your poor father. And Federico. And”—she stifled a sob—“little Petruccio. I have just come from San Lorenzo. I lit a candle to San Antonio for them. They say the Duke will be here soon. Perhaps—”

“Do my mother and Maria know what has happened?”

“We thought it best to keep that knowledge from them.”

Ezio thought for a moment. “It is best so. I will tell them when the time is right.” He paused. “Will you take me to them? I couldn’t identify your sister’s house.”

“I am on my way there now. Stay close and follow me.”

He fell back a little, but kept her in sight.

The establishment she entered had the grim, fortress-like façade of so many of the grander Florentine buildings, but once inside, Ezio was taken aback. This was not quite what he had expected.

He found himself in a richly decorated parlour of great size, and high-ceilinged. It was dark, and the air was close. Velvet hangings in dark reds and deep browns covered the walls, interspersed with oriental tapestries depicting scenes of unequivocal luxury and sexual pleasure. The room was illuminated by candlelight, and a smell of incense hung in the air. The furniture mainly consisted of deep-seated daybeds covered with cushions of the costly brocade, and low tables on which there were trays bearing wine in silver carafes, Venetian glasses, and golden bowls of sweetmeats. But what was most surprising were the people in the room. A dozen beautiful girls, wearing silks and satins in green and yellow, cut in the Florentine fashion but with skirts slit to the top of the thigh, and plunging necklines that left nothing to the imagination except the promise of where it should not venture. Around three walls of the room, beneath the hangings and tapestries, a number of doors could be seen.

Ezio looked round, in a sense not knowing where to look. “Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked Annetta.

“Ma certo! And here is my sister to greet us.”

An elegant woman who must have been in her late thirties but looked ten years younger, as beautiful as any principessa and better dressed than most, was coming towards them from the centre of the room. There was a veiled sadness in her eyes which somehow increased the sexual charge she transmitted, and Ezio, for all else that was on his mind, found himself stirred.

She extended her long-fingered, bejewelled hand to him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Messer Auditore.” She looked at him appraisingly. “Annetta speaks quite highly of you. And now I can see why.”

Ezio, blushing despite himself, replied, “I appreciate the kind words, Madonna—”

“Please, call me Paola.”

Ezio bowed. “I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to you for extending your protection to my mother and sister, Mado—I mean, Paola.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“Are they here? May I see them?”

“They are not here—this would be no place for them, and some of my clients are highly placed in the city’s governance.”

“Is this place, then—forgive me, but is it what I think it is?”

Paola laughed. “Of course! But I hope it is rather different from those stews down by the docks! It is really too early for business, but we like to be ready—there’s always the chance of the occasional caller on his way to the office. Your timing is perfect.”

“Where is my mother? Where is Claudia?”

“They are safe, Ezio; but it’s too risky to take you to see them now, and we mustn’t compromise their security.” She drew him to a sofa and sat down with him. Annetta, meanwhile, disappeared into the bowels of the house on some business of her own.

“I think it will be best,” Paola continued, “for you to leave Florence with them at the earliest opportunity. But you must rest first. You must gather your strength, for you have a long and arduous road ahead of you. Perhaps you’d like—”

“You are kind, Paola,” he interrupted her gently, “and you are right in what you suggest. But just now, I cannot stay.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

During their conversation Ezio had been growing ever calmer, as all his racing thoughts came crashing together. At last he found himself able to shrug off his shock and his fear, for he had come to a decision and found a purpose, both of which he knew were irrevocable. “I am going to kill Uberto Alberti,” he said.

Paola looked worried. “I understand your desire for vengeance, but the Gonfaloniere is a powerful man, and you’re not a natural killer, Ezio—”

Fate is making me one, he thought, but he said, as politely as he could, “Spare me the lecture,” for he was bent on his mission.

Paola ignore him and completed her sentence: “—but I can make you one.”

Ezio fought down suspicion. “And why would you want to teach me how to kill?”

She shook her head. “In order to teach you how to survive.”

“I’m not sure that I need any training from you.”

She smiled. “I know how you feel, but please allow me to hone the skills I am sure you have naturally. Think of my teaching as an extra weapon in your armoury.”

She started his training that very day, recruiting those girls who were off-duty, and trusted house-servants, to help her. In the high-walled garden behind the house she organized twenty of her people into five groups of four. They then started to mill around the garden, criss-crossing each other, talking and laughing, some of the girls casting bold looks on Ezio, and smiling. Ezio, who still carried his precious pouch at his side, was immune to their charms.

“Now,” Paola told him, “discretion is paramount in my profession. We must be able to walk the streets freely—seen, but unseen. You too must learn properly how to blend in like us, and become one with the city’s crowds.” Ezio was about to protest but she held up her hand. “I know! Annetta tells me you do not acquit yourself badly, but you have more to learn than you know. I want you to pick a group and try to blend in with them. I don’t want to be able to pick you out. Remember what almost happened to you at the execution.”

These harsh words stung Ezio, but the task didn’t appear to him that difficult, provided he used his discretion. Still, under her unforgiving eye he found it harder than he’d expected. He would jostle clumsily against someone, or trip up, sometimes causing the girls or the male servants in his selected group to scatter from him, leaving him exposed. The garden was a pleasant place, sunlit and lush, and birds chirruped in the ornamental trees, but in Ezio’s mind it became a labyrinth of unfriendly city streets, a potential enemy in every passer-by. And always he was nettled by Paola’s unremitting criticism. “Careful!” she would say. “You can’t go charging in like that!” “Show my girls some respect! Tread carefully when you’re near them!” “How do you plan to blend in with people if you’re busy knocking them around?” “Oh, Ezio! I expected better from you!”

But at last, on the third day, the biting comments grew fewer, and on the morning of the fourth he was able to pass right under Paola’s nose without her batting an eyelid. Indeed, after fifteen minutes without saying a word, Paola called out: “All right, Ezio, I give up! Where are you?”

Pleased with himself, he emerged from a group of girls, himself the very model of one of the young male house-servants. Paola smiled and clapped her hands, and the others joined in the applause.

But the work didn’t end there.

“Now that you have learned to blend into a crowd,” Paola told him on the morning of the following day, “I am going to show you how to use your new-found skill—in order to steal.”

Ezio baulked at this but Paola explained, “It is an essential survival skill which you may need on your journey. A man is nothing without money, and you may not always be in a position to earn it honestly. I know you would never take anything from anyone who could not afford to lose it, or from a friend. Think of it as a blade in a penknife, which you seldom use, though it’s good to know it’s there.”

Learning how to pick pockets was a lot harder. He would sidle up to a girl successfully enough, but as soon as his hand closed on the purse at her girdle, she would scream, “Al ladro!” and flee from him. When he first managed to draw some coins out successfully, he stayed where he was for a moment, triumphant, then felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ti arresto!” said the manservant who was playing the role of a city watchman, grinning; but Paola did not smile. “Once you’ve stolen from someone, Ezio,” she said, “you mustn’t linger.”

He was learning faster now, though, and was beginning to appreciate the need to acquire the skills he was being taught as necessary for the successful accomplishment of his mission. Once he had successfully fleeced ten girls, the last five without even Paola noticing, she announced that the tutorial was at an end.

“Back to work, girls,” she said. “Playtime’s over.”

“Do we have to?” the girls murmured reluctantly as they took their leave of Ezio. “He’s so cute, so innocent ...” But Paola was adamant.

She walked with him alone in the garden. As always, he kept one hand on his pouch. “Now that you’ve learned how to approach the enemy,” she said, “we need to find you a suitable weapon—something far more subtle than a sword.”

“Well, but what would you have me use?”

“Why, you already have the answer!” And she produced the broken blade and bracer which Ezio had taken from his father’s strongbox, and which even now he believed to be safely stowed in his pouch. Shocked, he opened it and rummaged. They were indeed gone.

“Paola! How the devil—?”

Paola laughed. “Did I get them? By using the same skills I’ve just taught you. But there’s another little lesson for you. Now you know how to pick a pocket successfully, you must also learn to be on guard against people with the same skill!”

Ezio looked gloomily at the broken blade, which she’d returned to him with the bracer. “There’s some kind of mechanism that goes with them. None of this is exactly in working condition,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “True. But I think you already know Messer Leonardo?”

“Da Vinci? Yes, I met him just before—” He broke off, forcing himself not to dwell on the painful memory. “But how can a painter be of any help to me with this?”

“He’s a lot more than just a painter. Take him the pieces. You’ll see.”

Ezio, seeing the sense of what she was telling him, nodded his agreement, then said, “Before I go, may I ask you one last question?”

“Of course.”

“Why have you given your aid so readily to me—a stranger?”

Paola gave him a sad smile. By way of an answer, she drew up one of the sleeves of her robe, revealing a pale, delicate forearm—whose beauty was marred by the ugly, long dark scars which criss-crossed it. Ezio looked and knew. At some time in her life this lady had been tortured.

“I, too, have known betrayal,” Paola said.

And Ezio recognized without hesitation that he had met a kindred spirit.

(want to know the ahead story?? see it in the second part!!!!)