As he approached, he tensed. Outside, there were signs of a struggle, and the pavement was stained with blood. Drawing his sword, and with a pounding heart, he made his way through the door, which he found ajar.
The furniture in the reception room had been overturned and the place was a mess. Broken vases lay on the floor, and the pictures on the walls—tasteful illustrations of the juicier episodes in Boccaccio—were askew. But that was not all. The bodies of three dead Borgia guards lay in the entrance, and there was blood everywhere. He was making his way forward when one of the courtesans—the selfsame girl who had suffered so much at the hands of the Banker—came to greet him. Her dress and hands were covered in blood, but her eyes were shining.
“Oh, Ezio—! Thank God you’re here!”
“What’s happened?” His thoughts flew to his mother and sister.
“We got away all right—but the Borgia guards must have followed us all the way back here—”
“What’shappened?!”
“They tried to trap us inside—to ambush us.”
“Where are Claudia and Maria?”
The girl was crying now. “Follow me—”
She preceded him in the direction of the inner courtyard of the Rosa in Fiore. Ezio followed, still in great trepidation, but he noticed that the girl was unarmed and, despite her distress, led the way without fear. What kind of massacre—? Had the guards killed everyone except her—and how had she escaped?—and left, taking the money with them?
The girl pushed open the door leading to the courtyard. An appalling sight greeted his eyes—but it was not the one he had expected.
There were dead Borgia guards everywhere, and those that were not dead were badly wounded or dying. In their midst, by the fountain, stood Claudia, her dress drenched in blood, with a rondel dagger in one hand and a stiletto in the other. Most of the girls whom Ezio had seen at the Banker’s palazzo stood near her, similarly armed. To one side, protected by three of the girls, was Maria, and behind her, stacked against the wall, was not one, but seven metal boxes of the same type that Ezio had delivered to the Banker.
Claudia was still on guard, as were the other women, expecting another wave of the attack.
“Ezio!” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, but he was looking at the carnage.
“How did you come here?”
“Over the rooftops, from Tiber Island.”
“Did you see any more of them?”
“Plenty, but they were running around in circles. None near here.”
His sister relaxed slightly. “Good. Then we must get the street outside cleaned up and the door closed. Then we must do something about this mess.”
“Did you—lose anyone?”
“Two—Lucia and Agnella. We have already laid them on their beds. They died bravely.”
She wasn’t even trembling.
“Are you all right?” asked Ezio hesitantly.
“Perfectly,” she replied, composed. “We’ll need help disposing of this lot. Can you drum up some of your recruits to help? We left our new friends the servants behind at the palazzo, so that they can put anybody who asks off the scent.”
“Did any of this patrol escape?”
Claudia looked grim. She hadn’t yet lowered either of her weapons. “Not one. No news will get back to Cesare.”
Ezio was silent for a moment. Nothing could be heard but the splashing of the fountain and the song of the morning birds.
“How long ago?”
She half smiled. “You just missed the party.”
He smiled back. “No need for me. My sister knows how to wield a knife.”
“And I’m ready to do it again.”
“You speak like a true Auditore. Forgive me.”
“You needed to test me.”
“I wanted to protect you.”
“As you see, I can take care of myself.”
“I do see.”
Claudia dropped her daggers. She made a gesture toward the treasure chests. “Enough interest for you?”
“I see that you can totally outplay me, and I am lost in admiration.”
“Good!”
Then they did what they’d really been wanting to do for the last five minutes: They flung themselves into each other’s arms.
“Excellent,” said Maria, joining them. “It’s good to see you’ve both come to your senses—at last!”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Ezio!”
Ezio hadn’t expected to hear the familiar voice again so soon. A pessimistic part of him had not expected to hear it again at all. Nevertheless, he’d been pleased to get the note left for him at Tiber Island bidding him to this rendezvous, which he was keeping on his way to the Sleeping Fox, the headquarters of La Volpe’s Thieves’ Guild in Rome.
He looked around, but there was no one to be seen. The streets were empty, even of Borgia uniforms, for he was already in a district reclaimed by La Volpe’s men.
“Leonardo?”
“Over here!” The voice came from a darkened doorway.
Ezio walked across to it and Leonardo dragged him into the shadows.
“Were you followed?”
“No.”
“Thank God. I’ve been sweating blood.”
“Were you?”
“No—my friendMesser Salai watches my back. I’d trust him with my life.”
“Your friend?”
“We’re very close.”
“Be careful, Leo—you have a soft heart where young men are concerned and that could be a chink in your armor.”
“I may be softhearted but I’m not a fool. Now, come on.”
Leonardo pulled Ezio out of the doorway after having first looked up and down the street. A few yards to the right, he ducked down an alleyway, which snaked between windowless buildings and featureless walls for a furlong or so, when it became part of a crossroads with three other alleys. Leonardo took the one on the left, and after another few yards arrived at a low, narrow door, painted dark green. This he unlocked. Both men had to squeeze through the entrance, but once inside, Ezio found himself in a large, vaulted hall. Natural light bathed the place through windows placed high in the walls, and Ezio’s eyes scanned the usual trestle tables, cluttered and crowded with all manner of stuff, the drawings pinned to the walls, the easels, the animal skeletons, the dusty books, the maps—rare and precious, like all maps—the Assassins’ own collection at Monteriggioni had been invaluable, but the Borgia in their ignorance had destroyed the map-room there with cannonades, and so had no use of them themselves—the pencils, pens, brushes, paints, piles of papers…in short, the typical and familiar, and somehow comforting, clutter of Leonardo’s studios wherever Ezio had encountered them.
“This is my own place,” said Leonardo proudly. “As far as possible from my official workshop near Castel Sant’Angelo. No one comes here but me. And Salai, of course.”
“Don’t they keep tabs on you?”
“They did for a while, but I’m good at ingratiation when it suits me and they swallowed the act whole. I rent this place from the Cardinal of San Pietro in Vincoli. He knows how to keep a secret and he’s no friend of the Borgia—”
“And there’s no harm in taking out a little insurance for the future?”
“Ezio, my friend, nothing—but nothing—gets past you! Now, to business. I don’t know if there’s anything I can offer you—there must be a bottle of wine somewhere.”
“Leave it—don’t worry. Just tell me why you sent for me.”
Leonardo went over to one of the trestle tables on the right-hand side of the hall and rummaged underneath it. He produced a long, leather-bound, wooden case, which he placed on the tabletop.