Oliver Bowden: Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood

“The Apple is safe,” Mario reassured him. “Now go. And if you see that the Borgia show the slightest chance of breaching the walls, shift your attention to evacuating the town. Do you understand?”

“Sì, zio mio.”

Mario placed his hands on Ezio’s shoulders and looked at him gravely for a long moment. “Our fate is only partially in our own hands. There is only a certain amount of it that we can control. But never forget, never forget, nephew—that whatever happens to you, or to me, this day, there is never a feather lost by a sparrow that is not brushed away by the finger of God.”

“I understand, Capitano .”

There was a brief moment of silence between them. Then Mario extended his hand.

“Insieme per la vittoria!”

Ezio took his uncle’s hand in his and wrung it fervently. “Insieme!”

Mario turned to go.

Ezio said, “ Capitano —be careful!”

Mario nodded grimly. “I’ll do my best! And you—take my best horse and get to the outer walls as fast as you can!” He drew his sword and, with his great war cry rallying his men, ran toward the foe.

Ezio watched him briefly and then ran himself toward the stable, where the old groom whose runaway horse he’d saved only the day before was waiting. The huge chestnut was saddled and ready.

“Maestro Mario had already sent orders,” the old man said. “I may be past my prime, but no one could ever accuse me of being inefficient. Ma attenzione! This horse is full of spirit!”

“I brought him to heel yesterday. He’ll know me today.”

“True enough! Buona fortuna! We all depend on you!”

Ezio swung himself into the saddle and urged the eager horse toward the outer walls.

He rode through the already devastated town. The tailor, dead and mutilated in front of his shop. What harm had he ever done anyone? And Angelina, weeping in front of her burned-down house; what was the point of not showing her pity?

War—that was all. Brutalizing and cruel. Vicious and infantile. Ezio’s gorge rose at it.

Freedom and Mercy. And Love. These were the only things worth fighting for, worth killing for—and these were the prime elements of the Assassin’s Creed. Of the Brotherhood.

Ezio, as he rode forth, encountered scenes of terrible desolation. Devastation and chaos surrounded him as his horse carried him through the burning town.

“My children! Where are my children?” a young mother screamed as he passed, helplessly.

“Just pack what you can and let’s get out of here!” cried out a man’s voice.

“My leg! My leg’s been shot away!” yelled a towns-man.

“How can we escape?” shrieked several people, rushing around in panic.

“I can’t find my mother! Mamma! Mamma!” rang out the voice of a little child.

Ezio had to steel his heart. He could not go to the rescue of individuals. There was no time. But if he could organize the defense properly, more people would be saved than lost.

“Aiuto! Aiuto!” a teenaged girl, mobbed by Borgia troops, cried out as they forced her down.

Ezio rode grimly on. He would kill them. Kill them all, if he could. Who was this heartless Cesare Borgia? Could he be actually worse than the Pope? Could there ever be a more evil Templar?

“Water! Water! Bring water!” a man’s voice bellowed despairingly. “Everything is burning!”

“Where are you, please, oh, God! Where are you, Marcello?” a woman’s voice sang out.

Ezio rode on, his mouth set. But the cries for help still rang in his ears: “Come usciamo di qui?”

“Run! Run!” Voices were raised against the sound of the bombardment. There were screams and sobs, desperate pleas for help, for a means of getting out of the beleaguered town, as the pitiless Borgia troops piled on cannonade upon cannonade.

Please God they do not breach the walls before our own guns have been brought into proper play, Ezio thought, and though he could hear the explosions as the sakers and falconets spat shot at the attackers, he could not yet hear the boom of the big guns he had encountered the day before, the only cannon that might truly smash the huge wooden siege towers the Borgia forces were trundling toward the city walls.

He goaded the chestnut up the ramp to the walls and leapt off as he reached the point where he had last met the drunken armorer next to the ten-foot cannon. He was—perfectly sober now—directing gunners to bring this gun to bear on a tower that the highly trained attackers were shoving slowly but surely in the direction of the ramparts. Ezio could see that its top matched the height of the crenellations at the top of the walls.

“The wretches!” he muttered. But how could anyone have predicted the speed and—even Ezio had to admit this to himself—masterly perfection of the attack?

“Fire!” yelled the grizzled master-sergeant in command of the first big gun as Ezio approached. The great cannon boomed and sprang back, but the ball was just wide, nicking a splattering of wood off a corner of the siege tower’s roof.

“Try to hit the fucking towers, you fools!” yelled the sergeant.

“Sir—we need more ammunition!”

“Then go down to the stores, and make it snappy! Look! They’re storming the gate!”

Other cannon bellowed and spat. Ezio was pleased to see a tranche of attackers smashed into a sea of blood and bone.

“Reload!” yelled the sergeant. “Fire again at my command!”

“Wait until the tower’s closer,” ordered Ezio. “Then aim for the bottom. That’ll bring the whole thing down. Our crossbowmen can finish off any survivors.”

“Yes, sir!”

The armorer came up. “You learn tactics fast,” he said to Ezio.

“Instinct.”

“Good instinct’s worth a hundred men in the field,” returned the armorer. “But you missed target practice this morning. No excuse for that!”

“How dare you!” said Ezio jokingly.

“Come on.” The armorer grinned. “We’ve got another of these covering the left flank, and the commander of its gun crew has been killed. Crossbow bolt bang in his forehead. Dead before he hit the ground. You take over. I’ve got my work cut out for me making sure none of the guns overheat or crack. We’d be well fucked then.”

“OK.”

“But watch how you aim. Your girlfriend’s troops are out there fighting the Borgia. Wouldn’t want to take any of them out.”

“What girlfriend?”

The armorer winked. “Do me a favor, Ezio! This is a very small town!”

Ezio made his way to the second big gun. A gunner was sponging it down to cool it after firing as another was muzzle-loading it with tamped-down powder and a fifty-pound iron ball. A third man prepared the slow match, lighting it at both ends so that there would be no delay if one end accidentally burned out at the moment of touch.

“Let’s go,” said Ezio as he came up.

“Signore!”

He scanned the field beyond the wall. The green grass was splattered with blood, and the fallen lay strewn among the wheat sheaves. He could see the yellow, black, and blue livery of Caterina’s men interspersed with the Borgia tunics—and their device was a black bull, head down, in a field of golden corn. It made a very good target.

“Get some of the smaller guns to pick out those individuals. Tell them to aim for the black-and-gold,” Ezio snapped. “And let’s get this gun trained on the siege tower over there. It’s getting too close for comfort and we must take it out!”

The gunners heaved the cannon around and dipped the barrel so that it was aimed at the base of the approaching tower, now not fifty yards from the walls.

Ezio was directing aim when a nearby saker was hit. It exploded, flinging red-hot bronze in every direction. Ezio’s gunner, inches from him, had his head and shoulders sliced off by shards. The man’s arms fell to the floor, and the remains of his body followed suit, spewing blood like a fountain. The pungent smell of burned meat filled Ezio’s nostrils as he leapt to take the gunner’s place.