Oliver Bowden - Brotherhood

"That is where Cesare is held prisoner."

Ezio pushed the blade.

"Have mercy! I speak the truth! But you will never succeed in thwarting us! The Borgia will still return to power and rule all Italy with an iron fist! They will swarm into the south and throw the filthy Spanish monarchy out! And then they will destroy the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile and rule them, too!"

"How do you know where Cesare is? It is a dark secret known only to Pope Julius and his council, and to King Ferdinand and his!"

"Do you not think we have spies of our own? Even in the Vatican? They are good, these spies. This time, better than yours!"

With a sudden movement, the man brought up his right arm. In it was a small knife, which he aimed at Ezio's heart. Ezio just had time to block the blow with his left arm, and the knife skittered harmlessly off the bracer and away onto the floor.

"Long live the Royal House of Borgia!" the man cried.

"Requiescat in pace," said Ezio.

"Welcome to Valencia," Leonardo muttered.

The Lone Wolf Inn was deserted but there were beds of a sort and as it was late by the time Ezio and his companions had recovered from the bloody tussle with Micheletto's diehards, they had no choice but to spend the night there. They did find wine, water, and food-bread, onions, and some salami-and even Leonardo was too hungry to refuse it.

The following morning, Ezio rose early, eager to find horses for the journey ahead of them. Their ship's captain, Filin, was at the docks seeing to the refitting of his battered ship, and he knew of the remote Castle of La Mota and gave them directions, as far as he could, as to how to find it. But it would be a long and arduous journey of many days. Filin also helped organize their horses but preparations still took another forty-eight hours, since they had to provision themselves as well. The journey would take them northwest across the brown sierras of central Spain. There were no maps, so they traveled from one town or village to another, using the list of names Filin had given them.

They passed out of Valencia and after several days' hard riding on their first set of horses-Leonardo complaining bitterly-passed into the beautiful mountain country around the tiny hill town of Cuenca. Then down again onto the flat plain of Madrid, and through the royal city itself, where the bandits who tried to rob them soon found themselves dead on the road, and so north to Segovia on its hill, dominated by its Alcazar, where they spent the night as the guests of the seneschal of Queen Isabella of Castile.

Then on again through open country-attacked and almost robbed by a gang of Moorish highwaymen who had somehow slipped through the fingers of King Ferdinand and survived in the open country for twelve years. Ferdinand, king of Aragon, Sicily, Naples, and Valencia, founder of the Spanish Inquisition and scourge of the Jews-to dire effect on his nation's economy-through his Grand Inquisitor, Tomas de Torquemada; but who through marriage to his equally ugly wife, Isabella, united Aragon and Castile and started to make Spain a single nation.

Ferdinand had ambitions on Navarre. Ezio wondered how far the bigoted king's designs would have an impact on that country, where Cesare had such close family ties, being the brother-in-law of its French king.

Fighting weariness, they rode on, praying that they would be in time to thwart Micheletto's plan.

But, despite all the haste they made, he had had a good start on them.

Micheletto and his small band of diehards reined in their horses and stood up in their stirrups to look at the Castle of La Mota. It dominated the small town of Medina del Campo, and had been built to protect it from the Moors.

Micheletto had good eyesight, and even from that distance he could see the red scarf that Cesare had hung from his cell window. The window was high, high in the central tower, the topmost window, in fact. No need for bars on such a window-that was something to be thankful for, at least-because no one had ever escaped from this place. You could see why. The walls had been made by the skilled masons of the eleventh century and the stone blocks were so skillfully laid that the surface was as smooth as glass.

Good that they had devised this plan of the red scarf; otherwise it might have hard to find his master Cesare. The go-between, a La Mota sergeant of the guard, who'd been recruited to the Borgia cause in Valencia some time earlier, was perfect: once bribed, perfectly dependable.

But getting Cesare out was going to be difficult. His cell door was permanently watched by two of a troop of Swiss Guards on loan from Pope Julius, all totally inflexible and incorruptible. So getting Cesare out the easy way was impossible.

Micheletto measured the height of the central tower with his eyes. Once inside the place, they'd have to scale an impossible wall to a cell about 140 feet up. So, that was out.

Micheletto considered the problem. He was a practical man, but his specialty was killing, not solving problems by any other means. His thoughts led him to reflect on the main tool of his trade: rope.

"Let's ride a little closer," he said to his companions. They'd all dressed not in their customary black, but in hunting outfits, so as to arouse little or no suspicion. He had ten men with him. Each of them carried, as part of their standard equipment, a length of rope.

"We don't want to get too close," said his lieutenant. "The guards on the ramparts will see us."

"And what will they see? A hunting party coming to Medina to revictual. Don't worry, Giacomo."

That remark had given Micheletto the germ of an idea. He went on, "We'll ride right up to the town."

It was about half an hour's ride. During it, Micheletto was more than usually silent, his battered brow deeply furrowed. Then, as they approached the walls of the city, his face cleared.

"Rein in," he said.

They did so. Micheletto looked them over. The youngest, a man of eighteen, Luca, had no hair on his chin, and a tip-tilted nose. He was already a hardened killer, but his face had the innocence of a cherub.

"Get out your ropes and measure them."

They obeyed. Each rope measured twelve feet. One hundred twenty feet, tied securely together. Add Micheletto's own and you had 130 feet. Cesare would have to drop the last ten feet or so, but that would be nothing to him.

Next problem: getting the rope to Cesare. For that they'd have to contact their recruit, the sergeant of the guard, Juan. That wouldn't be too hard. They knew Juan's movements and hours of duty. That would be Luca's job, since, as an innocent-looking young man, he'd attract little attention. The rest of his band, though dressed like hunters, looked like the men they were: hardened thugs. As for himself…And Juan's palm would have to be greased, but Micheletto always carried a contingency fund of 250 ducats. A tenth of that should do it. For the whole job.

Juan could gain access to Cesare's cell and deliver the rope. The Swiss guards wouldn't suspect him. Micheletto might even fake a letter with an official-looking seal on it, to be delivered to Cesare, as cover.

But the outer barbican was massive. Once Cesare was at the foot of the central tower, he'd still have to cross the inner courtyards and get out-somehow-through the only gate.

One good thing. La Mota's main function these days was to guard its single prisoner. Its original purpose had been to ward off attacks from the Moors, but that threat had been removed long since. The massive place was, in every sense other than guarding Cesare, redundant, and he knew from Juan that it was a fairly cushy posting.

If Juan could…They must take changes of clothes to Cesare from time to time…If Juan could organize delivery of a change of clothes and fix up a rendezvous once Cesare was out…