Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Page 58
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“Yes, sir!”
“Then give them to Micheletto—when he’s finished.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Lucrezia is mine, and mine alone. I didn’t think she was that important to me, but when I got that message in Urbino, from one of her own men, that that wretched toad of an actor had been pawing her, slobbering over her, I came back immediately! Can you understand a passion like that, Captain?”
“Yes, sir!”
“You’re a fool. Have you done, Micheletto?”
“Messere, the man is dead.”
“Then weigh him down with stones and dump him in the Tiber.”
“I obey, Cesare.”
The captain had given orders to his men, and four of them had gone to fetch two large wicker hampers, which they now carried between them.
“Here are the costumes for your men. Make doubly sure the work is done correctly.”
“Indeed, Messere.”
Cesare stalked off, leaving his subordinate to make the arrangements. Motioning the guards to follow him, Micheletto led the way toward the Baths of Trajan.
Ezio and his band of recruits were already there, hidden in the shelter of a ruined portico. He had noticed a number of men in black already foregathered, and he watched them closely as Micheletto appeared. The guards put the costume skips down and Micheletto motioned them to depart. The shadows were deep, and Ezio nodded to his own men to prepare themselves. He had strapped the bracer to his left forearm and the poison-blade to his right.
Micheletto’s men formed a line, and as each man came up to his leader, he was handed a costume—uniforms copying those worn by Roman legionaries at the time of Christ. Ezio noticed that Micheletto himself wore the costume of a centurion.
As each man stepped away to don his costume, Ezio stood ready. Silently, he extended the concealed poison-blade that Leonardo had just recrafted for him. The unsuspecting thugs went down without a whisper. Then his own recruits put on the theatrical clothes and pulled Micheletto’s henchmen’s bodies out of sight.
Absorbed in his work, Micheletto was unaware, once it was complete, that the men he now commanded were not his own. He led them, with Ezio close behind, in the direction of the Colosseum.
A stage had been erected in the ruins of the old Roman amphitheater where, since the time of the emperor Titus, gladiators had fought each other to the death, bestiarii had dispatched wild animals in the tens of thousands, and Christians had been thrown to the lions. It was a gloomy place, but the gloom was dispersed somewhat by the hundreds of flickering torches that illuminated the stage, and the audience, ranged on benches on a wooden grandstand, were absorbed in watching a play on the subject of Christ’s Passion.
“I seek Pietro Benintendi,” Micheletto said to the doorkeeper, showing him a warrant.
“He acts onstage, signore,” replied the doorkeeper. “But one of my men will take you to where you may wait for him.”
Micheletto turned to his companions. “Don’t forget,” he told them. “I will be wearing this black cloak with the white star on its shoulder. Cover my back, and wait for your cue, which will be Pontius Pilate’s order to the Centurion to strike.”
I must get to Pietro before he does, thought Ezio, tagging along at the back of the group as the men followed their leader into the Colosseum.
Onstage, three crosses had been erected. He watched as his recruits disposed themselves according to Micheletto’s orders and saw Micheletto himself take his place in the wings.
The play was reaching its climax:
“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” cried Pietro from the cross.
“Hark,” said one of the actors playing the Pharisees. “How he crieth upon Elijah to deliver him!”
One, dressed as a Roman legionary, dipped a sponge in vinegar and placed it on the tip of his spear. “Wait and see whether Elijah dare come here or not.”
“My thirst is great; my thirst is great,” cried Pietro.
The soldier raised the sponge to Pietro’s lips.
“Yea, thou shalt drink no more,” said another Pharisee.
Pietro raised his head. “Mighty God in Majesty,” he declaimed. “To work Thy Will I shall never cease. My spirit I betake to Thee; receive it, O Lord, into Thy hands.” Pietro gave a great sigh. “Consummatum est!”
His head dropped. Christ had “died.”
On his cue, Micheletto then strode onto the stage. His centurion’s uniform glittered under the thrown-back black cloak. Ezio, watching, wondered what had become of the actor originally playing the Centurion, but imagined that he’d met a fate similar to that of most of Micheletto’s victims.
“Lords, I say unto you,” Micheletto recited boldly, “this was indeed the Son of God the Father Almighty. I know it must be so. I know by the manner of His cry that He has fulfilled the prophecy, and the godhead is revealed in Him!”
“Centurion,” said the actor playing Caiaphas, “as God gives me speed, thy folly is great indeed. Thou dost not understand! When thou seest his heart bleed, then we shall see what thou wilt say. Longinus! Take this spear into thy hand.”
Caiaphas handed a wooden spear to the actor playing the Roman legionary Longinus, a large man with flowing locks, clearly a favorite of the audience and doubtless, thought Ezio, a bitter rival of Pietro’s.
“Take this spear and take good heed,” added one of the Pharisees for good measure. “Thou must pierce the side of Jesus Nazarenus that we shall know he is truly dead.”
“I will do as thou biddest me,” declaimed Longinus, out front. “But on your heads be it. Whatever the consequence, I wash my hands of it.”
He then made a great show of stabbing Jesus’ side with the prop spear, and, as the blood and water spilled forth from a hidden sac concealed in Pietro’s loincloth, so Longinus began his big speech. Ezio could see the beady glint in the “dead” Jesus’ eyes as Pietro watched him jealously.
“High King of Heaven, I see Thee here. Let water be thrown onto my hands and onto my spear, and let my eyes be bathed, too, that I may see Thee more clearly!” He made a dramatic pause. “Alas, alack, and woe is me! What is this deed that I have done? I think that I have slain a man, sooth to say; but what manner of man I know not. Lord God in Heaven, I cry Thee mercy—for it was my body which guided my hand, not my soul.” Allowing himself another pause for a round of applause, he plowed on: “Lord Jesus, much have I heard spoken of Thee—that Thou hast healed, through Thy pity, both the sick and the blind. And let Thy Name be praised!—Thou hast healed me this day of my own blindness—my blindness of spirit. Henceforward, Lord, Thy follower will I be. And in three days Thou shalt rise again to rule and judge us all!”
“Then give them to Micheletto—when he’s finished.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Lucrezia is mine, and mine alone. I didn’t think she was that important to me, but when I got that message in Urbino, from one of her own men, that that wretched toad of an actor had been pawing her, slobbering over her, I came back immediately! Can you understand a passion like that, Captain?”
“Yes, sir!”
“You’re a fool. Have you done, Micheletto?”
“Messere, the man is dead.”
“Then weigh him down with stones and dump him in the Tiber.”
“I obey, Cesare.”
The captain had given orders to his men, and four of them had gone to fetch two large wicker hampers, which they now carried between them.
“Here are the costumes for your men. Make doubly sure the work is done correctly.”
“Indeed, Messere.”
Cesare stalked off, leaving his subordinate to make the arrangements. Motioning the guards to follow him, Micheletto led the way toward the Baths of Trajan.
Ezio and his band of recruits were already there, hidden in the shelter of a ruined portico. He had noticed a number of men in black already foregathered, and he watched them closely as Micheletto appeared. The guards put the costume skips down and Micheletto motioned them to depart. The shadows were deep, and Ezio nodded to his own men to prepare themselves. He had strapped the bracer to his left forearm and the poison-blade to his right.
Micheletto’s men formed a line, and as each man came up to his leader, he was handed a costume—uniforms copying those worn by Roman legionaries at the time of Christ. Ezio noticed that Micheletto himself wore the costume of a centurion.
As each man stepped away to don his costume, Ezio stood ready. Silently, he extended the concealed poison-blade that Leonardo had just recrafted for him. The unsuspecting thugs went down without a whisper. Then his own recruits put on the theatrical clothes and pulled Micheletto’s henchmen’s bodies out of sight.
Absorbed in his work, Micheletto was unaware, once it was complete, that the men he now commanded were not his own. He led them, with Ezio close behind, in the direction of the Colosseum.
A stage had been erected in the ruins of the old Roman amphitheater where, since the time of the emperor Titus, gladiators had fought each other to the death, bestiarii had dispatched wild animals in the tens of thousands, and Christians had been thrown to the lions. It was a gloomy place, but the gloom was dispersed somewhat by the hundreds of flickering torches that illuminated the stage, and the audience, ranged on benches on a wooden grandstand, were absorbed in watching a play on the subject of Christ’s Passion.
“I seek Pietro Benintendi,” Micheletto said to the doorkeeper, showing him a warrant.
“He acts onstage, signore,” replied the doorkeeper. “But one of my men will take you to where you may wait for him.”
Micheletto turned to his companions. “Don’t forget,” he told them. “I will be wearing this black cloak with the white star on its shoulder. Cover my back, and wait for your cue, which will be Pontius Pilate’s order to the Centurion to strike.”
I must get to Pietro before he does, thought Ezio, tagging along at the back of the group as the men followed their leader into the Colosseum.
Onstage, three crosses had been erected. He watched as his recruits disposed themselves according to Micheletto’s orders and saw Micheletto himself take his place in the wings.
The play was reaching its climax:
“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” cried Pietro from the cross.
“Hark,” said one of the actors playing the Pharisees. “How he crieth upon Elijah to deliver him!”
One, dressed as a Roman legionary, dipped a sponge in vinegar and placed it on the tip of his spear. “Wait and see whether Elijah dare come here or not.”
“My thirst is great; my thirst is great,” cried Pietro.
The soldier raised the sponge to Pietro’s lips.
“Yea, thou shalt drink no more,” said another Pharisee.
Pietro raised his head. “Mighty God in Majesty,” he declaimed. “To work Thy Will I shall never cease. My spirit I betake to Thee; receive it, O Lord, into Thy hands.” Pietro gave a great sigh. “Consummatum est!”
His head dropped. Christ had “died.”
On his cue, Micheletto then strode onto the stage. His centurion’s uniform glittered under the thrown-back black cloak. Ezio, watching, wondered what had become of the actor originally playing the Centurion, but imagined that he’d met a fate similar to that of most of Micheletto’s victims.
“Lords, I say unto you,” Micheletto recited boldly, “this was indeed the Son of God the Father Almighty. I know it must be so. I know by the manner of His cry that He has fulfilled the prophecy, and the godhead is revealed in Him!”
“Centurion,” said the actor playing Caiaphas, “as God gives me speed, thy folly is great indeed. Thou dost not understand! When thou seest his heart bleed, then we shall see what thou wilt say. Longinus! Take this spear into thy hand.”
Caiaphas handed a wooden spear to the actor playing the Roman legionary Longinus, a large man with flowing locks, clearly a favorite of the audience and doubtless, thought Ezio, a bitter rival of Pietro’s.
“Take this spear and take good heed,” added one of the Pharisees for good measure. “Thou must pierce the side of Jesus Nazarenus that we shall know he is truly dead.”
“I will do as thou biddest me,” declaimed Longinus, out front. “But on your heads be it. Whatever the consequence, I wash my hands of it.”
He then made a great show of stabbing Jesus’ side with the prop spear, and, as the blood and water spilled forth from a hidden sac concealed in Pietro’s loincloth, so Longinus began his big speech. Ezio could see the beady glint in the “dead” Jesus’ eyes as Pietro watched him jealously.
“High King of Heaven, I see Thee here. Let water be thrown onto my hands and onto my spear, and let my eyes be bathed, too, that I may see Thee more clearly!” He made a dramatic pause. “Alas, alack, and woe is me! What is this deed that I have done? I think that I have slain a man, sooth to say; but what manner of man I know not. Lord God in Heaven, I cry Thee mercy—for it was my body which guided my hand, not my soul.” Allowing himself another pause for a round of applause, he plowed on: “Lord Jesus, much have I heard spoken of Thee—that Thou hast healed, through Thy pity, both the sick and the blind. And let Thy Name be praised!—Thou hast healed me this day of my own blindness—my blindness of spirit. Henceforward, Lord, Thy follower will I be. And in three days Thou shalt rise again to rule and judge us all!”
