It was afternoon by the time he reached the barracks, and all seemed quiet. He noticed that, since their renovation, the ramparts and walls had taken a slight bruising from French cannonades, but the damage wasn’t serious, and a handful of men were busy on scaffolding or slung in baskets from the battlements, repairing the gouges and cracks the cannonballs had made.
He dismounted and handed the bridle to an ostler who came running up, wiping the little flecks of foam gently from his horse’s mouth—he hadn’t ridden her hard—and patting her muzzle before making his way, unannounced, across the parade ground in the direction of Bartolomeo’s quarters.
His mind was on his next step, now that Cesare’s banker had been removed, and he was considering what counteraction his enemy might take to ensure that there was no cessation in his supply of funds, so he was surprised suddenly to find himself with his nose to the tip of Bianca, Bartolomeo’s greatsword.
“Who goes there?” bellowed Bartolomeo.
“Salve to you, too,” rejoined Ezio.
Bartolomeo gave vent to a huge belly laugh. “Got you!”
“Teach me to be on my toes.”
“Actually”—Bartolomeo gave a theatrical wink—”I was expecting my wife!”
“Well, well.”
Bartolomeo lowered his sword and embraced Ezio. When he released him from the bear hug, his expression was more serious.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Ezio.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Look!”
Ezio followed his friend’s gaze to where a platoon of wounded mercenaries was entering the parade ground.
“The French puttane have got us under pressure again,” said Bartolomeo, answering Ezio’s unspoken question.
“I thought you’d barked the shins of their general—what’s his name?”
“Octavien de Valois. Thinks he’s some kind of descendant of the noble house of Valois. Some wretch’s spawn of a bastard, if you ask me.”
Bartolomeo spat as another contingent of wounded men appeared.
“Looks serious,” said Ezio.
“King Louis must have sent reinforcements to back Cesare up. Since we gave Valois such a fuckin’ bashing.” Bartolomeo scratched his beard. “I suppose I should be flattered.”
“How bad is it?”
“They’ve got their fuckin’ tower back,” said Bartolomeo grumpily.
“We’ll get it back. Where’s Valois now?”
“You’re right!” Bartolomeo ignored the question. “Of course we’ll get it back! We’ll have the scoundrels in retreat before you could say fottere! It’s only a matter of time.”
Just then, a bullet whizzed past their ears and embedded itself in the wall behind them.
“It was so quiet when I rode up,” said Ezio. He looked at the sky. The sun had gone behind large clouds that had suddenly rolled across the sky.
“Seemed so quiet, you mean. They’re sneaky bastards, the French. But I’ll have Valois by the throat soon enough, mark my word.” He turned to yell an order to a sergeant who’d come running up. “Close the gates! Get those men off the outer walls! Move!”
Men ran hither and thither, manning the battlements, priming the cannon.
“Don’t worry, friend,” said the big condottiero. “I’ve got the situation well in hand.”
At that moment, a larger cannonball crashed into the ramparts nearest the two men, sending dust and shards of stone flying in all directions.
“They seem to be getting closer!” yelled Ezio.
Bartolomeo’s men fired a salvo from the barracks’ main cannon by way of reply—the walls seemed to shake with the report from the great guns. But the response from the French artillery was just as ferocious—the thunder of twoscore guns tore at the air—this time the balls found their marks more cleanly. Bartolomeo’s men were still desperately trying to restore defensive order. Another huge salvo from the French rocked the walls of the barracks—but this time the French seemed to be focusing their fire on the main gate. Two of the gatekeepers fell dead—caught up in the bombardment.
“Close the fuckin’ gates!” roared Bartolomeo.
The well-trained soldiers under Bartolomeo’s command rushed forward to repel the sortie of French troops that, without any warning, had appeared at the main entrance of the barracks. It seemed that the calm was well and truly before the storm—the French had clearly been holding back for this surprise attack, and unfortunately, thought Ezio to himself, they had certainly managed to gain the upper hand on that front. Bartolomeo’s fortress had been caught unprepared for this attack.
Bartolomeo jumped down from the battlements and ran toward the gate at full tilt. Whirling Bianca, he towered above the Frenchmen, and the great broadsword sliced viciously into their ranks. The French soldiers seemed to halt in trepidation at Bartolomeo’s arrival. Meanwhile, Ezio directed the musketeers to cover those men who strove to push the gates closed before the enemy could gain a surer foothold within the barracks. The Assassin troops rallied with the presence of their leader and succeeded in pushing the gates closed. But seconds later there was an almighty crash—and the wooden bar that held the great gates shut bowed ominously. The French had succeeded in maneuvering a battering ram to the main gates while the defenders’ attention was focused on those French soldiers who’d pushed through.
“We should have built a fuckin’ moat!” yelled Bartolomeo.
“There wasn’t time for that!”
Ezio shouted at the musketeers to divert their fire outside the walls at the gathering French forces. Bartolomeo leapt up the ramparts and stood next to Ezio—he stopped at the scene unfolding—French troops had appeared as if from nowhere, and in great numbers.
“We’re surrounded by them!” cursed Bartolomeo, without exaggeration.
Behind them, one of the minor gates caved in with a crash and splintering of timber, and before any of the defenders could do anything to prevent it, a large unit of French infantry stormed in, swords drawn and seemingly willing to fight to the death. This sudden infiltration succeeded in cutting Bartolomeo’s quarters off from the Italians.
“Oh, my God, what are they up to now?” shouted Bartolomeo. The Assassin soldiers were better trained than the French, and usually more resolved to their cause—but the sheer weight of numbers and the suddenness of the attack had caught them unawares. It was all they could do to hold the line—and slowly try to move the French squadron back. The air was thick with the chaos of close-quarter hand-to-hand combat. The space was so crowded that in places the battle seemed to have turned to a straightforward fistfight—where there was no longer room to wield weapons.