By sunrise the following day, any especially attentive citizen of San Gimignano might have noticed a slim, grey-eyed, hooded figure gliding like a ghost through the streets which led to the cathedral square. The market traders were already setting up their stalls, but it was the ebb of the day’s cycle and the guards, bored and dispirited, leant on their halberds and dozed. The western side of the campanile was still in deep shadow, and no one saw the black-clad figure climb up it with all the quiet ease and grace of a spider.
The priest, gaunt, hollow-eyed and wild-haired, was already in position. Four tired Pazzi crossbowmen had also taken up their places, one at each corner of the tower. But, as if he did not trust the crossbowmen alone to protect him, Antonio Maffei, though clutching a Bible in his left hand, held a rondel-dagger in his right. He was already orating, and as Ezio drew close to the top of the tower, he began to catch Maffei’s words.
‘Citizens of San Gimignano, heed well my words! You must repent. REPENT! And seek forgiveness… Join me in prayer, my children, so that together we may stand against the darkness which has fallen across our beloved Tuscany! Give ear, oh Heavens, and I shall speak; and hear, oh Earth, the words of my mouth. Let my teaching drop as the rain, my speech distil as the dew, as raindrops on the tender herbs, as showers on the grass; for I proclaim the Name of the Lord! He is the Rock! His Work is perfect, for all His ways are just! Righteous and upright is He; but they who have corrupted themselves, they are not his children – a blemished, perverse and crooked generation! Citizens of San Gimignano – do you thus deal with the Lord? Oh, foolish and unwise people! Is he not your Father, who bore you? By the light of His mercy, be cleansed!’
Ezio leapt lightly over the parapet of the tower and took up a position near the trapdoor which opened on to the stairway that led below. The bowmen struggled to bring their crossbows to bear on him, but the range was short, and he had the element of surprise. He crouched and grasped the heels of one, toppling him over the parapet, howling to his death on the cobblestones two hundred feet below. Before the others could react, he had rounded on a second, stabbing him in the arm. The man looked astonished at the small wound, but then turned grey and collapsed, the life draining from him in an instant. Ezio had strapped his new poison-blade to his arm, for there was no time for fair mortal combat now. He whirled on the third, who had dropped his crossbow and was trying to get past him to the stairs. As he reached them, Ezio kicked him in the rump and he stumbled down the wooden steps, head first, bones snapping as he crashed down the first flight. The last raised his hands and burbled something. Ezio looked down and saw that the man had pissed in his hose. He stepped aside and with an ironic bow allowed the terrified bowman to scamper down the stairs after the broken ruins of his comrade.
Then he was hit hard on the back of the neck by the heavy steel pommel of a dagger. Maffei had recovered from his shock at the attack and closed on Ezio from behind. Ezio staggered forward.
‘I will put you on your knees, sinner!’ screamed the priest, foam appearing at the sides of his mouth. ‘Beg forgiveness!’
Why do people always waste their time in talk, thought Ezio, who had had time to recover and turn while the priest was speaking.
The two men circled each other in the narrow space. Maffei slashed and lunged with his heavy dagger. He was clearly an unskilled fighter, but desperation and his fanaticism made him very dangerous indeed, and Ezio had to dance out of the way of the erratically swinging blade more than once, unable to land a blow himself. But at last he was able to catch the priest’s wrist and pull him forwards, so that their chests were touching.
‘I will send you whimpering to hell,’ snarled Maffei.
‘Show some respect for death, my friend,’ Ezio retorted.
‘I’ll give you respect!’
‘Give in! I’ll give you time to pray.’
Maffei spat in Ezio’s eyes, forcing him to let go. Then, screaming, he plunged his dagger at Ezio’s left forearm, only to see the blade slide harmlessly to one side, deflected by the metal bracer in place there. ‘What demon protects you?’ he snapped.
‘You talk too much,’ Ezio said, pushing his own dagger a little way into the priest’s neck, and tensing the muscles in his forearm. As the poison flowed through the blade into Maffei’s jugular, the priest stiffened, opened his mouth, but nothing but foul breath came forth. Then he pushed himself away from Ezio, staggered back to the parapet, steadied himself an instant, and then fell forward into the arms of death.
Ezio stooped over Maffei’s corpse. From his robes he extracted a letter, which he opened and quickly scanned.
Padrone:
It is with fear in my heart that I write this. The Prophet has arrived. I feel it. The very birds don’t act as they should. They swirl aimlessly round the sky. I see them from my tower. I will not attend our meeting as you required, for I can no longer remain thus exposed in public view, for fear that the Demon may find me. Forgive me, but I must heed my inner voice. May the Father of Understanding guide you. And guide me.
Brother A.
Gambalto was right, thought Ezio, the man had lost his mind. Sombrely, remembering his uncle’s admonition, he closed the priest’s eyes, saying as he did so, ‘Requiescat in pace.’
Aware that the archer to whom he’d shown mercy might have raised the alarm, he looked down over the tower’s parapet at the town below, but could see no activity to worry him. The Pazzi guards still lounged at their posts, and the market had opened, doing a thin trade. No doubt the crossbowman was by now halfway across the countryside, making his way home, finding desertion preferable to a court-martial and possibly torture. He pushed his blade back into its mechanism, hidden on his forearm, taking care to touch it only with a gloved hand, and picked his way down the stairs of the tower. The sun was up, and it would make him too easily visible if he were to climb down the outside of the campanile.
When he rejoined Mario’s troop of mercenaries, Gambalto greeted him in an excited mood. ‘Your presence brings us good fortune,’ he said. ‘Our scouts have tracked down Archbishop Salviati!’
‘Where?’
‘Not far from here. Do you see that mansion, on the hill, over there?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s there.’ Gambalto remembered himself. ‘But first, I must ask you, Capitano, how you fared in the city?’
‘There will be no more sermons of hatred from that tower.’