Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood by Oliver Bowden Page A

men, all told. Machiavelli and Ezio were nearly overwhelmed with the sheer weight of numbers, and with the effort of taking on so many enemies, at once. The flourishes of style that they were both capable of were set aside for a wholly more efficient and quick form of swordsmanship—the three-second kill, a single thrust sufficing. The two men stood their ground, grim determination set on their faces, and finally all their enemies had either fled or lay wounded, dead or dying at their feet.
    “We’d better hurry,” said Machiavelli, breathing hard. “Just because we’ve sent a few Borgia henchmen to their Maker doesn’t mean we’ll get access to the stables. The ordinary people remain afraid. That’s why many of them won’t even open their shops.”
    “You’re right,” agreed Ezio. “We need to send them a signal. Wait here!”
    A fire was burning in a brazier nearby. From it, Ezio seized a brand, then leapt up the wall of the stable, where the Borgia flag, with the black bull in a golden field, flew in the light breeze. Ezio set it on fire. As it burned, one or two shop doors cautiously opened, as did the gates of the stables.
    “That’s better!” cried Ezio. He turned to address the small, doubtful crowd that had gathered. “Do not fear the Borgia! Do not be in thrall to them! Their days are numbered, and the hour of reckoning is at hand!”
    More people came up, raising a cheer.
    “They’ll be back,” Machivelli said.
    “Yes, they will, but we’ve shown these people that they are not the all-powerful tyrants they took them to be!”
    He leapt down from the wall into the stable yard, where Machiavelli joined him. Swiftly, they picked two sturdy mounts and had them saddled.
    “We’ll come back,” Ezio promised the head ostler. “You might like to get this place cleaned up a bit—now that it belongs to you again, as it rightfully should.”
    “We will, my lord,” said the man. But he still looked fearful.
    “Don’t worry. They won’t harm you, now that you’ve seen them bested.”
    “How do you figure that, my lord?”
    “They need you. They can’t do without you. Just show them you won’t be bullied and pushed around and they’ll have to cajole you into helping them.”
    “They’ll hang us—or worse!”
    “Do you want to spend the rest of your lives under their yoke? Stand up to them. They’ll have to listen to reasonable requests. Even tyrants cannot function if enough people refuse to obey them.”
    Machiavelli, already on his horse, took out a small black notebook and wrote in it, smiling absently to himself. Ezio swung himself into the saddle.
    “I thought you said we were in a hurry,” said Ezio.
    “We are. I was just making a note of what you said.”
    “I hope I should be flattered by that.”
    “Oh, yes—you should be. But come on!”
    “You excel at opening wounds, Ezio,” Machiavelli continued as they rode. “But can you also close them?”
    “I intend to heal the sickness that’s at the heart of our society, not merely tinker about with the symptoms.”
    “Bold words! But you don’t have to argue with me! We’re on the same side, don’t forget. I’m just putting another point of view.”
    “Is this a test?” Ezio was suspicious. “Well, let us talk openly, then. I believe that Rodrigo Borgia’s death would not have solved our problem.”
    “Really?”
    “Well—I mean, look at this city. Rome is the epicenter of Borgia and Templar rule. What I just said to that stableman holds true. Killing Rodrigo won’t change things—cut off the head of a man, and he is dead, sure. But we are dealing with a Hydra.”
    “I see what you mean—like the seven-headed monster Heracles had to kill—and even then the heads grew back until he learned the trick of stopping that from happening.”
    “Precisely.”
    “So—you suggest that we appeal to the people?”
    “Maybe—how else?”
    “Forgive me, Ezio, but the people are fickle. Relying on them is like