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.

SIXTY.

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...

It might work. He could think of no other way, apart from fighting their way in and getting Cesare out by force.

"Luca," he said finally, "I have a job for you."

It turned out that Juan wanted fifty ducats for the whole job, and Micheletto beat him down to forty, but didn't waste time with too much bartering. It took Luca three trips to and fro to set the whole thing up, but finally he reported back: "It's arranged. He's going to take the rope and a guardsman's uniform to Cesare, accompanying the man who takes him his evening meal at six o'clock. The postern gate will be guarded by Juan, who's going to take the midnight-to-six gate-watch. It's a five-minute walk from the castle to the town..."

Cesare Borgia's left leg hurt from the lesions of the New Disease, but not much, a dull ache, making him limp slightly. At two o'clock in the morning, already changed into the uniform, he tied one end of the rope firmly to the central mullion of the window of his cell and carefully let the length of the rest of it out into the night. When it was all paid out, he slung his good leg over the windowsill, hauled the other one after it, and took a firm grip on the rope. Sweating despite the coolness of the night, he descended hand over hand until his ankles felt the end of the rope. He dropped the last ten feet, and felt the pain in his left leg when he landed, but he shook it off and limped across the deserted inner courtyard and through the outer one, where there were guards who were sleepy and paid him no attention, recognizing him as one of their own.

At the gate he was challenged. His heart went to his mouth. But then Juan came up.

"It's all right. I'll take him to the guardhouse."

What was going on? So near and yet so far!

"Don't worry," said Juan under his breath.

The guardhouse was occupied by two sleeping guards. Juan kicked one of them into life.

"Wake up, Domingo. This man has a warrant for town. They forgot to order more straw for the stables and they need it before they ride out for the dawn patrol. Take him back to the gate, explain to the guards there, and let him out."

"Yes, sir!"

Out he went through the postern, which was then firmly locked behind him, and limped through the moonlight and the sweet night air to the town. What joy to feel the night around him, and the air, after so long. He'd been confined in this dump for more than a year. But he was free now; he was still only thirty; he'd get it all back. And he'd take such vengeance on his enemies, especially the Assassin Brotherhood, that Caterina Sforza's purges at Forl would make her look like a nursemaid.

He heard and smelled the horses at the appointed rendezvous. Thank God for Micheletto. Then he saw them. They were all there, in the shadows of the church wall. They had a fine black beast ready for him. Micheletto dismounted and helped him to the saddle.

"Welcome back, Eccellenza Eccellenza," he said. "And now, we must hurry. That bastard Assassino Assassino, Ezio Auditore, is on our heels."

Cesare was silent. He was thinking about the slowest death he could devise for the Assassin.

"I've put matters in hand already at Valencia," continued Micheletto.

"Good."

They rode off into the night, heading southeast.

SIXTY-ONE.

"He's escaped escaped?" Ezio had ridden the last miles to La Mota without sparing himself, his companions, or their horses, with an ever-deepening sense of apprehension. "How?"

"It was carefully planned, signore signore," said the hapless lieutenant of the castle, a plumpish man of sixty with a very red nose. "We are holding an official inquiry."

"And what have you come up with?"

"As yet..."

But Ezio wasn't listening. He was looking around at the Castle of La Mota. It was exactly as the Apple had depicted it. And the thought led him to remember another vision it had vouchsafed him: the gathering army at a seaport...The seaport had been Valencia!

His mind raced frantically.

He could only think of getting back to the coast as fast as possible!

"Get me fresh horses!" he yelled.

"But, signore... signore..."

Machiavelli and Leonardo looked at each other.

"Ezio! Whatever the urgency, we must rest, at least for a day," said Machiavelli.

"A week." Leonardo groaned.

As matters turned out, they were delayed, since Leonardo fell ill. He was exhausted, and he missed Italy badly. Ezio was almost tempted to abandon him, but Machiavelli counseled restraint: "He is your old friend. And they cannot gather an army and a fleet in less than two months."

Ezio relented.

Events were to prove him right.

And to prove Leonardo invaluable.

SIXTY-TWO.

Ezio and his companions were back in Valencia within a month. They found the city in a state of uproar. Machiavelli had underestimated the speed with which things could happen in such a wealthy town.

Men had been secretly mustering and now, just outside Valencia, there was a huge camp of soldiers, maybe one thousand men. The Borgia were offering mercenaries good wages, and word had got around fast. Budding soldiers were coming in from as far away as Barcelona and Madrid, and from all over the provinces of Murcia and La Mancha. And Borgia money ensured that a fleet of perhaps fifteen ships, quickly run-up troopships with half a dozen small warships to protect them, was in the process of being built.

"Well, we don't need the Apple to tell us what our old friend Cesare is planning," said Machiavelli.

"That's true. He doesn't need a vast army to take Naples, and once he's established a bridgehead there, he'll recruit many more men to his cause. His plan is to conquer the Kingdom of Naples, and all Italy."

"What are Ferdinand and Isabella doing about this?" asked Machiavelli.

"They'll be getting a force together to crush it. We'll enlist their aid."

"Take too long. Their army has to march from Madrid. The garrison here must have been put out of action. But you can see that Cesare's in a hurry," rejoined Machiavelli.

"Might not even be necessary," put in Leonardo musingly.

"What do you mean?"

"Bombs."

"Bombs?" asked Machiavelli.

"Quite little bombs-but effective enough to, say, wreck ships or disperse a camp."

"Well, if they'll do that for us..." said Ezio. "What do you need to make them?"

"Sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. And steel. Thinnish steel. Flexible. And I'll need a small studio and a furnace."

It took them a while, but fortunately for them, Captain Alberto's ship, the Marea di Alba Marea di Alba, was tied up at its usual quay. He greeted them with a friendly wave.

"Hello again!" he said. "The people who aren't gentlemen. I don't suppose you heard about the fracas at the Lone Wolf shortly after you arrived?"

Ezio told him what they needed.

"Hm. I do know a man here who has the facilities, and he might be able to put ticks on your shopping list."

"When do you return to Italy?" asked Leonardo.

"I've brought over a cargo of grappa, and I'm taking back silk again. Maybe two, three days. Why?"

"I'll tell you later."

"Can you get what we need arranged quickly?" asked Ezio, who suddenly had a sense of foreboding. But he couldn't blame Leonardo for wanting to leave.

"Certainly!"

Alberto was as good as his word, and within a few hours everything had been arranged and Leonardo settled down to work.

"How long will it take you?" asked Machiavelli.

"Two days, since I don't have any assistants. I've enough material here to make twenty, maybe twenty-one, bombs. That's ten each."

"Seven each," said Ezio. each," said Ezio.