The Apple ceased to glow and looked dead, like an old leather-bound ball.
Swiftly, Ezio told his friends what had been imparted to him.
“Naples? Why Naples?” Leonardo asked.
“Because it’s in Spanish territory. We have no jurisdiction there.”
“And because he knows—somehow—that Bartolomeo is policing Ostia,” said Ezio. “But we must make all speed. Come!”
Dusk was falling as Machiavelli and Ezio carried the Apple in its box down into the catacombs below the Colosseum and, passing through the dreadful gloomy rooms of the remains of Nero’s Golden House, carried torches before them as they made their way through a maze of tunnels under the old Roman Forum to a spot near the church of San Nicola in Carcere, where they found a secret door within the crypt. Behind it was a small, vaulted room, in the center of which stood a plinth. On this they placed the Apple in its box and withdrew. Once closed, the door ceased as if by magic to be visible even to them, but they knew where it was and near it drew the sacred, secret symbols that only a member of the Brotherhood would understand. The same symbols they inscribed at regular intervals along their way back, and again at the mouth of the entrance near the Colosseum from which they emerged.
Then, after meeting Leonardo again, who had insisted on joining them, they rode hard to Ostia, where they took a ship for the long coastal journey south to Naples. They arrived on Midsummer Day, 1505—Ezio’s forty-sixth birthday.
They didn’t go into the teeming, hilly town, but remained among the fortified docks, splitting up to search among the sailors, tradesmen, and travelers busy about their fishing smacks, their shallops, and their caravels, carracks, and cogs, visiting the taverns and brothels, and all in frantic haste, for no one, Spanish, Italian, or Arab, seemed to have an answer to their question:
“Have you seen a big man, with huge hands, scars on his face, thin, seeking passage to Valencia?”
After an hour of this, they regrouped on the main quay.
“He’s going to Valencia. He must be!” said Ezio through gritted teeth.
“But if he isn’t?” put in Leonardo. “And we charter a ship and sail to Valencia anyway—we might lose days and even weeks, and so lose Micheletto altogether.”
“You’re right.”
“The Apple didn’t lie to you. He was—or, if we’re lucky—is here. We just have to find somebody who knows for sure.”
A whore sidled up. “We’re not interested,” snapped Machiavelli.
She grinned. She was a pretty blond woman, tall and slim, with dark brown eyes, long, shapely legs, small breasts, broad shoulders, and narrow hips, maybe forty years old. “But youare interested in Micheletto Corella.”
Ezio swung around on her. She looked so like Caterina that for a moment his head swam. “What do you know?”
She snapped back with all the hardness of a whore: “What’s it worth to you?” Then came the professional smile again. “I’m Camilla, by the way.”
“Ten ducats.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty! You’d earn less than that in a week on your back!” snarled Machiavelli.
“Charmer! Do you want the information or not? I can see you’re in a hurry.”
“Fifteen, then,” said Ezio, pulling out his purse.
“That’s better,tesoro.”
“Information first,” said Machiavelli as Camilla held out her hand for the money.
“Half first.”
Ezio handed over eight ducats.
“Generous with it,” said the woman. “All right. Micheletto was here last night. He spent it with me, and I’ve never earned my money harder. He was drunk, he abused me, he half strangled me while we were fucking, and he ran off at dawn without paying. Pistol in his belt, sword, ugly-looking dagger. Smelled pretty bad, too, but I know he had money because I guessed what he’d do and took my fee out of his purse when he finally fell asleep. Of course the bouncers from the brothel followed him, though I think they were a little scared, and kept their distance a bit.”
“And?” said Machiavelli. “None of this is of any use to us so far.”
“But they kept him in sight. He must have chartered a ship the night before because he went straight to a carrack called theMarea di Alba, and it sailed on the dawn tide.”
“Describe him,” said Ezio.
“Big, huge hands—I had them around my neck so I should know—broken nose, scarred face; some of the scars seemed to make him look like he had a permanent grin. Didn’t talk much.”
“How do you know his name?”
“I asked, just to make conversation, and he told me,” she answered, simply.
“And where was he going?”
“One of the bouncers knew one of the seamen, and asked him, as they were casting off.”
“Where?”
“Valencia.”
Valencia. Micheletto was going back to his birth-place—also the hometown of a family called Borgia.
Ezio handed her twelve more ducats. “I’ll remember you,” he said. “If we find you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”
It was already midday. It took them another hour to find a fast caravel available for charter and agree on the price. Another two hours were needed to victual and prepare the ship. Then they had to wait for the next tide. A caravel is a faster ship than a carrack. Even so, it was early evening before the sails were raised. And the sea was choppy and the wind against them.
“Happy birthday,” said Leonardo to Ezio.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The Fates were against them. Their ship sailed well, but the sea remained rough and they encountered squalls that took the sails aback. The hoped-for chance of catching up with Micheletto at sea was long gone when, five days later, their battered caravel put into port at Valencia.
It was a prosperous and booming place, but none of the three—Ezio, Leonardo, or Machiavelli—was familiar with it. The recently built Silk Exchange vied in grandeur with the bell tower, the Torres de Quart, and the Palau de la Generalitat. It was a powerful Catalan city, one of the most important trading cities in the Mediterranean Sea.
But it was also confusing, and teeming with Valencianos, who mingled in the busy streets with Italians, Dutch, English, and Arabs—the languages heard in the streets created a very Babel.
Fortunately theMarea di Alba was still moored near to where the caravel docked, and the two captains were friends.
“Ciao, Alberto!”
“Ciao, Filin!”
“Bad voyage?” said Alberto, a stout man of thirty, as he stood on the poop deck of his vessel supervising the loading of a mixed cargo of silk, and rare and expensive coffee for the return journey.
“Brutissimo.”
“So I see from the state of your ship. But there’ll be a good sea and a fair wind for the next week, so I’m hurrying back as soon as I can.”
“I won’t be so lucky. When did you get in?”
“Two days ago.”
Ezio stepped up. “And your passenger?”
Alberto spat. “Che tipo brutto—but he paid well.”
“Where is he now?”
“Gone! I know he was in the town, asking questions, but he’s well-known here, and he has many friends, believe it or not.” Alberto spat again. “Not of the best sort, either.”
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come,” whispered Leonardo. “One thing I am not is a man of violence.”
“Where has he gone, do you know?”
“He was staying at the Lobo Solitario; you could ask there.”
They disembarked and made straight for the Lone Wolf Inn, after Alberto had given them directions and added darkly, “But it is not a place for gentlemen.”