Templar's Creed

Chapter 25

But as the words left his mouth, the Templar leader's hand darted to his belt, pulling out a small metal sphere. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw it to the ground between them. The world erupted into a billowing cloud of smoke, thick and acrid, obscuring everything in a choking shroud. Coughing and blinded, Giovanni staggered back, his eyes watering from the noxious fumes.

The smoke bomb had bought Francisco a brief reprieve, and he took it without hesitation. He scrambled to his feet, his boots pounding against the dirt as he sprinted away from the flaming wreckage of the village. The cries of his men grew fainter, swallowed by the chaos that surrounded them.

Giovanni stumbled through the smoke, his eyes stinging, his lungs burning. He had to end this—now. The Templars had taken everything from him, and he would not let them escape unscathed. With a roar that pierced the smoke, he tore through the fog, his sword arm raised in a silent promise of retribution.

As the smoke cleared, he caught a glimpse of a horse's tail disappearing into the night. His heart leaped, and he knew what he had to do. He sprinted towards the nearest steed, its eyes wide with terror. With a gentle whisper and a firm hand, he calmed the animal and swung into the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him.

Giovanni spurred the horse into a gallop, the creature's hooves pounding the earth like the drumbeat of vengeance. The night air whipped at his face, carrying the scent of the Templar's fear. He knew he could not let him escape, not now, not after everything he had lost.

Florence loomed before them, a sprawling cityscape of shadows and whispers. The cobblestone streets grew closer, the buildings rising like ancient sentinels as they approached the city's gates. The horse's breath was hot and ragged, its eyes wild with the same desperation that burned in Giovanni's chest.

Giovanni's eyes searched the fog for any sign of his quarry, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The thunder of hooves grew distant, the echo of his pursuit fading into the cacophony of the city's nightlife. His eyes narrowed, and he urged his horse faster, the animal responding with a snort and a surge of speed.

As they approached the bustling streets of Florence, the crowds grew denser, their murmurs and laughter a stark contrast to the symphony of rage that played in his head. He dismounted, the cobblestones cold and unforgiving beneath his boots, and slipped into the shadows. The horse, sensing his master's urgency, remained still, its eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight.

Giovanni's eyes scanned the throngs of people, looking for any sign of the crimson robes that marked his enemy. The crowded marketplaces and shadowy alleys made the task daunting, but he would not be deterred. Each face he passed was a potential mask hiding the monster that had taken his family.

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a flash of red in the distance, and his heart leaped. He stalked closer, his footsteps silent as a ghost. There, in the shadow of a looming cathedral, he saw Francesco de' Pazzi. The man was speaking in urgent, hushed tones to another figure cloaked in the crimson of the Templars—Bernardo Baroncelli.

Giovanni's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. Bernardo's involvement in this treachery was a revelation that cut deep. He had once called the man a friend, had trusted him with his life. The betrayal was a knife in his back, twisting with every beat of his heart.

He approached with the stealth of a panther, each step bringing him closer to his prey. The cobblestone streets whispered of his approach, but the two Templars were too engrossed in their clandestine conversation to notice. The fog had thinned, the moon casting a silver light upon the city, illuminating their treacherous forms.

Giovanni's hand was poised, the blade of his sword gleaming in the moon's glow. He was a specter of retribution, his every breath a silent promise of justice. As he drew closer, he could almost feel the heat of their malicious intent, could almost taste the fear they had sown in the hearts of the innocent.

With a swiftness that belied his fury, he lunged from the shadows, his sword aimed at the heart of the man who had taken everything from him. But as his blade neared its mark, Francesco de' Pazzi saw his opportunity and took it without hesitation. He shoved Bernardo Baroncelli into the path of the descending weapon, the look in his eyes a mix of amusement and contempt.

Giovanni's world slowed to a crawl as he watched his blade plunge into his former friend's chest. The shock was like a physical blow, and for a moment, he was rooted to the spot, unable to believe what had just transpired. Bernardo's eyes widened in surprise and pain, his body convulsing as the life drained from him. The sound of the sword being pulled free was like a mournful bell tolling in the stillness of the night.

The moment of horror was shattered by the sound of retreating footsteps. Turning, Giovanni saw Francisco de' Pazzi sprinting away, his crimson robes fluttering behind him like a macabre flag of victory. The anger that had fueled him moments before was now a cold, burning ember in his chest. He knew he had to finish this, to end the nightmare that had consumed his life.

Giovanni bent over the dying Bernardo, whose eyes searched his face, desperate for understanding. "Why?" he managed to choke out, his voice a mere whisper.

Bernardo's hand clutched at Giovanni's tunic, his grip weakening with every passing second. "They had my family," he rasped, the pain etched deep into his features. "They forced me to betray you. I had no choice."

Giovanni's heart was a leaden weight in his chest. He had killed a man he once called a friend, a man who had been as close as a brother. The realization was a bitter pill, one that choked him with rage and regret. But there was no time for grief now, not when the true snake still slithered away in the night.

He looked into Bernardo's fading eyes and spoke with a voice that was barely a whisper. "I understand," he said, his hand tightening around the man's. "But I cannot forgive." The words were a knife to his own soul, but he knew that forgiveness would not bring back his son, nor would it soothe the ache in his heart.