Templar's Creed

Chapter 26

Giovanni rose to his feet, leaving his friend to die in the shadow of the cathedral. His eyes searched the streets once more, but there was no sign of Francesco de' Pazzi. The Templar had slipped away like a phantom, leaving only the echo of his laughter in the night. A week had passed, and every lead had turned to dust in his hands. The city of Florence was a labyrinth of whispers and shadows, each twist and turn revealing more of the Templar's treachery, but none leading to their elusive leader.

Meanwhile, in the heart of the city, deep within the Palazzo Vecchio, a clandestine meeting took place. Francesco de' Pazzi sat at the head of a long table, his crimson robes a stark contrast to the cold stone walls. Around him gathered his most trusted allies: the cunning Archbishop Salviati, the brutal Condottiero Stefano da Bagnone, and his own cousin Jacopo de' Pazzi. Their faces were grim, etched with the lines of men who had seen the darkest aspects of human nature and reveled in them.

They spoke in hushed tones, their words a tapestry of fear and strategy. Each man brought forth reports of Giovanni's movements, his growing influence, and the chaos he left in his wake. The room was thick with the scent of candle wax and parchment, the only light coming from the flickering flames that cast dancing shadows across their faces.

"The people whisper his name in the streets," Jacopo spoke with a mix of disgust and awe. "They see him as a hero, a savior."

"He's a butcher," snarled Archbishop Salviati, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "A madman driven by vengeance. We must show them the truth."

"He's more than that," countered Condottiero Stefano da Bagnone, his scarred face a testament to battles fought and won. "He's a symbol of resistance, a beacon in the dark. We can't underestimate his influence."

"Where is Emilio Barbarigo?" Francesco's voice cut through the murmurs like a knife, his eyes sweeping the room. "He was summoned here. His absence is... troubling."

The others exchanged uneasy glances, the tension thickening the air. "Perhaps he's been waylaid," offered Archbishop Salviati, his eyes flicking to the shadows as if expecting an ambush.

"Or perhaps he's realized the futility of our cause," whispered Condottiero Stefano, his scarred visage a mask of contemplation.

Giovanni had indeed become a thorn in their side, a persistent and deadly one at that. His vendetta had grown into a crusade, each Templar he slew a step closer to their destruction. Their whispers grew more frantic, the candlelight flickering with the force of their unease.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the chamber burst open, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. The conspirators jumped to their feet, swords drawn, only to find themselves staring at an unarmed man, his eyes wide with shock and terror. It was none other than Mario Barbarigo, his eyes searching the room as if seeking refuge.

The tension was palpable as the room fell silent, the flaming candles casting dramatic shadows on the walls. The men around the table exchanged confused glances, their hands tightening around their weapons.

"What is it?" Francisco de' Pazzi demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a sword through flesh.

Mario Barbarigo's chest heaved with fear, his eyes darting from one Templar to the next. "Em...Emilio...he...he's hanging from the...the Tower of Palazzo Vecchio," he stuttered, his words barely coherent.

The room erupted into a frenzy of shouts and accusations. "What?!" "Impossible!" "How did he find us?" The air was electric with panic as the reality of their vulnerability set in.

Giovanni had struck at the very heart of their power. Emilio Barbarigo, one of their own, had been captured and executed, his body a gruesome message to the rest of the Templars. The room grew colder, the shadows seeming to thicken around them as they realized the extent of the Assassin's reach.

Francesco's expression was a tumult of emotions—disbelief, anger, and a creeping dread that painted his features in an ugly hue. He could not accept this as truth, not yet. He had to see it with his own eyes. Struggling to maintain his composure, he pushed back from the table and strode to the door, his crimson robes billowing behind him like the wings of a demon.

The night air was a slap in the face, cold and biting, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city's unrest. The tower loomed before him, a silent sentinel bathed in moonlight. He approached with a furious stride, his eyes searching the skyline for any sign of his adversary. His heart thundered in his chest like the drums of war, each beat echoing the fury that pulsed through his veins.

As he drew closer, his stomach lurched. The sight was one he had never imagined, never dared to think possible. Emilio's lifeless body swung from the tower's battlements, a macabre pendulum that cast a grotesque shadow on the ground below. The crimson of his robes had been stolen by the night, leaving only a ghastly silhouette that whispered of defeat.

Francesco's legs felt like lead as he climbed the stairs to the tower's summit. Each step echoed his doubt, a grim symphony of truth he desperately wanted to silence. When he reached the top, the wind howled around him, carrying the scent of the sea and the bitter tang of fear. He stepped closer to the edge, his eyes transfixed on the grisly tableau before him.

Emilio's lifeless body swung gently in the breeze, a crimson pennant of defiance against the moonlit sky. The sight was a knife to the heart, a stark reminder that even the mightiest could fall. His mind reeled, trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

The Assassin had outsmarted them again, striking at their stronghold and leaving no stone unturned in his quest for vengeance. The whispers of his name grew louder with each passing day, turning into a roar that echoed through the very streets of Florence.

Giovanni's path grew darker with each step. His every move was calculated, each target meticulously chosen. The Templars were no longer shadows in the night; they were in the open, a stain upon the city that needed to be cleansed.