Templar's Creed

Chapter 35

Girolamo Savonarola stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and greed. One of the most trusted Templars in Cesare's inner circle, he had observed the unfolding events with a keen interest. The smile on his face was as cold as the steel in his hand, a stark contrast to the grim scene before them.

"My lord," he began, his voice a slick whisper, "I bring tidings of victory. My lieutenants have infiltrated Venice as we speak. The city will fall into our hands within the hour, and with it, the power and wealth we seek to secure our dominance in Italy."

Cesare's expression remained stony, his gaze not leaving the lifeless form of his former ally. Yet, the faintest glimmer of something akin to satisfaction flickered in his eyes. "Venice?" he repeated, his tone deceptively calm. "How is it that you come to me now with news of victory?"

Girolamo's smile grew more pronounced, his eyes gleaming with the fire of ambition. "My spies have reported that the city is ripe for the taking," he said, his voice dripping with confidence. "The Doge is weak, and the people are ripe for change. Our men are already in place, and the signal has been given. By dawn, Venice will be ours."

Cesare's gaze shifted from the lifeless body of Francisco to Girolamo, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the truth of the man's words. "And what of the Assassins?" he asked, his tone still cold. "Do they suspect anything?"

Girolamo met the Borgia's gaze unflinchingly. "They are in decline," he replied. "With the death of their leader and the loss of their most powerful ally, they are as a headless snake—dangerous, but easily crushed. They grieve, they mourn, but they do not yet know the extent of their loss."

Cesare's expression remained cold, his eyes never leaving the corpse of his former pawn. "Giovanni was but one man," he said, his voice measured. "Their cause does not die with him. The Assassin Order is an ancient and resilient enemy, not so easily vanquished."

Girolamo's smile never faltered. "But their leader is gone," he insisted, his voice a silky persuasion. "Their morale is shattered. We must strike now, while they are vulnerable."

Cesare considered his words, the rage within him simmering into a cold, calculating anger. He knew the truth of what Girolamo said—Giovanni's death was a significant blow to the Assassin Order. But the Borgia was not one to be swayed by emotion, not even the satisfaction of his own vengeance. He had grander plans, and the fall of Venice was merely a stepping stone.

"Very well," he said at last, sheathing his sword and turning away from the lifeless bodies. "Take Venice. Use whatever means necessary to secure it. But do not underestimate the Assassins." His gaze flicked to Girolamo, the warning clear. "Their leader may be gone, but their resolve remains."

Girolamo nodded, eager to prove himself. "They will not see us coming, my lord," he assured, bowing low. "We will strike swiftly and without mercy."

Cesare's gaze remained fixed on the gallows, the swinging body of Petruccio a stark reminder of the price of failure. "See that you do," he said, his voice cold as the night air. "The future of the Templar Order rests in your hands."

Girolamo's pulse quickened at the responsibility laid upon him, but he remained unflappable. "I shall not fail you, my lord," he assured, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that was almost religious. "The city will be ours, and the world will tremble at the might of the Templars."

Cesare nodded, his gaze still fixed on the gallows. For a moment, his thoughts were a whirlwind of strategy and ambition, the path to power stretching out before him like a serpentine labyrinth. Venice was just the beginning. With each city that fell to his will, the world would be reshaped in the image of the Templar's vision.

Girolamo watched his lord's contemplation, his own excitement growing with every silent second. "Would you not wish to accompany me to Venice?" he ventured, the question hanging in the air like a dangling fruit ripe for the plucking. "To witness the fall of the city with your own eyes, and to savor the sweet taste of victory?"

Cesare's gaze remained on the gallows for a long moment before finally shifting to Girolamo. He considered the offer, the cogs in his mind turning as he weighed the potential gains against the risks. Venice was crucial to their cause, but so was the appearance of control and invincibility. To leave now, when the Order was in a state of mourning and confusion, could be seen as a sign of weakness.

"I will remain in Florence," he decided, his voice firm. "The city needs a firm hand to ensure no more of our enemies seek to take advantage of this... unfortunate situation." He paused, his eyes lingering on the corpse of his former pawn. "Make no mistake, Girolamo. Your victory in Venice must be absolute."

Girolamo nodded, the excitement in his eyes not wavering. "Of course, my lord," he assured. "I will not fail you."

As he turned to leave, Cesare's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Before you go, Girolamo, I wish to tell you a story," he said, his eyes still on the swinging body of Petruccio. "It is a tale of an ancient Assassin named Bayek, from the sands of Egypt."

Girolamo's curiosity piqued, he waited for the Borgia to continue. "Bayek was a Medjay, a protector of the people," began Cesare, his tone taking on an almost reverential quality. "He was a man who sought to uphold the balance in the world, to ensure that no one, not even those in the highest echelons of power, could oppress the innocent."