The Republic of Milan. 1285 AD.
Rebecca Guarna carves her way free of a gritty past and into an action-packed world of deception. The Blade of Milan is at once a thriller, adventure, and one womanâs quest for a higher purpose in life despite the limitations of her time.
Failed by those who should have loved her the most, Rebecca is raised in Milanâs prestigious brothels, spending nights plotting her escape. Bitter and skilled with a blade, she inflicts revenge on wealthy patrons. Rebeccaâs bloodlust attracts the attention of Rustichello, the master of the Sons of Saint George, a centuries-old league of assassins sworn to protect the Roman Catholic popeâs interests.
Ambitious yet naive, Rebecca joins Rustichello to learn the art of sabotage and stealth. Between pirate schemes and evading a rival brotherhood of assassins, Rebecca accidentally provokes a secret feud between the pope in Rome and emperor in Austria. Meanwhile, sinister truths come to light at the righteous heart of the Sons of Saint George, threatening to destabilize Rebeccaâs newfound purpose and the republic of Milan forever.
The Republic of Milan. 1285 AD.
Rebecca Guarna carves her way free of a gritty past and into an action-packed world of deception. The Blade of Milan is at once a thriller, adventure, and one womanâs quest for a higher purpose in life despite the limitations of her time.
Failed by those who should have loved her the most, Rebecca is raised in Milanâs prestigious brothels, spending nights plotting her escape. Bitter and skilled with a blade, she inflicts revenge on wealthy patrons. Rebeccaâs bloodlust attracts the attention of Rustichello, the master of the Sons of Saint George, a centuries-old league of assassins sworn to protect the Roman Catholic popeâs interests.
Ambitious yet naive, Rebecca joins Rustichello to learn the art of sabotage and stealth. Between pirate schemes and evading a rival brotherhood of assassins, Rebecca accidentally provokes a secret feud between the pope in Rome and emperor in Austria. Meanwhile, sinister truths come to light at the righteous heart of the Sons of Saint George, threatening to destabilize Rebeccaâs newfound purpose and the republic of Milan forever.
The steam and perfume and carnal musk in the brothel clung to skin like vine tendrils to a tree. No bout between pokes in the night air could obstruct the seepage of aromas claiming the fabric of patrons and entertainers alike. Sour in the back of the throat. Bed frames ground wooden floorboards, staccato moans permeated the senses. The orchestra of nocturnal activities were an old friend of Rebeccaâs as both observer and active participant.
She tossed a bundle of aromatic herbs and spice sticks into the hot bath as the kettle came to a boil. When the copper jug hissed, she tipped it over the coals. The heat forced a sharp inhale from her patron. Sumptuous oils coated their skin. Rebecca pocketed a smudge stick to wash at home later. The blade strapped to her thigh would make a mess.
Kneeling behind the learned clergy of the Church in the tub, Rebecca scrubbed his back. Working the water to a lather, she admired his fine cotton smock and deep red chaperon hat by the door. The belt-rope, coiled on the floor, was flung from his waist quicker than Rebecca anticipated his wire-frame capable of moving. His earnestness to be rubbed and seduced in spite of his profession repulsed her.
But he was not unique. Rebecca encountered all sorts in the brothels for the better part of her twenty and three years. Tanners and smiths, clergy and night watchmen. She knew them. Their contrary behavior fascinated her.
They bought wares and traded livestock at the central market. They kissed wives, tossed children into the air, and prayed in the Basilica of Saint Ambrose. At night, Rebecca poured their wine, drew their baths, and endured their rancid breath. Stubbled cheeks rubbed her bosom raw and sweat beads dripped onto her throat. For their measly coin, she spread her legs.
Blessed by the Lord above and deemed indispensable by the noble, earthly lords, the stewhouses served their purpose. The hot-blooded sons of the republic required release from their desires and Milan required a tax base. The logic was sound yet the patrons were swine. This clergy, a hypocrite. Rebecca hated them.
âNasty business these killings,â he said. âAnd in the stewhouses. Has decency been surrendered? Must be a Jew.â
Rebecca tsked in assent and massaged his narrow collarbones.
âYou suspect multiple killers, father?â
âHa! I should hope not. I pray this work of a godless devil is not the doing of more than one man. The affront to the sanctity of life appalls me.â
Rebecca relaxed her grip. A heat rose to her cheeks; he did not consider a female killer. Few would. A specter marred the onset of Lent, punctuating the observation of Jesus Christâs resurrection with literal Death. No amount of fasting or prayerful devotions could drive the fear of three vicious murders from the minds of the patrons. The clergyman shrugged, encouraging her fingers to continue.
âThe archbishop is joining our special procession tomorrow through the city. This criminal must heed our plea for peace.â
Rebecca drove a thumb into the meat under his scapula. An involuntary utterance escaped his lips as he flinched.
âTake heed, slattern!â
Rebecca stood too fast, blood rushing to her head. The insult, an all-too-common curse to her ears, felt enough of a signal to get on with her deed. Her other assaults gathered in her mind. Growing from tepid to assertiveâa hidden jab in the back alleys, a swift stab between pokesâand a quick escape. The fear of being discovered, ever-present, bobbed in her throat now.
Drunken hollers competed with the lutenists downstairs by the bar. Peals of laughter from unfamiliar whores danced atop the guffaws of regulars.
âMy apologies, father. Talk of murder has me anxious.â She scratched his neck with a loving caress.
âThese are trying times, dear. Remember to trust in the Lord. His heart has eternal love even for you.â
Even for me.
The same Lord who ignored her childhood prayers would not answer their pleas. The clergy did not care for the worries of the people, but required peace of mind to enjoy the pleasure houses without fear of slaughter. The vanity and bald condescension turned her stomach. Whether patrons indulged here or in Rebeccaâs homeâMamaâs stewhouseâshe would forever be an object of derision. Until she decided to take matters into her own hands.
âOf course, father.â
âJoin me, will you?â
Rebecca walked around to face tonightâs victim. He patted the waterâs surface, not noticing the grimace of rage on her otherwise slender jaw. She rearranged her expression and caressed her abdomen and hips, and drew her hands back towards her groin. The patron and his member stood at attention. His tumescence served no compliment. She knew her worth.
At average height, Rebeccaâs striking features included lustrous black curls that danced between her shoulders and lips framed underneath almond-shaped eyes. Eyes that held an eternal blaze appraising all they held in lurid scrutiny. In her own estimation, the only flaw to her face was a Roman nose that must have belonged to her truant father.
A leather sheath clung to her inner right thigh, buried beneath folds of ragged dress. She learned during her last foray that if she split her undergarment from crotch to knee against her leg, it allowed the blade smoother egress.
Rebecca shrugged out of the shoulder straps as the patron reached for her hips like a suckling babe for its mother. The clergymanâs gaze trained on her hosiery. She felt her muscles tauten, the strength of youth masquerading under the calorie deficiency of poverty in her glistening curves. The art of seduction crescendoed with her hand clutching the black-pommeled blade from between her thighs.
The patronâs eyes seized on the naked iron dagger. A knock at the private steam bath door. Another courtesan sought to entertain a guest. The patron twisted in the tub.
âHelp!â
Rebecca launched into the tub and clasped his gaping mouth. She lodged the blade into his throat. Her full weight pressed behind the thrust. Pink water splashed onto the floor. Staring into the patronâs wide eyes, Rebecca watched as fear blossomed to terror and faded to black.
Breathing hard, she prayed her fellow courtesan would get the hint they had unfinished business. Knock. Knock.
Blood rushed to her eardrums. Then another. Add it to her unanswered prayers. Rebecca admired her only and most prized possession in this worldâthe pommel jutting from his neck. She tugged the blade from his flesh.
A gurgle escaped the wound. She pressed on the hole, futile and panicked, to conceal the aspiration. A fresh tune from the lutenist struck a lively dance, yet the courtesan, or patron, tugged at the locked door.
Rebecca jumped from the tub and threw open the window. The steam flumed outside. The glow of the embers threw shadows onto his surcoat. Why she bothered to visit the stewhouse in the first place came to mind. She dug into his pockets until she found a coin purse.
After redressing, she tangled her hair ahead of her ears to drape her face. Pulling on her hood, she draped his coat over her forearm. In the hallway, a drunken pair, arms in a tangled mess, leaned against the far wall. Lechery could not wait. Rebecca slunk to the stairs, where a patron grabbed her backside. She threw the dead clergymanâs coat over his shoulders and straightened it with a smile.
Taking his arm, she led him back downstairs. Luck shone through his drifting gaze. As they reached the landing, three Signori di Notte, the cityâs night watchmen, entered. They could not yet know. The armed guards must have stopped for a free meal and flagon of wine. A shriek pierced the revelry. All eyes turned to the second story except Rebeccaâs. A black-clad figure stood across the crowd staring directly at her. He offered a slight nod and wink from behind a curtain of greasy hair.
âHeâs dead!â A half-nude patron leaned over the rail, pointing into the stew room Rebecca vacated.
The night watchmen drew swords. A thick punch slammed into Rebeccaâs shoulder blade. The drunken stooge dressed in the clergymanâs surcoat would not be distracted from a small issue such as murder. He demanded the false hope of a courtesanâs attention. Rebecca would give it to him. She screamed. The night watchmen paused on the stairs. âHeâs wearing the dead manâs coat.â Rebecca pointed in the patronâs face. âHe did it!â
With the night watchmen descending on the innocent patron, and the crush of the crowd pressing towards front and back exits to scatter, Rebecca elbowed through the harried bar. The man with the greasy hair aimed to follow. She knocked into the lutenist and kicked his instrument amid cries of protest. Without another glance, she burst into the night.
She couldnât go straight homeâto the last brothel on the road in the pleasure quartersâso she took the left turn. A voice floated over the cacophony demanding to question the courtesan with the patron in the surcoat. Rebecca hugged the cityâs outer defense wall. She found herself near the livestock pens.
Stopping to assess her trail from behind the sheep pen's corner post, she heard watchmen calling to note their lack of progress. Fortunes favored her. The Signori di Notte would report no quarry to their masters tonight, save a bewildered drunkard in a dead clergyman's coat.
Rebecca decided to round the pens and backtrack to the pleasure quarters by way of the central market. She paused behind a stable to examine the coin purse. She had not expected a hefty sum, but was underwhelmed by the yield. Three silver grossi and two Ambrogino dâOro. The Venetian coins could be traded for florin, but the newly minted Milanese gold held value only within the republic. Sheâd need to find a local merchant willing to part with florins or guilders. She didnât wish to depart Milan as a pauper.
Her dreams of the means to escape distracted her from her feetâs effort. A whimper rendered her thoughts inert. She had reached the backside of the Breaking Wheel. Clouds shifted. Moonlight lanced the macabre scene. A gentle pitter-patter of rain drummed her hood and the dirt road.
The Wheelâthe final destination for condemned men and womenâconsisted of a single wooden post in the center of a raised wooden platform. The wagon wheel was nailed into the post, and tonight was decorated with the mangled form of a victim.
âIs there someone there?â
She froze. Grit and gravel aggravated the voice, parched from naught a drop of water and cries of agony from a protracted torture. Twisted and mangled limbs, broken and weaved through wheel spokes at unnatural angles, greeted her. Once condemned to the Wheel, an executioner bludgeoned arms and legs with a maul, the flat stone hammer, until they cracked. Unable to stand, the broken limbs were weaved into the spokes until the Condemned died of suffocation or the elements.
âI donât want to be alone.â
Neither would she. Rebecca struggled to recall his crime. It mattered not, because if Milanâs noble judges sentenced a man to this fate, how would they punish a woman who killed individuals contributing to the public health and economy of the republic? Rebeccaâs breath drowned his whimpers. She whispered. âIâm here.â
The prisonerâs jagged breaths eased as she squatted behind him, maintaining a silent vigil. Rebecca waited to depart. No one should have to go out of this world alone. Resentment tasted bitter in her mouth at the thought. She began this life alone. The criminalâs head fell limp, and she wondered if the crows would eat his eyes in the morn.
Her actions in the stewhouses were bound to catch up to herâconsequences she was not yet prepared to pay. Curtains of frigid rain battered the streets. Mud splattered her ankles and hem as she stalked a wide berth past the livestock stables. Back to Mamaâs brothel.
She corrected herself. Back home.
Set in late 13thâcentury Italy, Warren R. Baslaâs The Blade of Milan is a creative reimagining of Assassinâs Creed. Rebecca Guarnaâs journeyâfrom a young courtesan in a Milanese brothel to a master assassinâis set against the historical backdrop of political and economic rivalry for control of Milan between the Visconti and Della Torre families.
The novel opens with Rebeccaâs revenge killings of hypocritical patronsâclergy, administrators, and merchants who exploit women like her while hiding behind situational moralityâone that selectively serves their convenience. Her first-hand experience teaches her that abuse is not confined to the elite; even the downtrodden find ways to dominate those just below them. Before long, her killings attract the attention of the leader of the Sons of Saint George, a secretive brotherhood of assassins.
The storyâs subtext is interesting. Rebecca is a smart, resourceful, and strong heroine, earning her independence on her own terms. She realizes she is a disposable pawn in someone elseâs game.
In increasingly challenging assignmentsâone abusive target after another, one corrupt official after anotherâsheâs observant and sees the real depth of corruption, well beyond her personal experience in the brothels. This is the moment in her arc that I enjoyed the most.
Though an assassin, she keeps her own sense of honor and refuses to murder indiscriminately. She uses non-lethal techniques to achieve her ends. She turns infrastructure to her advantage. She dares to do certain things that her caste would normally never allow.
Not only does she figure out the game, but in becoming the sole Daughter of St. George, she makes the quintessential turn of victim to masterâchanging the game.
The storytelling occasionally slips with dialogue or references that echo more modern meanings than a 13thâcentury setting might warrant. Where Rebecca is multi-dimensional, some of the other characters could have been shaded with more nuance. The story also relies on narration to advance the plot where more internality and visualization would have made the experience richer. Though more historically-minded readers might pause, these details do not derail the story.
Baslaâs The Blade of Milan delivers a gritty, historically themed re-imagining of Assassinâs Creed that will appeal to readers who enjoy a rewarding redemptive arc set in a late medieval Milan.