Forli, August 1488
Eyes fluttering open, Ezio let out a soft groan as the sunlight burned and blurred his vision. Struggling to sit up, he flinched at the sharp pain that flared through his stomach. Shuddering, he fell back onto the soft surface of where he lay. However, the melodious sounds of Caterina Sforza's voice immediately washed over him. Listening as she explained how her men found him in the mountains, nearly dead and bleeding out from Checco Orsi's dagger, he could barely believe his own survival.
He refused to rest, even as Caterina insisted that a few days in Forli would be for his own benefit. Though her personal physician had neatly stitched up his wound, her apothecaries tending to him for the two nights and three days he slept, there was still certain danger of it reopening. Which could in turn to lead to infection, fever, and possibly even death.
But he was man who would not be deterred. Not longer a child, he was an Assassin now, bearing responsibilities to others besides himself. It was something the Lady of Imola and Forli was well aware of, considering her position and fierce defense of her people. Especially her children.
Yet a dead assassin serves no one, she said, cradling his head in her lap. He leaned into her touch, the fine, dark velvet of her skirts a welcome comfort after the fighting of the last few days. Her warm, soft hand ghosting along his scruffy cheek, he certainly didn't mind her fluttered sigh as she affectionately twirled a lock of his dark hair about her slim fingers. Surely, bello mio, you should rest for but a few days, hmm? We wouldn't wish you to fall ill upon your journey back to Florence.
Taking her hand in his, he pressed his lips to her palm. Would that I could, bella mia, he murmured, And yet I must follow my duty.
Knowingly shaking her head in disbelief, she admitted aloud that she admired his resolve. In turn, she gifted him the map of the remaining codex pages her husband and the Templars had tracked down. As she kissed him goodbye with a knowing, wicked smirk (and it was a rather memorable kiss, he assured her with smile), she renewed her invitation that he would always be welcome in her territory. Thankful for her continuing alliance with his fellow Assassins, he left Forli for Florence. Likely, Paola and La Volpe would know of the best methods for retrieving the Apple.
Riding through the mountains proved far more daunting that Ezio imagined. While it usually took him only a couple of days or so to get from the outskirts of Forli back into Florentine territory, this time, it took him nearly the week. Mostly on account that he quickly found that it was impossible to ride at full speed. At least not with his stomach wound threatening to tear open at every bump and loose cobblestone on the road. It was unusually muggy as well. The full heat of the Tuscan summer bearing down upon him certainly didn't help either. Frustration causing him to grind his teeth, he proceeded along the winding trail at an achingly slow place.
Thankfully, the villagers he ran across were hospitable. Apparently not put off by the mysterious, armed and hooded rider, they allowed him to stay the night in their homes. Though none of them asked a fee, he still left handfuls of florins with them, at his insistence. One old woman, the mother of a sheep herder he stumbled across at the close of his third day, even re-bandaged his wound.
"Careful, ragazzo," she clucked her tongue in dismay, the next morning. Despite her advanced age, she speedily slapped away his hands as he fumbled with lacing up the ties of his undertunic. Instead, she took it upon herself to do so, helping him back into his armor as well. Usually, he was easily able to dress himself with little hindrance. But now, he found it nearly impossible to lift his arms above his head. At every attempt, the stitches would tug at his skin like hot, metal claws. He swore he could feel each fiber of the individual threads threatening to break every time he made any large gesture. "If you move too much," she sighed, "It will reopen. And then, you will catch fever-"
"I'll survive, signora," he muttered, even as he bit back his hiss of pain at the feel of her tightening the straps of his cuirass. "I've certainly dealt with worse," he winced.
"Il mio caro bambino," she shook her head in disbelief. Sharp, crystal blue eyes narrowing with concern, she frowned. A few strands of her curling, grey hair escaping from her black hairnet, she tucked them behind her ear. It was a nervous habit of hers, he'd immediately noticed. For over the course of his stay, she only seemed to do it when lecturing him about his wound. "You are young and strong, I'll grant you that, mio grazioso. Almost enough for me to wish I was a few years younger," she knowingly chuckled.
"Ah, but beauty is like a fine wine, Madonna," he winked, pressing a hand to his heart and giving her a low bow. "As it ages, it is to be even more savored, si?"
"You are shameless!" she laughed, cheeks flushing a bit as she lightly swatted at his arm. "Oh, the hearts you surely break wherever you venture!"
"Come now, I know not of what you speak," he smirked.
"Oh, of course not, messere," she arched a brow of disbelief. "But," she continued, voice swiftly becoming serious as she placed a comforting palm against his cheek, "You are not God, eh? Take care, and rest here for another day. You are our guest, as my son insists," she smiled, "And I do not mind the company as I weave and tend to the little plot of herbs we have in the courtyard."
Grinning, Ezio took her hand in his, brushing his lips across her fingertips in a chaste kiss. "Forgive me, mia cara," he declared, giving her hand a soft squeeze, and expression flickering with regret as he withdrew, "But I have much to do in Florence. I cannot be delayed."
Patting his shoulder, she shook her head in understanding. Giving him a bag of provisions she'd prepared from the remainder of dinner last night and breakfast that morning, she adamantly refused the florins of thanks he attempted to press into her wrinkled hand. Regardless, he surreptitiously left a small pouch of them on the windowsill overlooking their veranda. Mounting his white steed, he continued on to Florence.
"You certainly look near death," Volpe declared behind him.
Ezio learned long ago not to be startled by the thief's sudden, silent appearances, though his hand instinctually snapped out one of his hidden blades at the sound of his voice. Spinning about on his heel, he quickly sheathed it as Volpe's gaze flickered over him in quick appraisal. His usually cheeky expression apprehensive, he frowned, "You're nearly swaying on your feet, ragazzo."
"'Tis but a scratch," Ezio quickly waved him off, the thief falling in step with him as he made his way to Paola. "Unfortunately, I found myself on the wrong end of Checco Orsi's dagger."
"I assume he found his way on the wrong end of yours, then?"
"Neither he, nor his brother are of concern to anyone, now," Ezio pointedly replied. Volpe shook his head in understanding as Paola let them in. Quickly ushering them up to her study on the third floor, she gracefully took a seat at the round, heavy oak table in front of her desk.
Unlike the rest of the brothel, which was decorated with plush carpets and expensive tapestries lining the scarlet, painted walls, her study was relatively sparse. The walls were painted a pale cream color, their edges glossy black. Outside of the desk, the table and the four chairs surrounding it, and the large, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with various parchments and codices, there was little to see. The windows did not bear the usual stained glass, with their intricate, swirling, multicolored designs. Rather, the glass was opaque, with thick, wooden shutters. Though they were flung open to let in the afternoon sunlight, they were also barred with black wrought iron. Likely, to keep her assassin's duties completely secret.
As Paola poured the men goblets of wine, Ezio quickly took in dying embers of the fireplace, which sat in the wall opposite the bookshelf. Without thinking, he walked over and added a log to it. The room immediately warming, he no longer shivered.
"It's quite warm in here already," Paolo fleetingly grinned after her usual greetings and pleasantries.
"Is it?" Ezio swallowed, cracking an eye open from where he'd taken a seat at the round table, leaning back in chair and nearly asleep, "It feels like the middle of winter."
"Does it?" Volpe shrugged.
"Aye," Ezio replied, pulling his robes tighter around his shoulders.
"You're sweating," Paolo arched a brow. Before he could react, she placed her hand against his forehead. Without warning, his mind shot back to his childhood. The hazy image of his mother floated up, her smiling face at his bedside, watching over him whenever he fell ill. He found himself leaning into her touch, closing his eyes again. "You're not burning up though," Paola continued, "Well, at least not yet."
Eyes snapping open, Ezio groggily blinked a few times as she withdrew. "È di nessuna preoccupazione," he speedily replied, "For I have failed," he sighed.
"The Apple?" Paola replied, eyes widening slightly.
He nodded, quickly recalling what happened, and of the nine-fingered monk who acquired the Piece of Eden. Though all agreed it was significant setback, they drew up a plan for tracking down the thief. Word would be spread to the other assassins, in various cities throughout Toscana, including their allies within the church. Ideally, this Savonarola fellow would soon be found. In the meantime, Ezio would set Leonardo to deciphering Girolamo Riario's map, as it was encoded. From there, hopefully it would be easier to track down the remaining codex pages.
After an hour or so, La Volpe soon bid them goodbye, urging Ezio to take care. Giving the newly initiated assassin a look of disapproval at his insistence that he was leaving for Venice that day, the leader of the Florentine Thieves Guild shook his head in disbelief. "Do not punish yourself for your supposed mistakes," he nearly ordered, "It does none of us any good if you are dead," he warned, leaving.
As Ezio turned to follow La Volpe to the roof, he was stopped by Paola's gentle touch to his wrist. "Ezio, amico mio, you really should rest," she declared, lips pursed with concern, "You look absolutely exhausted."
"I'll rest once I get to Venice," he breathed, wiping his forehead. "Antonio, Bartolomeo and Sister Teodora must know of the Apple-"
"I can send word of it through messengers," she replied, cutting him off.
"It is too dangerous," he insisted, eyes flashing, "After all, we always know of the Templars' next move by intercepting the Borgia's messengers, do we not? What's to stop them from doing the same to ours?"
She had no answer for him, though she still held him by the wrist. "Va bene," she slowly replied, "But I insist you at least wait until morning to set out. The sun already sets for the day."
"But-"
"You're in no condition to fight the scoundrels prowling the roads at night," she shook a finger at him in reproach. "They'd gladly kill a lone traveler for a mere pittance of the weapons and florins you carry," she insisted. "Come," she nodded towards the door. Despite that she was at least full head shorter than him, and her form was lithe and elegant compared to his own younger, broad-shouldered, brute strength, she nearly dragged him to it. "I'll set up a room for you," she ordered, her tone beyond arguement. A mere flick of her head sent a couple of the courtesans who lounged about the stairs to go do so. "As per usual, the girls know not to disturb you with their work. So you should get a good night's sleep, at the very least."
Shoulders slumping, he realized she was right. Besides, it would be faster to travel by day. As he gave a silent nod, she furrowed a brow; normally, he would laugh and joke about the welcome interruption from some of her girls, offering himself over to their charms. But he remained silent as he followed her to the far side of the brothel.
At the back and overlooking the courtyard, the spacious room was reserved for only the highest paying clients. But considering his profession, and his constant help in protecting her girls from the abuses of the City Guard over the years, Paola insisted he take it, free of charge. The walls painted light blue, their edges were detailed with white crown molding. Above, a stunning mural of ancient Roman goddesses in various states of undress was painted in dazzling frescoes upon the ceiling. The hardwood floors inlaid with gold, they were freshly polished and nearly sparkling. The matching shutters framing the window were inlaid with gold as well.
But Ezio didn't notice any of it, already removing swordbelt. Watching as he winced and struggled to unstrap his armor, Paola quickly relieved of him of it, as well as his robes.
"Grazie," he yawned, nearly falling back onto the bed. Shoving back the covers and resting on his back, his was already half-asleep.
"If you need anything, just pull the cord," she nodded to the thick, braided, scarlet rope that hung from the ceiling, in between the window and the bed. "One of my girls will be up here straightaway."
"Grazie," he repeated again, eyes closing.
"Do not worry about it. You are like family, after all."
"Paola?" he suddenly and tiredly asked as she turned to leave.
"Yes, Ezio?"
"You….you are too kind to me…Madonna." And with that, his quiet snores began to fill the air.
Shaking her head, she couldn't help but smile. Especially as she saw that he'd fallen asleep with his boots on. Sometimes, he still almost seems just a child, she wistfully thought as she leaned down and quickly unbuckled them. She wasn't surprised to find a small dagger sheathed into one, two throwing knives sheathed in the other. Pulling them off, along with his stockings, she left him in his trousers and undertunic. Gently pulling the blankets over him, she silently left the room, locking the door behind her to preserve his privacy. Come morning, likely he would leave through the window, as per usual.
Just…a little…farther…a few more houses, Ezio furiously thought, struggling to keep his eyes open and on the road.
Due to his obvious sheer exhaustion the next morning, Paola nearly forced him to take a carriage to the docks of Forli. Using a pass Caterina gave him when he left her city, he boarded the boat to Venice with little issue. Now, three days later, he was in the grand City of Canals.
Stopping by Leonardo's shop, he quickly remembered the artist was back in Milan. According to one of Leonardo's apprentices, left behind to pack up the last of Leo's supplies, he'd been commissioned by its duke, Ludovico Sforza, Caterina's paternal uncle.
"C-cazzo!" Ezio angrily stammered. Leaning against the door of the workshop, he closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and labored. He skin seemed to be on fire. His throat sore and itching with pain, his head throbbed, sweat pouring down his brow. I am fevered! he frantically mused. It took all of his strength to nearly stumble forward. His vision now swaying with every step as he took in the direction of the Seta, Ezio's last concern was Leonardo's latest patron. Especially as he felt the blood beginning to seep from his stomach.
His wound had reopened as he disembarked from the boat in Venice. Thankfully, he'd removed his armor long ago, leaving it with a blacksmith at the Venetian docks to repair (as it was still damaged from his defense of Forli). Otherwise, he'd be cursing even more at the feel of it scraping across his stomach. Glancing downwards, his eyes widened in alarm. For he now bled through his undertunic, tunic, and doublet. Within a few moments, it would be evident upon his robes.
He had to get to the Seta. The thieves…his allies…they would help?
His mind struggling to string his thoughts together, he leaned against the archway of the bridge, over one of the canals. Curious bystanders stared, but made no move to help. Thankfully, the Seta loomed right in front of him, over a couple of bridges.
Stumbling forward, he nearly knocked over a guard.
"Hey!" the guard yelled, regaining his balance and brushing off his uniform, "Watch where you're going, figlio di puttana!" Marching forward, he shoved Ezio backwards with both hands. Normally, the assassin would've simply turned heel and silently left, as not to attract too much attention. Or slammed his hidden blade through the bastardo's neck, was he feeling particularly annoyed. But he was in no condition to fight.
"Mi d-dispace," he stammered, holding a shaking hand up in surrender. "Mi…dispace," he slowly repeated.
"Oh, you'd better be sorry, you little figlio di un cane!" a second guard to his left snarled. Ezio hadn't even noticed him, utterly focused on getting to his destination. "Who do you think you are, eh?"
"No one," Ezio grit, temper flaring. You can't fight, he distantly thought, even as his hand instinctually went to his dagger on his swordbelt, Not now…
"You're god-damned right!" the first guard said.
"Perhaps you miss the executions?" the second guard sneered, "I know I do. I haven't drawn and quartered some pezzo di merda little citizen in quite a long while," he snickered. Ezio nearly growled, struggling to stay his hand and not draw his blade.
"He looks like a strong one," the other guard said, poking him in the chest over and over again for emphasis.
"Good, it'll take longer for him to die!"
"I'm sure his wife will need someone to warm her bed afterward."
"Of course!"
"What do you say? Likely, she enjoy taking both of us, at the same time, eh?"
Dio mio, why don't they just shut UP? Ezio rolled his eyes, nostrils flaring with warning.
Their voices melding into a dull roar of rising irritation echoing in his ears, despite his best intentions, his hand unsheathed his dagger with silent, practiced ease. Yet the two guards were still talking, wholly oblivious to his action. The insults flowed freely from their mouths now. Especially as they went into vile, stomach-churning detail of how they planned to violate his apparent paramour.
Shut up…shut up…heaven above, SHUT. THE FUCK. UP…
"Are you listening, amico?" one of them snapped, shoving him backwards again by the shoulders, "I'm sure her mouth would appreciate my ball-"
Ezio didn't even realize he'd sliced open the first guard's neck until the man gave a wretched, bloody gurgle of protest. The guard's hands speedily turning red with it, he clutched at his now useless throat and stumbled to the ground. The second guard still frozen in shock, Ezio made quick work of him; grabbing him by the hair, his dagger slashed across his neck before he kicked him away. Writhing on the cobblestones in their death throes, both of them left bloody handprints across the ground and the wall of the archway. Within two minutes, both were dead.
"He's here! Get HIM!"
Apparently, his fevered mind also forgot that the guards tended to patrol in groups of around four or so. And this group also had one a rather heavily armored, snarling, fat bastardo with them. Carrying a battleaxe, no less.
Seeing the other two guards quickly closing in, the surrounding citizens fled in the opposite direction; this was Venice, after all, sparks of seemingly random violence a part of life. Frantically looking around, Ezio saw a group of thieves behind him. The natural rush of adrenaline spurring him on, he fled the scene. "I have florins!" he found himself nearly yelling at the thieves, who glanced up from their game of dice in surprise.
"Ah, the famous assassino!" one of them smiled, recognizing him, "How may we be of serv-" But his words were cut off as the two guards shoved through the fleeing crowed, bellowing for Ezio's head.
Fingers numb, he struggled to undo the ties of his money pouch on his hip. After what seemed an eternity, he finally managed to get the infernal thing open. Vision swimming again, his stomach lurched with pain, causing him to count out the florins for what seemed the hundredth time. Finally gathering the usual fare of 150, he nearly threw the gold at the thieves.
"Keep…keep them…off…off of me!" he stammered to the thieves, who were energetically picking up the florins that'd fallen to the ground.
"Si," one of them replied, already drawing his sword. Glancing over to Ezio, he frowned, "You need to get the hell out of here, assassino. You look bloody terrible."
"At death's door, I'd say," another thief flippantly replied, even as he engaged one of the guards. Despite that he looked no older than fifteen or so, his sheer speed at which he struck quickly caused one of the guard's lieutenants to go on the defensive. Within a few moments, a scream filled the air. Though whether it was one of the thieves' or the lieutenant, Ezio didn't know. He prayed it was the lieutenant. But he could barely keep that thought straight, as his eyes began to droop.
Vision swirling into a mass of blurred colors, everything before him seemed to move at half-speed. Finding himself stumbling forward yet again, he clutched at the wall. It was then he quickly realized that instead of moving forward, towards the Seta, he'd backtracked, Leonardo's studio in sight again. "Jesu Cristo!" he swallowed, still hearing the sounds of the melee behind him. Leaning back against the wall, he pressed his hand to his stomach. The warm wetness of his own blood pulsing out across his fingers brought little comfort.
"Wondrous deeds he has done for the good of all!" the braying voice sang in front of him, plucking the strings of his lute out of tune, "Sent to kill the evil ones, sent to make them faaaa-haaaaall!"
And now, one of the figlio di puttana bards have to draw attention to me? How bloody convenient!
He would've gladly snatched the lute out of the bard's hands and beat him to a bloody pulp with it. Even if his off-key screams would likely attract a crowd. Hell, swiping a few florins from his twitching, unconscious body would be an added bonus, guards and shocked Venetians be damned. But by now, he was nearly brought to his knees. By the pain of his wound that was, rather than the singing. Though what passed for "singing" certainly wasn't doing much to contribute to his well-being.
"Ezio?" a voice rang out somewhere behind him.
And so dying must feel like dreaming, he sleepily frowned as he felt his eyes slip closed. His breathing harsh and guttural in his ears, the sound of someone calling his name echoed around him again. Though not enough to drown out the next song of bard, who now stood in front of him. Much to his chagrin, the last thing he remembered was his ceaseless desire to strangle the little bastardo with the strings of his own lute.
"Ezio?" Ugo…is that Ugo?
"Some-where on a rooooof-top, a hero wears a hooooood…"
"Ezio!" Aye, that sounds as though it's the thief…GOD-DAMNED bards!
Unfortunately, God apparently did not see fit to grant him his last wish.
Translations
Bella mia – My pretty/sweet one. Sign of affection
Ragazzo – Boy
Il mio caro bambino – My dear child
Mio grazioso – My pretty one
Mia cara – My dear
È di nessuna preoccupazione – It is of no concern
Mi displace – Forgive me/I'm sorry
Figlio di un cane – Son of a bitch
Pezzo di merda – Piece of shit
Dio mio – My God