The idea for this fic came not long after I played the first mission of sequence 9 (Knowledge is Power) in AC2. At first I thought that it was supposed to directly follow the Flying Machine assassination sequence, which to me made no sense because that's historically inaccurate and far too convenient. "Lolol it just so happens to be Carnevale all of a sudden, HAVE A MASK YOU'LL BE SAFE!" It turns out that there's technically a chunk of time between the two, which only made me want to envision it. Only, you know, with my OTP in mind.
The title is drawn from a line in Leonardo's notebooks, on the subject of why painting is superior to all other art: "Take the poet who describes the beauty of a lady to her lover and a painter who represents her and you will see to which nature drives the enamored critic. Certainly the proof should be allowed to rest on the verdict of experience."
/
The Verdict of Experience
I.
Church bells interrupted the gentle Venetian night. Leonardo knew that particular kind of ringing: harsh and frantic, a series of desperate overlapping melodies, telling a different story than the joyful ones that greeted parishioners as they left mass. Perhaps it was unfortunate that he had stopped seeing these bells for what they were—a warning that announced death, and that the murderer was still on the loose—and instead saw them as a sign that his allies' plans were in motion.
He felt slightly pleased despite himself. He was never one to be delighted by the idea of death, even with one who deserved it; in fact, he usually felt quite the opposite. Still, as he was closely associated with one whose trade was in death, he equated the sounds of battle with business, and the deadly tone of the church bells with success. Strange, that a world so unfamiliar to his practice was still so familiar to him, particularly now that he was playing a more active role in it.
Stranger still was the company he was keeping as a result of his friendship with an assassin. Antonio had proven to be an excellent conversationalist, and Leonardo was forced to admit to himself that he had underestimated the thief's intelligence. He certainly was more convivial than many of the great thinkers to whom he had been acquainted in Florence. Perhaps it was because despite their natural intellectual curiosity, neither the thief nor the artist was formally educated in Latin, and so they finally found in each other a suitable partner for discourse.
They had engaged in a pleasant conversation on Plato as they walked to the thieves' palazzo. Leonardo had been almost embarrassed to admit that he had difficulty subscribing to the new school of Platonism as many of his contemporaries in Florence had, subscribing to certain tenets without agreeing with them all. Antonio favored a more practical philosophy, but still listened in awe as Leonardo recounted a brief meeting with Marsilio Ficino, though the memory was not as fond as it was interesting.
He was so engrossed in conversation that he had barely noticed when they arrived at the palazzo and sat in Antonio's study. In fact, he was so distracted that it wasn't until the church bells began to ring that Leonardo even remembered why he was there in the first place. All of the feelings that Antonio's company had suppressed bubbled back to the forefront, and he wrung his hands, anxious for news. This wasn't Ezio's first assassination, of course, and Leonardo wondered if his worries were insulting in light of that fact. But could he help it? This was the first time the artist had ever been directly involved in planning the assassination of one of his friend's major targets. Rather than allowing sometimes too sparing visits to reassure him, which was how he usually learned that his friend was still breathing, Leonardo wouldn't be satisfied until Ezio stood in this very room, tired but victorious.
At least the sound of bells informed him that his invention had successfully played its part, though he was admittedly quite curious to hear about the particulars. Now it was just a matter of Ezio's safe return.
"Leonardo?"
The artist realized, with some embarrassment, that he had stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, abandoning his conversation with Antonio in favor of his restless thoughts. He refocused his gaze, once again seeing the thief sitting across from him instead of imagined blood and fire. "Mi dispiace," Leonardo said, smiling kindly in the hopes that Antonio hadn't read too much into the sudden silence. "What was I saying?"
"You were discussing Plotinus' hypostases," Antonio supplied, his smile revealing absolutely nothing. "Specifically, your opinion of them."
"Ah, sì." It would prove to be an adequate distraction from church bells. "Plotinus believed that our physical world was created by the World-Soul, or the amalgamation of our eternal souls, attempting to emanate the realm of the nous, or the Intelligible. That, itself, is a double of the perfection that exists with the One, or God."
"And yet despite being merely a reflection of the first, the nous is still a perfect world, wherein divine ideas take shape, exemplifying the ideal forms of all objects and living things," Antonio contributed.
"Exactly." Leonardo smiled. "The soul is pure and good, and the world we make a mirror of the perfection we get from the divine ideas of the nous, but unlike the nous it is flawed. The individual's soul may lose themselves in the finite pleasures of this world, but that does not make them evil—only imperfect. It is through thought that we can regain our path to the world of divine ideas and reestablish our connection with God."
"And do you agree?" the thief asked, leaning back in his chair and frowning. "I must admit, I feel it's rather ... idealistic. You cannot tell me that corrupt men like the Barbarigo are simply misguided."
"I consider myself something of an optimist," Leonardo admitted, "and I would love to be able to see the best in all people ... but no, I can't say I believe in all of that."
"Good," Antonio said, grinning. "I rather like you, maestro Leonardo. It would have been a shame if you believed that all men, even the most cruel and vile, can find their path to God simply by thinking about it."
"Then what of salvation?" Leonardo asked, curious—he had been right in assuming that Antonio was not a particularly religious man. "Is that not what the Church tells us?"
"I do not know if I can truly believe in a Church who would allow corrupt men to rise to power, the virtuous and noble crushed by poverty, and two intelligent men to be disgraced simply because they do not speak the language of intellectuals," Antonio explained, and Leonardo didn't feel inclined to press because he agreed with that statement.
"I value thought and intelligence," Leonardo continued, changing the subject, "but at a certain point we must stop asking questions and start attempting to answer them. Experience is what governs us, not theory. There are things to be discovered in our world, practical matters that thinkers and philosophers refuse to acknowledge because it does not fit in with their worldview." He shook his head. "It is not obsession with the finite to observe the movement and behavior of animals, to explore the innards of the human body, or to attempt impossible feats such as ... well, flight."
"Which you have now achieved," Antonio noted with admiration.
"Which Ezio has now achieved." That caused the artist to pause, for the swirl of thoughts to come rushing back to him. His breath hitched in anticipation.
"Continue, Leonardo," Antonio urged. Leonardo realized that Antonio was attempting to distract him before Ezio's arrival, and smiled in approval.
"Some would consider art to be an entirely intellectual experience," Leonardo continued, forcing Ezio from his mind, "as if to create is to imagine perfection and then recreate it. To portray divine perfection on the canvas..." He hesitated. "Perhaps? I know that I struggle to find the face of Christ when I paint. I do not want to imagine it, and yet I can think of no earthly model to portray Him."
Antonio nodded. "I can imagine the difficulty."
"But why think about what a tree looks like when I could go outside and paint a tree?" Leonardo gestured outside, at the tree that stood strong in the darkness outside of the palazzo, his heart and mind racing with vexation. "To paint is to perfectly reflect life on the canvas, and as such, a mirror is the perfect painting for its ability to recreate exactly what it sees. So must we emulate the mirror, as artists and as thinkers. We are not divinely perfect, and our bodies may fail with age, but they are what house our immortal souls, and is that not something marvelous to consider? And what of numbers, of ratios? Must perfection be divine to be perfect, or can this world not provide things of perfection, or at least of beauty?" He tapped his breast, every inch of his body tingling with fervor. "I see the beauty that this world has to provide, its human and natural perfection. I wish to recreate what is perfect with my art and improve on what could be better with my science. So are my thoughts and motivations too finite for those learned men in Florence? Are they so offended by my lack of literary skill? I—"
"They live in a world of thought, Leonardo, and may they remain there," Antonio urged, grasping the artist's arm in an attempt to calm him.
Leonardo felt the rare burst of anger draining from him, and while he was pleased to have admitted what he had previously only written in his notebooks, he felt embarrassed for having shown his anger in front of his new friend. "Thank you," he said, uncertain but grateful.
Antonio nodded in acknowledgement and withdrew his arm, returning to his casual slouch in his seat. "They don't realize what great minds they are lacking in their little social circle." Leonardo chuckled at that and, smiling, the thief continued: "We will continue to live in the world we've been given, and seek to enjoy and explore and improve on it while we are here. In our own way, we are merely doing God's work." He paused, and then laughed. "I have a friend that you would love! Her name is Sister Teodora."
"A Sister of the Church?" Leonardo asked, perplexed by both the title and Antonio's reaction. "How would this discussion please her?"
"Well, she's also a courtesan."
Leonardo would have loved to inquire further, but he was interrupted by the sound of woman yelling: "Antonio!" A frenzied cry was the only warning they had before the young woman barged into the room, her eyes wide and fearful. From her ragged attire and the way Antonio stood to greet her, Leonardo guessed that this was the Rosa of whom Ezio spoke a bit too fondly. Unsure of what to make of her expression and Antonio's reaction, he resigned himself to staying quietly seated and let the thieves deal with their own business.
"Rosa, stai bene? What happened?" Antonio asked, all talk of philosophy forgotten.
"The Doge," Rosa gasped, her hands propped against her thighs as she tried to catch her breath. "He's dead."
"Oddio!" Leonardo exclaimed, practically leaping from his seat to join them. "But how? What happened?"
Rosa shot him a look of appraisal, slight disbelief evident in the way she leaned back and raised an eyebrow. "Antonio," she asked the other man, "who is this femminuccia?"
Leonardo sputtered indelicately.
"This, Rosa," Antonio started, shooting her a stern look, "is the great maestro Leonardo da Vinci. Not only is he an artist and thinker of great renown, but he is also one of Ezio's closest friends." The last part seemed like a warning, and perhaps it was—to some people, at least. Leonardo felt that there was a difference between killing a guard who was beating him up and killing a friend who insulted him.
A look of recognition crossed Rosa's face. "Ah, sì. The artist. Bene. He's mentioned you before." The look of recognition turned into a smile that was as genuine as it was mischievous. He assumed that, for her, this was simply her normal smile, and didn't think anything of it. "Any friend of Ezio's is a friend of mine."
"Grazie, signorina." Leonardo nodded politely, albeit a bit brusquely. It was a bit unlike him to be even remotely unkind, but he could get used to her odd behavior later. There were more pressing matters. "But what of Ezio? Why isn't he here?"
Rosa frowned one more and rubbed her face in frustration. "I don't know. But they're saying he killed the Doge."
Leonardo made a surprisingly unsteady stroke of his brush on the canvas before him. Beneath the bristles, la Vergine smiled patiently, the hand that would eventually guide the young John the Baptist towards her son still rough and unshaded. While he had made a lot of progress lately, the painting remained mournfully incomplete, though this was perhaps not unsurprising given Leonardo's tendency to procrastinate. The Milanese Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception hadn't been pleased when he left Milan the year before without finishing their commission, but he had never planned on staying in the first place—not while his loyalties anchored him in Venice. They would get their painting, but they would have to wait.
It was almost half a year since Ezio had disappeared, and yet Leonardo's heart still stopped every time a guard shouted or a board in his home creaked. He was torn between assuming that he should give up hope due to how long it had been, and that he shouldn't give up hope as Ezio had been safely away for longer periods of time. After all, he had disappeared to Monteriggioni for two years after killing Uberto Alberti, and there was just as much of a bounty on his head then as there was now. Arguably, it had been more dangerous then, since Ezio had revealed his name during the assassination of Alberti, and yet he had survived those ordeals and returned two years later with a friendly smile and more Codex pages.
Still, that first gap of time aside, Leonardo had always gotten some clue as to his friend's continued survival: word on the street that l'assassino continued to terrorize the countryside; a visit bearing a Codex page, or sometimes a visit for a visit's sake; a rare letter, if Ezio was held up in Monteriggioni and was bored enough to write... This time, there was no word, no rumors, no letter. Not even Antonio and the Thieves' Guild had heard any news, and if Ezio had any other connections then the artist was unaware of them. Even Sister Teodora, who had somehow never met Ezio but obviously heard of his reputation, had her girls keep a look out—which seemed useful given Ezio's penchant for hiring prostitutes either for pleasure or to conceal himself, but had proven fruitless.
All they knew was that the assassin had supposedly killed the Doge, and that the new Doge, Marco Barbarigo, had declared Ezio to be an enemy of Venice. Barbarigo still had his men on the lookout for the assassin while he hid in the Palazzo Ducale, a clear sign that Venice's guards hadn't stopped Ezio, even months later. If they had, his body would have been paraded around on the streets like propaganda, the people celebrating the death of the man who terrorized them all—saved them all, secretly, but a few knew that truth.
Or perhaps Ezio had escaped Venice, but met trouble elsewhere. It was hard to say.
Leonardo had never truly worried about his friend's long absences save for the first long disappearance, if even then. He had barely known Ezio at the time, feeling more pity for the boy's circumstances than friendship, though that would admittedly develop not long afterwards. As always with Ezio, it was simpler to just assume the best until he heard the worst rather than agonizing over the assassin's safety.
For the thousandth time, Leonardo marveled at how anxious this last mission had made him, and how it had persisted for months after the mission was over. Of course it would be the one time that he was anxious to immediately hear from Ezio that he would vanish from his life completely.
The room slowly filled with light, and Leonardo smiled, momentarily forgetting that particular dilemma. The afternoon was his favorite time of day to sketch from nature, because the sun lined up with his window, bathing the workshop in sunlight. Of course, he drew the curtain on the window during those hours—the muted light was much more flattering to a subject than direct sunlight—but the change was always inspiring. He always ended up straying from whatever commission laid waiting on his easel, instead preferring to sketch anything he happened to notice that day: a bird on the windowsill, or the books he left on his desk the night before, or even his assistant Ettore, should the boy have fallen asleep in the portrait seat. Sunlight, even muted, had a way of drawing attention to the wonderful things that he had never noticed before, and Leonardo, always on a quest to find beauty in the world, would have been a fool to ignore it.
Though she was glancing down, la Vergine smiled on the canvas before him, patient while still urging him to continue his work. Leonardo sighed, tempted by the unknown potential that could be revealed by the sun's rays, but he knew that he should continue working on the commission before he lost his motivation, which he knew was bound to happen soon.
He wasn't sure exactly how long he worked—long enough for the sunlight to completely fill the room and then begin to retreat—before he heard a knocking at the door, followed by Ettore shuffling out from where he was organizing things in the back room to greet the guest. The boy was very good at sensing when his maestro needed to focus on whatever he was working on, and in those times made sure that the artist would only be disturbed for matters of great importance. Leonardo was certainly lucky to have him, though in this case he couldn't decide whether he was more desperate to continue working or desperate for an excuse to stop, frustrated as he was about the young John's face. Even as an earthly figure, he required an air of divinity befitting the child who would foresee the coming of Christ as well as perform His baptism. Perhaps he would ask Ettore to sit for him—at twelve he still had some of his baby fat, and it wouldn't be difficult for Leonardo to shift his facial structure to look like—
"Maestro! Quickly!" Ettore exclaimed, his voice a color that Leonardo had never heard from the boy. It was fear, he realized, and the older man quickly turned to see who would dare threaten or terrorize his innocent apprentice.
"What is—Ezio!" Leonardo leapt from his seat, nearly sending his stool toppling into the easel but catching it at the last minute. He felt his mind process a myriad of emotions: surprise, elation, the urge to strike Ezio for disappearing without warning his friends, the familiar chirp of something that had once caused him too much trouble and preferred not to dwell on, before finally settling on fear as he noticed the red stain blossoming on Ezio's front. That must have been what had terrified Ettore, as he was at least familiar with Ezio's face and had never been afraid of the terrifying assassino.
"Leonardo," Ezio said, his voice strained but still friendly, the smile peeking out beneath the hood too, too familiar. "You look well."
"You're injured," Leonardo stated dumbly, a little too stunned to do anything but state the obvious. He frowned as Ezio chuckled.
"I am not so welcome in this city as I would have imagined," he responded, almost cheekily. Leave it to the assassin to be flippant about his injuries, though Leonardo supposed that when one is injured as much as Ezio, one must find some humor in it. Ezio opened his arms for a hug, a wince briefly crossing his features at the action.
Leonardo, to Ezio's apparent surprise, rushed forward but didn't meet the assassin's hug. Instead, he began liberating the injured man of his bloodstained clothing, quickly instructing Ettore to retrieve medical supplies and plenty of scraps of cloth.
Ezio chuckled warmly as the boy scampered into the other room, and began helping Leonardo to remove his armor. "He seems a lot older than when I last saw him," he commented. "He reminds me a little of Petruccio."
Leonardo looked up from where he unbuckled the chest plate to meet Ezio's eyes, only to find that the assassin was staring at the door through which Ettore had just left. "Mi dispiace," Leonardo said, as if he had done something terrible by taking him on as an apprentice.
Ezio shook his head. "Non ci pensa. Every boy that age reminds me of Petruccio. There is no need to apologize."
Ettore returned with what he had been sent to retrieve just as they removed Ezio's bloodstained shirt, adding it to the rest of the bloodied armor piled unceremoniously on the floor. Ettore reached down to gather the bloodstained clothing, but was interrupted by Leonardo, who had just finished helping Ezio into a chair: "No, Ettore, I will deal with that myself. I need you to go fetch Antonio."
"Where would I find him, maestro?" Ettore asked, already making his way towards the door.
"An excellent question," Leonardo responded, frowning in thought. Pressing a cloth to Ezio's wound to slow the bleeding—it was still too vague to identify when surrounded by all that blood—he said: "He'll either be at the Palazzo or la Rosa della Virtù."
"La Rosa della Virtù?" Ezio echoed, raising an eyebrow. He probably instantly recognized the name as one of a brothel and was confused by the use of "Virtù." Leonardo didn't blame him: he had been rather perplexed as well during his first meeting with Teodora.
"I would try there first, actually," Leonardo decided. "If he isn't there, you'll at least be able to tell Sister Teodora to come here before checking the Palazzo."
"Capito, maestro," Ettore said dutifully, not waiting for Leonardo to add any more praise before dashing out the door, probably sprinting towards the Dorsoduro district.
Having watched his assistant leave, Leonardo turned back to his friend, who was observing him with bemusement. "Do I need to ask about the company you've been keeping lately?" he asked.
Leonardo shook his head, laughing lightly. "You would not believe me if I told you. You'll see for yourself shortly."
He peeled the now red cloth from Ezio's stomach to observe the wound. It was fortunately a fairly shallow slice, arcing below his ribs, just below where the chest plate would have ended. Still, it was just deep enough to require stitches and long enough to have produced that much blood. Leonardo, as amateur of a surgeon as he was, could manage dressing it without having to ask for a doctor's help. "You'll live," he announced, briefly glancing up at his friend.
"Ah, bene. I was beginning to worry about that," Ezio responded, a wry smile in his voice.
"But it's in a place where the wound could easily reopen, particularly with your lifestyle," Leonardo continued, running his hands over Ezio's stomach with a clinical touch. It wasn't the first time he'd had to patch his friend up, he noted, and briefly traced another brilliant white scar that went from under Ezio's navel to his left hip, as if to remind them both of that moment. "Remember what happened when you didn't listen to me?" he added wryly.
"Too well," Ezio said, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Not to complain, mio amico, but could you please—"
"Oh, of course!" Leonardo removed his hands with a sudden flare of guilt to begin rifling through the box of medical supplies, avoiding his friend's gaze. He had merely been examining the area, but wondered if Ezio had felt uncomfortable at having a man's hands resting on his stomach in such a way. Not that he would have known that Leonardo was a... Well, no point in digging up old wounds, anyway, not when there were new ones to treat.
Removing the box of needle and sutures from the medical kit, Leonardo glanced back up at his friend. "Shall we head to the table?" he asked, gesturing towards his messy worktable.
Ezio eased himself up from the chair and, echoing the gesture, said with a fair amount of sarcasm: "Shall I bleed all over your notes?"
Leonardo winced at his own foolishness. "Wait a moment, then, while I clean. And nome di Dio, put the cloth back on the wound if you plan on moving!" He shook his head, walking towards his worktable. "You've been injured countless times and yet you never learn."
The assassin didn't respond, which Leonardo assumed meant that he was in a great deal of pain. He moved his belongings from the table a lot more hastily and carelessly than he would have liked, in one case shoving some books off of the table to land in a messy, page-crumpling pile. Ezio shot him a brief surprised look, but it soon turned back to a wince—it seemed as though whatever energy he had used earlier to block out the discomfort had been expended, leaving the assassin with severe pain and fatigue.
As soon as the table was clear, Leonardo helped Ezio onto the table, instructing him to continue applying pressure to the wound, and then hurried into the back room to fetch a bowl of water to clean the area and vinegar to disinfect. When he returned, Ezio was staring straight up, his breathing labored, looking paler than he had seen him in a while. It was far from the worst wound that he had received, but Leonardo felt a pang of pity at the sight. As he helped Ezio peel the bloodied cloth from the wound to clean it, he wondered exactly what had happened to the assassin during his five months from absence, and what, exactly, had prompted this.
It wasn't until Leonardo made the first suture that he opted to speak: "I thought you were dead."
Ezio cracked open his eyes, which despite being a little clouded over with pain were still remarkably sharp. "Did you really think I would be taken down so easily?"
Leonardo chuckled in embarrassment. "No, I suppose I didn't," he admitted, pushing the needle through the skin to make the second stitch. "But you left without warning and nobody knew where you were. And with the government accusing you of murdering Doge Mocenigo..." He stopped when he saw Ezio wince out of the corner of his eye, and since Leonardo was threading his needle with another suture, he knew that it was not out of pain. He looked up at his friend with wide eyes. "...is it true?"
"I tried to stop it," Ezio said, refusing to meet his friend's eyes—Leonardo wondered if there was something interesting on the ceiling to entertain him, like a spider web. "Grimaldi poisoned him before I arrived. The guards assumed that I was to blame."
The artist hummed in understanding before returning to his work. It was a long wound, after all, and would require a lot of sutures. "And that is why you left?"
"I was no longer l'assassino who kills corrupt government officials, conspirators, enemies of the ruling power," Ezio said bitterly. Leonardo was fairly curious about the tone of his voice, but chose not to ask. "Not that the guards ever liked me, but at least I wasn't targeting the most powerful man in Venice. That, apparently, has made me the most wanted man in Venice." He hissed as Leonardo made another suture. "That is usually a wise reason to leave."
"You made the right decision," Leonardo said, nodding, "though I wish you had attempted to communicate with us somehow. Antonio, Rosa, the other thieves—we all worried." He had certainly worried the most, but felt too embarrassed to point that out. "Where were you?"
Ezio shrugged—or as much as he could, given the fact that he was currently being sewn back together. "Firenze and Monteriggioni, mainly. I spent some time in Forlì as well." He raised an eyebrow. "You could have written the villa. If I hadn't been there, Claudia would have likely responded in my place. And against my will."
"I didn't want to be the bearer of bad news in case something had happened; not while you've been away for longer periods," Leonardo explained. "There was no need to worry your family just as you had worried us." He had considered writing, but had felt too uncomfortable to do so. The Auditores with whom he had been the closest were Ezio himself and la signora Maria, who last he had heard was still barely eating. Claudia he had only met once in passing, and while she would have gladly read his letter, he felt as if didn't know her well enough to send her a personal note merely to ask after her brother.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Ezio decided. "I am here, though—" He winced again at Leonardo's needle. "—slightly worse for wear."
"Sì." Leonardo paused, just long enough to tie off another suture. "Allora. You were in Forlì?"
Ezio sighed, his eyes shutting and a pleasant smile crossing his features. "Caterina Sforza continues to live up to her family name," he said, "and in the most attractive possible way."
"I see." Leonardo ignored the way his stomach clenched. He admired Caterina Sforza for her strength and beauty—she had been quite the presence in the Vatican court, he had heard—but disliked the way she had fascinated his best friend, just as she had the rest of the world. Perhaps it was fitting that one of the most unique men in Italia was secretly pursuing one of the most unique women, though he couldn't say that he personally appreciated it. Yet again, he was a bit biased. "And what of her husband?" he asked, trying not to sound cross.
"That stronzo? She hates him," Ezio answered. "Their marriage was never particularly happy, but it has only grown worse with time." He glanced over at Leonardo in amusement. "If you're worried that I've made her unfaithful to him, don't worry, because she has not expressed much interest—surprisingly." Noting the somewhat relieved look on the artist's face, he smiled and continued: "I stopped in Forlì on an errand for Lorenzo de'Medici before I returned to Venezia, and la Contessa offered her hospitality while I was in the region."
"That was very kind of her," Leonardo commented sincerely.
Ezio nodded. "She is a good woman, after one looks past her colorful personality." The two men chuckled, privately recalling their own memories or stories they'd heard of the strong-willed Caterina Sforza, before falling into an amiable silence.
Leonardo finished three more sutures and was midway through a fourth before Ezio spoke again: "Thank you."
The artist glanced up at his friend, touched by the sudden, simple gesture, but still a bit confused. "Non è niente, Ezio," he responded, his voice lighthearted but sincere. "You are my friend. I am more than willing to sew you back together when you need it."
"No," Ezio insisted, shaking his head. "For worrying about me. It's nice to know that someone still stands by me after all these years, doing what I do."
"Your family does," Leonardo pointed out.
"Someone who is not bound to me by blood and tradition," Ezio responded.
"The thieves are also loyal to you," Leonardo continued. "They may not have known you for as long, but—"
"Nome di Dio, Leonardo," Ezio interrupted, exasperation clear in his voice and eyes, "can you just accept my thanks?"
Leonardo smiled. "Prego, then."
There was another long silence—five sutures, this time—before Ezio said: "You're quiet, mio amico. It's unlike you."
"I'm sewing you back together," Leonardo said, patiently. "I must concentrate." It was easier to use that answer than to acknowledge the myriad of conflicting emotions chirping in his mind, still not eased both despite and due to everything Ezio had just said. Of course his emotional turmoil would be given voice by birdsong. It seemed too appropriate for a man fascinated by flight.
Fortunately, Ezio seemed satisfied by this response, and fell silent save for the occasional hiss at his ruined skin was pulled back together.
Ettore returned when Leonardo was cleaning the remaining blood from Ezio's stomach, the wound now stitched up and the assassin himself comfortably sitting in the portrait seat. The boy shot Leonardo a pointed look when he noticed that the bloodstained clothing hadn't been touched since his departure.
"You expect me to clean a stain from fabric when a man is bleeding to death on my worktable?" Leonardo scolded, though he had to admire his apprentice's strong instincts towards cleaning since it was something that he often neglected. Ettore had learned some maturity in looking after his admittedly scatterbrained maestro.
Ettore at least had the decency to look remorseful, and muttered a quiet apology as he picked up the ruined clothing to clean it himself. Ezio looked like he was about to get up and protest and tell the boy not to bother, but Leonardo immediately pushed him back down with a firm look and a firm hand against ... firmer pectorals. Now that the immediate danger had passed and Ezio no longer skirted death, the reality of the situation—that his incredibly attractive friend was half-naked and splayed under his hands, at his mercy—seemed more obvious than before.
"Did you find Antonio?" Leonardo asked, trying to distract himself from more complicated thoughts.
"Sì," Ettore said, turning to face the artist and assassin from the basin where he had just deposited the stained clothing. "La Sorella could not travel as quickly as us, so Antonio slowed his pace to walk with her and sent me ahead. They should arrive soon."
"Benfatto," Leonardo said approvingly before turning to his patient. "Stay here. I will get you wine to help dull the pain."
Ezio's eyes lit up with playfulness as he watched Leonardo rifle through wines. "I would not object to that. Bring the entire bottle."
"The entire bottle?" Leonardo asked, an eyebrow quirked up in amusement as he uncorked the bottle of red that he selected. He complied regardless, bringing the bottle and two glasses to the table. He poured one cup for himself, and when he made to pour one for Ezio, the assassin shrugged.
"The bottle, Leonardo," he said straightforwardly.
Leonardo handed Ezio the bottle with a playfully muttered: "ubbriaco," taking a polite sip from his glass as his friend took a harsh swig. "If it helps," he added.
Antonio and Teodora arrived minutes later. It had been worth it to not explain the particulars of Teodora's exact vocation, Leonardo decided upon seeing the confused look on Ezio's face. "I do not understand," the assassin commented, already somewhat affected by the wine he had been swiftly drinking, Leonardo guessed due to blood loss. "Is she a courtesan or a sister?"
Teodora smiled, somehow managing to be patient, friendly, and a little condescending at the same time. "Can I not be both?"
"We can have discuss theology later," Antonio interjected, and from the way he said it, it sounded like he planned on leaving before then—he once told Leonardo that he'd heard Teodora explain herself so many times that he had practically memorized it. "Right now, I believe our dear friend the assassin has to explain himself."
They all turned their gaze to Ezio, whose eyes widened as he stopped mid-swig of wine. Self-consciously removing the bottle from his lips, he exhaled and fixed them with a gaze that was inhibited by neither wine nor pain. "Yes, I do."
Ezio recounted the story much as he had recounted it earlier, adding that he had tried to escape to Leonardo's bottega only to have been ambushed by guards and realized that leaving the city was the only option. Leonardo himself felt a pang of guilt at the idea of Ezio banging fruitlessly at his door, the guards on his heels, while he chatted and philosophized with Antonio at the Palazzo de la Seta. Ezio, as if sensing the artist's sudden shift in mood, promised that he was waylaid before he even reached the Grand Canal.
"Word eventually came to me that the new Doge was a Barbarigo," Ezio eventually concluded. "As if the stories I heard of his corruption weren't enough to bring me back here, I hated knowing that I failed to keep a Templar from the Doge's seat." He shook his head and took another sip of wine, the entire bottle having nearly been drained throughout his story and its effects finally beginning to make themselves known. "Maledetto testa di cazzo."
"Ezio," Leonardo scolded, gesturing to Ettore, who was still washing the bloodstained clothing in the corner.
"Queste parolacce le ho già sentite, maestro," Ettore called out, not even bothering to look up from what he was doing.
Leonardo sighed. "I do not want to know where you learned them, as long as you don't repeat them."
"So you're here to take down the Doge, then?" Antonio asked, once again getting them back on topic. He certainly seemed agitated this evening; it made Leonardo wonder what he had been doing before Ettore found him—although on second thought, it was probably better to not imagine such things. "This will prove difficult, Ezio. He never leaves the Palazzo, and has a much more rigorous guard patrolling the rooftops. I'm afraid our Flying Machine will not serve our purpose this time."
"Good," Ezio responded, shuddering. "It was an experience I am not eager to repeat."
Before Leonardo could protest such an unfair dismissal of the flight, Teodora interjected: "The Doge will leave his palazzo soon." A soft but mischievous smile crossed her face. "Carnevale is in two weeks, after all. Not even a man as pig-headed and paranoid as him would dare miss it."
"How do you know?" Antonio asked, genuinely surprised. "My thieves have heard nothing of this."
"Your thieves are good spies, but they do not have the same connections as my courtesans." She stood from her seat, moving about the room slightly as if to better observe the artist's workshop. "A nobleman revealed that the Doge is having a party on the last night of Carnevale. It will be a lavish event, the likes of which Venezia has never seen."
Antonio snorted. "Clearly he's excited to throw himself a party now that he can use Venezia's money to fund it and not his own."
"Perhaps," Teodora responded simply. "The reasons matter little. What is important is that he will emerge from the Palazzo Ducale, giving Ezio a short window of time to take care of him."
"Alright," Ezio said, striking the arm of his seat in determination and taking another sip of wine, which was now beginning to slur his speech. "We just need to discover how I can get into the party."
"My girls will keep their ears open, then," the madam agreed, before adding, quietly: "among other things." It was a great deal bawdier than Leonardo would have expected for her, but once again her calm demeanor, sharp intelligence, and holy cause had made him forget her actual vocation.
Leonardo cleared his throat in an attempt to shake off the embarrassment of hearing Teodora's comment. "And what of Ezio?" he asked. The man himself glanced up, almost bewildered by the mention of his name. Leonardo would have chuckled endearingly at Ezio's mild drunkenness if he didn't feel that doing so would incriminate him somehow. "It is too dangerous for him to walk the streets."
Ezio frowned petulantly. "I am perfectly capable of defending myself."
"Leonardo's right," Antonio said, ignoring Ezio's comment. "With the guards on the lookout, it is probably best for him to remain out of sight." He grinned at the assassin, who was the very image of displeased. "You are a very capable fighter, mio amico, but even you won't be able to defend yourself when you are injured as such."
"And?" Ezio asked, glaring as Leonardo. "When will I be fit to move again, oh merciful dottore?"
Leonardo opted to overlook the sarcasm. "A few weeks, most likely. You will be fine for Carnevale, so long as you do not strain yourself in the meantime."
"By then, it will be safe for you to roam the city anyway," Teodora pointed out. "Everyone will be in mask and costume in celebration. We will find a good costume for you, and when you are well, you will be ready to strike."
"And meanwhile...?" Ezio looked apprehensive: it was clear that he didn't like this plan, but was too exhausted to argue the point.
"Meanwhile, you will have to stay somewhere, preferably with one of us," Antonio decided. He chuckled at the small curse Ezio uttered at the idea of being watched. "It's not only because we don't trust you. Someone just needs to keep you safe, make sure that your bandages are changed... Ah!" His eyes gleamed as inspiration struck. "You should stay with Leonardo."
"Che cosa?" Leonardo asked in shock, but immediately caught himself. "Not that I am not more than happy to let him stay," he added, shooting an apologetic look at Ezio, who definitely looked like he was pouting, "but with me? An artist and a youth are hardly the strong defenders who will keep him safe from guards." Never mind the fact that his heart was racing guiltily, his mind taunting him with impossible fantasies, his gaze briefly fixing itself on the musculature of Ezio's chest before flitting back to the floor... He did have a problem with letting Ezio stay, because those three days on the boat to Venice had been torturous enough—
"I will have my thieves watch over your bottega," Antonio said dismissively, rendering Leonardo's single valid argument inconsequential. "What's most important is that someone is there to make sure Ezio heals properly so that he is not bleeding through his costume. That will not help us at all." He glanced between Leonardo and Ezio. "What say you both? Is that agreeable?"
Ezio pressed his lips together, considering the futility of the situation, before sighing. "I'm not eager to be confined to one place, but if I must, I would be honored to stay here, Leonardo," he said, glancing at his friend with eyes warmed by wine and a slight smile. There was such sincerity behind the assassin's words—vexation at being coddled by three of his allies aside—that the artist wouldn't have been able to resist, even if he hadn't already made up his mind.
"Of course he can stay here," Leonardo agreed, albeit nervously. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there were birds singing.
/
Translations:
Mi dispiace – I'm sorry
Peccato – literally: sin; used like: that's a shame
Stai bene? – Are you okay?
Oddio! – Oh God!
femminuccia – wimp/girly man
Grazie, signorina – Thank you, miss
Non ci pensa – Don't think about it.
Capito – Understood
nome di Dio – used like: for God's sake!
Allora – So
Stronzo – literally: turd; used like: bastard
Non è niente – It's nothing
Prego – You're welcome
Benfatto – Well done
ubbriaco – drunkard
Maledetto testa di cazzo – more or less: fucking dickhead
Queste parolacce le ho già sentite – I've already heard those bad words
Che cosa? – What?
Other notes:
Marsilio Ficino is a major Neo-Platonic philosopher and leader of the Platonic Academy discussion group in Florence. Given their mutual connection to Lorenzo de'Medici, it's not unlikely that he and Leonardo would have met, even though it's never been recorded historically.
Leonardo's Big Huge Philosophical Rant is based off of what I've read about Neoplatonism, Leonardo's relationship with that particular philosophical movement, and a lot of things that he says in his notebooks. If anything's wrong, well, I'm no philosopher, and this is just fanfiction. XD