It is whispered among them that Ezio Auditore is a god, or perhaps the descendant of a god. The man never seems to get sick, never seems to ache from age (that they can see or hear), and he never seems to be hurt long from any wounds. He has a gift, everyone says, that allows him to see an enemy, a target, an ally. He swims with ease beneath heavy layers, rebuilds all of Rome with an endless supply of florins. "A god," every recruit whispers to each other over pieces of hard bread and soup, or over the clash of steel, the thwang of a bow. It's a hard image to keep up, but Ezio manages somehow.
"A god," Vittorio says, bobbing up and down while reclined on Enu's back. "Everyone is saying it: Mentore is a god."
Enu laughs breathlessly under the strain of doing push-ups with the added weight. His dark skin, baked by the generation and sun of Africa, is taunt and carved with muscle. He keeps his marksman arms strong by coercing one of the youngest to sit on him while he exercises. A young boy, no more than nineteen and rarely enlisted in this profession by Ezio because he still has the slight baby's curl to his short hair, the roundness of youth to his jaws.
Vittorio doesn't seem to mind, as it is a way to skip out on the daily routine of being a Tiber "wife": sewing, cooking, washing uniforms, gathering weapons, checking coops. Moglie they call him teasingly, along with one other boy about his age. "They say if you stab him, he won't die," continues Vittorio, perhaps thinking about the similar rumors of La Volpe.
"And do you believe that?" asks Enu through a grunt on an upward push.
"Nothing is true," says a sudden voice, a strong and confident one that pierces the quiet of the room.
Enu freezes half-way in his swoop toward the ground, and Vittorio jerks upright. Ezio is like a ghost still, haunting room after room with an unnatural silence that leaves even the most skilled Master Assassins jumping in their skin. He likes it that way, likes to keep them all on their toes. None of the apprentices can ever seem to understand how he does it in all those layers. Their faces are always priceless. It's like a miracle to them, but they witness it with their own eyes, and so it is real. They have become believers in the proficiency of a trained Assassin.
Vittorio looks both surprised and astounded at Ezio's entrance, and Enu relaxes down against the floor slowly.
"Mentore!" chirps Vittorio, rolling himself off Enu and up to his feet. "Are you dismissing the rumors about yourself?"
"If you can find truth in these rumors," Ezio says, placing a heavy hand on Vittorio's head, "then you may believe them." Behind him, three of the recruits he had gathered earlier file into the room.
Rocco is first (as always, Ezio thinks), and he throws a few pretend punches at Vittorio's ribs which make his white robes sway near his knees. Vittorio hunches in reflex and grabs his stomach, but is too slow to make any motions of defending or moving. Rocco has ample opportunity to fake an upper-cut just under Vittorio's chin. Ezio can make out the appropriate reactions to the attack long before they are executed, like a slow blur in time. Rocco grins widely through his short beard at his success, all teeth. "Slacking off, rookie?" he asks, and then he laughs when Vittorio puffs up like an offended bird.
Severino, Ezio senses, doesn't seem half as amused as Valeria does about the teasing. There are serious lines all over his face, a bad pinch of his sharp brows. His eyes, as he sternly watches the other five, are so black that no emotion escapes them, and he looks placidly grim. He is a shady apparition lingering on the edge of their gathering, very different from the laid-back cousin standing beside him, very different from the baby-faced Vittorio and ruggedly handsome faces of Rocco and Enu. Ezio, before, thought maybe it was a bad thing to have such a wraith among his men, but now he knows better. The somber attitude keeps many of the rowdy in line. Namely Rocco.
Valeria, on the other hand, is forever smiling, with deep cupid's bow and feminine eyes. She is married, but even then, Ezio can admit to himself that she is a beautiful woman. Strong and beautiful, like the women of Italy should be.
"Marco needs some help," Ezio says to Vittorio finally. He then turns his amber eyes to Enu. "And I need your help," he adds, motioning to the other three. "Martucci, Sabelli, and I are teaching the others the crossbow. We could use the expertise of a skilled marksman."
Enu nods respectively, smile on his lips. "Of course, Mentore."
Ezio, rounding the four Assassins together with a hand, moves to leave, but Vittorio is right on their heels. "Mentore!" he calls, raising an arm before letting it fall back to his side. Simultaneously, Ezio and the others halt and glance back. "I want to learn, too," Vittorio says quickly.
Rocco laughs, and wiggles his fingers toward the bottom of his own face. "Find Mentore when you have some fuzz on your chin, boy," he says.
Vittorio cuts Rocco a playful glare, and Ezio can't help but to smile. He is vaguely reminded of himself, reminded of his brother Federico, and it leaves a bittersweet taste on the corner of his mind. "Unfortunately, Martucci is right," Ezio says reluctantly to Vittorio, and it makes the young novice frown. Glancing up, Ezio nods at the others and waves his hand. "Go ahead. I will meet you there."
"Don't let his baby face coerce you into anything, Mentore," Rocco says over his shoulder as the Assassins hesitantly file out of the door. It earns him a slap against the shoulders from Severino, and Rocco whines under his breath. "Jesus, don't," he sputters. "My back already hurts."
"Maybe if you didn't spend so much time on it," and the following retort is lost as their bickering voices and chuckles vanish down the hallway.
Ezio finally turns back to Vittorio with a shake of his hooded head. He isn't sure what he's going to do with them all. "You are eager to learn," he says, and he's glad for that. "That's good. However, you are still young, still have a lot of training to do."
"I won't learn if I'm never given the chance," Vittorio says solemnly.
"You will have a long life with plenty of chances," reassures Ezio. "We need you here, more than anything." The corner of Ezio's lips turn up just a little. "You may think it is nothing, it is useless, but it is everything. I use to think the same thing when I was your age." Ezio raises his hand to toward the room, but the motion is further than that: Tiber. He's not entirely sure where they would all be without the help of a few novices. Where they would be without the help of La Volpe, Machiavelli, or Bartolomeo, all of who weren't even traditional Assassins. "You are the base of the pyramid that keeps it standing, the support that keeps the rest of us held strong. This is our home, the Assassins' home, and you help keep it running smoothly. I would not be at the top without you, without your help. No one else can do what you do for us. They will help you along the way, this I promise."
"I just…" Vittorio sighs exasperatedly. "All right," he says.
"Go help Marco," Ezio urges. "I will get Enu to teach you the crossbow when you are ready. Ah." Ezio slowly crosses his arms and raises a brow. "How is our little aviary?"
Vittorio smiles childishly. "Well."
"Bene." Ezio backs up toward the door and makes a shift with his arm to allow the novice to exit first. The sole reason for his haste is God knows how much ruckus is currently ensuing with the bowman group, especially when Rocco is involved.
"Oh, Mentore," Vittorio suddenly calls from the other end of the hall, and Ezio pauses to glance over his shoulder. "Thank you."
Another smile comes to Ezio's mouth, and he nods his head before disappearing quietly around the corner in a hushed flurry of robes.