The bright Tuscan sun beat down upon the frescoed streets of Florence. Shadows from the multitudes of chimneys and spires rising above the city cast their cool fingers over the shimmering waters of the river. The air above clamoured with the sounds of a busy market down below, shouts of merchants pedalling their goods, chattering wives out buying food for their household, an elderly herald with a booming voice relaying the morning's news.
A sudden shade blocked out the sun for a second, and the old Florentine felt a shiver rundown his spine. He looked up at the rooftops high above, but saw nothing except a flock of pigeons fluttering suddenly into the air, and a flash of white so brief he assumed it had only been the sunlight glinting off the whitewashed walls. He scratched his beard and continued the reports.
His dark boots pounding on the baked tiles, the flash of white readied himself for the trial he knew was coming. It would conclude the hard work of the past few days, and he allowed himself a small smile at the thought of finally returning to the villa, and sleeping uninterruptedly for a long time.
Lost in his thoughts, he mistimed a leap across a street, landing awkwardly on a ledge and startling some birds. He cursed in Italian as he lost sight of his target, and inwardly berated himself for losing his concentration. Increasing his pace until he was running almost flat out, he dashed across the row of houses and slid to a stop on the edge, breathing heavily. Scanning the ground below with the precision of an eagle, he picked out the jittery looking nobleman just walking around the corner of a small church. The assassin used his light brown eyes to plan his route carefully.
Leap from here to the scaffolding, and then on to the narrow shelf of a balcony.
Scan for target, dispatch, exit up the ladder and across the rafters of a nearby building.
There was no room for any more mistakes. He took a deep breath and began the sequence, falling into the familiar pattern and feeling an innate sense of rightness as his muscles worked tirelessly to propel his lean body across the gap. His mark had turned left into a secluded alleyway, where two houses leaned together like plaster lovers. Soon he would feel the cold embrace of death, thought the assassin grimly, perched on an elaborate marble balustrade and stroking the shining blade on his wrist.
As a cloud passed across the sun, Ezio struck, dropping like a stone and plunging his weapon into the unresisting flesh. The limp body flopped heavily to the cobbles, legs bouncing like a broken puppet. As he turned to flee up the ladder, he noticed an unusually large line of guards striding purposefully towards him. That was quick. Normally the guards took hours to find the bodies, and more often never found them at all. The assassin glanced quickly at the fallen body of his latest victim to reassure himself, and gasped. It wasn't the sight of blood that shocked him; he was well used to that. No, rather it was the complete absence of blood. The neat puncture wound in the neck had straw protruding from it. It was a dummy.
"Kill l'assassino del traditore, Ezio Auditore!" roared a voice, and the traitor assassin in question spun to find the guards surrounding both exits of the alleyway.
A child could have seen that it was an ambush. Ezio scrabbled at a wall, looking for handholds, but his grasping fingers found none on the smooth terracotta surface. He dropped to the floor. "Merda!" he swore, looking for another escape route.
"Precisamente." sneered a guard brandishing a long, wicked looking scimitar with two heavily gloved hands, and without warning slashed at Ezio. The blade lacerated his side in a plume of crimson and scraps of white cloth, drawing a yawning red stripe across his chest, and he staggered back in shock. As the guard charged again, he threw himself up another ladder, three rungs at a time. He reached the top, and stretched out his arms to haul himself up.
Thud. A heavy boot came out of nowhere, breaking his arm in several places. He cried out, leaping backwards off the ladder, but not quickly enough to escape another blow which caught him in the side of his face. He span away from the archer that had blocked his escape route, and over the heads of the surprised guards, crimson spurting in a spray from a deep cut on his cheek.
The assassin tumbled head over heels as he hit the ground hard, cradling his arm, and then sprinted blindly away, his head down. He ran and ran, shoving aside citizens with his good arm, climbing where he could, but the guards always seemed to find him, appearing around corners and cutting him off, herding him until he could run no more. The blossoming scarlet stain across his torso contrasted against the stark white of his robes which picked him out immediately whenever he tried to hide himself among the crowd, who were bewildered by this bloodstained man trying to stumble in between them like a wolf among sheep.
Finally, his frame drooping and his options running out, he ran headlong into a merchant carrying a large wooden crate, and crashed to the cobbles of the piazza in an explosion of splinters and rolling oranges. Ezio lay dazed for a moment, until the angry shouting of the trader brought him struggling back to the surface. He was roughly pulled to his feet by the man, and was then subjected to a torrent of infuriated Italian while simultaneously being shaken to within an inch of his life.
"You should have looked where you were going, cretino! What am I going to tell my wife? That we can't afford to feed our children for another week? You'd better pay me for this damage, or I will report you straight to the guards! Don't think I won't!" the red-faced man paused to take a breath, and suddenly noticed that something wasn't quite right with his tormentor. He looked past his blind rage, and saw that the man's brown eyes were unfocussed, and the aggressive grip of the trader seemed to be the only thing holding him upright. Blood trickled down in rivulets from a gash in his swollen cheek, running down his jaw and staining his white tunic. He also saw the rows of knives and daggers at the careless man's bloodied waist, and the right arm at a strange angle. At last his eyes came to rest on the deep red Medici cape with the famous crest emblazoned in gold upon it.
"Forgive me. Me despieci…" he whispered, as the assassins eyes bored straight into his. Hammering footsteps echoed along a nearby street, and he felt the assassin stiffen under his hands.
Ezio glanced at the pursuing guards, and then back at the frightened man, giving an imperceptible nod and lowering his hood a little.
"Where is he? Where is he hiding?" shouted the guards, waving their weapons at the alarmed citizens, who backed off in fear. The trader began to walk slowly away from the main group of people, supporting Ezio subtly with his shoulder. After an uncomfortably long time of searching, the guards decided that their quarry was gone, and left the square. The exhausted assassin collapsed gratefully onto the nearest bench, sweaty and panting.
"Grazie, signorre..." he sighed, breathing heavily and wiping blood from his mouth with a sleeve.
"You ought to find a dottore. That cut looks serious…" the man advised worriedly, glancing over his shoulder, though he seemed more worried about his oranges than Ezio.
"You ought to get the hell out of here." he said with a grin. However, on seeing the merchant's disappointed expression, he reached into his coin purse and pulled out a handful of silver florins. "For your troubles, amici mio. I hope that this will be sufficient to pay for those oranges."
He handed the money to the awestruck man, and then dragged himself up, groaning inwardly at the pain from his shattered arm and the gash in his chest as he straightened. The trader was too busy counting the coins to notice Ezio disappear into the crowd.
Administering some pungent smelling-salts to his nostrils, Ezio breathed a sigh of relief as the throbbing in his body dulled a little, and he was able to think with a clear head. The situation was not a good one, and even with his skill, the outlook was not promising. He was dizzy, injured and couldn't defend himself should it come to a fight, not to mention he hadn't even dispatched the target.
Becoming aware of a few curious stares from the crowd he was supposed to be blending effortlessly into, he glanced down at himself, and realised belatedly that he was highly conspicuous, what with all the dried blood covering his body. Ezio waited until the group he was travelling with passed a fountain, and quickly scooped up handfuls of the sun-warmed liquid, scrubbing at his clothes until the water had a pinkish tinge and his outfit was more or less white again. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he had been observed, but saw nothing suspicious. Shaking his hands free of excess water, he resumed his careful progress among a small party of wealthy men, cursing his sloppiness.
But after a few minutes, which seemed like hours to Ezio, he began to feel drowsy in the hot sun with his face burning and his wounds coldly sucking away his strength. Once he found himself leaning on the gentleman in front, who shook him off with an irritated glance, and realised that he needed to leave the city immediately, so he could recover somewhere without fear of discovery. His robes were once again becoming saturated with blood from the cut along his ribs, making him more and more obvious with each minute. A small child suddenly shouted, pointing with a chubby finger in his direction. Heads began to turn, curious eyes strafing the crowd. Guards milled around, hefting large axes. Ezio began to panic, his normal quiet composure all but gone. Nearing a ladder, he broke cover, climbing it as fast as he could with one arm. Shouts down below made his heart sink; he had been spotted. Already.
Stones came whistling through the air, the majority bouncing with a clang off his armour, or hitting the walls around him with small puffs of plaster. Ezio had almost reached the top when a lucky shot struck him on the back of the head with a sickening crack. A crimson burst filled his head, and with a gasp, he threw himself over the top of the ladder like a landed fish. Warmth began to seep into the back of his jerkin, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself from throwing up. The nausea blinded him, but he knew he had to move quickly. Painfully, he began to crawl along the roof, a pathetic sight compared to his brilliance and agility only that morning. He couldn't take much more of this; trained killer though he was, a man he remained.
Through a haze of pain, Ezio dimly heard the guards nearing the top of the ladder. He had to disappear, and there was only one option left to him. Spotting a balcony decorated with cushions and tubs of flowers a floor below him, he tensed his muscles and rolled off the roof. The assassin hit the floor, the impact jarring his frame and causing him to lose consciousness for a while.
When Ezio came to, he could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. He was safe, but for how long? His condition was deteriorating at a rapid rate, and he was unsure whether to try and move on, or to keep lying down and conserving his energy. His injuries flared fiercely as he attempted to stand, and he collapsed back down on to his side. Perhaps the latter then.
Blood oozed from his chest and from under his hair, beginning to form an ominous dark pool of his life-blood. Darkness clutched at his heart and Ezio found himself reaching out to it, beckoning it to come nearer. His blood-spattered eyes began to close, and he fought it madly with all his remaining strength, but it was not enough. The fading evening sun gleamed off the terracotta tiles of Il Duomo, casting a perfect reflection in his own blood, and he laughed weakly to himself. The last thing Ezio saw was a shadowy figure appearing on the balcony and standing over him, and then his head sank down into the view of the scarlet cathedral.