Chapter One: Beginnings (Part I)

Roma: 1500

The storm outside had finally passed, the winds long since blown out, the freezing rain lessening to a lingering dribble. The two occupants of the cozy home were currently unconcerned with the weather, however, thanks in part to the coals glowing warmly in the brazier.

The woman fussed about the room, her hands adjusting drapes that didn't need closing, stoking coals that were already fully roasting, pulling the bedclothes up and over the shoulders of the unconscious man. She paused a moment, staring down at his dark and brooding features, finding herself wondering—yet again—what it was that drove this mysterious man so relentlessly.

She had been tending to his wounds for more than a full day now, hardly daring to take a moment to eat or nap lest his injuries should worsen. She had seen wounds similar to these before—it seemed like a lifetime ago—and knew they were very serious. Most likely the man would die, he probably should have died already, yet something was keeping him alive, some inner driving force, some unyielding fate…

She yawned, caught herself, and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Va bene, if the man was going to die, he would die; there really wasn't much more she could do for him, other than sit next to him and offer him comfort if the time came, so he wouldn't have to die alone. She, however, was still alive, and would be alive tomorrow, and was in need of something to keep herself awake until then. And fed, she added ruefully, hearing the soft growl of her stomach.

She leaned back from the bed, gave the mysterious man one last perusal, and left for the other room.

No sooner had she started to fill a bowl with stew, than she heard a sound coming from the bed. She sighed, mentally shaking her head, figuring that of course the man would awaken as soon as her back was turned—she should have left him alone hours ago! With a measured, patient pace, she set the bowl back down and returned the ladle to the stew pot. Then, her hands clasped in front of her, she calmly re-entered the bedchamber. Either he was growing better, or growing worse, racing up to him would not change matters.

She craned her head around the partially opened door to see which option had come about. In the next moment, she fought back the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth; of course he was growing better. She finished entering the room and reached the bedside just has his hand knocked over the bottle of her special elixir sitting on top of a bedside table. She caught the bottle, placed it safely out of harm's way, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Next she grabbed his wrists, no mean feat considering how wildly he was flailing his arms, and spoke gently to him.

"Rest, Messer; you have been injured, but you will be well soon."

"No…!" The man beneath her hands struggled, against both her and the grips of unconsciousness. He was not quite awake, yet was already fighting to raise himself up onto his elbows. His voice was hoarse and croaking from his weakened state, but underneath it all was that steel that had kept him alive against the odds.

Yet he was weak, and injured, and she had no problem holding him down onto the bed. "Relax, Messer, do not fight it. You will awaken. Give it a moment." Seeing the way he struggled to wake up, she second-guessed her motives behind giving him the elixir earlier that day. But she knew the best thing for him was rest, a deep rest without troublesome dreams or nightmares.

Apparently, however, her patient did not agree with her.

"I must… I must…" he mumbled, his eyes fluttering, his mouth working hard to form the words, to infuse life into the sounds as if it would infuse life into his body, "…must get… Roma…"

"You are here, Messer," she tried to assure him, not exactly positive he could hear her, much less understand her, but she had to make the effort. He was waking, that much was obvious, but if he didn't stop moving around so much, he was going to reopen his wounds.

"I… I must get to Roma," he continued to press, at long last fully opening his eyes. "I must fix this!" He nearly managed to sit up, despite her hands holding his arms to his sides, and came face to face with her, so close they almost bumped heads.

He stopped ranting when he realized he was staring at the face of another person. He blinked, his golden amber orbs disappearing momentarily behind dark lashes, and when he looked at her again, she had the strangest impression that he was somehow looking through her. She gave a little shudder against the sensation, as if the icy drizzle outside was dribbling down her spine. Then he gave a little moan and blinked again, falling back against the mattress, exhausted after such a brief struggle, and breaking their eye contact.

No longer captivated by those enigmatic eyes, she realized she had been holding her breath, Giving herself a small shake for her silly reaction—of course a man couldn't look at a person and see into their soul and know what was in their heart—she inhaled a few times, slow and steady, to calm herself before returning her focus to her patient. Looking at him once more she saw his eyes were normal, as she had expected they would be; though a little glassy, he had no trouble focusing on her face or following her movements as she ran her fingers through his dark brown hair, checking the bump on the side of his head. Noting that the swelling was greatly reduced, she pulled free of the thick locks to touch the back of her fingers to his forehead.

"…scusa, but… where…?" There were other words before, between, and after those, but he hardly had the voice for them.

She paused a moment when she heard him speak, smiled reassuringly at him, and answered his question, or what she supposed his question to be. "You are in Roma, Messer." She watched him critically as his brows furrowed, his sluggish mind working through what she had said. Satisfied she had satisfied his question, she moved her fingers to his stubbled cheek, just above his short beard. Since his arrival, he had been battling a high fever, but his skin was cooler now. She tilted her head, nodded a little, and hummed to herself, concluding that his fever had broken.

"Who… are you…?" This time he had taken the effort to form only those words that were necessary, speaking slower but far more clearly.

Her focus was now on the bedclothes. They had gotten bunched and twisted due to his earlier thrashing, and she was straightening them as she answered, somewhat absent-mindedly, "Margherita."

"Madonna Margherita," he repeated, his voice wearing as thin as his patience. "How did I… get here?"

That got her attention. She blinked at him, wondering if the bump on his head had affected his memory. He tried to sit up, but her hands on his upper arms kept him lying down. He gave up trying to fight her, and instead tried to wet his lips, dusting them with an even drier tongue. She took the hint, let go of his arms, though keeping a stern look on him to make sure he stayed put, and reached for a nearby cup of water.

When she turned back towards him, she leaned forward and ran one of her hands behind his head, helping to support it as he raised his head to drink. "Your friend, Messer," she answered, carefully tipping the contents into his mouth, slowly and in a measured pace, allowing him to swallow between each sip. "He brought you here the other night."

Never had water tasted sweeter than any wine, headier than any grappa, as if it were the very nectar of the gods. He could feel it soaking into his tongue, easing the desert of his throat, spreading out from his stomach to breathe life into his limbs. But life was returning to his mind as well, though for a moment he doubted it because her words did not make any sense. "What friend?" he pressed, remembering that he had sent his mother and sister to Firenze, that he had brought no one with him on that lonely road. "Surely, you cannot mean my horse."

Margherita seemed taken aback, tilting her head again, not sure if he was trying to be charming and teasing her, or if he honestly thought his horse had brought him to her doorstep and negotiated for his care. "Your friend. The man you were with. You don't remember him?" As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer, his confusion written plainly on his face. She leaned forward, peering into his eyes as she asked, "Tell me, can you remember what happened to you?"

"I remember," he answered, holding her gaze steadily. "But I was alone when I rode for Roma. Who brought me here? And where is this place?" He tried once more to push himself into a sitting position. He was feeling stronger, or so he told himself. He had to be feeling stronger. There was too much to do, to much he had to do…

She placed her hands carefully, one on his right shoulder and the other on his upper left arm, mindful of the wound in his left shoulder, easily forcing him back onto the mattress. When it looked like he would continue to defy her, she offered an explanation, hoping that would persuade him. "Please, Messer, lie still. If you move too far too quickly, you will reopen your wounds. Then all the hard work I have done—cleaning them and stitching them closed—will have been for nothing. Already you have caused yourself harm, see?" She tsked at him, pulling the covers down far enough to reveal the bandages wound across his abdomen. The dressing was no longer clean, but had a red stain slowly growing across it on his right side.

He saw the injury but it hardly registered. "Will you answer my questions?" His tone grew harsher from his frustration and his confusion and his weakness. He was being defeated by a young woman! A girl! A…

She leaned across him and started loosening the bandage before she replied, "If you lie still, si, I will answer all the questions that I can." Her attention was more on his wounds than his eyes. If she had looked up, she would have found the bright amber orbs looking closely at her again, with that same unearthly look from before, as if they could see into her very soul.

He stared at her a moment longer, then made a conscious effort to relax onto the bed. Despite her being a stranger to him, despite having no idea how he had gotten there, he knew she was someone he could trust, thanks to that… rare… gift of his. "Va bene, Dottore Margherita," he gently teased. Charming women was second nature to him, after all; yet when he saw the blush on her cheeks at the title he had given her, he immediately felt remorse. He decided to try a different tactic. "Scusa, Madonna, but we seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Perhaps if we began again? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze."

She did not look up from her work, removing the stained bit of folded linen cloth before pressing a fresh poultice over the long furrow in his side. "Salute, Messer Auditore. I am Margherita Campi." She tightened the bandage around his waist and leaned back to check the wound in his shoulder.

"You said we are in Roma?"

"Si," she nodded, her slight fingers pressing gently against the reddened and tender flesh around the injury. Yet she seemed satisfied with what she saw, replacing that dressing without changing it. "Specifically the Campagna District," she looked up as she finished tying the linen strips to see the confusion on his face. "We are on the northeast edge of Roma, facing the countryside."

"How long have I been here?"

She dropped her eyes away, suddenly conscious of the heat that simmered behind his fiery pupils. She busied herself with gathering up the soiled wrappings as she answered, "You and your friend arrived last night, during the storm. You were very sick with a fever, and weakened from your wounds."

"Can you tell me who brought me here, or at least what has happened since I've been in your care?"

She had turned away to set the soiled linens aside to be washed later, and used to time to gain mastery over herself once more. Feeling brave enough to face his gaze, she turned back towards him. "Si, I will, but I think I have answered enough of your questions; now you must answer a few of mine. Tell me, truthfully: do your wounds pain you any?"

Ezio didn't want to show it, but her eyes were too stern. Somehow, he felt she would know it if he lied, like a mother with an impish son. "A little," he allowed, shifting to test his muscles and immediately wincing for his efforts, "Mostly my back aches."

She nodded. "There is a lot of bruising along your spine, but nothing broken, thankfully. It looks as if you took a severe beating."

"More like fell onto a rooftop," he mumbled an answer, accepting her help and letting loose another wince as he shifted to a position sitting up.

"Don't you mean, 'from' a rooftop?" she corrected him, wondering again if she should recheck the knot on the side of his head. Nobody can fall upwards onto a rooftop.

"That came next," he sighed, easing back against a pillow she propped up behind him.

Margherita mentally shook her head and decided he must be teasing her. It did seem his nature, to be charming and teasing and a handful. Wisely she dropped the subject and allowed him his little mystery; if he had been caned for something, he undoubtedly would not wish to talk about it. "I can give you something that will ease the pain," she continued, taking note of the disapproving look that flickered across his features and amending, "But only if you wish. First, let me bring in some supper. While we eat, I will tell you what I know. Alright?" She waited for his answering nod, before swiftly standing up and heading out of the room, her movements clean and efficient.

After she had left, Ezio took the time to look around him, noting the coziness of the room, the warmth of the brazier in the corner and the simple plainness of the furnishings. It was not the room of a wealthy person by far, but it did show it belonged to one who was well enough off not to have to worry for food or clothing or shelter. Whatever else Margherita Campi was—wife or widow, mother or child, noble or peasant—she was an independent woman.

He decided he liked that about her.

She returned quickly, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The smell of the stew and fresh bread was almost palatable, hitting him like a wave crashing onto the shore, and he found his stomach grumbling in response. If she heard the sound, she gave no indication other than a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, and a muted twinkling in her blue eyes. Setting the tray down on a chest near a lamp, she turned back to the bed, a bowl in one hand, a roll in the other. He accepted the food, flashing her a warm and promising smile as thanks, and was rewarded when she blushed.

The next moment she seemed to laugh at herself, or perhaps at his efforts, and made herself roll her eyes, "Oh, si, you are a handful, Messer Ezio. Now, eat your supper, slowly, intesi? Do so, and I won't have to interrupt my story to scold you."

"Si, Dottore Margherita, I will be a good little boy." His words and tone belied his actions, but he did dutifully set the bread on his lap and began spooning the stew into his mouth. Slowly.

She gave a long suffering sigh, but sat down on the edge of the chest and picked up her own bowl of stew. She toyed with it, taking small bites every now and then, while she began her narration. "It was yesterday, late afternoon or early evening; with the storm, it was hard to tell the time. Anyway, there was a knock on my door, and I thought it odd, considering the weather. But, if someone was there, it had to have been serious, to get them out of their homes in the middle of such a storm."

"Scusa," he interrupted her, and received another stern look, but he didn't back down, "But, who is 'they'?"

The look vanished, replaced by surprise. "Oh! Scusa, but I should be asking your pardon, Messer. Let me back up a little. I am…" she took a deep breath, searching for a way to explain her unusual occupation, "Well, when you call me 'dottore,' it is not too far from the truth. I'm not a dottore, of course, I am a woman, but I do know of medicine, and the villagers know they can come to me, for elixirs or splints or births or dressings and the like. It is unusual, si, but I am closer than a real dottore, and I charge far less."

Ezio gestured at himself, "You are a real enough dottore from where I'm standing, or, um, sitting."

She blushed again, though this time it was not the fluster of being flirted with, but deep gratitude. "Grazie, Messer Auditore."

"Call me Ezio."

The blush changed back to embarrassment. She cleared her throat, staring into her bowl which was far safer than staring at the half-naked man lying in her bed. "Ezio," she allowed, wishing she could get her wayward thoughts back under control. "I, um," she paused to take a bite and use the time to remember where she had left off, "I heard the knock, and thought it was one of the villagers, something serious to get them out in that bad of a storm. So I opened my door rather quickly, expecting the worst.

"Only it wasn't any of the villagers standing there," she continued, feeling brave enough to look back up at him, now that she was back to reciting the story, "But you and your friend. He was holding you up, half carrying you, as you didn't look able enough to keep your own feet. He was also trying to keep his cloak over your head, or as much of you as he could manage. Needless to say, he had his hands full. He quickly stated that he had asked in the village for the nearest dottore, and was directed here. I answered that I knew a bit of medicine, and invited you both inside. He looked skeptical at first, but you were very sick, and the storm was very bad, and he seemed very desperate to get help for you."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

She nodded, "Si, I believe that was his conclusion. So he brought you inside. I could see that you had been bleeding for some time, judging by your stained clothing, and directed him to lay you on the bed. He said you had been shot by something, not an arrow or a dart, but something that uses little round lead balls?" Her tone of voice let him know that she hadn't believed his friend, but when he nodded unsurprised by the strange statement, she readjusted her thoughts. "At any rate, he feared the bits of lead may still have been inside you, causing your fever. I checked the wounds and assured him that, if it became necessary, I could perform surgery.

"Though it was not necessary," she added. "The wound on your lower right side is more a graze or a furrow, the projectile slicing into muscle but no further, though it did make two holes in your tunic. The wound in your left shoulder was more troublesome, but there was both an entrance and an exit, so I doubted there was any sort of projectile still inside your shoulder. However, it did look to be slightly infected, which undoubtedly was what has been causing your fever."

Now he gave her the disbelieving look, "A wound gave me a fever? Not a bad vapor or an excessive amount of bile or something of that sort?"

"It was the wound, or rather, the infection around the wound," she nodded her head. When he continued to stare at her, she defended herself, "I do know my medicine, Messer Ezio. You are alive, are you not? Sitting up? Regaining your strength? And your fever gone?"

He swallowed the last bite of stew, and allowed her point, "Si. Scusa, Dottore Margherita. So you tended my injuries and cured my fever. But what happened to my friend?" He tore off a chunk from the roll and used it to wipe the gravy out of the bowl.

She gave a shrug and stared at a patch on the blanket. "Truthfully, I do not know. He watched me at first, I think to make sure I truly did know about medicine and would be able to take good care of you. Then he said something about having to bring in your satchel from outside. He set it on the floor in that corner over there," she nodded to the far side of the room, where indeed he could see a satchel propped up in the corner. It was not familiar to him, however, and he didn't remember having a satchel—or even a saddle for that matter—on the horse he rode from Monteriggioni. "Then, sometime while I was stitching closed the wound in your shoulder, he left. He never gave me his name, nor yours for that matter. However," she bit her lip, a bit guiltily, and glanced back down at her bowl, "He did leave a note with the bag."

Ezio sighed, looking at her closely for a moment. "You read it." It wasn't a question, but she nodded the affirmative. "The curiosity of women," he lamented, though he didn't seem too upset.

"Scusa, but, well," she stood and, in an effort to have something to do, walked over to pick up the note and bring it to him, "Your friend was gone, and you were so ill, I thought, I hoped that, perhaps, it might give a name or some clue as to who you and your friend were." She handed over the single-folded piece of parchment, "It wasn't like it was sealed or anything."

Ezio dismissed her invasion. He took the note and opened it, handing her the empty bowl with the other hand. He quickly scanned the contents as she returned to her perch on the chest. "Meet Machiavelli by the Mausoleo di Augusto," he read aloud, and suddenly an idea struck him on just who was this mysterious friend of his. "What did my friend look like?"

She didn't comment or wonder why he didn't know his friend; there had been far too many strange things happening this night. "I am sorry, Messer Ezio, but I cannot remember, nor do I think I truly took a good look at him. It was dark and raining, and he kept the hood of his cloak up. I could tell you he was of average build and height, and had dark eyes, but there was nothing distinguishing about him." She shrugged, "I was more observant of you and your injuries, than of your friend."

He waved it aside. "No matter, I think I know who it was. Tell me, where is this Mausoleo? Is it far?"

"Not too far, no, just west of here, further into Roma," she allowed, "But far enough that you wouldn't want to walk there right now. There are too many unsavory characters roaming the streets this time of night."

"Unsavory characters," he repeated, "Like the two you let into your home last night? A woman living all alone on the outskirts of Roma, who didn't think twice about allowing my friend and I inside, is going to lecture me about not trusting strangers?"

Margherita actually smiled. "I have no fear, Messer Ezio, my Knight protects me."

"Your… knight?" he asked, wondering if he had misjudged the situation, if she didn't live alone, but had a companion or husband or some other male relation. Yet he didn't have the chance to ask for clarification. The door, which had been slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open and a large, dark shape entered the room.

Margherita laughed, a sound like rain falling in the forest, and greeted the enormous ambling shape that approached her side. She reached out and stroked the head right behind an ear. "He must have heard me say his name. Knight is my dog," she answered, turning to face him once more. He was caught off guard by the change. Her face, seen clearly in the lamplight, was shining with her happiness. "He is my companion, and my protector, but I usually keep him away from my patients. His size sometimes upsets them." She allowed the animal to lay his large head on her knee, smiling as she scratched the other ear. "Still, he always knows if a stranger is to be trusted or not, and he liked the look of you and your friend. I may not have known either of you, much less had reason to trust you, but I trust my Knight."

Ezio looked at the dog with respect, but had to feel some humor at the large, lolling tongue drooling onto Margherita's lap. His chuckle was short-lived, however, his arm wrapping around to grip at his wound. "Do not laugh," she chided him when a slight grimace crossed his features. "Your stomach will be sore for a few days, but it should heal if you can let it. Would you like something for the pain, or to help you sleep?"

He didn't answer, but instead tried to sidetrack her. "The stew was very good, Madonna Margherita. Not only are you a skilled dottore, but a talented cook. You will make a man very lucky some day."

Her face darkened, the joy and love from earlier snuffed out like a candle flame.

"Scusa, I did not mean to upset you…"

"It is nothing," she waved it away, picking up the tray in preparing for standing up. "You should get some rest. Knight and I will leave you alone."

"No, Madonna Margherita," he said, reaching a hand out to her before she could turn away. "I have slept enough. Stay with me, just for a little while. I only wish to talk."

He left the sentence hanging, an open invitation, but Margherita wasn't sure an invitation to what. She looked up from the tray, and caught his eyes searching her, a look somewhere between desperation and desire. But it wasn't a physical sort of desire, more of a spiritual sort, and she was reminded again of that unrelenting force she had sensed earlier, the thing that had driven him to come to Roma and was keeping him alive, forcing him to heal quickly. "I have told you all I know of you and your friend, Messer Ezio…"

"But what of the city? What can you tell me of its people or its, er, politics? What is it like, living here in Roma?"

She sighed, but set the tray off to the side and returned to her perch on the chest. "You mean, what is it like, living under the Borgia?" She made a moue with her lips. "It is not a good time to be visiting Roma, if that is what you are asking. In fact, I had thought that was what had happened to you, that you were no friend of the Borgia's and had been attacked not far from here." The question was a leading one, but he didn't offer an explanation, so she continued. "The Borgia have been ruling by fear from the Vatican ever since Pope Alexander VI came to power. The Pope, however, has become more focused on religious pursuits than secular matters. Lately it has been more the son, than the father, who is ruling Roma."

"Cesare."

She started at the violent hiss he gave the name, but recovered quickly. "You know of him already, I see. Then I don't have to tell you what a monster he can be. Everywhere in the city you can see his presence, from the Borgia banners flying atop every palazzo, to the taxes imposed to support his army. He has towers all through Roma, towers full of soldiers and swordsmen and brutes. They terrorize the citizens of Roma, accosting and arresting innocent people at whim. They are nearly out of control, like a pack of rabid dogs that know their master is as bloodthirsty as their instincts."

Ezio looked closely at Margherita. "You sound like you also have suffered their attention."

Margherita dropped her gaze, once more stroking Knight's head. "Nowadays, everyone in Roma has either had trouble with the Borgia soldiers, or know of someone who has."

"What of the nobles?" he asked, shifting and testing his limits. His strength was returning, thanks in large part to her ministrations and cooking, but he wasn't ready to leave just yet, not when he had such a good source of local information. "Don't they have their own men to stand against Cesare?"

Margherita scoffed, and took the moment to hastily scrub a tear from her cheek. "The nobles are weak. Most of them bow and lick the boots of their Borgia masters. Too many are afraid of the threat of excommunication from the Pope if they should protest. And the smarter ones keep silent, giving only lip service to their oaths of loyalty while waiting for someone else to be the first to denounce Cesare. No, Messer Ezio, I'm afraid Roma is not as nice a city as your own Firenze must be. Perhaps you should return home."

"No," he disagreed, his eyes burning with the intensity of his determination. "I have business to conduct with Cesare. He has, after a fashion, invited me here to Roma. What kind of a guest would I be if I left right after arriving at the party?"

She recognized the dangerous undertone to his voice, and didn't offer comment. Instead she returned to her own gloomy memories of what life had briefly promised her.

"Campi."

She looked up at him when he said the name, spoken so softly she might have thought she imagined it, but the way he was staring at her left her feeling cold and exposed. "I knew I had heard that name before. There is a Count Campi here in Roma, is there not? Are you related to him?"

Margherita swallowed, dropping her gaze back to the dog. Ezio felt remorse for the intrusiveness of his question, and offered, "Forgive me, Madonna, for my rudeness. I should not have pried into your personal life."

She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders and forcing a smile. "There is no need to apologize, Messer Auditore. You are a stranger to Roma as well as to me; there is no reason you should have known what subjects might upset me."

"For instance, the reason why you live alone?" He was inwardly pleased when she kept her gaze steady, though the hurt was evident. "The house is small, but comfortable. And though you have only a dog for a companion, the bed is large enough for two. I would guess that at one time you were married."

The tears tried to come, but she bravely held them back. "Why are you here in Roma, Messer Auditore?"

"I told you, call me Ezio."

"Why are you here, Messer Ezio?" she repeated, stubbornly holding onto the honorific. "You say you were invited by Cesare Borgia himself, but act as if the invitation was distasteful, even… injurious."

He leaned a little into the pillows behind him, gauging her as he responded. "I have not been completely truthful with you, Madonna Margherita. And I apologize for it. I could say it is for your own welfare, for knowing too much about me or my associates would be detrimental to your health."

His words were enough of a hint for her to figure the rest out for herself. "Assassino," she breathed the word, somewhere between fear and a prayer. They sat very silently for several moments, staring at each other, each seeming to learn and measure all they could of the other. At last Margherita was the first to break the spell.

"Va bene, do not acknowledge that, and later I can truthfully say you never told me other than your name. But know this, Ezio: I wish you Godspeed. And I shall pray every night for your success." She stood, upsetting Knight who had been peacefully dozing on her knee, and paced to the brazier. Her arms were hugging herself, as if she were cold, and as she stared into the glowing coals, a tale began unfolding from her lips that explained all her earlier tears.

"You've teased me about being a lady dottore, and have guessed at my married name. Now I will tell you how close you are to the truth. My father was a dottore, a skilled apothecary as well as a gifted surgeon. Since my mother… well, let's just say, she left us when I was very young. Since then, father took me with him when he tended to the sick, or collected herbs from the countryside. I was rarely from his side, so with nothing else to do, I watched him closely. I suppose you could say, I began learning his trade from a very young age." She paused briefly as a smile flickered across her profile. "I got to be quite good at it, and he quickly noticed that I was learning from him. He often would ask me what I thought a diagnosis would be, testing me, but I was seldom wrong. We went all over Roma, healing nobles and peasants alike with very little regard for payment. It was enough, father said, that he use his gift and abilities to help others; and let them pay what they could, when they could.

"A few years ago, Count Campi—not the current Count, but his older brother—Count Campi called for my father's services. His son, Gavino, had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. For two months father and I both attended to the young man. Though he was almost ten years older than me, he took a liking to me," she dropped her gaze to the floor and blushed, and a private little smile briefly crossed her lips, "And I to him. The Count learned of his son's interest in me, and offered to buy me from my father. Father refused; even after the Count made sure no other noble would seek out father's skill, he refused to sell me into the life of a mistress. It wasn't as if we suffered for lack of business due to the Count's vindictiveness; though he no longer served the richer citizens of Roma, there were plenty of the lower classes who wished only for the services of a good dottore, and cared nothing about his daughter's status."

She paused again, taking the time to remember something pleasant amidst her plain existence. "But Gavino and I continued to meet clandestinely. There are plenty of old ruins and abandoned buildings in Roma that serve well for secret rendezvous. After a few months, when I turned fourteen and came of age, he took me away from here, away from Roma. We found a priest in some distant village out in the countryside who was willing to marry us, for a small bribe of course. And for several months we were very happy. Eventually, however, he decided we must return to Roma and face our fathers. Though sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't returned, if we had instead taken to ship and sailed to a distant country." She was lost for a moment, before she shook herself out of her daydream and took up her narration once more.

"When we returned to Roma, we found out that our fathers had had an argument over us. After my father discovered I was missing, he rode to confront Count Campi, accusing him of abducting me to satisfy his son. In return, the Count accused me of stealing Gavino away with some bewitching elixir. Father was so angry over the implied witchcraft, he struck the Count. A duel quickly followed," she paused again, her hands gripping her arms tighter, "And father was killed. Gavino knew the accusations were groundless and the duel staged, and when he learned how his father had so shamelessly baited and killed my father, he denounced his inheritance. He brought me out here, to the edge of Roma, and we began our life together."

She still hadn't turned towards the bed, but Ezio watched fascinated as her profile lifted and another happy smile lit her face. "We were happy here. Though Gavino wasn't much of a farmer, he was a better landlord. The family down the hill rented the farmland from us, and in return we got a share of the crop. He was better with animals, though, having raised Knight from a puppy. And since he had a good eye for animal flesh, he went into partnership with a butcher down in the village. I began practicing my medicine, such as I was allowed, and made herbal teas and elixirs for coughs and colicky babies and so forth. The villagers, though a little hesitant at first, quickly began to get used to us and greet us as we passed on the streets. At the end of the first year, I bore Gavino a son. At the end of the second year, though, everything changed.

"Gavino received word that his father was very ill, and had summoned him presumably to make amends. He went to see the Count, but returned after only a short visit. He told me the Count had admitted he thought he was dying, and wanted his son to denounce his marriage to me. In return, he would have his inheritance reinstated, and become the next Count Campi. Gavino said he laughed at him, told him he would never abandon me or our son, and left again, this time for good. Not a week had gone by when word reached us that the Count had died, leaving his title to pass to his younger brother, Gavino's Uncle Lauro. The day after that…" Margherita's voice broke at last, her eyes squeezing shut against the pain and the tears.

"The day after that," she forced the words out as she forced her eyes open, "I was in the foothills with Knight, collecting herbs for my practice. Gavino and the baby were home. When I got back," she fought down another sob. "When I got back, I found both of them dead. Savio, our neighbor who rents the land, Savio said Borgia soldiers came that morning. They were very loud… boasting, even. They made no pretense about their mission to our home. They wanted everyone to know what they were doing, and why, making an example of Gavino for the whole village. You see, the new Count Campi was worried that his nephew, the rightful heir, might make a case for the title now that his father was dead and unable to dispute his claim. So he made a pact with Cesare Borgia. In exchange for Lauro's loyalty and his men, Cesare would send his soldiers to deal with my husband, keeping Lauro's hands clean of his nephew's fate. Gavino's body was riddled with arrows, and our son had been trampled into the dirt by horses. If I had been home, I would have been killed, too."

She turned now to face Ezio, and he drowned in the tears overflowing from her deep blue eyes. "Gavino would never have claimed the title, and I'm sure he could have offered assurances satisfactory to Lauro if he had been given the chance. But he wasn't given the chance. He was brutally butchered, he and his son, his bloodline ended. That was a little more than a year ago, but for me it still feels like yesterday. My soul may be damned for this, but I pray that you are successful, Assassino. I imagine you are here for Cesare, but if you find the time or the opportunity, and though I cannot pay you, I would ask that you also take the life of Lauro Campi, for my husband's and son's sakes."

Ezio held her gaze for a long time, his golden eyes stern against her melted blue. When he spoke, his voice was just as stern as his eyes. "Do not mistake Assassini for mercenaries, Madonna Margherita. They do not take money for their kills. Nor do they kill merely for revenge. It is a higher creed we follow, one that makes us sacrifice of ourselves for the betterment of all men. If I am an Assassin, and here on business, it is not for my benefit, or yours, but for the benefit of all the citizens of Roma. Believe me, Margherita," his voice suddenly softened, filling with empathy, "Taking Lauro's life will not bring back your family, or make your pain any less. You will have to find your own way—a way that does not include revenge—to continue living without them."

She had refused to turn away, even after his words stung, even after the tears spilled down her cheeks, even after she began to shake from the force of her emotions. Instead she made herself face him, and the truth, with a bravery and a courage he couldn't help but admire. And when she could finally speak, her voice was hoarse and tired. "I understand, Messer Assassino, what you are saying. But I do not feel that way. Not yet."

He smiled, a little sadly, but mostly to give her encouragement. "I didn't expect you to, not right away. Someday, perhaps, you will be able to feel it. I pray you will. And I pray it comes sooner for you than it did for me."

His words held the ring of truth. She stood a little longer, wondering what pain, what loss, he could have suffered. Then she decided it didn't really matter what he lost; what mattered was that he knew how that loss felt. And if he could find a way to live with it, perhaps she could as well. She nodded and offered her own tight smile. "Grazie, Messer Ezio, for everything. I'll take the tray away now, and leave you to rest. Come, Knight."

The dog, who had been dozing this whole time near the chest, was instantly on his feet and ready to follow his mistress. He only paused a moment to sniff at Ezio, as if the animal could somehow read the man's mind, before he obediently padded after Margherita.

Ezio didn't stop her from leaving this time, he didn't even try. He knew the type of pain she was feeling, had felt it himself ever since his father and brothers were killed, had carried it with him like a yoke around his neck, had felt more weight added to it over the years—Uncle Mario the most recent…

He did not sleep, but quietly shifted out from beneath the bedclothes and pushed himself to his feet. His wounds protested, but not too severely, and he knew he would be able to manage. Carefully he started walking for the far corner, the aches dissipating and his strength returning with each step. He reached the satchel and looked inside, nodding in approval at the contents. Whoever had brought him here, whoever had left the satchel for him, was truly a friend of his.

By the morning, Margherita found the bedroom empty and the bed cold.