Recap: The Assassins continue north to seek the White Liberator, a yet cold trail. Ezio struggles with the burden of keeping the Apple of Eden, its secrets and its visions. The poor dear.
~7~ A Time in Florence
At first there was just one man. Red-headed, greying at the temples, face creased with mirth lines. He sat at a desk overladen with scrolls and documents. He was looking over an odd cube-like artifact. Another man appeared. Short, grim, hair more silver than black and in a green-grey mottled cloak. The first man gave him the cube. He left.
Black. Days passed in the blink of an eye. The red-haired man was at his desk again, writing. The quill stopped. He stiffened. Looked up. Someone broke down the door with a single kick. The man stood. Showed no fear. He pointed for the intruders to leave. It was gone. What they wanted was gone. They didn't believe him. They seized him, pinned him to the wall. Others came in and tore the office apart. It was gone. All their planning and spying was for nothing. They beat the man. He gave them nothing. He fought back. Escaped, bruised and bleeding. His attackers fled. One made for the nearest coop, sending a pigeon off into the evening sky.
Black again. Both time and space vanished into the void. The old man in green appeared. Outside, sitting on the edge of a fountain. He turned the puzzle cube over and over in his hands. A scream. He looked up and dashed out of view.
Now he was chasing someone, someone dressed in white and black robes, armed to the teeth. At the old man's side was a younger one, wearing a green cloak like him. The young man dashed ahead, after the man in white.
He pursued him across a city of stone, shingle and thatch. Cornered him. The man in white turned, revealing a patch with a strange, familiar symbol over one eye. The symbol flashed with stark white brilliance—
And was still burned into Ezio's retinas as he jerked awake, head swirling with vertigo. If one could get dizzy in their sleep, he did.
He groaned, covering his eyes until the sensation faded. But the eldritch symbol remained, smouldering behind his eyelids like a brand. Instead of wondering at it, contemplating that he had seen it before, he mentally cursed the Apple of Eden.
Flashes of the past, future, and present were not as rare as he would like. Sometimes they were straightforward. Sometimes they were ambiguous. Sometimes they were like tonight's – a mishmash of images that somehow flowed, giving only the important details. But were they past? Present? Or were they to be encounters of times ahead?
Ezio rubbed his eyes. Unlike most of the visions the Apple gave him, he believed this one to be of importance. He'd never seen those men in green cloaks before, nor did he recognize the silver cube, made up of smaller cubes, that was in their possession. But he did know that it was a precursor artifact, just like the Apple, and that somebody – likely Templars – tried to steal it too late from its guardians.
Then there was the man in white robes. Had Ezio seen him in person, he likely would have accepted him as one of the brotherhood, as an Assassin. But the Apple would not show him a random Assassin being chased by the men in green. No. In his heart, Ezio knew it was the White Liberator. And he, too, had a precursor artifact. Ezio had no idea what it was or what it did, but the symbol on the Liberator's eye patch was unmistakable. And that just made him more dangerous.
Nearby, Lauro muttered and rolled over in his sleep, tucking an arm under his chest and burrowing his face into his sleeping roll. Somewhere further from the glow of the fire, the soft sounds of carving could be heard. Pedro was whittling away the hours with a lump of wood and carving knife.
"My watch isn't over, Ezio," he said gently. "Go back to sleep."
Ezio realized blearily that he had barely woken up. And so it was with ease he slipped back into the void, knowing that, sooner or later, he was going to have to come clean with his companions. He was going to have to tell them everything. About the Apple. About the First Civilization. Everything.
From atop a pillar of an ancient Roman ruin, Ezio could see the land from the eyes of an eagle.
The Apennines held up the sky to the east, impeding the sunrise. Woodland undulated like emerald waves to the four winds. When he inhaled, he fancied he could smell the coast to the west, but knew he was imagining it.
A few more miles north, and he would start to recognize the landscape. Already, though, he was feeling homesick.
Home? You haven't had a home for years.
More than once he'd considered skirting around Florence, ignoring it completely in favour of saving a day on the journey north. But his duty as grand master commanded that he take even a few hours to be informed of the city's standing. With Lorenzo de' Medici dead and Leonardo of Vinci back in Rome, his list of friends in his birthplace withered. But the Assassin presence held strong there, last he knew. The stop would be brief.
Ezio Auditore of Florence. It used to feel as true as it is. Perhaps when this is over, when I am done...
The wearied Assassin looked down. Over four stories below, Lauro and Pedro were stirring. He caught faint snatches of their conversation, but knew not what they spoke of.
Ezio climbed down from the pillar, his chosen place to keep watch. It was his turn to prepare a meal and clean up. Both easy tasks – they were restricted to dry rations until they reached Florence. And then it was time to pack up and disguise the campsite. Each Assassin saddled his own horse, and when they left the area, they left little to show for it.
"We will reach Florence by this time tomorrow," said Ezio. "We will ride through the night."
The other two didn't complain, knowing that they had to reach the northern city-states before the White Liberator's trail grew cold again. It had already been months since he was last spotted in Italy, as far as Ezio knew, but dragging their feet wouldn't make anything easier. They ate in the saddle, stopping to stretch their legs and rest the horses briefly every hour as the day passed and the moon took dominance of the sky.
The jostling of his horse prevented Ezio from dozing off. It was now three in the morning, but he'd spent longer nights spying on Templars in their cozy villas and palaces without even yawning. This should have been an easy task.
I hate getting old, he thought sullenly.
The road continued to grow behind them. Hours later, he saw Giotto's tower and the dome of Saint Mary first, crowned in the rising sun. As the trees thinned, he made out more of Florence's spires and towers, and then the great wall surrounding her. The nostalgia kicked him in the gut, and he had no words as they entered the city of his birth.
A glance over his shoulder informed him of his companions' interest. He let them marvel after they left their horses in the stables and continued on foot. He could have shown them the sights few people ever got to see, but he had obligations to heed.
"...Go. Enjoy yourselves," he said at last, and he could see their excitement despite their efforts to appear stolid. He tossed them a bag of florins. "But don't forget to restock our supplies. Meet back at the stables at noon. If I'm not there, wait."
They placed their right fists over their hearts and bowed their heads before scurrying off, likely to get a closer look at Giotto's bell tower and, perhaps, see if they could climb it. No doubt they'd heard the stories that Ezio had once taken a leap of faith from its peak, landing safely in a cart of hay below. But that was ridiculous.
Now alone, he set out to seek an audience with the Florentine Assassins.
The one thing he found mildly frustrating about this particular bureau was that it was never in the same place twice. In fact, "bureau" wasn't even the proper title. It had no base and its leader couldn't be found unless he wanted to be found. An admirer of the Fox, Marcello preferred the idea of being groundless, for it made him a ghost of the city, as the Fox had been.
And either his recruits were very good or very lazy – Ezio hadn't yet seen one since stepping foot in Florence. A game played by many disciples and novices, they jumped at the chance to surprise their leader or, if the rare opportunity arose, the grand master himself. Ezio couldn't remember the last time he'd been bested by a pup, but he'd been on the road for nearly a week. He had to keep his weariness at bay.
He took to the rooftops after almost an hour of wandering, waiting for an Assassin to show himself and take him to Marcello. The only figures he saw up there were guards and the occasional thief. More aimless roaming started to tie knots in his gut. Surely, if something had happened to the Brotherhood of Florence, he would have caught wind of it.
As the sun heated up the clay tiles and sandstone walls, he began to search the places he remembered the bureau had met before. He found nothing in any of them but garbage from squatters. After the fourth place he checked, he finally caught sight of an Assassin.
Both relieved and annoyed, he hastened over to where she'd disappeared. He stopped at the edge of the roof, looking down but not seeing her. She was hiding beneath the eave.
"Enough fooling around," he growled. "Take me to Marcello."
She didn't respond, as though testing for a bluff.
"I said, enough."
Still nothing.
"Don't make me come after you."
There was another pause but the Assassin finally surrendered, climbing back onto the roof.
"Mentor," she said, making the gesture of respect. Her voice was rich and dark, like coffee, and her hand was the colour of said brew. Marcello had been widening his boundaries. Good.
"Name?"
"Bolade, mentor. Just Bolade."
"Take me to Marcello, Bolade," he said. She nodded and obeyed, flying across the rooftops with the wind. Ezio stayed right behind her, all the way to the innards of an unfinished tower overlooking the Arno. There, Marcello sat as though he'd been expecting Ezio.
"Hello, my friend!" The spindly man stood to clasp arms with him, smiling broadly. At least he remembered not to be so presumptuous as to hug Ezio this time. They had, after all, only known each other a couple years. "Just the hound I was hoping to see."
"And yet your recruits insist on playing their silly game until I'm more grey than black," toned Ezio, looking sideways at Bolade.
"Oh, come now. You're already there!" He smiled again at Ezio's scowl.
"Is there anything to report?"
"Yes, mentor." Marcello beckoned to a grey-robed novice, who didn't seem to notice the bird droppings on his shoulder. He must have been looking after the carrier pigeons. He handed over several small scrolls to Marcello, who gave them to Ezio. "A letter preceded you from Rome – we know you're hunting down the White Liberator. The real White Liberator. These messages are from France, England, Spain and Greece. It seems your quarry had skipped country some time ago."
Ezio glanced through the tiny scrolls, each headed by the city from which they hailed. "He's been a busy man, I see."
"The letter from Rome also forwarded a note from the north: a witness in Milan claimed to have seen the Liberator's face. That was nearly a year ago, but it might be worth investigating."
"Indeed..."
"Mentor, surely you are not intending to go after such a troublemaker yourself. You have much on your plate, no? If you wish, I could send my own men—"
"We cannot afford anymore mistakes," said Ezio, slipping the scrolls into a pouch to read later. "He has evaded us once too often."
"...Ah, right, your...hidden talent," said Marcello softly, hitting Ezio's arm with a suppressed grin. The older Assassin merely gave him a look until he squirmed.
"Is there anything else I should know?"
"No, mentor. It has been quiet, but...we await for the war that will surely come here."
"Just remember to keep out of the way," said Ezio, "and an ear to the ground."
"Of course, mentor. Good fortune to you."
Ezio had just been brought to Marcello when Lauro and Pedro returned to the stables. It was approaching the heat of the day and they welcomed the shelter, although they would have liked more free time to explore this city.
"It simply astounds me, how some people can imagine such beauty, and make it real," said Pedro, setting down a bag of newly purchased supplies. Lauro dropped his own beside it, leaning against the stall door of Ezio's horse. The dark bay nickered a greeting, sticking its head over the door.
"It can't be too far off from what you're doing." Lauro nodded at Pedro's saddle, which sat on a railing across the way. "I've seen you cut away at that chunk of wood."
Pedro flicked a hand. "I'm just fooling around. I used to do that when I was a child. To keep my hands busy."
"So those carved birds I saw you stash away when we both joined the brotherhood, those were from fooling around?"
The bigger man turned away to hide his face, kneeling to paw through the supplies. "Those were nothing."
He could practically hear Lauro's eye roll. "Right."
Pedro began to divide the supplies into three, making sure everything they needed was accounted for and wrapped properly. He was looking forward to having fresh food again, even if it wasn't as good as he was accustomed to, back at the den in Rome. He hopeless at cooking, but together, Ezio and Lauro prepared half-decent meals. Half-decent meaning it wasn't always burnt. Or too salty.
Pedro could hear his fellow disciple cursing his horse from inside its stall, no doubt damning to hell for biting his hair. Pedro shook his head and smiled faintly. He was attached to his horse. They all were. It wasn't encouraged, for such ties could be distracting in a time of battle. Horses were tools. Not friends.
That didn't stop him from naming his horse, though. Nor Lauro from naming his.
"Hello, Fool," said Pedro, wandering over to the stable with the blue-roan gelding. Fool's ears swivelled towards him, nostrils flaring.
Who are you calling Fool, fool? Pedro imagined him saying.
He'd familiarized himself with the beast years ago, when he was freshly promoted from novice and was on a simple mission with two companions. They were ambushed by Templars, and Pedro was unseated in the chaos. Stunned and helpless, he had just enough wits about him to notice the gelding holding his ground between him and their attackers, rearing and screaming and biting instead of galloping away. He got a few minor wounds, adding to Pedro's assumption that the damn creature was just stupid. But there was a reason why he chose this horse again for the quest the grand master had seen fit to bring him along for, and that was more than the beast's sturdy build and stamina.
The buckskin two stalls down also had a fitting name. Ever since he was a wobbly-legged colt, he enjoyed the reactions he got from biting hair and clothes. So Lauro named him Nipper, as did every other Assassin who'd ever had the misfortune of being his master. He was saved more for courier jobs, for he could run far and fast, likely because of the Arabian in his roots. But for some strange reason, Lauro had chosen him for this quest.
With Nipper being a young, frisky stallion, Ezio had selected an older, intelligent male who tolerated no nonsense. Although the Roman bloodline was notorious for being prone to illness and succumbing to the cold, this beast was as resilient as an ancient tree. A bit like his rider.
Pedro was itching to ask his mentor what he'd named the horse, for he knew he did. But he held his tongue, just in case.
"Whoops."
Lauro, burdened with the bay's saddle, looked down at the spilled documents at his feet. An open pouch spat out one more letter before Lauro set the saddle back down.
Pedro snorted. "Better put those back before old greybeard sees and thinks you're rooting through his things."
Lauro made a few mocking sounds as he knelt, brushing the papers together into a pile. "Make yourself useful and ready your damn horse."
Chuckling, Pedro turned away to do just that, entering Fool's stall and throwing a saddle blanket over his back. As he smoothed it down, he paused. The silence was running too long.
"...Lauro?"
The smaller man was still crouched in the dirt, but instead of picking up the documents, he was reading them.
"Lauro, what are you doing?"
"I...I think I brought some of these to him," he muttered, frowning. "From that Arabic translator. I had no idea..."
"Put them back."
"No. Listen. He stares at it. Day by day, night by night. I have to remind him to eat, to sleep. I tell him he must stop. It is consuming him. He has the whole brotherhood to look after, and cannot afford to lose himself in the far, distant past... That cursed Apple of Eden. I should have hidden it when I had the chance... My friend suffers... Malik of Masyaf wrote this, almost three hundred years ago." Lauro glanced up. "Don't look at me like that."
"If he sees you—"
"Pedro, the Apple of Eden!"
"What the hell is that?"
"Don't be like this. You heard the rumours." Lauro stood, the documents a mess in his hands. "Do you think he has it with him?"
"Lauro..."
"Here, hold these." He shoved the papers into his friend's hands and went back over to the chestnut's saddle. Pedro glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed, a hollow growing in his chest.
"Do you have any idea what he would do to us if he caught you?" he hissed.
"No. Do you?"
"No! And I have no wish to find out!"
Lauro stopped looking through the saddle, to Pedro's relief, and he took the letters back.
"You're right. I have no business pulling you into this."
Pedro's shoulders fell a little. "Thank you."
"Excuse me." Lauro slipped into a storage room, letters still in hand.
"Hey!"
"Keep watch. Please. I just want...ten minutes."
"Five."
"Seven."
"Grrr." Pedro moved to the open doorway of the stables, staying just within the shadows, making him difficult to see for those out in the sun.
It was a long seven minutes. True, Pedro burned with the same curiosity as his younger companion. But he was also the more sensible one. If Lauro got himself into trouble, Pedro was always there to get him out. Naturally, he had to tease him relentlessly about it, and sometimes put him back into the trouble he was in originally. This time, though, things were different. What was this Apple of Eden? Some kind of relic? Dark, ungodly magic? And why did their mentor bring all of those translated documents with him? They were going after the White Liberator, not enjoying a scholarly trip. Right?
The Apple of Eden, Pedro thought, leaning against a wood pillar, arms crossed. Splinters snagged on his robes. A curious name. The Bible never did mention any apple. Forbidden fruit, yes, but no apple. For all they knew, the forbidden fruit could have been a quince, or a lemon, or a kumquat.
He snorted. What did it matter. This artifact – Godly or not – couldn't be anything more than a glorified trinket. A venerated bauble. Anything more suggested technology that surpassed anything anyone alive had ever seen or ever will see. A world before theirs. Which was, of course, preposterous.
...The seven minutes seemed to be taking a very long time. Frowning, Pedro gave the street one last scan before retreating further into the cool gloom, towards the storage closet that smelled strongly of leather and tar.
"Deal is a deal. Put those papers back... Lauro?"
He didn't like the look on the other Assassin's face. Not one bit. It was pasty, his mouth slightly open, downcast eyes uncomprehending. It was the look of a man who had just seen everyone he loved, everyone he cared about, get torn away and burned alive. He sat cross-legged on the floor, notes and translations spread around him.
Somehow, Pedro knew. The man had been struck with a revelation, and it did not agree with him.
"Lauro. What have you done?" He knelt beside him, gently tugging a piece of parchment from his hands. Lauro didn't seem to realize at first, but then he turned haunted eyes up to Pedro.
"It's...it's not real. None of it."
"What?"
"Everything we know...everything we thought we knew—"
Pedro grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Focus, man." He shook him again, rougher, until the veil lifted from his friend's eyes. In its place took embarrassment and shame.
"I'm... Forgive me." Lauro leaned back to pull out of Pedro's grasp, then began picking up all the papers, folding some to slip back into envelops, or else rolling them up and securing them with twine. Pedro waited patiently, but anxiously. It wasn't until every last document was back in the saddlebags that the tension melted from his body. Half of it, anyway.
"Now." He squared off to Lauro. "What did you see?"
Lauro was staring down, toying with a thread that had come loose on his sleeve. "...I think he wanted us to find those."
Pedro recoiled. "What?"
"Knowledge like that... He wouldn't just leave it in a side pocket out of negligence. Any thief could paw through it and find it."
"Lauro—"
"Think about it!"
"What does it matter?" Pedro cried. "What's on those papers that has gotten you so worked up?"
"The truth!" Lauro's face brightened. If Pedro didn't know him as well as he knew himself, he would have thought him half mad. "It's all there! Well...most of it."
"Lauro, you are not making sense. The truth about what?"
"Shh!" The smaller man stiffened, peering around Pedro, out the wide doorway of the stables. "He'll be back soon. Look, I'll get him to talk. Alright? I believe he wished us to find the translations, his notes, everything. But just to make sure...Just let me do the talking." He hastened to saddle Ezio's horse, tightening the girth before guiding the animal out. Pedro finished saddling Fool, then took his and Nipper's reins and followed, fresh apprehension gnawing at his innards.
Ezio arrived back at the stables at noon, right on schedule. Lauro and Pedro were already there, horses ready. Lauro handed him the reins of his horse, and Ezio nodded in gratitude before mounting and putting Florence behind him.
"Where to next, mentor?" asked Pedro.
"Milan," was the reply.
Aaaand another chapter in which nothing happened. Huzzah.