"Honestly, how difficult could it be to detain a Baron?" the self-proclaimed Grand Master of the Templar Order demanded.
"Sir, the Baron is suspected to have loyalties with the assassins," the soldier standing in the middle of the room reported. "Whenever we think we have him, he escapes into some burrow or another."
Cesare met the soldier's gaze and steepled his fingers, raising them to his lips. "How close are we to eradicating the assassins?" he asked.
The soldier hesitated, his eyes shifting around the room nervously. "My lord," he said. "I implore you to understand. The assassins have a wide territory, and though our ranks outnumber them greatly, they..."
The Grand Master lifted a thin brow when the soldier's voice trailed off. "They what, exactly?"
The soldier cleared his throat and moved his right hand to the pommel of his sword, as if the gesture brought him comfort. "They outmatch us in skill, my lord," he finished in a small voice.
Cesare took a moment to absorb that, and when he spoke, it was with controlled scorn, hidden only by a layer of disdain. "I appointed you Captain of the Guard in Roma for a reason...tell me—remind me—what exactly was that reason?"
The soldier looked about ready to piss himself, but he knew to not respond was to invoke the legendary wrath of Cesare Borgia. "My lord...because...because—"
"I'm sorry? Speak up, Agon. I can't hear you."
Agon cleared his throat once more and nodded briefly. "My lord appointed me to my post due to my reverence for his father, and for my skill on the battlefield."
"And this is in whose words?"
"My lord's."
Cesare tapped his fingers on the dark surface of his desk and sat back in his chair. "Then if I hold you in such high regard, tell me something."
"Anything, my lord."
"Why are you incapable of slaughtering a band of flea-bitten, mange-infested, filth-wallowing assassins?" His voice had risen to a shout by the time he finished speaking. His demeanor had become hostile, and the look in his eyes edged closer to madness. "Tell. Me. Why." He punctuated each word in his rage.
The Captain trembled before Cesare. Had he not feared soiling the Grand Master's fine rugs, he would have pissed himself then and there. "B-b-because..."
"Enough of your sniveling," Cesare said, his voice returning to its carefully calm cadence. "Leave my presence."
Agon bowed deeply, trembling in his fear. He walked stiffly to the ornately carved door and put his hand on the doorknob.
"Agon," Cesare called.
The Captain turned to face the Grand Master.
"I believe this should go without saying, but you seem to have trouble following orders of late."
"O-of course, my lord."
"If you should return to me, and your task is not completed—" He stood from his desk and strode forward to stand before his quivering Captain, a mere pace between them. "—my baby sister will finally have a new plaything. And after she's finished with him, my dear Agon..." He brushed the backs of his fingers across Agon's sweaty cheek. "My dogs will feast on his innards. The bastard children of Roma will swallow his flesh and gnaw his bones with gusto known only to the beasts of old."
Agon was unable to suppress the quivering whimpers which escaped his trembling lips.
"Am I understood, my friend?"
Agon nodded repeatedly, tears trembling on the lashes of his wide eyes.
"Good boy," Cesare said, patting Agon's cheek twice. Once the swine was out of his study, Cesare called in the Captain of his personal guard.
"Mi'lord," the gruff man said, going to one knee and touching his fist to his opposite shoulder.
"When Agon returns, kill him." Cesare walked to one of the many windows on the longest wall of his study and crossed his arms over his chest.
"And if he should succeed?" the ever-faithful soldier asked as he rose.
"All the same." He turned to face the man he trusted most in the world. "Go. Do as I say. Report to me once the deed is done. And when he fails, the mission will fall to you."
"Thank you, Mi'lord," the soldier gave a deep bow before he turned away and exited the room. In his wake, the scent of well-oiled and polished armor remained, which was far preferable to the stench of fear.
Cesare turned his head to look out the window once again. The assassins were practically laughing at him with this. He could not let it stand unchallenged. "I will find a way to draw you out, assassino," Cesare hissed to the empty study around him.
Certainly you will, Ezio thought, rolling his eyes. He lay flush against the thick over-head rafters in Cesare's study. The shadows were perfect for concealing what the beam did not. He'd come here out of a need for vengeance, but now, he knew he had to apply his craft for a very different reason.
Cesare Borgia was not only the cruelest man in Roma, but also the most desperate. Desperate men were dangerous enough, but when they were as insane as the Borgia, they made it high on Ezio's to-do list.
The hooded assassin waited patiently for the Grand Master to finish his business and leave. He was painfully aware of how easily he could kill the man, but he would never escape the room alive, let alone the papal residencies. The only exit in the study was through the door—unless Ezio was willing to smash through the sealed windows and fall to the ground several stories below. He'd rather avoid that option as long as he could.
Ezio longed to slit this monster's throat, longed to watch scarlet lifeblood flow down his ornate, rich clothes, longed to feel the tug of flesh on the edge of his blade. But he had to caution himself that patience would bring him greater rewards than haste. He blew out a slow breath and moved to crouch on the beam after Cesare left the room. He counted slowly to one-hundred, and only then did he swing down off the rafter, crouching as he landed to absorb the shock in his legs. He could only pray that Cesare hadn't forgotten something in his study.
It had been difficult enough to sneak into the study, but now he had to find his way back out. Exiting rooms was considerably riskier than entering them, since he'd had knowledge that the room would be empty. He had no way of knowing if the hall was clear except to press his ear to the door and listen.
With a muttered prayer, Ezio opened the door and quickly stepped out into the hallway. He looked left and right, whispering his thanks that the hall was empty. After a brief pause to conjure up his mental map of the papal estates, he headed off toward an adjacent hallway, his worn leather boots silent on the fine, expensive red carpet.
Ezio pressed himself against a corner and peered around it. He could have cried in relief when he did.
A window at the end of the hall...a blessed window. He walked toward it and pushed against it.
The window remained firmly shut. It was sealed, there weren't any hinges!
Ezio's heart beat frantically in his chest, and he looked around. He couldn't panic. If he panicked, it would only make the situation worse. What he needed was to find a way out. If he couldn't...well, he'd revisit that thought later. The assassin turned from the window and looked around, grimacing. He walked back the way he'd come, giving each doorknob a careful and quiet turn, wincing at even the slightest sound the brass knobs made. He'd nearly reached the end of the hall when he heard a door open.
"You. Signore," a young female voice called. "Was it you at my door just now?"
Ezio cringed, but turned to face the woman with a broad smile. "Si," he said, striding toward her. He put a little extra swagger in his steps, fairly exuding confidence as he borrowed from the playacting skills his brother and he had developed when they were younger. "I see the way you look at me, and it sets my blood aflame." He placed his hands on her slender shoulders, turning her in the doorway. He glanced down the hallway as a guard rounded the corner and he pulled her into the room with him. He kicked the door shut with his boot, pressing the young woman against the adjacent wall.
"S-Signore!" she protested, pushing feebly at his chest. "This is really quite sudden—"
"Madonna," he rumbled, his voice a throaty growl beside her ear. He felt ridiculous growling like that, like some kind of animal. "Don't you want me?"
She leaned her head back just enough to look up at him, a stranger who towered over her like a mountain. "S-Si," she stammered. "But...but I am promised to another—"
Her voice was cut off by a sharp rap on the heavy door to their right.
"Signora!" the authoritative voice of the guard called. "Is everything alright? Is that man bothering you?"
The lady lifted her brown eyes—they were quite beautiful up close—and met Ezio's hazel gaze.
"Signora?"
The sound of a hand touching the doorknob made Ezio's heart skip a beat, and in desperation, he lowered his mouth to her neck, placing feather-light kisses on her olive-toned skin, over the jumping pulse in her throat.
"No," she gasped, surprised by the action. "We're...we're only having a word. I'm fine." She shuddered as Ezio moved his hands to her hips, pulling her close against his front. "L-Leave us, please."
Ezio paused and stilled his hands, listening to the retreating footsteps outside of the room. Once he was certain the guards had left, he pulled away from the young noblewoman.
"I-I don't love him," she said in a rush. "The man I'm promised to, he's a foul man who treats his women like cattle."
Ezio sympathized with her. Had she not found Duccio, his sister might have been forced into an arranged marriage—a fate worse than death, so he thought. Even though Duccio ended up beaten to death by a vengeful soul—he had no clue as to whom that might be—his sister had truly loved him.
"Please, Signore. Take me away from here."
The assassin shook his head. "It's not my place to meddle in politics," he said. Then he frowned. "Not these politics, anyway."
"Please," she begged, stepping toward him. "You can take me away...we could be together if you want..." Her voice faded away, and she touched her right hand to her lower belly, laying it flat against her light green dress. "I'm still pure..."
Bile rose in Ezio's throat, and he turned his face away. To think this woman—and barely that she was!—would bargain away her virginity for the chance that a stranger might risk his life to free her from the most highly guarded building in Roma.
"I'm sorry." He meant it. "I cannot help you."
The spark of hope that had entered her eyes faded into nothing but fear. Naked, exposed terror.
"Please," she begged once more, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "I am strong, but the women this man marries never last longer than it takes to whelp a child. I will bear you sons. Dozens of them if that's what you wish—"
"Enough," Ezio said quietly, but firmly. The softness of the word—the request—was enough to bring her to tears. "I can do nothing. But if you help me, I may be able to send a colleague who could give you the aid you seek."
Her tears spilled over onto her cheeks, a choked sob escaping her. "Grazie!," she sobbed. "Grazie Signore—Tu sei cosi gentile...troppo gentile. Non posso ringraziarti abbastanza!" She staggered forward and threw her arms around him.
"Madonna," he said softly, placing his arms around her and stroking her dark, soft hair gently. "I still require your assistance."
She pulled back from him sharply, as if remembering herself. "Anything," she said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief Ezio produced from within his pristine robes.
"Allow me the use of your window."
The noblewoman frowned in confusion, but nodded acquiescence, gesturing toward the window.
"S-Signore, wait!" she exclaimed as he opened the window.
"Si?" he responded, trying not to let his stress show.
"I wondered...and please, don't think I am not grateful for your rejection...but I was throwing myself at you—begging you to deflower me. Why did you not accept?"
It stung him that she had to ask such a ludicrous question, but it was understandable. The world was full of filth, and he himself was not so pure as to have escaped it.
"Because I like to think of myself as an honorable man," he said, smiling gently at her. "And because I, too, am promised to another."
She sniffled and clutched the handkerchief to her chest. "She is a very lucky woman."
A half-amused, half-cocky smile came to Ezio's lips as he imagined his beloved in a dress. "She certainly is," he said. "Farewell for now, Madonna. I shall send my colleague as soon as I am able." He dropped down out of the window, gripping the bricks of the Castello's wall tightly.
Leonardo stood quietly by a closed window. He would have preferred to open it, but with the wanted posters still being mass-printed, he couldn't risk it.
Salai had been his only connection to the outside world since the boy could still wander about mostly unfettered. Leonardo would have run out of food long ago if there hadn't been a basket of goods on the doorstep every morning.
When first he saw the basket, he'd known who had brought it, and it had infuriated him. Would Ezio think him so pitiful he would forgive him with a gift of food? Reason had quickly chased that thought out of his head when he realized how barren the pantry was.
Now, he stood in Salai's uncle's bedroom, staring longingly at the window. He missed the beauty of the sunrise...the frantic chirping of finches and starlings in the cold morning air.
Often times, he would entertain himself by imagining walking outside to bathe naked in the sun's rays. What a sight that would be! More often than not, though, Leonardo found himself pondering what his life had become. He no longer had to choose between Ezio or Salai, so that took absolutely no pressure off of him as he stood in his hideout, praying no one would find him.
Remembering the sound of Salai's last words to him stung like bees and brought him to tears. The boy had been so heartbroken—so lost. If only life were as simple as yes and no.
"But it is," Leonardo muttered to himself. "He hurt you...now you must decide whether or not to forgive him. It's as simple as that."
Would it be worth risking a twice-broken heart to let this man back into his life? Would it be wise to allow this assassin into his heart? He killed people for a living; did it not make sense to turn him in to the authorities rather than to share his bed?
"Love doesn't have to make sense," he reasoned with himself. "You're overthinking this. Just...decide. Yes or no. Make the decision now. Right now." He tried to follow his own orders, but no such decision came to mind.
No. But what if it truly was my fault that he left? What if I drove him into Cristina's arms by not loving him enough?
Yes. But what if he hurts me again? What if he sees another woman he fancies and runs after her? He is young and handsome enough to have any woman he wants. He could probably lure complete strangers to his bed. What if he doesn't love me anymore?
It all boiled down to risk. Was the risk worth the reward? Hadn't he already made this decision once before? When he first allowed Ezio to touch him, it had been the beginning of a new part of his life. A new part which wasn't burdened by these kinds of trials.
He'd already taken the risk, and it had ended poorly. Now, it was a question of whether he was willing to try again. He'd accepted Ezio because he loved him dearly. He had loved Ezio enough to invite him to his bed again and again. That man was worth his devotion. Perhaps this man could be too.
To be able to wake in the eve, to hear his love climbing through the window, to be able to feel his warmth beside him. To be able to wake in the morning and look to his side and see the warm sun's rays shining onto the bronze skin of the man who so captivated him.
Yes, that was worth the risk.
Turning from the window, Leonardo walked into the living room. He stopped by the kitchen table and emptied the contents of the basket—a loaf of bread, several cheeses, a jar of preserves for lunch, seasonal fruits and vegetables, and a bottle of affordable, but decent wine—onto the table and walked to the front door. He set the empty basket on the doorstep, then turned back into the house.
Ezio listened in silence as the door opened, then closed. Once he heard the lock slide into place, he walked silently across the terracotta tiles of the roof, dropping down onto the ground in front of the house.
Reaching forward, he took the basket he'd used to deliver meals to Leonardo for the past four days and peered inside. A small square of paper lay in the bottom, awaiting discovery.
Heart racing, Ezio reached into the basket and plucked the scrap of paper out. He turned it over and read the carefully scrawled print.
I forgive you.
He closed his eyes and pressed the paper to his lips. "Grazie, amore," he whispered. "Grazie."
"Damn it! Damn you! Damn the whores you piss in!" The butler flinched when the Grand Master smacked the silver platter from his hands. "Write a letter back to the Capitano telling him that he is relieved of his duties and that he can go piss in the squalor like the rest of the filth in this wretched place!"
"Y-Yes sir," the butler stammered, scurrying from the room.
Cesare slammed his hands on his desk and took a few breaths which were supposed to be calming, but only served to fan the flames of his temper.
"Gran Maestro," his server said, approaching with a respectful bow. "With your permission, I will begin serving your lunch."
He glanced at the server, then glared at one of the windows. "Where is the usual servant boy?" he asked, gesturing to indicate the black-haired man should begin.
"I'm afraid he won't be working here any longer. He seems to have contracted a most unfortunate illness. If you prefer, I can fetch you a colleague." He tipped the wine bottle, allowing the dark liquid to pour into the goblet before the Maestro.
"Just serve the food and get out," Cesare snapped. "I don't have the time or inclination to listen to the whines and whims of every servant in my employ."
The server ground his teeth. "As you wish." He placed the first course in front of the man, then stepped back and to the right where he waited.
As Cesare ate, he read and reread the letter the butler had brought him. "I cannot believe the incompetence of the soldiers who serve me. I give them one task—a simple task!—and they constantly manage to fuck it up."
Tolerantly, the server listened to Cesare's obnoxiously loud chewing and served as he was supposed to. It wasn't until he was pouring the Grand Master's third cup of wine that he spoke.
"I trust you enjoyed your meal?"
Cesare raised one sleek brow. "Normally, the servants do not speak. I believe I would like this tradition to continue."
"As you wish, Maestro—"
"Grand Maestro," Cesare corrected, venom in his voice.
The server remained silent for exactly twenty seconds before he spoke again. "Gran Maestro, are you aware of the significance of the white asp?"
"Of course," Cesare retorted. "I am royalty, after all."
"Si, si," the server said with a nod. "And you are familiar with the uses of its venom?"
"You are trying my patience, servant. Make your point quickly."
The man nodded obediently and began to speak in a deeper tone of voice—one that seemed more natural; less strained.
"You see, Gran Maestro, the white asp is notably rare. Its relatives can easily be found in Greece and Egypt, but finding the white is much like trying to find a quill in a pile of feathers."
"I told you to make your point," Cesare snapped, rising from his chair. He would have turned to face the servant, but his leg buckled under him, pitching him forward so that he was forced to catch himself. His hand slapped the edge of his plate and sent the remainder of his meal flying. "What have you done to me?" he rasped. His other leg collapsed, and he sat hard in his chair. "I can't feel my legs!"
"I was coming to that before you so rudely interrupted me. You should really shut your mouth and listen more often—you might find my words to be in your best interest."
"You've poisoned me," Cesare gasped as he began to lose feeling in his lower abdomen. The numbness slowly crept higher as the servant continued speaking.
"Correct. And I'm surprised that you didn't notice sooner. You've been drinking this wine for years according to the cook—I'm surprised you didn't notice the bitterness of the venom." The servant took the second napkin from the tray he'd brought from the kitchen and began to wipe at his face. "I'm surprised by many things, Cesare. But not the cruelty of men. Not any longer."
"Who are you?" Cesare choked out, struggling to remain conscious. "Show me your face."
The servant stepped out from behind the chair. His hazel eyes burned with a hatred that only a man out for blood could muster. His face was blotched where he had missed patches of the powder that lightened his skin, and his long hair was slicked back with a colored oil that made it black instead of its original dark brown.
"Auditore," Cesare sneered. "I should have known."
"Yes, you should have. And now, because of your negligence, you will die. The venom will numb your body so you are unable to move. Then, it will make you sleep. But you see, I think allowing you to pass peacefully is too kind an allowance." He reached forward as the tension in Cesare's arms vanished. His body relaxed involuntarily; his muscles were slowly being paralyzed—drawing a breath was rendered impossible.
The assassin touched two fingers to the spot where Cesare's heart beat sluggishly as the venom worked through him. "This is for my family," he whispered. "You stole Rodrigo from me, but I will take your life in his place. This is for Maria Auditore. For Giovanni Auditore. For Federico Auditore. For Claudia Auditore." His voice constricted with the want to cry out before he uttered the last name. "For Petruccio Auditore." He cocked his arm, bent his hand back, and the gleaming blade of his craft slid out without even the faintest of whispers. He drove the blade into the Grand Master's chest, piercing his heart. After a moment, he jerked his hand back.
"And this is for Leonardo." He drew the razor-sharp edge of the blade across Cesare's throat, opening a gaping red wound that puckered like a mouth at the edges. "This is the last time you will slight me, Borgia. I am a child no longer. I am an assassino." He wiped his blade with the cloth napkin he held as the raven-haired man choked and bled out.
Before long, the choking stopped. Ezio pulled a shining red apple from within his stolen uniform and set it on the desk in front of the corpse.
"Requiescat in pace," he spat, closing Cesare's eyes.