Part Twenty-Five: Death of a Shismist
The outcry from the people was so loud that just three weeks later, in March, Savonarola announced that he would retire from public speaking. The people would have none of that, however, and demanded that he come forth, demanded that he prove he was the Prophet and perform a miracle. Someone suggested a Trial by Fire, and it was enthusiastically agreed. A date was set, and in the first week of April, Savonarola and his challenger were set to walk through fire - to see whom God truly supported. It would be the first Trial by Fire in Florence's history in over four hundred years.
The Assassins watched from the crowd, and Ezio shifted uncomfortably from one boot to the next.
Paola sensed his discomfort and watched him under her arched brows. "You've done well, Ezio," she said in a reassuring voice.
Ezio was not convinced. "What happens now?" he asked.
Machiavelli smirked. "Watch."
The Trial was delayed. And delayed again. And delayed again. The crowds grew ever incensed, people were demanding to see who God supported, there were catcalls for the Assassin to join in and prove who was the true Prophet (and Ezio ducked his head on hearing this), and then, at last, at long last...
It rained.
And the Trial was canceled.
The public was in an uproar. They mobbed the Palazzo Piti, demanding retribution, demanding the Trial, demanding Savonarola's death, and pressed against the palazzo, intent on doing... something. Savonarola was forced to come out, looking down at the crowd, and shouted at them.
"Silence! I demand silence!" he shouted. "Why are you here?! Why do you disturb me?! You should be cleansing your homes. Cleansing your selves! There are bonfires to feed! Prayers to be said! Penance to be done!"
"You have penance to do!"
"Show us a miracle now, eh!"
"Prove you are the Prophet!"
And, back against the wall, unable to quell the masses, he reached into a pouch and pulled out a harmless silver ball.
"There it is!" Machiavelli hissed, "We could not hope for a better outcome."
He, Ezio, and Volpe all reached for throwing knives, taking careful aim through the rain. Ezio watched as the monk rose his fist, the Apple glowing gold, and he could hear the whispers, silence stillness quiet obey serve submit, and watched in horror as the masses began to quiet, eyes glazing over, arms hanging limply at their sides. Even Machiavelli, and Paola, and Volpe, started to sway, and Ezio wasted no more time.
He dared not kill the man in such a mob, and he didn't even want to think about trying to hit the Apple, and so he aimed instead for the man's hand, and his aim held true. The Apple deactivated, and glow disappeared, and as everyone shook their heads they realized - at least in part - the peril they had almost endured.
"No!" Savonarola shouted. "You will submit! I am the Prophet!"
"Prophet of lies!"
"Get him!"
"Arrest him!"
"Heretic! Blasphemer! Sinner!"
And in the chaos, Volpe pointed, and the assassins watched as a Borgia man ran through the crowds and grabbed the silver orb. "Get the Apple, Ezio!" he growled. "You are the fastest!"
Ezio didn't even have time to marvel that La Volpe had made such an admission, he was already off like an arrow, working his way frantically through the crowd before following the Borgia man up the slope of the palazzo's gardens and down an alley, gaining ground quickly. The Borgia courier was fast, to be sure, but not nearly as fast as the thirty-eight year old assassin, and Ezio leapt up a cart, a series of barrels, up to a platform to give him height, and then jumped, covering several meters before his hidden blade found its mark in the man's neck, and the impact was so great the two rolled slightly; but Ezio was up on his feet in an instant, and a quick search of the pockets found the artifact that he had been searching for for ten years. A decade of his life spent chasing this little ball.
The Prophet! He is ready! Ready to meet her!
The ball started to glow, and Ezio quickly wrapped the damn thing in a handkerchief and tucked it away in a pouch. He wasn't about to let that thing control him the way it had Savonarola. Whatever it wanted, Ezio was determined to deny it.
When he returned to the square, he saw Savonarola being assaulted and dragged away; guards eventually interceding and arresting him, and the people overcome with energy. With no Savonarola to focus their anger on, the people quickly dissolved into a mob, dispersing to the streets and taking their anger out on whatever caught their attention; breaking down bonfires, fighting Savonarola's supporters, his supporters struggling to continue their work. Mario directed the Assassins to quell the thralls, each taking key section of the city.
Ezio was assigned the southern San Giovanni district, and he paced about the streets of his old home, seeing angry people to be certain, but no out and out mobs. At least, that was until he saw a body that crumbled out of an alley. The clothes were fine, that of a merchant, but it was the face that caught Ezio's attention, one he had seen years ago, at the docks of the Arno, after beating up men determined to seek the man's gambling debts. It was...
It was...
"Manfredo!?" He ran to the man, kneeling down and helping him sit up by a merchant stall. He pulled his hood down to make his face more visible, hoping the man would recognize him. "What happened?" he demanded.
He had several sword wounds, two of them fatal; there was nothing Ezio could do. Manfredo's eyes rolled about in his head; focus difficult for him. Ezio shook him.
"Men..." he said slowly, his words slurred. "Savonarola's men... They came through, destroying everything."
Savonarola's fanatics? Lurking about, near Cristina? And now Manfredo was down, nearly dead, and no one around to protect her? Ezio's words became louder, frantic, rushed. "Where is Cristina!? Manfredo! Where is she?"
Manfredo's eyes stopped rolling, focusing on Ezio, and they widened, slightly, comprehension dawning on him, or perhaps recognition. "She ran... They went after her! Ezio...!"
But he was already moving. No, no. "No...!" He would not let her be hurt!
Manfredo smiled as Ezio ran off. "I know... you'll prote..." and he died with a smile on his face.
Ezio, heedless of the people around him, raced through the streets, working his way up to the roofs and calling on his eagle to guide him, looking for traces of gold. Instinct drove him east, deeper into the city, and he was just at the Santa Trinita church when his ears picked up what they needed.
"Whore! Where are your riches now?"
"Leave me alone! Get away! I did nothing to you!"
"Your fancy house, your expensive dress! They are sins against the Lord!"
"Help me! Someone, help!"
And the Assassin leapt down to the streets and up the steps to the back of the church. There was the brunette, four of Savonarola's men accosting her, three with drawn blades. That was all he had time to process as he ran, full tilt, to the scene. He would protect Cristina, he would die to protect her, and he would be damned if he failed in his own home! "Cristina!" he roared, his rich baritone so loud it echoed over the entire square, shocking everyone to stillness as this sudden thunderstorm approached. "RUN!"
His lost love did not need to be told twice, she darted down a street, the fanatics still staring at Ezio, and he used it to his advantage as he extended both of his hidden blades, and only then did they realize just who, what, was approaching, and they all ran after Cristina.
Like hell they were!
Ezio leapt on the slowest guard, blades sinking deep into his back - one getting stuck on the shoulder blade, and Ezio cursed as he had to wait to pull the blade out, angry because it was a race against time, he had to save Cristina, and God damn it all he would not fail!
Yanking the blade out at last he took off down the street that Cristina had fled, arms and legs pumping, breath coming out in hot bursts as desperation pushed him further and further, faster and faster. He found another Savonarola fanatic, and he leapt, killing the attacker much more cleanly, and was off once more, racing through streets, shoving past crowds, plowing through guards heedless of the dangers. A third man, red by his eagle, appeared and Ezio drew his sword and cut him down without even stopping, bursting out onto a main square.
Where was Cristina?
Where was she...?
He heard a shout, and his body moved on its own, he all but appeared at the opening of an alley and saw the fourth attacker, sword bloody, bloody! Ezio didn't even think, he took his own sword, the sword of Altair, and cut the man down viciously in the back - no honor, no warning, just sudden death incarnate, and he didn't even clean it as he sheathed it; his eyes, his focus, his mind, his being absorbed only with the brunette who was sliding to the ground.
Blood, there was blood...!
Ezio reached into one of his pouches to get his medical pack, pulling it out.
"Cristina," he said, panting and uncertain why. His entire body was vibrating with energy, with panic, and he unrolled bandages and set out salve and wine. "Cristina, hold on, I'm here."
The woman looked up, clutching her side, and stared at him with wide eyes. "... Ezio...?" she whispered, eyes doubling in size.
"Don't worry," he said, his rich baritone tight as he touched her, searching for the source of the blood. "I'll do what I can here, and then I'll take you to a doctor."
"... You're here," she whispered, shocked, and winced when Ezio's fingers found the wound.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I have to cut away the fabric to tend the wound. Forgive me."
He pulled out his boot knife gently pushing away Cristina's hands, the woman staring at him in shock, as he ripped the frock, the linen, the corset, to gain access to her skin. It was covered with blood. Grabbing one of his rags, Ezio wiped the coppery liquid away. He saw stretch marks, along her hip that had never been there before - she had given birth, at some point. She had a child...
It should have been his child...
No, that didn't matter. It was all the more reason to tend to her, and with some exploration he found the wound.
And he stared.
It was... It was...
No, he could do this.
He flicked his eyes to Cristina, and she could only stare at him, still in shock.
"I..." he started, but his voice cracked, and he coughed, tried again. "It will be fine," he said in a tight voice. "I'll do what I can here, and then I'll get you to a doctor; you'll see, everything will be fine."
It would be fine. It would. He could do this. He took a shaky breath and pulled out the wine, pouring it over the wound.
"Ah!" Cristina gasped, instinctively pulling away from the sting. "My God, Ezio, that hurts!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! But I need to-"
"No, no, I understand..." She took a deep shuddering breath. "Ezio..."
"Yes?"
But she said nothing, and Ezio was forced to concentrate, to keep his hands still, to remember everything Alfeo had ever taught him before he died. He could do this. Surely, surely, he could save Cristina as he couldn't save his father and his brothers, he could do this one thing, just this one tiny thing. He pressed the compress into her side, but blood was seeped out all too quickly, and Ezio saw that there was a second wound on her other side. He cursed, his fingers shaking as he held the compress with one hand and tried to cut open the layers of fabric to discern the second wound.
Damn it.
Damn it.
He rolled up a second compress and then pulled out another rag - he couldn't treat both wounds, and they were deep enough that his field pack wasn't going to cut it. He had to get her to a doctor, all he could do was wrap the wounds as tightly as he could and hope for the best.
He ripped the rag into strips and pulled them as tight as he could. Cristina moaned against the dressings, and when Ezio at last looked up he saw that she was white as a sheet.
DAMN IT! Couldn't he do this one thing?
"Ezio..."
He swept her up into his arms, exiting the alley and darting down the street, his bloody hands, bloody clothes, and the prone Cristina parting the people in the evening light like a wave. He pushed and pushed and pushed, trying to remember where his old doctor held residence, trying to remember which street. Surely, he would pass another apothecary on the way...? He had to get somewhere; he was running out of time!
He had to do this!
"Cristina... Hold on," he said, his rich baritone betraying his panic, his tight anxiety. "I'll get you to a doctor... You're going to be all right."
"No... Ezio...," she said, reaching up weakly and gripping one of his starched collars. "I don't think I am..."
"No!" Ezio insisted, kneeling down to get a better look at her. Where was the doctor's place? Where? Her head lolled back, unable to support itself, and Ezio gave a choked cry, lifting her head back up. "Don't... Don't go... Stay with me, Cristina. You have to stay with me... I promise. I promise I won't ever let you go again, so stay with me!"
Her eyes opened, glazed and clear at the same time. She looked up at Ezio, emotions of eternity filling her face, and she smiled. Softly. Gently. She even gave a soft cough of a laugh. "Ezio..." she moaned, her voice getting softer and softer. "Don't you know...? I've always been with you."
And with the last of her strength, she touched his hand, guided it gently into her frock, and Ezio found the chain of a necklace, and attached to the necklace was a medallion - his medallion, the Auditore crest.
Had she worn it all this time? Even in Venice? Had she always thought of him, even in her anger, in her disappointment? She... she had never stopped loving him?
She, like Ezio, had never stopped...
His eyes watered. "Cristina, I never stopped loving you, even after everything that's happened, everything I've been through, everything I've done. I never stopped..."
She nodded, still smiling. "I wish we... could have had... a second chance..."
And she died, smiling, happy, held in the arms of her true love.
He sobbed, holding her face, kissing her smile, pressing his face into her rich brown hair. "Requiescat in pace," he cried, "... my love."
He held her for time indeterminate, rocking back and forth, sobbing, hurting, dying right along with her. Paola found him first, and was unable to move him from the body, and it wasn't until Mario was found that anyone could even reach him. For days, he just stared out whatever window he was set in front of, tears streaming down his face intermittently; he was dimly aware of people talking around him, worrying that he had gone into shock as his mother had so many years ago, but all he could think about was Cristina, the adventures in their courtship, her unmatchable strength on the worst day of his life, his painful decision to leave her behind, their clandestine meeting in Venice and her anger, her hurt, and now... now... her last words.
"I wish we could have had a second chance..."
"Me, too, Cristina. Me, too."
And he would press his face to the glass of the window and weep all over again.
One morning, he awoke and there were no more tears left in him. He felt thirsty, and tired, and empty, and it was work to put on his doublet - someone had cleaned it for him - and shrug on his armor and hood. He walked down the stairs and to the kitchens to find bread, wine, something.
Mario was there, and he leveled a hard look on Ezio.
"Are you back with us?" he asked.
"... Yes," Ezio said, weary.
And Mario embraced him, arm thumping his back in sympathy. "I'm sorry, nipote. I'm so, so sorry."
And all Ezio could whisper was: "... I loved her..."
Mario spent the entire day with Ezio, hovering, talking when he felt it safe, giving him space when he saw it necessary. He repeated the process for over a week, until at last Ezio saw that the world was moving all around him, and though he couldn't understand why, he knew enough that he had to start moving with it. On shaky ground he asked for an update on what had been happening.
Mario smiled, sadly, and explained that it was late May, and that Savonarola, under torture, had confessed, retracted, confessed, retracted, and so on and so forth his crimes. But now the trial was on, and would he like to watch?
Watch the man responsible for Cristina's death be brought to justice?
"Yes," he said in a dark voice.
Savonarola was convicted of heresy and being a schismist, and sentenced to die immediately. The crowds exploded with the news, and happily sought to help matters along. Ezio and the others were in the crowds, watching, as the fallen priest was dragged to the gallows.
"God bears witness to this sacrilege!" he shouted, fear and spittle ejecting from his mouth. "That you would handle his prophet this way! Blasphemers! Heretics! You'll burn for this. Do you year me? You'll burn!"
"Hanging is too good for him!"
"Burn, he says? Let's oblige him!"
"Get the tinder!"
"Let's see God save you now, heretic!"
And Savonarola was dragged from the gallows, the crowds shouting and cursing and cheering over his fate, pressing against itself to bear witness to the delicious entertainment. The piazza was filled with people, Ezio could not remember seeing the square so full except for... except for...
Except for when his family was hung.
The parallel shook him badly; so much that Mario saw him sway and gave him a steadying hand. Ezio could picture it all too clearly, Petruccio, Federico, his father, all on the gallows, Uberto Alberti playing up the crowd, the Spaniard there watching as proud witness, the pulling of the lever, the snapping, the choking, Giovanni's last desperate gambit. He remembered Petruccio whimpering, Federico turning to see if he was all right. He remembered his father's bitter and angry last words.
And he remembered how he felt.
He watched as Savonarola was tied to a hastily constructed steak on the gallows, timber and kindling piled around him, torches lit with flint, and he could see the fear inherent on Savonarola's face, could feel it, as he had when, as a boy, Uberto Alberti set his men on him and Ezio realized just how close to death he was. He remembered that one, panicked thought.
I don't want to die.
Savonarola felt that fear now, as the torches were set on the kindling, and the fire began to spread. He shrieked and cried out anew.
"O Lord, show mercy... Deliver me from evil's embrace... Surrounded as I am by sin, I cry out to you for salvation! Save me! Save meeeeee!"
...
No one deserved to die in such pain.
... No one deserved to die, not even this poor, pathetic excuse of a man. Ezio held no anger for him, not even for what had happened to Cristina - though the thought of her face darkened his gaze - Ezio saw Savonarola for what he was: desperate, greedy, and now bereft. He was a coward, who used the Apple to better his existence, to further his agenda, and now without it he had returned to being spineless once again, and Ezio could not hate cowards. Only pity them.
He could not save his father, nor his brothers, nor even his beloved Cristina, but he could save this man.
He shoved his way through the crowds, heedless as they cried out, pointing, recognizing him, as he hoisted himself onto the platform where Savonarola was praying in Latin. "Woe is me, all help bereft, who greatly offended heaven, whither shall I go? Where shall I turn? Where shall I fly? Who shalt pity me? I do not dare to lift my eyes to heaven. For I have sinned against him seriously. I find no refuge on earth. Because if the offense-"
Savonarola's prayers stopped, his eyes widening as, through the fire, he saw Ezio racing up the platform, extending his hidden blade and leaping up.
"It's you! I knew this day would come. Please, show mercy!"
Ezio plunged his hidden blade deep into Savonarola's neck, shocking everyone, most of all the newly dead monk, and pulled away from the fire as it began to lick at the body's feet.
"I have shown mercy," he said softly, backing up from the flames. "Go now, that you may be judged by your God. Requiescat in pace."
"It's the assassino!"
"He's saved us again!"
"Tell us what to do!"
"Show us how to fix this!"
"Bless us, messere!"
Ezio looked out over the crowd, listening to their cries, and he could not bring himself to understand them. Or, perhaps, he understood them all to well. He raised his hands to quell the voices. Direction? Who was he to give direction?
"Silenzio. Silenzio," he called out, feeling awkward, out in the open. But at the same time, he knew that this tragedy would repeat itself if he did not speak his mind, did not guide them as he himself had been guided.
They looked up to him, eager for his words, for his vision, for his law.
Ezio pulled his hood off, bearing his face for all to see, that they would understand everything.
"Twenty-two years ago, I stood where I stand now," he said, "and watched my loved ones die, betrayed by those I had called friends. My father, Giovanni Auditore, and my brothers, Federico and Petruccio. My efforts to save them had been betrayed by the Gonfaloniere, Uberto Alberti. Vengeance clouded my mind. I was lost, angry with the world, wary to trust anything ever again. All I had, all I could cling to, was my revenge." His eyes surveyed the crowd, watching the faces, the confusion. What was he talking about? Where was the message? But he found familiar faces in the crowd: Machiavelli, complicated and aloof; Paola, mysterious and compassionate; Volpe, confident and cunning; and Mario, the Mentor, generous and loving.
He smiled.
"Revenge," he said, "It would have consumed me, were it not for the wisdom of a few strangers, who taught me to look past my instincts. They never preached answers, but guided me to learn from myself. For twenty-two years, I have learned, over and over, the value of the freedom you think you'll find in me. It's so much easier to have someone tell you what to do, how to think, what to feel. But it is that very desire that creates bitterness, hatred, and resentment. You want me to tell you want to do. But no one told me what to do, not even my greatest mentors, those strangers who saved me; and now I've grown to where I don't need someone to tell me what to do."
He paused, looking out over the crowds, letting his words be absorbed. "We don't need anyone to tell us what to do:" he shouted, "not Savonarola, not the Medici, not the Pope, not anyone. We are free to follow our own path. Make our own decisions. Learn from our own mistakes. It is that - whatever the consequences, whatever the trials, whatever the pain, it is that which makes us free! To learn for ourselves what is right, what is just, what is important, what is necessary!
"There are those who will take that freedom from us, and too many of you gladly give it. But it is our ability to choose - whatever you think is true - that makes us human... There is no book or teacher to give you the answers, to show you the way. Choose your own way! Do not follow me, or anyone else. I can only show you my lessons, you must learn your own. The savior you are looking for - the savior of Firenze - is each and every one of you!"
Satisfied, he jumped form the platform. The crowds parted, like the sea from the Bible, and Ezio made his way to the "strangers" he so admired.
Mario was smiling, pride bursting on his face, and without a word he placed a hand on Ezio's shoulder, nodding.
"Zio," Ezio said softly. "... I want to go home."
"And so we shall, nipote, so we shall."
Though he had pulled himself together enough to finish with Savonarola, Ezio was still in mourning, and when he finally arrived in Monteriggioni, he didn't even have the energy to say hello to Federica, only nodded to her, and Claudia and Maria, and went up to his loft. The next day he stretched a canvas and began sketching, mixing paints and oils and experimenting with color, and for the next six months he painted a portrait of Cristina Vespucci, a bright, strong, elegant woman who would always be in his heart.
He did not speak much - he had not entered shock as Maria had, but he was so obsessed with his painting that it was hard to pull him away, he wanted every stroke, every hair, every eyelash, to be perfect, and he wanted to get it done before she faded from his mind, as his father and brothers were.
When December rolled around, the hardest month for the Auditore, Ezio could not even bring himself to find company in his bed - without the reassurance that Cristina was out there and happy, well, it just didn't appeal to him, and he spent many chilly nights painting by candle light, sometimes sick, but unable to pull away.
February dawned, and Ezio was at last finished, and it was like he woke up from a long sleep. He looked around, across the room to Claudia who was going over accounts. She looked up, an ink smear on her chin, and Ezio smiled; softly, nodding, and unveiled the portrait.
Everyone agreed it was stunning, and Mario quickly put it up in the gallery.
Not long after, he sought out Mario.
"It is time, Uncle," he said. "Let us finish what you and my father started all those years ago..."
Mario's relief was palpable, and he nodded.
"Indeed. Perhaps now we can finally make sense of this prophecy - and put a stop to whatever it is the Spaniard is plotting."
"We should start by locating the Vault. The Codex pages will lead us to it. Let's take a look."
The two pulled out all the Codex pages they had gathered over the decades; some were still missing - it was likely they would never collect them all, lost to antiquity. For almost two months, with help from Claudia and Maria both, they assembled the pages into the book it was meant to be, arguing over the order of the pages at first, before finally creating a loose chronology based on the hints Altair had given about his children or his travels. Flipping through the newly created book, rereading all the pages chronologically, none of the Auditore could understand how to ascertain the location of the Vault that the great Grandmaster had hinted in his writings. There was no oblique reference to a location, any they could find pointed to Cyprus - which of course was in relation not to the Vault but to the location of the Apple in their possession. They studied the decorative boarders, where the hidden writing that talked of the prophecy and the two Pieces of Eden coming together in Venice.
By then it was approaching winter, and it was Maria who finally noticed something.
"These writings in the borders, they are only on certain pages."
That sent them back to the beginning, and as they pulled out some thirty pages of the Codex, Ezio could already see that they were on the right track. Mario sent letters to summon the other assassins, and Ezio and Claudia worked to organize the specific pages, trying to figure out why they were more important than the others. The context of the pages themselves were inconsistent - from both Altair's younger and older years, many conversations on philosophy, rhetoric; lessons on how to be an assassin, ponderings over the Apple. As the assassins arrived one by one for the conclave, Ezio had spread the pages out on the floor, trying to make sense of them.
The Apple, stored in the library for the present, started to tickle in his mind.
Ask the Eagle. Ask the Eagle; the time is approaching!
Ezio glared at the stupid silver ball, kicking the stand it was on with his boot to show his contempt before looking over the pages again. It was as the last of the assassins, Antonio, Teodora, and Bartolomeo, arrived all the way from Venice, that he thought to ask his eagle, and realized immediately that the Apple had been trying to help him, because as soon as his special sight activated he saw the faded scrawl, the lines that drew from one page to the next, and realized their significance.
"I see it!" he said, suddenly rushed with activity.
"What?" Paola asked. "What do you see?"
But Ezio paid no mind, instead rearranging the pages, trying to align the faded lines he saw, seeing that, like a puzzle, they could be connected. Mario, too began to see when a few pages were deemed correct, and he helped.
Everyone knew when they were done; because the Apple suddenly burst into light, giggles filling everyone's minds and an odd sense of pride, and the design that only Ezio could see was emblazoned for everyone to see.
"It... It is a map of the entire world..." Ezio said, marveling. His eyes immediately sought out Italy, so small in comparison to the rest of the world, he saw the Holy Land, where Altair had lived hundreds of years ago, he traced the Mediterranean Sea with a finger, but looked west and saw other things, and he looked east and saw more. "But... there are lands shown here that do not exist..." Was this what Altair had talked of in his Codex, about other landmasses? Was this what that idiot Corombo had discovered? Or rediscovered?
Machiavelli leaned in, tracing one of the new landmasses. "Apparently they do exist."
"How is this possible?"
Machiavelli shrugged. "Perhaps the Vault will hold the answer."
"Do you see where it is then?" Paola asked, studying the map from afar. At sixty-one her eyes had begun to wither with age.
For a long time, no one spoke, studying the map, trying to learn where the Vault was. Ezio's eyes darted everywhere, asking his Eagle for help. Many places had an assassin symbol marked off, on the new landmasses and throughout Europe and Asia, and even the large continent of Africa - so much larger than anyone thought. He saw several special locations light up in his sight, but only one of them was the gold of intuition. He blinked, staring, really, when he realized where it was located.
"No," he muttered utterly shocked. "It can't be! The Vault... It looks like the Vault is in Roma." Everyone took in a collective breath, realizing several things as they fell into place. "Then the Spaniard... This is why he became Pope!"
"Now I understand!" Mario said, half-blind gaze wide. "It's not the Vault alone he's gained access to - but the Staff as well!"
Teodora turned to the grandmaster. "What staff?"
"The Codex always spoke of two keys," Mario explained, "Two Pieces of Eden needed to open the Vault. One is the Apple..."
"And the other is the Staff," Ezio said, remembering the writings that lead him to confront Borgia in Venice. "The Papal Staff must be the second Piece of Eden."
"For years..." Mario said, suddenly leaning against the desk. "No, decades... We have sought these answers. Oh, Giovanni..."
"And now, at last, we have them," Paola said, quick to reassure.
Antonio, quiet up to now, fingered his chin. "But so too could the Spaniard. And if he does... if he finds a way into the Vault... Its contents will make the Apple seem a trifling thing."
Ezio agreed. "I must go to Roma and find the Vault. What of the rest of you?"
"We'll do what we do best," Bartolomeo said brightly. "I've recently purchased some barracks in Roma, I'm certain I can cause some trouble in the city, giving you the freedom to conduct your search."
"I will secure safe lodgings," Volpe said, nodding his head, "and cover your escape as needed."
"I am afraid we will not be of much use," Paola said softly, "Our contact in Roma has not communicated with us in quite some time. I regret that the courtesans there will be of little use to you without her introduction."
"I doubt it will come to that," Mario said. "This is not an extended visit, we'll sneak in, stop the Spaniard, and sneak out. Just let me know when you are ready, nipote."
"I am ready now," Ezio said.
"Then, Roma beckons, Ezio. Let's get going."
Author's Notes: Poor Ezio, to see Cristina after so long and have this happen. He really gets a lot of emotional upheaval in his life - it's a miracle he comes out as well-adjusted as he does. Given that Ezio said in Revelations that when Cristina died "something withered in me," we had to make it as epic and devastating as possible, and in the end we feel a little bad with what we've done to him; I mean, there's still Brotherhood to go through...! We feel that (with the notable exception of Caterina aside) with the death of Cristina came the death of his love life, that he just couldn't see the joy in it with the joy of his life dead, on top of the self-imposed rules of not sleeping with married women. It's also the hardest death for him to get over, he mimic's Maria's catatonic mourning (sorry, but not just women got that heartsick), and though he's matured enough to not desire revenge - in point of fact shows mercy to the man ultimately responsible for her death - because of that he has nothing left to fall back on to get him through it, and so he breaks. It's a testament to his inner strength as a character that he manages to snap out of it, and then pull himself together enough to deal with Savonarola as he does.
And, for the first time, we see a hint of Mentor Ezio in his address to the crowd. We expanded the dialogue quite a bit to make it, well, make more sense. Ezio randomly saying "We don't need anybody to tell us what to do" doesn't make much sense without more preamble. (whistles innocently) It's not set up fro Brotherhood, no, not at ALL...
Next chapter: Death of a Pope. And Desmond escapes again. And a long hiatus as we figure out how the heck to write Brotherhood. See you next week!