Part Three: Rock Bottom
It was midday when he finally arrived. A circular building like the famous Colosseum, it used to be owned by the famous Colonna family in the Middle Ages; more recently it had been converted to part of the Castel Sant'Angelo; and Ezio lifted his head to gaze at the enormous walls, and the signs of a tree growing out of the central skylight. Walking around the building, he soon found Machiavelli, standing at a magnificent view of Borgia's precious Castello. He rolled his shoulder slightly – as it would allow, and touched the enigmatic man on the shoulder.
Dressed in Roman finery, Machiavelli turned and gave the oddest look to the injured assassin.
"Ezio," he said slowly, looking him up and down, "What a surprise to see you here."
Ezio, in turn, frowned. "I thought you had sent for me?" Had the countess told him wrong?
Machiavelli shook his head. "Never. News of the Villa attack has spread across the city. We were certain that you were dead, Borgia himself was rumored to be celebrating with his lovers."
"Not yet," Ezio replied, a black grin on his face. "I am still very much alive."
"The Borgia must not discover that you escaped them. Follow me. Take care not to draw any undue attention."
Ezio snorted. "When do I ever?" he asked.
His response was a raised eyebrow. "I seem to recall a few incidents in Firenze with Savonarola that were anything but quiet," Machiavelli said. "A public burning comes to mind. And before that was a fight in Venezia with the Cardinal-Deacon, and before that the death of a Doge, and before that-"
"Enough," Ezio said in a low voice. Machiavelli, as always, was a dour, complicated man who wasn't shy about speaking his mind. There were days Ezio wondered how the man ever became second chancellor to Florence after the Medici were chased out, let alone a diplomat for the city of his birth, let alone considered skilled enough to be sent to Rome. He did not mince his words and, when not pleased, went off to do what he thought best on his own. Moody and opinionated, it was not uncommon for Machiavelli to be on the wrong end of an argument with anyone – Ezio and even Mario were no exception.
Mario...
"We stand together."
Ezio shook his head, refusing the let the grief overwhelm him. That was private.
"You would be wise to purchase missing equipment. You will not live long in Roma without supplies."
Walking down a series of arch-covered steps, they turned a corner and Ezio smirked, lifting his wrist slightly.
"I have my blade."
Machiavelli snorted in turn and told the black truth. "And the guards have their guns, courtesy of the Borgia." Ezio winced, reaching up and touching his shoulder. The advantage of his hidden gun was now a thing of the past, it seemed. Still not mincing his words, the diplomat added, "Fortunately, I can help you."
Machiavelli brusquely handed him a pouch full of florins, and Ezio pursed his lips, knowing the executioner he had looted earlier had not given him enough. Growling at the idea of being indebted, he grabbed the pouch and offered a low, "Grazie."
"While you are in my debt, perhaps you will listen to reason."
Ezio's response was not quite as coy: "As soon as I hear some, I will let you know."
The pair walked into a nearby smithy, explaining their needs. The smith looked Ezio up and down appraisingly before selecting appropriate wares. The fine clothes both men wore made the smith pick out equally fine armor, and Ezio quickly realized no amount of haggling was going to bring down the prices low enough to make them affordable. He asked instead for simple leather fair, and the smith openly growled.
"I see the nobility are as cheap as ever," he growled. "Heaven forbid you spread the wealth to the people who desperately need it, no, much better to look the part with your fancy silks and-" he reached out to grab at Ezio's clothes, and the yank to his bad arm sent him hissing and cringing away.
"Merda," he cursed.
"... It would seem you did not escape the Villa attack without injury," Machiavelli said slowly.
"It was only a minor scratch," Ezio said with ironic tones. He turned back to the smith. "Everything was stolen from me, save the clothes on my back. Show me leather armor; anything to give me protection for my shoulder until it is healed."
The smith seemed only slightly more sympathetic, finally pulling out the cheaper leather, and the two haggled bitterly before settling on a price. Ezio left with a pair of spaulders on his shoulders and a knife that he quickly hid in his boot. His purse was once again empty, but now he walked back out in the street feeling safer now that there were two hidden weapons on him. He rolled his bad shoulder, trying to stretch it, but the pain was still too strong. Machiavelli watched him with a distant face before taking a deep breath.
"Bene. Now you can survive the journey back to Firenze."
Ezio looked at the younger man, frowning, before shaking his head. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "But I am not going to Firenze."
Machiavelli's head snapped to the assassin. "Oh?" he asked, incredulous.
Ezio explained: "There will be no peace until we rise up against the entire Borgia family and the Templars who serve them."
The Florentine diplomat openly frowned, suspicious. "I do not recall such brave talk at Monteriggioni."
Buildings on fire. Ramparts collapsing. Mercenaries dying. Ulderico... Mario... The bloodied piece of flying ear and sounds of death, cannon fire, the smell of powder, screams and death throws, churned meat, the frantic escape, trying to buy time, the main gate blowing open...
"So consider this an invitation, from my family, to yours!"
"The shame of his defeat was to ruin him," Ezio said, his voice low and shaky. "How could I have known that they would find me so quickly? That they would..." he swallowed, "...kill Zio Mario?"
"You should have known," Machiavelli said.
"... In that, you are right."
Machiavelli frowned, clearly not expecting the ascent. His eyes studied Ezio carefully, but the master assassin was looking at his memory: Mario spotting him before he was shot, Ulderico's final farewell to Claudia, the treacherous journey through the mines; grief was welling up in him, his hands were shaking, slightly. The smiths, Marco and Carlo, did they escape? Or Vincenzo, or Arianna and her brother Doriano, Romeo... anyone? Had his hubris failed everyone?
Was he...
Was he alone now?
But no, he was not alone, not any more. He had the Brotherhood: Machiavelli, Paola and Volpe, Teodora and Antonio, Bartolomeo. He was supported by so many people, he could not lose himself to his sadness, nor could he turn it to anger, as he had done as a boy. He had to stay strong, for Claudia and Federica and Mother, for his father and brothers, and now his uncle and brother-in-law. He was wrong to think that Borgia would slink away quietly into the night, but he would not make that mistake again; and he would not do as he had done that day. He would not kill for self-gratification, revenge over the losses, hoping it would change the people. Ezio looked out to the crowds as they walked, their threadbare clothes, their downcast faces, their frowns and complaints and poverty and degradation.
"But remember for whom we Assassins fight."
… Yes. He could do this.
He was not alone.
He never would be again.
He looked to his companion. "Where are we going?"
"Campidoglio. I am meeting a contact there."
That far south? Walking would take hours.
"Should we not travel by horse? Roma is quite large."
"As Cesare's conquests in Romagna continue to succeed and the Borgia grow in power they have taken desirable areas of the city for themselves. We cannot use the stables here or anywhere; everything is under conscription."
"Oh," Ezio said with his Florentine irony, "the will of the Borgia is law now?"
"What are you implying Ezio?"
"Do not play dumb with me, Machiavelli," Ezio said, becoming irritated. "Savonarola was in a similar state of power, and look what happened to him."
"Yes, I believe I already mentioned that public burning. You excel at opening wounds, Ezio, but can you also close them?"
"It is not wounds of which we speak, but a deep sickness," Ezio clarified. "I intend to heal the sickness, not treat its symptoms."
Now Machiavelli was impatient. "Stop sparring with me."
"Fine. Let us talk openly then. Rodrigo Borgia's death would not have solved anything." If the Pope had been killed in December, the other men in power would have been just as corrupt, just as conniving, just as vicious as their benefactor. The people would still be squeezed for everything they were worth, abuse would be everywhere, that woman would still have been hanged, and the executioner would still have been babbling about the artistry of his task. No, nothing would have changed, nothing would have been solved.
"I am inclined to disagree."
Ezio shook his head, gesturing out to the crowds, the throngs of beggars lining the corners and squares, the monks praying benedictions and unable to do anything else, the children crying for parents that were more likely than not dead, the stench of feces and depression. "Look at this city, the center of Borgia and Templar rule. Killing one man will not change things. It would not change this. We need to take away the source of their power."
"Are you suggesting we appeal to the people?"
Ezio came up short, blinking in surprise. He knew he had to help the people, but he had no idea how. Where did one even start? He shrugged his good shoulder. "Maybe." He needed to think on it.
Machiavelli shook his head, a burst of air exiting his lungs. "Relying on the people is like building on the sand," he scolded.
"No. You are wrong. Our belief in humanity rests at the heart of the Assassin Brotherhood."
"Humanity, yes; people, no. People are idiots, craving to be told what to do. We offer them freedom, and they squander it without thought to consequence; it is because of the people that men like Borgia keep rising to power."
"Then what would you do? What would you propose that would keep 'men like Borgia' from rising? How would you deal with the destitution that is rampant in Roma, and Romagna and Venezia and everywhere else? Would you kill them as they come, or would you rather stop it at its source?"
"This is not a debate in philosophy," Machiavelli quipped.
"Perhaps it should be, since you don't seem to have much faith in the very Creed that makes you an Assassin."
Quite suddenly a slip of a man bumped into the both of them, Ezio's shoulder jarring painfully, and disappeared into the crowds. Ezio knew a thief when he saw one – he had lived with them for eight years in Venezia and learned from the best – and he knew his meager purse had been lifted.
Machiavelli openly laughed. "He must be from your inner circle," he said, smirking. "Go. Get back what he has stolen. You know where I go."
Sighing, Ezio took a deep breath, drawing up energy from somewhere. He could not climb, and if the thief took to the roofs this was going to be a painfully short chase, but his legs were still about him, and even weakened as he was, he was strong enough – therefore fast enough, to do this. He asked his eagle for help, and with a flicker of gold he took off down the street and up an alley, bursting onto a massive plaza, and finding the slip of a man darting along its edge.
Taking a deep breath, he bellowed: "Give me back my money! Come back here!" People, as he expected, immediately looked up, seeing an intent man running through the square, and parted to give him room, making him faster. The thief made a mad dash to the far side of the square, and Ezio watched him duck down an alley. Hot in pursuit, he saw the man take no advantage of the crates and beams to take him up higher. An amateur, then, one likely desperate for money and pushed to an unfamiliar profession.
He was also ridiculously slow.
Ezio closed the distance between them and leapt up without thought, forcing the man down and landing on him to cushion the fall. If being bumped into jarred his shoulder, however, landing made it unbearable, and he couldn't stop the pained grunt, his entire body tensing. The exertion of the run had left him suddenly exhausted, the aches in his back had returned, and his arm, his arm.
It was several moments before he could pull himself together enough to realize he had his hidden blade extended and pressed dangerously into the would-be thief's neck, the man utterly paralyzed in terror. "Why did you take my money?" he demanded, his voice rough and thready. The man had no sense of Ezio's pain, however, and quickly started babbling.
"Please, please! I'm sorry, Messere, I'm sorry! My wife is sick and with child, there are no doctors to be found! I didn't know what more I could do! Don't kill me, please, I need to look after her!"
This level of terror would not produce a lie, and Ezio nodded, making the slow, deliberate motions of pulling his blade away and standing up. The man cried on the dirt and cobblestones, sniveling and whimpering, before he was able to pull himself up.
"There is a doctor, northeast of here, near the city wall," Ezio said. "He is hunted by the Borgia, but he will treat your wife."
The man's eyes doubled in size, becoming almost comically large. "Is... is this true?"
"He treated me just this morning," Ezio said, nodding his head in affirmation.
"... I cannot believe this... Thank you! Thank you Messere!"
Ezio kept his face hard. "Get out of here before I regret sparing your life."
"I will! I will! Grazie, grazie Messere!"
The man darted away again, this time a noticeable spring in his step; a jovial ray of sunshine in the dark overcast that held the citizenry in thrall.
… Could it be that simple? Did Ezio only need to help people, dispense favors? His first benefactor, Lorenzo de' Medici, had performed similarly, and he was loved by the people of Florence. He handed out favors left and right, accepting whatever payment came to him – money or chickens or foodstuffs or otherwise. Could Ezio follow a similar format? He thought of Savonarola, of slowly destroying his lieutenants, and the people as they felt safe enough to voice their true thoughts, the challenge of a Trial by Fire. He thought of the burning at the stake, too, and the people begging direction.
… No, he couldn't be as open as Lorenzo de' Medici, and he had to be more hidden than he had in Florence. Was there a middle ground...?
He needed to think on it.
But still. He watched the man bump into more people, skipping down the street as he dashed home.
Ideas began to bloom in Ezio's mind, and he found himself grinning, slightly, as he turned back south.
The Capitoline Hill, or Il Campidoglio, was one of the seven hills of Rome, and the seat of the city's government; the equivalent to Florence's Palazzo della Signoria, or other palazzo comunale in Italy. Several palazzos existed for the Senate and other offices. Machiavelli was at another vista, this time looking southeast and the Colosseum in the distance, standing by a pair of horses he had apparently procured. Ezio looked in askance but the complicated man said nothing, instead simply mounting and asking, "Did you liberate your money from our friend?"
"... I did."
"A small victory."
He thought of the man's sheer gratitude when all was said and done. Yes, it was just a small victory, but... "They add up. And in time, with work, we'll have a few dozen more."
Machiavelli snorted. "And in time, Borgia's gaze will return to us and we'll be broken again. Time is not in our favor, Ezio, and what you propose would take an eternity."
Digging his heels into the flank, Machiavelli pushed his horse into a canter, leaving Ezio to struggle onto his mount with his bad shoulder and catch up. Damn the man for being so brusque!
The tall buildings of the city slowly faded away to the hills, heading further south and east. More beggars lined the road; men and women, shoeless and patched, shuffling to the city.
"Rodrigo surrounds himself with snakes and murderers," Machiavelli said slowly, his eyes darting up and down the road. "Even his daughter Lucrezia has been sharpened into one of his most artful weapons. She was engaged no less than three times before Borgia finally settled on Giovanni Sforza back in '93."
"I remember the stories, the wedding was a scandal."
"Si. Four years later, rumors are flying that the Borgia wanted Sforza dead – which Borgia is anyone's guess, but my money is on Lucrezia and her brother. Sforza accused Lucrezia of incest, the Pope said the marriage was never consummated, and yet she was pregnant while waiting out the divorce. Sforza eventually signed impotence papers and the divorce happened." Machiavelli's voice was filled with contempt. "Six months later Borgia married her off again – to her brother-in-law, but required she stay in Roma. Their marriage of course had not been consummated, but her virginity is anything but intact; she has a son by him – at least everyone assumes it's by him – but the boy is sickly and won't live long. And this is to say nothing of the games she plays with the men she beds. Last year, the husband was conveniently attacked on the steps to St. Peter's Basilica. He survived, but his recovery took place in a Borgia tower, where he was strangled a month later. Conveniently.
"But she pales in comparison to the man behind the Villa attack," he said, his voice changing. "He is ambitious, ruthless and cruel beyond imagining, the laws of men mean nothing to him. He murdered his own brother to take power. He knows neither danger nor fatigue. Those who do not fall by his sword clamor to join his ranks. The powerful Orsini and Colonna families have been brought to kneel at his feet and the King of France stands at his side." Machiavelli's eyes were bright, his voice richer, quieter; Ezio frowned, trying to find the name to that tone of voice.
"Give me his name," Ezio said in a low voice, steering his horse around a corpse on the road.
"Cesare, head of the Papal armies. He killed his brother Giovanni so he could take his position as head of the Papal armies; rumors were also rampant at the time that they were both sleeping with their sister-in-law. Two years ago he became the first man in history to resign from the cardinalate, and a year later was named head of the Papal armies – and he has only just gotten started. What does he intend to do with this power? What drives the man? That I still do not know. But, Ezio, Cesare has set his sights on all of Italia, and at this rate he will have it."
"... Is that admiration I hear in your voice?" Ezio asked in a low voice, his rich baritone suspicious.
Machiavelli shrugged. "He knows how to exercise his will. A rare virtue in the world today, given the people that live in it," he added, throwing a look to the master assassin. "He understands better than anyone that 'everything is permitted,' he would make a good Assassin, in some respects."
The man who attacked Monteriggioni? The man who kill Mario? Make a good Assassin?
"Bite your tongue," Ezio growled, his rich baritone low and menacing.
"No," Machiavelli replied, "If you really intend to take down the family, then you need to know everything about them; it was your lack of knowledge of them that has brought you to this point and I should think you do not want to be caught off guard again."
"And you think you know everything there is to know about these bastardi?"
"I obviously know more than you," Machiavelli replied. "I forwarded report after report to Mario, God rest his soul, warning him of the Borgia and his idea of a response was that frenzied attack the two of you pulled off; and now we both know what happens when you let them live."
"Killing the Borgia would have solved nothing," Ezio insisted, "I already told you that. Should I have killed him in that moment? Maybe, but it would not have fixed the fundamental problem. I am more than willing to admit to my mistakes, Machiavelli, but you are not the end all be all of the Assassins."
"No, I'm just the man who saw what was coming and was not listened to."
"Just because you think you are right-"
"I was right, or have you forgotten?"
"So you really think you know everything?"
"I know enough," Machiavelli hissed, patience at last at an end. The two of them glared at each other, wills battling, before the diplomat abruptly turned away and changed the subject. "Now, where is my contact, Vincio? He should have already intercepted the letter... Follow me."
Caught off guard by the sudden diversion, Ezio blinked before kicking his horse back into gate. Neither man spoke, both seeking to cool their heads. They would have to revisit this argument, but both of them knew there were too few Assassins after the attack to quarrel with each other. If... If Machiavelli was going to go off and do whatever he thought best, then Ezio resolved that he would do the same. Perhaps... if they took different branches... they would end up in the same place. He nodded to himself, more ideas filtering through his head. How to get started...?
They rode even further down the road, past the beggars and the stricken and around a curve and under an arch. It was not long before Machiavelli spoke again, gesturing up the hill to the Campidoglio. "Look at these facades masquerading as government. The Pope is very clever to keep this place in business. It fools your friends the people quite easily."
Oh, for... "When did you become so cynical?" he asked.
"I merely describe the reality of Roma today," the diplomat retorted. "But all may not be lost. The good news is that we have allies in the city. How much longer this will last, however, I cannot say."
"And what does that mean?"
But Machiavelli said nothing, glancing at Ezio and pushing his horse further front. The master assassin frowned, uncertain what the diplomat was hiding, and the lack of forthrightness from Machiavelli was troubling. Shoulder throbbing, he nudged his mount to pull level again and demand more. Machiavelli shushed him before he even opened his mouth, raising his hand for silence and pulling his horse to a halt. Pointing, Ezio followed his companion's gaze to see three guards accosting a man – dressed as a thief if Ezio didn't miss his guess.
"He was attempting to steal official Vatican mail."
"Perdonatemi, Signore," the thief, Vincio said quickly, squirming under knifepoint. "You must be mistaken."
"Who are you working for, thief?" the second guard demanded.
A small squeak, and then, "I am working for no one."
The third guard openly grinned. "Then no one will care what we do to you."
Ezio exchanged a glance with Machiavelli before they simultaneously spurred their horses into a trot, leaping over a hill and descending upon the three guards. The distraction gave the thief the chance to slip out of the first guard's grip, and Machiavelli drew his sword, swinging down viciously at one of the guards. Ezio extended his hidden blade, leaping from his horse with ease and landing on a second guard, driving his blade into the soft tissues of the neck and remembering – again – that that was a decidedly bad idea. He rolled off the corpse with a groan, clutching his injured shoulder before remembering the potion the doctor had given him. Fishing it out of his pouch, he put two drops on his tongue and grimaced as he swallowed it. The taste!
Getting to his feet, he found the third guard already dead.
"Grazie!" Vincio was saying, bowing repeatedly at Machiavelli.
"Where is it?"
"Here, Messere!"
"Excellent, you know where to go next."
The thief quickly departed while Ezio broke the seal and opened the letter. He turned to his companion. "I hope you can break a cipher," he said, handing it over.
Machiavelli's face went from proud to disapproving, snatching the letter and looking at the long string of numbers. "Cazzo," he cursed, "another encryption. This one was supposed to be legible. They are transmitting them using a code sheet. Without it, we have nothing."
Ezio tried to offer solace. "Sometimes logic is not the only way to win a war. Andiamo. You said we had allies in this city, bring me to them."
"Yes, I... wait, what is this on the back?"
Ezio studied the lines, his eyes taking in the shapes quickly. "A map? To where?"
"Wait, this is Il Colosseo. Then this is... The Terme. I know where to go. Come, I will show you where our allies are later; I do not want to miss this lead."
"Bene, then let us depart."
The two took to their horses again, Ezio once more careful with his shoulder; the throbbing had yet to stop. It was midafternoon, now, they had been riding for two hours, and Ezio wanted to eat badly. Machiavelli took pity on him and bought a loaf of bread that he ate in the saddle; his stomach thanking him for the nutrients.
Eventually they reached the Terme di Traiano, the baths of Traiano. Built by the Romans, it was rumored to be placed over the Golden Palace of Nero and, poetically, used by common citizenry. After the Gothic siege in 537, however, many of the aqueducts were ruined, leaving the old baths abandoned and left to rot. The structure seemed to spread infinitely, all arches and half-ruined columns and deep shadows as the sun sank low into the sky. Machiavelli reigned in his horse, looking around and studying the roughly drawn sketch. Howls could be heard in the distance.
Through the pillars, Ezio and Machiavelli saw a trader's wagon rolling along suddenly get swarmed by easily ten men dressed as wolves. The trader and his teamster screamed and Ezio was already spurring his horse forward. "Come on!"
But navigating the collapsed columns and broken baths was a maze, leading either to sharp edges of what was once a several story building or down to dead-end wells. When they finally arrived, the trader was cradling a broken arm and the teamster was dead, the wagon empty.
"Are you alright?" Ezio asked, leaping off his horse and checking over the trader. "Where did those murderers come from?"
"I don't know," the trader hissed as Ezio carefully pulled at the arm, assessing as gently and as carefully as he could. "Those damn Followers of Romulus! Following those foul old gods of paganism! There's only one God! Oh, my trade! Now I'll have even less for my family!"
The man kept wailing as the shock of what had happened sank in.
Ezio pitied the doctor Dante and all the people he was sending his way. "There is a doctor who will treat you for free," Ezio said quietly, giving directions. Machiavelli dragged the teamster to the back of the wagon, covering him with a leftover blanket from the wagon, since neither Ezio with his bad shoulder, nor the trader with his broken arm would have been able to.
Once the trader was on his way, Ezio frowned, as was becoming his habit it seemed. "That map led us to an attack by these Romulus followers," he said, as things slid into place.
Machiavelli nodded. "This band of false-pagans has been terrorizing the city for months and driving people into the arms of the Church," he stated, brushing off imagined dirt from his clothes.
"Quite convenient," Ezio said with great irony.
"Exactly!" Machiavelli growled. "I believe the Borgia are supporting them, but proof remains scarce."
"I think we just received our proof."
"Indeed."
The sun was sinking lower and lower and Ezio was getting hungry again. Some pieces of bread over the day did not truly replace a proper meal. And his stomach proclaimed it.
Machiavelli said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow. Ezio stared back and raised an eyebrow of his own.
The Florentine diplomat sighed. "Follow me." Ezio nodded and mounted again. They wove through the Terme's ancient baths once more, Machiavelli checking his position constantly, until they came to an ancient, worn-looking door.
"We recently began traveling through the tunnels to avoid the guards," Machiavelli explained, "but many of the entrances in the city are broken. By using them, we can get to our destination rapidly without encountering resistance." From inside his finery he pulled out an old map and, dismounting, they entered the underground tunnels. A candle was near the entrance and Machiavelli took a flint to it, giving them light. The tunnel was barely tall enough for the horses, and the beasts were looking around anxiously. A small trickle of water ran along the bottom of the tunnel and the noises of the busy city, prevalent even in the Terme above them, faded to nothing.
Still, Ezio was impressed with the good time they made through the tunnels in reaching the central district of Rome once again. Machiavelli paid an orphan to take the horses back to wherever the diplomat had procured them and then took Ezio to a proper tavern for a good meal.
Or as good a meal as possible in a city being squeezed to death by the Borgia.
But Ezio didn't mind in the least. He ate his fill and while not as good as what the cooks back at Monteriggioni could produce, he'd been to far worse establishments over the years (Venice and its salted bread ranking among the worst; though, he was discovering saltless bread was a distinctly Tuscan delicacy).
He and Machiavelli didn't talk much during their meal. Ezio was too busy just enjoying having something to eat where he hadn't had much the past week and letting the plans that had been swirling in his head start coalescing from its percolation into a more steady direction.
First thing was first. He needed money more than anything else. Having nothing would get him nowhere fast. And while he could pickpocket quite well (though miles away from as well as Rosa, Ugo, Antonio could, and even further from Volpe), that wouldn't further what Ezio wanted to do here in Roma.
Sitting back after his meal, sipping the slightly sour wine, Ezio looked to the diplomat. "Do you have a banker you trust?"
Machiavelli blinked. "Oh?"
"A banker?" Ezio repeated. "Here in Roma. I need access to my funds in order to get started on things here."
Machiavelli stared flatly down his nose to Ezio. "The Borgia seized all assets of Monteriggioni," he said. "I'd have thought that would be obvious."
Ezio laughed. "Then you've never truly worked with a banker's son before." He'd worked closely Alder, the German banker he'd used in Monteriggioni who'd been loyal to the Auditore for years. The old codger had agreed after Ezio's family had been wiped out and had their assets seized by the Pazzi and Florence due to their fictitious betrayal, that Ezio would need to keep his money hidden and off the records. Alders primary job in Monteriggioni was two books. One keeping track of the funds of Monteriggioni itself, which Claudia used for improvements and upgrades and refittings, and one for the Assassins. Money flowed freely between both and Alder took it as a great challenge to keep everything appropriately hidden and clean in case of auditing. His protégé Romeo, who'd taken over after Alder's death, was just as good, and Ezio knew that if Romeo was still alive, he'd come as soon as he saw this account being used.
But he had to access it first, and Ezio needed a contact here in Roma to do so.
Machiavelli raised a brow in his usual arrogant manner. "And what do you need a banker for?"
Ezio chuckled. "Let me worry about that. I'll just say that I have some ideas that will need some funding."
The diplomat's usual dour face frowned even further. "There is a banker near the place we are heading. I located him there myself and he is very trustworthy. Matteo will service whatever these needs of yours will be."
"I'll speak to him tomorrow then."
Machiavelli only nodded. "Well then, we need to get going. Being out after dark with Borgia guards congesting the city is not the best of ideas."
Ezio agreed, feeling the best he had since that morning. The sun was deep in the sky, with city lamp-lighters working hard with the winter's early evening. The two Assassins started walking the streets again and Ezio looked about, noting how the streets were slowly emptying, how the Borgia patrols were so numerous.
"Ezio, this way."
Turning, the Florentine Assassin looked to the alley leading to a side street. "And why are we not using this street? It's full of people and easy to blend with the throngs."
Machiavelli looked up. "A Borgia tower, the center point of their control in this area. I might be immune to suspicion, being part of the Papal Court, but you are not."
Looking around to the disparate people, many begging and attempting to hide from the patrols, Ezio frowned.
"The Borgia do not dictate the conditions of our lives down to where we even walk," he said calmly. "It's time people realize that the Borgia are not invincible."
"This again," Machiavelli sighed. "The people will never stand up to the Borgia."
Ezio smiled. "They only need some inspiration."
The diplomat scoffed. "Do you have some kind of a plan?"
"I am improvising." Ezio looked around the streets again. "We need to send a signal. Wait here."
The tower had a small staging area by it, with an entrance to a tiny courtyard being guarded by four Borgia trying to look intimidating. And while to the average person on the street, they were, Ezio had faced much, much worse. To him, they were merely children attempting to play at being strong. Behind them, in the courtyard, a captain with a feathered helmet and dark cape was inspecting a small group of what had to be recruits given their nervous shaking.
This would be child's play.
Ezio sat on a bench, checking his hidden blade and looking at the poison blade attached, the only addition to his blade he still had after Monteriggioni. Looking at the patterns of the crowds, he easily picked out a pair of Borgia guards and eased behind them. He bumped one, his poison blade diving into the soft side of the rushing guard, and he walked away. The poison did not take long, the last dose he had from when he'd last loaded it before Monteriggioni had fallen, and the guard started spasming in the street. His partner turned, surprised, and tried to calm him, only to get slugged as a response. The four guards at the entrance to the courtyard rushed forward to try and subdue the flailing guard.
Perfect.
Inside the courtyard, the captain had violently dismissed his recruits, all of whom scurried away looking shame-faced. With the courtyard empty save for the captain, Ezio boldly walked up, grabbed the man by his cape and flung him into some nearby scaffolding, taking out the support of the structure and bringing the whole thing down on him, including the bricks being used to repair a corner of the building.
Ezio quickly hid in the shadows, pulling up his white cape to hide the bright red of his collar as the recruits who had just left and were still likely near the door, came running out and shouted out in panic. This drew the guards from outside in and the passersby to start looking in curiously and whispering about the fact that the captain had suddenly died. With all the guards questioning what to do without the captain, it was incredibly easy for Ezio to slip into the building and start climbing the stairs of the tower.
At the top was only one guard who clearly wasn't expecting white death to surge up and send him flying over the top of the tower down to the streets below. And, to Ezio's luck, there was a supply of gunpowder that the guard had likely been using for his arquebusier. With night continuing to fall, Ezio took one of the torches, lit the powder kegs, and spotted a haystack below. It was easy to calculate how the fall would go and dive off as the explosion behind him took off the wooden roof of the tower.
In the haystack, however, Ezio remembered, again, that he was injured and held his breath to hold off a cry of pain as his shoulder seared him with agony. He'd slipped back into how he used to do things alone so easily, confusing the guards and slipping through the diversions, and he forgot that he didn't have back up. Mario was dead. Bartolomeo, Teodora, Paola, Volpe, they weren't here. He needed to build his support again.
"Someone just beat a Borgia captain!"
"The Borgia can be beaten?"
"Was the captain killed or was it an accident?"
"... The Borgia can be beaten?"
"Look at them, they can't even decide what to do without their Borgia master!"
And the jeers and gossip continued.
In that haystack, listening to the people, Ezio was pleased. The Borgia rule had been broken. No doubt the Borgia would try to reassert itself, but the people now knew it could be beaten. It would make the work Ezio had in mind of smaller victories easier.
Once his shoulder was no longer beating his head for his stupidity, Ezio got out of the haystack and made his way back to Machiavelli.
"One tower will not convince these sheep of anything," was all the diplomat said before once more guiding them to the hideout he'd spoken of earlier.
The hideout was an old worn-out looking storehouse on a small island on the Tiber River. Machiavelli took Ezio to a bank just as it was closing, the same bank with the Matteo he'd mentioned at dinner and went to an underground cellar to use another tunnel into the storehouse proper. Most of the building was barren, rooms left to spiders and dust and the occasional box of forgotten materials. But it was dry and protected from the elements. One room was clearly an office, with thick rugs that helped hold the warmth of a fire roaring in a fireplace. A thick desk was in the corner with a soft chair that, to Ezio's hidden embarrassment, seemed to be calling him after such a long day with his injured shoulder.
Shortly after arriving, there was a signaled knock on one of the many hidden doors from buildings that, to the exterior of the storeroom, looked like separate rooms or offices, but were connected to the storehouse. Machiavelli gave an answering knock before opening the door. Ezio tensed at the Papal guard's heavy armor and crested tunic, but the helmet came off and the man underneath had a large smile.
"Ben trovato, Niccolò!" the man smiled, running a hand through his helmet-mussed hair. "Ah! Ser Ezio, a pleasure," he gave a deep bow and kept his hands visible, clearly aware of Ezio's wariness. "Fabio Orsini, at your service. I've heard a great deal about you from my cousin — Bartolomeo d'Alviano."
Ezio relaxed immediately, seeing a vague familiar resemblance in the facial structure of Fabio with his mercenary friend. "A fine warrior," Ezio said, memories starting to pop up from his time with Bartolomeo, talking around the campfire with the troops and such. "He'd mentioned a cousin who had foolishly married a Borgia."
Fabio smiled. "She's not as tainted and corrupted as her family, or so I thought. Then her dear cousin Cesare started to cripple my family. When I had to rescue a friend from Tor di Nona that's been in the Orsini family for centuries, I'd had enough."
"And your wife?" Ezio asked.
"Still thinks I'm a loyal dog. I look forward to dissolving the marriage as soon as I can. Thank the Lord I haven't spawned any more Borgia yet."
Machiavelli stepped forward with some wine. "Fabio has lent us the unused storeroom here on Isola Tiberina."
"My way of fighting back against my dear commander, Cesare," Fabio sneered. "Damn him," he spat. He turned back to Ezio. "I know you are used to better accommodations in Toscana..."
But Ezio smiled. "It is perfect," he said. The hidden nature of this, compared to how open Monteriggioni was, was fitting. He could slip in and out through any of the side buildings, or the bank, and no one would be the wiser. He could use this for what he had in mind around Roma. "May I do with it as I please?"
"Si," Fabio smiled. "I'm tired of that idiota telling my men where to go and what to do. I refuse to do the same. My only request is that this can be a storehouse again once those bastardi have been toppled."
"That will not be a problem," Ezio grinned. He could convert the various rooms to several purposes. Rooms for fellow Assassins, an armory, maybe a library for study. Yes, this would do nicely.
"Bene," Fabio nodded. "Machiavelli, here are the reports you asked for. It won't mean much as I'm about to be shipped out like a damned errand boy. I'm off to begin preparations for Romagna. Wish me bad luck." Fabio looked back to the Florentine Assassin. "Today, Cesare commands my men, but soon, I hope, we will be free."
Machiavelli saw him out while Ezio finally sat in that comfy-looking chair by the desk and let himself be grateful to be off his feet after being on them for most of the day. He sipped his wine again as the diplomat returned.
"Now, I propose we begin planning our assault on the Borgia."
Ezio scoffed. "Oh, you think we are ready for such an attack?" he asked sarcastically. Even ignoring the grief he was fighting on Monteriggioni, his shoulder was still a problem. There was no way they had the resources or ability to assault the seat of Borgia power. It would mean heavy losses and no guarantee of success.
"Si," the diplomat replied, nonplussed.
Time to take down that arrogant confidence and make Machiavelli see the truth of their situation. "Do you know, for instance, where the Borgia troops took Caterina Sforza?"
"What?" Machiavelli whirled around. "She's one of our staunchest supporters! What happened?"
Ezio ignored the question and continued. "Are you also unaware that the Borgia have captured the Apple of Eden?" he asked coldly.
The diplomat's jaw dropped. "How could we have lost the Apple?"
"So," Ezio leaned back in his chair, "you do not know what goes on with our enemies."
Machiavelli scowled horribly. "What happened?"
"Oh?" Ezio said archly. "You're the one who 'knows our enemies' so well. Surely you know all this?"
The diplomat said nothing, only crossing his arms behind his back and attempting to regain his composure, though his jaw was clearly clenched tightly.
Sighing, Ezio looked away and rubbed his face. Angering Machiavelli would do no good. They were on the same side, though they both clearly thought differently. So he dropped his irritation at the diplomat's arrogance. "Do we at least have an underground here to work with?"
Machiavelli's jaw tightened even further and he refused to meet Ezio's eye. "Hardly," he growled. "Our mercenaries are ensnared in a losing battle with Cesare's French allies. We have girls working for us in a brothel frequented by cardinals and other important Romans, but the Madame there is lazy and would rather attend parties than further our cause."
This was far from ideal. Even if Ezio wasn't always with Paola or Antonio, he had the guilds in Monteriggioni to keep lines of communication open. Machiavelli seemed to have been neglecting them with his narrow-minded focus on Cesare. That was unacceptable. And it was something else Ezio was going to have to do something about.
"What about the city's thieves?" he asked. After all, a thief had delivered the letter earlier. "Do they have a guild?"
Machiavelli grimaced again, not wanting to admit how bad things had gotten. "Sì, but they refuse to talk to us. I don't know why."
Ezio let out a long sigh. "You are no doubt expected at court tomorrow. You'd best be on your way."
"And you," the diplomat asked. "What are you going to do?"
Ezio smiled widely. "Make some friends."
"Desmond's back!" Rebecca chirped happily, getting up from her station and stretching her arms high above her head before swaying her hips and rolling her shoulders. "I'm gonna go relieve Shaun topside, he says he found my mp3 player."
Desmond blinked, still seated in the Animus, trying to remember what was going on. "... What?"
"It went missing, remember?" she said over his shoulder, hopping over the partially ruined steps that lead up to the library. "I gotta know where he found it!"
… Right. The last few days had been a blur for Desmond. After frantically setting up the Sanctuary to be a workstation and running for supplies, Desmond had been unequivocally told he was banned from going outside. His Animus sessions were still in the morning, and as soon as the clock hit three he was pulled out, the watches changed shift, he had a late lunch, and was left to sit on his hands. With no warehouse to work in, he had tried to run laps around the Sanctuary, do pushups, anything to build up strength and muscle memory. The workout was tolerated by everyone except Shaun, who found the noise terribly distracting and left Desmond with only one day every three to work his muscles. His next impulse was to look up a little bit on the Italian Renaissance, maybe get a "spoiler" or two on what happened, but Shaun wouldn't let him near the books and there had yet to be any internet. The third option was to practice in the Animus construct; he could practice his free-running in the data created Rome and push himself to his heart's content. But that... had mixed results for Desmond. He loved, loved, running around in the Construct, the freedom to practice and learn his limits and build up his mental stamina, but being in Rome was painful, too, because there were so many points of nostalgia in the fake city that left him drifting into Ezio's memories.
And fighting them was becoming increasingly difficult.
So the rest of the time he was sitting on his hands, sipping on a water bottle and left thinking.
… He didn't like thinking.
Because all he thought about was how relative his sanity was at this day, at this time.
Growling to himself, he began running around the Sanctuary, hopping over rubble and tables and past the sleeping bags or climbing the statues. He'd learned the hard way not to run in the tunnels below; they weren't safe for the kind of workout he was trying to put himself through, and as a side note the last thing he needed was another comment from Shaun about how he smelled. Like the prick was one to talk.
Bastardo.
"Oh, are we going to go through this again, Desmond?"
Speak of the devil and he arrives.
"Sorry, can't hear you," Desmond said, running up to a wall, lifting himself two steps up the vertical surface and pushing himself into a flip. "Too busy putting the Bleeding Effect to good use."
"No, no, Desmond, that's not what you're doing," Shaun countered as he walked to his station, opening up his laptop. "What you are doing is distracting those of us who are doing real work. You know, like making that database you scroll through when you're running around in the Animus, or trying to find out what's so special about those locations Sixteen pointed out in his puzzles? Or keeping track of the other teams out in the field, yeah? You know, work like that?"
"Vai a farti fottere, porco puttana," Desmond hissed back, leaping up the steps and then flipping down them, tucking into a tight roll and then a handstand, anything to work out his sense of vertigo.
"English, Desmond, English, even you 'melting pot' Americans claim your official language is English."
Had his slipped into Italian? What'd he say? God damn it. "English is, genius."
"Actually, no, no it isn't, Baby Assassin; don't you know anything about your own country? What are we, primary school students?"
"Would both of you just shut up?" Lucy demanded, looking up from her computer screens.
Desmond paused, mid jump, making him slide on his sneakers and skid onto his fanny. Stumbling onto his feet and craned his neck to get a better look at the blond. She was hunched forward, however, and hidden by her monitors.
That just wouldn't do.
Walking over to her station, he asked, "Everything all right?"
Her head was in her hands, shaking slightly, before taking a deep breath and looking up at him. Her eyes were unfocused, almost haunted, before she pulled herself together and met his gaze.
"... I... don't like being stuck underground with them out there looking for us."
That made two of them. The claustrophobia was pressing when Desmond was forced to sit still; he couldn't even imagine what it was like to Lucy, de facto team leader forced to make the hard decisions, risked bringing them to Monteriggioni and triggering all kinds of episodes with Desmond's Bleeding effect. She had risked everything to save him from Abstergo, had put everything on the line all so that he could be kept safe. Desmond didn't think he could handle that kind of pressure. He was a runner, after all.
Or, at least, he was.
"You're doing a great job," he said, crouching down and touching her knee. "We're safe here."
Lucy made a face, looking away. "But for how long? Vidic won't give up. I know it."
Desmond rubbed her leg. "Neither will we."
Watery eyes looked at him. "You don't understand," she said, voice tight. Her voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought. All he could do was rub her leg, watch her shrink into herself, shut down completely before taking a deep breath. "Sorry," she mumbled. "The last thing you need is to see me freaking out. I've got this. Go back to exercising; we wouldn't want Rebecca to widen the Animus, right?"
"Oh, no," Shaun bit out from his station. "We wouldn't want me to keep working, now, would we?"
Desmond held Lucy's gaze for a little longer, though, willing her to see the faith he had in her, the trust, the worry and concern, the... the thing he didn't want to name yet. When he thought it was enough, he stood and started his laps again.
When Rebecca came down at the end of her shift, the skylight above them had shown it was full dark. Shaun had already eaten, Lucy had nibbled on very little throughout the afternoon, but Rebecca immediately went to the cooktop and lit the fire, grabbing a pan and butter and cracking some eggs on it.
Desmond cast a worried glance to the obviously stressed Lucy, pouring over her computer, before joining the programmer.
"Why do we have to stay down here all day?" he asked, watching the hot blond.
Rebecca blinked at him, before shrugging off her headphones and revealing their blaring volume. "What?"
Nonplussed at her rocker ways, Desmond repeated the question.
"Abstergo's still looking for us," she said, shrugging. "It'd be better if we never went out at all, but then, we'd run out of supplies. Popcorn and canned veggies and yogurt only last so long."
Desmond frowned, looking around the once pristine room, the grit in the formerly shining marble, the decay and moss. "It's like being stuck in a cave during a rainstorm."
"Yeah," she snorted, "Well, knowing the Templars, monsoon season's about to arrive. What's that saying? Always be prepared?"
He returned the snort, grabbing a styrofoam plate and handing it over as she poured her scrambled, burnt eggs onto the flatware. "Your ancestors have such interesting lives," she said, changing the topic. "I mean, swordplay, riding, jumping off rooftops, all that stealth and intelligence gathering. It's awesome. I went in once, you know. The Animus. It was lame."
Shaun, across the way, of course heard the dark haired rocker, and turned to look over his glasses incredulously.
"Yeah, what were you? Must've been a spinster, probably."
"Worse, a Prussian mercenary. I spent hours firing guns. BORING!"
"Yeah," Shaun replied with bitter sarcasm, "guns are for sissies!"
Lucy appeared by the makeshift kitchen and opened the small portable fridge. She stared at the contents for a long time, a frown pressing deeper and deeper on her face, making Desmond slightly curious, before she slammed it closed and stood to her full height.
"Okay," she announced, crossing her arms and glaring at everybody. "I had two yogurts in the mini fridge as of this morning and now they're gone. I'm hungry and annoyed, so who took them?"
Everyone blinked at the accusation, but Shaun recovered first.
" 'Took them?' Took them?" he repeated, incredulous. "I am supremely disappointed that you would make such allegations of your dedicated staff. This accusation is unjust, unfounded and frankly rather insulting."
Rebecca snorted. "Shaun ate both of them. I know because he asked me if I wanted one. You were on watch."
A dark blue gaze leveled itself on Shaun, and Desmond stepped back to watch the show.
"I most certainly did not! Who are you to point the finger when I happen to know for a fact you deliberately left your mp3 player on my-"
"Shaun," Lucy said in an icy voice, "you're on clean up for the next week. Now I have to go get yogurt."
"You can't just-"
Lucy turned on her heel and walked up the stairs to the villa, beautiful ass swinging in time with her hips, vetoing rebuttal and closing all arguments. Shaun was left sputtering without his audience.
Ah, to watch the prick be put in his place. Desmond hid his smile behind his hand, coughing to disguise the chuckle.
Now thoroughly disillusioned, Shaun gave a pointed glare at the two spectators, Rebecca finishing her eggs and Desmond still fighting to keep a straight face.
"This just in:" he muttered, "Rebecca is a Templar."
"Keep dreaming, asshole," Rebecca said, a deep throaty laugh escaping. "They sure as hell wouldn't be so good at putting you in your place. And for the record, I just saved your ass. Again. Imagine how pissed she would have been if she found out much later." Throwing the plates away she disappeared into the tunnels to wash up. That left a bruised Shaun with Desmond, and he quickly changed topics to deflect any ire.
"You still managing the teams out in the field?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and shrugging his shoulders.
"No phone line," Shaun answered after a beat, pouting. "Rebecca's working on patching us into the network."
Desmond smirked even further, unable to help the next jibe. "So how does it feel, letting the lady do all the work?"
Shaun, in response, scoffed. "She's no lady!"
"HEY!" said woman shouted, coming back from washing up. "Keep that up and I'll sic Lucy back on you!"
Shaun ignored her.
An hour later Lucy came back with a new pack of yogurt, one opened and she ate as she walked, savoring the taste before putting the rest away. "Okay," she said once she had finished, leaning back on her station. "Rebecca, how's communication?"
"We're still on a closed circuit," the rocker said. "I'm not used to the Italian lines, and I don't trust being so close to Rome – not that that technically matters. The villa itself doesn't have a line, or anything at all resembling technology, but there is one by the fountain that I might be able to tap into. Now that the Animus is secure and fully upgraded and operational, I should be able to take the time to look at it."
Lucy nodded, pulling out her blond hair and retying it. "Shaun? The locations from Subject Sixteen?"
"There are plenty of things about them individually and collectively that are quite fascinating," Shaun said, his voice noticeably more subdued. "Architecture, time period, purpose; Sixteen's labeled everything from aqueducts to the Colosseum to the Senate, but, other than the fact they're all in Rome, there's no one thing that connects all of them together."
"Then maybe that's the clue."
Everyone looked to Desmond.
"You said before that the coordinates Sixteen left were actually Animus locations, right?" Desmond explained. "In the real world there probably isn't a location, but in the Animus there might be."
Lucy shook her head. "You've been in there enough already."
"No, it's fine. I can do it. I'm not synching with Ezio directly, so there won't be any, uh, 'bleeding.' "
"I still don't like it."
"Oh, let's just stick him in," Rebecca said. "You know if something goes pear-shaped I'll be the first to let you know, and if there's nothing there he's out in five minutes, no harm done."
"... Alright," she acquiesced.
Desmond was already halfway to the Animus when Lucy touched his arm, offering him a penetrating, almost pleading gaze before saying, "Be careful."
A corner of his heart warmed, and he offered a soft smile and a nod.
Desmond rolled his shoulders in the load screen, swinging his arms and looking at his – Ezio's – boots and fancy clothes, tugging at the half cape and hood before spawning on... uh...
"Where am I?" he asked, looking up to the sky.
"Tiber Island, the Assassin home base, apparently," Shaun replied. "It's a long walk to the Colosseum."
"Yeah, but it will be time well spent," Desmond said, cracking his knuckles and hopping up the face of a building, looking for and finding windowsills and arches and loose bricks for hand and foot holes, working his way up... was this the warehouse?... before finally ascending to the roof and looking around. He saw a beam sticking out, and he saw a ghost leaping off it.
He frowned. It wasn't Ezio taking a leap of faith, the shoulders were different. Who was that? Another shadow leapt, and another and another, and Desmond felt the all too familiar sense of nostalgia, the feeling of heavy emotions attached to this place: nights looking out over the city, evenings staring at Castel Sant'Angelo, talking or fighting with Machiavelli and appr-
Desmond shook his head. The last thing he needed was to sync into another memory, so he turned his back to the scene and instead spun around in a full 360, finally finding the Colosseum waaaaaaaaaaay off in the distance. A long walk indeed. He spied a bridge going north, however, and did a few calculations before deciding he couldn't make the jump and risk desynchronizing himself. Instead, he hopped down the roofs and landing in a tight roll, startling the NPCs and going north into the most densely populated section of the city before turning east. This was not to say he stayed on the streets all that long, however, for soon he was hopping up wagons and crates, jumping off lantern beams and signs, catwalking along ropes and leaping across rooftops. His body thrilled with the exercise he could not get outside the Animus – even if it was a giant trick of his mind – and soon he was stopped by Shaun's acerbic voice.
"Are you trying to go in the wrong direction, Desmond?"
Finally stopping, he found himself looking up at the Campidoglio, the hill stretching up and above him. He wasn't even winded.
Grinning sheepishly, he offered an embarrassed sorry before running full tilt to the edge of a roof and leaping off, birds flying up in fright as he flipped around and landed in a cart of hay. The adrenaline left him laughing, and he allowed himself a few breaths before running full tilt up the steps (all million of them) and walked around the buildings there, looking for a path down the back of the hill.
He loved the run, the sense of freedom he didn't have in the Sanctuary, the sense that he could go anywhere and do anything; experiment and test and fly and run and live in a way he couldn't in the real world. At moments like this, with no after-images of Ezio, he felt truly alive.
There was a pair of horses tied by a bale of hay, and Desmond grabbed one and mounted, taking a moment to adjust to being in the saddle before kicking into a fast canter. He had ridden as a child, but not nearly as much as Ezio, and the Florentine's experience made him an expert on the animal, NPC or otherwise. "Hey, when this is over, how about we all go riding?" he asked, looking up. "I can show you some stuff."
"We'll add that to the list of ways to have fun," Lucy quipped, a rare smile in her voice. "You should be there soon."
And, true enough, riding under two arches and round a bend, the massive Colosseum appeared before him.
"Whoa... It's... it's so big," he said, taking a moment to just look in awe. "Is it this big in real life?"
"Of course it is, Baby Assassin."
Desmond stayed there for a long time, looking up as peasants walked around him and couriers rode past him. How did the Romans build all this? It was just so... amazing; like the fortress at Masyaf, or the Duomo at Florence. How could you not be impressed? It was just... just...
"Whoa," he said again, before shaking his head and focusing. Taking a deep breath, he thought about the eagle in the back of his mind and asked for its help, feeling the shift in his thoughts and looking around. His color palette had changed, the lame CSI-glow of his vision more colored, looking almost like Ezio's. Did the Bleeding Effect affect his Eagle Vision, too? He put that thought away for later brooding, kicking his heels into the flank of his horse and nudging it into a walk.
The structure was enormous, and he had made it over halfway round the circuit before at last spying... wait...
"Is that... is that a hole?" he asked, looking up at the oddly shaped hole in the Colosseum. Not an image, an effigy originally drawn in blood, but rather a section of the outer wall that had the bricks removed, and white light spilled out of it, seeming to invite him in.
"We can't see it with our readings," Rebecca said. "Sixteen hid them too well. You'll have to access it yourself."
Desmond looked up at the three stories – three oversized stories – he would have to climb in order to reach it.
"... right."
It took two hours to climb the Colosseum, and more than once he would look inside to the circular theater and feel more nostalgia (which decidedly did not help), but he was far enough away that it didn't affect him. Much. Eventually he made it to the glyph, no, rift, and climbed in.
He wasn't completely sure where he was, the room, cavern... space... was completely dark; only one light from an indiscernible place shown down on a box that just... floated. Weird. Weird, weird, weird, weird. Desmond approached it slowly.
"You dropped out of the grid. Where were you?"
"... Not sure," Desmond said, feeling... what was he feeling? Nostalgia? "Some kind of... fragmented memory?"
"Maybe you should stop," Lucy said.
Desmond shook his head. "I'm good," he said, "I want to keep going." Sixteen had fought his own sanity to leave this message, it was the least Desmond could do. He opened the box.
"Loading... loading... loading..."
Cluster 1.
A series of painting filled Desmond's vision, with the clue, Masters all, they did not work, but ruled from on high, for him to puzzle through. He didn't recognize any of the paintings outright, but then he didn't need to as Shaun immediately started spouting off their names, their artists, when they were created, etc, etc, etc. He had long ago learned to tune out the historian during these things. The connection wasn't to do with the whos and wheres, but rather what the paintings were actually depicting.
He quickly picked out the paintings that had masters and servants.
"Loading..."
And then, a blurb of text under a Templar cross:
They become increasingly aware of our existence. We can no longer rely on the divine right of aristocracy to maintain control. We need a new system, something much more subtle.
"I don't get it," Desmond said slowly as something else loaded. "Is this a memo? Or a letter?"
"Don't know," Lucy said slowly. "I've never seen it before, but that may not necessarily mean anything."
"Quarantine zone."
Desmond blinked, looking at the blank screen, moving his cursor around slowly. There was a slow, sonar-like beep, and he followed it until he found a simple red dot. He touched it, and the Animus said, "Quarantine Lifted."
"What? That was it?" Desmond looked around, finding himself back at the Colosseum. "I don't get it. Was there supposed to be more or something?"
"It did seem pretty simple," Rebecca said, "But the other ones started out simple, too, didn't they? The next one's at Palazzo Senatorio."
"... Wasn't I just there?" Desmond muttered, beginning the laborious task of climbing back down. It took another two hours to do so, to say nothing of getting a horse and riding back the way he had come.
He could see the faint outline of Machiavelli there, Ezio walking up to him and the horses Did you liberate your money from our friend?"
Desmond shook off the nostalgia, the ambivalent feelings Ezio had for the philosopher, and turned instead to the palatial building of the Senate. Asking his eagle for help he didn't see any glowing white holes in the building. Dismounting, he walked around slowly, taking in everything, even the ornate stairs leading up to the building. Still finding nothing, he climbed up to the roof. "Christ all this Eagle Vision is giving me a headache," he muttered to himself. "How did Ezio and Altair do it all the time?" Hoisting himself up, he looked around again, but still found no white holes. Feeling slightly perturbed, he looked over the edge of the building, slowly walking around the perimeter and becoming more frustrated with each step.
Finally, however, when he hit the back wall that looked out over the Roman fields, he found the rift. "Got it," he called out, swinging over the edge with the practiced ease of Altair and Ezio, finding footholds and marking an easy path to the rift.
He entered it, and found himself in another black expanse with a floating box. Opening it, he found Cluster 2.
"Loading..." the Animus voice said.
Desmond sighed, waiting for the puzzles to load.
The individual intends only his own gain, and he is in this, as in other cases, led by a invisible hand to promote an end which was no part of his intention. -Adam Smith
"... And who the hell is Adam Smith?" Desmond asked, looking up in the darkness.
"One of the 'greatest Scots of all time,' if you believe the tele," Shaun said with his normal derision. "He doesn't exactly have much to his name, but he did have one publication you should know: The Wealth of Nations."
Desmond sighed again, this time in frustration. How many times did he have to tell these people he didn't have a public school education? "Which is...?" he prompted.
"It was required reading in Abstergo," Lucy said, her voice distant with memory. "It was published at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. It's considered a fundamental work in classical economics; it talks about labor and money and free markets."
"Okay, so what does that have to do with Abstergo?"
But the quote had faded away, "Loading..." the next screen: a picture of a hazy forest that slowly twisted and split into a ring puzzle that Desmond was very familiar with from the other glyphs Sixteen and left around Italy. The text next to it was nonsensical, but Desmond knew he'd get the full text once he solved the puzzle, and set about work; he slowly revealed an old black and white photo of some kind of mining operation, people attending to a giant crane of some kind.
"By far the greatest of those goods which are objects of desire, are procured by labour; and they might be multiplied, not in one country alone, but in many, almost without limit, if we are disposed to bestow the labour necessary to obtain them."
"... A quote from the guy?" he asked.
"I think so, it certainly sounds like the work."
The puzzle morphed into a new ring puzzle, a lake that twisted to a new picture Desmond had to decipher. "What is this leading to?" he asked. "Another piece of Eden? Are we tracking more history? What else is there to know other than the Bible was literally right that there was an Adam and Eve and there was a civilization before us? There's only so much world-shaking discoveries I can take here."
"I'm not sure," Shaun said, for once not being trite. "But he does tend to make a production of things, doesn't he? Once a certain someone gets a phone-line established I can troll around some sites and brush up one our little Scot, see if he was a Templar."
The lake was solved to reveal factory, tall smoke stacks and power lines and workshops.
"A great empire has been established for the sole purpose of raising up a nation of customers. It cannot be very difficult to determine who have been the contrivers of this whole mercantile system; not the consumers, we may believe, whose interest has been entirely neglected; but the producers, whose interest has been so carefully attended to."
"And isn't that a pleasant thought," Desmond muttered.
"It was Adams' key thought:" Lucy said, "Modern economics were meant for the producers and not the consumers, because it's the producers that reap the benefits of the consumers, and the key is in building and maintaining the labor necessary to keep the producers happy."
A new puzzle, this time a park of some kind with people playing that, once Desmond solved the puzzle, morphed into workroom of women – the precursor to the cubicle barnyard.
"A country that makes provision to increase inhabitants, whose situation is good, and whose people have a genius adapted to trade, will never fail to be gainers in the balance, provided the labour and industry of their people be well managed and carefully directed."
"Until the labor movement, of course," Rebecca said.
"That's debatable," Shaun countered. "The laborers are hardly the people calling the shots these days, are they?"
"Loading..."
Desmond frowned. So, what, modern economics was created by producers? And labor was... just a factor in the profit margins? Desmond shuddered at the thought; that sounded distinctly Templar... Was that the point?
lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo
"What the hell?" Desmond blinked, staring at the screen. "Do you guys see this?"
"Yeah," Rebecca said. "But what is it?"
But the screen faded to black. "Quarantine Zone," the Animus said, and Desmond was left to scan the screen, listening to the sonar to guide him. Two dots were found, and the quarantine lifted, spawning him back in Rome.
"Just what exactly am I unlocking?" he asked once he was out of the Animus.
"I'm not completely sure," Rebecca said. "They're files. I think they're video files, but some of the sizes aren't right. I won't be completely sure until all of them are unlocked; Sixteen proved to be damn good at this, and if it's like the last file they all need to unlock and stitch themselves together. I'm going to try and crack them myself, but the coding here is ridiculous; it's like a crazy person made them."
"... A crazy person did," Desmond said softly.
Rebecca started, "Sorry, Desmond, I didn't mean-"
"No, it's fine; I'm fine," he said, touching her arm in reassurance before darting up the steps to the villa. He stepped out into the back courtyard, knowing it was stupid and dangerous and beyond idiotic, but the claustrophobia was pressing on him too much. Sixteen, the clues, the Sanctuary, his sanity, he needed to breathe damn it, and the open air helped.
Sucking in oxygen, he looked up to the sky, trying to find familiar constellations.
The light pollution prevented him from seeing any.
He sighed. Still in the future. Still in 2012. And the constellations would be in different places anyway, right? After six hundred years?
A hand touched his shoulder, and he found Lucy there, looking up at him with worry.
"I really am fine," he whispered. "It just gets... claustrophobic down there."
"I understand," she said softly, her delicate fingers tracing down his arm. "Come on, let's get you some rest."
"... Okay."
"The rest is up to you, Desmond."
"Desmond? I heard your name once before..."
"Altair! It's me! It's Malik, be at peace!"
"Desmond..."
Desmond awoke with another start, and groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. He looked up to the statue of Altair, the marble form looking down at him with a heavy frown. Whoever had made the statue had made him picture-perfect. Desmond could see up into his eyes, and it almost seemed like the Saracen Assassin was glaring down at him, disapproving of Desmond's very existence.
"So you knew about me, too?" he asked. When had that happened, he wondered. Why was he still dreaming about flashes of Altair's life, after being with Ezio so long?
Only, it wasn't so long. He'd lived Altair's summer of rebirth in a week; Ezio had covered twenty years in a week and now, Desmond blinked as he realized this was his third week in the Animus. It didn't feel like a week at all. He groaned again, rolling over and away from the statue. The last thing he needed was to think about how fucked up his life was.
That didn't stop him from feeling Altair's eyes boring into his back. God, he needed to have a talk with that guy.
Too bad he was dead...
Huffing, he got up, rubbing his face again and walking away from the statue whose eyes still followed him. Running circles around the Sanctuary woke everyone up, and it wasn't long before he was asking to be plugged back in; anything to get away from those eyes.
And he tried very hard not to think about how that sounded.
Author's Notes: And Ezio is now at rock bottom. He has no money (or at least no access to it), not guilds, no arm for the moment, and his only ally is Machiavelli, who quite obviously is a difficult person. While this is probably the largest conversation they have over the fic, it's not their most explosive, and pretty much every time Machiavelli shows up you can expect a fight of some kind. Our Florentine diplomat dips in an out of the course of this fic - he's a busy man being sent from post to post, but also because he's freakin' hard to write because he's so closed off and complicated. We hope we did him justice here and in later scenes.
Take note, also, that Ezio has a lot of ideas. That will chase him through the next several chapters. :P
Desmond in two chapters in a row, that's a downright novelty! His appearances are going to be quite sporadic, actually. We broke protocol by writing Ezio's story entirely first and then going back and fitting in Desmond. As always he's the hardest to write because of the content generation. We had a slightly easier time here because we pulled from the emails - such as Rebecca loosing her mp3 player or Lucy complaining about yogurt. Some of the character bits in those emails are hilarious. The biggest problem with him was finding a "relative sanity" and slowly going more insane as things go. He has to be pretty far gone by the end and it's quite a walk he has to take; so here he's a little freaked out by a certain statue. That's not a lead up to his next sequence, no not at all. :D
Next chapter: Ezio makes friends. What could possibly go wrong?