AC2 Novelization Part 24
Part Twenty-Four: Bonfire of the Vanities
Ezio returned to Italia in July, just in time to hear that Bayezid II of the Ottoman Empire offered to take the Spanish exiles, and ordered his people to accept them and become citizens. Admiral Kemal Reis was sent to collect the abandoned peoples. Ah, Ezio thought, at least one thing could go right. He wondered if there were Assassins in Constantinople, and if they had a hand in it.
As luck would have it, Mario was at the villa when Ezio returned home, and he immediately asked about the term Mentor.
"Ah, that," Mario said. "The grandmaster of the Order had always been called that, the Mentor, the Teacher, the Scholar. I don't know where it started, but it was decided that calling a leader a Master was in poor taste, given that we strive for freedom of any master. The grandmaster of the Order doesn't give commands, per se, so much as guidance and suggestions."
"And what did you 'suggest' when the Inquisition started in Spain?"
"What I could. What you don't realize, Ezio, is just how much work comes with being the Mentor. We have branches all over the known world, each with its own politics, leaders, despots, Templars, and evildoers to manage. Look at Italia. I don't think I've been home more than six months for as long as I can remember; I've been everywhere, from Napoli to Roma to Venezia to the Germanies to... I've lost track the places I've been. Doing that, and managing the Order, well, sometimes tough decisions have to be made."
Ezio frowned for a long time after that, wondering if things could somehow be done differently.
He did not have much time to fret, however, because Pope Innocent VII died, and the papal conclave was called to announce the next Pope. Mario dragged Ezio to Roma, and they waited tensely to see who would be named.
"Now we'll see who'll buy the papacy."
"Buy, Uncle?"
"Si. Don't tell me you honestly thought the next Pope was decided by a fair electoral college? That's a fairy tale; the papacy goes to whoever can bribe the most cardinals. The church is about as far from her doctrines that an organization can get, and things have only gone downhill with Borgia as the Pope's assistant for these last few terms. We can only hope one of those rich bastardi is actually benevolent, della Rovere has potential, but it would be a miracle, regardless."
And, to their horror, Alexander VI was named.
Rodrigo Borgia.
The city was in an uproar, Cardinal della Rovere, whom Mario had mentioned, was outraged, accusing Borgia of simony. Rumors flew that Borgia bought the seat with four mules of silver plus other extravagances, della Rovere quickly fled to France, and Borgia was quick to offer his support of the Spanish Inquisition and electing four more assistant Inquisitors for Tomas de Torquemada.
Ezio was furious. Now the grandmaster of the Templar Order was the head of the Church, the most holy position one could attain. He wanted to kill that bastard at his coronation, but Mario, calmer and more sensible, pulled him away. "Killing a Pope so soon after his election would not help in the slightest - even if it removes Borgia from the equation, we don't know his other supporters and it's better, as they say, to fight the devil you know rather than the one you don't."
That did not make Ezio feel better at all, however, and as soon as the two arrived in Monteriggioni Ezio isolated himself in his loft, painting to work out the frustration he was feeling. Mario tried but could not assuage him, and Claudia didn't even call on him. It was Maria who made the situation clear, months later in March.
"Do you have the Apple, Ezio?"
"What?"
"Do you have the Apple?"
"... No."
"Then you cannot confront the Spaniard yet," she said. "The Codex prophecy tells of two Pieces of Eden, does it not? I think it safe to assume the Spaniard has one, and you will not be on even footing until you, too, do as well."
The clarity struck Ezio like a bolt of lightning, and Ezio hugged his mother, thanking her profusely before redoubling his effort searching for the nine-fingered monk. He spent most of the year in the saddle, traveling in a wider and wider spiral, asking after monks with missing fingers. He even traveled as far as Naples, and witnessed the marriage of Borgia's son Gioffre - thirteen years old, with the king's granddaughter, Sancha, fifteen. By that point he was greatly disconnected with the goings on of central Italy, and he rode north to see what had happened to make Borgia ally with Naples in such a way.
He discovered that Gioffre Borgia was not the only child to be married off. The daughter Lucrezia was also married, to Caterina's cousin Giovanni Sforza. The wedding, Mario and Volpe said, was downright scandalous - an orgy of public debauchery and extravagance. Lucrezia was sixteen. Not only that, but Borgia had added an unprecedented twelve cardinals to the Sacred College of Cardinals - one conveniently being his son, eighteen year old Cesare Borgia. The amount of influence he had as a result was staggering.
Also, Corombo's idiotic voyage had paid off, he returned with news of a new world discovered, the extra landmasses that Altair talked of in his Codex now for all Europe to see. Borgia, as Pope, gladly approved of the issue of slavery - superficially to convert more Christians, but the Auditore all knew better. It was a means of control - of entire continents of people - and Mario solemnly predicted that the Spaniards decision would wreck havoc for centuries to come.
The year closed with rumors running rampant with Borgia's children. Both sons - Cesare and Giovanni, supposedly were sleeping with their little brother Gioffre's wife Sancha, Lucrezia was bedding the servants on the Sforza property, debauchery of all kinds were happening; all while Borgia gave them more and more power. When 1494 dawned, and Monteriggioni prepared for Claudia's birthday, and five-year-old Federica begged Uncle Ezio for "pick up!", Ezio stared out his loft window and wondered what else could happen before he could manage to find the Apple.
Shortly after the year started, word reached Mario and Ezio that Ferdinand the First, King of Naples, had at last, died on January 25. There were a lot of politics that Ezio didn't quite follow, but France had apparently been whispered at to get geared up to take over Naples and the French King, Charles, decided that it sounded like a good idea.
This meant war was looming on the horizon. And not the type where mercenaries fought each other on behalf of a city and the citizens remained safe. No, Ezio just sensed that this wouldn't be so polite a war.
So Ezio rode to Florence and Mario to Rome to see what they could do.
Florence had seen some upheaval while Ezio was in Spain. The death of Lorenzo had shaken many of the city, and of Lorenzo's several sons and nephews, there was some argument on who would become the next to take charge of the city. Piero, Lorenzo's oldest son at twenty, assumed control and exiled much of his extended family to stop the debate. This was saddening, but Ezio met up with Machiavelli and, together, the two visited Piero de' Medici to guide him through the approach of Charles. The meeting was frustrating and disappointing.
Florence, as a whole, didn't particularly care for the Spaniard as the Pope. Not in the slightest. But they weren't about to just let France run roughshod over them on their way down to take Naples. They wanted to, at worst, stay out of it, and at best, get some plunder from the Borgia.
The French, however, didn't seem to agree with this idea. The French method wasn't just to march down to Naples and deal with their issues there. That would make too much sense. Instead, each city or town that opposed them was crushed and massacred. Tiny towns that wanted to be left alone were robbed and brutalized to get resources of food and plunder any treasures, gold, or antiquities. They had somehow found a way to drag canons along and fire them on cities, destroying buildings that were hundreds of years old and killing hundreds. Even Caterina in Forli, who initially sided with the Papacy with grit teeth, allowed the French to move through to avoid getting trounced.
So when the French arrived in Florence, the Florentines were quite happy to push the French past and get them out of their Republic. Savonarola and his priests, the populace at large, Piero, Ezio, Machiavelli, they were all in agreement that France had no issues with Florence and to keep it that way.
"Your father worked very hard for the peace we have here," Ezio said to the young Piero. "We must negotiate with the French to let them go by without giving them our bounty."
"I agree," Machiavelli said, his harsh face staring out the window of the Palazzo de' Medici to the bustling crowds below. "I suggest a diplomat, bargaining something so that the French can leave us be. Let them bother our dear Pope instead."
And Piero agreed.
At first, things seemed hopeful but that lasted for barely a moment. Piero and his forces faced the French, but were completely overwhelmed and brutally demolished. With no support from Florentine nobles, who wanted the French to pass through but didn't understand the horror that the French left in their wake, Piero was disheartened and simply gave up soon after.
Ezio watched Piero as he received and sent missives. Piero, simply stated, was not made of the same metal as his father and great-grandfather. The more time Ezio spent with the young man, the more he realized that Piero was scared. Terrified, though he hid it well with thick arrogance. Fifteen years prior, when some remnants of the Pazzi had gathered enough to storm the palazzo and Lorenzo had held the family in the Medici Chapel until Ezio's well timed arrival saved them all, had damaged the child. Now grown, as Ezio watched Piero, he realized that Piero was petrified of any sort of conflict.
"I had my safety ripped away once," Piero said quietly over dinner. "I never wish to go through that again. Florence will not face such polarization again."
And Florence didn't, because Florence became united in its hatred of Piero the Sorrowful, since he ended up capitulating to every single one of France's demands, allowing France to invade Tuscany and plunder the city without any resistance.
Machiavelli was disgusted, throwing up his hands in frustration when he and Ezio realized this.
Ezio, having known Lorenzo and cared for Il Magnifico, watched as Florence turned on their patron and exile him, looting the Medici's palazzo, and threw hatred and curses at the Medici name that had so benefited them for three generations. The least Ezio could do for the family was to help Piero, his brother Giovanni, escape Florence and send them on their way to safety. The Medici exiled by Piero were to be welcomed back, once word reached them, but they would not hold power over the city again, not the way Lorenzo had.
Machiavelli stayed in Florence, trying to do what he could to reestablish order, especially since one of the monks, Savonarola, quickly became an important part of the council that now ran the Republic of Florence. Many didn't care for Savonarola's power, including Milan, the Sforza in general, and rumor had it that even the Spaniard denounced him, so Ezio could only assume that he was good for the city if Borgia didn't like him as he left and started to follow the French army.
Their march south was bloody, and when Ezio scouted outlying towns, further away from the French, everyone he met expressed shock.
Wars in Italy, they didn't go this way. Nobles and councils would hire mercenaries and they would fight the battles for the cities. The citizens rarely were involved. The French didn't. They just marched through, beat opponents, and then took whatever spoils they deemed necessary, and left troops behind to maintain the lines of communications back with France itself.
It was horrifying. None in Italy could believe such cruelty existed.
The Papal armies failed as the French marched through the Papal States. Cardinal della Rovere, traveling with Charles and apparently one of the instigators of the war, tried to use the French as leverage to have the Spaniard step down, but apparently Rodrigo was doing his backdoor dealings once again, bribing a French confidant with a cardinal hat, making France ignore Rome and keep marching south to Naples.
It wasn't until February the following year, 1495, that the French finally arrived in Naples and took it over without a single fight, though Cem, the Ottoman brother being held prisoner by the Papacy, mysteriously died there.
Needless to say, after the horrifying march south Italy didn't care for what France had done. So several city-states joined together with the Spaniard to form the Holy League (though most Italians called it the League of Venice) the following month, all of them vowing to fight the French on their way back through Italy.
As the League of Venice started to attack the garrisons the French had left behind to maintain communication, Charles was forced to leave Naples and finally start returning home, along with all the booty he'd collected. In the beginning of July, at the small town of Fornovo, a major battle between the French army and the League's main body occurred. It was bloody, chaotic, and disorganized. The French troops were, by far, better disciplined, but several of the Italian forces had been promised some of the various treasures that the French were carrying with them, which inspired gold-eyed high morale.
In the end, it was hard to say who the victor was. The League lost the most men, by far, but the French had lost all the bounty they were in Italy for. And as the French continued north home, they were still fought at every turn. Ezio stood over the bloody battlefield, looked at the sea of bodies, and wondered if Naples was really worth it. If anything was really worth this much death.
It wasn't until the French were finally out of Italy that some of the full ramifications were felt.
Rodrigo had used the League to reduce much of the power of the various city-states in Italy, giving himself and his family even more power as a despot. Cardinals or dukes who were in his way were starting to wind up dead, either in the Tibre or elsewhere as more and more of Italy was consolidated into the Pope's hands.
Savonarola, back in Florence, was declaiming him, and supposedly the Spaniard laughed when he heard of it.
There was also a new disease sweeping through the country, called the French disease. The French dragged syphilis, which had started its outbreak in Naples, throughout the country, and Italy suffered for it.
Forli had its own issues, far more domestic than the French. Caterina's own children had hatched a conspiracy to kill their step-father, apparently not caring for him in the slightest and wanting to ensure that her oldest son Ottaviano was the only successor. Caterina, still enamored by her husband, learned of it and unleashed cruel vengeance and executions of the most painful kind. Rumor had it that her people had forever lost her goodwill, since she was apparently blind to see the political motivations that both her children and the people wanted.
The following year continued to see things getting worse. With Borgia having more power than ever, people were starting to gather arms against him. Bartolomeo joined the Orsini family with his men to fight off the Pope from taking Orsini territory. While Bartolomeo's forces were dwindled and chipped down to three forces, the conditierro held out until Carlo Orsini finally joined him and together, they defeated one Cesare Borgia's troops, supposedly even wounding Cesare in the face.
More and more people were falling ill and Borgia continued to consolidate his power. Italy, it seemed, was in for some very dark days.
Ezio and Mario made it back to Monteriggioni physically and mentally exhausted. After almost two years in the saddle and never staying in the same place for more than a few days, Ezio had a far greater appreciation for Mario having to make difficult decisions for the Order. After all, Mario could hardly ever be found. Ezio was looking forward to even the simplicity of catching up on all the letters he'd missed out on after so long traveling all across Italy.
It was late November when they finally rode into the city, having just missed Federica's birthday. The town, unsurprisingly, welcomed them grandly. Ezio was as gracious as he could be, but honestly, he just wanted to crawl into bed for a week or so. He didn't know where Mario had the strength to keep laughing and energetically bounding around.
No sooner had he entered the villa when, "Zio Ezio!" echoed around the great hall and a tiny eight-year-old arrow came flying down the stairs in boy's trousers and running up to his arms.
Despite himself, Ezio couldn't help but laugh as he caught her and lifted her up in a twirl. "Federica!" he greeted, before bringing her down into a crushing hug.
Okay, maybe bed could wait.
Federica happily started babbling all sorts of stories and adventures that had been going on, the trees she'd climbed, the epic fights with the mean French she'd conquered, beating her father in the ring, and showering Maria with any feathers she could find. Ezio laughed and pelted questions at her, which her quick mind could follow and clarify on.
Claudia came out of the study smiling briefly before scolding Federica about indoor-voices. Ezio offered his sister a smile, but she didn't return it, instead pulling Federica from him and telling her to go get cleaned up for a proper dinner.
"Mother!" Federica whined. "I don't want to wear a dress!"
"You'll wear a dress and learn that there are times when dresses are better than trousers," Claudia countered firmly. "Go see your grandmother, she'll get you sorted."
"But Zio Ezio doesn't care what I wear! Do you Zio?" she turned large soulful eyes to him.
Ezio could only chuckle. "Federica, you need to learn that there is a time and place for everything. Listen to your mother."
The child pouted horribly and squirmed out of Claudia's arms to go stomping back up the stairs and find Maria.
"She always listens to you," Claudia said.
Ezio shrugged. "She worships the ground I walk on, though I don't know what I've done to deserve that."
Claudia frowned at him. "Because you do all sorts of things normal people wouldn't; like climbing buildings, leaping alleys, and your stories of adventures fire her imagination," she stated flatly. Then she smiled. "I'll look forward to your stories of the past year or so tonight with dinner."
Ezio shook his head. "There are no good stories for tonight," he said wearily. "The fallout from the war has been... hard. Terrible. Shocking. There isn't really a word."
Claudia sighed and hugged him. "I know. I've been reading your letters. You'd best settle in for now, I need to settle the accounts. The damn architect we hired for an irrigation ditch to some of the northern fields has turned out to be an idiot."
Ezio chuckled. "Don't worry, piccina, I'm sure you'll sort everything out like you always do."
She hmphed as she headed back to the study. "Maybe the three of us can go on a picnic tomorrow while Ulderico is touring the fortifications."
The mention of Ulderico reminded Ezio that he wasn't supposed to be a father figure for Federica, and so he shook his head. "While I love the idea, we still haven't found the monk who stole the Apple. I want to look through the letters you've no doubt been stockpiling for me and see if anyone had found anything."
There was no denying Claudia's severe frown at that, but she just turned up her nose and headed back to her accounts.
With a heavy sigh, Ezio went up to his loft to unpack his materials.
Christmas, as always, was a quiet affair for the Auditore house. While not as solemn with Federica running around and livening up the villa, Ezio couldn't quite shake his mood and attempted to focus on his painting, particularly the one of his family. But with two decades since watching the swinging gallows, Ezio was disheartened to find he didn't remember the details of his father's or brothers' faces. Did Giovanni have a wrinkle there? Was Petruccio's hair really that dark? Was Federico's nose that chiseled? Claudia, Maria, himself, and even the small Federica he was adding, were all easy to paint, he could study their faces every day. But the deceased half of his family...
With a sigh, Ezio sought out Mario to see if any progress had been made. Ezio's contacts had thus far come up empty. Antonio had even stated that there was no chance that the Apple was in Venice given how thoroughly he, Teodora, even Agostino Barbarigo had searched the city, canals, and outlying provinces.
"I'm sorry, Ezio," Mario said in the library. "There's been no sign or word of the Apple. I'll be heading back to Roma in a few days to try looking up leads there. Perhaps the Spaniard knows; if I can find a way to listen in."
"It's been years, Uncle," Ezio sighed. "Almost a decade. It may not even be in Italia. Maybe the French took it back with them."
"Let's not get disheartened yet," Mario smiled. "Italia has many nooks and crannies to hide things. We'll find it yet. You were prophesied to have it, so you will get it when you need it."
Ezio rolled his eyes, still not really placing much trust in prophecies.
Mario only laughed.
January came and they all celebrated Claudia's birthday with fervor, the festivities being Ezio's cue to leave his depression behind. He still tried to stay apart from Claudia's family, as Ulderico had asked, but it was starting to put a strain on his relationship with Claudia. She would come to him, as she always did, with worries or concerns, and Ezio found himself questioning whether or not it was a good idea to offer any advice, leaving him to be more distant. Claudia didn't understand the retreat and called him on it, but Ezio could offer no answer when the feelings he had were such a tangled ball of confusion.
Maria finally pulled Ezio aside.
"Ulderico asked that you not steal his daughter from him and be her father," she said firmly. "He didn't say to keep your distance from Claudia."
"But Mother," Ezio replied, "How can I do one but not the other? Federica, given both myself and Ulderico in the same room, will always rush up to me, seek me out. I don't blame him for wanting to make sure she understands that he's her father."
"Oh, my darling boy," Maria said fondly, holding him tight in a hug. "You are a favored uncle. Federica understands that Ulderico is her father, but she goes to whatever she finds interesting, and that's you. Ulderico and Claudia both are her parents, and they will discipline her if she does something wrong. You provide stories and fun, of course she'll seek you out."
Ezio sighed. Again. "He asked me to keep my distance."
"And you've made too much distance," Maria insisted. "Ulderico feels very guilty about how much Claudia is hurting over you staying away. But he can't bring himself to say anything because he knows Claudia's temper. The three of you must clear the air between you."
The Assassin couldn't help but laugh. "After all the dangers I've faced, I must say that I don't relish the idea of Claudia being so angry at me."
Maria only raised a delicate eyebrow. "She has the right. You both decided this without any of her input."
"Ser Ezio!" a courier came rushing in, panting. "Ser Ezio!"
"Elario," Ezio pulled away from his mother, "calm down!"
"Ser Ezio!" Elario continued to pant. "Word from Signor Machiavelli in Firenze! They've found it! I was told to tell you as soon as I reached Monteriggioni! They've found it!"
Ezio turned to Maria. "I must go."
Maria gave a warm, motherly smile that Ezio had missed for so many years. "Go on, my son. Maybe when you get back I can make all of you see reason."
Ezio chuckled and kissed her. "If anyone can, it's you."
Ezio sent Elario to Rome to repeat the message to Mario and he packed his things and got ready to ride to Florence. He'd likely need to stay in the city, so he said his goodbyes to Claudia and Federica and Ulderico and rode off.
Arriving just past dusk, Ezio was surprised to see guards at the gates glaring so cruelly out to the road. Stabling his horse, Ezio watched for an hour, as traffic slowly lessened and the guards kept a tight reign on anything and everything.
Machiavelli's letter had stated that Savonarola had the Apple and was currently dominating the city. If the nervous people he was seeing were any indication, the young man may have been right.
Glancing at his armor, Ezio shifted around the stables until he found a thick black blanket that he wrapped over himself like a cloak. Between that and his black hood, he looked like a priest in the dim light, so he stepped lightly, hunched his shoulders in prayer, and ambled over to a small crowd of monks tiredly heading into the city.
The guards let them pass without a word and once in the walls, Ezio shed the blanket in an alley and headed deeper into the city. For now, he'd spend the night at a tavern and find Machiavelli the following day.
The tavern he'd selected to stay in was, to his memory, always busy, some group of men visiting or a collection of families passing through, always with good food and wine and friendly faces willing to share stories.
This was no longer so. The San Marco district, which had been expanding rapidly as Ezio grew up, still bore the signs of construction, but was quiet as night continued to settle. The tavern was almost empty when Ezio arrived and asked for a room and a meal.
This... wasn't the Florence he grew up in. It wasn't even the Florence he'd left a few years prior. He'd thought that if the Spaniard didn't care for Savonarola, he'd be good for the city. Clearly, Ezio was wrong.
Dreadfully wrong.
The following morning, he had a very fast breakfast and left with his bags, hoping to stay with the Assassins for the duration of his stay. He was set to meet Machiavelli at the Oltrarno Bridge later in the afternoon, so Ezio decided his time was best spent wandering the city, re-familiarizing himself with it, and just listening to the people to gauge what had changed in the years he'd been gone.
"If Piero had only a tenth of his father's talent, we'd still have some place to call home..." one citizen grumbled, rushing down the street and almost dragging his wife behind him. "Come on, before anyone notices you're wearing cosmetics."
Ezio narrowed his eyes at that, wondering what cosmetics had to do with anything. Indeed, many citizens were wearing shabbier clothing that one would expect in such a wealthy city. Those that were wearing nicer clothes were hurrying about while several would look at them with disdain.
Walking into the San Giovanni district, Ezio learned more, that Savonarola was preaching almost constantly, talking of hellfire and damnation with the coming century mark and how it would be the end of the world, how such vanities had pulled people away from God, so repent! Repent!
"...Never should have welcomed that mad monk into the city. Look at all the misery he's wrought..."
People were indeed miserable, rushing from one appointment to the next not because of being late, but fear. The whole city seemed to reek of fear, and that was something Ezio couldn't stand for in his beloved home.
One noble, strolling down the street with another, voiced what Ezio was thinking.
"...Don't understand why'd they'd be so willing to accept his oppression..."
Ezio couldn't understand it. He knew he'd been raised as a noble and that it had allowed him many privileges that the average person didn't have, but he'd lost everything when his father and brothers had died. Monteriggioni had had nothing when they'd arrived. He wandered the countryside with only himself to rely on for money or food for well over a year. He knew how the average person could struggle to get by. But just because one struggled didn't mean that one should just take oppression. Why did Florence put up with this?
Passing the Duomo, a monk was shouting in frustrated anger, "He just threw us out! Said all we owned belonged to the Church of San Marco now. We've worked hard for those items and donations, and now they're no longer ours?"
Ezio continued to walk, stopping at a small stand to buy some bread and a different stand for some cheese to have as his lunch and entered the Santa Maria Novella district.
Everywhere he went in the city, every street, every boulevard, had fires where preachers of Savonarola's were spouting their doomsday nonsense, making people throw paintings, books, cosmetics, even mirrors, into the fires to curse the vanities that had ensnared the population.
Ezio just couldn't understand it.
The worst part of wandering the city was the bodies. Citizens cut down for some reason or another and just left there to rot in the streets. A fleeting worry for Cristina passed through Ezio's mind, but he pushed it aside. She didn't want to see him so he would respect her wishes.
Walking over another corpse, he could only hope that Manfredo could protect her properly.
Seeing some guards eying him suspiciously, Ezio joined a small circle of citizens, all talking about the misery of the city and wondering when things would just go back to normal.
One young man pulled off his feathered cap and rubbed his head. "Sometimes I wish the Assassin would return to Firenze, that we might be free of this tyranny."
Another scoffed. "He's just a myth, a tale told by parents to their children."
The young man protested, "No, my father had seen him in San Gimignano, years ago! Helped him go after some fat Bernardo something or other who had been party to the Pazzi families attack on Il Magnifico."
"Sure, if you say so," another said.
Ezio frowned. He'd worked to keep his kills and missions discreet; though there were times he'd had no choice but to fight in the open. Had he really garnered such a reputation? Did all of Firenze know of him now?
"It seems I've been away from Firenze for too long," he said, entering the conversation. "I remember a young man that others called an Assassin. Has he done something so memorable?"
The young men all smiled, eager to share the stories they'd grown up on, of a fallen noble on a bloody quest to avenge his family and protect Florence. Really, Ezio wondered, they'd turned him into some sort of hero.
"Too bad we haven't heard much of him in the past couple of years."
"Wasn't he here when Il Magnifico died?"
"No, it was when the French were coming."
"No, no, he hasn't been here since he saved Il Magnifico."
Ezio shrugged. "I'd heard he needed to flee Firenze and that he was forced to Venezia."
"That hellhole?"
"What sort of city have we become that we take a local hero and force him to that that swine-hole of a floating city?"
Ezio chuckled with them, but learned little more on what the average Florentine might think of his reappearance.
The afternoon was waning and Ezio started south to the Arno and then backtracked east to the Oltrarno Bridge.
Machiavelli was standing near the rail, glaring down to the water with his harsh face. "Hello, Ezio," he greeted. "You picked a fine time for a homecoming."
"Then it's true?" he replied sadly. "Savonarola has taken control of Firenze?"
"Yes," the younger Assassin nodded. "No doubt aided by that treacherous artifact."
"We should get to work on retrieving it."
"That may be more complicated than you think," Machiavelli shook his head.
"Hah!" Ezio laughed and smiled. "When isn't it? Why don't you fill me in on things?"
Machiavelli only nodded. "Walk with me."
They headed south to the Oltrarno district, where small fires were set up and people were throwing all sorts of things into it, as Ezio had seen all over Florence. The preachers shouted defilements of sodomy, the Borgia, the excess that everyone lived with and asked for more to be set aflame.
"It all started a few weeks ago," Machiavelli started, "The man everyone once reviled was suddenly the one they worshiped."
That made perfect sense. Oh, wait... "Ah, the Apple?"
The harsh-faced man shook his head. "Only in part. It's not the city he's enthralled, but its leaders: men possessed of influence and power," Ezio could see where this was going. Had seen where this had gone in Venice when the Barbarigo were in power. "They, in turn, oppress the citizens and ensure his will is done."
It was still a concept he could not understand. "The people act as if they have no say in the matter."
"Rare is the man who is willing to oppose the status quo," Machiavelli scoffed. "And so it falls to us to help them see the truth."
Ezio disagreed privately. After all he'd read in the Codex, what he'd seen, he could not have such little faith in the people. They could fight back; they just didn't feel like they had the ability. Machiavelli, however, scorned them, so Ezio chose not to speak up. For now.
In the streets the corpses they passed in Oltrarno seemed more numerous than in other districts, but Ezio finally spied several that he could recognize.
"Those bodies bear the emblem of the Borgia..." he said, pointing to a cart carrying several armed corpses that was being pulled by an old nag down the street.
"Yes," Machiavelli nodded. "The Spaniard keeps sending his soldiers into Firenze, and Firenze keeps sending them back - usually in pieces."
Normally Ezio would have smiled at this, a blow to the Spaniard, but this was actually bad news. "Then he knows the Apple is here as well... An unfortunate complication," he observed.
"Indeed."
They arrived at the Palazzo Pitti, commissioned shortly before Ezio had been born by Florentine banker Luca Pitti, a large supporter of Lorenzo's grandfather Cosimo de' Medici, it had still been unfinished when Ezio had fled Florence after the Pitti suffered financial losses after Cosimo's death, but it appeared someone had finished it in the meantime. Seven arched windows seemed to be the theme of the façade, reminiscent of Roman aqueducts, and there was an almost rustic quality to the stonework that made the structure almost scream power. Machiavelli didn't even need to say anything; this was where Savonarola was hiding.
Studying the walls, there were many good handholds, but the flow of a veritable army of guards around the building made any hopes of sneaking in dim. "A direct assault would be dangerous. Especially with the Apple in his possession," Ezio rubbed at his beard. While Ezio doubted the Apple could control him, anyone else, even friends, may become potential enemies in the Piece of Eden's grasp.
"True," Machiavelli acceded. "But what other option is there?"
Ezio turned and looked out to the people rushing about their business, the citizens he'd spoken with and listened to. "Aside from the city's leaders, the people's minds are their own, correct?"
"Sì," Machiavelli said, perplexed.
"And they follow Savonarola not by choice, but force and fear?"
"Sì."
Ezio smiled. "Then I propose we use this to our advantage. If we can silence his lieutenants and stir up discontent, he will be distracted and I will have a chance to strike."
Machiavelli leaned back, thinking. "Clever. I'll speak with La Volpe and Paola. They can help to organize the uprising as you free districts."
"Then it's settled. We'll take care of his abettors."
It took the better part of two weeks of Volpe's thieves and Paola's courtesans to ferret out who the most likely bewitched lieutenants of Savonarola could be. Mario arrived with some of his men and they helped in scouting out where Savonarola's closest went and what their routines were and where they might go. From there it was a matter of dividing up who would deal with whom.
Ezio's first target was a monk, Silvestro Maruffi, who spoke before the Duomo. Thus, Sunday, Ezio joined the city in the massive church that was such a landmark for all of Florence and observed the sermon.
Most of the citizenry didn't understand Latin, they just listened and prayed until the sermon came, which was the one part of Mass that they could understand in proper Italian. This preacher, however, tended to slip into Latin as he spoke, something that Ezio, as a noble and being able to read and write, could understand.
Ezio could not deny his disgust.
"Almighty God, the King of kings, to Him, that governs all, Whose power no creature is able to resist, to Whom it is proper to punish sinners, and of those who truly have mercy on the act of repentance, keep it, and deliver us, we ask You humbly."
So this priest wished no mercy for those who "repented" of their "evil" vanities? Ezio shook his head.
"By the hand of His enemies, restrain their overindulgences, subtract the wickedness of their vanities, their practices."
Ezio scoffed silently. As if God would come down and do as He pleased. No, the people were given Free Will, and as such, they had to follow their own path, learn from their own mistakes, that was how God had left them, if Ezio even believed in that story any more by this point.
"Who art the only giver of victory, because of the merits of the only Begotten Son. Of the Lord, Thy Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."
And the crowd chanted, "Amen," because they were supposed to.
Then the priest recited the Our Father.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on Earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. Amen."
"Amen."
With Mass at an end, Ezio, robed as a priest as well, eased forward to follow. Blending with the other monks was easy as he hunched his shoulders and took the slow pace of one in prayer, hands clasped as he muttered to himself. He followed the priest with his eagle eyes, watching the golden trail in a sea of black and brown vestments. Ezio stayed in the man's shadow, not wishing to kill anyone in the Duomo, not seeking to be like the Pazzi who had used such holy ground so callously. Ezio himself may no longer believe in religion, didn't even grow up believing in it much to begin with, but he understood that for many this was sacred ground and not to be defiled.
Eventually, the priest headed out for food and Ezio easily shadowed after him in the thick Sunday crowds of Florence. Once in a tavern, the priest sought a table alone, but Ezio joined him, plunging his hidden blade into the man's side.
The priest blinked, then looked around him as if for the first time and with complete clarity. Turning to Ezio, he bowed his bald head. "You are to be my confessor," he whispered. "I thought Savonarola preached the word of God."
"I fear his sermon is a lie," Ezio replied kindly.
"I led my flock astray..." the priest said quietly in an almost sob. "It's just... I wanted so badly to believe..."
"We all do," Ezio acknowledged. "Requiescat in pace."
"My thanks... my son..."
And with a heavy sigh, the priest breathed his last. Ezio leaned him back and left, giving a bow as if a conversation had just finished.
Not long after word reached the assassins that a man - a noble - was blocking the bridges to the Oltrarno District. Mario dealt with him, rather brilliantly climbing the roofs at the age of sixty-three as nimbly as a thief and assassinating the man as he preached cruelty from the balcony of his villa. Volpe proudly announced some time later he had assassinated a trader threatening to starve the people if they did not submit to Savonarola's rule.
A few days later, May air warming the city, word reached Florence that the Pope had excommunicated Savonarola. The priest's response was to keep on preaching, even knowing that three of his lieutenants were dead.
With that in mind, they paused to assess who their next target should be. Fra Silvestro had been picked as an opening salvo, to announce the presence of the Assassin and warn Savonarola to return the Apple. With three of his closest gone, excommunicated by the Pope, and Savonarola showed no signs of stopping, they decided to go for another major lieutenant. With that in mind, Ezio began researching fra Domenico da Pescia. He was a preacher, like Savonarola, and ardently declaimed the Vanities and the tragedy that had wrought on the jewel of Italy - especially now, that the end of days was coming.
"People of Firenze!" he shouted. "Come! Gather round. Listen well to what I say! The end approaches! Now is the time to repent! To beg God's forgiveness. Don't you see?! The signs are all around us: Unrest! Famine! Disease! Corruption! These are the harbingers of darkness! Then end of the century approaches; it will soon be one-thousand five-hundred years since the time of Our Lord, and what have we done in that time? We've castrated ourselves on the altar of Vanity!"
Several men shifted uncomfortably in the audience, and Ezio slowly parted from the crowds, looking for a place to climb.
"We must stand firm in our devotion lest they consume us all! I see you doubt; that you think me mad. Ah... but did the Romans not say the same to Jesus? Do we not face the exact same plight? A prophet has come to declaim a failing and corrupt civilization; Savonarola is giving you a chance to save yourselves, and yet you doubt him! When the end of days arrives, he will remember! Remember who doubted, and who showed true faith! Know that I too once shared your uncertainty, your fear. But that was before Savonarola came to me. He showed me the truth! At last, my eyes were opened. And so I stand before you today in the hope that I might open yours as well! The end is approaching, and we must repent! We must turn from our wicked, self-indulgent, selfish ways. The Lorenzo de' Medici did not repent - and look at what happened to him! It was the hand of God that failed his banks, which struck him from this mortal coil. Do you want to share his fate? Do you? Then take off your finery, condemn the sodomy, burn the mirrors, cosmetics, lewd pictures, pagan books, immoral sculptures, gaming tables, chess pieces, lutes and musical instruments. Do so and you will be saved!"
"I don't think so!" Ezio announced, standing on the roof above. The people looked up to see the silhouette of an eagle, and Ezio swooped down three stories with practiced ease, sinking his blade deep into the body of the monk, letting the man's body break his fall.
Fra Domenico did not have a sudden vision of clarity, indeed his face did not change at all with his impending death, and Ezio realized just how far gone the man was.
"Your mind... I sense it is your own," he said softly, the stunned crowd watching.
Domenico smiled. "Not all of us required deception to be convinced. I already believe. All I said is true."
"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember:"
"Nothing is true," Ezio said, pulling his hidden blade out and closing the man's eyes. "This is not an easy thing I do," he offered, pulling back. "Requiescat in pace."
"It's the Assassin..."
"The Assassin is back..."
"He'll deliver us..."
"Stronzo! Arrest him!"
Ezio took off, disappearing from the guards like a wisp of smoke, and unsettled with what the people had said. Deliver them? He was only to free them, why did they not see? He was troubled when he returned to Paola's bordello, explaining what he saw to his uncle.
"The port authority had similar words, if you remember," the grandmaster said, "He said sometimes the people need to be told what to think. There are days when that is true, but most days a man knows for himself what will improve his life and what will make it worse; what a man needs, instead, is the courage to act on what he knows."
By late August, another lieutenant had died; a bitter farmer who was tired of insults and contempt, and in his desire for respect had sided with Savonarola. Volpe had done the deed, and in October Paola, through her courtesans because of her failing eyes, scratched another off the list: a doctor enthralled with the power over life and death, enhanced by the Apple, she explained, and poisoned by his own medicine. The irony of it flew threw the streets of Florence, and again they praised the work of the Assassin.
Early November Volpe lead a magnificent chase through the streets of Florence, chasing a nobleman aligned with Savonarola, charmed by the Apple and cowardly shirking responsibility in his death. "It's not my fault!" he had shouted for all the world to hear, to which Volpe had solemnly informed him, "You made a choice." Another man in a hood sited at a death, and the people were beginning to think the tyranny might end. The result of this was twofold: first, an increase of fighting in the streets between three factions: the Borgia who were still sent to retrieve the Apple, Savonarola's supporters, and now the people who were tired and wanted change - feeling safe enough to say so. The Assassins were heartened to see the people rise up, but Ezio was beginning to suspect something else, he eyed them warily, listening to their rumors.
"Salvation is coming!"
"We may yet survive."
"The Assassin will fix everything!"
A second result of their work was Savonarola's increased guard.
Mario, tracking one of his targets at the turn of the year, had arrived in Mercato Vecchio to find it empty of its usual commerce. In proof, his target, one of the city guard captains, had laid a trap, leaving the sixty-three year old to fight a dozen guards. Volpe and Ezio had learned of the treachery through the street gossip, and both had arrived separately to help, Volpe joining the fight below and Ezio artfully sneaking along the roof of the open-air market, listening to the captain ranting from above.
"It's interesting. Every day, without fail, another of you approaches. Nonconformists. Malcontents. Revolutionaries. Rebels. I've seen it - and heard - it all. Just excuses. Am I to believe you're a champion of the downtrodden, then? A hero come to free the city? A rebel leader intent on ushering in a new age? One who fights for justice? Liberty? Hmmm? Which lie do you tell yourself!? And do not be mistaken. These are lies. No matter what any of you say - you're all here for the same reason. The same selfish reason: You seek something. Glory. Distinction. Fame. Rewards either physical, spiritual - or both! You're making a very big mistake."
"No," Ezio said, "You are."
He stabbed him in the back.
The captain looked around, looked at the fight below, confused, and turned to Ezio with clear eyes. "... Is this truly who I was?" he asked. "So proud and cruel...?"
Another slave to the Apple. "No," he said, helping the man fall softly onto the slanted roof tiles. "Savonarola bewitched you."
"...Did he? Or was it that I tasted power and found myself intoxicated?"
Ezio had no answer for him.
"...I wish I had been stronger."
Nodding, Ezio replied: "As do I. I am truly sorry, but there was no other way. Requiescat in pace."
Mario and Volpe had taken care of the fray below, and all three disappeared to the roofs, but Ezio could see the eyes in the windows.
They had little time to breathe after that, February came cold and rainy, and Ezio had at last tracked the final lieutenant to one of the bonfires in Oltrarno. Though Ezio wondered if there were many "vanities" left, Savonarola still held bonfires for people to throw things as innocuous as lutes and musical instruments into the fire. The paintings, however, Ezio took somewhat personally. Being friends with Leonardo, and a painter himself, he could not understand why such artwork was considered a sin, could not fathom how the trade had been cast in such wickedness. Michelangelo, once a ward of Lorenzo de' Medici himself, threw his work into the fires, and Savonarola himself was rumored to personally throw in the works of Botticelli - what he had against the painter, no one knew for certain.
So it was satisfying - if such a word could be used - that the last lieutenant left to assassinate was an artist, a painter, and Ezio watched from the roofs as the painter walked about in the square in front of Palazzo Pitti.
"Reject the base and material!" he was preaching as he took the gathered paintings and threw them into the bonfire. "Seek salvation in the flames! The brush, the pen, the sculptor's clay! These are the Devil's tools, and what wretched things they birth! So today I call upon you to cast off these abominations; and consign them to the flames that you may be cleansed, that you may be free! Give them up - or my guards will do it for you!"
Family portraits, presents, depictions of Greek and Roman lore that Lorenzo de' Medici had so treasured - the essence of the Humanist movement and classical thought, all were thrown into the fire. Anything that portrayed nudity was considered lewd, illustrated books were sacrilegious, moldings and sculptures depicting the Classics were classified as pagan, and all were burned. The smoke from the oils was black and thick, and as Ezio slowly made his way across platforms and crossbeams, his eyes stung - though from the smoke or in sorrow of the incalculable losses, he was not sure.
"When I first became a painter," the lieutenant said, "I did so as a means to express my devotion to God. Here, there was an opportunity to grow closer to him. For, if divinity were perfection, then surely capturing it would be divine? It seemed a righteous work. A form of prayer - of worship. And if others might gaze upon my creations and see something of the Lord within - well, would they not be also brought closer to Him? And so I thought myself an altruist. A speaker. A preacher. A guide to those who had lost their faith. But in truth, I was deceived: the Devil is a crafty sort, his manipulations, many. I thought my works were windows, but in truth, they were doors. Doors that allowed his corrupting influence to enter into our world. My art did not comfort people - but poisoned them instead! Made them lustful and base and immoral when before they were not."
... Was that what he thought? That the mere act of looking at paintings, at the depiction of naked flesh or classical literature, somehow encouraged people to turn away from God? What sophistry! What of the symbolism inherent in all paintings? How did studying the naked form - the ultimate creation of God, make people turn away? What of the lessons of the Greek and Roman lore? No, it was not a painting that made men turn away; it was the men themselves, making their own decisions. To assume a man so simple-minded... It was the ultimate lack of faith in humanity - and humanity was the very creation of God! Ezio's body tensed, waiting for his chance.
"I had been deceived! But now I have a chance to make amends. To undo the damage I have wrought. I pray that you will join me! Free yourselves of deception and corruption! Give up your blasphemous works! Ink and canvas evoke desire, which in turn, births jealousy and rage. Destroy them! Suppress such emotions for they are dangerous! Dedicate yourselves wholly unto our Lord and his prophet, Savonarola!"
At last, the deranged painter passed under Ezio, and he leapt from above, diving down and assassinating the painter. He watched as, like the others, his eyes cleared, and he looked around at the fires, at his own artwork burning, the priceless relics disappearing in smoke.
"What have I done...?" he moaned. "What have I done...!"
"Your actions were not your own," Ezio said softly.
"But they were! My own self-doubt let him hold me as he did. And now..."
"As a painter," Ezio said, feeling connection to this tortured painter, "I know that a man's painting reflects that which is in his very soul. I'm certain your biblical paintings were as the Lord himself."
"But now... But now... I am sorry," he said, crying as he breathed his last. "I am so..."
"As am I," Ezio said solemnly, nodding his head. "This is not a choice I make lightly. Requiescat in pace."
He stood from the body, stepping back, and saw the people staring at him.
"The Assassin..."
"The assassino..."
"Our time has come, he is the sign!"
"We must act swiftly!"
"Let the assassino's action guide us!"
Author's Notes: Dear GOD you don't want to know how hard it was to write this. Once Columbus sailed the ocean blue it was one teeth-grinding scene after another, because it was ALL history and not plot to be had. Trying to fit Ezio in to observe it all, trying to make it all make sense, trying to show how dire things were becoming, it was a pain in the freakin' butt! Our biggest concern, despite our beloved beta's reassurances, is that the flow is screwy. That's a lot of ground to cover and a lot of facts that are just, sort of, thrown at you despite our best efforts. We hope you were able to get through it.
The payoff, of course is surviving the marathon to the Bonfire of the Vanities, and putting that unquestionably long sequence on fast forward, picking and choosing the targets and showing just what Ezio looks like to the people. It all has to built up to his speech at Savonarola's death, right? (whistles innocently)
... And it was BORGIA that made slavery okay in the New World? ... We know who to blame now!
Next chapter: Cristina. 'Nuff said.