building on sand.”
“I disagree, Niccolò. Surely our belief in humanity rests at the heart of the Assassin’s Creed.”
“And that’s something you intend to put to the test?”
Ezio was about to reply, but at that instant a young thief ran alongside them and, with his knife, swiftly and surely cut through the leather strings that attached Ezio’s money pouch to his belt.
“What the—!” Ezio shouted.
Machiavelli laughed. “He must be from your inner circle! Look at him run! You might have trained him yourself! Go! Get back what he’s stolen. We need that money! I’ll meet you at the Campidoglio on the Capitoline!”
Ezio wheeled his horse around and galloped off in pursuit of the thief. The man ran down alleys too narrow for the horse and Ezio had to go around, worried that he might lose his quarry but at the same time knowing—to his chagrin—that on foot the younger man could surely outrun him. It was almost as if the man had indeed had some Assassin training. But how could that be?
At last he cornered the man in a blind alley and pushed him up against the wall of the dead end with the body of his horse, pinning him there.
“Give it back,” he said evenly, drawing his sword.
The man still seemed bent on escape, but when he saw how hopeless his situation was, his body slumped and, mutely, he raised the hand that held the pouch. Ezio snatched it and stowed it away safely. But in doing so he let his horse move back a fraction, and in the wink of an eye the man had scrambled up the wall with almost extraordinary speed and disappeared on the other side.
“Hey! Come back! I haven’t finished with you yet!” Ezio yelled, but all he got in reply was the receding sound of running feet. Sighing, and ignoring the small crowd that had gathered, he steered the horse in the direction of the Capitoline Hill.
Dusk was falling as he rejoined Machiavelli there.
“Did you liberate your money from our friend?”
“I did.”
“A small victory.”
“They add up,” said Ezio. “And in time, with work, we’ll have a few more.”
“Let’s hope we make it before Cesare’s gaze falls on us again and we’re broken again. He damned nearly succeeded at Monteriggioni. Now, let’s get on with things.” He spurred his horse.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Colosseum. We have a rendezvous with a contact of mine, Vinicio.”
“And?”
“I’m expecting him to have something for me. Come on!”
As they rode through the city toward the Colosseum, Machiavelli commented drily on the various new buildings erected by Pope Alexander VI during his administration.
“Look at all these façades, masquerading as government. Rodrigo is very clever in the way he keeps this place in business. It fools your friends ‘the people’ quite easily.”
“When did you become so cynical?”
Machiavelli smiled. “I’m not being cynical at all. I’m just describing Roma as she is today! But don’t worry, Ezio—perhaps I am a little too bitter, a little too negative, sometimes. All may not be lost. The good news is that we do have allies in the city. You will meet them. And the College of Cardinals is not completely under Rodrigo’s thumb, much as he’d like it to be. But it is touch-and-go…”
“What is touch-and-go?”
“Our ultimate success.”
“We can only try. Giving up is a sure way to failure.”
“Who said anything about giving up?”
They rode on in silence and reached the gloomy hulk of the ruined Colosseum, a building over which, for Ezio, the remembered horrors of the games that had taken place here a thousand years ago still hung. But his attention was immediately caught by a group of Borgia guards with a papal courier. Their swords drawn, halberds pointing threateningly, and bearing flickering red torches, they were jostling a small, harassed-looking man.
“Merda!”
said Machiavelli softly. “It’s Vinicio. They’ve got to him first.”
Silently, the two men slowed their
“I disagree, Niccolò. Surely our belief in humanity rests at the heart of the Assassin’s Creed.”
“And that’s something you intend to put to the test?”
Ezio was about to reply, but at that instant a young thief ran alongside them and, with his knife, swiftly and surely cut through the leather strings that attached Ezio’s money pouch to his belt.
“What the—!” Ezio shouted.
Machiavelli laughed. “He must be from your inner circle! Look at him run! You might have trained him yourself! Go! Get back what he’s stolen. We need that money! I’ll meet you at the Campidoglio on the Capitoline!”
Ezio wheeled his horse around and galloped off in pursuit of the thief. The man ran down alleys too narrow for the horse and Ezio had to go around, worried that he might lose his quarry but at the same time knowing—to his chagrin—that on foot the younger man could surely outrun him. It was almost as if the man had indeed had some Assassin training. But how could that be?
At last he cornered the man in a blind alley and pushed him up against the wall of the dead end with the body of his horse, pinning him there.
“Give it back,” he said evenly, drawing his sword.
The man still seemed bent on escape, but when he saw how hopeless his situation was, his body slumped and, mutely, he raised the hand that held the pouch. Ezio snatched it and stowed it away safely. But in doing so he let his horse move back a fraction, and in the wink of an eye the man had scrambled up the wall with almost extraordinary speed and disappeared on the other side.
“Hey! Come back! I haven’t finished with you yet!” Ezio yelled, but all he got in reply was the receding sound of running feet. Sighing, and ignoring the small crowd that had gathered, he steered the horse in the direction of the Capitoline Hill.
Dusk was falling as he rejoined Machiavelli there.
“Did you liberate your money from our friend?”
“I did.”
“A small victory.”
“They add up,” said Ezio. “And in time, with work, we’ll have a few more.”
“Let’s hope we make it before Cesare’s gaze falls on us again and we’re broken again. He damned nearly succeeded at Monteriggioni. Now, let’s get on with things.” He spurred his horse.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Colosseum. We have a rendezvous with a contact of mine, Vinicio.”
“And?”
“I’m expecting him to have something for me. Come on!”
As they rode through the city toward the Colosseum, Machiavelli commented drily on the various new buildings erected by Pope Alexander VI during his administration.
“Look at all these façades, masquerading as government. Rodrigo is very clever in the way he keeps this place in business. It fools your friends ‘the people’ quite easily.”
“When did you become so cynical?”
Machiavelli smiled. “I’m not being cynical at all. I’m just describing Roma as she is today! But don’t worry, Ezio—perhaps I am a little too bitter, a little too negative, sometimes. All may not be lost. The good news is that we do have allies in the city. You will meet them. And the College of Cardinals is not completely under Rodrigo’s thumb, much as he’d like it to be. But it is touch-and-go…”
“What is touch-and-go?”
“Our ultimate success.”
“We can only try. Giving up is a sure way to failure.”
“Who said anything about giving up?”
They rode on in silence and reached the gloomy hulk of the ruined Colosseum, a building over which, for Ezio, the remembered horrors of the games that had taken place here a thousand years ago still hung. But his attention was immediately caught by a group of Borgia guards with a papal courier. Their swords drawn, halberds pointing threateningly, and bearing flickering red torches, they were jostling a small, harassed-looking man.
“Merda!”
said Machiavelli softly. “It’s Vinicio. They’ve got to him first.”
Silently, the two men slowed their
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