Ezio: L'Ombra 15

The Carnevale, Venezia  1486 CE

Fireworks cracked like gun shots in the night. The moon was huge looking down onto the never sleeping city, where night was often as bright as day. Archers, arquebusers and crossbowmen patrolled the higher reaches of the city and the fireworks sites to make sure no one was hurt and no trouble arose. The newly recruited among them felt jittery, nervously moving their weapons from shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide staring into the bright night. They'd heard tales of the Assassino. They'd been warned about his penchant for roof top running. They knew of his arrogant assumption that he owned the roofs, yet he would scat at the first sign of warning, down to the ground into the darkest shadows he could find. Night was usually the time to watch out for him most especially. The dark could hide many things, could lull one into a sense of security. But on this, the first night of the Carnevale, the Assassin would be out of luck. Too bright the streets, too many guards who could tell him in a crowd. Si, tonight would be a hard night for the Assassin should he choose to show his face.


"It is a good life we lead, Brother."

"The best. May it never change."

"And may it never change us."

The words rang true this night. The Venetians seemingly never for long remembered hardship. And during the week of the Carnevale they forgot it completely and let the heady giddiness of the fete take their souls away. Firenze had never known the pomp and the liberty like the Carnevale. Sure, they'd had their own festivals: religious holidays, unveilings of works of art by native and foreign artists and sculptors. But to simply party as it were, to simply let down their hair – that the serious industrious Florentines would never allow. Too studious. Too thrifty by far. Even his father's celebrations had been decorous, almost solemn.

But Venezia, this city of seeming excess, a city of merchant nobles, of money and foreign exoticism, was decadent. Like a voluptuous woman well aware of her charms and not afraid to flaunt them. The Carnevale was her coming out night, when she hosted a grand fete replete with clowns, jugglers, mummers, acrobats from all over Europe and even the infidel countries. He had seen the dignitaries of the various foreign states stare in amazement, stupefied by such magnificence and money spending. Buntings, fireworks, floating displays on the canals, il Ponte di Rialto decked out in parti-coloured lamps and cloth of gold. Silks shone in the night light like silver water, rippling in the breeze. People staggered about in their best clothes, be they beggars or the richest of the Council of Ten. Everyone let go, everyone forgot their troubles. This week was a holy week in a very literal sense. The Venetians cherished their Carnevale. This was the high point of their year. They always looked forward to this one week, out of all of them, when they could do anything, any deed, and not be punished. When magnanimity flowed like the sea surrounding the lagoon and the islands. Generosity was the rule of the week. And especially of the nights of the Carnevale. Everyone went faceless, fearless. Everyone was like a brother or sister to anyone else. The nights brought the Venetians together as a family near the bonfires, on the docks, in the taverns and the bridges and the squares where dancing would go on for seven days without cease. Exhaustion was discounted. Exhaustion was a welcome hangover when one could recover and then go party some more.


"It is a good life we lead, Brother."

Ezio did not know why this night of all nights these words should haunt him so. Perhaps because this atmosphere of light-headedness that permeated the city was so much in line with the way Federico had viewed life – a wry eye, a ready smile. Ezio missed his company now. Federico would have been in his element here amid all this hilarity and spontaneous breakouts of easy going love and drink. Money flowed like blood and no one seemed to care. No one gave a thought that tomorrow they would miss this money and their heads would ache from all the wine they'd drank.
"The best," Ezio whispered, watching the dancers in a little square off the docks in the Dorsoduro district. He felt a sense of envy for them, these dancing men and women. Their lives were simple, unaffected by the darkness of the night. They seemed unaware of the currents of the darker side of humanity. They'd abandoned all thought of that for this time at least. They simply enjoyed themselves.

"May it never change."

His mouth was moving of its own accord, his thoughts far away in the days of his youth when he'd been just as carefree as the people he now moved through with the feline grace of a leopard. They did not see him behind their masks, they did not feel his presence so taken up were they in their happy emotions of the moment.

He was on the other side of the square, awash in the conflicts of his soul, memories superimposed on the present when it seemed to him – a little nudge in the back of his mind, on the edge of his thoughts – that he was not alone in these thoughts. He almost turned around to see who else was thinking along the same ways.

But in the end did not bother. It was enough that he felt out of place among the Venetians just now. He did not want to see anyone else in the same way. Not now. Not ever.

"And may it never change us."


Vittoria de Pazzi, formerly a girl of comfortable means, now a shadow on a shadow's heel, tracked the Assassin with her eyes, an avid gleam emanating from them, almost impaling the man in front of her. He appeared to be entirely unaware of her presence. A pose. She did not buy this apparent indifference for one moment. Amid all the noise of the night time feasting no doubt her footsteps were lost but if he was as good as she knew him to be he should have sensed her by now. Only his arrogance, she thought, would make him ignore the threat she presented.

She should have killed him.

In the forest.

Vittoria bit her lip, slipping between two pairs of dancers in the torch lit square. She'd lost her nerve then. She had panicked. The sudden appearance of the Templars and the Medici men had startled her badly. She'd almost forgotten about Lorenzo and his plans. They'd been the trigger that had pushed her into action. She'd harboured plans for Ezio's annihilation for some time. What she had lacked was the means. But no longer. The man in the monk's robes had explained it all quite well. He had not given her his reasons for wanting the Assassin out of the way. He had instead told her to tail him, to set the Assassin up a few times, to play with him.

She had not understood the necessity for the games then. But she did now. She wanted to see him dangle. Just as his father had done. As Francesco de Pazzi had been hung from the Palazzo's wall. Vittoria wanted Ezio on his toes, looking over his shoulder. Such had been the man's promise.
She gritted her teeth. He had stopped. A crowd filled the street, cutting off his way. Not that he'd been walking with any purpose. That strut of his certainly gave the impression of a goal but really, he was meandering tonight. A man lost in thought. A man careless.

Such men died quickly. She had seen that happen. She had seen with her own eyes as her blade cut off the light in the men's eyes. There had been a kind of heady power to that. Her hand, that slender hand that had once known the touch of love, could turn into a claw that would rend Ezio's life from him. He had laughed at her and her whole family. Granted, Vieri had been an adolescent idiot for all his seniority of years but still he'd been her brother. And Ezio had taken him. Revenge had burned her.

"Ah, my girl, that is not all. A life needs a larger purpose than the fulfillment of a selfish desire. After all God sees all. And judges all."

She had sneered at the words at first. But then, the more they had talked, she and the monk, the more she'd come to understand that the rushing about that men did, all the chase for wealth, power, prestige – all that was empty, and not by choice either. Men were used to a rut: a certain set path, chosen for them by their ancestors. A tradition: a blacksmith taught his son blacksmithing, a carpenter his son carpentry. And so it went. But there were a few who had chosen. Who had found a different meaning to their lives than the empty pursuits of pleasure and wealth.

She had listened awed at such wisdom. His voice had seemed young, yet the ideas he expounded were those of a much older man, one who had known life. A life of choice. He'd been a monk once, a member of a religious order. He'd never mentioned which one and she'd never bothered to ask. She did not think that detail important. His words dripped honey on her wounded soul, gave her a purpose. He had given her a choice: to slink away and be married by Lorenzo's order or to take her life into her own hands. The latter would be hard. So would the former. Yet the latter offered more freedom than being a prize of some supporter of the Medici. And she had thought long and hard. And had been decided in the end by Lorenzo's men showing up at her door to announce her impending marriage. Then she had ran.

With the monk's help she'd acquired man's clothing and learned the art of fighting. She had been studying in secret, honing her skills, listening for any news of Ezio and his deeds. And did she ever hear them.

Ezio had decimated the Pazzi. He had killed Uberto Alberti, barely a week after his father's execution. The speed of that had terrified her. That had shown a side of him Vittoria had never known him to possess. To her, he had been a charming young man, quick of tongue and hand. He had awoken in her feelings she'd never thought possible. And then he'd bathed in blood. And suddenly had been baptised into a horror. He, too, had chosen, she thought. But the monk had explained it differently: Ezio had not chosen. He had simply followed the path of his ancestors, the other Assassins. His entire family for generations had followed the way of blood, the Assassins' Creed – an infidel belief that nonetheless carried a grain of truth with it.

"Nothing is true," he had said in his soft voice. "Everything is permitted. Interesting words, wouldn't you say?"

His sardonic, almost mocking, tone had made her angry then. His words could cut when she did not listen, when she went against his lessons. She had learned to be silent, to be watchful, to be quiet.
And this time the lessons were paying off.