Gli Sogni dei L'Aquili

Venezia 1486 CE

Ezio ran across the square, the armoured guard in hot pursuit, pikes abristle. They would never catch him, he laughed. He was lighter of foot, younger, fitter. And he had just killed a man, one of those who’d plotted against his father – Carlo Grimaldi, a Venetian noble whose insolence knew no end. He’d sunk his hidden blade into il bastardo’s throat with great relish. Of course he’d not been able to effect a quite graceful peaceful exit – some of the targets knew he was coming for their heads and took measures. Not that those always sufficed. Not against an Assassin like him.

He leapt lightly up onto a stack of crates and then up to a beam with a light swinging from it. The lamp was not lit now as dawn had broken already. The early shoppers gawked at him, whispering – but not for long as the guard came barging through, throwing people aside in their zealous haste. Breathing lightly he went up the face of the building across from the beam to confuse the guards’ sense of direction, then over the roof edge and to the other side of the shingled house. The river ran there and without any hesitation he threw himself out over the river, hung in the air for a brief moment and dived down.

He plummeted past the astonished faces of the frozen people and hit the water like an arrow flesh. He did not hear the cries of dismay or even the names they called him. The water flowed around him, pinning his doublet to his body. He made for the shades of the moored gondolas. He’d hide under or near one till the crowds had quieted. Plus he did not want to get his blades rusty. Or his gun. Leonardo would skin him alive if he did. Sometimes Ezio thought his friend overreacted about things like that.

Carefully lifting his head above the water he grabbed the edge of the dock and scanned this bank. No one here yet: this was the poorer section of the city and beggars were forbidden from showing themselves so that the nobles on the other side would not see the ugliness that was the Repubblica’s underbelly. They had enough of their own, Ezio thought bitterly. O by God they did. That was why he was here. To wipe that ugliness off the face of the earth.

He listened for shouts from the other side, then swam to the end of the gondola to peer around it. The guard were still there, giving an ear to the tales the citizens told but apparently not believing a word of it: as Ezio watched an armed arm shot out and pushed the well dressed man aside. He snorted. Let them fight each other. They’d forget him soon enough.

Keeping low Ezio swam from gondola to gondola till he was further away from the developing scene and then clambered out to the wharf, dripping. He stood for a moment, listening and watching to see if anyone had noted his presence. None had: he smiled tightly, triumphant. Slipping into an alley he took to the roofs. He was dirty, tired and needed sleep.


He sat before the fire in his spare loose shirt and pants, nursing a cup of warmed wine. The last thing he wanted to catch was a cold. The fire hissed as his clothes dripped on it and his braces and gloves lay in front of him, sending vapour upwards. The assassination was done and filed away in his mind. One more laid low, one more soul in hell for his deeds. He hoped his father’s ghost was satisfied. Ghosts, yes, he’d had his share. And last night had been no exception.

As darkness settled over the Venetian lagoon, he thought back to last night, the dream he’d had before the task of today. It had unnerved him. Maybe that’s why he’d taken an overt approach today, instead of slipping up behind the bastard and simply running him through.

In it he’d been running along a string of houses, leaping between them. He frowned: had he just killed someone? Or was it an angry father chasing him? He sipped the wine thoughtfully: he could have remembered the details this morning but now, after all that’d happened the dream was fuzzy. As usual. But for some strange reason that dream had seemed more real than his usual nighttime wanderings. Almost as if he were reliving a memory. But not his, he was sure of that. The city had been unknown, the streets narrow and the houses unfamiliar. But he knew one thing for sure: it had been hot. The sun had beat down on his head. He’d sweated – he’d woken up drenched in it!

The heat of the fire was making him sleepy again. He was warm and dry. The light of the flames reminded him of the dream. He had meant to examine it at his leisure but there had been a lot to do in the morning. Now though, broken and fragmented as it was he could see it nonetheless. He let his mind wander to the sun-drenched streets of that unfamiliar and yet recognisable place.


As soon as he realized that this was no Italy he stopped, his cloak coming to a rest along his back. The houses looked wrong: thickwalled, small windows, little or no shingle on the roof. And the heat…God! He could hardly breathe. His clothes became like iron armour: heavy and uncomfortable. Shade. Find shade. And water. He swallowed: his throat was dry. As if he’d run for a long time. But why had he run to begin with?

He looked around. Nothing but low lying roofs similar to the one he stood on. Birds flying about. Not a hint of a breeze. Sheets of sweat broke over him. He glanced over the edge of the house. Women with jars on their shoulders, winding in a long line along a river. Women with jars…There were none in Firenze as far as he knew. He knew this place, though. But how did he know it?

He would have racked his brains for longer but a cry of “Assassin!” interrupted his thoughts. Sharply he turned about, ready to run if the cry meant him. But it did not. Stupefied he watched as guards appeared on the street across the river from him and blocked the bridge, knocking several people off their feet. Breaking crockery and cries of dismay reached him. The guards milled about, seemingly lost but Ezio did not think they were. They reminded him more of a pack of hunting dogs waiting for the badger to come out of his hole and defend it. They kept looking up at the tops of buildings along the river front as if expecting their prey to appear there. They must have run ahead of whoever they were chasing. A clever move. Unless of course the man never climbed to the roofs to begin with. Ezio was curious now to see how this would end. But why did he have a feeling as if he already knew the outcome of this situation?

Then he became aware of a presence not far from him. A very familiar presence. He knew who he would see even before his eyes confirmed it: the white robed man sprinted across the same series of roofs Ezio was on but not lengthwise. He was running for the river. Flying for it with an abandon that was instinctual and dangerous. Did he know that the river was there? Ezio had no idea and so watched avidly. There were more guards behind the white clad Assassin who was his ancestor. Who had been pulled into whose dream? And why?

Holding his breath, Ezio watched as Altair simply ran on without looking back or even turning to run along the roofs. He touched off the edge of the house and arced out over the wide river in a graceful leap of faith. The guards stopped dead, disregarding Ezio completely. They did not seem to see him at all, as Altair had not seen him. The tall Assassin disappeared over the edge and a moment later came the sound of him hitting the water, the screams of the people and the chagrined guards trying to battle through the sudden press of bodies to the point where the man had fallen in.

Ezio too watched the spot where Altair had disappeared waiting and expecting him to come up for breath. But minutes passed, more than a man could hold his breath for, and still Altair did not appear. Where…?

Then Ezio gasped as the answer hit him. Altair could not swim. He was born in a dry land. Had little knowledge of water. Not even his Assassin training had included swimming. Ezio had read the Codex back and forth as well as the man’s son’s book of his father. He’d heard stories. Altair would never come up without help. He’d die. And Ezio was the only one who could help him at all.

“Look! Another one!”

The guards had seen him too. Damn the luck! Without glancing at them Ezio sprinted and jumped out just as Altair had done. He counted his heartbeats as he went down, arms extended over his head into the cooling water, away from the heat. He knew the guards on the roof and the ground were just staring at this insanity uncomprehending. But then, dreams did not have to make sense did they? When had he and Altair spoken last? And how much sense did it make for him to be talking to a man almost three hundred years dead?

But those questions ceased to matter as his body parted the water before him and he drew a quick breath filling his lungs. The immediate relief he felt at being out of the heat was superseded by a desperate thought: If I do not find him all is lost. We’ll lose before we even start.

He searched for that flash of white but the water was murky with the dirt of the many people polluting it daily. Moreover, the current was strong. He felt it sweeping him down pushing him as he swam, eyes everywhere. Altair could have hit something as he’d plunged into the water. God knew there was enough floating around down here to hit one’s head on. The debris was considerable: it slowed his progress and wasted his breath. He had to come up often for a brief time to see if Altair had made it yet and to bring more air into his body.

Finally after what seemed a long time he thought he caught a flash of steel off the sun’s rays in the water. Gaze sharpening he made for that. There it was again. Ezio did not want to lose sight of it but had to come up for another gasp of air before diving down again. As he did so, he noted that he was no longer in the city. A broad desert like plain stretched on all sides, banks low and sandy. Even the water was a little cleaner, the current even stronger here where humanity did not settle. But the river got wider and deeper the further he swam, keeping his eyes peeled for another flash of steel. God, where was the Assassin? He should have caught up with him by now. He dove deeper down: maybe the man was drowned already. For a split second he let that thought hold and the consequences that would flow from it. With the Assassin dead, there was no possibility of him being alive either. And what year was this? Before or after he’d met the Piece of Eden? Just what was this strange dream?

Something white fluttered not far from him as he made his way down. White and long, some green and again that steely flash. Ezio redoubled his effort to swim. His arms were getting numb, his lungs tighter – he needed air now. But the Assassin did not have time: Ezio saw no other movement but the cloth. He had to get Altair out right now or abandon the whole thing.

Seeing dark spots before his vision he grabbed for the white cloth, pulling upwards, tugging at the inert bulk that was the floating body. Once sure that he could hold him, Ezio threw an arm around the Assassin and pushed with his other limbs to reach the surface before water entered his lungs. The Assassin was like a dead weight as Ezio strained, willing himself to break free. His vision narrowed to a pin prick of sunlight. Desperately he grabbed for the Assassin’s shoulder harness and pushed him up above him instead. Then broke the water himself, gasping for breath into his starved lungs and catching the spluttering Assassin who clung to him for dear life. His grip was strong: a good indicator he had life in him still.
“Stroke the water with your arm, Altair,” he looked about for the bank. Twenty feet at least: they were almost dead centre in the current and would be swimming perpendicular to it. Hard, that, but they had no choice.

Altair breathed hard. Harder than he had to. Ezio frowned looking over at the man. They’d never touched in all their nocturnal talks: they’d always kept a distance between each other. Now Ezio felt the vitality of the Assassin in a way he’d never thought to. This was indeed a dream: only there could he come face to face, or flesh to flesh, with the Ancestor he so closely resembled. Even down to the scar on the lip. But they were different. Ezio was a noble. Altair… An Assassin. There simply was no way to classify the man according to social rank. He stood so far outside of it, in more than one sense. He was a killer, born to it as duck to water. He was hunted for the beliefs he espoused as an Assassin that went contrary to the orthodox teaching. He was the Eagle too – a designation Ezio was slowly coming to understand applied to him too. “Gli sogni dei l'aquili.” Or rather, a dream of an Eagle. If not for Altair, Ezio would never have learned his true nature, who and what had shaped him.

But now those philosophical ruminations were far from his mind as he listened to the Assassin breathe. Something was wrong. Too much wheezing. And his hold was unrelenting. Ezio felt his left shoulder going numb from the strength of the grip.

“I can’t help you if you drag me down, Altair,” he informed the Assassin who nodded. How could he understand him? Devil take it, what language were they speaking to begin with? That question became moot as Altair tried to swim but he was so inept Ezio finally took pity on him. Moreover, the man moved strangely, gingerly. He was hurt somewhere but the river washed away any blood there might be and there was little time to worry about that now. If he never made it to the dry ground…

Ezio caught him as Altair almost went under again, his strength giving out but face remaining hard, though very pale. The current carried them further down from any help they might have had. And that worried Ezio. Very much so. But he shrugged the thoughts of the lack of help off. Right now they had enough to handle: the Assassin was no feather and his robes were sodden right through. Grimly Ezio held the Assassin whose breath sounded worse by the minute.

“Hold on, Assassin,” he growled at him, holding him close. “Keep hold of my shoulder harness and try to kick with your legs. We’ll swim in time as best we can.”

Somehow they made it. Ezio, even now, dry and warm, could not recall all the details of that nightmarish swim with the Assassin holding on like grim death. He had actually thought they might not make it out. That he’d drown in a dream. Which was absurd but as Leo said, human life was nothing if not a series of absurdities and lucky get aways before the grim scythe finally fell down. It had not last night.

Ezio slid his eyes closed, the cup of wine unfinished on the floor, the crackle of the flames loud in his ears.


The Assassin groaned as the sand dug into his wounds. Ezio hissed when he saw the torn and crimson white. The man was drenched in blood. How he’d even been able to run, Ezio could not imagine. Now it made sense why he’d preferred jumping into the water to climbing down the building. The arrow had gone deep into his chest – no wonder the man was wheezing as he coughed up water under Ezio’s pressing hands.

“Come now, Altair. Stay with me.”

Red coloured water came out, making Ezio shiver despite the heat. This was not good and beyond his simple medical skills. He swore as he quickly tore open the robes on turning the Assassin over. At the least the swim had some good: all the blood from the wound had been washed out and the arrow mostly broken off. But what damage that breaking had done, Ezio could not imagine.

He put his hands to either side of the Assassin’s pale wet face and shook his head from side to side, making Altair’s eyes flutter open briefly. His gaze is blank and hot at the same time: fever setting in. Just one more complication that Ezio needed.

“I am going to draw the arrow, Altair. If I wait you’ll die. Bite this for me.” He put the piece of leather he’d cut off his glove between the Assassin’s teeth. Once sure that Altair would not let go of that piece he set his hand to the arrow still sticking out of the heaving body. Pressing down on the red puffy flesh around it with one hand, he counted – uno, due, tre, quattro – in time with the heartbeats and then pulled sharply. All he got from the Assassin by way of reaction was a strangled grunt and a twitch of the whole body, fingers digging at the ground, gouging paths in the sand.

Putting the arrow aside he balled up another piece of cloth, a strip from the Assassin’s robes and plugged the wound with it. The white became red in seconds: every breath was costly. He swore again under his breath as he cut a longer strip to tie around the Assassin’s torso. He kept up a string of words to keep the Assassin conscious.

Only that turned out to be unnecessary.


He grinned shaking his head. The one thing that none of the books had true had been the Assassin’s sense of humour. Altair had been idolized to the point of becoming inhuman. But his Codex let the man shine through: he had written down more than history. He’d written his own life. His humour had not been one for jokes and ribaldry. The Brotherhood was too dedicated an organisation for that. But the individual Brothers were human. And Altair had written of them as such.
So when he’d finished the bandage – Ezio rubbed his hands, eyes still shut, as he felt again the rough weave of the robe in his hands – Altair had spoken clearly enough for a man whose lungs had been emptied of water.


“Leave it, Ezio. I simply wanted to talk to you.”

Groaning he sat up, hand to his ribs and a grimace on his face, as Ezio sat back on his heels, angrily amused.

“O, so dunking me in the river was your way of invitation? I never knew you had such a finely wetted sense of humour, Altair.”

This was a dream and here he was arguing with Altair. What could be more insane or more absurd than that!? The man was DEAD! He was insane, truly, had to be. Reincarnation was an impossibility, no matter how many times his dear dead father had told him he was the Eagle come again. He was no Son of God to appear before his followers after a long hiatus at the end of time. He was Ezio Auditore, noble and Assassin. His own man.

“Your tongue is just as sharp as mine, Ezio. If you want to vent your spleen, go ahead by all means. I can wait.”

Ezio clicked his tongue as his hands slapped his thighs in exasperation.

“I can see now why Uncle Malik was angry at you a lot of the time. You are insufferable, Altair.”

The Assassin chuckled, at big cost to himself as a spate of blood issued from his lips, staining his already dirty robes even more crimson.

“If it is gratitude you’re after, Ezio, you have it.” His lips tightened as he lay back down again.

Ezio shook his head, then asked, “Why were you running to begin with? I assume this is your memory I was drawn into?”

Altair nodded. “My memory indeed. There was something you had to know.”

Ezio dug his hand into the sand – even the grains felt real. God what was this? – and watched it flow from his hand with a whispery sinuous hiss. “You mean the deliberate drowning you just had?”

Altair gave an impatient grunt. “No, not that. You had to see an Assassin’s decisiveness when no matter his fears he does what he must to get away.”

Ezio felt his eyes widen. “A lesson? You were teaching me a damn lesson?” He rolled his eyes, drawing in a hot breath of patience. By God he needed that! Damn the man! Always acting like al Mualim – lecturing. Not that he did not appreciate that but still… he was no babe to be led about by the hand.

“You are truly your Master, Altair,” he said with some acerbically, punching the sand lightly. “That man gave lectures with every breath he drew and you do the same. Are you sure he was not your father?”

He saw the hurt in the man’s eyes as soon as his words left his mouth and was instantly sorry.

“Never mind that. I take those words back,” he rocked back and forth on his knees. “But why risk your life to teach me a point I already know?”

“Because you hesitate, Ezio. You seek the perfect hiding place. You have all your plans ready and you follow them even if they are untenable. Such narrow-minded-ness is costly.” The Assassin coughed, hand coming away covered in blood.

“Enough talking, Altair. You’ll die out here in the heat.” He nailed the Assassin with the man’s own heavy look. “Or is this a dream where you don’t die? Because as far as I know I am asleep in Venice preparing to kill il bastardo who dared to conspire against another of your ancestors – my father.”

Altair smiled at him, almost glowing with pride.

“You are right. This is a dream but it is one of those you’ve had before, though now they occur less often as I teach you more and you need less supervision.”

“Super-!”

Ezio was ready to burst out in anger. The man was spying on him! Interfering –


Ezio laughed quietly in his room, awake. Altair had been right as usual. He still had a lot to learn about being an Assassin. But he was off to a good start. As a parting gift the Assassin had given him some words that Ezio did not think he’d forget anytime soon.

“As you soar over your enemies, remember this: every kill has its price. It might not manifest for years, for weeks or only hours. With every one you kill you crack your soul – and you need time to heal that rift. If you do not seek such healing you’ll never be human. I speak not of inner peace, although that too is important, but of your thoughts – your feelings. The deeper you hurt the more you want to get away from that. Such running is cowardice. And will bring you down in the end.”

The words echoed in Ezio’s mind as he made his bed that night, looking out at the big round moon of the full month that lit the roofs as with daylight. Life was not so bleak after all. His father’s death was months away in the past now – it did not hurt any less but he would look it in the face. I had never really accepted the fact of his passing, he thought. I never cried. I never voiced my grief. I held it tight within, let it burn me inside out. He turned on his side, blankets loose around him. I am the Eagle, true, but even he was human, no matter how much the training he’d received made him a killer. I am of his blood and will not shame that. His memory is too precious to lose amid my own bitter thought.

Remembering the ravaged face of his mother and the cold feel of his father’s skin under his hand, Ezio let the grief come, all the sorrow and the knowledge of the consequences of his father’s death to him. He released the flood of tears, free of the restraints he’d put on himself for these many months. His sobs were unheard by anyone save him and perhaps somewhere in the dream lands the white robed Assassin lent an ear. He did not try to wipe the tears: like a small boy he curled into a ball of misery. He might be il Signore Auditore but for this one night he could be simply a man whose world had been torn apart and who was trying to put it back together. His work was still undone but he would not repeat Altair’s mistakes. He would make the Eagle of Masyaf proud.