La Una Verita

Verona 1483 CE

Ezio pivoted on the ball of one foot, his other leg lashing out in a roundhouse kick to the knee of the arrow-less archer facing him. The man went down and before he could recover he felt the bite of the Assassin's blade in his throat. He choked to death, his last breath a gurgly rattle. His eyes glazed as his soul departed.
The Assassin did not stay to admire his handiwork. He had no time for it. His victim was running away and he had to catch up to him if justice were to be served. He skimmed lightly over the city, using roofs and cranes and air bridges to keep up with the two men who had split up on him to try and escape. He'd tracked one down to a brothel where his fair friends had snagged the poor unfortunate in their seductive coils. He'd been merciless as the man had gaped at him, with such horror that for a moment Ezio had felt pity for him. He had banished that feeling though by reminding himself that the monk was one of those indirectly responsible for his family's deaths. The monk had broken his priestly vow to serve God and not involve himself in politics. He'd forsaken faith to play at power games. And he'd come up short. And so he had died for his shortcomings.

This second target though… He was a bishop. A conniving bastard of the highest order. An unscrupulous greedy prince of the corrupt morbid Church. He had managed to elude Ezio for many years, putting false trails and letting others die in his stead, his own niece one of the victims of his self serving immorality. His debt to the Assassin had grown large. And the latter had come to collect on it to Verona. He had thought that an ecumenical council would hide him from the Assassin's eyes and his bodyguards would provide sufficient protection.

But the good bishop had reckoned without the Assassin's guile. Ezio had carefully eliminated most of the bodyguards, either getting them drunk in taverns or just slitting their throats at the bishop's lodging. Every armed man in the city was out for his skin right now. But Ezio knew their habits – soldiers were more or less the same everywhere. And though the bishop had hired the best men money could buy the men he'd hired were brave but like any mercenaries they cared more for money than the employer's honour. And so Ezio had killed some outright, or had his allies set traps for them. He'd made contact with the thieves here in Verona, whose leader owed Antonio a favour. At first they had objected and doubted him – they'd heard of him of course but meeting the Assassin in the flesh was a different thing altogether. His silent watchful presence had been enough to cow most of the thieves.

Their leader, Carlo Trimonti, had decided to test Ezio who'd smiled with his teeth, seething on the inside meanwhile. Carlo was simply an ass with too high an opinion of himself. At any other time, Ezio would have killed him but now he needed the man and his cohorts. So he had nodded his acceptance of the menial task set him and proceeded to carry it out. He was to play a bodyguard, more or less, a strong arm man while a band of thieves took down one of their number who'd gone wild and turned traitor to the rest. Ezio had performed the task grimly. There were bigger things at stake than one thief's disobedience to his clan. He'd not lifted a hand against the man. But neither did he help him. The politics of the thieves' guild here in Verona were none of his business. If they sought to kill a man, so be it.


Ezio perched on the steeple of the church, rain pouring down his clothes. One more irritation in a day full of them. He swore in a string of sulphurous helpless oaths, knowing that was no use. Men's actions had never stopped nature's course. But expressing his feelings out loud made him feel slightly better. He'd lost the bishop. The man had hidden in the doorway of a well guarded house. He'd no doubt told the lord who owned it about his pursuer. The men around its walls would be on guard for the Assassin. Damn the luck!

A gust of wind blew water into his face under the hood, making him blink. Time to get off the steeple before he caught a cold. He hated losing sight of his prey but what choice did he have? Grunting irritably he began his descent down the stairs inside the steeple. The first few steps were slippery with stray drops of rain but as he went further down, leaving a trail of drops after him, he felt less cold. He shook out his hood, mouth tight with thought.

The best course would be to go back to his lodgings and try again tomorrow when the council would be in session. He could hide in the crowd and approach slowly. The bishop would have too many men surrounding him as a bodyguard to worry about the Assassin. Another advantage of letting him off today was that he'd think he'd shaken the Assassin for good. The good bishop would believe that his escape into an armed house had guaranteed his safety somewhat.

Ezio leaned on the door, listening for any presence beyond it. This was late at night but in his experience priests did not sleep early. Or late. Moreover, the appearance of a wet man from the inside of the church might startle a suspicious mind. What if someone were praying by the altar and considered his appearance as a miracle? That would expose him, violating the second tenet of the Assassin's Creed. His hand passed up and down the smooth wood of the door.

"Harm no innocent. Stay concealed among the many. Lead no enemy to the brothers."

He chuckled lightly. There were not many Brothers left. And he was their leader by default. Simply because he'd refused to accept defeat in the face of his father's death. And he would not shirk now.

He pulled open the door.


"Seek peace, my son. Prayer might help calm your troubles."

Ezio almost jumped out of his skin. He'd not heard the man approach. As he whirled his sharp eyes took in the outfit of a priest standing behind him. He wore the grey of the Carthusian monks whose little hermitage was outside of Verona. But this one did not look Italian. His features were too fine, too Northern. French maybe – he did not look as rough as the Englishmen Ezio had met. On his feet he wore the sandals that monks all over Europe seemed to prefer even if the climate did not advise it.

"You are far from home, brother. I had no idea the Order of St. Bruno attended the councils of the high church."

The man's thin lips stretched into a slight smile, eyes sparkling momentarily. He let his arms drop, revealing thin fine boned hands. Definitely a Northener: his skin was too light for the Italian sunny climes.

"I am but a humble hermit. I travel on business for my Bordeaux hermitage to the brothers here."

Ezio glanced around the dimly lit church casually. The man did not seem dangerous. But then monks never did. Their reputation for holiness precluded assumptions of ulterior motives. Unless this were a high prince in disguise.

"Forgive me my presumption then. There are so many men of the church in Verona that I assumed you were one."

"Courtesy becomes one of your years and station." At Ezio's raised eyebrow, the monk gestured at the Assassin's clothes and weapons. "A man of war. A noble to judge by the cut. Young."

There was no condescension in the monk's tone. Just simple observation. A surprising thing in a monk. Ezio looked at his open face. Fine bones, big eyes set wide, shaven crown in the monastic habit. Not so much older than himself.

"Men behind walls usually do not develop much skill for observation."

"But we do pay attention to detail," the monk rejoined, shaking his thin hands. "Our crops and services demand as much. If we were to miss the right day for planting we'd starve. The Lord could over look one absence at a service but the entire mass…" The monk spread his hands.

"As I was aware, the monks of St. Bruno did not make contact with the outside world. I am surprised that you'd leave the services of the choir for the noisy city like Verona."

"I said before," the monk did not raise his voice, same quiet tone as before. Serene. "I am here for my brothers at Bordeaux."

"Then you are French. That is interesting since the French are not really welcome in Italy just now – your King would have us his subjects."

"A fair guess. And not far off. I come from Picardy, although my true home is in the monastery." He walked to the altar and gazed up at the Host, face thoughtful. "Many say that His blood brings peace. He died for us after all. Be we French or Italian. Or something other." He glanced at the Assassin who too was watching the wooden carved man on the cross. "Sometimes I find that hard to believe. I've heard that a priest died today. In a brothel. A bloody thing. The news is all over the city. Everyone is afraid that such a sacrilegious act would happen amid the ecumenical councils here. The blood spilled there has not brought peace. On the contrary. Man is armed against man. As you are."

"Brother, forgive me if I seem rude or blasphemous, but there are men always who deserve to die. Perhaps Jesus did not but then Roman justice was not known for its leniency. The monk was drowning in sin if what you heard is true that he was found in the brothel."

The monk half turned, giving the young man a half lidded look.

"The question of deserts is the same as the question of justice. Justice is about truth – a quest to find the true facts. So one could say that to talk about just deserts is to find the truth. But can a sinful man ever know the truth?"

His tone was musing. Almost as if Ezio were not there. The Assassin sighed impatiently. His surprise was over now. These maudlin discussions of eternal nature bored him. He was a man of action. He should go.

"I thank you, brother, for the enlightening words. I will think on them. For now, however, I must take my leave. My family awaits me."

As he walked for the door, he felt the monk's eyes on him uncommonly sharp. His shoulders twitched uncomfortably. He'd seen strange monks before but from afar. He'd seen insane confined to cages and paraded before the populace for amusement. He'd seen the holy men preaching peace and war in squares, in churches and street corners. This one, though, was more strange than most. He seemed sane, rational. Scholarly. But there was something in his eyes – a shrewdness belying his Carthusian habit. A cloistered man in his opinion could not be expected to be a realist.

"Those who walk the path of darkness and blood will never leave it."

Ezio stopped, cold. Those words were uncomfortably close to what he'd sometimes felt. It seemed the man saw better than he gave him credit for.
"But that is their choice, monk. God gave us freedom to choose our lives. You've made yours. Do not judge mine."

"Whoever murdered that monk today, however deserved in his mind the deed was, judged him worthy of death. That man took upon himself the power of truth and justice. The two prerogatives of the Lord. Do you think he acted wisely? Or truthfully? Had that monk really deserved the fate that his executioner delivered?"
Ezio stared the man down. The questions were deep and at one point would have cut him to the quick. But he'd grown much. And he had stared those questions in the face.

"What if he had deserved it?" Ezio started walking back towards the monk, his face a frozen mask as anger woke one more time in his chest. "What if you knew what foul deeds he'd been a part of? Where would your judgment lie then, eh, brother?"

The monk confronted him steadily, unwavering in his theological convictions. Such calm was unnatural, making the man seem even more inhuman than his pale skin already did.

"You live in your safe monastery, far from the world's troubles, sing praises of the Lord. No matter how shrewd you are, brother, you know little of how the rest of us live. What we have to do to survive. Blood is the coinage we exchange with the Lord for our lives. Men live for their own gain, monk, not for heavenly glory. The sooner you realise and understand that the better your life will be. The clearer your outlook."

The monk bowed his head briefly. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh.

"What you say is true. The world of the prayer and the lay world are two distinct spheres existing in the same creation. We see different truths based on how we've lived our lives. But, even if the monk was false, what gave you the right to take his life?"

Ezio stopped in his tracks. His head was low, half his face hidden by his deep hood, concealing the shock he knew was written all over. That an obscure monk would know him…

"There is nothing mystical about my knowledge. The bishop has bruited your description – at least of your clothing – all over the city. Even a man as sheltered as me has read it. Or at the least heard of you and your deeds. You are il Assassino who hunts him. For what reason I know not. But which undoubtedly you believe to be just."

Ezio looked away, his face hard and his heart even stonier.

"What is justice but the hand of the strong and the wicked? What is truth but history written by those who won?"

His words were bitter, spilling in a harsh whisper. He gazed into the deep dark of the church interior. He would never forget: not the square, not the crowd, nor his mother's tears.

"I will not turn the other cheek, monk. Perhaps that makes me a bad Christian. But I care not. If godly men can't bring justice and truth to ordinary men, then it is up to us ordinary men to do so for ourselves."

"I admit, the church is less than perfect. But she does have her good men, those who would educate the flock."

"We're not all of us sheep," Ezio cut him off. "That is why the church is losing ground day by day. Men need to live, to survive. They do not often have time for metaphysics. They face daily truths of which men of the cloister know little."

"Forgive me, then, I angered you. I stand by my earlier words: seek peace. By whichever way seems best to you. To see your path clearly, I will add though, you need to meditate, contemplate the creed."

Ezio's head sharply turned back to regard the monk.

"Who are you, brother? Who are you really?" he asked in a low hard tone.

"One of the forgotten," was the cryptic reply. "But one of those who have not forsaken the Creed of our forebears. We dissemble before the wide world. It is not meet that our enemies know our secrets. I apologise for testing you as I did. I have heard of your deeds. I have heard of what occurred in Firenze. I might not support the means you use but I understand the cause." He rolled up his sleeve. On his wrist was the Assassin symbol, tattooed with black ink. Ezio's gasp was audible in the still church.

"You," he was at a loss for words. Not often did this happen to him. "This was no chance meeting then was it? You knew I was in Verona."

"My friend wanted me to keep en eye on you, yes. There are dangers here that you know nothing of. Those thieves you helped – they betrayed you. Even now they gather around your lodgings planning to kill you. The bishop's men support them. You are outnumbered."

Ezio's fist smacked the back of the pew in chagrin.

"The monastery here can hide you. Some of the brothers there are like us. Assassins. You'd be safe. For a while."

"I am not going. Not until I've finished my business here."

The monk walked right up to him, agitated.

"The bishop is too well guarded. You do not stand a chance."

Ezio's smile was more of a snarl. "You know little, monk. You've forgotten the true meaning of the Creed." He fingered the grey robe. "All I need is this. Disguised no one will recognise me."

"The colour is wrong," the monk objected. "The bishop fears any man wearing white or grey. You've put the fear of the devil in him. His guards will stop you."
"I'll deal with them when necessary. First I want to get rid of the thieves. I do not need trouble on my way out."

"I will go with you. I will keep out of sight, I promise." The monk looked towards the outer doors. "Ever Satan is more than he seems."