It wasn’t long before a burly sergeant, at the head of a dozen or so tough-looking thugs in uniform, blocked their path.
“What’s your business here, friend?” he said to Ezio.
“Time to improvise?” whispered Machiavelli.
“We want to hire some horses,” Ezio replied evenly to the sergeant.
The sergeant barked out a laugh. “Not here, you won’t, friend. On your way.” He pointed back in the direction they’d come from.
“Isn’t it allowed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The sergeant drew his sword as the other guards followed suit. He held the point of his blade against Ezio’s neck and pushed slightly, so that a drop of blood appeared. “You know what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you? Now fuck off!”
With an almost imperceptible movement, Ezio swept out his hidden-blade and with it severed the tendons of the wrist holding the sword, which clattered uselessly to the ground. With a great cry the sergeant buckled over, grasping his wound. At the same time, Machiavelli leapt forward and slashed at the nearest three guards with his sword in a great sweeping motion—they all staggered back, astonished at the sudden boldness of the two men. Ezio swiftly withdrew the hidden-blade and in one fluid movement unsheathed his sword and dagger. His weapons were clear and poised just in time to cut down the first two of his own attackers, who, recovering some composure, had stepped forward to avenge their sergeant. None of the Borgia men had the skill at arms required to take on either Ezio or Machiavelli—the Assassins’ training was of a wholly different class. Even so, the odds were against the two friends, heavily outnumbered as they were. However, the unexpected ferocity of their attack was enough to give them an unassailable edge. Taken almost wholly by surprise, and unused to coming off worse in any encounter, the dozen men were soon dispatched. But the commotion of the scuffle had raised the alarm, and more Borgia soldiers came, and yet more—over two dozen men, all told. Machiavelli and Ezio were nearly overwhelmed with the sheer weight of numbers, and with the effort of taking on so many enemies, at once. The flourishes of style that they were both capable of were set aside for a wholly more efficient and quick form of swordsmanship—the three-second kill, a single thrust sufficing. The two men stood their ground, grim determination set on their faces, and finally all their enemies had either fled or lay wounded, dead or dying at their feet.
“We’d better hurry,” said Machiavelli, breathing hard. “Just because we’ve sent a few Borgia henchmen to their Maker doesn’t mean we’ll get access to the stables. The ordinary people remain afraid. That’s why many of them won’t even open their shops.”
“You’re right,” agreed Ezio. “We need to send them a signal. Wait here!”
A fire was burning in a brazier nearby. From it, Ezio seized a brand, then leapt up the wall of the stable, where the Borgia flag, with the black bull in a golden field, flew in the light breeze. Ezio set it on fire. As it burned, one or two shop doors cautiously opened, as did the gates of the stables.
“That’s better!” cried Ezio. He turned to address the small, doubtful crowd that had gathered. “Do not fear the Borgia! Do not be in thrall to them! Their days are numbered, and the hour of reckoning is at hand!”
More people came up, raising a cheer.
“They’ll be back,” Machivelli said.
“Yes, they will, but we’ve shown these people that they are not the all-powerful tyrants they took them to be!”
He leapt down from the wall into the stable yard, where Machiavelli joined him. Swiftly, they picked two sturdy mounts and had them saddled.
“We’ll come back,” Ezio promised the head ostler. “You might like to get this place cleaned up a bit—now that it belongs to you again, as it rightfully should.”
“We will, my lord,” said the man. But he still looked fearful.
“Don’t worry. They won’t harm you, now that you’ve seen them bested.”
“How do you figure that, my lord?”
“They need you. They can’t do without you. Just show them you won’t be bullied and pushed around and they’ll have to cajole you into helping them.”
“They’ll hang us—or worse!”
“Do you want to spend the rest of your lives under their yoke? Stand up to them. They’ll have to listen to reasonable requests. Even tyrants cannot function if enough people refuse to obey them.”
Machiavelli, already on his horse, took out a small black notebook and wrote in it, smiling absently to himself. Ezio swung himself into the saddle.
“I thought you said we were in a hurry,” said Ezio.
“We are. I was just making a note of what you said.”
“I hope I should be flattered by that.”
“Oh, yes—you should be. But come on!”
“You excel at opening wounds, Ezio,” Machiavelli continued as they rode. “But can you also close them?”
“I intend to heal the sickness that’s at the heart of our society, not merely tinker about with the symptoms.”
“Bold words! But you don’t have to argue with me! We’re on the same side, don’t forget. I’m just putting another point of view.”
“Is this a test?” Ezio was suspicious. “Well, let us talk openly, then. I believe that Rodrigo Borgia’s death would not have solved our problem.”
“Really?”
“Well—I mean, look at this city. Rome is the epicenter of Borgia and Templar rule. What I just said to that stableman holds true. Killing Rodrigo won’t change things—cut off the head of a man, and he is dead, sure. But we are dealing with a Hydra.”
“I see what you mean—like the seven-headed monster Heracles had to kill—and even then the heads grew back until he learned the trick of stopping that from happening.”
“Precisely.”
“So—you suggest that we appeal to the people?”
“Maybe—how else?”
“Forgive me, Ezio, but the people are fickle. Relying on them is like 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.