A/N: Another split-in-half chapter. Mostly because it turned out that the second half is growing far bigger than I had thought. And had to be altered quite substantially when I noticed a glaring error in it concerning timelines (and unlike AC, I prefer to have my painters alive at the times they actually were - and not have Ezio run around with Raphael’s paintings while that painter was still but a gleam in his father’s eye).
Firenze, April 7th, 1476
The taverna was well-lit and cheerful. In the corner, three musicians tried to entertain the crowd, though they had little success in playing louder than the rowdy patrons. At the table furthest away from the noise, in the area where the light was dimmer and the discussions even darker, Leonardo was in a remarkably cheerful mood - as were his three companions. The artist was remotely certain that he had only had two cups of wine; but, he was very unsure of just how many times those cups had been refilled along the way.
“... And-and, she was telling me of all the fo-oul things the Borgia had done!” Baccino said with a roar of laughter. The tailor was, Leonardo had found, a man both literally and metaphorically larger than life, despite his small speech impairment. Hands that could crush a man’s skull, seated on arms as thick as tree trunks, and, in turn, were attached to a body almost as wide across the shoulders as he was tall; yet those same hands were more than capable of the dexterity needed to embroider the cuff of a child’s sleeve with tiny, gold stars.
Bartholomeo di Pasquino, rubbish goldsmith by profession, competent brawler by choice - was considerably shorter, only coming up to Leonardo’s shoulder - or the middle of Baccino’s chest - but made up for the lack of stature by having the kind of temper that had sparked several wars. He also sported a number of fascinating facial scars, and a nose that had been broken enough times that the owner had simply stopped bothering to straighten it.
The other Leonardo - whom the others had simply taken to calling Tornabuoni to simplify matters - was by far the oldest of them; just at the start of his fifties, and generally observing the antics of the much younger people with a wry sort of amusement. Despite carrying himself with the easy poise of nobility - and being the uncle of none other than Lorenzo de’Medici himself - he had been more than friendly, and had had no issues with pulling both Bacconi and Leonardo into a hug when they had met.
Currently, Tornabuoni was sipping his wine, getting slowly and thoroughly sloshed at a slightly slower pace than the others. “I overheard two of Clarice’s handmaids discuss Francesco’s somewhat exotic attraction to certain farmyard animals,” he said, with a conspiratorial hiccup. “And that his son picks out which ones for him. I don’t know how they got that idea, though, so someone else has been out spreading stories.”
“That’s just repulsis... repule... replepul… nasty,” Leonardo slurred in reply, and warbled for a bit about how no one ever considered the animals’ need for a steady relationship, although he was well aware that no one was paying much attention.
“You know what we should?” Bartholomeo asked, waving his cup a bit around and splashing wine onto the already stained surface of the table, while Bacconi was gently patting Leonardo’s shoulder with a hand just slightly bigger than a spade. “We should get a name!”
“Name?” Tornabuoni asked, and Leonardo abandoned his erratic trail of thought in favour of looking up as well.
“Si, si! Something like… like…” Bartholomeo’s eyes crossed as he tried to think; something Leonardo had found came with difficulty to the goldsmith, even while sober. “Like, the Priory of Sion! And, piccolo Leonardo can be our grandmaster!”
The other three gave him equally blank stares. “That’s a ridiculous name. And why Leonardo?” Tornabuoni said.
“Because it’s his birthday next week,” the goldsmith replied in the tone of voice that told he thought the answer was completely and perfectly obvious and that the other was an idiot for even asking, and drained the rest of his cup in one gulp.
“If we get a name, I want a better one,” Leonardo said, scrunching up his nose, and started to feel queasy from the heavy air and the effects of wine. “I don’t feel well.”
“You’ve gon-gone green,” Baccino commented with the quiet astonishment of those with the carefully cultivated tendency to state the obvious - usually found in tailors and hairdressers.
“Let’s get some fresh air, then,” Tornabuoni said, dropping off a gold florin to pay for their wine, and led the way through the crowded taverna. Bacconi, helpfully, half-carried Leonardo and kept him from falling over when his mind tried to align his balance with what his eyes observed, and Bartholomeo took up the rear, scowling at anyone who as much as dared smile in their general direction.
The next bit of time was fuzzy, until Leonardo found himself sitting in a haystack - a pair of curious horses watching him while chewing away on their evening meal at the other end - with a wood cup of water in his hands, and the distinctly sour taste of semi-digested wine lingering in his mouth.
“I’ll never drink outside of dinner again,” he groaned, resting his head in one hand and carefully sipped the cool and - thankfully - clean water.
“Well, as long as others are paying..,” Bartholomeo said with a smug grin, but was interrupted in whatever he wanted to say next by Bacconi holding up a hand, suddenly looking alert.
And, seconds later, a dark shadow passed overheard, soaring through the air above the alley and landed with but a whisper of boots on tile.
Tornabuoni gave the others a careful nod. “Must have been a cat,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “But, as I said, I’m certain that someone is plotting something against the Medici.”
The whisper on the roof ceased just above their heads, and Leonardo felt a chill run down his spine, realising that the predator above them could easily drop down on them, and they would not even know what had happened until they were all dead. “The question,” he said, swallowing his fear and tried to keep his voice from wavering, “is what the Pazzi would stand to gain from a conflict.”
“Their banks are-are competing with each other,” Bacconi replied. “That may be why.”
“Forlí is involved, too, though,” Tornabuoni said, and the other three gaped at him in genuine surprise. By common agreement to make their act more believable, they shared only a few details with each other outside of their meetings in alleys, crowded taverns, and other places that the long ears of the Assassins might reach.
“Forlí?” Bartholomeo asked; the first of them to recover from the surprise. “But Firenze and Forlí have been allies for years. If anyone thought to invade Forlí, they would have Firenze’s army at their gates, not to mention that Venezia would also protest to anyone taking Forlí!”
“Maybe it’s not the city they’re after..,” Leonardo said with a frown, trying to chase the thought to its conclusion, and instead found it disappearing into the fog of nausea and headache. “Oh my head,” he settled for instead, curling slightly in on himself.
One of the horses nosed him in curious concern, and he, obediently, stroked its muzzle, earning a happy grunt and the flick of an ear in return.
“In any case, things are bad,” Tornabuoni continued. “The Pazzi are obviously planning something, the Barbarigo of Venice are up to something else, Forlí is involved in one way or another, and Rodrigo Borgia is sticking his nose into all of those things.”
“Agreed. Something is afoot.” Bartholomeo spat at the ground with a disgusted sound. “I hate when people skulk about plotting like that. I prefer someone you can punch, here and now.”
“You should try ta-alking to people,” Bacconi said. “Instead of picking fights.”
The whisper of leather on the tile picked up again, growing fainter as the owner snuck away over the rooftops.
All four men sighed in relief - though Bartholomeo and Leonardo’s were, perhaps, slightly deeper than the others, who had little idea of how close they had come to the swift, unmerciful death that was an Assassin.
“We should go home, and wait for any news,” Tornabuoni said. “And we will just have to see if our mission have had any success.”
“Va bene.” Leonardo tried to climb to his feet, but found that between his ever-growing headache, the pins and needles that ran up his left left, and the way the whole world tilted the moment he thought he was upright, he very nearly fell backwards into the hay again.
“I’ll ta-take our piccolo Leonardo home,” Bacconi offered, wrapping a beefy arm around Leonardo’s shoulders to keep him steady, and the painter was more than happy to lean against the solid form, contemplating how he could still feel nauseous.
“I shall send word if I hear anything,” Tornabuoni said, nodded to the other three, and left the alley.
Bartholomeo did a half-salute and trotted off as well, muttering about how he still thought Priory of Sion was a good name, and an even better battlecry. Giving them a minute to get clear of the streets, and for Leonardo to regain some measure of feeling in his left foot, the last two men followed at a more leisurely pace.
Behind them, the horses continued chewing through the pile of hay, only snorting lightly in surprise when a white-robed figure climbed out, picked a few straws from a dark-lined hood, and scampered up the vertical wall with only the soft sound of air being disturbed. He had business to attend to.
Mirror, Mirror, Which is Fairest of All? 6/?
Firenze, April 7th, 1476
The taverna was well-lit and cheerful. In the corner, three musicians tried to entertain the crowd, though they had little success in playing louder than the rowdy patrons. At the table furthest away from the noise, in the area where the light was dimmer and the discussions even darker, Leonardo was in a remarkably cheerful mood - as were his three companions.
The artist was remotely certain that he had only had two cups of wine; but, he was very unsure of just how many times those cups had been refilled along the way.
“... And-and, she was telling me of all the fo-oul things the Borgia had done!” Baccino said with a roar of laughter. The tailor was, Leonardo had found, a man both literally and metaphorically larger than life, despite his small speech impairment. Hands that could crush a man’s skull, seated on arms as thick as tree trunks, and, in turn, were attached to a body almost as wide across the shoulders as he was tall; yet those same hands were more than capable of the dexterity needed to embroider the cuff of a child’s sleeve with tiny, gold stars.
Bartholomeo di Pasquino, rubbish goldsmith by profession, competent brawler by choice - was considerably shorter, only coming up to Leonardo’s shoulder - or the middle of Baccino’s chest - but made up for the lack of stature by having the kind of temper that had sparked several wars. He also sported a number of fascinating facial scars, and a nose that had been broken enough times that the owner had simply stopped bothering to straighten it.
The other Leonardo - whom the others had simply taken to calling Tornabuoni to simplify matters - was by far the oldest of them; just at the start of his fifties, and generally observing the antics of the much younger people with a wry sort of amusement. Despite carrying himself with the easy poise of nobility - and being the uncle of none other than Lorenzo de’Medici himself - he had been more than friendly, and had had no issues with pulling both Bacconi and Leonardo into a hug when they had met.
Currently, Tornabuoni was sipping his wine, getting slowly and thoroughly sloshed at a slightly slower pace than the others. “I overheard two of Clarice’s handmaids discuss Francesco’s somewhat exotic attraction to certain farmyard animals,” he said, with a conspiratorial hiccup. “And that his son picks out which ones for him. I don’t know how they got that idea, though, so someone else has been out spreading stories.”
“That’s just repulsis... repule... replepul… nasty,” Leonardo slurred in reply, and warbled for a bit about how no one ever considered the animals’ need for a steady relationship, although he was well aware that no one was paying much attention.
“You know what we should?” Bartholomeo asked, waving his cup a bit around and splashing wine onto the already stained surface of the table, while Bacconi was gently patting Leonardo’s shoulder with a hand just slightly bigger than a spade. “We should get a name!”
“Name?” Tornabuoni asked, and Leonardo abandoned his erratic trail of thought in favour of looking up as well.
“Si, si! Something like… like…” Bartholomeo’s eyes crossed as he tried to think; something Leonardo had found came with difficulty to the goldsmith, even while sober. “Like, the Priory of Sion! And, piccolo Leonardo can be our grandmaster!”
The other three gave him equally blank stares. “That’s a ridiculous name. And why Leonardo?” Tornabuoni said.
“Because it’s his birthday next week,” the goldsmith replied in the tone of voice that told he thought the answer was completely and perfectly obvious and that the other was an idiot for even asking, and drained the rest of his cup in one gulp.
“If we get a name, I want a better one,” Leonardo said, scrunching up his nose, and started to feel queasy from the heavy air and the effects of wine. “I don’t feel well.”
“You’ve gon-gone green,” Baccino commented with the quiet astonishment of those with the carefully cultivated tendency to state the obvious - usually found in tailors and hairdressers.
“Let’s get some fresh air, then,” Tornabuoni said, dropping off a gold florin to pay for their wine, and led the way through the crowded taverna. Bacconi, helpfully, half-carried Leonardo and kept him from falling over when his mind tried to align his balance with what his eyes observed, and Bartholomeo took up the rear, scowling at anyone who as much as dared smile in their general direction.
The next bit of time was fuzzy, until Leonardo found himself sitting in a haystack - a pair of curious horses watching him while chewing away on their evening meal at the other end - with a wood cup of water in his hands, and the distinctly sour taste of semi-digested wine lingering in his mouth.
“I’ll never drink outside of dinner again,” he groaned, resting his head in one hand and carefully sipped the cool and - thankfully - clean water.
“Well, as long as others are paying..,” Bartholomeo said with a smug grin, but was interrupted in whatever he wanted to say next by Bacconi holding up a hand, suddenly looking alert.
And, seconds later, a dark shadow passed overheard, soaring through the air above the alley and landed with but a whisper of boots on tile.
Tornabuoni gave the others a careful nod. “Must have been a cat,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “But, as I said, I’m certain that someone is plotting something against the Medici.”
The whisper on the roof ceased just above their heads, and Leonardo felt a chill run down his spine, realising that the predator above them could easily drop down on them, and they would not even know what had happened until they were all dead. “The question,” he said, swallowing his fear and tried to keep his voice from wavering, “is what the Pazzi would stand to gain from a conflict.”
“Their banks are-are competing with each other,” Bacconi replied. “That may be why.”
“Forlí is involved, too, though,” Tornabuoni said, and the other three gaped at him in genuine surprise. By common agreement to make their act more believable, they shared only a few details with each other outside of their meetings in alleys, crowded taverns, and other places that the long ears of the Assassins might reach.
“Forlí?” Bartholomeo asked; the first of them to recover from the surprise. “But Firenze and Forlí have been allies for years. If anyone thought to invade Forlí, they would have Firenze’s army at their gates, not to mention that Venezia would also protest to anyone taking Forlí!”
“Maybe it’s not the city they’re after..,” Leonardo said with a frown, trying to chase the thought to its conclusion, and instead found it disappearing into the fog of nausea and headache. “Oh my head,” he settled for instead, curling slightly in on himself.
One of the horses nosed him in curious concern, and he, obediently, stroked its muzzle, earning a happy grunt and the flick of an ear in return.
“In any case, things are bad,” Tornabuoni continued. “The Pazzi are obviously planning something, the Barbarigo of Venice are up to something else, Forlí is involved in one way or another, and Rodrigo Borgia is sticking his nose into all of those things.”
“Agreed. Something is afoot.” Bartholomeo spat at the ground with a disgusted sound. “I hate when people skulk about plotting like that. I prefer someone you can punch, here and now.”
“You should try ta-alking to people,” Bacconi said. “Instead of picking fights.”
The whisper of leather on the tile picked up again, growing fainter as the owner snuck away over the rooftops.
All four men sighed in relief - though Bartholomeo and Leonardo’s were, perhaps, slightly deeper than the others, who had little idea of how close they had come to the swift, unmerciful death that was an Assassin.
“We should go home, and wait for any news,” Tornabuoni said. “And we will just have to see if our mission have had any success.”
“Va bene.” Leonardo tried to climb to his feet, but found that between his ever-growing headache, the pins and needles that ran up his left left, and the way the whole world tilted the moment he thought he was upright, he very nearly fell backwards into the hay again.
“I’ll ta-take our piccolo Leonardo home,” Bacconi offered, wrapping a beefy arm around Leonardo’s shoulders to keep him steady, and the painter was more than happy to lean against the solid form, contemplating how he could still feel nauseous.
“I shall send word if I hear anything,” Tornabuoni said, nodded to the other three, and left the alley.
Bartholomeo did a half-salute and trotted off as well, muttering about how he still thought Priory of Sion was a good name, and an even better battlecry. Giving them a minute to get clear of the streets, and for Leonardo to regain some measure of feeling in his left foot, the last two men followed at a more leisurely pace.
Behind them, the horses continued chewing through the pile of hay, only snorting lightly in surprise when a white-robed figure climbed out, picked a few straws from a dark-lined hood, and scampered up the vertical wall with only the soft sound of air being disturbed. He had business to attend to.