The old caretaker returned, her breathing loud and labored as she called to the village boys following close on her heels. In they came, cluttering up the bedroom and smudging dirt across the floor, the Spanish woman bringing a tray laden with fragrant pots of honey and a pottery vessel of clay. The boys heaved and swore, two messy, coppery heads appearing at waist-height as they lugged in a full and steaming basin.
“Stay,” Lena commanded in Spanish. She gestured to the man in the bed. “Help me put him into the bath. Then go and ready more water.”
“More?” One asked, gasping for air.
“Yes, more. He will dirty the water as soon as he touches it. Now stop complaining, you little girl, and help me with him.”
The boys pitched in with no more complaints, apparently shamed by the woman half their size who was already swinging the bloodied soldier into her arms. Lena ducked down, hooking her hands under his armpits and knowing as soon as she touched his chest that he was deep in fever. Frowning, she grunted under his weight; he was unbelievably heavy. Her fingers tightened around him – muscle, sinew, the sort of physique that only came after many years of tireless training. Together, they heaved him into the tub, a tiny sound of pain or surprise pushing out between his bruised lips. The water droplets burned her wrists. It was hot enough.
“Now go,” she barked. “More water, quick as you can.”
The old woman watched, still wringing her hands, standing in the doorway like an anxious father-to-be overseeing a birth.
“I did not know,” she was saying, “I did not know, senora… perdóname, I did not know. I thought I was only to wait for his passing and keep him in comfort…”
“In comfort?” Lena sneered, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the Spaniard. She gestured to the limp body in the basin. “Would you call this comfort?”
“S-Senora, I…”
“You should be ashamed. I’ve seen mangy dogs treated with more respect.”
“But, he is, he’s practically de - ”
“Yes thank you. I know what he is.”
She could speak Spanish. She was a talented healer. But this was the real reason Ezio had chosen her for this mission. It was so plain now, so obvious… She, more than any of the other assassini, could separate a man from his identity. When she looked at the mess of wounds, of raw flesh and agony before her, she saw not a man who had brought unspeakable horrors down on her homeland and her family, but a patient, something that needed to be tended to, cared for, fixed. No stray blade of hers would "accidentally" find its way between his ribs.
Neighbors would joke that she grew up in casa del seraglio, a menagerie house, so called because her father allowed her to pick up all manner of injured stray dogs and cats until the yard resembled an unruly orphanage for injured animals. It was an instinct, and perhaps it was one she had received directly from her father. Gratitude is the gift of the sick and weary, her father liked to say, and Lena had never forgotten it.
As expected, the water in the basin turned the color of red clay. Brown and murky, it was ready to be drained almost as soon as the man went in. But Lena called on that elusive patience DaVinci had taught, and she waited, worrying her teeth along her bottom lip, exasperated and frustrated and then snapping back into immediate action when the boys returned. Again they helped her rearrange the man. The Spanish caretaker laid out a fresh linen sheet on the floor and they put him there until they could empty the basin and refill it with the steaming buckets brought over from the blacksmith’s house.
In Name Alone 5/?
“Stay,” Lena commanded in Spanish. She gestured to the man in the bed. “Help me put him into the bath. Then go and ready more water.”
“More?” One asked, gasping for air.
“Yes, more. He will dirty the water as soon as he touches it. Now stop complaining, you little girl, and help me with him.”
The boys pitched in with no more complaints, apparently shamed by the woman half their size who was already swinging the bloodied soldier into her arms. Lena ducked down, hooking her hands under his armpits and knowing as soon as she touched his chest that he was deep in fever. Frowning, she grunted under his weight; he was unbelievably heavy. Her fingers tightened around him – muscle, sinew, the sort of physique that only came after many years of tireless training. Together, they heaved him into the tub, a tiny sound of pain or surprise pushing out between his bruised lips. The water droplets burned her wrists. It was hot enough.
“Now go,” she barked. “More water, quick as you can.”
The old woman watched, still wringing her hands, standing in the doorway like an anxious father-to-be overseeing a birth.
“I did not know,” she was saying, “I did not know, senora… perdóname, I did not know. I thought I was only to wait for his passing and keep him in comfort…”
“In comfort?” Lena sneered, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the Spaniard. She gestured to the limp body in the basin. “Would you call this comfort?”
“S-Senora, I…”
“You should be ashamed. I’ve seen mangy dogs treated with more respect.”
“But, he is, he’s practically de - ”
“Yes thank you. I know what he is.”
She could speak Spanish. She was a talented healer. But this was the real reason Ezio had chosen her for this mission. It was so plain now, so obvious… She, more than any of the other assassini, could separate a man from his identity. When she looked at the mess of wounds, of raw flesh and agony before her, she saw not a man who had brought unspeakable horrors down on her homeland and her family, but a patient, something that needed to be tended to, cared for, fixed. No stray blade of hers would "accidentally" find its way between his ribs.
Neighbors would joke that she grew up in casa del seraglio, a menagerie house, so called because her father allowed her to pick up all manner of injured stray dogs and cats until the yard resembled an unruly orphanage for injured animals. It was an instinct, and perhaps it was one she had received directly from her father. Gratitude is the gift of the sick and weary, her father liked to say, and Lena had never forgotten it.
As expected, the water in the basin turned the color of red clay. Brown and murky, it was ready to be drained almost as soon as the man went in. But Lena called on that elusive patience DaVinci had taught, and she waited, worrying her teeth along her bottom lip, exasperated and frustrated and then snapping back into immediate action when the boys returned. Again they helped her rearrange the man. The Spanish caretaker laid out a fresh linen sheet on the floor and they put him there until they could empty the basin and refill it with the steaming buckets brought over from the blacksmith’s house.