Week 6: Florence

February 26th, 1478. Florence, Italy.

Today is a day like any other.

I wake to the sound of common life outside my window. The cobblestone streets of Florence clack underfoot from traveling merchants and commuters. Going to the gabled window of my villa, I stretch, breathing in a fresh breath of lofty air not suitable for the noses of the proletariat far below. Donning the garb of a pious, religious monk, I make myself ready for another day of preaching, praying, and shameless exploitation of Florence's citizens for their tithes and offerings.

My destination is the Duomo, Florence's most fabled and glorious work of architecture. I enjoy working there. Ha - work. The idea of work, and 'agony', is like a bad dream, told to me daily by peasants between morning and evening mass. I tell them their problems belong to the Lord, that as long as they pray and give diligently to the church, life will be better. I couldn't have asked for a more rewarding job. The Pazzi family has deep pockets, and I am more than happy to oblige them.

I am nearly there. The early morning rays of the sun stream beautifully over the tops of the roofs. All around me, the filthy crowds move around me, always hunched with their heads down, like the swine of truffle-hunters.

Finally, after my daily, unavoidable journey through the streets, I arrive at the Duomo. It stands as though it were here since the dawn of time, a monument to the titans of ancient, forgotten empires.

This early in the day, I did not expect to find anyone in the church, but a woman of modest means approaches me just outside the cathedral. She is one of my regular followers, a dame of beauty and piety, and I often find her kneeling at my altar. Today, she looks magnificent. I would almost say she looks as good with her clothes on as she does without them.

We are alone, two souls left to enjoy the splendor of the Duomo. She approaches me slowly, seductively. "Buon giorno, Antonio. I've missed you."

"Buon giorno, yourself, Elizabeta. I have missed you more."

"I'm sure you have. I arrived early so that we could meet - just the two of us." What a volpe! The life of a monk certainly does have its perks. I respond suavely, "So it seems. You truly are a bella donna."

I lean in for a kiss, only to notice a bright red stain, probably from spilled wine, on the front of her dress. "Oh, Elizabeta, your dress! You've gone and dirtied yourself! I guess you'll just have to take that off and put on something more comfortable right away!"

Elizabeta takes a step back and laughs. Continuing to laugh, she says "Antonio! Who do you think I am? I'm not some sort of common wench who disrobes in the middle of a church!"

Oh, man, this is good stuff, I think to myself. I take a step towards her, my eyes level with hers. Smiling slyly, I say "Oh really?” She's hooked. I just know it.

Her own seductive smile dissipates into a mischievous smirk. "Yes, really, Antonio. Unfortunately, the red stain upon my dress will not shine as brightly as the one the people of Florence will see upon yours.” She turns and walks towards the doors of the cathedral.

For just a moment, I’m left dumbfounded. What did she just mean by that? Was that a threat?

The next moment, I looked down and knew what she meant. A long, thin blade of steel was protruding from the left side of my ribcage, which retreated suddenly with a slick, metallic click. Blood, I suppose, has started flowing from me. I thought I was better than this. I thought I was immortal. I deserve it.

I collapse, falling sideways for an eternity before hitting the marble floor of the Duomo. In the distance of my dimming vision, I see that the commoners of Florence have suddenly been let in and are, as though they were waiting for the opportune moment, circling around me. A white-hooded figure turns me over onto my back. I see now that the man is an assassin, and on his right shoulder, his cape bears the shield of the Medici!

The hooded assassin leans down to me so I can see his grizzled, scarred complexion and his piercing eyes. Then he speaks to me, with the intention and finality of Death himself. “No longer will you spoil the ground below you, which belongs to the citizens of Firenze. This cathedral is theirs. This city is theirs. I, Ezio Auditore, am their voice, and I have spoken. Requiescat in pace.”

Darkness surrounds me.