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Ezio had never quite expected life back in Italia to be so hectic, even after he had resolved to retire from the assassin’s path.
He and Sofia were already expecting little Flavia when they returned, and so the wedding was a rather hurried affair, a humble ceremony held in Venezia where her friends and relatives were the only guests.
Then they made their way to Roma, where Claudia was temporarily left in charge of the Brotherhood in Ezio’s absence. She was ecstatic to see him, and swiftly took a liking to Sofia as well.
She didn’t miss the chance to chide Ezio upon hearing of his future plans however, the petulant sister she always had been. “A vineyard? My my, the hold your wife has on you, fratello mio,” she had said. “Well, whatever you do, I’m not running this Brotherhood in your stead for the rest of my life.”
At least Claudia was gracious enough to direct his next steps with regards to his succession. “Try contacting Niccolò! We haven’t kept in touch for some time, but I’m sure he’s just caught up in his own business in Firenze. He will be delighted to discuss matters with you.”
Niccolò Machiavelli… Ezio’s heart skipped a beat at the mere mention of his name. He’d had him, once upon a time, before he had Sofia.
Professionally speaking Machiavelli was meant only to lend his personal assistance to the fabled prophet of Altaïr’s codex. But over the years, Ezio could detect within him a quiet, unyielding devotion. One thing led to another, and there were shy kisses, and then there were curious touches and entangling bodies.
Yet, for all that Machiavelli shared with him all these years, he didn’t give him a single promise. Not even in their last night together, before Ezio left on his voyage to Masyaf.
“Go, Ezio,” he had encouraged, secure in Ezio’s embrace. “Go, and don’t let me hold you back.”
…Ezio couldn’t blame him for that, could he? They both led dangerous lives with no guarantee to last beyond the next day. Even beyond that, Machiavelli’s governmental post demanded of him every waking breath. Theirs was a love built on stolen kisses and fleeting moments, and Ezio hadn’t known any other way.
For all the sense that it had made at the time, it left him with a sneaking sense of uncertainty. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain he was ready to face him. What was Machiavelli to him now? A friend, surely. An old flame? It was true, but it didn’t feel right. What did he want him to be, then?
He was glad to have such an accepting confidant as Sofia. “You need to sort your feelings for him out,” she had advised. “And I understand if you decide you’re still in love. He has been in your life for much longer than I. It is not something you can stamp out overnight.”
Besides, he couldn’t put off the matter forever. At the very least, Machiavelli deserved to know of his plans, as a senior assassin.
It was with that thought, that one spring day of the year 1513, Ezio set out to find him.
It turned out that Machiavelli wasn’t quite in Firenze. He did, however, live a measly one-day trip by horse away from Ezio’s new country estate. Very convenient.
Ezio let his mind drift, as the beat of the hooves took him past the farms and the little grove on the way to his destination. He wondered what business Machiavelli had to attend to, out here in the outskirts. His friend had always been a man of adventure; he loved to mingle in the bustling crowds and the hectic lives of the city. Or maybe, he was simply mellowed with age, Ezio supposed, just as he himself was.
Whatever the case, Ezio had reached out to him, and he could have never missed the bright cheer in the letter Machiavelli had hastily sent back, expressed with ink on paper though it was. He had invited him to his own estate, as soon as he had finished his arrangements, and Ezio couldn’t find it in him to deny for even a second.
Eventually Ezio stopped before an avenue leading to a fine country house. The resemblance to his own was a little staggering. He was reminded of his beloved Sofia back at home—he wished he could take her here as well. Maybe next time, when she was in a better condition to travel.
Two little boys were scuffling in the yard. One of them looked up just in time to spot Ezio waving at them from his saddle, and took off into the house, the other boy fast behind him. “Mamma, we have a guest!”
Ezio sat there, stunned at the obvious realization. Those were Machiavelli’s children. He had a family here. Of course he did.
Come to think of it, Ezio wasn’t sure why he was so taken aback. It was not like Machiavelli had never mentioned his family to him before. Maybe it was because they hadn’t discussed the topic in any depth. After all, mentioning one’s spouse to an illicit lover wouldn’t be good form.
Sure enough, as if Ezio’s thought had summoned her, a lady, little less than Sofia’s age from what he could see, made her way to the doorsteps as he dismounted.
She halted in her tracks as she caught sight of him, and Ezio was obliged to give a greeting bow. “May I presume this is Madonna Machiavelli?”
“Sì,” she affirmed, and curtsied in return. “And you must be Messer Auditore. We were expecting your arrival today. My husband has been so anxious to meet you. In fact,” she said with amusement, “I’m surprised he is not here to welcome you himself.”
Ezio approached and took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles as a matter of courtesy. “Niccolò must be busy then, I gather.”
“He is in his study right now. I can take you there—if you please, of course,” she offered.
He nodded in gratitude. “You are most considerate, Madonna.”
With that, she turned and led the way, gesturing for him to follow her into the sprawling main hall.
The idea of meeting Machiavelli’s wife in person was still strange to Ezio. Did he love her, as Ezio loved his own wife? Or was it a lukewarm union, the way arranged marriages tended to be? Ezio hoped it was the former case, for both of their sakes. He wasn’t so selfish—and hypocritical—as to demand Machiavelli’s attention all to himself.
A few twisting turns and winding paths later, and they stopped before a large, wooden door. “Here we are,” she announced with a cheer. “I will leave the two of you to your privacy.”
Ezio saw that sparkle of amusement in her eyes again—and suddenly had a sinking feeling. Did she know of their history?
For what it was worth, he could detect no malice in her words, only a genuine happiness. “Grazie,” he replied. “It was a pleasure to meet you. By the way, before you take leave… I never caught your name.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Where are my manners? You can call me Marietta. And the sentiment is mutual, messere.”
Well, here goes nothing.
Ezio opened the heavy door to the study, and—he knew his friend was something of a scholar himself, but goodness, the place could rival Sofia’s old bookshop in Costantinopoli. There were no walls uncovered with shelves, packed with all kinds of tomes. A particularly heavy one sat on a desk, and poring over it was Machiavelli himself, so absorbed that he didn’t even notice Ezio entering.
He looked slightly worse for wear than when they parted. Streaks of grey had begun creeping on his temples. He was a little thinner too, still lean and muscled, but thinner, his raised cheekbones further accentuated.
Ezio considered a snarky remark on Machiavelli’s failing perception, but in the end he settled on circling the desk, until he was face-to-face with the man.
Machiavelli whipped his head up in surprise. His mouth hung agape, before he cried in delight, “Ezio! You have arrived!”
Ezio couldn’t help a smile of his own in response. His friend was rarely so expressive, and to think he was that overjoyed at his arrival—it warmed Ezio’s heart.
“I sure have,” he affirmed. “I hope you’ve been doing well in my absence?”
Machiavelli considered for a moment. “Yes—as well as I could, anyway. You certainly took your time away,” he accused, but his joy was evident despite the words. “Come, take a seat!”
He gestured towards the vacant chair opposite of him. His motion was a bit stiff, Ezio thought. Yet another reminder of his advancing age. If Machiavelli was old, then what was Ezio?
It was a sobering reminder of Ezio’s objective. Yes, he needed to tell Machiavelli he was going to resign.
“Shall we hear about your adventures, then?” inquired Machiavelli, interrupting his line of thought.
Truth be told, Ezio was glad to be distracted. He couldn’t bring himself to mention such a topic so early. So he did as was requested of him—he regaled Machiavelli with his story, as best as he could. The voyage to Masyaf, and then to Costantinopoli. The Ottoman Brotherhood, and their cheerful, lively leader—Ezio’s breath hitched, remembering Yusuf’s noble sacrifice, to protect Sofia at that. Then the hunt for the keys to Altaïr’s library, reliving his memories engraved within. And finally, the moment of truth—only Altaïr’s skeleton, an Apple, and a message to the future.
“So there was nothing to discover, I gather?” asked Machiavelli in the end, unable to hide his disappointment.
“It was the journey that counted,” reassured Ezio. “Besides, I did get something out of it. Or should I say, someone?”
Ezio gave a devilish grin, and he had to resist a full-blown laugh at the way Machiavelli’s eyes widened. “No,” he uttered in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re married.”
Ezio slowly nodded. “You’re as insightful as ever, my dear Niccolò.” A beat. “What, is it so hard to believe? You have to meet Sofia; I’m sure you’ll love her as well.”
That didn’t stop Machiavelli from snorting at him. “I’m sorry. You. Married.”
“Look, I can say the same thing about you,” Ezio countered. “Don’t you dare think I forgot that night you got drunk and complained to me about some courtesan or another.”
“The difference, Ezio, is that you took so many years to settle down. I was certain you would’ve understood yourself by now.”
“I do understand that I want a life with my wife, thank you very much.”
“Mhm,” hummed Machiavelli noncommittally. Silence fell between them again, the younger man deep in thought. It was only for a split second, but Ezio swore he could see a faint sadness in his eyes.
Right. He was getting sidetracked.
“Niccolò, I need to tell you something,” he began. Once he was sure he got Machiavelli’s attention, he went on. “This is Assassin business, so I’ll make an announcement later. But since you’re my friend and advisor, I thought you deserve to know first.”
Machiavelli nodded his permission for Ezio to continue. But now that he did, Ezio was starting to have second thoughts. He knew in his heart that Machiavelli would support him, no matter what path he chose. Yet for a moment, he was loath to abandon his fellow assassin.
No, you’re not abandoning him, he reminded himself. Your bond will survive without the Brotherhood.
“Forgive me for saying this, but I…” Ezio swallowed. “I would like to step away from our Brotherhood starting now.”
Ezio’s stomach was in knots. To make it worse, Machiavelli’s eyebrows raised, only for him to nod again. “How curious,” he commented. “May I ask why?”
“The Creed called me, and I’ve given my entire life to it in return. But, there’s only so much a man can give. What energy I have left, I’d like to dedicate to my family.”
“I see,” remarked Machiavelli. “If you want to consult my opinion, as your subordinate, I have no say in the matter. As your friend-” Machiavelli paused for a moment, seemingly choking on his words. “Of course you have nothing to forgive.”
Relief washed over Ezio. “Grazie, amico mio. I trust you’ll look after the Brotherhood after I’m gone?”
Now Machiavelli looked truly crestfallen. He stared at the open book in front of him, in lieu of facing Ezio. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mentore,” he eventually admitted.
“Why not? What’s wrong?” Ezio pressed. When Machiavelli did not answer him, he reached out and jostled his shoulder.
That turned out to be the worst possible move he could make. Machiavelli yelped in pain, flinching away from him.
Ezio felt as if he had been drenched with a bucket of ice. “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed, rather unnecessarily in retrospect. “What happened? You said you were fine!”
Machiavelli raised a hand, wordlessly asking for Ezio’s patience. “Let me explain. The Medici reclaimed Firenze, in your absence. There was suspicion of a plot against them, and I… I was implicated. They tried to pry a confession out of me, by any means necessary.”
That description of events sounded far too tame for what must’ve transpired. “You mean the strappado,” Ezio surmised. Machiavelli’s silence only confirmed it. “Dio. I’m so sorry. You could’ve told me the truth earlier.”
“I said I was doing as well as I could. At least they found me innocent, or my neck would have been in a noose.” Machiavelli allowed himself a sigh. “But yes, as you can see, I’m out of office, leaving me with few contacts. Fieldwork is beyond me as well, on account of my injuries. I’m no longer of use to the Brotherhood at the moment. I’ll sadly have to pass on your suggestion.”
Ezio wanted to protest. Machiavelli was not useless! If there was anyone who could brave the tides of fortune, it would be him. He was the most resourceful man Ezio knew.
But, in the end, he stayed his tongue. Machiavelli deserved to rest too—after all, he had served the Brotherhood for even longer than Ezio had. “So… are you retiring as well?” he hazarded.
“What? No!” snapped Machiavelli, and Ezio jerked backwards at the defensive tone. It seemed he realized his mistake at the same time Ezio did, because he sighed again and mumbled, “I will recover, Ezio. I have to.”
Something seized Ezio’s heart all of a sudden. So Machiavelli did want to be useful. It made sense—perhaps even more than resourceful, he was devoted. Whether to the Brotherhood, or to his beloved home of Firenze.
And yet, there wasn’t much conviction behind those words. He may have placed his faith in his ideals, but evidently he had left little for himself.
Ezio stared at the downward curve of Machiavelli’s lips. At that moment, he just wanted to kiss him.
Would it be presumptuous of him? They hadn’t discussed the future of their relationship, Ezio reminded himself. They never had.
Still, it felt… right… to walk over and smooth out that unhappy frown. He couldn’t leave Machiavelli in that terrible pit of despair.
“Stop giving me that look,” warned Machiavelli, meeting Ezio’s gaze. “I don’t need your pity.”
Yes, he decided right there and then. He was going to kiss him.
Ezio rose to his feet and a few strides later, he was by the younger man’s side. He grabbed Machiavelli’s jaw, and before long their lips molded against each other.
And fuck, he couldn’t believe it took him this far into their conversation. Machiavelli kissed back like he had been waiting to since the very moment he set his eyes on Ezio today. He was as perfect as Ezio remembered, warm and pliant and welcoming.
Soon enough Ezio was seated and Machiavelli was maneuvered onto Ezio’s lap, their tongues intertwined in a sensual mating dance. His lover stuttered out a little moan, and Ezio could feel blood rush straight downwards at the pretty noise.
A vision conjured itself in Ezio’s mind, so vivid that he was momentarily stunned. He could see himself lay Machiavelli on this very desk and sink into his enticing body. Beneath him Machiavelli would growl and demand, would whimper and beg, but either way the expression on his face would be one of lust and pleasure, not of the immeasurable grief he was carrying.
Ezio blinked hard, dispelling the images. They were in Machiavelli’s study, in his home, where his wife could hear them.
The other man abruptly wrenched away, breaking the kiss. “Cazzo,” he muttered a curse. “I’m so sorry, Ezio.”
Ezio frowned. Just when he thought he was making Machiavelli happy. “Whatever for? In case you need a reminder, it was I who initiated.”
“I- It’s just-“ Machiavelli started, struggling to find words. Ezio would have teased him for being so tongue-tied for a diplomat, if his mood wasn’t so grave. “Does your wife not object?” he finished feebly.
“Not anymore than yours does,” Ezio replied, and Machiavelli snapped his head away, his cheek turning a curious shade of pink. Now Ezio had to chuckle at the sight—perhaps he didn’t want to admit the implication behind that statement. His lover could kiss him with so much longing one moment, and be so bashful about his desire the next.
Ezio placed a hand on Machiavelli’s other cheek and nudged his face towards him, noting how hollow and fragile it felt in his palm. His heart shattered all over again, imagining his poor lover, bruised and broken, locked up in a cold, damp prison cell of the Palazzo Vecchio, when he should’ve been in his office, his rightful place, in that very building.
“Then… you truly mean it?” asked Machiavelli, in an unsure voice Ezio never thought he would hear from such a confident man.
There was no point denying it. “I do,” declared Ezio. And, to clear all of Machiavelli’s doubt on the matter, he added, “I love you, Niccolò. I’m sure you already heard, but it behooves myself to repeat it. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
Ezio could see it—the metaphorical dam breaking inside Machiavelli. He clung onto him tight, as tight as he could with a shoulder injury anyway, and his lips latched onto Ezio’s own like a parched man in search of water.
And then he cried out—muffled by the kiss, it was a half-moan, half-wail, the anguish piercing Ezio’s heart deeper than any dagger. He immediately clutched him back, and at that moment, he so dearly wanted to wrap his beloved in a blanket and hide him away. It was a wishful thought, he knew—he had no power to protect Machiavelli from political reprisals, even had he been present. But he allowed himself the fantasy, nevertheless.
They kept at it, over and over, until the need for air became too much to bear, and they broke apart, raggedly panting.
“I think,” Ezio began, once he had regained enough breath to talk, “you’ll want to hear a nugget of wisdom from Altaïr himself, caro mio.”
“Davvero?” Machiavelli perked up a little, and there was that questioning gaze again—one Ezio was happy to satisfy.
“‘When I was very young, I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to all these conflicts. If only I had possessed the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life. I have done my part.’” Ezio recited, and he was surprised with himself at the clarity of his recall. “That was what Altaïr told his son, on the day he died.”
Machiavelli rolled his eyes. “Is that what inspired you to resign?”
Ezio ducked his head in embarrassment at being called out. “Maybe,” he admitted.
“Hmm. I can see where you’re coming from, and I appreciate your concern,” Machiavelli gently said. A faint smile spread across his face for the first time since the sordid details of his torture came to light. “But you know me; it gives me purpose to serve the causes I believe in. I would die of boredom if I had to sit here reading books for the rest of my life.”
Ezio smiled too, despite everything. “Sounds like you have a plan. Mind sharing it with me?”
“I intend to ingratiate myself with the current government.”
Wait, what? Ezio opened his mouth to object, but Machiavelli evidently had anticipated the reaction and raised a hand to halt him. “Before you say anything, I’m well aware that they had wronged me. I would much rather retain my previous arrangements. But one cannot effect change without power, Ezio.”
“I-“ The reasoning was sound, but cold tendrils of fear grasped Ezio’s heart nonetheless. He made to shake Machiavelli’s shoulders again before he caught himself, and settled for wildly gesturing around instead. “I won’t pretend to know more about politics than you—but please stay safe, Niccolò mio. I can’t lose you; not after I have lost so many.” His family. Cristina. Even Yusuf.
“You need not worry. Most likely they will deem me unworthy of attention anyways. We just have to start somewhere, that’s all.” Machiavelli huffed a mirthless laugh. “Even if I get caught on the wrong side and pay the price for it, you can sleep knowing that I have been a fool, and it is not your fault.”
He saw through him yet again. Ezio was almost afraid of Machiavelli’s insight. “That is not reassuring,” he complained.
Though, somehow, he had a feeling in his heart that if Machiavelli was to die as the rest of them did, at least he would not die forgotten. He might not ever get back the position he so craved, as he himself predicted, but the world would know of his valiant attempt. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?
“I know,” conceded Machiavelli quietly. “It seems it is my turn to ask for forgiveness.”
Oh, how could Ezio deny him, when he asked in such a brittle voice, especially when he was so gracious to grant him that forgiveness earlier?
Even so, he could definitely take the opportunity to lift Machiavelli’s mood. “You will get it, on one condition,” he offered. “We leave this stuffy study for today, and find a place to enjoy ourselves. …By that I mean, get ourselves a drink or two. But if you prefer the more intimate kind of enjoyment…” Ezio winked, as suggestively as he could. “I’m happy to provide that as well.”
Machiavelli gave another laugh, still small, but much more genuine. “Perhaps just the former kind for the moment. I know a nearby tavern—we can take a shortcut there. I’ll inform Marietta, before she thinks you have kidnapped me.”
Later, they walked side-by-side down the beaten path to the tavern, as if nothing had changed between them. Ezio abruptly found himself missing the old days, when it had been as simple as two assassins in service of the same creed, falling for each other between dodging blades and bullets. Now he wasn’t an assassin anymore, and Machiavelli was battling new demons altogether, and it was no longer a matter Ezio could intervene in.
They still loved each other, though. That was one thing he could take comfort in. Maybe in the end, it would be the only thing that mattered. Ezio looked around, and once he had made sure they weren’t being watched, he grasped Machiavelli’s fingers. A wave of affection surged within him as his lover returned the gesture. Yes, for now this had to be enough.