Chapter Text
[Excerpt from the journal of Altaïr ibn la’Ahad]
May 18,
There are many cases throughout the districts of some new illness. Possibly some version of brain fever? Those afflicted rave madly before ultimately losing consciousness, dying within days.
May 25,
More of the friar’s boys have been seen carrying around red crosses. Mem., discuss once more how the Order may have ties in the city? If the Borgia truly have no influence here, then I would be very surprised.13.1
June 2,
Cases of the fever persist. Hospitals are over capacity. Plague likely. There are those in the city who have made worrying claims that the illnesses infect only those who may deserve it.13.2
“Make sure your face is covered, cub,” Ezio said. His hands were solid weights on Desmond’s lower legs.
“Right.” Desmond adjusted the scarf over his nose, then took a moment to steady himself. He had a sweeping view of the festivities from where he was sitting on Ezio’s shoulders.
They were at the edge of the field next to the Ognissanti church and piazza. The crowd of people around them moved in barely contained excitement, jumping and craning necks to catch a glimpse of the horses at the starting line. There were mounts of every color, prime racing stock from far and wide. There weren’t any saddles, from what Desmond could see, just bridles for the jockeys to cling to. The river Arno sparkled brightly just behind them all.
People were excited even with all the illnesses running rampant. Almost everyone had their face covered. Scarves of different materials and colors, strange billowing cloaks and opaque veils, even full-face metal masks that did not look comfortable to wear under the summer sun.
Again, Desmond reminded himself that these people don’t believe in germ theory yet. No, illness was spread by “bad air,” whatever that was. Still made no sense to him, no matter how many times street vendors tried to wave him down to sell him pomanders, or incense bricks, or water scented with rose oil.13.3
Ezio and Altaïr were worried. For him! Which, yeah, Desmond understood that bit. He got it. Lately it’d felt like he’s had the immune system of a wet paper bag. It wasn’t like he was ever trying to get sick, okay? It just sort of happened. At least the plague wasn’t spreading quickly.
(Yet.)
His life had taken a weird turn towards, uh. Normalcy? Even though he was a child, and lived in a version of Florence fraught with religious fanatics. Even if Altaïr and Ezio were acting… weird about it. Desmond was used to Altaïr hovering. But Ezio, too? Like, even if Desmond was his bastard son, it wasn’t like Ezio owed him anything. Ezio didn’t-- Ezio hadn’t asked for Desmond to show up like he did.
There was a little part of him, the part that felt like Ezio, that said it was because Desmond had become an Auditore. Because Ezio had recognized and tagged Desmond as his, as someone to protect. Desmond ignored that voice.
Beside. Desmond was worried about the street kids. They’d been improving during lessons in leaps and bounds, but that all changed when cases of illness began to rise. Spreading disease, plus worried assassins, equaled Desmond being unsupervised a lot less, and it was harder to get the kids to visit him at the brothel. Piero had flat out refused, the last time he’d seen her. Carlo had stopped by a few times, but he’d gotten spooked by Altaïr looming around a corner and hadn’t been back.
He hoped they were okay.
(They had to be okay.)
Desmond craned his head to look around the crowd. Nearly every building was decorated for the festivities. Banners and tapestries hung from windows and over walls, any surface they could be fastened to. Stray dogs and mischievous children ran underfoot. People from all walks of life were involved in the celebrations, smiling and joking and singing.
Sweat collected on his upper lip; Desmond rearranged the scarf around his face slightly to wipe it away. The sun had dipped under the horizon not even 30 minutes ago, but it still felt persistently (and annoyingly) warm. Didn’t help that he had his hood up, but he wasn’t about to pull it down.
Altaïr reappeared, suddenly. When had he left? Was he really doing perimeter checks? It’s Altaïr, of course he was. He hadn’t liked the idea of Desmond going, but had eventually allowed it as long as both he and Ezio came along as chaperones-slash-bodyguards. Desmond couldn’t see Ezio’s eyes, but he could see the piercing looks that Altaïr kept leveling at their surroundings. Desmond didn’t doubt that there was a massive presence of thieves or courtesans, the Brotherhood contacts, also in the neighborhood.
Still no sign of the street kids, though. At least the ones that Desmond knew.
There was a flash of red, the shape of something almost unmistakable, and Desmond jerked his head around to look, but-- it was just people. Normal people, whatever that meant for Florence. No red crosses, or whatever it was that he’d thought he’d seen for a second.
(He needed to fucking relax.)
“Desmond,” Altaïr said, and touched him lightly on the arm.
The boy tore his gaze away from the crowd. Altaïr was looking at him with concern. His hood, freshly laundered, was a crisp white. The cloth hiding the lower half of his face was undyed. Desmond blinked, suddenly realizing that Altaïr was a little taller than Ezio, just ever so slightly.
Huh. He’d never noticed that before.
“It’s just the friar’s boys,” Altaïr said. “You’re safe.”13.4
“Right,” Desmond said.
(Altaïr was already worried. Ezio was already worried. Desmond didn’t need to make it worse.)
“Do you want to go?” Ezio asked.
What? Why did he-- but he was the one who’d asked, who’d been the one to ask if Desmond could go. Ezio was the one who wanted to come in the first place, right?
“But, it’s your birthday,” Desmond said, the words tiny sounding in his ears.
“I have one every year. And they run the palio race every year, too,” Ezio said.13.5
“But-- not for the last two years,” Desmond protested. It was true. Savonarola’d already had it successfully banned twice.13.6
(He ignored the little voice in his head that reminded him: Savonarola would die in less than a year.)
“Bah.” Ezio waved his hand briefly, like he was swatting away a fly. “That was never going to last. And look, they’ve already brought it back. But, if you feel unwell, cub--”
Desmond shook his head. “No! No, it’s fine. Are they starting yet?”
“It should be soon,” Altaïr said. He’d gone back to scanning the crowd for danger.
Then, just moments later--
The entire city seemed to hush as the great bell of the Palazzo della Signoria rang out. Once, twice. Three times, and the world exploded into action; horses burst into motion, riders shouting, whips cracking, spectators cheering and screaming, waving flags and pennants and following in a mad rush, the race thundering into the city.
(And for a moment, Desmond smiled and forgot what he was worried about.)
[Excerpt from the journal of Altaïr ibn la’Ahad]
June 28,
Again, Ezio has brought up Monteriggioni. I fear there are only so many times I can decline to speak of it. What kind of caretaker would I be, not to take help when it is offered?
But I cannot leave yet,
[The ink blots, and several lines have been colored into oblivion. The next section was written later that same day, the ink of different quality and make.]
I can still remember the bodies from back then. It must be near 200 years by now. The fear I felt last time, it had been all encompassing, nearly blinding in how strong it was. Where is it now? What’s changed? Is it because I have someone besides myself to take care of?
I have no way of knowing, and I am running out of space to write.
It took until the end of June for the fever to breach the walls of La Rosa Colta. Still not the literal plague, but… still worrying in its own way.
Ezio and Altaïr had become strangely in-tune with one another, like two Assassin-shaped mother hens. Always checking in to make sure that Desmond hadn’t snuck off by himself to do who knew what. Desmond didn’t have to wear a scarf over his mouth and nose when he was in a room by himself, but he had to put one on in order to traverse the rest of the brothel. If he tried to leave his room without one, Altaïr would stand in the doorway and point blank refuse to let him leave.
Like, okay. Hindsight 20/20, right? And none of the people around him, save maybe Altaïr, had the benefit of future knowledge. It wasn’t their fault that, according to humoral theory, illness was spread via “bad air,” and needed to be handled accordingly. As a result, the other brothel residents had begun near pathologically lighting candles and incense, spraying and applying perfumes and brandishing pomanders left and right.
To be frank, walking around La Rosa Colta reminded Desmond of how New Yorkers would fumigate apartments for bed bugs.
It was just. A lot!
Speaking of Altaïr: he didn’t entirely prescribe to the whole “bad air” thing. It was almost like he had some understanding of germ theory, but Desmond couldn’t figure out a good way to ask about it without seeming… well, crazy. Or like he had forbidden knowledge, or something. Was he over-thinking it? Maybe.
…So it was hard to think with all the smells, sue him! Lately, he hadn’t been sure if his headaches were from annoying visual Bleeds or from all the DIY scented water that each courtesan was making in their room. One week, the air had been thick enough that Desmond had half a mind to start breaking down doors, just so he could discover who’d flung a bunch of incense in their fireplace.
But Desmond got it. He understood, really.
(It was just nice to complain sometimes, was all.)
He just needed to get some fresh air. One day, in the early morning, Desmond woke up without a headache and decided to seize the chance for freedom while it was there.
By the time Ezio entered the room, Desmond already had one leg out the window.
They looked at each other for a moment, both startled for different reasons.
“...Um. Hey, Ezio,” Desmond finally said.
“Desmond--” Ezio stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “You know you cannot go out on your own, cub.”
It was the way he said it, even voiced and calm, reasonable, that had Desmond feeling more guilty than was probably necessary. The sensation swept up his arms, through his chest and straight to his face, prickling and warm.
(Was Ezio even… disappointed? Angry? Desmond couldn’t tell.)
“I-- Sorry. I know,” he said weakly, looking down and away. The leg hanging out the window was pulled back and against his chest.
(Shit, he’d been so close.)
Ezio sighed. A good-sized bed dominated the room; the Assassin walked around it until he was right across from Desmond, then sat. He rested his forearms on his knees, hands clasped together loosely.
“When was the last time you were outside?” Ezio asked.
“No, I mean-- But you were right, it’s dangerous, and I shouldn’t have-- I just--” Desmond trailed off. He honestly didn’t want to be a burden. That wouldn’t have been fair to Ezio. Or anyone, really.
Desmond’s face was still uncomfortably warm. He pulled his scarf back in order to scratch at his cheek; his fingers felt cool in comparison. Snatches of conversation drifted up from the street below, barely audible. A church bell began to toll in the distance.
“I supposed--” Ezio began, carefully, “--it would be alright, as long as we let Aquila know beforehand. I don’t see why we cannot go out together, you and I.”
Desmond’s head snapped up.
“Really?” he said, softer than he’d intended. Ezio was smiling at him, the skin around his eyes crinkled and a strange, an almost wistful look on his face.
“How would you like to climb the Cathedral?”
Uncle Mario, shortly after arriving, took one look at Desmond and exclaimed, “Ai, my God!” He turned to Ezio and said, “Nephew! Claudia might finally kill you for this.”
Mario was a heavier set man than Desmond remembered him being. Greyer hair, as well, with an intensely receding hairline.
(Huh. Did Ezio get his hair genes from his mom?)
Ezio went ramrod straight, sputtering and following after his uncle, who’d already walked into the next room. Mario also had a voice that felt like a knife to the skull. Not his fault, all things considered; Desmond’d had a headache all afternoon, and could still feel it throbbing steadily behind his eyeballs.
The brothel was already in full swing that evening. The sex industry stopped for no one-- not even, it turned out, for the literal plague. Desmond could hear courtesans and their patrons laughing and carousing in the other rooms, the sounds of merriment easily passing through the thin walls.
Most of the money for lighting was funneled into the front of the building, where the women entertained clients. The hallway with the back stairway was much dimmer by comparison, and Desmond was thankful for it. He stopped where he was at the bottom of the steps and focused on breathing deeply.
Altaïr paused before him.
“I have a feeling this will take some time,” his ancestor finally said. He placed a firm hand atop Desmond’s head and gently nudged him towards the stairs. “Go ahead without me, and I’ll be up later.”
Desmond frowned. A part of him didn’t love being treated like a kid when it came to things like this, but…
(It was just like being young again, right? Like being at the farm and not being told shit. Be told to do something, ask why, have an adult tell you “because I said so,” and be powerless to stand your ground against that.)
But Altaïr would tell him if he asked. He might even let him sit in on whatever meeting they were about to have, if Desmond really insisted.
Still.
“Sure. I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit,” Desmond said.
And he did. An unknown amount of time later, Desmond awoke to the whisper-soft noise of leather on metal. The room had since fallen further into shadow. He lifted his head and saw the ghostly shape of Altaïr, working in the dwindling light of the oil lamp, leaning his sword against the wall and beginning to undo his hidden blades.
“What did you talk about?” Desmond mumbled.
Altaïr shushed him, not unkindly. Desmond watched as his ancestor went through his evening ablutions, blinking heavily all the while. His headache had gone away, kinda, but he could feel it hovering off in the distance and threatening to return.
Still, Altaïr said nothing.
Desmond's lips were chapped; he flicked his tongue out to wet them. He started to say Altaïr’s name, exasperated, but stopped. You never knew who could be listening. But it felt weird to call him “Aquila,” so--
“Baba,” Desmond said, forgetting to be embarrassed.13.7
Altaïr, in the middle of stretching, stilled. He went to the bed. Desmond wiggled over a bit to make room as the man sat beside him. He let Altaïr tuck in the blankets, adjust the pillows, and leaned into his touch as he pressed a cool hand to his forehead.
“We’re leaving Florence. Ezio and his uncle will come with us,” Altaïr finally said, when he was satisfied with the boy’s temperature. He began to card his fingers through Desmond’s hair.
Desmond leaned into Altaïr’s touch. He relaxed, going nearly boneless. “Hm. Where?”
He had nearly fallen back asleep by the time Altaïr answered.
“South. Monteriggioni.”
Oh.
(Of course. Where else?)
Altaïr woke Desmond up early the next morning, so early that there was still barely any light coming through the windows.
Desmond was barely conscious as his ancestor carefully dressed him. Tiny wool stockings, tied below each knee. Looser trousers over those. A fresh camicie tucked into the trousers, with a shirt above that. His belt, along with the pouches (Altaïr double checked to make sure the carved dog was safely inside of one). Shoes. The grey cowl and hood. Finally, a fresh face scarf.
Groggy, Desmond rested his head on Altaïr’s shoulder as the man carried him along.
He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) when he heard Ezio’s voice. It sounded louder in the empty street, just outside the brothel, echoing off nearby buildings.
Everything was blue and muted and cool. The morning mist sunk into Desmond’s bones, and he shivered, pressing closer to Altaïr.
Hours had passed, and Desmond was still annoyed at himself.
How could he have let himself be complacent with leaving that quickly? When Altaïr had said they’d be leaving, Desmond hadn’t thought it would be that very next morning! He hadn’t had any time to find the street kids, or send a message or anything! Maybe if he’d been more diligent he could have refused to leave before he’d made sure the kids were okay, or demanded that they be brought along, or-- fuck, he didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t really Desmond’s fault, maybe. Whatever. He still felt an uneasy knot in his chest about it all.
Desmond was sharing a horse with Altaïr again. The first time it’d happened felt like ages ago. How long had it been? Not more than a few months? Closer to a year?
They weren’t taking the direct route to Monteriggioni; instead they took dusty back country roads that threaded throughout the Tuscan hills, actively avoiding both tolls and bandits.13.8
It wasn’t too long of a journey, right? A day or two at most on horseback? Desmond was partially glad that the day was getting cloudier as they went on; he had a headache dully beating at the edge of his skull that was more annoying than anything else. At least he’d been able to remove his face scarf and smell the summer breeze. There’d be more of that in Monteriggioni, since they didn’t have any cases of that weird fever.
Wait.
Monteriggioni. Where the Villa Auditore was. The villa that had a secret basement shrine with a giant statue of Altaïr.
Fuck. Fuck.
Mario was up ahead, telling his nephew about recent developments with the mercenaries. Ezio was nodding along, but frequently shifted to turn in his seat and check that Desmond and Altaïr still followed. Still, as long as Desmond was careful… The wind was picking up. Ezio couldn’t possibly overhear.
He tilted his head up and back, so that he could see under Altaïr’s hood. “Uh, hey.”
“Hm?”
“Are you ever going to tell them that you’re… you know?” Desmond asked in Arabic.
“Know what?” Altaïr looked down at him, expression mild.
Oh, jeez. “You know!” Desmond gritted his teeth. “The mentor of Masyaf, or whatever. Ezio has been--” he lowered his voice, “--collecting your codex pages. He’s kind of a fan.”
“Ah. I’d almost forgotten,” Altaïr said.
Desmond waited for him to continue, but he just… focused on the road ahead.
…Seriously? Seriously?
No wonder Malik was constantly exasperated with this man. What the hell.
Before Desmond could say more, Ezio swung his horse around and pulled close to theirs. “We should stop early today,” he said, voice raised. “I don’t like the look of these clouds. Mario says there is a farm up ahead that offers space to travellers, we will be able to find cover there.”
The sky opened up in a torrential downpour before they made it there. It was a small building, just beside rows and rows of olive trees that bent and shivered with the wind. One one side was a drooping, sad-looking awning that extended off the roof for the horses.
Altaïr handed their horse to Ezio and quickly carried Desmond inside. There was a fireplace, a handful of chopped wood, a few simple benches, and not much else. The windows didn’t have glass and were shuttered tightly; it was gloomy and hard to see as a result. Altaïr moved to the hearth to set about starting a fire.
Desmond wordlessly sat on the dirt floor and pushed back his hood, using one sleeve to wipe water off of his face.
“Take off your cloak and bring it over here,” Altaïr said. He gestured with his head to the bench. “The fire will dry it.”
“Oh. Yeah, right.” Desmond did as he said. He also took off his hood, then went back and sat back down.
By then, Mario and Ezio had secured the horses and joined them within. Mario was loudly complaining about how the summer storms made his bones ache.
“Perhaps it’s a sign that you should retire,” Ezio suggested dryly. He set the saddle bags down and started bringing out enough food rations for a meal: cheese, bread, dried meats.
“Hah! I will retire when the Lord himself will tell me to do so.” Still, when Mario sat heavily by the fire he groaned in exaggeration. Altaïr, still tending to the fire, ignored this. Instead, he used a free hand to push back his hood and run a hand through his short-cropped hair, as if to banish any remaining moisture.
“Here you go, cub,” Ezio said, and handed Desmond an allotment of dinner rations, gathered together in a small napkin. Desmond thanked him quietly. “Uncle, do you want-- What is it, what’s wrong?”
But Mario was looking at Altaïr with such a look of intensity that it was almost startling, so completely at odds with how he’d been acting a few moments earlier. Altaïr was returning his gaze steadily, unflinching.
Desmond’s stomach dropped.
“...Where are you from, again?” Mario finally asked, voice low.
“Masyaf,” Altaïr said, his smile like a knife.
Shit. Shit, Desmond knew they couldn’t keep it a secret forever.
Mario’s face went white as a sheet, his posture rigid. Ezio went quickly to his side and kneeled, gripping the older man’s shoulder. “What? Mario, what is it?”
“You should be dead,” Mario said. He didn’t look away from Altaïr.
Ezio shook his head, uncomprehending. Desmond didn’t move.
“I have heard that before.” Altaïr shrugged. To Ezio, he said, “I must apologize. My name is not Aquila.”
“He’s Altaïr,” Mario breathed, grabbing his nephew by the shoulders with a slightly crazy look on his face. “The Altaïr. From the crusades. The legendary Mentor!”
“No,” Ezio said. He looked to Altaïr, then back to his uncle, then at Desmond. Desmond gulped. Ezio turned back to his uncle, “No, he can’t be. Are you?”
“Well, I am not a mentor anymore. But yes, I am.” The not-anymore-mentor tipped his head in greeting. Satisfied with the fire, he calmly went to sit beside Desmond.
Ezio was still looking at Altaïr in disbelief. Mario was starting to look like someone who’d randomly found a pot of gold under his bed. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Altaïr,” Ezio said.
“Yes,” Mario breathed.
“Altaïr ibn La’Ahad?” Ezio said, incredulous.
“Yes,” Altaïr ibn La’Ahad said.
The fire crackled merrily.
“But… that means you would be hundreds of years old!” Ezio exclaimed.
“If I say unto a man, be kind, be tolerant, be of an open mind-- these words will wither and die long before they've affected change. It would be a waste. And so we must maintain our course,” Altaïr recited. In response, Desmond squinted. Was he… was he quoting his own fucking codex?13.9
“I--” Ezio began.
Altaïr interrupted him, “How naïve to believe there might be a single answer to every question. Every mystery. That there exists a lone divine light which rules over all. They say it is a light that brings truth and love. I say it is a light that blinds us-- and forces us to stumble about in ignorance.”13.10
Ezio’s face went slack, the color slowly draining from it. He took one shaky step forward, then another. Then he didn’t sit so much as collapse, his knees giving out from under him. Desmond didn’t know what to say, so he handed over a waterskin; Ezio drank gratefully.
It took a conscious effort for Desmond to relax his shoulders from where they’d jumped up to his ears. At one point, he’d clenched his hands and thoroughly crushed his dinner into a weird mess of crumbs. Which was fine, okay, whatever.
“...I believe that I’m wearing your armor,” Ezio said after he finally came up for air, voice faint.
“You are,” Altaïr said, without malice.
“Your sword, as well,” Ezio began to fumble with his belt, fingers clumsy. “It belongs to you, I--”
“Ezio.” It was the first time that Altaïr had said the man’s first name. As a result, Ezio froze, but Altaïr merely shook his head, expression wry. “Keep it. You would get more use out of all of it than I would.”
“But how?” Ezio asked. He gestured generally towards Altaïr, still holding the waterskin.
Altaïr understood what he meant. “There is such a thing as… overuse, I suppose, when it comes to technology left by Those Who Came Before. There are consequences we cannot even begin to imagine. I suppose this is one of them.”
“Immortality?” Mario asked, incredulous.
“Stasis,” Altaïr sharply corrected.
That… sounded bad, Desmond wasn’t gonna lie. No other way to put it. Desmond knew better than almost anyone how much precursor tech could fuck you up. Just look at him!
What did “stasis” even mean? Did Altaïr even know all the details? Did he have any way of finding out, or did he just have to deal with the consequences?
Altaïr being there, alive, meant that the precursors essentially fucked him over. Right? Same as Desmond?
(But Altaïr wasn’t as bad, emotions-wise, as Desmond. So what was wrong with Desmond? Why was he still fucked up?)
(Why did he still feel like a failure, half the time?)
Desmond eyed the eagle head of the sword pommel. The white seemed to glow in the firelight. If that was the same sword from Altaïr’s youth, why didn’t he want it back? Wasn’t it like, important to him? At least a little? The details were all fuzzy. It felt… wrong for him to refuse it, but Desmond couldn’t articulate why.
It was just weird. Was he imagining it?
(He didn’t think he was.)
Footnotes
13.1 The “red crosses” are, weirdly enough, based on a historical thing. In his diary, Luca Landucci notes several instances where young boys wearing white carried these little red crosses, made of wood, usually in a religious procession. Which, what? Hello? Which they only started doing because Savonarola saw this in a “vision”!!!! Hello?? I would say savonarola should have been less of a freak, but then he wouldn’t be this interesting to read about tbh! Return to Text
Weinstein, Donald (2011). Savonarola: The Rise and Fall of the Renaissance Prophet. Yale University Press, pg 137.
De Rosen Jervis, Alice (1927). A Florentine Diary from 1450 to 1516 by Luca Landucci Continued by an Anonymous Writer till 1542 with Notes by Iodoco del Badia. London, J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., pages 104 and 121.
13.2 This detail is also from Luca Landucci’s diary. For all i talk about Landucci, the guy was a BIG fan of savonarola up until his downfall. He has a lot of references to how the outbreak is there to judge the city. He says, on page 122, “At the same time there was weakness, which caused the poor to be indifferent as to another trouble, the spiritual discouragement and physical dying; and numbers of them did die, in fact. Everyone said: "This is an honest plague.” Which, okay. Sure, Luca. Return to Text
13.3 What it says on the tin, basically! General consensus was that stink brought along illness. Which, i can see how they believed that? If i didnt know about bacteria, i might also think that. Which, to be clear, THIS IS WHY there were laws in Florence against poorly dug latrines!
Pomanders were little metal ball containers that held a smaller ball of perfume-y materials. The word “pomander” can be used to separately describe BOTH the container or the materials within. Among other things, they could be worn hanging from belts or as necklaces. Per Byrne, “Perfume vendors, apothecaries, and goldsmiths sold these as prophylactics against plague and other diseases, since belief was that the odor purified plague-tainted air.”
Here’s a funky little pomander diagram, and here’s some 1575 art of a Venetian lady with a pomander at the end of her belt. Return to Text
13.4 “friar’s boys” is another reference to the weirdly intense Savonarolan youth group that runs around wearing white and holding the red crosses and shaming florence into acting more pious. From Landucci, pg 121. Return to Text
13.5 Horse races used to be a wayyyy bigger thing in italy during the middle ages and renaissance. Races in general used to be a huge form of entertainment! The florentine palio specifically always took place once a year on June 24. That was/is the feast day of St. John the Baptist, the city’s patron saint. It was a big time for celebrations, a time for guilds to show off their merchandise, a time for a big religious procession, plus another big procession specifically for political representatives, and ALSO Ezio’s birthday! The florence palio itself was run the evening of the 24th. Everybody in town would dress in their finest clothes and line up along the route to go nuts as the horses passed by. The start of the race always began with three tolls of the big bell atop the Palazzo della Signoria (now called the Palazzo Vecchio). Return to Text
The Sienna palio still happens every year! Rick Steves has a great youtube video about it that’s only a few minutes long.
Dean, Trevor. The Towns of Italy in the Later Middle Ages (Manchester University Press, 2000), pages 72-74.
But also, the pages I mostly referred to contain an excerpt from: C. Guasti, Le feste di San Giovanni Batista in Firenze descritte in prose e in rima da contemporanei (Florence, 1884), pp. 4–8.
13.6 This is true! He had it cancelled for 2 consecutive years. 1495 and 1496 i think? On 11 June 1497, Landucci wrote that the Signoria decided to go ahead with the race that year, despite ol’ Savvy’s dislike of it: “The palio of Santo Barnabax was run, which had not been run for years in Florence, on account of the prophet's sermons. This Signoria decided to allow it to take place, and no longer pay attention to the warnings of the Frate, saying: "Let us cheer up the people a little; are we all to become monks?"” (Landucci, pg 122). Return to Text
13.7 One of the things i'm not really translating for convenience's sake, so that readers immediately understand that Des is calling Altaïr his dad in a way that is very notably Not Italian. I can’t decide if i want Des to use “Baba” or “Abbu” tbh? I also couldn’t find if there was a slightly more regional specific word that kids used for their dads in northwestern Syria. Return to Text
13.8 In general, it was not safe to travel in renaissance italy!!!! Think of every story you’ve heard about medieval people getting robbed by bandits while traveling in the countryside, PLUS a freakishly high amount of road rolls and fees. Now just… superimpose all those stories onto italy. Yeehaw! Return to Text
13.9 From page 18 of Altaïr’s codex, available here. Return to Text
13.10 From page 20 of Altaïr’s codex, available here. Return to Text