the blossoms of Rosa in Fiore
Ezio listlessly tromped down the stairs to the palazzo’s ground floor. Taline had drifted off to fitful sleep and he didn’t trust himself to lie in bed beside her and not to take her while she was still half asleep but responsive, barely able to resist evoking that delicious low moan she made when his cock slid deep inside her. It was wrong to take advantage of her like that, but santo Dio, the thought of it alone was almost enough to make him bagnarsi. Fucking pathetic,Ezione. So fucking pathetic. He didn’t feel like returning to the dining room to visit with his mother and Lucia because he desperately needed a bit of distance from his sister, which left him with his mother’s whores for company. The brothel was quiet; midafternoon was still rather early for the working girls. He headed towards the salon for a drink.
“Fetch me a snifter and a decanter of good French brandy, the oldest Armagnac we’ve got,” he ordered one of the girls as he slumped into an armchair and propped a foot against the gilded edge of the low table in front of it.
“I beg your pardon?” the young woman responded with a haughty sniff and a critical look at his admittedly disheveled and underdressed appearance – he’d barely bothered to lace up his boots, his shirt was only partially tucked in and his suspenders were clearly visible, he hadn’t bothered at all with a waistcoat and his hair was haphazardly pulled back. “We don’t serve tramps. How’d you manage to get past the doorman? Please leave before I’m forced to call for someone to throw you out.”
His eyes narrowed. She had mousy brown hair and hazel eyes, a rather thick, short neck, a decent enough bust to waist to hip ratio, but rounded, sloping shoulders. She had the thick ankles of a peasant and her mouth was pursed in a decidedly unattractive manner. Great. A Magdalene girl from the country. Christ Almighty Mother, another charity case?
“You must be new here-” he started as he got to his feet.
“Messere Ezio!” Filomena barked as she bustled up to him. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you upstairs with the Madonna?”
“Signora,” he greeted her with an affectionate hug and kisses to both cheeks. The snooty young woman, he noticed from the corner of his eye as he embraced Filomena, looked a little nervous at the older woman’s warm and familiar greeting. “I would, but I needed a bit of a break from my sister – you know how Mari gets.”
Filomena laughed and playfully swatted his bottom. “I know how you both can get – naughty boy – where is your wife? The Madonna said you were bringing her here for Holy Week.”
“She’s upstairs, resting. It was a long trip, and the baby makes her tired.” He grinned at the older woman in front of him. Filomena had helped run the brothel as his mother’s left hand since before he could remember. She’d been like a second mother to him and Mari when they were growing up. It was Filomena they’d run to for protection and comfort when his parents fought and Fredo wasn’t home, Filomena who’d helped his mother nurse him back to health after he’d been so badly burned on that early contract, and Filomena whom he’d told first when he’d met Cristina.
“Baby? What baby?” Her warm brown eyes sharpened with interest. He noticed the other girls had casually drifted closer and quieter to better overhear their conversation.
“My baby,” he announced proudly, well aware that he was grinning like an idiot. “She’s four months pregnant, Mamma-Mena.”
Filomena’s exclamation of delight was echoed by his mother’s other girls who’d worked at the brothel long enough to know who he was.
“Orsina! Stop standing there like a sack of grain and get the Madonna’s son a drink,” she commanded as she exuberantly pinched his cheek. “A grandchild! Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto. Oh, Bello, your mother must be so pleased!”
“She is, very pleased. So much so in fact that she’s even being civil to Uncle Mario,” he laughed. “They were both on their best behavior during lunch – Taline might even think that they like each other.”
“Taline is your wife?” Filomena asked as she motioned for him to resume his seat in the armchair and settled on the edge of the low table. “Such an unusual name. Tell us about her – what is she like, where did you meet?”
“Not all that unusual in Yerevan, I don’t think – my wife is Armenian,” he replied with a purposeful shrug to emphasize how little Taline’s ethnicity mattered to him as he slouched back into the armchair he’d claimed, suddenly feeling more comfortable and at home than he had since arriving in Roma. Filomena’s unconditionally affectionate attention warmed parts of his soul that he hadn’t even noticed felt cold and neglected until that moment. He propped a foot against the gilded edge of the low table in front of his chair, flashed his mother’s girls a sly smile and adopted a faux-casual drawl.
“She’s a pretty little thing, really a beautiful girl,” he hummed, smile widening as the girls drew closer to listen. The attention felt good. “And! She’s smart too – they have her teaching advanced mathematics and Turkish back at Alamūt,” he boasted, drinking in the admiration of his mother’s harem, sitting up straighter and speaking faster as his excitement at their positive responses to his bragging over Taline grew. “She’s really great with kids, all of her student adore her! She’s going to be a wonderful mother; she wants me to give her many children.”
“She sounds lovely,” Violetta Milani commented with a guarded smile. She was still wearing a non-descript day dress and sensible flat shoes with just a touch of color to her lips. She must have just gotten in, she’s never not dressed to the teeth when she’s working. She also happened to be a member of the Order; he and Violetta were the same age and had forged their blades together.
“Will you introduce her to us this evening, Maestro?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, more likely,” he replied carefully, suddenly reminded that, as members of the Order themselves, some of his mother’s whores would be aware of the greater ramifications of his hasty marriage. “It might be a bit busy, and overwhelming for her down here this evening, and-”
“She doesn’t speak a word of Italian,” Filomena finished for him, taking the snifter and decanter Orsina had returned with. “Does she?”
“She’s learned a little-”
“The various ways you can say blowjob, I’m sure,” Piera Russo, another member of the Order whom he’d known for years, teased with a smile. “And a few other choice phrases, maybe, but nothing useful in conversation – or polite society.”
Piera was already dressed for the evening’s work – elaborate lingerie and a sheer black negligee trimmed with white feathers, heeled boudoir slippers and about a gallon of heavy vanilla scent.
“I wasn’t aware that this counted as polite society,” he retorted, motioning for Filomena to pour him a drink. “Besides, teaching her Italian hasn’t been at the top of my list of priorities since I’ve been reassigned to Alamūt.”
Filomena froze in the act of handing him his drink, brows drawing together in a frown. “What’s this, Ezio?” A quick glance around at the faces of the other girls revealed their surprise at the news as well.
Apparently Mother didn’t tell them. He was sure she would have at least have told Filomena. A sudden feeling of unease prickled across his skin, raising the hair down the back of his neck.
“Does your mother know?” Filomena asked, frown deepening at his hesitation.
“Of course she knows,” he blustered, reaching one hand up to massage the tension out of the back of his neck before it gave him a headache. “Mother always knows what goes on in my life, sometimes even before I do.” Porca Madonna! He scoured his memory trying to recall if he’d actually sent the news of his reassignment to his mother himself, or if he’d just assumed that Altaïr had told her. He couldn’t remember. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!
“Ezio…” she said warningly, tapping a short, unvarnished fingernail against the delicate Venetian glass snifter she was holding.
“What?” he protested, widening his eyes innocently. “You of all people should know my mother always knows everything – it’s practically occult. Christ, I need that drink!”
“You’re going to need more than this drink if you haven’t told her yourself, Ezio Cyrus Auditore,” Filomena replied with a pointed look as she handed over the glass of brandy. “Even an entire heavenly host won’t be enough to protect you from her wrath if she had to hear that news from your uncle.”
He winced at her use of his full name – he was pretty sure that calling someone by their full name was some sort of internationally recognized code for you are about to be in so much serious trouble – and drained his glass in a single gulp. It wasn’t his reassignment that would upset his mother –being a Master of Alamūt was far more prestigious than simply being a Master of Roma, and she would, of course, relish the bragging rights and excuse for more frequent visits to her childhood home – what would incite her fury is if his uncle had been told first. He still couldn’t fully wrap his brain around the subtleties of his mother’s contentious relationship with his uncle. Thinking about the minefield he was inevitably going to be navigating between them all week made his head hurt.
“Another,” he demanded, holding his glass out to be refilled.
“Christ, Ezio,” Violetta said with a shake of her head, causing a starburst of reflected light to skitter across the ceiling as her sparkling chandelier earrings caught a shaft of sunlight. “It’s midafternoon. You’ll be out as a balcony before sundown if you keep drinking like that.”
He groaned. “It takes a lot more than two drinks to get me drunk. Mena, please, pour me another.”
“One more, and then you’re done until the evening meal,” Filomena grudgingly allowed as she poured a generous measure of brandy into his glass.
He flashed her one of his most charming smiles as he slouched back into the armchair and took an appreciative sip; he loved the taste of Armagnac. It felt a little strange to be sipping brandy in the brothel’s salon. He had usually gone out to drink when he’d lived in Roma – to bars or clubs with his fellow Assassins – or he’d stayed in, with Cristina, and they’d finish a bottle of wine between them. He missed that. I should have gotten Taline tipsy before she got pregnant; I bet she’d be adorable drunk. And it might help her – he stopped himself right there and took a hasty swallow of brandy to cover the color he could feel creeping across his cheeks.
“So, you’re bringing your wife down to meet everyone tomorrow afternoon?” Filomena pressed.
“Yeah,” he shrugged, his excitement suddenly flagging as he thought about how Taline might react to being introduced to a room full of his mother’s whores. “Maybe even tonight, before dinner, if she feels up to it.”
The rude girl – Orsina – was standing off to the side, perfectly still and obviously straining to catch every word being said, rounded shoulders hunched like she was trying to avoid being noticed. Which struck him as decidedly odd, because none of the other girls showed the least bit of compunction in delighting over his presence and the gossip he was spilling, even the ones he had no idea whatsoever who they were. He willed his eyes to slip into the second sight to look deeper. She was a flat matte gray – no magic in her blood then, how strange that Mother took her on – her aura as unremarkable as her physical looks, except for the thin red line outlining her which was so unexpected it immediately caught his attention. A spy. His body tensed, it mattered less who she was spying for than what she had managed to learn, and share, so far.
“Mena,” he said, keeping his tone light and teasing. “How long has that new girl been here? What was her name, Orsina?” The girl jolted at being singled out and a mottled blotchy blush swept up her face as a few of the other girls cast backwards glances at her. “With those ears, she can’t be good for business-” He lifted his free hand and tensed it just enough so that the tip of his blade protruded from his sleeve.
Filomena’s eyes flicked to his blade and then away again quickly as she shifted slightly to cross her legs. He could tell from the way the other Assassins around him shifted their weight that they had seen his signal as well. His blade slid softly back into its sheath.
“-to say nothing of her face and figure,” he continued smoothly, stifling a flash of guilt at his own purposefully casual cruelty. “And she’s sharp tongued. What red-blooded man wants to pay to fuck that?”
Filomena clucked her tongue reprovingly as the other working girls tittered at his scathing comments. Apparently Orsina hasn’t made many friends, he noted. Good. A socially isolated spy was far less dangerous than a well-connected one.
“She’s still new,” Filomena disingenuously protested, silencing the bystanders with a distracted wave of her hand. “But, of course you must be right, Messere. What do you suggest we do with her?” She pressed her thumb against the brand on her ring finger and the brothel’s Assassins began drifting towards Orsina at the signal, who finally looked like she was beginning to suspect something more was being exchanged between them.
Not a very good spy then, no formal training. That narrows down who she could be working for. He settled back into the chair in an indolent slouch and took another sip of brandy. Christ on a cross, this is a good vintage. I’ll have to make sure to take a couple bottles along to Lucca, take the edge off of Nana Claudia’s ‘hospitality.’
“It’s got to be bad for business to have her working the floor. Maybe keep her out of sight until my mother and uncle decide what to do with her?” he suggested with a disinterested-seeming shrug.
“As you desire.” Filomena’s smile was merciless. “Escort Orsina to her room, Piera… and make sure you lock her in.”
“Signora, no, wait! I already have a client scheduled for this evening,” Orsina protested, struggling against Piera’s iron grip on her upper arm.
“And I’m sure our Violetta will take very good care of him, won’t you dear?” Filomena hummed.
“The very, very best,” Violetta confirmed with a wide smile. “I’ll give him a la petite mort he’ll never, ever forget.”
Orsina’s eyes widened and Ezio smiled into his glass of brandy. “There’s a Magdalen convent, in San Marino, that shelters unfortunates; they might be persuaded to take her in. I somehow doubt that her family would welcome home a fallen woman, especially a failed one at that.”
“As you desire, Maestro,” Filomena replied, lips pressed into a hard, disapproving hyphen.
Piera managed to subdue Orsina with remarkably little fuss. She’d have put up a lot more of a fight if she had any idea what’s really in store for her, especially if she doesn’t tell them everything they want to know fast enough. His uncle was not an especially patient man, and his mother’s limited understanding of mercy was largely academic. He took another sip of brandy and wondered what had happened to him that he didn’t feel more sorry for her. I guess I grew up and learned that the world is cruel.
“It isn’t like Mother to be so careless,” he observed carefully, feigning absorption in the way the light reflected off the surface of the brandy sloshing around in his glass.
“She’s had a lot on her mind since you’ve been away,” Filomena replied, absently toying with one of her earrings. “La Donna Claudia has been making trouble for her again.”
He huffed an unamused laugh. “Nana Claudia lives on trouble and spite.” And unicorn blood, he mentally added but there was no need to tell Filomena about that.
“She’s been trying to take possession of the palazzo away from your mother. She’s threatening to take the Madonna to the kuffār courts, which would make things very difficult for the bordello; she wants to evict her – and, by extension, us – from the family home.”
“And Uncle Mario is permitting this latest madness to run unchecked?” he demanded. “The last thing the Order wants is to invite kuffār scrutiny, which is exactly what Nana Claudia’s scheme is going to do.”
“He hasn’t done much to stop her.”
He knocked back the remainder of his brandy and slammed the empty glass on the table. Filomena silently refilled it. So much for cutting me off at two drinks. Not that he was complaining.
“I’ll ask Uncle for the deed to the palazzo as a wedding present. Once the house is in my name Nana Claudia won’t have any excuse to try to claim it. And, once this house is legally mine, I decide who lives here and how it is used,” he finished grimly. “I still can’t believe Father didn’t make sure Mother would have adequate provision upon his death – and least for the sake of his children, if nothing else. What sort of man is that neglectful of his duty as a husband, as a father?”
“A very poor one,” Filomena replied, lifting his glass of brandy to her lips and drinking deeply. She topped it off again and handed it back to him. “I’m sorry, Bello. I shouldn’t speak of your father like that. God have mercy on his black-hearted soul.” She perfunctorily crossed herself.
“Why not?” he asked sourly as he reflexively crossed himself as well. “You’re only speaking the truth.”
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est,” she warned him solemnly.
Of the dead nothing but good is to be said. He harrumphed under his breath and took another drink.
“Take your time with that one; I’m not pouring you another,” she scolded with a hint of a smile as she stood and took the decanter with her.
He hummed in response and tilted his head back to study the ceiling frescos he knew so well; nubile nymphs and satyrs and attractive youths of both genders all intertwined together in bacchanalian revelry. Looks like my kind of party. Filomena, he’d noticed, had melted away; probably to inform his mother of the spy he’d uncovered. It felt good to imagine how pleased she’d be with him. That takes care of one half of the problem. Now to see to the other.
“Violetta,” he murmured, beckoning her over.
“Yes, Maestro?” Violetta replied coyly, lips parting in a practiced smile as she alighted on his lap.
I should tell her to sit somewhere else. The problem was, he liked the feeling of her on his lap – the warm solid weight and scent of a woman’s skin so close to his nose and mouth, practically begging to be tasted. He thought of Taline, asleep in his bed upstairs, and his body stirred in response. Down,Ezione, not now. He glanced around the room and noticed the way the other girls, now joined by a couple of early clients, were watching them. He reached up and toyed with one of Violetta’s spangled earrings, drawing her head down closer to his own.
“Find out what you can from Orsina’s client, but make sure he gets a taste of your blade before he leaves. Nothing too deep; we don’t want to bring trouble to my mother’s door. Let the taint take care of him for us, yeah?” he murmured, stroking the side of his thumb down the back of her neck. They were in a brothel, after all; letting the other patrons assume he was just one of them trying to reach terms with one of the girls was an easy enough cover for their real business.
“As you desire, Maestro.” Her hand dropped to his lap to push herself up; the placement was not accidental. Down,Ezione.
“Ezio?”
Cazzo. He bolted fully upright and Violetta was forced to precipitously dismount from his lap. This probably looks really bad. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo! He couldn’t decide if it would be better to act like nothing untoward had happened, or address what his wife might have thought she’d seen directly. Taline was standing in the doorway, the light, short-sleeved dress she was wearing revealed the bruise encircling her upper arm where he’d gripped her too tightly a few nights before; he felt awful every time he saw it. She finally was starting to look pregnant, skin glowing and dewy, plump breasts swelling above the front of her dress, and the rounded outline of her belly just barely visible beneath her clothing. He felt guilty for finding her being pregnant so erotic.
“Taline! Hey, Mogliettina, why aren’t you upstairs? Did you have a nice nap?” he asked, nearly all in the same breath, as he made his way over to her. Safer to wait and see if she asks what Violetta and I were doing, he decided. Coward, his sister’s voice jeered from the back of his mind. It was easier to ignore it.
Taline’s brow furrowed with confusion and he belatedly realized that he’d spoken to her in Italian. Mentally cursing his slip, he repeated himself in Arabic as he reached for her. She flinched when his arm slid around her waist, before leaning into his embrace. He hoped no one else had noticed that flinch.
“I couldn’t find you, Varpet, and I felt frightened,” she murmured, latching on to him, the fabric of his shirt twisted tightly between her fingers. “I didn’t know where you had gone, and Mari wouldn’t tell me.”
He bit back a frustrated sigh. Figlio di buona donna!
“I just came downstairs for a drink; say hello to Filomena and some of my mother’s girls. I wasn’t gone for very long, bellissima, and I was coming right back. I wanted to let you sleep a little,” he explained carefully. The last thing he wanted was for her to start crying in front of his mother’s girls, especially with that bruise on her arm. “Mari wasn’t rude to you, was she?”
“Our conversation was brief.”
Which means yes. What the fucking hell did Mari say to her this time?
“Ezio.” Filomena approached them with a welcoming smile. “Is this your woman?” she asked in hesitant and awkward Arabic.
Of course she wouldn’t know the word for wife, he realized with a rush of affection, appreciative that Filomena was trying to use a language she knew Taline could understand. I’m sure that’s not a word my mother uses very often.
“Yeah,” he beamed. “This is my wife. Taline, it is my honor to present Filomena Bulgari, my mother’s Solak here in the bordello. Mena practically raised me and Mari,” he flashed an affectionate smile at the older woman and tightened his grip around Taline’s waist. “Mena, this is my wife, Taline Auditore, and this” – he grinned, spaying his hand across the swell of her belly – “is our child.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Khanum,” Filomena said in Arabic, bowing her head slightly with a smile. “She’s lovely, Bello,” she continued in Italian. “And far too young and innocent for the likes of you,” she teased with a knowing wink.
Taline glanced up at him questioningly and pressed herself more tightly against his side. She looked unsettlingly young, vulnerable, as she returned his smile.
“It is my honor to meet you…” Taline hesitated, cheeks flushing prettily.
“Signora,” he supplied. Taline had done well, so far, navigating the myriad titles the Order used, which were complicated enough within Alamūt, but also varied widely between the Order’s many branches. Her almost chameleon-like ability to integrate herself never failed to impress him.
“Signora,” she repeated with a bright smile at Filomena. How quickly she improved with Italian pronunciations was also impressive. She’s quite a natural mimic.
Filomena smiled. “What a charming girl,” she commented approvingly in Italian to him. “Let’s get her upstairs before something untoward happens, shall we?” She reminded Ezio of a mother hen, protectively spreading her wings and ruffling her feathers, as she ushered them towards the door. “I’ll ask the servants for a bowl of beef stock as well, something to bring some color back into her cheeks.”
“We had Ribollita for lunch-” he protested.
Filomena harrumphed. “Ribollita is too busy for a woman with pregnancy nausea; she’s far better off with plain, nourishing food.”
He swallowed a sudden wave of guilt as he remembered how often Taline had asked for oatmeal over the last several months. Plain, nourishing food. He felt like an idiot for not making the connection himself. There was a faint trace of resentment to the guilt, and it made him feel even guiltier.
“How can you tell she’s been having trouble with nausea?” he asked, casting a quick, reassuring smile at Taline. Her answering smile was beautiful.
“She’s awfully thin,” Filomena said with an appraising glance towards his wife. “And her cheeks look a little swollen, which isn’t uncommon when a person has been vomiting regularly.”
Taline’s smile dimmed at Filomena’s disapproving tone and she clung to him more tightly. He tightened his grip, rubbing soothing circles into her side with his thumb and mentally rattled off a quick prayer to Saint Margaret of Antioch, patron saint of pregnant women, that his wife didn’t start crying in front of Filomena – or worse still, his mother.
“Mena’s going to order you some broth, Mogliettina,” he informed her as he gently ushered her into the family parlor, on the palazzo’s third floor. Taline’s cheeks glowed from the exertion of going up three flights of stairs.
“What sort of broth?” Taline asked doubtfully. “Not fish, I hope?”
“Beef,” Filomena reassured her. “You could do with the iron, I think.” She patted Taline’s cheek affectionately, tactfully overlooking the way his wife startled at the contact. “Ezio, summon an elf.”
He rolled his eyes as he complied and stamped for an elf. It arrived promptly, before he’d taken two steps toward the loveseat Taline had perched on the edge of. Filomena gave it low-voiced instructions – not that he was really paying attention – as he collapsed on the cushions beside his wife and hauled her into his lap.
“For pity’s sake, E-zo,” Lucia exclaimed in Italian as she came into the room. “She’s not a ventriloquist’s dummy – let the poor girl sit on her own.” Filomena hummed in agreement, fanning the spark of irritation he felt at Lucia’s comment.
“Speak Arabic, Lu,” he commanded to cover his annoyance that, with the exceptions of Filomena and his mother, the women in his life seemed practically determined to be rude to his wife. He belatedly remembered that Kadija wasn’t rude to Taline either. So just Mari and Lucia, really. It was still too many.
“Christ, Ezio. Mari wasn’t exaggerating when she said you were touchy about her,” Lucia replied – in Arabic – and he really wished she hadn’t as he felt Taline’s body stiffen against him. Lucia smiled at them sweetly.
“Stop trying to make trouble, Lucia,” his mother reprimanded her from the doorway. He was hardly surprised his mother had come to find him – really, it was only a matter of time before she tracked him down – but he half held his breath waiting to see if his sister would come through the door behind her, sighing in relief when it became clear that his mother arrived alone. Thank god in his infinite mercy for that. Taline squirmed off of his lap as Maria entered the room. He stifled an aggravated sigh and compromised by draping her legs across his lap to help camouflage the effect her proximity had upon him. Like an animal in rut, Kadija had said. God-in-heaven, he resented that comment. His mother smiled like a sphinx as she practically glided across the room to tuck an extra pillow behind Taline’s back.
“Thank you, Madonna,” Taline murmured shyly as his mother alighted on the settee beside the loveseat; Filomena took her seat at his mother’s left hand. Both women smiled serenely at his wife; Lucia smothered a cough against her forearm and leaned against the ornately carved marble mantel of the fireplace.
An elf came through the door bearing a tray laden with a large, shallow bowl of broth and a crisply folded linen napkin, which it presented to Taline. She cast a quick, questioning glance at him and he tipped him chin encouragingly as he picked up the napkin and draped it over her lap before handing her the bowl of broth. She hesitated, glancing over at Filomena and his mother, before taking her first sip. He sighed and leaned back into the couch’s overstuffed cushions, distractedly caressing Taline’s calves and ankles; he loved how shapely and delicate her legs were and hoped pregnancy didn’t rob her of her phenomenal figure. He knew it was a silly, shallow thing for him to dwell on, but after all the judgment and pity and shame he’d had to put up with over the last year, he felt entitled to hope for something a little shallow. He hated the faint twinge of guilt he felt at the thought.
“You really must buy her some more practical shoes, mio tesoro,” his mother admonished in Arabic. “You shouldn’t be wearing such tall heels any further in your pregnancy, Taline, you’ll hurt your ankles and damage your feet. And it could be very dangerous to the baby if you were to trip and fall.”
“Yes, Madonna,” his wife dutifully replied, eyes downcast and chastened.
“Mother-” he started warningly.
She cut him off with a sharp gesture, her silence wrapping tightly around his vocal cords. “Don’t interrupt me, Ezio. I know I raised you with better manners than that,”she said coolly, a disapproving half-smile curving her lips as she spoke; the sight of that smile always gave him chills and made his backside sting, even though it had been years since he’d been disciplined like that. He loved his mother, really, but he hated how easily she could make him feel like a powerless child again, and in front of his wife, no less. “I’ll have an elf fetch her a few pairs of časbaks,” she decreed, fingers curling as she cast the release.
“Thank you, Madonna,” Taline murmured.
He pointedly cleared his throat. “That’s not necessary, Mother. I’m more than capable of providing for my own wife-”
“Are you trying to tell me that I am not allowed to give my daughter-in-law gifts?” his mother cut across him, tone dangerously silky.
“No, that’s not-”
“Good, because I’m getting her some sensible shoes, as gifts,” his mother leveled a wide, disingenuous smile at Taline; his mother never had good intentions when she smiled like that. “To make her visit to Roma as enjoyable as possible.”
“Of course, Madonna,” Lucia piped up. “I’m sure that’s what we all want. I’d be happy to show you around, Taline. It would be a good opportunity for me to practice my Turkish.”
“Surely you’re too busy to have much time to show my wife the sights,” Ezio protested. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but some instinct was telling him that it was a very bad idea to leave Lucia alone with his wife. Not that I’m afraid of what she might tell her, Lu wouldn’t betray me like that.
“Hardly,” Lucia replied grimly. “Your uncle hasn’t given me any work since you’ve been gone.”
“Enough, Lucia,” Filomena reprimanded her sharply in Italian. “Ezio’s only just arrived, and this is how you welcome him? With guilt and accusations? Hold your tongue and sweeten your tone.”
Lucia’s mouth twisted as she averted her eyes, pointedly staring at the empty grate in the fireplace in front of her, shoulders assuming a familiar, defensive angle. He felt incredibly guilty that he hadn’t done more to help her with his uncle since he’d been away.
“Peace, Filomena,” his mother admonished softly as she watched his wife with piercing dark eyes.
Taline had set aside the broth and drawn closer to him, seemingly desperate for reassurance of some sort. He slid his arm around her shoulders, cuddled her close, and allowed himself to briefly fantasize about making love to her later that evening on the very couch they currently occupied. He almost stole a kiss, but thought better of doing so in front of such an audience at the last moment; he did allow himself another quick caress of her calves.
“Yes, Madonna,” Taline dutifully murmured, shifting in preparation to leave his arms, jolting his attention back to the conversation around him.
“What’s this?” he demanded irritably as she slithered out of his grasp.
“I’m sending Mari to collect a book for me from that old Turkish bookseller in the wizarding district,” his mother replied. “I thought it might be more interesting for Taline if she accompanied her than to just sit here while we discuss the Order’s business; the Grandmaster should be with us any minute.” Maria struck the heel of one of her embroidered velvet pāpūš against the floor to summon an elf. “Besides, there’s always a chance that old scoundrel will be less inclined to try to cheat me if he has to do so in his own language.”
“I will do my best, Madonna,” Taline promised, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as an elf appeared in response to his mother’s summons.
“Bring my daughter here,” Maria commanded. The elf salaamed deeply and vanished, only to reappear again a moment later with a disgruntled Mari in tow. His sister’s cheeks were flushed, eyes oddly glassy, and her hair and clothing looked a little disheveled. He wondered what she had been doing right before their mother’s elf spirited her away. Surely not drinking, alone, so early in the day, he thought. Perhaps she was napping. It was the most comfortable explanation for her appearance.
He took the opportunity to draw Taline back towards himself as his mother gave Mari unnecessarily detailed instructions on retrieving the particular books she had ordered.
“You don’t have to go, Mogliettina,” he murmured. “Everyone would understand if you wanted to stay and drink more broth or rest.”
“I’ll be fine, Varpet,” she replied, tone tempered low. “I’d like to see some of Rome, and it’s always nice to get to use my Turkish.” She smiled and kissed his cheek. “I want to be useful to your mother.”
He slitted a look towards his lady mother. Of course you want to be helpful, and she sure as hell knows it. Maria smiled at him, almost as though she knew what he was thinking. His sister looked even more disgruntled than when she had arrived; interacting with their mother usually seemed to have that effect.
“You could send anyone,” she protested. “Lucia could go. Why do I have to play nursemaid and tour guide?”
He wished Mari had said that in Italian as he watched his wife blink back tears. Santo Dio, please don’t let her start crying. Taline startled briefly when her drew her into his arms before she leaned into the embrace, limp and unresisting.
“You are going because I told you to do so,” Maria snapped. “And you will behave courteously towards your brother’s wife and treat her with respect, at the very least, if you remain incapable of affection. Do you understand me, daughter?”
“Yes, Mother,” Mari replied, tone hard-edged and resentful.
He knew his mother meant well, but ordering his sister to be nice to Taline was only going to make things worse; now Mari was going to be even more awful out of defiance and spite. He was beginning to regret not learning at least a little Armenian while he’d been away; in hindsight it was a completely squandered opportunity. Taline flashed him a watery smile; he slid a comforting arm around her waist and drew her closer as he prepared to summon an elf.
One of his mother’s elves appeared before his heel had a chance to strike the floor. It was carrying sweaters for Taline and Mari. Positively occult.
“Make sure to keep Taline away from the kuffār fascists,” Maria instructed, leveling a stern look at Mari. “Things have gotten much uglier with them since your last visit to Roma.” She then turned to Taline with a smile, ignoring Mari’s stormy scowl. “Enjoy yourself, and keep an eye on that merchant. He’s a slippery old fish,” his mother continued, drawing Taline closer to herself – and away from him – to adjust her sweater and smooth her hair.
“Yes, Madonna,” he heard Taline dutifully murmurer as he hooked Mari’s arm and drew her aside.
“Keep her safe, un’asina,” he urged her softly. “She’s very precious to me-”
“Her, or the extra baggage you’ve saddled her with?” Mari hissed.
He loved his sister, really, but sometimes, he really wanted to throttle her.
“Both,” he hissed back. “Jesus Christ, be nice to her!”
Mari flapped a dismissive hand and hummed in response. “Come on, Taline. Let’s get this conveniently timed errand over with, shall we?”
“Mari!” Filomena scolded as she bustled his wife and sister out of the parlor. “Mind your manners.” His sister’s retort was muffled by the door as it closed behind the three women.
“She’s very pretty, your wife, mio tesoro,” Maria said. He couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a criticism. “Your sister doesn’t seem to be overfond of her. Is there some reason why?”
He clenched his teeth. His mother had always been scornful of men who got silly over pretty young women and he resented that she’d noticed his sister’s baseless hostility. Mari isn’t half as subtle as she thinks she is. No wonder her trial for Mercenary failed miserably. He immediately felt bad for thinking that of his own sister, as petty and unkind as she could be, and Altaïr certainly hadn’t deserved that humiliation. His momentary pang of guilt was subsumed in a renewed rush of irritation at his sister on his cousin’s behalf.
“No. She’s been awful to Taline since the moment she laid eyes on her. No good reason at all.”
“Mari’s like that E-zo,” Lucia soothed, crossing the room to rub his upper arm. “You know she sometimes takes a while to warm up to people.”
His mother was watching him like a hawk, following Lucia’s comforting gesture, and his response to it, with uncomfortably suspicious, knowing eyes. His skin crawled with guilt and he shrugged Lucia off. He felt even guiltier for the brief expression of hurt that flashed across her face.
“It’s been six months,” he retorted. “And Altaïr likes her just fine; they have dinner together every week when I work late.”
His guilt vanished at the openly skeptical look Lucia leveled at him that clearly said are you absolutely sure that it’s your baby she’s carrying? His rage manifested as intense nausea.
“Altaïr knows his duty. He would dine with her weekly regardless of his feelings towards her, although it is almost certain that he doesn’t allow her to touch him,” Maria told Lucia sharply. He recognized that mother’s response was directed more towards Lucia’s unspoken question than to what had been said. “My nephew is the most honorable of men.”
“The Madonna is right, although I can’t imagine where he would have learned it,” Mario said from the doorway.
Ezio swallowed a sigh; he’d forgotten it was like this in Roma – always half-waiting on edge for the next person to step out of the shadows and demand a share of his time and attention. It was worst at the Motherhouse, or here under his mother’s roof. He’d only ever been able to truly relax when he’d gone to see Cristina. He forced himself not to think about that and turned his attention back to his family.
Mario practically snarled at Maria as he entered the room and claimed the chair furthest from the settee where she was seated. “Certainly not from his black-souled mother,” Mario continued, with another, more pointed sneer directed at his sister-in-law. He could almost see his mother calculating her next move.
“That’s Enough, Uncle,” he snapped before his mother had a chance to respond. “You forget that Aaliyah was just as much my blood as you, and that Altaïr is not only my cousin, but my closest friend. You insult me when you insult them.”
“Which, I’m sure, is never the Granmaestro’s intention, my treasure,” his mother soothed, which immediately struck him as suspicious; his mother had never cared if he quarreled with his uncle before, if anything, it almost seemed to please her.
“No, of course not,” Mario hurriedly agreed. “As much as it pains me to agree with you mother twice in one day.”
Now he was very suspicious. He glanced over to Lucia for confirmation that his mother and uncle were behaving oddly, but she was avoiding his eyes. What the hell?
Maria cleared her throat and threw back her shoulders, leveling a cool look towards Mario. “In regards to the spy Ezio discovered – thank you for addressing that so promptly, my son – Cesare will take care of the girl. I highly doubt it will take him very long to finish with her; he seems hungrier than usual this afternoon.”
He found his mother’s matter of fact statement uncomfortable on several levels, a feeling he could tell the others shared by the way his uncle’s lips thinned and Lucia smothered a delicate cough against the back of her hand.
“Once he has, finished with her-” his mother continued, in the same coolly disinterested tone she used whenever she had to discuss the brothel’s business “-Lucia will escort her to the convent in San Marino; you know the one. She’ll be looked after however long she survives.”
Lucia acknowledged the order with a curt nod, mouth twisted in distaste. He couldn’t fault her for the feeling.
“I trust you will share whatever information it – he – the Maraas – manages to extract from the girl, Madonna?”
“Of course, Granmaestro.”
The long, strange look his mother and uncle exchanged was broken by Filomena’s return to the parlor.
“Cesare is with the girl now, Madonna,” Filomena reported, voice artfully tempered even.
Everyone in the room – except his mother, who was far too comfortable around the Maraas for his own peace of mind – reflexively crossed themselves upon hearing that statement even though, unlike in the bible, invoking the protection of God had no appreciable effect on Cesare, except that it sometimes seemed to amuse him. He felt a sudden need to be with Taline, to assure himself that she was safe.
“Where did you send Mari and Taline on that errand, Mother?” he asked as he stood and stretched. “I think I’ll go and try to catch them up. Civility isn’t Mari’s strongest talent and it feels, I don’t know, ghoulish to be sitting around making small talk while we just wait for Cesare to finish with the girl.”
“You really can’t stand to let her out of your sight, can you?” Lucia inquired with a sardonic smirk as she drifted towards the door. “Are you afraid she’s going to run away?”
“Stop trying to start trouble, Lucia,” Maria admonished her sharply, in that tone.
He shivered and Lucia hastened out the door with a respectful murmur. It’s not that he was afraid of his mother, per se, it was just generally good practice not to draw her ire. It made life easier, and really, didn’t everyone like it better when things were easier? His mother could make people’s lives absolutely miserable with no visible effort on her part at all. See exhibit one, he thought, glancing over at his uncle. He felt a little bad about abandoning Mario to Maria and Filomena when he went to track down Taline.
“You sent that girl out into the streets of Roma with no other protection than Mari?” his uncle blustered, face flushing with rising temper. “She’s pregnant! Where’s your care for Ezio’s child?”
Cazzo.
“Women have been bearing children for millennia, Mario,” Maria replied in a tone that would have frozen running water. “I’m sure Taline will be perfectly all right.”
“Let’s all go,” he said impulsively, catching Filomena’s eye and trying to signal her to back him up. “It’s nice weather for a stroll and I so rarely get you both all to myself.” He almost laughed at the nearly identical expressions of charmed wariness on his mother and uncle’s faces. Almost there. “I haven’t gotten to tell you about how things have been for me at Alamūt.”
That got them; both of them. His mother sat up even straighter – which he hadn’t thought was possible until he saw her do it – and the chair his uncle had claimed creaked as he shifted his weight.
“That sounds lovely, my treasure-”
“Should you really be leaving the Maraas unsupervised with your girls, Madonna?” Mario interrupted, baring his teeth in an expression that someone who didn’t know him very well might mistake for a smile.
“I’ll keep an eye on Cesare, Madonna,” Filomena quickly promised. She snuck a quick wink at Ezio. “Leave it to me and spend some time with your son. He isn’t visiting us for very long, and it really is such a lovely afternoon for a stroll.”
“Yes, thank you, Filomena,” Maria replied as she stood. “You are quite correct; it is a lovely afternoon, and time with my son is now unfortunately in short supply.”
She took the arm he offered, and the opportunity to look down her nose at her brother-in-law. Never a wasted opportunity. Mario’s lip curled in response as he too stood and then leaned in to loom over Maria. He swallowed down a sigh and forced himself to smile as he led his mother towards the door.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I never intended-”
“Of course you didn’t,” Mario interrupted as he followed them out of the parlor. “You have nothing to apologize for-”
“Except for not finding the time to visit us both sooner,” Maria cut across his uncle smoothly. “And keeping your lovely wife hidden away for so long. A week is hardly enough time to really know her.” Her grip on his arm tightened as she minced down the stairs beside him. He heard his uncle’s grunt of agreement from his other side.
Wonderful. Fan-fucking-tastic. Of all the things for them to unite over, they have to choose this. His smile felt strained.
“I’ve been busy, Mother, and it’s hard for both Taline and I to get away,” he protested.
“Your wife is pregnant. She shouldn’t be working,” Mario lectured. “We’re not poor, nipote; we can afford to keep your wife. Besides, your grandmother will be scandalized that your wife is still working-”
“La Donna Claudia is scandalized by women working at all,” his mother interrupted Mario dryly. “She expects all women to serve the Order the same way she did: as a brood mare who turned a blind eye to her husband’s – and later her son’s – philandering ways. And just look at what fineAssassins all that heroic self-sacrifice managed to raise.”
“Unlike your mother,” Mario rumbled. “Who gave the Order a martyr, a monster, and you.”
Annoyance prickled across his skin. That sure as hell didn’t take long.
“I’m not forcing Taline to work,” he blurted out, trying not to raise his voice in frustration at his mother’s and uncle’s constant petty squabbling. “She loves being with the little children and sharing her knowledge. Everyone says she’s a great teacher. Her students love her.”
“Of course they do,” his mother immediately soothed. “How could they not? She seems like such a lovely young woman, and, really, such an excellent choice as your wife, mio tesoro.”
He didn’t miss the pointed look she shot at his uncle before turning back to him with a smile. What was that about? His mother and uncle were definitely acting strangely. He jolted when his uncle clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Ezio,” Mario paused to heave a sigh, like what he was about to say pained him; it was usually a bad sign. “Your mother and I have been worried about you – like all parents worry for their children – and we are not saying these things to criticize you or second guess your choices. You and your lovely wife are young, and these experiences – being married, expecting a child, having a child – are all very new to both of you; let us share our knowledge and spare you the mistakes we made. Capisci?”
He was unsettled by how old and tired and incredibly earnest his uncle looked as he spoke, as well as by the utter lack of hostility on his mother’s face as she listened to Mario, nodding slightly. His mother and uncle never agreed with each other, about anything – if Maria said it looked like it might rain Mario predicted sunshine – until the Cristina thing. It made him feel sick to think about that dark day. He remembered lying in his old bed at his mother’s house after the incident, Maria and Mario at either bedside, shouting recriminations at one another across his possibly dying body, over the protests of the attending medic, until they realized that he was partially awake and could hear them. Then they had united in decrying Cristina as he puked his guts out into the chipped enamel basin Filomena held for him just below his chin. His recollection of events after he’d gone into the river was disjointed and fractious, hazy around the edges, more like fever dreams than proper memories. He was grateful for that; he didn’t want to remember.
“Yeah, capisco, Zio,” he replied, throat suddenly tight and eyes itching. He reached up and squeezed the hand his uncle had on his shoulder, and then reflexively pressed his mother’s arm draped over his against his side. They had always been fiercely jealous of his affectionate gestures.
“You sounded so solemn at first I thought you were going to tell me someone had died,” he gently teased. “And I was half hoping that it was Innocenzo. Santo Dio, what a stronzo!”
As intended, his quip broke the strange mood and he relished the crisp scent of the spring air, the sound of his uncle’s rusty chuckle on his left and the sharp click of his mother’s heels against concrete and paving stones to his right. He allowed his mind to drift to Taline; imagined strolling along Roman avenues beside her with their child in his pram easter-time next year, picnicking and playing with their children in the ruins of Il Colosseo, sneaking out at night, after their children had been safely put to bed, to make love in the gardens of Villa Medici…
“Ezio.” His mother’s sharp tug on his arm snapped him out of his reverie. “Slow down.”
“You wouldn’t have trouble keeping pace if you didn’t insist on wearing your skirts so narrow.”
He sighed and stopped listening; he’d had a lot of practice tuning out his mother and uncle’s arguments over the years and focused instead on scanning the street, people watching.
The people they passed on the muggle streets of Roma had kept their heads down, eyes averted; in the wizarding district they did not. The wand-users were braver, openly staring at them. Some probably recognized his mother as the madam of the Rosa in Fiore. Fewer might have had an idea who his uncle really was. He was probably the most recognizable, having walked these streets many times with Cristina.
Cristina…
It still hurt to think of her.