“We’d better hurry,” said Machiavelli, breathing hard. “Just because we’ve sent a few Borgia henchmen to their Maker doesn’t mean we’ll get access to the stables. The ordinary people remain afraid. That’s why many of them won’t even open their shops.”

“You’re right,” agreed Ezio. “We need to send them a signal. Wait here!”

A fire was burning in a brazier nearby. From it, Ezio seized a brand, then leapt up the wall of the stable, where the Borgia flag, with the black bull in a golden field, flew in the light breeze. Ezio set it on fire. As it burned, one or two shop doors cautiously opened, as did the gates of the stables.

“That’s better!” cried Ezio. He turned to address the small, doubtful crowd that had gathered. “Do not fear the Borgia! Do not be in thrall to them! Their days are numbered, and the hour of reckoning is at hand!”

More people came up, raising a cheer.

“They’ll be back,” Machivelli said.

“Yes, they will, but we’ve shown these people that they are not the all-powerful tyrants they took them to be!”

He leapt down from the wall into the stable yard, where Machiavelli joined him. Swiftly, they picked two sturdy mounts and had them saddled.

“We’ll come back,” Ezio promised the head ostler. “You might like to get this place cleaned up a bit—now that it belongs to you again, as it rightfully should.”

“We will, my lord,” said the man. But he still looked fearful.

“Don’t worry. They won’t harm you, now that you’ve seen them bested.”

“How do you figure that, my lord?”

“They need you. They can’t do without you. Just show them you won’t be bullied and pushed around and they’ll have to cajole you into helping them.”

“They’ll hang us—or worse!”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your lives under their yoke? Stand up to them. They’ll have to listen to reasonable requests. Even tyrants cannot function if enough people refuse to obey them.”

Machiavelli, already on his horse, took out a small black notebook and wrote in it, smiling absently to himself. Ezio swung himself into the saddle.

“I thought you said we were in a hurry,” said Ezio.

“We are. I was just making a note of what you said.”

“I hope I should be flattered by that.”

“Oh, yes—you should be. But come on!”

“You excel at opening wounds, Ezio,” Machiavelli continued as they rode. “But can you also close them?”

“I intend to heal the sickness that’s at the heart of our society, not merely tinker about with the symptoms.”

“Bold words! But you don’t have to argue with me! We’re on the same side, don’t forget. I’m just putting another point of view.”

“Is this a test?” Ezio was suspicious. “Well, let us talk openly, then. I believe that Rodrigo Borgia’s death would not have solved our problem.”

“Really?”

“Well—I mean, look at this city. Rome is the epicenter of Borgia and Templar rule. What I just said to that stableman holds true. Killing Rodrigo won’t change things—cut off the head of a man, and he is dead, sure. But we are dealing with a Hydra.”

“I see what you mean—like the seven-headed monster Heracles had to kill—and even then the heads grew back until he learned the trick of stopping that from happening.”

“Precisely.”

“So—you suggest that we appeal to the people?”

“Maybe—how else?”

“Forgive me, Ezio, but the people are fickle. Relying on them is like building on sand.”

“I disagree, Niccolò. Surely our belief in humanity rests at the heart of the Assassin’s Creed.”

“And that’s something you intend to put to the test?”

Ezio was about to reply, but at that instant a young thief ran alongside them and, with his knife, swiftly and surely cut through the leather strings that attached Ezio’s money pouch to his belt.

“What the—!” Ezio shouted.

Machiavelli laughed. “He must be from your inner circle! Look at him run! You might have trained him yourself! Go! Get back what he’s stolen. We need that money! I’ll meet you at the Campidoglio on the Capitoline!”

Ezio wheeled his horse around and galloped off in pursuit of the thief. The man ran down alleys too narrow for the horse and Ezio had to go around, worried that he might lose his quarry but at the same time knowing—to his chagrin—that on foot the younger man could surely outrun him. It was almost as if the man had indeed had some Assassin training. But how could that be?

At last he cornered the man in a blind alley and pushed him up against the wall of the dead end with the body of his horse, pinning him there.

“Give it back,” he said evenly, drawing his sword.

The man still seemed bent on escape, but when he saw how hopeless his situation was, his body slumped and, mutely, he raised the hand that held the pouch. Ezio snatched it and stowed it away safely. But in doing so he let his horse move back a fraction, and in the wink of an eye the man had scrambled up the wall with almost extraordinary speed and disappeared on the other side.

“Hey! Come back! I haven’t finished with you yet!” Ezio yelled, but all he got in reply was the receding sound of running feet. Sighing, and ignoring the small crowd that had gathered, he steered the horse in the direction of the Capitoline Hill.

Dusk was falling as he rejoined Machiavelli there.

“Did you liberate your money from our friend?”

“I did.”

“A small victory.”

“They add up,” said Ezio. “And in time, with work, we’ll have a few more.”

“Let’s hope we make it before Cesare’s gaze falls on us again and we’re broken again. He damned nearly succeeded at Monteriggioni. Now, let’s get on with things.” He spurred his horse.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Colosseum. We have a rendezvous with a contact of mine, Vinicio.”

“And?”

“I’m expecting him to have something for me. Come on!”

As they rode through the city toward the Colosseum, Machiavelli commented drily on the various new buildings erected by Pope Alexander VI during his administration.

“Look at all these façades, masquerading as government. Rodrigo is very clever in the way he keeps this place in business. It fools your friends ‘the people’ quite easily.”