a wager or two

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The crowd reeled back as one of the men in the ring was thrown back, stumbling over his feet but not enough to take him out of bounds. Vico could barely see the fight as it was going on, lingering near the stairs leading to the barracks basement. The mercenaries were crowding around the ring as if there were a courtesan strip show going on in the center, and no doubt, to some of them, the prospect of a hot-blooded fight probably offered the same level of intrigue. He could barely see past the line of their shoulders - unlike the Assassins, these were all broad-framed, large, stocky men, wearing heavy armor and heavier weapons at their waists, waving thick arms in the air as they cheered on the combatants.

No doubt, Adamo was the underdog here if it was such a mercenary he was fighting against. Although Adamo was taller than Vico (which really wasn't as much of a feat as one would have thought), he was still much smaller than even el Maestro himself, let alone such weathered, burly soldiers. By necessity, an assassin's build was naturally more lithe and quick-footed, after all.

A chorus of "Oooohs," swept through the crowd. Perhaps a particularly showy blow had knocked a contestant off his feet? Perhaps it had been an underhanded move? (Though these men were honorable, they were still not above using such tactics.) Perhaps it had been a jaw-dropping, acrobatic, complicated maneuver with insurmountable grace that had elicited their awe, but ha, thought Vico, rolling his eyes, as if Adamo would be capable of it, as much as he would have liked to be. He huffed in amusement to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to another, simply waiting for the spectacle to end so that he could collect his bet money and be done with it.

Comments

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Adamo had much different tactics than the mercenaries in the guild - he had learned much from watching el Maestro's effective hybrid of fighting skills and stealth abilities, even if he leaned more toward the latter. While it confused his opponent at first, he was quickly getting the hang of it, putting Adamo at a disadvantage. His leaps still outwitted the mercenary's own speed, slow with the heavier weight of his muscles meant for brute strength. (Adamo almost looked puny in comparison with his leaner physique.) The fight was largely even, but the mercenary's hard blows were beginning to wear at Adamo's stamina.

The fight was still lasting quite longer than the usual bouts would have, with two skilled opponents at each other. Somewhere along the way, though, Adamo noticed more anger than exhaustion building in the man's face. As if that wasn't clue enough, his strikes became harder, quicker bursts of energy. Adamo was already panting, sweating coating his torso. Something wasn't right here if his stamina wasn't winning out against one of these bulky, war-oriented idiots.

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It was taking longer than usual.

Without a good enough vantage point to see the fight, however, Vico could only wait impatiently at the foot of the stairs and wonder if Adamo was playing with his opponent, or something - making a show of the whole ordeal as he did with everything else in his life. His friend was entirely not above behaving in such a manner; it was as if he were born a natural peacock, showing off its feathers at every turn, audience susceptible to his displays or not.

Sitting down on the lowest step, Vico could only guage the progress of the fight by the reactions of the spectators, and given that the mercenaries were not exactly men of eloquence, he did not suspect anything was wrong until one of them turned to his friend, cupping a hand over his mouth so he could be heard above the roaring of the crowd. It was probably meant to be the equivalent of a whisper, but Vico, assassin's ears trained to pick up such tidbits of information, heard it just the same.

"I heard he specifically jumped the line to fight this match. That shrimpy bastardo is the one he caught sleeping with his wife." The two mercenaries laughed at their own private joke, turning forward, before a weight, small but substantial, fast enough that they barely noticed it, let alone had time to grab it, barreled between them, shoving them roughly aside with barely a 'Mi scusa,' lost in the din of the fistfight uproar, as it pushed through to the edge of the ring.

That idiota.

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The assassin, currently on the very edge of beginning to lose this fight, was beginning to have trouble dodging the blows. It was starting to become irritating to Adamo that he was losing, his swift strikes becoming like springs, winding back and hitting enough force to make the mercenary stumble. Whereas the bout was mostly silent, Adamo could now hear the man cursing under his breath - personal curses, directed at the assassin himself.

Then, his opponent charged. This was Adamo's chance, he knew, to finally end this ridiculously long fight. (The spectators didn't seem bored at all by the show, surprisingly.) His timing had to be perfect - and it was. He ducked just as the man would've butted right into him, and this time he did flourish his skill with all intent to show off, sweeping a smooth kick at the mercenary's feet, knocking him forward. Unable to stop his momentum, Adamo used it to thrust his fist up into his chest, knocking the wind from his opponent, who gasped. To finish it all off, he pushed him back, letting him fall.

Adamo won. The mercenary fell to the ground, clutching his stomach with a hairy arm as he regained his breath.

"Finally," Adamo muttered, winded himself. The crowd was shocked by who the victor ended up being, glancing at each other and pointing at Adamo. Vico better have bet on me winning, he thought. Just as he was about to limp back to his friend (the mercenary landed a good kick to his leg), there was a gasp from the crowd. The mercenary had gotten back to his feet.

"You figlio di puttana," he said, voice strained. "It's not over yet. I know you slept with her!"

"What are you talking about?" Adamo asked, brow tight as he turned.

There was no answer - the mercenary only lunged forward with a dagger.

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The mercenaries were close allies of the assassins, part of the closely-knit triumvirate that provided the Assassin Order with their information and resources. In a world as treacherous as theirs, the soldiers, the thieves, and the courtesans were about as close to allies as one could get, all things (like heavy bags of gold) considered. If a dispute like this got out of hand, no doubt Maestro Ezio would be breathing down their necks about all the trouble they caused.

It was against the rules of the game to jump into the ring without prior permission, not that pulling out a lethal weapon in a supposedly unarmed fight was all that respectable either. To the mercenaries credit, a few men frowned and shook their head in disapproval at the behavior of Adamo's opponent, and though they, too, did not step forward to interfere, they shouted discouragements into the fighting area, urging the man to 'put that thing down and fight like a real man.'

Vico had always known that Adamo's flamboyance and fickleness would get him in trouble one day, and he cursed the fact that Adamo never listened even as he slipped a throwing knife from his belt. Fueled by rage and vengeance, the mercenary was too fast for both assassins - he charged forward with all the single-minded anger of a provoked bull, slashing every which way at Adamo, who had neither armor nor blade to block or deflect it. The mercenary was quickly making a mess of him, but even so, Vico had to wait until an opening came for him to throw the knife.

It hit the mercenary in the forearm, above the wrist and safe from severing any vital veins, but it was enough to make him drop his dagger. Like a dam breaking, the other spectators surged forward and dragged him back, keeping him from causing more harm, and a few helped Adamo up, pulling him roughly to his feet by his elbows.

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Adamo managed to stand on his own, if only for a moment. He borrowed his partner's shoulder to lean on without asking, the color of his blood lost in the dark assassin colors. Cuts adorned his arms, but those were hardly the ones that needed tending. A deeper gash ran down the left side of his chest down to his waist, exposing layers underneath the skin.

"Thanks," he mumbled to Vico, but he was glaring at the man who was dragged away, still thrashing to get free. Adamo almost had as much fire in his eyes as him. One of the soldiers who helped him told another that Adamo deserved it if he was sleeping with wed women. Adamo whirled on the man, clutching him by the collar. "I would never do that! He has the wrong man! Pezzo di..." The assassin's grip loosened, and he stumbled back. "Merda..."

Adamo collapsed right into Vico.

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Staggering under his weight, Vico nonetheless found enough vigor in him to both keep a hold of Adamo's weight and throw up a rather rude one-armed gesture at the thrashing mercenary. "If you really want to go at it, you dirty mutt of a donkey-pig crossbreeding abomination, I will take you, and since we are not above being armed, then I assure you I will surely win if you come after us," he added, flexing his hand and pointing his hidden blade at the mercenary, who did not quite still, but did calm down a little at the realization that they were dealing with assassins, "Because I know I am better endowed than you, you cowardly excuse of a shit-eating, bald-headed rat-sucker, in all respects!"

He lowered his blade and pointed it directly between the man's legs.

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Adamo tightened a hand around Vico's wrist with a laugh. "Where do you come up with these things?"

He turned his head to cough, shifting his weight with a groan to balance on Vico's shoulder. It wasnt working, but he tried.

"Even if I did sleep with wives, I sure as hell would've been the one she went back to." Despite not having the strength to, he did anyway - landed a kick right between the bastard's legs. He immediately folded in on himself, and Adamo looked to Vico.


"I think I need a doctor."

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Rolling his eyes at Adamo's need to add insult to injury (as opposed to injury to insult, which was usually how Vico operated), he gathered Adamo up, both to better support his weight and to ensure that Adamo wouldn't rile up the mercenaries' tempers even more. At the very least, none of the men followed them as Vico climbed his way up the stairs and out the barracks. If Bartolomeo or Maestro Ezio were here, he was sure none of this would have gotten as out-of-hand as it did, but then again, they were fully capable of taking care of themselves.

Vico glanced down at Adamo.

Well. Mostly.

"You are a fine mess, amico," he commented.

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Adamo chuckled, a hand over his chest, trying to hold his wound close. It left a crimson handprint.

"As long as I'm not dying, then that is fine," he answered. "Am I?"

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"No," he said immediately, by reflex, before Vico forced himself to look down. He hadn't been exaggerating - Adamo was a terrible mess, and there was barely an inch on his arms that wasn't covered in red, the wet stain spreading down his chest where the dagger had managed to knick. Moving him only seemed to make it worse, and even Vico's sleeves and the front of his tunic was turning damp with blood. "You..." he said, haltingly. "Are you?!"

Glancing around quickly, Vico laid Adamo gently down against the ramparts of Bartolomeo's compound, untangling their arms. "W-wait here! I'm going to get el doctore! Don't you dare pass out before that, or I'll skin you alive and feed you to those mercenaries!"

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Despite his condition, Adamo managed to add, "Make sure you pair me with a good wine, then."

At the very least, his blood was beginning to clot, and the stains on his arms and torso were drying. He could last long enough for Vico to find a doctor - but he wasn't so sure about the passing out. The cold stone against his back was oddly comfortable. Before Vico could dash away, Adamo grabbed his wrist again.

"Thank you, brother. For watching my back." He didn't have to ask Vico if he believed whether or not he did what he was accused of. (Might be an abundance of faith, or simply lack of time.)

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Vico rolled his eyes and jerked his wrist out of Adamo's grasp. As far as he was concerned, gratitude for things that should only be expected could wait until after Adamo was no longer spilling his innards onto the Roman dirt. "You're wasting time," he hissed, before he darted over the very wall Adamo was leaning against, up and out of sight. His light footsteps were light and quick, and he soon reached a distance where the sound of his boots hitting dirt could no longer carry back far enough to be heard.

The assassin took longer to return than to go - he had luggage on the trip back, dragging a doctor so roughly by the sleeve that the man had to raise a hand to his hat and mask to keep it from slipping off his face. "Please, signore, not so fast, I will break my wares this way! I am sure your friend can-" Then, they appeared at the barracks gate. Adamo was not hard to pick out - he was the only man in sight, being that the others were still gathered around the ring, and even if he weren't, he was probably the only one that looked like death was perching right at his door.

"Fix him!" Vico ordered, impatiently.

Thread over.

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Vico struck the Ebook right in the flank, digging his hidden blade through leather-bound cover and printed pages alike, mindless of what effort had been paid to assemble it, and pulled out just as quickly, leaving a gory hole right in its center, shreds of paper sticking out from the edges of the wound. "Requiescat en pace," he mumbled, but only cursorily, before leaving the scene of the crime.

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Adamo woke up extremely groggy. He had fidgeted the whole night when the pain would escalate in particular; even got up a couple times to walk and distract himself, but not much helped. Eventually he finally fell into a deep sleep from pure exhaustion, settled on his back, an arm across his chest. He had slept in until the next evening, when hunger roused him from his sleep. Adamo (and his stomach) groaned as he sat up, eyes still closed as he ran a hand through his hair. (Some parts had dried blood still in it, lost in the deep auburn.)

Current missions: find food, find new clothes, and bathe. And maybe find Vico.

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Morning in the hideout was quiet, with most of the novices being early risers, and already out and about before dawn even broke. Only those without missions, or those recovering from them, usually dawdled inside this late. On the upside, it meant that all the facilities that the Tiber Island headquarters offered were free, and Adamo could go about his routine at his leisure. On the downside, it was probably why Vico was nowhere to be found, not a trace of his supplies or equipment anywhere in any of the usual rooms he frequented.

His name was signed on the mission roster, however, but it was written in new ink, and the small note detailing more information for each of the assignments revealed that the boat he would be taking to a more Northern part of Italy was not set to sail until this evening. Most likely, the young recruit had gone out to collect supplies to set out.

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Well, that solved one thing. While out getting some food, he would check the shops for Vico - he was bound to be at one of them, and even if he wasn't, he would surely come back to the hideout one more time before leaving. At the very least, he'd say goodbye to him, right? After all, they hardly ever went on missions without each other. While it almost saddened Adamo, he would never expect anything to stop his friend from continuing his work.

In one of the rooms, Adamo found his stowed away uniform. (He hadn't worn all of it to the barracks to begin with - he knew their rules about armor and weaponry.) He left his larger weapons, settling for his hidden blades and daggers. Though dressing took some considerable effort, he managed fine, frowning at Vico's lone tunic. It was stained all over; patches of hardened fabric the telltale sign of dry blood. He considered getting Vico a new tunic instead of going through the trouble of washing this one, but didn't have the money for it. Instead, he left it with his things and set out to the small plaza outside the hideout to look for Vico (and something to eat).

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Maestros Auditore and Machiavelli had chosen Tiber Island wisely - the island was largely self-contained in whatever resources its recruits might need - a bank, a tailor, a blacksmith, a grocer and of course, a doctor all contained within the same vicinity, their wares and prices competitive with the variety and numbers found in the rest of Rome. It was a small hub of business, far enough from the Vatican that no one suspected, and close enough that the business of the Church never escaped the assassins' notice. Rome in the morning was as bustling as ever there, with people milling about, leading or riding the occasional horse and mule. Already, the shopkeepers were shouting to the public about the deal of the day, a call that would no doubt echo until the late hours.

It was at the blacksmith that Vico was standing, head bent over the counter as the owner spoke to him about something. He nodded occasionally, listening intently, and like Adamo, he was not yet fully armed. His hood was drawn, but that thick tuft of curly hair peeking out from under it was recognizable anywhere. Shortly after, he passed a bag of florins over to the man, drumming his fingers against the wood it rest against as he waited for what he had paid for, an impatient tapping of his foot already starting up. Vico never had been very good at waiting for anything.

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Adamo watched him for a moment, much like an assassin's target - eying your prey before making a move. However, through a pushy crowd that liked to hit wounds with elbows and shoulders, it took a lot more effort than he remembered to wade through a busy plaza. His hood was also risen, just for that purpose. Adamo didn't need the odd looks right now.

When he finally reached his target, he leaned a hand against the building, looking deceivingly smooth despite his voice. It was hoarse and accented by heavy breaths.

"Aren't you going to miss me?"

ANACHRONISM AHOY FOR THE SAKE OF SNARK

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Vico didn't even look up, eyes still fixed on the back wall of the smithery. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Is that a pick-up line?"

WHOO

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"If you want it to be," Adamo answered, pressing off the wall to lean his shoulder against it instead. He peeked over the counter, curious.

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"You'll have better luck at the Rosa in Fiore than with me," Vico answered flippantly, but the delivery was somewhat cool, the only hint of his dour mood.

The blacksmith was soldering off the ends of a few crossbow bolts, attaching the pointed tip to the blunter tube that would hold it in place on the end of the wooden shaft. Vico was watching his handiwork with a careful eye, and if it had been anyone but a master worker, the intense observation may have been unnerving, but the old man inside seemed accustomed to both the scrutiny and the task. He worked briskly and efficiently.

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Adamo laughed. "Probably not. That requires money, not expert courting." (Always tooting his own horn.)

Reaching for his waist, Adamo pulled a pouch off his belt, holding it out to Vico. He was going to need it if he was going on a mission, and even more so if he was in need of crossbow bolts already. He probably already received mission funds, but Adamo figured it would be his fault if Vico fell short on his own money.

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At that, Vico turned to him, regarding the bag suspiciously. "What is this?"

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"A bag of Florins," he said plainly, tossing the pouch at Vico's chest.