circle7 | a wager or two

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a wager or two

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.

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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.

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.

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).

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.

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?"

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?"

"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.

"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.

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.

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

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

He caught it, of course, but he held it by the string as if it were a distasteful insect, dangling it in the space between them. "For what? I have money."

"For the doctor yesterday."

Quickly, Vico glanced between the bag and Adamo's face, before holding out, tipping his chin while asking, "Oh? And do you have money to even eat today? Buy more bandages and salve for those cuts of yours? My, my, Messere Liberatore, you are better off than I thought."

Adamo frowned. "You sound like my mother, Vico." With a sigh, he turned where he leaned his back against the building instead, only his profile from the middle of his nose down being visible.

"I have enough," he answered. "At least for today. I'll take up an easy mission."

This time, Vico shoved the bag of florins back to him, jabbing him in his chest with it. His anger was obviously bubbling to the surface. "You're not taking any missions today, not unless you're a madman."

That drew a hiss, and Adamo almost rubbed the offended area, but thought better of it. He glared from under his hood stubbornly, still not making a move to show he accepted the pouch back.

"I can at least make a delivery," he protested. "I'm not mad enough to get into another fight."

"But if you make this delivery, and a man carrying his wares - like the ones all over Romagna - bumps into you? Calls the guards on you? Knowing you - your luck is that bad, Adamo." He let go of the pouch, and whether it dropped at Adamo's feet or was caught somewhere before that depended on the other man. Vico turned back to the blacksmith stubbornly. "Do us all a favor and rest today. You can pay me back another day, and I have enough money to buy what I need."

As if right on cue, the blacksmith sauntered back up to the counter and deposited a quiver full of bolts for inspection.

The bag dropped with the clash of coins muffled by cloth, Adamo frowning down at it. He nudged it with the tip of his boot on top of the other, kicking it up in the air and catching it. (Even injured, he was a show-off.)

"I'll take back roads and alleys," he said with a small huff. "And I'm simply trying to thank you for your help yesterday. You don't seem to be accepting it any other way. You get mad at me instead."

Counting them with one hand, VIco thanked the old blacksmith with a smile (manners, how surprising) and put the entire lot of bolts into the quiver on his back, securing the strap around his chest before frowning up at Adamo. "Maybe because you keep on putting yourself in situations like this - barely healed and already trying to take off more than you can chew? Do the Brotherhood a favor and stay in bed. Romagna won't miss you too much for one day," he said, turning away from Adamo.

Adamo simply watched his back for a moment. Sometimes his friend's harshness caught up to him, biting right at him instead of being brushed away like it usually might. Adamo felt heavier, like a burden on Vico's shoulders. Fingertips rubbed his forehead in thought. He probably was being a burden, what with the start of Vico's mission soon. He had a boat to catch, after all.

"A walk down the street is nothing," he complained quietly once he had caught up. Adamo paused for a long moment. "But I guess I will take it easy. Just for today." Vico of all people knew one could not stay bedridden for too long in the Brotherhood, and Vico of all people would never let himself be bedridden.

As if those were the magic words, Vico stopped his brisk pace and slowed until he came to a stop. He half-turned, looking back at Adamo with a gentler, but not gentle expression. The harshness was still there, but it had been weathered ever so slightly. The difference was almost unnoticeable. "Good," he said, nodding to himself as he said it. "And don't think about taking advantage of the fact that I'm not here to simply go back on your word and skip off for some extra coin. I will be back tonight, and knowing the attention you like drawing to yourself, it won't be difficult at all to find out if you've been truthful or not."

He flashed a hint of a smirk.

Adamo stopped as well. There was a frown at Vico's words - he was half-considering actually going and taking that mission anyway. With a dramatic sigh, he closed the distance between him and his friend, standing at his side, a hand on his shoulder. "You ask so much, Vico," he said heavily. "I suppose I have no choice."

His hand fell, both retreating to his pockets. "And I'm sorry about last night. I would've looked for a watery ditch, but I was too tired."

Vico lowered his eyes, letting out a dry chuckle. "Well, maybe you can better look for one when you are well and healed, then." Idly, he adjusted his equipment more securely around himself, hand falling to the end of his crossbow. "But I have to catch a boat. I would take you, as much as I recall you loving travel by sea, but I'm afraid there's no time."

That earned Vico a punch to the shoulder. "I'd pass anyway," he scoffed. The docks were the opposite way from the hideout, Adamo taking a step back towards the latter. "Safety and peace, Vico."

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a wager or two

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ANACHRONISM AHOY FOR THE SAKE OF SNARK

WHOO

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if there was a modern!verse with these two, adamo would be a pro hacky sack player

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