April 24, 1500

Rome, Italy

True to Volpe's word, Bartolomeo soon returned to his barracks, a former base for any mercenaries in Roma, but now was home to the burly, exuberant man and his troops. The Assassin had received word from the thieves, and set out the same morning to meet with his old comrade. He had last seen him in Roma during their assault, and before that had been when he stopped by while moving to this city from Venezia—back when Diana was only a few years old. At first he'd only come here to fight, but now it seemed the move was permanent, which Ezio was grateful for. He needed an ally such as Bartolomeo d'Alviano by his side once more. The man was a fighter unlike any other, and his loyalty, once earned, would not be broken. His troops were quite the boon as well.

Ezio reached the barracks before mid-morning, dismounted his horse just outside the walls, at the bottom of the incline that led to the entryway. The establishment wasn't terribly impressive and looked in need of repair—it seemed many places his allies were to use were, much to his amusement and annoyance—but it looked strong. Sturdy, too. A good place for mercenaries, whom, if he were hearing right, already training hard in the courtyard. Sure enough, he found various groups of men hacking at dummies or sparring with one another all along the outside of the main building. It rose up a few stories, certainly much higher than the walls around it, which were tall to begin with. There were outposts at strategic locations along the wall, and with only one proper entrance, it would be easy to waylay enemy troops. Truly, Bartolomeo had chosen wisely.

The Assassin rapped three time on the door hidden under an archway and was greeted by the familiar face of his old comrade, who gave him the widest grin he'd ever seen.

He spread his arms out in welcome, elated, "Ezio Auditore! Come in, come in. I'll kill you if you don't!"

"Bartolomeo!" Ezio laughed with his friend, and the two embraced. They had fought too long and in too many battles together to not do so. Once parted, the man's eyes suddenly widened almost as much as his grin, and he gestured for the Assassin to pause.

"Wait here. You have to meet my wife!" he laughed before turning and headed towards the stairs in the back of the room. "Pantasilea! Pantasilea! Hmm... where is she?"

"Did you check behind the table?" Ezio smirked, motioning to the furniture that was, per the swordsman taste, set in an odd position. The rest of the room wasn't all that decorated—in fact, it was sparse beyond weapons and shields. A hearth had a fire burning, but it was all in all a very mellow space.

Bartolomeo threw a look to the Assassin, but before he could say anything, a woman emerged from the staircase. She was a fine beauty, her blue-and-gold dress made of silk threads and adorned in ornate designs that complimented her features. Her hair was a brownish color, perhaps a little lighter in sunlight, and fell short along her pale face. She was more than he expected for a wife of the infamous Bartolomeo, but he had to admit the swordsman had good taste.

"Ah, here she is," Bartolomeo spoke, his voice gentle as he held his out, as if presenting her to a crowd.

"Nice to meet you," she spoke, her voice calm and serene—very noble like. She even looked upon him as such, her eyes reflecting an intelligence as she saw far beyond his clothes and mug. No doubt she could discern a great many things most would miss.

He took her hand, kissing it gently, "Charmed. Truly."

She smiled a little as her husband stepped forward, hand raised, "Now, we talk about war."

"How goes the fight against the French?"

"Good," he nodded. "My men are holding their own."

Ezio raised a brow, "Machiavelli seemed to think things were more difficult."

"You know Machiavelli," Bartolomeo scoffed. "He—."

"We need your help!" a voice suddenly cried out, and a mercenary darted through the door. He looked to his commander, whom nodded.

"Excuse me," he told the Assassin, then turned to his wife. "Throw me Bianca!"

As soon as the blade was in his hands, the mercenary commander raced out into the courtyard with his soldier, calling may others to him. Ezio sighed softly, knowing it could be nothing good, and made to go after them. He paused, though, when Pantasilea's hand gripped his arm.

"Ezio, let me get straight to the point: the fight is not going well. We have been attacked on both sides," she explained, having him walk with her briefly. "Borgia on one, French on the other. But know this: the Borgia position is weak. If you can defeat them, we can concentrate our forces on the French front."

"Thank-you for telling me this... although I had hoped it might be the other way around," Ezio frowned, earning a similar expression from the woman. He sighed again. "I need the Borgia distracted—pulled away from the city. Enough so even those in the Vaticano and Castel are called out."

Her brows scrunched together, "You wish to attack the Castel? What for?"

"It... did Bartolomeo mention my wife, Catherine?"

"Ah, yes—he did," she replied, pausing for a moment. "Was she taken?"

"In the attack on our Villa. We know she must be within the Vaticano district, and we have heard rumors of a special guest in the Castel. It can only be her, but it is heavily guarded. I need a distraction to get her out. Time is running out, though. She was with child when they took her, and it has been months..."

"My God," the woman breathed, shaking her head. "I understand now... Bartolomeo was fond of your wife—he admired her, as he does you... This is... troublesome. I do not know how much aid we can give you with the Borgia, but if you help us... then perhaps it will be easier to lend it. The French are still our biggest concern, but we might spare you some troops. And who knows; killing the Borgia here might draw more out."

"I will take all the help I can get for my wife. You have my word I will deal with the Borgia," Ezio bowed his head.

"Thank-you, Ezio. Come speak to us here when it is done, and we can find a way to help you."

"I'll see you soon then," the Assassin nodded, and with his leaving, a Borgia Captain was assured death that day.

-O-

Ezio scowled as he looked at his ruined sleeve, the cloth gone from his elbow down and the remaining piece was bloodied thanks to the slice into his bicep. It had been a lucky strike, but the Captain had managed to tear into his arm some—not enough to do lasting damage, at least not to his flesh. His outfit was ruined, however, and he'd need it mended if not a new sleeve entirely. He lamented it, but Machiavelli had the sense to have extra cloth made and there was a loyal, and very talented seamstress on the Isola. She could have it fixed in no time, and he'd need a break from his work to culminate his findings. That, and he needed to visit Diana. It had been a while, and he was eager to hear of her progress in her education, and to just hold her in his arms again. Giovanni, too, would be there, and he'd come to enjoy talking with his nephew. He reveled in the few spars they sometimes had, too; the young man was so much like his uncle Federico, and in some ways the bouts took the Assassin back to Firenze.

He shook the memory away as he came upon the barracks, reminding himself he had to confirm his new allies could help him before he considered such things—to allow himself such a moment of respite. Although, that alone could make him feel guilty; knowing his wife would have none wherever she was held, while he would sometimes be allowed to breathe easy. There was only so much he could do, though, and most of it was a waiting game—an agonizing one. Every new day without the love of is life was draining, and it was only his daughter who could make him feel even a flicker of life again.

Ezio dismounted as he entered the gates, not far from where Pantasilea and Bartolomeo stood, the mercenary leader having already returned from his skirmish. The woman was tending to a cut on his cheek, and he could not help but feel a pang in his heart. He missed the touch of his wife; missed the days she tended to him and gave him a little pout for getting into trouble. He could still clearly see the worry in her eyes when she asked of the wound Rodrigo gave him. Such things hadn't seemed so special or important before, but now? Now he longed for them, like a starved man for food.

He did his best to smile as he approached them, Bartolomeo releasing a deep, raucous laugh. He held himself high, looking to his wife briefly, whom smiled gently—lovingly, in fact—back at him.

"Ezio! We sent those fucking cowards running for the hills!"

"Yes, we did," the Assassin mused, sharing a quick, secret look with Pantasilea, whom smiled coyly.

"Now that the Pope's dogs have fled, I will be able to draw more men to the fight," the mercenary barked, his chest thrust out proudly. "I can already see the hoards who will come running to join us!"

"Good—I will need their aid, if you would allow it," Ezio replied, bowing his head slightly.

Bartolomeo raised a brow, "Of course! But what cause has you coming to me?"

"His wife," Pantasilea spoke up, and her husband's eyes widened before his brows scrunched together again. She went on, "It seems Catherine was captured by the Borgia. They believe she is held within the Vaticano—particularly the Castel. Ezio hopes we might be able to draw as many soldiers away as possible to allow her to escape."

"Bah! Easy enough... but I admit, I am surprised: surely she could escape on her own? Although, that does explain her absence. You two are never apart," the man rumbled, rubbing his jawline.

Ezio's frown grew deep, "She's with child—heavily by now. She could not escape on her own—not without help... but there has been almost no word of her, even with rumors, and getting into the fortress has been impossible so far... but La Volpe is searching for a way in already, which leaves the guard. Getting in will be simple enough, but even I have my limits fighting against a large force, and I will have Catherine to worry for. I need as few men to deal with as possible."

"Say no more," Bartolomeo spoke, raising a hand. "You are both dear to me, and you have aided me more than I care to admit. I can tell my wife would not let me refuse anyways, so my men and I are at your disposal, though it will take some time."

"I don't have much more time..."

Pantasilea touched his arm briefly, "You need time to heal your wound to begin with, but you must understand: our own forces must recover from this skirmish, and we will need more men to create the distraction you need. We have to draw Cesare and his armies out, and they have not considered us a grave threat—not until now. It should take perhaps another month before we are ready. I realize this is not... opportune, but you need a way in first, no?

Ezio nodded, so she went on, "Then have faith, Ezio. Your wife, if my husband has not embellished details, is strong. She will hold until you come, and you will have her—and your child—back. You cannot rush things, either. Catherine's life and the life of your hild is at risk, so you must approach this carefully. That goes for you as well, my love."

"Tsk!" Bartolomeo scoffed, looking away, but sighed in defeat a moment later. "My wife, bless her, is right. I would rather go charging in now and take the Castel, but it would be suicide. I need to improve and reinforce the barracks—give a place to support my troops."

"You have a plan for it?" Ezio inquired, relenting to their logic, though he hated it. He was tempted to simply go and barge in the front door at this point, but there was too much risk. He could not ensure the Borgia would not slaughter his Catherine if he made himself known.

"Yes—I leave it to you," the man smirked, causing Ezio to balk. He laughed, clapping his good shoulder. "You are the educated one. I have no eye or mind for it, so you approve the plans."

"You give me too much credit... Alright," the Assassin chuckled, shaking his head. "But, in the meantime... keep an eye on Cesare and Rodrigo's move. I want nothing more than to kill the man, but getting Catherine out will be easier with either Cesare or both of them gone. I need your men to track them for me."

"Of course. What else do you think we do out here?" the man smirked.

"Good... come to Isola Tiberina with any findings—and when you are ready to make our move."

"I will ensure he does so... May God be with you—and your wife—Ezio. Our prayers are with you as well," Pantasilea smiled gently, and Ezio returned it.

"My thanks, my Lady. I hope He is with us, too."

-O-

April 29, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

"You know, my Lady, I don't know much of your mother and father—you rarely speak of them," Paula mused as she finished wiping down the last of the stone floor and wrung out her rag. She moved to the vanity, sitting down in the chair as she always did, and had the rag at the ready in case someone came in. No one really seemed to mind she spent hours—perhaps one too many—cleaning; she was obviously just doing a good job, and not speaking so plainly or in a friendly manner with the Borgia's prisoner. No one knew how much of a life-saver she was for the redhead, who smiled sadly in reply to the young woman's comment. Paula, having become rather astute, gasped slightly, and lowered her gaze. "Oh, no—I'm sorry! I didn't... I didn't realize they had... passed on."

"Oh. Oh, no—or, well, my father passed many, many years ago, but my mother was still alive when I came here—to Italia," Catherine chuckled softly, which received a perplexed expression. Once, letting slip she was not native to this country might have worried her, but she had almost come to think her cover story was true sometimes. Of course, she would never tell Paula she was a time traveler, but it helped that story seemed so impossible. It was only her memories and her stolen trinket that ever reminded her she was from a time that had yet to pass.

"I'm from England, originally. My mother married an Italian man, and we moved here when I wasn't too old—hence the lack of accent. My father was a banker of sorts, and we lived in the country near Firenze... somewhere in Toscana, I can barely remember where. But when my father passed she decided to return to England. I followed, for a time, but then returned to Firenze where I stayed with my husband's family—he was a friend of my father, you see—and then moved to a place outside the city, to stay with my husband's Uncle. It was for my safety, as there was unrest in Firenze, but I ended up staying there, in Monteriggioni, and I never came to regret it."

"That's so fascinating! You must have been so terrified to be on your own, but-what of your mother? Have you never seen her since?"

"Well, it's... hard, being she's in England. She can't visit much, but we wrote letters. I don't get them very often anymore being so busy with my, um, work, and I imagine it's possible she passed away without my knowing, but..."

"Oh, that's awful! To think she had passed! And you wouldn't know!" Paula cried, hands pressing to her face.

Catherine smiled gently, "It's alright. We weren't terrible close by the time I came back. I was always more like my father, but... I do miss her—when I dream about her, I mean. About our family when I was younger. I haven't done that for a long time, actually... but I've been remembering more lately."

"You must be homesick," the young woman replied softly, her expression full of the same pity she always showed. It was both comforting, yet like a stab to the gut. She hated yet craved it; the empathy of it. Paula was the one person on her side, yet her inability to do anything for her made her loathe the woman at the same time. She could come and go as she pleased, while she was stuck here. It wasn't fair. Catherine refused to succumb to such petty feelings, though, and forced herself to appreciate the looks and the small measures of kindness Paula would give her—such as now, in their little talks; these precious moments of clarity.

"I suppose so... I do miss Ezio and Diana terribly. Claudia and her boys and Maria, too. And Mario..." she spoke, almost at a whisper. Her hands clenched at her dress as she fought back tears. They came more than she liked and felt more pathetic for it. But what else could she do? Even after Giovanni's kindness she could not think of any way to use the paper. There were no pigeons, and there was no way to get a letter out without being caught. Despite the boon, she was no better off.

She hated it.

"Ah... I... I'm sorry... I... I don't have anything I can do to help you. I wish—God, I wish I could, but all I can do is pray, but... but it seems He has not heard, but you just... you don't deserve this. You shouldn't be here," the young woman rasped, looking on the verge of tears herself.

Catherine forced a smile to her face, "Don't cry for me, Paula. It's not your fault... and you've been good to me—more than I could ask for. I'm pretty sure I haven't lost my mind yet thanks to you."

"Still... you've been just as kind. No one here or in the city speaks to me like you do, and the world you've shown me with your words... there's so much out there I never knew about. I wish to know so much more now. I have dreams I never thought I would have! I would ever have thought I should ever try to move beyond these walls if not for you," she replied, coming over to sit on the bed and take Catherine's hand in hers. "I cannot save you... but at the very least let me cry for you or—or do something, however small."

Catherine squeezed Paula's hands, more grateful now than ever the woman was there. Still, there was nothing to be done for her situation. There was no point hoping for it. So she forced her tears back, and cemented her smile on her face.

"Well, I wouldn't mind hearing any news—any good rumors in the Castel? And how fares Roma?"

"I can do that," Paula chuckled, albeit weakly. She settled down as she thought, humming aloud. "Well... the city seems... happier? People look less frightened, and it seems like less and less soldiers are harassing us. Yes, it's been very lively lately, and I've heard rumor there's trouble in the country—something about a fight going on. I heard even the French are involved, which is... well, scary. They've been so close lately, and many worry they hope to conquer us while Cesare is doing the same for Romagna. It's all very strange, but, um... hmm... as for here... Oh!

Paula jumped up slightly, clapping her hands together, "Oh, we had a special guest come here, although, I think he's staying somewhere in the Vaticano. A very somber man, but in very fashionable attire. He carried himself very well, but his face was so stern. He looked like he was trying to intimidate you, but also understand you at the same time? It is hard to explain. I think... I think a guard said he was Sir... Machi? Machivel? I didn't fully catch him name, but—oh, my. You've gone pale. Are you alright, my Lady?"

Catherine's heart