I lean against the tree, hiding in the shade from the hot Venetian sun, and look around the dirty streets.
There are some courtesans on the corner, looking for someone to escort. They notice me and smile, knowingly; I grin back at them from behind my cowl. I look over my shoulder and watch the trio of thieves which have been following me. They catch my eye and grin, too. I look over to the guards patrolling the streets.
They are in my way.
I nod at the guards - a small, almost imperceptible nod, but a nod nonetheless; the thieves break into a run, and run straight into the guards, snatching a purse as they do so. The guards, laden in armor and weapons, chase them down the street with no hope of catching their prey - as amusing as it is, I can’t stand around all day; I look forward - nothing stands between myself and the climb now.
I push off from the tree and look east towards the watchtower I intend to climb, but decide to get a better view of my surroundings first. This part of Venice is new to me, and all manner of threats could be lurking in its corners. I had hoped for something that would challenge my climbing skills, but this tower is centuries old, its square walls and weathered stone presenting plenty of handholds that will allow me to scale its surface with ease - the problem with square towers, however is that not even I can see around corners.
I start to cross the street, glancing left and right for any potential threats - seeing none, I break into a run, sprinting towards the shop in front of me. It’s a nice looking shop - it has flower boxes in the windows; pretty though they are, those flowers are never quite enough to mask the smell of Venice. My foot hits a box at the base of the wall, and I launch off it - grabbing a pole holding an awning in place - and use it to pull myself onto the roof of the shop.
I’m a few meters above ground now, and the tower is still within easy grasp. I turn towards it - about 10 meters, give or take, then a meter or so at a jump; nothing too sinister. I’m safe from the guards below at least, though suddenly prey for the archers which patrol the rooftops on the lookout for thieves. Thieves and assassins. I look up at the tower; it’s decked out with the occasional wooden scaffolds and platforms for the archers who are always up there - always waiting and on the lookout for trouble.
There’s one there now, about 10 meters above me. He spots me, and shouts a warning as he nocks an arrow onto his bow - apparently I’m not allowed up here. I respond under my breath with the ancient creed of my order: nothing is true - everything is permitted. That includes their previous little tower. I sprint across the roof as the archer draws, and launch myself across the gap as an arrow flies past my head, before connecting with the wall in front of me at full speed. I cling to the stone surface as if I were a part of it; that’s the nice thing about these old towers, they have nice big holds that fit snugly in your hands.
The archer is out of sight now, but I move quickly, continuing my ascent - he might alert his friends, and attention is something I’m keen to avoid.
In one corner, some slabs jut out slightly farther than the others - providing the perfect spot for me to continue. I climb as easily as most men walk, and after the rush of being shot at I am bristling with energy. I dyno up to the next hold, and shimmy across to a wooden platform before pulling myself up. I look down, smirking at the people below looking up in awe at my movements. What would they say if they only knew who I was, a noble performing parlor tricks like a common thief?
I face the tower once more; another running jump, and this time I grab hold of a stone carving laid into the side of another nearby tower. I am so used to this that I no longer even think about my legs - I trust my feet implicitly. I pull myself up to stand on the engraving, which juts out of the wall just enough to provide a foothold. I watch my hands as I climb, remembering my days training as an assassin, back when I could barely get 10 meters up a wall without my tendons burning. Smiling, I shift my weight and push up with my legs. Another platform juts out above me - this tower is just begging to be climbed - I was hoping for a challenge, but no matter; let’s just call this one a warm-up for later, shall we?
I pull myself up onto another platform - a small narrow beam sticking out of the corner of the building, barely wider than my foot - and hunker down on it, surveying how far I have come; the city is unfolding beneath me, teeming with life and stretching as far as the eye can see. To my right I see ships sailing in and out of the harbor; workers unloading cargo; to my left I see the city - the smell of roasting meat wafting up from the market below and in the distance there’s the distinctive sound of a carnival taking place. I’m not high enough - not yet.
I turn to my right and hop onto one of the wooden catwalks which the guard should be walking along. I sneak forward, and glance around the next corner - fortunately for him, that archer is no longer in sight; I don’t know where he is, so only take a second to stretch my calves before running up the next wall to get away from where he should be, and spot one of the large open windows of the watchtower. I climb towards it - another place to stand and stretch as and I propel myself forward. I climb into the arch of the window for a second or two before continuing my ascent, stretching my feet inside my shoes - the only thing about all this climbing that I don’t like is how tight these shoes are…
I jump and grab the next handhold - it’s almost as though the architects had me in mind when building this city - this really is a breeze. I shimmy across the ledge until I find a handhold above my head big enough to pull against as I climb the last 4 meters to the roof. One last pull and I am triumphant. I stand before Venice, stretched out beneath me.
I stop for a moment to take in the beauty; I’ve climbed dozens of these towers during my quest to find Rodrigo Borgia, the man responsible for the death of my family; but that does not mean that I shouldn’t take the time to take in the beauty while I am up here where only eagles dare. I look out over my new city; over the river below me, which looks inviting in this heat; over this area of Venice which is slowly being wrested from the Templars and coming under Assassin control. I walk out over the final jutting piece of wood as my ancestors once did and take in the view one last time. Taking a mental note of everything I see - guard patrols, shops, chests which I can loot - everything and anything which may help me drive my blade into the neck of the Borgia and his Templar scum.
I stand on this precipice and hunker down as I hear eagles cry above my head. Normally I would take a leap of faith into the haystack beneath me, but today I think better of it - I stand back up and walk back across the roof. It’s hot today and this cape is heavy - the river is only 15, maybe 20 meters below me, and I want to cool off. I take a running jump and I dive, arms out, towards the water. I close my eyes, waiting for the cool to envelop me, as I recount the tenants of our Creed.
Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.
Hide in plain sight.
Never compromise the Brotherhood.
Well there is no sight more plain than the river, I think as I hit the water, thankful for the sudden change in temperature. I hear the startled shouts of guards from the bridge, but think nothing of it - I will be long gone by the time they can catch me for breaking their petty laws.
I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze; niente è vero, tutto è permesso.
Suddenly a trophy pops up in the top right corner of my screen and I am pulled back to reality - I am no longer Ezio, and I am not an Italian noble. I am a writer for Continue Play, and I am running late because I am playing Assassin’s Creed 2 again. It’s a game which made me fall in love with a lot of things - the city of Venice, which I have never visited but know like the back of my hand; European history, which I took the time to study as a result of playing the game; and rock climbing, which I am running late for. I grab my bag and run for the door - when my trainer tells me I am late, I will look at him and tell him that is not true. When he asks why that is, I shall reply, in the only Italian I know:
Niente è vero, tutto è permesso.
Nic Bunce
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