[fic] Masquerade, 1a/1
Title: Masquerade
Fandom: Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Ezio, papal guard OMC, courtesans, Claudia
Word Count: 13.5k
Warning: societal homophobia (background)
AO3: here
Summary: Ezio finds out that hiding amongst a group of courtesans on a hot market day in Roma can yield unexpectedly complicated results.
A/N: Written in response to this prompt at
asscreedkinkmeme, in which Ezio hides from the guards amidst a group of courtesans, and actually gets mistaken for a male courtesan by one of the guards who are looking for him. I tried to follow the prompt to the letter, but the final bonus points just didn't happen, sorry about that-I guess my guard ended up being too slow on the uptake!
A few more things:
• It's probably pretty obvious that I don't speak Italian, especially from the "ser cortigiano"; I google-translated "courtesan" and ended it in -o instead of -a, hoping that it'd seem like a male version. And I used the Italian names of the cities (Roma, Venezia) because they also do that in the games.
• I know that Leonardo did not actually make Ezio's hidden blade-at least not the first one-but I doubt Ezio would tell a random guard about his father's heirloom, so I made him lie a little bit.
• There is a bit of societal homophobia in this fic. But don't worry, it's not that overt, just the guard thinking about it a couple of times.
• Without pen_rabbit, viennajones, blood_songs90, and kura_tan, this fic would probably still be unfinished and collecting dust on my harddrive. Thank you guys so, so much for all your encouragement!! ♥
That said, writing this was so much fun and I cackled pretty much all the way through. :D I hope you enjoy it!
First ever AC fic, pleasedon'tkillme. *dives into haystack*
ETA: A translation of this work into Korean is now available, done by the wonderful, amazing bearygirl: part 1 & part 2! I still can't believe this happened-thank you so much for devoting such an amount of time and effort to my fic!! ♥♥
***
It was the mission of a lifetime, they'd said. To turn your back to the crowd or even look away at the wrong moment would invite a swift death, they'd said. Failed attempts to pick up the assassino's trail had decimated countless battalions of soldiers, they'd said. Dangerous to the point of suicidal, the mission was the reason why a handful of the Borgia's best warriors had been called away from their grueling training schedules to assist the city guard.
Their officers had poured all of their efforts into discovering the assassin's whereabouts, and a string of bribed merchants had finally paid off. Rumor had it that the white-clad murderer was slinking about in the district right now, and the city guards' frazzled nerves were turned into volatile tempers by the ever-present threat of a speedy, bloody demise when they least expected it.
Loitering in the welcome, leafy shade of a tree amidst the hustle and bustle of a market day in Roma, papal guard Filippo de' Rossi was bored out of his skull.
He had been standing in the same alley for over five minutes, and he knew he was supposed to complete the second round of his assigned patrol. But the day was positively sweltering, the very air flickering above the heated pavement, and he found himself unwilling to leave the slightly cooler air under the tree's canopy of leaves.
Cesare Borgia would have had his head on a pike if he'd seen one of his ruthless, deadly elite guards all but swooning in the shade, defeated not by the legendary criminal they'd been sent to kill, but by an Italian summer day. But then again, Cesare Borgia was not here. And Filippo doubted that his comrades would rat him out later, since he'd seen two of them dunk their heads into a murky fountain to cool down.
The cobblestone was so hot that he could feel it even through the thick soles of his boots. He was sweating like a horse beneath his armor, had in fact already taken off his helmet to cool down despite the violent hand gestures from one of the patrolling archers. Do you want the assassin's blade to slit your throat?!, the archer's furious expression had said. Filippo had just glared back up at him, silently communicating, if I die of heat stroke before we've even tracked him down, the man will find himself out of a job.
A slight breeze drifted through the alley, and he gratefully turned his face into the wind. Under the heavily padded armor, his clothes were stuck to his skin, tacky and stiff with sweat; but as uncomfortable as it was, the dampness actually brought some relief. Currents of air were sneaking past the metal plates and joints of his armor, thin streaks of coolness that lingered on his sweaty skin.
The same archer who had protested the removal of his helmet reappeared on the roof and glared down at him. Filippo sighed, but stepped obediently out of the shadows, wincing when the sunlight enveloped him in a wave of hot, dry air.
His spot of shade had been right next to the rickety shelves of a vendor selling pottery, and the man's yelled expansive praise of his own work had already given him a headache. It only intensified when he walked into the square and found himself instantly engulfed by a horde of chattering middle-aged women.
He tried to sidestep a fair-skinned lady with laugh lines around her eyes, and was pushed to the middle of the group when she reached around him to take her friend's hand and point at a perfume-selling vendor. The movement tugged her right into Filippo's path, and he nearly stumbled in his haste to get his heavy boots away from her finely-woven leather sandals.
Not daring to move much so as not to bump the hard edges of his armor into delicate elbows, he had no choice but to let the group propel him. Gazing down at them from his superior height, Filippo spared a second to wonder how they weren't dying of a combination of asphyxiation and heat stroke in their tightly-laced corsets. But none of them seemed to feel the blazing sunlight very much. They were excited and perky, tugging each other this way and that, tinkling laughter occasionally interrupting the steady stream of chatter.
The scent of the perfume vendor's stall made him gag a little, but he finally managed to slip out of the cluster of women as they went to inspect the expensive glass bottles. He dove for the next opening amidst a gaggle of elderly men, and inhaled gratefully when the flowery smell drifted away.
Carefully, Filippo looked around to check if anyone had seen the brief detour that the ladies had taken him on. But the only other guards he could see were two archers on a roof on the far side of the square, seeming to sway a little in the stifling heat.
Bringing up a hand to wipe at the beads of moisture on his hairline, Filippo released a weary breath and reminded himself to thank God for small favors. If any of his fellow papal guards had seen that, he would've been in for yet another few days of relentless teasing. It was a running joke in his battalion that in spite of his high salary, not too repulsive looks, and generally unobjectionable nature, Filippo was passing right through middle age without being married. It had gotten to the point that any and all of his encounters with women, however brief, set off a new round of heckling, salty jokes, and raucous laughter when the wine was flowing in the barracks.
Well, he could have thought of several things to say to silence his fellow guards-such as the fact that while he occasionally enjoyed a woman's conversation and wit, his carnal preferences lay the other way entirely. But such was the kind of talk that could get one clapped in irons and taken to court, and generally, Filippo had found it safer to endure the teasing and keep his mouth shut.
He moved slowly with the crowd, unwilling to shove through the throngs of people the way he'd seen some of the city guards do. The dark, ornately decorated shimmer of his armor already made some of the citizens shrink back from the height and bulk of him, instinctively threatened by someone who so obviously outmatched them in strength and rank. He didn't want to alarm them further by brutally pushing them aside just because they were in his way.
Fine silks were being advertized loudly to his left, flanked by an elderly woman who promised palm-readings, and a well-stocked seller of writing materials. A flock of serious-faced young men was pulling out their purses around the stacks of parchment and dyed quills. Filippo smiled absently, wondering how many love letters would be written on these wares before sundown.
The breeze picked up again as he slowly circled the square, stirring the overheated air and cooling the sweat on his neck into a welcome patch of damp coldness. When he passed the street where his assigned patrol was supposed to take him next, the buttery scent of sweet pastries drifted his way on the wind. He paused, hesitated, and, upon seeing no other guards in the perimeter, strode past the shady alley, deeper into the cheerful disarray of citizens, wares, and colorfully decorated stalls.
The detour to the little bakery at the corner was only brief, after all. He could still see the street as he waited in a short line for his turn to purchase a sweet treat. His vision still unimpeded by the helmet he'd taken off, Filippo spared a moment to relish in the small, rebellious spark that his divergence had kindled to life.
Under Cesare Borgia's brutal training regimen, even a single step away from where he was supposed to be would have been unthinkable. Here, it seemed not so outrageous to simply stop and let his gaze wander over the crowd, and allow his mouth to water at the scent of burned sugar and soft, baked fruit.
If not for his gloves, the cloth-covered pastry would have burned his hands; as it was, he still felt its freshly baked heat through the thick leather. After a visible double-take at the sight of a papal guard in the market square, the baker had hurried to fetch him the largest pastry from his wooden shelves when Filippo expressed a preference for the apple-filled ones.
The man watched anxiously as Filippo took the baked treat, then burst into a flurry of movement, rummaging briefly under the counter. His eyes were slightly wide and wary when he gave Filippo an extra rough-woven cloth to wrap the pastry in. "Wouldn't want you to stain your gloves, messere," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste to cover the golden-brown dough.
Feeling somewhat unwieldy and out of place in the face of the man's nervousness, Filippo pressed a few more coins than necessary into the baker's hand. He attempted a reassuring smile, and when that didn't chase the apprehension from the man's demeanor, simply thanked him for the food and beat a discrete retreat.
He found a relatively quiet corner between another tree and a small cluster of stalls that advertized riding gear. The earthy scent of polished leather mingled with the sweetness of the pastry, and Filippo slowly unwrapped the top layer of cloth on his baked treat, leaning back against the tree. In the shade, his armor didn't draw so many glances, and the laughing, chattering, endlessly moving crowd was soothing to watch from a slight distance. There was no sign of unrest in the throngs of people, no commotion anywhere that might have pointed out their target. It seemed that not even the assassino was mad enough to be out and about in this infernal heat.
Removing his heavy gloves to get a better grip on the pastry was a relief, and without the thick leather in the way, the final layer of cloth came away easily. Steam rose from the bit of apple filling that peeked out between folds of crumbly golden dough at the top. He folded the cloth around his hand to avoid getting hot butter on his fingers. But then Filippo nearly dropped the pastry when two couples walked past, close enough to almost bump into him, squeezing themselves in between his tree and a horde of gangly-limbed boys.
The women were glaring in a way that made Filippo suspect that they had spotted a gaggle of courtesans in one of their customary spots on the margins of the square. Their spouses let themselves be hurried along, even though they still sneaked surreptitious glances over their shoulders.
Smiling wryly to himself at the display, Filippo followed their gazes to the sandstone wall of a stately old inn, spotting the group of women right away. They were smiling at the passing citizens, fluttering their eyelashes and waving suggestively to whoever rested their eyes on them for more than a second. Their colorful, scanty dresses stood out in the crowd, and Filippo thought idly that they, at least, would not collapse from the heat today-which was reassuring to know, since they would most likely be out and looking for customers until way past sundown.
It took him a second to see the flash of leather and gleaming steel in their midst, make out the taller stature of a man beneath white and red clothing, and catch a glimpse of a dark beard from underneath a large hood.
Filippo blinked, pausing in the act of blowing on his pastry to cool it down. He stared at the courtesans for a moment, but the tableau didn't change; the man didn't move away from the middle of the group, or stop to speak to whichever one of the women had taken his fancy. He was standing almost entirely still, turning ever so slightly once in a while, his head moving nearly imperceptibly beneath the hood. The man's eyes were hidden, but his posture was alert, his back straight. This didn't look like the unfocused regard of someone staring off into the distance in boredom. He was surveying the swarm of people, Filippo realized, probably searching for an acquaintance he'd lost in the crowd.
Or perhaps, he thought, his mind all but stumbling over itself as the pieces slid together to form a complete picture-perhaps he was looking for customers.
The thought seemed so ridiculous that it was all Filippo could do to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at himself. He had worked in Roma all his life, first as a mere foot soldier who had then been whisked away for decades of training to become one of the Borgia's most finely-honed weapons. He was so used to the courtesans that he didn't even really notice them anymore, even beyond their lack of appeal to him; they just blended into the background of the city, much like the thieves and beggars. And among all the groups of courtesans he had walked past in his life, he had never seen a man offering his services.
Filippo let his gaze rest on the man for a while, watching the way he just stood there, frozen to the spot and obviously uncomfortable. There was really no way to misinterpret his presence. None of the courtesans was openly paying attention to him, so he couldn't be a customer himself. In fact, they seemed to be sheltering him, positioned around the man to hide him from the passing crowd's idle glances.
And judging from what little Filippo could see of him, the man was dressed in robes meant to imitate a Florentine nobleman's finery, bleached a blinding white that contrasted sharply with the courtesans' blue, red, and green dresses. He had to be new to the job, clad in extravagant clothes to attract attention while he was still learning to use his charm like the other courtesans did.
Shaking his head at the display, Filippo took in the man's straight-backed posture, the minute, nervous shuffle of his booted feet. He had heard that the Rosa in Fiore had become much more... accepting lately, taking in anyone who wanted to work there, regardless of their background. Still, he never would have guessed that even those most liberal courtesans would take a man into their midst.
The weightless, loosening sensation in his chest took him by surprise, and it was a few long seconds before Filippo could puzzle it out as a strange, sweeping tide of relief.
It wasn't as if he had never heard of men like him before, who preferred hard muscle to supple curves and the scrape of stubble to painted lips. If he had never met others with similar tastes, he'd probably never have discerned that that was what he was looking for. But it was something else entirely to see a male courtesan openly advertizing his services, without fear of the consequences, should the guards spot him. The man seemed slightly nervous-not afraid, merely uneasy. There was no sign of the defensive skittishness of some of the courtesans in the poorer districts, and Filippo decided that he didn't look like someone who'd been forced to stand there. He was probably just inexperienced.
Another thought occurred to him, with a jarring shock that pulled the vague, niggling memory of his assigned patrol and the assassin right out of his mind. Maybe he could- maybe it wouldn't be wrong to just go and talk to the courtesan. Maybe Filippo could alleviate his nervousness a bit, and make sure-at least for a few minutes-that he didn't catch the attention of the city's leering, cold-eyed noblemen.
Filippo glanced up and around, craning his neck to glance back at where he'd seen the two archers earlier. The rooftops shimmered in the heat, as if the very air wanted to find a shadowed place to escape the sun. But there was no sign of the archers; either they had gone on to make the rounds of the square, or they'd collapsed from heat stroke and fallen off the other side of the roof.
He shrunk back into the shadow cast by the tree, shuffled the still-hot pastry into his left hand, and jerked hurried fingers through his dark hair. It didn't feel greasy yet, he'd bathed only yesterday, but all of a sudden, he was still acutely aware of his receding hairline, the barest hints of gray beginning to lighten his temples. He probably looked terribly overheated and awkward in his clunky armor, far removed from a nobleman's colorful finery or even the younger foot soldiers' sleek uniforms.
But it was all he had for now, and somehow, he didn't think that the man was going to be picky about who talked to him, so long as the words were reassuring and perhaps accompanied by a friendly smile.
Cesare Borgia would probably have dismembered him with his own two hands if he'd seen Filippo abandon his patrol to approach a courtesan-a male courtesan, at that. But Cesare Borgia was not here, and Filippo took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and broke cover from beneath the tree.
He didn't see the smiles freezing on the courtesans' faces as he approached, and nor did he notice the sudden motionlessness of the entire group, startled into a helpless moment of stillness. There was a gap in the endless string of people, and Filippo squeezed through it quickly, for once not stumbling as he stepped to the side to avoid stomping on delicate ladies' feet. The sun felt like a brand on his head, heat creeping down his neck now that he was out of the tree's welcome shade.
The cloth-covered pastry was hot and slippery in his hand, but it still smelled enticingly of apples, the scent steaming out from the top of the buttery, golden-brown crust. He only hoped it would look inviting to the courtesan as well. Filippo stopped in front of the group, not as close as any other customer might have stood-he didn't want to loom over them any more than his considerable height forced him to. Sternly reminding himself that turning tail and running would make him look utterly foolish, Filippo held out the pastry.
"Buongiorno," he said, and hid a cringe at how loud his voice sounded. He glanced around, but no one was paying attention to the gaggle of courtesans. Catching the hooded man's startled gaze with his own, he attempted an inviting smile, rusty and unused on his face, but genuine. "Would the young ser cortigiano like to share this with me?"
A ringing silence fell, as quickly as if Filippo had uttered oaths at the group. They all stared at him, incredulity and distrust writ large across their faces. The man's mouth had actually fallen open in disbelief. Up close, he didn't look as young as he had from afar, a dark, well-groomed beard framing his mouth and his jawline, only interrupted by a thin white scar that slashed through his lips.
Filippo cursed his armor for the umpteenth time-it had given the baker a fright, and of course it was now intimidating the courtesans as well. Maybe he should have slunk away into a deserted alley to take it off, but then again, the thin clothes he wore underneath were rumpled and sweat-damp, not at all the kind of attire he wanted to wear in public.
Or maybe he just should have quelled the harebrained idea of talking to the courtesan when it had first sprung up in his mind.
He felt the smile freeze and fall, an oddly intense disappointment plummeting in his stomach. But before he could draw back, the courtesan stepped forward, gently pushing aside the short girl that had put herself between them. Almost entirely hidden by the hood, Filippo still saw his eyes dart around quickly, probably looking for other guards and relaxing only the slightest bit when he found none.
"Of course," the man said-too quickly, the words blurted out on a snap decision. The fight-or-flight tension vanished from his posture, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to infuse his step with some swagger as he came forward. "It would be... my pleasure."
"No," the short girl whispered, dismayed. She tried to catch the man's eye and put a restraining hand on his arm, her expression begging him to reconsider. Filippo frowned-it wasn't like he was going to drag the courtesan off into a dark alley and have his way with him. He just wanted to chat and share his pastry, talk to a like-minded person and perhaps make this first day on the job a little less daunting for him.
The outright panic in the girl's eyes made Filippo shift uncomfortably, but the man just tossed a quick, roguish grin at her. "I am sure it will be fine," he said, gently brushed off her hand, and twisted out of the tightly-knotted group with sinuous grace.
In the same movement, the courtesan wormed an arm around Filippo's, turning him around with no apparent effort. Through his armor, Filippo felt only the vaguest tug around his elbow, but he let himself follow the courtesan's lead away from the others. A few steps took them into the narrowing mouth of a winding street-out of the way of the thickest throngs of people, he realized, and followed with new understanding and only a small measure of trepidation.
Away from the bustling crowd, the courtesan looked a little hunted, caught wrong-footed by the sudden narrowed intensity of being alone with Filippo. His gaze flickered upward again, skimming over the rooftops and probing the deep shadows between the buildings. Nobody jumped out at them and started shouting about sodomy, but he didn't seem reassured. Filippo watched, confused, as the man shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and turned in a slow half-circle, his narrow-eyed scrutiny of the street only just visible beneath the hood. For all his earlier bravado as he'd reassured the short courtesan, he now seemed as alert as if he was expecting an ambush.
The thought made something click in Filippo's head, and he suddenly realized that the man's wary stance was that of a soldier. His coiled tension was mostly hidden beneath the rich folds of his robes, but Filippo still saw the broadening of his stance, ready to attack or flee as the situation called for. Perhaps he had used to be a guard then, discharged after an injury or for insubordination. It was understandable that he'd be wary of a fellow soldier approaching him. Maybe he even thought Filippo had recognized him and would rat him out to the authorities.
"There is no need to be nervous," he blurted without thinking, because that was just wrong. Even if Filippo really had recognized the man, he would never have dragged him off just to give him a lecture and call for a group of the overworked city guard to take him away in chains on charges of illicit practices. He'd wanted to reassure him, but it seemed he was doing anything but.
"Nervous," the man repeated flatly, stilling at once and staring at Filippo as if seeing him clearly for the first time. His eyes were dark, shadowed by the hood, surprise and suspicion warring for dominance on his tanned features. "That's- I am not nervous."
He sounded offended, Filippo realized with a wince, exasperated at himself. First he did not know what to say, and then he committed such a blunder-had the mere sight of a handsome face stripped away his years until he behaved like a blushing boy again? "Of course not," he hurried to say. "The first day on the job would make anyone jumpy."
"What job- oh," the man said, and sudden understanding stole the challenging gleam from his gaze. For a moment he seemed to be thinking quickly, possible answers racing past too fast to follow behind his eyes. But then he relaxed, like Filippo's clumsy attempts to put him at ease had finally taken hold. "The first day. Yes, of course. This is very... unusual."
His lips twitched in private amusement, and although the joke was not for him, Filippo gratefully smiled back. "Unusual, yes," he agreed, glancing back over his shoulder in the general direction of the other courtesans, hidden from sight by the market day crowd. "I never expected to find a male courtesan here, or at least not quite so... out in the open."
The man shrugged, his stance shifting and relaxing, easing into the conversation like an actor who'd suddenly remembered his lines. "I got lucky," he said. "The Rosa in Fiore is very accommodating towards whoever is looking for work these days, even men." The wry smile grew, and suddenly he looked younger again, a spark of mischief peeling away the wary shadow in his eyes. "And you know what they say about hiding in plain sight."
Filippo found himself grinning at the unexpected levity. The man seemed to have shrugged off the nervousness like an ill-fitting cloak, and it helped Filippo relax too, put at ease by the man's easy humor. "My name is Filippo," he said, and sketched a little bow at the man, keeping a careful eye on the apple pastry to keep it from overbalancing. "What may I call you?"
"E... duardo," the courtesan replied-quickly enough, but with that tell-tale little pause in the middle, and Filippo hid a knowing smile. He hadn't thought he would be given the man's real name, but neither had he expected that little slip. The courtesan looked startled by his own near-blunder for a moment, but rallied quickly, giving Filippo an enigmatic little smile.
"Well, now we know each other," Eduardo said. He stepped to the side and held out an arm in invitation-he wore bracers, Filippo noticed, carved with intricate designs, the metal scratched and scuffed with use. His employers had really put an effort into making his vaguely warrior-like garb look realistic. "Shall we walk a bit?"
Walking meant that he would work up a sweat again-not that he didn't already stink of salt and overheated metal-but Filippo nodded readily. It was awkward to just stand around and talk, especially since casual conversation with a courtesan was apparently not his strong suit. "Of course," he said, and fell in step beside the shorter man.
The alley meandered between tall, slightly run-down buildings, with faded tapestries dangling from the balconies and the sandstone walls crumbling in places. It wasn't a part of town that Filippo had ever really stopped to look at before; he'd only ever passed through it on the way to or from the barracks. He had heard that the nearby Borgia tower had been burned down recently, but instead of the chaos and poverty one might have expected to see, the houses had the aged, chipped look of careful maintenance in spite of a lack of money.
"So, Eduardo," Filippo said eventually, glancing down at the white cowl beside him. It was odd not to see the man's face when talking to him, but if Eduardo was really an ex-soldier, Filippo understood that he felt less easily recognizable beneath the hood. "What brought you into this line of work, if I may ask?"
"Oh, this and that," Eduardo replied with a careless gesture. The hood tilted slightly towards Filippo-he was still peering between the buildings for potential threats, but not as warily as before. "Living in Roma is expensive, and I found my funds lacking. It is fortunate that I know the owner of the Rosa in Fiore. She was most... amused... when I asked to work for her."
Filippo did realize he was being redirected, but there was no wary tension in Eduardo's voice, nothing to point towards carefully hidden truths. So he had not been forced to don his extravagant clothes after all. The wash of relief surprised him, loosened the last bit of nagging, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Eduardo didn't seem like the type of man to let himself get blackmailed and bullied into selling his assets on the streets, but it was still reassuring to know that he was indeed here of his own free will.
"What about you, then?" Eduardo asked, tilting his head back so the hood slipped enough to reveal his eyes and the ends of a dark fringe, slightly matted with sweat. "What brings you here? Your armor does not look like that of an ordinary foot soldier."
"I'm a papal guard," Filippo explained. "We do not usually patrol the streets, but Ces- I mean, my employer saw fit to dispatch a greater number of men today. He hopes to catch the assassino, you see."
He saw the dark brows raise from the corner of his eye. "An assassin, here in Roma?" Eduardo inquired. Filippo glanced down at him, but he didn't look worried, just intrigued.
"Rumor has it he's been bothering the city guard for a while," he replied, and quirked a smile at his own words. "Or playing with them, more like, as a cat does with a mouse."
Eduardo's scarred lips twitched, but he mostly managed to stifle the wide, amused grin. There was something else in his features, a certain knowing glint in his eyes that Filippo couldn't quite place. "You seem to approve."
Filippo gestured dismissively, the plates of his armor grating against each other with the motion. A part of him was distantly surprised at his own easy words, well aware that Cesare Borgia would have put him on latrine duty on the spot if he had heard him just then. "I appreciate good workmanship when I see it. And from what I've heard, he never kills civilians. A warrior, then, with a notion of honor, no matter what my superiors would have me believe."
"Mmm," Eduardo hummed noncommittally, and looked back at the street ahead of them. The cobblestone was uneven and cracked in places, but the pavement looked freshly-swept, and there were no traces of hay or horse manure caught between the stones. The paint was peeling off of the shutters at many buildings, but the windowpanes were clean and gleamed in the sunlight.
Filippo nodded to himself, oddly gratified that the area seemed to be faring just fine even without countless guards on patrol around the Borgia tower. This time, the thought was not even accompanied by a twinge of guilt, and he couldn't suppress a quick smile. Far away from the barracks and the grueling drills, it seemed safe to articulate such sentiments in the privacy of his own mind.
The street opened up into a smaller tree-lined square, thankfully devoid of market stalls and overeager vendors yelling advertisements into the hot summer air. A small fountain was trickling water into a low, wide basin in the middle, and Filippo found himself drifting towards the sound on instinct. He wasn't going to dunk in his head like he'd seen some other guards to-his hair was in sweaty disarray already, and though Eduardo didn't seem put off by his disheveled appearance, he didn't want to make matters worse.
They circled the fountain at a leisure pace. Here, his armor did not draw so many startled glances; away from the excited thrum of the market, the summer day felt not so fast-paced, more languid as everyone avoided moving around too much in the heat. Small groups of neighbors were clustered around the doorsteps of the houses, leaning on their brooms and chatting amiably, with small piles of neatly swept-up dust and gravel at their feet.
"A good day for a hunt," Eduardo observed, tilting his head back to glance up at the sun. The hood slipped, exposing a little of his glossy dark hair and the unruly fringe that was stuck slightly to his temples with sweat. Filippo was struck with the sudden urge to ask him to take off the hood altogether, and bit the words back just in time.
"Hunt?" he repeated instead, caught off-balance by the strange impulse. God, he had not been rendered this slow and inarticulate by another man since his days as a coltish youth working on his father's farm. He gave his thoughts a good mental shake, telling them sternly that they had missed their appropriate time by about twenty years.
The hint of a smile on Eduardo's face grew wider, as if he knew exactly what was going through Filippo's head. "I thought you were chasing the assassino?"
"Oh, of course." Filippo moved his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. The leather straps under his armor chafed against his sweat-damp clothes, and he grimaced a little at the discomfort. "Well, I suppose it is a good day for him. He is not roasting under several layers of padding and metal."
Eduardo laughed, low and pleased. "You do not seem too bothered," he observed, and let his gaze travel slowly over Filippo's face as if hoping to catch him in the act of lying. "I wouldn't have expected a papal guard to be quite so laid back about the spread of disorder and chaos in his city."
Something about the way he said it seemed off, and Filippo frowned, a recumbent part of his mind suddenly jarred back to awareness. He probably should have told a bloodthirsty tale of what they would do to the assassin if they caught him-after all, that seemed like the thing a papal guard would say.
But if Eduardo found fault with his words, the damage was already done, and Filippo heard himself continue almost against his will. "That is not what I see here," he stated, gesturing with his free hand at the shabby but well-kept houses, the flowers that wilted slightly in the heat on sun-bleached windowsills. He paused, unsure about how much to reveal-he wanted to tell Eduardo that he'd noticed how the citizens didn't seem to miss the Borgia tower much, and how no one seemed too worried about a murderer in their midst.
But then he reminded himself that he did not know Eduardo after all. He had no idea what kind of background the man came from, who he answered to, with whom he might share the story of his encounter with Filippo over a glass of wine tonight. So in the end he just said, "I see people who are content and feel no fear walking the streets."
That gave Eduardo pause, visibly halted his thoughts. Filippo found himself subjected to narrow-eyed contemplation, and it was as if Eduardo's dark gaze was trying to pierce through his words, to nudge and prod at them until they gave up the truth in the tone of his voice. It was not the kind of reaction he had expected. He had thought it would make the man uneasy to hear a papal guard, one who was supposed to be a steadfast protector, talk with such casual unconcern about the white-clad hunter that prowled the streets.
"Very well," Eduardo said abruptly, and the sharp, predatory focus vanished from his eyes. Filippo got the distinct feeling that he had just passed a test of some sort, that he'd been assessed and not found wanting, and maybe even worthy of respect.
Such appraising scrutiny by a mere courtesan seemed strange, but then Eduardo smiled at him, inviting and warm, and the thought drifted to the back of Filippo's mind. He tilted his head to indicate the pastry that Filippo was still holding, still smelling of apples but not steaming any longer. "You said you wanted to share this?"
Part 1b
Fandom: Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Ezio, papal guard OMC, courtesans, Claudia
Word Count: 13.5k
Warning: societal homophobia (background)
AO3: here
Summary: Ezio finds out that hiding amongst a group of courtesans on a hot market day in Roma can yield unexpectedly complicated results.
A/N: Written in response to this prompt at
asscreedkinkmeme, in which Ezio hides from the guards amidst a group of courtesans, and actually gets mistaken for a male courtesan by one of the guards who are looking for him. I tried to follow the prompt to the letter, but the final bonus points just didn't happen, sorry about that-I guess my guard ended up being too slow on the uptake!
A few more things:
• It's probably pretty obvious that I don't speak Italian, especially from the "ser cortigiano"; I google-translated "courtesan" and ended it in -o instead of -a, hoping that it'd seem like a male version. And I used the Italian names of the cities (Roma, Venezia) because they also do that in the games.
• I know that Leonardo did not actually make Ezio's hidden blade-at least not the first one-but I doubt Ezio would tell a random guard about his father's heirloom, so I made him lie a little bit.
• There is a bit of societal homophobia in this fic. But don't worry, it's not that overt, just the guard thinking about it a couple of times.
• Without pen_rabbit, viennajones, blood_songs90, and kura_tan, this fic would probably still be unfinished and collecting dust on my harddrive. Thank you guys so, so much for all your encouragement!! ♥
That said, writing this was so much fun and I cackled pretty much all the way through. :D I hope you enjoy it!
First ever AC fic, pleasedon'tkillme. *dives into haystack*
ETA: A translation of this work into Korean is now available, done by the wonderful, amazing bearygirl: part 1 & part 2! I still can't believe this happened-thank you so much for devoting such an amount of time and effort to my fic!! ♥♥
***
It was the mission of a lifetime, they'd said. To turn your back to the crowd or even look away at the wrong moment would invite a swift death, they'd said. Failed attempts to pick up the assassino's trail had decimated countless battalions of soldiers, they'd said. Dangerous to the point of suicidal, the mission was the reason why a handful of the Borgia's best warriors had been called away from their grueling training schedules to assist the city guard.
Their officers had poured all of their efforts into discovering the assassin's whereabouts, and a string of bribed merchants had finally paid off. Rumor had it that the white-clad murderer was slinking about in the district right now, and the city guards' frazzled nerves were turned into volatile tempers by the ever-present threat of a speedy, bloody demise when they least expected it.
Loitering in the welcome, leafy shade of a tree amidst the hustle and bustle of a market day in Roma, papal guard Filippo de' Rossi was bored out of his skull.
He had been standing in the same alley for over five minutes, and he knew he was supposed to complete the second round of his assigned patrol. But the day was positively sweltering, the very air flickering above the heated pavement, and he found himself unwilling to leave the slightly cooler air under the tree's canopy of leaves.
Cesare Borgia would have had his head on a pike if he'd seen one of his ruthless, deadly elite guards all but swooning in the shade, defeated not by the legendary criminal they'd been sent to kill, but by an Italian summer day. But then again, Cesare Borgia was not here. And Filippo doubted that his comrades would rat him out later, since he'd seen two of them dunk their heads into a murky fountain to cool down.
The cobblestone was so hot that he could feel it even through the thick soles of his boots. He was sweating like a horse beneath his armor, had in fact already taken off his helmet to cool down despite the violent hand gestures from one of the patrolling archers. Do you want the assassin's blade to slit your throat?!, the archer's furious expression had said. Filippo had just glared back up at him, silently communicating, if I die of heat stroke before we've even tracked him down, the man will find himself out of a job.
A slight breeze drifted through the alley, and he gratefully turned his face into the wind. Under the heavily padded armor, his clothes were stuck to his skin, tacky and stiff with sweat; but as uncomfortable as it was, the dampness actually brought some relief. Currents of air were sneaking past the metal plates and joints of his armor, thin streaks of coolness that lingered on his sweaty skin.
The same archer who had protested the removal of his helmet reappeared on the roof and glared down at him. Filippo sighed, but stepped obediently out of the shadows, wincing when the sunlight enveloped him in a wave of hot, dry air.
His spot of shade had been right next to the rickety shelves of a vendor selling pottery, and the man's yelled expansive praise of his own work had already given him a headache. It only intensified when he walked into the square and found himself instantly engulfed by a horde of chattering middle-aged women.
He tried to sidestep a fair-skinned lady with laugh lines around her eyes, and was pushed to the middle of the group when she reached around him to take her friend's hand and point at a perfume-selling vendor. The movement tugged her right into Filippo's path, and he nearly stumbled in his haste to get his heavy boots away from her finely-woven leather sandals.
Not daring to move much so as not to bump the hard edges of his armor into delicate elbows, he had no choice but to let the group propel him. Gazing down at them from his superior height, Filippo spared a second to wonder how they weren't dying of a combination of asphyxiation and heat stroke in their tightly-laced corsets. But none of them seemed to feel the blazing sunlight very much. They were excited and perky, tugging each other this way and that, tinkling laughter occasionally interrupting the steady stream of chatter.
The scent of the perfume vendor's stall made him gag a little, but he finally managed to slip out of the cluster of women as they went to inspect the expensive glass bottles. He dove for the next opening amidst a gaggle of elderly men, and inhaled gratefully when the flowery smell drifted away.
Carefully, Filippo looked around to check if anyone had seen the brief detour that the ladies had taken him on. But the only other guards he could see were two archers on a roof on the far side of the square, seeming to sway a little in the stifling heat.
Bringing up a hand to wipe at the beads of moisture on his hairline, Filippo released a weary breath and reminded himself to thank God for small favors. If any of his fellow papal guards had seen that, he would've been in for yet another few days of relentless teasing. It was a running joke in his battalion that in spite of his high salary, not too repulsive looks, and generally unobjectionable nature, Filippo was passing right through middle age without being married. It had gotten to the point that any and all of his encounters with women, however brief, set off a new round of heckling, salty jokes, and raucous laughter when the wine was flowing in the barracks.
Well, he could have thought of several things to say to silence his fellow guards-such as the fact that while he occasionally enjoyed a woman's conversation and wit, his carnal preferences lay the other way entirely. But such was the kind of talk that could get one clapped in irons and taken to court, and generally, Filippo had found it safer to endure the teasing and keep his mouth shut.
He moved slowly with the crowd, unwilling to shove through the throngs of people the way he'd seen some of the city guards do. The dark, ornately decorated shimmer of his armor already made some of the citizens shrink back from the height and bulk of him, instinctively threatened by someone who so obviously outmatched them in strength and rank. He didn't want to alarm them further by brutally pushing them aside just because they were in his way.
Fine silks were being advertized loudly to his left, flanked by an elderly woman who promised palm-readings, and a well-stocked seller of writing materials. A flock of serious-faced young men was pulling out their purses around the stacks of parchment and dyed quills. Filippo smiled absently, wondering how many love letters would be written on these wares before sundown.
The breeze picked up again as he slowly circled the square, stirring the overheated air and cooling the sweat on his neck into a welcome patch of damp coldness. When he passed the street where his assigned patrol was supposed to take him next, the buttery scent of sweet pastries drifted his way on the wind. He paused, hesitated, and, upon seeing no other guards in the perimeter, strode past the shady alley, deeper into the cheerful disarray of citizens, wares, and colorfully decorated stalls.
The detour to the little bakery at the corner was only brief, after all. He could still see the street as he waited in a short line for his turn to purchase a sweet treat. His vision still unimpeded by the helmet he'd taken off, Filippo spared a moment to relish in the small, rebellious spark that his divergence had kindled to life.
Under Cesare Borgia's brutal training regimen, even a single step away from where he was supposed to be would have been unthinkable. Here, it seemed not so outrageous to simply stop and let his gaze wander over the crowd, and allow his mouth to water at the scent of burned sugar and soft, baked fruit.
If not for his gloves, the cloth-covered pastry would have burned his hands; as it was, he still felt its freshly baked heat through the thick leather. After a visible double-take at the sight of a papal guard in the market square, the baker had hurried to fetch him the largest pastry from his wooden shelves when Filippo expressed a preference for the apple-filled ones.
The man watched anxiously as Filippo took the baked treat, then burst into a flurry of movement, rummaging briefly under the counter. His eyes were slightly wide and wary when he gave Filippo an extra rough-woven cloth to wrap the pastry in. "Wouldn't want you to stain your gloves, messere," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste to cover the golden-brown dough.
Feeling somewhat unwieldy and out of place in the face of the man's nervousness, Filippo pressed a few more coins than necessary into the baker's hand. He attempted a reassuring smile, and when that didn't chase the apprehension from the man's demeanor, simply thanked him for the food and beat a discrete retreat.
He found a relatively quiet corner between another tree and a small cluster of stalls that advertized riding gear. The earthy scent of polished leather mingled with the sweetness of the pastry, and Filippo slowly unwrapped the top layer of cloth on his baked treat, leaning back against the tree. In the shade, his armor didn't draw so many glances, and the laughing, chattering, endlessly moving crowd was soothing to watch from a slight distance. There was no sign of unrest in the throngs of people, no commotion anywhere that might have pointed out their target. It seemed that not even the assassino was mad enough to be out and about in this infernal heat.
Removing his heavy gloves to get a better grip on the pastry was a relief, and without the thick leather in the way, the final layer of cloth came away easily. Steam rose from the bit of apple filling that peeked out between folds of crumbly golden dough at the top. He folded the cloth around his hand to avoid getting hot butter on his fingers. But then Filippo nearly dropped the pastry when two couples walked past, close enough to almost bump into him, squeezing themselves in between his tree and a horde of gangly-limbed boys.
The women were glaring in a way that made Filippo suspect that they had spotted a gaggle of courtesans in one of their customary spots on the margins of the square. Their spouses let themselves be hurried along, even though they still sneaked surreptitious glances over their shoulders.
Smiling wryly to himself at the display, Filippo followed their gazes to the sandstone wall of a stately old inn, spotting the group of women right away. They were smiling at the passing citizens, fluttering their eyelashes and waving suggestively to whoever rested their eyes on them for more than a second. Their colorful, scanty dresses stood out in the crowd, and Filippo thought idly that they, at least, would not collapse from the heat today-which was reassuring to know, since they would most likely be out and looking for customers until way past sundown.
It took him a second to see the flash of leather and gleaming steel in their midst, make out the taller stature of a man beneath white and red clothing, and catch a glimpse of a dark beard from underneath a large hood.
Filippo blinked, pausing in the act of blowing on his pastry to cool it down. He stared at the courtesans for a moment, but the tableau didn't change; the man didn't move away from the middle of the group, or stop to speak to whichever one of the women had taken his fancy. He was standing almost entirely still, turning ever so slightly once in a while, his head moving nearly imperceptibly beneath the hood. The man's eyes were hidden, but his posture was alert, his back straight. This didn't look like the unfocused regard of someone staring off into the distance in boredom. He was surveying the swarm of people, Filippo realized, probably searching for an acquaintance he'd lost in the crowd.
Or perhaps, he thought, his mind all but stumbling over itself as the pieces slid together to form a complete picture-perhaps he was looking for customers.
The thought seemed so ridiculous that it was all Filippo could do to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at himself. He had worked in Roma all his life, first as a mere foot soldier who had then been whisked away for decades of training to become one of the Borgia's most finely-honed weapons. He was so used to the courtesans that he didn't even really notice them anymore, even beyond their lack of appeal to him; they just blended into the background of the city, much like the thieves and beggars. And among all the groups of courtesans he had walked past in his life, he had never seen a man offering his services.
Filippo let his gaze rest on the man for a while, watching the way he just stood there, frozen to the spot and obviously uncomfortable. There was really no way to misinterpret his presence. None of the courtesans was openly paying attention to him, so he couldn't be a customer himself. In fact, they seemed to be sheltering him, positioned around the man to hide him from the passing crowd's idle glances.
And judging from what little Filippo could see of him, the man was dressed in robes meant to imitate a Florentine nobleman's finery, bleached a blinding white that contrasted sharply with the courtesans' blue, red, and green dresses. He had to be new to the job, clad in extravagant clothes to attract attention while he was still learning to use his charm like the other courtesans did.
Shaking his head at the display, Filippo took in the man's straight-backed posture, the minute, nervous shuffle of his booted feet. He had heard that the Rosa in Fiore had become much more... accepting lately, taking in anyone who wanted to work there, regardless of their background. Still, he never would have guessed that even those most liberal courtesans would take a man into their midst.
The weightless, loosening sensation in his chest took him by surprise, and it was a few long seconds before Filippo could puzzle it out as a strange, sweeping tide of relief.
It wasn't as if he had never heard of men like him before, who preferred hard muscle to supple curves and the scrape of stubble to painted lips. If he had never met others with similar tastes, he'd probably never have discerned that that was what he was looking for. But it was something else entirely to see a male courtesan openly advertizing his services, without fear of the consequences, should the guards spot him. The man seemed slightly nervous-not afraid, merely uneasy. There was no sign of the defensive skittishness of some of the courtesans in the poorer districts, and Filippo decided that he didn't look like someone who'd been forced to stand there. He was probably just inexperienced.
Another thought occurred to him, with a jarring shock that pulled the vague, niggling memory of his assigned patrol and the assassin right out of his mind. Maybe he could- maybe it wouldn't be wrong to just go and talk to the courtesan. Maybe Filippo could alleviate his nervousness a bit, and make sure-at least for a few minutes-that he didn't catch the attention of the city's leering, cold-eyed noblemen.
Filippo glanced up and around, craning his neck to glance back at where he'd seen the two archers earlier. The rooftops shimmered in the heat, as if the very air wanted to find a shadowed place to escape the sun. But there was no sign of the archers; either they had gone on to make the rounds of the square, or they'd collapsed from heat stroke and fallen off the other side of the roof.
He shrunk back into the shadow cast by the tree, shuffled the still-hot pastry into his left hand, and jerked hurried fingers through his dark hair. It didn't feel greasy yet, he'd bathed only yesterday, but all of a sudden, he was still acutely aware of his receding hairline, the barest hints of gray beginning to lighten his temples. He probably looked terribly overheated and awkward in his clunky armor, far removed from a nobleman's colorful finery or even the younger foot soldiers' sleek uniforms.
But it was all he had for now, and somehow, he didn't think that the man was going to be picky about who talked to him, so long as the words were reassuring and perhaps accompanied by a friendly smile.
Cesare Borgia would probably have dismembered him with his own two hands if he'd seen Filippo abandon his patrol to approach a courtesan-a male courtesan, at that. But Cesare Borgia was not here, and Filippo took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and broke cover from beneath the tree.
He didn't see the smiles freezing on the courtesans' faces as he approached, and nor did he notice the sudden motionlessness of the entire group, startled into a helpless moment of stillness. There was a gap in the endless string of people, and Filippo squeezed through it quickly, for once not stumbling as he stepped to the side to avoid stomping on delicate ladies' feet. The sun felt like a brand on his head, heat creeping down his neck now that he was out of the tree's welcome shade.
The cloth-covered pastry was hot and slippery in his hand, but it still smelled enticingly of apples, the scent steaming out from the top of the buttery, golden-brown crust. He only hoped it would look inviting to the courtesan as well. Filippo stopped in front of the group, not as close as any other customer might have stood-he didn't want to loom over them any more than his considerable height forced him to. Sternly reminding himself that turning tail and running would make him look utterly foolish, Filippo held out the pastry.
"Buongiorno," he said, and hid a cringe at how loud his voice sounded. He glanced around, but no one was paying attention to the gaggle of courtesans. Catching the hooded man's startled gaze with his own, he attempted an inviting smile, rusty and unused on his face, but genuine. "Would the young ser cortigiano like to share this with me?"
A ringing silence fell, as quickly as if Filippo had uttered oaths at the group. They all stared at him, incredulity and distrust writ large across their faces. The man's mouth had actually fallen open in disbelief. Up close, he didn't look as young as he had from afar, a dark, well-groomed beard framing his mouth and his jawline, only interrupted by a thin white scar that slashed through his lips.
Filippo cursed his armor for the umpteenth time-it had given the baker a fright, and of course it was now intimidating the courtesans as well. Maybe he should have slunk away into a deserted alley to take it off, but then again, the thin clothes he wore underneath were rumpled and sweat-damp, not at all the kind of attire he wanted to wear in public.
Or maybe he just should have quelled the harebrained idea of talking to the courtesan when it had first sprung up in his mind.
He felt the smile freeze and fall, an oddly intense disappointment plummeting in his stomach. But before he could draw back, the courtesan stepped forward, gently pushing aside the short girl that had put herself between them. Almost entirely hidden by the hood, Filippo still saw his eyes dart around quickly, probably looking for other guards and relaxing only the slightest bit when he found none.
"Of course," the man said-too quickly, the words blurted out on a snap decision. The fight-or-flight tension vanished from his posture, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to infuse his step with some swagger as he came forward. "It would be... my pleasure."
"No," the short girl whispered, dismayed. She tried to catch the man's eye and put a restraining hand on his arm, her expression begging him to reconsider. Filippo frowned-it wasn't like he was going to drag the courtesan off into a dark alley and have his way with him. He just wanted to chat and share his pastry, talk to a like-minded person and perhaps make this first day on the job a little less daunting for him.
The outright panic in the girl's eyes made Filippo shift uncomfortably, but the man just tossed a quick, roguish grin at her. "I am sure it will be fine," he said, gently brushed off her hand, and twisted out of the tightly-knotted group with sinuous grace.
In the same movement, the courtesan wormed an arm around Filippo's, turning him around with no apparent effort. Through his armor, Filippo felt only the vaguest tug around his elbow, but he let himself follow the courtesan's lead away from the others. A few steps took them into the narrowing mouth of a winding street-out of the way of the thickest throngs of people, he realized, and followed with new understanding and only a small measure of trepidation.
Away from the bustling crowd, the courtesan looked a little hunted, caught wrong-footed by the sudden narrowed intensity of being alone with Filippo. His gaze flickered upward again, skimming over the rooftops and probing the deep shadows between the buildings. Nobody jumped out at them and started shouting about sodomy, but he didn't seem reassured. Filippo watched, confused, as the man shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and turned in a slow half-circle, his narrow-eyed scrutiny of the street only just visible beneath the hood. For all his earlier bravado as he'd reassured the short courtesan, he now seemed as alert as if he was expecting an ambush.
The thought made something click in Filippo's head, and he suddenly realized that the man's wary stance was that of a soldier. His coiled tension was mostly hidden beneath the rich folds of his robes, but Filippo still saw the broadening of his stance, ready to attack or flee as the situation called for. Perhaps he had used to be a guard then, discharged after an injury or for insubordination. It was understandable that he'd be wary of a fellow soldier approaching him. Maybe he even thought Filippo had recognized him and would rat him out to the authorities.
"There is no need to be nervous," he blurted without thinking, because that was just wrong. Even if Filippo really had recognized the man, he would never have dragged him off just to give him a lecture and call for a group of the overworked city guard to take him away in chains on charges of illicit practices. He'd wanted to reassure him, but it seemed he was doing anything but.
"Nervous," the man repeated flatly, stilling at once and staring at Filippo as if seeing him clearly for the first time. His eyes were dark, shadowed by the hood, surprise and suspicion warring for dominance on his tanned features. "That's- I am not nervous."
He sounded offended, Filippo realized with a wince, exasperated at himself. First he did not know what to say, and then he committed such a blunder-had the mere sight of a handsome face stripped away his years until he behaved like a blushing boy again? "Of course not," he hurried to say. "The first day on the job would make anyone jumpy."
"What job- oh," the man said, and sudden understanding stole the challenging gleam from his gaze. For a moment he seemed to be thinking quickly, possible answers racing past too fast to follow behind his eyes. But then he relaxed, like Filippo's clumsy attempts to put him at ease had finally taken hold. "The first day. Yes, of course. This is very... unusual."
His lips twitched in private amusement, and although the joke was not for him, Filippo gratefully smiled back. "Unusual, yes," he agreed, glancing back over his shoulder in the general direction of the other courtesans, hidden from sight by the market day crowd. "I never expected to find a male courtesan here, or at least not quite so... out in the open."
The man shrugged, his stance shifting and relaxing, easing into the conversation like an actor who'd suddenly remembered his lines. "I got lucky," he said. "The Rosa in Fiore is very accommodating towards whoever is looking for work these days, even men." The wry smile grew, and suddenly he looked younger again, a spark of mischief peeling away the wary shadow in his eyes. "And you know what they say about hiding in plain sight."
Filippo found himself grinning at the unexpected levity. The man seemed to have shrugged off the nervousness like an ill-fitting cloak, and it helped Filippo relax too, put at ease by the man's easy humor. "My name is Filippo," he said, and sketched a little bow at the man, keeping a careful eye on the apple pastry to keep it from overbalancing. "What may I call you?"
"E... duardo," the courtesan replied-quickly enough, but with that tell-tale little pause in the middle, and Filippo hid a knowing smile. He hadn't thought he would be given the man's real name, but neither had he expected that little slip. The courtesan looked startled by his own near-blunder for a moment, but rallied quickly, giving Filippo an enigmatic little smile.
"Well, now we know each other," Eduardo said. He stepped to the side and held out an arm in invitation-he wore bracers, Filippo noticed, carved with intricate designs, the metal scratched and scuffed with use. His employers had really put an effort into making his vaguely warrior-like garb look realistic. "Shall we walk a bit?"
Walking meant that he would work up a sweat again-not that he didn't already stink of salt and overheated metal-but Filippo nodded readily. It was awkward to just stand around and talk, especially since casual conversation with a courtesan was apparently not his strong suit. "Of course," he said, and fell in step beside the shorter man.
The alley meandered between tall, slightly run-down buildings, with faded tapestries dangling from the balconies and the sandstone walls crumbling in places. It wasn't a part of town that Filippo had ever really stopped to look at before; he'd only ever passed through it on the way to or from the barracks. He had heard that the nearby Borgia tower had been burned down recently, but instead of the chaos and poverty one might have expected to see, the houses had the aged, chipped look of careful maintenance in spite of a lack of money.
"So, Eduardo," Filippo said eventually, glancing down at the white cowl beside him. It was odd not to see the man's face when talking to him, but if Eduardo was really an ex-soldier, Filippo understood that he felt less easily recognizable beneath the hood. "What brought you into this line of work, if I may ask?"
"Oh, this and that," Eduardo replied with a careless gesture. The hood tilted slightly towards Filippo-he was still peering between the buildings for potential threats, but not as warily as before. "Living in Roma is expensive, and I found my funds lacking. It is fortunate that I know the owner of the Rosa in Fiore. She was most... amused... when I asked to work for her."
Filippo did realize he was being redirected, but there was no wary tension in Eduardo's voice, nothing to point towards carefully hidden truths. So he had not been forced to don his extravagant clothes after all. The wash of relief surprised him, loosened the last bit of nagging, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Eduardo didn't seem like the type of man to let himself get blackmailed and bullied into selling his assets on the streets, but it was still reassuring to know that he was indeed here of his own free will.
"What about you, then?" Eduardo asked, tilting his head back so the hood slipped enough to reveal his eyes and the ends of a dark fringe, slightly matted with sweat. "What brings you here? Your armor does not look like that of an ordinary foot soldier."
"I'm a papal guard," Filippo explained. "We do not usually patrol the streets, but Ces- I mean, my employer saw fit to dispatch a greater number of men today. He hopes to catch the assassino, you see."
He saw the dark brows raise from the corner of his eye. "An assassin, here in Roma?" Eduardo inquired. Filippo glanced down at him, but he didn't look worried, just intrigued.
"Rumor has it he's been bothering the city guard for a while," he replied, and quirked a smile at his own words. "Or playing with them, more like, as a cat does with a mouse."
Eduardo's scarred lips twitched, but he mostly managed to stifle the wide, amused grin. There was something else in his features, a certain knowing glint in his eyes that Filippo couldn't quite place. "You seem to approve."
Filippo gestured dismissively, the plates of his armor grating against each other with the motion. A part of him was distantly surprised at his own easy words, well aware that Cesare Borgia would have put him on latrine duty on the spot if he had heard him just then. "I appreciate good workmanship when I see it. And from what I've heard, he never kills civilians. A warrior, then, with a notion of honor, no matter what my superiors would have me believe."
"Mmm," Eduardo hummed noncommittally, and looked back at the street ahead of them. The cobblestone was uneven and cracked in places, but the pavement looked freshly-swept, and there were no traces of hay or horse manure caught between the stones. The paint was peeling off of the shutters at many buildings, but the windowpanes were clean and gleamed in the sunlight.
Filippo nodded to himself, oddly gratified that the area seemed to be faring just fine even without countless guards on patrol around the Borgia tower. This time, the thought was not even accompanied by a twinge of guilt, and he couldn't suppress a quick smile. Far away from the barracks and the grueling drills, it seemed safe to articulate such sentiments in the privacy of his own mind.
The street opened up into a smaller tree-lined square, thankfully devoid of market stalls and overeager vendors yelling advertisements into the hot summer air. A small fountain was trickling water into a low, wide basin in the middle, and Filippo found himself drifting towards the sound on instinct. He wasn't going to dunk in his head like he'd seen some other guards to-his hair was in sweaty disarray already, and though Eduardo didn't seem put off by his disheveled appearance, he didn't want to make matters worse.
They circled the fountain at a leisure pace. Here, his armor did not draw so many startled glances; away from the excited thrum of the market, the summer day felt not so fast-paced, more languid as everyone avoided moving around too much in the heat. Small groups of neighbors were clustered around the doorsteps of the houses, leaning on their brooms and chatting amiably, with small piles of neatly swept-up dust and gravel at their feet.
"A good day for a hunt," Eduardo observed, tilting his head back to glance up at the sun. The hood slipped, exposing a little of his glossy dark hair and the unruly fringe that was stuck slightly to his temples with sweat. Filippo was struck with the sudden urge to ask him to take off the hood altogether, and bit the words back just in time.
"Hunt?" he repeated instead, caught off-balance by the strange impulse. God, he had not been rendered this slow and inarticulate by another man since his days as a coltish youth working on his father's farm. He gave his thoughts a good mental shake, telling them sternly that they had missed their appropriate time by about twenty years.
The hint of a smile on Eduardo's face grew wider, as if he knew exactly what was going through Filippo's head. "I thought you were chasing the assassino?"
"Oh, of course." Filippo moved his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. The leather straps under his armor chafed against his sweat-damp clothes, and he grimaced a little at the discomfort. "Well, I suppose it is a good day for him. He is not roasting under several layers of padding and metal."
Eduardo laughed, low and pleased. "You do not seem too bothered," he observed, and let his gaze travel slowly over Filippo's face as if hoping to catch him in the act of lying. "I wouldn't have expected a papal guard to be quite so laid back about the spread of disorder and chaos in his city."
Something about the way he said it seemed off, and Filippo frowned, a recumbent part of his mind suddenly jarred back to awareness. He probably should have told a bloodthirsty tale of what they would do to the assassin if they caught him-after all, that seemed like the thing a papal guard would say.
But if Eduardo found fault with his words, the damage was already done, and Filippo heard himself continue almost against his will. "That is not what I see here," he stated, gesturing with his free hand at the shabby but well-kept houses, the flowers that wilted slightly in the heat on sun-bleached windowsills. He paused, unsure about how much to reveal-he wanted to tell Eduardo that he'd noticed how the citizens didn't seem to miss the Borgia tower much, and how no one seemed too worried about a murderer in their midst.
But then he reminded himself that he did not know Eduardo after all. He had no idea what kind of background the man came from, who he answered to, with whom he might share the story of his encounter with Filippo over a glass of wine tonight. So in the end he just said, "I see people who are content and feel no fear walking the streets."
That gave Eduardo pause, visibly halted his thoughts. Filippo found himself subjected to narrow-eyed contemplation, and it was as if Eduardo's dark gaze was trying to pierce through his words, to nudge and prod at them until they gave up the truth in the tone of his voice. It was not the kind of reaction he had expected. He had thought it would make the man uneasy to hear a papal guard, one who was supposed to be a steadfast protector, talk with such casual unconcern about the white-clad hunter that prowled the streets.
"Very well," Eduardo said abruptly, and the sharp, predatory focus vanished from his eyes. Filippo got the distinct feeling that he had just passed a test of some sort, that he'd been assessed and not found wanting, and maybe even worthy of respect.
Such appraising scrutiny by a mere courtesan seemed strange, but then Eduardo smiled at him, inviting and warm, and the thought drifted to the back of Filippo's mind. He tilted his head to indicate the pastry that Filippo was still holding, still smelling of apples but not steaming any longer. "You said you wanted to share this?"
Part 1b