Knives Don't Have Your Back: Prologue
Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rated: PG13 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 3,533 / 90,339
Please see the master post for additional information, warnings and notes before reading this story.
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† prologue †
Teodor Viscardi was not a man usually given to displays of annoyance, or really displays of any sort, but tonight was proving a different matter. The weather outside the tent was cold and damp, the mists creeping ever further under the faded cloth and warped frame to suck the minimal heat from the fire. Teodor suffered the cold easily enough. A career soldier, he was used to most discomforts, being it soggy boots or healing wounds that itched with mild infections. These things were easy to ignore. However, his companion this evening was proving more troublesome than usual.
Donato Mancini was a high-ranking captain within Cesare’s military, moving swiftly from mercenary to soldier with much violence and fanfare. Teodor quite liked Donato and their relationship had quickly escalated to a fierce friendship as only a relationship could when forged in months of battle. Donato was an intelligent man when it came to warfare despite having little formal education. His swordsmanship was excellent, his loyalty to his men unwavering, and there was no one in all of Italia who could possibly best him on horseback. Unfortunately, Donato had more ambition than he had savvy, something that Teodor feared would bring him pain before glory.
Currently, Donato was seated on a cot piled with furs, his armor and choice weapons spread around him for a thorough cleaning. Donato was proud of his station within the Borgia company and often spent his evening hours polishing away.
Donato had been quietly rambling on for awhile now, telling stories of his prowess on the battlefield and when those had run out he had moved onto bawdy tales of the women he had bedded, both recently and as far back as he could remember. It was the usual evening ritual-Donato would polish armor and regale Teodor with stories he had often heard more than once while Teodor would gamely nod his head at the right moments or laugh at the more risqué and...elaborate bedroom fables.
They had only just finished their siege of Naples a week earlier, and after a few days full of respite (and to hear Donato tell it, full of various sinful dalliances) Cesare had ordered they press on to Capua while the victory was still fresh in the minds of their enemies. Victory, in terms of Borgia rule, was almost synonymous with fear. In Teodor’s opinion it was wise to take advantage of opportunity and press on despite the slight strain on Cesare’s armies.
Since Teodor had joined the campaign as a full officer he was responsible for various duties. His charges ranged from tactics to recruitment of local mercenaries and therefore he spent a majority of his evenings planning sieges, chronicling past accomplishments and failures, and (should time allow) toying with ideas for better weaponry. This of course came after he had checked on his own men, overseen the supplies, and occasionally picked up a game of cards to learn of the latest gossip.
Sometimes Donato would accompany him on his rounds or at the very least meet Teodor in their tent each night with a ready plate of food and a goblet of wine. When they had first met and been assigned quarters together Teodor had balked at the odd, almost mothering attention Donato had bestowed upon him, going so far as to wonder if Donato was attempting to gain his trust only to leave him poisoned and his officer’s position open for the taking.
“You have a suspicious mind,” Donato had told him, laughing when he had seen the hesitancy in Teodor’s eyes. “It is a good thing for politics, but not here on the field.”
Teodor had said nothing, only watched Donato warily as the other man shrugged and picked up a greasy potato, smiling as he shoved it in his mouth. “You see, I am not dead,” he had said, bits of potato flying from his mouth as he chewed. “Besides, I like you. You remind me of my younger cousin but you are far less stupid than he.”
“I suppose I should be gracious then?” Teodor had asked, a little unnerved. Familiarity and good humor had never been traits he was used to encountering.
Donato had laughed. “Of course! You need me, and I you.” Donato had taken a sip from the glass and then held it out to Teodor. “Be excited! With your schooling and my...everything else, we will conquer all of Italia!”
Teodor had not known what to say to that, but drank the wine all the same. Two days later Teodor had found himself on the wrong end of an enemy sword, sprawled in a muddy battlefield and a hair’s breadth from certain death. Donato had appeared through a throng of enemy soldiers and sliced open his enemy’s backside, expression gleeful as he pulled Teodor to his feet. After that Teodor lost faith in the luxury of questioning loyalties on the battlefield, if not in warfare. Many campaigns later Donato remained his closest ally, although a rather chatty one.
“So, my friend,” Donato said, interrupting Teodor’s work and train of thought. The rickety desk he sat before was piled with scrolls, the one before him a map of Capua where he had been demarcating different strategies for the coming siege. Usually Donato did not ask too much of Teodor’s participation in their nightly conversations (unless it revolved around future plans of violence, for which Teodor always had many theories), but tonight Donato was bright with too much wine and pride to keep to the usual way of things.
Teodor stretched and turned towards his friend, expectant, watching Donato’s hands alternate between waxing and polishing his armor. He noticed Donato had taken a few pieces of Teodor’s and was considerately treating them as well.
Donato laughed at the lull in conversation. “I say only, ‘So, my friend,’ and you are not curious?” Teodor raised an eyebrow, and Donato shook his head fondly. “Fine then, be like that. I only wanted to ask if you were going to sit there all night looking over battle plans like an old man. We have time before we reach Capua, you should rest.”
Teodor gave Donato a small smile. Rest, or rather Teodor’s aversion to such activity, was a favorite topic for Donato. “I will rest when we have taken Capua. Besides, we had time to recover in Naples.”
Donato smirked. “Which I remember you spent travelling from one merchant to the next, securing supplies.”
“Some of us have a few more responsibilities than others,” Teodor said, watching the slightest flash of annoyance pass over Donato’s face. “Not all of us have the luxury of visiting every brothel we stumble across.”
Donato waved a waxy finger in his direction, huffing dramatically. “I did not say brothels. I said women. Fine noblewomen of great stature.”
“I’m sure,” Teodor said, gently teasing. “You would do better with the brothels, or you might find yourself hunted down by angry husbands and fathers who take offense to the litters of bastards you leave in your wake.”
“And suffer disease? I think not. As for the husbands and fathers, I would kill them all,” Donato said, sounding wistful. Teodor smiled.
Their conversation was cut short as a young soldier poked his head through the opening flaps of their tent. He shivered as he stepped inside, rubbing his hands over his arms. Teodor looked at him expectantly.
Donato’s playful expression fluctuated as he took in the new arrival. “State your business,” Donato told him, hands once again moving over metal.
“I have a message from the Captain General,” the soldier replied, hesitating only slightly at the name.
Teodor looked on impassively as Donato’s eyes sparked with excitement and curiosity. Donato waved the boy over and took a rumpled piece of parchment from him. The soldier opened his mouth as if to speak, but Donato waved a hand impatiently as he worked to open the note. “Dismissed!”
Teodor spared the soldier a glance as he scurried from the tent, then returned his eyes to Donato. “What is it?” he asked after Donato had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes.
“I...am not sure,” Donato murmured. He handed the paper to Teodor with a frown. Teodor took the parchment. “It only says for you to go to the stables,” Donato said. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Teodor shook his head. “I suppose it would be too much to hope he wants me to help him with his horse.”
“If that were the case he would have asked for me,” Donato said softly. Showing more savvy than usual, he selected Teodor’s favored épieu from his growing pile of polished weaponry.
“You’ll be fine,” Donato said, watching Teodor’s face carefully as he handed over the spear. “May that cunning mind of yours benefit you when you talk to our esteemed leader.”
Teodor studied the épieu momentarily before meeting Donato’s concerned expression. He took it wordlessly, sliding it quickly inside his jacket. He reached forward and wrapped his hand around Donato’s wrist, giving it a friendly squeeze.
“Give my mother my love if I don’t return by sunrise,” Teodor said dryly.
“I’ll give her more than that,” Donato promised, “provided she’s not the one responsible for that face of yours.”
“Looks never seemed to bother you before,” Teodor said, and turned to leave.
† † †
The uneven ground bit into Teodor’s boots as he left the tent. The night was growing steadily colder and the earth had hardened and cooled to a punishing temperature. Teodor adjusted his collar against the chill and pushed forward, nodding to the few guards who milled around the camp.
It was a short walk to the stables. The horses were penned not far from the officers’ quarters, a decision Teodor had made earlier to aid them in lieu of a surprise attack. Most of the other high-ranking soldiers preferred his decision as well, but mostly because they had bought into the position and disliked any sort of exertion. If the whim took him, Teodor would see them slaughtered. They were useless in warfare and lacked the influence a noble title could provide.
Teodor paused as he entered the horse tent, looking around the piles of hay and tack for possible guards. Donato was apt in his suspicion of Cesare-meetings with the man either ended in murky prestige or death, depending on the young ruler’s volatile temperament. To benefit from Cesare’s good graces meant power and for some, justification. To lose his favor was akin to walking before a canon. Cesare’s power was seemingly infinite: his ruthlessness was unmatched and his campaigning for Italian rule was backed by the papacy, no small feat. Teodor had realized long ago that in order to survive it was best to align himself with Borgia rule. To do otherwise was foolish.
“Over here, Officer Viscardi,” ordered a familiar voice, catching him off guard.
Cesare was standing before a cluster of horses, affectionately patting the side of a particularly large bay. Beside the bay was Teodor’s own mount, a large courser with a dappled grey coat. The horse looked interested at the sight of Teodor, black eyes searching to see if he carried a stolen treat. Seeing none, it stretched its neck towards Cesare in the hopes he had perhaps brought something to eat.
“I apologize if I have kept you waiting,” Teodor replied, walking forward with purpose.
“It is no matter,” Cesare said, waving a hand dismissively in Teodor’s direction. From his pocket he produced a small, somewhat bruised apple and lifted it to the horse’s mouth. “Does he bite?” he asked, even as the horse delicately plucked the apple from Cesare’s palm. “I would expect such a thing. This horse is your favorite, correct?”
Teodor nodded, watching as the dappled grey noisily chewed and swallowed the apple. He made no move towards it, and the horse shook its mane before bowing its head to the ground, sniffing it hopefully.
Cesare was watching Teodor with expectant eyes. The rest in Naples had treated Cesare well. He looked every bit the part of a young prince, robes fine and unwrinkled and his hair clean. In Teodor’s mind, there were two Cesares-the one for battle, and the one for the time between. He preferred the former, when Cesare’s malevolent mind was buried into the work of overseeing a large army and he could be approached with less fear of recrimination. This Cesare, the one well-rested and not so overwhelmingly occupied, had a hungry expression and his eyes glittered like daggers. Cesare was his brightest when he schemed, and Teodor felt his own measure grow dull as he stood before him.
“What can I do for you, Signore?” Teodor asked.
Cesare’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What can I do for you, Captain General.”
Teodor blinked. The correction seemed meant to test him but he couldn’t fathom why. “My apologies, Captain General. I am used to battle, where the use of titles only makes targets for enemies.”
“A clever answer. But I fear I am already a target for many men,” Cesare replied.
“Then there are many men who will be disappointed, for they shall not have the chance,” Teodor said. “Captain General.”
Cesare’s grin was slow to spread across his face. “Not have the chance, you say?” Cesare’s hand went to his sword, his fingers drumming along the golden hilt. Teodor’s eyes paid close attention to their rhythm. “Is that because you would protect me or because one day you intend to take that chance yourself?”
“I am not that ambitious, Captain General,” Teodor replied.
Cesare pursed his lips and then drew his blade, staring at it thoughtfully. “Men fight for loyalty or ambition. Am I to assume you are loyal?”
“Yes, Captain General,” Teodor said.
“Easily pledged in front of a naked blade,” Cesare said archly. He pointed the sword at Teodor, but didn’t openly strike or threaten him. “And what if I ordered you to die then? Right now, this moment. Would you do it?”
Teodor spared a moment to think of his épieu inside his coat, his odds. They weren’t good. “Only the living can be loyal, Captain General.”
“Well done then, Officer Viscardi,” Cesare said, sliding his sword back into his scabbard. “The sword was only to see your measure,” he explained, referring to his actions. Teodor sincerely doubted it. Cesare Borgia had a reputation of shooting people on the street from the high windows of Castel Sant’Angelo.
“My measure, Captain General?” he responded, feigning ignorance.
“Enough, it seems,” Cesare said, a curious expression on his face. “Were you even a little nervous?”
“I assure you Captain General, I was terrified,” Teodor said earnestly. Cesare laughed once more, adding to Teodor’s unease.
“Liar,” Cesare said. “But a humble one. That is not something I am used to in my officers. Tell me, have you always been this way? And if so, how have I overlooked you for so long?”
“I do not feel overlooked, Captain General. I enjoy the life of a soldier very much,” Teodor replied, knowing a baited question when he heard one.
“I am sure you do,” Cesare said, his tone revealing he believed quite the opposite. “Is that an accent I detect, Viscardi?”
“My father serves in France’s court. But I moved to Torino when I was a boy and stayed with relatives. My career and loyalty are to Italia, Captain General.”
Cesare tapped the side of his cheek, as if to think. “I would like to hear more of your family, I think, but now is not the time.” Cesare twisted around, slowly pacing between the tethered horses. “Now I wish to hear about your horse.”
“My horse?” Teodor asked, unable to help his look of his surprise. “What of my horse...Captain General,” he added.
“Forget that ‘Captain General’ nonsense,” Cesare said harshly, raising a hand to pet the shoulder of Teodor’s dappled grey. “There is no one here to impress. But yes, I want to know of this horse. I’m surprised by your choice in a courser. I thought you would want a more battle-ready animal. Tell me, what is his name?”
Teodor moved to join Cesare, rounding the horse to stand opposite the man. He placed a hand on the animal’s back, giving it an affectionate pat. “His name is Veillantif. It means --”
“‘Little vigilant one,’” Cesare cut in. His eyes flicked with amusement.
Teodor looked down, fetching a grooming brush on a close bench. He slowly began brushing the horse, keeping his eyes on Cesare as best he could. “I chose him because I needed a fast animal. I rarely wear armor on the battlefield and spend most of my time giving orders. A destrier would be too slow. If I must fight, I prefer to do so on the ground."
“That’s very good, Viscardi,” said Cesare with the air of someone talking to a slow child. “But I want to know, would you call this horse a friend?”
Teodor paused his brush. “A friend?”
“He has saved your lives many times, I’m sure. You rely on him, you know his needs and he knows yours. That is friendship, yes?” Cesare’s eyes gleamed in the low light, waiting.
“It is a horse,” Teodor replied after awhile. He resumed brushing, but now turned his full attention to Cesare. The stallion’s ears pricked backwards as if sensing the sudden tension.
Cesare smiled indulgently. “But is it a friend?”
“I don’t understand,” Teodor said, trying to gain ground. “It is a beast-a tool.”
“What if he were to die?” Teodor watched as Cesare pulled a pistol seemingly from thin air and placed it behind the horse’s head. Teodor felt his eyes widen. He stopped grooming. The stallion snorted at the odd pressure behind its ears. “Right now, what if I killed Veillantif? You would need another horse. Would you be sad? Would you be angry with me?”
“Those things would cross my mind,” Teodor said, quickly choosing to use honesty as his weapon. Cesare drew back the hammer on the pistol. Teodor flinched. Cesare’s eyes lit with pleasure.
“I thought you said it was only a tool,” he murmured softly, almost mournfully. “Be honest, this time the pistol isn’t for demonstration.”
“It is,” Teodor managed. With white knuckles he resumed his grooming, letting his eyes fall away from the pistol. Underneath his hands Veillantif was warm, the stallion’s heart pumping along with a rhythm Teodor had found comforting on his darker nights. “It would be wasteful,” he said as casually as he could. “Veillantif has proven a good mount and I have a severe dislike for training horses.”
Instead of the booming sound of the pistol, Cesare’s laughter broke through the heavy silence. Teodor looked up from under his eyebrows and did his best to not visibly relax as Cesare lowered the pistol.
“You have a way of winning arguments, Teodor,” Cesare said, his smile wide and half-filled with lunacy. Teodor felt his heart rate jump at the sound of his name and revealed nothing. “I like it. I like it so much I think I shall order you ride to Roma tomorrow.”
Teodor concentrated very hard on not dropping his brush.
“Do you mean for me to leave the crusade?” he asked in a neutral tone. “I don’t presume you would want me as a condottiero?”
“It would be wise,” Cesare said slowly, losing the tint of amusement in his tone, “to not presume anything.” He waited, and Teodor bowed his head accordingly. “But you are correct,” he continued, “I do not want you for my condottieri. Unless you have taken a sudden interest in gaining property for yourself.”
“My aspirations are dictated by the needs of my superiors,” Teodor responded easily. This was conversation he was prepared for. “I have no personal desires.”
“Indeed,” Cesare said. Amusement and suspicion laced his features. “Do you not worry for your men? You have been an impressive and arguably necessary part of my successes in Monteriggioni and Romagna, and now in Naples. Do you think overthrowing Capua can be done without your expertise?”
“I will not be missed,” Teodor replied, expression stony. “I can be easily replaced by a number of men.”
“Very well.” Cesare clapped his hands. He produced a piece of parchment and held it out. Teodor reached for it and withheld a shudder as Cesare’s thumb ghosted over the back of his hand. “When you reach Roma, I want you to visit my barber, Baltasar de Silva. He will tell you everything you need to know.”
Questions whipped through Teodor’s mind faster than arrows ranging from Why is a barber in charge of Cesare’s affairs? to the more pressing What have I committed myself to this time? and onwards. Teodor took the parchment and tucked it in his coat.
“It seems it is settled,” he said simply.
Cesare’s smile was so wide Teodor could count every tooth.
† † †
« previous chapter | index | next chapter »
author's notes | warnings
Rated: PG13 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 3,533 / 90,339
Please see the master post for additional information, warnings and notes before reading this story.
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† prologue †
Teodor Viscardi was not a man usually given to displays of annoyance, or really displays of any sort, but tonight was proving a different matter. The weather outside the tent was cold and damp, the mists creeping ever further under the faded cloth and warped frame to suck the minimal heat from the fire. Teodor suffered the cold easily enough. A career soldier, he was used to most discomforts, being it soggy boots or healing wounds that itched with mild infections. These things were easy to ignore. However, his companion this evening was proving more troublesome than usual.
Donato Mancini was a high-ranking captain within Cesare’s military, moving swiftly from mercenary to soldier with much violence and fanfare. Teodor quite liked Donato and their relationship had quickly escalated to a fierce friendship as only a relationship could when forged in months of battle. Donato was an intelligent man when it came to warfare despite having little formal education. His swordsmanship was excellent, his loyalty to his men unwavering, and there was no one in all of Italia who could possibly best him on horseback. Unfortunately, Donato had more ambition than he had savvy, something that Teodor feared would bring him pain before glory.
Currently, Donato was seated on a cot piled with furs, his armor and choice weapons spread around him for a thorough cleaning. Donato was proud of his station within the Borgia company and often spent his evening hours polishing away.
Donato had been quietly rambling on for awhile now, telling stories of his prowess on the battlefield and when those had run out he had moved onto bawdy tales of the women he had bedded, both recently and as far back as he could remember. It was the usual evening ritual-Donato would polish armor and regale Teodor with stories he had often heard more than once while Teodor would gamely nod his head at the right moments or laugh at the more risqué and...elaborate bedroom fables.
They had only just finished their siege of Naples a week earlier, and after a few days full of respite (and to hear Donato tell it, full of various sinful dalliances) Cesare had ordered they press on to Capua while the victory was still fresh in the minds of their enemies. Victory, in terms of Borgia rule, was almost synonymous with fear. In Teodor’s opinion it was wise to take advantage of opportunity and press on despite the slight strain on Cesare’s armies.
Since Teodor had joined the campaign as a full officer he was responsible for various duties. His charges ranged from tactics to recruitment of local mercenaries and therefore he spent a majority of his evenings planning sieges, chronicling past accomplishments and failures, and (should time allow) toying with ideas for better weaponry. This of course came after he had checked on his own men, overseen the supplies, and occasionally picked up a game of cards to learn of the latest gossip.
Sometimes Donato would accompany him on his rounds or at the very least meet Teodor in their tent each night with a ready plate of food and a goblet of wine. When they had first met and been assigned quarters together Teodor had balked at the odd, almost mothering attention Donato had bestowed upon him, going so far as to wonder if Donato was attempting to gain his trust only to leave him poisoned and his officer’s position open for the taking.
“You have a suspicious mind,” Donato had told him, laughing when he had seen the hesitancy in Teodor’s eyes. “It is a good thing for politics, but not here on the field.”
Teodor had said nothing, only watched Donato warily as the other man shrugged and picked up a greasy potato, smiling as he shoved it in his mouth. “You see, I am not dead,” he had said, bits of potato flying from his mouth as he chewed. “Besides, I like you. You remind me of my younger cousin but you are far less stupid than he.”
“I suppose I should be gracious then?” Teodor had asked, a little unnerved. Familiarity and good humor had never been traits he was used to encountering.
Donato had laughed. “Of course! You need me, and I you.” Donato had taken a sip from the glass and then held it out to Teodor. “Be excited! With your schooling and my...everything else, we will conquer all of Italia!”
Teodor had not known what to say to that, but drank the wine all the same. Two days later Teodor had found himself on the wrong end of an enemy sword, sprawled in a muddy battlefield and a hair’s breadth from certain death. Donato had appeared through a throng of enemy soldiers and sliced open his enemy’s backside, expression gleeful as he pulled Teodor to his feet. After that Teodor lost faith in the luxury of questioning loyalties on the battlefield, if not in warfare. Many campaigns later Donato remained his closest ally, although a rather chatty one.
“So, my friend,” Donato said, interrupting Teodor’s work and train of thought. The rickety desk he sat before was piled with scrolls, the one before him a map of Capua where he had been demarcating different strategies for the coming siege. Usually Donato did not ask too much of Teodor’s participation in their nightly conversations (unless it revolved around future plans of violence, for which Teodor always had many theories), but tonight Donato was bright with too much wine and pride to keep to the usual way of things.
Teodor stretched and turned towards his friend, expectant, watching Donato’s hands alternate between waxing and polishing his armor. He noticed Donato had taken a few pieces of Teodor’s and was considerately treating them as well.
Donato laughed at the lull in conversation. “I say only, ‘So, my friend,’ and you are not curious?” Teodor raised an eyebrow, and Donato shook his head fondly. “Fine then, be like that. I only wanted to ask if you were going to sit there all night looking over battle plans like an old man. We have time before we reach Capua, you should rest.”
Teodor gave Donato a small smile. Rest, or rather Teodor’s aversion to such activity, was a favorite topic for Donato. “I will rest when we have taken Capua. Besides, we had time to recover in Naples.”
Donato smirked. “Which I remember you spent travelling from one merchant to the next, securing supplies.”
“Some of us have a few more responsibilities than others,” Teodor said, watching the slightest flash of annoyance pass over Donato’s face. “Not all of us have the luxury of visiting every brothel we stumble across.”
Donato waved a waxy finger in his direction, huffing dramatically. “I did not say brothels. I said women. Fine noblewomen of great stature.”
“I’m sure,” Teodor said, gently teasing. “You would do better with the brothels, or you might find yourself hunted down by angry husbands and fathers who take offense to the litters of bastards you leave in your wake.”
“And suffer disease? I think not. As for the husbands and fathers, I would kill them all,” Donato said, sounding wistful. Teodor smiled.
Their conversation was cut short as a young soldier poked his head through the opening flaps of their tent. He shivered as he stepped inside, rubbing his hands over his arms. Teodor looked at him expectantly.
Donato’s playful expression fluctuated as he took in the new arrival. “State your business,” Donato told him, hands once again moving over metal.
“I have a message from the Captain General,” the soldier replied, hesitating only slightly at the name.
Teodor looked on impassively as Donato’s eyes sparked with excitement and curiosity. Donato waved the boy over and took a rumpled piece of parchment from him. The soldier opened his mouth as if to speak, but Donato waved a hand impatiently as he worked to open the note. “Dismissed!”
Teodor spared the soldier a glance as he scurried from the tent, then returned his eyes to Donato. “What is it?” he asked after Donato had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes.
“I...am not sure,” Donato murmured. He handed the paper to Teodor with a frown. Teodor took the parchment. “It only says for you to go to the stables,” Donato said. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Teodor shook his head. “I suppose it would be too much to hope he wants me to help him with his horse.”
“If that were the case he would have asked for me,” Donato said softly. Showing more savvy than usual, he selected Teodor’s favored épieu from his growing pile of polished weaponry.
“You’ll be fine,” Donato said, watching Teodor’s face carefully as he handed over the spear. “May that cunning mind of yours benefit you when you talk to our esteemed leader.”
Teodor studied the épieu momentarily before meeting Donato’s concerned expression. He took it wordlessly, sliding it quickly inside his jacket. He reached forward and wrapped his hand around Donato’s wrist, giving it a friendly squeeze.
“Give my mother my love if I don’t return by sunrise,” Teodor said dryly.
“I’ll give her more than that,” Donato promised, “provided she’s not the one responsible for that face of yours.”
“Looks never seemed to bother you before,” Teodor said, and turned to leave.
† † †
The uneven ground bit into Teodor’s boots as he left the tent. The night was growing steadily colder and the earth had hardened and cooled to a punishing temperature. Teodor adjusted his collar against the chill and pushed forward, nodding to the few guards who milled around the camp.
It was a short walk to the stables. The horses were penned not far from the officers’ quarters, a decision Teodor had made earlier to aid them in lieu of a surprise attack. Most of the other high-ranking soldiers preferred his decision as well, but mostly because they had bought into the position and disliked any sort of exertion. If the whim took him, Teodor would see them slaughtered. They were useless in warfare and lacked the influence a noble title could provide.
Teodor paused as he entered the horse tent, looking around the piles of hay and tack for possible guards. Donato was apt in his suspicion of Cesare-meetings with the man either ended in murky prestige or death, depending on the young ruler’s volatile temperament. To benefit from Cesare’s good graces meant power and for some, justification. To lose his favor was akin to walking before a canon. Cesare’s power was seemingly infinite: his ruthlessness was unmatched and his campaigning for Italian rule was backed by the papacy, no small feat. Teodor had realized long ago that in order to survive it was best to align himself with Borgia rule. To do otherwise was foolish.
“Over here, Officer Viscardi,” ordered a familiar voice, catching him off guard.
Cesare was standing before a cluster of horses, affectionately patting the side of a particularly large bay. Beside the bay was Teodor’s own mount, a large courser with a dappled grey coat. The horse looked interested at the sight of Teodor, black eyes searching to see if he carried a stolen treat. Seeing none, it stretched its neck towards Cesare in the hopes he had perhaps brought something to eat.
“I apologize if I have kept you waiting,” Teodor replied, walking forward with purpose.
“It is no matter,” Cesare said, waving a hand dismissively in Teodor’s direction. From his pocket he produced a small, somewhat bruised apple and lifted it to the horse’s mouth. “Does he bite?” he asked, even as the horse delicately plucked the apple from Cesare’s palm. “I would expect such a thing. This horse is your favorite, correct?”
Teodor nodded, watching as the dappled grey noisily chewed and swallowed the apple. He made no move towards it, and the horse shook its mane before bowing its head to the ground, sniffing it hopefully.
Cesare was watching Teodor with expectant eyes. The rest in Naples had treated Cesare well. He looked every bit the part of a young prince, robes fine and unwrinkled and his hair clean. In Teodor’s mind, there were two Cesares-the one for battle, and the one for the time between. He preferred the former, when Cesare’s malevolent mind was buried into the work of overseeing a large army and he could be approached with less fear of recrimination. This Cesare, the one well-rested and not so overwhelmingly occupied, had a hungry expression and his eyes glittered like daggers. Cesare was his brightest when he schemed, and Teodor felt his own measure grow dull as he stood before him.
“What can I do for you, Signore?” Teodor asked.
Cesare’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What can I do for you, Captain General.”
Teodor blinked. The correction seemed meant to test him but he couldn’t fathom why. “My apologies, Captain General. I am used to battle, where the use of titles only makes targets for enemies.”
“A clever answer. But I fear I am already a target for many men,” Cesare replied.
“Then there are many men who will be disappointed, for they shall not have the chance,” Teodor said. “Captain General.”
Cesare’s grin was slow to spread across his face. “Not have the chance, you say?” Cesare’s hand went to his sword, his fingers drumming along the golden hilt. Teodor’s eyes paid close attention to their rhythm. “Is that because you would protect me or because one day you intend to take that chance yourself?”
“I am not that ambitious, Captain General,” Teodor replied.
Cesare pursed his lips and then drew his blade, staring at it thoughtfully. “Men fight for loyalty or ambition. Am I to assume you are loyal?”
“Yes, Captain General,” Teodor said.
“Easily pledged in front of a naked blade,” Cesare said archly. He pointed the sword at Teodor, but didn’t openly strike or threaten him. “And what if I ordered you to die then? Right now, this moment. Would you do it?”
Teodor spared a moment to think of his épieu inside his coat, his odds. They weren’t good. “Only the living can be loyal, Captain General.”
“Well done then, Officer Viscardi,” Cesare said, sliding his sword back into his scabbard. “The sword was only to see your measure,” he explained, referring to his actions. Teodor sincerely doubted it. Cesare Borgia had a reputation of shooting people on the street from the high windows of Castel Sant’Angelo.
“My measure, Captain General?” he responded, feigning ignorance.
“Enough, it seems,” Cesare said, a curious expression on his face. “Were you even a little nervous?”
“I assure you Captain General, I was terrified,” Teodor said earnestly. Cesare laughed once more, adding to Teodor’s unease.
“Liar,” Cesare said. “But a humble one. That is not something I am used to in my officers. Tell me, have you always been this way? And if so, how have I overlooked you for so long?”
“I do not feel overlooked, Captain General. I enjoy the life of a soldier very much,” Teodor replied, knowing a baited question when he heard one.
“I am sure you do,” Cesare said, his tone revealing he believed quite the opposite. “Is that an accent I detect, Viscardi?”
“My father serves in France’s court. But I moved to Torino when I was a boy and stayed with relatives. My career and loyalty are to Italia, Captain General.”
Cesare tapped the side of his cheek, as if to think. “I would like to hear more of your family, I think, but now is not the time.” Cesare twisted around, slowly pacing between the tethered horses. “Now I wish to hear about your horse.”
“My horse?” Teodor asked, unable to help his look of his surprise. “What of my horse...Captain General,” he added.
“Forget that ‘Captain General’ nonsense,” Cesare said harshly, raising a hand to pet the shoulder of Teodor’s dappled grey. “There is no one here to impress. But yes, I want to know of this horse. I’m surprised by your choice in a courser. I thought you would want a more battle-ready animal. Tell me, what is his name?”
Teodor moved to join Cesare, rounding the horse to stand opposite the man. He placed a hand on the animal’s back, giving it an affectionate pat. “His name is Veillantif. It means --”
“‘Little vigilant one,’” Cesare cut in. His eyes flicked with amusement.
Teodor looked down, fetching a grooming brush on a close bench. He slowly began brushing the horse, keeping his eyes on Cesare as best he could. “I chose him because I needed a fast animal. I rarely wear armor on the battlefield and spend most of my time giving orders. A destrier would be too slow. If I must fight, I prefer to do so on the ground."
“That’s very good, Viscardi,” said Cesare with the air of someone talking to a slow child. “But I want to know, would you call this horse a friend?”
Teodor paused his brush. “A friend?”
“He has saved your lives many times, I’m sure. You rely on him, you know his needs and he knows yours. That is friendship, yes?” Cesare’s eyes gleamed in the low light, waiting.
“It is a horse,” Teodor replied after awhile. He resumed brushing, but now turned his full attention to Cesare. The stallion’s ears pricked backwards as if sensing the sudden tension.
Cesare smiled indulgently. “But is it a friend?”
“I don’t understand,” Teodor said, trying to gain ground. “It is a beast-a tool.”
“What if he were to die?” Teodor watched as Cesare pulled a pistol seemingly from thin air and placed it behind the horse’s head. Teodor felt his eyes widen. He stopped grooming. The stallion snorted at the odd pressure behind its ears. “Right now, what if I killed Veillantif? You would need another horse. Would you be sad? Would you be angry with me?”
“Those things would cross my mind,” Teodor said, quickly choosing to use honesty as his weapon. Cesare drew back the hammer on the pistol. Teodor flinched. Cesare’s eyes lit with pleasure.
“I thought you said it was only a tool,” he murmured softly, almost mournfully. “Be honest, this time the pistol isn’t for demonstration.”
“It is,” Teodor managed. With white knuckles he resumed his grooming, letting his eyes fall away from the pistol. Underneath his hands Veillantif was warm, the stallion’s heart pumping along with a rhythm Teodor had found comforting on his darker nights. “It would be wasteful,” he said as casually as he could. “Veillantif has proven a good mount and I have a severe dislike for training horses.”
Instead of the booming sound of the pistol, Cesare’s laughter broke through the heavy silence. Teodor looked up from under his eyebrows and did his best to not visibly relax as Cesare lowered the pistol.
“You have a way of winning arguments, Teodor,” Cesare said, his smile wide and half-filled with lunacy. Teodor felt his heart rate jump at the sound of his name and revealed nothing. “I like it. I like it so much I think I shall order you ride to Roma tomorrow.”
Teodor concentrated very hard on not dropping his brush.
“Do you mean for me to leave the crusade?” he asked in a neutral tone. “I don’t presume you would want me as a condottiero?”
“It would be wise,” Cesare said slowly, losing the tint of amusement in his tone, “to not presume anything.” He waited, and Teodor bowed his head accordingly. “But you are correct,” he continued, “I do not want you for my condottieri. Unless you have taken a sudden interest in gaining property for yourself.”
“My aspirations are dictated by the needs of my superiors,” Teodor responded easily. This was conversation he was prepared for. “I have no personal desires.”
“Indeed,” Cesare said. Amusement and suspicion laced his features. “Do you not worry for your men? You have been an impressive and arguably necessary part of my successes in Monteriggioni and Romagna, and now in Naples. Do you think overthrowing Capua can be done without your expertise?”
“I will not be missed,” Teodor replied, expression stony. “I can be easily replaced by a number of men.”
“Very well.” Cesare clapped his hands. He produced a piece of parchment and held it out. Teodor reached for it and withheld a shudder as Cesare’s thumb ghosted over the back of his hand. “When you reach Roma, I want you to visit my barber, Baltasar de Silva. He will tell you everything you need to know.”
Questions whipped through Teodor’s mind faster than arrows ranging from Why is a barber in charge of Cesare’s affairs? to the more pressing What have I committed myself to this time? and onwards. Teodor took the parchment and tucked it in his coat.
“It seems it is settled,” he said simply.
Cesare’s smile was so wide Teodor could count every tooth.
† † †
« previous chapter | index | next chapter »
author's notes | warnings