Knives Don't Have Your Back: Chapter XII
Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rated: R (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 8,275 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† XII †
Teodor woke to the feeling of fingers in his mouth. He felt them pull his lips apart, then push past his teeth. He instinctively bit down, tasting leather and dirt. Someone swore.
His eyes opened slowly, as if he was unused to using them. The dark night sky stretched high above him, stormy still, and he blinked as rain spattered across his cheeks. A familiar face swam in front of him, Donato’s eyes wide enough his brown irises were rimmed in white.
The fingers were back, this time much gentler on his lips. Teodor tried to turn his head away but a sharp pain flared in his neck. He moaned, feeling the vibration but not able to hear it. When his mouth opened the fingers took advantage once again, pulling at his tongue. Teodor gagged, trying to lift his arms but his body was unresponsive, numbed and cold as stone.
Donato’s mouth was moving. Slowly, like a distant echo, Teodor heard his voice.
“What is it?” Donato asked.
“No discoloration,” came a second voice. Teodor vaguely recognized the grizzled man as he came into view. The fingers belonged to him. “It’s not poison.”
“Good,” said Donato. “Teodor, can you hear me?”
Teodor tried to focus. His head throbbed and he struggled to gain control over his limbs. He remembered the water filling his nose, the pressure of it so immense it made his eyes bulge. Nanette’s lips on his temple. No, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t real.
Donato was stripping off his gloves. He knelt beside Teodor, reaching out to push
wet strands of hair out of his eyes.
“It’s okay, mio fratello,” Donato murmured. He gave a nod to the other soldier. Teodor felt foreign hands at his belt. Feeling was beginning to seep back into bones and he tried to push them away. “We need to know where you’re hurt,” Donato said.
Everywhere, Teodor thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of
Malfatto standing over the courtesan flashed into his mind. His memories were thick with blood, remembering all the odd nights Malfatto had disappeared only to return smelling of it. Had he always known? Teodor considered the possibility that maybe he had already made his decision months ago.
“He’s not bleeding. There’s...he’s not wounded.”
Everything ran red in his mind, from the flames of an inn as it caught fire to the matted, curly ginger hair on a soldier’s head. Teodor pushed his memories away, sinking into the deepest waters inside his mind, the murky parts where Nanette waited for him. Stay with me.
“That doesn’t make sense,” snapped Donato in the distance. “Open his shirt.”
Hands pulled at him. Rain pelted his bare chest. He could smell the riverbank again, feel the wind in his hair. In the water he heard splashing. Somewhere just out of sight, Nanette was singing.
Do you know why you’re here?
“I found some welts. Looks like he was hit from behind.”
There was the dock, and crouched at the end was his sister as a young girl. She was in her underclothes, soaking wet and filthy, no doubt freshly returned from a prohibited swim. When she saw him, her face lit up. Squealing his name, she ran to him.
Stay with me.
“I said stay with me, Teodor!” roared Donato.
Something hit him in the face, hard, and his eyes snapped open, a gasp wrangled from him as his neck exploded in agony. The vision of his sister, alive and happy with weeds sticking in her hair, was blown away as if it were made of dust.
“Nanette!” Teodor called out, straining to reach her. Above him, Donato frowned in worry, his face blurred by the downpour. Teodor’s nose felt strangely loose, and when he managed to bring a hand to it his fingers came back not with rain, but blood. He would never be rid of it.
“I’m sorry,” Donato said, beginning to sound panicked. “Teodor, who did this to you? Where are they, where’s Rico?”
Rico. Teodor winced at the name. He watched himself toss the boy over the wall in his mind’s eye, heard the crack his body made against the surface of the water before the heavy armor dragged it under.
This is where the monsters go.
Waves rushed to him again. Hands cupped his face. Through the rain Teodor saw not Donato, but his sister, her green eyes warm. Her smile was gentle, even sweet. Teodor had forgotten she could do that.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, reaching to her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Teodor?” came Donato again. “Someone get a doctor!”
“Un médecin,” Teodor told his sister conspiratorially. Nanette raised her eyebrows, shook her head. Teodor began to laugh, the sound wet as blood slipped into his mouth.
He heard the pop of a bottle being uncapped. Hands were at his mouth again, but Teodor didn’t fight, his eyes glued to Nanette’s. An elixir was poured down his throat, the smell of laudanum heavy in the air. Nanette held his hand as he choked on it, tears in her eyes. Teodor didn’t care-he had drowned before. He would endure anything to stay in this place.
“Come on,” Donato said, somewhere far away. “Swallow, Teodor. You have to keep it down.”
All the way down, Nanette sang to him. Teodor took her hand, tried to kiss it, his body growing numb as the medicine began to flood his system. The shadow in the back of Teodor’s mind, the shadow with the face of a bird, began to fade.
Teodor stayed under as long as he could, helped by the laudanum and the ghost of his sister. Beneath the waves, down in the black, everything was cold and comforting. Cold. Comforting. He’d used those words before to describe Malfatto. Malfatto, who kissed him with something bordering on tenderness-Malfatto, who ripped girls apart for the fun of it.
The real world echoed around Teodor, the sights and sounds all muffled. He felt himself tugged along by strong hands, even dragged, but in his mind it was the current that moved him. Once, he surfaced momentarily and was greeted by the sight of a familiar hat and mask, but in place of the dark glasses was a pair of warm brown eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with him physically,” came the distorted voice, speaking to someone Teodor couldn’t see. The doctor’s hands were bare, his thumbs warm as he ran them across Teodor’s jaw and down along his bruised neck. The touch only served to remind him of Malfatto. It felt wrong, Teodor was wrong, everything was wrong.
“He should be here,” Teodor whispered to his sister, then slammed his head back against the hard surface beneath him and went mad for a little while.
Teodor practiced drowning. With Nanette’s hand in his, or sometimes in his hair holding him down, he stayed under. Exhaustion fueled his dreamspace, helping him cling to the warped memories he had long forgotten in his head. When he wasn’t beneath the waves he was on the shore, in the house he had grown up in, sometimes even back in France. Nanette aged from eight to twenty before his eyes, growing from an inquisitive child into a fiercely intelligent woman. Teodor felt joy and awe for the first time in years, his big sister returned to him after haunting him for so long.
For all of Teodor’s determined obstinacy, it seemed drowning and despair wasn’t enough to keep him safe from the person he had become. Eventually he had to surface, buoyed up from the darkness against his will. Nanette, who never lasted when he wanted her to, was left in the depths. When he came to for the final time, pushed all the way into reality, he felt hollowed out. It was as if he hadn’t been put back together correctly, the edges of him sharpened to make them fit. Nanette’s absence ate at him, and he felt altogether more dangerous than ever.
From the looks of it, he had been taken to the barracks, specifically Donato’s rooms. The smells, the odd dip in the mattress, even the ceiling were all familiar. The pale sunlight that filtered in through the sole window told him it was early morning, but it was barely enough light to see by. He felt, rather than saw, the other person in the room and was saved from having to guess their identity as the sound of a razor cut through the silence.
Snick.
“You had us worried, Officer Viscardi.”
Still groggy, it took him a minute to respond. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Quite the contrary,” Baltasar said. “Your actions last night proved you are not as short-sighted as I thought you to be.”
Teodor stared up at the stones that lined the ceiling. Tiny cracks splintered between them, left over from the bombings, spreading in the darkness like a thousand spiders.
Snick.
Teodor frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s no need for that. They pulled the boy’s body from the Tiber over an hour ago.” A pause, the sound of Baltasar shifting in his seat. “Your épieu leaves quite the signature.”
“Obviously the murderer must have used it,” Teodor said, avoiding the bait.
“Why would he have the need to use your weapon?”
“It was handy?” he suggested. “Forgive me, I was knocked out. I don’t know anything.”
Baltasar snorted. “Well, your darling friend Captain Mancini was eager to believe a similar story. I, however, am not so convinced. Malfatto hasn’t the slightest idea how to wield anything other than a scalpel.”
It was as if Baltasar had fired a shot. The implications of that single sentence ricocheted in his mind, forcing him to sit up. Teodor had to dig in with the heels of his hands to get himself upright, his body stiff and numb from the medicine. He sought out Baltasar, catching sight of his black eyes glittering in the shadows.
“You knew,” Teodor said, finding it nearly unfathomable. “How long?”
“I’ve always known,” Baltasar answered. He pointed to Teodor with the razor. “Judging by the state he left you in, I guess you didn’t.”
Always known. Teodor was dumbfounded. “Why?”
Baltasar seemed confused for a moment, then shrugged. “As if I would know. I’ve always found him unnerving.”
“I meant, why didn’t you tell me,” Teodor clarified. He thought of the men who had been slaughtered during Donato’s fruitless searches.
“Don’t you mean, why didn’t he tell you?”
Snick.
“Yes, I know about that too,” Baltasar said, voice slick with victory. Teodor’s silence was damning, but there was nothing to be done. “You are a very surprising man, Officer Viscardi. I didn’t even think Malfatto capable.”
“It’s come to my attention that he’s capable of a great many things,” Teodor said quietly, eyes dropping down to his lap.
Snick.
“Yes, well, the important thing is that you made the right decision tonight,” Baltasar said. Teodor heard the click of Baltasar’s boots as they walked across the floor. A shadow fell across the bed. “By choosing to kill the boy you’ve probably earned Cesare’s approval, but now you know what the good doctor gets up to in his off hours.”
Teodor’s eyebrows furrowed. He looked up to Baltasar. The barber loomed over him, his sharp features inches from Teodor’s face.
“It’s been decided you’ll be returning to the campaigns in the North,” Baltasar said, tongue slithering across his lips, shockingly red against his pale skin and dark mustache. “You’ll leave after the races tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand,” Teodor said.
“Let me make it clear then,” Baltasar said, his face tilting forward until Teodor had to lean back to avoid their noses touching. He stared into Baltasar’s eyes, empty and cold. “You must be aware by now that there are people and plans in motion that exist outside the scope of the military and the politics that drive it. You yourself have played a part, but it’s over now.”
“Are you saying that I know too much?” Teodor asked, not buying it. He’d been with Malfatto for months, knew him to be a murderer if not the abomination he caught by the river. Baltasar had known about their connection, which meant the only thing that had changed was that Cesare was now aware of it as well.
Teodor’s eyes widened, realizing. Baltasar smiled, and leaned in to whisper against Teodor’s ear, his breath hot and unwelcome. “If he found out what you were up to with his little pet...”
Snick.
“Tell me,” Teodor said, speaking before he could think better of it. “I’ll go to the campaigns, but tell me what you know.”
Baltasar pulled back, confusion plain. Even the razor stilled.
“I fed you information on the war machines,” Teodor tried.
Baltasar crossed his arms over his chest. He cocked an eyebrow. “I know very little.”
“Please,” Teodor whispered.
Baltasar’s mouth twisted in a frown. For a moment, it looked as if Teodor had shown his hand, but then the barber slowly sat down on the bed, shaking his head.
“From what I understand, they grew up together. I have known the Borgia family for a long time, and I remember Rodrigo having a personal physician that served only the family.”
“Malfatto?”
Baltasar shot Teodor a look that expressed how perfectly stupid he thought he was.
“His mentor. I don’t remember his name, but he was a brilliant brewer of medicines, and under Rodrigo’s instruction, poisons. He didn’t have the stomach for it, though.” Baltasar squinted as if he was looking at something far away. For the first time Teodor really took in the gray streaks in his hair, the lines around his face. “As a boy, Cesare was much the same as he is now, perhaps even crueler in his ignorance.”
Despite the strengthening morning sun, Teodor felt a chill spread through the room.
“Malfatto was an apprentice, but he was the physician’s ward as well. When the physician would object to the work required of him, Rodrigo would allow Cesare to use Malfatto as a bargaining chip. Nothing truly awful ever occurred, as far as I know.”
Teodor wondered at how extreme a horror had to be for Baltasar to consider it “truly awful.” His heart thudded in his chest like a cannon. Even his ears throbbed from the force of it.
“What happened to the physician?” Teodor asked.
Baltasar gave a grim smile. “Malfatto is a very fine doctor. When his skill began to overtake that of his master’s I believe Cesare simply...promoted him.”
Teodor pictured Malfatto wandering the training grounds with Cesare. He thought of how Malfatto took orders not from Baltasar, but from Rodrigo and Cesare themselves. Teodor tried to understand what growing up with Cesare Borgia could be like. Despite the class difference, Teodor himself had played with the children of his family’s servants. He tried to imagine a decade spent as Cesare’s playmate and shuddered.
Snick.
Teodor’s eyes jerked up to meet Baltasar’s. The barber was off the bed, his expression unreadable. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hand.
“I believe this is the end of our involvement,” Baltasar said. “Try to keep it that way, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor knew that part of Baltasar struggled to not spill his blood all over the floor at this very moment. In that way they were not so different, and as Teodor shook his hand he could tell that Baltasar believed that at some point in the future he would get his chance.
“Au revoir,” Teodor said, watching him go.
As Baltasar left the room, Teodor found himself thinking on Malfatto’s story, but also wondering at Baltasar’s as well. The man had operated in the shadows for a very long time. While Malfatto was clearly a monster made, Teodor recognized the innate darkness in Baltasar that he himself had harbored since birth.
In the back of his mind he heard the ghost of Nanette’s laughter. He looked to the window, noticing the sunrise that bled through the bars, and turned his back to it. Curled on top of Donato’s bed, he closed his eyes and slipped once more into darkness.
† † †
It was late afternoon when Teodor awoke. He was still curled on his side, but under his outstretched arm he felt the unmistakable rise and fall of a man’s chest. Disoriented, he opened his eyes and expected to see a familiar blond head peeking out from underneath the cream-colored sheets of Malfatto’s bed. Instead he saw Donato’s face, dark with stubble and mouth half-open, quietly snoring. While his presence was unexpected, Teodor wasn’t exactly surprised. Over the years they had worked together Teodor had bedded down with Donato more than a few times, especially during the long winter campaigns when the tents had done little to keep out the cold. Still, they rarely shared a bunk without good reason, and Teodor could guess at the need Donato had for sharing a bed with him today.
Carefully, Teodor slid from his side of the mattress. The rug beneath his bare feet was worn but warmed from the summer sun. When he finally stood up his entire body shook, crippled by the ache that seemed to spread from his head to his toes. His muscles and joints were sore from lying still for so long, made worse by the time he had spent face down in the rain. At some point he had lost the majority of his uniform and was wearing only a dirty shirt and pants. He found most of his things, including his épieu and other weapons, piled on top of Donato’s desk. Teodor slid on only his stockings and boots before heading over to the small mirror Donato hung on the wall to look at his bruises.
Malfatto’s hands had left two dark stripes on either side of Teodor’s neck. They looked worse than they felt, and Teodor marveled at how the doctor had managed to disable him without inflicting serious injury. Teodor had beaten a few men to unconsciousness, but it hadn’t been pretty. He was impressed until he thought of how Malfatto came to know this particular skill, and then thoughts of Cesare Borgia and dead courtesans began to swirl in his mind.
Teodor distracted himself by thinking on his imminent exile to Romagna. He knew that his “reassignment” was not a reward for the time spent slithering in the Borgia underbelly. Men like Cesare, like Baltasar, weren’t the merciful type. They didn’t put animals out to pasture, they put them down. Most likely he would be sent off to fight battles he could never win, surrounded by both enemy soldiers and turncoat lieutenants who would jump at the chance to slit his throat for the promise of a promotion.
Donato was waking up. Teodor could tell by the way he smacked his lips together, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to stay asleep. He realized that this was probably one of the last times he would see his friend. If he asked Donato to come with him to the battlefields his friend would jump at the chance, even if he explained the reasons behind his reassignment. Donato never backed down from a challenge. If it came down between doing the right thing and doing the smart thing, Donato would always choose the former even at the expense of his own life. Teodor could imagine Donato trying to save him on the battlefield, trying to protect him from those who meant him harm.
Donato couldn’t come with him. Teodor knew now that he was a monster, had always been, and the games he would be forced to play would require more strategy than Donato could even begin to fathom.
Teodor sat down on the bed with a heavy heart. Donato’s eyes opened to slits as the mattress dipped and Teodor recognized the way Donato’s fingers curled at the lip of his pillow, seeking a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Teodor?” Donato asked, his voice raspy.
“I’m here,” Teodor whispered.
Donato sat up slowly, watching Teodor like a predator would a wounded animal. Teodor couldn’t fault him, given everything that had happened last night. Teodor offered him a sheepish smile. If anything, Donato looked only more apprehensive.
“Now I am truly worried,” Donato said. “My Teodor would never smile like that.”
Teodor arranged his features into a mild scowl.
“Ah. There you are!” Donato said, and flung his arms around Teodor.
Caught off guard, Teodor teetered on the edge of the bed as Donato hugged him. When Donato didn’t immediately let go, Teodor hesitantly returned the embrace. Donato’s chin was hooked over his shoulder, one hand in line with his spine and the other clenched in the thick hair at the base of Teodor’s neck.
“I thought you were lost,” Donato whispered. “I thought your mind was gone.”
Teodor’s arms, which had been resting lightly across Donato’s shoulders, pulled him a little closer. Donato squeezed him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack, then pulled back. Teodor put a hand to his throat, feeling how his bruises throbbed. Donato’s cheeks were dry, but eyes were too soft and bright for Teodor’s comfort.
“I’m sorry,” Teodor said, a blanket apology for all the wrongs he had brought upon his friend, the ones he had yet to commit.
Donato waved away Teodor’s words, smoothing his beard with a callused hand and avoiding Teodor’s gaze until he collected himself. When he seemed more in control, he spoke.
“There was a man who came to see you last night. He was dressed as a barber but he said that Cesare had work for me to do.” Donato crossed his legs in front of him and looked up at Teodor from underneath his eyebrows. “He said you worked for him. That you would know what he meant.”
The raw, dangerous feeling that Teodor had kept buried inside himself for so long surfaced with a vengeance. The idea of Baltasar de Silva, calculating master spy and serpent, trying to recruit Donato set Teodor’s teeth on edge.
“Don’t do it,” Teodor said, sounding so forceful he surprised not only Donato but himself. Donato straightened, eyeing Teodor quizzically.
“Why not?” he asked in a mild tone.
Teodor could list a thousand reasons, but there was nothing that he could say that wouldn’t wound Donato’s pride or do anything to lessen his interest. The fact that Baltasar had already come for Donato told Teodor that it was already too late. Cesare, or Baltasar, had clearly decided Donato was to be Teodor’s replacement after he was gone. Donato didn’t have the mind for the intricacy of subterfuge or manipulation, and Baltasar knew it. It was a perfect plan-Teodor couldn’t outlast or lead an army without a loyal man, and Donato would never see the traps Baltasar set for him without Teodor’s suspicious mind to protect them.
“I need you to listen to me, Donato,” Teodor said. He jumped off the bed and began to pace, trying to figure how he was going to get them out of this. “You need to leave Roma. Tonight, if possible. Take your men, take whoever, but you have to leave the guard immediately.”
“What?” Donato asked. From the expression on his face Teodor could tell Donato was frightened he was still mad. “Because a barber talked to me I have to leave Roma?”
Teodor winced. “I know how it sounds. But Donato, that man is everything he said he was. He works for Cesare Borgia.”
“We work for Cesare Borgia,” Donato pointed out.
“This is different,” Teodor said, trying to be patient.
Donato was starting to look angry. “But you worked for him. Doing what?”
Teodor shook his head. “It’s a long story, we don’t have time for it.”
Donato crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. “I know you’ve been keeping secrets from me, Teodor. I don’t like it, but I let it go because you are my friend. And now you’re telling me that when I am offered a job, a job you yourself have done, I am to leave Roma?”
“You don’t even know what he would ask of you,” Teodor snapped. “You can’t do it, Donato. You can’t do it and when you can’t he will kill you.”
While Teodor ran cold when he was angry, Donato ran hot. His face flushed and the veins on his neck and forehead bulged slightly. For the first time in memory Teodor felt that rage directed at him.
“You would dare,” Donato ground out, “suggest that I could not handle myself when faced with a barber? I don’t care if he’s secretly the devil incarnate, how dare you think that I am not as capable as you?”
Teodor thought of his assignments. He thought of the innkeeper’s daughter, Julianna. He thought of the fire he had set, burning at least a dozen more inside, all innocent. Over the years there had been countless victims, some more evil than others, but all murdered at his hand.
Donato’s greatest sin would always be his love of war, the bloodlust that came upon him in the heat of battle, but he wasn’t born a killer. Teodor clamped down every warm, loyal feeling he had and faced off with his friend.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Teodor said, pasting a sneer onto his face. Donato looked taken aback at the question, but still angry. He rose to his feet, arms crossed over his chest.
“Senigallia,” Donato answered after a moment. “When we turned on our own men.”
Cruel laughter bubbled out of Teodor’s mouth, but his heart was breaking. Of course Donato’s worst moment was because of him. He had personally requested him for the mission, and had thus orchestrated Donato’s darkest act.
“That is what will be expected of you,” Teodor said. “It will be Senigallia over and over again. You will be forced to kill your own men. You will kill children. You will do things you never thought you would do,” he continued, trying to ignore the examples that popped into his mind with each word. He walked to Donato and took him by the shoulders. “But I know you Donato, you won’t be able to do those things. Not you.”
Donato looked stricken. He peered at Teodor, confused. “Is that...is that what you have done?” When Teodor didn’t answer, he grew suspicious. “Why are you saying all these things? Are you trying to tell me that you’ve done these things?”
“That and more,” Teodor whispered.
“You’re lying,” Donato accused, trying to shake Teodor’s grip. “I’ve been at your side for a year now, I don’t know why you’re suddenly-”
“I killed Rico,” Teodor said.
Donato’s face went white. He swayed a little, and Teodor pushed him down to sit on the side of the bed. Teodor thought about trying to explain his reasons for murdering Rico but couldn’t even imagine words that would be able to convey everything he needed to say.
“No,” Donato whispered, stubborn to the end.
“I stabbed him in the back,” Teodor said, impressed with how indifferent he could sound. “You can tell yourself over and over that someone else used the épieu but you, more than anyone else, know how I fight. I bet you’re imagining right now-you can see it, can’t you?”
“Stop,” Donato said, his voice barely audible. He looked more fragile than Teodor had ever seen him. “Stop, you’re still not well, obviously, or you wouldn’t say such things. You’re a good person, Teodor, you wouldn’t-”
“Yes I would,” Teodor snarled. The term good echoed around in his head, infuriating him. “You have no idea, Donato.”
“Yes I do,” Donato lamented, his brown eyes wide and full of sorrow. The conviction in his voice was laced with steel, unshakable and steady and threatening to undo Teodor entirely. Teodor had memories of his sister having the same faith in him, how trust seemed to bleed from her every pore when it came to her little brother.
Teodor had his own truth. “It wasn’t just Rico. Do you want to know the worst thing I’ve ever done?”
Donato looked like he would rather take a mace to the skull than endure what was to come. Teodor gritted his teeth, then leveled him.
“I killed my sister,” Teodor said flatly. “Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.”
Donato’s face didn’t immediately twist with revulsion, his expression of betrayal morphing into something else entirely. It was as if he didn’t even recognize Teodor, like he was seeing him for the first time. For a moment Teodor thought of Malfatto, envying his mask and how it made his true face seem genuine.
Sure enough, once the first few seconds of shock were over, horror blanketed every feature on Donato’s face. He ripped his hands from Teodor’s grasp, then shoved him away as hard as he could. Teodor, who had still been crouched, went tumbling backwards. His lip caught between his teeth as he went down, barely managing to keep from knocking his head on the ground.
“Her name was Nanette,” Teodor said, hammering the last nail. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. He licked the blood on his lip. “I drowned her in a river. I held her down until-”
“Get out,” Donato rumbled. Teodor looked up at him. Donato was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap, decimated.
Teodor rose to his feet, examining the damage. Donato didn’t even look at him, silent and unmoving as a doll. Teodor decided he could live with that, as long as Donato got the hell out of Roma.
“I'm sorry."
Donato sat mute, unresponsive.
I care about you, Teodor wanted to say, but he knew he never could. Not now. Regret began to tickle the back of his throat, and Teodor fled the room before he choked.
† † †
The storm seemed to wash Roma clean, the grass verdant in the late summer. The morning of the horse race bloomed bright and crisp, a nice break from the brutal humidity of the days before. It was still hot, nearly sweltering in the direct sunlight, and Teodor tried to keep to the shadows as he made his way to the field.
Cesare, seemingly unconcerned with the mounting problems within the city, had decided to throw himself his own private festival. A horse race in late afternoon, a feast in the early evening, and Teodor suspected the rumored ball that followed would be less a dance and more of an orgy.
Higher-ranking military officers were required to participate in the race so that Cesare could demonstrate the prowess of his army. The races, if they could be called that, were a joke amongst not only the soldiers but the Roman nobility as well. Teodor had never taken them very seriously; in fact this was the first race he would attend sober. Cesare almost always won, using either force or bribery to ensure the better riders threw the race. Donato, who Teodor would wager was one of the best riders in all of Italia, had chests of gold to show for it, but not a single prize.
The thought of Donato made Teodor’s stomach flip. He prayed he wouldn’t see him at the horse race today, that his friend had heeded his advice and left the city. Donato loved the races despite the inevitable outcome. Teodor viewed horses as little more than tools and always let Donato pick the horse for him to ride. Donato’s mount was always one of his own, one of his few luxuries. He would spend the hours before the race practically glued to the animal and working his magic while Teodor got drunk in the nearest dark corner he could find.
Luckily there was no sign of Donato when Teodor arrived at the field. Tented, makeshift stables had been pitched behind and to the right of the starting line. On either side of the field stood rickety wooden stands that were filled mostly with off-duty soldiers and their family members, as well as a few civilians Cesare had most likely hand-picked to show how benevolent he was. At the far end, past the finishing line, stood nearly half of the Papal Guard, their armor shined to perfection as a show of the Borgia family’s wealth and power.
Teodor made his way to the stables first, checking on the horse he’d selected earlier this morning and making sure the staff had brought over the correct tack. Teodor barely had time to get his stirrups adjusted before he was interrupted by a stable hand, announcing the arrival of the Captain General. Hopping out of his saddle, Teodor did his best to bow and be gracious when Cesare walked into view.
“Officer Viscardi,” Cesare greeted, his tone suspiciously friendly. “I’m so glad you could make it to our little race.”
“Captain General,” Teodor answered, standing.
“I heard you had an unfortunate run-in a few nights ago,” Cesare said. He slung an arm around Teodor’s shoulders, intentionally hooking his elbow at the base of Teodor’s neck, his gauntlet pressed into the bruises Malfatto had left there.
Teodor gritted his teeth. “It’s true. I’m lucky to have survived, Signore.”
Cesare’s grin was wolfish. “Indeed. Although, I’ve heard it wasn’t just luck.”
Teodor stayed silent, unsure of what Cesare was implying. He still wasn’t sure if Cesare was referring to him choosing Malfatto over Rico, or the fact that his relationship with Malfatto had led to that decision. The first would bring him commendation, the latter condemnation, if Baltasar’s words were anything to go by.
Cesare dug in with his gauntlet and Teodor blanched. A memory came to him, unbidden, of Cesare’s arm around Malfatto’s shoulders as they walked the training grounds. He thought of the history there, and struggled to retain his composure.
“What can I do for you, Signore?” he asked.
“I heard you are leaving for the campaigns once again,” Cesare said, this time in a much lighter tone. “Come along, I think you should meet a few people before you go.”
Cesare’s hand on his shoulder felt as heavy as a brick. He used it to steer Teodor out of the stables and into the gathering crowd, introducing him to the wealthy men of the city. Cesare sung his praises as Teodor shook each hand and nodded mechanically. Officer Viscardi, who helped lead the siege of Monteriggioni. Officer Viscardi, who oversaw the efforts to build the war machines. Officer Viscardi, who escaped the hands of the infamous serial killer as he fought to keep the streets of Roma safe.
On the surface, it sounded as if Cesare was proud of Teodor’s long career and wanted to show him off like he would a prize hound, but Teodor knew better. Monteriggioni fell, but Ezio Auditore survived. The war machines were once impressive, but all of them, even the tank, had been destroyed. Teodor merely “escaped” Malfatto’s clutches and the city had become anything but safe.
Teodor became colder and colder as the introductions went on. Condemnation it was, then. Cesare’s specious compliments existed only to get across one clear message-do not disappoint me-and warn all of those who would listen. Even the various aristocrats and noblemen could see through the façade, their eyes full of pity for him and relief at their own luck. Teodor was going to be made an example and everyone knew it.
Cesare released him when it was time to line up the horses. Teodor, as his new favorite, would be riding on his left flank, Micheletto on his right. Teodor was grateful for the small mercy, wanting to avoid Micheletto’s wire for as long as possible.
Micheletto seemed to know his thoughts. He caught Teodor’s eye as the horses were brought out from the stables, the smile he sent sharp as a blade.
“What do you think of your chances?” Cesare called to Teodor when they finally mounted up, his voice brimming with fake affection.
“Not nearly as excellent as yours,” Teodor replied smoothly, barely keeping the edge out of his voice. He took the reins in his hand, gently urging his horse to back away from the starting line so he could look at the other riders. He knew the names of a few of the usual racers. He caught sight of Fiora standing at the end of the line, dressed in her usual pink outfit and a scowl. She was talking to a man with short brown hair, a man Teodor instantly recognized to be Donato.
Teodor’s jaw clenched. Donato hadn’t left Roma. Part of him knew Donato never would, no matter how cruel or concerned Teodor appeared to be.
Teodor watched as Donato gracefully mounted a medium-sized bay that looked both quick and strong. He was shouting and shaking his head at a still-talking Fiora. As Donato began to ride up to the starting line Teodor saw Fiora’s mouth curve into a fond smile. The beauty of it was unexpected and breathtaking, but sadly fleeting. The moment Fiora caught Teodor staring her expression turned to one of hatred. Teodor couldn’t blame her-he had single-handedly seen to it that the murders of courtesans would continue. He wondered if Baltasar had told her what he knew, told her he had known all along.
Donato trotted his horse up to the slot next to Teodor. His face was a mask of pure fury, but he seemed resigned, almost impressively distant. It appeared Donato had learned a thing or two from Teodor’s practiced aloof behavior. Teodor hated it.
“Officer Viscardi,” Donato acknowledged, refusing to look him in the eye.
Teodor nearly flinched at the formality. “Donato-”
“Captain Mancini!” Cesare boomed.
Teodor turned his head to find Cesare had moved his horse right beside his, their stirrups nearly touching. Cesare leaned over to talk to Donato which put the back of his head dangerously close to Teodor’s face. Teodor imagined reaching out and twisting it off his neck, fingers flexing inside his riding gloves. He was so overwhelmed with hatred that he didn’t realize Donato and Cesare were having a conversation until Cesare’s laughter exploded in his ear.
“Did you hear that?” Cesare asked him. “The captain thinks he’s going to win this race.”
“Or rather, I said that the best man would win,” Donato corrected.
Cesare’s laughter trailed off in the wake of Donato’s statement. His dark eyes hardened into two awful stones. Teodor forced himself not to react, the air around them growing still and heavy. He watched a bead of sweat drip from Donato’s temple and slide along his set jaw.
“Ego is no match for skill,” Teodor said lightly. “And there is no better rider in all of Roma than you, Captain General.”
Cesare didn’t seem appeased, but his gaze shifted from Donato to Teodor.
“Which is what I’m sure the good captain was implying,” Teodor added. He felt the hole Donato’s glare was burning in the back of his head and a strange look passed over Cesare’s face.
“You have a keen mind for diplomacy,” Cesare said, sounding surprisingly honest. Even Donato’s expression lost its edge. A few seconds went by, then Cesare shook his head. “More’s the pity,” he murmured, and spurred his horse to step back to its mark.
“It would seem you are the one who needs to leave Roma,” Donato said with a scowl once Cesare was suitably distracted by the imminent race.
It was most likely true. Teodor thought of his order to return to the campaigns. The likelihood he could survive his mission was practically nonexistent thanks to the long reach of Cesare’s underground network. Teodor had long ago realized the end that awaited a man like him, and after struggling for so long to survive he was strangely at peace with his fate. There was even the small comfort in the knowledge that his absence might benefit Donato. If the captain managed to keep his head down and if Teodor went quietly, it could be enough.
As for Malfatto, Teodor had done all he could. He probably shouldn’t have even done what he had, but if Teodor was going to die with regrets he chose to grieve the lost chance at seeing Malfatto one last time.
A horn blared, signaling the race was about to start. He nudged his horse back into position, staring across the long stretch of grass before them to the drooping banners at the finish line. One of the arquebusiers pointed his gun to the sky and the riders hunched forward in anticipation.
Good luck, Teodor tried to say, looking over to Donato, but what came out was Take care of yourself. In the end it didn’t matter, Teodor’s words lost as a shot rang out and the horses surged forward in a powerful wave.
Cesare led the pack in customary fashion. Despite the rigged outcome, Cesare was quite an accomplished rider and Teodor had to fight to keep up with him, pushing his horse a little more than he normally would. The thunderous sound of hooves made it impossible to hear a thing, but halfway through the race Teodor saw Cesare’s mouth open, his eyes growing wild as he gestured to him.
At first, Teodor couldn’t understand the problem. He hoped maybe Cesare had been hit by an assassin’s arrow, or maybe even Ezio Auditore himself was riding in with his white-clad army, but Teodor saw nothing as his eyes searched the field and stands. It was only when a shadow fell across his left side that he realized the source of Cesare’s rage.
Donato, who had been oddly behind Teodor the entire time, was barreling past. He had tucked himself into the smallest shape he could manage, flattened against the back of his horse until they almost seemed like one creature. Teodor barely caught the gleam in Donato’s eye as he flew past, his horse seemingly carried not by hooves, but wings.
Cesare screamed for Teodor to do something. There was no way for Teodor catch Donato, so he ripped the épieu from inside his jacket and looped his reins around the horn of his saddle. With both hands he leaned forward, swinging the weapon wildly, knowing he would miss and Donato would win this race.
“Donato don’t! Stop!” Teodor shouted. Whatever wish he had to keep Donato safe became futile as he watched him speed away, effortlessly overtaking Cesare until he led the race by nearly an entire length. Other riders had noticed what has happening and began cheering him on, each enthusiastic shout sounding like the tolling of a bell in Teodor’s ears.
For the first time in years, Cesare Borgia was not going to win the races. Donato, finally unveiled as the master he had always been, was beautiful as he rode straight at the sun, sleek and strong atop his magnificent horse. The crowd roared as he crossed the finish line, ecstatic.
Teodor finished just behind Cesare, heart pounding in fear. By the time he could bring his horse to a stop and dismount, Cesare was already screaming for Donato’s head. Teodor dodged incoming riders and the growing throng of people as he tried to reach Donato, bits of dirt and grass flying in the air. He finally caught sight of him when Donato was hefted high on the shoulders of two of his men. Donato’s smug expression was laced with a challenge, and he beamed a victorious smile in Cesare’s direction. People went wild at the sight of their champion and Cesare’s guards surged forward. Donato was still smiling as one of the guards grabbed his foot, yanking him down and out of Teodor’s sight.
Chaos erupted. Citizens screamed and tried to flee as the Borgia guard converged around Donato. A few riders and bystanders cried foul at the injustice of what was happening and Donato’s loyal men turned on their fellow soldiers. Cesare’s shouting had reached incoherency, spurring on both horses and men to sheer madness.
Teodor tore into the crowd with both hands. Men loyal to the Borgia made way for him out of fear, those loyal to Donato letting him through out of faith. Teodor still had to fight his way in, turning his épieu sideways and using it like a plow as he pushed forward. At the heart of the fray was a small open circle, Donato at the center. Two Borgia guards were on him, using everything from boots to rocks to beat him as the mob swarmed around them. Donato was on his side, an arm over his head and one around his stomach, clearly battered. His men were trying to get to him, but they were too busy trying to keep other Borgia guards from jumping in.
People were beginning to die. Teodor pushed through the last line of warring men and was immediately blinded by arterial spray as a man to his left lost his head. The blood stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but it wasn’t enough to keep his épieu from finding its way into the belly of one of Donato’s assailants. Teodor jerked his hand up and then pulled back, the tip of the spear breaking through the man’s soft palate. The man’s eyes bulged and blood gushed out of his mouth so quickly it made a splashing sound as it hit the ground. Teodor wrenched his épieu free and continued forward.
The other attacker, recognizing Teodor to be a bigger threat than the fallen Donato, whirled on him. Teodor swung wide, anticipating that the man would jump back. The man did just that, arms spread out to his sides as he avoided the blow, leaving his chest wide open. Teodor punched the épieu into his ribcage with two hands, using his foot to pry the spear free from the man’s body.
Relatively safe, Teodor dropped to one knee and rolled Donato onto his back. He yanked one of his gloves off using his teeth, letting his bare fingers run over Donato’s face, throat and chest. Blood was everywhere, coating the ground, Donato, even Teodor himself, making it impossible to determine the extent of the damage. Donato was groaning and sputtering as Teodor examined him, his every inhalation sounding wet. One eye was swollen shut, the other nearly unrecognizable the pupil was so large.
“Teodor?” Donato gasped.
“Shh,” Teodor soothed. A man broke free from the throng and came hurtling towards them. Teodor blocked him easily with the épieu, knocking him onto the waiting sword of one of Donato’s men.
Donato smiled. It was ghastly, blood and darkness where teeth used to be. “I won.”
“I know,” Teodor said softly, watching the crowd. The fighting was beginning to abate. He stood up to investigate and narrowly dodged a throwing knife to the throat. When he looked for the source Cesare’s haughty stare met his.
“I did it for you,” Donato gurgled. He wrapped a hand around Teodor’s ankle, the nearest part he could reach. “To show him that he can’t...he can’t...”
“Be quiet!” Teodor hissed. Cesare pushed his way to the front of the crowd, flanked by Micheletto and an unhappy Fiora. Teodor heard the sound of arrows being notched, realized most of Donato’s men were dead or dying. The remaining guards glanced to the bodies at Teodor’s feet, took in his protective stance over Donato crumpled on the ground, and readied their swords.
Strangely, he heard Baltasar’s voice in his head. The important thing is that you made the right decision... Had Baltasar been forced to choose between saving Malfatto or Rico, he would have chosen Malfatto but only because it would win favor in Cesare’s eyes. The thought hadn’t even crossed Teodor’s mind at the time.
Maybe he had gone mad, staring down an army and listening to the advice of an old murderer. The right decision would have been to slit Cesare Borgia’s throat the first night he’d ever met him. The same for Baltasar, whose horrible games wouldn’t have kept him safe in the wake of Teodor’s strength and anger.
The right decision.
Baltasar, still alive after all these years.
The right decision.
Baltasar, who would have left Donato to die if he were in Teodor’s shoes.
Micheletto was palming a small dagger in his hand. Most likely he was saving the wire for Donato who couldn’t put up a fight.
The right decision.
Baltasar wouldn’t allow himself to be ordered off to die on some battlefield. He wouldn’t fight his way out, but then again he never seemed to have to.
Another voice, this time Donato’s from a long time ago, before they embarked to Senigallia and Teodor made his only friend part of his own monstrosity.
Would you betray me?
And finally, her hands cold, her voice rushing over Teodor in icy waves.
Help me, Nanette sing-songed, sounding nothing like she had when she’d died, screaming and furious. Help me, Teddy.
Cesare leaned to Micheletto, began to whisper in his ear. Teodor saw the gleam in his eyes and made a decision. He looked down at Donato.
“Forgive me,” he prayed, and raised his boot. Donato, trapped in the chasm that was Teodor’s shadow, looked up at him with one fearful eye. His puffy lips began to move, and Teodor didn’t hesitate.
“You should have left Roma,” he whispered, and brought his foot down.
† † †
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author's notes | warnings
Rated: R (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 8,275 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† XII †
Teodor woke to the feeling of fingers in his mouth. He felt them pull his lips apart, then push past his teeth. He instinctively bit down, tasting leather and dirt. Someone swore.
His eyes opened slowly, as if he was unused to using them. The dark night sky stretched high above him, stormy still, and he blinked as rain spattered across his cheeks. A familiar face swam in front of him, Donato’s eyes wide enough his brown irises were rimmed in white.
The fingers were back, this time much gentler on his lips. Teodor tried to turn his head away but a sharp pain flared in his neck. He moaned, feeling the vibration but not able to hear it. When his mouth opened the fingers took advantage once again, pulling at his tongue. Teodor gagged, trying to lift his arms but his body was unresponsive, numbed and cold as stone.
Donato’s mouth was moving. Slowly, like a distant echo, Teodor heard his voice.
“What is it?” Donato asked.
“No discoloration,” came a second voice. Teodor vaguely recognized the grizzled man as he came into view. The fingers belonged to him. “It’s not poison.”
“Good,” said Donato. “Teodor, can you hear me?”
Teodor tried to focus. His head throbbed and he struggled to gain control over his limbs. He remembered the water filling his nose, the pressure of it so immense it made his eyes bulge. Nanette’s lips on his temple. No, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t real.
Donato was stripping off his gloves. He knelt beside Teodor, reaching out to push
wet strands of hair out of his eyes.
“It’s okay, mio fratello,” Donato murmured. He gave a nod to the other soldier. Teodor felt foreign hands at his belt. Feeling was beginning to seep back into bones and he tried to push them away. “We need to know where you’re hurt,” Donato said.
Everywhere, Teodor thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of
Malfatto standing over the courtesan flashed into his mind. His memories were thick with blood, remembering all the odd nights Malfatto had disappeared only to return smelling of it. Had he always known? Teodor considered the possibility that maybe he had already made his decision months ago.
“He’s not bleeding. There’s...he’s not wounded.”
Everything ran red in his mind, from the flames of an inn as it caught fire to the matted, curly ginger hair on a soldier’s head. Teodor pushed his memories away, sinking into the deepest waters inside his mind, the murky parts where Nanette waited for him. Stay with me.
“That doesn’t make sense,” snapped Donato in the distance. “Open his shirt.”
Hands pulled at him. Rain pelted his bare chest. He could smell the riverbank again, feel the wind in his hair. In the water he heard splashing. Somewhere just out of sight, Nanette was singing.
Do you know why you’re here?
“I found some welts. Looks like he was hit from behind.”
There was the dock, and crouched at the end was his sister as a young girl. She was in her underclothes, soaking wet and filthy, no doubt freshly returned from a prohibited swim. When she saw him, her face lit up. Squealing his name, she ran to him.
Stay with me.
“I said stay with me, Teodor!” roared Donato.
Something hit him in the face, hard, and his eyes snapped open, a gasp wrangled from him as his neck exploded in agony. The vision of his sister, alive and happy with weeds sticking in her hair, was blown away as if it were made of dust.
“Nanette!” Teodor called out, straining to reach her. Above him, Donato frowned in worry, his face blurred by the downpour. Teodor’s nose felt strangely loose, and when he managed to bring a hand to it his fingers came back not with rain, but blood. He would never be rid of it.
“I’m sorry,” Donato said, beginning to sound panicked. “Teodor, who did this to you? Where are they, where’s Rico?”
Rico. Teodor winced at the name. He watched himself toss the boy over the wall in his mind’s eye, heard the crack his body made against the surface of the water before the heavy armor dragged it under.
This is where the monsters go.
Waves rushed to him again. Hands cupped his face. Through the rain Teodor saw not Donato, but his sister, her green eyes warm. Her smile was gentle, even sweet. Teodor had forgotten she could do that.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, reaching to her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Teodor?” came Donato again. “Someone get a doctor!”
“Un médecin,” Teodor told his sister conspiratorially. Nanette raised her eyebrows, shook her head. Teodor began to laugh, the sound wet as blood slipped into his mouth.
He heard the pop of a bottle being uncapped. Hands were at his mouth again, but Teodor didn’t fight, his eyes glued to Nanette’s. An elixir was poured down his throat, the smell of laudanum heavy in the air. Nanette held his hand as he choked on it, tears in her eyes. Teodor didn’t care-he had drowned before. He would endure anything to stay in this place.
“Come on,” Donato said, somewhere far away. “Swallow, Teodor. You have to keep it down.”
All the way down, Nanette sang to him. Teodor took her hand, tried to kiss it, his body growing numb as the medicine began to flood his system. The shadow in the back of Teodor’s mind, the shadow with the face of a bird, began to fade.
Teodor stayed under as long as he could, helped by the laudanum and the ghost of his sister. Beneath the waves, down in the black, everything was cold and comforting. Cold. Comforting. He’d used those words before to describe Malfatto. Malfatto, who kissed him with something bordering on tenderness-Malfatto, who ripped girls apart for the fun of it.
The real world echoed around Teodor, the sights and sounds all muffled. He felt himself tugged along by strong hands, even dragged, but in his mind it was the current that moved him. Once, he surfaced momentarily and was greeted by the sight of a familiar hat and mask, but in place of the dark glasses was a pair of warm brown eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with him physically,” came the distorted voice, speaking to someone Teodor couldn’t see. The doctor’s hands were bare, his thumbs warm as he ran them across Teodor’s jaw and down along his bruised neck. The touch only served to remind him of Malfatto. It felt wrong, Teodor was wrong, everything was wrong.
“He should be here,” Teodor whispered to his sister, then slammed his head back against the hard surface beneath him and went mad for a little while.
Teodor practiced drowning. With Nanette’s hand in his, or sometimes in his hair holding him down, he stayed under. Exhaustion fueled his dreamspace, helping him cling to the warped memories he had long forgotten in his head. When he wasn’t beneath the waves he was on the shore, in the house he had grown up in, sometimes even back in France. Nanette aged from eight to twenty before his eyes, growing from an inquisitive child into a fiercely intelligent woman. Teodor felt joy and awe for the first time in years, his big sister returned to him after haunting him for so long.
For all of Teodor’s determined obstinacy, it seemed drowning and despair wasn’t enough to keep him safe from the person he had become. Eventually he had to surface, buoyed up from the darkness against his will. Nanette, who never lasted when he wanted her to, was left in the depths. When he came to for the final time, pushed all the way into reality, he felt hollowed out. It was as if he hadn’t been put back together correctly, the edges of him sharpened to make them fit. Nanette’s absence ate at him, and he felt altogether more dangerous than ever.
From the looks of it, he had been taken to the barracks, specifically Donato’s rooms. The smells, the odd dip in the mattress, even the ceiling were all familiar. The pale sunlight that filtered in through the sole window told him it was early morning, but it was barely enough light to see by. He felt, rather than saw, the other person in the room and was saved from having to guess their identity as the sound of a razor cut through the silence.
Snick.
“You had us worried, Officer Viscardi.”
Still groggy, it took him a minute to respond. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Quite the contrary,” Baltasar said. “Your actions last night proved you are not as short-sighted as I thought you to be.”
Teodor stared up at the stones that lined the ceiling. Tiny cracks splintered between them, left over from the bombings, spreading in the darkness like a thousand spiders.
Snick.
Teodor frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s no need for that. They pulled the boy’s body from the Tiber over an hour ago.” A pause, the sound of Baltasar shifting in his seat. “Your épieu leaves quite the signature.”
“Obviously the murderer must have used it,” Teodor said, avoiding the bait.
“Why would he have the need to use your weapon?”
“It was handy?” he suggested. “Forgive me, I was knocked out. I don’t know anything.”
Baltasar snorted. “Well, your darling friend Captain Mancini was eager to believe a similar story. I, however, am not so convinced. Malfatto hasn’t the slightest idea how to wield anything other than a scalpel.”
It was as if Baltasar had fired a shot. The implications of that single sentence ricocheted in his mind, forcing him to sit up. Teodor had to dig in with the heels of his hands to get himself upright, his body stiff and numb from the medicine. He sought out Baltasar, catching sight of his black eyes glittering in the shadows.
“You knew,” Teodor said, finding it nearly unfathomable. “How long?”
“I’ve always known,” Baltasar answered. He pointed to Teodor with the razor. “Judging by the state he left you in, I guess you didn’t.”
Always known. Teodor was dumbfounded. “Why?”
Baltasar seemed confused for a moment, then shrugged. “As if I would know. I’ve always found him unnerving.”
“I meant, why didn’t you tell me,” Teodor clarified. He thought of the men who had been slaughtered during Donato’s fruitless searches.
“Don’t you mean, why didn’t he tell you?”
Snick.
“Yes, I know about that too,” Baltasar said, voice slick with victory. Teodor’s silence was damning, but there was nothing to be done. “You are a very surprising man, Officer Viscardi. I didn’t even think Malfatto capable.”
“It’s come to my attention that he’s capable of a great many things,” Teodor said quietly, eyes dropping down to his lap.
Snick.
“Yes, well, the important thing is that you made the right decision tonight,” Baltasar said. Teodor heard the click of Baltasar’s boots as they walked across the floor. A shadow fell across the bed. “By choosing to kill the boy you’ve probably earned Cesare’s approval, but now you know what the good doctor gets up to in his off hours.”
Teodor’s eyebrows furrowed. He looked up to Baltasar. The barber loomed over him, his sharp features inches from Teodor’s face.
“It’s been decided you’ll be returning to the campaigns in the North,” Baltasar said, tongue slithering across his lips, shockingly red against his pale skin and dark mustache. “You’ll leave after the races tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand,” Teodor said.
“Let me make it clear then,” Baltasar said, his face tilting forward until Teodor had to lean back to avoid their noses touching. He stared into Baltasar’s eyes, empty and cold. “You must be aware by now that there are people and plans in motion that exist outside the scope of the military and the politics that drive it. You yourself have played a part, but it’s over now.”
“Are you saying that I know too much?” Teodor asked, not buying it. He’d been with Malfatto for months, knew him to be a murderer if not the abomination he caught by the river. Baltasar had known about their connection, which meant the only thing that had changed was that Cesare was now aware of it as well.
Teodor’s eyes widened, realizing. Baltasar smiled, and leaned in to whisper against Teodor’s ear, his breath hot and unwelcome. “If he found out what you were up to with his little pet...”
Snick.
“Tell me,” Teodor said, speaking before he could think better of it. “I’ll go to the campaigns, but tell me what you know.”
Baltasar pulled back, confusion plain. Even the razor stilled.
“I fed you information on the war machines,” Teodor tried.
Baltasar crossed his arms over his chest. He cocked an eyebrow. “I know very little.”
“Please,” Teodor whispered.
Baltasar’s mouth twisted in a frown. For a moment, it looked as if Teodor had shown his hand, but then the barber slowly sat down on the bed, shaking his head.
“From what I understand, they grew up together. I have known the Borgia family for a long time, and I remember Rodrigo having a personal physician that served only the family.”
“Malfatto?”
Baltasar shot Teodor a look that expressed how perfectly stupid he thought he was.
“His mentor. I don’t remember his name, but he was a brilliant brewer of medicines, and under Rodrigo’s instruction, poisons. He didn’t have the stomach for it, though.” Baltasar squinted as if he was looking at something far away. For the first time Teodor really took in the gray streaks in his hair, the lines around his face. “As a boy, Cesare was much the same as he is now, perhaps even crueler in his ignorance.”
Despite the strengthening morning sun, Teodor felt a chill spread through the room.
“Malfatto was an apprentice, but he was the physician’s ward as well. When the physician would object to the work required of him, Rodrigo would allow Cesare to use Malfatto as a bargaining chip. Nothing truly awful ever occurred, as far as I know.”
Teodor wondered at how extreme a horror had to be for Baltasar to consider it “truly awful.” His heart thudded in his chest like a cannon. Even his ears throbbed from the force of it.
“What happened to the physician?” Teodor asked.
Baltasar gave a grim smile. “Malfatto is a very fine doctor. When his skill began to overtake that of his master’s I believe Cesare simply...promoted him.”
Teodor pictured Malfatto wandering the training grounds with Cesare. He thought of how Malfatto took orders not from Baltasar, but from Rodrigo and Cesare themselves. Teodor tried to understand what growing up with Cesare Borgia could be like. Despite the class difference, Teodor himself had played with the children of his family’s servants. He tried to imagine a decade spent as Cesare’s playmate and shuddered.
Snick.
Teodor’s eyes jerked up to meet Baltasar’s. The barber was off the bed, his expression unreadable. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hand.
“I believe this is the end of our involvement,” Baltasar said. “Try to keep it that way, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor knew that part of Baltasar struggled to not spill his blood all over the floor at this very moment. In that way they were not so different, and as Teodor shook his hand he could tell that Baltasar believed that at some point in the future he would get his chance.
“Au revoir,” Teodor said, watching him go.
As Baltasar left the room, Teodor found himself thinking on Malfatto’s story, but also wondering at Baltasar’s as well. The man had operated in the shadows for a very long time. While Malfatto was clearly a monster made, Teodor recognized the innate darkness in Baltasar that he himself had harbored since birth.
In the back of his mind he heard the ghost of Nanette’s laughter. He looked to the window, noticing the sunrise that bled through the bars, and turned his back to it. Curled on top of Donato’s bed, he closed his eyes and slipped once more into darkness.
† † †
It was late afternoon when Teodor awoke. He was still curled on his side, but under his outstretched arm he felt the unmistakable rise and fall of a man’s chest. Disoriented, he opened his eyes and expected to see a familiar blond head peeking out from underneath the cream-colored sheets of Malfatto’s bed. Instead he saw Donato’s face, dark with stubble and mouth half-open, quietly snoring. While his presence was unexpected, Teodor wasn’t exactly surprised. Over the years they had worked together Teodor had bedded down with Donato more than a few times, especially during the long winter campaigns when the tents had done little to keep out the cold. Still, they rarely shared a bunk without good reason, and Teodor could guess at the need Donato had for sharing a bed with him today.
Carefully, Teodor slid from his side of the mattress. The rug beneath his bare feet was worn but warmed from the summer sun. When he finally stood up his entire body shook, crippled by the ache that seemed to spread from his head to his toes. His muscles and joints were sore from lying still for so long, made worse by the time he had spent face down in the rain. At some point he had lost the majority of his uniform and was wearing only a dirty shirt and pants. He found most of his things, including his épieu and other weapons, piled on top of Donato’s desk. Teodor slid on only his stockings and boots before heading over to the small mirror Donato hung on the wall to look at his bruises.
Malfatto’s hands had left two dark stripes on either side of Teodor’s neck. They looked worse than they felt, and Teodor marveled at how the doctor had managed to disable him without inflicting serious injury. Teodor had beaten a few men to unconsciousness, but it hadn’t been pretty. He was impressed until he thought of how Malfatto came to know this particular skill, and then thoughts of Cesare Borgia and dead courtesans began to swirl in his mind.
Teodor distracted himself by thinking on his imminent exile to Romagna. He knew that his “reassignment” was not a reward for the time spent slithering in the Borgia underbelly. Men like Cesare, like Baltasar, weren’t the merciful type. They didn’t put animals out to pasture, they put them down. Most likely he would be sent off to fight battles he could never win, surrounded by both enemy soldiers and turncoat lieutenants who would jump at the chance to slit his throat for the promise of a promotion.
Donato was waking up. Teodor could tell by the way he smacked his lips together, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to stay asleep. He realized that this was probably one of the last times he would see his friend. If he asked Donato to come with him to the battlefields his friend would jump at the chance, even if he explained the reasons behind his reassignment. Donato never backed down from a challenge. If it came down between doing the right thing and doing the smart thing, Donato would always choose the former even at the expense of his own life. Teodor could imagine Donato trying to save him on the battlefield, trying to protect him from those who meant him harm.
Donato couldn’t come with him. Teodor knew now that he was a monster, had always been, and the games he would be forced to play would require more strategy than Donato could even begin to fathom.
Teodor sat down on the bed with a heavy heart. Donato’s eyes opened to slits as the mattress dipped and Teodor recognized the way Donato’s fingers curled at the lip of his pillow, seeking a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Teodor?” Donato asked, his voice raspy.
“I’m here,” Teodor whispered.
Donato sat up slowly, watching Teodor like a predator would a wounded animal. Teodor couldn’t fault him, given everything that had happened last night. Teodor offered him a sheepish smile. If anything, Donato looked only more apprehensive.
“Now I am truly worried,” Donato said. “My Teodor would never smile like that.”
Teodor arranged his features into a mild scowl.
“Ah. There you are!” Donato said, and flung his arms around Teodor.
Caught off guard, Teodor teetered on the edge of the bed as Donato hugged him. When Donato didn’t immediately let go, Teodor hesitantly returned the embrace. Donato’s chin was hooked over his shoulder, one hand in line with his spine and the other clenched in the thick hair at the base of Teodor’s neck.
“I thought you were lost,” Donato whispered. “I thought your mind was gone.”
Teodor’s arms, which had been resting lightly across Donato’s shoulders, pulled him a little closer. Donato squeezed him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack, then pulled back. Teodor put a hand to his throat, feeling how his bruises throbbed. Donato’s cheeks were dry, but eyes were too soft and bright for Teodor’s comfort.
“I’m sorry,” Teodor said, a blanket apology for all the wrongs he had brought upon his friend, the ones he had yet to commit.
Donato waved away Teodor’s words, smoothing his beard with a callused hand and avoiding Teodor’s gaze until he collected himself. When he seemed more in control, he spoke.
“There was a man who came to see you last night. He was dressed as a barber but he said that Cesare had work for me to do.” Donato crossed his legs in front of him and looked up at Teodor from underneath his eyebrows. “He said you worked for him. That you would know what he meant.”
The raw, dangerous feeling that Teodor had kept buried inside himself for so long surfaced with a vengeance. The idea of Baltasar de Silva, calculating master spy and serpent, trying to recruit Donato set Teodor’s teeth on edge.
“Don’t do it,” Teodor said, sounding so forceful he surprised not only Donato but himself. Donato straightened, eyeing Teodor quizzically.
“Why not?” he asked in a mild tone.
Teodor could list a thousand reasons, but there was nothing that he could say that wouldn’t wound Donato’s pride or do anything to lessen his interest. The fact that Baltasar had already come for Donato told Teodor that it was already too late. Cesare, or Baltasar, had clearly decided Donato was to be Teodor’s replacement after he was gone. Donato didn’t have the mind for the intricacy of subterfuge or manipulation, and Baltasar knew it. It was a perfect plan-Teodor couldn’t outlast or lead an army without a loyal man, and Donato would never see the traps Baltasar set for him without Teodor’s suspicious mind to protect them.
“I need you to listen to me, Donato,” Teodor said. He jumped off the bed and began to pace, trying to figure how he was going to get them out of this. “You need to leave Roma. Tonight, if possible. Take your men, take whoever, but you have to leave the guard immediately.”
“What?” Donato asked. From the expression on his face Teodor could tell Donato was frightened he was still mad. “Because a barber talked to me I have to leave Roma?”
Teodor winced. “I know how it sounds. But Donato, that man is everything he said he was. He works for Cesare Borgia.”
“We work for Cesare Borgia,” Donato pointed out.
“This is different,” Teodor said, trying to be patient.
Donato was starting to look angry. “But you worked for him. Doing what?”
Teodor shook his head. “It’s a long story, we don’t have time for it.”
Donato crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. “I know you’ve been keeping secrets from me, Teodor. I don’t like it, but I let it go because you are my friend. And now you’re telling me that when I am offered a job, a job you yourself have done, I am to leave Roma?”
“You don’t even know what he would ask of you,” Teodor snapped. “You can’t do it, Donato. You can’t do it and when you can’t he will kill you.”
While Teodor ran cold when he was angry, Donato ran hot. His face flushed and the veins on his neck and forehead bulged slightly. For the first time in memory Teodor felt that rage directed at him.
“You would dare,” Donato ground out, “suggest that I could not handle myself when faced with a barber? I don’t care if he’s secretly the devil incarnate, how dare you think that I am not as capable as you?”
Teodor thought of his assignments. He thought of the innkeeper’s daughter, Julianna. He thought of the fire he had set, burning at least a dozen more inside, all innocent. Over the years there had been countless victims, some more evil than others, but all murdered at his hand.
Donato’s greatest sin would always be his love of war, the bloodlust that came upon him in the heat of battle, but he wasn’t born a killer. Teodor clamped down every warm, loyal feeling he had and faced off with his friend.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Teodor said, pasting a sneer onto his face. Donato looked taken aback at the question, but still angry. He rose to his feet, arms crossed over his chest.
“Senigallia,” Donato answered after a moment. “When we turned on our own men.”
Cruel laughter bubbled out of Teodor’s mouth, but his heart was breaking. Of course Donato’s worst moment was because of him. He had personally requested him for the mission, and had thus orchestrated Donato’s darkest act.
“That is what will be expected of you,” Teodor said. “It will be Senigallia over and over again. You will be forced to kill your own men. You will kill children. You will do things you never thought you would do,” he continued, trying to ignore the examples that popped into his mind with each word. He walked to Donato and took him by the shoulders. “But I know you Donato, you won’t be able to do those things. Not you.”
Donato looked stricken. He peered at Teodor, confused. “Is that...is that what you have done?” When Teodor didn’t answer, he grew suspicious. “Why are you saying all these things? Are you trying to tell me that you’ve done these things?”
“That and more,” Teodor whispered.
“You’re lying,” Donato accused, trying to shake Teodor’s grip. “I’ve been at your side for a year now, I don’t know why you’re suddenly-”
“I killed Rico,” Teodor said.
Donato’s face went white. He swayed a little, and Teodor pushed him down to sit on the side of the bed. Teodor thought about trying to explain his reasons for murdering Rico but couldn’t even imagine words that would be able to convey everything he needed to say.
“No,” Donato whispered, stubborn to the end.
“I stabbed him in the back,” Teodor said, impressed with how indifferent he could sound. “You can tell yourself over and over that someone else used the épieu but you, more than anyone else, know how I fight. I bet you’re imagining right now-you can see it, can’t you?”
“Stop,” Donato said, his voice barely audible. He looked more fragile than Teodor had ever seen him. “Stop, you’re still not well, obviously, or you wouldn’t say such things. You’re a good person, Teodor, you wouldn’t-”
“Yes I would,” Teodor snarled. The term good echoed around in his head, infuriating him. “You have no idea, Donato.”
“Yes I do,” Donato lamented, his brown eyes wide and full of sorrow. The conviction in his voice was laced with steel, unshakable and steady and threatening to undo Teodor entirely. Teodor had memories of his sister having the same faith in him, how trust seemed to bleed from her every pore when it came to her little brother.
Teodor had his own truth. “It wasn’t just Rico. Do you want to know the worst thing I’ve ever done?”
Donato looked like he would rather take a mace to the skull than endure what was to come. Teodor gritted his teeth, then leveled him.
“I killed my sister,” Teodor said flatly. “Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.”
Donato’s face didn’t immediately twist with revulsion, his expression of betrayal morphing into something else entirely. It was as if he didn’t even recognize Teodor, like he was seeing him for the first time. For a moment Teodor thought of Malfatto, envying his mask and how it made his true face seem genuine.
Sure enough, once the first few seconds of shock were over, horror blanketed every feature on Donato’s face. He ripped his hands from Teodor’s grasp, then shoved him away as hard as he could. Teodor, who had still been crouched, went tumbling backwards. His lip caught between his teeth as he went down, barely managing to keep from knocking his head on the ground.
“Her name was Nanette,” Teodor said, hammering the last nail. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. He licked the blood on his lip. “I drowned her in a river. I held her down until-”
“Get out,” Donato rumbled. Teodor looked up at him. Donato was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap, decimated.
Teodor rose to his feet, examining the damage. Donato didn’t even look at him, silent and unmoving as a doll. Teodor decided he could live with that, as long as Donato got the hell out of Roma.
“I'm sorry."
Donato sat mute, unresponsive.
I care about you, Teodor wanted to say, but he knew he never could. Not now. Regret began to tickle the back of his throat, and Teodor fled the room before he choked.
† † †
The storm seemed to wash Roma clean, the grass verdant in the late summer. The morning of the horse race bloomed bright and crisp, a nice break from the brutal humidity of the days before. It was still hot, nearly sweltering in the direct sunlight, and Teodor tried to keep to the shadows as he made his way to the field.
Cesare, seemingly unconcerned with the mounting problems within the city, had decided to throw himself his own private festival. A horse race in late afternoon, a feast in the early evening, and Teodor suspected the rumored ball that followed would be less a dance and more of an orgy.
Higher-ranking military officers were required to participate in the race so that Cesare could demonstrate the prowess of his army. The races, if they could be called that, were a joke amongst not only the soldiers but the Roman nobility as well. Teodor had never taken them very seriously; in fact this was the first race he would attend sober. Cesare almost always won, using either force or bribery to ensure the better riders threw the race. Donato, who Teodor would wager was one of the best riders in all of Italia, had chests of gold to show for it, but not a single prize.
The thought of Donato made Teodor’s stomach flip. He prayed he wouldn’t see him at the horse race today, that his friend had heeded his advice and left the city. Donato loved the races despite the inevitable outcome. Teodor viewed horses as little more than tools and always let Donato pick the horse for him to ride. Donato’s mount was always one of his own, one of his few luxuries. He would spend the hours before the race practically glued to the animal and working his magic while Teodor got drunk in the nearest dark corner he could find.
Luckily there was no sign of Donato when Teodor arrived at the field. Tented, makeshift stables had been pitched behind and to the right of the starting line. On either side of the field stood rickety wooden stands that were filled mostly with off-duty soldiers and their family members, as well as a few civilians Cesare had most likely hand-picked to show how benevolent he was. At the far end, past the finishing line, stood nearly half of the Papal Guard, their armor shined to perfection as a show of the Borgia family’s wealth and power.
Teodor made his way to the stables first, checking on the horse he’d selected earlier this morning and making sure the staff had brought over the correct tack. Teodor barely had time to get his stirrups adjusted before he was interrupted by a stable hand, announcing the arrival of the Captain General. Hopping out of his saddle, Teodor did his best to bow and be gracious when Cesare walked into view.
“Officer Viscardi,” Cesare greeted, his tone suspiciously friendly. “I’m so glad you could make it to our little race.”
“Captain General,” Teodor answered, standing.
“I heard you had an unfortunate run-in a few nights ago,” Cesare said. He slung an arm around Teodor’s shoulders, intentionally hooking his elbow at the base of Teodor’s neck, his gauntlet pressed into the bruises Malfatto had left there.
Teodor gritted his teeth. “It’s true. I’m lucky to have survived, Signore.”
Cesare’s grin was wolfish. “Indeed. Although, I’ve heard it wasn’t just luck.”
Teodor stayed silent, unsure of what Cesare was implying. He still wasn’t sure if Cesare was referring to him choosing Malfatto over Rico, or the fact that his relationship with Malfatto had led to that decision. The first would bring him commendation, the latter condemnation, if Baltasar’s words were anything to go by.
Cesare dug in with his gauntlet and Teodor blanched. A memory came to him, unbidden, of Cesare’s arm around Malfatto’s shoulders as they walked the training grounds. He thought of the history there, and struggled to retain his composure.
“What can I do for you, Signore?” he asked.
“I heard you are leaving for the campaigns once again,” Cesare said, this time in a much lighter tone. “Come along, I think you should meet a few people before you go.”
Cesare’s hand on his shoulder felt as heavy as a brick. He used it to steer Teodor out of the stables and into the gathering crowd, introducing him to the wealthy men of the city. Cesare sung his praises as Teodor shook each hand and nodded mechanically. Officer Viscardi, who helped lead the siege of Monteriggioni. Officer Viscardi, who oversaw the efforts to build the war machines. Officer Viscardi, who escaped the hands of the infamous serial killer as he fought to keep the streets of Roma safe.
On the surface, it sounded as if Cesare was proud of Teodor’s long career and wanted to show him off like he would a prize hound, but Teodor knew better. Monteriggioni fell, but Ezio Auditore survived. The war machines were once impressive, but all of them, even the tank, had been destroyed. Teodor merely “escaped” Malfatto’s clutches and the city had become anything but safe.
Teodor became colder and colder as the introductions went on. Condemnation it was, then. Cesare’s specious compliments existed only to get across one clear message-do not disappoint me-and warn all of those who would listen. Even the various aristocrats and noblemen could see through the façade, their eyes full of pity for him and relief at their own luck. Teodor was going to be made an example and everyone knew it.
Cesare released him when it was time to line up the horses. Teodor, as his new favorite, would be riding on his left flank, Micheletto on his right. Teodor was grateful for the small mercy, wanting to avoid Micheletto’s wire for as long as possible.
Micheletto seemed to know his thoughts. He caught Teodor’s eye as the horses were brought out from the stables, the smile he sent sharp as a blade.
“What do you think of your chances?” Cesare called to Teodor when they finally mounted up, his voice brimming with fake affection.
“Not nearly as excellent as yours,” Teodor replied smoothly, barely keeping the edge out of his voice. He took the reins in his hand, gently urging his horse to back away from the starting line so he could look at the other riders. He knew the names of a few of the usual racers. He caught sight of Fiora standing at the end of the line, dressed in her usual pink outfit and a scowl. She was talking to a man with short brown hair, a man Teodor instantly recognized to be Donato.
Teodor’s jaw clenched. Donato hadn’t left Roma. Part of him knew Donato never would, no matter how cruel or concerned Teodor appeared to be.
Teodor watched as Donato gracefully mounted a medium-sized bay that looked both quick and strong. He was shouting and shaking his head at a still-talking Fiora. As Donato began to ride up to the starting line Teodor saw Fiora’s mouth curve into a fond smile. The beauty of it was unexpected and breathtaking, but sadly fleeting. The moment Fiora caught Teodor staring her expression turned to one of hatred. Teodor couldn’t blame her-he had single-handedly seen to it that the murders of courtesans would continue. He wondered if Baltasar had told her what he knew, told her he had known all along.
Donato trotted his horse up to the slot next to Teodor. His face was a mask of pure fury, but he seemed resigned, almost impressively distant. It appeared Donato had learned a thing or two from Teodor’s practiced aloof behavior. Teodor hated it.
“Officer Viscardi,” Donato acknowledged, refusing to look him in the eye.
Teodor nearly flinched at the formality. “Donato-”
“Captain Mancini!” Cesare boomed.
Teodor turned his head to find Cesare had moved his horse right beside his, their stirrups nearly touching. Cesare leaned over to talk to Donato which put the back of his head dangerously close to Teodor’s face. Teodor imagined reaching out and twisting it off his neck, fingers flexing inside his riding gloves. He was so overwhelmed with hatred that he didn’t realize Donato and Cesare were having a conversation until Cesare’s laughter exploded in his ear.
“Did you hear that?” Cesare asked him. “The captain thinks he’s going to win this race.”
“Or rather, I said that the best man would win,” Donato corrected.
Cesare’s laughter trailed off in the wake of Donato’s statement. His dark eyes hardened into two awful stones. Teodor forced himself not to react, the air around them growing still and heavy. He watched a bead of sweat drip from Donato’s temple and slide along his set jaw.
“Ego is no match for skill,” Teodor said lightly. “And there is no better rider in all of Roma than you, Captain General.”
Cesare didn’t seem appeased, but his gaze shifted from Donato to Teodor.
“Which is what I’m sure the good captain was implying,” Teodor added. He felt the hole Donato’s glare was burning in the back of his head and a strange look passed over Cesare’s face.
“You have a keen mind for diplomacy,” Cesare said, sounding surprisingly honest. Even Donato’s expression lost its edge. A few seconds went by, then Cesare shook his head. “More’s the pity,” he murmured, and spurred his horse to step back to its mark.
“It would seem you are the one who needs to leave Roma,” Donato said with a scowl once Cesare was suitably distracted by the imminent race.
It was most likely true. Teodor thought of his order to return to the campaigns. The likelihood he could survive his mission was practically nonexistent thanks to the long reach of Cesare’s underground network. Teodor had long ago realized the end that awaited a man like him, and after struggling for so long to survive he was strangely at peace with his fate. There was even the small comfort in the knowledge that his absence might benefit Donato. If the captain managed to keep his head down and if Teodor went quietly, it could be enough.
As for Malfatto, Teodor had done all he could. He probably shouldn’t have even done what he had, but if Teodor was going to die with regrets he chose to grieve the lost chance at seeing Malfatto one last time.
A horn blared, signaling the race was about to start. He nudged his horse back into position, staring across the long stretch of grass before them to the drooping banners at the finish line. One of the arquebusiers pointed his gun to the sky and the riders hunched forward in anticipation.
Good luck, Teodor tried to say, looking over to Donato, but what came out was Take care of yourself. In the end it didn’t matter, Teodor’s words lost as a shot rang out and the horses surged forward in a powerful wave.
Cesare led the pack in customary fashion. Despite the rigged outcome, Cesare was quite an accomplished rider and Teodor had to fight to keep up with him, pushing his horse a little more than he normally would. The thunderous sound of hooves made it impossible to hear a thing, but halfway through the race Teodor saw Cesare’s mouth open, his eyes growing wild as he gestured to him.
At first, Teodor couldn’t understand the problem. He hoped maybe Cesare had been hit by an assassin’s arrow, or maybe even Ezio Auditore himself was riding in with his white-clad army, but Teodor saw nothing as his eyes searched the field and stands. It was only when a shadow fell across his left side that he realized the source of Cesare’s rage.
Donato, who had been oddly behind Teodor the entire time, was barreling past. He had tucked himself into the smallest shape he could manage, flattened against the back of his horse until they almost seemed like one creature. Teodor barely caught the gleam in Donato’s eye as he flew past, his horse seemingly carried not by hooves, but wings.
Cesare screamed for Teodor to do something. There was no way for Teodor catch Donato, so he ripped the épieu from inside his jacket and looped his reins around the horn of his saddle. With both hands he leaned forward, swinging the weapon wildly, knowing he would miss and Donato would win this race.
“Donato don’t! Stop!” Teodor shouted. Whatever wish he had to keep Donato safe became futile as he watched him speed away, effortlessly overtaking Cesare until he led the race by nearly an entire length. Other riders had noticed what has happening and began cheering him on, each enthusiastic shout sounding like the tolling of a bell in Teodor’s ears.
For the first time in years, Cesare Borgia was not going to win the races. Donato, finally unveiled as the master he had always been, was beautiful as he rode straight at the sun, sleek and strong atop his magnificent horse. The crowd roared as he crossed the finish line, ecstatic.
Teodor finished just behind Cesare, heart pounding in fear. By the time he could bring his horse to a stop and dismount, Cesare was already screaming for Donato’s head. Teodor dodged incoming riders and the growing throng of people as he tried to reach Donato, bits of dirt and grass flying in the air. He finally caught sight of him when Donato was hefted high on the shoulders of two of his men. Donato’s smug expression was laced with a challenge, and he beamed a victorious smile in Cesare’s direction. People went wild at the sight of their champion and Cesare’s guards surged forward. Donato was still smiling as one of the guards grabbed his foot, yanking him down and out of Teodor’s sight.
Chaos erupted. Citizens screamed and tried to flee as the Borgia guard converged around Donato. A few riders and bystanders cried foul at the injustice of what was happening and Donato’s loyal men turned on their fellow soldiers. Cesare’s shouting had reached incoherency, spurring on both horses and men to sheer madness.
Teodor tore into the crowd with both hands. Men loyal to the Borgia made way for him out of fear, those loyal to Donato letting him through out of faith. Teodor still had to fight his way in, turning his épieu sideways and using it like a plow as he pushed forward. At the heart of the fray was a small open circle, Donato at the center. Two Borgia guards were on him, using everything from boots to rocks to beat him as the mob swarmed around them. Donato was on his side, an arm over his head and one around his stomach, clearly battered. His men were trying to get to him, but they were too busy trying to keep other Borgia guards from jumping in.
People were beginning to die. Teodor pushed through the last line of warring men and was immediately blinded by arterial spray as a man to his left lost his head. The blood stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but it wasn’t enough to keep his épieu from finding its way into the belly of one of Donato’s assailants. Teodor jerked his hand up and then pulled back, the tip of the spear breaking through the man’s soft palate. The man’s eyes bulged and blood gushed out of his mouth so quickly it made a splashing sound as it hit the ground. Teodor wrenched his épieu free and continued forward.
The other attacker, recognizing Teodor to be a bigger threat than the fallen Donato, whirled on him. Teodor swung wide, anticipating that the man would jump back. The man did just that, arms spread out to his sides as he avoided the blow, leaving his chest wide open. Teodor punched the épieu into his ribcage with two hands, using his foot to pry the spear free from the man’s body.
Relatively safe, Teodor dropped to one knee and rolled Donato onto his back. He yanked one of his gloves off using his teeth, letting his bare fingers run over Donato’s face, throat and chest. Blood was everywhere, coating the ground, Donato, even Teodor himself, making it impossible to determine the extent of the damage. Donato was groaning and sputtering as Teodor examined him, his every inhalation sounding wet. One eye was swollen shut, the other nearly unrecognizable the pupil was so large.
“Teodor?” Donato gasped.
“Shh,” Teodor soothed. A man broke free from the throng and came hurtling towards them. Teodor blocked him easily with the épieu, knocking him onto the waiting sword of one of Donato’s men.
Donato smiled. It was ghastly, blood and darkness where teeth used to be. “I won.”
“I know,” Teodor said softly, watching the crowd. The fighting was beginning to abate. He stood up to investigate and narrowly dodged a throwing knife to the throat. When he looked for the source Cesare’s haughty stare met his.
“I did it for you,” Donato gurgled. He wrapped a hand around Teodor’s ankle, the nearest part he could reach. “To show him that he can’t...he can’t...”
“Be quiet!” Teodor hissed. Cesare pushed his way to the front of the crowd, flanked by Micheletto and an unhappy Fiora. Teodor heard the sound of arrows being notched, realized most of Donato’s men were dead or dying. The remaining guards glanced to the bodies at Teodor’s feet, took in his protective stance over Donato crumpled on the ground, and readied their swords.
Strangely, he heard Baltasar’s voice in his head. The important thing is that you made the right decision... Had Baltasar been forced to choose between saving Malfatto or Rico, he would have chosen Malfatto but only because it would win favor in Cesare’s eyes. The thought hadn’t even crossed Teodor’s mind at the time.
Maybe he had gone mad, staring down an army and listening to the advice of an old murderer. The right decision would have been to slit Cesare Borgia’s throat the first night he’d ever met him. The same for Baltasar, whose horrible games wouldn’t have kept him safe in the wake of Teodor’s strength and anger.
The right decision.
Baltasar, still alive after all these years.
The right decision.
Baltasar, who would have left Donato to die if he were in Teodor’s shoes.
Micheletto was palming a small dagger in his hand. Most likely he was saving the wire for Donato who couldn’t put up a fight.
The right decision.
Baltasar wouldn’t allow himself to be ordered off to die on some battlefield. He wouldn’t fight his way out, but then again he never seemed to have to.
Another voice, this time Donato’s from a long time ago, before they embarked to Senigallia and Teodor made his only friend part of his own monstrosity.
Would you betray me?
And finally, her hands cold, her voice rushing over Teodor in icy waves.
Help me, Nanette sing-songed, sounding nothing like she had when she’d died, screaming and furious. Help me, Teddy.
Cesare leaned to Micheletto, began to whisper in his ear. Teodor saw the gleam in his eyes and made a decision. He looked down at Donato.
“Forgive me,” he prayed, and raised his boot. Donato, trapped in the chasm that was Teodor’s shadow, looked up at him with one fearful eye. His puffy lips began to move, and Teodor didn’t hesitate.
“You should have left Roma,” he whispered, and brought his foot down.
† † †
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