Knives Don't Have Your Back: Epilogue
Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rated: R (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 3,668 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† TWO YEARS LATER †
Teodor pulled himself from the water with shaky arms and legs. The hot sand crunched underneath his soggy feet, sending ripples of warmth up his legs. He shook the water and salt from his hair then stopped to catch his breath. He had overdone it again, but that was nothing new. The beaches near Marseilles were enticing in ways Teodor couldn’t begin to describe.
He would never forget the first time they had come to the coast. The ocean waves were a light, beautiful blue that stood in stark contrast to the dark, muddy waters he had known his entire life. Neither of them had seen the ocean before, and after a few shared moments of quiet awe Teodor had stripped out of his clothes so quickly he nearly snapped a few buttons.
“Come on,” he had told Malfatto, taking him by the hand and pulling him towards the waves.
“I don’t know how to swim,” Malfatto had replied, seeing Teodor’s intent.
“Well, there’s only one way to learn,” Teodor had said, and cheerfully tossed him in the water.
Unlike that first day, Teodor had remembered to leave his clothes and boots high enough on the sand they couldn’t be reached by the swelling tide. He dressed carelessly, feeling the drying salt pull at the hair on his arms and legs. He laced up his breeches and bent over to pick up his boots but stilled when he felt the weight of a stranger’s stare. He stood slowly, eyes narrowed as he searched the expanse of the beach. There were a few other citizens milling about in the distance though none of them seemed interested in him. He looked past the beach, eyes combing over the high brush and low hanging trees that lined the sand, but saw nothing.
Despite the leisure the last two years had brought, Teodor could never completely shake his old life. He kept himself fit and his combat skills sharp, often pulling Malfatto away from his laboratory and using him as a sparring partner. Malfatto usually protested this behavior, at least until he landed a violent blow that sent Teodor sprawling. The training kept them capable, though the paranoia and suspicion their old lives had induced had given way to a habitual vigilance. Teodor still kept his épieu with him at all times, but since coming to France he’d rarely had reason to use it.
When he and Malfatto had fled to Marseilles, Teodor had abandoned his military life and reclaimed his heritage. He went by his birth name these days, Théodore Louvier, needing the protection his heritage provided on the political and financial level. Malfatto adored the new name and had spent the first month whispering it into Teodor’s skin whenever they fell into bed. His father had sent him a short, curt note congratulating him on his return to his native land and requested he come and introduce himself to the French court. He had yet to make such an appearance, patiently waiting out his father’s life in the hopes that he could enter the political arena on his own terms.
Behind him a handful of gulls took to the sky, squawking noisily over the sound of the waves. Teodor startled at the sound, turning sharply. He dropped his boots in the sand and drew his épieu. Old habits died hard.
The ocean stretched out before him, the sandy beach empty. Teodor stared, bewildered.
“Bonjour, Officer Viscardi,” rumbled a voice.
Teodor whirled, weapon first. An elbow connected with his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Hands went to his wrist and fingers, plucking the épieu from his grasp. He staggered, body curling in on itself as he wheezed, his eyes watering in response to the pain. He heard the épieu hit the damp sand in the distance, tossed out of his reach. Disarmed and off-balance, Teodor planted his feet and stood to face his attacker.
Two meters away stood a man dressed in white. Teodor saw the scarred mouth beneath the white hood, the symbol on his belt. Even though he had only ever seen pictures and heard the man described, he knew at once who it was.
“We need to talk,” Ezio Auditore said.
Over the years, Teodor had wondered what he would do if he ever came face to face with an assassin. It was a fruitless exercise; an assassin’s victim was usually aware of only the blade in their back. Assassins had a talent for being in and out before their mark had drawn their last breath. Fighting one was the only scenario Teodor had ever pictured, and despite his considerable skill he knew the ending that befell men who crossed swords with an assassin. At the height of the assassins’ parasitic advance on Roma only two were ever killed by a soldier’s blade. They had been new recruits to the cause, their white outfits haphazard but their fighting style easily recognizable. It had taken a dozen soldiers to down each of them. Ezio Auditore, on the other hand, was a master assassin who was capable of killing twice that many men without ever reaching for his own weapon.
Now Teodor stood alone before him, unarmed and unable to escape. There was nothing he could do, he realized. Teodor didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t deny the inevitability of this moment. Ezio Auditore had come for him, and Ezio Auditore would do to him whatever he deemed just.
The waves rolled in, the sound of water churning against the earth in rhythm with Teodor’s even breaths.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
Ezio gestured at the ground. “Have a seat, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself onto the hot sand. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he said quietly.
Ezio sat down next to him, uncaring that he was within reach. “I wouldn’t either, if I had done the things that you have.”
Teodor tensed. His anger towards Ezio Auditore had waned in the years since Donato’s death, but not his hatred. Still, the comment stung.
They sat side by side. Teodor kept his eyes trained on the assassin, but Ezio stared out over the water.
“Why have you come to France?” Teodor dared to ask.
“For the wine,” Ezio said dryly, his scarred mouth twisting into a wry smile.
Teodor felt annoyance stir within him and tried to stamp it out; he was resigned to his fate, but did not wish to expedite it with his own impatience.
“It’s been two years,” he said carefully. Two years was a long time to remember a list of enemies as long as Ezio Auditore’s, but Teodor supposed he wasn’t a man that was likely to forget. “Why come for me now?”
“I did not come for you,” Ezio explained. “I was following a group of men that led me to you. They are waiting along the path into town. I believe they intend to kill you.”
It took all of Teodor’s willpower to keep from turning to look. His eyes strayed to the épieu lying on the sand, out of reach, and his fingers twitched involuntarily.
Ezio’s voice took on a darker tone. “Perhaps you can explain to me why the Templars would hunt down a fellow agent.”
Confusion was plain on Teodor’s face. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t toy with me,” Ezio warned.
“I’m not,” Teodor insisted, bristling despite himself. “I don’t know what a Templar is.”
“I find that hard to believe, seeing as how you are one,” Ezio said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have two sources that list you as such. Fiora Cavazza, in particular, was most insistent.”
Teodor hadn’t thought about Fiora in a long time. He wondered if she knew his location.
“Fiora Cavazza has other reasons for hating me,” he said evenly. “If you want to know if I worked for Cesare Borgia, the answer is yes. If you want to know all I did for him, I will tell you.”
“Do you still work for him?” Ezio asked, idly running his fingers in the sand.
“No,” Teodor answered. “I left the city just before the Pope fell ill and died. Perhaps those men are following me because I deserted my post.”
Ezio considered this. “Why did you leave?”
“Cesare Borgia was a hard man to work for,” Teodor said, trying to gauge the assassin’s intent. “He was displeased with my work on a number of levels, most of them concerning my inability to keep his war machines from being destroyed.”
“If it’s any consolation to you, I’m sorry about the tank,” Ezio said with strange affection.
“It’s not. You killed my best friend,” Teodor replied, struggling to keep his tone level. Donato’s smile ripped through his mind like lightning. “And now you intend to kill me.”
“You don’t know what I intend,” Ezio said sharply. “But the more you talk, the more likely you are to be correct in your assumptions.”
Teodor scowled. “What else could you possibly intend? We both know I deserve it.”
If anything, Ezio Auditore looked confused. “Do you want me to kill you?”
“Of course not,” Teodor said. “But what would you have me say to you? After all I’ve done, what could I say that could convince you to spare me? I knew some of the soldiers you’ve killed and they were all much better men than me.”
“I am sorry that some of your friends died,” Ezio said after a moment. “But if you work for my enemy you become my enemy.”
“I don’t need your apology,” Teodor said, struggling to maintain his composure. “I know the cost of war. I’m simply asking if you’re here to make me pay my dues.”
“It is not my place to judge such things,” Ezio replied.
Liar, Teodor thought, but held his tongue. Underneath the thick white robes and hood, Ezio Auditore was growing into an old man. He was still gigantic, perhaps taller than Malfatto and definitely wider, but his beard was laced with gray hairs and his hands were weathered beyond measure. Up close, Ezio was more man than myth, but Teodor knew he still didn’t stand much of a chance.
“You strike me as a capable man, not a coward,” Ezio said after awhile, his tone thoughtful. “Why would you flee the city instead of turning against the Borgia if you felt the way you did?”
Teodor didn’t answer right away, staring into the ocean’s abyss. A gull struggled against the waves, trying to crack open a crab’s shell against the few rocks that pebbled the shoreline. He remembered Malfatto asking him a similar question years ago.
“I had no intention of usurping one bloodthirsty prince for another,” Teodor said eventually.
“You think me bloodthirsty?” Ezio sounded genuinely taken aback.
“Of course I do,” Teodor answered, his tone conversational in its honesty. “The soldiers you killed were simple men trying to do their jobs. And when the Borgia finally fell, you didn’t lead the city, did you? Who leads Roma now?”
“I fought so that the people could choose who would lead them,” Ezio said. “To give them a chance to do better.”
“You never asked them if that’s what they wanted,” Teodor pointed out. In some ways it was a relief to give voice to these thoughts. Teodor was well aware of his own sins and had no use for a last confession. He wondered if no one had ever held Ezio Auditore accountable for his actions.
Teodor turned his attention back to Ezio. The assassin’s eyes were hidden behind his cowl, but his lips were curved in an unhappy frown. “You impose your will just as any other man. The officials you left are loyal to you, not the people. You do not lead, and therefore all you have done is left Roma powerless.”
“I would not expect someone like you to understand,” Ezio said after a moment.
Teodor laughed bitterly. “I would think I understand you better than most, assassin. The citizens rallied behind you because Cesare Borgia was a cruel man. Had he been a more benevolent prince you would have found yourself hated.”
Ezio stood swiftly, a movement so fluid and efficient Teodor couldn’t help but admire it even as he flinched. “I did not come here to be insulted. Stand up, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor’s stomach trembled and his jaw clenched, but he pushed himself off the ground. His eyes trailed along the vambraces on Ezio’s arms, wondering if he would see the legendary silver blades that were hidden inside. Perhaps Ezio intended to shoot him like he had Donato. No, Teodor decided. Ezio had been forced to shoot Donato. If he had tried to catch him on horseback Donato would have ridden all the way to the sun, laughing and untouchable.
Ezio Auditore’s dark eyes swept over him, taking his measure. Ezio remained brilliantly white, his outfit pristine, while Teodor could feel the wet sand smeared over his clothes and nesting in his hair. He reminded himself it would be ridiculous to fight this man, but knew that if it came down to it he would try anyway.
“What now?” Teodor asked softly, shivering as the ocean’s spray washed over them. “Is it time for you to take your vengeance?”
“I deal in justice, not vengeance,” Ezio rumbled.
Teodor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you expect me to believe that? You are the epitome of vengeance. I grew up listening to the stories of how you sought to kill the conspirators who murdered your family. Do you really think you would be the assassin you are today if your family was still alive?”
Teodor was surprised by the punch. He had expected death before something as simple as a crack to the jaw. Aged as Ezio was, the blow rocked him back on his feet and dark spots bloomed before his eyes. He spit blood, fear coursing through his veins as Ezio Auditore loomed over him, his shadowed features contorted with anger.
“Do not talk to me about my family,” Ezio warned. “You don’t know what you speak of.”
Teodor wiped his mouth with his sleeve. It barely stopped the flow of blood that coursed down his chin, his bitten tongue beginning to swell. He could feel his teeth rattling loose inside his jaw. Ezio picked up the épieu from where it lay on the sand and examined it. He gave it an experimental swing, thumbing the spring-loaded catch that made it expand.
“It is a beautiful weapon,” Ezio murmured, as if he were talking to himself. Without warning, he tossed it in Teodor’s direction. Teodor caught it instinctively, eyes widening.
“You do not have the information I seek,” Ezio told him, and to Teodor’s surprise he turned his back and began to walk away.
Teodor couldn’t move, stunned. He looked down at the weapon in his hands, then to Ezio Auditore’s retreating back.
“That’s it?” Teodor asked, the words tumbling wetly out of his mouth. “You’re letting me go?”
Ezio stopped. He looked at Teodor over his shoulder, his face concealed by the white hood. “I’m a patient man, Officer Viscardi. Men like you are often the agents of their own destruction. I think I’ll wait and see if you survive your Templar brethren. Let’s see how their form of justice compares to mine.”
In the golden glow of sunset Ezio’s white robes seemed almost otherworldly, burning brightly against the backdrop of the thin forest behind him. Teodor watched him slink into the brush and then blend with the shadows of the trees, winking out like a light. Aside from Teodor’s bloodied, aching jaw, it was as if Ezio Auditore had never been there, even his footprints nearly indistinguishable in the glittering sand.
Teodor toed on his boots, lacing them as quickly as he dared. He climbed to the top of the beach, then stared at the path ahead of him. There were other ways home. He considered cutting through the forest and avoiding the path altogether. The sooner he could get to Malfatto the sooner they could flee.
He would never make it through the forest. He felt Ezio Auditore’s watchful gaze on him.
Malfatto, he thought, s’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi parce que Dieu ne le fera pas.
Teodor squared his shoulders and stepped onto the path. His head pounded in time with his heart, his cheek swollen. His fingers twitched along the handle of the épieu, unable to keep his tense muscles still. He tried to remember the last thing he said to Malfatto this morning, what Malfatto had said to him. He thought it might have been Malfatto asking him to help clean the leech tank tomorrow. Teodor was pretty sure he had said he’d help with the leech tank when hell froze over.
A mile inland, three men stepped across the path, blocking Teodor’s passage.
Templars, Ezio had called them. They looked like nothing more than hired mercenaries to Teodor, all of them dressed differently and carrying custom weapons.
“Officer Viscardi,” said the one in the middle. A giant ax rested against his shoulder, well-used but sharp.
Malfatto, please forgive me because God will not.
Teodor smiled, his bloody lips and teeth stretching grotesquely.
“That’s me,” he promised.
Minutes later, Teodor ground his heel into the soft throat of the last man. He bent to retrieve his épieu, wrenching it free from where it’d been lodged inside the man’s left eye socket. The man tried to scream through his crushed throat, the sound a wet, muddied hiss.
Teodor stepped over the other two bodies on the ground, moving away from the scene to catch his breath. He spit blood into the grass and used his shirt to mop the sweat from his face. A few feet away the man kept up his gurgling, hands twisting into gnarled claws as his body fought for air.
Overhead, the leaves rustled, a light sea breeze ghosting through the spartan trees. The shadows were growing long. In the distance the sun dipped below the horizon and turned the ocean red.
Teodor pressed a hand to his side, feeling the shallow cut along his ribs. He decided he hated axes.
The man on the ground twitched violently, then died, half-blind and with his lips stained dark blue.
Teodor adjusted his grip on the épieu. And then he waited.
† † †
Across the city, Malfatto balanced seven red tomatoes on a scale and noted the weight: 1,274.71 grams. That would not do. He needed exactly 1,260.00 grams for the elixir that was already beginning to bubble in the cauldron on the fire or the balance would be ruined.
Selecting his sharpest knife, Malfatto took the tomatoes from the scale and began to slice, fretting over the loss of each seed and dollop of juice. He was out of tomatoes and could only spare 14.71 grams. There was no time to fetch more from the garden. By the time he returned from picking a tomato of adequate ripeness and size the solution would be past the optimum mark to add the tomatoes. The optimum time was in 4.75 minutes and he had to dedicate that time to slicing and hope for the best.
An obvious mistake, not slicing the tomatoes beforehand. He would need to make note of it later in his journal. Chop, scrape, weigh. Chop, scrape, weigh. Malfatto’s fingers flew. He had 2.4 minutes left and only 634.9 grams on the scale. He estimated 180.00 grams for an average tomato which was 3 inches in diameter but his tomatoes were not average. Another obvious mistake, not picking tomatoes of similar size. He reminded himself to make a second note.
When the scale read 1,097.2 grams Malfatto sliced into the last tomato and also into the distal phalanx of his index finger. Frowning, he checked the time and saw there were only 35 seconds remaining to add the tomatoes. He speculated he would have made it if it wasn’t for the blood.
Malfatto sighed.
He popped his finger in his mouth and surveyed the damage. Obvious contamination to the knife, cutting board, remaining tomato. Red spatter on the scale, unknown contamination to the 1,097.2 grams balanced there. All tainted, unusable.
Malfatto took the cauldron off the fire and sat it outside to cool until he could dispose of its contents later. He made sure to put a lid on it this time, remembering the neighbor’s cat. He still felt bad about that. He paused, wondering where he might purchase a cat. It would be more prudent to trap one. Perhaps more meaningful as well, given the extra effort.
Back inside, Malfatto neatly sutured the wound on his finger. He examined the two black stitches, identical in length and space. Excellent. He looked over to the tomatoes still resting on the table. Not so excellent.
Malfatto cocked his head to the side, considering what to do. He did not want to be wasteful. He recalled the steps for three different toxins and two medicines. None called for blood. That was probably wise. Malfatto imagined it would be difficult to keep a fresh supply on hand and didn’t enjoy the idea of using his own.
His stomach growled.
“Of course,” Malfatto told the tomatoes. The half-sliced tomato on the cutting board was too contaminated to be considered for consumption, but the 1,097.2 grams that were left over had less than a 1% chance of contamination. Too risky for brewing poison, but not too risky for marinara. Pleased, Malfatto peered at the minced tomatoes on top of the scale. Red on red, impossible to tell any obvious defects.
Malfatto paused, wondering if he should tell Teodor that there might be blood in the sauce when he got home. He decided he wouldn’t. He doubted Teodor would mind.
† † †
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author's notes | warnings
Rated: R (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 3,668 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† TWO YEARS LATER †
Teodor pulled himself from the water with shaky arms and legs. The hot sand crunched underneath his soggy feet, sending ripples of warmth up his legs. He shook the water and salt from his hair then stopped to catch his breath. He had overdone it again, but that was nothing new. The beaches near Marseilles were enticing in ways Teodor couldn’t begin to describe.
He would never forget the first time they had come to the coast. The ocean waves were a light, beautiful blue that stood in stark contrast to the dark, muddy waters he had known his entire life. Neither of them had seen the ocean before, and after a few shared moments of quiet awe Teodor had stripped out of his clothes so quickly he nearly snapped a few buttons.
“Come on,” he had told Malfatto, taking him by the hand and pulling him towards the waves.
“I don’t know how to swim,” Malfatto had replied, seeing Teodor’s intent.
“Well, there’s only one way to learn,” Teodor had said, and cheerfully tossed him in the water.
Unlike that first day, Teodor had remembered to leave his clothes and boots high enough on the sand they couldn’t be reached by the swelling tide. He dressed carelessly, feeling the drying salt pull at the hair on his arms and legs. He laced up his breeches and bent over to pick up his boots but stilled when he felt the weight of a stranger’s stare. He stood slowly, eyes narrowed as he searched the expanse of the beach. There were a few other citizens milling about in the distance though none of them seemed interested in him. He looked past the beach, eyes combing over the high brush and low hanging trees that lined the sand, but saw nothing.
Despite the leisure the last two years had brought, Teodor could never completely shake his old life. He kept himself fit and his combat skills sharp, often pulling Malfatto away from his laboratory and using him as a sparring partner. Malfatto usually protested this behavior, at least until he landed a violent blow that sent Teodor sprawling. The training kept them capable, though the paranoia and suspicion their old lives had induced had given way to a habitual vigilance. Teodor still kept his épieu with him at all times, but since coming to France he’d rarely had reason to use it.
When he and Malfatto had fled to Marseilles, Teodor had abandoned his military life and reclaimed his heritage. He went by his birth name these days, Théodore Louvier, needing the protection his heritage provided on the political and financial level. Malfatto adored the new name and had spent the first month whispering it into Teodor’s skin whenever they fell into bed. His father had sent him a short, curt note congratulating him on his return to his native land and requested he come and introduce himself to the French court. He had yet to make such an appearance, patiently waiting out his father’s life in the hopes that he could enter the political arena on his own terms.
Behind him a handful of gulls took to the sky, squawking noisily over the sound of the waves. Teodor startled at the sound, turning sharply. He dropped his boots in the sand and drew his épieu. Old habits died hard.
The ocean stretched out before him, the sandy beach empty. Teodor stared, bewildered.
“Bonjour, Officer Viscardi,” rumbled a voice.
Teodor whirled, weapon first. An elbow connected with his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Hands went to his wrist and fingers, plucking the épieu from his grasp. He staggered, body curling in on itself as he wheezed, his eyes watering in response to the pain. He heard the épieu hit the damp sand in the distance, tossed out of his reach. Disarmed and off-balance, Teodor planted his feet and stood to face his attacker.
Two meters away stood a man dressed in white. Teodor saw the scarred mouth beneath the white hood, the symbol on his belt. Even though he had only ever seen pictures and heard the man described, he knew at once who it was.
“We need to talk,” Ezio Auditore said.
Over the years, Teodor had wondered what he would do if he ever came face to face with an assassin. It was a fruitless exercise; an assassin’s victim was usually aware of only the blade in their back. Assassins had a talent for being in and out before their mark had drawn their last breath. Fighting one was the only scenario Teodor had ever pictured, and despite his considerable skill he knew the ending that befell men who crossed swords with an assassin. At the height of the assassins’ parasitic advance on Roma only two were ever killed by a soldier’s blade. They had been new recruits to the cause, their white outfits haphazard but their fighting style easily recognizable. It had taken a dozen soldiers to down each of them. Ezio Auditore, on the other hand, was a master assassin who was capable of killing twice that many men without ever reaching for his own weapon.
Now Teodor stood alone before him, unarmed and unable to escape. There was nothing he could do, he realized. Teodor didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t deny the inevitability of this moment. Ezio Auditore had come for him, and Ezio Auditore would do to him whatever he deemed just.
The waves rolled in, the sound of water churning against the earth in rhythm with Teodor’s even breaths.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
Ezio gestured at the ground. “Have a seat, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself onto the hot sand. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he said quietly.
Ezio sat down next to him, uncaring that he was within reach. “I wouldn’t either, if I had done the things that you have.”
Teodor tensed. His anger towards Ezio Auditore had waned in the years since Donato’s death, but not his hatred. Still, the comment stung.
They sat side by side. Teodor kept his eyes trained on the assassin, but Ezio stared out over the water.
“Why have you come to France?” Teodor dared to ask.
“For the wine,” Ezio said dryly, his scarred mouth twisting into a wry smile.
Teodor felt annoyance stir within him and tried to stamp it out; he was resigned to his fate, but did not wish to expedite it with his own impatience.
“It’s been two years,” he said carefully. Two years was a long time to remember a list of enemies as long as Ezio Auditore’s, but Teodor supposed he wasn’t a man that was likely to forget. “Why come for me now?”
“I did not come for you,” Ezio explained. “I was following a group of men that led me to you. They are waiting along the path into town. I believe they intend to kill you.”
It took all of Teodor’s willpower to keep from turning to look. His eyes strayed to the épieu lying on the sand, out of reach, and his fingers twitched involuntarily.
Ezio’s voice took on a darker tone. “Perhaps you can explain to me why the Templars would hunt down a fellow agent.”
Confusion was plain on Teodor’s face. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t toy with me,” Ezio warned.
“I’m not,” Teodor insisted, bristling despite himself. “I don’t know what a Templar is.”
“I find that hard to believe, seeing as how you are one,” Ezio said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have two sources that list you as such. Fiora Cavazza, in particular, was most insistent.”
Teodor hadn’t thought about Fiora in a long time. He wondered if she knew his location.
“Fiora Cavazza has other reasons for hating me,” he said evenly. “If you want to know if I worked for Cesare Borgia, the answer is yes. If you want to know all I did for him, I will tell you.”
“Do you still work for him?” Ezio asked, idly running his fingers in the sand.
“No,” Teodor answered. “I left the city just before the Pope fell ill and died. Perhaps those men are following me because I deserted my post.”
Ezio considered this. “Why did you leave?”
“Cesare Borgia was a hard man to work for,” Teodor said, trying to gauge the assassin’s intent. “He was displeased with my work on a number of levels, most of them concerning my inability to keep his war machines from being destroyed.”
“If it’s any consolation to you, I’m sorry about the tank,” Ezio said with strange affection.
“It’s not. You killed my best friend,” Teodor replied, struggling to keep his tone level. Donato’s smile ripped through his mind like lightning. “And now you intend to kill me.”
“You don’t know what I intend,” Ezio said sharply. “But the more you talk, the more likely you are to be correct in your assumptions.”
Teodor scowled. “What else could you possibly intend? We both know I deserve it.”
If anything, Ezio Auditore looked confused. “Do you want me to kill you?”
“Of course not,” Teodor said. “But what would you have me say to you? After all I’ve done, what could I say that could convince you to spare me? I knew some of the soldiers you’ve killed and they were all much better men than me.”
“I am sorry that some of your friends died,” Ezio said after a moment. “But if you work for my enemy you become my enemy.”
“I don’t need your apology,” Teodor said, struggling to maintain his composure. “I know the cost of war. I’m simply asking if you’re here to make me pay my dues.”
“It is not my place to judge such things,” Ezio replied.
Liar, Teodor thought, but held his tongue. Underneath the thick white robes and hood, Ezio Auditore was growing into an old man. He was still gigantic, perhaps taller than Malfatto and definitely wider, but his beard was laced with gray hairs and his hands were weathered beyond measure. Up close, Ezio was more man than myth, but Teodor knew he still didn’t stand much of a chance.
“You strike me as a capable man, not a coward,” Ezio said after awhile, his tone thoughtful. “Why would you flee the city instead of turning against the Borgia if you felt the way you did?”
Teodor didn’t answer right away, staring into the ocean’s abyss. A gull struggled against the waves, trying to crack open a crab’s shell against the few rocks that pebbled the shoreline. He remembered Malfatto asking him a similar question years ago.
“I had no intention of usurping one bloodthirsty prince for another,” Teodor said eventually.
“You think me bloodthirsty?” Ezio sounded genuinely taken aback.
“Of course I do,” Teodor answered, his tone conversational in its honesty. “The soldiers you killed were simple men trying to do their jobs. And when the Borgia finally fell, you didn’t lead the city, did you? Who leads Roma now?”
“I fought so that the people could choose who would lead them,” Ezio said. “To give them a chance to do better.”
“You never asked them if that’s what they wanted,” Teodor pointed out. In some ways it was a relief to give voice to these thoughts. Teodor was well aware of his own sins and had no use for a last confession. He wondered if no one had ever held Ezio Auditore accountable for his actions.
Teodor turned his attention back to Ezio. The assassin’s eyes were hidden behind his cowl, but his lips were curved in an unhappy frown. “You impose your will just as any other man. The officials you left are loyal to you, not the people. You do not lead, and therefore all you have done is left Roma powerless.”
“I would not expect someone like you to understand,” Ezio said after a moment.
Teodor laughed bitterly. “I would think I understand you better than most, assassin. The citizens rallied behind you because Cesare Borgia was a cruel man. Had he been a more benevolent prince you would have found yourself hated.”
Ezio stood swiftly, a movement so fluid and efficient Teodor couldn’t help but admire it even as he flinched. “I did not come here to be insulted. Stand up, Officer Viscardi.”
Teodor’s stomach trembled and his jaw clenched, but he pushed himself off the ground. His eyes trailed along the vambraces on Ezio’s arms, wondering if he would see the legendary silver blades that were hidden inside. Perhaps Ezio intended to shoot him like he had Donato. No, Teodor decided. Ezio had been forced to shoot Donato. If he had tried to catch him on horseback Donato would have ridden all the way to the sun, laughing and untouchable.
Ezio Auditore’s dark eyes swept over him, taking his measure. Ezio remained brilliantly white, his outfit pristine, while Teodor could feel the wet sand smeared over his clothes and nesting in his hair. He reminded himself it would be ridiculous to fight this man, but knew that if it came down to it he would try anyway.
“What now?” Teodor asked softly, shivering as the ocean’s spray washed over them. “Is it time for you to take your vengeance?”
“I deal in justice, not vengeance,” Ezio rumbled.
Teodor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you expect me to believe that? You are the epitome of vengeance. I grew up listening to the stories of how you sought to kill the conspirators who murdered your family. Do you really think you would be the assassin you are today if your family was still alive?”
Teodor was surprised by the punch. He had expected death before something as simple as a crack to the jaw. Aged as Ezio was, the blow rocked him back on his feet and dark spots bloomed before his eyes. He spit blood, fear coursing through his veins as Ezio Auditore loomed over him, his shadowed features contorted with anger.
“Do not talk to me about my family,” Ezio warned. “You don’t know what you speak of.”
Teodor wiped his mouth with his sleeve. It barely stopped the flow of blood that coursed down his chin, his bitten tongue beginning to swell. He could feel his teeth rattling loose inside his jaw. Ezio picked up the épieu from where it lay on the sand and examined it. He gave it an experimental swing, thumbing the spring-loaded catch that made it expand.
“It is a beautiful weapon,” Ezio murmured, as if he were talking to himself. Without warning, he tossed it in Teodor’s direction. Teodor caught it instinctively, eyes widening.
“You do not have the information I seek,” Ezio told him, and to Teodor’s surprise he turned his back and began to walk away.
Teodor couldn’t move, stunned. He looked down at the weapon in his hands, then to Ezio Auditore’s retreating back.
“That’s it?” Teodor asked, the words tumbling wetly out of his mouth. “You’re letting me go?”
Ezio stopped. He looked at Teodor over his shoulder, his face concealed by the white hood. “I’m a patient man, Officer Viscardi. Men like you are often the agents of their own destruction. I think I’ll wait and see if you survive your Templar brethren. Let’s see how their form of justice compares to mine.”
In the golden glow of sunset Ezio’s white robes seemed almost otherworldly, burning brightly against the backdrop of the thin forest behind him. Teodor watched him slink into the brush and then blend with the shadows of the trees, winking out like a light. Aside from Teodor’s bloodied, aching jaw, it was as if Ezio Auditore had never been there, even his footprints nearly indistinguishable in the glittering sand.
Teodor toed on his boots, lacing them as quickly as he dared. He climbed to the top of the beach, then stared at the path ahead of him. There were other ways home. He considered cutting through the forest and avoiding the path altogether. The sooner he could get to Malfatto the sooner they could flee.
He would never make it through the forest. He felt Ezio Auditore’s watchful gaze on him.
Malfatto, he thought, s’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi parce que Dieu ne le fera pas.
Teodor squared his shoulders and stepped onto the path. His head pounded in time with his heart, his cheek swollen. His fingers twitched along the handle of the épieu, unable to keep his tense muscles still. He tried to remember the last thing he said to Malfatto this morning, what Malfatto had said to him. He thought it might have been Malfatto asking him to help clean the leech tank tomorrow. Teodor was pretty sure he had said he’d help with the leech tank when hell froze over.
A mile inland, three men stepped across the path, blocking Teodor’s passage.
Templars, Ezio had called them. They looked like nothing more than hired mercenaries to Teodor, all of them dressed differently and carrying custom weapons.
“Officer Viscardi,” said the one in the middle. A giant ax rested against his shoulder, well-used but sharp.
Malfatto, please forgive me because God will not.
Teodor smiled, his bloody lips and teeth stretching grotesquely.
“That’s me,” he promised.
Minutes later, Teodor ground his heel into the soft throat of the last man. He bent to retrieve his épieu, wrenching it free from where it’d been lodged inside the man’s left eye socket. The man tried to scream through his crushed throat, the sound a wet, muddied hiss.
Teodor stepped over the other two bodies on the ground, moving away from the scene to catch his breath. He spit blood into the grass and used his shirt to mop the sweat from his face. A few feet away the man kept up his gurgling, hands twisting into gnarled claws as his body fought for air.
Overhead, the leaves rustled, a light sea breeze ghosting through the spartan trees. The shadows were growing long. In the distance the sun dipped below the horizon and turned the ocean red.
Teodor pressed a hand to his side, feeling the shallow cut along his ribs. He decided he hated axes.
The man on the ground twitched violently, then died, half-blind and with his lips stained dark blue.
Teodor adjusted his grip on the épieu. And then he waited.
† † †
Across the city, Malfatto balanced seven red tomatoes on a scale and noted the weight: 1,274.71 grams. That would not do. He needed exactly 1,260.00 grams for the elixir that was already beginning to bubble in the cauldron on the fire or the balance would be ruined.
Selecting his sharpest knife, Malfatto took the tomatoes from the scale and began to slice, fretting over the loss of each seed and dollop of juice. He was out of tomatoes and could only spare 14.71 grams. There was no time to fetch more from the garden. By the time he returned from picking a tomato of adequate ripeness and size the solution would be past the optimum mark to add the tomatoes. The optimum time was in 4.75 minutes and he had to dedicate that time to slicing and hope for the best.
An obvious mistake, not slicing the tomatoes beforehand. He would need to make note of it later in his journal. Chop, scrape, weigh. Chop, scrape, weigh. Malfatto’s fingers flew. He had 2.4 minutes left and only 634.9 grams on the scale. He estimated 180.00 grams for an average tomato which was 3 inches in diameter but his tomatoes were not average. Another obvious mistake, not picking tomatoes of similar size. He reminded himself to make a second note.
When the scale read 1,097.2 grams Malfatto sliced into the last tomato and also into the distal phalanx of his index finger. Frowning, he checked the time and saw there were only 35 seconds remaining to add the tomatoes. He speculated he would have made it if it wasn’t for the blood.
Malfatto sighed.
He popped his finger in his mouth and surveyed the damage. Obvious contamination to the knife, cutting board, remaining tomato. Red spatter on the scale, unknown contamination to the 1,097.2 grams balanced there. All tainted, unusable.
Malfatto took the cauldron off the fire and sat it outside to cool until he could dispose of its contents later. He made sure to put a lid on it this time, remembering the neighbor’s cat. He still felt bad about that. He paused, wondering where he might purchase a cat. It would be more prudent to trap one. Perhaps more meaningful as well, given the extra effort.
Back inside, Malfatto neatly sutured the wound on his finger. He examined the two black stitches, identical in length and space. Excellent. He looked over to the tomatoes still resting on the table. Not so excellent.
Malfatto cocked his head to the side, considering what to do. He did not want to be wasteful. He recalled the steps for three different toxins and two medicines. None called for blood. That was probably wise. Malfatto imagined it would be difficult to keep a fresh supply on hand and didn’t enjoy the idea of using his own.
His stomach growled.
“Of course,” Malfatto told the tomatoes. The half-sliced tomato on the cutting board was too contaminated to be considered for consumption, but the 1,097.2 grams that were left over had less than a 1% chance of contamination. Too risky for brewing poison, but not too risky for marinara. Pleased, Malfatto peered at the minced tomatoes on top of the scale. Red on red, impossible to tell any obvious defects.
Malfatto paused, wondering if he should tell Teodor that there might be blood in the sauce when he got home. He decided he wouldn’t. He doubted Teodor would mind.
† † †
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