Knives Don't Have Your Back: Chapter X
Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood
Rated: NC17 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 6,317 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† X †
It had been nearly a week since Teodor had seen Malfatto. They had an unspoken agreement to avoid each other, one borne of the necessity to maintain their distance in the wake of what had transpired in Castel Gandolfo. The news of Cardinal Sforza’s death rocked the citizenry and the College of Cardinals, a low hum of fear and intrigue hovering behind every conversation. The Pope expressed his dismay at Sforza’s death and demanded his murderer be found, but an official order was never issued. Cesare, between thinly-veiled threats to Teodor’s future over the loss of the machine gun, seemed as surprised by the cardinal’s death as anyone else.
That left the question of whom exactly Malfatto took orders from. Teodor could find no evidence supporting any individual person save perhaps the Pope, which left Teodor with more questions than answers. Luckily he was distracted by the mountainous workload that had piled up in his absence and spent the majority of his time holed up in his rooms implementing three separate strategies via correspondence to protect the war machine. Other things took up his attention as well. Teodor’s responsibilities to both the condottieri and the Papal Army were nebulous at best, so he found it necessary to keep up with the current situations of all military movements. De Valois and his men informed him of campaigns and conquest, Donato, freshly reassigned, kept him up to date on the city guard, Cesare himself provided the official stance of the Papal Army and, via Baltasar, the orders that superseded all others.
As it was, Teodor spent a lot of time hunched over a desk analyzing information and wishing he was out on the hunt for one of his contracts, or better yet-waging war. He prayed, perhaps a little unwisely, that something would give him an excuse to leave his room. This was the only reason, or so he told himself, that kept him from immediately chucking Fiora Cavazza back into the hallway when she showed up at his doorstep.
“Officer Viscardi,” she said, then pushed past Teodor and into his room. Speechless, Teodor closed the door. Fiora came to a stop in the middle of the room, giving it a quick once over. “I thought soldiers were trained to keep their quarters neat and orderly.”
“Why yes, do come in Signorina,” Teodor said through clenched teeth. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, watching her warily. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Fiora’s eyes narrowed. “Baltasar wants to see you.”
“Then he will see me,” Teodor said. “Why are you here?”
“We need to talk.”
“We?” Teodor said, surprised. Fiora nodded. “And did this talk have to happen here in my personal quarters for some reason or do you just wish to ruin my reputation?”
Fiora scoffed. “More like my reputation. Come. We will discuss the matter at hand on the way to Baltasar.”
“We most certainly will not,” Teodor replied, mind whirling at the rumors that would spread should he be seen wandering the grounds of Castel Sant’Angelo with Cesare’s favorite...whatever this woman was to him.
“You would rather we stay in here with a closed door and leave it to the imagination?” Fiora said, smirking.
“Let me get my coat,” Teodor said after a beat. Fiora gave a triumphant smile.
As they left the officers’ quarters, Teodor held out his arm to Fiora before truly realizing what he was doing. He considered pulling it back but noticed the eyes of Cesare’s guard were on him. Fiora looked shocked for a moment, then glared balefully at him as she took it, seeing the need for propriety as well. Teodor’s teeth ground painfully against his cheek.
“How gallant,” she murmured, sarcasm heavy in her tone.
“Habit,” was all Teodor said as they continued to walk. Once they were a little further away from the ears of the guards and in the midst of the citizenry outside the walls of Castel Sant’Angelo, Fiora made to pull away from his escort as if she had caught fire. Teodor swiftly placed his free hand over her trapped wrist, holding her tight. Fiora hissed.
“Talk,” he commanded.
“Certainly,” Fiora replied, and kicked him hard in the shin. Teodor grunted as his entire leg flared with pain but did not let go. He didn’t entirely trust Fiora wasn’t leading him into a trap and figured he could use her as a shield if worst came to worst.
Seeing that she wasn’t escaping his grip without causing a scene, Fiora settled into a state of calm seething. “Baltasar is going to ask you if you know anything about the death of Cardinal Sforza.” She paused for a moment, and through his rising panic Teodor saw her consider her next sentence. “He wants to know who ordered the assassination and who carried it out.”
Teodor’s mind went into overdrive. Baltasar didn’t know about Malfatto’s orders. That meant he hadn’t sent Teodor on a collision course with the good doctor. Or it was a ploy to convince Teodor he had nothing to do with it. Teodor deliberated on what to say next.
“Why are you warning me?” he asked, confirming nothing.
“I want a favor from you, why else?” Fiora said impatiently. “And I don’t think you’re stupid enough to run off and murder a high-ranking cardinal which earns you a measure of good faith.”
“I don’t know anything about Cardinal Sforza’s death,” Teodor lied. Fiora rolled her eyes.
“I don’t believe that for a second, and neither will Baltasar,” Fiora replied coolly. “Which brings us to the other reason you’re going to do the favor for me.”
Teodor’s skin went cold. He shot Fiora a warning look. “By favor you mean blackmail, I assume.”
“In a sense,” Fiora said, nodding her head. “Ever since you came under Baltasar’s charge I have had the lovely responsibility of intercepting all of your post.”
Teodor’s panic came back as he inventoried all the letters and mail he’d sent in the past year. Nothing particularly stuck out to him as he’d always been rather paranoid about his messages. The only thing Fiora would have read would have been boring missives to other military commanders concerning supplies and defenses. It was possible she had tracked down the courier Teodor had sent to Malfatto which wasn’t as problematic as it was embarrassing. That only left --
“Oh,” Teodor said flatly. “I suppose you’re referencing my mother.”
Fiora’s smile was sharp. “I was surprised. I thought Viscardi was your father’s name.”
“The accent didn’t tip you off then,” Teodor shot back. They had crossed the bridge into the Centro district, making slow time to Baltasar’s shop through the milling throng. “I don’t know what you intend to do with that information. It’s not as if my family is some dark secret. Do you really think Cesare let me into his military without looking into my background?”
“Cesare, certainly,” Fiora replied, unruffled. “But do you really want Baltasar knowing where you send your money? The fact that she needs money at all speaks--”
Teodor’s hand closed sharply around Fiora’s wrist, stopping her from finishing her sentence. Pain flickered briefly across her face. It was true that he sent his mother money and that it didn’t go unappreciated. While Teodor had long ago lost contact with his father, it wasn’t as if he was entirely unaware of how the man’s finances had plummeted in the last few years, nobility or not. Fiora assumed she had the upper hand because she took Teodor’s assistance as a sign of his love for his mother, an assured weakness. Teodor did care about his mother, but the threat of harm coming to her wasn’t enough to keep him in line. He did care that neither Fiora nor Baltasar pry into his history more than they already had.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly, bringing them to a stop. They were close to Baltasar’s place and Teodor finally released Fiora’s arm. She eagerly moved a few steps away, fingers flexing. He had been holding on rather tight.
“You have the ear of Donato Mancini. I believe he’s heading up the city guard now,” Fiora said. Teodor felt his stomach drop and steeled himself to keep his face expressionless, fearful of what she may ask. Fiora continued. “Someone has been killing courtesans within the city. He would be in charge of the investigation, or at least know information on what’s being done about it. He might have already told you. I want to know that information.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Teodor said after a second, words laced with relief. He considered the strange request. “Why would you care?” he asked, thoughtful. “That’s not...I didn’t think that was something you were concerned with anymore.”
Fiora’s face lost a little bit of its sharpness at his question. “I still have friends there. None that I wouldn’t cut down if it was between them and myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by while some man systematically murders them.”
Teodor couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at the venom in her words. Teodor would never be a hero, but it might be fun to try. “You know, if you would have started with that we could have skipped the uncomfortable blackmailing bit.”
“Speak for yourself, Officer Viscardi,” Fiora said. She didn’t smile, but Teodor liked to think she wanted to. He gave her an overly gallant bow and Fiora rolled her eyes in response before disappearing into the crowd without another word.
Teodor took a deep breath and gave a last glance to the heavens before walking the last block to Baltasar’s shop.
† † †
Baltasar stared at Teodor from across the bench, eyes dull like plague and just as lifeless. Teodor kept a bored expression on his face and sipped his tea with a steady hand. Standing in the corner was an oddity-a serving boy, barely sixteen if a day, with his head bowed and the look of someone who was used to being beaten.
What of Cardinal Sforza’s murder, Baltasar had wanted to know, and Teodor lied through his teeth and said he knew nothing.
They had sat like this for nearly ten minutes now, silent.
Snick.
The boy shook at the sound. Teodor ignored it and let Baltasar wait and watch. The razor shimmered in the soft sunlight filtering in from a high window.
“Tell me,” Baltasar murmured, voice a velvet whisper, “how do you get information out of people who are disinclined to give it to you?”
Teodor tapped his holstered épieu with his free hand and continued looking bored.
“You threaten to kill them,” Baltasar supplied. “You scare them with death.”
Teodor nodded. “And pain. I’ve been told pain is scary.”
“What about their families? Do you threaten their loved ones?” Baltasar asked. Teodor thought of Fiora’s warning. He ran his finger around the lip of his teacup.
“That too,” he said mildly, keeping a steady eye on Baltasar. “And then I follow through.”
Baltasar eyed him. “None of these things scare you.”
It didn’t seem like a question, but Teodor still shook his head in agreement. They fell silent once more, Baltasar’s eyes settling on the razor in his hand. Teodor drained the last of his tea.
Snick.
“What about rape?” Baltasar said a few minutes later. The word cut through the air like a blade and Teodor felt his jaw tense before he could stop himself.
“Are you suggesting that I should add rape to my long list of accomplishments?” he said carefully.
Baltasar’s smile was full of too many teeth, black eyes unblinking. “Does rape frighten you?”
Teodor’s spine stiffened, his hand fluttering against the hilt of his épieu. “I would like to see you try,” he warned. Teodor’s body stilled in anticipation, but the tension broke not with an attack, but with the hollow sound of Baltasar’s laughter.
“More tea?” Baltasar asked, waving a hand to the serving boy. The boy scurried over with a kettle in hand to fill Teodor’s cup. The barber leaned back, hands braced on the edge of the table, then rolled his shoulders one at a time. Teodor rolled his eyes and gave Baltasar a wary glare. Just as the tea touched the brim of Teodor’s cup, Baltasar’s razor flashed silver and Teodor jumped as the serving boy screamed.
Teodor was out from the bench, épieu drawn, when he realized he wasn’t Baltasar’s target. Baltasar had the serving boy bent over the table, his razor pressed behind one of the lad’s ears, his free hand pulling at the boy’s trousers before going to his own.
“I was going to go with one of the maids, but I figured this might be more fitting for a man of your tastes,” Baltasar hissed. Teodor barely registered the hidden implication of the sentence, choosing to glower at the horrible sight before him.
“If you think I’m going to sit and watch-”
“I don’t care if you watch, but if you don’t tell me what you know I will rape this boy, be sure of that,” Baltasar said. The pinned, shivering boy turned wet eyes to Teodor at Baltasar’s words.
Teodor flinched.
Baltasar hummed, the dullness leaving his eyes. “Well, well, Officer Viscardi, that is interesting. You would rather I kill him, wouldn’t you?” Baltasar paused, a smile whipping across his face. “I could do both. I could rape him to death.”
Teodor’s grip on his épieu bordered on painful. He felt sweat run slick down his shoulders, knew his face was pale. The boy on the table looked scared but resigned, and Teodor wondered at how monstrous he truly must seem for someone to lose all hope so fast. His brain churned sluggishly, remembering the lives he had already extinguished to keep his mistake in Castel Gandolfo a secret, to keep himself and Malfatto protected. One more death wouldn’t make a difference, and yet he felt himself hesitate. Teodor narrowed his eyes.
“Stop,” Teodor growled. Baltasar’s triumph was palpable in the damp air. The boy looked too surprised to cry.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Baltasar countered.
Teodor thrust his épieu upward, stopping just under Baltasar’s chin. “You will stop,” he rumbled, “because I ask you to.”
Baltasar’s expression went from calculating to cold rage. Teodor held back a shiver and watched the razor in Baltasar’s hand. For a split second it seemed as if Baltasar would move, and Teodor pressed the épieu against his skin. “I told you last time, I am tired of your games. I cannot tell you what you want to know, because I do not know it.”
With a steady hand, Teodor slid the épieu out from underneath Baltasar’s chin, then holstered it. He kept his eyes on Baltasar’s, wondering if the man would go ahead despite the threat. For a tense minute no one moved, then suddenly Baltasar stepped back and released the boy with a sour expression. The serving boy fell, hands and knees scrabbling at the ground. Teodor kept his features blank and waited until the boy had regained enough balance to lurch out of the door before he sat down at the bench.
Snick.
Baltasar did up his breeches with one hand, his eyes studying Teodor like a butcher would a steer, razor twirling in his grip. Teodor steeled his resolve and took his teacup once more by the handle, sipping it. He was raised within the nobility, he knew when to be an irritating, arrogant man.
“Next time, I won’t use the boy,” Baltasar warned after a moment. He planted his hands on the table and leaned over it, his black hair falling like a curtain.
The razor glinted in the sunlight. A lock of brown hair that usually curled behind Teodor’s ear fell on the table. Teodor held his ground, staring down Baltasar with a bored expression while his heart pounded in his chest. “I’ve always wanted to peel someone apart like a pear,” Baltasar confessed. “Head to toe in one long strip.”
“You are welcome to try,” he answered. Teodor waited patiently as Baltasar settled back down at the bench. Baltasar’s eyes kept drifting to Teodor’s left ear, a replacement for the one he had threatened to shave off the boy.
“I do have a piece of information you would probably be interested in,” Teodor said. “Perhaps you would like to hear about how Ezio Auditore is sabotaging Cesare Borgia’s war machines?”
Baltasar’s eyes held a bit of surprise before they went purposefully flat. It appeared that Cesare was not being as forthcoming with his top spy as it would seem. Teodor felt a moment’s reprieve, but as he began to recount the destruction at Colli Albani he had a sinking feeling it was only a matter of time before the sound of Baltasar’s razor would be meant for him.
Snick.
† † †
Malfatto was bent over a large bowl when Teodor came to him that night. He was in full dress despite the hour, the shop room lit firecracker-white by an army of candles. Teodor watched him momentarily from the windows as he shook off the dirt from Malfatto’s garden wall (they needed to discuss entry privileges-Teodor disliked the idea of future wall-scaling feats). This time when he rapped on the wooden door Malfatto simply raised a gloved hand to motion for Teodor to enter, dark glasses still turned downward to his concoction. Teodor found the door unlocked, smiled, and let himself in.
Warm air ghosted over Teodor’s face as he entered, pushing the door shut with one lazy boot. The fire was burning low but hot, a black cauldron hung above it. Teodor sniffed at the bitterness in the air, then peeked inside the large pot and caught glimpse of a thick brown liquid at low boil.
“I hope that’s not your dinner,” he murmured, peeling off his gloves. He eyed Malfatto, bent low and intent over his task. The heat made his skin itch and he quickly removed his heavy coat. “What is it?”
“Poison,” Malfatto said after a pause, not even bothering to look up. Teodor arched an eyebrow and walked over the doctor’s table, expecting perhaps a bit more attention after a week’s separation. Instead Malfatto seemed distracted. In his hands were a mortar and pestle which he was using to grind up what appeared to be dried herbs. The twist and press of Malfatto’s hands held to a mesmerizing rhythm and Teodor got the impression Malfatto was counting.
“And this?” Teodor asked, motioning to the ground up flakes.
“Also poison,” Malfatto said in that same slow, distracted manner. He scraped the pestle against the stone, skritch, skritch, skritch. “There’s bread on the desk.”
Sensing the unspoken dismissal, Teodor kept his sarcastic remarks to himself and went to the desk, leaving Malfatto to concentrate. Sure enough, on the table lay two brown rolls each a little smaller than his fist, one with a neat bite taken out at the edge. Teodor selected the untouched roll and tore it up in small chunks, watching Malfatto in thoughtful silence as he chewed. A half-empty glass of wine sat near the bread. Teodor picked it up and gave the drink a suspicious sniff before raising it to his lips. He hesitated before he sipped and Malfatto gave the smallest of nods, letting him know his presence wasn’t going completely without notice. Teodor rewarded Malfatto with a slightly suggestive swallow then slid his tongue over his bottom lip. Malfatto didn’t lose a beat.
Teodor resisted a sigh and plopped down in the desk chair, then went back to drinking while Malfatto finished up his project. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. Malfatto’s strong hands soon ground the herbs to dust. He gave the pestle a final twist, then walked over to the cauldron and stirred the powder into the simmering liquid within. Returning to the table he flipped over a small hourglass before wiping off his gloves with a nearby cloth.
No longer interrupting, Teodor set the wine glass upon the desk and moved to stand before Malfatto. With a few quick movements he divested the doctor of his hat and mask, smiling as Malfatto’s blue eyes blinked owlishly in the bright candlelight. Teodor pulled Malfatto’s chin down with a soft thumb, taking his time to kiss his salty mouth. Teodor had forgotten what it was like to miss someone, had forgotten the satisfaction that came when the waiting was over.
“How was your week?” Teodor asked when they pulled apart, leaving one of his hands carding through Malfatto’s awkwardly flattened hair. Malfatto shook his head, then grasped Teodor by the back of his neck with both hands, pulling him in for a second kiss. It seemed Teodor hadn’t been the only one unaccustomed to a little longing.
Malfatto pulled back first, glancing down at the table and looking to the hourglass resting there. Despite the fact that it was only a quarter full, he slid his hands from Teodor’s neck and turned back to his work. Teodor licked his lips and let him go.
“I had an interesting chat with Baltasar today,” Teodor said, watching the doctor walk to the cauldron. Malfatto selected a large wooden spoon from the tools that hung beside the fireplace and began to stir with two fists working the handle. “He was most insistent on learning who dispatched the late cardinal Sforza. From what I hear the entire college is in an uproar. Even Cesare Borgia himself seemed surprised.”
Malfatto’s eyes slid to Teodor’s, the ghost of a threat lurking behind brilliant blue. “How insistent was he?”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming to my birthday party,” Teodor said, watching Malfatto’s face flicker between paranoia and surprise. “I told him nothing,” he clarified, offering a modicum of reassurance.
“Are you hurt?” Malfatto said in a measured tone.
Teodor shot Malfatto a dirty look. Despite Baltasar’s cunning reputation, Teodor did fight and kill people for a living. Malfatto gave a one-armed shrug at the silent reprimand, then went back to his stirring. Teodor settled against the table, away from the fire and the acrid smell of the bubbling poison. On the table was a small wooden ball, something he thought could be a child’s toy. He picked it up and rolled it from hand to hand.
“Why didn’t you tell him what you know?” Malfatto asked after awhile. He glanced to the emptied hourglass by Teodor’s elbow and removed the cauldron from the hot coals, covering it with a heavy lid.
That was an excellent question. Teodor could rid himself of a thousand troubles if he were to give up Malfatto. And yet, with a certainty that was both astounding and inexplicable, Teodor knew he wouldn’t. His right hand clenched around the ball, then he rolled it to his left, feeling the slight weakness there from an injury long past.
“You saved my life more than once,” Teodor said with some effort to sound nonchalant, curling his left arm at the elbow for emphasis. “I owe you a great debt.”
Malfatto’s head turned with an audible snap. “Ah,” he said, as if he had just figured out something, but his expression was one Teodor would dare label disappointed.
Teodor frowned. “What is it?” Usually being owed a life debt would be something a person enjoyed, be they altruistic or malicious in the benefits of such a thing.
Malfatto’s gaze turned to the floor, blond eyelashes flickering in the candlelight. “Is that why you come here?” he asked without inflection.
Teodor’s shock was trumped only by his own odd sense of disappointment. He knew he shouldn’t feel as he did; they both were untrustworthy people. He thought for a moment on Malfatto’s misguided conclusions, the way he seemed to recognize the situation he thought himself in. Teodor remembered the brief, strange surprise Malfatto had demonstrated when they took to the bed, how every touch and kiss from Malfatto seemed new. What sort of life... Teodor wondered, unable to finish the thought. Instead he said, “Would that bother you?”
Malfatto gave the question careful consideration. Teodor examined the way his head tipped to the side, full mouth frowning in concert with his furrowed brow. The doctor seemed to find himself without an answer and Teodor stepped up to him, merciful.
“I am not the kind of man that needs to use his body to pay his debts,” he murmured. He took Malfatto’s hands and brought them to his jerkin, coaxing the fingers until Malfatto began unbuttoning. “I’m not a decent man. If I didn’t want to repay you what was owed...” Teodor shrugged, smiling lopsidedly as one of Malfatto’s cool fingers slid under a button, a leather knuckle brushing his skin. “...I wouldn’t.”
Teodor’s words seemed to burst the bubbling tension building in the room. Malfatto’s body went still, then he leaned forward for a swift, inelegant kiss that left Teodor breathless with its harsh immediacy. Malfatto’s hands pushed impatiently at Teodor’s clothes, tearing his jerkin and shirt wide open to bare his shoulders. Teodor grunted as the fabric twisted around his elbows, limiting his mobility.
Malfatto pulled back and studied Teodor’s naked chest. His gloved hand traced along the dip where Teodor’s neck met his shoulder, causing Teodor’s teeth to bite his lip of their own accord. Malfatto’s hand glided over his collarbone, then to his left arm, where it hovered above the whitening scars that crawled along the side of his bicep, twisting down toward the back of his elbow. Aside from the nasty, crooked whorl in the center where the flail ripped the skin clean away, the lines were spider-silk thin, a testament to Malfatto’s skill as he painstakingly sewed each precious flap of skin back together despite the burns and infection.
“You healed well,” Malfatto said as if he hadn’t seen Teodor’s bare arm before. Teodor grinned, remembering that the doctor had been considerably distracted the last time they were together.
Malfatto continued his search of Teodor’s skin, helping him shed the clothing that bound his arms. Freed, Teodor raised his hands to Malfatto’s shoulders and, though his touch was without pressure, Malfatto fell to one knee. His naked face rubbed against Teodor’s ribs, lips ghosting over the strong muscles of his stomach to send a shudder through Teodor’s entire body.
“Most soldiers have more scars,” Malfatto said off-handedly, hands eagled across the small of Teodor’s back.
“I am not most soldiers,” Teodor groaned, not without pride. His head tipped back, eyelids drooping as he drank up each gentle touch.
Malfatto’s tongue flitted along the underside of Teodor’s right pectoral, narrowly missing the pebbled nipple. Teodor swallowed, knowing the shape.
“This one is old,” Malfatto whispered hoarsely, meaning the swooped, almost elegant scar that lay just under his teeth.
Teodor’s voice came out pinched. “My sister, Nanette.”
Behind closed eyes, Teodor felt the pressure of black waves. When he finally spoke his voice sounded like someone else’s, muted and distant as he slipped further underneath. “She’s dead.”
Malfatto, for all his nightmare and weighted silence, chose this moment to raise himself high enough to place a sweet kiss on Teodor’s collarbone. Teodor’s eyes opened beneath an empty ceiling, trying to recall the last time he had said the words out loud. Malfatto stood and Teodor’s arms fell to his sides. When he finally tipped his head forward, Malfatto’s eyes had that look of discovery (why is everything so new for you) and the sound of rushing water became little more than an echo in Teodor’s ear.
“The order to kill Ascanio Sforza came from the Pope,” Malfatto said, his voice strange and flat, almost as if he were trying to mimic Teodor’s earlier unsure tone. “I am commanded by only he and, when necessary, Cesare.”
It was perhaps an odd moment to establish a thing as serious as trust; Teodor stood half-naked and half-haunted in a room with a doctor who brewed poison instead of medicine, but none of those things registered to him, everything burned away by the warm hands at his waist and the wide blue eyes inches from his own, precious because of how few had seen them.
Teodor slid his hands up, cupping Malfatto’s face with two warm palms. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
† † †
Time passed. The days lasted longer, the sun grew warmer and Teodor had to take careful steps to avoid crushing new grass and garden plants beneath his boots. They lost two more towers in the city and Castel Sant’Angelo was bombed when Caterina Sforza escaped with the help of a man in white. The naval cannon was destroyed, resulting in a sea of fire that left Teodor cowering before an increasingly erratic Cesare Borgia. He managed to escape Micheletto’s wire but not his other devices and for a solid week Teodor ate nothing but broth, tonguing the fresh hole where one of his back molars used to be.
The assassins had begun recruiting, according to the guards. All of the soldiers under Borgia rule faced a regularly lethal enemy and suffered at the hands of their general for their trouble. Teodor teamed with Donato more often than not, all of Baltasar’s finely-crafted murder plots unnecessary and the campaigns put on hold to deal with Ezio Auditore’s underground revolution to overthrow Roma.
Teodor killed mercenaries, thieves and citizens by the handful trying to stem the flow. Baltasar and Fiora were occasionally seen walking the streets at night, chasing ivory ghosts that haunted the city’s rooftops. Fiora’s eyes burned with frustration as weeks went by without news on the serial killer who preyed on the courtesans, but despite Teodor and Donato’s efforts they had gained no ground. At least the murders had become less frequent, a cold comfort in a city where everything was beginning to crack and crumble and the ones who made it home each night returned with blood on their hands, lucky if it was not their own.
Despite the turmoil, Teodor had more good days than bad ones. After the bombing at Castel Sant’Angelo the housing situation for soldiers and staff alike became nightmarish and Teodor returned to his long forgotten estate. His presence seemed to disrupt the rhythm of the house, the few servants in his service unused to the master’s presence. Under the pretense of keeping up appearances, he invited De Valois to a ridiculously expensive dinner and gave him an open invitation to stay at the estate whenever he desired. De Valois was red-faced and exuberant in his gratitude, lamenting the spartan quarters in the encampments that housed the French auxiliary. They drank too much wine and Teodor forgot his troubles for a night, content to converse in his native tongue and listen to De Valois’ complaints over a mercenary named Bartolomeo d'Alviano. Afterwards, Teodor endured his quiet privacy for only a few days before he was forced to escape it, having lived too long in the company of soldiers. Most nights he patrolled with Donato and fell asleep in the captain’s chair, boots propped on a desk with his beret pulled down to cover his eyes.
The majority of Teodor’s time, however, was spent in Malfatto’s shop. He began using the door, provided with a single iron key after a less than graceful dismount from the garden wall sent him careening into one of Malfatto’s delicate tomato plants, lacing the doctor’s usual silence with disapproval. They both kept odd hours and more than once Teodor had gone to sleep in Malfatto’s bed alone, or woken up with only a warm pillow instead of a lanky body. It had been awkward at first, Teodor’s unannounced comings and goings, especially once he learned that despite Malfatto’s penchant for murder the man was an honest-to-god doctor. On occasion Teodor let himself into the shop only to find Malfatto with a patient, forcing Teodor to falsify some illness to justify his presence. Weirder still was the sight of Malfatto bent over a farmer with an injured arm, nimble fingers tying a sling while he spoke in a smooth, calm voice about how to use the medicine he prescribed.
Once, Malfatto had come charging into the backroom with a young boy in his arms, startling Teodor from his seat at the desk. Malfatto was nothing but black fury as he labored to save the child from a bad burn caused by a stable fire. Teodor had watched in awe as Malfatto worked, moving only to fetch herbs and hold cloths as he was commanded. It took hours for Malfatto to administer medicine, ointment and bandaging, then hours more as Malfatto kept vigil at the boy’s side, tools at his fingertips in case they were needed. Through the night Teodor had matched Malfatto in his silence, if not his focus, eventually wandering upstairs to Malfatto’s private room to work. In the morning it was decided the boy would live and he was returned to grateful parents with extra ointment and cloth despite their inability to pay. Teodor remembered watching the door to the shop close, he and Malfatto finally alone. Malfatto, whose reserves seemed so endless hidden behind his mask, had stumbled on his way up the stairs. Teodor had easily steadied him, but for a moment he saw a hundred nights that had come before, nights where Malfatto didn’t make it up the steps, instead collapsed on the haggard straw pallet in the back room or the closest bit of floor space. The thought had quickly passed and Teodor had led Malfatto up the stairs, undressed him and put him to bed, silent as another small, important moment came and went.
They learned each other slowly. Malfatto slept like the dead, his body sprawling and heavy across Teodor’s in the night, something that took Teodor a long time to get used to. Malfatto had a weakness for exotic fruit and abhorred most meats, citing the long hours wrist-deep in human flesh and muscle as reason, yet somehow there were always stores of beef and pork in the pantry when they had time for a shared meal. Teodor, who favored rich meat dishes and thick breads to power himself through his days, found himself purchasing a large, spiky brown fruit topped with pointy green leaves from a Spanish merchant for a ludicrous amount of money. He was sure he had been conned until Malfatto, with great scrutiny and steady hands, peeled back the coarse skin with a thin blade to reveal the yellow, juicy meat within. Malfatto didn’t even taste it before immediately demanding Teodor bring him another one for study. He also wouldn’t let them eat the whole fruit, saving nearly half for experimentation. Malfatto went mad over the thing, busy extracting the juice and mixing it with various ingredients. He boiled and sliced, dried and crushed what was left, all the while scribbling away in a small dog-eared journal, muttering about things from side dishes to scurvy. Malfatto talked more about a silly piece of citrus in five days than he spoke in all their conversations combined, but instead of irritation Teodor was caught up in mild amusement and resigned himself to budgeting in more fruit.
In return, Malfatto made a habit of letting his tactile nature get the best of him. He made no comment on Teodor’s fascination with his doctor’s garb and pointedly took to using it to his advantage whenever possible. Undressing Malfatto was a chore and considering his reliance on anonymity it was also reckless during daylight hours. However, that was not the only reason Malfatto kept himself masked within the shadows of his own house-he did it for the moments when Teodor was not paying well enough attention, or when Teodor stumbled into the back room with a bloody épieu and battle fury in his eyes. Then it would be time for Malfatto, ominous in his attitude, to command Teodor onto his knees, or to twist him by the arm and shove him ruthlessly against the wall. The sex, brutal more often than not, indulged and quieted Teodor’s darkest thoughts and left him empty save the buzzing in his ears.
Other times, the better times, it was Teodor who took Malfatto by the shoulders and undertook the burden of undressing the doctor piece by piece. He would force Malfatto to stand in front of the bed until he was completely naked, then with a greedy mouth and hands he would explore every inch of the doctor’s skin, leaving no freckle untouched. Then he would take Malfatto to the sheets and try his best to be as gentle, to relish the slow gratification born of someone else’s pleasure. The rewards of his labor were immense. Teodor had never met someone who didn’t know what it was to be cared for. Afterwards, Malfatto would try to catch his breath against the pillows, eyes wide with disbelief as his limbs twitched at the slightest touch. Teodor, heady with his power, would coax Malfatto onto his side and wrap warm arms around him. Teodor was not a particularly affectionate man, but the curiosity and surprise that flashed across Malfatto’s face with each tenderness made it an easy indulgence.
“Is this how it goes?” Malfatto whispered one night, the words nearly slurred as he hovered on the edge of sleep. “Is this what people do?”
Teodor breathed in the scent of Malfatto’s close-cropped hair, catching the hint of aconite. Of poison.
“I wouldn’t know,” Teodor murmured. “But it can be what we do.”
† † †
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author's notes | warnings
Rated: NC17 (NC17 overall)
Word Count: 6,317 / 90,339
Knives Don't Have Your Back
† X †
It had been nearly a week since Teodor had seen Malfatto. They had an unspoken agreement to avoid each other, one borne of the necessity to maintain their distance in the wake of what had transpired in Castel Gandolfo. The news of Cardinal Sforza’s death rocked the citizenry and the College of Cardinals, a low hum of fear and intrigue hovering behind every conversation. The Pope expressed his dismay at Sforza’s death and demanded his murderer be found, but an official order was never issued. Cesare, between thinly-veiled threats to Teodor’s future over the loss of the machine gun, seemed as surprised by the cardinal’s death as anyone else.
That left the question of whom exactly Malfatto took orders from. Teodor could find no evidence supporting any individual person save perhaps the Pope, which left Teodor with more questions than answers. Luckily he was distracted by the mountainous workload that had piled up in his absence and spent the majority of his time holed up in his rooms implementing three separate strategies via correspondence to protect the war machine. Other things took up his attention as well. Teodor’s responsibilities to both the condottieri and the Papal Army were nebulous at best, so he found it necessary to keep up with the current situations of all military movements. De Valois and his men informed him of campaigns and conquest, Donato, freshly reassigned, kept him up to date on the city guard, Cesare himself provided the official stance of the Papal Army and, via Baltasar, the orders that superseded all others.
As it was, Teodor spent a lot of time hunched over a desk analyzing information and wishing he was out on the hunt for one of his contracts, or better yet-waging war. He prayed, perhaps a little unwisely, that something would give him an excuse to leave his room. This was the only reason, or so he told himself, that kept him from immediately chucking Fiora Cavazza back into the hallway when she showed up at his doorstep.
“Officer Viscardi,” she said, then pushed past Teodor and into his room. Speechless, Teodor closed the door. Fiora came to a stop in the middle of the room, giving it a quick once over. “I thought soldiers were trained to keep their quarters neat and orderly.”
“Why yes, do come in Signorina,” Teodor said through clenched teeth. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, watching her warily. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Fiora’s eyes narrowed. “Baltasar wants to see you.”
“Then he will see me,” Teodor said. “Why are you here?”
“We need to talk.”
“We?” Teodor said, surprised. Fiora nodded. “And did this talk have to happen here in my personal quarters for some reason or do you just wish to ruin my reputation?”
Fiora scoffed. “More like my reputation. Come. We will discuss the matter at hand on the way to Baltasar.”
“We most certainly will not,” Teodor replied, mind whirling at the rumors that would spread should he be seen wandering the grounds of Castel Sant’Angelo with Cesare’s favorite...whatever this woman was to him.
“You would rather we stay in here with a closed door and leave it to the imagination?” Fiora said, smirking.
“Let me get my coat,” Teodor said after a beat. Fiora gave a triumphant smile.
As they left the officers’ quarters, Teodor held out his arm to Fiora before truly realizing what he was doing. He considered pulling it back but noticed the eyes of Cesare’s guard were on him. Fiora looked shocked for a moment, then glared balefully at him as she took it, seeing the need for propriety as well. Teodor’s teeth ground painfully against his cheek.
“How gallant,” she murmured, sarcasm heavy in her tone.
“Habit,” was all Teodor said as they continued to walk. Once they were a little further away from the ears of the guards and in the midst of the citizenry outside the walls of Castel Sant’Angelo, Fiora made to pull away from his escort as if she had caught fire. Teodor swiftly placed his free hand over her trapped wrist, holding her tight. Fiora hissed.
“Talk,” he commanded.
“Certainly,” Fiora replied, and kicked him hard in the shin. Teodor grunted as his entire leg flared with pain but did not let go. He didn’t entirely trust Fiora wasn’t leading him into a trap and figured he could use her as a shield if worst came to worst.
Seeing that she wasn’t escaping his grip without causing a scene, Fiora settled into a state of calm seething. “Baltasar is going to ask you if you know anything about the death of Cardinal Sforza.” She paused for a moment, and through his rising panic Teodor saw her consider her next sentence. “He wants to know who ordered the assassination and who carried it out.”
Teodor’s mind went into overdrive. Baltasar didn’t know about Malfatto’s orders. That meant he hadn’t sent Teodor on a collision course with the good doctor. Or it was a ploy to convince Teodor he had nothing to do with it. Teodor deliberated on what to say next.
“Why are you warning me?” he asked, confirming nothing.
“I want a favor from you, why else?” Fiora said impatiently. “And I don’t think you’re stupid enough to run off and murder a high-ranking cardinal which earns you a measure of good faith.”
“I don’t know anything about Cardinal Sforza’s death,” Teodor lied. Fiora rolled her eyes.
“I don’t believe that for a second, and neither will Baltasar,” Fiora replied coolly. “Which brings us to the other reason you’re going to do the favor for me.”
Teodor’s skin went cold. He shot Fiora a warning look. “By favor you mean blackmail, I assume.”
“In a sense,” Fiora said, nodding her head. “Ever since you came under Baltasar’s charge I have had the lovely responsibility of intercepting all of your post.”
Teodor’s panic came back as he inventoried all the letters and mail he’d sent in the past year. Nothing particularly stuck out to him as he’d always been rather paranoid about his messages. The only thing Fiora would have read would have been boring missives to other military commanders concerning supplies and defenses. It was possible she had tracked down the courier Teodor had sent to Malfatto which wasn’t as problematic as it was embarrassing. That only left --
“Oh,” Teodor said flatly. “I suppose you’re referencing my mother.”
Fiora’s smile was sharp. “I was surprised. I thought Viscardi was your father’s name.”
“The accent didn’t tip you off then,” Teodor shot back. They had crossed the bridge into the Centro district, making slow time to Baltasar’s shop through the milling throng. “I don’t know what you intend to do with that information. It’s not as if my family is some dark secret. Do you really think Cesare let me into his military without looking into my background?”
“Cesare, certainly,” Fiora replied, unruffled. “But do you really want Baltasar knowing where you send your money? The fact that she needs money at all speaks--”
Teodor’s hand closed sharply around Fiora’s wrist, stopping her from finishing her sentence. Pain flickered briefly across her face. It was true that he sent his mother money and that it didn’t go unappreciated. While Teodor had long ago lost contact with his father, it wasn’t as if he was entirely unaware of how the man’s finances had plummeted in the last few years, nobility or not. Fiora assumed she had the upper hand because she took Teodor’s assistance as a sign of his love for his mother, an assured weakness. Teodor did care about his mother, but the threat of harm coming to her wasn’t enough to keep him in line. He did care that neither Fiora nor Baltasar pry into his history more than they already had.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly, bringing them to a stop. They were close to Baltasar’s place and Teodor finally released Fiora’s arm. She eagerly moved a few steps away, fingers flexing. He had been holding on rather tight.
“You have the ear of Donato Mancini. I believe he’s heading up the city guard now,” Fiora said. Teodor felt his stomach drop and steeled himself to keep his face expressionless, fearful of what she may ask. Fiora continued. “Someone has been killing courtesans within the city. He would be in charge of the investigation, or at least know information on what’s being done about it. He might have already told you. I want to know that information.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Teodor said after a second, words laced with relief. He considered the strange request. “Why would you care?” he asked, thoughtful. “That’s not...I didn’t think that was something you were concerned with anymore.”
Fiora’s face lost a little bit of its sharpness at his question. “I still have friends there. None that I wouldn’t cut down if it was between them and myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by while some man systematically murders them.”
Teodor couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at the venom in her words. Teodor would never be a hero, but it might be fun to try. “You know, if you would have started with that we could have skipped the uncomfortable blackmailing bit.”
“Speak for yourself, Officer Viscardi,” Fiora said. She didn’t smile, but Teodor liked to think she wanted to. He gave her an overly gallant bow and Fiora rolled her eyes in response before disappearing into the crowd without another word.
Teodor took a deep breath and gave a last glance to the heavens before walking the last block to Baltasar’s shop.
† † †
Baltasar stared at Teodor from across the bench, eyes dull like plague and just as lifeless. Teodor kept a bored expression on his face and sipped his tea with a steady hand. Standing in the corner was an oddity-a serving boy, barely sixteen if a day, with his head bowed and the look of someone who was used to being beaten.
What of Cardinal Sforza’s murder, Baltasar had wanted to know, and Teodor lied through his teeth and said he knew nothing.
They had sat like this for nearly ten minutes now, silent.
Snick.
The boy shook at the sound. Teodor ignored it and let Baltasar wait and watch. The razor shimmered in the soft sunlight filtering in from a high window.
“Tell me,” Baltasar murmured, voice a velvet whisper, “how do you get information out of people who are disinclined to give it to you?”
Teodor tapped his holstered épieu with his free hand and continued looking bored.
“You threaten to kill them,” Baltasar supplied. “You scare them with death.”
Teodor nodded. “And pain. I’ve been told pain is scary.”
“What about their families? Do you threaten their loved ones?” Baltasar asked. Teodor thought of Fiora’s warning. He ran his finger around the lip of his teacup.
“That too,” he said mildly, keeping a steady eye on Baltasar. “And then I follow through.”
Baltasar eyed him. “None of these things scare you.”
It didn’t seem like a question, but Teodor still shook his head in agreement. They fell silent once more, Baltasar’s eyes settling on the razor in his hand. Teodor drained the last of his tea.
Snick.
“What about rape?” Baltasar said a few minutes later. The word cut through the air like a blade and Teodor felt his jaw tense before he could stop himself.
“Are you suggesting that I should add rape to my long list of accomplishments?” he said carefully.
Baltasar’s smile was full of too many teeth, black eyes unblinking. “Does rape frighten you?”
Teodor’s spine stiffened, his hand fluttering against the hilt of his épieu. “I would like to see you try,” he warned. Teodor’s body stilled in anticipation, but the tension broke not with an attack, but with the hollow sound of Baltasar’s laughter.
“More tea?” Baltasar asked, waving a hand to the serving boy. The boy scurried over with a kettle in hand to fill Teodor’s cup. The barber leaned back, hands braced on the edge of the table, then rolled his shoulders one at a time. Teodor rolled his eyes and gave Baltasar a wary glare. Just as the tea touched the brim of Teodor’s cup, Baltasar’s razor flashed silver and Teodor jumped as the serving boy screamed.
Teodor was out from the bench, épieu drawn, when he realized he wasn’t Baltasar’s target. Baltasar had the serving boy bent over the table, his razor pressed behind one of the lad’s ears, his free hand pulling at the boy’s trousers before going to his own.
“I was going to go with one of the maids, but I figured this might be more fitting for a man of your tastes,” Baltasar hissed. Teodor barely registered the hidden implication of the sentence, choosing to glower at the horrible sight before him.
“If you think I’m going to sit and watch-”
“I don’t care if you watch, but if you don’t tell me what you know I will rape this boy, be sure of that,” Baltasar said. The pinned, shivering boy turned wet eyes to Teodor at Baltasar’s words.
Teodor flinched.
Baltasar hummed, the dullness leaving his eyes. “Well, well, Officer Viscardi, that is interesting. You would rather I kill him, wouldn’t you?” Baltasar paused, a smile whipping across his face. “I could do both. I could rape him to death.”
Teodor’s grip on his épieu bordered on painful. He felt sweat run slick down his shoulders, knew his face was pale. The boy on the table looked scared but resigned, and Teodor wondered at how monstrous he truly must seem for someone to lose all hope so fast. His brain churned sluggishly, remembering the lives he had already extinguished to keep his mistake in Castel Gandolfo a secret, to keep himself and Malfatto protected. One more death wouldn’t make a difference, and yet he felt himself hesitate. Teodor narrowed his eyes.
“Stop,” Teodor growled. Baltasar’s triumph was palpable in the damp air. The boy looked too surprised to cry.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Baltasar countered.
Teodor thrust his épieu upward, stopping just under Baltasar’s chin. “You will stop,” he rumbled, “because I ask you to.”
Baltasar’s expression went from calculating to cold rage. Teodor held back a shiver and watched the razor in Baltasar’s hand. For a split second it seemed as if Baltasar would move, and Teodor pressed the épieu against his skin. “I told you last time, I am tired of your games. I cannot tell you what you want to know, because I do not know it.”
With a steady hand, Teodor slid the épieu out from underneath Baltasar’s chin, then holstered it. He kept his eyes on Baltasar’s, wondering if the man would go ahead despite the threat. For a tense minute no one moved, then suddenly Baltasar stepped back and released the boy with a sour expression. The serving boy fell, hands and knees scrabbling at the ground. Teodor kept his features blank and waited until the boy had regained enough balance to lurch out of the door before he sat down at the bench.
Snick.
Baltasar did up his breeches with one hand, his eyes studying Teodor like a butcher would a steer, razor twirling in his grip. Teodor steeled his resolve and took his teacup once more by the handle, sipping it. He was raised within the nobility, he knew when to be an irritating, arrogant man.
“Next time, I won’t use the boy,” Baltasar warned after a moment. He planted his hands on the table and leaned over it, his black hair falling like a curtain.
The razor glinted in the sunlight. A lock of brown hair that usually curled behind Teodor’s ear fell on the table. Teodor held his ground, staring down Baltasar with a bored expression while his heart pounded in his chest. “I’ve always wanted to peel someone apart like a pear,” Baltasar confessed. “Head to toe in one long strip.”
“You are welcome to try,” he answered. Teodor waited patiently as Baltasar settled back down at the bench. Baltasar’s eyes kept drifting to Teodor’s left ear, a replacement for the one he had threatened to shave off the boy.
“I do have a piece of information you would probably be interested in,” Teodor said. “Perhaps you would like to hear about how Ezio Auditore is sabotaging Cesare Borgia’s war machines?”
Baltasar’s eyes held a bit of surprise before they went purposefully flat. It appeared that Cesare was not being as forthcoming with his top spy as it would seem. Teodor felt a moment’s reprieve, but as he began to recount the destruction at Colli Albani he had a sinking feeling it was only a matter of time before the sound of Baltasar’s razor would be meant for him.
Snick.
† † †
Malfatto was bent over a large bowl when Teodor came to him that night. He was in full dress despite the hour, the shop room lit firecracker-white by an army of candles. Teodor watched him momentarily from the windows as he shook off the dirt from Malfatto’s garden wall (they needed to discuss entry privileges-Teodor disliked the idea of future wall-scaling feats). This time when he rapped on the wooden door Malfatto simply raised a gloved hand to motion for Teodor to enter, dark glasses still turned downward to his concoction. Teodor found the door unlocked, smiled, and let himself in.
Warm air ghosted over Teodor’s face as he entered, pushing the door shut with one lazy boot. The fire was burning low but hot, a black cauldron hung above it. Teodor sniffed at the bitterness in the air, then peeked inside the large pot and caught glimpse of a thick brown liquid at low boil.
“I hope that’s not your dinner,” he murmured, peeling off his gloves. He eyed Malfatto, bent low and intent over his task. The heat made his skin itch and he quickly removed his heavy coat. “What is it?”
“Poison,” Malfatto said after a pause, not even bothering to look up. Teodor arched an eyebrow and walked over the doctor’s table, expecting perhaps a bit more attention after a week’s separation. Instead Malfatto seemed distracted. In his hands were a mortar and pestle which he was using to grind up what appeared to be dried herbs. The twist and press of Malfatto’s hands held to a mesmerizing rhythm and Teodor got the impression Malfatto was counting.
“And this?” Teodor asked, motioning to the ground up flakes.
“Also poison,” Malfatto said in that same slow, distracted manner. He scraped the pestle against the stone, skritch, skritch, skritch. “There’s bread on the desk.”
Sensing the unspoken dismissal, Teodor kept his sarcastic remarks to himself and went to the desk, leaving Malfatto to concentrate. Sure enough, on the table lay two brown rolls each a little smaller than his fist, one with a neat bite taken out at the edge. Teodor selected the untouched roll and tore it up in small chunks, watching Malfatto in thoughtful silence as he chewed. A half-empty glass of wine sat near the bread. Teodor picked it up and gave the drink a suspicious sniff before raising it to his lips. He hesitated before he sipped and Malfatto gave the smallest of nods, letting him know his presence wasn’t going completely without notice. Teodor rewarded Malfatto with a slightly suggestive swallow then slid his tongue over his bottom lip. Malfatto didn’t lose a beat.
Teodor resisted a sigh and plopped down in the desk chair, then went back to drinking while Malfatto finished up his project. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. Malfatto’s strong hands soon ground the herbs to dust. He gave the pestle a final twist, then walked over to the cauldron and stirred the powder into the simmering liquid within. Returning to the table he flipped over a small hourglass before wiping off his gloves with a nearby cloth.
No longer interrupting, Teodor set the wine glass upon the desk and moved to stand before Malfatto. With a few quick movements he divested the doctor of his hat and mask, smiling as Malfatto’s blue eyes blinked owlishly in the bright candlelight. Teodor pulled Malfatto’s chin down with a soft thumb, taking his time to kiss his salty mouth. Teodor had forgotten what it was like to miss someone, had forgotten the satisfaction that came when the waiting was over.
“How was your week?” Teodor asked when they pulled apart, leaving one of his hands carding through Malfatto’s awkwardly flattened hair. Malfatto shook his head, then grasped Teodor by the back of his neck with both hands, pulling him in for a second kiss. It seemed Teodor hadn’t been the only one unaccustomed to a little longing.
Malfatto pulled back first, glancing down at the table and looking to the hourglass resting there. Despite the fact that it was only a quarter full, he slid his hands from Teodor’s neck and turned back to his work. Teodor licked his lips and let him go.
“I had an interesting chat with Baltasar today,” Teodor said, watching the doctor walk to the cauldron. Malfatto selected a large wooden spoon from the tools that hung beside the fireplace and began to stir with two fists working the handle. “He was most insistent on learning who dispatched the late cardinal Sforza. From what I hear the entire college is in an uproar. Even Cesare Borgia himself seemed surprised.”
Malfatto’s eyes slid to Teodor’s, the ghost of a threat lurking behind brilliant blue. “How insistent was he?”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming to my birthday party,” Teodor said, watching Malfatto’s face flicker between paranoia and surprise. “I told him nothing,” he clarified, offering a modicum of reassurance.
“Are you hurt?” Malfatto said in a measured tone.
Teodor shot Malfatto a dirty look. Despite Baltasar’s cunning reputation, Teodor did fight and kill people for a living. Malfatto gave a one-armed shrug at the silent reprimand, then went back to his stirring. Teodor settled against the table, away from the fire and the acrid smell of the bubbling poison. On the table was a small wooden ball, something he thought could be a child’s toy. He picked it up and rolled it from hand to hand.
“Why didn’t you tell him what you know?” Malfatto asked after awhile. He glanced to the emptied hourglass by Teodor’s elbow and removed the cauldron from the hot coals, covering it with a heavy lid.
That was an excellent question. Teodor could rid himself of a thousand troubles if he were to give up Malfatto. And yet, with a certainty that was both astounding and inexplicable, Teodor knew he wouldn’t. His right hand clenched around the ball, then he rolled it to his left, feeling the slight weakness there from an injury long past.
“You saved my life more than once,” Teodor said with some effort to sound nonchalant, curling his left arm at the elbow for emphasis. “I owe you a great debt.”
Malfatto’s head turned with an audible snap. “Ah,” he said, as if he had just figured out something, but his expression was one Teodor would dare label disappointed.
Teodor frowned. “What is it?” Usually being owed a life debt would be something a person enjoyed, be they altruistic or malicious in the benefits of such a thing.
Malfatto’s gaze turned to the floor, blond eyelashes flickering in the candlelight. “Is that why you come here?” he asked without inflection.
Teodor’s shock was trumped only by his own odd sense of disappointment. He knew he shouldn’t feel as he did; they both were untrustworthy people. He thought for a moment on Malfatto’s misguided conclusions, the way he seemed to recognize the situation he thought himself in. Teodor remembered the brief, strange surprise Malfatto had demonstrated when they took to the bed, how every touch and kiss from Malfatto seemed new. What sort of life... Teodor wondered, unable to finish the thought. Instead he said, “Would that bother you?”
Malfatto gave the question careful consideration. Teodor examined the way his head tipped to the side, full mouth frowning in concert with his furrowed brow. The doctor seemed to find himself without an answer and Teodor stepped up to him, merciful.
“I am not the kind of man that needs to use his body to pay his debts,” he murmured. He took Malfatto’s hands and brought them to his jerkin, coaxing the fingers until Malfatto began unbuttoning. “I’m not a decent man. If I didn’t want to repay you what was owed...” Teodor shrugged, smiling lopsidedly as one of Malfatto’s cool fingers slid under a button, a leather knuckle brushing his skin. “...I wouldn’t.”
Teodor’s words seemed to burst the bubbling tension building in the room. Malfatto’s body went still, then he leaned forward for a swift, inelegant kiss that left Teodor breathless with its harsh immediacy. Malfatto’s hands pushed impatiently at Teodor’s clothes, tearing his jerkin and shirt wide open to bare his shoulders. Teodor grunted as the fabric twisted around his elbows, limiting his mobility.
Malfatto pulled back and studied Teodor’s naked chest. His gloved hand traced along the dip where Teodor’s neck met his shoulder, causing Teodor’s teeth to bite his lip of their own accord. Malfatto’s hand glided over his collarbone, then to his left arm, where it hovered above the whitening scars that crawled along the side of his bicep, twisting down toward the back of his elbow. Aside from the nasty, crooked whorl in the center where the flail ripped the skin clean away, the lines were spider-silk thin, a testament to Malfatto’s skill as he painstakingly sewed each precious flap of skin back together despite the burns and infection.
“You healed well,” Malfatto said as if he hadn’t seen Teodor’s bare arm before. Teodor grinned, remembering that the doctor had been considerably distracted the last time they were together.
Malfatto continued his search of Teodor’s skin, helping him shed the clothing that bound his arms. Freed, Teodor raised his hands to Malfatto’s shoulders and, though his touch was without pressure, Malfatto fell to one knee. His naked face rubbed against Teodor’s ribs, lips ghosting over the strong muscles of his stomach to send a shudder through Teodor’s entire body.
“Most soldiers have more scars,” Malfatto said off-handedly, hands eagled across the small of Teodor’s back.
“I am not most soldiers,” Teodor groaned, not without pride. His head tipped back, eyelids drooping as he drank up each gentle touch.
Malfatto’s tongue flitted along the underside of Teodor’s right pectoral, narrowly missing the pebbled nipple. Teodor swallowed, knowing the shape.
“This one is old,” Malfatto whispered hoarsely, meaning the swooped, almost elegant scar that lay just under his teeth.
Teodor’s voice came out pinched. “My sister, Nanette.”
Behind closed eyes, Teodor felt the pressure of black waves. When he finally spoke his voice sounded like someone else’s, muted and distant as he slipped further underneath. “She’s dead.”
Malfatto, for all his nightmare and weighted silence, chose this moment to raise himself high enough to place a sweet kiss on Teodor’s collarbone. Teodor’s eyes opened beneath an empty ceiling, trying to recall the last time he had said the words out loud. Malfatto stood and Teodor’s arms fell to his sides. When he finally tipped his head forward, Malfatto’s eyes had that look of discovery (why is everything so new for you) and the sound of rushing water became little more than an echo in Teodor’s ear.
“The order to kill Ascanio Sforza came from the Pope,” Malfatto said, his voice strange and flat, almost as if he were trying to mimic Teodor’s earlier unsure tone. “I am commanded by only he and, when necessary, Cesare.”
It was perhaps an odd moment to establish a thing as serious as trust; Teodor stood half-naked and half-haunted in a room with a doctor who brewed poison instead of medicine, but none of those things registered to him, everything burned away by the warm hands at his waist and the wide blue eyes inches from his own, precious because of how few had seen them.
Teodor slid his hands up, cupping Malfatto’s face with two warm palms. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
† † †
Time passed. The days lasted longer, the sun grew warmer and Teodor had to take careful steps to avoid crushing new grass and garden plants beneath his boots. They lost two more towers in the city and Castel Sant’Angelo was bombed when Caterina Sforza escaped with the help of a man in white. The naval cannon was destroyed, resulting in a sea of fire that left Teodor cowering before an increasingly erratic Cesare Borgia. He managed to escape Micheletto’s wire but not his other devices and for a solid week Teodor ate nothing but broth, tonguing the fresh hole where one of his back molars used to be.
The assassins had begun recruiting, according to the guards. All of the soldiers under Borgia rule faced a regularly lethal enemy and suffered at the hands of their general for their trouble. Teodor teamed with Donato more often than not, all of Baltasar’s finely-crafted murder plots unnecessary and the campaigns put on hold to deal with Ezio Auditore’s underground revolution to overthrow Roma.
Teodor killed mercenaries, thieves and citizens by the handful trying to stem the flow. Baltasar and Fiora were occasionally seen walking the streets at night, chasing ivory ghosts that haunted the city’s rooftops. Fiora’s eyes burned with frustration as weeks went by without news on the serial killer who preyed on the courtesans, but despite Teodor and Donato’s efforts they had gained no ground. At least the murders had become less frequent, a cold comfort in a city where everything was beginning to crack and crumble and the ones who made it home each night returned with blood on their hands, lucky if it was not their own.
Despite the turmoil, Teodor had more good days than bad ones. After the bombing at Castel Sant’Angelo the housing situation for soldiers and staff alike became nightmarish and Teodor returned to his long forgotten estate. His presence seemed to disrupt the rhythm of the house, the few servants in his service unused to the master’s presence. Under the pretense of keeping up appearances, he invited De Valois to a ridiculously expensive dinner and gave him an open invitation to stay at the estate whenever he desired. De Valois was red-faced and exuberant in his gratitude, lamenting the spartan quarters in the encampments that housed the French auxiliary. They drank too much wine and Teodor forgot his troubles for a night, content to converse in his native tongue and listen to De Valois’ complaints over a mercenary named Bartolomeo d'Alviano. Afterwards, Teodor endured his quiet privacy for only a few days before he was forced to escape it, having lived too long in the company of soldiers. Most nights he patrolled with Donato and fell asleep in the captain’s chair, boots propped on a desk with his beret pulled down to cover his eyes.
The majority of Teodor’s time, however, was spent in Malfatto’s shop. He began using the door, provided with a single iron key after a less than graceful dismount from the garden wall sent him careening into one of Malfatto’s delicate tomato plants, lacing the doctor’s usual silence with disapproval. They both kept odd hours and more than once Teodor had gone to sleep in Malfatto’s bed alone, or woken up with only a warm pillow instead of a lanky body. It had been awkward at first, Teodor’s unannounced comings and goings, especially once he learned that despite Malfatto’s penchant for murder the man was an honest-to-god doctor. On occasion Teodor let himself into the shop only to find Malfatto with a patient, forcing Teodor to falsify some illness to justify his presence. Weirder still was the sight of Malfatto bent over a farmer with an injured arm, nimble fingers tying a sling while he spoke in a smooth, calm voice about how to use the medicine he prescribed.
Once, Malfatto had come charging into the backroom with a young boy in his arms, startling Teodor from his seat at the desk. Malfatto was nothing but black fury as he labored to save the child from a bad burn caused by a stable fire. Teodor had watched in awe as Malfatto worked, moving only to fetch herbs and hold cloths as he was commanded. It took hours for Malfatto to administer medicine, ointment and bandaging, then hours more as Malfatto kept vigil at the boy’s side, tools at his fingertips in case they were needed. Through the night Teodor had matched Malfatto in his silence, if not his focus, eventually wandering upstairs to Malfatto’s private room to work. In the morning it was decided the boy would live and he was returned to grateful parents with extra ointment and cloth despite their inability to pay. Teodor remembered watching the door to the shop close, he and Malfatto finally alone. Malfatto, whose reserves seemed so endless hidden behind his mask, had stumbled on his way up the stairs. Teodor had easily steadied him, but for a moment he saw a hundred nights that had come before, nights where Malfatto didn’t make it up the steps, instead collapsed on the haggard straw pallet in the back room or the closest bit of floor space. The thought had quickly passed and Teodor had led Malfatto up the stairs, undressed him and put him to bed, silent as another small, important moment came and went.
They learned each other slowly. Malfatto slept like the dead, his body sprawling and heavy across Teodor’s in the night, something that took Teodor a long time to get used to. Malfatto had a weakness for exotic fruit and abhorred most meats, citing the long hours wrist-deep in human flesh and muscle as reason, yet somehow there were always stores of beef and pork in the pantry when they had time for a shared meal. Teodor, who favored rich meat dishes and thick breads to power himself through his days, found himself purchasing a large, spiky brown fruit topped with pointy green leaves from a Spanish merchant for a ludicrous amount of money. He was sure he had been conned until Malfatto, with great scrutiny and steady hands, peeled back the coarse skin with a thin blade to reveal the yellow, juicy meat within. Malfatto didn’t even taste it before immediately demanding Teodor bring him another one for study. He also wouldn’t let them eat the whole fruit, saving nearly half for experimentation. Malfatto went mad over the thing, busy extracting the juice and mixing it with various ingredients. He boiled and sliced, dried and crushed what was left, all the while scribbling away in a small dog-eared journal, muttering about things from side dishes to scurvy. Malfatto talked more about a silly piece of citrus in five days than he spoke in all their conversations combined, but instead of irritation Teodor was caught up in mild amusement and resigned himself to budgeting in more fruit.
In return, Malfatto made a habit of letting his tactile nature get the best of him. He made no comment on Teodor’s fascination with his doctor’s garb and pointedly took to using it to his advantage whenever possible. Undressing Malfatto was a chore and considering his reliance on anonymity it was also reckless during daylight hours. However, that was not the only reason Malfatto kept himself masked within the shadows of his own house-he did it for the moments when Teodor was not paying well enough attention, or when Teodor stumbled into the back room with a bloody épieu and battle fury in his eyes. Then it would be time for Malfatto, ominous in his attitude, to command Teodor onto his knees, or to twist him by the arm and shove him ruthlessly against the wall. The sex, brutal more often than not, indulged and quieted Teodor’s darkest thoughts and left him empty save the buzzing in his ears.
Other times, the better times, it was Teodor who took Malfatto by the shoulders and undertook the burden of undressing the doctor piece by piece. He would force Malfatto to stand in front of the bed until he was completely naked, then with a greedy mouth and hands he would explore every inch of the doctor’s skin, leaving no freckle untouched. Then he would take Malfatto to the sheets and try his best to be as gentle, to relish the slow gratification born of someone else’s pleasure. The rewards of his labor were immense. Teodor had never met someone who didn’t know what it was to be cared for. Afterwards, Malfatto would try to catch his breath against the pillows, eyes wide with disbelief as his limbs twitched at the slightest touch. Teodor, heady with his power, would coax Malfatto onto his side and wrap warm arms around him. Teodor was not a particularly affectionate man, but the curiosity and surprise that flashed across Malfatto’s face with each tenderness made it an easy indulgence.
“Is this how it goes?” Malfatto whispered one night, the words nearly slurred as he hovered on the edge of sleep. “Is this what people do?”
Teodor breathed in the scent of Malfatto’s close-cropped hair, catching the hint of aconite. Of poison.
“I wouldn’t know,” Teodor murmured. “But it can be what we do.”
† † †
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