1 From Whence You Came

by giannimartelli

Cesare Borgia is intrigued by the angry German prisoner in the dungeon of Castel Sant'Angelo. Rated M for violence and explicit sexual content.

I.

"Frankly, I'm surprised you can move." A smile flickered in Cesare's blue eyes as he cupped Sibrand's chin in a sword-callused hand.

Sibrand twitched away slightly. The floor was very cold and hard beneath his knees, chilling him through the holes in his maille, and the manacles at his wrists rattled the chains to which they were attached as he shifted. He was wounded, with a black eye, bloody scuffs on his hands, and a slice through his white robes and a split in his armor, revealing an angry red cut beneath. His blond hair hung limply in his face and his body sagged.

"And I'm not entirely sure why you were brought to me." Cesare looked the other man over, recapturing his chin to turn his face upward. "I can't say I'm disappointed, but I really ought to teach them who's on my side and who's not." He slid the pad of his thumb over a bloody split in Sibrand's lower lip, causing him to wince.

"I don't know whose side I am on," Sibrand spat. The shackles dug into his wrists as he tried to pull himself to his feet, and his side stung from the shallow sword wound.

Cesare chuckled and helped the older man to stand and lean against the cold brick wall at his back. "Who do you fight against?" he asked softly, staring at Sibrand with piercing eyes and a sadistic smirk.

Sibrand closed his eyes, struggling slightly for breath and realizing, though not remembering, that his chest must be black and blue with bruises. "The heathen Assassins," he replied.

"Then we are on the same side." Cesare smiled. "I believe my men mistook you for an Assassin, given your questionable state of dress and rather, well..." He thought for a moment, examining sparkling stubble on Sibrand's jaw and brushing greasy yellow-blond hair from his face with a surprisingly gentle hand. "Rather haggard appearance." He shook his head, pulling a key from a pouch at his belt. "It's a simple misunderstanding, nothing more, but allow me to make amends as best I can."

He took Sibrand's wrist in his hand and inserted the key in the cuff that restrained him, then turned it; the shackle sprung open and Cesare let it fall against the wall.

"What exactly are you playing at?" Sibrand demanded, though he was quite pleased to have his hand freed. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been chained to the brick wall.

Cesare shrugged passively, unfastening the other manacle, and Sibrand groaned as, suddenly, his own weight was too much for him to support. He sank to his knees again, closing his eyes. His legs ached and his chest... his chest felt as though he'd been beaten, which was, given his position, relatively likely.

"I'll have a bath drawn," Cesare said, crouching in front of Sibrand. The hem of his long blood-red cape pooled on the floor behind him as he leaned down to look into the other man's eyes. "A servant will be along shortly to assist you."

Sibrand's blue eyes narrowed and he rubbed each of his wrists in turn, staring almost petulantly at the chubby cheeks of one of the putti on Cesare's ornate armor. "I don't want your hospitality. Let me go and I will allow you to live."

"Such hostility," said Cesare, clicking his tongue. "You're a guest here now, and as such, I'd like to have you repaired before I send you out into the world. It is, after all, the fault of my men that you're in such a state. I don't plan to harm you; I hope you'll extend to me the same courtesy."

The knight opened his mouth to speak again, but thought better of it. Generally, certainly, there would have been no contest between them- but now his chest and shoulders ached and he was sure that he'd had at least two ribs broken in whatever scuffle had ended him up here.

That was the maddening thing. He couldn't remember how he'd come to find himself in this castle, bleeding and panting in pain- only that he had come to in the presence of a rather opulently-dressed young man who spoke eloquent Latin and had introduced himself as Cesare Borgia. He was only glad his own Latin was passable.

Cesare stood and smiled a paradoxically calming and nervewracking smile. "Ah... and, of course... I expect that you'll join me for dinner."

II.

It was quite a task for Sibrand to remove his robes, chausses, and hauberk, and he was almost glad his greaves had been taken from him. He had sent the serving girl away and slammed shut the door behind her, and now as he strained to remove the maille shirt, bending almost double and dizzy with pain, he almost wished he hadn't. After a long moment's effort to catch his breath, he took off his gambeson and threw it down atop his bloodstained clothes.

He had been taken to a room with ornate tapestries hung from every wall; in the corners were a number of antique urns of varying sizes and complementary colors, and hung on one wall was a mirror clearer and brighter than any he'd ever seen in his lifetime. He stared into it for quite some time, examining the bruising on his broad chest. There was a long slash across one of his sides which matched the breakage of his armor, blurry red and bruised around the edges and hot to the touch. His left eye was ringed with purple and blue and his nose had clearly bled.

As he tore himself away from the mirror, he looked over his shoulder at the carved red marble bathtub, filled with steaming water and sweet-smelling perfumes and adorned with gilded bronze faces and fat baby angels, not unlike those on the breastplate worn by his host.

He wondered, briefly, if the water was in some way poisoned or impure, if it should be wiser of him to avoid it, but the allure of warmth on sore, tight muscles was too difficult to resist, and so he sank into the tub, hissing through his teeth in mild discomfort as the heat of the water stung his wounded skin.

His most recent memory, prior to waking on the cold stone floor, seemed to be little more than a treacherous anomaly. It was almost as if he remembered dying, being sent into silent nothingness at the hands of the Assassin, but he was clearly misremembering something. After all, he was alive, give or take a few cracked bones and deep bruises, and this was neither heaven nor hell.

It also wasn't Acre- and try as he might, he couldn't come to a satisfactory conclusion as to his whereabouts. He was alive and breathing and, from the looks of the room in which he had been placed, perhaps captive in a palace of some kind.

As he washed the filth from his hair he wondered if this Cesare had been telling the truth, or if he could be some kind of ally to the Assassins. Was it not their way to be at once seen and unseen?

The door opened and the servant returned, looking decidedly meeker and carrying an armload of folded fabric, which she left in a chair near the tub. She nervously bowed her head in Sibrand's direction and took her leave, and he combed his fingers through his wet hair, frowning perplexedly.

He allowed himself to soak in the water until it was almost unpleasantly cold, and when finally he got out of the large tub he found a thick linen towel with which he dried himself.

The servant had brought him bandages and clean clothes that were very different from his own: an off-white shirt, dyed hose, tall boots of soft black leather, and a red velvet jerkin. He dressed his wounds and clothed himself in these foreign items, then belted the jerkin around his waist. Upon glancing in the mirror he had to frown. He'd never seen such strange garments.

"Signore?" called a voice outside the door. "Avete bisogno d'aiuto?"

Sibrand frowned. The servant's Latin was worse than his own, almost incomprehensible. He was likely a bit slow. "Ah... no, thank you," he replied.

"Va bene... allora vi aspetta il maestro, signore."

"Thank you?" Sibrand offered tentatively.

III.

Cesare smiled at Sibrand as he entered the room, dressed to the height of fashion but still bruised and broken.

"Welcome. I thought you'd never arrive. I sent my servant-"

"His Latin is terrible," Sibrand interrupted.

Cesare laughed, and another servant, short in stature with dark, curly hair hanging in his face, came in and pulled out a chair for the knight at Cesare's side, then filled two crystal goblets with deep red wine. "Avete voglia di qualcosa, signore?" he asked, looking at Sibrand with some interest, as if he'd never seen someone of his particular stripe before.

Sibrand sat, wincing uncomfortably, and looked at the young boy with a bewildered scowl. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cesare interrupted him.

"Grazie, no," he said, and the servant nodded to him and left.

Perhaps it was a different language, some derivative of Latin, a pidgin with which he was not familiar. It mattered little.

"I saw a papal seal on my way to this dining room," said Sibrand, noting the way in which Cesare sat and arranging himself likewise.

With a nod, Cesare picked up his wine glass and sipped from it. "Yes, well... we are in the residence of the Pope," he said.

Sibrand frowned. "I did not recognize the seal... how recent is this development?"

Cesare paused, looking up into Sibrand's eyes with some interest. "My father has been Pope for seven years," he said.

"That's not possible," Sibrand said with more than a hint of irritation in his voice. "The Pope was only recently elected."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," said Cesare apprehensively. He could hardly help but be curious- where had this knight been? He nudged the second wine glass nearer to Sibrand, watching him. "Please: drink."

Sibrand eyed the glass nervously and picked it up, wrapping his hand around the bowl and lifting it to his nose to smell it cautiously.

Cesare chuckled. "I assure you, the wine is uncorrupted." He pursed his lips, looking into his own glass. "Tell me, who do you expect to be Pope?"

Blue eyes narrowed over the rim of the wine glass as Sibrand drank deeply. He lowered the glass and clutched it in a stinging hand. "Celestine the third," he said. "I received word of his election shortly before I was... taken prisoner."

He frowned slightly, looking up with some alarm as the younger man pushed his chair back. "Don't lie to me," Cesare snapped, getting to his feet. "I so despise being lied to. Who are you?"

Sibrand's eyes widened. It was not a lie, or if it was, it was not his own. "I... I am Sibrand," he said, rising to meet Cesare's eye level. "I am Hochmeister of the Teutonic Knights and... and-"

"A Knight Templar," Cesare spat viciously. "So you would have me believe! Pope Celestine the third has been dead for centuries, Meister Sibrand." He stepped closer to the older man, staring into his eyes. "Your body has taken much abuse; how much more do you think it will take for you to tell the truth?"

Sibrand swallowed, suddenly finding his mouth very dry. "I have told you the truth," he breathed. "Please- I swear it on my life."

Cesare took Sibrand by the front of his jerkin and pulled him close. There was sincerity in his eyes but his story was too fantastic, too bizarre. "How precious is your life?" he hissed into Sibrand's ear.

The heat of Cesare's breath spilled over Sibrand's neck and he grunted dizzily. "The most precious of things," he whispered. "This life is all one has! I have seen it- the treasure was the proof!"

An ice-cold chill swept through Cesare's body and he pulled his hands from Sibrand's clothing, freeing him from his grasp. "Dio mio," he muttered. "The Apple."

"The Apple of Eden," Sibrand confirmed, stepping backward and tugging at his clothes. He felt at once hot and cold, and a strange tension had settled into his abdomen.

Cesare looked rattled as he went to the table to retrieve his wine glass. He drained it and a trickle of red spilled from the corner of his mouth as he set it down.

"What is the year?" asked Sibrand, approaching the table timidly and picking up his goblet.

"1499," Cesare said breathlessly upon swallowing the mouthful of bittersweet wine. "The year is 1499."

Sibrand's head swam. He rested a scraped, bruised palm on the table and supported himself on it as he drank, as if the last drop of wine in the glass was vital to his continued breathing.

Perhaps he had died. Perhaps what he had seen from the Apple was a lie and this, whatever it was, was some bizarre hell.

"I'm not sure how this came to pass," Cesare said. His voice was oddly gentle now, and as an aside, in his strange dialect, he called in the servant to refill their glasses.

Sibrand watched the boy return and pour from the large jug of wine; he hardly noticed when he exited the room as, with a shudder, he recalled the Assassin's blade descending upon him. Had time frozen? He didn't know what it felt like to remember dying, and he wasn't sure he could trust his memory in any case.

Cesare returned to his chair, slightly shaken, and wrapped his hand around the stem of his wine glass. "Dio mio," he muttered again. "When did you have it? When did you see the Apple?"

Sibrand's brow creased with a frown. "If what you say is true, centuries ago."

The younger man's eyes narrowed and he picked up his wine glass. "Oh. I see."

"Is it still missing?" Sibrand inquired as he seated himself at Cesare's side. "When last I knew it was in the hands of the Assassins, taken from Solomon's Temple."

Cesare sighed, swirling the dark liquid in the goblet. "The Assassins are once again in possession of it. It was in our hands for a time, but it was wrested from us."

Sibrand rested his arms on the table, hanging his head. "Is there a plan to retrieve it?" he asked.

"A movement, if not yet a firm plan," Cesare replied. "I am certain that it rests in Monteriggioni, to the north."

Sibrand's fingers curled around the stem of the wine glass and he looked sidelong at Cesare. "You will not like what it shows you," he said quietly.

Cesare quirked an eyebrow, leaning down to look into Sibrand's eyes. "What are you getting at?"

The knight grunted quietly and sipped from his glass. "It was because of the Apple that I lost what little I had: my faith, my security."

With little more than a nod, Cesare drank, looking over the rim of his glass at Sibrand, silently encouraging him to continue.

"We had hoped to free the people from faith and its... repercussions, if you will. The power granted by faith is used and abused," Sibrand said into his glass, and tipped it back, emptying its contents into his mouth. The wine was pleasant and warm, but he had not eaten since he had come to; the alcohol had begun to go to his head. "It was our plan to put a stop to that, but... I saw my death everywhere." He looked up at Cesare with a measure of fright in his eyes; his words were clipped, nervous. "When the Assassin began killing my brothers, I began to fear. I had men put to death on the impulse provided me by terror."

Cesare watched him as his piercing eyes filled with anxiety. A slight smirk lifted the corner of his mouth and he lifted dark eyebrows in curiosity, urging Sibrand on.

Sibrand's breath was shorter now. "I had no recourse, there was nothing to do to escape the eventuality! I went mad with fright and... and I remember the Assassin on my ship-"

"Your ship?" Cesare asked placidly, watching Sibrand's chest heaving with quickened breath and the thumping of his heart rattling his ribcage.

"I remember," Sibrand continued. "The Assassin found his way onto my ship, which I had moored at Acre; he came aboard to kill me! I remember his blade near my throat!"

Cesare's eyes narrowed. The knight was raving like a madman now, taken over by panic and panting, his brows knitted with worry as he stared at something that didn't exist. "Sibrand!" he growled, getting to his feet and standing over him.

Sibrand paid him no mind, shaking his head. "I remember lying at his feet, as he held my head in his hand! I remember-"

The sharp pain of the back of Cesare's hand striking Sibrand's face brought him back to reality. He took a shuddering breath and looked up into the younger man's eyes. His cheek stung and when he touched it, he felt a wet patch; he looked at his fingers and saw blood, drawn by one of Cesare's rings, and a pleasant shiver ran through his body.

Cesare's dark brows knitted for a moment in confusion as Sibrand slid his thumb over the streak of blood on his fingertips and watched it spread between his fingers; he watched his shoulders quiver and slowly a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

A manic light flickered in Sibrand's eyes, his breathing coming slower now; a thin line of blood trickled down his cheek. "I remember," he pushed on, "or do I?" He chuckled and mouthed his lower lip. "The feeling of calm as I... seemed to disappear into some void. I wonder what must have happened, what others must have seen. I wonder how I came to be here; did I merely... materialize?" His eyes met Cesare's and he grinned maddeningly, baiting him. "I can't imagine what I must have done to land here, now, with you to punish me for my misdeeds."

"You seem to enjoy it," Cesare said in an icy whisper that sent another involuntary shiver down Sibrand's spine. He moved nearer, placing one hand on the back of Sibrand's chair and the other on the table, staring down at his guest. "I begin to think that punishment is a reward for you. Tell me, Sibrand: does it thrill you to anger me?"

Sibrand wet his lower lip with his tongue and inhaled shakily. He could smell Cesare's sweat and the rich red wine on his breath; he tipped his head up to look into the younger man's eyes and smiled and the only break in his irritatingly serene countenance was the breath that staggered from his lips, shaking his shoulders as a silent, harsh pant.

Cesare's eyes narrowed and his lips drew back into a snarl; he pulled back and once again struck Sibrand across the face and the knight groaned, covering his cheek with a hand.

It was what he had wanted. The stretch of his smile had cracked the scab on his lower lip and the cool air stung the wounds on his face; Cesare's ring had broken the skin again on his cheekbone and now it bled in earnest. "What do you want to do to me?" he growled under his breath.

He was answered by the tangling of Cesare's fingers in his hair and the unlacing of the younger man's breeches. "Suck," Cesare breathed, baring his hardening cock in Sibrand's face.

A harsh moan grated Sibrand's throat and almost without thought he closed a rough hand around Cesare's shaft and wrapped his lips around the tip. Those fingers pulled his hair, impaled his mouth upon the considerable length, and a surprised pleasurable groan bled from Cesare's lips as he allowed himself to thrust deep into the heat of Sibrand's mouth.

He had expected to choke him from the first, to intimidate him into submission, but Sibrand was more experienced than he'd thought; he eagerly took the rough treatment, tonguing the underside of Cesare's cock and relaxing his throat, removing his hand from the shaft and grasping Cesare's thigh with it instead.

Cesare gripped Sibrand's hair and closed his eyes, hardening fully in the older man's talented mouth; he pawed at the edge of the table, moving nearer to it so as not to lose his balance. "Madre di Dio," he groaned.

Sibrand's mouth was hot and wet, his tongue capable. He'd done this many times in his youth, centuries ago he thought with a fraction of a laugh that drew a surprisingly high-pitched whine from Cesare's lips.

"Ah... haha..." Cesare groaned, bucking against Sibrand's tongue. He wouldn't last long like this. He pushed him away and was answered with a quiet whimper which he laughed off, and took a step back, taking in carefully-measured breaths. "Stand up," he said after a moment. "I want to fuck you."

The thought gave Sibrand a moment's pause. Only some hours before, he had been this man's prisoner. Now he was rising to his feet, his breath catching in his throat as he panted like a dog in midsummer.

He reminded Cesare of a broke horse, tame, complicit. Ready and eager to please, to be ridden. It struck him as amusing, and so he laughed as he pulled Sibrand's leather hose down and pushed him against the table.

Sibrand's fingers clutched at the edge of the table and he threw a glance over his shoulder at Cesare, opening his mouth to speak but timidly closing it only a second later; he stepped his legs apart as far as his clothing would permit and a startled moan juddered in his throat as Cesare's hand clenched around his cock. "C-Cesare," he managed to stammer.

"You're so hard, Sibrand," Cesare murmured, sliding his hand down Sibrand's length and then cupping his balls.

With a nod, Sibrand bowed his head, his fingernails scraping the surface of the tabletop as Cesare's fingers groped him. He felt his cheeks heat, felt his knees shake as Cesare's erection slid against his thigh, and he jerked away slightly. "Cesare, I really must tell you, I..." His cheeks were tingling now with a persistent flush.

Cesare unfastened Sibrand's belt and slid it off of him. "Go on," he said placidly, doubling the belt over. "I'm listening."

"This is something that I have not done," Sibrand said, and drew a sharp gasp as the belt snapped against the back of his thigh. "I have not... I have not received."

There was a pregnant pause as Cesare casually admired the reddening stripe across the back of Sibrand's muscular leg. "Really," he said finally.

Sibrand hissed through his teeth as Cesare slid his fingers along the hot red mark from the belt. "I would not lie."

The belt came down again, this time on the curve of Sibrand's pale, firm ass. He clenched his fists on the tabletop, gritting his teeth and groaning, and Cesare laughed wonderfully, soft and low and cruel, the sound going straight to Sibrand's groin, to his aching arousal.

"Well, then, my shivering virgin," said Cesare with a wicked grin, dragging the folded leather belt up Sibrand's inner thigh. "I suppose I shall have to take the time to ensure you don't bleed on me."

Sibrand whimpered softly as Cesare lightly swatted his inner thigh with the belt, then dropped it to the floor with a quiet metallic clank.

He reached past Sibrand's form to retrieve the cruet of oil from the table. "You'll enjoy it," he assured him, pouring a trickle of oil into his hand, "provided you can relax." He chuckled quietly, pressing a slick finger inside Sibrand, eliciting a quiet keening sound and a twitch of thick thighs as Sibrand tried to spread his legs further.

"Ja," Sibrand breathed, barely containing a moan as a second finger entered him and swiftly curled in tandem with the first, sending hot white sparks through his field of vision and forcing him upward to stand on his toes.

Cesare grinned, sliding his free hand under Sibrand's shirts and pulling him backward, pressing his erection against his thigh. His fingers were buried to the third knuckle, stretching with surprising gentleness and care until without warning he withdrew them.

Sibrand grunted, displeased by the sudden feeling of emptiness. It seemed to last forever until finally Cesare slid three fingers deep into him, freshly slick with oil and bigger than he'd thought they'd be. He remembered the feeling of Cesare's cock in his mouth and shuddered at the thought of the stretch that was soon to come, and then suddenly he couldn't think because those fingers were fucking him, no longer just preparing him. He let out a dizzy moan and closed his eyes as painfully bright lights twinkled and flashed in his mind.

"Ah... ha... Sibrand, I'm going to fuck you now," Cesare said. His breath came in desperate pants as he curled his fingers to elicit a final cry and then removed them.

The words hardly seemed to make sense, the language sounding utterly bizarre to Sibrand's ears as he nodded breathlessly. All that seemed to matter was the burning sensation of nothing inside him, and this would have to be corrected as soon as possible.

His breath quickened as Cesare pressed against him and slowly entered, slick and hot and quite large. With little warning Cesare pulled Sibrand's backside against him and moaned aloud as his narrow hips writhed in his hands. "Dio mio, Sibrand, you're... so tight."

Sibrand laughed in hitching breath and brief, sharp grunts. "I am not surprised," he said, shuddering as Cesare pulled out almost all the way before sliding back in, slowly and with a heavy desirous sigh, and Sibrand clawed at the tabletop, trying to inch away from the pain.

Cesare held onto Sibrand's sides, tilting his head and stilling himself, buried deep inside him. "Ah?" he grunted.

"The... the boots," Sibrand groaned. "I can't spread my legs."

A harsh laugh startled him, and the sound of a knife leaving its sheath set his teeth on edge. Cesare leaned over him, breathing raggedly, and cut through the leather hose that bound his legs. "Better?" he muttered, setting the knife down on the table.

Sibrand stepped his legs apart and a quiet moan trickled from his mouth as he relaxed. "Yes-"

"Good," Cesare replied, pulling back and beginning to fuck him in earnest; Sibrand bit back a pained groan and edged his feet slightly further apart, resting his head on his arms, carefully avoiding the bruising around his eye.

The younger man's fingertips were digging into his hips and he could feel the stinging pinch of fingernails pressing into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped furrows in their wake and burning red trails as they dragged backward.

Sibrand was achingly tight, perhaps too tight; the only sounds that came from his mouth were whimpers and gasps as Cesare moved inside of him. Cesare grunted impatiently and pushed Sibrand's shirts out of the way, curling his fingers around his flagging erection. "Relax, you pezzo di merda," he growled.

"Ah..." Sibrand's cheeks flushed red as Cesare's hand worked at his cock; his hips rolled forward and then back, as if involuntarily, and his body convulsed slightly as finally, threads of pleasure began to stitch through the blinding pain. "Oh... Cesare..."

With a breathless chuckle, Cesare leaned over him, bracing his other hand on the table; he ducked his head and let out a deep moan as the older man's hips jerked back against his own. "That's better," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

Sibrand's legs trembled violently as Cesare moved faster, and he gave voice to a host of grunts and tiny broken moans, his body bucking against the table, jarring what were likely broken ribs and sending shooting pains through his chest that weren't entirely unpleasant. "Cesare, I-"

He cut himself off with a shattered cry and Cesare laughed, driving each heavy thrust home and forcing desperate, wanton sounds from Sibrand's mouth, unrestrained yelps and groans that shook both of them.

"I'm not going to last," Sibrand gasped in shaky voice, dizzy and dazed and more or less completely unsure of what he had said. The words sounded strange to him and he hardly knew how he had prised them from his brain.

Each quick snap of Cesare's hips brought to his eyes another flash of blinding light before the last could fade and before he could collect himself, before he could brace himself, he was shuddering against the table and yelping as he spilled over Cesare's fingers, each involuntary jerk of his body pressing on deep purple bruises.

Cesare grunted in surprise as Sibrand clenched tight around him; he followed quickly with an animalistic groan, digging his fingernails into the older man's hips and burying himself, riding out the bucking of climax as Sibrand cried out beneath him.

The knight could barely keep his feet; the tall boots he still wore slid on the floor beneath him and his body seemed to have resigned. He shuddered, letting out a pained groan as Cesare pulled out. "M-mein Gott," he stammered.

With a chuckle, Cesare pushed a chair toward him and pulled up his breeches. "I'll have a servant bring you some less... destroyed garments," he said, quirking a brow at the split leather hose that hung from the tops of Sibrand's boots. "And I really don't think the table's in any condition for dinner now."

Sibrand's face heated and he hung his head, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chair and covering himself as best he could with his shirts. "Ja," he said. "You are probably right."

Cesare nodded, turning on his heel and tossing a moment's smirk over his shoulder. "I'll have refreshments sent up to my chambers."

Epilogue

He knew him by the swish of red as he came around the corner, by the sound of his expensive boots on the cobblestone ground, by the nervous scattering of the low-ranking guards like dropped marbles.

He never stayed long. He was a busy man, a General, and his plans were well underway. Soon he would lead a siege at Monteriggioni. Soon the Grand Master of the Assassins would die at his hand and the rest of the heathens would drop, one by one.

Cesare pushed past two men in massive suits of armor and shot each of them a contemptuous glance. He looked positively miniature between them but they backed away from him, dropping their weapons and all but throwing themselves on the ground at his feet. His armored chest glinted in the sunlight and his dark hair shone like polished agate as he tossed it from his eyes.

He passed through a door to a shadowed corridor and then through another, navigating sharp turns with his red cape trailing behind him, until he came to a small room in which a young, terrified guard cowered in front of the tall, foreign Captain, apologizing for one thing or another in rapid Italian.

"Out!" Cesare commanded, and the guard turned. His eyes widened comically and he took a shaky breath before scampering out of the room like a frightened animal.

The Captain laughed, and Cesare went to him and took off the helmet that hid his pale face.

"It has been a while," the Captain said.

Cesare lifted dark eyebrows incredulously and reached up to grasp a handful of Sibrand's blond hair. He hissed in pain as Cesare yanked him down, pulling him to his knees with a clank of metal on stone, and pushed aside the tails of his doublet.