"Every cure for your ailment! Every remedy you could ever need! Leeches, potions, herbs..."

The doctor raised his muffled voice, adjusting his hat to reveal his brown eyes through the glass of his mask. It was a stifling hot day in Rome, and peasants draped in sweat traipsed past the Colosseum leisurely, ignoring him as usual. His garb, black and waxy, absorbed the sun's heat and caused him to slowly wilt; nevertheless he brandished a vial of medicine and kept up his calling for the public's attention. Recently though, a noble with extreme intestinal discomfort had approached him, and he'd had the delight of earning several hundred florins for his service, as well as having a slightly less wealthy customer ask for an amputation. Yes, it had been messy and the patient had almost damaged his vocal cords permanently, but he'd been low on anaesthetic and actually received quite a sum of money.

A Borgia guard, armour glinting in the midday sun, glared at him through his helmet. The doctor grinned inwardly and only shouted louder. "Bring me your sick and wounded! Trust me to heal them!"

"Aconite."

He jumped in shock and whirled around. There stood a fellow doctor in his operating garb, slightly lighter and crudely stained. The first thing he noticed was the stink - Sweet Jesus, he'd never smelt anything so unholy. Even with the petals stuffed in the beak of his mask, he still wrinkled his nose: in all his experience, nothing had ever been so vile as this doctor's clothes.

"Excuse me?" he spluttered, folding his arms.

"Aconite," the other doctor rasped.

He chuckled nervously. Obviously this doctor had run out of supplies. "Aconite, you say?" Something perked his interest. "Why would you need it?"

This new doctor stepped forward menacingly, and he flinched. "I've run out."

Strangely, his mouth became dry. A perfectly reasonable answer. It wasn't as if he himself hadn't begged to other doctors to lend him some smelling salts. Why was he so suspicious then? Was it the fact he couldn't see the doctor's eyes through the gleaming glass? Was it the stench? Or was it because this doctor reminded him of the opprobrious Malfatto?

"What is your name, fellow doctor? Mine's Ceresa. I used to work for the Auditore family." He saw the doctor twitch slightly, and hastily shuffled through his stand's shelves to find some aconite. Did he even own any? Then relief washed over him - that and dismay - as his gloved hand curled around a bottle of aconite. "Ah. I think I have what you want."

"Give it to me," was the curt response.

He tried to shake the feeling of unease as he passed it to the doctor. It could just be another rude, unappreciative man. It didn't necessarily have to be the Malfatto.

"Of course," he mumbled, "take it. I hope to hear from you again."

The doctor turned and walked away. Instead of boiling, he only felt clammy and afraid. Then the doctor glanced over his shoulder and stared at him for a good minute; for that minute, he was completely paralysed. Although no words were spoken, he understood: tell anyone and you'll be begging for aconite to end your pain.

Gulping, he smiled shakily. Good to know people face-to-face, mask-to-mask, doctor-to-doctor.