He checks on Angelo only because he must, because the Abbot would question him if he did not, because he willhave this promotion and if that means allaying the Captain's concerns about his attitude toward his brother, so be it.
The infirmary at first appears to be empty; it takes him long moments to penetrate the gloom of hooded lamps and herb-smoke and locate Angelo on a cot in a darkened corner. He looks small, lying there, face flushed and lips cracked; his ghost-pale hair is a matted, dirty grey against the pillow, and he stinks of fever-sweat and illness.
"Lieutenant Marcello."
The greeting rouses him from his contemplation of his half-brother. He turns to look at the healer, who has already retreated behind a table piled high with the tools of his trade rather than checking his patient, and is now lounging in a chair. "How is he?"
"Dying."
The man says it with a little shrug, and it is that, not concern - not for Angelo, never that - which sparks Marcello's anger. "I imagine he is, since you apparently can't be bothered to tend him."
A little snort answers him, and Marcello thinks everything about the man is small, petty. "Not going to try to work miracles for one of the Abbot's orphan brats."
"That brat is my brother," he says, though the red fury rising in him isn't about Angelo, but his mother, coughing her life away, not rich enough or important enough for the healers to even try to save her, while he had been a child, helpless to do anything but beg.
Now, he need not beg for anything.
He doesn't realize he's stalking across the room, or that the healer has scrambled to his feet, until he has the man backed against the wall. "That brat is also a Templar. As such, he has the right to every pathetic scrap of skill you may possess." Untrue, but of no consequence; Angelo's name will be among the trainees before the day is over. "And if that brat dies, I will hold you personally responsible. Am I understood?"
"But...I can't..."
"Am I understood?"
A nod, jerky with terror, and the healer practically shoves past him to go to Angelo's side.
Marcello doesn't watch. He doesn't care about the outcome, not really, though a part of his mind chides him for casting aside such a perfect opportunity to be rid of Angelo once and for all. Like as not, the boy will die anyhow, he tells himself.
The thought brings less comfort than he would expect.