I. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.
Graceful fingers dragged lazily over Sibrand's broad chest, setting alight scars and raising pinpricks of sweaty skin; Sibrand shuddered and watched those fingertips slide lower to graze over the gentle curve of his ribcage.
"I have an offer for you," said Cesare, his voice a gentle, breathy murmur in the low light of late evening as he rested his head beside Sibrand's on the pillow.
Sibrand smiled and captured his master's hand in his own to kiss his fingertips. "Ja? What is it?"
Cesare chuckled. "You are so eager, Sibrand. Very well. I have acquired a quarry in Tivoli, two hours' ride from Roma; I wonder if you would be willing to supervise the mining for me."
"I know little of quarrying," said Sibrand, "and it would take me further from you; is my job not to protect my master?"
With a slight smile, Cesare reclaimed his hand from Sibrand's grasp. "We would see one another," he said, "and it would amount to a promotion for you. It is perhaps less dangerous at the quarry than it is here in Roma..."
Sibrand frowned. "Much more isolated, I would imagine," he said nervously. "Cesare... Master-"
"You would, of course, have reinforcements," Cesare pressed, pulling himself up to rest on an elbow and loom over Sibrand; his dark hair hung in curtains around his face and Sibrand shivered, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. "And once the treasure has been found," he continued, "you would return to your regular post-"
"I am uncertain, Cesare; this treasure of which you speak, it seems all too familiar-"
"Silence," Cesare growled. "If you do not wish to take a special mission, then that is naturally your choice, but I require someone on whom I can depend... and the rewards, Sibrand, would be handsome."
Sibrand swallowed. It would perhaps have been best not to question Cesare's offer, to accept without trepidation, but his gut told him otherwise. He sighed, combing his fingers through Cesare's hair. "Very well. I accept."
Cesare smiled. "Very good," he purred. "I am pleased to hear this."
II. Tivoli. 1503.
The quarry smelled of wet stone, sweat, and rotting wood; Sibrand's heavy armor was stifling in the heat and the helm he wore as a newly-appointed Papal Guard was even more claustrophobic than his old one. To make matters worse, he'd come down with something mild that irritated his throat and made him cough.
He sank into a wooden chair and rested his armored elbows on his armored knees, leaning over in an attempt to catch his breath; he hadn't been there long when a nearby clamor caught his attention.
He stood, or would have if the chair had not become stuck on the breadth of his armor to hang off of his hips.
Silently seething, he pushed at the chair until it came free from his armor and kicked it away, then made his way to the edge of the platform to listen to the workers.
As he looked down at them, the ringleader glanced up and turned on him with fire in his eyes. "How long do you expect us to work with such petty wages?" he shouted.
Sibrand grimaced, drawing his pistol in little more than threat display. The restlessness of the miners was beginning to get to him; it seemed they were never satisfied. "When the aqueduct is restored, we use it to take the treasure out of the quarry," he explained in broken Italian, for what seemed the millionth time. "Then you will be paid well for your efforts."
"Enough with the same lies!" the worker replied. "I say we get back what belongs to us!" He turned to the others, to murmurs of assent. "Who's with me?"
Sibrand leveled his firearm and shot. He hadn't wanted to do it. He hadn't wanted this to happen, but things had gone too far.
The man crumpled, lifeless, to the lower platform, and the workers looked up at Sibrand in horror.
"This is what happens to rebels. Let it serve as a warning to all of you." Sibrand returned his pistol to his belt. "Now get back to work!"
He leapt down from the upper platform and looked down at the body, regarding it with some measure of dismay, before shaking his head and walking past it.
He had to admit that the miners were paid only a pittance. He, too, would have been angry to receive their wages, but once they had claimed the treasure, they would all receive a reward... and he certainly couldn't do it by himself.
A spot of his old paranoia had returned to him, however; muttered words near broken machinery had not escaped his notice and he had heard on more than one occasion threats upon his life from the miners. He picked up a jug of wine from beneath a shadowed table and poured a cup of it, then smelled it to make damn certain it was uncorrupted.
He returned to the upper platform to replenish his ammunition, and as he refilled his pouch, two of his guards began shouting in rapid dialect. He gritted his teeth and sighed out an irritable breath.
"What is wrong with you Italians!" he snapped, turning on his heel; his heart thundered in his chest as he saw a white-robed figure approaching, and he recoiled, biting back a yelp of fear. "The Assassin! Protect me!"
The Assassin approached, staring unblinking at the narrow slit in Sibrand's helm. "Why not come down and fight, coward?"
Sibrand shuddered inwardly. He pulled a money pouch from his belt and held it high. "Twice this sum goes to the man who kills him!" he growled, and watched as the eager miners approached the Assassin with knives drawn; he had to chuckle at their bloodthirst in the face of gold.
"Nice boots!" said one of the miners with a laugh. "I think I'll keep them!"
"Money makes the world go 'round, eh, Assassin?" Sibrand taunted, watching as the robed killer fought hand-to-hand with the attacking miners; the Assassin held out an arm behind him and fired his hidden pistol at a guard, and Sibrand winced. "You'll kill guards, but will you murder innocent workers?"
The Assassin ran along the platform and swung out of Sibrand's sight on a hanging lantern.
Sibrand frowned, watching as the killer pulled himself up to the second level. He was too close for comfort now, much too close. "More of my men are on the way!" he called. "Surrender now and I let you live!"
The Assassin seemed to pay him no mind; with a single shot from his crossbow he set off something that shifted the flow of the water, and the water wheel on the lower level began to turn.
Sibrand's palms sweated in his thick leather gloves as he watched the Assassin leap down from the upper level and approach the massive wooden crane set into the first "That will not help you!" he cried as the Assassin leapt from the crane to the block of travertine hanging from it.
Silent as Death, the Assassin continued in his course, despite Sibrand's frightened assurances that the crane was of no use; the second water wheel spun and Sibrand's breath caught in his throat as the crane pivoted. The travertine block smashed the upper deck and Sibrand leapt back just in time to avoid it.
"Scheisse! Ha, you missed me!" Sibrand called, and to his surprise the crane spun once again, picking up speed. "Wait, stop! What have you done?" he cried as the travertine struck the wooden supports, obliterating much more of the deck below him. "I have to get out of here!"
With a final glance over his shoulder, he jumped up to the third level and ran, finally leaping onto the lift which carried him up to a higher level; he stopped to watch as the Assassin pursued him, running up the wall and launching himself onto a high beam.
Sibrand shuddered.
He had expected to be safe from the Assassin here, surrounded by deep water and walls he thought unscalable, but this Assassin was unafraid of the water. It was unexpected and terrifying.
He leapt a gap and took a sharp left-hand turn, his cape flapping behind him as he ran, and still the Assassin pursued him; he ran across a bridge and cut the supports, watching with a satisfied smile as the Assassin skidded to a stop near the gap.
The Assassin looked down, past the edge on which he stood, and smirked briefly before swan-diving into a haystack tens of feet below, and Sibrand stared in dismay as he clambered out and leapt to a nearby surface.
With a measure of fear, Sibrand took a step backward, watching as the Assassin made another approach from the side.
"Take the mine if you wish, I- I do not want it!" he cried, starting away again. His throat ached and his breath was short; he took another lift to a high point in the broken aqueduct and paused to breathe, his chest feeling as though it might burst.
The Assassin disappeared from sight for a moment and Sibrand hoped that he had fallen; his legs shook as he leaned heavily against the top of the lift, and suddenly the Assassin emerged, running at full tilt up a slope until he reached a parallel ledge.
Sibrand watched in horror as the robed man started across the pulley line that connected the two stone faces; he ran blindly downhill and came to another lift.
The pulleys felt as though they would rip his arm out of the socket, but he knew that if he did not use them, the Assassin would. He kicked the mechanism and the lift took him up fifteen feet, dizzyingly quickly.
He ran across a bridge that splintered and shattered beneath his feet and cut away the ropes; the boards tumbled down from above and Sibrand watched from the broken edge of the aqueduct as the Assassin deftly avoided them.
"Go to Hell!" Sibrand shouted, drawing his pistol as he got his bearings in the shallow water flowing beneath his feet.
From beneath a trickle of water emerged the Assassin's hand; Sibrand steeled himself and watched as the killer rose from beneath the stream, leveling his gun at his face.
That face.
It was so like the face of the Assassin he'd feared in the Twelfth Century. Golden eyes stared back at him as the pistol shook in his hand.
How beautiful it would be if he could finish this; he would be lauded as a hero by the Knights Templar... and he could only imagine his master's reaction.
"Forget the treasure," Sibrand heard himself say. "I will be granted riches beyond belief when I bring Cesare your head!"
He fired, or he would have fired, had the gun not unceremoniously clicked as he pulled the trigger. It was empty; he hadn't reloaded the pistol. Suddenly he felt the weight of the bullet in the pouch at his belt. He pawed at the barrel of the gun, panting in fright.
The Assassin spoke and Sibrand's blood ran cold in his veins.
"Perhaps I will send him yours."
Sibrand shot a glance over his shoulder and threw the pistol at the Assassin. "Nein! Nein!" he shouted, his feet splashing in the water as he ran. "Nein!"
He was pursued by splashing footfalls into a tunnel; he turned to watch as the Assassin approached, then turned back to lead him into a dripping echoing travertine cave.
The two men drew their swords and Sibrand struck a blow to the Assassin's embossed armor; the Assassin lunged for him and he jumped back, panting roughly.
It was almost insulting that it had come this far. He had no idea what the Assassin wanted, other than his head, but why?
He spun out of an attack and let his heavy sword carry his weight around to strike again, but the Assassin came under his arm and struck him in the side, and he groaned aloud.
The Assassin pulled back to thrust again, but Sibrand gave him a firm backhand to the side of his head and he backed away, grimacing.
"What's wrong?" he muttered. "Are you afraid?"
Once again he swung his sword at the Assassin and was surprised to make contact, but the Assassin kicked him in the shin and threw him against the wall.
The two men tussled against the slippery wall of the cave and Sibrand found himself pinned as the Assassin struck him; he panted hard in his helm, trying to push the Assassin away but utterly failing as the sword bashed against his armor.
He slid along the wall and out of the Assassin's reach, leading him to the waterfall; the robed man slashed at him and he lost his footing on the slick cave floor, finally falling to the ground.
Without a moment's thought he froze where he was, his aching legs splayed at odd angles and his helm half submerged; through the opening in his face guard he could see the Assassin sheathing his sword as if satisfied that his mark was dead.
He lay there as the Assassin worked a mechanism that caused a massive door to slide open, and suddenly he knew. The treasure had never been in the quarry itself. It was here.
The Assassin entered the room and Sibrand watched him, silent and still, until he was out of sight; the splashing of the waterfall covered his footsteps as he hid himself in the cavern behind the sheet of water, clutching a nasty wound on his chest.
Cesare would hear about this. Sibrand would ride to Roma and give Cesare a piece of his mind; he would tell him of the attempt on his life and the complete incompetence of his reinforcements, and he would tell him that the treasure had been taken due to the cowardice of the guards.
Sibrand crouched against the wall of the cavern, breathing as quietly as he could. He could still hear the splashing of the Assassin's footsteps in the room adjoining.
He knew he would not confront Cesare. He could not. It was terrifying enough to think of dying at the hands of the Assassin... again.
Minutes passed, and finally the splashing stopped; curious, Sibrand looked out to find himself alone. The small room was empty, too, save for a handful of open and raided chests; finally he reached the back of the room with a final, large open chest with a Templar cross as its seal. He dropped to his knees in front of it.
The chest contained gold and silver, more than he had seen in his life; he shuddered to think what the Assassin must have taken from it, and how he would explain this to his master.
III. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.
The ride from Tivoli had been excruciating. Sibrand's wounds burned beneath his clothes and armor, and the doctor whose services he had bought with a few coins from the chest had been utterly useless.
To make matters worse, his throat ached still, and shouting had only aggravated the irritation. His voice had dropped so dramatically that sounded like a different person- so much so that he was ordered by a subordinate to remove his helmet before he would be admitted to the castello.
He had been told to wait in the entrance hall, and so he did, until he was thrown off balance and knocked against the wall; his helm fell to the floor with a metallic clatter and rang for a moment. He looked behind him to see Cesare's sister, seeming either quite pleased with herself or quite irritable. He could rarely tell the difference.
"Oh," she said. "It's you."
Sibrand concealed an uncomfortable frown. "Hm... ja. It is I. How are you this evening, madonna Lucrezia?" he asked politely.
She waved a dismissive hand. "As fine as one can be, I suppose," she said flippantly, then her nose crinkled and she leaned away from the man. "Is that... is that you?"
With a bewildered chuckle, Sibrand smiled patiently at her. "Well, I have not become someone else in the intervening-"
"You smell like you've been bathing in a sewer," Lucrezia sniped. "I feel as though I will choke on the stench of you!"
Sibrand frowned. "I..." He raised an arm and smelled his clothes.
She was right. He had scarcely noticed the smell of the water until it was on him, seeping into his skin from his clothes, mud and excrement and mold; he smelled rank, like disease made flesh, and still his boots were wet, squishing uncomfortably beneath his feet as he walked.
"You should see to it you take a proper bath before you see my brother!" Lucrezia turned on her heel and started down the red-carpeted hall. "I'm afraid he is in a most foul mood!" she said gleefully.
Sibrand had been certain for some time that the woman was insane. Cesare's foul moods had never been cause for him to celebrate, but apparently she thought differently.
The door swung open at the other end of the hall and he pivoted to see Cesare standing before him, red-faced and messy-haired with rage burning in his blue eyes.
"Master," Sibrand said, his voice wavering more than he would have liked. "I have just arrived from Tivoli-"
"Never mind that!" Cesare snapped. "It can wait. Maria!" he called, giving Sibrand a once-over and frowning at his tattered, damp appearance.
The serving girl rushed up the stairs and entered the hall. "Yes, my Lord?"
"Have Miguel sent for! It is a matter of the utmost urgency," Cesare said to the girl, and sniffed the air, scowling; his nose crinkled and he looked sideways at Sibrand.
"Yes, my Lord," she said, and as she began to walk away, he spoke again.
"And have a bath drawn for Meister Sibrand!" he said with a distasteful frown.
Sibrand felt his cheeks flush; he looked down at the floor, wishing desperately to sink into it. "Master-"
Cesare turned on him and he fell silent. "Sibrand, I am glad to see you here," he said brusquely.
"What has happened, Master?" Sibrand asked nervously, bending to retrieve his helm.
The General shook his head. "We will speak of it once you have bathed."
IV. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.
Sibrand sat in Cesare's study, watching in quiet exasperation as two serving boys dressed his wounds. One of them was a shaggy-haired new arrival from some Arab country and the other a young Greek with long, curly hair who seemed to admire Sibrand's muscles a bit more than was welcome. At least he had been given enough wine to dull his temper.
The Arab passed a gauze wrapping around Sibrand's back and the Greek flushed as his hand slipped to brush over the knight's pale skin.
"Scusate, Messere," he murmured, and proceeded to do it again, causing Sibrand to wince as his knuckles grazed the aching red around the deep gash, as he passed the bandaging back to his partner. The Arab merely sighed patiently and brushed at his forelock, through which ran a shock of grey, and smiled shyly as he tied off the dressing; the Greek, meanwhile, moved his attentions to one of the deeper wounds on Sibrand's upper arm.
"That will do, ragazzo," said Cesare as the Greek slid his fingertips over Sibrand's bulky bicep, caressing the curve of the muscle and mouthing his lower lip pleasurably. At his master's command, he frowned and returned to his task.
"So," said Sibrand as the young man lovingly wrapped his injured bicep in bandages, "what troubles you, Master?"
Cesare grimaced. "My sister," he said. "Lucrezia. She has been... seeing someone." He leaned back in his chair, watching as the two boys worked to patch up the other man. "Do you know how this pains me, Sibrand?"
Sibrand frowned. "I was not aware," he said. "Cesare, one might think that you sound jealous."
He had heard the rumors, but now it seemed to be more than that, an ill-kept secret. The other guards had laughingly mentioned the illicit affair between the siblings, and now that he thought of it, he recalled somewhat chilling tales of the untimely death of Lucrezia's second husband.
"She is mine," Cesare breathed. "Mine in the same way that you are mine, Sibrand!"
Sibrand restrained himself from laughing uncomfortably. How explicit it sounded when he put it that way. "It is a good thing she does not bear the same bruises, Master," he said quietly, looking up into Cesare's eyes and trying to determine what exactly he saw there. "What will you do about this transgression?"
Cesare took a long drink from a cup of wine. "I will have the boy killed," he said. "He is an actor, and what is more, he is to perform in a passion play tomorrow; none will question it... and Miguel, assuming he should arrive soon, is an expert hand in matters such as this."
"Ah." Sibrand winced as the Arab servant tightened a bandage around his shoulder. His muscles were sore from using the lifts and the unexpected movement had jarred him. "And when this is done, what will your sister have to say?"
Cesare shook his head. "It is of little concern to me. I have had enough of her duplicitous behavior to last several lifetimes."
Sibrand frowned, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The Greek servant was now paying undue attention to a shallow slice along his ribs, and the careful, gentle touch was unsettling in combination with the discomfort afforded him by Cesare's behavior. "That is quite enough," he said, and the young man sighed and returned to work.
It was an unpleasant revelation. He had put the thought out of his mind, but now he was confronted with the reality that Cesare and Lucrezia were intimate, and it unnerved him.
He certainly couldn't see himself having been in such a situation with a sibling.
"So... when will this Miguel be here?" Sibrand asked as the Arab checked his bandages and then picked up the supplies.
"I'm not sure," said Cesare. "I have a messenger out for him."
Sibrand nodded. "I see." He jumped, startled, as the Greek servant ran a hand over his muscular chest.
"Rimettivi presto," he purred into Sibrand's ear, his lips moving against the sensitive skin and his long, curly hair falling in tendrils over the knight's shoulder. "E se avete bisogno di qualcosa, Signore..."
The Arab turned on his heel and frowned at the Greek. "Yalla bina!"
With an irritable grimace, the Greek touched Sibrand's shoulder and followed his partner out, leaving the two older men alone in the room.
Sibrand watched as Cesare drained the remainder of the wine from his cup and set it down on the desk; the knight took a deep breath and sighed it out, rubbing his aching shoulder and letting his eyes drift to a fold at the knee of his soft, worn leather hose.
"Does it trouble you, Sibrand?" Cesare asked, and Sibrand looked up to see the General rising from the wooden chair behind his desk. He approached slowly, the edge of his cape flicking behind him as he walked, and Sibrand shivered beneath his gaze.
He wasn't entirely sure what to say; in point of fact there seemed little to be said. He watched Cesare's eyes as he closed the distance between them, and shook his head, unable to speak for the dryness of his mouth.
Cesare chuckled, the heels of his boots clacking on the floor as he walked around the back of Sibrand's chair and placed his hands on the knight's shoulders. "Perhaps you should endeavor to take your mind off of the situation, cavaliere mio, and think instead on something more productive."
Sibrand took a sharp breath as Cesare's fingertips curled firmly into the tight, sore muscles of his right shoulder. "Ah... scheisse..."
"Are you a bit sore?" Cesare murmured as his other hand slid down over Sibrand's upper arm; his callused fingers brushed the bandage over the deep gash just above his tricep, and Sibrand shuddered.
"Ja," he said, shifting awkwardly in the chair to look up at his master. "The lifts at the quarry, they are not designed for repeated use."
The General smiled. "Banish the thought," he said, tipping his head to the side to watch as his fingers dragged over Sibrand's bandage, finally finding the slice in his skin and stroking it from end to end before quite suddenly pressing down at the heart of it.
Sibrand groaned quietly, gritting his teeth, and Cesare laughed to himself, watching red blood bloom on the fabric beneath his finger; he raised his hand and pressed his fingertip to Sibrand's mouth, smirking in satisfaction as the older man's shoulders quivered and his tongue flicked against the pad of his master's finger and then soft lips wrapped around the fingertip.
"That's good," Cesare purred as Sibrand licked the blood from his finger. "I have a feeling you've missed this in the past weeks..." He stroked a scar on Sibrand's cheek with his thumb and smiled, leaning nearer to examine it. "Ah. This is mine, is it not?" he queried, sliding his finger free from Sibrand's mouth.
With a brief nod, Sibrand looked up into Cesare's eyes. "Ja. From your ring." He chuckled quietly as the thumb slid along the raised scar again. "You have been very good at leaving your mark on me- better than..."
Sibrand paused, realizing his error before he had even finished his sentence; he watched as Cesare's eyes narrowed, searching his face.
"Better than who, Sibrand?" Cesare asked, his voice picking up an edge as he took Sibrand's chin in his hand. "Who else has marked you?"
The knight flinched remotely, and Cesare's grip tightened on his jaw. "Robert de Sable. My..." He paused, and Cesare's fingers clenched further into his skin. "A former Grand Master of the Knights Templar," Sibrand finished, shuddering pleasantly at the thought of the bruises Cesare was likely creating with strong fingers pressing hard on bone.
Cesare lifted his dark eyebrows in mock surprise. "You've never told me of him," he murmured. With some satisfaction he noticed that Sibrand's heart was racing, thumping hard in its cage, and the older man's breath had quickened; with a smooth movement he tipped Sibrand's head upward so that their eyes met. "Tell me: did you prefer him?"
Sibrand took a moment to reply. He watched the corners of Cesare's eyes crinkle ever so slightly as the tiniest of smiles curved his mouth, and took in a slow breath. "I wouldn't know how to compare," he confessed. "Things were different then."
His breath halted momentarily as Cesare's fingers loosened on his jaw and slid up his face; the calluses dragged along his cheekbone and lingered for a moment on the small scar, and then Cesare threaded his fingers through Sibrand's hair and pulled him upward.
Sibrand held himself awkwardly by the arms of the chair, his feet struggling for purchase on the ground. Gone now (much to his delight) was the vague idea that Cesare might punish him in some unenjoyable way; now the question only remained what his fate would be. His legs shook as a fierce grin lit upon Cesare's mouth and he was pushed back down into the chair. "Very well. Help me out of this armor."
With an eager nod, Sibrand began unfastening the buckles of Cesare's chestplate; the embossed fat angels smiled placidly at him, bulging out of the shiny metal to rub distastefully against his hands. He was all too glad to be rid of the obstruction, and with it came the blood-red cape.
"It's good to know you're enjoying this," Cesare purred, watching Sibrand's hands as they worked at the fastenings of the second layer of plate armor and finally helped him take it off; the knight set it carefully on the floor, looking up at Cesare and kissing his stomach through his shirt, and Cesare shivered at the flow of hot breath over his skin, cupping the back of Sibrand's head with a lazy palm and groaning quietly as a strong hand pressed against the growing bulge in his tight breeches. "Continue, Sibrand," he added in a low growl.
Sibrand shivered and pushed Cesare's shirt tails aside, unlacing the front of his breeches; he watched as Cesare took off the gorget around his neck, and suddenly there was a loud bang on the door of the study.
Cesare tossed a glance over his shoulder. "Chi è lá?" he demanded, curling his fingers in Sibrand's hair and pushing his breeches down to bare his hardening cock mere inches from the older man's face.
The quietest moan escaped Sibrand's mouth and he swallowed several times in an effort to move his heart back to where it belonged; it seemed to have caught in his throat to beat there, relentless and almost painful, and the aching pressure in his hose had only increased in his nervousness.
"It is I, my Lord," said a voice outside the door.
Cesare grimaced. "Merda," he hissed, pulling Sibrand upward by his hair; Sibrand winced and withheld a grunt of pain as he was subsequently pushed down to the ground. "Get under my desk."
Sibrand felt his cheeks heat uncomfortably as he positioned himself in the cramped space beneath the desk. Cesare's boots clacked on the floor once again as he returned to his chair and sat with thighs apart.
"Come in, then, Miguel," he snapped. "You have kept me waiting long enough!"
His hand found Sibrand's head beneath the desk and he shivered as he felt hot, heavy breath over his cock; the door squealed open and he had to grit his teeth to hold back a gasp as Sibrand took his length into his mouth.
Miguel entered the room, his bootheels clicking on the hard floor; he glanced at the chair in the middle of the room and then chose a different one. "I am sorry for the delay, my Lord," he said. "I was obtaining intelligence, and your messengers are-"
"Enough!" Cesare snapped, waving an impatient hand; the other gripped Sibrand's hair and pulled him nearer until he could feel the heat of breath on his balls. "My duplicitous, conniving sister is in need of a lesson, Miguel. You are the best man for the job."
Sibrand closed his eyes, pulling back to slide his tongue along the slit at the tip of his master's cock; the grip in his hair tightened and he groaned, wrapping his lips around the head as Cesare once again forced him closer, until he felt pressure at the back of his throat.
"Very well, my Lord. What do you wish of me?" Miguel queried, and Sibrand could practically hear him shifting nervously in his seat.
Cesare tensed once again as Sibrand slid an eager tongue along his length and kissed away a drop of fluid clinging tenously to hot, sensitive flesh. "I believe you keep a vial of la cantarella on hand, sì?" he murmured, carefully seeking Sibrand's groin with the ankle of his leather boot; he knew he'd found it when Sibrand's fingertips dug into his thigh and a low groan shuddered over his erection, and with a self-satisfied smirk, he pressed slightly harder.
Miguel paused. "Sì," he said, "but what have you in mind?"
Sibrand leaned nearer, shifting onto his knees, and swallowed around his master's cock, and for only a moment Cesare's calm countenance broke; he closed his eyes and his shoulders shuddered, and he curled his fingers tightly in Sibrand's hair, pushing him back slightly and then pulling him forward to take more.
"The actor, Pietro Rossi," Cesare muttered, rubbing his foot on Sibrand's balls as he spoke and eliciting quiet groans of pleasure that shook him from stem to stern and rendered him momentarily speechless. He took a shaky breath and continued. "He will be performing in a passion play tomorrow at the Colosseo. I don't care how you do it; he is to be dead by the finale!"
It took all the effort that Sibrand could muster not to choke on Cesare's length as he was pulled closer. He wrapped an arm around his master's hips and groaned as Cesare began to carefully move his head beneath the desk, fucking his mouth; still his foot rubbed against the soaked crotch of Sibrand's hose, putting firm pressure against his straining erection.
"Yes, my Lord," said Miguel.
Cesare grunted his approval. "Bene. Go, then. I will have one of my best men nearby," he said, gripping Sibrand's hair tightly as he spoke, "in case you should require assistance..." He took a shaky breath. "I will have him meet you this evening for his instructions."
Miguel stood and bowed. "The situation is in capable hands," he said.
"Very good. Take your leave, Miguel," said Cesare; his voice had begun to pick up urgency as Sibrand's tongue flicked along the underside of his cock.
Footfalls approached the door, then it was opened and shut; Cesare gripped the arm of the chair and let his head fall back with a helpless moan as Sibrand sucked him harder, coaxing him closer to the edge. Cesare's foot fell still between Sibrand's legs as he bucked upward, letting out a harsh pant.
Sibrand swallowed around him once again and lapped at the tip of his cock, gripping his back with his fingernails; a moment later, Cesare's grip tightened in Sibrand's hair and he jerked, coming in the other man's mouth with a quiet cry, muffled by gritted teeth. "Unh!"
With a shudder, Sibrand leaned against the desk, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and watched as Cesare panted against his shoulder, each breath coming slightly more easily.
He ran a hand through his long black hair and shivered, finally glancing down at Sibrand; as he watched him, a grin broke on his face and he laughed with significant mirth at the sight of the tall, muscular knight folded beneath the desk. With a relaxed sigh he stood and held out a hand to help Sibrand to his feet, and Sibrand took it, pulling himself up awkwardly until he was seated on the edge of the desk with Cesare's leg pressed between his own.
"Ah... Master," Sibrand murmured, leaning his weight back on a hand and pressing up against Cesare's thigh with a groan. "What do you wish of me?"
Cesare chuckled, relacing his breeches. "I had planned to fuck you," he confessed, and Sibrand shuddered against him, "but I didn't get the chance... it's a shame, seeing as you have an appointment this evening-"
"Master, please," urged Sibrand, and Cesare gave him a wicked smile, leaning in to bite down at the base of his neck as he shoved the hose off of his hips.
"Brace yourself on the desk," the General purred against Sibrand's shoulder. "I'm sure I can think of something."
Sibrand's breath caught in his throat as he turned and Cesare smacked his ass, hard enough to leave a handprint; he groaned, hanging his head as he placed his hands on the desk, and allowed Cesare to push his hose down further.
Cesare chuckled. "You are so eager, Sibrand," he murmured, watching the tips of his fingers as he slid them along the cleft of Sibrand's ass, eliciting a quiet, stuttering gasp. "What will I do with you?"
"Anything you like," Sibrand breathed, letting out a tiny pleasurable grunt as the pad of Cesare's thumb pressed against his perineum. "I am sure you will think of something, Master."
"I am sure," Cesare echoed, sliding a hand over the curve of Sibrand's hip and mouthing his lower lip as he contemplated the situation; he watched Sibrand's body shudder under his touch and then looked around the room for something, anything, to satisfy the requirements at hand.
Finally his eyes came to rest on the ornate silver and gilt candleholder on the desk, in which a long candle burned yellow-orange; he laughed quietly to himself and opened a small cabinet in the desk and pulled from it a fresh taper, which he regarded for a moment with a smirk. "Step out of your hose," he murmured as he held the thick end of the candle over the other's flame.
Sibrand watched the wax shimmer in the heat of the flame as Cesare slowly rotated it in his hand, melting the end into a rounded shape. He shuddered and did as he was told, then returned his hands to the desk and took a slow, shaky breath.
Cesare smiled wickedly, pulling the candle back and rolling the hot end of it over Sibrand's ass; the knight groaned aloud and hung his head, and a few seconds later, as the wax cooled, let out the breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding.
The sting lingered pleasantly as Sibrand braced his elbows on the desk, panting shakily. "Mein Gott..."
"You like it?" the General murmured, setting down the candle and opening another cabinet to retrieve a bottle of oil, from which he took the stopper; he let a trickle run from the spout between the cheeks of Sibrand's ass and chuckled as the other man squirmed and writhed, nodding an affirmative. He caught the rivulet of oil on his fingertips and carefully slid a slippery finger inside Sibrand, drawing a tiny grunt as he pressed it deeper and quickly followed it with a second, which he curled until Sibrand was forced up to his toes with a broken moan. "It's not going to take long, is it, Sibrand?"
Sibrand groaned, shaking his head, and stepped his legs apart again as Cesare pushed another finger into him, stretching him. "Scheisse... please, Master..."
Cesare took a long, slow breath and poured another drizzle of oil on his fingers, then slid a fourth into Sibrand; he was rewarded with an animalistic cry of something between pleasure and pain, and Sibrand clawed at the desk, gritting his teeth, as Cesare's hand moved inside him to nearly the breadth of his palm.
With a smile he withdrew his fingers and wiped them on a towel, then coated the thick taper candle in oil and touched the end of it to Sibrand's ass, chuckling as he pressed back eagerly and allowing the end to penetrate him.
"Oh... ja," Sibrand moaned as Cesare moved the candle inside him, dragging the end of it over his prostate; his knees shook violently upon a particularly firm thrust and he had to scrabble for purchase on the desk. "Master-"
"Say my name, Sibrand," Cesare intoned, withdrawing the candle until Sibrand whimpered and pressed back once again; finally he removed it fully and slid the length of the taper along the cleft of Sibrand's ass. "I wouldn't want you to be thinking of another master while I'm doing you this service..."
Sibrand found his mouth dry and swallowed hard. His cock ached for the neglect and there was little he could do about it. He panted shakily, his head spinning as Cesare teased him. "C-Cesare, please-"
"That's better," said the younger man with a quiet laugh, and with little warning slid the candle into him once again, causing him to moan aloud, all sense lost for the pleasure as Cesare fucked him with the taper, bringing him up to his toes. "Touch yourself," he added, his breath quickening. "Touch yourself, Sibrand, and say my name. Do it."
With a long, dizzy groan, Sibrand supported himself on a forearm, resting his head on his wrist, and wrapped a shaking hand around his cock. "Ja, Cesare... fuck me..."
Cesare grunted softly, angling the end of the candle against Sibrand's prostate and thrusting it into him, taking pleasure in the shaking of his legs; he felt Sibrand's muscles tense as he teetered on the edge of climax, grunting foreign words under his breath and panting so harshly that Cesare thought he might faint, and then, with a throaty yelp of something that might have been Cesare's name, Sibrand came, spilling into his hand and between his fingers.
"Gesù," Cesare muttered, watching Sibrand's shoulders heave as he panted, trying to regain his breath. He slid the candle out, and couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation as he wiped it clean on a linen towel.
Sibrand shuddered. "Ja," he agreed. "Thank you."
Cesare held up a hand. "Enough," he said. "Have a glass of wine and some cheese and take your leave. We both have much to do this evening and I expect you here at the castello after your meeting with Miguel."
V. Roma. 1503.
Sibrand held his aching side, crouching in the wings of the Colosseo. The armor that had been procured for him was smaller than he would have liked, but as his own had yet to be repaired, it was the best that could be done. As such, it pressed on his wounds and he found himself almost dizzy with pain when he took a deep breath.
As he had escorted Miguel to the Colosseo, he had warned him of the Assassin's presence. A flicker of white, the flash of a sunbeam off the engraved tiller of the crossbow, had alerted him that they were being followed, but Miguel had paid him no mind.
Now the play was in progress, and from his vantage point in the wings, he could not see what he knew was taking place. He heard footfalls above his head, muffled by leather shoes which the archers did not wear.
A shudder ran through him as the footsteps stopped and he heard a stifled cry above him; he closed his eyes and pressed himself against a column, clutching his chest. He had brushed near enough death the prior day to know that he was not ready to encounter the Assassin again.
When, moments later, he braved looking for the Assassin, he could not see him; there was no whip of white robes in the wind, no tell-tale sneaky steps on the level above. It was as if he had disappeared, which shook Sibrand to the core; as if that were not enough, his mind had begun to play tricks on him in his fatigued and nervous state, and the tight armor now seemed to be choking him.
Tens of feet below him, the drama continued; he could see Miguel in his black tunic, standing out stark, and the actor hung from his cross, his head lolling to one side. The centurions circled in front of the tableau, and one held a spear up toward the actor.
Sibrand swallowed hard, scanning the levels of the Colosseo for any sign of the Assassin, but he was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he had imagined the sounds, hallucinated everything he had seen. Perhaps that was it.
A clamor from below drew his attention; his heart thumped hard in his chest as he saw one of the centurions atop Miguel on the ground with a blade at his throat.
He watched, frozen, as the man stood up, leaving Miguel alive, and the other centurions cut Pietro down from the cross, toppling him into the arms of the man who'd attacked Miguel, before finally a fight broke out on the stage; the centurions fought a number of bewildered guards, and a crowd of mercenaries entered the building from the street to fight, presumably because they enjoyed the exhilaration.
Slowly, Miguel stood, and the man carrying Pietro ran out of the Colosseo; Sibrand ran to the window and watched as he placed the actor on the doctor's cart, where he was given something; the man in the centurion kilt took a key from him and nodded. A cluster of people moved past and suddenly Sibrand could see him no more; the man had simply disappeared into the crowd.
VI. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.
Sibrand knew that he could not escape Cesare's wrath forever. Still, after several days, it was with some significant trepidation that he returned to Castel Sant'Angelo.
What he found there, however, was not at all what he had expected.
Cesare had entered the castello in a thoroughly peevish mood and brushed off Sibrand's weak attempt at a plea for forgiveness; he had merely shot him a withering glare on his way past and told him that he should be somewhere else.
It was out of the question. Requisite groveling and the need to finally explain the incident at the quarry to one side, he found to his surprise that he missed the General's company, and to be on his good side was, at the very least, a known quantity.
He winced upon hearing Cesare's raised voice from the papal chambers, and although he could not hear his words, he knew that he was not terribly eager to find himself at his master's mercy.
Brown eyes peeked past a door and the Arab servant shot a fearful glance in the direction of the chambers, and then, suddenly, noticed that Sibrand stood mere feet away. "Issalaamu aleykum," he said nervously, and Sibrand chuckled.
"Waleykum issalaam," he replied, scraping the depths of his memory for the words from so many years prior. He had never had a particular skill for the language, but the greeting was familiar enough to him.
The young man smiled pleasantly. "Hal turiido shayyan ya basha?" he asked, over the faint sounds of scuffling and shouting from the chambers.
It was as if the floor had dropped out from under Sibrand. He opened his mouth to speak and then shook his head helplessly; the servant giggled softly, and then at the sound of heavy footfalls, hurried back to the room from whence he'd come.
Sibrand glanced upstairs and his mouth went dry. The Assassin was inside the castello. He had somehow penetrated the Papal defenses and had entered the castello itself, and now he was making a clean getaway.
"Scheisse!" Sibrand ran through the door the servant had used and waited, clutching his chest and holding his breath, until the Assassin's footsteps had receded. He heard a heavy bang as the gate down the stairs slammed shut and shuddered.
For whom had the Assassin come? Sibrand could but wonder. He knew of an attempt made on the Pope's life some years prior, but he also knew that Alexander had been removing himself from the particular circles that had made him a threat to the Assassin Order.
Sibrand swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew that the Order wanted Cesare, and he had not seen him leave.
For a moment, he stood frozen, confused and conflicted, and then his legs seemed to make his decision for him.
He gave chase.
VII. Il Distretto Vaticano. 1503.
Halfway across the city, outside the Basilica di San Pietro, Sibrand lost his way. He had gotten too close and the Assassin had thrown a smoke bomb to burst on the ground, and he stood blind and confused, waving the smoke from his eyes for perhaps a second too long.
As he escaped, coughing, from the billowing cloud, he was taken completely by surprise by another guard barreling into him; he spun around to shout at him, but something far more interesting drew his eye.
"Cesare!"
The General glanced over his shoulder for only a moment and then entered the church; Sibrand hung back in the shadows. Cesare's eyes were trained on the heart of the chiesa; Sibrand followed his gaze and his stomach turned at the sight of the white-robed Assassin in the center of the room, holding the Apple.
"You," Cesare spat.
The Apple was more beautiful and terrifying than Sibrand remembered; the strange shiny metal orb seemed to be split by light as it sat in the palm of the Assassin.
"Looking for this?" the Assassin asked.
"It ends now, Assassino," said Cesare, drawing his sword from its sheath. "My sword will take your life."
With little warning, Cesare doubled over, groaning aloud and clutching his stomach; he gestured for the Papal Guards at his sides to attack. "Guards!"
They drew their swords, and Sibrand huddled in the doorway to watch as they charged the Assassin. Suddenly the Apple glowed brighter in the Assassin's hand and, with a sound the likes of which Sibrand had never heard, shot out strands of light; the Guards stopped in their tracks and looked at each other, and suddenly one buried his sword in the other's chest.
As he fell, the stabbed Guard lifted his pistol and shot the other in the head; his mask shattered and Sibrand had to look away as both of them toppled, bleeding, to the ground.
Cesare paused, taking a shuddering breath as he considered the Assassin for a moment, and then turned on his heel to exit the chiesa. "Guards! Guards!" he cried, and Sibrand pressed himself tighter against the door, desperately trying to avoid being seen.
Suddenly Cesare's hand wrapped around his wrist and he was dragged from the doorway out into the piazza; behind them, the Apple activated once again and sent its net of light out the door.
"Master, the stables," Sibrand said as Cesare led him through the winding streets of the city. "If we can get you to safety-"
"I've been poisoned," Cesare interjected, "and the Pope is dead. There is no safety here."
Sibrand took Cesare by the arm and hurried toward the stables, panting beneath the weight of his heavy armor. "The doctors have an antidote," he said, and glanced over his shoulder to see the Assassin only feet away, pursued by a small group of other guards, including a rough-looking heavily-armored Brute. "Go! Head for the stables! I will meet you!"
He turned and drew his pistol to break the Assassin's chase, but the Assassin veered off-course down another side street.
Sibrand swallowed his nerves and pursued him, taking comfort in the sound of Cesare's receding footfalls; as he approached the Assassin he found himself beside the Brute, and suddenly, with a horrible sound, the Apple's white lines of light etched themselves into his vision, disorienting him.
He was brought back to reality by the sound of bone crunching, followed a split second later by searing pain in his arm; when his vision returned to him he saw the Brute raising his mace like a club, aiming to kill.
Before he could think, he had fired his pistol into the other man's throat. The Brute crumpled to the ground and Sibrand bit back a wave of nausea as he looked down at his dented bracer, then looked up to see the other guards engaged in vicious combat with one another.
The Assassin was nowhere to be seen.
"Sibrand!" cried Cesare, and Sibrand turned to see him astride a chestnut horse, which wore no saddle atop its armored blanket. "Let's go!"
The knight mounted the horse clumsily, wrapping his uninjured arm around his master's waist and pressing the other to his own side. Cesare kicked the horse in the side and it set off at a good clip through the streets. The pain was overwhelming, and the horse's movement served only to exacerbate the nausea.
"Are you hurt?" Cesare asked as they rode across the Ponte Sant'Angelo.
Sibrand could not contain a derisive snort. "Nein," he snapped. "I hold my arm like this because it is fun."
Cesare grunted irritably. "Where is a doctor when one requires him?"
"La Piazza della Rotonda," Sibrand said. "There is a doctor outside the walls of il Pantheon, but I recommend that we go quickly. Many of the doctors in the city are allied with the Assassins."
VIII. Roma. 1503.
Cesare leaned on Sibrand's uninjured shoulder as the doctor fumbled in his cart to find a vial of the antidote. He closed blue eyes and groaned softly, clutching his abdomen, and Sibrand held him tightly against his side until finally the doctor handed him the small dark bottle.
"Non aspettatevi un ricupero veloce," said the doctor as Cesare drank the antidote. "È possibile che richiederà molte settimane. Posso consigliarvi di un collega che ha molta experienza con le sanguesughe..."
Sibrand shook his head. "No, grazie. Stiamo lasciando la città."
The doctor frowned. "Come vi piace, Signore."
Cesare tentatively removed his weight from Sibrand's side, setting the small bottle down on the cart. "Grazie, Dottore," he said.
"Era un piacere, Signor Borgia," the doctor replied, and then rounded on Sibrand. "Allora... il braccio, Signore. Darlo a me."
Sibrand swallowed, suddenly taken over by vertigo at the thought of having his arm touched. "Ah... no, grazie," he said again, but Cesare scowled at him.
"Coward, you are useless to me if you are crippled!" the General hissed in his ear, and Sibrand sighed and hung his head, lifting his left arm.
"Cristo," muttered the doctor, examining the deeply-dented bracer on Sibrand's forearm. "Va bene... Signor Borgia, aiutatemi, se si può... tenete il suo braccio."
With a nod, Cesare took Sibrand's hand in his own to hold his arm up so that the doctor could unfasten the leather strapping of the bracer. As it tightened, briefly, around his arm, Sibrand groaned and gripped Cesare's hand tightly. "Mein Gott," he breathed through gritted teeth as the bracer was removed and his sleeve pushed up to reveal black and blue bruises on his skin.
"Va bene. Grazie a voi, Signore," the doctor said to Cesare as he picked up a thick wad of linen from his cart and held it up to Sibrand's mouth. "Aprite la bocca, per favore."
Sibrand shuddered and did as he was told, and the Doctor placed the cloth in his mouth.
"Siete pronto, Signore?" asked the doctor, and without waiting for a response, took Sibrand's elbow and wrist in his hands and gently pulled them apart.
The pain was blinding and Sibrand would have lost his footing on the ground if not for Cesare's grip on his shoulder. He clawed wildly at the doctor's cart with his free hand and finally dug his fingertips into his damaged bracer, shutting his eyes tightly and screaming into the linen between his teeth as the doctor situated the bone.
"Meravigliosa. È fatto," said the doctor as he retrieved a splint and bandages from the cart. "Ma ancora consigliarvi di visitare il mio collega."
IX. La Campagna Romana. 1503.
Sibrand sank to the grass against a wall, fumbling one-handed with the stopper of a small vial of medicine. The effects of the Apple seemed to linger still in his bones and the wounds and bruises inflicted upon him by the mace throbbed painfully.
His left arm hung in a sling over his chest, useless and aching, and though the doctor had set the break well, he could hardly move it for the pain of bone shifting on bone. He was not entirely sure it would ever heal fully.
Cesare took the vial from him and unstoppered it, then handed it back, and Sibrand drank the tincture and settled his back against the stone.
"We will stay here a while," the General said, sitting beside him to watch as the horse ate from a nearby haystack. "I have spoken with the innkeeper and he has... agreed... that it is in his best interests to advise no one of our presence."
"Ah. Good," said Sibrand, taking the cup offered him.
The two sat in silence for a time, sipping their wine; finally Sibrand folded his legs beneath him and sighed quietly. "Master?"
Cesare grunted to indicate that he was listening.
"What happened in the castello?" Sibrand asked, resting his cup on his knee. "Why were you left alive?"
"My father had meant for me to die," Cesare said. "But it was not his choice to make. I was the one in control." He lifted his cup to his mouth again, and then paused. "He was a stupid man."
X. La Campagna Romana. 1503.
Well past midnight, Sibrand stared up at the ceiling of his little room at the quiet country inn.
His broken arm was in the process of healing, and there had been no sign of trouble at their particular door since their arrival, but still he lay awake every night, dreading the inevitable. One day, the Assassin would come.
He had received reports that forces sympathetic to the Borgia had been diminished significantly in the city proper, and that the Assassin Order was raising an army; this, of course, did not bode well, but he could think of little to be done about it.
In the murky depths of sleepless neurosis he wondered if he could flee. He had not seen his homeland in hundreds of years; it occured to him that he might not even recognize it if he were suddenly picked up and dropped in his own childhood home.
Perhaps his childhood home would not even remain standing.
He wondered idly if the language had changed significantly in three centuries' time.
The sound of shuddering hinges startled him and he reached for the dagger on the table beside his bed. "Chi è lá?" he hissed, and was answered by a familiar chuckle.
"Are you planning to kill me?" asked Cesare, shutting the door behind himself.
Sibrand set the dagger down. "Mein Gott, Cesare."
The covers stirred at Sibrand's side and he moved to allow the other man to enter his bed. "I apologize," Cesare said, and Sibrand awkwardly put his uninjured arm around him. "I suppose I have missed your company."
The warmth of Cesare's head on Sibrand's chest was familiar and comforting, and the arm draped over his waist held him down as if he were chained to the tiny bed.
Perhaps he was.