At ten years old, full of remorse and bitter hatred for his deeds, Fiorentino had the chance to meet the woman who started it all.
The boy had grown into a fine young child. Leonardo could tell he would be handsome; his eyes were warm despite the torment in them, his nature outside of work like that of an obedient deer, and through his shyness he had become intelligent, more aware of what went on around him, which was a useful trait considering. In time, if he was able to forgive himself for his actions, perhaps Leonardo would have through him a daughter-in-law. There would be more than one girl intrigued by his introverted nature. More so by the way he carried himself. He had an air of knowledge about him that enticed grown adults to try and draw him out.
"Fee," the artist had said to him that bright Venetian morning, sometime after breakfast. He was huddled in his favourite chair, pouring over another book, and with the faintest irritation at being disturbed he looked up. "I've seemed to run out of blue paint. Could you fetch me some at the market?"
"I won't be long."
That he would not. As Fiorentino disappeared out the door, a satchel hung over his shoulder and a grim expression on his face, Leonardo turned back to what he had been doing. A commission for a nobleman; he forgot who. Names seemed to fall out of his head easily – he had received payment and orders by letter, so even the face was unknown to him.
A beautiful image of the canals lay before him, unfinished and in need of more detail, but taking shape with each caress of the brush. On one of the low-level walls sat a woman, her face hidden by a cascade of long auburn hair, who looked out at the water as though contemplating something.
I should have hired a model, he thought as he sketched out some more unruly locks, these ones to brush against her long elegant neck and try to fly with a fictitious breeze. He had chosen not to use models for a while, sufficing with statuettes or memory. It was for Fee's sake. He wanted the cool, dim workshop to be a safe haven for him, and felt that anyone aside from their assistants would be negative in the general atmosphere.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Pulled from his reverie, Leonardo wondered for a moment why Fee hadn't just walked in, calling out for him to enter with a puzzled frown on his face. When the door opened to reveal a woman standing there, his habit caused him to smile.
"Buongiorno, Madonna. How may I help you?" he asked.
She stood at about five foot seven, with an elegant jade gown that was outlined gold lacing, the sleeves expanding at the ends so when she put them together, her hands were concealed. Her pale skin seemed paler against her ebony hair, but her eyes were what caught him most. Green, sparkling emerald, they peered at first the cluttered workshop and then him, as though appraising what she saw before she spoke.
There was no condescension in her gaze, he noticed. Where some might think his workplace untidy and a sign of laziness, she was one of the many who thought it was an indication to his genius mind, a testament to his dedication and skill in art.
"Yes," her voice was like smooth silk; "I'm looking for someone. Someone important."
"I'm afraid I'm the only one here at the moment, Signora. Who is it you're looking for?"
"His name is lost to me now. I will know him when I see him."
Leonardo's face grew slowly more confused, until confusion was the only thing there. Who was this woman? Beautiful though she was, he was tempted to call her insane – unhinged, at best. Just as he moved to the door to check that there was no one with her, such as a husband or concerned friend, a little figure appeared beside hers, and respectfully squeezed past with a faint furrow of the brow.
Fiorentino had returned with the paint, his father's change in his balled up hand as he approached the artist. His eyes spoke volumes that never passed his lips.
"Fee," Leonardo said, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder; "This lady says she's looking for someone. Have you seen a boy running around lately? Someone who looked lost?"
"Non oggi. Perhaps yesterday?" he turned to face the woman with a soft but guarded smile. His cheeks were flushed with scarlet, but it wasn't noticeable in the slightly dimmed surroundings. "May I ask what he looked like, Madonna?"
It was then that they noticed the woman had grown still, as if their conversation had turned her into a statue. Her eyes stared down at Fee so intensely that he thought he would become a puddle on the stone floor; it almost burned.
"Madonna?" Leonardo moved to stand in front of his boy. It was ridiculous, he knew, for Fiorentino could hold his own in a fight, but his instincts were to protect should anything come to harm him.
The voice seemed to make her come to her senses. A smile spread across her face, tight and void of warmth, which made Fee feel uneasy as he pressed against Leonardo's side.
"I had hoped he would be alright."
"Pardon?"
"The boy," she waved her hand at him; "I thought for sure he would be handed over to the guards, and they would do their worst with him. But you heeded my note. You're a good man, Maestro Da Vinci."
Fiorentino forgot his shyness and polite attitude for a moment to blurt out; "What are you talking about?"
Beside him, his father had gone rigid. His hands grew clammy enough for Fee to look up, confused, and he saw an unmistakable expression of terror flood through his face, soon to be replaced by strong dislike.
"I thought he would do better with a stable environment," the artist said, voice laced with condemnation; "Should he have been given to the guards, they would never have let him live. He deserved better."
Fiorentino was confused. But Leonardo was not. He knew the woman now – the woman he had searched for all those months, who had slipped through the net and vanished, only to return ten years later. What was her reason? Why did she come to shatter the precarious peace he had tried to keep intact?
"And I thank you for your sacrifice, Maestro."
"Hardly a sacrifice. More a unique, sacred pleasure. A pleasure you missed out on."
"My situation was dire. My lover at the time wasn't my husband, and when I gave birth to him," she gestured at Fiorentino, whose face quickly changed to pure horror, "I knew I could never let his father or the public know. Now, I've come to bring him back."
The boy surged forward, and Leonardo was too slow to grab him and snatch him back. Kind eyes were filled with anger, a barely supressed fury that seeped through in his voice.
"You're my mother!"
She smiled at him; "I am. And you, my boy, are coming home, where you belong. Thank Maestro for looking after you and we'll be off."
The air was still. Fiorentino looked up at this woman – his mother – and felt a sort of anger burning in his soul, but too strong, more than he could repress. He cared not that she had abandoned him. Leonardo was a kind man, a good man, and he loved him as though he was the artist's flesh and bone. All he cared about was the fact she thought she had the right to come and take him away. After all he had done. After all he had seen. She thought she could arrive on their doorstep and all would be well.
"Fee," Leonardo's voice was soft and nervous; "You don't want to go with her, do you?" He would never be the same if Fiorentino chose to leave, but he felt he had to ask. He cared more for his son's happiness than he did his own, and if Fee wanted to escape – perhaps to get away from the assassins – he would let him.
The boy was silent for a while. His father wondered if his brain had imploded with the shocking revelation. But then he suddenly leapt forward and had the woman pressed against the nearest table, pushing her head down until her one of her temples rested on the wood.
"Come ti permetti!" he shouted; "I hate you!"
"Fee, stop!" Leonardo rushed forward and pulled his son back, surprised that he went easily. The boy leaned into his arms as though he needed the support, and he was more than happy to give it to him, thankful for the weight that he had felt growing for ten years.
But over the artist's shoulder, something caught his eye. Without warning he ran from his father's arms and was at his chair, where his blade was lying, and quickly strapped it to his wrist before he was back at his mother's throat.
Leonardo could only stare, horrified.
The rage was starting to consume Fee as he growled; "Who is my father?"
The woman gulped under the blade's sharp edge; "I…I can't…"
"Who is my father?!"
Punctuated by cool metal pressing closer to her throat, Fiorentino's mother could feel her heart stuttering. Her dark secret, embodied by this little boy, whose eyes before had been so inviting but now were consumed by rage, needed to be revealed if she wished to save her life.
"His name was Frederico!"
There was a moment of calm. Fiorentino retracted his blade, and stepped back to allow his mother's explanation.
She clutched at her neck. It would be bruised the next morning, she mused, and she would have to find an excuse for her meticulous husband.
"Frederico?" Leonardo's heart stuttered; "Frederico…Auditore?"
She nodded; "The same."
"Ezio's brother…"
"He visited me some days before his imprisonment. Old lovers, older friends. When he was executed, I mourned him, and found soon that my clothes no longer fit. My stomach grew, but I was always nauseous and never ate. Soon enough, a dottore confirmed it. I was pregnant. And the only one who could have been the father was Frederico."
Leonardo found himself sitting down. His head was spinning, and yet he was vaguely aware of Fiorentino stepping back, realising the link between himself and Ezio, his fate no matter what the circumstances of his upbringing.
The mother, however, took their silence as an opportunity to tell of her sins.
"I feared that we would both be persecuted – one, for his being a bastardo, and two for his being an Auditore by right. My only option was to give him away. I knew how close you were with the family, and that you were young and unattached, so I thought…"
"You gave him to me in the hopes I would accept him," Leonardo finished for her, "and not turn him over to the guards."
The artist reached out for his son. Fiorentino gravitated towards him, his face pale, and sat on his lap with a grimace.
"The Auditore family were a wanted people. Some say they were murderers. I couldn't let them…I couldn't allow them to kill my son."
The boy's hand shot up; "Not your son, Madonna. Never your son."
"But-"
"What would you have called me?" he asked, looking up at her; "Had you never given me away? What would you name your son?"
Leonardo's hand gripped Fiorentino's little wrist, but he could not deter his son's concentration. The boy was too absorbed in this woman, so long absent from his life, returning so late after his indoctrination and misdeeds.
"Benvolio."
"Benvolio…affectionate."
More silence. And then a soft, quiet laughter, just loud enough to send shivers down the woman's spine.
"I think you should go, Madonna."
She looked first at her son and then Leonardo, who gestured towards the door with a serious look of disapproval. He could feel his son's anger pouring out of him, only to seep into the air and make it tense.
"I wanted only to save you, Fiorentino."
"And you did," his head rested on Leonardo's shoulder; "I have a family. A father. I have no need for you. So go. Make yourself happy; I know that's what you wanted all along."
Reluctantly, the woman turned and walked out of the workshop, into the bright Venetian streets outside. Her figure was lost to the crowd. The door swung closed, and the noise that momentarily increased dissipated again.
Leonardo clutched his son so tight he thought he was hurting him, but Fee made no complaint. The boy seemed to have lost all will to speak. The satchel with his father's blue paint was to the side of them, having been discarded on the floor, and neither of them could get back to normality and work with it.
"Federico Auditore. I'm Ezio's nephew."
Leonardo nodded.
"I was born an assassino."
"You were born a little boy. You're still a little boy. Il mio garzone dolce."
"But I kill-"
"We've had this conversation before, haven't we? And I seem to recall saying to you no matter who comes into our lives, you will always be my son. Always. Unless, of course, you want to be an Auditore. I'm sure Mario would welcome you with open arms."
The artist's heart hurt just to think about it. But what kind of man would he be not to make the option known? He cared about his son, the baby he'd raised, and he wouldn't disadvantage him for selfish reasons.
Fiorentino wasted no time in answering; "No, Maestro. Auditore by birth and destiny, but Da Vinci in life."
Leonardo smiled as he pressed his son closer to him. He would have to tell Ezio, of course; the man deserved to know he had at least one piece of Federico left. But, for the moment, he would relish in the fact his mother had known him, and his brief closeness with Maria Auditore meant he had received one of the finest gifts in the known universe.
"I love you, Daddy." Fiorentino said, and the endearment threatened Leonardo's tears.
"I love you too, Fee. My Fiorentino Da Vinci."
