Magdalena's husband made it so that Gian could visit Fee without need of the document. Claims of being a distant cousin were made, hands shook, an oath taken; it all meant very little to Salaì and perhaps even less to the guards, but it was done anyway.

As the apprentice wandered the prison to the tune of his instructions, he took the time to look around. Most of the cells were empty. Stains of dried blood showed where men had either gone insane and maimed themselves, or had attacked one another out of petty territorial disputes. The floors were dirty enough to have been home to pigs and cows rather than prisoners. All in all, the grey, monotonous stone had little appeal to it, other than the occasional rectangles of light that pooled on the floor, filtering through the bars to give a blind-like effect on the dusty stone.

What few prisoners there were yelled at him. He was no woman, so there were no catcalls or suggestions of a sexual nature – most were cries of innocence or mercy, and the others threatened him with his life, jangling their thick chains as they followed him in the tiny space of their cells and lost him when he moved on.

A shame; he smiled as he looked at the wide, crazed eyes of a man too long in shackles; I would have enjoyed the vulgarities.

Beneath his robe, Gian had been given a blade to hide. Mario had suspected his own was taken from him, and so he decreed before they left Tuscany that he would have another, something new, to mark the momentous escape from death and its armoured associates.

It was streamlined, fitted within a leather brace that was tailored to Fiorentino's arm. Leonardo had remembered his measurements exactly. It was with an assured smile that he had crafted the blade and handed it over.

"A father never forgets his son's weapon arm," he claimed, though he had grimaced when he said it.

Beside the blade, he hid the key to the assassin's prison cell. Another favour of Magdalena's husband. So certain was he of Fee's innocence that he questioned neither the man nor the charge against to him. It was rather business-like; the way he had given the key, informed them about the men's patrols, and told them to take a good man home.

Fiorentino saw Gian walk in from the narrow hall. It expanded into a room in which his cell was located – the most protected cell, he was assured by Ettore – complete with one chair in a darkened corner for visitors and a small dresser, the use for which hadn't been clear. Belladonna often put her jewels on it when she came to stare at him. She was interested in his silent ways, not attracted, and he always felt as though he were being dissected under her eyes, watched like a common animal frothing at the mouth.

"Fee!" the apprentice said, his lips rising to a smile. He picked up his pace to hurry to the cage, so close now that he could see into the dark hood Fiorentino wore, could see the deep brown eyes that were still somewhat cast in shadow. "Maestro will be so pleased. Here; let me help you."

The key was in the lock before Fee could protest. As the rusted iron swung open, the hinges squealing, Gian turned to leave and beckoned for him to follow. "Quickly; we haven't much time. A patrol will be here soon."

The apprentice moved forward to the narrow hall. What little light seeped into the murky air revealed there were no men, but he could hear them moving further down, out of his sight.

"Come on, Fee!" he muttered as he peered from the corner; "Will you hurry up? We need to go!"

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then;

"No, Gian," the hinges squealed once more, slowly this time, as Fiorentino pulled his prison bars closed; "I can't."

He turned to see him holding out his hands, gesturing for the keys that hung from his own. They jangled in a moment of stunned surprise. Gian moved back, until he was against the wall, while those kind, brown eyes looked at him, utterly defeated.

"Give me the keys."

"Fee, this is no time-"

"Don't tell me about time!" Fee snapped; "Just give me the chiavi!"

"You have to stop these games! If we don't go now, we'll never escape the guards! Maestro and the others are waiting for us!"

"Then they will wait for you alone."

"You're speaking madness!"

"Madness?!" Fiorentino gestured to his small cage, now his lonesome kingdom; "You think this is madness? This justice for my crimes? My life for the countless I've taken? Why can Ezio not just leave me in the coffin he's created?"

Gian saw the torment in his companion's eyes, so acute was it that it overrode his kindness and made him seem for a moment like a raving madman, haunted by past misdeeds and horrors that no man should have borne witness to. He reared back until he had reached the end of his cell, where Fee stayed, staring out of the window as though it were replaying his entire life. He was motionless for what seemed like an eternity.

"Everything I've done," he said, voice strained as if on the verge of tears; "All that I am – it was never my own doing. I never had a choice. These hands; they're stained with the blood of men I had no quarrel with. My tongue is black with lies that were not entirely mine to tell. Does Maestro not love me enough to see how much I hurt? Can he not find it in his compassionate heart to let me go?"

The light gave him an angelic glow, though from where Gian was standing he could only see the back of his cloaked head and body. Fee raised his arms, helpless to his end, helpless to fate and its cruel, methodical dictatorship.

"This execution is my gift, Gian. I leave my son in a world I may have made a little cleaner, and, if not, with my death has become so. Maestro has you now. Replace me well."

Another moment of silence stretched out as long as a snake, sunning itself in hot weather. Gian looked at the boy he had resented, obsessed and admired, who now claimed to have lost the will to live, and wanted only to walk into his destiny as a man should walk into battle. With bravery, integrity, and honour.

What little of it remained.

But instead, the apprentice surged forward and threw open the door, his hands flailing as he begged; "Per favore, Fee, will you-"

"What is that cell doing open?!"

Both of them realised too late that one of the guardsmen had come in, eyes bugging beneath a polished metal helmet. His screech was so loud that soon enough clanking feet could heard behind him, and the room on the hall's side was rapidly filled by a line of men armed with spears. Wearing matching crests, they pointed their weapons at the apprentice and assassin, posing as though defending a King against an enemy.

Fiorentino saw no other option. He had to defend Gian; not for the goodness of his character, but because he knew how deeply Leonardo cared for his apprentice. With a move as fluid as running water, he twirled, pulling the knife from his sleeve and brandishing it in the sunlight trickling from the window behind him.

"Both of you are under arrest for treason," a thin, moustached guard said; "Lower your weapon."

"Cani like you won't lay a hand on him!" Fee growled; "You have to go through me first!"

There was a collection of hushed, scarcely audible laughter, and then; "Aw, assassin – is this man your lover? Are you a sodomite as much as you are a murderer?"

Gian moved closer to Fee. Behind his back, he produced the blade, and moved it over to his companion's free hand, which was hidden from the guard's sight.

There was a moment in which Fee managed to slip the bracer on with only one hand, and then he made the first move. It was a sudden jerk of his hand that had the knife in Gian's grasp, with him screaming; "Now, Salaì! Fight!"

Below, Leonardo and Ezio hurried into the tower, alerted by the screams of men thrust into battle. They had instructed Mario to keep all patrolling guards busy so as not to investigate the noise, but Magdalena's husband himself could not keep them at bay for long.

They raced through the abysmal surroundings like men possessed. Around them, the prisoners cried; "The bastardi die! The bastardi die!" as though it were a God-given hymn, blessed by Him in the mighty realms of Heaven.

It was with bloodshed that they were greeted.

In the room where Belladonna had observed her prey, where Ettore had gloated his capture, now the guards found their ends to Fiorentino's blade – a blade that had been baptised in crimson waters. The boy's hood was seen flitting between head to head, where quickly men fell to die, twitching on the floor.

"Fee!" Leonardo called above the din; "Fee! Salaì! Follow us!"

Ezio was in the fray to beat back some of the attacks. There must have been at least thirty-five enemies in that room, and there were but four of them, two of which had no training. Gian was coping well; he managed to hold his own against the guards, slashing with all that he was worth, as slowly, slowly, the pair advanced, soon to break through the ranks and rush with their rescuers down the stairs.

Their enemies were quick to give chase.

Charging through the halls, the quartet found themselves growing nearer to the entrance, which was a large fortress-like place with bars that separated the main cells from the lobby. It was intended for guards to sit there during their breaks, unafraid of riots and breakouts, for the secondary set of bars would stop any rogue prisoners.

Gian was through first. Then went Leonardo. Ezio was the third, and there they stopped to catch their breaths, waiting for Fee to escape so that they might lock the guards within. But as they stood there, no boy followed them. No assassin freed himself.

Leonardo looked back. There Fee stood, watching him through kind, compassionate eyes, his hood being pulled down in a manner that could only be described as contemplative.

"Come, Fee!" he muttered, beckoning him frantically forward; "They'll catch up with us soon!"

Fiorentino opened his mouth to reply, but another voice cut him off. It came from behind him, and from the shadows, where none of them had thought to glance for the immediate danger of the guards, Ettore made himself known.

"Leaving? Without saying a goodbye to your host?" he asked; "My, my – such rudeness! I would never have expected it from a man so renowned for his softness."

Fee moved back. Turning, he closed the door to the cells, slipping through them the key he had stolen from Gian not moments before the fight, when he had handed over the hidden blade. He locked the barrier as Leonardo hurried up to the bars, clutching them with a frantic look in his eyes.

"Fee, what are you doing?" he growled; "Open this door at once. Don't you play games with us – not now."

"Father, go," he said. His hand cupped over Leonardo's, warm and strong, calloused from his many hours of training and field work. Those eyes were still so compassionate when he looked upon his father.

"He means to kill you!" the artist reminded.

"That I do!"

"And if he kills me, so be it. But if I turn and run from him like a coward, he reveals my name, and all of your pride goes with it. This is not your fight, Father. This isn't your war. Go. Let me to my fate."

Behind him, the guards were piling up. They formed a small barrier behind Ettore, fearsome in their thirty-something's, and they all brayed for Fee's blood as the assassin stepped back.

Leonardo pleaded one last time, being pulled away by a distraught Salaì and silent Ezio; "Please, Fee. Don't do this. Torna da mi."

"Even if I die."

The artist was bundled out of the building. He wept for the son who so bravely watched him go, and then turned, breathing out as he looked on the enemies he would face.

Ettore stood in the middle of a sea of iron, spears and glares, the crest the same no matter where he looked. The prematurely grey foe stared at him with those hardened eyes, and Fee revealed his blade, forcing his own smile.

"Today, we see the winner to our games."

"That we do, Fiorentino," Ettore gestured to his men; "I'm curious to know just which one of us mother gave the most nutrition to."

"The same woman who nursed me must have given all the tainted milk to him before. Let us see who falls this day!"