All roads lead to Roma. If you wanted to reach the pinnacle of power, you didn't stay in Milano, no matter how influential the Sforza family was. Instead, you went to the center of the world and made sure you came to the attention of the Curia and the Princes of Holy Mother Church.

Guglielmo, called Il Sanguinante, lounged on the sill of a large window in a grand upper hallway of the Papal Palace, cleaning his fingernails with a long, thin-bladed dagger. The air of casual menace was no act, but the relaxation was. Since he and the mercenary band he was lieutenant of had come to Roma as part of the entourage of Giovanni Sforza five years ago in 1493, Guglielmo had been careful to reaffirm his reputation as one of the deadliest members of the band known as the Scourge of Europe. And he was only the second in command.

The company had secured their place in the favor of Pope Alexander VI by guarding his refuge in the Castel Sant' Angelo when the French had entered Roma in 1494. The Papal Guard, traditional protectors of the Holy Father, had been a little unreliable, but mercenaries were loyal to whomever paid them. And Alexander VI had access to a great deal of money.

Still, the Apostolic court had different standards than a mercenary camp, and outright murder was considered gauche. The death of three members of the Papal Guard was not the easiest thing to sweep under the carpet. Certainly the half dozen Guards standing next to the only easy exit were unwilling to let the matter slide.

Guglielmo flicked one last bit of annoyance off a long finger then gazed out the window, absently tossing his dagger into the air and catching it. Down below, St. Peter's Square was full of bustle, though most of the crowd was depressingly monochromatic. Flocks of black-clad priests and nuns, spattered with bloody Cardinals. He glanced down at his own crimson and black attire and smiled. At least he looked good.

"Will, m'lad!" boomed a very familiar voice that was coming down the hallway.

Guglielmo let only his reflection in the glass see his grin, then made sure that the eye roll and sneer were visible as he turned. "I am not one of your barbaric Irish relatives, Angelo. Or have you forgotten how to speak Italian again?" He slid easily off the window sill to his feet.

A big man who habitually wore green and gold for his native land, Angelo dell'Irlanda stood at least half a head taller than everyone around him. He fairly oozed good fellowship and seemed the perfect companion for a visit to a cheerful tavern. People who were meeting him a second time, however, stayed out of reach of those big hands and watched his eyes. Those who stayed with him knew there was no better man to have at your back in a tussle. But once you were one of his, you developed the depressing urge to fling yourself into mad schemes and hopeless battles, just because he asked it of you. Because the odds were good that he'd be leading the charge.

"How did it go?" Guglielmo asked.

Angelo flung his left arm around Guglielmo's shoulders. "The Captain of the Guard is a reasonable man, Guglielmo. I don't understand how you came to believe he was so angry with you. We discussed the matter like rational men, and he's perfectly willing to see it was a case of self-defense. Three against one? Who could possibly believe that you'd start a fight like that?"

They both managed not to snicker.

Guglielmo finally managed a straight face. "What did you do to him?"

"Do to him?" Only Angelo could manage to look so affronted and so wicked. "Why, I only offered to settle it like any gentleman would. He answers for his men, I answer for mine."

Guglielmo stopped and stared at his captain. "You challenged the Captain of the Guard to a duel?" Angelo shrugged. "Did he piss himself?"

"Guglielmo!" Angelo turned so the six Guards down the hall couldn't see his smirk. "He was going to accept, but he remembered an important meeting he needed to attend. I offered to meet him later, but he's such a busy man, he said it would be better just to let the matter slide."

"That's very kind of him." He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laughter. "So, can we go? We've got things to do ourselves."

"We can go."

They strolled down the hallway, Angelo's arm still around Guglielmo's shoulders. The six Papal Guards glanced at each other thoughtfully. The two mercenaries pretended not to notice. More fools they, if the Guards hadn't noticed that Guglielmo's sword was on his right hip and that Angelo was not blocking his left arm, his sword arm. It wouldn't be the first time the two mercenaries had to draw steel together.

This time, however, the Guards decided on the better part of valour and let the pair go on their way. Angelo pulled his arm back, and Guglielmo stepped away to a better position for fighting if necessary. They strode down a grand staircase, and the priestly minions to the Papal throne made hurried way for them.

"Was it as simple as you make it out to be?" Guglielmo asked.

"Is it ever?" Angelo glared at him. "What have I told you, boy, about leaving witnesses to your little dances?"

"To make sure there aren't any. But I think the Holy Father might have been a bit annoyed with me if I slit the throat of his son."

Angelo paused. "You didn't tell me Cesare was there." Guglielmo shrugged. "Was he involved?"

"I saw him talking to those three before they came up and got insulting, if that's what you mean."

"You mean--it *was* self-defense?"

Guglielmo laughed. "Please don't sound so shocked, Angelo. I can occasionally walk down a hallway without killing someone."

Angelo didn't laugh. "Why is Cesare Borgia involved in this?"

"Cesare likes seeing things die. I don't know if he was hoping I'd go down or if he just wanted to watch me butcher those Guards."

"Why you?"

"I was handy? He was curious to see if I could do it?"

"You didn't--insult him?"

"Insult the Holy Father's son? Do I look stupid? Leave my hat out of this."

But Angelo ignored the invitation to begin a debate on tastes in clothing. "I've seen him watching you, and it's a very thoughtful look."

Guglielmo tilted his head to give his captain a narrow look. "Are you thinking I propositioned him and he was offended? Or that I refused an invitation to one of his little Greek feasts? Angelo, just because you sometimes find me in bed with someone other than a wench doesn't mean every man in the city is after me. And you're blushing."

"I am not," Angelo snapped, walking faster and not caring that a pair of bejeweled Bishops had to jump out of his way.

Guglielmo was careful to stay far enough back so he'd have to raise his voice. "Besides, I'm too old to suit his tastes." Angelo waved his hands around his ears, as if he could shoo away the words.

Bumpkin, Guglielmo mused fondly. As if Angelo hadn't woken up next to another man himself once or twice. Though that generally involved so much wine that he started singing and babbling in his own uncivilized tongue. Oddly enough, Angelo always refused to translate those babblings the next day.

He considered his purse and wondered if there was enough wine back at their lodgings to get Angelo that drunk again.

***

After five years in service at the Vatican, Alexander felt he knew his way around the Papal court fairly well. He knew the shortcuts between the ornate chambers, which Monsignors were most likely to turn a blind eye to mischief, and which members of which families it was essential not to annoy. The great Cardinals never paid attention to lowly novices; so long as you bowed appropriately as they passed and let their servants put on airs, they were safely ignored.

Alexander had come from a village near Fiorenza. The dying orders of a Medici matriarch had stated that a dozen peasant lads were to be taken from their lowly estates and sponsored to education and a new life in the arms of Holy Mother Church. Twelve-year-old Alexander, son of a sheepherder, found himself in a world that should have only existed in tales. In the novice's dormitory, he'd wept in confusion and homesickness while the townsmen's sons who had been groomed for this life sneered at him.

Most of his fellows from the villages proved unable to keep up with the lessons or were simply unable to adjust to the opulent and treacherous world of the Vatican. Three had run away and vanished. Five slipped into the position of being servants to the nobler born, and one had been found in far too familiar relations with the wrong man's daughter and then "fell into the Tiber against his will."

Only three of the transplants prospered. Giuseppe fell in with the archivists and now spent happy days among the manuscripts. Luigi revealed an unexpected talent with numbers, which brought him to the attention of the financiers.

Alexander one day found himself in the Pantheon, the immense domed building that dated from the Caesars. He was staring up at the Ocular at the top of the dome, murmuring to himself, "But how does it stay up?" To his embarrassment, a man nearby began to explain it. Three hours later, he was late returning to the novice's dormitory but had agreed to study architecture with Signore Donato Bramante. He and his compatriots were still expected to serve at the various Masses and wherever else the Master of Novices decreed, but Alexander, at last, no longer cursed the day he'd been taken from his familiar world.

He was running down a side corridor in the Papal Palace, hurrying from a class to the Basilica, where he was expected to assist one of the Cardinals with the midday Mass. At seventeen he was getting a little old for altar boy duties, but he kept putting off his ordination as a full priest. He would have to decide soon. Maestro Bramante would take him as a full-time student, but he hated to give up the magic and joy of serving the Mass.

Choices. Five years ago the only choice he saw was following in his father's steps. Now he had too many choi--

He hit something black and red, something that made a loud oofing noise and then threw him to the marble floor.

Alexander blinked and started to roll to his feet. "I'm terribly sorry, I--"

The tip of a sword was pointed at his nose.

Alexander stared at the point for a second, then shifted his gaze up the blade to the long-fingered, beringed hand wrapped around the grip. Past the narrow white ruffle at the wrist, along an arm encased in black velvet with red silk lining the pleats, to another narrow ruffle at the neck. Empty, pale eyes staring back at him. A scar nicking the left eyebrow and another emphasizing the edge of a sharp cheekbone. A thin, tight mouth that was beginning to loosen as confusion and amusement brought life into the eyes.

He took a step back. "You should watch where you're going, little priest." With his sword tip he scooped up his black velvet cap and replaced it on his head.

"I'm--I'm terribly sorry. Are you all right?"

"Just fine." The face tightened again as three members of the Papal Guard ran up.

"Brother, are you all right?" the lead Guard demanded. The other two had their hands on the hilts of their swords as they glared at the man in red and black.

Alexander looked back and forth between the two sides. "I'm fine, thank you." He wasn't sure the Guardsmen heard him. Around him he saw people backing away, but servants wearing various liveries lurked in corners and near doorways.

The man in red and black still had his sword out, pointed down and to one side. Still watching the Guards, he held a hand out to Alexander.

Slowly Alexander accepted the hand. He gasped at the strength that pulled him off the floor, and he stumbled trying to get his footing. The stranger grabbed his arm to steady him. Alexander realized he was between the swords and tried to pull away, but the grip on his arm tightened.

"Gentlemen!" came a loud, oddly accented voice. The stranger laughed very softly.

The man coming down the hallway was dark where the other stranger was fair, garbed in bright gold and green in counter to the red and black. But he also carried a sword, and Alexander didn't think his arrival was going to calm matters.

"Captain Angelo," the lead Guardsman nodded. "Your man here knocked down this novice."

"I'm sure there's some kind of misunderstanding. Isn't there, Guglielmo?" Captain Angelo added with a glare.

Guglielmo managed to erase most of the smirk on his face. "Oh, yes, there is. I was walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden this young man barreled into me out of nowhere." He sighed. "I know I should be more trusting, especially here in the Palace, but I thought I was under attack. I'm afraid I reacted automatically. I am sorry I threw you to the floor," he added directly to Alexander. "No hard feelings?"

"Um, none." Alexander tugged against the hold again, but Guglielmo's hand didn't budge.

"Hold still," Guglielmo muttered as Angelo apologized magnificently and insincerely. "Keep your mouth shut and you should get out of this without a scratch."

"Get out of what?"

"Hush, already. If everything goes according to plan, then nobody gets hurt."

Alexander swallowed. "That's the problem. I'm nobody."

Guglielmo did a double take, but the appearance of two more guardsmen down the corridor distracted him. "I do apologize for the inconvenience, Brother Nobody, but we might need to extend our acquaintance a bit longer."

Alexander was completely baffled. Somehow he had precipitated some sort of crisis, but he knew he was irrelevant to how this turned out. He saw Captain Angelo's hand creep toward his sword as the pair of Guardsmen came down the corridor. Their eager smiles made him feel sick.

"By all the saints, signores, have you no shame? Swords drawn in the Apostolic Palace?"

The lead Guardsman took a startled step backwards. Alexander thought he saw the man crossing his fingers against the Evil Eye. "Monsignor Lewes. How did you know . . ."

Henry Giles, Monsignor Lewes, late of Canterbury in England, glared at all of them as he strode up. "Signore," he snapped at Guglielmo, "put up your sword. And let that young man go."

Guglielmo didn't obey until Angelo confirmed the order with a faint nod. Alexander yanked free, rubbing his arm.

Monsignor Lewes shook his head. "Brawling in the hallways, you should all be ashamed." He stepped between the two sides and took hold of Alexander's sleeve. "Stay with me, boy," he murmured. Alexander just nodded. At least Monsignor Lewes didn't have a sword. "Now, what is going on here?"

Alexander jumped in before anyone else. "I was running down the hall--I know I shouldn't, Monsignor, but I was late--I'm even more late, dio, the Master of Novices will have me flogged--"

Lewes patted his arm. "I'll explain what happened, boy. Go on."

"I ran into the--the gentleman here, then I fell down." Alexander looked away from the smirk on Guglielmo's face. "I said I was sorry, and he said there were no hard feelings, and nobody got hurt, and I'm not sure why the Guards are here."

Lewes turned to the Guards. "Yes, sergeant? Why are your men here? And so many of them?"

"Well, Reverend Sir, we saw the scuffle and, considering the people involved . . ." Guglielmo and Angelo smiled identical smiles and ran casual hands over the hilts of their swords.

"Indeed." Lewes glared at all of them again. "Two people have a collision in the heavily-traveled halls of the Vatican, and the Papal Guard hurries to help. That's very gratifying, sergeant, but perhaps not the most efficient use of your time."

The Guardsman took the unsubtle hint. "Of course, Reverend Sir." He gathered his men with a look, and, with a final sneer at Guglielmo and Angelo, headed off.

Angelo gave Lewes a very curious look. "A thousand thanks, Reverend Sir. No offense, but who are you that the Papal Guard turns tail when you snarl?"

Lewes tucked his hands into his wide sleeves. "Why, just another humble servant of our Holy Mother, captain. Nothing more."

"Indeed."

"Indeed." He spared another glare for Guglielmo. "Surely, captain, you and your comrade have business elsewhere?"

Guglielmo bristled, but Angelo smacked his arm. "We do, Reverend Sir. Come along, Guglielmo."

Guglielmo turned to follow, but paused to wink at Alexander. "Farewell, Brother Nobody. It's a pity we couldn't extend our acquaintance." Angelo grabbed his sleeve and tugged him along.

Monsignor Lewes let a small smile escape as he watched the pair depart. "It seems you made somewhat of an impression on William the Bloody."

Alexander didn't recognize the English words. "On who?"

"Sorry. Your new friend. Guglielmo il Sanguinante."

"Il San--" Alexander felt his knees wobble a little. "That was Guglielmo il Sanguinante? The soldier?"

"Indeed. And his captain, Angelo dell'Irlanda." Monsignor Lewes took Alexander's arm again. "Brace up, lad, you came out of a scuffle with the Scourge of Europe quite well."

"But what would men like that be doing here?"

Lewes looked very thoughtful. "I don't know. Yet." He patted Alexander on the shoulder. "Now, what's your name, lad?"

"Alexander, Reverend Sir."

"Alexander. A good name. And where were you headed when all this blew up in your face?"

Alexander shook himself. "The Basilica. I'm supposed to help serve Mass with Cardinal Fortezzi. I don't know if I'm going to make it in time now."

"Yes, it would be such a terrible tragedy to keep the good Cardinal waiting." He caught the shocked look Alexander gave him. "I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me. His Eminence will be waiting, but I'm sure there will be another novice available if necessary. I'll explain to the Master of Novices that none of this was your fault."

They walked down the corridor towards the Basilica, garnering curious looks from observers. Alexander couldn't quite place Monsignor Lewes' position in the Vatican hierarchy, but he had seen the man around the Apostolic offices more than once. He was obviously someone important, with better things to do than shepherd one lowly novice. "Reverend Sir, it's really very kind of you to come with me, but the Master of Novices isn't that bad, really. He'll listen to me."

"I'm sure he will," Monsignor Lewes said placidly. "Still, I want to make sure your story gets a fair hearing. I hate injustice."

Alexander started to answer, but his attention was caught by the signet ring on the Monsignor's left thumb. He couldn't make out the entire seal, but he did recognize the upright sword in the center. His stomach knotted painfully. Kind Monsignor Lewes was affiliated with the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

"Alexander? Are you all right?"

He pulled his eyes away from the ring with a jerk. Lewes frowned at him, then glanced down at his own hand.

"Ah. Yes." Lewes turned the ring so that the seal was hidden beneath his hand. "Things happen, Alexander. Inexplicable things. And people have to try and find the truth of those things. It can be an ugly business. But one should never be afraid of the truth."

"Yes, sir."

There was pain in the mild eyes, but Lewes said nothing. They were silent the rest of the way to the changing rooms near the high altar in the Basilica. The Master of Novices spotted them and began working his way through the swarm of altar boys towards them.

Lewes leaned closer to Alexander. "You have nothing to fear from me, lad. If you ever need help with anything, no matter how bizarre, remember me as a friend."

More convinced than ever that this was the strangest day he had ever lived, Alexander went to find his robes.

***

The two mercenaries strode along, sneering slightly at the people who were careful to stay out of their way. Even the priests and functionaries around the Apostolic precincts avoided the pair. Once they were clear of the Papal sphere of influence, they shifted from arrogance to watchfulness. In the commoners' sections of Roma, people were more likely to answer offense with blunt violence than with nebulous religious maledictions. It was much homeier and more relaxing than the stifling show of hypocritical asceticism in the Vatican.

Angelo tossed a coin to a vendor in exchange for some meat rolls. He handed one to Guglielmo, who bit in delicately, careful of the hot grease. He shook his head at Angelo's less civilized manners.

"You get spots on that tunic, and Isabetta will have your scalp for a dust cloth."

Angelo paused, almost reached to his head, then sneered. "I can manage Isabetta." He held the sausage-filled roll a little further away from his body.

"Of course."

"Now, you tell me what you were thinking when you grabbed an infant priest for a shield?"

"That he'd make a very good one, and that those big dark eyes of his are just begging to be shocked."

"I know you understand the concept of choosing your fights wisely, but do you think you could give me some warning when you decide to challenge the entire Papal Guard?"

"Oh, it was not the entire Guard! A half dozen men, pffth."

Angelo sighed. "And how do you know the boy has dark eyes?"

Guglielmo hesitated. "Typical local lad. With that coloring he's bound to have dark eyes, too."

"Um hm. Do you remember that girl in Venice?"

"Drusilla," Guglielmo purred.

"You swore that was love at first sight, that her eyes beckoned you to take refuge in their dark, comforting depths."

"I said that?"

"You did."

"Was I drunk?"

"No."

"And you didn't have the simple human decency to forget about it, out of respect for me, who's served you for over a decade?"

Angelo beamed at him. "Not for the forgiveness of all my days in Purgatory."

"Oh, as if you have any chance of Purgatory. Hellbound, you are."

"Not with all the gold I spend on Masses. But we're not discussing my soul, we're focusing on your inability to keep your hands to yourself. I don't recall Drusilla being that smitten with you. I can't imagine why. Grandniece of the Doge, the sons of dukes at her feet. No reason not to look twice at a soldier."

"You're an evil bastard and I hate you."

Angelo put an arm around his shoulders and laid a damp kiss on his forehead. "Of course, you do. But, Will--a noblewoman is one thing. I expected you to at least woo the girl into bed. But a boy studying to be a priest? You'll not be seeing much support from me on this."

"I wasn't asking for any."

Guglielmo walked faster. This was nothing like Drusilla in Venice. She'd definitely been softening her attitude towards the end. Was it his fault that she'd decided it was the wisest course of action to cry rape when her brother found the two of them in her room? How the hell did they think he'd found her room in the first place, after all? Still, leaving town was definitely advisable.

Brother Nobody was just that, nobody. An awkward boy too ungainly to keep his feet. No one had taught him how to move, how to use that big body of his to best effect. He was just another youth trapped in the machinery of Holy Church, destined to a withered life of serving an altar instead of learning how to be a man.

He came to a stop. "Oh, Blessed Mother, no . . ."

He was just stepping to the wall of a nearby building, ready to knock his head against it, when a familiar big hand wrapped around his neck. "None of that now, boy. A few gallons of wine, that's what you need. Maybe a wench or three."

"Blondes. Red heads."

"Of course."

The Crusader's Kiss was an old inn which still had its attached stables, despite the value of land inside Roma and the scarcity of horses on the crowded streets. When the Scourge of Europe was looking for a Roman headquarters, lodging for their horses had been the first consideration. Any moral objections the landlord may have had to becoming permanent host to a gang of soldiers were quickly resolved by the glitter of gold, and he and Captain Angelo quickly came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. A wooden mace carved above the front doorway served as the sign. Passers-by still occasionally came in for drinks and to listen to the tales of warfare, but the primary business was the care and comfort of the mercenaries who currently called the inn home.

"Gianni!" Angelo called as he pulled Guglielmo after him into the inn. "Wine for my besotted friend, here!"

The plump man behind the counter waved. "At once, Captain Angelo."

Angelo dropped Guglielmo into his chair at the long table in the back of the room, then took his own ornately-carved seat at the head. Across from Guglielmo sat a tall, thin, dour man in dark clothes. He was writing in a large book and counting various piles of coins.

"Is it settled?" he asked, not looking up from his work.

"Aye, Thomas, all's well." Angelo accepted a large goblet of wine from Gianni, who placed one in front of Guglielmo.

Thomas Wyndham turned to another section of his ledger. "How much was the fine?"

"No fine. The Captain of the Guard was happy to let the matter go."

"No fine." Thomas considered first Guglielmo, then Angelo. "How many bodies did you two leave behind you?"

"It is not true that we kill someone every time we go out!"

"No, of course not."

"Everything was settled quite diplomatically and at no cost to ourselves." Angelo reached out for the nearest pile of coins.

A dagger appeared from inside Thomas' sleeve, then stabbed into the table between the stack of coins and Angelo's fingers. Thomas jotted a notation in his book. Guglielmo surreptitiously used a convenient cloth to wipe up the wine he'd spilled while fighting back laughter.

"Thomas," Angelo said carefully, "you do remember whose money that is, don't you?"

"Certainly, captain. And I'm sure you remember who manages the money and keeps your accounts straight." He reached to his left to a larger pile of coins, picked up several and handed them to Angelo.

"But it's all the same money."

"No, it is not." Thomas pointed to the pile Angelo had reached for. "This is the rent. That is the men's pay." He pointed to his left. "And that is the quarterly pay from our patron that I am still divvying up between the bills. You'll get your share when I'm done."

Angelo glared at Thomas, who ignored him, then at Guglielmo, who raised his hands. "That's why you hired him, Angelo. Plus he knows all the best weapons smiths."

Angelo muttered a few moments more, then signaled Gianni for more wine as he watched Thomas count coins. "So what are we paying for rent these days?" he finally asked.

Thomas glanced at Guglielmo and winked very briefly. Every quarter it was like this: Angelo would bluster and complain, then he'd get interested in the minutiae of the business. Guglielmo picked up his wine goblet and headed upstairs. On the upper balcony he met Isabetta, Angelo's mistress. She was a tiny blonde who knew more dirty tricks with a dagger than Thomas did.

"If you're here, then Angelo's here," she said when she saw Guglielmo. "Are either of you hurt?"

Guglielmo sighed rather than protesting. "We're fine. He's downstairs watching Thomas count money."

Isabetta grinned. "Ooh, the money. I need a new skirt." She bounced down the stairs and over to Angelo's lap.

Guglielmo tried not to listen to the shrieking giggles when Angelo found her ticklish spot. Perhaps he ought to send a note to Nicoletta, see if she was available. Maybe she could bring some friends.

He froze just before he reached his own room. The shadows at the end of the corridor were moving, then they coalesced into the figure of a hooded woman stepping into view.

"Roxilana, you're not supposed to be here," he said. "You know how Angelo feels about Gypsies."

Black hair, black eyes, lithe figure, but he'd as soon lay hand on her as declare the Blessed Virgin a strumpet at high noon in St. Peter's Square. Roxilana raised a graceful finger to her lips. "Our brave captain mislikes mysteries," she whispered. "He distrusts anything he cannot kill. But you love the things that lie behind the images, handsome Guillermo. You want to know why."

He was used to her cryptic words. She had been appearing in his life intermittently for the last seven years, ever since that night in Aragon when he'd let a running girl hide behind a wagon and he'd told the pursuing Spanish Inquisitors that he'd seen a Gypsy girl duck into an alleyway a hundred yards further on. He'd expected the usual tokens of gratitude. Instead of offering herself for his pleasure, though, she'd placed a fingertip on his forehead, smiled, and told him to beware of stone fences before vanishing into the shadows. Two weeks later, in a desperate battle with French forces, he and Angelo had been retreating down a village street. A stone fence had appeared, and Angelo suggested jumping it and circling around to come at the French from behind. At the last minute Guglielmo remembered the girl's warning and pulled Angelo further down the road. Within moments, French reinforcements appeared at that fence. Guglielmo credited better hearing for their escape.

"Why are you here, Roxilana?" he asked calmly. Sometimes she warned him about an upcoming battle, sometimes she only spoke of the commonplace.

Her smile was sly. "Isabetta wanted a love charm. I told her she didn't need one, that her captain was loyal, if not completely faithful."

"I didn't know you knew Isabetta. Angelo won't like that."

"Does Angelo need to know?" Roxilana drifted past him, trailing a hand along his arm. She hesitated, then stared into his eyes. "Poor Guillermo. You are too generous with your heart. He will break it, the lovely boy."

Guglielmo resisted his first reaction. "You'd best go, before anyone else sees you." He nearly snarled at the look of sympathy she gave him before she disappeared.

***

It was after Vespers when Alexander finally made it back to his dormitory. Thankfully the room was empty and he could take a moment to let his mind slow down. Such a bizarre day. It made one wonder what God was thinking as He ordered the paths of His creatures.

Alexander found himself musing on the different types of fear. When he'd been faced with the sword point of the notorious Il Sanguinante, the fear had been immediate and physical. Still, he'd rather have that feeling back again if forced to choose between the other fears he'd met today.

An Inquisitor knew his name, had shown interest in his life. The Holy Office protected the world against heresy and blasphemy, but their curious eyes were safest when they were far away. Monsignor Lewes had reminded him so much of the priest back home: kind, wise, patient, understanding. The kind of person who would encourage confidences. And who might then turn those confidences against you.

Why had Monsignor Lewes gone to such an effort for him? There were such better targets for an Inquisitor's attentions--

Alexander smacked himself in the mouth. A dozen Our Fathers for disrespect. He was no one to judge a Prince of the Church, a member of the Curia. Cardinal Fortezzi was just, well, odd. And old. Old men were entitled to their oddities.

He had been out of breath but right on time for Mass. The other altar boy was a very young recent arrival who had looked relieved to have an experienced partner. Helping serve Mass in a local village church was much different from assisting on the enormous stage that was St. Peter's Basilica. Alexander had been too busy shepherding the young boy to really pay attention to the celebrant. He'd let the words and the ritual carry him into a rapturous trance where the movements were a well-worn dance dedicated to God.

Until he saw Cardinal Fortezzi slip the consecrated wafer of the Host inside his sleeve instead of breaking it and adding a portion to the chalice. His Eminence continued the ritual as usual, drinking from the cup and continuing with the prayers. When he had purified the chalice with wine and water, he'd handed it to Alexander to be returned to its resting place. Alexander didn't know what expression he'd had on his face, but Cardinal Fortezzi had given him a very intent look.

There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for His Eminence's action. Except Alexander knew there was none. For a mad moment he'd even considered finding Monsignor Lewes, but he wanted no more contact with the Inquisition.

"There you are, Sandro!"

Alexander jumped in fear, but relaxed as Giuseppe, one of the last remnants of his old village's human tithe to the Church, dropped onto his own bed next to Alexander's. Giuseppe's hands were dark with ink stains from his work in the archives, but his easy smile said his day had been peaceful.

"You're very nervous," Giuseppe observed. "But with the day you've had, I'm not surprised."

"The day I've had?"

"Condottiere and the Papal Guard and the Inquisition? And you in the middle with a killer's hand around your throat?"

Alexander almost laughed at the eager curiosity on Giuseppe's face. "It wasn't my throat, it was my arm he was holding onto."

"Then he didn't threaten to kill you?"

"Please try not to sound so disappointed."

Giuseppe laughed. "I'm sorry. But it's the most interesting thing to happen around here in weeks. I would have loved to have been there, instead of sorting sheepskins with Master Paolo."

"I would have loved for you to be there, too. Instead of me." He returned Giuseppe's rude gesture with one of his own--after checking to make sure no authority figures were around. "How did you know about the Inquisition?"

"Monsignor Lewes? One of Bishop Rossini's servants saw you and the Monsignor walking along afterwards, and he told us all about it down in the Archives."

"What's he like?" Alexander asked casually.

"Bishop Rossini's servant?"

"Monsignor Lewes, you goat."

Giuseppe flopped back onto his pillow. "I like him. He comes down into the Archives a lot, looking for obscure references. He's always very polite and says 'Thank you', even to the lowly apprentices like me."

"But--he's still an Inquisitor."

"More of a researcher than an actual questioner. But they do say that, in Genoa a couple of years ago, he actually forced a demon to flee from the body of a young girl that was possessed." He sat up again. "Did he really make Angelo dell'Irlanda turn tail and run away?"

"He pointed out that there was surely important business elsewhere that needed dealt with, rather than hanging around the Vatican."

"And dell'Irlanda and Il Sanguinante just went."

"Yes."

Giuseppe leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me everything about them. What kind of swords did they have? Did you see any daggers?"

It was a better topic than strange behavior during High Mass.

***

Normally only the guards and servants walked the corridors of the Apostolic Palace in the deep watches of the nights. Anyone else encountered when all others were supposed to be asleep were those on business better left unquestioned.

Especially Inquisitors. Monsignor Lewes made no real effort to avoid observers as he walked down the corridor to his private chambers. It was almost amusing, the way people found business elsewhere when he passed by.

Once he was in his rooms, he locked the door with a sigh of relief. The effort of watching everyone was exhausting. Here in his chambers he'd taken steps to make sure he would not be disturbed so that his soul could stretch. He removed his cloak and boots, then went to his private altar and knelt.

The crucifix attached to the wall was very old. Christ was clearly suffering from his tortures, but his face was serene, gazing up to Heaven and accepting the torment as a necessary price. Monsignor Lewes found the piece very comforting.

"Thy shoulders are eternally strong and broad, Lord," he murmured, "but I feel a coward for wanting to lay my burdens on top of Thine. I chose this path, the work is worthy and the need is great. These blasphemies must be stopped. But all eyes follow me in suspicion, and those I can trust are far away. But Thou art always with me. Keep me mindful of Thy blessings and Thy strength. I don't do this work alone."

He crossed himself and rose. Across the room from the altar, he turned his hand so that the seal ring on his left thumb was pressed against a section of wall. "Knock, and the door shall be opened," he said. A small popping sound, and a door appeared in the wall.

The small room beyond had not been created by the architects of the Palace. Lewes' predecessors had crafted the space carefully and made sure that its secrets were passed on. Mere suspicion of the room's existence would result in very difficult questions.

Here, though, Lewes could finally relax completely. Old wards guarded the room from detection, and as far as the Monsignor could tell, there was no one else in the Palace who even had the ability to check for such things. In this room and this room alone, Henry Lewes could let his true self loose and let his magic run free.

Practice of the Arts was contrary to church law. He ran the very real risk of the Question himself for simply possessing some of the items in this room. The books alone were a heresy charge apiece. He sat at the small desk and mused nostalgically on his comrades back in England. A small pink crystal sat in a bowl on a nearby shelf, but it wasn't glowing to show that someone wanted to contact him, and homesickness was insufficient reason to use it.

If the situation here continued as he was afraid it would, though, he might have reason to contact England himself. The stars were in a very worrisome configuration, strange omens were whispered of in the back hallways, and occasionally Lewes caught the stench of true, diabolic evil. The Palace was full of the commonplace reek of human evil, of corruption and greed and lust and all the mortal sins. This, though, was truly Other.

He scolded himself for slipping into the error of confusing the authentically demonic with the tales of fallen Lucifer preached by his colleagues. Much of the Biblical story was true, as far as it went, but there was also as much that was the veneer applied by a millennia and a half of folklore, competing philosophies, and the biases of the ones who had control of the pens. Lewes often wanted to laugh at his Inquisitorial brethren, but he was generally too busy choking back tears of rage and frustration.

True demons and monsters stalked the earth, and the Holy Office was persecuting Jews and eccentrics. Not once in his official duties had Lewes seen anyone who was guilty of the evil he knew was in the world. No, those folk were too clever to be caught by the clumsy justice of the Church. Lewes wanted to leave, but he was often the only thing standing between an innocent and the flames. One of those innocents had been a young girl suddenly beset by visions of monsters and who was certain she was called to vanquish the fiends. Her family had given her to the Inquisition after flogging failed to drive the demons from her, but she remained adamant. Lewes remembered very clearly the look on her face when he'd released her from her cell in the middle of the night and he whispered to her that the monsters were real and, yes, she had been Chosen.

He'd saved her. Two others, not yet Chosen but suffering from the dreams, had been judged possessed. Their deaths under the testing were considered proof of their essential righteousness, and the Holy Office had congratulated itself on freeing the girls' souls from torment. Lewes had divested himself of every indication of his Church affiliation and lost himself in a tavern for three days.

No one currently in the custody of the Holy Office was in danger of loss of life, though their persecution smacked more of petty revenge than of the pursuit of righteousness. What worried Lewes were some hints in various prophecies referring to gathering evil. He picked up the small stack of parchments from his worktable.

The top document referred to a young man bearing a conqueror's name and who was known as The One Who Sees. He would appear at the end of the century and be instrumental in binding the forces of Hell. Unfortunately, the prophecy had been written in 1247 and neglected to say *which* century this seer would appear in. Still, there was the boy he'd met, Alexander. Best to keep an eye on him.

The next prophecy was more immediately worrying. A king among vampires, walking as if by right in the halls of power, with a powerful prince bringing him the tools with which to bring forth the torments of Hell. This prince, it was written, was in full knowledge of the creature he served and saw only the way to his own advancement.

Sacrifices were spoken of, both of innocence and of corruption. Lewes' sources, both written and speaking, were vague on the details, and he was getting the impression that his questions were becoming inconvenient. He'd been in the Jewish quarter tonight, hoping one of the scholars there would have manuscripts with new information, but he'd made the mistake of wearing cleric's garb. He hated the fear he saw in their eyes.

He shuffled his papers together again, too tired to make any more sense of it tonight. A quick but sincere prayer for guidance, and then off to bed for him. He couldn't Watch if he couldn't keep his eyes open.

***

The hot afternoon sun beat down on the dirty streets of Roma. Vendors loudly offered discounts in an effort to get rid of their day's wares so they could go home to their dinners. The sun cooked the garbage in the street into renewed fragrance, and the constant churning of the foot traffic stirred it all into new combinations.

Horses were generally frowned upon in the crowded streets. Some people, naturally, were always considered to be exceptions: noblemen, important churchmen, and, of course, notorious mercenaries who, it was popularly believed, didn't feel a day was well spent until someone had died at their hands.

Angelo and Guglielmo were both tired after a long day conducting the snap inspections that so endeared them to the various Papal army units that had been put under their command. Still, there were few things they enjoyed more than making officers of the regular army dance to the mercenary tune.

Guglielmo was still shaking his head over the last incident as they rode through the crowd towards the Crusader's Kiss. "I still think you went too far," he said. "No matter if it is true, you shouldn't brag about bedding an officer's sister, especially when that officer is related to the Sforzas."

They reached the inn and dismounted, letting the groom take their horses. Angelo pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Madonna, I need a bath." He began unlacing the heavy leather jerkin he wore. "That officer wasn't upset about me bedding his sister, Will. He was upset because I said she wasn't very good."

Guglielmo sighed. "One of these days someone is going to slip a dagger between your ribs, and I won't stop them."

Gianni the landlord greeted them at the door with cold, filled goblets. "Master Guglielmo, there's someone from the Vatican here to see you."

Guglielmo looked at Angelo, then back. "To see me?"

"Si, maestro."

"Someone from the Guards?" Angelo asked suspiciously.

"No, captain. A churchman."

Guglielmo shrugged and led the way in. He grinned when he saw who was being interrogated at the big table by Isabetta. "Brother Nobody, how nice to see you. What brings you down to our world?"

Isabetta tsked. "His name is Alexander, not Nobody."

Alexander looked relieved when Isabetta got up from the table. He got up too and nodded awkwardly. "Good afternoon, Signore . . . um . . . "

Guglielmo took over the seat Isabetta had occupied. "No need to stand on manners, brother. I'm Guglielmo, you're Alexander." He found a goblet and the wine pitcher, filled the first from the second, and held it out to Alexander. "What brings you to this part of town, Alexander?"

Alexander hesitated, then took the goblet and resumed his seat. He glanced towards Angelo nervously, then looked away quickly. Guglielmo checked over his shoulder and saw Isabetta giving Angelo a proper welcome home kiss. Alexander took a quick drink of wine. "I was told to bring you a message." He jumped at a sudden shriek from Isabetta, who had just been tossed over Angelo's shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

Guglielmo chuckled and poured his own wine. "Well, he was wanting a bath." Alexander's dazed expression caught his eye. "When's the last time you talked to a girl? Much less a pretty girl?"

The young man blushed and yanked his gaze back from watching Angelo and the wiggling, laughing girl. "Um, a while." He stared at his wine goblet, his lips moving.

Which saint were you supposed to pray to, Guglielmo wondered, in order to resist the natural reactions of a healthy young man? "It's a shame you're stuck up in that monastery with all those shriveled up celibates."

Alexander glared at him. "Celibacy is a sacrifice to God. Women are a distraction from our proper work."

Guglielmo raised his goblet. "Praise be." He drained his goblet, then refilled it and leaned back in his chair to put his feet on the table. "Tell me about this message."

The young man dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his goblet. "The presence of Guglielmo il Sanguinante is requested at the Vatican at his soonest convenience. I'm to guide you."

"What, now? I've been out in the sun all day, I don't want to pull on my fancy clothes and go out again. I want a bath and a girl and more wine." He hid his smile at Alexander's discomfort behind his goblet. "Who sent you, anyway?"

"His Excellency Cesare Borgia."

Slowly Guglielmo pulled his feet down. "Cesare sent you." Alexander nodded uneasily. "And what does His Excellency want with me?"

"I don't know, signore. I was told he needed a messenger, I went to his chambers for instructions, he told me to come here and bring you back for a meeting."

He studied the boy carefully. "He asked for me specifically?" Alexander nodded. "Anyone else?"

"No, signore. His Excellency said you were to come alone."

"Oh, he'd like that, I'm sure." Guglielmo watched Alexander as he thought. "Did he mention our little encounter the other day?"

"No, signore."

"Stop that. My name's Guglielmo, not signore. Stay here."

He got up and headed for the stairs, hoping Isabetta hadn't gotten too far in her "I'm glad you're home" evening greetings.

He heard splashing and laughter when he reached Angelo's door. Maybe a visit to the Vatican was safer than interrupting the pair inside. But dalliance would have to take second place to the extreme inadvisability of going alone into possibly hostile territory without telling anyone. He reluctantly knocked on the door.

"Go away!" Angelo shouted. "I'm busy."

"Business, captain," Guglielmo called back.

An oath, then a bigger splash, then stomping footsteps coming to the door. Angelo pulled the door open, obviously unconcerned about his lack of wardrobe. Behind him, Isabetta squeaked and sank down to neck level in the big wooden tub that sat in the middle of the room. Guglielmo mentally congratulated her for having organized the bringing up and filling of the tub before her lover returned.

"What?" Angelo snapped.

Now that he could lower his voice, Guglielmo was less formal. "The boy was sent by Cesare Borgia, who wants me, specifically, to go up to the palace. Now. Alone."

Angelo frowned. "That's idiocy."

"I agree. But so is refusing."

"What's he want you for?"

"The boy doesn't know. He's waiting to go back with me."

"Alone, eh?" He glanced back thoughtfully at Isabetta and the tub. Isabetta began to pout.

"You can't go," Guglielmo said, fighting a pleased smile. "Me taking one of the men can be shrugged off as wanting a body guard. Me taking you is a threat."

"And so is summoning you at the end of the day." Angelo thought some more. "You'll take one of the men?"

Guglielmo nodded. "Is Thomas around?"

"He's not much less of a liability. But he is out in the stables. He can help pick someone to go with you."

"I'll check with him." He grinned at Angelo as he turned to go. "If I'm not home by morning, check the Tiber."

"Will . . ." Guglielmo turned around completely. Angelo stood in the doorway to watch him. "Be careful."

"Always."

Angelo closed the door and Guglielmo strode down the corridor to his room at the other end, yanking his shirt over his head in the interests of time.

"Alessandro!" he yelled when he reached the railing overlooking the main room.

The boy jumped and stared upwards. "Signore?"

"Out in the stable yard is a man named Thomas Wyndham. Find him and tell him I need someone to go up to the palace with me. Oh, and tell him he can't go."

"But--you're supposed to go alone."

He grinned and tossed his shirt in the general direction of a laundry basket standing in the corridor. "You may have noticed that I'm not the kind of man who generally does as he's told."

"But--"

"Shoo." He began worrying at the knot in the laces that held his hose together. "The longer you take the longer His Excellency has to wait." The laces finally came undone.

Alexander suddenly blushed and scurried for the door. Guglielmo nodded in approval as he pushed down the hose and pulled off his boots before continuing down to his room.

Out in the stable yard, Alexander took a moment to pull himself together. He had truly fallen into a den of iniquity. Loose women and shameless men. He knew things happened up at the Vatican that contradicted everything Father Riccardo at home had told him about how a man of God should behave, but he'd always been able to avoid such things. He hadn't dreamed that obeying His Excellency's orders would give him such a list of things he'd have to tell his confessor.

He knew to avert his eyes from the whores in the streets, but that girl, Isabetta, had seemed so friendly and pleasant that it had taken him several moments to realize how fascinatingly low-cut her bodice was. And he shouldn't have watched the way she and Captain Angelo, well, greeted each other.

Shaking himself, he forced his mind back to his instructions. Find the man Thomas Wyndham, tell him Il Sanguinante needed someone to accompany him to the palace in direct contradiction of the orders His Excellency had sent. Alexander sighed in frustration. Giuseppe didn't have days like this down in the archives.

A group of men sat in the shade of the stables, drinking wine and tossing dice. One of them looked up at Alexander's approach. "Looking for something, little priest?" he asked in a mostly friendly voice.

"Yes, I'm looking for Thomas Wyndham."

The man farthest back in the shadows stepped forward. "I am he. What do you want?"

Alexander fought to keep from fidgeting. This man was making no pretensions to being friendly. "Signore Guglielmo told me--"

"Guglielmo sent you?" Wyndham interrupted.

"Yes, he did." It was getting very hard to be polite with all the stress he was under. "He wanted me to tell you that he's going up to the Palace and he wants someone to go with him. And he told me to tell you that you're not allowed to go."

The other men gasped a little, but Alexander didn't care.

Thomas Wyndham raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I'm not *allowed* to go?"

Once upon a time, Alexander might have had the sense to be nervous at the man's tone of voice. "That's what he said. You're not allowed to go. Actually, no one's supposed to go with him. Those were the instructions, he's supposed to go alone."

"Ah. One of those situations." Wyndham looked at the other men. "Well, gentlemen? Who doesn't have plans this evening?"

The men muttered together. "Maurice is drunk. Already? What about Paolo? Out with Jeanne."

Wyndham stood patiently, though one foot did tap occasionally. "Well?"

A dark, scarred man stepped forward. "Looks like it's my turn, Thomas."

"Thank you, Giancarlo." Wyndham looked at Alexander. "Did Guglielmo say how long he'd be?"

"I--he was taking off his clothes right before I came out here." Alexander knew he was blushing badly. "How long does he take to change clothes?"

The man was definitely fighting a grin. "Depends on if he has a better reason to stay out of his clothes than putting on other ones."

The mercenaries snickered, and Alexander wished he hadn't been running late for Maestro Bramante's class when Cesare Borgia's servant had come looking for a messenger. He ran over the parts of a classical Greek entablature in his mind to distract himself.

Guglielmo came out the door, dressed in his black and red finery. His black velvet hat was crooked, he was wiggling his feet to get the boots settled correctly, and his scabbarded sword was tucked under his right arm. "Sandro, tie this." He held out his left arm with the dangling ties for his cuffs.

Fighting a growl, Alexander obeyed. "My name is Alexander."

"I doubt that's what the priest in your home village said at your baptism," Guglielmo grinned. He juggled his sword into his left hand and held out his right arm to be tied.

When did this man stop being a notorious cold-blooded killer and become an obnoxious buffoon? "Are you ready?" He cinched the right-hand knot down as tight as he could.

Guglielmo grinned at Thomas Wyndham. "Am I ready? Who did you find?"

Wyndham quietly retied the right-hand cuff into something looser. "Giancarlo's going with you. Did you want to take horses?"

"Better not. I'd want to take someone to watch the horses as well, and that's pushing the numbers. Besides, I doubt Brother Sandro can ride."

Mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary, mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary. "I can too ride," Alexander said as calmly as he could.

"Plow horses don't count." He patted Alexander's shoulder as he looked Giancarlo over. "You'll do. You have your sword?"

One of the men in the stable tossed out a sheathed long sword and belt. Giancarlo caught it and strapped it onto his back. "Yes."

Guglielmo slid his sword into its spot on his right hip, checked the dagger on his left hip, then tugged back his left sleeve to check the dagger strapped to that wrist. "Let's go then."

The walk back to the Palace was a different thing than the walk down. Alexander was used to being anonymous. One more novice in the streets of Roma drew no attention. A novice in the company of mercenaries, on the other hand, caught eyes and caused whispers. He disliked being noticed. It led to things like Inquisitors knowing his name and swordsmen giving him orders.

A woman yanked her young son back out of the way with a frightened look. Alexander looked at the mercenaries flanking him. Giancarlo seemed to be ignoring everything, making no effort to appear intimidating. Which meant . . .

He turned to his other side. "Stop it."

Guglielmo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Whatever you're doing that's making everyone look at us like this. Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything, Brother Sandro. I'm just walking along the way I normally do."

"Well, stop it."

Guglielmo laughed as Giancarlo stared at Alexander. "You do know who that is, don't you?" the quiet man said.

Alexander nodded. "Guglielmo il Sanguinante, mercenary, soldier, killer, etc., etc. My life was so much quieter before I ran into him."

Giancarlo looked at Guglielmo, who was still snickering. The laughter faded as half a dozen men with drawn swords stepped out of a narrow alley ahead.

"What interesting timing," Guglielmo said with a hard smile.

Around them, the crowd in the street faded away. Alexander looked around, confused. "What's happening?"

Guglielmo backed up to Alexander's side and put an apparently companionable arm around his shoulders. His left hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"What we have here, young Brother Sandro, is an ambush." He looked behind to make sure no one was sneaking up. "How convenient that just as you're leading us up to the palace, these bravos should appear."

Alexander gaped in surprise. He tried to pull away, but Guglielmo held on easily. "Let go."

"I don't think so."

The men from the alley stepped forward. Guglielmo and Giancarlo drew their swords. Alexander tried one more time to pull free, but Guglielmo pulled him in front into a familiar position.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, anxiously dividing his attention between the mercenary behind him and the approaching swordsmen.

"About to find out if whomever told them to wait for you to lead me into an ambush left any instructions about sparing you."

"I didn't!"

Guglielmo spared a moment to glance at Alexander. "I'll leave the option open that you're the Judas goat and not Judas himself. Now hold still and don't get in my way."

The men charged Guglielmo. Giancarlo intercepted from the side, distracting one pair and leaving four for Guglielmo. Alexander would have shrieked if he could have gotten breath. Swearing, Guglielmo shoved him towards a wall, freeing himself to move.

"It doesn't look like they have orders to spare you," Guglielmo called to Alexander as he skewered the first man in the throat. He pulled the dagger from inside his left sleeve and used it to parry another incoming blade.

Alexander pressed himself back against the chipped plaster wall and stared in horror at the carnage. He wanted to cross himself when the first man fell to the street, choking on his own blood, but his hand wouldn't move. Giancarlo disposed of one of his opponents with a neat heart thrust. The other man who was attacking Giancarlo suddenly turned and ran. The mercenary immediately went to help Guglielmo. With a bloodthirsty grin, Guglielmo made room for his comrade, but he kept most of the fighting for himself.

"So that's why they call him Il Sanguinante," Alexander whispered to himself. When pressed, Guglielmo was a quick, efficient fighter. Given the chance, though, he went for crippling, messy wounds. He laughed as he fought, even when the blow was against him. A sword point snagged one of his black sleeves. With an intricately blasphemous oath, he gutted the man who had torn the cloth.

"Do you know how much I'm going to have to beg Isabetta to fix that?" he yelled. He turned and sliced the elbow tendons in the sword arm of his last opponent. "And then I'm going to have to make sure she doesn't embroider love knots and roses on the damned thing as well!" He slammed the sole of his boot into the face of the last man, knocking him back and letting Giancarlo finish him.

Alexander finally felt his breath flow normally again. He crossed himself, whispering prayers for the dead and dying. He stepped forward, then saw movement from the corner of his eye. The attacker who had run from Giancarlo was sneaking towards him, a dagger in his hand.

"Guglielmo!"

Il Sanguinante looked up from his inspection of his sleeve and flung the dagger in his right hand into the attacker's throat. Blood sputtered from the wound, and the man dropped, gurgling. Alexander, both hands shoved against his mouth, stared into the man's eyes until they froze and gazed at nothing.

Guglielmo appeared at Alexander's shoulder, shaking him and pulling him back. "None of your concern anymore, little priest. Well, except the obvious." Alexander was shaking too hard to make any movement towards a blessing.

Giancarlo came up and stared at the body. "He came back?"

"Apparently so." Guglielmo studied Alexander for several moments, then shook his shoulder again but more gently. "Brother Sandro, we're expected."

"What?" Alexander said, blinking.

"At the Palace. We're supposed to be at a meeting."

"But--you're still going?" He looked around at the bodies. "After this?"

Guglielmo raised an eyebrow at Giancarlo, who only sighed and shook his head. "Of course, I'm still going. Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"I--but--they just tried to kill you!"

Guglielmo's smile suddenly changed from mocking to amused. "People try to do that all the time, Sandro. That's my job." He reached down and pulled his dagger from his victim's throat.

Alexander watched him clean the dagger. "You're left-handed."

"So?" Guglielmo dug some blood out from a crevice between the blade and the cross guard, then slid the dagger back into its sheath.

"My grandmother said left-handed people were the spawn of the devil."

The mocking smile came back. "We are."

Alexander crossed himself again, then saw his hands were shaking. Giancarlo frowned and took Alexander's arm to drag him down the street away from the bodies.

"Some people may be used to being up to their ankles in blood," Giancarlo told Guglielmo, "but most of the people in the world are nice folks who don't deal with bodies every day. Let's get the boy away from this."

Guglielmo checked his boots for blood, then followed, looking just a little chagrined.

Alexander had recovered his composure by the time they reached St. Peter's Square. At least, he looked like he had. Inside he still heard the gasps of dying men and the sound of bodies falling to the ground. And Guglielmo said that was his job, to have people trying to kill him. Alexander knew he lived a sheltered life within the precincts of the church, but he hadn't realized just how isolated he was.

The sun was casting long shadows off the dome of the old church. The Basilica was over a thousand years old, but talk had being going around for years now on how best to renovate the venerable structure. Maestro Bramante doodled plans for grand domes and great pillars on stray bits of parchment while muttering things about da Vinci and Michelangelo. As he led his companions through the twisting corridors, Alexander fretted about the Maestro's reaction to his being absent from classes, whether he was off on legitimate business or not.

Giancarlo nudged Guglielmo. "By the way, where are we going?"

"Cesare Borgia wants to talk to me about something."

"Do you know what His Eminence wants?"

"Oh, he's not a Cardinal any longer. He's renounced the cloth and is gathering more earthly power."

"Can he do that?"

Guglielmo smiled. "His father's the Pope. He can do what he wants."

Cesare Borgia's chambers were in the newest portion of the Vatican complex, several corridors away from the Papal apartments, though rumors spoke of secret passages that allowed rapid communication between father and son. Two fully armed members of the Papal Guard stood outside the door. Alexander swallowed hard in order to speak.

"I've brought Maestro Guglielmo il Sanguinante to see His Excellency."

The right-hand guard gave him a contemptuous look as the left-hand man considered the mercenaries.

"That is not Guglielmo il Sanguinante," he said, nodding at Giancarlo.

Guglielmo sighed in perfect boredom. "His Excellency is waiting to see me. Perhaps you could leave it to him to decide who he wants admitted to his presence. If we're intruding, maybe he'll let you two take care of punishing us. Or we can just leave, I can go do what I was going to do this evening, and when he asks why I didn't show up for this meeting, I'll tell him that his two guards wouldn't let me in." He shrugged and turned to go.

"You can't do that!" Alexander protested. "His Excellency is waiting for you!"

Guglielmo shrugged. "If I can't get in, I can't get in. Don't worry, brother, you did your part. It's not your fault His Excellency's guards are so zealous in their work." He smiled at the fidgeting guards. "His Excellency will know the appropriate rewards."

The two guards looked at each other anxiously, then at Giancarlo. The one shrugged at the other, who nodded.

"Your pardon, Maestro," the first one said. "Of course you would have an attendant." He looked at Alexander. "Take them in."

Alexander hesitated. "I was just told to bring Maestro Guglielmo. I've brought him." He did not want to come any more to the attention of Cesare Borgia. Far, far better to remain an anonymous messenger boy.

The guards were out of patience. "Take them in, boy. You're expected."

Guglielmo tapped Alexander's shoulder. "Yes, brother, let's go. It seems *we* are expected."

Alexander gave him a confused look. The mercenary's face was bare of expression except for the typical mocking smile. The hand was heavy on his shoulder, and Alexander sighed in resignation. The second guard opened the door behind him, and there were no more options.

The room beyond was gloomy, lit only by a candelabra on a side table and the small lamp hanging over the altar at the east end of the room. The smells of rich food and incense hung in the air.

Guglielmo took his hand off Alexander's shoulder and walked cautiously into the room. Giancarlo stayed by the door. Alexander, unsure of what he was supposed to do now, stayed close to Giancarlo.

At the far end of the room, another lamp was slowly turned up. Behind the desk, the elegantly garbed Cesare Borgia considered the arrivals. He was only a few years older than Alexander, but his reputation was that of a much older man. As he leaned back in his chair, he ran a finger along the dark narrow beard that edged his jaw.

Guglielmo immediately bowed, but he kept his eyes on his host.

"Thank you for coming, Maestro Guglielmo," Cesare said in a faintly bored voice. He glanced at Giancarlo but said nothing on that matter.

"Your Excellency is to--" Guglielmo jerked his head towards a shadowed corner of the room. His left hand twitched.

"I asked His Eminence to join us," Cesare said in the same flat tone.

Out of the shadows stepped the elderly Cardinal Fortezzi. "God bless you, my son." He held out his right hand with a benevolent smile. Guglielmo didn't hesitate to go to him to kneel and kiss the Cardinal's ring.

Alexander hesitated, but when Giancarlo didn't move he stayed still as well.

Guglielmo rose and backed away just slow enough to still look normal. "How may I be of service, Your Excellency?" he asked Cesare.

"I will be hosting a gathering on the feast of St. Benedict. I would like you to be present to make sure we are not disturbed."

Guglielmo frowned very slightly. "You want me to provide security for your party?"

The hand resting on the desktop twitched. "A small, quiet gathering in the evening. You are known for your discretion."

"All the men in our company are discreet. Captain Angelo would have it no other way. And they would come cheaper."

The hand twitched again. "His Holiness hired your company to serve him."

Guglielmo nodded. "It is an honor to serve the Holy Father."

"It is a wise man who knows his true master," Cardinal Fortezzi said from his corner.

"Indeed, Your Eminence," Guglielmo said. "I serve Angelo dell'Irlanda. He has hired our company to the personal service of His Holiness the Pope."

Alexander was holding his breath. Beside him, he saw Giancarlo's hand creep towards his sword. Desperately Alexander focused his thoughts on whether he'd get any supper tonight in the refectory or if he'd have to go to Brother Sylvinius and look pathetic again.

Slowly Cesare sat back in his chair, folding his hands together. "If I were to engage your services for the evening of St. Benedict's, would you be available?"

Guglielmo nodded. "Barring any request from His Holiness, of course."

"Of course."

"As to the fee--"

Cesare waved a hand. "My chamberlain deals with such things."

"Of course." From the look on Guglielmo's face, the Borgia chamberlain would be receiving quite a bill.

Alexander was just breathing a very silent, very sincere prayer of thanksgiving when he heard faint laughter. Just a breath of a cruel chuckle. He looked cautiously at Cardinal Fortezzi, but His Eminence did not looked amused at anything. The laugh came again, from the other end of the room, where no light reached.

He was just about to nudge Giancarlo when he heard his name. He looked up to find Guglielmo studying him. "Pa--pardon?"

Guglielmo's smile was mocking again. "You've been volunteered to be my guide again, Brother Alexander, for St. Benedict's."

Blessed Mother, he wanted no more part of these people and their double meanings. But he was sworn. He bowed to Cesare. "As you wish, Your Excellency.

Cardinal Fortezzi smiled again. "The Chapel of St. Augustine of the Waters, my son. Be there by midnight."

Alexander frowned. "That's near the old walls, isn't it, Your Eminence?"

"Indeed."

He started to say more, but he noticed how Guglielmo was frowning at him. Confused, he stayed silent.

Cesare nodded briefly. "Until St. Benedict's, then. Your Eminence, will you stay?"

"Of course, my son."

Guglielmo bowed, then backed towards the door. He snagged Alexander's arm in passing and pulled him after. Giancarlo covered the rear.

They barely paused for an exchange of incivilities with the guards outside, though Guglielmo did let go of Alexander's arm.

"What's the quickest way out of here, brother?" he asked.

"Um, this way."

Alexander led them around two corners, into a side corridor that led to one of the servants stairs. Guglielmo paused and listened, then pushed open the door of a nearby room. He gestured everyone into the small sitting room.

"Watch the door," he told Giancarlo, who nodded. Guglielmo led Alexander over to a pair of chairs. "Who was that old man?" he asked tensely.

"Cardinal Fortezzi? He's--Cardinal Fortezzi."

"Why doesn't he like you?"

"Excuse me?"

"He kept looking at you, and they were very unfriendly looks."

Alexander slowly sat down, remembering the hard, suspicious stare he'd received from the Cardinal when Alexander saw him steal the consecrated Host.

"Well? What did you do? Steal his special sacramental wine? Flirt with his mistress?"

"No ..." But what did a mercenary know of the sanctity of the Mass? Besides, Cardinal Fortezzi was a Prince of the Church. There could be things going on that Alexander had no idea of. Surely nothing that needed to be shared outside Holy Mother Church. "Why were you making such a fuss about doing this?"

Guglielmo leaned against a table and spread his arms. "I am Guglielmo il Sanguinante, lieutenant and second in command of the Scourge of Europe. I have altered the course of wars. I do not play doorman at parties."

Alexander's confusion faded to the more accustomed irritation. "Then why did you agree to do it?"

Guglielmo sighed and dropped his arms. "We're in a bit of a grey area on that. The company is on personal hire to the Pope himself. Everyone knows he dotes on his children, and if Cesare were to ask, His Holiness would probably tell me to do whatever Cesare says. But I am not going to let Cesare skip those steps and let him pretend that he has the right to order me around. Cesare does have a lot of power, though, so I can't just refuse him. I'd better plan on being sick on St. Benedict's day."

"There's been typhus seen near the river," Giancarlo offered from by the door.

"Thank you, Giancarlo, I'll keep that in mind."

Alexander was thinking hard. "If it's so unheard of for someone like you to do this sort of thing, why ask?"

"To prove he can," Guglielmo shrugged. "I'm more curious as to why the Cardinal's involved. Does he have a reputation for the sorts of things Cesare indulges in? I won't name them, out of respect for your virgin ears."

Maybe he should have been offended, but Alexander was grateful to be spared a litany of vice. He'd heard whispered stories of Cesare Borgia, and he preferred to keep them whispers.

"His Eminence is, well--no, they don't tell us not to be alone with him or anything like that. He's just--strange."

"Strange how?"

"In--church matters."

To his relief, Guglielmo accepted the explanation. "Excessive devotions, hm? Exploring the edges of orthodoxy?" He stared pacing around the room. "I wonder what he and Cesare have in common. Sandro, what is the significance of St. Benedict?"

"My name is Alexander." He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. "Please, shouldn't you be going?"

There were several moments silence, then a touch on his knee made him look up. Guglielmo was crouched in front of him, looking serious.

"Alexander, do you know anything about defending yourself?"

"Defending myself from what?"

Guglielmo closed his eyes and sighed. "From people trying to kill you."

"Nobody's trying--" He remembered faces: Cardinal Fortezzi watching him, that anonymous ambusher in the street, Cesare Borgia. "Giancarlo was surprised that man in the street came back."

"They don't, normally, that sort. Unless there's a job they have to finish. He wasn't trying to sneak up on me, he was trying to sneak up on you."

Alexander shook his head, unable to speak.

"Someone wants you dead, Alexander. I think you know why, and it's not my business. But I would rather you didn't get your throat cut."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you rather?"

The cool eyes studied him intently for several moments, then Guglielmo's sardonic smile was back. "Well, there aren't enough beautiful young men in the world. I can't let one simply get murdered."

"Buffoon," Alexander muttered.

"Anyway, do you know how to defend yourself? Use a knife to get yourself out of a tight spot?"

"No. Churchmen aren't supposed to use weapons."

"Not even as a youngster back home? You didn't learn any rough and tumble?"

"I threw an occasional rock at an occasional dog. Sorry."

"What are they teaching youngsters these days?" Guglielmo muttered. "I'd give you a dagger now, but anyone after you would just take it from you in a squabble. Can you get away in the evenings?"

"Why would I want to?"

Guglielmo looked like he was clinging to patience the way martyrs clung to their faith in the presence of lions. "So you can come down to the inn so I can teach you how not to get gutted in some corner somewhere."

"I'm--fairly certain that wouldn't be allowed."

"Well, you're not going to ask permission, now, are you?"

Alexander shook his head, but more to reject the entire chaotic world that was trying to suck him in than the offer to teach him self-defense. If this was fate, he wanted no more to do with it. What he wanted most at this very moment was a chance to sneak into one of the chapels and send a fervent prayer to Heaven that no more strange things happen to him.

Guglielmo waited a few more moments, then sighed and stood. "We've got six days until St. Benedict's Day. You know where you can find me. Please try not to get killed between now and then." He nodded at Giancarlo, and the two mercenaries slipped out the door and away.

Alexander listened until their faint footsteps faded away. It was peaceful here in this room all by himself. If he never left here, perhaps no one would ask him to do anything out of the ordinary ever again. He suspected, though, that the Lord intended to use him as the seed sown in the field, some to fall on the rocky ground and some to fall on the fertile ground, and now Alexander was to find out how to thrive and grow.

He got to his feet, ready to go back to what passed for normal in his world and more than willing to wait till the feast day before worrying further about odd occurrences. Why was Guglielmo concerned about St. Benedict? It was probably just the nearest convenient feast day for this gathering. Benedict wasn't the most festive saint, in any case. His spheres of influence were the dying and defense against the darker arts of witchcraft and the like.

Alexander murmured a prayer to St. Benedict on general principle. His grandfather had given many a lecture on the signs of witchcraft and devil worship, terrifying the young Alessandro into nightmares about hell creatures creeping through the windows at night. Father Ricardo always made sure to lock the sacred Hosts securely in their tabernacle after every service, because the wicked were always looking for a chance to steal one of the wafers for their . . .

"No," Alexander whispered. "Holy Mother, St. Benedict, no. He's a Cardinal, a Prince of the Church."

He sat back down, shaking at the possibilities. What could he do? His only ally was a mercenary fighter with no influence in the church. This was something for the Inquisition to deal with. He wanted nothing more to do with the Holy Office, they already knew his name. It was frightening, the idea of seeking them out.

But he was already frightened.

***

The Pieta was so new that there was still marble dust in some of the crevices. It was displayed in one of the main halls of the Palace, where everyone could see and discuss. The artist had become so incensed, though, that people didn't believe he'd created the sculpture that he'd come in one night and carved his name in the sash that crossed the Madonna's bosom.

There was no way that a mere novice was going to get close enough to Michelangelo's new work to get a good look. From his place on the far side of the room, though, Alexander had a perfect view of the Madonna's bowed head as she gazed sorrowfully down at the body of her Son. He whispered yet another prayer to the Holy Mother for courage.

It hadn't taken long to discover where he could find Monsignor Lewes and have it look accidental. Giuseppe in the Archives had been more than happy to discuss the upcoming meeting between the Inquisitor and two visiting churchmen from Rouen. If only the Monsignor was still willing to spend time on a mere novice.

A door opened, and Lewes came through, chatting with two elderly men in church robes. As he talked, he scanned the room. He hesitated very briefly when he spotted Alexander, then continued his conversation. The small group drifted across the hall, still talking amiably. Monsignor Lewes bade farewell to the visitors, then he glanced at Alexander. Reluctantly, Alexander met his eyes, and he followed when the Inquisitor nodded towards the corridor leading away.

Monsignor Lewes led the way to a side chamber and locked the door behind them. Alexander stood in the middle of the room, trying not to look at anything.

"What's happened?" Msgr. Lewes asked quietly. He smiled sadly as Alexander fidgeted. "My son, I know you wouldn't have come looking for a member of the Inquisition if you didn't have to."

"I--" Alexander broke off and stared at his hands. "Who will you tell, if I tell you?"

After a moment, Msgr. Lewes drew off his Inquisitorial signet ring and quietly laid it on a nearby table. "Alexander, I swear to you, I'll repeat nothing of what you tell me. Unless I absolutely have to."

Alexander stared at the signet ring, then at the man. He looked so calm, so compassionate. And he was sworn to hunt the enemies of the Church. Alexander was no fool. He knew that the definition of "enemy" could be very fluid. He wanted to trust this quiet man, but there were so many hidden traps around him these days.

Msgr. Lewes looked frustrated. "I protect the innocent, Alexander. That's what the Holy Office is supposed to do. Only the evil doers should fear us. But if it's important enough for you to come looking for me, then I need to know."

Alexander nodded. "I know. It's--just . . . if he knew . . ."

Lewes stepped closer. "Who is it you're afraid of, lad?"

Intrigue was already swirling its murky waters around him. He couldn't ignore the only spar he had to cling to. "Cardinal Fortezzi."

Lewes' eyes went thoughtful. "I see." He didn't sound surprised. "What's he done?"

Alexander closed his eyes. The telling was easier that way. "During the Mass I helped him celebrate, he took the Host he'd consecrated and slipped it into his sleeve instead of using it in the Mass." When the Monsignor didn't say anything, Alexander opened his eyes. Lewes was rubbing his chin and staring at the carpet. "Reverend Sir?"

"You assisted at Mass with Cardinal Fortezzi several days ago. Why tell me now?"

Taking a deep breath, Alexander told the Monsignor about taking Guglielmo il Sanguinante to meet with Cesare Borgia and Cardinal Fortezzi. His account was fairly incoherent, and Msgr. Lewes had to ask several questions about "Then what?" and "Who said that?" before he had a clear picture.

"Guglielmo il Sanguinante as a doorman for a party?" Lewes finally said. "That makes no sense."

"Is His Excellency trying to get revenge for something? Is that why he's making Guglielmo do this?"

Lewes gave Alexander a small, approving smile. "You're catching on to this sort of thing. I do know that Cesare apparently has some sort of grudge against Il Sanguinante, but I'm not sure why. Though you seem to have better relations with mercenaries than I. Did Il Sanguinante give any reason?"

Alexander ignored the remark about how well he knew soldiers. "He seemed to think it was just some sort of excuse for His Excellency to flaunt his power."

Lewes nodded. "Cesare's guests would be impressed that he could order someone the likes of the second in command of the Scourge of Europe to guard his party. I'm still troubled by Fortezzi's involvement." He studied Alexander for several moments. "My son, I think you're in danger."

"That's what Guglielmo said," Alexander sighed.

"I would take his professional word for it. Did he say why?"

"He didn't like the way His Eminence kept giving me unfriendly looks."

"He suspects the Cardinal of setting those men on you in the street." Lewes sighed and reached through a slit in the side of his robes. He pulled out a dagger in a plain leather sheath. "Take this."

Alexander drew back. "Churchmen are forbidden to use weapons that can draw blood!"

"A ban that is observed much more in the breech than in true practice. Alexander, God does not expect you to take the lesson of the lamb laying down with the lion quite so literally that you don't defend yourself." He held the dagger out.

"I--don't know how to use a dagger. I never had a reason to learn."

"The wars didn't come near your village when you were young?"

"Not that close."

Lewes sighed. "Someone who had a peaceful life. Why is it the truly innocent souls who come to these passes?"

Alexander hung his head at his ineptness. "Guglielmo offered to teach me, but that's impossible."

"Why? That's a very good idea."

"But--I can't go down there! It's a haven of iniquity, sin run rampant!"

Lewes fought back his laughter, but he couldn't help the stifled grin. "Young ladies with not much on?"

"And men! None of them has any shame!"

The Monsignor let one chuckle escape, then put his hands on Alexander's shoulders. "If your soul and mind are pure, then the sins of others cannot touch you. Truly, my son, take advantage of Il Sanguinante's offer. Praise God he was moved to make it, you may not have a fiendishly skilled fighter at your beck and call the next time someone tries to kill you."

Alexander blinked in horror. "Next time . . ."

"It could happen. You have a suspicion about what Cardinal Fortezzi plans. You saw him take the Host."

"But no one would believe me. My word against a Cardinal's?"

"I believe you," Lewes said quietly. "And for some men, the threat is enough. They survive by removing all threats."

Alexander took yet another deep breath. "Why did you believe me? You weren't surprised."

Silently Monsignor Lewes went to pick up his Inquisitorial signet ring. He slid it back onto his finger. "I told you before, Alexander. Things happen, evil things. Someone has to be prepared to deal with them. I'm sorry you've had to see some of that evil."

Alexander shook his head. "It's so hard to think of people I've met as being . . . evil. And I keep wondering who that was in the shadows, laughing like that."

Lewes went still. "Laughing? Where? When?"

"During the meeting with His Excellency and His Eminence. Didn't I tell you?"

"You must have missed that part."

"Oh. The room was very dark. I couldn't see the corners. Any number of people could have been hiding in there. They were talking, and I kept hearing this very quiet, cold, awful laughter from the darkness. It was horrible."

"This was in Cesare's office? While he and Fortezzi were there?" Alexander nodded. "Blessed Mother." He took hold of Alexander's shoulder. "Do you have a crucifix, one you can wear?"

Alexander touched his throat. "Yes, I do."

"Good. Don't take that off for anything. Do you have a larger one, that you can carry about with you?"

"No--"

"Get one. When you go down to Il Sanguinante's inn for lessons, be sure to get back to the palace before dark. Try not to be alone."

"Reverend Sir," Alexander finally managed to interrupt, "I told you, I can't go down there. The Master of Novices would never approve."

Lewes waved a hand. "If anyone asks, tell them you're running errands for me. The office does have its privileges. We just need to get past St. Benedict's Day, then we can work everything out." He met Alexander's eyes squarely. "Something is going on, my son. Something bad."

"But--I'm just a novice. I'm not a fighter, I'm not an Inquisitor. I just want to learn about buildings."

The Monsignor's smile was sad. "I wanted to illuminate manuscripts. But God rules our choices, not us. Like many before you, my son, you've been pulled into the heart of darkness, and now you must prepare to survive it."

***

A mercenary had to train every day that he could. There was always another fighter out there, wanting to make a name and looking for a target. It was just the way of things: you fought until someone better came along. And that someone always did.

Guglielmo had been out all day, drilling the troops at the northern camp. The age-old restrictions against bringing troops into the Eternal City still held in many cases, so the bodies of armed men in the Papal units were barracked in camps outside the walls. Guglielmo had shown the most basic of sword moves to a depressing number of recruits.

"No more sense of a sword than of a sharp stick," he complained as he thrust his sword into the heart of the straw dummy in the inn's stable yard. "They must be pulling farm boys straight out of the fields. Give them pitch forks, now, then they might be a threat."

"That's certainly true," Angelo said. He tugged the dummy on its wheeled base to Guglielmo's left, forcing the other man to turn as he lunged. In the shade of the stables, the rest of the men watched. "Farmers are wickedly dangerous."

Guglielmo grinned and skewered the dummy's heart again. "You'd think they thought we had designs on their sons and daughters and livestock and such."

"If you've started taking up with the sheep, now, lad, I don't want to hear about it." Angelo shoved the dummy towards Guglielmo and pulled his own sword to charge. Guglielmo laughed, jumped out of the way of the dummy, and set himself to meet the attack.

"Excuse me!" yelled a voice from the door into the inn. Isabetta stood there, her hands on her hips. Angelo skidded to a halt just shy of Guglielmo, and they lowered their swords. "Will has a visitor."

Angelo gave Guglielmo a surprised look. "You're getting popular."

Guglielmo had his own reasons to suspect his popularity. "Who is it, bella?"

Isabetta just smiled and stepped to one side. Behind her, Alexander glowered. He wore plain workman's clothes instead of the robes of a novice.

"Brother Sandro," Guglielmo grinned, then the smile dropped away. "What brings you down here again?"

"I--" Alexander paused and looked around at all the eager attention.

Guglielmo nodded, then glanced at Angelo. Angelo went to a pile of equipment and traded his sword for a blunted version, then turned to his men.

"Get off your asses and out here into the sun!" he yelled. "Bear pit! Who wants to try me first?"

The men swore for effect but gathered their own practice equipment and got in line.

Isabetta shook her head. "There'll be cracked heads and blood before they're done with this. I'd better check the bandages." Sighing, she went inside.

Alexander watched in puzzlement. "What are they doing?"

Guglielmo watched Thomas Wyndham square off against Angelo. "Bear pit. Angelo fights until someone knocks him down, then that man takes Angelo's place and Angelo gets in line. It'll go until they're too tired and hurting to go on." He turned back to Alexander. "What's happened? Why are you here?"

Alexander looked at the ground, then up at Guglielmo. "I'm supposed to ask you to help me learn to defend myself."

"Says who?"

"Excuse me?"

Guglielmo frowned. "Who says you're supposed to? Who have you been talking to that you've brought my name into it?"

Alexander looked uncertain, so Guglielmo tugged him over to a bench in the shade and made him sit down. Alexander watched Thomas Wyndham pick himself up from where Angelo's blow had sent him, then one of the anonymous men took up his position in front of the mercenary captain, who grinned as he charged. Alexander sighed and let his shoulders slump.

"I might as well tell you. I went and asked for advice from someone. Monsignor Lewes from the Holy Office."

"The Holy--" Guglielmo drew back. "You told the Inquisition about me?"

Alexander shivered at the cold tone of voice. "Monsignor Lewes already knows about you," he said quickly. "He's the man who broke up that fight you were trying to start when you were using me as a human shield. The first time. He's the one who told me your name."

"There in the Palace with the Papal Guard? He's an Inquisitor?" Guglielmo shook his head. "He doesn't look it. Most of that sort have very squinty, suspicious eyes." He focused on Alexander. "What did you tell him?"

"Everything. The meeting we had with His Excellency and the Cardinal, them wanting you for security for the gathering they're planning, everything. He thought it was odd that they'd involve you, too."

Guglielmo sat down. "I suppose that's reassuring. So he thinks you're in danger, too? Why?"

Alexander took a long, deep breath. "I--know some things about Cardinal Fortezzi that His Eminence would rather I didn't know. Msgr. Lewes is concerned about that. Those men that jumped us when I was taking you to the meeting--a Cardinal wouldn't hire men like that, would he?"

"Why not? Cardinals are politicians as much as anyone else. Politicians always have lots of little plots that need tending, and sometimes you need to clear inconvenient people out of the way. Somehow Cardinal Fortezzi finds you inconvenient." He looked at Alexander. "Is what you know worth killing over?"

"Nothing is worth killing over."

Guglielmo laughed, but it was a sad sound. "If that were true, I'd still be in Siena, probably running the printing shop by now. There's always something worth killing over, especially if you can get someone else to do the deed. This thing with the Cardinal--it would wreck his career, endanger him?"

Alexander swallowed hard. "The Inquisition would be very interested in it."

Guglielmo nodded. "Don't eat or drink anything you don't know exactly where it came from. Poison is easy to get and very popular with people who like handling matters quietly. Now, if he decides he doesn't care how quietly things are handled, you need to know how to defend yourself. Let's see what you know."

What Alexander knew was how to fall down. As a boy, rough housing wasn't a matter of much subtlety: someone grabbed you, you tried to wriggle free, flailing around until they let go or you got a lucky shot in. Then someone ran home with a bloody nose, and you all got scolded for wasting time when all that energy could be used more profitably. By the time Alexander had been selected to go to Roma, he and his friends were being put to work in the fields and shops, and the rough housing days were over.

The holds Guglielmo was demonstrating, on the other hand, were much more deliberate than those used by boys. For the sixth time, Alexander hit the ground, his feet kicked out from under him, and he was on his back, helpless to a sword or knife thrust. He was already bruised from hard jabs into his throat and kidneys as the mercenary demonstrated the preferred methods of being set upon by someone jumping out of hiding.

He refused to open his eyes, knowing Guglielmo would only be staring down at him again, a look of frustration on his face. The sounds of the other mercenaries fighting had stopped, so they were probably watching all this too.

"I think it'll be simpler for all concerned if I just let them kill me," he muttered.

The disgusted noise was familiar now. "If that's all the fight you're going to put up, then maybe it would be."

Alexander heard footsteps crunching away across the dirt. Someone made some remark on the far side of the courtyard, and the others laughed. Five years of careful training in the proper behavior of a servant to Holy Mother Church fell away, and he picked up the small stone he felt under his right hand. He raised up and threw the stone with a snarl. It bounced off the back off Guglielmo's head with an audible thwack.

"Ow!" he yelled, and Il Sanguinante reached up and pulled his hand away bloody.

Everyone in the courtyard, from Angelo to the stableboy, froze in shock.

I am going to die, Alexander realized with utter clarity. "I do heartily repent of all my sins," he whispered quickly. "Ave, Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum--"

"Yes!" Guglielmo yelled. "About time! Now we can get somewhere." Grinning, he strode back to Alexander and held out a hand to help him up.

Alexander stared at the blood-streaked fingers. "I'm sor--"

"No, don't go all sheep-hearted on me again!" Guglielmo reached down and hauled Alexander up by his shirt. "That was the first sign I've seen that you cared about what was happening."

"You're not angry?"

Guglielmo carefully poked at the back of his head. "Well, I generally prefer not to bleed, but I think this is a positive sign." He gave Alexander another grin. "Very well thrown, too."

Alexander shook his head. "Anger is one of the seven deadly sins. I lost my temper and hurt you. I'm sorry."

Guglielmo sighed. "Sandro, you are too good to live. And someone is counting on that." He put his hands around Alexander's face and stared into his eyes. "There is someone who wants to kill you. It's supposed to make you angry!"

"It makes me afraid," Alexander whispered.

The mercenary leaned in closer. "Me, too," he said softly. "But I know how to use it. That's what I'm trying to teach you, but I had to know that you could act through the fear instead of just freezing like a rabbit waiting for the wolf." He shook Alexander's head gently and stepped back. "So now we start again."

As Alexander sighed wearily, Angelo walked up. "Will, he's exhausted. And he's going to be black and blue in the morning. You can't teach him everything in one night."

"I haven't taught him *anything* yet!"

Alexander was too tired to watch his words. "They can kill me tonight, I don't mind." He barely winced at the glare he got.

"He's not yours to worry about, Will," Angelo said firmly. Guglielmo sighed and turned away. Angelo smiled, then looked at Alexander. "Can you make it back to the Palace all right, brother?"

Alexander nodded nervously. "I just need to be back before dark. You, um, you don't mind my coming down, do you, Captain?"

"Not at all. It's good for his patience, teaching, and the Madonna knows he could use some work on that." He grinned over his shoulder at the rude noise from Guglielmo. "It's a rare opportunity for you, in any case. Not many can say they've had private tutoring from the likes of Il Sanguinante."

Guglielmo turned around. "Was that a compliment?"

"Might have been."

Alexander cleared his throat. "Anyway, thank you, Captain, and thank you, Guglielmo. I'll--come back tomorrow, if it's all right?"

Angelo shrugged. "We'll be here." With a last smile, he headed back to the gathered men.

Guglielmo came up and looked Alexander over, frowning. "You are going to be bruised. Get a hot bath when you get back, it'll keep your muscles from stiffening. And watch yourself. I'm not going through all this just so you can get ambushed."

"*You're* going through?" Alexander protested. Guglielmo reached up to the back of his head, and Alexander blushed. "Yes, that. It won't happen again."

"No, it's not. I'm not turning my back on you when you've got something to throw handy." Guglielmo patted his shoulder and let his hand lay for a few moments. "Come see me tomorrow, we'll work on you actually getting free next time."

Alexander nodded. The approval in the mercenary's smile told him there might be some hope for him at this sort of thing, and the firm squeeze of his shoulder reassured him. "Good night, Guglielmo."

"Good night--Alexander."

He grinned at the use of his preferred name and left.

After several moments, Angelo wandered back to Guglielmo's side. "I suppose it's too late to tell you to mind your heart."

Guglielmo was rubbing his fingers together, as if to memorize the way something felt. "Yes, it is. Do you think anyone would mind very much if I paid a visit to Cardinal Fortezzi and showed him the error of his ways in persecuting that boy?"

"No murdering Cardinals."

"Wouldn't be the first one."

"No. They squeak and thrash around, and someone always makes a fuss. So, no."

Guglielmo sighed. "It was so much simpler before we were respectable."

"Aye," Angelo nodded sadly. "We'll not see those days again."

***

Four days until the feast of St. Benedict. Alexander went to the Master of Novices and hesitantly told him that Monsignor Lewes of the Holy Office had requested his help in various matters for the next several days. The Master gave him a look that wavered between leering and uneasy. "We are all here to serve," he finally said gruffly, and waved Alexander off.

Alexander wasn't going to skip his classes with Maestro Bramante, no matter what Inquisitors and mercenaries might say. The small Vatican suite the Maestro was using wasn't in the palace itself but was easily reached by the side corridors known to the servants and novices. Bramante was bustling around his piles of parchments and models, muttering to himself.

"Sandro," he said, scratching at his balding head, "where are my sketches on domes? I thought they were with the plans of Santa Marie delle Grazie."

"You rearranged those last week, maestro. You put all the general studies in the big portfolio over there."

Bramante threw up his hands. "Madonna, you're right. Papers, they will drive me mad yet." He went to the portfolio and began paging through the sheets of drawings and plans. "Bah, not the right ones, where are--oh, of course." He glared at a blank wall. "There's nothing for it, then. I have to go back to Milano."

Alexander felt his stomach drop. "Maestro?"

"Sandro, sit." Bramante gestured at a stool. Alexander obeyed, trying not to look too anxious. "It's time I was back in Milano, lad. My studio's there, and Il Sforza has been patient, but he is my patron, and I owe him service. You're a good student, lad. I want you to come with me, be a student full-time."

He managed not to fall off the stool. "Go to Milano? Leave? Leave Roma?" He swallowed hard. "Leave the church?"

Bramante perched on the edge of the worktable. "Sandro, do you really intend to be a priest?" he asked kindly.

He was gasping for air, but nothing was reaching his brain. Leave the arms that had sheltered him, leave the mysteries that brought him joy? Leaving his home village and his family hadn't wrenched at his guts as badly as the thought of leaving the Church behind. He'd known he'd have to decide soon but there had always seemed to be so much time.

"You're not right for this place, lad," Bramante went on. "The church is more than the altar. There are more hours of the day spent plotting and maneuvering than there are spent celebrating Mass." He patted Alexander's shoulder. "And if you do want to, you can be a priest in Milano as easily as you can in Roma. Probably easier." He leaned forward to grin and whisper. "God does live in other cities than this one, you know, despite what they tell you."

Alexander managed to find his feet and stand up. "Maestro, I--"

"Go, lad. I know you need to think. I won't be ready to go before St. Benedict's Day, though I'd like your help packing, if you can."

"Yes, maestro."

He found his way out of the suite and into the maze of corridors and rooms. He stumbled across a Lady Chapel where Mass was being celebrated. The officiant's Latin had a strong peasant accent, and Alexander settled to his knees in a back row, remembering home.

Father Ricardo had spoken of God and the saints as if they were old friends he was expecting to show up for supper. The Stations of the Cross were the tale of suffering in the family, and you wept at the Holy Mother's grief and her Son's suffering. Alexander knew he could be that kind of priest, but--

He lowered his head away from the gaze of Jesus on His cross. He was not the kind of man who could joyfully spend his life tending the cares of a congregation. The world held thousands of fascinating things he wanted to explore. Bramante's lessons spoke of ancient people, intricate sciences, creations waiting in the shadows to be born. He wanted to explore them all, not be distracted by the cares of other people.

Most of the priests in the Vatican focused on work other than tending congregations. If he wanted to be an architect in service to the Holy See, no one would think anything of it. He could even join one of the monastic orders and spend his days in study.

The joys of the cloister paled, though, in the memory of Guglielmo trying to teach him to fight. He was shocked by the shamelessness he'd seen, but the mercenaries seemed so straightforward and honest compared to the people he lived with in the Vatican. Guglielmo was no stranger to intrigue, but he obviously preferred a more honest world that let him hit things.

So many things to see in the world. Maestro Bramante had spoken of the buildings Alexander should see if he wanted to learn architecture. Milano was full of the maestro's own work he could study. He wanted to go, he wanted to see things. As the maestro had said, if he wanted to be a priest, he could be a priest in Milano as easily as in Roma.

The wafer melting on his tongue as he took Communion, though, reminded him of the nearer future. The plots of the Vatican still held him in their grip. If he survived St. Benedict's, maybe then those plans he dared to have could come true.

Having none of his usual duties, Alexander felt lost. He didn't like not having anything to do. He sat in the empty dormitory having a strenuous debate with himself, then put on his plain, non-clerical clothes and left. He told himself he wasn't in a hurry to get to the Crusader's Kiss. It was just a case of taking advantage of the freedom he'd been granted.

He wandered the markets in the city for a while, looking at the buildings and seeing where the ancient structures had been incorporated into the modern buildings. He recognized blocks from an Imperial temple making up the facade of a butcher's shop. A knifemaker had the graceful hand of an ancient statue propped up on his counter, holding a long dagger in its marble grip. Alexander munched on a honey-rich pastry and wondered if it was the hand of an emperor or a pagan god. Roma's history was strewn casually around the city. The people of the Eternal City had no awe for their ancestors' leavings, using whatever bits they could find wherever needed.

He was studying the Ionic columns built into the corners of an apartment building when he realized a girl was trying to get his attention.

"I've got a room inside, if you're interested," she grinned. Her dark hair glinted red in the sunlight, and the neckline of her green dress seemed to be having trouble staying up on her shoulders.

"Interested in what?" He started blushing even before she laughed.

She strolled closer, skirts swaying gracefully. "If you don't know, I would certainly be happy to show you. Half-price, because you're so handsome."

The Master of Novices had never told them how to fend off prostitutes. Especially pretty ones his own age who smiled at him. "I--I have to be somewhere . . ."

She lightly touched the back of his hand. "Someplace nicer than I can show you?"

He had to look down to make sure his skin wasn't burning where she'd touched him. "I'm sorry, I really have to--" He turned as fast as he could without tripping over his feet and did his best not to run.

"Come back when you don't have anywhere else to be!" she called after him, still laughing.

He stopped several blocks away. By all the saints, he understood why it was a sin. He could barely think with that girl smiling at him and--and touching him. He'd wanted to--

As fast as he could, he said the prayer the Master of Novices had taught them to distract themselves from carnal thoughts. Focus on your duty to God, on the sacrifice that a life of service required, a sacrifice that only the strongest and most worthy could give. Our Saviour is building mansions for us in the house of the Lord. Keep your mind on that, not on whores and the way their hair falls around their shoulders and lays across the curve of their--

Alexander shook himself hard, then started towards the Crusaders Kiss. When prayer failed in fending off difficult thoughts, the Master of Novices recommended physical exertion. Lots of physical exertion.

The girl Isabetta was coming down the stairs in the inn when Alexander entered. "Hello, Brother Sandro," she said cheerfully.

"Um, hello." He tried not to look at her too closely, still uneasy after his encounter with the prostitute. She just smiled at him and went on with her work, putting her basket on the big table and pulling out various bits of clothing.

"They are so hard on their clothes," she muttered, examining shoulder seams and knees. Alexander recognized the black velvet doublet Guglielmo had worn during the meeting with Cesare Borgia. Isabetta tsked over the sword cut in the sleeve. "That'll need to be mended before it goes to the launderers."

"He said he was afraid you'd embroider love knots and roses on it," Alexander found himself saying.

Isabetta laughed. "Oh, not roses. Forget-me-nots, to match his eyes." She stuck her fingers through the slit and shook her head. "I need to find him a woman of his own to do this sort of thing. I have enough to do looking after Angelo." She laid aside the doublet and two shirts, then carried the basket to a door at the back of the room. Picking up a smaller, more ornate basket, she gathered up the mending and nodded towards the door to the stableyard. "Guglielmo's out here. Aren't you a little early, though?"

Alexander couldn't help but follow. "I've been let off my other duties, I thought I'd come down early." She reminded him so much of his mother--if his mother wore her hair wantonly loose and her bodices low and didn't mind repairing the damage caused in street brawls. She was young enough that Alexander felt he should be giving her lectures on not throwing her life away, but she had the air of a well-contented woman who didn't need lectures.

Isabetta sat down on the bench near the wall and began pulling thread