Yay!

I haven't done this in a bit, but here's some of a fic from a bunny that must be related to Clovis. My muse wanted to play dress-up while letting V!Giles cook a little longer. It's called Nessuno, which is Italian for Nobody. Join me, my friends, to a trip to Renaissance Italy.

All roads lead to Roma. If you wanted to reach the pinnacle of power, you didn't stay in Milan, 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.

Guillermo, 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, Guillermo 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 Swiss 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 deaths 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.

Guillermo 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.

Guillermo 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 di l'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 stayed out of reach of those big hands and watched his eyes. Those who stayed with him, however, 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?" Guillermo asked.

Angelo flung his left arm around Guillermo's shoulders. "The Captain of the Guard is a reasonable man, Guillermo. 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.

Guillermo finally managed a straight face. "What did you 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."

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

"Guillermo!" 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 Guillermo'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 Guillermo'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 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 Guillermo 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?" Guillermo 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." Guillermo 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?"

Guillermo laughed. "Please don't sound so shocked, Angelo. I can occasionally walk down a hallway wi

Guillermo 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."

Guillermo 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.

Guillermo 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, Guillermo 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 like 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 Florence. 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 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 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, Guillermo?" Captain Angelo added with a glare.

Guillermo 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 Guillermo's hand didn't budge.

"Hold still," Guillermo 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."

Guillermo 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, signors, 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 Guillermo, "put up your sword. And let that young man go."

Guillermo 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 Guillermo'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 . . ." Guillermo 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 Guillermo 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 Guillermo. "Surely, captain, you and your comrade have business elsewhere?"

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

Guillermo turned to follow, but paused to wink at Alexander. "Farewell, Brother Nobody. It's a pity we could 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. Guillermo il Sanguinante."

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

"Indeed. And his captain, Angelo di l'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 Borgia. I don't know if I'm going to make it in time now."

"Yes, it would be such a tragedy to keep Cesare 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 all of the 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.

I like it! What fun. Angelo's last name looks off somehow -- perhaps Maria would know for sure.

Also, Guillermo is Spanish. Guglielmo is Italian, but I'm no expert -- there could be varients.

I looked up Ireland in an Italian dictionary, and that's what came up.

P.S. You could call the young friar "Sandro" and it would be perfectly natural.

Yes, the word is right -- the elision seems off -- like there should maybe be another l? dell'Irlanda?

Or just di Irlanda? I'm sorry I cannot remember the rule.