"I will be hosting a gathering on the feast of St. Sebastian. 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. Sebastian'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 faintly 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. Sebastian'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. Sebastian's, then. Your Eminence, will you stay?"

"Of course, my son."

Guglielmo bowed, then backed towards the door. He snagged Alexander's arm in passed 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. Sebastian'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. Sebastian?"

"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?"

"Defend 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. Sebastian'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 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. Sebastian? It was probably just the nearest convenient feast day for this gathering. Sebastian 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. Sebastian 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. Sebastian, 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.

sure enough, there's dirty work afoot

he heard faintly laughter

A typo there, methinks. But I have a historical question for you - I'm fuzzy on the Inquisition (my period ends, essentially, at the Battle of Bosworth, in England, with the end of the Plantagenet line). But I thought the Inquisition in Italy came well after the Spanish Inquisition - mid-1540's, or thereabouts. And surely, if it's Cesare Borgia, there's about a half-century differential, because Cesare died young, early in the 16th century.

So....what am I missing? Because the story's damned interesting, and I'm trying to place the historical markers in my head.

The Inquisition has been around as a formal body since the 1200s. According to my "Timetables of History," it was in 1233 that the Dominicans were put in charge of the Inquisition by the pope. Divisions of the Inquistion existed in all Catholic lands. The Spanish Inquisition was formed as a separate body under the control of the state and the church in 1481.

I am playing a little loose with the term "Holy Office." The Inquisition wasn't formalized with a permanent staff and organization under the name "the Congregation of the Holy Office" until 1542. Rome (and, I suppose, the Anti-Popes in Avignon in the 13th/14th century) was running oversight, though, from early on.

(neat, I'm footnoting posts: [link] has the details)

Please tell me I don't want to filk the Pratt case to "Goodbye,Earl." Cause I don't.

I have not done that yet, but there is some more L&O/Martha Stewart.

It was still early when they arrived, but Chez Stewart was teeming with activity. The domestic goddess herself was in the kitchen stirring up something red and congealing enough to make Lennie take a second look.

“Cranberry compote, gentlemen?” she offered. “I usually like to pick my own berries, but there’s some blight in Maine or something.”

“Don’t you hate it when that happens?” Lennie quipped.

“Well, yes, I do. But, you know, mustn’t grumble.” If she had any idea he was kidding, she gave no sign. Musn’t grumble? Must be Rich Bitch for “Shit happens.” Van Buren would get a kick out of it.

“I understand.” Green said. “But we’re here as part of a homicide investigation, not to eat.”

“Homicide? Well, I don’t have time to talk to you right now... come back, noonish, ok? If these berries set up they’ll be a bear to clean out of my pots.”

“We thought you might say that, so we had Serena make you a present. This is a subpoena. We ran out of time to make our own paper, sorry.”

connie, thanks - it was an upper-case I in inquisition that made me fasten on the formally-named Roman one, and I was pretty sure that was well after Cesare bought the farm.

erika, filk! filk! filk!

Oh, God, you really wanna see that? Even though when you play country backwards you get your wife, truck, and dog back? But it is a sick joke about domestic violence and revenge by a band Commandant Fuckwit hates, so it's "Homicide".