"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".

erika, that's precisely why. I still take my hat off to Dennis Franz for being Earl" in the video.

OMG...I forgot about that...there was such a kerfuffle about that video, I forgot that was him. Sipowicz rules.

Take That, Pratt

(to the tune of Goodbye, Earl, almost) Kay and the Munchkin were the best of friends,
Working long detective days,

Putting down cases, remembering faces,
Putting the braindeads away.
Kay was the first one in,

Nothing special about that,
But problems galore, they had the wrong door,

And Kay got shot by Gordon Pratt.
Munchkin struggled with his pain

And wrestled with his shock,

But he decided the best legal system,
Was himself and a Glock.
Cause Gordo had to die,
Let’s ventilate that brain.
Pratt. Cause you’re racist and insane.
Gordo had to die.
Take that, Pratt.
What’s ancient Greek for “dead”?
Take that, Pratt.
Timmy took the call, though he didn’t want to at all.

(It’s just his way.
) He had to say things weren’t ok
On that creepy back-up call.
Get to know that floor, Pratt.

Should’ve fired before, Pratt.

Cause Gordo had to die.

Things went okay with Munch’s plan.
Back to work Beau, Kay, and Stan.
Timmy trusts his fellow man.
Munchkin grouses day and night,

About his work, about the Right,
But he doesn’t lose any sleep at night,
Cause Gordo had to die.