Chapter Text
i.
There’s blood on his shirt and, thankfully this time, it’s his.
This is going to be hard to explain.
ii.
“Everything’s fine, well,” he says over the phone, wiping sweat from his skin and washing blood from the creases in everything, “I’m alive. The tomb imploded but I’ve found something, don’t know what it’s worth.”
Zo coughs, there’s a sound of shifting weight and passing the phone from one hand to the other.
“I’m in a spot of bother,” says Zo. Leo laughs, throws the towel across the room and crosses after it, to the table, asks, “are you in a prison sort of bother?”
“No,” Zo replies, dryly, then on a rush: “I’mindebttolotsofpeoplewhowantmedeadnow.”
“The lack of swearing in that sentence fills me with dread,” Leo says, loading a gun. “I’ll be right with you.”
iii.
“What d’you think it’s worth?” Nico says, weighing the key in the palm of one hand and the coin in the other. Leo snatches them back, “Fuck if I know,” he says, “but I do know that there’s another part to this key.” He lifts it to the light and turns it in the lock in his mind, for the thousandth time since Egypt.
“See,” he says, “the notches it has, they wouldn’t fit any normal lock on any normal historical door - any logical door at all, really. There has to be another somewhere.”
“And the coin?” Zo says, drawn as per usual to any money he can find.
“Look at the marking on it, the face, it’s an idol but it’s from a religion I’ve never heard of.” Leo takes a swig of his drink, blessedly cold in the blessed cool of the air conditioned bar in comfortable Florence. “I know someone, though.”
Nico smiles, sips his coke, and Zo drops his head to the bar with a sigh, “take me with you,” he says and Leo grins, “Of course.”
iv.
Leo da Vinci is a name uttered as a curse in most reputable museums in the world, as well as most shady ones. He’s an archaeologist, technically, a treasure-hunter, entirely, and a madman, absolutely. He had a teaching post at one point, with a degree he bought online with money from the odd painting and fenced artifact he deemed of little consequence - got thrown out for an affair with the mistress of an important politician, said it set a bad example to the students. Free world, free love only obviously not, he hasn’t seen Lucrezia or Lorenzo Medici, god forbid, in at least a year. Leo before would have cared, Leo now not so much - he’ll just look for a distraction, not love.
After all, other people are all the same, money or God they want a sense of validation - Leo just wants to see a better world, the ancients, in his view, had it right.
v.
“So this guy you know,” Zo hedges, on the train to Rome, averting his eyes whenever the attendant walks by but sipping his cocktail like he owns the train regardless, “what does he do?”
Leo pauses his sketching but doesn’t look up (there was a beautiful statue in the tomb that’s probably pieces now, he can draw it though), says, “he’s a teacher, scholar, historian, linguist et cetera. You know the drill with these types.”
“Yeah,” Nico laughs, “types like you. Polymaths.”
“This one’s not quite as good as me,” says Leo, finally breaking contact with his sketch and looking out the window. Zo smiles, “A friend?”
“Not in the slightest.”
vi.
In his head, Leo supposes, Nico and Zo form the gang - with the occasional aid of Vanessa.
(“She’s dating someone, you know,” Zo says and Nico sniggers, adds, “yeah, someone you know too.”
“Very funny, Nico, you should abandon this life and become a comedian,” Leo says, turns to Zo, “who?”
“Giuliano Medici.”
“Fuck.”)
Zoroaster, gentleman thief and okay salesperson, on the phone 24/7 and Nico, sent from God and his obscure aunt from nowhere, Italy, to torment, exalt and learn from Leo - the student who didn’t leave. Vanessa the liberated nun in training, good with people and talking Leo down from stupid shit.
Together, they steal pretty things (like Leo’s been doing his whole life, like he’s stolen them).
Vanessa catches them at the station in Rome, dragging the Medici behind her and smiling like the sun. Giuliano sends withering glances Leo’s way but he ignores them, listening to Vanessa’s tales of Florence and Zo’s latest insult to the gangs and sellers there.
“So,” he says to Zo, “I suppose our buyers in Florence are off the list then,” and Zo shugs, fluid, “I may be able to think of something.”
Leo rests his head against the leather of rest of the cab, the hotel transfer.
“I’m sure,” he says, and he is.
vii.
Leo doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man teach, and good thing too such pure unbridled passion is his kryptonite.
Armani suits and throwaway smiles that are always to himself, the man’s a walking work of art, a crusader from the pages of legend, a soldier from the sands of time, talking of angels, of religion, or new worlds and flights of fancy. He skips through modern Italian to medieval Roman to Latin in long continuous sentences. The class are entranced, and Leo would be too but he’s seen that mouth frame vicious lies and heard that voice condemn, seen those hands, that lie now by his sides, wonderfully expressive as they talk of stealing artifacts for cults of religion.
Girolamo Riario, Ph.D, brings his lecture to a halt and dismisses the riotous crowd, riding high on knowledge. They file out, and Leo walks out of the shadows.
viii.
Riario’s hair is dark, his eyes more so, wrists thin, his eyes give every idea of being trained upon the books in front of him, his mind is on da Vinci alone.
“How’s your leg, artista?” he asks, in that quiet way he has, as if he isn’t referring to an incident where he himself shot Leonardo and left him to die.
The jolt of pain he feels is psychosomatic, Leo knows, doesn’t wince, says, “Fine, grazi. I hope your little scar healed up.”
Oh yes, there are wounds on both of them from the other, and this specific little scar runs from the outward part of Riario’s left shoulder to his spine, perilously close. It had bled like hell.
Riario nods and turns to face him, eyes bright and a question in the raise and tilt of his head.
“If,” Leo says, drawing nearer, crossing the floor, “you promise not to kill me, I have a proposition for you.”
Riario smiles and moves closer still, until their chests are a hairs-breadth apart and their eyes level.
“If you promise not to kill me,” Riario says, “I’ll listen.”
ix.
He takes Riario back to a different hotel and buys him a drink, “The least I can do,” he says, “to be polite.” and Riario throws his head back and laughs and laughs and shows him that open throat, it’s all Leo can do to resist.
x.
“Mithras,” says Riario, smirking underneath him and toying with the coin in his hand, “sons of. Cult dedicated to preserving and holding the Book of Leaves - the beast is their symbol.”
Leo tugs on the chain that holds a cross around Riario’s neck, watches those dark eyes blow wide, says, “and the key?”
“Only,” Riario manages, dropping the coin and forcing Leo over to let go, finding purchase with a hand on his chest, “only half a key, I’m afraid, but the age and metal is consistent with the coin, so you’re probably looking for some sort of Mithras temple for the other half.”
“We,” Leo says, “are looking.”
Riario hums an agreement, and he places key and coin on the antique bedside table.
xi.
With Riario insisting a week to organise things and make arrangements, Leo proceeds to see the sights of Rome again. Zo and Nico make interesting companions.
“Would you,” Nico says, short of breath and shielding his eyes, “believe that I’ve never actually been to the top of the colosseum before?”
“Yes,” Zo says and Leo nods, says, “Shut up, I’m listening.”
Zo laughs and Nico leans up to him, Leo sees out of the corner of his eye, and whispers, “What’s he listening to?”
“Fuck knows,” says Zo and he leans onto Nico, “hold me up, friend, I’m dying of the heat!”
Nico huffs out a laugh and pushes away the wandering hands, “Get off,” he says, “you’re heavy.”
“Am not,” Zo whispers, “shh, the maestro’s listening.”
“To what?
“To a bunch of idiots going mad in the sun and altitude,” Leo snaps, Rome is grating on his nerves.
Nico and Zo say nothing, and Leo caves, “I’m sorry,” he says, “going stir crazy, I suppose.”
They nod, and Nico smiles, “I,” he says, voice proud and proper, “vote ice cream.”
Leo smiles at them, says, “seconded.”
xii.
It rains, and the Trevi fountain is near deserted when Nico throws a coin and wishes loudly that Zoroaster would “Fuck off already.”
Leo grins and sketches the way their hair drips and the coins in the fountain are dull in the clouded light, he sketches the way the shadows make the statues look sinister and the water dangerous. He looks to Oceanus and frowns, god of water, god of rain, the charcoal runs.
Beneath his perch Zo has Nico in a loose stranglehold and they’re laughing in the rain, living the cliche.
He wonders if they understand the rope between them, wonders if it tightens around them when they leave each-other’s sides.
Leo is not jealous of happy couples, regardless of whether they acknowledge their relationships or not, and Lucrezia has not ruined him, rather made him stronger.
Riario did the ruin, Riario signed the warrant.
Leonardo sketches roughly and tears out the page.
xiii.
It is Thursday and the sun is back, Leo sits on benches and watches tourists run by to the next scene.
“Why are we still here?” Zo moans and Leo sighs, “he asked for a week so I gave him one, go bother Nico with your whining.”
“Who is the fucker anyway?”
Leo doesn’t meet Zo’s eyes, says, “Riario,” and Zo scowls, “fuck’s sake, Leo.”
xix.
Leo has a hand against Riario’s chest, flesh warm through the thin shirt, and another braced against the wall next to his head. Riario’s hands trail up and down his sides.
“Again, artista?” says Riario, his eyes dancing and bright, hands moving lower. “Is this wise?”
Leo smiles, wicked, and presses his knee upwards between Riario’s thighs, laughing when he moans and mutters words taboo in most languages, says, “sleeping with the enemy is rarely wise.”
“How very philosophical an answer, Leonardo,” Riario says, using Leo’s name as he rarely ever does, shaking under Leo’s hands. “am I an exception to some rule?”
As Leo watches, Riario slides a flip-knife from his pocket and presses it to Leo’s ribcage, “it would be easy,” he says, drawing the blade lightly in circles and figure eights, “so easy, and in a hotel room booked in your name who would suspect?”
“There must be ten cameras at least with your picture,” Leo says and Riario shakes his head, tables turned, knife loose in his hand, says, “I know where they are, artista, avoiding cameras is easy.”
Leo takes the lull as an invitation and slams Riario’s hand away, knife skittering into some corner under a dresser and Riario sighs, says, “I rather liked that knife,” and what he means is ‘I’d rather have liked to see you bleed’ but Leo just smiles and encircles both Riario’s wrists, dragging him to the bed.
“I hate you,” he says and Riario nods, kisses his lips and lets himself be pushed down.
“I’m aware,” says Riario, later, his head in the curve of Leo’s neck and his hands laced over his heart, “of your feelings for me, artista, and trust me. They are returned.”
Leo takes a moment to recall what he means, and even then:
“I don’t believe you.”