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No sooner had Enzo read the missive than he passed it on to Fiore.
Fiore’s dark eyes dashed across the page twice-over. He raised his brows. “Isola dell’Anfiteatro?”
“So it would seem,” Enzo replied, for he knew not what else to say. The island had once hosted gladiatorial bouts. Now it mostly held horse races, both recreational and ritual. While in the same lagoon, it lay very technically beyond the city limits and thus remained except from the equestrian ban. It could hold ten thousand spectators, though Enzo doubted so many would attend his duel with the impresario.
“Seems fitting,” Fiore said, drawing Enzo out of his musings. “Dying in a duel is the greatest show Nascimbene could possibly put on in his whole career. An amphitheater is ideal. Do duelists typically wait a fortnight?”
Enzo shrugged. “It depends. If the contest is particularly heated, the meeting is often set for the following day. Three days or so gives the opponents time to put their affairs in order. Longer would give both more time to prepare and more time to fret over the result.”
“Perhaps he requires a fortnight to learn to fence,” said Fiore.
“If he has no training already, I hardly think he can learn to fight in so brief a span.”
“Perhaps he’s over-confident.”
Enzo supposed Fiore would know better than he. “Or he thinks my reputation is overrated.”
“Perhaps he’s suicidal,” Fiore suggested.
Whatever the impresario’s motive, the result remained the same. Enzo would see him dead.
Fiore looked over the note again. “I don’t recognize the name of his second. Who shall be yours?”
Enzo shrugged again. In his university days he would’ve had a few names to hand besides Orazio. His circle of acquaintance in the city, however, didn’t stretch far beyond his own family. And while Maestra Rovigatti would certainly prove more than capable in the role, Enzo hesitated to thrust it upon her. “It’s not strictly necessary to have one.”
“Would you object to a volunteer?”
“I cannot imagine who’d offer.”
“I would.”
Enzo stared in stunned silence.
“I know I’m not yet trained in swordplay,” Fiore hastily continued, “but if I begin now I’ll know as much as Nascimbene will by the hour of the duel. Unless,” he added, hesitating. “If it would shame a duke to have a courtesan as a second—”
“You are the worthiest of seconds.” The words erupted from Enzo’s heart rather than his head.
Worth it, however, to see Fiore’s surprise melt into a smile.
In more measured tones, Enzo added, “It would be an honor to have you at my side.”
Fiore’s smile became a grin. He drew nearer to Enzo—near enough to slip his arms around his waist.
And to himself, Enzo vowed not to abandon Fiore as Orazio had once abandoned him.
~
Another hour passed before Carlotta found Maestra Rovigatti.
Fiore spent it with his very blood transformed to sparkling wine. The sheer relief of finding Enzo alive and well after Carlotta’s dire summons, paired with the satisfaction of knowing vengeance against his life-long tormentor was close at hand, left him elated beyond expression. A mere fortnight would see Nascimbene skewered on Enzo’s blade—justice for every boy he’d sacrificed beneath the chirurgeon’s knife. Only Maestra Rovigatti’s impending arrival prevented him from showing Enzo the full depth and breadth of his gratitude there and then on the alchemy bench. He settled instead for devouring him in kisses—an aperitivo for his intended reward.
Before they could get too carried away, Carlotta’s distinctive knock fell on the workshop door.
“Enter,” Enzo called, once Fiore had put them both back to rights.
Carlotta did so with Maestra Rovigatti close on her heels.
“Good evening, your grace,” said the latter. She didn’t seem irritated or even surprised to be dragged away from the festivities at an hour drawing ever nearer to midnight.
